When Johnny Comes Marching Home

Mildred Aldrich

• Publisher: Lucknow Books
• Year: 2013
• eBook ISBN: 9781782890522
• Topic: Historia
• Subtopic: Biografías militares

Mildred Aldrich was born in Providence, Rhode Island, in 1853. After graduating from Everett High School in 1872, she taught elementary school in Boston, Massachusetts.
Aldrich began her career as a journalist with the Boston Home Journal and later contributed to Arena and the Boston Herald. For a short period in 1892, she also edited the magazine, The Mahogany Tree.
In 1898, Aldrich moved to France and while living in Paris became a close friend of Gertrude Stein. Aldrich worked as a foreign correspondent and newspaper critic until retiring to Huiry, a village on the outskirts of Paris. She wrote to Stein in June 1914: "It will be the bloodiest affair the world has ever seen - a war in the air, under the sea as well as on it, and carried out with the most effective man-slaughtering machines ever used in battle."
During the First World War, Aldrich wrote A Hilltop on the Marne (1915), a book based on her journal entries (3rd June - 8th September 1914) and on letters she wrote to Gertrude Stein. The book sold well in the United States and she followed it with On the Edge of the War Zone (1917), The Peak of the Load (1918) and When Johnny Comes Marching Home (1919).
The French government believed that Aldrich's work helped persuade the US government to declare war on Germany and in 1922 was awarded the Legion of Honour.
Mildred Aldrich died in Huiry, France, on 19th February, 1928.
Text taken, whole and complete, from the edition published in Boston, Small, Maynard and Company, 1919.
Original Page Count – 286 pages.

VIII

November 15, 1918

WELL, dear old girl, the war is over.

I have tried to write every day since Tuesday, but I simply could not. My nerves were all frazzled. It is hard to be calm enough to talk about it, and it has been impossible to write. I suppose I shall make a mess of it even now. But I know that, in the midst of the first fury of excitement and the enthusiasm which I am sure has arisen in one great shout from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and from the Arctic Sea to the Gulf, to the accompaniment of bells and bands and cannon, you have often thought of me, and wanted to know how we got through the historic 11th of November. Can it be that it was only last Monday?

I went up to Paris, as I told you I should, my house not being habitable. I was terribly hurried, and so impatient to get home. I went directly to the Bureau of the Fund for the French Wounded, and while they arranged to make up the bundle for me to bring back, we had a gay little talk in the same tiny room where in June, when the Germans were pushing toward Paris, we had smiled courage at one another and assured each other that the Huns could not get to the capital. We all laughed as we recalled that tragic day, and said, “Well, they didn't, did they?”

I came back on the 7th. I found my house in order, a huge fire roaring in the new brick chimney, and every one—cats, dogs, and all —glad to see me.

The days had been critical ones. The Turks had already gone out of the fight on the last day that I wrote you, but the news had not reached us out here. At three o'clock in the afternoon of Monday, November 4th, the Austrians had signed their armistice and Servia was free. All these things had been inevitable for a long time. It had been only a question of the date, and they left the principal criminal alone against the wall, and brought to pass what has followed sooner than we expected— or wished.

Germany had been defeated a long time, and her civil population had been showing what we all knew must come—signs that we were facing the worst losers history had ever seen, the most unsportsmanlike nation that, convinced of its superior brute force, ever went into war. When historians of the future study the German mentality what a showing-up the Huns will get! When you remember — and who will ever forget?-

[ 109

WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME

how France stood up against her mighty and tricky foe, how she was beaten back time after time, and still staggered up and fought on again on her devastated, blood-stained soil, what a picture in comparison Germany has traced of herself, safe within her own frontiers, untouched and unspoiled, and yet going to pieces at the approach of the Allied Armies—while they were still fifty miles from the Rhine!

I had an exciting trip home.

Paris was almost unnaturally calm, in spite of the lines of German cannon pointing their impotent camouflaged noses into the Champs-Elysées, from the Arc to the Place de la Concorde, which kept war before the eyes of the city, and looked like a symbol of Germany's hopeless position. But quiet — almost strangely silent — as the city looked, the air was full of whispered stories. It was already known that the German Commission had left Spa —Wilson having at last put an end to all futile talk over the heads of the armies by saying the words we had so long listened for, — “Adressez-vous Foch,”— and of Foch everyone felt sure. They knew he would give the world a military, not a philosophical, armistice.

At the station I met a lot of American boys just starting for the front—and so disgusted. A young officer told me that it was rumoured that the order to “cease firing” had been given at midnight. I was sure that it was not possible, unless such an order might have been given on that part of the line toward which the German flag of truce was approaching, if it had not already passed. At that time we did not know where the Germans were to meet Foch.

On the train no one talked. There were no outward signs of excitement. Everyone had his nose buried in a newspaper. The only person to whom I spoke was a young French officer. We stood in the corridor, and under my breath I asked him if he had any news. He said he had not, and he added that he hoped the armistice would not be signed at once, as it was generally known that the biggest Allied offensive of all was soon to be launched, which would surely result in Germany's Sedan—which she had well merited and ought not to escape. Then he added: “If you saw the map of the battle positions in the Excelsior on the 4th and that of the American victory on the Argonne yesterday, compare them, and you will see what will happen in a few days if Foch is left a free hand.”

That very afternoon, before I unpacked, I laid out the maps in question, and saw the Germans being encircled.

Then I got out my layettes and started for the Mairie. There I had a long talk with one of the local authorities. I asked him if any news had come by telegraph since we got the morning papers. He told me “nothing,” except that the German emissaries were crossing the frontier that night, probably at Haudroy.

You can imagine me hurrying home, that is, hurrying in Ninette's manner, — and before I took off my hat, studying the map again. I had the greatest difficulty in finding out anything about Haudroy, which proved to be only a tiny hamlet, hardly more important than Huiry. As it is in that part of the line where the Army of General Debeney has done some hard fighting it was easy to guess that the German flag of truce would get some bumping.

It was not until Friday morning—the 8th—that we knew at what place Foch was to receive the German delegates, and dictate to them the only terms on which an armistice for the cessation of hostilities could be considered.

As soon as I knew the place selected was Ronthondes, in the forest of Compiègne, I went out into the garden and looked to the north, where, only forty miles away, the historical meeting was taking place. In my mind's eye I imagined that I could see those huge automobiles crossing the shell-ploughed country, taking the word “pass“ from the lips of French officers guarding the route, the white flags flapping in the French air by day, and by night the big phares sending long rays of light into the faces of the French poilus crouched along the way, or signalling them to stop and give the word. I suppose forever in the tradition of some French families will be cherished the recollection of that stirring moment, and the memories of those of theirs who watched the passing of those cars, — representative of France's victory and Germany's defeat, — and their children's children will relate it. In future days it may be that tourists will go over the road and still be touched by the glory and pathos of what that passing has cost. I only hope that the historical society will mark the way with white stones.

Saturday morning we read here the armistice, — as you did in the States, — and stiff as the terms were, we knew that Germany could not hesitate, just as we knew that Foch would not discuss. I had only to look at the two maps I had studied two days before to know that Germany was forced to accept even if the terms had been harder. Yet I could have cried to think it had come so soon. I knew that once Germany had, with Wilson's aid, been allowed to talk, the armistice was inevitable. Beaten to the point where her case was hopeless, and where the final surrender of her army was in sight, she could only save herself from invasion by accepting any terms proposed. She could do it more easily than any other nation, being devoid of real pride and not having too much respect for her signature. As for the Allies, no matter how they felt, they could hardly go on with the fighting once Germany yielded. Much as one grieved that the surrender was made with Germany still the invader, the order “Cease firing” meant the saving of thousands of lives. I simply put up a prayer that with all the lessons the Allied Nations have had from the Germans, they will not this time give Germany any chance to be tricky.

Convinced that the armistice was as good as signed, Sunday was a quiet day —that is, it was quiet for everyone but me.

It happened that I was the only American in sight, and it being in the minds of the simple people among whom I live that the entrance into the war of the boys from the States had saved the world from another war winter, — as of course it did, —the commune seemed to deem it necessary to salute the Stars and Stripes in me. So early in the afternoon, while I was still out on the lawn, wondering at what time the next day it would all be over, and still hearing now and then the far-off sounds of the artillery, which reminded us that they would fight right up to the last minute, the garde-champêtre from Couilly came into the garden, put his heels together,—he is an old chasseur,—saluted me formally, presented me the hommages of the Civil government, and asked if Madame would do them the honour to receive them on Monday—probably Armistice Day—at two o'clock.

Madame was a little confused, but she said she would. The garde champêtre backed away, saluted again, and said he should do himself the honour of escorting them, and marched out of the garden in his most soldierly manner.

I had not really bucked up after that surprise when I saw a procession coming over the brow of the hill, and there were the children of the commune, conducted by the curé, and marshalled by his housekeeper,—marching two and two,—the little tots leading with bunches of flowers in their hands, and the bigger girls carrying a huge pot of chrysanthemums bringing up the rear.

I need not tell you that I was a bit confused, and, Yankee fashion, I carried it off by being very active and most informal. I am afraid that I was as bad as dear Colonel Roosevelt, who smashed the French protocol all to pieces when the French Government once went in its formal way to meet him at the station. He spoiled their formality and defied all their ideas of precedence, and scattered his greetings where his affections were, in true American spirit, which knows no law but its heart. I did not, of course, realize what I was doing until afterward. I upset the procession, spoiled the speech of the “littlest girl,” hustled them into the house without ceremony, not even giving them a chance to make their reverences. Then I bustled round to find a little chocolate which I had just received from America, my one idea being that children must be fed at once. However, it passed off prettily, and I did not realize until afterward that the children's part had all been rehearsed. Well, mine hadn't.

When it was over, and they had formed their procession and marched away again, I sat down and laughed. I suppose the little tots had said: “Elles sont drôles, ces Américaines.” Really one has to be born French and bred French to go through with these functions properly, and everything has its tradition with the French, even going to school. That is why French children have such pretty, half-formal manners. There is a correct way for them of doing everything, even writing a letter, and they learn it all so young that it becomes a second nature to them, and enables them to do and say things in an absolutely unconscious manner which we outsiders in France cannot achieve without embarrassment.

The expected news came early Monday morning. As we anticipated, the Germans had accepted the hard terms of the “unconditional surrender,” and the order had been given to “cease firing “at eleven. We had known it would come, but the fact that the order had been given rather stunned us. To realize that it was over! How could one in a minute?

I was up early to wait for the papers. It was a perfectly white day. The whole world was covered with the first hoar frost and wrapped in an impenetrable white fog, as if the huge flag of truce were wound around it. I went out on the lawn and turned my eyes toward the invisible north. Standing beside my little house I was as isolated as if I were alone in the world, with all the memories of these years since that terrible day in August, 1914. I could not see as far as the hedge. Yet out there I knew the guns were still firing, and between them and me lay such devastation as even the imagination cannot exaggerate, and such suffering and pain as the human understanding can but partly conceive. Against the white sheet which encircled me I seemed to see the back water of the war which touched here, so far from where the crests of the big waves had broken and engulfed so much and left its flotsam and jetsam for the future to salvage. Four years and four months — and how much is still before us? The future has its job laid out for it. Is ordinary man capable of putting it over?

I had expected that at eleven, when they ceased firing at the front, our bells — which have only tolled for so long—would ring out the victory. We had our flags all ready to run up. I was standing on the lawn listening, flags ready at the gate, and Amélie stood in the window at her house, ready to hang out hers. All along the road, though I could not see them for the fog, I knew that women and children were listening with me. The silence was oppressive. Not a sound reached me, except now and then the passing of a train over the Marne. Then Amélie came down to say that lunch was ready, and that I might as well eat whether I had any appetite or not, and that perhaps something had happened, and that after lunch she would go over to Quincy and find out what it was.

So, reluctantly, I went into the house.

It was just quarter past twelve when I heard someone running along the terrace, and a child's voice called, “Ecoutez, Madame, écoutez! Les carillons de Meaux!”

I went out on to the lawn again and listened.

Far off, faint through the white sheet of mist, I could hear the bells of the cathedral, like fairy music, but nothing more. I waited, expecting every moment to hear the bells from Couilly or Quincy or Condé, and the guns from the forts. But all was silent. There were no longer any groups on the roads. I knew that everyone had gone home to eat. Somewhere things were happening, I was sure of that. But I might have been alone on a desert island. I was too nervous to keep still any longer, so I walked up to the corner of the Chemin Madame, thinking I might hear the bells from there. As I stood at the corner I heard footsteps running toward me on the frozen ground, and out of the fog came Marin, the town crier, with his drum on his back and a cocarde in his cap. He waved his drumsticks at me as he ran, and cried, “I am coming as fast as I can, Madame. We are ringing up at four — at the same time the Tiger reads the terms in the Chamber of Deputies and Lloyd George reads them in London,” and as he reached the corner just above my gate he swung his drum round and beat it ...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• DEDICATION
• LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
• TO THE GENTLE READER
• I
• II
• III
• IV
• V
• VI
• VII
• VIII
• IX
• X
• XI
• XII
• XIII
• XIV
• XV
• XVI
• XVII
• XVIII
• XIX
• XX
• XXI