FROM THE TRENCHES TO VERSAILLES 



By Carolyn Corey 



YESTERDAY afternoon I took 

 thirty-two soldiers to Versailles. 

 I make this trip three times a 

 week. On the other days I am guide in 

 Paris for our men from the front. It is 

 such fun that I object strenuously to any 

 reference to this as my "war work." 



I meet the men at "Blighty." This 

 word, really Indian, means a "corner of 

 home." In this particular instance it is 

 a club where all English-speaking fighters 

 are made welcome. An adored piano 

 works overtime and a phonograph rests 

 only during the change of records. Best 

 of all, enormous plates of thinly sliced 

 bread and butter and huge cups of strong 

 hot tea are served in a great big room, 

 where, as one kid put it, "every table has 

 a cloth." 



French soldiers get home leaves every 

 four months. But I've had boys with me 

 who were out of line for the first time in 

 a year. They were the lucky ones ; for 

 many that I meet tell me they are free 

 for ten days after sixteen, seventeen, and 

 even nineteen months. ■ If their first ex- 

 cursion happens to take place on the day 

 of arrival, they are more frightened of 

 me than of all the shells and "shrap" 

 they've ever faced. 



Not the least of my task is to put them 

 at their ease. I succeed best when I talk 

 their "lingo." I've learned a lot of it 

 from their predecessors and am learning 

 more every day. If a chap says to me: 

 "Gee, it's good to hear your slangwidge," 

 I know he's my friend. And when an- 

 other insists that I'm "a regular guy," 

 then the ice is broken for all of us. 



THE SOLDIER ON LEAVE IS GLORIOUSLY 

 EXTRAVAGANT 



Lucky days we find taxis quickly. The 

 distance to the station is not great, but we 

 never walk, for the soldiers "like to let 

 the chauffeur do the work." And be it 

 known that no drunken sailor and no 



newly-made millionaire was ever so glo- 

 riously extravagant as our returned 

 friend in khaki. 



The street gamins of Paris discovered 

 this early and flock about us in droves, 

 demanding "One penny, please," in very 

 good English. And I'm sure the one who 

 throws the big copper coins is at least as 

 happy as the one who picks them up. 

 When the first taxi comes along I pile 

 five happy youngsters into it — four inside 

 and one with the driver. I give the ad- 

 dress and they are off. The hailing of 

 the taxis and the filling of them stops all 

 traffic. Men, women, and children stop 

 dead in their tracks and sometimes their 

 remarks are worth hearing. 



Occasionally we are delayed because 

 two pals A refuse to be separated. If there 

 is a seat'ln one taxi and another in a sec- 

 ond, I call attention to that fact. I tell 

 them that the ride is less than ten minutes 

 long. But invariably another car must be 

 found. After all, why should a fellow 

 leave his mate? 



The ticket-seller at the station knows 

 me now and actually smiles. He told me 

 the other day that some time he would 

 like to go with me, too, for though born 

 in Paris he has never been to Versailles. 

 He counts out thirty-two second-class 

 military tickets. He stamps each one 

 with a great flourish and hands them to 

 me with a gallant bow. I used to get 

 quite upset at first, but after twice for- 

 getting to purchase a ticket for myself, 

 and having again to stand in line to get 

 it, I soon learned to remain calm. 



I buy second-class tickets because I 

 must. There are few first-class carriages 

 and my thirty-two would more than fill 

 them up. But, in spite of explanations, 

 all of the thirty-two pile into the first. 

 And when the conductor comes around, 

 they pay the additional fee with such an 

 expression of "Put me out if you dare" 

 that nothing ever happens. So for all of 



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