We were joined later by three villagers, two gendarmes and a postman, and, all pulling together, we managed to extract the rod from the tree.  A large lorry was passing and on to it we heaved the wreckage.  Up clambered the Tommies, followed by their unwelcome friend, who managed to sit on the only unbroken portion of the side-car.  This was too much for Messrs. Atkins’ equanimity.  Limp with laughter, we watched them pass from sight amidst a chorus of “Ong!  Ong!” followed by flights of oratory in the English tongue which do not bear repeating, but which were received by the peasant as expressions of deep esteem and to which he replied by endeavouring to kiss the Tommies and shouting, “Vive l’Angleterre!  All right!  Hoorah!”

Our guiding officer began to show some signs of anxiety to have us leave before ten o’clock, but the good-byes took some time.  Presents were showered upon us, German dragees (shell heads and pieces of shrapnel), and the real French dragees, the famous sweet of Verdun.

We crept out of the city, but unfortunately at one of the dangerous crossroads our chauffeur mistook the route.  A heavy bombardment was taking place and the French were replying.  We were lucky enough to get on to the route and into safety before any shell fell near us.  It appears that the Germans systematically bombard the roads at night, hoping to destroy the camions bringing up the food for the city, fresh munitions and men.

We slept that night at Bar-le-Duc, and next morning saw the various ambulances and hospitals which the Service de Sante had particularly requested me to visit.  I was impressed by the splendid organisation of the Red Cross even quite close to the firing line.

The Brown And Black Sons Of France

Passing through one tent hospital an Algerian called out to me:  “Ohe, la blonde, viens ici!  J’ai quelque chose de beau a te montrer.” (Come here, fair girl, I have something pretty to show you.) He was sitting up in bed, and, as I approached, unbuttoned his bed-jacket and insisted on my examining the tag of his vest on which was written, “Leader, London.”  The vest had come in a parcel of goods from the London Committee of the French Red Cross, and I only wished that the angel of goodness and tenderness, who is the Presidente of the Croix Rouge, Mme. de la Panouse, and that Mr. D. H. Illingworth, Mr. Philip Wilkins, and all her able lieutenants, could have seen the pleasure on the face of this swarthy defender of France.  In the next bed was a Senegalais who endeavoured to attract my attention by keeping up a running compliment to my compatriots, my King, and myself.  He must have chanted fifty times:  “Vive les English, Georges, et toil” He continued even after I had rewarded him with some cigarettes.  The Senegalais and the Algerians are really great children, especially when they are wounded.  I have seen convalescent Senegalais and Algerians in Paris spend hours in the Champs Elysees watching the entertainment at the open-air marionette theatre.  The antics of the dolls kept them amused.  They are admitted to the enclosure free, and there is no longer any room for the children who frequented the show in happier days.  These latter form a disconsolate circle on the outside, whilst the younger ones, who do not suffer from colour prejudice, scramble onto the knees of the black soldiers.