IV

I went with her one day to one of the eclope stations and to the Depot des Isoles, outside of Paris, to help her distribute comfort packages—­which, by the way, covered the top of the automobile and were piled so high inside that we disposed ourselves with some difficulty.  These packages, all neatly tied, and of varying sizes, were in the nature of surprise bags of an extremely practical order.  Tobacco, pipes, cigarettes, chocolate, toothbrushes, soap, pocket-knives, combs, safety-pins, handkerchiefs, needles-and-thread, buttons, pocket mirrors, post-cards, pencils, are a few of the articles I recall.  The members of the Committee meet at her house twice a week to do up the bundles, and her servants, also, do a great deal of the practical work.

It was a long drive through Paris and to the depots beyond.  A year before we should have been held up at the point of the bayonet every few yards, but in 1916 we rolled on unhindered.  Paris is no longer in the War Zone, although as we passed the fortifications we saw men standing beside the upward pointing guns, and I was told that this vigilance does not relax day or night.

Later, I shall have much to say about the eclopes, but it is enough to explain here that “eclope,” in the new adaptation of the word, stands for a man who is not wounded, or ill enough for a military hospital, but for whom a brief rest in comfortable quarters is imperative.  The stations provided for them, principally through the instrumentality of another remarkable Frenchwoman, Mlle. Javal, now number about one hundred and thirty, and are either behind the lines or in the neighborhood of Paris or other large cities.  The one we visited, Le Bourget, is among the largest and most important, and the Commandant, M. de L’Horme, is as interested as a father in his children.  The yard when we arrived was full of soldiers, some about to march out and entrain for the front, others still loafing, and M. de L’Horme seemed to know each by name.

The comfort packages are always given to the men returning to their regiments on that particular day.  They are piled high on a long table at one side of the barrack yard, and behind it on the day of my visit stood Madame Balli, Mrs. Allen, Mr. Holman-Black and myself, and we handed out packages with a “Bonne chance” as the men filed by.  Some were sullen and unresponsive, but many more looked as pleased as children and no doubt were as excited over their “grabs,” which they were not to open until in the train.  They would face death on the morrow, but for the moment at least they were personal and titillated.

Close by was a small munition factory, and a large loft had been turned into a rest-room for such of the eclopes as it was thought advisable to put to bed for a few days under medical supervision.  To each of these we gave several of the black cigarettes dear to the tobacco-proof heart of the Frenchman, a piece of soap, three picture post-cards, and chocolate.  I think they were as glad of the visits as of the presents, for most of them were too far from home to receive any personal attention from family or friends.  The beds looked comfortable and all the windows were open.