VIIINorton’s Last RideFrederick Norton and I were new men in an old Section. We were new men in an old crowd, consequently when we joined the Section we made no effort to break into any old established circles. When off duty together, he and I were accustomed to taking long walks across the fields and to the towns behind the lines and on these walks I learned to know what I already believed—that he was a man of exceptional character, quiet, unassuming, modest; a gentleman in the best sense of the word; a delightful companion, an ideal soldier. On one of our walks we talked some of spending “permission” together on the coast of Brittany.I remember when I went to post for the first time Norton stepped up to me and shook hands, wishing me luck and an interesting trip. That established a custom between us. After that we always shook hands when either one or the other of us started for post.When we had been in the Section for a short while we were invited to join three of the older fellows and to transfer our cots to a tent underneath the trees just outside the grounds of a very beautiful château, owned, I believe, by M. Chandon, of Möet & Chandon. We naturally accepted the invitation with pleasure and thus we became established as members of the old crowd. Formalities ceased from that time.The château had been converted into a hospital and at night a lighted red cross over the large iron gates showed the entrance to approaching cars.We had some pleasant evenings under the trees when off duty, even though we could hear the distant firing of the guns. We sang some, a guitar and mandolin also furnished music. We listened to New Townsend reminisce about his experiences in Belgium in the early part of the war. Frank Farnham and “Red” Day occasionally sang a duet without much persuasion. With difficulty “Farney” was prevailed on to yodel. On one occasion Ned Townsend danced the dance of the seven veils by moonlight. Sometimes we would hear the whirr of an aeroplane overhead. The light in our tent would be extinguished by the first man who could reach it and silence would reign.So in spite of the war there were many pleasant moments. A spirit of comradeship grew up between us all. Under such conditions, sharing the same dangers, the some hardships, the same pleasures, we grew to know each other better in a short space of time than would have been possible in years in the ordinary peaceful walks of life.Ned Townsend, the oldest man in point of service, remarked that the best of fellowship had always prevailed in Section One—that it had always been more like a club in that respect than a military organization. He also mentioned casually that Section One had almost always been lucky—very few casualties had marked its long, arduous and dangerous career at the front.On the afternoon of July 12 I saw Frederick Norton starting for the front, and, following our custom, I went over to his car, shook hands with him and wished him “good luck.” I told him the next time we were off duty together we must take a walk over the neighboring hills to inspect a windmill which had been erected about the time Columbus discovered America. Then he was off to the town of Ludes—to the little Swiss chalet hidden behind the trees.That night was a bright moonlight night—an ideal night for avions. Early in the evening those of us at Louvoise were having music under the trees. A few convalescent soldiers from the château hospital were sitting about in the grass, listening. As the moon came up and shone through the trees I recall “Red” Day remarking: “The avions will be over to-night,” and a short while after we heard the unmistakable crash of an avion bomb down the road in the direction of Epernay.It must have been pretty close to eleven o’clock that Frederick Norton was standing in the back window of the little Swiss chalet at Ludes, from which place he could get a glimpse of the battle lines through the boughs of the trees. He was waiting for his call to go to the front. His call was soon to come. He no doubt heard the whirr of the approaching aeroplane overhead—he may have heard the deafening crash of the bomb as it struck the ground, making a crater in the earth and riddling the walls of the peaceful chalet. But then the sound of the war was forever silenced—for him. A piece of the shell had cut his throat—another had pierced his heart. He pitched forward, then fell backward on the floor. He had answered his final call.The following night I walked beside my friend Frederick Norton for the last time. He was not laid to rest until after dusk because his burial place was on the side of a hill in view of the enemy—in view of the towers of the desecrated cathedral at Rheims—as fine a place as any for a volunteer who had earned an honorable rest.There were French officers of high rank in the gathering to pay homage to the Volunteer American—a priest, a Protestant chaplain, his friends in Section One—a squad of soldiers under arms. As we stood there in the growing dusk a German aeroplane flew overhead and swept the roadside nearby with its rapid fire gun. All looked up but no one moved. The benediction being said, we walked slowly away.
Frederick Norton and I were new men in an old Section. We were new men in an old crowd, consequently when we joined the Section we made no effort to break into any old established circles. When off duty together, he and I were accustomed to taking long walks across the fields and to the towns behind the lines and on these walks I learned to know what I already believed—that he was a man of exceptional character, quiet, unassuming, modest; a gentleman in the best sense of the word; a delightful companion, an ideal soldier. On one of our walks we talked some of spending “permission” together on the coast of Brittany.
I remember when I went to post for the first time Norton stepped up to me and shook hands, wishing me luck and an interesting trip. That established a custom between us. After that we always shook hands when either one or the other of us started for post.
When we had been in the Section for a short while we were invited to join three of the older fellows and to transfer our cots to a tent underneath the trees just outside the grounds of a very beautiful château, owned, I believe, by M. Chandon, of Möet & Chandon. We naturally accepted the invitation with pleasure and thus we became established as members of the old crowd. Formalities ceased from that time.
The château had been converted into a hospital and at night a lighted red cross over the large iron gates showed the entrance to approaching cars.
We had some pleasant evenings under the trees when off duty, even though we could hear the distant firing of the guns. We sang some, a guitar and mandolin also furnished music. We listened to New Townsend reminisce about his experiences in Belgium in the early part of the war. Frank Farnham and “Red” Day occasionally sang a duet without much persuasion. With difficulty “Farney” was prevailed on to yodel. On one occasion Ned Townsend danced the dance of the seven veils by moonlight. Sometimes we would hear the whirr of an aeroplane overhead. The light in our tent would be extinguished by the first man who could reach it and silence would reign.
So in spite of the war there were many pleasant moments. A spirit of comradeship grew up between us all. Under such conditions, sharing the same dangers, the some hardships, the same pleasures, we grew to know each other better in a short space of time than would have been possible in years in the ordinary peaceful walks of life.
Ned Townsend, the oldest man in point of service, remarked that the best of fellowship had always prevailed in Section One—that it had always been more like a club in that respect than a military organization. He also mentioned casually that Section One had almost always been lucky—very few casualties had marked its long, arduous and dangerous career at the front.
On the afternoon of July 12 I saw Frederick Norton starting for the front, and, following our custom, I went over to his car, shook hands with him and wished him “good luck.” I told him the next time we were off duty together we must take a walk over the neighboring hills to inspect a windmill which had been erected about the time Columbus discovered America. Then he was off to the town of Ludes—to the little Swiss chalet hidden behind the trees.
That night was a bright moonlight night—an ideal night for avions. Early in the evening those of us at Louvoise were having music under the trees. A few convalescent soldiers from the château hospital were sitting about in the grass, listening. As the moon came up and shone through the trees I recall “Red” Day remarking: “The avions will be over to-night,” and a short while after we heard the unmistakable crash of an avion bomb down the road in the direction of Epernay.
It must have been pretty close to eleven o’clock that Frederick Norton was standing in the back window of the little Swiss chalet at Ludes, from which place he could get a glimpse of the battle lines through the boughs of the trees. He was waiting for his call to go to the front. His call was soon to come. He no doubt heard the whirr of the approaching aeroplane overhead—he may have heard the deafening crash of the bomb as it struck the ground, making a crater in the earth and riddling the walls of the peaceful chalet. But then the sound of the war was forever silenced—for him. A piece of the shell had cut his throat—another had pierced his heart. He pitched forward, then fell backward on the floor. He had answered his final call.
The following night I walked beside my friend Frederick Norton for the last time. He was not laid to rest until after dusk because his burial place was on the side of a hill in view of the enemy—in view of the towers of the desecrated cathedral at Rheims—as fine a place as any for a volunteer who had earned an honorable rest.
There were French officers of high rank in the gathering to pay homage to the Volunteer American—a priest, a Protestant chaplain, his friends in Section One—a squad of soldiers under arms. As we stood there in the growing dusk a German aeroplane flew overhead and swept the roadside nearby with its rapid fire gun. All looked up but no one moved. The benediction being said, we walked slowly away.