"
One morning I endeavoured to send a parcel to a French soldier; I took
my place in a long line of waiting women bound on the same errand. A
white-haired woman before me gave the post-office clerk infinite
trouble. They are not renowned for their patience, and I marvelled at
his gentleness, until he explained: "Her son died five weeks ago, but
she still continues to send him parcels."
To another old lady he pointed out that she had written two numbers on
the parcel. "You don't want two numbers, mother. Which is your boy's
number?--tell me, and I will strike out the other."
"Leave them both," she answered. "Who knows whether my dear lad will be
there to receive the parcel? If he is not, I want it to go to some other
mother's son."
Affection means much to these men who are suffering, and they respond at
once to any sympathy shown to them. One man informed us with pride that
when he left his native village he was "decked like an altar of the
Blessed Virgin on the first of May." In other words, covered with
flowers.
There are but few lonely soldiers now, since those who have no families
to write to them receive letters and parcels from the godmothers who
have adopted them. The men anxiously await the news of their adopted
relatives, and spend hours writing replies. They love to receive
letters, but needless to say a parcel is even more welcome.
I remember seeing one man writing page after page. I suggested to him
that he must have a particularly charming godmother.
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