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By Root 2484 0

many children, many as subdued as their mothers, drawn out to the roadside to watch this weary ragged parade, as curious about the Americans as the Americans were of them. There was talk, some effort by the Marines to inspire a smile, some of the men making idiotic faces to wide-eyed toddlers, some of whom responded by making idiotic faces of their own. Temple could feel the effect of the children, not only on the Marines, but on the landscape itself. No matter the bleak despair of the adults, the children were still children, who knew little of the war, who had not suffered as much from the loss and deprivation, the younger ones already beginning to forget the father who had been dead for a month, a year, four years. Temple wanted to feel something of hope from them, a new generation that would learn from the mistakes of their fathers, who would work to rebuild their country and all of Europe alongside the fatherless children of France. But as the Marines marched through yet another village, Temple began to sense something different. His fantasy was dissolved by the cynicism of some of the veterans around him, men who began to see something else. The children were a symbol after all, that Germany was still alive and still had a future. As much as Temple wanted to believe that so much innocence could be preserved, his knew how brutally his own innocence had been drained away. If there was no guiding hand to pass on the horrible lessons of this war, then they would grow up knowing only what their leaders told them. There might be nothing to prevent them from repeating the horrific mistakes of their fathers.

ALONG THE RHINE RIVER—SPRING 1919

They were billeted in houses all through the countryside, the same living arrangements they had once seen in France. Some of the men around Temple had been in Europe now for more than twenty months, and Temple had celebrated his first year away from home by enduring the silent misery of a snowstorm. As the weather grew warmer, the troops had changed along with the landscape. The commanders had cautioned against allowing the men to become too comfortable, too soft for a sudden return to action. Reports came frequently of hostility and controversy at the conference tables where the peace treaty was being engineered. There had been alerts, rumors that the Germans were suddenly arming again, the officers scrambling to assemble the men into formations, preparation for combat, as though any moment might bring artillery fire from German positions no one could see. The Marines took the rumors seriously, only a few of them questioning whether German gunners would be so likely to shell their own towns. In the absence of any real threat, the officers had ordered the men back into training, drills and marches designed to keep them fit and sharp. To the veterans, it was as ridiculous as any order they had ever received, men who had survived the worst combat in American history asked to respect the need for mindless drills on a parade ground. The more experienced commanders understood that assigning the men useless exercise was more likely to destroy morale than build it, and the parade grounds were transformed into venues for all manner of sporting events. From football and baseball to horsemanship and marksmanship, the competitions pitted battalion against battalion, regiment against regiment, and finally, at the urging of the more ambitious division commanders, the Second Division began to field teams in every sport against other divisions both in and beyond their sector. The veterans who had faced the enemy alongside men like Roscoe Temple were not surprised that when it came to marksmanship, no one could compete with the Marines.

As the weeks stretched into months, the morale of the men could not be shielded from the awareness that no matter the activities, the improvement in their food and billets, they were still in a foreign land. The order finally came on July 3, 1919. The Treaty of Versailles had been signed. Now they could go home.

THE NORTH ATLANTIC—AUGUST 7, 1919

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