CHAPTER XIV
ON LEAVE IN PARIS
"So this – is Paris," – this observation spoken in mock seriousness, in a George Cohan nasal drawl and accompanied by a stiff and stagy wave of the arm, was the customary facetious pass-word with which American soldiers on leave or on mission announced their presence in the capital of France.
Paris, the beautiful – Paris, the gay – Paris, the historical – Paris, the artistic – Paris, the only Paris, opened her arms to the American soldier and proceeded toward his enlightenment and entertainment on the sole policy that nothing was too good for him.
I saw the first American soldiers under arms reach Paris. It was early in the morning of July 3rd, 1917, when this first American troop train pulled into the Gare d'Austerlitz. It was early in the morning, yet Paris was there to give them a welcome. The streets outside the station were jammed with crowds. They had seen Pershing; they had seen our staff officers and headquarters details, but now they wanted to see the type of our actual fighting men – they wanted to see the American poilus – the men who were to carry the Stars and Stripes over the top.
The men left the cars and lined up in the station yard. It had been a long, fifteen hour night ride and the cramped quarters of the troop train had permitted but little sleep. There was no opportunity for them to breakfast or wash before they were put on exhibition. Naturally, they were somewhat nervous.
The standing line was ordered to produce its mess cups and hold them forward. Down the line came a bevy of pretty French girls, wearing the uniform of Red Cross nurses. They carried canisters of black coffee and baskets of cigarettes. They ladled out steaming cupfuls of the black liquid to the men. The incident gave our men their first surprise.
Rum or alcohol has never been a part of the United States army ration. In the memory of the oldest old-timers in the ranks of our old regular army, "joy water" had never been issued. On the other hand, its use had always been strictly forbidden in the company messes. Our men never expected it. Thus it was that, with no other idea occurring to them, they extended their mess cups to be filled with what they thought was simply strong hot coffee. Not one of them had the slightest suspicion that the French cooks who had prepared that coffee for their new American brothers in arms, had put a stick in it – had added just that portion of cognac which they had considered necessary to open a man's eyes and make him pick up his heels after a long night in a troop train.
I watched one old-timer in the ranks as he lifted the tin cup to his lips and took the initial gulp. Then he lowered the cup. Across his face there dawned first an expression of curious suspicion, then a look of satisfied recognition, and then a smile of pleased surprise, which he followed with an audible smacking of the lips. He finished the cup and allowed quite casually that he could stand another.
"So this is Paris," – well, it wasn't half bad to start with. With that "coffee" under their belts, the men responded snappily to the march order, and in column of four, they swung into line and moved out of the station yard, at the heels of their own band, which played a stirring marching air.
Paris claimed them for her own. All that the war had left of Paris' gay life, all the lights that still burned, all the music that still played, all the pretty smiles that had never been reduced in their quality or quantity, all that Paris had to make one care-free and glad to be alive – all belonged that day to that pioneer band of American infantrymen.
The women kissed them on the street. Grey-headed men removed their hats to them and shook their hands and street boys followed in groups at their heels making the air ring with shrill "Vive's." There were not many of them, only three companies. The men looked trim and clean-cut. They were tall and husky-looking and the snap with which they walked was good to the eyes of old Paris that loves verve.
With a thirty-two-inch stride that made their following admirers stretch their legs, the boys in khaki marched from the Austerlitz station to the Neuilly barracks over a mile away, where they went into quarters. Paris was in gala attire. In preparation for the celebration of the following day, the shop windows and building fronts were decked with American flags.
Along the line of march, traffic piled up at the street intersections and the gendarmes were unable to prevent the crowds from overflowing the sidewalks and pressing out into the streets where they could smile their greetings and throw flowers at closer range. A sergeant flanking a column stopped involuntarily when a woman on the curb reached out, grabbed his free hand, and kissed it. A snicker ran through the platoon as the sergeant, with face red beneath the tan, withdrew his hand and recaught his step. He gave the snickering squads a stern, "Eyes front!" and tried to look at ease.
How the bands played that day! How the crowds cheered! How the flags and handkerchiefs and hats waved in the air, and how thousands of throats volleyed the "Vive's!" This was the reception of our first fighting men. But on the following day they received even a greater demonstration, when they marched through the streets of the city on parade, and participated in the first Parisian celebration of American Independence Day.
Parisians said that never before had Paris shown so many flags, not even during the days three years before, when the sons of France had marched away to keep the Germans out of Paris. It seemed that the customary clusters of Allied flags had been almost entirely replaced for the day by groups composed solely of the French tri-colour and the Stars and Stripes. Taxis and fiacres flew flags and bunting from all attachable places. Flag venders did wholesale business on the crowded streets. Street singers sang patriotic parodies, eulogising Uncle Sam and his nephews, and garnered harvests of sous for their efforts.
The three companies of our regulars marched with a regiment of French colonials, all veterans of the war and many of them incapacitated for front service through wounds and age. French soldiers on leave from the trenches and still bearing the mud stains of the battle front life, cheered from the sidewalks. Bevies of middinettes waved their aprons from the windows of millinery shops. Some of them shouted, "Vive les Teddies!" America – the great, good America – the sister republic from across the seas was spoken of and shouted all day long. Paris capitulated unconditionally to three companies of American infantry.
From that day on, every American soldier visiting Paris has been made to feel himself at home. And the unrestricted hospitality did not seem to be the result of an initial wave of enthusiasm. It was continuous. For months afterward, any one wearing an American uniform along the boulevards could hear behind him dulcet whispers that carried the words très gentil.
At first, our enlisted men on leave in Paris or detailed for work in the city, were quartered in the old Pipincerie Barracks, where other soldiers from all of the Allied armies in the world were quartered. Our men mingled with British Tommies, swarthy Italians and Portuguese, tall blond Russians, French poilus, Canadians, Australians and New Zealanders. At considerable expense to these comrades in arms, our men instructed them in the all-American art of plain and fancy dice rolling.
Later when our numbers in Paris increased, other arrangements for housing were made. The American policing of Paris, under the direction of the Expeditionary Provost General, Brigadier General Hillaire, was turned over to the Marines. Whether it was that our men conducted themselves in Paris with the orderliness of a guest at the home of his host, or whether it was that the Marines with their remarkable discipline suppressed from all view any too hearty outbursts of American exuberance, it must be said that the appearance and the bearing of American soldiers in Paris were always above reproach.
I have never heard of one being seen intoxicated in Paris, in spite of the fact that more opportunities presented themselves for drinking than had ever before been presented to an American army. The privilege of sitting at a table in front of a sidewalk café on a busy boulevard and drinking a small glass of beer unmolested, was one that our men did not take advantage of. It was against the law to serve any of the stronger liqueurs to men in uniform, but beer and light wines were obtainable all the time. All cafés closed at 9:30. In spite of the ever present opportunity to obtain beverages of the above character, there was many and many an American soldier who tramped the boulevards and canvassed the cafés, drug stores and delicatessen shops in search of a much-desired inexistent, ice cream soda.
Many of our men spent their days most seriously and most studiously, learning the mysteries of transportation on the busses and the Paris underground system, while they pored over their guide books and digested pages of information concerning the points of interest that Paris had to offer. Holidays found them shuffling through the tiled corridors of the Invalides or looking down into the deep crypt at the granite tomb of the great Napoleon. In the galleries of the Louvre, the gardens of the Tuilleries, or at the Luxembourg, the American uniform was ever present. At least one day out of every ten day leave was spent in the palace and the grounds at Versailles.
The theatres of Paris offered a continual change of amusement. One of the most popular among these was the Folies Bergères. Some of our men didn't realise until after they entered the place that it was a French theatre. Due to the French pronunciation of the name, some of the American soldiers got the idea that it was a saloon run by an Irishman by the name of Foley. "Bergère" to some was unpronounceable, so the Folies Bergères was most popularly known in our ranks as "Foley's place."
Another popular amusement place was the Casino de Paris, where an echo from America was supplied by an American negro jazz band, which dispensed its questionable music in the promenoir during the intermission. There were five negroes in the orchestra and each one of them seemed to have an ardent dislike for the remaining four. Individually they manifested their mutual contempt by turning their backs on one another while they played. Strange as it may seem, a most fascinating type of harmony resulted, producing much swaying of shoulders, nodding of heads and snapping of fingers among the American soldiers in the crowd. French men and women, with their old world musical taste, would consider the musical gymnastics of the demented drummer in the orchestra, then survey the swaying Americans and come to the conclusion that the world had gone plumb to hell.
All types of American soldiers made Paris their mecca as soon as the desired permissions had been granted. One day I sat opposite a remarkable type whom I found dining in a small restaurant. I noticed the absence of either beer or wine with his meal, and he frankly explained that he had never tasted either in his life. He thanked me, but refused to accept a cigarette I offered, saying without aside that he had yet his first one to smoke. When I heard him tell Madame that he did not care for coffee, I asked him why, and he told me that his mother had always told him it was injurious and he had never tasted it.
I became more interested in this ideal, young American soldier and questioned him about his life. I found that he and his father had worked in the copper mines in Michigan. They were both strong advocates of union labour and had participated vigorously in the bloody Michigan strikes.
"Father and I fought that strike clear through," he said. "Our union demands were just. Here in this war I am fighting just the same way as we fought against the mine operators in Michigan. I figure it out that Germany represents low pay, long hours and miserable working conditions for the world. I think the Kaiser is the world's greatest scab. I am over here to help get him."
One day in the Chatham Hotel, in Paris, I was dining with an American Brigadier General, when an American soldier of the ranks approached the table. At a respectful distance of five feet, the soldier halted, clicked his heels and saluted the General. He said, "Sir, the orderly desires permission to take the General's car to headquarters and deliver the packages."
"All right, Smith," replied the General, looking at his watch. "Find out if my other uniform is back yet and then get back here yourself with the car in half an hour."
"Thank you, sir," replied the man as he saluted, executed a snappy right about face and strode out of the dining-room.
"Strange thing about that chauffeur of mine," said the General to me. "I had a lot of extra work yesterday on his account. I had to make out his income tax returns. He and his dad own almost all the oil in Oklahoma. When he paid his income tax, Uncle Sam got a little over a hundred thousand dollars. He went in the army in the ranks. He is only an enlisted private now, but he's a good one."
Walking out of the Gare du Nord one day, I saw a man in an American uniform and a French Gendarme vainly trying to talk with each other. The Frenchman was waving his arms and pointing in various directions and the American appeared to be trying to ask questions. With the purpose of offering my limited knowledge of French to straighten out the difficulty, I approached the pair and asked the American soldier what he wanted. He told me but I don't know what it was to this day. He spoke only Polish.
It was not alone amidst the gaiety of Paris that our soldiers spread the fame of America. In the peaceful countrysides far behind the flaming fronts, the Yankee fighting men won their way into the hearts of the French people. Let me tell you the story of a Christmas celebration in a little French village in the Vosges.
Before dawn there were sounds of movement in the murky half-light of the village street. A long line of soldiers wound their way past flaming stoves of the mess shacks, where the steaming coffee took the chill out of the cold morning stomachs.
Later the sun broke bright and clear. It glistened on the snow-clad furrows of the rolling hills, in which, for centuries, the village of Saint Thiébault has drowsed more or less happily beside its ancient canal and in the shadow of the steeple of the church of the good Saint Thiébault.
Now a thousand men or more, brown-clad and metal-helmeted, know the huts and stables of Saint Thiébault as their billets, and the seventy little boys and girls of the parish know those same thousand men as their new big brothers —les bons Américains.
The real daddies and big brothers and uncles of those seventy youngsters have been away from Saint Thiébault for a long time now – yes, this is the fourth Christmas that the urgent business in northern France has kept them from home. They may never return but that is unknown to the seventy young hopefuls.
There was great activity in the colonel's quarters during the morning, and it is said that a sleuthing seventy were intent on unveiling the mystery of these unusual American preparations. They stooped to get a peep through the windows of the room, and Private Larson, walking his post in front of the sacred precincts, had to shoo them away frequently with threatening gestures and Swedish-American-French commands, such as "Allay veet – Allay veet t'ell outer here."
An energetic bawling from the headquarters cook shack indicated that one juvenile investigator had come to grief. Howls emanated from little Paul Laurent, who could be seen stumbling across the road, one blue, cold hand poking the tears out of his eyes and the other holding the seat of his breeches.
Tony Moreno, the company cook, stood in front of the cook shack shaking a soup ladle after the departing Paul and shouting imprecations in Italian-American.
"Tam leetle fool!" shouted Tony as he returned to the low camp stove and removed a hot pan, the surface of whose bubbling contents bore an unmistakable imprint. "Deese keeds make me seek. I catcha heem wit de finger in de sugar barrel. I shout at heem. He jumpa back. He fall over de stove and sita down in de pan of beans. He spoila de mess. He burn heese pants. Tam good!"
And over there in front of the regimental wagon train picket line, a gesticulating trio is engaged in a three cornered Christmas discussion. One is M. Lecompte, who is the uniformed French interpreter on the Colonel's staff, and he is talking to "Big" Moriarity, the teamster, the tallest man in the regiment. The third party to the triangle is little Pierre Lafite, who clings to M. Lecompte's hand and looks up in awe at the huge Irish soldier.
"He wants to borrow one of these," M. Lecompte says, pointing to the enormous hip boots which Moriarity is wearing.
"He wants to borrow one of me boots?" repeated the Irishman. "And for the love of heavin, what would he be after doin' wid it? Sure and the top of it is higher than the head of him."
"It is for this purpose," explains the interpreter. "The French children do not hang up their stockings for Christmas. Instead they place their wooden shoes on the hearth and the presents and sweets are put in them. You see, Pierre desires to receive a lot of things."
"Holy Mother!" replies Moriarity, kicking off one boot and hopping on one foot toward the stables. "Take it, you scamp, and I hopes you get it filled wid dimonds and gold dust. But mind ye, if you get it too near the fire and burn the rubber I'll eat you like you was a oyster."
The Irish giant emphasised his threat with a grimace of red-whiskered ferocity and concluded by loudly smacking his lips. Then little Pierre was off to his mother's cottage, dragging the seven league boot after him.
With the afternoon meal, the last of the packages had been tied with red cords and labelled, and the interior of the Colonel's quarters looked like an express office in the rush season. The packages represented the purchases made with 1,300 francs which the men of the battalion had contributed for the purpose of having Christmas come to Saint Thiébault in good style.
M. Lecompte has finished sewing the red and white covering which is to be worn by "Hindenburg," the most docile mule in the wagon train, upon whom has fallen the honour of drawing the present loaded sleigh of the Christmas saint.
"Red" Powers, the shortest, fattest and squattiest man in the battalion, is investing himself with baggy, red garments, trimmed with white fur and tassels, all made out of cloth by hands whose familiarity with the needle has been acquired in bayonet practice. Powers has donned his white wig and whiskers and his red cap, tasseled in white. He is receiving his final instructions from the colonel.
"You may grunt, Powers," the colonel is saying, "but don't attempt to talk French with that Chicago accent. We don't want to frighten the children. And remember, you are not Santa Claus. You are Papa Noel. That's what the French children call Santa Claus."
It is three o'clock, and the regimental band, assembled in marching formation in the village street, blares out "I Wish I Were in the Land of Cotton," and there is an outpouring of children, women and soldiers from every door on the street. The colonel and his staff stand in front of their quarters opposite the band, and a thousand American soldiers, in holiday disregard for formation, range along either side of the street.
The large wooden gate of the stable yard, next to the commandant's quarters, swings open; there is a jingle of bells, and "Hindenburg," resplendent in his fittings, and Papa Noel Powers sitting high on the package-heaped sleigh, move out into the street. Their appearance is met with a crash of cymbals, the blare of the band's loudest brass, and the happy cries of the children and the deeper cheers of the men.
Christmas had come to Saint Thiébault. Up the street went the procession, the band in the lead playing a lively jingling piece of music well matched to the keenness of the air and the willingness of young blood to tingle with the slightest inspiration.
"Hindenburg," with a huge pair of tin spectacles goggling his eyes, tossed his head and made the bells ring all over his gala caparison. Papa Noel, mounted on the pyramid of presents, bowed right and left and waved his hands to the children, to the soldiers, to the old men and the old women.
As the youngsters followed in the wake of the sleigh, the soldiers picked them up and carried them on their shoulders, on "piggy" back, or held them out so they could shake hands with Papa Noel and hear that dignitary gurgle his appreciation in wonderful north pole language.
When Papa Noel found out that he could trust the flour paste and did not have to hold his whiskers on by biting them, he gravely announced, "Wee, wee," to all the bright-eyed, red-cheeked salutations directed his way.
The band halted in front of the ancient church of Saint Thiébault, where old Father Gabrielle stood in the big doorway, smiling and rubbing his hands. Upon his invitation the children entered and were placed in the first row of chairs, the mothers, grandmothers, grandfathers, and young women sat in back of them, and further back sat the regimental officers. The soldiers filled the rest of the church to the doors.
The brief ceremony ended with a solemn benediction and then the curtains were drawn back from one of the arches in front of and to the left of the main altar.
There stood Saint Thiébault's first Christmas tree, or at least the first one in four years. It was lighted with candles and was resplendent with decorations that represented long hours of work with shears and paste on the part of unaccustomed fingers. Suggestions from a thousand Christmas minds were on that tree, and the result showed it. The star of Bethlehem, made of tinsel, glistened in the candlelight.
Not even the inbred decorum of the church was sufficient to restrain the involuntary expressions of admiration of the saint by the seventy youngsters. They oh-ed and ah-ed and pointed, but they enjoyed it not a whit more than did the other children in the church, some of whose ages ran to three score and more.
Papa Noel walked down the centre aisle leading a file of soldiers, each of whom carried a heaping armful of packages. Young necks craned and eyes bulged as the packages were deposited on the tables in front of the communion rail. M. Lecompte raised his hands for silence and spoke.
"These Americans," he said, "have come to our country to march and to fight side by side with your fathers and your big brothers and your uncles and all the men folk who have been away from Saint Thiébault so long. These Americans want to take their places for you to-day. These Americans in doing these things for you are thinking of their own little girls and little boys away back across the ocean who are missing their fathers and big brothers and uncles to-day, just the same as you miss yours."
There were wet eyes among the women and some of the older men in khaki closed their eyes and seemed to be transporting themselves thousands of miles away to other scenes and other faces. But the reverie was only for a minute.
M. Lecompte began calling the names for the distribution of gifts and the children of Saint Thiébault began their excited progress toward the tables. Here Papa Noel delivered the prized packages.
"For Marie Louise Larue," said M. Lecompte, "a hair ribbon of gold and black with a tortoise bandeau."
"For Gaston Ponsot, a toy cannon that shoots and six German soldiers at least to shoot."
"For Colette Daville, a warm cape of red cloth with a collar of wool."
"For Alphonse Bénois, an aeroplane that flies on a string."
"For Eugenie Fontaine, a doll that speaks."
"For Emilie Moreau, a pair of shoes with real leather soles and tops."
"For Camille Laurent, red mittens of wool and a sheepskin muff."
"For Jean Artois, a warship that moves and flies the American flag."
It continued for more than an hour. The promoters of the celebration were wise to their work. There was more than one present for each child. They did not know how many. Time after time, their names were called and they clattered forward in their wooden shoes for each new surprise.
The presents ran the range of toys, clothing, games, candies and nuts, but the joy was in sitting there and waiting for one's name to be called and going forward to partake of that most desirable "more."
Big Moriarity had his hands in the incident that served as a climax to the distribution. He had whispered something to M. Lecompte and the result was that one little duffer, who sat all alone on a big chair, and hugged an enormous rubber boot, waited and waited expectantly to hear the name "Pierre Lafite" called out.
All the other names had been called once and not his. He waited. All the names had been called twice and still not his. He waited through the third and the fourth calling in vain, and his chin was beginning to tremble suspiciously as the fifth calling proceeded without the sound of his name.
The piles of packages on the tables had been getting smaller all the time. Then M. Lecompte pronounced the very last name.
"Pierre Lafite," he called.
Pierre's heart bounded as he slipped off the chair and started up the aisle dragging his big rubber boot. The rest of the children had returned to their seats. All the elders in the church were watching his progress.
"For Pierre Lafite," repeated M. Lecompte, holding up the enormous boot. "A pair of real leather shoes to fit in the foot of the boot." He placed them there.
"And a pair of stilts to fit in the leg of the boot." He so placed them.
"And a set of soldiers, twenty-four in number, with a general commanding, to go beside the stilts." He poured them into the boot.
"And a pair of gloves and a stocking cap to go on top of the soldiers.
"And a baseball and a bat to go on top of the gloves.
"And all the chinks to be filled up with nuts and figs, and sweets. Voilà, Pierre," and with these words, he had poured the sweetmeats in overflowing measure into the biggest hip boot in the regiment.
Amid the cheers of the men, led by big Moriarity, Pierre started toward his seat, struggling with the seven league boot and the wholesale booty, and satisfied with the realisation that in one haul he had obtained more than his companions in five.
Company B quartet sang "Down in a Coal Hole," and then, as the band struck up outside the church, all moved to the street. The sun had gone down, the early winter night had set in, and the sky was almost dark.
"Signal for the barrage," came the command in the darkness.
There were four simultaneous hisses of fire and four comets of flame sprang up from the ground. They broke far overhead in lurid green.
"Signal for enemy planes overhead," was the next command, and four more rockets mounted and ended their flights in balls of luminous red. Other commands, other signals, other rockets, other lights and flares and pistol star shells, enriched a pyrotechnical display which was economically combined with signal practice.
The red glare illuminated the upturned happy faces of American and French together. Our men learned to love the French people. The French people learned to love us.