So, the prisoners of war, even after the Armistice2, were withheld3 from their friends until the “coming out,” which consisted of the formalities of turning the prisoners over to their friends. Naturally, it was quite an event. But, believe me, no débutante could possibly anticipate her “coming out” with the keenness and anxiety that the American prisoners of war could theirs. We, too, had planned it all—of course, not so much as to the clothes we would wear, but more especially as to the things we would eat.
Several days previous to the signing of the Armistice, we heard that the people of Bavaria had revolted, and that the will of the “Soldiers and Workmen” was paramount4. Although locked in the confines of a prison camp, the proverbial little bird told us that something was in the air—indeed, one 277felt it in the atmosphere—for, if a new republic was formed, they were certainly not the enemies of the United States, so we would indeed soon be “coming out.”
The regulation cap of the German officer and soldier is adorned5 by two buttons in the front center—the top and larger button having the colors of the Imperial German Government in the form of a miniature cocarde, while the lower and smaller button is made up of the colors of the German State from which the officer or soldier hails. Thus, all the soldiers at our camp had the large German button and the smaller one of green and white, the colors of the State of Bavaria.
One day, around the first of November, we noticed that all the officers and soldiers of the camp, including the hardboiled Prussian Captain, had taken off the prominent German button. Then there was a definite certainty that the revolution was on. We did not know how loyal to the new Government the soldiers were going to be, and we were rather concerned as to what the attitude of the new Bavarian Republic would be toward us, for we had heard nothing about our release. All sorts of rumors6 began floating around that camp—some to the effect that the soldiers and workmen were coming up to mob us for being Americans, others, more popular, that they were coming up to release us, others that we were going to die of slow starvation on account of the shortage of food, and still others that we were going to be sent to Switzerland for protection.
278With all these things before us, a vigilance committee was formed, and we all got together and had a meeting. “Jimmy” Hall, being the senior officer present, automatically became chairman. So, the big question was “For whom would we declare?”—the old German régime or the new Bavarian revolutionary party. Naturally, on such a momentous7 subject, we had quite a number of bursts of oratory8, and a lot of arguments were laid down on both sides of the question, but, at the same time, neither of us knew anything about either of them. We viewed it from an economical and military phase, but most of all, for the present at least, we looked at it from the standpoint of “things to eat.”
But judged by the solemnity and seriousness of the conference, the destiny of the world was seemingly at stake, so we asked one bird, who was sort of a jay, what he thought about it. “Mr. Chairman,” he said seriously, “I make a resolution that we declare that we are for the party that gets us out of Germany the fastest, and we don’t give a damn which one it is.” At that, the meeting almost ended in a riot, though in my mind the jay had absolutely the correct solution. Finally, it was decided9 that we would leave our fate to the council of three—the three most influential10 prisoners in camp, the controllers of the food supply, namely, the Red Cross Committee.
Shortly, conditions began to get real tense around there, and we actually didn’t know what was going to happen for, about our camp, the prison authorities 279had hoisted11 the red flag of Socialism. The few days during which that flag stayed there were the only days of my life that I have not been a Republican—I was a Socialist12 like all the rest of our boys, from force of circumstances.
Amid all this excitement, we were summoned together, and the official representative of the new revolutionary party came up to address us. Amid the quietness of death, the great man announced to us that he was now the great representative of the Great Revolutionary Party, and that the Great People of the Greater State of Bavaria had had a greatest revolution—not a bloody13 revolution like the Russians, but a quiet, orderly revolution, for realizing that the old government had failed to take care of the needs of the common people, the soldiers and the workmen of Bavaria had gotten together and had overthrown14 the monarchy15. The outcome had been the ideal democratic form of government—a Republic—and the revolution had been entirely16 successful, for the soldiers and workmen were in complete authority and command and the old régime had been entirely displaced. “Indeed,” he said, “everybody realized the inevitable17 and made no attempt to stop the onward18 movement, and such a thing as mob violence or shooting has been unheard of.”
He had just started on his next sentence when, down in the town, a machine gun sputtered19. We had been hearing pot shots occasionally for some time. So we all began to laugh. It was a rather embarrassing 280situation, and the old boy immediately modified his statement to the effect that in rare instances there had been a little shooting. Then he went on and blabbered about fifteen minutes more as to the aims of the new Government, what it had in mind, how it wished especially to be the friend of America and the good things it was going to do for the prisoners, and, as a Republic, the prisoners would, of course, be released. Here was the one thing that interested us, so, at this with one voice the prisoner colony responded, as if to a yell leader, “When!” The great man was almost taken off his feet by the anxious débutantes anticipating the “coming out.”
“Of course,” he went on graciously, “those are details that will have to be arranged later.” Our release may have been simply regarded as a detail to him, but we held it much more important. In fact, the situation looked so serious to us that only the continual talk of the general armistice kept the bunch from attempting a wholesale20 “coming out.”
Finally, the armistice came, and that day was the greatest of my whole life—not so much for the reason that I would soon be released, but because I was in a position to observe the Germans in absolute misery21. I have heard a lot of people say that their arrogance22 was not affected23 by the armistice, but that is all bunk24. They were humiliated25 to the extreme—they whined26 around like a pen of stuck pigs—they thought the terms of the armistice were terrible, inhumane, and impossible. As usual, they 281blamed it all on England. I could have stayed there for months just enjoying their misery in crying over the terrible terms laid down.
I was getting good and sick of the Germans, as such, for they had worked some good gags on us at that camp at Landshut. They took all our clothes, including shoes, to have them fumigated27 in order, as they said, to safeguard the health of the camp, and, as a substitute, they issued us old Russian prisoner uniforms. For shoes, they gave us some toy paper bedroom slippers29, which could be bought in an American novelty store for a dime30. To our surprise, in a few days these clothes were returned to us, unfumigated, in fact, untouched except thoroughly31 searched. It was the typical shell game under the guise32 of Kultur, for, at the end of the month, we found that we had been charged three dollars for the said shoes, and, since the Germans controlled the prisoners’ exchequer33, the transaction would not permit of any argument.
Another time, I was soaked outright34. The officer at my previous prison camp at Karlsruhe gave me a receipt for my fast dwindling35 purse. When I presented this receipt at Landshut, the authorities stated that they had no record of it, but that, if I would turn over this receipt to them, they would send it to Karlsruhe for verification. Like a boob, I turned the receipt over, and I have never seen it or the money since. I demanded the money several times afterwards, but demands, when a prisoner, do not carry a great deal of pull.
282Shortly after the armistice, the orders came for us to be taken to another camp, preparatory to our “coming out.” Our Red Cross food supply had been running short for some time, and, just the way things always happen, a carload of food arrived for us the day we started for the new camp. On our trip, they sent the customary number of guards along, including the sergeant36 interpreter of the camp, whose name was Kapp, and who was in charge of the party. The railways were congested, as they usually were in Germany, so Herr Kapp sat in our compartment37, and his presence eliminated the necessity of the objectionable guards.
Herr Kapp was a well-to-do German of the middle class, an artist by profession, well educated, and about forty years old. The only objection I had to Kapp was that, like most other Germans, he was an habitual38 liar39. However, he tried to be a good fellow, which was decidedly in his favor, and there was one other good thing about him—his unusually good sense of humor.
Realizing the uniqueness of our position, which happens only once in a couple of centuries, namely, being a member of the victorious40 army about to pass from the hands of the enemy, I sought to engage Herr Kapp in honest, frank conversation, since there could now be no reason for deceptions41. After a while, he opened up, so I asked him when he considered the German cause was at its best. He said that it was undoubtedly42 in the early part of the War, when the Germans were at the gates of Paris. 283I asked him when he thought the tide had turned, and he said that the German people realized, on July 18, 1918, when the Allies attacked between Chateau-Thierry and Soissons, that thereafter Germany was fighting the War on the defensive43.
“What,” I asked, “was the attitude of the German people toward their prospects45 of victory when America entered the War?”
“Well,” he calmly replied, “to a large number of the common people who, of course, read the Governmental propaganda, they only considered it as a big bluff46, for they reasoned that it would be impossible for America to transport her army overseas. You see,” he went on, “the reports of the sinking of allied47 ships by our submarines had been greatly exaggerated, and the general public honestly thought that America could do no more harm as a belligerent49 than she could as a neutral, for she was so unprepared that, before she could possibly raise an army, the Von Tirpitz U-boat warfare50 would have brought the Allies to their knees. But,” he continued emphatically, “to us educated and thinking Germans, we quite well knew that, when America declared war, it was all over for us unless we succeeded in capturing Paris, which, of course, would paralyze the French Railway System, and cut off the Allies’ means of transportation and supply to the front. This was the reason for our big spring drive. It was a last hope, and we banked everything on its success. America won the war for the Allies.”
“Herr Kapp,” I said, “do the German people 284realize that America entered the war from purely51 unselfish reasons—only as a matter of principle—and that they expect to gain nothing materially?”
“Oh,” he laughed sarcastically52, “how could any nation make the sacrifice that America was prepared to make and yet expect to gain nothing material from it. That is not to be expected. But,” he continued, “the truth of the matter is this. Your President had made us so many promises, so many speeches in which he stated that he was the friend of the German people that, when it came to the worst, we took him up—for the German people expected that he would make good on some of his utterances54, but, when the terms of the armistice were made public, they knew that either Wilson had been overruled, or that the German people had been a bunch of suckers and had bitten the wrong bait.”
“But at that,” he emphasized, “the Germans feel no natural animosity toward the Americans, but they hate the French and despise the English.”
Kapp told us that our destination was Villingen, which was a prison camp in the State of Baden. The journey was very slow on account of the congestion55, so the day before we arrived there, as we were sidetracked at one town, Kapp left us to call Landshut on the long distance. When he returned, we knew that something was terribly wrong—he was as pale as a ghost. Poor old Kapp! I never saw a man so nervous and upset. He acted like a rooky after being bawled57 out by a drill sergeant, and he fidgeted and twisted like an old maid about to say the 285words “I do.” Finally, I summoned enough courage to ask him what it was all about, for I thought perhaps that hostilities58 had been resumed.
“Anything wrong, Herr Kapp?” I asked.
“Wrong!” he ejaculated bitterly. “Hell, everything’s wrong!”
“What do you mean?” we all anxiously asked, for his attitude was just cause for alarm.
“Well,” he went on, “I have just called Landshut and they are demobilizing the camp to-day, and the men are all going to their homes.”
“What’s the matter with that?” I inquired, for this was to my mind the natural thing to do.
“Oh, my,” he said, surprised at our lack of understanding, “That car of Red Cross food arrived for you prisoners, and the rest of the camp officials will hook it all before I get back to get my share.”
All the way on the journey, Kapp had talked about the very nice girl he knew in Villingen, and that he was surely going to visit her for a few days before he returned to Landshut. So, as we were pulling into Villingen, I told Kapp that I certainly hoped he would have a pleasant visit with his girl friend at Villingen.
“Visit nothing,” he came back emphatically, “I’m going to turn you prisoners over to the authorities here and take the first train back to Landshut. There may yet be a little of that Red Cross food left.”
Villingen was a real prison camp—believe me it was, compared to those we had been in. They had 286real spring mattresses60, a prisoners’ orchestra, a couple of pianos, a library, a tennis court, hand-ball court, basket-ball court, nice place to walk in, and a nice kitchen where prisoners could cook their own recipes, and best of all, they had quite a lot of Red Cross food, even butter. I regretted a plenty that all my prison life had not been spent at that camp, for it was the best I had seen.
When we got to Villingen, we received a fresh supply of rumors as to just when we were going to be released. With all this anticipation61, the days were unusually long, for every day was filled with added promises which the Germans never fulfilled. So, after we had been there a few days, I began to think we never were going to get out if we waited for the help of the Germans. So, I decided to have my own “coming out.”
I tried to escape for three nights straight, even getting so far as to breaking the lock on an abandoned gate and cutting the barbed wire enclosing the windows, but something always went wrong. Every time we had to run on account of being discovered by the guards. The fourth day, an American Artillery62 colonel, who was the senior officer of the prisoners, called a meeting and stated that the Germans had turned the government of the prisoners over to him, and, as commanding officer, he forbade any more attempts to escape. I thought then and I think now that the Colonel was entirely without his rights. The armistice did not affect our status of prisoners, for there was still a state of war, and, as long as 287there is a state of war, to my mind there is a corresponding duty on the part of all prisoners to return to their own forces; and no superior officer, regardless of rank, has the right to excuse the failure of any prisoner to perform this duty, and certainly not to forbid even attempting the performance. This Colonel stated that, as commanding officer, he had given the parole of all the prisoners. This was again absolutely the assumption of rights not his own. This assumption of our personal privileges as men and soldiers was the only thing that kept several of us from again trying to escape, for a man’s word of honor is too serious a thing to permit juggling63 with, even when given away without his consent.
Finally, the orders came to leave, and one bright morning they assembled us, the Air Service officers being last—probably because that was where we stood in the estimation of the American Artillery colonel. The German officer in charge of the camp came out and made a speech about the great friendship of the German and American people, in which he said that the Allies and Germans were both victorious—Germany’s victory being in that she had found a new Republic. But it was not a time for speechmaking—it was a time for action for us, and, like a bunch of race horses, we pawed the earth to get a head start for that train.
To our surprise, they had first-class coaches to carry us out of Germany, although they had taken us in and moved us around in everything from cattle cars to third and fourth class coaches.
288We got to Constanz, on the border of Switzerland, and, of course, expected to change trains and go right ahead. To our disappointment, we found that the Americans had not made any preparations to carry us through Switzerland, and we had to wait at Constanz a couple of days until the Americans showed some speed. Believe me, I damned America right, left, laterally64, and longitudinally for their lack of preparation. I afterwards was very sorry and found that it was not the fault of the Americans at all. But I was mighty65 peeved66 to be forced to eat “Bully Beef” in Germany on Thanksgiving.
I think it was about five o’clock, on the morning of the thirtieth of November, that we crossed the border, and believe me I never want to hear such pandemonium67 again as those two hundred American prisoners gave as we were pulled out of Germany, and were actually again in the hands of friends. We had shaken hands with our hostess at the “coming out,” for I didn’t see a single house along our railroad all through Switzerland from five in the morning until midnight that did not have the American flag waving. Everywhere were men, women and children madly waving handkerchiefs and flags as that train went by.
I felt as if I were in heaven. It was wonderful of Switzerland, but, of course, it was the fact that we represented the Great America which caused the demonstration68 as they had a sincere respect for our friendship.
At Berne, the ladies of the American Red Cross 289met us and served us hot roast chicken. Take it from me, it was good. Everyone had a ravenous69 appetite. When we were filled to the brim, the boys got together and appointed me yell leader, and we gave fifteen “raws” for the Red Cross, the Y. M. C. A., the Salvation71 Army, Switzerland, Berne, the Allies, and the U.S.A. The natives thought perhaps that we were lunatics, but those who understood America knew it was the only immediately available way we had of expressing our appreciation72. So we repeated our performance at Lucerne, and at Lausanne, and at Geneva.
Hours meant nothing to the austere73 Swiss on that night, for when we pulled into Geneva at 11 P. M., there was the same tremendous crowd, with American flags, good cheer, and things to eat. All the way along, even from the first, it was the same. At one little town where we stopped for the engine to get water, there was only one little store near the railroad, but the Swiss man who ran it gave us every bit of wine he had in there, which was about thirty bottles, and then began to feed us cookies. He could speak nothing but German, which was “Alles for den53 Amerikaner,” meaning “Everything for the Americans.” And he seemed pleased to have the opportunity to do it. In that part of Switzerland, they speak German, but, of course, around Lausanne and Geneva, French is the common tongue.
But it was a real “coming out.” In fact, it was C?sar’s Triumphal March, Woodrow Wilson’s entrance into Paris, and Pershing on Fifth Avenue, 290all combined, for we were the King Bees when it came to Swiss chocolate, and they certainly handed it out. I became so ill that I could barely navigate74, but it all seemed so much like a dream that I continued to consume chocolate whether I wanted to or not for fear the dream would end.
On the morning of December first, we crossed the border at Bellegarde. There was a big hospital train waiting to meet us, but, for some reason or other, their orders would not permit them to pull out before six or seven that evening. Our destination was some hospital near Dijon. That didn’t sound interesting to me. I was tired of being confined, and I felt that it was my duty to join my organization for the war was still on. So, I took some of my most valued friends into my confidence, and relieved them of every cent of money they had, from pfennigs to souvenirs, which I finally got exchanged, and got enough French money to get a third-class passage to Paris.
So, when the Geneva-Paris express pulled in, I took my seat. My clothes must have been awful, for I noticed the poor peasant women taking unpleasant sniffs75 at me. However, my pride had long since ceased to be on my sleeve, so I sniffed76 right back at ’em. Just before we left, I was sitting back there in that third-class compartment, packed up in a corner like an oiled sardine77, when, outside in the companion way I noticed a distinguished78 looking man, well dressed, with a big diamond flashing. Certainly he belonged in a first-class compartment, and I wondered 291what he was doing back there among us common peasants. As he stood there a newsboy came along, hollering “La Liberte,” and since the sight of a well-dressed man had recalled to my mind the fact that I, too, had once been more or less of a gentleman who could afford a newspaper, I stopped the boy. “Garcon,” I said, “donnez moi un journal.” That is, “Give me a paper.” The lad handed me a paper and also his hand, and so I reached in my pocket and realized that I had spent my last sous for that railroad ticket. Quite embarrassed, I handed the paper back and told him I didn’t want the paper after all. This man on the outside looked in, and to my great surprise spoke79 up in English. “Well,” he smiled, “you look like an American.” “Yes, sir,” I replied, “I am an American.”
“Well,” he continued, offering his hand, “I’m an American too. Boggs is my name.” I extended my fist and said, “My name is Lieutenant80 Haslett.”
“Lieutenant?” he said, with surprise, looking for my insignia of rank. “I must say you look more like a buck81 private.” Whereupon I found it was necessary to explain that I had been a prisoner and had just gotten out. He bought the paper for me from the anxious news kid and came across then and offered to give me money or anything else I needed.
Modestly I responded that I really didn’t need it; that I would be all right, for when I got back to Paris the next morning I would soon be fixed82 up. Mr. Boggs insisted that I come up to the first-class compartment to meet some very charming American 292women and some French countesses. I must admit that, even though I did have a lot of self-pride in not wanting to make my appearance under such disadvantageous conditions, yet the opportunity to talk to a real American woman sounded like soft music to my ears.
I was on the point of declining when he pulled out a real Havana cigar, which certainly would have cost him a couple of dollars at the Café de Paris or “Ciro’s.”
“Here,” he said, handing it over, “you must want this, since you have probably not had a real cigar for a long time.”
I could not resist this invitation, and when I put my teeth on that cigar and took the first puff83 I condescended84 right away to permit the charming ladies to be presented to me. The first thing the ladies did was to offer me a piece of chocolate. I would not have touched chocolate for a thousand dollars, for I had had so much of it in Switzerland that it was almost obnoxious85. However, I could not tell them that I had been fed up or they would not have had so much sympathy for me, for what I especially craved86 was sympathy and what I most especially desired was to be petted. So I told them that I was very sorry that I couldn’t accept their chocolate for the reason that the doctor had told me not to eat anything at all until I had gone to the specialist at Paris to see if anything was wrong with my stomach.
I soon realized what a bonehead remark I had made, for shortly afterwards Countess B—— pulled 293out some lovely club sandwiches. There were tears of regret in my eyes as my mouth watered like a spring—but that doctor gag was my story and I had to stick to it.
We talked quite a while and I smoked another one of this American’s good cigars, and then, by means of my olfactory87 sense, I realized that my clothes were making the air a little uncomfortable in there, so I excused myself and told them that I wished to go back to my compartment, as I felt awfully88 embarrassed looking so poorly among such lovely and refined people. Of course, they insisted that I stay in their compartment the remainder of the night, as there was plenty of room and I could stretch out and rest my weary bones while they should, like good angels, watch over me. This sounded real, but I knew from a personal standpoint that my welcome had expired as soon as they had seen the curiosity, namely, the prisoner of war, and that it would be more comfortable for all concerned that I hie me back among the peasants.
I had been to Paris quite a number of times. The old saying was that “all roads lead to Rome,” but the new one of the American Army was “all Army orders read to Paris,” it being an unwritten law that all army travel orders were via Paris. So in my visits I had naturally learned the customs and rules with respect to reporting to our Military Police of Paris.
The old rule upon entering Paris was that if you intended to stay over twenty-four hours you must 294go to 10 Rue89 St. Anne, which was the headquarters of the Provost Marshal of the American Military Police, and register, stating your hotel, the nature of your business, when you were leaving, and the time. If you did not intend to stay twenty-four hours or over you did not need to register. Of course, I generally managed to stay twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes, at which time I was generally broke and had to leave. But this morning, when I arrived at the Gare de Lyons, I was confronted with a tremendous and complete surprise. Preceding me was a line of about fifty officers, ranging in rank from Colonel to Second Lieutenant, and on down to privates, and in front of them was a big desk and two bigger M. P.’s presided over by an officious looking Second Lieutenant, and above them a sign:
“New Regulations, G.H.Q.—No officers or enlisted90 men under the rank of Brigadier General will be allowed to leave this station or enter Paris without first registering here, giving authority for travel, hotel, nature of business, and when officer or man will leave the city.
“By order of General Pershing.”
Stunned91 and shocked, I stood on the side lines and watched. Every one who passed this desk showed written orders and was given a little blue check which the M. P.’s seemed to honor. Things sure looked both black and blue for me. I had no insignia whatever—from appearances I was a private and my uniform was as dirty as a coal scuttle92, but 295at the same time they could tell I was an American. I certainly looked like the last rose of summer after the first winter frost. I figured the small chance I would have of talking my way through that Lieutenant Provost Marshal. Just as sure as could be they would take me up to 10 Rue St. Anne and quarantine me, fumigate28 me, and hold me for orders. It was the old Army game of waiting for orders, and, believe me, that wasn’t the object of my visit to Paris. I realized that if I once got to my hotel I could spend a couple of days there without even being seen or known and could eat to the limit of my bank account. I felt that under the circumstances General Pershing would bear me out, provided I could get that high up in presenting my case.
So I decided to make a reconnaissance of the station, hoping for better luck. I sauntered around, by every exit, and there was either a Frenchman there who wouldn’t let me by or there was an American who, of course, wouldn’t budge93. I thought of getting on an outgoing train and being pulled down to the yards and leaving by that way. So I began to walk down the tracks. Finally I found an open gate where the tracks enter for the freight depot94.
“Well,” I thought, “this will be easy!” I started to walk through when I saw standing59 in the sentry95 box a hardboiled buck private—an American. In his hand he had a regular New York billy stick. He saw me, and it was too late to turn back. He walked out and stuck out his jaw96, like a bulldog, and said, “Hey, guy, where you goin’?” Of course, he 296couldn’t tell me from a private, so I got just as hardboiled as he was and stuck out my jaw and said, “Hello, Buddie! What are you doin’?” “Where yuh going?” he demanded gruffly. “Damned if I know, Bud,” I growled97. “I’m getting tired of hanging around Paris. I’m tired of it. I want to get to the front or where the front was. You know, Buddie, they told me when they drafted me into the Army I’d get to the front. I’ve never even heard a gun fire. I’ve been stationed in the rear all the time, and now the blamed war is over, and I ain’t never seen none of it. I’ll go back, and my girl will say, ‘Reuben, tell me about the war; what were you in?’ And, Buddy98, won’t I feel like the devil when I have to ’fess up and tell them that I was a soldier in Paris?”
I looked at his arm, and I saw that he had a wound stripe. “Looky there!” I snapped out proudly. “You’ve got a wound stripe, ain’t yuh?” “Yep,” he replied, equally proud. “Gosh, you’re lucky,” I said assuringly. “You’ve been to the front; tell me about it, for I ain’t never had no chance to talk to a real red-blooded guy what’s been to the front yet.”
This was the prize stroke, for he broke loose and told me his whole story. He said he had been at Chateau-Thierry, in the Second Division, and was sore because the Marines got all the credit for it, while, as a matter of fact, it was his own regiment99 that did all the dirty work. He himself, according to his story, had attacked a machine gun nest alone, had got ten prisoners, and, incidentally, got wounded in the hip48. I impressed upon him how lucky he was to have gotten through it alive; then I glanced at his chest and I saw upon it the green and yellow ribbon meaning Mexican Border Service.
Colonel Brereton, Major Haslett and others being decorated at Coblenz
297“What decoration is that?” I asked, curiously100, “the Medal of Honor?” “No,” he said, boisterously101 putting his finger on the ribbon. “You know what that is, don’t you?” “No,” I affirmed, “I ain’t never seen no decorations.” “Well,” he said, realizing he had an easy one, “why, that’s the Croix de Guerre.” I gripped him by the hand and slapped him on the shoulder and told him he was the most interesting man and the bravest man that I had ever met and that I sure wanted to meet him again, but that I had to browse102 on to-day and we would get together some night when we got paid and go to the Folies Bergère and see the theater. So the old boy offered me a chew of tobacco, took one himself and again proudly shaking his hand I passed on.
I had to walk all the way up to town because I didn’t have any money to hire a taxi, nor could I even pay my carfare. Finally I got up to the Place de l’Opera, where I went into my American bank and wrote out a check for about two hundred and fifty francs, as I still had a little money on deposit there. As is the custom with those very shrewd and careful French bank clerks, the Frenchman took the check back to consult the books to see if I had that much money on credit. When he came back he looked at me suspiciously over the top rims103 of his spectacles and said accusingly, “Where did you get that 298check?” “Well,” I replied, surprised at his attitude, “where do you suppose I got it. I just now wrote it.” “Be careful,” he answered sarcastically, “don’t lie.” “Where do you get that noise?” I demanded, thoroughly insulted. “Well,” he insisted, “we won’t cash that check. That man is dead.” “Who’s dead?” I asked sharply. “Well, you see,” he explained, “our books report that Elmer Haslett was killed in action September 30, 1918.” “Well,” I laughed, appreciating the joke, “I’m the guy—been a prisoner of war and have just gotten back and, as is to be expected, I’ve got to have some money.” “All right,” he answered, as if about to accommodate me, “you prove that you are Elmer Haslett.” “I’ve no papers on me, of course,” and I puzzled for a second. “You see, I’ve been a prisoner of war, but just compare my signature with any previous ones.” That wasn’t sufficient evidence for him, so I asked him to suggest the means of identity. “It is very simple,” he explained. “Get the Military Police at 10 Rue St. Anne to state that you are Elmer Haslett.” Of course, the prospect44 of appearing at 10 Rue St. Anne was out of the question, for reasons stated. I must try new means to obtain the wherewithal. With new hopes, I walked over to the Hotel Chatham. They had changed clerks there and so when I asked for a room the clerk told me very politely that they had none. I knew then they simply considered me as an undesirable104 guest on account of my appearance, but I also knew that if I had a chance to get a room in Paris at all on my present 299appearance it would have to be at the Chatham, where I had previously105 been known. I told the clerk that I had been at the Chatham many times and that they certainly knew me, that my name was Elmer Haslett. “Oh, yes, yes,” he said politely, “we know you, Mr. Haslett, but we simply have no rooms.” I asked to see the proprietor106, but he wasn’t in. Things looked rather bad, when along came the dignified107 old concierge108. Just as big as could be, I walked up and extended my hand to the concierge. “How are you, Henry?” I said, about to embrace him. He drew back in amazement109, looking at me like a powerful judge looks at an overfriendly bolshevik. But I had his hand, so he couldn’t get loose. “Well, sir,” he said sternly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” I thought of all the woes110 of poor old Rip Van Winkle—I too had actually changed. But I couldn’t give up. “Come on, Henry, come on,” I said. “You know me—I’m Haslett, who used to be here with Len Hammond.” “Oh,” he blustered111, equally shocked, “I know Lieutenant Haslett, but you’re not Lieutenant Haslett.” “I beg your pardon, but I am,” I replied, getting a little heated. “I’m getting tired of having people tell me I’m not. Now what I want, Henry, is a room, and the clerk says he has no rooms, and I know damned well he has. I look like the devil, I know. But listen,” and I whispered in his ear. “Don’t tell it, but I have just gotten back from Germany, where I’ve been a prisoner of war, and I don’t want the newspapers to know it because I want to have a few days 300rest. You go up and tell him I’m all right and want a room. You know me, Henry. I’ll fix it up right with you.” The prisoner sympathy stuff did not have the pull with Henry as the magic little words “I’ll fix it right with you.” That seems to get by everywhere. So the old boy went over and fixed it up and assigned me to one of the nicest rooms they had. For the rest of the morning I kept two servants busy bringing me food and charging it to my bill. Then I wrote a check, dating it before my capture, and proceeded to send it to the concierge. He cashed it and then life was a little more easy.
Just as I was leaving the hotel I ran on to some of my friends—the first boys I had seen since I left Germany, and, of course, they wouldn’t let me leave, but took me up and bought me a big dinner. They took me to the Café de Paris and, believe me, I was some sensation, for while I had been eating and had eaten plentifully112 those few days, I still had a lot to make up for and I had a huge appetite. In fact, it was a continuing appetite. The bill at the Café for the three of us was something like $45.00, because I ordered everything they had, which, of course, included the necessary emoluments113, and fixtures114, and all the dainty and choice things both in season and out. Finally I tore loose and took a taxi down to the Gare de l’Est, where I found practically the same situation as at the Gare de Lyons, only that you had to show orders before you could purchase a ticket. My train left at 3:00 o’clock and it was now about five minutes before time for the train to pull out. I 301knew it would be impossible to go through the red tape of getting a ticket O. K.’d, for I had the big chance of being held. I rushed up to the ticket window and asked for a ticket to Bar-le-Duc. The lady shook her head and tried to tell me in English that it was impossible to sell tickets to the Americans without a purchase authorization115 check. With apparent surprise I demanded in French that she speak French or Belgian. Thinking that I was making remarks about her rotten English, she proceeded to tell me the same in French. “Ha! ha! ha! Madame,” I laughed. “You make me laugh very much. That is very funny. I am very pleased at your compliment. Do you think I am American or Belgian?” I had almost forgotten my French, but it came in very good play, for she fell for it, demanded my pardon most profusely116 and immediately forked over a ticket. It was just about time for the train. I knew I couldn’t pull any smooth gag on this hardboiled M. P., so I started to rush through, handing him my railroad ticket. “Hey,” and he grabbed me, “where are you going?” “I’m going to take this train for Bar-le-Duc,” I replied hurriedly. “Well,” he demanded, “where’s your yellow ticket?” “What yellow ticket?” I said, surprised that such a thing even existed. “You’ve got to have a yellow ticket before you can pass through this gate,” he said, emphatically and not permitting argument. “Here, here’s my railroad ticket,” I repeated nervously117, casting my eyes on the train. “I don’t care,” he said in a voice indicating that his patience was about gone, “where’s 302your yellow ticket?” “I haven’t got one,” I replied. “I didn’t know I had to have that.” “You go back there,” and he pointed70 to one of the windows and explained in detail as to one who was good and dense118, “see the M. P. and get your orders stamped and he will give you a yellow ticket, and you can’t get by this gate until you do.” “Oh, Hell! Come on, Buddy,” I said, “I can’t do all that. I’m just coming back from leave. If I do all that I’ll miss my train. Come on, Bud, let me by. Why, I’ll get K. P. for a week if I don’t get there to-night. It’s my last chance. You wouldn’t hold up a buddy that way, would you?” and believe me, I looked appealingly. He looked at me a moment. The conductor was already blowing his little whistle signal and then he gave up. “Go on! The war is over,” he said. It was the example of the American soldier and the big soft spot they have for their buddies119. He couldn’t resist the chance to help a pal56. So I passed the gates and got on the train and went to Bar-le-Duc. On the train I ran onto a guy I knew and we talked over old times and I got to Chaumont-sur-Aire, which was the old headquarters, and I ran in and saw my old friend, Philip Roosevelt, who was then the Army Pursuit Operations Officer. Then I got on the telephone and called Brereton, who was then up at Longuyon preparing to move to Treves with the Army of Occupation. He was Chief of Staff for General Mitchell, who was then commanding the Aviation of the Army of Occupation. “Is this Major Brereton?” I said from force of habit, for he was a Major when I knew 303him last. “Yes—Colonel Brereton,” he corrected. “This is Lieutenant Haslett,” I called. “WHO?” he fairly yelled. “Lieutenant Haslett,” I replied. “Who do you mean,” he demanded—“Elmer?” “Yep,” I said, “that’s right.” “Lieutenant Hell!” he called in old form, “you’ve been promoted for months and I’ve been waiting for a month to be decorated with you for Chateau-Thierry.” “Well, let’s not argue over technicalities,” I answered. “How am I going to get up there?” “How are you going to get up here?” he repeated, very surprised. “Yes,” I replied, “how am I going to get up there?” “Well, Elmer,” he said, in his same grand old voice, “you’re going up in the King’s carriage.” So he immediately sent one of General Mitchell’s cars all that distance, and after traveling practically all night over those terrible roads, the next morning at breakfast I had my “coming out.” I was back among friends—the dearest friends that man can have—those who with you have upheld the flag and who with an unfaltering trust have faced the common enemy.
THE END
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1
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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sputtered
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| v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的过去式和过去分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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25
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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fumigated
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| v.用化学品熏（某物）消毒( fumigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fumigate
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| v.烟熏；用香薰 | |
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29
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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32
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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38
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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deceptions
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| 欺骗( deception的名词复数 )； 骗术，诡计 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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43
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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44
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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46
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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47
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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48
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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49
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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50
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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51
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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52
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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53
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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54
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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55
congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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56
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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57
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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58
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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59
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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60
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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61
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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62
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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63
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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64
laterally
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| ad.横向地；侧面地；旁边地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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66
peeved
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| adj.恼怒的，不高兴的v.（使）气恼，（使）焦躁，（使）愤怒( peeve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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68
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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71
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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72
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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73
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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74
navigate
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| v.航行，飞行；导航，领航 | |
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75
sniffs
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的第三人称单数 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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76
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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77
sardine
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| n.[C]沙丁鱼 | |
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78
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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79
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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80
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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81
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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82
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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83
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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84
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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85
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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86
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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87
olfactory
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| adj.嗅觉的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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89
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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91
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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scuttle
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| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
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budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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99
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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102
browse
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| vi.随意翻阅，浏览；(牛、羊等)吃草 | |
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103
rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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104
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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105
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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107
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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108
concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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109
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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110
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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111
blustered
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| v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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112
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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113
emoluments
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| n.报酬，薪水( emolument的名词复数 ) | |
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114
fixtures
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| （房屋等的）固定装置( fixture的名词复数 )； 如（浴盆、抽水马桶）； 固定在某位置的人或物； （定期定点举行的）体育活动 | |
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115
authorization
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| n.授权，委任状 | |
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116
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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117
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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118
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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119
buddies
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| n.密友( buddy的名词复数 )；同伴；弟兄；（用于称呼男子，常带怒气）家伙v.（如密友、战友、伙伴、弟兄般）交往( buddy的第三人称单数 )；做朋友；亲近（…）；伴护艾滋病人 | |
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