''And they thought we wouldn't fight'' by Floyd Phillips Gibbons (motivational books for men TXT) 📖

went over the top with "his boys" and came back with them. It was their opinion that their regiment had some sky pilot. And it was mine, also. 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