LAFAYETTE, NOUS VOILÀ
The navy was the first to take Paris. While the doughboys were still at
the port crowding themselves into camp, lucky sailors were on their way
to let the French capital see the American uniform. I came up on the
night train with a crowd of them. Their pockets bulged with money, tins
of salmon, ham and truffled chicken. They had chocolate in their hats
and boxes of fancy crackers under their arms, while cigars and
cigarettes poked out of their blouses. They would have nothing to do
with French tobacco, but favored a popular American brand which sells
for a quarter in New York and twice as much over here. One almost
expected each sailor to produce a roast turkey or a pheasant from up his
sleeve at meal time, but it was pretty much all meal time for these men
who were making their shore leave an intensive affair. One was a very
new sailor and he was rejoicing to find land under his feet again.
"Oh, boy!" he said, when I asked him about his ship, "that old tub had
two more movements than a hula dancer."
The little group in my compartment was sampling some champagne which
hospitable folk at the port had given them. It was not real champagne,
to be sure, but a cheaper white wine with twice as many bubbles and at
least as much noise. It sufficed very well, since it was ostentation
rather than thirst which spurred the sailors on and they spread their
hospitality throughout the train. A few French soldiers headed back for
the trenches were the traveling companions of the Americans. The poilus
were decidedly friendly but somewhat amazed at the big men who made so
much noise with their jokes and their songs. Of course the French were
called upon to sample the various tinned and bottled goods which the
sailors were carrying. It was "have a swig of this, Froggy" or "get
yourself around that, Frenchy." The Americans were still just a bit
condescending to their brothers in arms. They had not yet seen them in
action. Of course there was much comparison of equipment and the sailors
all tried on the trench helmets of the French and found them too small.
The entente grew and presently there was an allied concert. The sailors
sang, "What a Wonderful Mother You'd Make," and the French replied with
the Verdun song, "Ils Ne Passeront Pas," and later with "Madelon."
I heard that song many times afterwards and it always brings to mind a
picture of dusty French soldiers marching with their short, quick, eager
stride. They are always dusty. All summer long they wear big overcoats
which come below the knee. Dust settles and multiplies and if you see a
French regiment marching in the spring rainy season, it will still be
dusty. Perhaps their souls are a little dusty now, but it is French
dust. And as they march they sing as the men sang to the newly arrived
Americans in the train that night:
For all the soldiers, on their holidays,
There is a place, just tucked in by the woods,
A house with ivy growing on the walls--
A cabaret--"Aux Toulourous"--the goods!
The girl who serves is young and sweet as love,
She's light as any butterfly in Spring,
Her eyes have got a sparkle like her wine.
We call her Madelon--it's got a swing!
The soldiers' girl! She leads us all a dance!
She's only Madelon, but she's Romance!
When Madelon comes out to serve us drinks,
We always know she's coming by her song!
And every man, he tells his little tale,
And Madelon, she listens all day long.
Our Madelon is never too severe--
A kiss or two is nothing much to her--
She laughs us up to love and life and God--
Madelon! Madelon! Madelon!
We all have girls for keeps that wait at home
Who'll marry us when fighting time is done;
But they are far away--too far to tell
What happens in these days of cut-and-run.
We sigh away such days as best we can,
And pray for time to bring us nearer home,
But tales like ours won't wait till then to tell--
We have to run and boast to Madelon.
We steal a kiss--she takes it all in play;
We dream she is that other--far away.
A corp'ral with a feather in his cap
Went courting Madelon one summer's day,
And, mad with love, he swore she was superb,
And he would wed her any day she'd say.
But Madelon was not for any such--
She danced away and laughed: "My stars above!
Why, how could I consent to marry you,
When I have my whole regiment to love?
I could not choose just one and leave the rest.
I am the soldiers' girl--I like that best!"
When Madelon comes out to serve us drinks,
We always know she's coming by her song!
And every man, he tells his little tale,
And Madelon, she listens all day long.
Our Madelon is never too severe--
A kiss or two is nothing much to her--
She laughs us up to love and life and God--
Madelon! Madelon! Madelon!
When the train came into Paris early the next morning the sailors were
singing the chorus with the poilus. They parted company at the quai
d'Orsay. The soldiers went to the front; the sailors turned to Paris. It
was a Paris such as no one had ever seen before. The "bannière etoilée"
was everywhere. We call it the Stars and Stripes. Little flags were
stuck rakishly behind the ears of disreputable Parisian cab horses;
bigger flags were in the windows of the shops and on top of buildings,
but the biggest American flag of all hung on the Strassburg monument
which shed its mourning when the war began.
Two days later all the flags were fluttering, for on the morning of the
third of July the doughboys came to Paris. It made no difference that
they were only a battalion. When the French saw them they thought of
armies and of new armies, for these were the first soldiers in many
months who smiled as they marched. The train was late, but the crowd
waited outside the Gare d'Austerlitz for more than two hours. French Red
Cross nurses were waiting at the station, and the doughboys had their
first experience with French rations, for they began the long day with
"petit déjeuner." Men brought up on ham and eggs and flapjacks and
oatmeal and even breakfast pie, found war bread and coffee a scant
repast, but the ration proved more popular than was expected when it was
found that the coffee was charged with cognac. It was a stronger
stimulant, though, which sent the men up on the tips of their toes as
they swung down the street covering thirty-two inches with each stride.
For the first time they heard the roar of a crowd. It was not the steady
roar such as comes from American throats. It was split up into "Vive les
Etats Unis!" and "Vive l'Amérique!" with an occasional "Vive le
President Wilson!" This appearance was only a dress rehearsal and the
troops were hurried through little frequented streets to a barracks to
await the morning of the Fourth.
Paris began the great day by waking Pershing with music. The band of the
republican guard was at the gate of his house a little after eight
o'clock. The rest of Paris seemed to have had no trouble in arousing
itself without music, for already several hundred thousand persons were
crowded about the General's hotel. First there were trumpets; then
brasses blared and drums rumbled. The General proved himself a light
sleeper and a quick dresser. Before the last note of the fanfare died
away he was at the window and bowing to the crowd. This time there was a
solid roar, for everybody shouted "Vive Pershing." The band cut through
the din. There were a few strange variations and uncertainties in the
tune, but it was unmistakably "The Star Spangled Banner." Only a handful
in the crowd knew the American National anthem, but they shouted
"Chapeau, chapeau" so hard that everybody took up the cry and took off
his hat. There was a fine indefinite noisy roar which would have done
credit to a double header crowd at the Polo Grounds when Pershing left
his hotel for the "Invalides," where the march of the Americans was to
begin. It was pleasant to observe at that moment that our commander has
as straight a back as any man in the allied armies can boast.
At least four hundred thousand people were crowded around the
"Invalides." They had plenty of chance to shout. They were able to keep
their enthusiasm within bounds when first Poincaré appeared and then
Painlevé. The next celebrity was Papa Joffre and hats went into the air.
There was an interval of waiting then and a bit of a riot. An old man
who found the elbows of his neighbors disagreeable, exclaimed: "Oh, let
me have peace!" Somebody who heard the word "peace" shouted: "He's a
pacifist," and people near at hand began to hit at him. He was saved by
the coming of the American soldiers. "Vive les Teddies," shouted the
crowd and forgot the old man.
The crowd made way for the Americans as they marched toward the
"Invalides" and into the court yard where the trophies won from the
Germans are displayed. "You will bring more from the Boche," shouted a
Frenchman. French and American flags floated above the guns and
aeroplanes and minenwerfers. During the short ceremony the American
soldiers looked about curiously at the trophies and up at the dome above
the tomb of Napoleon. Many knew him by reputation and some had heard
that he was buried there.
After a short ceremony the Americans marched out of the "Invalides" and
toward the Picpus cemetery. The crowds had increased. It was hard
marching now. French children ran in between the legs of the soldiers.
French soldiers and civilians crowded in upon them. It was impossible to
keep ranks. Now the men in khaki were just a little brown stream
twisting and turning in an effort to get onward. People threw roses at
the soldiers and they stuffed them into their hats and in the gun
barrels. It was reported from several sources that one or two soldiers
who were forced out of ranks were kissed, but no one would admit it
afterwards. The youngsters in the ranks tried their best to keep a
military countenance. They endeavored to achieve an expression which
should be polite but firm, an air of having been through the same
experience many times before. Only one or two old sergeants succeeded.
The rest blushed under the cheers and entangling interest of the crowd
and they could not keep the grins away when people shouted "Vive les
Teddies" or threw roses at them. On that morning it was great to be
young and a doughboy.
On and on they went past high walls and gardens to the edge of the city
to a cemetery. There were speeches here and they were mostly French.
Ribot spoke and Painlevé and Pershing. His was English and he said: "I
hope, and I would like to say it that here on the soil of France and in
the school of the French heroes, our American soldiers may learn to
battle and to vanquish for the liberty of the world."
But the speech which left the deepest impression was the shortest of
all. Colonel Stanton stood before the tomb of Lafayette and made a
quick, sharp gesture which was broad enough to include the youngsters
from Alabama and Texas and Massachusetts and Ohio and the rest.
"Lafayette, we're here!" he said.