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 sniffs at me. However, my pride had long since ceased to be
on my sleeve, so I sniffed 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 sardine, when, outside in the companion way I
noticed a distinguished looking man, well dressed, with a big diamond
flashing. Certainly he belonged in a first-class compartment, and I
wondered what 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 spoke 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 Lieutenant Haslett.”
“Lieutenant?” he said, with surprise, looking for my insignia of rank.
“I must say you look more like a buck 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
fixed up. Mr. Boggs insisted that I come up to the first-class
compartment to meet some very charming American women 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 puff I condescended 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 obnoxious. 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 craved 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 out 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 olfactory 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 awfully 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 go to 10 Rue 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 enlisted 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.”
Stunned 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 scuttle, but at 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, fumigate 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 budge. 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 depot.
“Well,” I thought, “this will be easy!” I started to walk through when I
saw standing in the sentry 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 jaw, like a
bulldog, and said, “Hey, guy, where you goin’?” Of course, he couldn’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 growled. “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, Buddy, 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 Château-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 regiment 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 hip. 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.
[Illustration: COLONEL BRERETON, MAJOR HASLETT AND OTHERS BEING
DECORATED AT COBLENZ]
“What decoration is that?” I asked, curiously, “the Medal of Honor?”
“No,” he said, boisterously 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 browse 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 rims of his spectacles and
said accusingly, “Where did you get that check?” “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
prospect 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 undesirable 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 appearance it would have to be
at the Chatham, where I had previously 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
proprietor, but he wasn’t in. Things looked rather bad, when along came
the dignified old concierge. 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 amazement, 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 woes 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 blustered, 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 rest. 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 plentifully 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 emoluments, and fixtures, 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 knew
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 authorization 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 profusely 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 nervously, casting my eyes on the train. “I don’t
care,” he said in a voice indicating that his patience was about gone,
“where’s your yellow ticket?” “I haven’t got one,” I replied. “I didn’t
know I had to have that.” “You go back there,” and he pointed to one of
the windows and explained in detail as to one who was good and dense,
“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 buddies. He
couldn’t resist the chance to help a pal. 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 him 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 Château-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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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as
printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.