THE FOURTH OF JULY
The first they knew of it in Paris--barring vague promises of "something
to remember" on the American fete that had appeared in modest items in
the newspapers--was when a motor-bus, jammed to the guards with American
soldiers, suddenly rolled into the Avenue de l'Opera from the Tuileries
Gardens, and paraded up that august thoroughfare to the tune of
incredible yelling from everybody on board. It was the afternoon of July
3.
A few picked Americans had known about it. A sufficient number of
American and French officers and the newspaper correspondents had been
told to appear at Austerlitz Station in the early morning of the 3d, and
there they had seen the soldiers not merely arrive but tackle their
first continental breakfast.
Neither was a sensation to be sneezed at. The soldiers were of the very
finest, and in spite of their overnight journey they were all looking
fit. They were anxious to fall right out of the train into the middle of
Paris. To most of them it was a city of gallant and delightful scandal,
filled even in war-time with that twinkle of gayety plus wickedness that
is so intriguing when told about in Oscaloosa, behind the hand or the
door. They said outright that they expected to see the post-cards all
come to life when they set eyes first on Paris streets.
But even if Paris had had these fascinations in store, they were not for
the soldiers that morning. Instead military precision, discipline, an
orderly march to near-by barracks, and--a French breakfast: coffee and
war-bread. Not even the French had a kind word for the war-bread, and no
American ever spoke well of the coffee. But there it was--chronologically
in order, and haply the worst of a Paris visit all over at once.
And most of the soldiers stayed right in barracks till it was time for
the great processional the next day. It was a picked bunch that had the
motor ride and informed Paris that they had come for a party. And if
they didn't see the ladies with the unbehaving eyes, they did see the
Louvre and the Tuileries, the Opera, the boulevards, and the Madeleine.
And Paris saw the soldiers.
There was no end of cheering and handclapping. The American flags that
had been flying for Pershing were brought out again, and venders
appeared on the streets with all manner of emblems to sell. It was one
of those cheerful afternoons when good feeling expresses itself gently,
reserving its hurrahs for the coming event.
The soldiers were kept on the cars, but now and then a good Parisian
threw them a package of cigarettes or a flower. All told, they touched
off the fuse timed to explode on the morrow, and, having done that, went
back to barracks.
The first "Fourth" in Paris was a thoroughly whole-souled celebration.
The French began it, civilians and soldiers, by taking a band around to
serenade General Pershing the first thing in the morning. His house was
on the left bank of the Seine, not far from American headquarters in the
Rue Constantine, an historic old place with little stone balconies
outside the upper windows.
On one of these General Pershing appeared, with the first notes of the
band. He was cheered and cheered again. A little boy who had somehow
climbed to the top of a gas street-lamp squealed boastfully to Pershing:
"See, I am an American, too, for I have a sky-scraper!" (J'ai un
gratte-ciel!) And with a wave of his hand General Pershing acknowledged
his compatriot.
It was in this crowd around Pershing's house that a riot started,
because a man who was being unpleasantly jostled said: "Oh, do leave me
in peace." Those nearest him good-naturedly tried to give him
elbow-room, but those a little distance away caught merely the "peace"
of his ejaculation and, with sudden loud cries of "kill the pacifist,"
made for the unfortunate, and pommelled him roundly before the matter
could be explained.
After the serenade and General Pershing's little speech of thanks the
band, with most of the crowd following, marched over to des Invalides,
the appointed place for the formal ceremony.
Around the ancient hotel, overflowing into the broad boulevards that
radiate from it, and packing to suffocation the Champs de Mars in front
of it, there were just as many Frenchmen as could stand shoulder to
shoulder and chin to back. Inside, where there were speeches and
exchanges of national emblems, the crowd was equally dense, in spite of
the fact that only the very important or the very cunning had cards of
admission.
The real Fourth celebration was in the streets. The waiting crowds
yelled thunderously when the first band appeared, heralding the parade.
Then came the Territorials, the escort troops, in their familiar
horizon-blue. Then more bands, then officers, mounted and in motor-cars,
and, finally, the Americans, manifestly having the proudest moment of
their lives.
They were to march from des Invalides to Picpus Cemetery, the little
private cemetery outside of Paris, where the Marquis de Lafayette is
buried.
They crossed Solferino bridge, and made their way through a terrific
crowd in the broad Place de la Concorde. The Paris newspapers, boasting
of their conservatism, said there were easily one million Parisians that
day within sight of des Invalides when the American soldiers left the
building and started on their march.
To hear the soldiers tell it, there were easily one million Parisians,
all under the age of ten, immediately under their feet before they had
marched a mile.
From a balcony of the Hotel Crillon, on the north side of the Place de
la Concorde, the marching Americans were wholly lost to view from the
waist down. Nobody could ever complain of the French birth-rate after
seeing that parade. Nobody ever saw that many children before in any one
assemblage in France. It was prodigious.
And the French youngsters had their own notions of how they were to take
part in that French Fourth of July. The main notion was to walk between
the soldiers' legs. They were massed thick beside the soldiers, thick
between them, impeding their knee action, terrorizing their steps. At a
little distance, they looked like batter in a waffle-pan. But they did
what they could to make the American soldiers feel among friends that
day, and nobody could say they failed.
The parade turned along the picturesque old Rue de Rivoli on leaving the
Place de la Concorde, and filed along the river, almost the length of
the city. They had not gone far before the Frenchwomen had thrown them
enough roses to decorate bayonets and hats and a few lapels. They made a
brave sight, brave to nobility. And though they were harassed by the
eager children, abashed by the women, and touched to genuine emotion by
the whole city, they wouldn't have grudged five years of their lives for
the privilege of being there.
At Picpus, the scene made up in intensiveness what it lacked in breadth,
for the cemetery is far too small to permit of a crowd of size. A home
for aged gentlewomen overlooks one wall ... its windows were filled, and
their occupants proved that Frenchwomen are never too old or too gentle
to throw roses. A military hospital overlooks another side, and
balconies and windows were crowded with "blesses." The few officers and
civilians who had access to the cemetery-grounds made their
commemoration brief and simple. It was there that Colonel Stanton made
the little speech which buzzed around the Allied world within the day:
"Lafayette, nous voila!"--"Lafayette, we're here!" Its felicity of
phrase moved the French scribes to columns of congratulation. Its
compactness won the Americans. Everybody said it was the best war speech
made in France, and it was.
After Picpus, the officers came back to the city for work, and the
soldiers went to barracks. The sailors were allowed to saunter about the
city, in vain search for the post-card ladies and the flying champagne
corks. The soldiers were on a sterner regime.
Early on the morning of the 5th, they were eastward bound, to join the
rest of the First Division for training, and Paris saw the last of the
American soldiers.
A few had leave, within the next few months, from engineering corps and
base hospitals. But the infantrymen and the marines were over learning
lessons in the war of trench and bayonet, and by Christmas even the
scattering leaves from behind the lines were discontinued, and
Americans on holiday bent were sent to Aix-les-Bains. Even officers had
little or no Paris leave, and those who had been quartered in Paris, in
the Rue Constantine and the Rue Sainte-Anne, were collected at the new
American headquarters, southeast of Paris. The American uniform all but
vanished off the Paris streets. The French national holiday, ten days
after the American, had no American contingent.
So Paris and the American Army had a quick acquaintance, a brilliant one
and a brief one. It was mainly between the beginning and the end of that
Fourth of July. It will quite probably not be renewed till the end of
the war. Lucky the onlooker who sees the reunion. For then it may be
wagered that there will be gayety enough to answer the needs of even the
most post-card-haunted soldier.
But to get on to the training-camps----