The major had never learned to drive this particular brand. In fact, his proportions are such that not even a shoehorn could coax him into the helmsman’s seat. He asked me to go up and get it for him. I declined on grounds of neutrality. That was a week ago.
Well, yesterday one Mr. Kiley, who has been over here some time in the ambulance service, came back to town with the car and four flat tires, which, evidently, were far past the draft age when the sale was made in London. Mr. Kiley helped himself to a stimulant and then told me about his trip.
He reached Le Havre last Saturday afternoon. He had in his pockets no papers except an order for the car. He had been in Le Havre about two minutes when a gentleman attacked him from behind with a tap on the shoulder. The gentleman pulled back his coat lapel and flashed a star bearing the insignia of the British Intelligence Department. He was curious as to Mr. Kiley’s name and business. Mr. Kiley told him. Then he wanted to see Mr. Kiley’s papers. Mr. Kiley showed him the order for the car.
“I’m afraid that won’t do,” said the officer. “I’d advise you to leave town.”
“Give me just an hour,” pleaded Mr. Kiley, “just time enough to get the car and get out.”
“All right,” said the officer, “and be sure it’s only an hour.”
Mr. Kiley hastened to where the car was reposing, displayed the order, and started joyously to wind her up. He cranked and he cranked and he cranked. Nothing doing. He gave her a push downhill and tried to throw her into speed. Nothing doing. It occurred to him that something must be the matter. A thorough examination resulted in a correct diagnosis. There was no gas.
Next to getting a drink of ice-water in Paris, the hardest job for a stranger is buying gasoline in any French town. Mr. Kiley was turned down five times before eighteen o’clock, when all the garages closed for the day.
He registered at a hotel and went into the café for dinner. He was just picking up the carte du jour when his friend, the officer, horned in.
“Mr. Kiley,” says this guy, “you have been in town more than an hour.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Kiley. “But I’ve had trouble. I found my car, but I can’t run it because there’s no essence.”
“I think you’d better leave town,” said the officer.
“If you don’t mind,” said Mr. Kiley, “I’ll leave early in the morning.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you left right now,” said he.
There followed a long discussion and a cross-examination even crosser than mine in Bordeaux. Mr. Kiley revealed his whole family history and won the right to stay overnight, provided he remained indoors and departed from town first thing in the morning.
But France is like America in that Saturday is usually succeeded by Sunday, and when Mr. Kiley arose from his hotel bed and resumed his search for gas he found every garage in town shut up tight. As I remember the United States, garages do not keep holy the Sabbath Day nor any other day. Over here, however, everything closes on Sunday except churches, theaters and saloons.
Mr. Kiley took in the situation and returned to his room to hide. Shortly before midi there was a knock at his door and a new officer appeared.
“You seem to like our town, Mr. Kiley,” said he.
“I’ll leave it as soon as I can get away,” said Mr. Kiley.
“No doubt,” replied the officer. “But I believe you will be here a long while.”
Mr. Kiley tried to look calm.
“Bone,” he said in perfectly good French.
“For the present,” said the officer, “you must not leave the hotel. Later on we’ll talk things over.”
In the café on Sunday night Mr. Kiley met an American and told him his troubles. The American had a car of his own in Le Havre and plenty of gasoline. He would be glad to give Mr. Kiley enough to start him on his way.
“But I can’t go,” said Mr. Kiley, “till I’ve fixed it with the police. I’ll have to look for them.”
He didn’t have far to look. No. 2 was in the lobby.
“Yes,” said No. 2, “you can leave town if you leave quick. There must be no more foolishness. The only thing that saves you from arrest is your uniform.”
Mr. Kiley left town and left quick, and, aside from his four blowouts, had an uneventful trip to Paris.
But what if I had taken that assignment—I with no uniform except one willed me by the Chicago Cubs? O Boy!
Saturday, August 25. Paris.
On advice of counsel I went to Colonel Anonymous of the American General Staff and besought him to fix it so that I might get to one of our camps without further stalling. Colonel Anonymous said it was all right with him and telephoned to Major Noname, who seemed to have authority in affaires journalistic.
Major Noname, fortunately, is a baseball fan. I told him what I did know, and lots that I didn’t know about our national pastime, and the reward was an American press pass to the infantry camp, S. in F.
I am going in a horseless carriage with Joe and Howard, fellow conspirators in the so-called journalistic game, and the start is to be made early Monday morning. Joe is going to drive his own car, and I hope he knows how.
Dimanche, 26 Août. Paris.
Yesterday was Saturday, and everybody had had a hot bath and felt like doing something. Three of us decided to take in the highly recommended show at Les Ambassadeurs.
A member of the Theatrical Geographic Society met us in the foyer and showed us a map of the playhouse. From it we were supposed to pick our seats. We chose three that, on paper, were in the sixth row
