P.S. It was revealed to me tonight that my detention and trial in Bordeaux was a frame-up conceived by loving friends aboard ship and carried out by that English-speaking cross-examiner, who, believe me, is a convincing actor.
Thanks, gents. It was good for about two thousand words.
III
I Try to Get to the American Camp—But Meet Disaster
Wednesday, August 22. Paris.
The gentlemen authorized to issue visitors’ passes to the American camp and the various fronts don’t seem to realize that a person may be in a hurry. They fail to appreciate the facts that hanging round Paris is financial ruin and that the world series, which one positively must attend, is drawing nearer every hour.
Permission to go to the British front was requested over a week ago. No reply. Daily calls at our own press bureau produce nothing but promises of a trip somewhere, some time. Monsieur Boss of the French Maison de la Presse says I may be taken through the devastated territory—in a week or so.
Meanwhile the Battle of Paris goes on, with Death always staring one in the face—Death from taxis, from starvation, from water thirst, from hand-to-hand encounters with the language.
Death from a taxi is the most likely form and the most distressing, for under the Parisian law the person run down and killed is the one at fault and the corpus delicti is liable to life imprisonment or worse. A pedestrian has no more rights here than the Kaiser, and it’s almost impossible to cross the street unless you’ve gone through a course of intensive training in Detroit.
There would be little danger if all the crossings were on the upgrade, for the French cars—those which aren’t in the military service—have a desperate time climbing. They have to shift speeds even to run up on the sidewalk, which is one of their favorite sports. But the Loop District of Paris is topographically on the level, and taxis can tear along like an eastbound Russian.
On occasions when you are run into and knocked down a gendarme appears on the scene with pencil and notebook. He takes the name and address of the driver and escorts you to jail. If you die there, the driver is sent a medal for marksmanship.
Taxi fares are cheaper, probably, than anywhere else in the world. They amount to practically nothing if you have an accident—that is, a trip without a collision with something or somebody. But even if you enjoy an average tour and hit a building or another vehicle or a dog or a person, they soak you only about half as much as they would in New York or Chicago, where there are far fewer thrills per drive.
The tariff from the hotel where I put up (I haven’t found out how much) to American General Headquarters, where I go every morning to be refused a pass to the camps, is one franc cinquante if you miss all targets. This forenoon it was two francs cinquante because we knocked the rear wheel off a young boy’s bicycle.
The boy, after a hearty bawling out by the driver and two gendarmes, was carted to a police station. They’ll hardly keep him in jail, though. Matteawan is the proper place for a boy who attempts bicycling on the streets of Paris.
Thursday, August 23. Paris.
One of several differences between an American and a Frenchman is that an American tries to understand a Frenchman’s English and a Frenchman tries not to understand an American’s French.
Today I wanted to go from somewhere to the Hotel Continental.
“Hotel Con-tin-ent-al,” I said to the driver.
He shook his head. I repeated. He shook his head again. This went on till I had pronounced the name five times and he had shaken his head that often. I said it the sixth time just as I had said it the other five.
“Oh-h-h!” shouted the driver, his face lighting up. “Hotel Con-tin-ent-al!”
And there wasn’t a particle of difference between his version and mine.
There was excitement in our village last night. At twenty-three-thirty o’clock, as we Parisians say, began a chorus of screaming sirens, the warning signal of an air raid. Those of us living in upstairs rooms experienced a sudden craving for a home Somewhere in the Basement, and in gratifying it didn’t stop to use the elevator. The majority taking part in the Great Descent wore pajamas or their female relatives, sometimes called chemises de nuit. A few, of which I was one, were still attired for the day, and we went outdoors and looked up.
A regular flock of planes was, you might say, planely visible, but there was no fight in the air and no dropping of bombs on our fair city. The birdmen soared round a while in a perfectly friendly manner and then retired to their nests. The sirens were stilled and we all went upstairs, the majority, mentioned above, grateful for the wartime lack of lights.
It seems that a Frenchman, returning from his day’s toil, forgot to flash his password, which is a red taillight, or something. And the patrol took him for a boche and gave chase. Fortunately for himself, he glimpsed his pursuers in time and turned on the required signal.
Today there has been a big demand for first-floor rooms.
Friday, August 24. Paris.
An American major—it is interdict by the censor to mention the names of any officers save General Sibert and General Pershing—asked a friend in London to buy him an automobile and ship it here for his use. The Londoner was able, after much difficulty, to purchase one of those things that grow so rapidly in Detroit. He packed
