FOR what seemed a very long moment Herbert de Belle and I sat on the window sill in Étampes, smoking, dangling our legs, watching the prisoners and guards across the road, and trying hard to look unconcerned. My plan for escape had now taken a definite form. It would be impossible to repass the German lines and join the Section. We could not hope to catch up with the rapidly advancing Huns on foot. Therefore we must go to Paris and ask protection of the American Embassy. There was only one fly in the ointment of my plan. For the life of me I could not remember the German word for ambassador. What the hell was it? . . . At first I could not think, and then, syllable by syllable, it began to come to my memory. Bo-boat -boatschafter (the spelling is by sound). Boat, schafter! I had it. Without moving my lips I told de Belle to be on the alert. Good soldier that he was, I knew that I could count on him to obey, and that he was one hundred per cent with me, no matter what mad scheme I might have devised. He had gone this far with me voluntarily; he would go all the way. There is a soldier, and a gentleman.
We watched the old guard march solemnly down the road and disappear around a bend in the direction of the prison camp where we had spent such an uncomfortable night. The sergeant of the new guard ordered the column to fall in, preparatory to continuing the route. He saw us sitting on the sill and yelled, "Hey, you two, fall in. Who do you think you are?" I took a long drag on my cigarette, and eyed him from head to foot. The moment had come and I needed all my wits. My heart beat a drumfire barrage inside, and outwardly I must be dead calm. Could I do it? I must. I had gotten de Belle into this mess, now it was up to me to get him out. Also I was thinking of myself, and the vision of a concentration camp passed before my eyes.
Then I blew out the smoke slowly, flicked my cigarette across the road, cleared my throat, and answered the sergeant. "If you will show more respect for an officer and come over here I shall be glad to tell you who we are." My tone surprised him. It surprised me, too. I had sounded almost as arrogant as a Prussian captain. He came over, not knowing whether to be angry or to keep his place as my inferior in rank. I returned his salute in a leisurely manner. "We are," I began, and felt de Belle stiffen at my side. He did not understand German, but his training had been in the theatre and by instinct he knew that we were reaching a climax. "We are not in your prison column, and have never been prisoners. It just happens that we are here waiting for a car to take us to Paris. One of your officers promised it to us some time ago. He seems to have disappeared. We are American doctors and have received an urgent call from our ambassador, saying that we are needed in Paris. Can you find the officer who promised us the car? He was a tall, well-built blond fellow, with saber scars from duelling across his left cheek." The description was a facile invention, and might have fitted half the officers in the German Army.
"May I see your passports?" The sergeant was definitely softening. But I lived through a very nasty moment while he examined mine from cover to cover. In it was clearly written: "Occupation: Journalist and photographer." The two words are uncomfortably similar in English and German. Luck, as usual, was with me and he did not notice this. "I have not time," he said, returning the passports, "to find the officer you speak of, Herr Ober Leutnant, but if you two gentlemen will walk along with me I shall stop the first car going towards Paris in which there is room." Even before the column moved off, a French ambulance, driven by a German, came along the road heading for Paris. The sergeant hailed it and ordered the driver to take us in.
"How's that?" I whispered to de Belle as we climbed on. "Look's all right to me," he answered, smiling. My cock-and-bull story had been so outrageously simple that it worked.
All the way up we passed German troops going towards the south. The field-gray line was unending, and they travelled fast in their beautifully kept motor vehicles, tanks, and armored cars. What we saw must have been the Panzer Divisions, the blitzkrieg troops, and their equipment was perfect. One had the impression that they knew how to use their guns, and that every man was trained to make the right move at the right time. If I had expected to see thin, emaciated, underfed soldiers I was doomed to bitter disappointment. They were the finest looking group of men I ever saw, bar none, and very young. They were men who had been brought up mentally, morally, and physically from childhood for this moment when they would sweep over Europe. Watching them, as we passed, and studying their faces carefully, I knew that there was no army in existence that could stop them on land. If they could cross the Channel in any numbers they would take England, and if they could cross the Atlantic . . . It was the first time that this thought had come to me. God! Suppose they did conquer England and cross the Atlantic. Hitler is mad enough to try it. World domination is his aim. Any fool can see that. America was, I knew, totally unprepared for an invasion. The idea that such a thing could conceivably happen shocked me profoundly, and I determined that when I returned home I would preach arming to the teeth, on land, on the seas, and above all in the air. On the road to Paris it came to me with full force that if England falls, and I do not believe she will, there is only one thing which will save us from invasion, and that is strength. We must be so powerful that Hitler will cower at the thought of attacking the United States. Like most bullies, and he has proved himself to be that on many occasions, he will not touch any one his size. Arm and be as strong as Germany and we need have no fears. Help England, for she is fighting the world's battle for freedom.
Our ambulance driver was a Rhinelander and fond of conversation. When he began to ask questions I took the matter in hand and did the talking myself. I mentioned places I had visited in his country, dwelt at some length on the excellence of the wines produced there, asked him what he thought of France, how he liked Paris, and anything else so as not to speak of ourselves. The less said the better on that subject. Life in Paris had not changed a bit, he informed me. I asked if he had been there before the war. No, but he was sure that it had not changed. I was not so sure. "Of course, it is a beautiful city," he said, "and so is Berlin a beautiful city. And we have Cologne and Munich and . . ." I could see that he was homesick and wished to go on speaking of the Fatherland, which suited me perfectly, and I listened politely while watching everything that we passed.
All along the road were scattered thousands of French helmets and gas masks, thrown there by the soldiers who had been taken prisoner. They would have no more use for them now, and had dropped them to lighten their loads. At some spots there were signs that violent fighting had taken place, which led me to believe that the French had put up a more gallant struggle than rumors led one to believe. But the Germans had been quick to carry away the dead, and bury them out of sight. Their game now was to make friends with the French and turn them against the English. This was obvious with the many refugees who were already retracing their steps towards the north. The German soldiers were very kind to them, taking them in trucks if they were on foot, giving them food, or, if they were in cars, supplying them with gasoline. All propaganda to swing them in line with the German way of thought as against the British. Give the Boche anything he wants and he is kind, provided it is to his interest to be kind; but try to block him, unless you are the stronger of the two, and see what happens.
The car stopped in front of a great stadium and my heart skipped a couple of beats. It was an athletic grounds now being used as a concentration camp, probably the one that the column we had left at Étampes was heading for. Thousands of prisoners were sitting around on the playing field inside, sweltering under a burning sun. There was neither shelter from rain, nor shade to protect one from the sun. It was a ghastly sight and I felt the blood rush from my head and my knees weaken at the thought of being locked in there. I am sure the Christians did not fear being thrown to the lions in good old Roman days more than I dreaded the idea of entering this place for a stay of three or four months. At least these early Christians had the chance of becoming martyrs, and even a slight hope that the Virgins would give them a "thumbs up" break.
I asked the driver why we did not go on. "You must get permission here first from the Commander before you can enter Paris," he answered. So we were not out of it yet!
The Commander was not at the camp, and a guard escorted us to his house. He was having a nap, the orderly told us. He had been up late last night and was tired. We must wait until about three o'clock. To persuade our guard to go to a local pub was an easy matter. We bought him rum, drank with him in the formal German manner, and talked, always keeping the subject as far away from ourselves as possible. Nor was this particularly difficult. I found that most of these fellows wanted to discuss only themselves, their country, their army and their Adolf Hitler. It was Adolf Hitler this, and Adolf Hitler that, and Adolf Hitler the other. They always used the two names and rarely spoke of the Fuehrer in any other way. I suppose it made them feel closer to him, on more intimate terms as it were.
Finally we were told that the Commander had arisen and would receive us. He was the first fat-bellied German of the old school that I had seen in the army. But he was not jolly, and I felt uncomfortable when he began to speak. The fact that he did not ask us to sit down, as would have been correct with officers of a non-enemy country, was a bad sign. "Aber, you were working with the French before we came," he said, and I agreed. "Therefore," he continued, "You are our enemies."
'Freedom Preferred was declining on the market. I assured him that we had cared for a great many German wounded, and that they had received the same treatment in our hands as the French and English. Freedom Preferred went up a point, then down again. "Aber, you are in the French Army. The insignias on your lapels show that, and your friend has a French name." I pointed out that names meant absolutely nothing in the United States. Furthermore, I assured him that it was quite a coincidence that our medical corps insignia resembled that of the French transport. This was not true, but neither was anything else I had said all day.
After deep and lengthy consideration he dictated a pass, said we were free to proceed, and wished us a pleasant journey. Perhaps the fat belly stood for a jolly character after all, although I believe the real reason why he let us go so easily was because he did not wish to be bothered with any prisoners from neutral countries in his camp. They might cause investigations, and that would mean extra work and less time for afternoon naps. He was, however, the exception rather than the rule in the German Army. Most of the officers were overzealous in performing their duties.
Herbert and I were nearly through the door leading into the street when the Commander called us back. This time my heart skipped three beats at least. I have a French prisoner who has a very bad leg," he said. "Run over, or something. You are a doctor, so will you fix him up? " This was an emergency that I had not thought of in advance. "Of course, Commander. Glad to be of use to you."
I think I looked quite professional as I examined the poor devil. He was not in the camp itself, I was glad to say, but in a sort of temporary infirmary. I prayed silently that no German doctor would come in while I was making the examination. The leg was so swollen that nothing could be done, I told the Commander, until an X-ray was made, and added that I was sure it was a fracture and should be attended to as soon as the swelling subsided.
When we finally got away from the fat officer I was ringing wet with nervous perspiration. Nor could I show my relief, as the guard was still with us.
The same ambulance and driver were easily located, and with our pass we were soon in the suburbs of Paris. The driver said he had to go somewhere, he did not know exactly where, although he knew the streets to follow, and I told him that it was surely not in our direction. If he would let us out we could catch a subway. We were then passing the Porte d'Orléans, a few hundred yards from our old home at the Cité Universitaire, and there was a train which would take us directly to within a short distance of the Embassy. I was delighted when he accepted, and glad to see the last of him. Until he was well away I guarded the suspicion that he had designs on our liberty, and secretly intended to have us clapped into a concentration camp.
I dived down joyously into the subway, closely followed by de Belle. Always before my dislike for anything underground, except wine cellars, had been violent. But no one was down there who seemed likely to tap me on the back and say, "Follow me, please." And the smell, one of the worst I know under ordinary circumstances, was like the finest perfume to my nostrils. It meant freedom, complete escape, at least for a short time. There was not a German in sight.
Between the exit from the subway and the Embassy we passed in front of my old hotel, the Crillon. Now it was heavily guarded by German troops and we had to go around. On sentry duty at the front door were two helmeted soldiers, and their movements when they saluted a passing officer were as perfect as clockwork. The hotel, as well as all the other good ones, had been taken over by the invaders, and the general in command of Paris was there. He had landed the day of the occupation on the Place de la Concorde with his plane and had taxied to the entrance. Good theatre, it had been, and very effective.
Once across the threshold of the Embassy we felt really safe. A skeleton staff had remained and were feeling pretty heroic for having stayed at their well-paid posts when the Germans came in, despite the fact that Paris was an open city and would not be bombed, and that they were protected by all the international laws in existence. I do not know why it is that so many diplomatic people feel so heroic and sorry for themselves when they do their simple duty and partially earn the money paid them by hard-pressed taxpayers. One woman of the staff became positively obnoxious telling about the fact that she never left her post. One would have thought she had been in danger, when, the fact is, Paris was the safest place in all France.
Our faces fell when we were informed in a more or less "Get-the-hell-out-of-here" tone that we could go to the Hôtel Bristol, which the Embassy had reserved for Americans---provided they could pay the stiffish prices. I protested that we would surely be arrested walking about in uniform. "Not with your American passports," I was informed. We had gone about one hundred yards when we were pulled in. Our pass from the Commander got us free from this, and we dashed back to the shelter of the Embassy. "Listen," I said, "we're camping here for the rest of the war, or until we get some civilian clothes, whether you like it or not." They obviously did not like it.
Lady Luck again passed our way in the form of charming Olivia Chambers, at present courageously working with the American Red Cross as a volunteer. She understood our plight, which is more than could be said of the Embassy staff, and told us to wait there. Well-meant advice, but useless, as wild elephants could not have moved us. She dashed off on her bicycle and presently returned with a bulging rucksack on her back. "There," she said, flushed and lovely, out of breath from her effort. "Two complete outfits of civvies. A friend asked me to watch his apartment while he is in the army, and I'm sure he would be delighted to know that his clothes are serving such a good purpose." Never have I been more thankful for an act of kindness, never have I appreciated one more. We needed something like this from our own country people. Herb and I changed in the washroom downstairs.
ONCE in civilian clothes, Herbert de Belle and I went about Paris unmolested, although my knees frankly shook every time a German came into the hotel. All said and done, we were escaped prisoners and would be checked up on sooner or later. Happily for me it was much later. The Field Service office in New York received word through diplomatic channels from the German high command, stating that they held me prisoner in Germany, and would release me provided my passage money was guaranteed. This message arrived eight days after I did! So, as far as I know, I am still on Nazi records as a prisoner of war, and whether they "free" me or not is a matter of small importance.
It was June 18 when we arrived in Paris. We had been captives in German hands for twenty-four hours, and each hour had seemed like a year. I felt that much older, and my nerves were definitely bad. The people in the hotel, good, kindly souls, annoyed me terribly. I wanted to be alone, and yet I wanted companionship. In fact I did not know what I wanted. I was thoroughly disagreeable to every one with whom I came into contact, and yet I longed for friends. Herbert was a great help. He was younger and less high-strung than I, but I kept away from him, not wishing to annoy him with my damnable humor. A sweet young thing, of what one used to call the Dumb Dora type, asked me, "Was it interesting?" I thought she was looking for a cheap thrill. "Jesus Christ!" I said, and walked away. Another woman, whom I had known before the war, inquired about an ancient love affair, how it was going, and so forth. I told her she was a curious old maid, and for God's sake to leave me alone. She did, from then on. Soon the only person, besides de Belle, in the hotel who would speak to me was Victor, the funny little head-waiter and unofficial barman. His son had escaped at Dunkerque, and he understood my feelings. He always brought me second helpings at table, and tried to feed me up, which was useless. I could not eat. Nor could I drink. Three Scotch and sodas made me drunk. Heretofore I had always thought I could hold the stuff pretty well.
For two days I drifted along, half-intoxicated and completely jittery. Then I pulled myself together. I had a long talk with Wayne Taylor, competent head of the American Red Cross in France. There was no work that I could do with him for the moment, as he was unable to receive supplies from America. He did not believe that there would be a famine in France, the country was too rich, but certainly there would be great hardships during the coming winter if aid could not be received from America.
At the American Hospital in Neuilly I had better luck. Both Doctor Gros and Mr. Close, head physician and director respectively, knew me and knew the work of the Section. They had several ambulances and touring cars that had been donated, with which they were carrying food out to the prison camps and refugees. Would I take charge of the transportation problem? Naturally I accepted this offer, happy to be once more serving a useful cause, and to be busy so that I would not have much time to think.
Two of my men, who had been patients at the hospital when the Germans came and were therefore unable to rejoin the Section, were already on the job and could help me a great deal. One was Frank Hamlin, still hobbling from his accident at Beauvais, and the other was George Folds. His ribs had healed after the car turned over with him, but he had not been well. Now they were both performing valuable service.
Doctor de Martel, the chief surgeon, and one of the world's greatest brain specialists, had committed suicide the night before the German occupation. It is likely that he was unable to stand the idea of a hated enemy marching with their hobnailed boots through the streets of the city he loved. Otherwise, the atmosphere of the hospital was cheerful enough.
The ambulance driver who had brought de Belle and me up from Étampes could not have been more wrong than when he said that life in Paris went on as before. Only the houses and monuments remained unchanged, and even many of these were desecrated with large Nazi flags. The first day after their arrival the Germans had even hung their emblem on the Arc de Triomphe, over the tomb of France's unknown soldier, and surprisingly enough some one in high position had the good taste to have it removed. It would have surprised me less if they had had the unknown soldier removed and left the flag. Delicacy of feeling has never been a fine art with the Hun.
There were not many people in Paris. In fact it was still practically empty of Parisians, but they were returning, and from one day to the other the difference was evident. Cafes were opening and they were filled with German soldiers and officers. Beer was hard to get, as these unwelcome guests were drinking it all, and none was being brewed. Restaurants were also full of them, as were the shops that had opened, and everything was being paid for with paper marks, which had been declared legal currency at ten francs to a mark. Life was cheap for the Germans, and I noticed that the most sought after articles were women's silk lingerie and stockings, which led me to believe that luxuries of this type for the fair sex must be rather scarce in the Fatherland.
There were two divisions, about forty thousand men, of enemy troops occupying the capital, and they were everywhere. They loitered along the streets, chatting gaily in their guttural tongue, smiling and smirking with their ugly, cruel faces. Paris! They had conquered Paris, and their expressions showed it with a universally horrid look of satisfaction. They were correct because they had orders to be correct, not because it was their natural instinct. The high command wished to have the French well impressed by the good behavior of the soldiers, so that they would love the good Germans and hate the bad English. I do not believe that many Frenchmen were fooled. They are too clever for that; they knew what these soldiers of occupation would do the moment they were no longer held in check
Up and down the avenues they goose-stepped in mass formations, bands playing, or, if there were no bands, singing their harsh military songs. They loved it. It was their life. Even in civilian life they go about in groups singing. They have no individuality, but must do everything in mass formation. I could not help drawing a mental comparison between this war-loving race of barbarians and the peace-loving nation that they had overrun. One thinks only of conquest, destruction, and revenge, while the other wishes to be let alone and allowed to live beautifully in peace and happiness. It is amazing how two peoples, so close geographically, can be so utterly far apart in taste and nature. One the brute, the other a lover of the beautiful..
Efficient Dorothy Reader, harassed by the job of looking out for the Americans in the Hôtel Bristol which the Embassy had wished on her, was doing the work splendidly, and this was no sinecure. She had to pacify nervous customers, whose wants were numerous and often unreasonable, and at the same time hold the German Army at bay. Time and again officers came in to requisition at least part of the place, only to be defeated by Miss Reader and the manager. The hotel was full of Americans, she would point out, who after all had the right to exist. She was very correct, but very firm about it all.
Roy Porter, the Associated Press representative, who had stayed on in Paris without considering himself as heroic as the Embassy staff, often came in for cocktails or meals, and he did me a great favor. The unknown gentleman whose clothes I was wearing had uncommonly large feet and narrow shoulders, with the result that I had difficulty getting into his coat, and equal difficulty not losing his shoes at every step. I had two suitcases full of clothes at the Cité Universitaire, but no means of transporting them to the hotel. Roy had a small car, and a mysterious source of gasoline. He solved the problem by most kindly taking me to the Cité in his car and bringing back the suitcases. This may sound like a small thing, but in a town where there are no taxis, and where gasoline is more valuable than gold, more sought after than diamonds, it takes on important proportions.
One of the most annoying things in Paris was the curfew. Every one, except Germans, had to be at home by ten o'clock. There was the usual hour of daylight saving, and to this the Nazis had added another hour, so as to be on German time. Therefore, the closing hour for outside life was eight o'clock by the sun. During these, the longest days of the year, the sun had not set when one had to scurry home. That made dining with friends, or having friends dine with you, out of the question. For us this meant staying in the hotel at night, whether we liked it or not. Nor were the black-out regulations lifted. The Germans explained that they were now necessary on account of the British menace.
The day I was to take over my duties at the American Hospital the Armistice was signed. Mr. Osborn was there, and would handle this work as well as, Perhaps better than I could, and I decided to try and find the Section. Herbert de Belle was of my opinion. We were really not needed in Paris. In fact, now that the war was over for France we probably were not needed anywhere, but our desire to get back to our outfit and see what had happened was natural. Only five days had elapsed since our capture. However, in five days of this warfare many things can pass.
We discussed ways and means. First, we must have the necessary military papers to go through the German lines. There was a broken-down car that had been salvaged, which we could have for transportation, and we knew where we could get enough gasoline to take us as far as Tours. After that we would have to shift for ourselves. Well, we could handle that. We were used to standing on our own feet. The question of the pass was another matter. This would have to be done through the Germans, and to explain our presence in Paris might prove embarrassing. "Nothing ventured . . ." I said, and de Belle nodded. We would have to take a chance on that. I wondered if our luck could possibly hold out much longer. It seemed inevitable that it must break sometime. My experience has always been that if you want something it is better to go to the top, so I went to the Hôtel Crillon and asked for the Commanding General. Here, at least, I learned how the sentries did their present-arms salute to officers with such clockwork precision. Without moving his lips one of them hissed the time to each movement. From a distance it was most effective, but from close up it lost much of its charm. Such stolid fellows to be hissing at each other. Of course, I did not get to the General, but the mere fact that I asked for him made an impression and I was told to go to the Hôtel Meurice, where certain high officials were quartered, and where I would obtain what I wished.
There was more hissing of sentries as I passed into the Hôtel Meurice. I told my story to a very young and efficient colonel, head of the medical corps in the Paris area. That is, I told part of my story, saying only that de Belle and I had been separated from our ambulance corps, and not mentioning anything about capture and subsequent escape. I explained that we would like to look for the Section and, now that the war was ended in France, work with the refugees. He asked to see my papers and I handed him my passport. He examined it carefully, then asked for my other papers. Here I made a bad slip, and bit my underlip almost until the blood came, I was so annoyed with myself. "The Germans took them," I said, without thinking. He placed my passport behind his back, stiffened, and looked hard at me. "The Germans would not have done that without a reason. Your passport does not show that you are what you say you are---the leader of an ambulance section. How do I know who and what you are if you have no other papers? "
Life for me, in this uncertain time, seemed to be a matter of getting out of one scrape and into another in as rapid succession as was humanly possible. I believe, however, that all this did a little something to sharpen a rather mediocre wit, and I am sure that it advanced my standing as a liar from second to first class. "But," I said, inventing as I went along, "the Germans are only holding my papers at Tours. I shall call for them on my way south. As for my identity, sir, you have only to call Ambassador Bullitt on the phone and he will tell you who I am." He started towards the phone and I swallowed hard. I did not know whether Bullitt was in Paris or not, and felt perfectly sure that he had never even heard of me. Heretofore, I had never had a great deal of interest in ambassadors, thinking them rather stuffy people who sometimes wore high silk hats and well-cut morning coats.
Before he arrived at the telephone the Colonel changed his mind. Or perhaps he was bluffing to see what my reaction would be. Anyway, he appeared to be satisfied with my conduct, and dictated a pass. It could not have been more exactly what I wanted if I had dictated it myself. It gave me authority to come and go as I pleased, and to lead a column of ambulances anywhere within German-occupied territory at any hour of the day or night. Furthermore it requested German authorities, both civil and military, to grant me all assistance within reason. The speed with which this was done left me bewildered, and I could not help drawing a comparison between his efficiency and the absolute lack thereof with which I so often came into contact when dealing with French officials. My poor, beloved French could, certainly learn something from their hereditary enemy across the Rhine.
In parting, the Colonel advised me, in fact practically ordered me, to wear civilian clothes on my return trip. But Herbert, and I had come up in uniform, and we decided to return in uniform. With the paper I now had the risk was not great, and we felt that it was more dignified. I should never have returned to the Section in civilian clothes. That would, I felt, have been an admission of personal defeat.
The car was at the door and we were ready to start. One more small, but to me very important, thing had to be attended to. I asked de Belle to wait and walked as fast as I could down the Faubourg St. Honoré, into Hermes, and ordered their best Sam Browne belt. It took a few minutes to punch the holes and fit it, and when I walked out wearing the belt I felt ever so much better. Small things like that do a great deal to affect one's morale, even in the midst of the most important happenings. France had fallen, the Armistice had been declared, the greatest war of history was still to come, yet I was able to 'feel an immense personal satisfaction because I had a better belt than the one the German officer stole off my very body.
When I returned to the car de Belle smiled, but said nothing. We had luncheon in Versailles, then headed south for Tours.
IT mattered little what road one took or in what direction one went; the Germans were everywhere, millions of them, overrunning France like an army of busy, efficient ants at a picnic. I am the first one to admire the good qualities of the ant, of which I possess none, but I dislike them immensely. And so I disliked this invading army in gray, looking so out of place in the beautiful, green countryside.
As we passed through the rich farming country of Touraine and saw the broad, well-planted fields without the sturdy peasants at work in them, I could not help wondering if Wayne Taylor was right about there being no danger of famine. Certainly if the crops were lost and no food could be imported through the British blockade there was a great danger of acute hunger. I did not believe that the French had built up a sufficient reserve supply of food to last them through the winter. In 1922 I had seen the famine in Soviet Russia, where I was serving as inspector with Herbert Hoover's Relief Administration; had seen hundreds of thousands die of hunger and diseases which follow it; had seen cannibalism rampant. Could this happen to France? I asked myself this question time and again. Perhaps it would not be as bad as in Russia, but certainly the Boche would take all for himself, and the French people would have to do the best they could, to shift for themselves with what the Germans left. Rich, beautiful France accepting crumbs from the barbarian's table! The thought brought a lump to my throat.
Our car went lame before we arrived in Tours, and we forced it to limp along painfully. The town, especially down near the river, had been very badly bombed, and there were whole sections that had been wiped out entirely by explosions and fire. Night was not far away and we looked around for a place to dine and sleep. Neither food nor lodging, however, was obtainable. The Hôtel de I'Univers, where I had always stayed, was taken over by the Germans, as was everything else. I wondered if there could be any of them left in Germany. It seemed to me that there could not be, and I thought it might be a good idea to go there to get away from them.
The Château de Candé was only about six miles out in the country, and I remembered that a part of the Paris Embassy staff was there, especially one fellow whom I liked very much; so we decided to ask him for a night's hospitality. What we would do for transportation to continue our journey I did not know. Certainly the car we had would soon be gasping its last breath. Well, tomorrow would be another day. We must take our hurdles as we came to them, and our present hurdle was to find a place to pass the night, and food if possible.
The Château de Candé has a history centuries old, but the most recent event of importance there, an event that brought it world-wide fame, was the marriage of an American girl to the King and Emperor who had abdicated the most powerful throne in the world for her. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor were married at Candé. I found my friend, and his welcome was sincere and charming. Of course, he could put us up. Did we need a wash before coming to the salon for cocktails? Definitely we did.
There were quite a few people gathered in the magnificent salon for cocktails. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Bedaux, were there and could not have received us more graciously. The others were Embassy attachés and their wives, and two or three refugees. It was a grand feeling to stand about, drinking cold Martinis and chatting in one's own language among friends, and seemingly far away from the war and the Huns. There was only one reminder of the war, and that could be seen through the window down in the valley to the southwest. It was a brown spot covering about five acres of forest, and was an eye-sore. A gunpowder factory had been built there, well hidden by the trees, and the French had blown it up before the arrival of the enemy. Mr. Bedaux told me that he had thought the explosion would cause the Château to tumble in ruins, but though it had trembled slightly it had withstood the shock.
Next morning the car refused to move. Not a kick or a cough could we get from it. The battery was dead, the coil was dead---the car was dead. We would abandon it, and would thumb our way in search of the Section. Our general plan was to head for Saintes, near Bordeaux, which was the last address we had had of the Paris staff. After that we would have to see what happened in case they were no longer there. At Tours we could perhaps find transportation in the direction we wished to go. One of the Embassy people kindly took us as far as the main road and dropped us. Herbert de Belle had seen a Red Cross flag a few hundred yards back and we walked there. It was a German hospital unit. I showed my pass from the Hôtel Meurice to the commanding officer and explained that we would like transportation to Tours. I told him the object of our trip, and that we were headed for Saintes. "Better than Tours, he said. "I have an officer here who is going to Poitiers, which is nearly half way to Saintes. He has room and will be glad to take you that far." Evidently this slip of paper from Paris had a magic touch, and the man could not have been more obliging. He insisted that we join him and his colleagues for luncheon.
It is probably bad form to look a gift luncheon in the teeth, but I must say that the only good thing about this one was the French wine, pillaged no doubt from the cellar of the house in which the officers were quartered. However, neither de Belle nor I could throw stones on this score, having too recent memories of the Château at Bouffemont, where we had been entertained by an absent host. The food consisted of a sort of greasy soup, nourishing and unpalatable bread, and a can of tunny fish. The Commander explained that officers of the German Army ate the same rations as the soldiers, and I could well believe it. But as the Germans have never known what it is to live and eat well, I suppose they did not suffer from this poor fare. A French soldier would have turned up his nose in disgust. The Frenchman likes to live well and in peace; the German does not know how to live well, and that may explain his preference for war.
There was one charming officer, a doctor from Vienna, and while the others were formally correct, they appeared stiff and ordinary by comparison with the Austrian. I was careful to hide my dislike for the Germans, and answered their rapid fire of questions politely. They were very curious about many things, especially America's attitude. Naturally I did not tell them that I believed the United States to be 100 per cent anti-Nazi, and that I hoped my country would soon be in the war on the side of freedom. They told me that Adolf Hitler had no designs on America. As I had heard the Fuehrer say exactly the same thing over the radio about Czechoslovakia, Holland, Poland, Belgium, France, and a few other countries, I did not take much stock in this statement about ourselves.
It was then, and is now, my firm conviction that the Madman of Munich is out to dominate the world, and if England does not stop him, America must. That is why we should be helping England now. I am not particularly pro-English, and I have found their politics and diplomacy deplorable since 1918, but I am wholeheartedly for liberty, or in other words, anti-Nazi. It would be an easier matter to defeat Germany fighting at England's side now, than later alone in case England is defeated. Hitler and his gang should be so completely wiped out that our sons and our sons' sons will be allowed to live in peace, happiness, and, above all, freedom---the world's greatest heritage. Hitler is like a prizefighter, taking on nations instead of boxers. His policy is to crush one at a time, beginning with the smaller and weaker ones, and working up, growing stronger and more experienced all the while, until he is finally ready to meet the champion for the title of World's Heavyweight Dominator. He will not stop until he is at the top of the list, unless England can put across the knockout punch that will lay him low for the full count.
I was glad when the luncheon was over. My hosts had not been intentionally disagreeable.. They had merely showed a surprising amount of the famous Teutonic bad taste in posing embarrassing questions and forcing me to think up one lie after the other throughout the meal. On the whole I suppose this was a small price to pay for the sixty or seventy miles of transportation which we were to receive afterwards.
The officer who took us to Poitiers should have been an aviator. No one would ever have shot him down, judging by the way he swooped and swerved. If he missed trucks, or tanks, or anything on the road by more than an inch he must have been disappointed in his ability as a driver, and would try, it seemed to me, to avenge himself by touching the next thing he came to without causing a very serious accident. If by chance his unhappy victims happened to be French he would yell insults at them, but if they were his own people he remained silent. It made me very nervous when he shouted long propaganda speeches into my ear, instead of watching the road, and I learned for the Nth time what a fine fellow Adolf Hider was, what great good he had done for Germany, and what great good he (Hitler), with the German nation behind him, was going to do for the world. Under my breath I thanked him kindly, and said that personally I did not want any part of it. Out loud I said, "Ja, ja," and let it go at that.
Several times we were forced to make long detours on account of blown bridges. And finally, much to my relief, we arrived in the outskirts of Poitiers. The officer missed his way, and was trying to get into the center of town when I saw. a familiar-looking car, painted Field Service gray, coming towards us. As it passed I recognized Jack Brant, of the Paris headquarters, driving, and the car was his staff car. I yelled at the top of my lungs, and instead of stopping he speeded up. The officer understood, turned and gave chase, catching Brant with the skill of an aviator. Jack was with Peter Jackson, one of the Second Section drivers who did not have the good, or bad, luck to get to the front. They were looking for us, but had not recognized me when I yelled. Seeing a German car they had thought they were being arrested and speeded up, hoping to get away.
Our fantastic luck was still holding. Had our officer not missed his way we would probably never have found Brant, who was just passing through the town to continue his search. Now at least the problem of transportation was solved. They had left the headquarters outfit at Dax, in the Pyrenees, and set out to search for de Belle and me, as well as for the Section, of which they had had no news since leaving Vouvray.
That night we passed in a quiet little village off the beaten track where the Germans had not as yet penetrated, and it seemed like old times. We almost forgot that the enemy had overrun the country and that we (de Belle and I) had ever been in a German concentration camp. We drank wine and joked with the patron's daughters and tried to forget, if only for a few hours. This was the first taste I had had of the pre-war rural France, which I loved, for many months---good food, good wine, good living. God bless it, my rural France.
Early next morning we headed for Bordeaux. From there we would go south to trace the headquarters outfit, which Brant assured me would be well ahead of the Germans, who had announced their intention of occupying the northern half of France and the Atlantic coast. On our route we would zigzag through the country, searching everywhere for the Section. I was questioning an official in front of the mayor's office of a small town, asking if any of our ambulances had passed that way, when a small German soldier came up, clicked his heels, and saluted. Étampes: and the prison camp seemed so far away that I did not at first recognize my Bavarian guard. When he finally saw that I remembered him he asked, "How did you get away, Mr. American? " I felt pretty safe with the paper I had in my pocket from the Hôtel Meurice, and winked. "I think I told you that I didn't like your hotels, and intended to take my leave shortly." He skipped that with a smile, and continued. "And what do you think of our army now that you have seen more of it?" "I still think it's too damned good," I answered.
The Germans were taking over Bordeaux the day after we arrived, so we did not linger there. We collected Quigley, who had been separated from the Section, but not from his beloved truck, and Peter Powell, who had been running what he called a "flop house" for the American Red Cross. He was headquarters and had been left there to round up any one who came in. The "flop house," he said, had entertained some surprisingly notable guests, including at least one American-born princess. I think he really hated to leave this work.
The town was crowded to a point where it was almost impossible to fight one's way into a café or restaurant. All of France seemed to be there, and it was not a question of a shortage of food, but a shortage of space. Finally we got a table on the terrace of a restaurant and were having luncheon when I saw a familiar face across the street. It was the captain who had been in charge of the railway station at Beauvais. Many an hour we had spent walking up and down the platform chatting together while the ambulances unloaded, many a raid we had weathered in each other's company, and the last time I had seen him he was standing, covered with dirt and dust, in front of the demolished station. He appeared to be so glad to see me that it gave me a great kick, and kept repeating to several officers who were with him how I had come to the ruined and burning station, saluted, and asked, "Mon Capitaine, are there any wounded?" It must have been the salute, which I had given automatically and without thinking, that made such an impression, because each time he told the story he was careful to repeat it. Although I was in the midst of my meal nothing would do but that I must have a drink with the captain and his friends.
From Bordeaux we headed inland. It was better to get out of occupied territory, and we could look for the Section on our way south in search of headquarters. We would swing around to Dax and try to trace from there.
No sign of the Section anywhere, but we found headquarters comfortably installed in a Château at Pau. That night we held a long conference, and it was decided that Brant would return to America next day by way of Bilbao or Lisbon. On his way he could find out about transportation for any members of the Field Service who wished to go back. Pete Jackson, de Belle, and I would take him as far as the International Bridge at Hendaye, and then continue our search for the Section.
Exactly where my duty lay began to worry me very much at this point. Before, I had not had time to think of it. Of course, the first thing was to locate the Section, but after that I was at a loss which path I should follow. There were only two, but they led in very different directions. One kept me in France, the other led me to the United States. I really felt that once I had found the Section my work in France was ended. I could use the cars to work with the refugees, but there would now be millions of demobilized soldiers who could do that, and I would only be consuming food. Then, I could get no more money from America, and certainly could not make any. My great problem here was Josette. I did not want to leave her, and as she was French I could not take her with me. Yet to stay in France with no money was impossible, and I would only have been a burden. Besides, I had not the vaguest idea where she was. On the other hand, I am an American and felt that my real duty lay there. We had had no news for weeks, and did not know how our country stood on the question of war. Brant argued that it would be better to return to the States, see what was happening, then get a fresh running-start and jump back into the war somewhere else in case America was not coming in. I do not know when I have had such a difficult time coming to a decision, and finally I favored America and a fresh running-start.
We took Brant to St. Jean de Luz bright and early the next morning. After seeing him off we would comb unoccupied France for the Section. I planned to start at the spot where de Belle and I had left them the day of our capture, and work back and forth across the country like a good bird dog until we found them.
But once again our unbelievable luck came forward and saved us the trip. The first link in the chain of coincidence was Brant's difficulty getting across the International Bridge. We wanted to see him off, and waited until well into the afternoon, when he finally received permission to leave France. It was by then too late for us to start on our journey through France, and we made up our minds to pass the night in St. Jean and leave at dawn. There was time before dinner for a drink and we went to the best bar in St. Jean. However, it depressed us, and we ran over to Sonny's Bar at Biarritz for a quick one. Had Brant left on time, or had the bar in St. Jean been more amusing, we would not have been sitting in Sonny's when Willis and Watts walked in a few minutes after our arrival, but would have hunted for them in the center of France perhaps for weeks. The Section, except for the four cars left on the other side of the Loire the morning of my capture, and Quigley, were all there, camped on a byroad a few kilometers outside of the town. Naturally I rushed out to say hello.
Next morning the miracle of miracles happened. I was walking down the main street of Biarritz when I saw four light-gray ambulances lined up in front of the American Consulate. They were our cars, the four I had left on the north bank of the Loire. All four together. The first man to show up was good old McElwain, closely followed by Thoresen, Stehlin, and Rich. Except for the fellows lost at Amiens, Section One of the American Field Service was intact. My work, I felt now, was completed and I would return to America.
Most of the boys were of the same mind, including Harold Willis, and the general consensus of opinion was that we should go to America and find out what was happening.
There was a certain amount of trouble at the International Bridge for those of us who wanted to cross over. First, there was the consular official who was constantly rushing off because he was late for breakfast, luncheon, or dinner. It did not matter what hour of the day he arrived; he was always late for some meal, hence always in too much of a hurry to bother about our little problems. They might have meant life or death without mattering to our friend, who had to have his ham and eggs at a certain hour, or else the world was all wrong.
Everything was in order finally. Our passports were visaed, and even the Spaniards had consented to receive us, much against their will, when the Germans closed the frontier for no apparent reason. Tired of it all, we went for a swim. While we were in the cool water some friend advised that the frontier was again opened, and we rushed off half dressed, to see if this were true. It was. I stayed at the bridge to try and hold it open, while Willis hurried back to collect the Section members who were leaving, and to pay the bills. When he returned, by a stroke of our customary luck, the bridge was still open and we crossed.
I did not turn for a final look at France. The swastika was floating over the sign of the French customs, and I could not stand to have that as a last memory. When I shall see my beloved France again she must be free from the tread of the hobnailed boot of the Hun---in short, she must be free.