March 24, 1919

Yesterday was not such a good one as the weather goes, but as we went it would be hard to equal. Five of us – Ashlock, chauffeur, Sellars, good fellow, Spafford, ditto, Frank and I started forth about ten A.M. in a good old Ford to go out into the country and take pictures.

We were fully equipped with everything but an idea. Spafford has charge of the cameras in this organization, and we had three of the choicest. Ashlock is head chauffeur, so we had the best car. A person named Abbott wanted certain pictures for a certain purpose of his own, so he provided us with amply ambiguous passes. Thus we set forth.

No we didn’t either. Sellars had an idea that if we took a loaf of white bread, some sugar and some jam – all commodities that are scarce in France at the present time – we would be able to find our dinner more readily. That was a good hunch, so that was what we did.

We went to Champigny, for which town we had passes. By the way, the safety of the passes lay in the fact that there is a Champigny in most every county in France, and that if ever we were stopped the American M.P. would never know that there wasn’t a village named Champigny two kilometers away.

Right through our town sailed we, for there was never a picture in sight and on and on and on. We turned where roads looked attractive and where fancy willed. So it was we came at last to the little village of Carnetin, between the Marne and the Ourcq Canal. Here we saw a little restaurant that attracted Dudley Sellars’ eye. As we were ready to eat, we went in and laid our proposition before the bewildered natives.

Not many Americans had been there, and there were many little flat noses against the window, while we ate. At first, they didn’t quite get our drift. You see we came in and said we were hungry and held out our American food to exchange for a lot of French, with money to boot. But when the old man suggested, some minutes later while we waited for the pork chops to fry, that perhaps we would want some soucisse for hors d’oeuvre, I knew that they had the idea. They certainly did. We dined bounteously and well.

Then we pushed on and found ourselves in Glaye. This is on the road to Chateau-Thierry and I knew the route perfectly, so we pushed on towards the old war area. The details of that road and of the trip over it made on Feb. 22, you already know. We stopped several times to take pictures, and by 6 o’clock had gotten beyond Meaux and La Ferte, well into the 1914 battle area. Then we had to turn back.

All went well till we reached a place called Livry, on the way back, only about ten miles from the gates of Paris. Then the car spluttered and gave up the struggle. There was no more gas. Somehow or other that failed to get me all excited, though France is on a gasoline ration and one must have tickets to get even a limited amount. Three of us set out to find some place in the desert country that had a horse or a little “essence.” Our second query, at a little grocery not a half-kilometer from our car, found us seven liters – enough to get us home – at a reasonable price and no ticket demanded. Nothing was ever as light as that can of gas, and no honey as fragrant. Ashlock had been sick all afternoon and he was worried about being stranded in the country at night. We filled up, reached home at nine, and tumbled into bed. I never came to until 8:15 this morning. Altogether it was very enjoyable and I should like to do it again. I drove the car for a stretch, which was good fun also. First time in about two years.

Today was uneventful and rainy. The Spring is in a very unsettled stage now and it is hard to say whether a raincoat or a Spring bonnet is the thing to wear. However, the army isn’t so generous with its Spring bonnets so I usually wear a raincoat.

The last crop of rumors did not turn out so well. You remember I told you about some moves that were to be made, and about certain happenings that I knew to be official. That was before I went away. When I came back, there was no sign of these things. They were authentic enough, coming direct from the officer in charge, but the plans were changed or didn’t work out well, I don’t know which. That leaves us rumorless for the present and prospectless, as well.

Someone once said we were to be here to photograph the last man going home. I doubt that. We’ll miss that by several months, I hope. But it doesn’t seem today as though we were any nearer going than we were a month ago.

If I had dependents or a dying father or a tumbling business, I might get home. These are all things I don’t possess and am not willing to forge. No Red Cross job calls me, no senator pulls for me. I’m here till they see fit to begin the ending of the photo division of the A.E.F.

Next post March 28.