How would you like to live in France?

You see it’s like this. If the war were to end tomorrow, if I were free at home six months later I could consider myself lucky. It has taken a long time to get all these men over here; they won’t move them back much faster. We’re likely to fool around over here either where we are, in camp or doing some reconstruction work. Then a terrible trip home, and more fooling around, until they feel like discharging us.

There is some talk about an enlistment for 6 months post-war service. Maybe it would be a good idea to take it. It might get me home just as soon and under better conditions than the regular course. Of course I don’t know anything about it yet. There is a lot to find out about it. For instance; How would you like to live in France?

Have I ever told you about the dugout? It is just below me, on the ground floor. It is the kind of place people just naturally find their way to. Four or five of the loudest, laziest, toughest, funniest birds in the bunch live there. The walls are plastered with clippings, pictures, cigarette boxes and other miscellaneous junk. There is a caricature of one of the lieutenants, which must please him a lot. Usually, by hook or crook, – the latter most likely – they have wood enough for a fire. It’s a good place to know.

Some of the most original and funny stories ever heard are related in the dugout, with marvelous profanity, verve and relish. The whole crowd is clever. Jack fits in there like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

Just now one of them has a comb and tissue paper, others have drum, bass drum and cymbals, and another is doing an oriental dance. The musical instruments, even the comb, were furnished by some of these soldiers’ welfare societies like the Red Cross, the Y, the K.C. or something. They are thicker than all-limbed Frenchmen.

It is “pas bon” around here to show lights after 10 P.M. So one of the dugout-and-outers has fixed up a contraption that can switch off the lights when the door opens and put them on again as it closes. That, and some black paper over the windows, allows them to sit up as long as they please. I remember one night when I lay in bed till 2:30 listening and laughing.

This is one of the so-called warm countries, but it must be an off-year. It is raw, rainy and penetrating every day. So far it hasn’t been really cold.

I have been home nights for about a week, but I can’t say I’ve accomplished much. Usually I have been in bed about 10 o’clock.

From now on you will probably see more of our pictures in the papers, as we have made a change in the distribution, which will get them to New York faster and more directly. That will be some satisfaction. I wonder if you could mail me these Sunday pictorial sections you get with the Times, Sun or whatever paper you have. I’d like to follow them.

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Next post October 20

This has been a splendid Sunday. It was cold, raw and looked like rain, but we never noticed it.

Frank and I set out this morning for Notre Dame de Paris. It isn’t far from us. We went in and spent an hour. I haven’t said much about it before; indeed it is too grand to talk about. The place gets you after a while; you want to stay.

You know I was never one to worship in churches, but since I am here I have become a worshipper of them. Notre Dame hasn’t the classic majesty of the Madeleine. The former is Gothic – I can’t imagine a more magnificent specimen. It was complete in 1235. The Madeleine was the work of moderns – completed about the middle of the 19^th century. It is frankly an imitation of the classic – the temple of Jupiter at Athens.

That is the difference, in a few words, between these two great churches. For the one offers a wealth of detail, typical of the Gothic, and the other is the more imposing monument. One wants to stand a year in the sublime awe of Ste. Madeleine; and one wants to spend a year studying the infinite details and beauties that every foot of Notre Dame presents.

We wandered around and saw a whole lot of Paris afoot. We had no objective – just went wherever it was convenient. That is my idea of the way to see and remember things. Can you picture me going around on one of these sightseeing schedules? Wandering suits me much better.

We had dinner at a Duval. There is a chain of restaurants in Paris called Duval. They’re all over. Sort of a French translation of the Childs idea, but real places, real service and real food. For 4.25 a piece (75 cents) we had a good dinner.

When we got back at 5:30, there was Clarence, in from the front. He had a lot to tell. It’s a great life, especially when you can move around, as a photographer must. He has quite a collection of boche relics.

This week has been very uneventful in contrast with the great happenings in the real world. The Germans are actually running, and it begins to look like victory and peace at last. But here the war moves on at a walk. I just hope we’re doing some good.

The peace stories always seem to break on Sunday. Every Sunday brings us nearer the end. Maybe next Sunday will show a real end.

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Next post October 16

No news of importance here. Jack has come back with a bookful of stories. He is unique – there’s no one else that hands me as much amusement. Also one of the boys got himself married today. He’s the second within about a month. We all went to the church to see him off.

Peace talk is the rifest thing hereabouts just now, but there is only one brand of it the w.k. Boche can savvy. Even that seems to be coming his way these days. So far I’m not believing much of it or in it. It doesn’t get over very well, somehow or other. But I am buying papers twice a day to keep up with allied advances.

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Next post October 13

Today has been such a great day. On Sundays we have no reveille, so we can sleep in, if we want to. Last night, the winter time-schedule set in, and I stayed up till 11:30, knowing that if I got up for the 8 o’clock Sunday breakfast, I should still have slept as much as though I had gone to bed at 10:30. That all sounds very hard, but means that at 12:59 all clocks were set back to 11:59, so France had an extra hour of sleep.

But this eight o’clock stuff was all wrong. At about 6:15 I heard someone say: “Germany asks for an armistice! Peace!” I thought I was dreaming, and went on sleeping, with the half-consciousness that attends an early morning sleep amid noisy neighbors. Then all of a sudden, Higgins, who sleeps in the next room, and who works from 9 P.M. to 6 A.M. came in and laid Le Petit Parisien on my chest, with the words, “Translate that for me.”

I rubbed my eyes and sat up, leaning on one elbow. It was the most unbelievably impossible thing that you can imagine – to wake up to a peace scarehead. I felt as if it must be Sunday morning in 1920.

There was no more sleep for me. I just lay in bed trying to think. The paper sounded so hopeful – as if it were all over. I could picture myself landing at New York, marching up Fifth Avenue. It was too good to believe.

At 7:30 I got up and went around the corner. There it was again, in all the other papers. Surely they couldn’t all be wrong. I bought two French papers and the Herald, came back, ate breakfast and read.

What will eventuate from it all, I don’t even pretend to guess. By the time you get this we shall both know. On second reading it didn’t glitter so much. But it is a step, and indicates the imminent succession of more steps.

What was more to the point, to my mind, was the news of the progress in Champagne, a most important central part of the line, which has been very inactive for almost four years. The good old French are advancing there, as indeed we are all doing, everywhere along the fronts, with a rapidity which indicates the weakness of the enemy. For me that is far more important than an armistice, at this time. I believe the Teutonic allies need considerably more drubbing before we want to quit. I should like to see more of our forces on German soil.

But, it was great news. You never saw such a happy bunch as ours. I wanted to go to Paris right away. I didn’t, however, until after dinner. Paris is its usual self. The circulations of its newspapers jumped some, but otherwise I doubt if the event had much effect. I think the smile which the whole city seemed to have was subjective rather than objective. I just felt good all over, and must have looked it, for everyone smiled back at me. I think the whole city was more cordial today than ever before. So many people spoke to Frank and me, lots of them in English. It was fine.

First we went to the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur– a huge, new, white church on top of a steep hill on the northern side of the city. I had been there before, but Frank had not. On a clear day you can see the whole city from that hill. It is impossible to describe the pile or the lavish beauty of the interior or the solemn magnificence of its huge bell.

This bell is a huge affair more than 3 metres high and more than 26 tons in weight. It is called “la Savoyarde” after the province of Savoie in the southeastern part of France, where it was cast. Popular subscription in the departement of Savoie provided the thing for this church. When it reached here it was said the campanile of the church could not accommodate it, so it is now off to one side in a temporary wooden structure. How they ever got it up that hill I don’t know.

We left Sacré-Cœur and walked around through the Montmartre section which lies at the foot of the hill. It is one of the liveliest and most interesting parts of town. It was here that the Apaches used to hold forth and up. Then we walked on and on till we came to the Arc de Triomphe, down the Champs Elysées to Place de la Concorde, then over to the Grand Boulevards and finally, near suppertime and St. Denis, we took the Metro home. We must have walked seven miles and saw many streets, parks, quarters and shops that were new and news to us.

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Next post October 10

Vincennes is still lively enough and interesting enough for quite a few wars. There is always something new to be found here, even when it’s old. Today Frank and I wandered into the old fort, which dates back to the middle of the twelfth century. It is a wonderful old place, and I am going to read about it. I have already got hold of a book that gives the whole history of it. It was used as a royal palace for many years. There is a dungeon tower that has held many famous prisoners. One can go up in it and some day I shall.

I went to see my English pupil last night for the first time in a long time. It was very nice – she seems to have made more progress in this period than when she was under my tuition. Now laugh. The old French photographer is still plugging along, but will have to quit soon. He can’t get supplies being such a small consumer, and now that the manufacturers are drawing the net tighter than ever, in the interest of the national defense, he is just out of luck. Fortunately, he is a skilled mechanic and electrician and will try to get a job in the French aviation section. He gets more money there anyhow, but, as he says, sacrifices independence.

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Next post October 6

Not so much new here, except the drive near Verdun and Bulgaria’s suit for peace. We’re elated at the former – they seem to be reeling now under these unexpected attacks. Marshal Foch (and old Clemenceau, who is the war, as far as the allies are concerned) have done wonders. France will be cleared of the invader soon, and I’m glad to have done even my poor bit for her release.

I was expecting a trip up front this week-end, but it hasn’t come. I suppose it will some day. If not, I’ll try to entice it my way. Can’t go to war, you know, and never see it. ‘Twon’t do at all.

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Next post September 29

In my short span I’ve heard all sorts of music but never anything like this. Here is Pep playing the zonophone with his mouth and accompanying himself on the guitar. The funny one, is like an overgrown jew’s-harp and sounds like a comb-a-phone. But the guitar! You remember Joe Pepino. He’s a typical Italian, meaning, of course, that he isn’t. But the warm blood of the sunny land demands expression, and finds it in his music. He is a master on the guitar. He has had his old one changed for a new one made according to his own ideas. It has great tone. You will hear more of Joe.

We have had a pretty fair day, Frank and I. Got up at 9:30 (cruel war) and went down to Paris to Mme. Grove, the kindly disposed lady who speaks French with a Scotch burr. Her husband does something or other for the British army (they have lived in Paris 17 years, but are British at heart) and his army seems to have its war on Sundays, also; therefore we haven’t met him yet, but I like him already. He reads lots of German, French and English books that recommend him.

We had a good dinner and then did a little K.P. They have a tiny apartment, and Sunday is “Jane’s” day out – also the other 6 days, so in order to get out quickly we all set to and finished things.

There were two other people there – a young and sad war widow, quite French, and a young French girl, lively and considerably anglicized. In the afternoon we went to view a large German railroad gun which is on exhibition. It was captured by the British. All Paris throngs to see it.

Then we went to Mlle. Berthe’s and had a light supper. She’s the French girl who is lively. She has an artistic little apartment which was so comfortable we hated to leave.

It was a fine day, not because the weather was good – it was raw and rainy but because Frank didn’t sing. I’ve discovered what’s the matter with him. He’s the greatest bromide that ever lived. I call him Dulcinea now, and the poor boy doesn’t know what it’s all about. Do you remember F.F.A.’s name for Dulcey’s brother? If you do, write it to me. Sylvia is likely to know it.

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Next post September 27

What did we ever do in the U.S. without “briquets?” Don’t know what it is. Well, it’s a lighter. France is where they grow; everyone uses them. What I am trying to get at is that Frank’s trying to fix one now and panting so loud I can hardly write. Briquets occupy our whole spare time; when they’re not being fixed we’re busy inventing alibis as to why they don’t work. For every one claims that his is the only, and no one’s really is. It’s the prime indoor sport.

I don’t doubt that you’re glad to get back to town. There is something compelling about the city which a vacation no matter how pleasant, lacks. That what is calling me now. I’ve been having a fine summer, but I hear the “voice of the city” – O. Henry’s city. Victor Hugo’s has a voice, and I understand its words, but after all it’s not the city. You will know and love Paris one of these days, as I do. But it is hard to feel the same about New York, until you have been in a foreign land deprived of a chance to see it again for an indefinite period. In the same way all these songs about wanting to go back to Dixie, Michigan, California and intermediate points, are beginning to take on new meanings to this polyglot little crew of ours.

These last two weeks have been very busy ones. We have worked so much during the day that night found us about ready to stay home and be good. I haven’t given an English lesson in over two weeks and have been very irregular at old Lozach’s. Next week I shall blossom forth again, though not with the former freshness and frequency.

Some of our boys have come in from the present active all-American St. Mihiel front, with wondrous tales. Makes me want to see some of it. I don’t care how, but the best idea to joy-ride up, with no cameras or stuff to worry about – just some irresponsible job like taking notes or carrying a tripod, so I can enjoy it. One of the fellows got hold of some German motion picture show tickets, one of which herewith. At any rate the enemy didn’t overlook the value of photograph as propaganda medium both for German soldiers and French civilians in German hands. But can you imagine the chance to lie about things as they are, that such a thing affords an unscrupulous enemy.

It hasn’t been decided yet what this Sunday will bring forth, but I believe a Scotch lady figures in it. If possible I should like to go to Notre Dame. The old pile has a fascination that is hard to combat.

New. Fred is back. The reason he gives wouldn’t pass the mildest of censors but the reason everyone assigns is too low to write. Too bad his wife made such a choice.

And Clarence has gone out. You know him well enough to realize that he was tickled. You never saw such a change in anyone as in him, the day he was told. He stepped out like a colt again. He’ll make good on his job, because he has ideas.

Frank has been doing some color photography which he says is beautiful. Really it is very sick stuff. It makes me so mad that I tell him what I think of it. I hereby swear never to do any. It’s worse than golf in creating grass widows and the result is less satisfying – you get only plates instead of cups, and you’ll never see your husband once he starts. Don’t attempt any yourself.

Our little news department moved away, today from the bustle of the main office, into a fine little corner. It is so like the proverbial editorial sanctum that I am going to buy me a blue pencil and look like the conventional editor. The job goes merrily on, and I venture to say there are few who get more real fun and amusement out of our little war than I. Just the same when we are through, we’re never going to love another country.

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Next post September 22

I’ve just skirmished about and found me a writing desk – a four sided box which is on my lap and does very well. That’s the way in this army; the best rustler gets the best home. Our diminutive room is pretty homey and unless it gets too cold I shall keep it. I am comfortable now, perched on my bed with tobacco and lighter within easy reach. Speaking of lighters, that one you bought me has been the butt of much highly-colored language from me, but Frank took it apart and got to work, so he carries it now. I have two or three others, and of course usually have to borrow a match.

My French family? I don’t see much of them. They’re all right, but! The daughter is stupid and none of them is any too interesting. Kelly and Will Read and I are going out there tomorrow. They usually have company that is more interesting than they themselves. Lots of people are like that.

At first, with all sincerity I echoed Haywood Broun: “Tell them back home that there aren’t any good-looking women in France.” It is the kind of sweeping statement with which a small mind is so apt to generalize from its own limited experience. Of course there are many, but I hadn’t seen enough. Hence I labeled them all “not pretty”. Set your fears up again, child for there are some heart-jumpers here, though I’ll say the average is lower than in your United States. Besides this is a warm Latin country where to talk to someone you don’t know is not to break all the rules in the “Swell Swains’ and Maids’ Manual.” If I should ever see anyone that looked sufficiently interesting to warrant the trouble, I warn you that, as per your letter of sanction I shall make her acquaintance. I have the letter here so that I can silence Frank’s reproaches.

I have been spending most of my time with the French man who wants to learn photography and the French woman who wants to learn English. That left just two nights in which to take care of all my correspondence and personal chores and so forth. It is interesting and instructive and all that sort of thing, but it’s too much. I’m going to manage to have about four evenings to myself hereafter.

And so you think I am living in the present and growing bigger. Yes I’m living in the present if you mean reading war news and war maps, and writing captions for war photographs. I am growing bigger in the sense that I am meeting new people of my own kind and of a different kind too. It is comforting to hope that what you say is true. As yet I can’t see it. Maybe you’ll notice it. Bu I am still the same. The “army attitude” which worried you so much has slid by. I haven’t got it. Experience there is none. An office is an office all the world over. So is an editor an editor and a writer a writer.

My job consists of looking over all the photographs that come in, choosing those of news value, getting the important facts about them and concocting a caption that newspapers will print. Then the pictures go to the states and we hope the faithful plodders at home appreciate it all, when they see “Committee on Public Information” under the pictures in their Sunday papers. As I’ve said, it is agreeable work.

I’m content, but not what you’d call exuberantly happy. If the work we do here is important, as they say, it is no doubt as valuable as that of the man who totes a rifle. But it’s damn sight less exciting. However, I’ll think a lot before I try to get more thrill by going out in the field.

Please take notice that on August 29^th my promotion went through. I am now a private first class, whatever that is. It must be a very responsible job, because it brings in $3.60 more than my present monthly stipend. I don’t think the censor would appreciate the humor of it as much as I do to I’ll save the whole story till some other time.

Since said promotion which was announced yesterday, my shoulders have squared back and my chest expanded, so that when I weighed today (the first time in France) the scale said 61 ½ kilos which is 135 3/10 pounds. The life and rank of first class private agree with me. If the war lasts long enough for me to become a corporal I may get fat.

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Next post September 20

I have just been drinking in some of the magic of Paris. I stood in the Tuileries Gardens after sunset and saw the “arc do Triomphe du Carrousel” surmounted with a magnificent bronze chariot group; though one arch was the obelisk of the place de la Concorde; and in the mauve distance, the arc de triomphe de l’Etoile, all silhouetted against a Turner sky with gray-purple clouds. And quiet around, though it’s only a hundred metres from rue de Rivoli.

I never saw a city so full of public buildings and points of interest. I could bore you today with the history of everything I saw, because forsooth, I only went to see the things I had read up on a bit.

Such as the Palais Royal, and in back of it, the Galeries d’Orleans which is a great open quadrangle of fountains, statues straight paths and miraculously straight rows (8 of them) of trees running the entire length of it. This place was formerly the social and political center of France and is where plans for the revolution were hatched.

Further on is the old church of St. Roch, whose rich and beautiful interior I intend to explore some day. But today its chief interest was the fact that one Napoleon came into prominence before its doors when he trained his cannons on the royalists gathered in the open place.

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Next post September 14