Sunday morning Frank and I went to church at the Madeleine, an old church in the center of Paris. The service was very like the American Catholic services. Inside the old place is as interesting as out. Over the altar is a fine strip of mosaic, and above that a mural painting. Ancient chandeliers fang from the vaulted roof clear down to within a few inches of the heads of the congregation. It has noble Ionic and Doric columns that will last hundreds of years more, and a marble floor. The building is like a Greek temple from the outside: there is a frieze over the front; the roof is supported by countless columns, and all around the outside of the buildings are the niches containing statues of saints.

Church was out at noon, and Frank had an appointment for dinner, so he left. The Madelaine is only a block from the Place de la Concorde – a big open plaza about a half mile wide. I left Frank on the corner and stood wondering where to have dinner. Suddenly I saw someone in the distance running my way. He wore my kind of a uniform and as he came nearer I saw it was Jack Wagner. The eagle eye of hunger had descried me from way across the Place and Jack came bounding towards a life saver. For he was in his usual condition, that is he had spent it all. Now he is one man who can share anything I have, and he knows it. So we went and had dinner; then we separated. I came back home and went to movies, which were mostly American with French titles.

---

Next post July 31

If I forget all about the war there will always remain a few vivid pictures. The other night I saw two or three. One was my first view of Notre Dame de Paris. It was about sunset, during a very heavy shower. In a framework of leaves, there stood the old black building with its flying buttresses and two square towers, seen through a curtain of rain and silhouetted against a bright sky. A picture not soon to be forgotten.

Another was the Trocadero, a huge gray affair with tall twin towers, seen just at dusk against a gray sky. Then there was the Arc de Triomphe and the Avenue des Champs Elysées in a flaming sunset. No other city can have so much potential beauty. Also, when one has seen the huge and gorgeous palaces alongside wretched alleys and hovels, it is not much of a strain to understand the French Revolution. I was with Ernie Schoedsack, who has a quick sense of such things, and we appreciated the spell that this city can work on a person. The chief trouble with Ernie is that he realizes as much as I do the incongruity of his 6 ft. 5 walking along next to my 5 ft. 6. But we have a good time together.

---

Next post July 30

Yesterday was so busy I had not even time to read the war news. Reading war news is part of my job; I must keep informed of what’s happening the world over.

We have had bad weather – lots of rain recently, so I haven’t been out much this week. We passed up another date with the old camera fellow, so it will be some time before that picture comes.

Rec’d Aug. 17

---

Next post July 28

Did you ever get my letter telling of the old Frenchman, his wife and daughter whom I met at our first stop while we were guarding baggage? Well they live not far from here and one evening was spent with them. Will Kelly and Joe were with me. It was funny. They have an archaic auto which they showed us, but which they cannot use because pleasure cars unless in war work are passés in this part of the world. Monsieur is a Health inspector and has his little place, too small for a garage – his car is at a neighbor’s. The rooms are small and stuffy, overcrowded with gimcracks, odors and people. It is like the ever-darkened “best rooms” of a mid-victorian American cottage. They dragged out some atrocious red wine, and some cider disguised with water and lithia powders. Then some girl sang a few, topped by “La Madelon” a military and popular song that is really good.

Then Monsieur played his accordion after which I was ready to go away from there. We did. But not without a promise to him that we’d come some day and use his camera a lot. So look out for pictures. Mlle. Gabrielle seems much taken with Joe’s handsome clean-cut American features, despite the fact that he was born in Poland. We’re going out again some night.

Then I spent two evenings with Frank Philips and two girls who are nurses in a children’s hospital. One gets sentimental at about 10:30, when I am much amused and laugh at her. The other is nice; neither is good-looking. They’ve been to the front, are interesting and good practice because they talk an awful lot of French.

The other nights I don’t seem to remember, but I have no recollection of having done much with them, except sleep. I think I deserved that sleep because I’ve worked hard during the day. That I like it you already know.

By the way, I suppose you wonder how we meet these people – these girls. It’s easy; they pick one up. They’re all respectable, I suppose, but not fussy about such things, since the war has brought so many soldiers to France.

---

Next post July 23

Today is the French national holiday and I went to Paris. The real celebration is tomorrow, but today was enough for me.

There was a parade this morning, which I didn’t get to see; they tell me there were men in line from every nation on the side of the Allies. I believe it because I saw them all this afternoon. Jean and I set out after dinner and we had a great time. We saw the Place de la République, the big boulevards, stores, hotels etc., the great Opera and the Paris subway.

The crowd was tremendous and very good-natured. Those who were not afoot, sat in the cafes, which are all open and have their tables right out on the sidewalks. Of course, U.S. soldiers are still a thing to be pointed out in Paris. We were. Little boys and girls keep running up to shake us by the hand, and on all sides we hear: “Voilà des Americains”.

It is very a colorful crowd that frequents these boulevards, and the uniforms heighten the effect. One sees a great deal of the black uniform – the women who have lost someone in the war, but the French are quite brave about it.

The Opera is very large and from the outside, very beautiful building, on first view. But it was near the end of our time when we reached it, so I couldn’t examine it closely. If we stay here long I want to see it again. I think I can find my way about now. The subway, which they call the “Metropolitain” is comprehensive and complex. It will take you all over for one fare – a perfect network of lines, impossible in New York on account of its long narrow character. Here one rides for three cents, second class and five, first; there is probably 10 per cent more white enamel in the first class carriages. They are very much like the new Broadway subway cars, even to the woman conductors.

Second only to Americans themselves, the French like American tobacco. And you can’t blame them once you’ve tried theirs. If you ever want to cure me of the habit, move our happy home to France.

Parisians are not beautiful to look upon. Maybe standards are different here, but in all that walk I did not see a beautiful woman or an especially good-looking man. But- the law of compensation never fails – they are blest with fine-looking children.

Since I wrote last I have been picked for an inside job which is very necessary and is right in my line. It will enable me to keep my hand in, and at the same time do something useful. Shades of old Art Woodward! I’m back at a desk again – writing. Of course like everything in the army, like the war itself, no one can tell how long it will last. You know I may get impatient for action.

After a short, sharp struggle with my pride, I killed and swallowed it and – bought me a pocket English-French dictionary. I may now be seen about the street, like every other American, with a little red book. But I fear “I have scotched the snake, not killed it” – I’ll have to gulp again and buy a French-English, for there are almost as many French words I can’t translate as English. By the way, I am still in the stage where many roads are closed and I have to make a conversational detour; also I get lots of punctures, but I keep rattling right along.

Yesterday “Le Matin”, one of the Paris newspapers, published words and music of the Star Spangled Banner, in English with translation and a phonetic pronunciation of the English. I gave a little French boy the phonetic thing, and had a fine time listening to him try to say it. Revenge is sweet – he made me sing him the tune.

Rec’d Aug. 7

---

Next post July 20

This has been a dizzying week. The last time I wrote was the day before we left our first berth in France. There is an hour’s talk about that little town and some of its folks, still due you. The little French class of M. Burlat, where they tried to teach Prehodzki some of the vernacular, was a [?]

The little 12/12 laboratory of M. something – or – other where he turns out some atrocious photographs, one of which I must needs take as a souvenir; and his daughter to whom, of course, I must write.

Next morning early – that was Sunday – we boarded the train. It was 26 hours to our destination – a long trip, but one of the most beautiful I’ve ever taken. It is through the calmest, most peaceful, green and fertile country I’ve ever seen. It must be a painful contrast for the man who knows his France, to see this country and picture that which is in the war zone. It is green-all kinds of green. Every bit of it that is clear is under cultivation – wheat, rye, barley, oats, but no corn. There are winding rivers, and villages that almost touch. Everything is stone and shouts its age. One old church has two spires which must have been built several hundred years apart; they are so unlike.

We had plenty to eat, and there was coffee to be had at stopping places. We were almost the only soldiers on the train, and were welcomed all along the line.

We saw the Palace of Versailles, the Eiffel Tower and then a glimpse of Paris. Just enough to make me want to see more of it. Hope I can some day. Well, we got to this place Monday afternoon late, and I am really quite content. Let us hope it lasts.

There is a large house and adjacent outbuildings. Ed, Peter and I have a tiny room together, which we have made as cozy as possible. After a day’s rest we started to work. It is good to be back in harness.

Many of the old boys are here. Do you remember Charlie Ritchie who got the mumps the day we went to Ft. Wood? Well it wasn’t mumps, but erysipelas and he was in the hospital a month. He’s here, and some of the others.

---

July 11, 1918 is my -74th anniversary!

Next post July 14

I have it. It is great here. Some of the town is as old as the invasion of France by Caesar, some is medieval, a little modern. Already I have talked with several natives who seem pleased to find an American who speaks French.

One was an old retired fisherman, whose pension is insufficient in these war times, and wants his wife to take in washing. He had me letter out the words: AMERICAN LAUNDRY for him, and he called out all the neighborhood to see me.

Another is a Parisian who is in this city to visit his son in the military hospital. He takes photographs, so we had common ground at once. Also he believes America is going to join the war. She goes about it right, he says, and her soldiers seem to have more spirit and capability than he thought. He was very encouraging after I made sure he wasn’t just salving me. He has a pretty and brainless daughter. He invited me to come to see him in Paris if I ever get there.

Tomorrow we leave here for our real destination.

Rec’d Aug. 6

---

Next post July 11

Here it is not much different from other days; though in a nearby town there is quite a to-do about it. They profess great esteem for America, these French. Any day one can read in their papers, accounts of the debates in the national Chamber. They continually refer to America as an example of efficiency in conducting the war and unselfish idealism in entering it. And they’ve named everything after President Wilson, from avenues to soap.

Some men were wanted to watch some government property in the city near here and I volunteered. I hope I get the job; it will give me a chance to see more of the natives.

---

Next post July 6.

Most of our boys have had so much more experience that sometimes I feel like a child sitting at the feet of a spinner of yarns. Jack, in particular, has been everywhere. He is one who “lives himself dead.” He gets a great deal out of life by doing what he pleases at the moment. And he gets a rare knowledge of men: he can appeal to some one thing in every man that makes that man his friend for life – a subtle flattery. He doesn’t always take the trouble to do it, but he did in my case. He didn’t have to, for I always liked him anyhow; but I watched the process. He chose the tack of letting me feel he considered me a cut above the herd and in some things an authority. He does it very well; it is intuitive applied psychology.

---

Next post July 4.

The gaiety goes on. Jack Wagner and Billy are the funniest I’ve ever seen. It’s been too much for Van Duzer and Mount; they had to move. But I enjoy it.

We can get anything we want here – tobacco, candy, things to eat between times, etc. And our gang hits it up. Coffee every night and plenty to eat so I’m happy.

The French, in addition to their own July 14^th holiday, are going to celebrate the 4^th in honor of the Americans. We may get a chance to see some of it.

---

Next post July 3.