On the morning of December first, we crossed the border at Bellegarde. There was a big hospital train waiting to meet us, but, for some reason or other, their orders would not permit them to pull out before six or seven that evening. Our destination was some hospital near Dijon. That didn’t sound interesting to me. I was tired of being confined, and I felt that it was my duty to join my organization for the war was still on. So, I took some of my most valued friends into my confidence, and relieved them of every cent of money they had, from pfennigs to souvenirs, which I finally got exchanged, and got enough French money to get a third-class passage to Paris.
So, when the Geneva-Paris express pulled in, I took my seat. My clothes must have been awful, for I noticed the poor peasant women taking unpleasant sniffs at me. However, my pride had long since ceased to be on my sleeve, so I sniffed right back at ’em. Just before we left, I was sitting back there in that third-class compartment, packed up in a corner like an oiled sardine, when, outside in the companion way I noticed a distinguished looking man, well dressed, with a big diamond flashing. Certainly he belonged in a first-class compartment, and I wondered what he was doing back there among us common peasants. As he stood there a newsboy came along, hollering “La Liberte,” and since the sight of a well-dressed man had recalled to my mind the fact that I, too, had once been more or less of a gentleman who could afford a newspaper, I stopped the boy. “Garcon,” I said, “donnez moi un journal.” That is, “Give me a paper.” The lad handed me a paper and also his hand, and so I reached in my pocket and realized that I had spent my last sous for that railroad ticket. Quite embarrassed, I handed the paper back and told him I didn’t want the paper after all. This man on the outside looked in, and to my great surprise spoke up in English. “Well,” he smiled, “you look like an American.” “Yes, sir,” I replied, “I am an American.”
“Well,” he continued, offering his hand, “I’m an American too. Boggs is my name.” I extended my fist and said, “My name is Lieutenant Haslett.”
“Lieutenant?” he said, with surprise, looking for my insignia of rank. “I must say you look more like a buck private.” Whereupon I found it was necessary to explain that I had been a prisoner and had just gotten out. He bought the paper for me from the anxious news kid and came across then and offered to give me money or anything else I needed.
Modestly I responded that I really didn’t need it; that I would be all right, for when I got back to Paris the next morning I would soon be fixed up. Mr. Boggs insisted that I come up to the first-class compartment to meet some very charming American women and some French countesses. I must admit that, even though I did have a lot of self-pride in not wanting to make my appearance under such disadvantageous conditions, yet the opportunity to talk to a real American woman sounded like soft music to my ears.
I was on the point of declining when he pulled out a real Havana cigar, which certainly would have cost him a couple of dollars at the Café de Paris or “Ciro’s.”
“Here,” he said, handing it over, “you must want this, since you have probably not had a real cigar for a long time.”
I could not resist this invitation, and when I put my teeth on that cigar and took the first puff I condescended right away to permit the charming ladies to be presented to me. The first thing the ladies did was to offer me a piece of chocolate. I would not have touched chocolate for a thousand dollars, for I had had so much of it in Switzerland that it was almost obnoxious. However, I could not tell them that I had been fed up or they would not have had so much sympathy for me, for what I especially craved was sympathy and what I most especially desired was to be petted. So I told them that I was very sorry that I couldn’t accept their chocolate for the reason that the doctor had told me not to eat anything at all until I had gone to the specialist at Paris to see if anything was wrong with my stomach.
I soon realized what a bonehead remark I had made, for shortly afterwards Countess B—— pulled out some lovely club sandwiches. There were tears of regret in my eyes as my mouth watered like a spring—but that doctor gag was my story and I had to stick to it.
We talked quite a while and I smoked another one of this American’s good cigars, and then, by means of my olfactory sense, I realized that my clothes were making the air a little uncomfortable in there, so I excused myself and told them that I wished to go back to my compartment, as I felt awfully embarrassed looking so poorly among such lovely and refined people. Of course, they insisted that I stay in their compartment the remainder of the night, as there was plenty of room and I could stretch out and rest my weary bones while they should, like good angels, watch over me. This sounded real, but I knew from a personal standpoint that my welcome had expired as soon as they had seen the curiosity, namely, the prisoner of war, and that it would be more comfortable for all concerned that I hie me back among the peasants.