I had been to Paris quite a number of times. The old saying was that “all roads lead to Rome,” but the new one of the American Army was “all Army orders read to Paris,” it being an unwritten law that all army travel orders were via Paris. So in my visits I had naturally learned the customs and rules with respect to reporting to our Military Police of Paris.
The old rule upon entering Paris was that if you intended to stay over twenty-four hours you must go to 10 Rue St. Anne, which was the headquarters of the Provost Marshal of the American Military Police, and register, stating your hotel, the nature of your business, when you were leaving, and the time. If you did not intend to stay twenty-four hours or over you did not need to register. Of course, I generally managed to stay twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes, at which time I was generally broke and had to leave. But this morning, when I arrived at the Gare de Lyons, I was confronted with a tremendous and complete surprise. Preceding me was a line of about fifty officers, ranging in rank from Colonel to Second Lieutenant, and on down to privates, and in front of them was a big desk and two bigger M. P.’s presided over by an officious looking Second Lieutenant, and above them a sign:
“New Regulations, G.H.Q.—No officers or enlisted men under the rank of Brigadier General will be allowed to leave this station or enter Paris without first registering here, giving authority for travel, hotel, nature of business, and when officer or man will leave the city.
“By order of General Pershing.”
Stunned and shocked, I stood on the side lines and watched. Every one who passed this desk showed written orders and was given a little blue check which the M. P.’s seemed to honor. Things sure looked both black and blue for me. I had no insignia whatever—from appearances I was a private and my uniform was as dirty as a coal scuttle, but at the same time they could tell I was an American. I certainly looked like the last rose of summer after the first winter frost. I figured the small chance I would have of talking my way through that Lieutenant Provost Marshal. Just as sure as could be they would take me up to 10 Rue St. Anne and quarantine me, fumigate me, and hold me for orders. It was the old Army game of waiting for orders, and, believe me, that wasn’t the object of my visit to Paris. I realized that if I once got to my hotel I could spend a couple of days there without even being seen or known and could eat to the limit of my bank account. I felt that under the circumstances General Pershing would bear me out, provided I could get that high up in presenting my case.
So I decided to make a reconnaissance of the station, hoping for better luck. I sauntered around, by every exit, and there was either a Frenchman there who wouldn’t let me by or there was an American who, of course, wouldn’t budge. I thought of getting on an outgoing train and being pulled down to the yards and leaving by that way. So I began to walk down the tracks. Finally I found an open gate where the tracks enter for the freight depot.
“Well,” I thought, “this will be easy!” I started to walk through when I saw standing in the sentry box a hardboiled buck private—an American. In his hand he had a regular New York billy stick. He saw me, and it was too late to turn back. He walked out and stuck out his jaw, like a bulldog, and said, “Hey, guy, where you goin’?” Of course, he couldn’t tell me from a private, so I got just as hardboiled as he was and stuck out my jaw and said, “Hello, Buddie! What are you doin’?” “Where yuh going?” he demanded gruffly. “Damned if I know, Bud,” I growled. “I’m getting tired of hanging around Paris. I’m tired of it. I want to get to the front or where the front was. You know, Buddie, they told me when they drafted me into the Army I’d get to the front. I’ve never even heard a gun fire. I’ve been stationed in the rear all the time, and now the blamed war is over, and I ain’t never seen none of it. I’ll go back, and my girl will say, ‘Reuben, tell me about the war; what were you in?’ And, Buddy, won’t I feel like the devil when I have to ’fess up and tell them that I was a soldier in Paris?”
I looked at his arm, and I saw that he had a wound stripe. “Looky there!” I snapped out proudly. “You’ve got a wound stripe, ain’t yuh?” “Yep,” he replied, equally proud. “Gosh, you’re lucky,” I said assuringly. “You’ve been to the front; tell me about it, for I ain’t never had no chance to talk to a real red-blooded guy what’s been to the front yet.”
This was the prize stroke, for he broke loose and told me his whole story. He said he had been at Château-Thierry, in the Second Division, and was sore because the Marines got all the credit for it, while, as a matter of fact, it was his own regiment that did all the dirty work. He himself, according to his story, had attacked a machine gun nest alone, had got ten prisoners, and, incidentally, got wounded in the hip. I impressed upon him how lucky he was to have gotten through it alive; then I glanced at his chest and I saw upon it the green and yellow ribbon meaning Mexican Border Service.
