Colonel Brereton, Major Haslett and others being decorated at Coblenz

“What decoration is that?” I asked, curiously, “the Medal of Honor?” “No,” he said, boisterously putting his finger on the ribbon. “You know what that is, don’t you?” “No,” I affirmed, “I ain’t never seen no decorations.” “Well,” he said, realizing he had an easy one, “why, that’s the Croix de Guerre.” I gripped him by the hand and slapped him on the shoulder and told him he was the most interesting man and the bravest man that I had ever met and that I sure wanted to meet him again, but that I had to browse on to-day and we would get together some night when we got paid and go to the Folies Bergère and see the theater. So the old boy offered me a chew of tobacco, took one himself and again proudly shaking his hand I passed on.

I had to walk all the way up to town because I didn’t have any money to hire a taxi, nor could I even pay my carfare. Finally I got up to the Place de l’Opera, where I went into my American bank and wrote out a check for about two hundred and fifty francs, as I still had a little money on deposit there. As is the custom with those very shrewd and careful French bank clerks, the Frenchman took the check back to consult the books to see if I had that much money on credit. When he came back he looked at me suspiciously over the top rims of his spectacles and said accusingly, “Where did you get that check?” “Well,” I replied, surprised at his attitude, “where do you suppose I got it. I just now wrote it.” “Be careful,” he answered sarcastically, “don’t lie.” “Where do you get that noise?” I demanded, thoroughly insulted. “Well,” he insisted, “we won’t cash that check. That man is dead.” “Who’s dead?” I asked sharply. “Well, you see,” he explained, “our books report that Elmer Haslett was killed in action September 30, 1918.” “Well,” I laughed, appreciating the joke, “I’m the guy—been a prisoner of war and have just gotten back and, as is to be expected, I’ve got to have some money.” “All right,” he answered, as if about to accommodate me, “you prove that you are Elmer Haslett.” “I’ve no papers on me, of course,” and I puzzled for a second. “You see, I’ve been a prisoner of war, but just compare my signature with any previous ones.” That wasn’t sufficient evidence for him, so I asked him to suggest the means of identity. “It is very simple,” he explained. “Get the Military Police at 10 Rue St. Anne to state that you are Elmer Haslett.” Of course, the prospect of appearing at 10 Rue St. Anne was out of the question, for reasons stated. I must try new means to obtain the wherewithal. With new hopes, I walked over to the Hotel Chatham. They had changed clerks there and so when I asked for a room the clerk told me very politely that they had none. I knew then they simply considered me as an undesirable guest on account of my appearance, but I also knew that if I had a chance to get a room in Paris at all on my present appearance it would have to be at the Chatham, where I had previously been known. I told the clerk that I had been at the Chatham many times and that they certainly knew me, that my name was Elmer Haslett. “Oh, yes, yes,” he said politely, “we know you, Mr. Haslett, but we simply have no rooms.” I asked to see the proprietor, but he wasn’t in. Things looked rather bad, when along came the dignified old concierge. Just as big as could be, I walked up and extended my hand to the concierge. “How are you, Henry?” I said, about to embrace him. He drew back in amazement, looking at me like a powerful judge looks at an overfriendly bolshevik. But I had his hand, so he couldn’t get loose. “Well, sir,” he said sternly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” I thought of all the woes of poor old Rip Van Winkle—I too had actually changed. But I couldn’t give up. “Come on, Henry, come on,” I said. “You know me—I’m Haslett, who used to be here with Len Hammond.” “Oh,” he blustered, equally shocked, “I know Lieutenant Haslett, but you’re not Lieutenant Haslett.” “I beg your pardon, but I am,” I replied, getting a little heated. “I’m getting tired of having people tell me I’m not. Now what I want, Henry, is a room, and the clerk says he has no rooms, and I know damned well he has. I look like the devil, I know. But listen,” and I whispered in his ear. “Don’t tell it, but I have just gotten back from Germany, where I’ve been a prisoner of war, and I don’t want the newspapers to know it because I want to have a few days rest. You go up and tell him I’m all right and want a room. You know me, Henry. I’ll fix it up right with you.” The prisoner sympathy stuff did not have the pull with Henry as the magic little words “I’ll fix it right with you.” That seems to get by everywhere. So the old boy went over and fixed it up and assigned me to one of the nicest rooms they had. For the rest of the morning I kept two servants busy bringing me food and charging it to my bill. Then I wrote a check, dating it before my capture, and proceeded to send it to the concierge. He cashed it and then life was a little more easy.

Just as I was leaving the hotel I ran on to some of my friends—the first boys I had seen since I left Germany, and, of course, they wouldn’t let me leave, but took me up and bought me a big dinner. They took me to the Café de Paris and, believe me, I was some sensation, for while I had been eating and had eaten plentifully those few days, I still had a lot to make up for and I had a huge appetite. In fact, it was a continuing appetite. The bill at the Café for the three of us was something like $45.00, because I ordered everything they had, which, of course, included the necessary emoluments, and fixtures, and all the dainty and choice things both in season and out. Finally I tore loose and took a taxi down to the Gare de l’Est, where I found practically the same situation as at the Gare de Lyons, only that you had to show orders before you could purchase a ticket. My train left at 3:00 o’clock and it was now about five minutes before time for the train to pull out. I knew it would be impossible to go through the red tape of getting a ticket O. K.’d, for I had the big chance of being held. I rushed up to the ticket window and asked for a ticket to Bar-le-Duc. The lady shook her head and tried to tell me in English that it was impossible to sell tickets to the Americans without a purchase authorization check. With apparent surprise I demanded in French that she speak French or Belgian. Thinking that I was making remarks about her rotten English, she proceeded to tell me the same in French. “Ha! ha! ha! Madame,” I laughed. “You make me laugh very much. That is very funny. I am very pleased at your compliment. Do you think I am American or Belgian?” I had almost forgotten my French, but it came in very good play, for she fell for it, demanded my pardon most profusely and immediately forked over a ticket. It was just about time for the train. I knew I couldn’t pull any smooth gag on this hardboiled M. P., so I started to rush through, handing him my railroad ticket. “Hey,” and he grabbed me, “where are you going?” “I’m going to take this train for Bar-le-Duc,” I replied hurriedly. “Well,” he demanded, “where’s your yellow ticket?” “What yellow ticket?” I said, surprised that such a thing even existed. “You’ve got to have a yellow ticket before you can pass through this gate,” he said, emphatically and not permitting argument. “Here, here’s my railroad ticket,” I repeated nervously, casting my eyes on the train. “I don’t care,” he said in a voice indicating that his patience was about gone, “where’s your yellow ticket?” “I haven’t got one,” I replied. “I didn’t know I had to have that.” “You go back there,” and he pointed to one of the windows and explained in detail as to one who was good and dense, “see the M. P. and get your orders stamped and he will give you a yellow ticket, and you can’t get by this gate until you do.” “Oh, Hell! Come on, Buddy,” I said, “I can’t do all that. I’m just coming back from leave. If I do all that I’ll miss my train. Come on, Bud, let me by. Why, I’ll get K. P. for a week if I don’t get there to-night. It’s my last chance. You wouldn’t hold up a buddy that way, would you?” and believe me, I looked appealingly. He looked at me a moment. The conductor was already blowing his little whistle signal and then he gave up. “Go on! The war is over,” he said. It was the example of the American soldier and the big soft spot they have for their buddies. He couldn’t resist the chance to help a pal. So I passed the gates and got on the train and went to Bar-le-Duc. On the train I ran onto a guy I knew and we talked over old times and I got to Chaumont-sur-Aire, which was the old headquarters, and I ran in and saw my old friend, Philip Roosevelt, who was then the Army Pursuit Operations Officer. Then I got on the telephone and called Brereton, who was then up at Longuyon preparing to move to Treves with the Army of Occupation. He was Chief of Staff for General Mitchell, who was then commanding the Aviation of the Army of Occupation. “Is this Major Brereton?” I said from force of habit, for he was a Major when I knew him last. “Yes—Colonel Brereton,” he corrected. “This is Lieutenant Haslett,” I called. “WHO?” he fairly yelled. “Lieutenant Haslett,” I replied. “Who do you mean,” he demanded—“Elmer?” “Yep,” I said, “that’s right.” “Lieutenant Hell!” he called in old form, “you’ve been promoted for months and I’ve been waiting for a month to be decorated with you for Château-Thierry.” “Well, let’s not argue over technicalities,” I answered. “How am I going to get up there?” “How are you going to get up here?” he repeated, very surprised. “Yes,” I replied, “how am I going to get up there?” “Well, Elmer,” he said, in his same grand old voice, “you’re going up in the King’s carriage.” So he immediately sent one of General Mitchell’s cars all that distance, and after traveling practically all night over those terrible roads, the next morning at breakfast I had my “coming out.” I was back among friends—the dearest friends that man can have—those who with you have upheld the flag and who with an unfaltering trust have faced the common enemy.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

  1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
  2. Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.