WAR CLOUDS GATHER
The French are a whole lot different from us—more easy-going-like. They make their money and spend it free. I like that about them. Not like some people I know who won't let go of a nickel once they gets a death grip on it.
Well, say, when we was anchored at Villefranche we come to know a thing or two about the Frenchies. Villefranche is just over the hill from Nice—a nice jaunt of a couple of miles or so, or if you've a mind to, you can take a little car that gets you there before you know it.
Nice is on the style of Atlantic City. If you ask me, I like Atlantic City better, but then that's because they speak United States there. Still Nice has a great bathing beach—you have to hand it to them—and you get so you like them little tables set out in front of the cafés, where they "parlez-vous" with each other and drink quarts of red ink.
We'd hike over to Nice every shore leave. Some of the crew went as far as Monte Carlo, but not me. I was satisfied. Besides, one place was as sporty as the other, if that was what you wanted. They was chuck-full of what the French call the "joie de vie," which in Yankee means "plenty of pep"—that's it.
You always felt happy there and the people was great! Didn't seem to take nothing serious—the Frenchies don't, in peace times. The women had a twinkle in their eye and a kind of sparkle about them, and the men said pretty things and twirled their canes—oh, they was a cheerful lot, all right.
Remember, all this was before the war. It was August. Hot. Still. Can't you see it? The sea, where our boat lay at anchor, calm as glass and blue as a turquoise. The sand along the beach, snow white.
It was a Saturday, and we had a forty-eight, which took us ashore at ten in the morning. Didn't want to miss no time on land. The day was so fine that we decided to foot it into town. Everything was green and growing and smelled good. We took our time and ambled into Nice long about chow. The minute we hit that port I knew for sure something was up.