I was one of the first Americans to go across after our declaration of war on Germany. Those were the days when the German propagandists in this country knew more about the movements of our fleet than we did ourselves.
They called upon us formally a way off the French coast, with two torpedoes. But they were bad shots, so their visiting cards never arrived and we continued our course without any further opportunity of making their acquaintance.
As we neared the coast the water became clotted up with wreckage—boxes and barrels and floating planks—yes—and bodies, too. I've never seen a sight to equal it and I have crossed eight times all told. But in the beginning of the war Fritz was pretty active. Never a day passed that we received less than seven or eight S.O.S. calls. Oh, Fritz was having it all his own way then. We've changed all that—rather!
I'll never forget the little French port where we dropped anchor. Nothing I can ever see in the years to come—with the exception of the Allied flags floating over the Kaiser's palace in Berlin—will equal the thrill I got from watching the first khaki-clad Yankees marching up that narrow street to the tune of Yankee Doodle!
I kept wondering who the dickens I was, to be privileged to witness such a history-making sight!
The townsfolk mobbed us. They cheered us and hugged us and called down blessings on our heads. Someone took pity on us and showed us the way to an inn—a rambling white shallet with a big American flag hung from its windows. At the gate, the innkeeper and his plump little wife were awaiting us with open arms. They asked us if we would consent to eat "poullet." Consent! We would have devoured birch bark with a relish had it been cooked the way Madame Mousequet could cook!
I have never tasted such chicken or such potatoes. And while we ate and drank the little lady fluttered about us, hoping, in voluble French, that everything suited "the dear officers from the United States."
They would not take a cent of pay for the feast. It was, they assured us, "une grande honneur." Over and over they insisted that we must not think of spoiling their pleasure by having money pass between us. What can you do with people like that?
That night we went to a little cinema theater. When the lights were turned up and the audience caught sight of us, they rose in a body and cheered us. In one of the boxes were a group of French officers and their wives. One of the officers hurried around to where we were sitting.
"You must place yourself where all the people may see you," he insisted. There was no refusing him. He was like a child, bubbling over with joy at having us there.