Chapter C: R. Edwards, (8)

Kapp told us that our destination was Villingen, which was a prison camp in the State of Baden. The journey was very slow on account of the congestion, so the day before we arrived there, as we were sidetracked at one town, Kapp left us to call Landshut on the long distance. When he returned, we knew that something was terribly wrong—he was as pale as a ghost. Poor old Kapp! I never saw a man so nervous and upset. He acted like a rooky after being bawled out by a drill sergeant, and he fidgeted and twisted like an old maid about to say the words “I do.” Finally, I summoned enough courage to ask him what it was all about, for I thought perhaps that hostilities had been resumed.

“Anything wrong, Herr Kapp?” I asked.

“Wrong!” he ejaculated bitterly. “Hell, everything’s wrong!”

“What do you mean?” we all anxiously asked, for his attitude was just cause for alarm.

“Well,” he went on, “I have just called Landshut and they are demobilizing the camp to-day, and the men are all going to their homes.”

“What’s the matter with that?” I inquired, for this was to my mind the natural thing to do.

“Oh, my,” he said, surprised at our lack of understanding, “That car of Red Cross food arrived for you prisoners, and the rest of the camp officials will hook it all before I get back to get my share.”

All the way on the journey, Kapp had talked about the very nice girl he knew in Villingen, and that he was surely going to visit her for a few days before he returned to Landshut. So, as we were pulling into Villingen, I told Kapp that I certainly hoped he would have a pleasant visit with his girl friend at Villingen.

“Visit nothing,” he came back emphatically, “I’m going to turn you prisoners over to the authorities here and take the first train back to Landshut. There may yet be a little of that Red Cross food left.”

Villingen was a real prison camp—believe me it was, compared to those we had been in. They had real spring mattresses, a prisoners’ orchestra, a couple of pianos, a library, a tennis court, hand-ball court, basket-ball court, nice place to walk in, and a nice kitchen where prisoners could cook their own recipes, and best of all, they had quite a lot of Red Cross food, even butter. I regretted a plenty that all my prison life had not been spent at that camp, for it was the best I had seen.

When we got to Villingen, we received a fresh supply of rumors as to just when we were going to be released. With all this anticipation, the days were unusually long, for every day was filled with added promises which the Germans never fulfilled. So, after we had been there a few days, I began to think we never were going to get out if we waited for the help of the Germans. So, I decided to have my own “coming out.”

I tried to escape for three nights straight, even getting so far as to breaking the lock on an abandoned gate and cutting the barbed wire enclosing the windows, but something always went wrong. Every time we had to run on account of being discovered by the guards. The fourth day, an American Artillery colonel, who was the senior officer of the prisoners, called a meeting and stated that the Germans had turned the government of the prisoners over to him, and, as commanding officer, he forbade any more attempts to escape. I thought then and I think now that the Colonel was entirely without his rights. The armistice did not affect our status of prisoners, for there was still a state of war, and, as long as there is a state of war, to my mind there is a corresponding duty on the part of all prisoners to return to their own forces; and no superior officer, regardless of rank, has the right to excuse the failure of any prisoner to perform this duty, and certainly not to forbid even attempting the performance. This Colonel stated that, as commanding officer, he had given the parole of all the prisoners. This was again absolutely the assumption of rights not his own. This assumption of our personal privileges as men and soldiers was the only thing that kept several of us from again trying to escape, for a man’s word of honor is too serious a thing to permit juggling with, even when given away without his consent.

Finally, the orders came to leave, and one bright morning they assembled us, the Air Service officers being last—probably because that was where we stood in the estimation of the American Artillery colonel. The German officer in charge of the camp came out and made a speech about the great friendship of the German and American people, in which he said that the Allies and Germans were both victorious—Germany’s victory being in that she had found a new Republic. But it was not a time for speechmaking—it was a time for action for us, and, like a bunch of race horses, we pawed the earth to get a head start for that train.

To our surprise, they had first-class coaches to carry us out of Germany, although they had taken us in and moved us around in everything from cattle cars to third and fourth class coaches.

We got to Constanz, on the border of Switzerland, and, of course, expected to change trains and go right ahead. To our disappointment, we found that the Americans had not made any preparations to carry us through Switzerland, and we had to wait at Constanz a couple of days until the Americans showed some speed. Believe me, I damned America right, left, laterally, and longitudinally for their lack of preparation. I afterwards was very sorry and found that it was not the fault of the Americans at all. But I was mighty peeved to be forced to eat “Bully Beef” in Germany on Thanksgiving.

I think it was about five o’clock, on the morning of the thirtieth of November, that we crossed the border, and believe me I never want to hear such pandemonium again as those two hundred American prisoners gave as we were pulled out of Germany, and were actually again in the hands of friends. We had shaken hands with our hostess at the “coming out,” for I didn’t see a single house along our railroad all through Switzerland from five in the morning until midnight that did not have the American flag waving. Everywhere were men, women and children madly waving handkerchiefs and flags as that train went by.

I felt as if I were in heaven. It was wonderful of Switzerland, but, of course, it was the fact that we represented the Great America which caused the demonstration as they had a sincere respect for our friendship.

At Berne, the ladies of the American Red Cross met us and served us hot roast chicken. Take it from me, it was good. Everyone had a ravenous appetite. When we were filled to the brim, the boys got together and appointed me yell leader, and we gave fifteen “raws” for the Red Cross, the Y. M. C. A., the Salvation Army, Switzerland, Berne, the Allies, and the U.S.A. The natives thought perhaps that we were lunatics, but those who understood America knew it was the only immediately available way we had of expressing our appreciation. So we repeated our performance at Lucerne, and at Lausanne, and at Geneva.

Hours meant nothing to the austere Swiss on that night, for when we pulled into Geneva at 11 P. M., there was the same tremendous crowd, with American flags, good cheer, and things to eat. All the way along, even from the first, it was the same. At one little town where we stopped for the engine to get water, there was only one little store near the railroad, but the Swiss man who ran it gave us every bit of wine he had in there, which was about thirty bottles, and then began to feed us cookies. He could speak nothing but German, which was “Alles for den Amerikaner,” meaning “Everything for the Americans.” And he seemed pleased to have the opportunity to do it. In that part of Switzerland, they speak German, but, of course, around Lausanne and Geneva, French is the common tongue.

But it was a real “coming out.” In fact, it was Cæsar’s Triumphal March, Woodrow Wilson’s entrance into Paris, and Pershing on Fifth Avenue, all combined, for we were the King Bees when it came to Swiss chocolate, and they certainly handed it out. I became so ill that I could barely navigate, but it all seemed so much like a dream that I continued to consume chocolate whether I wanted to or not for fear the dream would end.

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.

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.

“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

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.