July 14th, 1916
My trip back to Paris was very much like the one I had made in the opposite direction about six weeks before. Bar-le-Duc seemed unchanged as far as the outward signs were concerned. The movement of troops was just as great as during the previous weeks, only this time the regiments were leaving Verdun. The German efforts to take the fortress had failed signally and the offensive had passed to the French in the region of the Somme.
My train was very late in starting. Although scheduled for five in the afternoon, it did not actually get off until after midnight. It was filled to overflowing with permissionnaires and the crowded cars reminded me of a New York City rush hour in the subway. Fortunately there was a dining-car attached to the train. As this was kept open all night, we did not have to go hungry, and every one kept in the best of humor. It was interesting to see how quickly the men forgot what they had been through at the front. Within a few hours the permissionnaires were thinking only of the holiday which they were going to enjoy, of the good times they were going to have on the boulevards, and of home. The horror of battle was entirely left behind.
When we arrived at the Gare de l’Est it was barely five o’clock. The quais, however, were crowded with women who had apparently waited all night to greet their loved ones. Every one seemed so happy. The men made no attempt to control their feelings. Tears veiled many a pair of eyes. How strange the contrast between this return and the departure for the front that I had witnessed not very long before!
Before leaving the station I had to have my papers stamped by the military authorities. This done, I hurried to a hotel. I was so tired after the journey that I could hardly keep my eyes open. It was not long before I was fast asleep.
When I awoke it was already late. I dressed and went out on the streets. To my surprise, large crowds lined the sidewalks. All seemed so gay. This was almost too sudden a transition from the type of crowds I was used to seeing in the Verdun sector. Then I remembered. It was the fourteenth of July, the “Fête nationale,” always a great day for the French people, but especially so this year. Some one soon informed me that there was to be a great review of the Allied troops, and that every one was in consequence “en fête.” At the front, however, I had heard little of this.
At the Place de la Concorde the throng was immense. The more enterprising had provided themselves with boxes and ladders to stand and sit on. Others good-naturedly climbed up on the lamp-posts. The rest craned their necks in an effort to miss nothing of what was going on.
Earlier in the day the statues of the cities of Strasbourg and Lille had been bedecked with flowers. At the Petit Palais the President of the Republic had decorated, as is now the custom, the wives and children of those who had fallen on the “champ d’honneur” before their gallantry and patriotism could be rewarded.
As I reached the place the head of the parade swung out from the Champs-Elysées. It was the most impressive spectacle I have ever witnessed. Every one in the crowd showed his emotion. The women could not conceal their tears, and the men only with difficulty restrained their feelings. First came the Dragoons, followed by the Belgian Bicycle Corps. Then the khaki-clad French African troops, with only their red fezes to remind one of their once showy uniforms. Their mitrailleuses came next, brought back from the front to accompany the gallant regiment on this occasion. The crowd then commenced to roar. A battery of 75’s then came into view, the “soixante-quinzes,” which to the Frenchman symbolize victory. Suddenly the crowd became attentive and quiet. The Russians were singing their deep battle-hymn as they marched. They were fierce-looking giants, and as they swung by to the wild, measured beats of their chants, the people were silent with admiration.
After the “barbarians,” as the Germans call them, followed the Anglo-Saxons, clad in their khaki uniforms, the perfection of utility and smartness. There were the English, the Australians, and the Canadians, and, following them, a regiment of Indian cavalry. Then came the Scotch, headed by their pipers. They marched perfectly, swinging their legs in unison. Each time their right feet came forward a hundred white tartans rose together and exposed to the view of the astonished populace a hundred kilts and a hundred bare knees.
After the Allies came the French. The first regiment was from the Twentieth Corps. These were the men who had saved Verdun. There were many other units represented, many other regiments and brigades, but none received the welcome and the enthusiasm caused by the appearance of “Pétain’s Iron Brigade” as they marched by in their quick, business-like step, with bayonets fixed to their rifles.
There have been many parades in Paris during the past decade, but there never was one like this. It was not a review—it was a war. Yesterday all these men were at the front. To-morrow they would be back there again. For them this was only a momentary drop of the curtain on the tragedy in which they had been called upon to be participants. I could not help thinking of these poor fellows, some of whom I had very likely seen before, passing me in ambulances and motor-buses, muddy from head to foot and benumbed by the shock of battle. How many of these that I was seeing to-day would be in the ranks at the next review? I doubt whether these thoughts were in their minds. To-morrow they would be on their way to take part in the battle of the Somme, but with refreshed spirits and light hearts.
There was very little gayety or color in the parade. All the troops were in their service uniforms. This was an hour of heroism and suffering, an hour of fixed determination which impressed upon one the feeling that the Germans could never win the war.
After the troops had filed by I joined some friends on the boulevards. It seemed difficult to believe that only a few miles away the hostile lines were linked in a death-grapple. Paris seemed normal. Of course there was not the animation that we formerly associated with the French capital, but there was little to remind one of the great conflict—only the aeroplanes patrolling overhead and the hundreds of permissionnaires wandering about the streets in their weather-stained and battle-stained uniforms.
That night I had to leave Paris for Dijon, to report at headquarters before going to Pau. By a strange coincidence I arrived at the same hour as on my first appearance to enlist. Now I viewed everything with different eyes. Instead of being a mere “petit bleu,” as they call the young soldier, I was now a “pilote” who had been at the front. I felt privileged therefore to walk right up to the buffet, and before long I was sharing a bottle of wine with a captain, a sergeant, and a second-class poilu. Such is the democracy of war.