The Americans Arrive

by LT. COL. CHARLES R. CODMAN

AUGUST 27, 1944. — What a day! Had hoped to ride in with Lcclerc but that didn’t work out, so next day I asked the boss if Bunny [Lt. Col. Bernard Carter] and I couldn’t take a jeep and run up to see, among other things, whether his office was running. The boss looked surprised and said, “Sure, why not? Only don’t get yourselves shot — and come back.” Well, it was all perfectly simple and, like all events to which you’ve looked forward with a terrific yearning, perfectly natural.

After breakfast I went, over to Bunny’s tent and said, “Get your gun. We’re going up to see whether they are still cashing checks at your bank.” His face was a study. Armed with a paper, we mounted Bunny’s jeep and set off down that long, straight road. A lovely sunny day, hot, with a slight haze. Funny vehicles on the otherwise empty road, carts, old omnibuses; household furniture, with refugees sitting on top — like 1940, only this time going the right way.

Banlieue. A sergent de ville in cape and full regalia plants himself in the middle of the road and waves us down. We stop. “Vous allez en ville?” he asks. “Yes.” “Can you emmenez me?” “Montez, montez.” We bounce along, his cape flying in the breeze. “What have you been doing?” we ask. “Hiding out en civil,” he says, “mais aujourdhui je reprends mon service.” Cobblestones. Closeddown cafés. People in the streets. Lots of waving.

Porte X. We’re in. Everything quiet, no traffic, a few cyclistes, a good many pedestrians. We stop to ask about bridges and things. A little crowd collects. Handshaking, kissing, and so on. You can imagine. “Ça fait plaisir,” the sergent said. On down the Boulevard Raspail. God, it’s so natural you can’t believe it. Rue du Bac. Over the river — and there we are in the most beautiful Place in the world. A little débraillée, a little nicked here and there, but so beautiful, so unchanged. Rue de Rivoli. Some barricades and burned tanks. Rue de Castiglione. An interesting sight du côté de chez Swann — le pharmacien, you remember. The bank and of course good old Edouard & Butler.

A Bostonian who won his wings as a day bombardment pilot in the First World War and who has been serving as General Patton’s aide since April, 1943, LT. COL. CHARLES R. CODMAN has been decorated with the Bronze Star. He writes as one who has known Paris in many vicissitudes and always with affection. We are happy to reproduce these passages from his letters to his wife.

You can picture Bunny’s reception at the bank. A lot of telephoning. “Est-ce que le Baron Hottinguer est là?” “Monsieur le Baron est mort dans son lit, il y a un ans.” “Ah, pardon! Je regrette.”

Lunch time, so Bunny and I stroll across to that cozy little corner in the Ritz. What a place! I don’t believe the Boches’ sheets have been washed yet. Nevertheless all is normal — the concierge is telephoning the Bristol to see if they can accommodate some clients; an old dowager is asking for deux places at the Marigny.

Off again. We find our jeep and driver the center of an enthusiastic crowd and it takes quite a while to extricate him and it and ourselves. Over to see Leclerc’s boys. God, what a party they had coming in! We were just leaving when I happened to ask them who their air liaison officer was, and where — I’d heard a rumor; un colonel tel et tel. Ah, oui. En effet, le Lieutenant Colonel Rod Tower. Coup de telephone. “C’est le Colonel Tower à l’appareil? Ne quittez pas. On vous parle.” Me: “Allo, ici le Colonel Carter et le Colonel Codman de la classe ‘15 do l’université d’Harvard.” You could hear the thud as he fell off his chair. “For God’s sake, where are you?” “Bon, chez Claridge dans un quart d’heure.”

A suite at Claridge’s. Champagne. Rod giving an account of coming in with Lcclerc’s boys. He was along. He and André de Limur and Ernest Hemingway. Rod at his best, imitating Leclerc’s boys; the welcoming French populo, Boche tanks, machine guns, sound effects, everything. Held up by fire at the Porte X. Bullets whizzing. Hemingway: “Nothing compared to Spain, just a bunch of crap. Come on, let’s go.” In the centre. The crowd goes wild. Champagne on every street corner. Then put-put-put-put — machine-gun fire. Into a doorway with your glass and drinking companion. Putput stops. Out again. More clinking of glasses and on to another quartier.

Rod is now bathing and Bunny telephoning. I go out on the balcony. Almost across from where we watched the procession for the Roi d’Angleterre — remember? What a city! You just can’t faze it. No traffic to speak of except a few cvclistes, but both trottoirs crowded with promenours, strolling. Most of the men without hats, most of the girls in short cotton print dresses, and much prettier than I remember them — I suppose they don’t eat so much. An old dame with red hair encouraging her Pekingese. No success. Try another tree. So calm, so salubrious — and yet one shot from a roof-top will start the ball rolling again. I suddenly see something — Paris is Clarence Day’s “Cat World.”

Time to go up to the d’Harambures’ — prearranged by Bunny. Out to the jeep. It’s gone! A passant: “Ah oui, en effet, il y a eu un petit accident dans la rue à côté; les FFI ont emprunte voire jeep pour remorquer une de leur voitures.” In the side street, we find our jeep being hitched up to an enormous van bristling with armed FFI’s. Big crowd, a lot of argument. Someone brings champagne and we talk them out of their project.

“After all,” we argue, “ we’ve got to have our jeep to go and take N——. ” That wins.

Then, up the avenue. We make the driver take it slow. The driver’s name is Shoulder. It’s his first trip to Paris, and he’s fascinated — as well he may be. He’ll never see it just like that again. No one will. What a hand! All the way up, Bunny and I and Shoulder are obliged to stop and take bows. In the arch, the biggest tricolor you’ve ever seen fills the whole space.

Avenue Victor-Hugo — quieter here. Fewer people. Might be 1939 or 1929. The d’Harambures. They all rush out into the street. Bunny gets an ovation. In. More champagne. Clicquot this time.

Time to go. We must be out of the city before dark. They all come out into the street. To hell with the snipers. Shoulder, as always, surrounded by an admiring crowd. The prettiest girl, literally, that I’ve ever seen is attaching a tiny American flag to his windshield. She is half sitting on the longitudinal bar of her bicycle. And now she produces an equally tiny French flag and crosses it over the other. Very unregulation.

And then through those serene quartiers to Bunny’s apartment. The old concierge and two friends and a policeman were having a “petit verre.” It was a lovely meeting, well beyond my powers of description. “Monsieur Carter, Monsieur Carter” — and they kept touching him to make sure he was real. One more call. His father’s house. Very much the same scene, only soon the husband of the concierge said, “Et comment va Monsieur votre pere?” and Bunny had to tell them.

And now the shadows lengthen and the evening comes. Past the Grand Palais. Over the bridge. You know what the river looks like at that hour and the quartiers beyond, and how one hates to leave. Just as we hated to leave on June 6, 1940. Just as one always hates to leave. I suppose I’ll be back from time to time, but I’m not much interested in that. Not until the real time when you and I come back together.