American sailors in Paris

We saw them again, the American sailors, with their little white berets over their ears, the collars of their blouses cut wide open. Here they are again strolling along the boulevards, with a phlegmatic air, and their hands in the pockets of their large trousers. From the pocket of their blouse escapes the cord of the inseparable package of "Navy-Cut". Yesterday, in front of Napoleon's tomb, several groups of these "associated" sailors were filing silently. For a few moments they gazed at the imperial sepulchre, then, still in silence, they left the cupola. They were soon more than twenty.

Approaching one of them, I asked him:

"Have you been in Paris long?"

'No,' he replied, 'just a few days.

"And how do you find Paris?"

- Oh ! Paris very interesting, very beautiful.

"Have you ever visited any monuments?"

— Perfectly, The Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Grands Boulevards,

"And which one interested you the most?"

- Oh ! This, Les Invalides. Beautiful, very interesting.

:- For what ?

- For what ? But because of Napoleon's tomb. For Americans, Napoleon is the equal of a god.

- And then, what else have you visited?

“And Montmartre, perfectly, Montmartre; very funny. In the street how, oh yes! rue Pigalle, I found a bar there, sparkling champagne, very good champagne. Further on another bar; again, very good champagne. Still champagne place Pigalle and rue de Clichy.

"Have you been to the theater here?"

— Yes, music hall, but nowhere else, Very interesting, good fun.

"And you're leaving Paris soon?"

— Yes, only a few days, to visit the battlefields, the Bois Belleau...

The sailor had said these three words... Bois Belleau, in a deep voice, underlined by a gesture almost of attention,

Vigorous shake-hand. The sailor left me and, in the shadow of the crypt, I watched the silhouette of this guy from Texas move away, reminding me of the cowboys of the Far West.

American sailors love France, Paris and... sparkling champagne. But they have not forgotten their dead in Bois Belleau.

GEORGE FRONVAL