New York, May 30, 1919

Within an hour after reaching the old Breton port, where only a few months before we had arrived with such high hopes, it was brought home to me that we had not made the world safe for democracy, at least not in Brest. The stevedores’ strike had developed into a long succession of riots. Apparently the police were either unreliable or inefficient and marine soldiers had been brought in from the French fleet to restore law and order. Occasionally the rip-rap of musketry fire reverberated through the damp and foggy streets. I was told the strikers had hoisted the red flag and were singing the Internationale hymn. However, I .neither saw the red flag nor heard the revolutionary hymn. Our town major and the transport officer were greatly depressed. The town major mumbled something about the war having been won by Moscow and called my attention to the instruction to all Americans. We are to keep off the streets as much as possible.

All units and organizations as they arrived were being marched out along the narrow duckboards to the dreary cantonment in the suburbs, always enveloped in wet mist and surrounded by a sea of mud. In view of the exceptional orders that I brought with me (in military language they announce that the first transport sailing would have to carry me or else—), I was permitted to billet myself in a dark room not far from the dock from where I could keep an eye on all shipping. With the credentials which I carried for the nonce I was an important person and, knowing how transitory was my importance, I determined to avail myself of it to the fullest extent for the few fleeting moments that it lasted.

However, I agreed that I would not wander around the streets after curfew. Many men and at least two officers had been slugged and robbed for this indiscretion. But in the afternoon, with my teeth chattering (in May!) and the water dripping from the walls of my room, in desperation I sallied forth. The desultory firing continued and the streets were quite deserted. When it began to rain, and this time it was real rain, I took refuge in an estaminet. In front it displayed the cabalistic lettering Y.M.C.A. (to which it had no right). With this reassurance I entered. At least this place was not out of bounds.

Inside there were two doughboys; one was tossing down drinks of a mysterious character. He was a North Carolinian and he announced to all who would listen that he lived on the Tar River in God’s country. With each drink he became more melancholy. Suddenly he said, “Colonel, we hev made a big, a mighty big mistake.

They sandbagged my buddy last night and took all his dough. We have saved the hides of a lot of anarchists and what are we getting out of it? We are getting sandbagged and short-changed.”

The other soldier when he opened his mouth revealed a glittering array of gold fillings and the fact that he came from the deep, the far deeper South. “Mebbe, mebbe” he said. I said nothing.

That night I boarded the Imperator. A great gaudy ship that had been the German Vaterland I believe and had been interned in Hoboken when war was declared. On board when everyone, even the thousands of soldiers down below near the double bottoms, were preparing to enjoy such comforts as were available, a rumor, a rather alarming rumor, spread and it turned out to be true. The engines of the lmperator were of a new and complicated character and our machinists had been forced to admit they did not understand them and could not make them work. Twenty-five interned German engine-room men had been brought on board from the fleet at Scapa Flow and—of course they would sink the ship when we put to sea.

“I have thought of that,” said our naval commander, “and I have placed guards by the life boats and the rafts. I have told the Germans if anything happens they would go down with the ship— admittance to the life boats would be strengst verboten. So I do not think we have anything to fear from sabotage.”

Ten days later we crawled into New York harbor and once again saluted Liberty, firmer than ever on her tall pedestal. The experimental engines of the lmperator were not a success; it was clear they would not revolutionize marine techniques. Even the Germans from Scapa Flow (before the scuttling of the fleet) did not understand them. The Kiel technicians admitted sadly, “They looked ‘wunful’ in the shop and they worked ‘buful’ in the Basin,” but out on the stormy Atlantic “nicht so gut.”

Perhaps in this there is a lesson to all of us who took part in drawing up the Treaty in more or less serene surroundings. I wonder what will happen when it gets out into the stormy seas that lie ahead.

(Subsequent entries in the Diary, describing things heard and seen in Washington and London, in Paris and Berlin, appear in Unfinished Business.)