October 18, 1918

Today the sergeant brought me a message that came over the telephone from headquarters. It was not in the romantic Choctaw that was supposed to baffle the wily Germans, always suspected of listening in, but in plain English. It directed me to present myself to General Edwards as soon as possible. It was about ten-thirty and I had on my desk several rather important letters to be translated, and then —well, I was nearly starving. Our mess arrangements were beneath contempt. If I tarried over my work I could arrange to arrive at the general’s at lunchtime. While nothing extravagant or luxurious, I knew from several happy experiences that the general sets an excellent table. I also knew that General Degoutte, our army commander, had recently sent several cases of an excellent petit vin to the headquarters mess. Most of all, I remembered that slogan of my friend Conte in Paris: “On cause mieux, on cause beaucoup mieux, de- jeunant.”

So I kept on with my translations, only putting my sergeant on the lookout for a passing lorry. In places the mud on the road to Troyon was at least a foot deep, and I did not want to appear before my general as a mudlarker. Like many old soldiers, Edwards has the knack of always looking well groomed. So, acting as a shrewd “rustler” rather than as a smart soldier (I think you have to be that to survive in army circles), I arrived just as the general was going to the mess hall. He took me by the arm and ushered me in:

“This is your last army ration,” he said; “you are ordered to Paris to await Colonel House who is coming over to initiate the peace negotiations. Your orders have come by telephone.”

“Why,” I interrupted him in astonishment, “I did not think anyone but you—and Nolan—had the remotest idea of where I was.”

“Do not speak disrespectfully of the army,” said Edwards, trying to look severe but soon relaxing into a broad smile. “But I suppose it is natural. East and West you have been an independent camp follower for years. You had so much seniority in that capacity that when old General Bliss [U. S. military representative at the Peace Conference] heard you had been commissioned a mere major he thought you had been demoted. But demoted or promoted, remember you are in the army now, and what you have just said might mean a court-martial.

“You are to return to Paris and report to Colonel House for special duty on his arrival. Official orders may or may not be here in a few hours, but in any event, I authorize you to leave in the morning, especially as I am then sending Simpkins to Bar-le-Duc in my car on an important errand. Going with him you will have the right of way on the cluttered-up road, and that will save you many hours. I am going the rounds of the field hospitals now to cheer up the boys who were wounded or gassed at Marchville. Come along with me. I want to discuss with you the future of your cohort of polyglots, then to supper and you to pack.”

“That will not take much time,” I admitted, and the general smiled. “Yes, we are all traveling a bit light. You will have to spruce up quite a bit when you reach Paris. After what you have experienced here, peace-talking will be dress parade.”

* * * * *

Well, I pulled out of that damp, moss-grown cellar none too soon; for days now I had been coughing with increasing violence and intensity. I once heard the sergeant say in an undertone which, however, reached me, “There’s one good thing about the major’s cough; it drowns out the artillery fire”—a statement that was not quite the truth but certainly approximated it. Simpkins¹ came for me before daylight, and I was glad he had with him the general’s chauffeur, because he too was suffering from paroxysms of coughing which, whatever may have been the sergeant’s opinion, were even more violent than mine.

All of my detail who were off duty, including the Cleveland and Detroit editors, saw me off and gave me the best of wishes for the best of luck.