“On 23 September 1944 General Bradley attended a meeting at Supreme Headquarters called by General Eisenhower. Present were General Eisenhower, Admiral Ramsay, Air Marshal Leigh-Mallory, General Devers, General Spaatz, General Lee, and all Army Group Commanders except Field Marshal Montgomery, who did not appear. He sent his Chief of Staff. Pursuant to instructions received at this meeting, General Bradley placed the Third Army definitely on the defensive. In turn, on 25 September, General Patton issued a letter of instruction to corps commanders. This order depicted General Patton’s concept of fighting. He clearly recognized (a) that morale is the most important item in battle; (b) that once you stop the forward impetus, it is most difficult to get it moving again; and (c) that the enemy must not know your intentions.”
September 27, 1944. Yesterday, the General, Colonel Campanole, and I took another o£ those trips into the past. In Gondrecourt we found that Madame Jouatte had long since moved away.
“That being the case, let’s see if we can locate some old friends of our own,” the General said. “Drive to Chaumont, to the Hotel de France.”
The Hotel de France, in the center of the town, is one of Chaumont’s smaller and older hostelries. Unstarred by Michelin, its table d’hôte is nevertheless better than average. Dependable too, no disturbing innovations.
“Same menu,” the General said. “The identical meal I had here in the autumn of 1917 with General Pershing, Harbord, and Jacques de Chambrun.”
“Not bad,” Campy said, “not at all bad.”
“You must have been here during the last war,” the General said to the patron.
“No, that was my father. He died seven years ago.”
“Do you know if Mademoiselle Chose still lives in Chaumont?” Campy asked, a far-away look in his eye.
“Mademoiselle Chose?” The patron shook his head. “Connais pas.” “That is always the way it goes,” the General said.
As we were leaving, the local gendarme came in. “Tell me,” Campy said, hope still springing, “do you by any chance know a certain Mademoiselle Chose?”
“Why, yes.” The gendarme’s tone was surprised.
“You do!” Campy was all eagerness. “Where does she live?”
The gendarme looked at Campy with a sympathetic, if speculative, eye, hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I think that if the Colonel wishes to preserve his illusions he will do well not to insist.”
“Come on, Nick,” the General said, climbing into the peep. “What he is trying to tell you is that now she is too old even for you.”
A stop at General Pershing’s former headquarters to see General Patton’s old office. Then on through Langres to the village of Bourg, the site of his 1918 tank brigade headquarters.
At the edge of the small square a grizzled old boy in sabots was pitchforking manure into a cart.
“Stop,” the General said. The peep drew up alongside the manure pile.
“Surely you were here during the last war,” the General said.
The old man leaned on his pitchfork and for a moment or two surveyed the General. Then his eye lit up.
“But certainly, Colonel Patton,” he said. “I remember you well.” Almost immediately a crowd gathered. Shouldering his pitchfork, the manure shoveler took the lead, and we rode down the main street escorted by virtually the entire population of Bourg.
“This is more like it,” the General said. Old landmarks and memories. His office, his billet in the chateau of Madame de Vaux.
“It takes one back,” the General sighed, not unhappily. And he liked it when, as we left, old Pitchfork saluted and said, “You must come and see us again, Colonel Patton.”
Home via Neufchâteau and a slight detour through the woods above Amanty to view the wheat field from which in 1918 the first American bombers of World War I took off for that roundhouse at Conflans. The General got quite worked up about it. Even insisted on getting out and taking pictures. Au fond, he is a most kindly and considerate person.
September 29, 1944. Visitors. General Eisenhower and General Bradley came to lunch, to meet and talk to all the corps and division commanders. Eisenhower’s assurances that Third Army would eventually receive adequate supplies and resume a major role were encouraging. Our boss was at his best, making sure that the “Supreme Commander”—he never calls him Ike in public—got all the limelight, at the same time seizing the opportunity to get him apart in order to press his own theses—in particular his conviction that the Germans will try to capitalize on our slowdown by an attempt to recapture Nancy.
October 6, 1944. Old Home Week in Nancy. Third Army Headquarters will move into the French barracks on the Rue du Sergent Blandan and I have been putting in a busy day with the préfét’s requisitioning officer looking for a suitable house for the General. Combed the entire city from south to north without finding anything that would fit the bill.
From the suburb of Maxéville the road, curving up the pleasantly wooded high ground above the brewery, skirts a high, impenetrable stone wall.
“What’s in there?” I asked. “It looks interesting.”
“No, no, it’s not interesting.” The préfét’s man was very positive.
“And anyhow, it is occupied, as are all the houses in this neighborhood.”
“Hold everything,” I said.
By getting up on the car roof it was easy to straddle the wall. A nicely kept park, a pond, and through the trees an attractive two-story house with a tower at one end. I dropped over the other side of the wall and made for the house. A flock of geese waddling up the lawn from the pond. On the terrace a handsome baby carriage. As I approached the front door, there appeared, around the conservatory, a lady in white with dark hair, no hat, and two small girls, each holding one of her hands. I introduced myself.
“I am Madame Paul-Cavallier,” she said. “My daughter Guillaine, my daughter Brigitte. We love very much the Americans. Do give your-self the trouble to enter.” She had bright brown eyes, a rather aquiline nose, an amusing mouth, and a very strange accent. The sizable salon off the conservatory was sunny and cheerful. Right up the General’s alley, I thought.
“What can we do to make pleasant your stay in Nancy?” She clung insistently to her halting English.
“Well, the fact is, I am looking for a house.”
“A house?”
“Yes, a house for immediate occupancy by an important visitor to Nancy.” An inventorial look at the furniture and curtains. “Perhaps you can help me.”
Her face clouded. You could see she was doing some fast thinking.
“This house,” she now broke into incisive French, “would of course be entirely impractical for your purposes. On the other hand, I have just thought of another house, quite near here, larger, more convenient, its entrance gives on the Rue Auxonne. It would be perfect.”
“Whom does it belong to?”
A pause, then deadpan, “My mother-in-law.”
“What would your mother-in-law do?”
“My mother-in-law, all of us love the Americans. I feel sure she can be persuaded to go to her house in the Landes. I will speak to my husband.”
On returning to the car I found the préfét’s man biting his nails. “Everything is arranged,” I said, “and everyone is happy.” He seemed quite surprised.
Back in Étain. At supper the General was depressed. Our attack on Fort Driant has bogged down. He hates to withdraw but has about made up his mind that further attempts to take it at this time are not worth the price. General Marshall arrives tomorrow.
October 7, 1944. Last week we moved the C.P.—thank God—to Étain, where the General and his immediate household now occupy a small residence on the main street. Its grounds include a wooded area in the back of the property. There we have set up the General’s trailer, in which he still sleeps, and his latrine, since the plumbing in the house does not work. So far his only concession to “going soft” is to come up to the house for meals. As for Al, George Murnane, Charley Odom, and myself, we have gone as soft as possible.
Our first visitor was Prince Felix of Luxembourg, consort of S.A. la Grande Duchesse Charlotte, ruler of said Grand Duchy. The Duchess is still in London, where she has remained since the hurried departure of the royal couple in May, 1940. The Prince wears British battle dress and is officially an English Brigadier. Since the Avranches breakthrough he has visited our headquarters several times, hoping—and with sound logic—that ours will be the first Allied troops to enter his capital. The General has become very fond of him, and for that matter he is a great favorite with all the staff. Back in the Le Mans period, when things were uncomfortably fluid, Prince Felix wanted to visit the 2d Blindée and I was elected to take him up to their C.P. Yes, you’ve guessed it. I got him and myself thoroughly lost. We had left our peep nestled in some shrubbery and were wandering around a dense and ominously silent forest, Tommy guns at the ready, when, to my unbounded relief, a couple of local F.F.I.’s appeared from nowhere—as they have a way of doing—and set us on the right track.
“I am very sorry, sir,” I said as the peep got rolling once more.
“Quite all right,” Prince Felix said. He is a big good-natured man, and no one has ever seen him ruffled. “I enjoy a walk in the woods before lunch. I admit,” he added, “to be captured at this stage of the game by the Germans might prove awkward. My wife would be furious.”
And now at Étain, the General, from whom this episode had been carefully concealed, was saying, “Your country awaits you, sir.” “Thanks to you, sir,” the Prince said.
“First we will have lunch. Then Codman will escort you to your capital. In style,” the General added. “Now that we are out of the woods I have a limousine.”
Propitious departure. Guard of honor, a platoon of M.P.’s. Handshakes. Salutes. The General’s everyday salute is about as snappy as they come, but for special occasions he always seems able to step it up even more. As the cortege moved off in the direction of Longwy and the Luxembourg frontier, he gave it the works.
The afternoon was mild and sunny—for once—the Prince, as always, relaxed and affable. In the towns through which we passed, our column—scout car ahead, the General’s limousine next, followed by an ancient British saloon coupé piled high with the royal luggage, and, bringing up the rear, a peepful of M.P.’s—attracted a certain amount of attention. Even on the open road the occasional detachments we passed gazed curiously at our heterogeneous procession.
We were winding through a bit of grazing country whose farms and outbuildings bore marks of recent artillery fire. “I had the honor of accompanying one of your divisions through here,” the Prince said. “There was some stiff fighting.”
Then as we skirted a pasture full of placidly munching cows, he broke into French. “Tiens,” he said, “les mêmes vaches. Animal étonnant, la vache. On tire des coups de fusil de tous les côtés, les obus sifflent, les types tombent, et ça continue à mâcher, à brouter, avec ce parfait calme. La vache est difficilement déconcertée.” (“Well, well,” he said, “the same cows. Astounding animal, the cow. On all sides, rifle shots, whistling shells, men dropping, and the cow continues chewing, grazing, with that perfect composure. A cow is not easily disconcerted.”)
“American cows are higher strung, less contented,” I said.
“Ah, vraiment?” he said. “Very interesting. That may account for the superiority of our European cheeses.”
We are still discussing the qualities of the cow when, on the out-skirts of a small town, we flashed by a sentry in exotic headgear who came smartly to attention. The Prince peered out at the approaching buildings—he is slightly near-sighted—and said, “This must be Pétange. Perhaps I should prepare to greet our subjects.”
I lowered the right-hand window. The Prince sat forward on the edge of his seat. To each individual and occasional small group who stared curiously from the narrow sidewalk, he bowed and waved graciously. The audience response was somewhat negative. Suspended across the main square, a sizable banner, black, yellow, and red. On catching sight of it, Prince Felix hastily raised the window and sat back against the quilted upholstery.
“Wrong flag,” he said. “Belgian! I’d forgotten that their frontier curves south at this point.”
At the next town, Mims signaled the scout car to slow down. This time there was no question about it. It was Pétange all right. The flags were red, white, and blue. The bystanders, on recognizing their Prince, cheered wildly. The real ovation, however, came as we clattered over the bridge and through the neatly paved streets of his capital, the miniature city of Luxembourg, which so closely resembles the second-act set of all the old Shubert musicals.
At the palace, it took a little time to get the doors open so we could drive in. “On n’ attend ait pas Votre Altesse jusqu’à la semaine prochaine,” a flustered major-domo kept saying as he fumbled with the huge lock.
“Did the Germans do much damage?” the Prince asked.
“On the whole they were quite correct,” the major-domo said.
The ground-floor hall was in semidarkness and all the furniture shrouded in dust cloths. A half dozen buxom maids on their knees busily waxing the parquet floor. As the Prince made his way past them to the grand staircase, each would rise, smile, drop a curtsy, and resume her waxing. In the big reception room on the second floor, the Prince here and there raised the corner of a drop cloth to view, with a certain resignation, the ponderous furniture beneath.
“I had rather hoped,” he sighed, “that the Boches would take all of these. However, my wife will be happy and that is all that matters.”
“Good-by, sir, and good luck,” I said.
“Thanks so much,” he said. He really has a very nice smile. “When we are a little more settled you must come and see us.”
October 10, 1944 Early 6 A.M. start with the General. Made General Eddy’s headquarters in Nancy in time for breakfast with General Marshall, who had arrived to visit the front. A full day. A long drive to the C.P. of 6th Armored, where General Gerow had convened General Wood and also General Paul, commanding the recently arrived Yankee Division. After that, a visit to the 35th Division and a fire-direction center, which General Marshall seemed to find interesting. On the way back, enemy artillery let go with a succession of salvos which followed the line of our vehicles with considerable accuracy. Fortunately, each salvo was a couple of hundred yards over, so there was no harm done. Considering the amount of high brass involved, the General’s surmise that there had been a leak seems reasonable. However, General Marshall appeared delighted with his day; in fact, our boss says he has never seen him in better humor.
October 14, 1944. Am writing this aboard the General’s C-47—under difficulties, as we are flying under the clouds at low altitude and it is bumpy as hell—on the way back from Liege, where a royal reception was held at First Army Headquarters in honor of General Bradley, who was made a K.C.B. Generals Eisenhower, Hodges, Simpson, Collins, and Gerow were all there. King George arrived just before lunch—pleasant, rather shy. After chatting with one and all—the reputed impediment in his speech is unnoticeable—he simply handed General Bradley the box containing the insignia and we all went in to lunch.
We are now comfortably installed in the house—or rather houses—of Madame Paul-Cavallier’s mother-in-law. The General, General Gaffey, and General Gay are in the big house. Al and I, and, of course, Charley Odom, George Murnane, and General Gaffey’s aides, Wysong and Taylor—the latter had a close call a couple of weeks ago—are in the nearby guesthouse. Taylor’s close call consisted in stopping a shell splinter during the bombardment, up at a 35th Division O.P., which very nearly obliterated three Generals—Eddy, Gaffey, and Gerow. He—and they—are lucky indeed to be alive.
Am grateful to know that the long drawers are on their way, since the daily peep trips to the front get longer, wetter, and colder. This is in no way a complaint, since now we at least have a warm, dry place to come back to, whereas the unfortunate combat soldiers up front are really taking it on the chin, and I’m afraid that for them there is worse to come.
October 17, 1944. Day before yesterday, a letter from Marrakech from Pierre Lyautey asking for a report on the house—now a museum—of his uncle, the late Maréchal Lyautey, which is at Thorey, not too far from here. As his uncle’s executor and beneficiary, he is naturally anxious to know whether the house and the Maréchal’s unique library and Moroccan souvenirs are intact. I showed the letter to the General and he said, “Go to it.”
Before climbing the Paul-Cavallier wall, I had visited, among others, a certain Monsieur Salin, an archeologist, who was reported to have a promising house, and had learned that he had been a great friend of the Maréchal. Having left him with his roof over his head I was now able, with a clear conscience, to call him up and ask whether he would take me—or rather, be taken by me—out to Thorey to see what was what. He accepted with alacrity.
It is touching to share with a civilized Frenchman his excitement over his first automobile ride in four years. Moreover, Monsieur Salin was just as anxious as I was to learn how the Maréchal’s house had fared. At Thorey, a tiny village, we located the guardian, Monsieur Colin, a wonderful character, the ancien zouave en civile to the life.
“Ils ont touche?” Monsieur Salin was breathless with suspense.
“Vous allez voir” Monsieur Colin said.
Once inside, it was clear that all was well. As a monument to a genius the house is perfection. Neither large nor elaborate, every room is exactly as the Maréchal left it, breathing Morocco and France, simplicity and greatness. The famous salle africaine at the top of the house is surprisingly small, but everything in it is—as one would expect—a gem of its kind, and entering it you embark on a personally conducted tour of the masterpieces of Rabat, Fez, Marrakech, and the whole Moroccan bled. You would particularly like, I think, the enormous wax cierges of Moulay Idriss, the holy of holies, presented by the Sultan to the Maréchal during a severe illness. Upon his recovery the Maréchal called on the Sultan to thank him. “You must come to Moulay Idriss,” the Sultan said, “and thank, not me, but Allah for curing you.” No infidel, as you know, has ever entered the sacred precincts. The Maréchal was enormously pleased—and tempted. Monsieur Salin imitates him perfectly, the sudden change of pace, the brusque shake of the head. “No,” the Maréchal said to the Sultan, “I know and you know that I am a close enough friend to justify my going, but nevertheless I will not go. I shall have successors, and I do not wish to create a precedent.”
A coony old boy.
It was time to go and we were about to leave. “But Monsieur Salin,” the old guardian said, “surely you remember that before a visitor was permitted to leave, Monsieur le Maréchal always opened the blinds of the west window.”
“Ah, oui, je revois le geste.” Monsieur Salin stepped quickly to the window and threw open the shutters. Across the fields beyond the town the afternoon sun bathed the slopes of the hills of Lorraine.
“Là voilà”—the ringing tones were those of the Maréchal—“la Colline Inspirée. Écoutez bien et vous l’entendrez respirer l’âme de la Lorraine.”
P.S. Additional folklore: On the way home, passing through Vézelise{46} we were delayed for a few moments near the town hall by a congestion of ox carts.
“Monsieur Salin,” I said, “you who are an archeologist must surely be familiar with the replica of the famous pot de chambre. Is it not situated here somewhere in the place?”
“It is so long since I have been to Vézelise,” he said, a little shamefacedly. “Let us ask a citizen.” The first citizen to pass within hailing distance was a reserved-looking young girl in black carrying a prayer book. Monsieur Salin lowered the window, leaned out, raised his hat.
“Pardon, mademoiselle” he said diffidently, “would you have the kindness to indicate to us the statuette of the famous little, er, excuse the word, the little pot de chambre Taken off guard and with color slightly heightened by injured civic pride, the young lady of the prayer book pointed back to a niche in the municipal facade we had inadvertently passed. “Mais, enfin, monsieur” she said, “vous y tournez le dos.”
October 21, 1944. General Spaatz and Julian Allen here last night. Also General Patton’s nephew, Freddy Ayer, for whom, since the General was tied up with General Spaatz, I gave a party at Walter’s on the Place Stanislas. If I say so myself, it was quite a good party—Julian, Bunny, Gaspar Bacon, Monsieur et Madame Paul-Cavallier, and Marlene Dietrich, who is entertaining the troops around Nancy. The champagne was next to flat, Clicquot ‘21, but still good, and everyone got remarkably fluent in three languages. During the first part of dinner, a couple of MJP.’s kept coming in and announcing—very respectfully—that “someone’s jeep was blocking the entrance to the prefecture and could they move it,” or “were there any military present under the grade of Field Officer; if so, they must be off the streets by ten.” After a while I caught on. They just wanted to have a look at Dietrich, so I posted them outside in the corridor—we have a private dining room au premier—where they could see her through the door. She was being quite interesting on the subject of the alleged collaboration of Arletty, Guitry, and Chevalier—the last “cleared” by the Syndicat des Artistes on the grounds that he sang only once and without pay at Stalag 2A—when word was sent up that a group of French journalists wanted an interview. She said No, so I went down and appealed to their chivalry, pointing out that any publicity might endanger her life. Why? Because, confidentially, she had, before leaving Germany, turned down Hitler’s advances. He was still out to get her. Nancy is full of German agents. They wouldn’t want to have her kidnaped, would they? Well, no, they supposed not.
When I got back she was by a coincidence expounding to Gaspar the thesis that had Hitler not become an embittered vegetarian there would have been no war.
“Why was he an embittered vegetarian?” Gaspar asked.
“Because of his thwarted love life,” Marlene smoldered. “Unfortunately for the world, the first girl laughed—a nifty title, by the way, for something or other.”
This morning, accompanied the General and General Spaatz to the 4th Armored to see a demonstration of ducks’ feet—homemade extensions attached to the tracks of the tanks, enabling them to weather the fearsome mud and wet terrain which is making life miserable for the combat troops. The boss always gets a great lift out of General Spaatz’s visits. They talk the same language and have great respect each for the other. They also enjoy kidding one another—a superfluous observation, since the esteem in which General officers hold one another is always in direct proportion to the asperity of their verbal exchanges, whereas politeness among professional officers of whatever rank is invariably the outward and visible symbol of cordial dislike.
After breakfast, prior to leaving for the front, the General’s eye was attracted as though by magnets to General Spaatz’s well-pressed slacks and low shoes.
“Tooey, the well-dressed airman,” the General crowed. “It is just as well you are occasionally given the opportunity to get out and see how the other nine tenths live.”
General Spaatz, whose metabolism is geared to the later rather than the earlier morning hours, let it go.
From General Wood’s headquarters, General Patton went on with Al to inspect three regiments of the 26th Division, and I drove back to Nancy with General Spaatz. He, too, gets a kick out of finding himself back in this part of the world, and seems to enjoy reminiscing about the old days at Issoudun.
In contrast to the confusion of the Tunisian and Sicilian campaigns, the correlation of Air and Ground efforts throughout the campaign in France has been a howling success. Our own Nineteenth Tactical Air Force, commanded by General O. P. Weyland, has been a tower of strength. Besides protecting the Army’s flanks while we ran wild from Brittany to the Loire, Weyland’s boys have dumped tons of napalm and skip-bombed the hell out of forward objectives and enemy tanks. During the hopeless flying weather of the last weeks they have performed prodigies of valor over and upon the fortresses and big gun emplacements of Metz.
“You heard how they knocked out that long-range railroad gun by skip-bombing and sealing off both ends of the tunnel from which it has been operating?” I said.
“Yes,” General Spaatz said. “Opie is a good boy.”
It was just about two years ago that I said good-by to you and climbed with Bunny into that taxi which whirled us off to Fort Meyer and thence to Norfolk, Virginia, on the first stage of this somewhat checkered travelogue. If anyone had told me then that I would be assisting at the 1944 vendange on the Côte d’Or—and without you—I’d have been incredulous. Yet that is precisely what I have been doing.
General Spaatz had left and that evening at dinner the General was unusually silent. When the General is silent it is just as well not to break in on his train of thought. Even Willie knows that. Sitting up on his chair by the sideboard, he kept quiet.
At length the General pushed away his plate. “That village we went through this morning, the one where the mayor was addressing the townspeople—all fifteen of ‘em—from the top of that rubble pile, what’s its name? Buissoncourt?”
“Yes, sir,” the Chief of Staff said.
“I’m not sure about the mayor,” he continued, “but that identical pile of rubble was there in 1917, twenty-seven years ago.”
“The Germans bashed that intersection yesterday,” the Chief of Staff said. “One-fifties. You would think that by now anyone would know enough not to build houses in the vicinity of a crossroad.”
The General crumbled a slice of toast on the tablecloth and with a flick of thumb and middle finger lobbed a piece in the direction of the sideboard. Willie did not have to move. His jaws just opened and snapped shut.
“No, the French never change,” the General said. “That is why they are indestructible.”
The mess sergeant passed the meat. The General took sparingly of it. His nervous, agile fingers toyed with another piece of toast, but Willie, sensing his owner’s mounting restiveness, knew there was nothing in it for him.
With a sudden motion, the General brushed away the littering of toast, picked up a spoon, bent it double, tossed it aside. “How long, O Lord, how long?” His eyes flashed dangerously. “We roll across France in less time than it takes Monty to say “Regroup” and here we are stuck in the mud of Lorraine. Why? Because somewhere up the line some so-and-so who never heard a shot fired in anger or missed a meal believes in higher priorities for pianos and ping-pong sets than for ammunition and gas.”
The mess sergeant refilled the General’s glass with chlorinated water. The General eyed it wryly. “Is this the best the vineyards around here can do?” he said.
“This is beer country, General,” I put in.
“True,” the General said, “and by now every unbombed brewery from Maxéville to Charmes is undoubtedly occupied by Com-Z or the Service of Supply. Too bad we didn’t take Dijon,” he mused. “I could do with a good Burgundy. That reminds me”—the tone was crisp—“Hap, find out where Seventh Army is and send someone up there tomorrow with a request for that fat engineer who was with us in Sicily. No, never mind, I’ll write Patch myself. You, Codman, be ready early in the morning. Take my command car; I’ll be using the quarterton.” The field set in the next room rang. George Murnane went in to take the call. In a moment he returned. “General Bradley for General Patton,” he said.
The General arose. Willie slid down from his chair and pattered along at the General’s heels.
“Hello, Brad, this is George. What does SHAEF want now?”
3 P.M. the following afternoon. Mission accomplished. But hold on. Hadn’t the General said he could do with a good Burgundy? “We’ll go back a different way, Sergeant,” I said. “Bear left.”
“Boulevard Sévigné?” he asked.
“Yes. Been here before?”
“Six weeks,” he said, “during World War One.”
Changeless Dijon. As we clattered over the pavement of the Boulevard Sévigné down the incline to the Gare Dijon-Ville, under the railroad bridge, along the tram line past the canal, it all looked much as it had in the spring of 1940 when you and I last visited it. Only now it was autumn and the slopes to the right of Route Nationale 74 were golden indeed.
Gevrey-Chambertin, Vougeot, Flagey-Échezeaux. The signposts read like the Burgundy section of Nicolas’s wine list.
Right turn.
With the silhouette of a 1913 Maxwell, the weight and speed of a medium-sized steamroller, and a transmission whose song might be likened to the relentless grinding of boulders on the reef of Norman’s Woe, the command car of World War II surpasses all other vehicles of the U. S. Army in majesty and discomfort. As we roared and coughed up the rocky road, the vendangeurs among the nearest rows of vines turned with astonishment from their picking. A man waved his hat. A girl held up a purple bunch of grapes and waved that. Someone started shouting. Others took it up. You could tell only from their open mouths. No sound could possibly compete with the scream of the command car’s low gear. The sergeant was saying something. Rounding the last curve, we chugged into the empty place and slowed down.
“What were you saying, Sergeant?”
“I was just thinking that Seventh Army must be popular around here,” he said, “or maybe they just haven’t got this far yet.”
“Maybe. Round the church,” I pointed, “and into that lane.”
“O.K.”
“Next right. And don’t knock down the wall.”
We made it, and came to a halt in the middle of the courtyard of the Domaine of the Romanée-Conti. The door of the office opened and there was Madame Clin, her spectacles glinting in the sunlight. The thing about Madame Clin is that nothing ever catches her off balance. She looked at the command car and its occupants, first through her spectacles, then over her spectacles. Having taken everything in, she advanced neither slowly nor rapidly across the yard. “Well,” she said, “for a good surprise this is a good surprise.”
Monsieur de Villaine? Well. Monsieur Clin? Not so well. And the Germans, how did they treat you? The Germans are pigs. Unfortunately, the local gauleiter knew his Burgundies only too well. Fortunately, however, his eyesight was imperfect.
Somehow I could not bring myself to ask about the ‘37’s. At length Madame Clin drew from the folds of her dress the familiar key. “Come,” she said.
The sergeant and I followed her down the stone steps into the cellar. With candle held high she proceeded on past the rows of casks. “The forty-threes,” she said. “Later we will taste them, but now—”
The cellar ended in a wall of seemingly solid masonry; against its damp surface the last barrel snuggled closely. “If you will just move it, please,” Madame Clin said.
A full cask of Burgundy is a hefty proposition. The sergeant spit on his hands and grasped the further rim. “Gently,” Madame Clin murmured.
In response to the sergeant’s trial tug the big cask upended with disconcerting ease. “Empty,” he said, regaining his balance.
In that portion of the wall against which its side had lain, a number of stone blocks had been removed. Bending down, Madame Clin thrust the candle through the irregular black hole. “See,” she said.
The yellow rays penetrating the gloom revealed the damply gleaming masonry of the end wall, the real end wall, and, stretching off into the darkness, a double line of neatly stacked bottles.
Madame Clin reached in and withdrew one, wiped off with her apron the heavier layers of caked dust and mold, set the bottle together with three glasses on the upended cask, and reached into her pocket for her corkscrew. The long straight cork came out with a resounding pop. Madame Clin smelled it, then poured the wine into each of our extended glasses and her own. For a while no one said anything. As hands cupped around the glasses warmed the wine, the pungent aroma of great Burgundy coursed through inhaling nostrils. “To your health,” Madame Clin said.
“To yours.”
With the musical clink of thin crystal, the three glasses touched. We drank. Sergeant Hawley was the first to speak. “Some pinard!” he said. “What’s it called?”
“Romanée-Conti 1937,” Madame Clin said. And for once she really smiled.
After saying good-by and extricating the sergeant and the command car from a mound of children we rolled off down the road to Beaune. The côtes are really glorious. Symphony of bronze, browns, Indian reds. Even up our way I have seldom seen better.
Right turn at Aloxe and up through the vineyard to Château Grancey. Wagons full of purple grapes backed up to the cuverie, and there, sure enough, supervising the unloading, Louis-Noël Latour, and Jean, and the sister who looks like them, and all the children.
Big ovation. The first question, from everyone: “Madame Codman, she’s not with you? It isn’t possible.”
Down cellar. Dégustation. The sergeant too, and, of course, all the children. By the time we came up, it was dark and I murmured something about the Hotel de la Poste. They would not hear of it. Maman is coming out from Beaune, you must stay here. But my driver. Naturally, he, too, will stay.
“And how,” I asked, “is Monsieur Latour, your father?”
There was a momentary silence.
“How could you know,” Louis-Noël said. “My father died two years ago.”
It was a shock, and I know how badly you, too, will feel about it.
Later, Louis-Noel told me it was cancer of the stomach. Luckily, it did not take long.
Dinner at Grancey. So reminiscent. God, how I missed you. How everybody there missed you. Maman’s arrival. She has not changed a bit. “Madame, c’est plus fort que moi, je vous embrasse” She was very cute and kept asking and asking about you. More than most, the French know from sad experience what it means to be separated from those one loves.
Dinner was so like old times that it hurt. As the Corton, white and red, took hold they all began talking at once, arguing, kidding in the manner that only an united French family can argue and kid. Missing was the patient, indulgent eye of Monsieur Latour, père, surveying with pride, affection—albeit a certain remoteness—his effervescent offspring, but I noted that already Louis-Noël’s own manner had undergone a subtle change. With the assumption of his father’s position he had taken on stature and there were moments during the evening when his resemblance to the departed patriarch was startling. Monsieur Latour, Sr., is a difficult man to replace, but I am confident that Louis-Noël will be more than equal to his rightful role.
After dinner, politics and war, of how in 1940 the Germans burst into the room where we were sitting brandishing revolvers. “If any man woman, or child in your town so much as raises a finger against our soldiers, you will be shot, all of you, without ceremony,” they said.
“Quoi qu’il y avait des gens assez touches dans la région” Madame Latour commented, “personne n’a bougé—heureusement?” Which, after all, is a point of view.
And so to bed, and a sleep as deep and enveloping as the bottomless mattress of the guest room’s sturdy four-poster.
Awakened by the femme de chambre bearing a pitcher of very hot water. From the window the vineyards in the early morning light, a sea of shimmering gold. Franco-American breakfast with the entire family, croissants, butter—and what butter—and, from the K rations which the sergeant broke out, good American coffee.
To the Latour office in Beaune, the entire family packed into the command car. An hour or so in the office discussing this and that. All our 1937 reservations are intact and will be shipped as soon as the French Government and ours have ironed out the technicalities. Next week they are expecting the visits of le Commandant Knight, Monsieur Raymond Baudouin, and Monsieur Schoonmaker—so you can see everything will soon be back to normal. Midmorning. Having loaded up with a reasonable amount of good Aloxe-Corton for the mess, and for special occasions some Charlemagne ‘34, together with a few precious bottles of Corton Grancey ‘29. Goodbyes.
A run down the line to see the Marquis d’Angerville. As usual he was in his sky-blue overalls and black sabots supervising the boys in the cuverie, his watchful eye on the alert for the slightest deviation from les coutumes loyaux et constants. His first words: “How is Madame Codman?” His second: “Last week we heard her on the Boston shortwave radio.” He was quite steamed up about that. Rather vague about the subject of your talk but emphatic about its being plein d’élan. To get a rise, I said I had been glad to hear that he had not lost too much of his wine to the Boches. Instant flare-up. “C’est des intéressés qui vous ont dit ça” he snapped. “The Germans requisitioned forty per cent of all my wine.” As a matter of fact, that is about the average, but he is a marvelous little gamecock, and I know of no one who can make himself madder quicker—except, of course, the General.
With a case of his Volnay Champans ‘34 lashed to the spare-tire bracket, I struck out for Puligny. Monsieur Colin-Bouley was—so his Madame informed me—out in the vineyards. Pointing the command car up the little road which winds past the crucifix—remember?—we ground up the incline and amongst the sacred vines of the Grand Montrachet of the Marquis de Laguiche. There sure enough was Monsieur Colin-Bouley surrounded by a platoon of busy vendangeuses. Sensation. The vendange itself came to a complete halt as the grape pickers crowded around the command car. They sat in it and on it, crawled under it, patted it, then individually and collectively they said what every man, woman, and child in France invariably says when confronted with U. S. Army vehicles: “C’est bien pratique ces petites voitures là.” Yes, our ‘33 Montrachet is safe and well. Also that of Berry Brothers, and I will so advise our friend Rudd.
Back along Route Nationale 74, direction Dijon. Only two more stops. First, Nuits-Saint-Georges and the perennial Monsieur Camille Rodier, he too unchanged by the vicissitudes of war. “We envisage an early reunion of the Chevaliers du Tastevin, at the Chateau du Clos Vougeot—you know, of course, that we have bought it. I trust that you, and Madame Codman, our first American lady member—I do hope her ankle has completely recovered—will attend. Also, we are expecting General Eisenhower and Monsieur Bob Hope. Monsieur Williamme Bullittee called last week. Naturellement je lui ai fait des prix d’ami, comme à vous-même.”
Arrived back in Nancy to find a letter from Walworth announcing the death of his, and our, good old friend Alfred de Luze. Their fathers were friends, so were their grandfathers. Three generations of Pierces and de Luzes. Good friends, good wines, never a written contract, simply mutual trust and confidence. Speaks well for both Boston and Bordeaux.
Bordeaux—when will it be liberated? I shall try to get word from both of us to Francis—he will feel dreadfully about his father—but am not too hopeful of getting through. What a fine old boy he was. And very fond of you. “Madame” he used to say, “j’ai l’impression que vous êtes très volontaire.” How right he was, and is.
I don’t suppose this letter will get to you on or before your birthday, but in any event many happy returns, mine in particular, I hope, before next October 31.
October 28, 1944. Last week, at the house of the mother-in-law of Madame Paul-Cavallier, things were rather hectic for a while. A long day of visiting the divisions. Everybody tired. Early to bed. Three in the morning. A terrific crash. Another. Both close. Shattering of glass. Into our clothes, fast, Al, George, and the others. Over to the General’s house on the run. Quite a few of the windows blown out. The General himself emerging from the front door as we got there.
“Must be two-eighties,” he said. “Near miss on Gaffey’s room.”
Over our garden wall, flames were shooting up from a small three-story residence immediately across the narrow street.
“Come on,” the General said.
One of the shells, maybe both, had demolished the front of the house. What was left of the second-story flooring was hanging like a curtain over the smashed-up furniture and debris of the ground floor. The top floor was on fire. Under the debris, someone groaning. Two occupants of the house who had managed to get out and several neighbors were milling around in the littered sidewalk when we got there. One of them was tugging on what seemed to be a man’s leg sticking out of the rubble. The General dove in first and we all began removing brick and hunks of mortar. Another leg appeared. The General grabbed it. “Pull,” he said. The groans rose to a howl. “Wait,” the General said. Relinquishing the leg, he dug feverishly into the debris. Another leg, the leg of a table. “Here is the trouble,” the General said as he jerked it free. “He’s stuck under his own dining-room table. Easy now,” he said to the Frenchman on the other leg. “We don’t want to pull his head off.”
The groans continued. “J’en fait pas, mon vieux.” His neighbor had recognized his co-rescuer. “Le fameux général Patton lui-même est en train de te décaler. ça n’va pas barder.” (“Don’t worry, old boy. The great General Patton himself is unearthing you. It won’t take long.”) Another terrific crash as a third shell landed in the middle of the road, showering us with stones and plaster. “They seem to have us zeroed in,” the General said. “There you are,” he added, as the stunned and disheveled inmate was dusted off and helped to his feet. “Should be all right—except for a stiff neck.”
Miraculously enough no one was badly hurt. Walking back to the house, the General paused to view the nicked cornice over General Gaffey’s window. “Close enough,” he said. “And I don’t mind saying I have seldom been more scared.”