NICE

Toward mid-morning, on a milky sea, we passed the airport at Nice, a long lane of concrete along the sea-front, and I remembered the first time I had seen it, during the war, when a tank armed with flails was being used to explode mines the Germans had left under the runway, and some American paratroopers were hurling grenades into the water and diving in after fish they blew to the surface. The cleared part of the runway had been given over to a squadron of Piper Cubs that were acting as spotters for our artillery sited in the hills above Monte Carlo and for a destroyer lying off the coast, which also had the German positions on the other side of Menton within range. One of the cameramen of our unit had gone up with the C.O. of the squadron and crossed the German lines for his first view of Italy, but had drawn no fire. Recently I had a reunion in Chicago with the cameraman, who now works as a free lance photographer there. He is married now, with two children, and he has not drawn any fire in Chicago either. He is a little heavier than he was in 1944 and conscientiously does the eleven-minute-a-day exercises prescribed in the famous Canadian Air Force manual. In 1944 the Army made sure he got enough exercise to keep in shape without the aid of manuals put out by a foreign power.

As our ship passed close to the airport, jets were swooping in one after another, unloading people in bright clothes in front of the shining new terminal. What fishing is done now in these waters is done more quietly. If there was any artillery in the neighborhood it did not reveal its presence to us.