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12. Camaraderie
- State University of New York Press
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12 CAMARADERIE On the first leg of the trip, I am invited to be a passenger in one of the cars brought by the French. Innocently, I accept. After being wedged between an assortment of guns, oddly shaped sacks, framed pictures, a stovepipe, and an apprehensive cocker spaniel, a great truth dawns on me: survival in a Frenchman 's automobile depends on the plasticity and malleability of the passenger. Our new comrades love to accumulate property. This explains why many of the French ride on top of their trucksthere is usually no room inside the vehicles for passengers. In addition to beds and mattresses, their conveyances bulge with things like chairs, tables, a bathtub, bicycles, boxes of food, dogs, cats, bowls with goldfish, crates of chickens, toys, miscellaneous bric-a-brac, and useless antiques. An exciting ride for me, but at the first stop, I politely thank Chaudon for letting me ride with him, ooze out of the car, and transfer to one of our own sedans. The cocker spaniel seems to have become fond of me during the trip, and tries to enter our vehicle, but I would not think of depriving our friends of their pet. A good dog, but lacking sphincter control. The remainder of the journey is less exciting. Even the normally exuberant French soldiers lose their gaiety as our convoy creeps along roads of uncertain substance, their condition unimproved by a heavy rain that starts about noon and continues through the rest of the day. Sometimes we have to back up and hunt for connecting roads; this increases our depression. We drive through a gloomy forest; ominous, dark clouds cling to the hilltops. "Comme artillerie," says Chaudon of the thunder and white flashes of lightning. 72 I Not far from the forest is the small town of Pappenheim, where we look for lodgings, hoping to find a building large enough for everyone. But there is nothing suitable. Finally we move into two houses after giving their occupants the customary two-hour eviction notices. The house to which I am assigned is comfortable. In the living room are restful chairs and a good radio. A bookcase with a glass door is filled with interesting works, including a few volumes on psychoanalysis and a German edition of Gone with the Wind. Tonight, I will browse through them. This prospect cheers me; so do the sounds from the kitchen where dinner is now being prepared by our French and American cooks. The CO decides that this is a good opportunity to welcome our French comrades. We had little time for fellowship in Schwabach. We decide to celebrate in order to cement (plaster would have been a more appropriate verb) Franco-American relations . Everyone crowds into the dining room. Last to arrive are Rosenbloom, who walks in laboriously, and Chaudon, who strides in briskly. (Like many other heavy and muscular infantrymen , Rosenbloom seems to find every step an effort.) After an unfestive dinner, the CO stands up and welcomes everyone. He seems embarrassed: speechmaking is not his forte. Furthermore, he knows that he will not be able to match Chaudon 's ready wit. But he tries. Speaking in English, he mentions the long history of cooperation between the two great Allies, the help they have given each other in perilous times, the Statue of Liberty, and the good relations among the men. The great applause is for the brevity of his remarks, and the opportunity to sample more champagne. Then Chaudon speaks in French, and says about the same thing; his reception is equally enthusiastic . Afterward, each Frenchman arises in turn and sings or chants unselfconsciously and unaccompanied. If one of them forgets a line of a song, the whole group huddles and then advises him of the correct words, and he continues. Between songs there is rhythmic applause-two successive bursts of three rapid hand claps, followed by three slow claps. If a song is not forthcoming as rapidly as desired, everyone sings Silence, pour la chanson to the refrain from the end of La Marseillaise. We hear ballads of love and hate. Love of France, women, Camaraderie I 73 wine. Hatred of the Germans. The Song of the Maquis has to be repeated; it tells about the young men who fled from the cities to avoid being deported to German labor camps. Living off the countryside, these men became part of the French underground movement. The ballad brings back memories: we hear heartrending, tearful tales of courage...