Road to Huertgen: Forest In Hell [Illustrated Edition] by Lt. Paul Boesch

Author:Lt. Paul Boesch [Boesch, Lt. Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pickle Partners Publishing
Published: 2014-07-14T21:00:00+00:00

16

The trip to Paris got off to a start that was something less than auspicious. Hardly had our convoy assembled with men and officers from all three regiments of the division when a heavy snow began to fall. Sharing a cab of one of the trucks with the driver and Captain Samuel Rabinowitz, of the Bronx, a battalion surgeon, I was comfortable enough, but the men in the rear, though bundled in sleeping bags, were miserably cold. They nevertheless kept up a constant joking chatter, with the thought of seeing Paris obviously providing some measure of warmth. The same prospects must have inspired our drivers too, for they successfully defeated every effort of the treacherous snow to hold us in Luxembourg and brought us out of the mountains onto a broad, flat stretch of road which eventually led to Rheims, France.

We stopped for the night in Rheims. After storing the trucks in an army motor pool and seeing that the men were billeted in a barracks provided for the purpose, I set out with four other officers to find a hotel. Besides Dr. Rabinowitz and myself, there were three lieutenants, one from each regiment of the division.

The lieutenant from the 28th Infantry, insisting that he spoke French fluently, appointed himself our interpreter. Since none of the rest of us claimed any linguistic ability, we accepted the offer without protest and made our way to a small hotel which someone at the motor pool had recommended. As we entered, the proprietress was cleaning the stairs. She came toward us with a rapid flow of French accompanied by easily understandable gestures which made it obvious we were most welcome. We thumbed her toward our interpreter.

“Ah, oui,” she said, obviously pleased, “parlez vous français?”

The lieutenant stared at her quizzically. She repeated the words slowly. At last he shook his head and turned to us with wrinkled brow.

“What the hell did she say?” he asked.

Our faith in our interpreter somewhat shattered, we made our own arrangements for rooms by means of a kind of universal sign language.

After washing up, we set out to find a place to eat and, for my companions, a place to drink. The lady at the hotel recommended a nearby bistro, but we obviously did not understand her instructions too well, for we soon had to stop to ask a passing Frenchman new directions. Our self-appointed interpreter took over. In slow, carefully chosen, labored phrases, he posed a lengthy question. Several times he had to stop and start over again, but through it all the Frenchman listened patiently. At last, making sure our interpreter had finished, the Frenchman pointed a thumb over his right shoulder and smiled broadly.

“One block down,” he said easily, “and two to the left.”

At this point, our interpreter had had it.

Arriving at the motor pool at the appointed hour the next morning, we found all the men present. No one was taking any chance on being left in Rheims when Paris was the next stop.

It was November 11th, Armistice Day, a fact which soon became apparent.

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