The First Time I Saw Paris by Norman Spivock

Now, regretfully, I must tell you about Mark and Richard. Both were from the New York City area; more specifically, I think from New Jersey. One incident among others that struck me was that, while in Boston waiting to be shipped overseas, Mark pulled every string he could to be kept in the States. He claimed he had certain responsibilities at home for which he was needed, and Mark feared if he were killed there would be no one to support his family.

Back when we were still in camp in North Carolina, while waiting in our barracks, Richard, whose bunk was alongside mine, started playing with his pistol. In my platoon, some of us carried the M1 rifles, some like me carried carbines, and a few like Richard carried pistols. Richard had loaded his pistol and was looking down the barrel. He as fascinated by the discovery that he could see the bullet waiting to be fired. He thought this extraordinary, so extraordinary that he insisted I look down the barrel to see the bullet. I refused, of course, but he insisted. How can you refuse the invitation of somebody who is pointing a loaded pistol at you? I desperately wanted to get him to stop pointing the pistol at me and make him understand he was being completely irresponsible with firearms. As soon as he removed the pistol from my sight, my impulse was to grab a rifle and whack him across the back and shoulder. Unfortunately, I did not do that.

Back to the apartment in Germany. I was lying in my bunk in the afternoon. I heard a shot from outside, followed by what I knew was a death cry. I had never heard a death cry before, but if you ever hear one you will recognize it. All of us in the room looked out the window, saw a commotion, and rushed down to the scene.

Apparently Mark and Richard had been on guard duty next to the fence. Mark was alongside the fence talking to a young German boy while Richard was around the corner of the fence, again playing with his pistol. Of course, he loaded it. When you want to remove a round from the chamber, the procedure is to hold your hand with the gun close to your shoulder, so the pistol is pointing in the air. Then, with your other hand, you hold the top of the pistol, pull back the carriage, and slowly release it. Richard, again flaunting the well known Army rules, held the gun in front of his stomach with the barrel horizontal to the ground, then pulled back the carriage. The well-oiled carriage slipped. The gun fired. The bullet hit the little German boy in the back of the head, exited at the front of his head, and landed in Mark's chest.

By the time I descended three flights of stairs and got to the scene, there was a crowd of about twenty guys standing around looking, just looking, doing nothing. A doctor was needed, so I ran to the Army medical facility two blocks away. I entered like a madman, yelling, "Mark's been shot and is probably dying. He needs help, quickly!" A startled doctor looked at me, not knowing what to do, so I yelled at him, "Quick, grab your bag and get down there. Mark may be dead before you get there." The doctor decided I was not out of my mind, grabbed his bag, and left for the scene of the accident. I know no more of that incident except that Mark died.

Richard was court-martialed, found guilty, fined one dollar and, following a custom, was given one carton of cigarettes by an officer and transferred to another outfit. I was told this was the Army's way of protecting Richard, since his transfer would remove the chance for anyone to seek revenge on Mark's behalf. Additionally, since you cannot be tried twice for the same crime, Richard could never again be tried for manslaughter, or murder, or whatever. After all, the reasoning must have been, it was an accident. With the European war ended, many of us, including me, got a seven-day holiday trip to Switzerland. That's where I learned to ski. The most typical and expected event that happened with many of the soldiers on leave was that upon seeing the store windows filled with endless Swiss watches, they immediately spent their allowance on watches. The Swiss government limited the amount of money each soldier could bring into Switzerland. About two days later, they were all trying to sell their watches so they would have money for something else, but there were no buyers.

Eventually after the trials, tribulations, and casualties we had encountered in France, Luxembourg, and Germany, my division was ordered back to Camp Lucky Strike. We again traveled in "forty and eights." The railroad system was still in disarray. One morning, we pulled into a clean, newly rebuilt station. Even the tracks were new; we could tell from the clean railroad ties and the clean rocks of the rail bed.

We continued that day, moving a while, then being shunted onto side tracks for other traffic to pass, then moving again. We thought we were making good progress. That evening, we pulled into another newly refinished station. On further examination, we discovered it was the same station we had left that morning. We had spent the entire day going in a circle! Finally, days later, we arrived back at Camp Lucky Strike, again to be stationed in the north of France, not far from Le Havre.

It was our division's job to process the entire Army out of Europe for repositioning in the Pacific for the invasion of Japan. We knew what that implied. All the troops we were processing would be positioned to back up the troops that did the invading. The last troops sent to the Pacific would have the honor of being the first to land on the shores of Japan. As we would be the last to leave Europe, we would surely have been the first in the invasion, and included among the million or so who would have been killed in that action. There is a high percentage chance that dropping "the bomb" on Hiroshima saved my life by making the invasion unnecessary. While stationed at Camp Lucky Strike, I got leave to visit Paris. I rode with nine other guys in an army truck. The back of the truck was covered with canvas, just like a covered wagon. With the canvas secured against drafts, we saw nothing. After about two hours of bumps and jostling, about 10:00 AM the truck stopped, the back canvas flap was opened, and the driver said, "You're here. Everybody out."

I don't remember the last time I saw Paris, but I will never forget the first time I saw Paris. The sunlight blinded me for a moment. The air was warm and felt good. We were at L'Étoile, with its Arc de Triomphe standing forth in the strikingly clear sky. I saw the Avenue de la Grande Armée to the north and the Champs-Elysées to the south. Beyond that was the Place de la Concorde and still beyond that, the Louvre. There were perhaps five automobiles in sight, since there was little gasoline available to civilians this soon after the war ended. Few people were on the streets. It was as though Paris was asleep in broaddaylight. Surely, I hoped, the City of Light would be a city of life and would not be asleep, for it seemed to be barely awake.

I headed for the USO as a starting point. To get there, I took the Metro, which is the city subway. It seemed like a long trip in a train that shook, rattled, and rolled, with two stops before I got to the transfer point. I made my way through endless tunnels to reach the surface to see where I was. It was the spacious Place de la Concorde. I looked back north and saw L'Étoile was not that far away. A block away to the east I saw a large Roman temple. I went back to the subway, through the long tunnels to the train, and endured the shake, rattle, and roll for what seemed another good distance to the next stop, which was mine. Again, I followed long tunnels to reach the surface, and I found myself at that Roman temple. It would have taken less time, and less walking, if I had simply walked the street from the Place de la Concorde to the Roman temple, which was L'église de la Madeleine.

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