I've been in some twenty-five or thirty
air-raids in four or five cities of France, and I have never yet seen
many Americans who took to the "abris." They all want to see what's
going on, and so they hunt the widest street, and the corner at that,
to watch the air-raids.
One night during a heavy raid in Paris, when the French were safely
hidden in the "abris," because they had sense enough to protect
themselves, I saw about twenty sober but hilarious American soldiers
marching down the middle of the boulevard, arm in arm, singing "Sweet
Adelaide" at the top of their voices, while the bombs were dropping all
over Paris, and a continuous barrage from the anti-aircraft guns was
cannonading until it sounded like a great front-line battle.
That night I happened to be watching the raid myself from a convenient
street-corner. Unconsciously I stood up against a street-lamp with a
shade over me, made of tin about the size of a soldier's steel helmet.
Along came a French street-walker, looked at me standing there under
that tiny canopy, and with a laugh said as she swiftly passed me,
"C'est un abri, monsieur?" looking up. The air-raid had not dampened
her sense of humor even if it had destroyed her trade for that night.
[Illustration: The air-raid had not dampened her sense of humor.]
Another story illustrative of the never-die spirit of the Frenchwomen,
in spite of their sorrows and losses: One night, when the rain was
pouring in torrents, a desolate, chilly night, I saw a girl of the
streets plying her trade, standing where the rain had soaked her
through and through.
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