The theme is "nautical." That usually means a sailboat and the Windwards . But, I did that last year. So, I decided to go a totally different direction β canal barges. I got to know those things during my time in the UK. Always wanted to try one; never had the opportunity. But, that's what imagination's for. So, here's my contribution.
Also, I'm mindful of what this day represents. Hence, this story. It takes courage and commitment to raise your right hand and I'm not just talking to all of you eleven bravos and special operators. I'm talking to every eighty-eight mike, food service specialist, and ex-company clerk who's ever put on the uniform. I realize that I'm sitting in the comfort of my home because of your sacrifice and you have my humble gratitude. Of course, Randi has my thanks too, since she's the one who gave me the chance to express it.
*****
THE FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
The place reeked of cigarettes, beer and racket. It was New Year's Eve 1940 and there were drunken Germans everywhere.
The Huns had rolled into Paris the prior June and helped themselves to everything; including Harry's New York Bar. Harry'd closed-up shop and left. So, they needed a barkeep. I wasn't Harry. But I WAS a barkeep. That led to an offer I couldn't refuse.
The Heinies were persuasive. It was either manage the place... "Or else." People who didn't cooperate were beginning to disappear; and, frankly, it was no skin off my nose. So I satt there nightly, in my worn-out tux, hair slicked back and a cigarette hanging off my lip, making the Krauts feel at home.
It wasn't THAT odd for an American to be working in occupied Paris. I'd been there since 1919, and the U.S. didn't get into the War until the following winter.
I'd come over when I was sixteen. It wasn't to do the Grand Tour. I'd lied about my age and enlisted. I was full of naΓ―ve patriotism back then. I loved being a soldier; until Chateau-Thierry. That's when the Third Division got its baptism of fire. It's also where the Third got its nickname, "The Rock of the Marne." I suppose it's also where I got my hyper-cynical, world-weary attitude; it's a con game and we're all marks.
After the War, it was a matter of, "How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm after they've seen Paree?" They mustered us out in New York. But, I'd seen Paree and, I knew that was where I wanted to live. I had my discharge bonus and the City of Lights was cheap back then. So, I was on the next ship back to Le Havre.
I found a place in the 5th Arronddisement; known as the Latin Quarter. Living under the Paris eaves was cold in winter and hot in summer. But frankly, it was a hell of a lot better than my former residence, which was a trench. People might even call my flat romantic; if going down four flights of stairs to use the back-yard shitter is your idea of quaint.
There was a big Peace Conference at Versailles. The spill-over from that, generated hustle-and-bustle. Plus, the French never need an excuse to party. So, Paris was hopping day and night, and would be that way for the next twenty years. Throughout all that time, yours-truly served the drinks and wiped down the bar.
I hooked on as the night bartender at The Dingo. It was from nine PM to sunrise; all for fourteen francs a week plus tips. The Dingo American Bar and Restaurant was a favorite joint for the Lost Generation. It was the place where Hemingway met Scott Fitzgerald. It was also the place where Papa met Lady Duff Twysden. The less said about that encounter, the better. He DID put her in a novel though, changed her name to Lady Brett Ashley. That character was a real slut.
The Hemingway I knew, was an asshole. He was forever bullying people, particularly Fitzgerald. To me; his macho man act was just a cover-up for the fact that he was a closet queer. But, Papa liked the ladies too. At various times, he paraded two wives and a dozen mistresses past me.
I didn't begin life running a bar. The family had a farm in one of those all-German enclaves in Wisconsin. I don't remember whether my first language was English, or German. But, it was the reason why picking up new languages was so easy for me. Being fluent like that ultimately had an impact.
There were too many mouths to feed and I was the youngest. So, when I was nine my folks shipped me to my uncle Fritz. He worked the ore docks in Superior, loading the lake freighters. They didn't have child labor laws back then. So, I spent almost eight years as a loader's assistant, and then as a loader.
That amounted to shoveling the taconite pellets back on the conveyers, as they filled the holds on those huge ships. Half your young life spent lifting shovels full of iron ore will build impressive arms and shoulders. People started calling me "King," once the movie came-out. They were referring to the gorilla, not my regal bearing. I'm five-ten and about 240 pounds; and there isn't any fat on me.
The first wave of American ex-pats arrived in the early 1920s. By nineteen-twenty-five, well-known artists were showing up nightly; Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dos Passos, Picasso. Isadora Duncan even had an apartment across the street.
She was one voracious lady. I didn't blame her. With a body like that, it would be selfish to NOT share it. The only woman who rivaled Isadora, for sheer volume, was Nancy Cunard. Her daddy owned the shipping line. She must have fucked the entire lost generation, including Gertrude Stein.
That era seemed like it was a million years ago.
Everything changed in the 1930s. Germany's economic problems helped our friends across the Rhine get back in touch with their former bad selves. I'm not smart enough to know what started the fight. But I DO know that by 1939, the Germans and French had picked up where they'd left-off in 1918.
The French leadership was incredibly incompetent, even by French standards. So, by June of the following year, long grey waves of Boche were marching under the Arc de 'Triomphe and down the Champs-ΓlysΓ©es. It was far too easy for them.
I slept through the occupation of the City. I usually got to bed around six in the morning. But I had worked late. Too many people were drowning their sorrows or calming their nerves. So, I snored through the German arrival.
It was business as usual the following day. The French had declared Paris "open." So, it missed out on the destruction that every other major European city experienced. A bunch of the occupants, especially the rich ones, left town in a panic. But, most of them returned a month later, and Paris was back to its usual one-and-a-half-million residents.
Then things kind-of settled into an odd new form of normal. It was easy to pretend that the guys in the field grey uniforms, and all the military traffic, were part of the scenery. And, life went on like it had before the Heinies showed up.
There was rationing of course, and the French got the short end of THAT stick. But, needless to say; most days the black markets were in full swing. And, you could still get a perfectly cooked chop and a good bottle of Beaujolais at one of the great restaurants; if you were the right customer.
The Huns had imposed a nine PM curfew, which most Parisians totally ignored. We still worked ten-hour shifts at The Dingo. I had just relieved a Brit named Jimmie, when a couple of German officers walked into the bar.
One was in field-grey, meaning Wehrmacht. His name was Rommel. We all know where Rommel ended up. But he was just a junior Division commander back then. The other guy was in an all-black uniform. He was a piece of shit named Lishka.