I remember it was July 14th - Bastille Day! - King was dead to the world back in our sparse (shall we say) hotel quarters, - so I decided to set out on my own and find the Bastille! Eventually I navigated my way with many a false start and stop and beaucoup of ooooh! la! la's! to the very Rue St. Antoine itself! As I rounded the corner into the narrow way I felt a sense of thrill - the same tingling sensation that led me on years later to studies in archeology and all: to be "where" ancient people have been and ancient scenes enacted. Heady stuff for some of us always. Boring to others.

C’est la vie!

I was in fact largely raised by an anglophile Irish-English grandmother, and mother, both of whom could outbox and outmanuver me till I bet I was at least 12, and to whose tender ministrations in behavior modification were added non-stop applications of English literature and history - foremost among which was Dickens, and I had read the Tale of Two Cities at least twice by the time I won my first technical k.o. over these devoted parentii.

And now to be at last - far from home and for the first time! - in distant, mythical...France! - and standing in the Rue St. Antoine and on Bastille Day itself! Like I say...heady stuff, believe me. In vain I sought for traces of the dark wine which had trickled from Dicken’s dropped cask (remember?) and the mob which had sopped it up with rags and liberty caps which they then sucked and chewed upon as they marched to overthrow L’Roi ...

"There was no drainage to carry off the wine, and not only did it all get taken up,
but so much mud got taken up along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,..."

What I saw instead was one of the innumerable little sidewalk cafes with an inviting small table - so I sat down and was soon enjoying the first of what turned out to be rather a long series of apertifs and other libations as the long afternoon wore on. Down at the end of the Rue rose the great monument to the Bastille - the fortress itself (of course) having long since been demolished stone by stone in the great attack during the Revolution (a detail I had temporarily forgotten). Soon a stranger passed - a serviceman like myself - and he spotted me and asked in nasal Cockney English accent if he could join me? "Why not?", says I. So soon we were convivially imbibing away together, swapping yarns and lies, and calling loudly for refills from the Garcon'.

My companion it turned out, was a British regular - in a very dirty and rumpled uniform - but since I was billeted back in Germany in the British Sector, I was used to this often disheveled look their regulars affected, since the rumor among the U.S. troops was that the "Limeys" never showered "over there" in their barracks even when there was hot water (which was not of course all the time). I guess all those stories about the lack of plumbing in ol' Limey (at least back then) were maybe true...

Anyhow, he was just beginning to regale me with a most involved series of yarns about his exploits and adventures when suddenly we were surrounded by about a dozen Military Police - both American and Brit - pistols drawn, shouting, and so on. We were hustled, both of us, up against the nearest wall while rough hands sought out our respective dogtags. The American sergeant said to me, "Are these yours, soldier?"

"Yep," I said (somewhat forlornly I am sure). "That's me!". "Where your papers?" he barked. I eyed the .45 on its lanyard in his big mitt and said I would dig them out if he promised not to shoot me. He relaxed a bit. I produced them and he seemed to relax further.... Meanwhile things were not going well with my friend at all. It seems his dogtags were not his to begin with and he was not him anyhow - being someone else instead that was AWOL from his UK outfit for some time, and stood accused of just about every dereliction known to man and was wanted high and low across Europe by everyone including Interpol I suppose...

"The regiment's in 'ollow square -- they're hangin' him to-day; They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away..."

"Listen!" said the Sergeant. "How long you know this guy?" I said, "About two hours!" "You not mixed up in all this stuff with him?" "Sarge," I said, "Hope to die! Never saw him before he sat down to have a drink with me!"

"Listen!" he continued, slipping his weapon back in its holster. "Here's what I want you to do. I want you to make yourself so scarce around here it is like you never were here! Do you think you can do that?"

"You bet!" I said, already eyeing a side street nearby.

"Good!" he said. "It's like I never want to see you again, right?"

"You bet! I said again and was ...gone! (Little did we know we were to have yet another brief encounter...and soon...).

I took off down this side street and the warm glow of the apertifs and the resilience of youth soon shoved these rather untoward events to the back of my mind. Now I determined that I would find the "Metro" (their subway system) and ride back to our hotel. I had a pretty good bearing as to where the station entrance might be, so I struck off that way and soon I came to a huge old cemetery - like only they have in Europe - gloomy old affairs with tombstones hundreds of years old and faded photographs of the long-deceased under little cracked glass frames...

Once inside the cemetery grounds I strode purposefully off in the direction I thought the Metro lay. I had not gone too far when I discovered I had company: around the bend in the path came two Gendarmes - linked arm in arm as they strolled along like many of the French males did (presumably may still do), their dark blue capes flowing out behind them, giving them somewhat of an appropriate ghoulish air for the surrounding circumstances, and their little square, boxy kepis (is it?) on their heads.

"Bonjour Monsieur" they both sang out in unison as they approached me. "Bonn Jewurrrr" I said in return in my best French accent. Now your average Frenchman is nothing if not voluble, so immediately from both began to issue streams of incomprehensible French. But I inferred it was all by way of interrogation... or simply, in English, "What the hell are you doing here alone in OUR cemetery?"

This seemed reasonable enough to me, so I offered an explanation: "Ou a' le Metro?" I said. Blank stares. Blank eyes. No comprehsnsion. "Le Metro" I said - in some exasperation. Absolutely no glimmer of understanding. Now I thought what the hell is wrong with these guys? Do you mean to tell me that the words "Le Metro" uttered in downtown Paris to two civil police servants summons up absolutely no response? It seemed incredible on the face of it!

So I thought to expand a bit. I thought making a growling or rumbling noise in my throat while I said "Metro" might remind them of the subway sounds and all. All it did was force them to take two steps back - in unison. Then I had an inspiration!

I began TO POINT DOWN AT THE GROUND under our feet! I bent over and pointed and began to run around among the tombstones - rumbling and growling as I went. Now a real look of alarm came across their faces. "Monsieur! Monsieur! Mon Dieu! Les Americain ess craze-e-e-e-!" etc. etc. One got on either side of me and with a hand each on my elbows they urged me along the path while I pointed in vain to the ground under us and they conversed back and forth excitedly across me. And so we continued down to the end of the path where there was a gate in the fence that led to the outside world again.

I breathed a sigh of relief (and so did they I am sure) as they opened the gate and we all stepped into the shaded street there. That's when I saw the American MP Jeep parked further up the block, and I had no sooner seen it than it saw me and started up and drove down to meet us.

Guess who was sitting in the back seat?

Yep! Sarge!

"Driver!" he yells. "Stop!" The jeep skidded to a stop. The Gendarmes had now released me but remained standing at my side. Sarge says, "Well lookee here - unless yur a twin - and no army should have that much bad luck - then you must be same guy whose dogtags I just checking other side of the park. Drinking with that escaped prisoner guy..."

"Yeah, Sarge" I said kinda sheepishly. "I was looking for the Metro when these two French policemen found me".

"Found you? How did they 'find' you?"

At this almost on cue, the Gendarmes both began to speak in fast French. Sarge listened and listened and then a big grin broke over his face. (Sarge parlayed this French language, you see). "Well," he said, "They told me all about you! You weren't misbehaving and they have no charges against you but they have no idea what you were doing in their cemetery and they said you were making funny noises and pointing at the ground and since there are nothing but burials in there they were confused and uneasy. They thought you wanted to dig there or something...?"

"They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,
They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;
An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound --
O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!)

And so Sarge was able to assure them of the purity of my intentions and soon they went upon their way - linked, of course, arm in arm. Sarge sort of folded his arms (he had never gotten out of the jeep). "If I told you that the Metro entrance was two blocks down this street on the left side - do you think you could find it?"

"Just try me Sarge! Just TRY me!"

I started off once again. Behind me he called, "And remember, I never want to see you again!"

Been 55 or more years now and I have kept my promise this time: never seen him since.

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