John Passos - Mr. Wilson's War

In addition there was a group of highranking naval officers, two orchestras and a military band and operators and equipment for two motion picture theatres, and, below decks, a detachment of troops going as replacements to the A.E.F.

Although some of the secretservice men suffered from seasickness, the President and Edith Wilson found the trip delightful. Lifeboat drills and the threat of floating mines added a certain spice. The weather was mild. Sunny afternoons they played shuffleboard. The President took daily naps. Sunday he attended divine service with the troops and in the evening, after another service of hymnsinging and choruses of “Over There,” “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag” and “Keep the Home Fires Burning,” in which the President joined with his fine tenor voice, the doughboys were allowed to file by and to shake the President’s hand.

One day, when the George Washington was steaming past the green slopes and the misty violet cliffs of the Azores, the President called a meeting in his large parlor of the members of the Inquiry. They reported finding him relaxed, smiling, witty, and full of charm. According to Dr. Isaiah Bowman, who took notes, the President began by declaring that the Americans would be the only disinterested people at the Peace Conference.

“The men whom we were about to deal with did not represent their own people,” noted Dr. Bowman. This was the first conference, the President emphasized, “that depended on the opinion of mankind.” Unless the conference expressed the will of the people rather than of their leaders we would soon be involved in another breakup of the world … A League of Nations implied political independence and territorial integrity plus later alteration of terms and boundaries, if it could be shown that injustice had been done, or that conditions had changed. Matters could better be viewed in the light of justice when wartime passions had subsided … He didn’t see how elasticity and security could be obtained except under a League of Nations. He envisioned a governing council selected from “the best men who could be found” and sitting in some neutral city such as The Hague or Berne. Whenever trouble occurred it could be called to the attention of the council. Boycott of trade, postal and cable facilities would be an alternative to war against offending nations.

The people of the world wanted a new world order. If it didn’t work it must be made to work. The world readily accepted the poison of bolshevism because it was a protest against the way in which the world had worked. It was the business of the American delegation at the Peace Conference to fight for a new world order, “agreeably if we can, but disagreeably if necessary.”

A friendly personal note entered his voice. He hoped to see his experts frequently. His smile sought out every face. They would work through the commissioners to be sure, but in case of emergency he wanted them not to fail to bring any critical matter to his personal attention. He wound up with a phrase that went straight to the hearts of the members of the Inquiry: “Tell me what’s right and I’ll fight for it.”

IT wasn’t till December 13, amid the salutes of the French fleet and of six American battleships and of whole schools of destroyers, that the slow old George Washington steamed into the harbor of Brest. The date delighted the President. Thirteen was his lucky number. The rain held off. As they approached the shore the sky cleared and the sun shone through the smoke of the twentyone gun salutes. Mrs. Wilson found the day “radiant, just cold enough to be exhilarating.”

While the Wilsons were snatching an early luncheon the ship dropped anchor. Immediately their staterooms swarmed with officials. There was Monsieur Pichon and the Minister of Marine and a flock of French generals and General Pershing and General Bliss and Admiral Sims and Admiral Benson. “After much kissing of my hand by the foreigners and clicking of heels and presenting of bouquets and general good humor,” remembered Edith Wilson, “we left our good ship to go ashore in a tender called The Gun. ”

They admired the gray stone harbor and the fishing boats with blue and tan sails hauled up on the rocks in the basin and the slatecolored town rising in terraces to the old castle of the dukes of Brittany. At the dock they found more officials, more gold braid, crack squads of French troops drawn up at attention, and the President’s daughter Margaret, who had been dutifully singing for the doughboys in Y.M.C.A. huts. “Poor child,” noted Edith Wilson, “the food or the climate had not agreed with her and she was really quite ill. We were glad to take her under our care.”

After a round of speechmaking the presidential party climbed into open touring cars and was driven through narrow dank streets lined with men and women in their best Breton costumes. The khaki of crowds of American soldiers stood out against the dark clothing of the French. They passed through triumphal arches. The walls were placarded with signs in red: LE PRESIDENT WILSON A BIEN MERITE DE L’HUMANITE.

This was no programmed demonstration. Women in black had tears in their eyes. Wounded war veterans applauded with their stumps if they had no hands. The throngs were shouting themselves hoarse: Vive Veelson.

At the railroad station a crimson carpet led them to a train de luxe with the monogram RF painted on every dark blue coach. The President and Mrs. Wilson were ensconced in President Poincaré’s own sleeping-car. Edith remarked that it was far from being modern or luxurious. The bunks were hard. “No part of the train was clean and the sheets felt damp as if just washed.”

There was a long wait and a number of mixups about baggage. It was dusk before the train pulled out. At dinner in the state diningcar, where Edith Wilson noted privately that the service was terrible, she amused herself during the wait between courses, collecting on her menu card the autographs of all the important personages assembled.

Again the sun was shining when they reached Paris in midmorning on December 14. The train drew up at a rural looking station. As the President and Mrs. Wilson stepped down from their sleeper they were greeted by the President of the Republic, the entire Cabinet and the staff of the American Embassy. After a round of speechmaking and a fanfare from the Garde Republicain President Wilson and President Poincaré settled themselves in an open victoria, while the ladies, Madame Poincaré, Madame Jusserand, Mrs. Wilson and daughter Margaret were accommodated in a landau.

The brass of their helmets glinting under the horsetails in the wintry sun, the Garde Republicain, on their fine clanking horses, led the parade to the Champs Elysées. The great chains under the Arc de Triomphe were pulled away for the first time, it was whispered to Mrs. Wilson, since 1871, and the two Presidents passed under the arch.

Along the curbs of the great avenue were ranks of captured German cannon. Over them fluttered the tricolor and Old Glory endlessly alternated. Facing the narrow strip of pavement they kept open for the carriages stood files of poilus in horizon blue. Everything: guns, roofs, balconies, was crowded with cheering shouting people. “Even the stately horsechestnut trees,” noticed Edith, “were peopled with men and boys perched like sparrows in their very tops … One grew giddy trying to greet the bursts of welcome that came like the surging of untamed waters. Flowers rained upon us until we were nearly buried.”

Occasionally above the packed heads they could read on a kiosk or on a piece of bare wall the placarded words: WILSON LE JUSTE.

They were driven through the Place de la Concorde, more crowded, they were told, than even on the day of the armistice; and past the Vendôme column and the templeform church of the Madeleine; then out another boulevard where all they could see was swarming faces and cheering mouths, to a street blocked off by soldiers, where stood the mansion assigned them for a domicile. Great wroughtiron gates set in a high stucco wall opened between blue and red sentryboxes for the carriages to enter and closed behind.