III

I Try to Get to the American Camp⁠—But Meet Disaster

Wednesday, August 22. Paris.

The gentlemen authorized to issue visitors’ passes to the American camp and the various fronts don’t seem to realize that a person may be in a hurry. They fail to appreciate the facts that hanging round Paris is financial ruin and that the world series, which one positively must attend, is drawing nearer every hour.

Permission to go to the British front was requested over a week ago. No reply. Daily calls at our own press bureau produce nothing but promises of a trip somewhere, some time. Monsieur Boss of the French Maison de la Presse says I may be taken through the devastated territory⁠—in a week or so.

Meanwhile the Battle of Paris goes on, with Death always staring one in the face⁠—Death from taxis, from starvation, from water thirst, from hand-to-hand encounters with the language.