Finally I Get to the American Camp; What I Find There
Thursday, August 30. At an American Camp.
Me and a regular American correspondent, Mr. Bazin, who has been here since before the war, but is still good-natured, took the train from Paris this morning and reached our destination shortly after lunch time. This is one of a string of villages in which the main body of the Expeditionary Forces are billeted.
We were met at the train by one of the correspondents’ cars, a regular he-man of a car from home, with eight cylinders and everything. Each correspondent rents a seat in one of the machines at a cost of sixty dollars a week. For this trifling sum he may be driven anywhere he wants to go along the line.
The correspondents have a tough life. They are quartered in a good—judged by French standards—hotel, and are not what you could call overworked. There is nothing to write about, and if you wrote about it you probably couldn’t get it through.