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W. Earl Hall World War II stories, 1944

Letter #22

slug-Carries Rate-4
By W. EARL HALL
Globe-Gazette Managing Editor
Letter No. 22
London--(Expedited Air Mail)--After 10 days in France, I'm back in London--and feeling mighty "official."  It's like this:
Last night when final arrangements were being made for our flight, across the channel, Lt. Col. W. Gould Jones, public relations chief for the army in Paris, asked me if I would take custody of an important (illegible) box and get it into the hands of a certain officer at the European theater of operations command here in England.
I would.  I did.
And the parcel, it develops, was a consignment of specially French-made reeds for musical instruments--the first received here in more than 4 years.  United Kingdom saxophonists, clarinetists, oboists and bassoonists, I take it have been having a terrible time.  It was Earl Hall to the rescue.  And that's why I have that "official" feeling.
My flight across the channel, from a badly bombed field not so far from Paris, required just a little more than 2 hours.  By rail, LST ship, jeep and reconnaissance car, the jaunt to Paris had required some 5 days!
Our party today consisted of about a dozen passengers, ranging from a major general down to me--and my fellow mid-western newspaper editor, Fred Christopherson.  We passed over some of the spots with which we had become familiar on our Paris-ward travels.
So far as I can learn, my partner, Fred Christopherson, and I were the first Americans in civilian clothes to enter and leave Paris since its fall to the Nazis 4½ years ago.  We were really a novelty there.
My last goodby in Paris was addressed to Ernie Pyle, who made the flight here on an earlier plane.  The throat ailment from which he was suffering when I had breakfast with him the previous morning seemed somewhat improved.
At our English airport, we had another pleasant contact with the Red Cross, in the form of delicious doughnuts and the first coffee I had tasted in 5 days.  There's no coffee to be had as yet in Paris.
Everywhere I've gone, in England and in France, I've been meeting up with the Red Cross and its magnificent work.  The organization is ace-high, and deservedly so, with the boys who are fighting this war.  It's living up to its finest traditions.
By a stroke of blind luck--and my luck has been amazing on this mission--in my final hours in Paris, I was privileged to observe the dramatic ritual incident to the restoration of an heroic statue of King Edward VII to its pedestal in the court connected with the Parisian theater bearing that Monarch's name.
It seems the statue, representing the grandfather of the present British monarch astride a charger, had been torn down and taken away by the retreating Germans, probably for the bronze it contained.
In some manner it had been recaptured and the Free French troops, with British big-wigs as honored guests, made its restoration a picturesque rite.  As a large truck bearing the statue came slowly down a narrow drive, the band broke into "God Save the King," then the "Marseillaise."
The truck drove up alongside the lofty pedestal and official movie men recorded the scene for history as well as for the contemporary press.  A crowd filled the circular court and balconies in the 5-story building which ringed the court were filled to over-flowing.
I had happened by at just the right moment and my formidable looking war correspondent card had got me by the outer guard.  These credentials, I might add, have opened many another gate for me too.
The day I arrived in Paris, it was reported that 2 fly bombs had passed over the city to light harmlessly in a suburban area.  I never did learn for certain whether the report was true.
But it didn't add to my peace of mind.  Frankly, I've seen, heard and felt enough of those devilish creations.  They're my selfish reason for satisfaction in the day's big news as I return to London, namely, that the allied armies have moved deep into the lowland countries, flanking the robot bombs' launching installations.
--  30 --

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slug-Carries Rate-4 By W. EARL HALL Globe-Gazette Managing Editor Letter No. 22 London--(Expedited Air Mail)--After 10 days in France, I'm back in London--and feeling mighty "official." It's like this: Last night when final arrangements were being made for our flight, across the channel, Lt. Col. W. Gould Jones, public relations chief for the army in Paris, asked me if I would take custody of an important (illegible) box and get it into the hands of a certain officer at the European theater of operations command here in England. I would. I did. And the parcel, it develops, was a consignment of specially French-made reeds for musical instruments--the first received here in more than 4 years. United Kingdom saxophonists, clarinetists, oboists and bassoonists, I take it have been having a terrible time. It was Earl Hall to the rescue. And that's why I have that "official" feeling. My flight across the channel, from a badly bombed field not so far from Paris, required just a little more than 2 hours. By rail, LST ship, jeep and reconnaissance car, the jaunt to Paris had required some 5 days! Our party today consisted of about a dozen passengers, ranging from a major general down to me--and my fellow mid-western newspaper editor, Fred Christopherson. We passed over some of the spots with which we had become familiar on our Paris-ward travels. So far as I can learn, my partner, Fred Christopherson, and I were the first Americans in civilian clothes to enter and leave Paris since its fall to the Nazis 4½ years ago. We were really a novelty there. My last goodby in Paris was addressed to Ernie Pyle, who made the flight here on an earlier plane. The throat ailment from which he was suffering when I had breakfast with him the previous morning seemed somewhat improved. At our English airport, we had another pleasant contact with the Red Cross, in the form of delicious doughnuts and the first coffee I had tasted in 5 days. There's no coffee to be had as yet in Paris. Everywhere I've gone, in England and in France, I've been meeting up with the Red Cross and its magnificent work. The organization is ace-high, and deservedly so, with the boys who are fighting this war. It's living up to its finest traditions. By a stroke of blind luck--and my luck has been amazing on this mission--in my final hours in Paris, I was privileged to observe the dramatic ritual incident to the restoration of an heroic statue of King Edward VII to its pedestal in the court connected with the Parisian theater bearing that Monarch's name. It seems the statue, representing the grandfather of the present British monarch astride a charger, had been torn down and taken away by the retreating Germans, probably for the bronze it contained. In some manner it had been recaptured and the Free French troops, with British big-wigs as honored guests, made its restoration a picturesque rite. As a large truck bearing the statue came slowly down a narrow drive, the band broke into "God Save the King," then the "Marseillaise." The truck drove up alongside the lofty pedestal and official movie men recorded the scene for history as well as for the contemporary press. A crowd filled the circular court and balconies in the 5-story building which ringed the court were filled to over-flowing. I had happened by at just the right moment and my formidable looking war correspondent card had got me by the outer guard. These credentials, I might add, have opened many another gate for me too. The day I arrived in Paris, it was reported that 2 fly bombs had passed over the city to light harmlessly in a suburban area. I never did learn for certain whether the report was true. But it didn't add to my peace of mind. Frankly, I've seen, heard and felt enough of those devilish creations. They're my selfish reason for satisfaction in the day's big news as I return to London, namely, that the allied armies have moved deep into the lowland countries, flanking the robot bombs' launching installations. -- 30 --