Army & Navy – The First 24 Hours

From Paris, new TIME Correspondent Joe Weston, sometime soldier, cabled this account of his re-entry into civilian life:

At 4:21 p.m. yesterday, in a crummy, crowded room at Etampes, France, Pfc. Joe Weston, A.U.S., listened to a bored speech by a bored 2nd lieutenant, finally got a brown manila envelope full of papers and heard himself called Mister Weston for the first time in 40 months.

For unbearably long days & nights, when the mental strait jacket of Army discipline and regimentation seemed strangling, I had dreamed of “the moment.” Now, at 4:22, I was a free man. But it didn’t turn out like the dream.

I took a drink offered by one of my fellow dischargees, because I felt that soldiers who get discharged were supposed to get drunk. But the lousy cognac tasted just as lousy to me as a civilian as it did when I was a soldier. I had it all planned to say something nasty to the lieutenant who had kept us waiting around unnecessarily while he went to the PX for his rations. But I didn’t.

On the Town. The first night in Paris was a nightmare. I found myself in a complete mental vacuum. What did civilians talk about? What did they do? How did they act? As a matter of fact, were civilians people at all?

For months, 90% of my conversation had consisted of strictly army talk; the beefs, the gripes, the profanity, the “wait-till-I-get-out” resolutions, the constant damning of the military and all its works, the endless recitals of battles and who won them. Now I had no beefs, no gripes, no bitches and no regimentation—and I was a lost soul. I tried to strike up a conversation with a civilian correspondent at the Hotel Scribe, and after five minutes of talking politics, I was right back where I started —”Now when we were on the Ruhr. . . .” It was extremely discouraging.

I walked along the Champs. I prayed desperately for some MP to stop me for not wearing my hat. Nobody even bothered. Next thing I knew, I had unthinkingly saluted a snappy 20-year-old lieutenant. I threw my hand down disgustedly, said to myself: “What in hell is the matter with you?”

A captain young enough to be my son and drunk enough to be in my shoes asked me for a light. I gave it to him. He asked me directions. I gave them—and said “sir,” just as I had been taught.

A major collared me and yowled: “Button your jacket, soldier! Don’t you know enough to salute?” Here was what I had been waiting for. What did I do? I buttoned my jacket. I saluted. I said “yessir,” and told him I was a civilian. He said, “Humph!”

The Free Man. I went back to the hotel and into the bar. I tried the conversational line again with a party of PRO officers and civilian guests. All I could get out was: “Well, I am a free man now. I just got my discharge.” They were supremely uninterested but proffered offhand congratulations and then began talking about other things.

I found myself unaccountably shy. I was afraid to offer opinions; afraid to join in the conversation. I felt like someone who is just learning to talk and is embarrassed to show a lack of progress.

The officer-enlisted man complex was still terrific. I still felt inferior in the presence of brass, afraid to open my mouth, afraid to talk to them on an equal basis.

I went up to bed. A nice soft bed with clean sheets. A lovely large room with a private bath and a latrine all my very own. Here, at least, I was the equal of anybody. But not even in bed could I lose the past years; the damned bed was too soft. I tossed around all night. I had slept better on cots.

Next morning I brought my baggage to the hotel. A character said: “Baggage, sir,” and he picked up my duffel bag and musette and carried things for me for a change, after 40 months of my carrying everything from toilet paper to bedrolls for my “superior” officers. It certainly was wonderful. Now for civilian clothes!

I cabled my sister in Los Angeles an ecstatic $10 message explaining the situation, and asking that my three suits and topcoat and shirts, etc., be sent immediately.

That afternoon (at 4:21 by some odd coincidence), a cable was delivered to me at the TIME office. It read: SEND SIZES SUIT, NECK, WAIST AND SOCKS. CLOTHES RUINED BY MOTHS. GOOD LUCK, LOVE. Now I was beginning to feel like a civilian. After all, who ever heard of moths destroying G.I. clothes?