Seven of the crew were granted liberty for a hasty trip to Paris. Seaman Arthur Coffey was in the party and his written impressions convey a glimpse of what it meant to these young Americans to come into contact with the sombre realities of the struggle which France was enduring with her back to the wall. It surprised and amused them to find the American infantrymen already so much at home in Saint-Nazaire that their liveliest interest was in shooting craps at the street corners: Here were soldiers and sailors who had just crossed an ocean full of hidden terrors [observed Arthur Coffey], and most of them were to face worse terrors later on, but did they consider these things? Not for a minute! They had money in their pockets and beer under their belts and this “spiggoty” currency, as they called the wads of paper notes, made them feel like millionaires. The marines had not arrived to police the streets, so they rattled the dice in crowds. For all they saw or cared, they might have been in their own home towns, perfectly indifferent to their surroundings. The French onlookers were different. They were appraising these new comrades-in-arms, whispering among themselves, admiring the equipment and the rugged stature of these soldiers from beyond the seas. We watched the fun until it was time to find the train for Paris and moved away with cries of, “Shoot the cinq-froncs,” “Fade him for a cart-wheel, Bill,” “Come on, you baby,” ringing in our ears. We got aboard the right train with the kind assistance of a French lady who interpreted for us. It was great luck to get the seventy-two-hour leave, and the crowd was congenial, five men from Princeton, one from Yale, and one from Cornell. The trip to Paris was lengthy because we had to travel second class and sit up all night, being Navy gobs and not officers. The French took us for plain, ordinary bluejackets and fraternized at once. Their style of opening a conversation was to sit and look at you for a time, smile, and then having attracted your attention, with a terrifying grimace ejaculate: “_Le boche, ah-h-h-k!_” drawing a hand across the throat. This done they would beam expectantly and, needless to say, we responded with grimaces even more terrifying and repeated the formula. Having mutually slit the gullet of the hated foe, I would add, to show off my French, “_Je n’aime pas le boche!_” Then the way was opened for a conversation. “_Parlez-vous français, monsieur?_” “_Mais un peu, monsieur_,” I would say, and then bang away with the stereotyped sentence, “I have studied French two years at school and I can understand the language pretty well, but I cannot speak it.” As soon as my friend, the French soldier, heard me rip off this sentence he would open his eyes and say, “_Parlez bien français, monsieur_” and then start talking so fast that I could not understand a word, and this would be the end of the conversation, on my part, at least.