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Updated: May 21, 2025
In one spot a hair dresser had set up his tonsorial parlor in the open, and his customers formed in line awaiting their turns. Further on the permissionaires blacked their boots and furbished their raiment, making ready to leave for home. Swarms of humming birds and bees clustered about a honeysuckle vine which clung to the fragments of a fence near by, and whose fragrance saturated the air.
My guards awoke and yawned pretentiously. Lest I should think they had dozed off. It is Paris. Some permissionaires cried "Paris." The woman across from me said "Paris, Paris."
Furthermore, the better part of the audience is composed of soldiers, wounded men, convalescents, and permissionaires, and they all know what to expect. Near me sat two of the latter healthy looking lads, wind burned and tanned, their uniforms sadly faded and stained, their helmets scarred and indented.
I recognized officiers anglais wandering helplessly up and down, supported with their sticks; French lieutenants talking to each other here and there; the extraordinary sense-bereft station master at a distance looking like a cross between a jumping-jack and a goblin; knots of permissionaires cursing wearily or joking hopelessly with one another or stalking back and forth with imprecatory gesticulations.
A walk through the main streets leaves an impression of mixed uniforms bedraggled uniforms from trench and dug-out, neat rainbow-tabbed uniforms worn by officers attached to the Base, graceful nursing uniforms, haphazard convalescent uniforms, discoloured blue uniforms of French permissionaires.
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