With a sketch finished of the Clamerey France, Camp de Reconstruction Militere, I walked around and noticed a commotion over at the canteen, where food was being prepared for the troops. Officers and soldiers were lining up with their mess kits. Since I was hungry, I lined up as well, though I didn’t have a mess kit.
Florent Laureau one of the main organizers of this American encampment, was dishing up a thick dark dish that he explained was his specialty. He had first prepared the dish on a ship as the ships cook.
One of the women of the camp sort of took in me as her American son. I used Google translate awkwardly to try and communicate and she was a good sport and used it as well to speak to me. It was like handing a grenade back and forth but I did get a chance to tell her a bit about how I am following my fathers WWII footsteps.
When Florent discovered that I was a son of a WWII American infantry officer, he gladly offered me some of his delicious creation. Everyone crowded under a long tent and the conversations grew loud. Everyone sang a boisterous local song that involved shouting eye, eye, eye, or something similar in French and rotating raised hands at the wrists. After one stanza, I was singing along and waving my hands as well. I just don’t know what the lyrics meant. I was probably mispronouncing every word, but no one seemed to mind.
All the clothes I brought to Europe were from REI and they are all drab military colors. Though not vintage WWII clothing, I did tend to blend in with all the military khakis. I was offered a glass of wine with lunch. The lunch and the wine were delicious. Once I finished eating, I grabbed my pen and did this quick sketch.
The second I arrived in France, I had my credit card hacked and had no access to the funds I had saved to take this trip. This group changed my mistrust in humanity. I felt a strong bond to these people who blended so well with another time, 80 years ago. My curiosity about my fathers past had brought me home, if only for a moment.