The Last Battle

Argonne Forest 1918

The Argonne Forest is a hilly stretch of woods, a deep crease in the rolling landscape of northeastern France. It is so steep there is barely a place flat enough to set down a cup of coffee. Anyone moving through it is either walking uphill or down.

An American General, James G. Harbord who saw it in the fall of 1918, described the Argonne as a "dense forest gashed by steep ridges and deep ravines, littered by the debris of many storms, natural and man-made. It was a region forgotten when level ground was being created. No man's horizon was more than a few yards away."

That was where Tom Hogan was going in October of 1918. The American army, with the French, had taken on a 20-mile stretch of no man's land with the insane notion of walking across it and pushing the Germans back to Germany.

Topographically probably the meanest part of the battle line was through the forest, with its relentless up and down terrain and thick undergrowth. It didn't help that the Germans knew the woods intimately. After all, they had been in the area for four years, so long they turned that section of the battle line into an elaborate military city -- elegant underground bunkers with carpeting, hospitals, even a theater. They had placed concrete machine gun nests throughout the woods with criss-crossing fields of fire. An ant couldn't walk through there and not be in the sights of a German gunner.

A Long Walk to Hell

The Argonne front was about 50 miles north of St. Mihiel. There were and still are few roads that go in that direction and those few were gridlocked with supply convoys. The only one way to get there was to walk. So one day in late September Tom loaded a 50-pound pack on his back, picked up his rifle and headed north.

Try to imagine walking 50 miles, in the pouring rain, through knee deep mud, with the equivalent of a small trunk strapped to your back, after about 4 hours of fitful sleep in damp woods and nearly a week of combat, knowing you are heading into more combat and you will have grasped Tom's situation.

American troops in France on a rest break.

By the time Tom got to the Argonne in early October the fighting had already begun and it was getting meaner. The Germans were digging in and fighting back hard. His unit had to clear out the Argonne, which meant one machine gun nest at a time. It was slow, exhausting, dangerous, bloody work. The weather was miserable -- cold, rainy. The troops were freezing. Most were still wearing their summer uniforms.

The Bloodiest Battle in History

Once they got into the woods the men quickly discovered they were on their own. Supporting artillery was useless. Shells exploded against the trees before they reached their targets. The hilly terrain and dense forest forced the Americans to fragment into smaller, more vulnerable groups. There was no safe place in the rolling terrain. As the men quickly found out, to stand at the top of a ravine was to become an easy target for machine guns. To take cover at the bottom was to be a target for poison gas which was heavier than air and settled insidiously into the lower elevations.

The Germans had years of experience with gas which was in artillery shells and fired from their big guns. They devised various strategies. Sometimes they would lob just enough gas into enemy lines to scare soldiers into putting on gas masks. Since it was harder to breath with masks on, the men tired quickly. Other times Germans would mix poison gas shells in with regular explosive shells during an artillery barrage. By the time the soldiers realized they had been gassed it was too late. Finally German generals liked gas because it was cost effective. Someone calculated that three shells of poison could kill as many men as nine regular artillery shells under the right conditions. And the conditions in the Argonne Forest, with all its ravines and defiles, were ideal.

Chlorine, phosgene and mustard gas were the three killers of choice and the Germans used all three during the battle. Mustard gas was the worst. Its acidic fumes burned the skin, raised huge oozing blisters, and attacked mucous membranes, blinding any poor soul who didn't get his mask on fast enough. But all brought on choking and gasping fits and, among the survivors, permanent lung damage.

One wet and chilly October morning Tom Hogan found himself thrashing his way through the dense Argonne underbrush, possibly thinking how seven months earlier he leading a quiet, happy life, making knitting needles in a sleepy New England town, and now he was stuck in the middle of a place he never heard of, with the world blowing up around him.

Not much detail is known about what happened to him and his fellow troops, but what is certain that at one moment there was a the loud crack of explosion and in the next Tom was on the ground stunned and bleeding from shrapnel wounds. Lying nearby were other unlucky men from his unit. As they lay there, there was another explosion and a suffocating cloud of poison gently descended on them.

Missing

The battle was called the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, because the line extended from the Meuse River in the west to the Argonne Forest in the east. The Germans yielded ground slowly, making many Americans die for every yard. But by early November the Germans could see it was over and surrendered.

I knew little about World War I and nothing about this battle. So it came as a big surprise to learn that Meuse-Argonne was the bloodiest battle ever in American history. During 47 days of fighting, 26,277 American soldiers were killed and more than 95,000 were wounded. Not during World War II or not even during the Civil War had so many men been slaughtered in a single fight.

The Armistice was signed in November. The War to End All Wars was over. The troops started coming home in late 1918. Tom was not among them. The Army couldn't seem to account for him at all. No one could tell the family if he were living or dead. The year 1918 ended, 1919 began and still no word.

"You're supposed to be dead."

My mother was about five years old and still remembers the moment. She was standing in her grandfather's living room when someone walked through the front door. He was a gaunt man in a brown uniform, his legs wrapped in puttees, a Sam Brown bell crossed over his chest and around his waist. What followed was mayhem: her aunts shreiking, sobbing, laughing. He was her godfather, Thomas Francis Hogan.

She remembers saying to him, "You're supposed to be dead."

It was only after the chaos of the battle was over that the Army realized Tom was missing. Eventually someone found him and his buddies. He spent time in a field hospital in France. When he recovered, he was loaded on a troop ship for the States for the ten-day trip across the Atlantic. He had entered the Army in April of 1918 and was released in February of 1919. In a mere 11 months he had been in three major battles and was nearly killed.

Tom never talked much about what happened in the Argonne. Once he told his daughters that he and his friends were too badly injured to get up and were lying on the ground a long, long time before someone finally found them. His only piece of good luck, if one could consider it such, is that by having been so badly wounded he was too weak to move and that may have saved his life. During gas attacks men who had been wounded and were immobile suffered less than men who ran. That only made them breathe in more deadly fumes.

After the war Tom got on with his life, returned to his job at the needle factory, married and raised two daughters. He had left the war but the war did not leave him. His daughters remember him making regular visits to a VA hospital in New York for treatments, possibly for his damaged lungs, and although he talked little about his experiences, one day not long before his death he lifted his pants leg to show his older daughter one of his injury. She gasped at what she saw, saying it looked like a chunk of muscle had been scooped out of his leg. That was all he ever shared of his war experiences.

My mother remembers two things about him, his happy go lucky personality, and his distinctive gasping cough. The lung damage almost certainly shortened his life. He died in 1948 at the age of 59.

Acres of Corpses
Today part of the battlefield where he was wounded has been transformed into the Meuse-Argonne Cemetery. As the cheery young woman in the tourist office reminded me, it is the largest U.S. military cemetery outside the United States. More American soldiers are buried in its 130 acres of meticulously groomed grass -- over 14,000 -- than are even buried near Normandy beach, where over 9,000 are interred.

I drove there on a rainy June afternoon to have a look. The cemetery sits between two country roads in a vista of rolling farmland in the middle of nowhere. As I got out of the car the first thing that struck me was how ranks of white markers beyond the stand of dark trees had a translucent glow. A sudden rainstorm came over the ridge and swept down through the emptiness of the vast graveyard. The only sounds were the rustle of trees and raindrops splattering against the stone markers.

The rows of the dead men's markers converged towards the horizon. It was creepily quiet. Except for a groundskeeping crew, I was the only one here. Looking out over the acres of dead I recalled a quote from the writer Graham Greene: "There is poetry in a battlefield." Not to those slaughtered on it, I thought.

The Road

Recently I found an old Word War I photo showing a spectacular traffic jam of Army supply wagons and trucks on a road all to the Argonne. It was utter chaos, a scene out of Hieronymus Bosch.

Supply convoy headed for the Argonne Forest

As I left the cemetery I drove back to Verdun down one of these roads, possibly the one in the photo. Today there is nothing -- no villages, no traffic, no signs of anything to suggest a World War was fought in the surrounding countryside. More than 90 years ago the air was full of the explosive thunder of dueling artillery and gunfire. Today the only sound I heard was the hum of my tires on the road and the click of the windshield wipers. All around was total emptiness. And I mean total. Here's a video of my last sights of the Argonne.

Fascinating graveyard fact: France is the foreign country with the largest number of American soldiers buried in its soil.

On Haunted Ground

When the train pulled into Verdun, my first impression was: pretty little city. A couple of canals and the very mellow Meuse River run through the middle of it.

The second impression was it was a place frozen in misery. Like Gettysburg, Pearl Harbor, Dresden, and Hiroshima, Verdun's identity is forever intertwined with death and destruction. For a while in the early 1900s it was the Battle Capital of the world. Some of the older building still show the scars of bullets and shrapnel.

This is Verdun as it looked like at the height of World War I. The Cathedral of Notre Dame is in the background, rising over the blasted shells of buildings by one of the canals.

This is what the prosperous little burg looks like today from the same viewpoint.

I stopped by the tourist office to pick up a few maps and discovered war is Big Biz here. The city and the area around had seen some of the bloodiest fighting in World War I. In 1916 a quarter of a million French and German soldiers were killed in the area, with basically nothing to show for it. By the time Uncle Tom arrived in September of 1918, the two armies had fought to an exhausted standstill. The French hoped the arrival of a million and a half Americans would give their side the necessary boost to push the Germans out.

The energetic young woman at the information desk had that special tourist office ability to read the map upside down as she cheerily pointed out the sights: memorials, the statues to the heroic dead, an ossuary full of unknown soldiers' bones, a place called Bayonet Trench where French soldiers were buried alive by an artillery barrage and only their bayonets protruded above the earth and on and on. Each site had an horrific and bloody story attached to it. And a brochure for it.

"Where is the American cemetery?" I asked.

"Up the road that way," she pointed north. "It has the largest number of American soldiers buried there outside the United States." Big smile.

What's a salient?

The plan was to follow Tom's steps through this area. His first battle was south of Verdun near a place called St. Mihiel. In 1914, as now, it was a sleepy village. Unfortunately back then it sat in the crossfire of French and German armies. For four horrific years friendly and enemy fire rained down on it. When Tom and his fellow soldiers arrived here from Chateau-Thierry their job was to clear the Germans out of something down that way called the St. Mihiel Salient.

I didn't know salient was a noun. Basically the word describes any kind of protrusion. In military jargon it refers to part of a battle line that has bulged into enemy territory, sometimes the result of a stalled advance. The German had a salient which had been a fixture near St. Mihiel for four years. The French had unsuccessfully tried to drive the Germans out of it, a piece of territory about the size of Manhattan. When the Americans arrived, the French said in effect, "You want something to do? Get those guys out of there."

History books are sketchy about the battle of the St. Mihiel Salient. The condensed version is the Americans launched an attack against the Germans on September 12 and the battle was pretty much over three rainy muddy days later, September 15. The attack was no secret - date and time had already been published in a Swiss paper - and rather than stand and fight the huge number of Americans, the Germans decided to pull out. They were in the process of retreating when the shooting began. It was a win for what was grandly called the American Expeditionary Forces. According to one historian the U.S. lost "only" about 1,300 men in that battle. That's about two years worth of KIAs in the Iraq War killed in three days. I guess human life was cheaper then.

There is no detailed record of how Tom did, but he survived. And his reward was a chance to die in another battle.

Battle Scars

Fortunately - if that's the right word - there are still sections of the battle zone which are preserved, or to put it more accurately had been frozen in time by benign neglect. The WWI generation has long died out and today few people bother to visit these forgotten places. I was grateful for this. I could step into a place where history was stopped and see what Tom had seen.

So, my GPS suction-cupped to the windshield of a rented car,a glossy tourist office map spread across my knees, I drove around until I found a spot my brochure said still had French and German trenches. Nobody in the parking lot. Everything was still. The only sounds were an occasional distinctive call of a cuckoo bird, the first time I heard one outside of a clock.Old signs pointed deep into the piney woods. I walked by a weatherworn memorial decorated with faded plastic flowers and stepped into the shadows beyond. A place which used to be crowded with soldiers shooting at each other, bombarding each other, killing each other was now a silent patch of overgrown woods. This is what I found.

A huge crater from an artillery shell. It looked a dark entry to another dimension:

A mossy, overgrown bunker:

The scars of trenches snaking through the forest.

How a similar trench looked during the war:

When I tried to climb down into one, I slipped in the mud - it had rained heavily the day before - and grabbed for balance as I dropped into the trench. For my effort I got a fistful of greasy mud the color of dark chocolate. It stuck to my skin like paste. It was impossible to wipe off. Days later I was still digging it out of my cuticle. Soldiers crawled through this stuff, slept in it, had to live with it for years.

It was only after I had been here about an hour that I noticed something odd. I had hiked through woods in different parts of France and would always see some sorts of woodland creatures, birds, rabbits, even an occasional snake. But here there was nothing. The only sign of wildlife in all the time I was wandering through this silent world was a weird fluorescent orange slug shimmering in a patch of sunlight:

I looked around at the woods. The growth was so dense that even as noon approached little sunlight seeped into the dim place. If it was this dark on a bright summer day, what must it have been like during the sodden, rainy fall of 1918? Men who slept in such dank spots even for a few days got trench foot, diptheria. The Argonne Forest, where Tom was going next, was very much like this, I had read, only worse.

Depressing WWI Fact: Verdun was the site of the war's longest single battle. It dragged on for 11 months and caused over a million casualties.

{To be continued}

Uncle Tom's Nightmare Trip to France

Americans fighting in France 1918

The only other person in my family beside me who spent any time in France was my great uncle Tom Hogan. His visit was shorter and not as pleasant. He spent much of it trying to avoid getting killed.

His story, in brief, was this. In the spring of 1918 he was drafted and shipped overseas to fight in World War I. He had been in combat about four or five months when he disappeared.

This was all I knew about him. The story popped up in a casual conversation with my mother who talked about Tom's difficulties the way someone might mention that a relative had trouble finding a parking space at the mall. "He went off to France and just disappeared," Mom said with quiet bafflement. "No one knew what happened to him."

Intrigued, I started doing a little research.

The Internet can be amazing. With a little hunting I found a copy of Uncle Tom’s draft registration card. (You can't tell from this image, but in the lower left corner of the card the small print reads, "If person is of African descent, cut off this corner.")

He filled it out on June 5, 1917. He was 27, old for the draft, and not married. He worked at a factory, the Excelsior Needle Company in Torrington, Connecticut, making knitting needles. I noticed in answer to the question: "Married or Single [which]" he wrote, "No." I also noticed he lived down the street from his father, Patrick, my Great Grandfather.

I already had done a little family history research and knew that Patrick D. Hogan, was born in Ireland, in the town of Thurles, County Mayo. Family lore has it that Patrick’s parents decided he deserved better than to waste his life in the depressed and oppressed country that was Ireland back then. The family pooled their money bought him a ticket from Liverpool to the United States. He arrived in the spring of 1880. Here's a photo of the distinguished Patrick in his glory days:

Using his skills as a carpenter Patrick got a job building packing crates for a local factory. Even though he was illiterate -- my mother remembers sitting on his lap as a seven-year-old girl reading him the headlines in the local paper – he prospered. He bought land and built two houses in a quiet neighborhood, Cherry Street, in my hometown. He and other Irish immigrants dug out by hand the foundation for my parish church St. Francis, where everyone in my family, including I assume my Uncle Tom, were baptized and many were married and buried.

The early 1900s were hard years emotionally for Patrick. His daughter, Josephine, died in a flu epidemic in 1905 at the age of 11. His wife Mary died in 1916. And now, in 1917, the government was drafting his son to fight in a war many in the U.S. thought was none of their business.

National Archive records of most World War I vets were destroyed in a huge warehouse fire in 1973, but my sister Carol, digging through in the files of our town historical society, found a little more info on Tom. I learned that in May 1917 for the first time since the Civil War, the government reinstituted the draft. At time the U.S. entered World War I it had a pitifully small Army, just a few hundred thousand men. They needed a couple of million - fast. So they started dragooning men into the service. Record of local vets' service showed that in the spring of 1918 Tom's number came up. He had to report for active duty. Tom was assigned to the infantry. Cannonfodder.

It was not a good time to be a soldier. Training was absurd. Some recruits didn’t even have any weapons to practice with. During basic training soldiers were issued two-by-fours cut out in the shapes of rifles. I guess the Army figured the men could always yell "Bang! Bang!" and conk the enemy over the head. Even though the war had been fought in trenches for over three years, there was little grounding in trench warfare, according to one historian. Tactics taught were based on the Spanish American War and the Franco Prussian War. Men spent hours on pointless bayonet practice, a weapon which, when they finally got to war, they used to dig foxholes and hang stuff off of. (This fine moronic tradition has continued. Some 50 years later I too had hours of pointless bayonet training. When I got to Vietnam I used mine to open beer cans.)

The Army was rushed into the war so fast it had all kinds of equipment shortages. American soldiers used helmets provided by the British. Their artillery was provided mostly by the French. The Army shipped cavalry horses to France. Horses. It was like sending George Custer to fight tanks and machine guns. Communication was by carrier pigeon.( I'm not kidding.) Practically no one -- officers or enlisted men -- had any combat experience.What's that cliché? Oh, right: Recipe for a disaster.

Historical society records also noted that in late spring of 1918 at the age of 28 Tom was loaded onto a troop ship and sailed to Europe across the same ocean his father had crossed 38 years earlier, getting the hell out of Europe.

The Historical Society notes pithily add that Tom was in three major battles at: Chateau-Thierry, a place called the Saint-Mihiel Salient, and the Argonne Forest. Tom survived the first two in one piece. But in the Argonne Forest [See U.S. Army photo taken of the fighting, above] his luck ran out.

I learned that at Chateau-Thierry our inexperienced troops fought under the command of the French. But at the Saint-Mihiel Salient and the Argonne Forest the Americans were on their own for the first time. Since both places were in striking distances of the city of Verdun in northeastern France, I decided to check them out. So, nearly 92 years to the day that Thomas Francis Hogan filled out his doomed draft card, I boarded a train in Paris and headed for Verdun.

Private Thomas Francis Hogan before shipping out to France.

{To be continued}

Depressing French fact: An estimated 1,385,000 French soldiers died in World War I. Over four million were wounded.

Meet Mr. Alphabet

“Ooooh,” Mlle. Butterfly groaned and dropped her head onto the desk. “I'm exhausted.”

In the months we had been desk buddies this was the most demonstrative she had ever been. Usually class began with a nod, a perfunctory “Ça va?” and we’d open our notebooks in silence. She did not encourage questions. I did not ask any. Our relationship was like that of two polite strangers sitting next to each other in coach on a long, long flight, each doing their best not to invade the other’s armrest space and minimize personal interaction. For her to even share the small fact she was fatiguée was unprecedented.

“Why?” I asked.

“I spent all day Sunday at EuroDisney.”

“My god,” I gasped. “WHY?” I completely forgot that place existed.

“Visitors. With children,” she muttered into her folded arms.

It turned out that even exhausted, she loved every minute. She was a fan and often went to the Disney World in her hometown, Tokyo.

“Have you been?” she asked.

“To the one in the United States,” I said. “I saw Tokyo Disney on the way to the airport.”

“You’ve been to Japan?” She looked up.

“For a few weeks. On business. I know five Japanese words: Hai [yes], Arigato [thank you], Domo Arigato [thank you very much], Ohayo [Good morning] and Konichiwa [Good afternoon]. No, seven: sushi and saki. No nine: Toyota and Honda.”

No smile. “Did you go to Kyoto?”

I could not figure out a way to say in French, “I did want to go, but It was a working trip and I was scheduled from nine in the morning to late at night every day so I didn’t have any free time except for one Sunday, and by then I was so fatigué all I wanted to do was sleep in, even though Kyoto was only a three hour train ride away so I did, but I feel guilty about missing it.”

So I said, “No.”

“You should have gone.” She frowned.

“Yeah, well I should have done a lot of things.”

THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING CLASS

“Coucou! Coucou!” Mlle. G. our teacher was calling out, trying to get everyone to quiet down. Our band of French grammar explorers was shrinking by the week.

The very sad Japanese woman I noticed the first class abruptly disappeared after just a couple of sessions. A few weeks later it was the young woman from Cuba. I missed her droll sense of humor. (When I told her I knew some people who had gone kayaking in Cuba and asked if she ever tried it, she shook her head. “My family is descended from slaves. We don’t get into boats.”)

Then the Hungarian costume designer who had an amazing wardrobe of silk scarves disappeared. Perhaps he ran out of class scarves. And then there was Maria, the animated Italian with the beautiful smile and delightfully accented French. She followed her husband back to Rome.

But Mlle. Butterfly remained, doggedly coming to every class. She had been a bit of a mystery, not so much aloof as wistful. Gradually I learned that she had come to Paris ten years ago, stayed to marry a Frenchman, stayed on after the divorce. She was in her 40s. She used to work for an insurance company. But now she worked in a shop on the Champ d'Elysees as a vendeuse, a saleswoman, handling expensive handbags. She told me the name of the boutique and was horrified I did not recognize the brand.

“I'm not a handbag shopper,” I apologized.

“But the bags are famous,” she said.

“No doubt,” I said in broken French, “but the World of the Handbag is not the World of Doug.”

In spite of my ignorance of bags, we had become a team. She was able to explain things to me in baby French. In return, I had a talent I had underestimated. I knew the alphabet.

MR. ALPHABET TO THE RESCUE

Early on, I noticed that she took notes in Japanese script. She had an electronic French-Japanese dictionary which showed on its screen French words in Japanese script. One week after I missed a class and asked to copy down the homework assignment. She showed me her notebook, pages of Japanese writing. That was when I realized why those impromptu essays we had to write were so difficult for her. She hadn’t mastered the Western alphabet. She struggled to craft one sentence, while I would crank out paragraphs of bad French on the most absurd topics.

One typical assignment: What does a baby dream? I was thinking of an old Jack Handey Deep Thought: “A boy wants to grow up to be a fireman, but a man wants to grow up to be a giant, monster fireman.”

So I wrote: “I will be a fireman or perhaps a soldier, but not the president because I hate politics. I will live in the country and would like to have two or three chickens, and some cows. I will stay in a little house in the Perigord.” This, from a grown man. (Don’t laugh. I got a “Tres bien.”)

Whenever someone from the two-student teams had to go the blackboard for an exercise, Mlle. Butterfly commanded, “You go. That’s not my métier.” So I would stand there meekly as she called out grammatical corrections for me to make or sometimes send me back to the board to fix an error. It's fair to say that if I made a list of 10,000 possible scenarios of my life in Paris, standing at a blackboard being ordered around at by an ex-pat Japanese vendeuse would not be on the list.

That night as we were leaving class, I overheard someone say to Mlle. Butterfly, "Are you not feeling well?"

"I'm just tired. I was at Euro Disney all day yesterday."

"My god," I heard. "WHY?"

In the King's stables

I hate circuses. I’m afraid of horses. And I never felt the least urge to visit Versailles, which I perennially dismissed as a McMansion on steroids. So how to explain the fact that I was spending a balmy evening this spring indoors, sitting on a lightly padded wooden bench at the edge of what suspiciously resembled the ring of a one-ring circus, waiting for a troupe of performing horses to appear – at Versailles?

The short answer is that I was there with my daughter, an avid rider, who had wanted to see something called the Academie du Spectacle Equestre during her visit to Paris. The even shorter answer is that, against my inclination, I was intrigued.

THE KING AND THE GYPSY

A few years ago the French Ministry of Culture realized they had a diamond in the rough at Versailles. It is a building just outside the gates of the Sun King’s palace called the Great Stables, where Louis XIV, housed a small army of pages and grooms and his 600 magnificent horses. He favored a Portuguese breed called Lusitano, known for their gracefulness, mellow dispositions and striking appearance – cream colored coat and startling pale blue eyes.

In its glory days during the late 1600s, the Great Stables was a place of dazzling opulence. It was designed by Jules Hardouin-Mansart, the same architect who did the famous Hall of Mirrors in the King’s residence. From the stone frieze of three stallions leaping out just above the doorway, to long rows of burnished wood stalls illuminated by lamps hanging from armatures of hand-wrought cast iron beneath arched stone ceiling it was Valhalla for the prestigious royal cavalry.

But time had not been kind to the building. The once elegant structure was variously used over the centuries as an army barracks, an assembly building for gun carriages, offices for bureaucrats and most recently as a musty warehouse for old government files. By the turn of the 21st century it was a derelict building, in the word of one architect, a “soulless space.”

In 2002 the government’s Ministry of Culture decided to rehabilitate the structure and searched for a head of the stables. One obvious choice was the aristocratic Michel Henriquet, revered teacher and master of French dressage, a formal series of movements by horse and rider which evolved from cavalry warfare. Instead the Ministry opted for a wildcard: a French impresario named Clément Marty, who prefers to be known as Bartabas.

A former street performer, bullfighter and steeplechase jockey, Bartabas is self-taught horsemen who founded a troupe of performing horses which is called Zingaro – Italian for Gypsy. It is a kind of equestrian Cirque de Soleil which is so quirky he has been invited to avant garde art venues around the world, from the Brooklyn Academy of Music to the Tokyo Arts Festival.

He agreed to take on the challenge of restoring the Great Stables at least partly to their old glory and donated 30 Lusitano horses. Today, after a 300-year absence, the ghostly white animals again occupy the stalls.

He also established an Academy of Equestrian Performance which invites experienced young riders from all over the world to learn the higher skills of horsemanship in a two-year program. The students are given modest stipends and living quarters and participate in a curriculum which is unique. They are instructed in fencing, dance and even singing, as well as the finer points of riding. They help keep the Great Stables financially solvent by putting on performances for tourists who come to Versailles.

DESIGNER SPACE

The government has invested heavily in the stables and it shows. Riders have saddles made by Hermes. The 15 chandeliers in the performing ring are crafted from Murano glass and the performers wear elegantly brocaded jackets created by high fashion designer Dries van Noten. And the show did not disappoint. It was a combination of displays of traditional demonstrations of horsemanship and demonstrations of the animals intelligence, which were magical. Visitors can either pay to watch dressage practice or the full-blown show, performed to classical music by riders. In neither case should one miss a visit to the awe inspiring stables and a close-up look at the magnificent animals.

It ain't got that swing

My father had his own jazz orchestra [“Doug Colligan and the Night Hawks”] in the 30's. I grew up listening to Benny Goodman, Teddy Wilson and Earl “Fatha” Hines. I still own my original vinyls of Dave Brubeck’s classic “Take Five,” Stan Getz and Charlie Byrd’s groundbreaking “Jazz Samba” and Archie Shepp’s slyly subversive “Sea of Faces.” I have shaken Sonny Rollins hand. I once shared an elevator with Stéphane Grappelli in awestruck silence for 10 seconds. I have seen County Basie and Joe Williams perform in Lincoln Center to a packed house. I’ve seen Joe Pizzarelli play practically to no one in a bar on the upper West Side of New York. I’ve heard Roy Eldridge in Eddie Condon’s jazz club, in the waning days of 52nd Street. And I own a signed first edition of Eubie Blake’s autobiography. So when I read that the Musée de Quai Branly in Paris was mounting a show called the "Jazz Century" I was very, very excited.

Paris is an aloof, snobby city paradoxically known for its goofy affection for jazz musicians, the wackier, the better. Just one example: in the 1930s, musical genius and hot-tempered alto saxophonist Sydney Bechet accidentally shot a woman bystander during a street duel in Paris. He was aiming at a producer who told Bechet he played a wrong note. Bechet was arrested, spent time in prison and later was deported. This should have been a hint, but he came back in the 1950s and the French not only let him in, they welcomed him so warmly he stayed there the rest of his life. It was because he played so well, and didn't shoot any more Parisians.

Naturally I had great expectations for the show after I read, “close to 1,000 works have been brought together for this exposition.” So I began my journey along the serpentine “street” that was the labyrinthine layout for the show, a stroll through ten rooms of exhibits representing 100 years of jazz history. It was a layout so convoluted you needed a map, which the museum thoughtfully provided. [See above]. Hours later I was back on the street outside the museum. Five words popped into my head: “What the hell was that?”

Then two more words: "Science Fair." The whole show had that earnest nerdy feel of an exhibit put on by the talented and gifted. The only thing missing was a booth on photosynthesis.

JAZZ FOR THE DEAF
Background for those unfamiliar with it: Jazz is an aural art form. For that reason I expected – there is no other way to put it -- music. Rythmic and/or interesting sounds. Yes, the show had music, sheet music, acres of it, untouchable, displayed behind glass like religious artifacts. That was OK up to a point, but unless you knew the song by heart, seeing the cover sheet of a ditty like “Grand Pere n’aime pas Le Swing” had limited impact and wasn’t going to get the old toe tapping.

Besides sheet music, the show also had books, magazine articles, record sleeves and more magazine articles and more books and many, many, many more record sleeves dangling by nylon threads from the ceiling. At one point the monotony was broken by an instructional video showing how an actual record of a Duke Ellington recording was made. It looked like someone jamming a black dog turd onto a potter's wheel and squishing with something like a round waffle iron. That video was followed by more sheet music and more books and more magazine articles and more record sleeves, a few posters. And then some more sheet music.

Some of the displays were entertaining in unexpected ways. There was a 1943 Life magazine showing the photo of something known among "hip" musicians as a "jam session." On the facing page was an ad for Lee work clothes. The vaguely homoerotic art shows bunch of big, beefy guys in rugged Lee work clothes hoisting an American G.I high in the air. Hands supporting his taut butt. Big smiles all around. The ad copy is reassuring the GI that someday the war will be over and he'll be able to wear these terrific Lee work clothes that the grinning, muscular guys holding him are wearing: “You’ll wake up some morning with the last belligerent Jap gone the way of his ignoble ancestors . . .”

After I got poked in the head with yet another dangling record sleeve I decided I had been educated enough about the world of le jazz hot and it was time to go. Then I heard a faint, faraway rhythmic something, as though I were sitting next to someone who had his iPod cranked up to full volume. That’s when I noticed that every few meters along the display cases there was a three-inch circle of holes drilled into the plexiglass dividers. Out of these holes was leaking actual music. It was like coming to an oasis which appeared to be bone dry but which yielded a little dribble of water if you were willing to claw your fingers to bloody stumps to get it.

Even though it was nearly inaudible, I did manage to detect the faint honeyed notes of Sidney Bechet’s soulful “Petite Fleur” timidly seeping into the public space. And halfway farther along the walk was a cramped little viewing room where was shown a selection of video clips of famous cinematic moments in jazz, including a scene from that jazz icon of films, the Jerry Lewis flick, “Ladies Man.” (No, I didn't see it either.)

AMERIKA
Although I did not hear a lot of music I did learn things. Like America was very, very racist. There were photos of atrocities, like an infamous picture of a charred corpse, part of a horrible story about an innocent African American man who was shot, lynched and burned in Nebraska in 1919, complete with the requisite crowd of grinning white dimwits gathered around the grotesquely mangled body.

Later on there was a news photo of an elegantly dressed Miles Davis in a blood-drenched sports jacket. The article told how in 1959 he was on the sidewalk taking a break between sets outside a nightclub on 52nd Street in Manhattan when a pea-brained New York cop told Davis to “move along.” When he did not, the cop beat one of the greatest jazz trumpet players of all times over the head. (Nice work, officer.) Perhaps after that he walked uptown to Carnegie Hall and pistol whipped Leonard Bernstein.

But I also learned other things. Like according to one movie poster Steve Allen and Donna Reed starred in “The Benny Goodman Story.” (There were no photos of Mr. Goodman himself, by the way, or mention of his historical Carnegie Hall concert or his breaking the color barrier.) And that one of the movers and shakers of jazz in America was Jackie Gleason. That’s right, “The Honeymooners” Gleason. He churned out a series of treacly, easy listening albums in the 50s and 60s which were distinctive for their forgettability and lack of originality. Except for his hiring Salvador Dali to do the album art for one record jacket, the one on exhibit, there was nothing worth noting about them. So where was Barry Manilow? I wondered, as I walked towards the 80s.

THE SOUNDS OF SILENCE

A little background. The Musée de Quai Branly is famous for its ethnographic collection of artifacts of all kinds, including drums and other musical instrument, from Africa, Asia, Oceana, and the Americas. (They have over 8700 according to the museum's web site.) This collection was just a floor above where I was learning all about Jackie Gleason's impact on jazz. Logically I was hoping since they had instruments upstairs, they would have them downstairs.

But I should have read the papers. Before the show opened, curator Daniel Soutif warned a reporter, "You won't see Louis Armstrong's trumpet or Django Rheinhardt's guitar," as though it were an absurd expectation. And by god he was right. Except for a tatty Claes Oldenberg-type sculpture of a huge clarinet, there were no musical instruments. That was too bad. I would have settled for just one of Djano Rheinhardt's guitar strings.

Clearly I didn’t get it. Hobbled by a profound lack of sophistication and ignorance about the music created in my country of birth, I came into the place expecting to see something interesting. Instead I found a C+ doctoral dissertation under glass and lots of redundant and marginally relevant jazzabilia.

Again, I should have read the papers. Museum director Stephane Martin cautioned would-be visitors, "It is not an exhibition about music, it is an exhibition about civilization." Of course. I should have figured it out from the title of the exhibit. The operative word was not "jazz" but "century," as in 100 ways to make an inherently interesting subject boring.

Watching French museum goers earnestly studying a technician turning a black turd into a record, or quizzically watching an old film of a minstrel show, I wondered what was going on in their Gallic brains. And I couldn’t help think of something Miles Davis said: “I never thought that the music called ‘jazz’ was ever meant to become a museum thing locked under glass like all other dead things that were once considered artistic.” After a day at the Musée, I bet a lot of people would agree.