Free The Siren of Paris by David Leroy Page B

“People wondered if being born at the end of a long war, if their nerves would be affected.” Men crawled on the ground and made their way over the field with rifles at the ready.
    Marc used the time to look at Marie. She stared religiously as the images flashed on the screen. Her face bore a serious frown. “Not much sign of that today as they bear arms in the defense of freedom against the Nazi war machine.”
    “Even their news is kind of cocky,” she said to Marc.
    “I like Allen, but when he gets with the rest of them, they can be a bit much,” he said as he looked back at the screen. It went black and then the lead started for another newsreel. Even more people now stood in the rear of the theater. “The British and French move into Belgium” flashed across the screen.
    “I have seen this one,” Marie said, continuing to hold Marc’s hand.
    “And now the advance of the British Expeditionary Force. These are the pictures that have a supreme sentimental interest for British audiences as the custom’s barriers rise on Franco-Belgian boundaries and the mechanized troops move forward.” Horizontal poles across the border road rose to allow trucks, tanks, and artillery through the town as people lined the streets. Silence fell in the theater as people studied the images. Marc held Marie’s hand in his lap.
    “For long, the British solider had religiously avoided this dividing line, since to trespass on neutral soil meant internment. Now that the die is cast and the balloon has gone up, he is welcomed across the boundary like a savior, and this, of course, is the character in which the Belgian people know the British Army all along, remembering 1914 and 1918. It is no wonder that anxious folk of the invaded Low Countries give the British Tommy a heartfelt cheer as he passes.”
    Old and young, men, women, and children lined the streets of villages, waving as the transports passed by. Marc stared longer at the screen and noticed details he had missed when he had caught this newsreel two days earlier. People shifted in their seats in the theater and the light from the doors at the rear became obscured by the people who poured in from the street to watch the news.
    “It is the same gallant army with a difference. This time it flashes by in vehicles, tanks, armored carriers, lorries spaced out in regular intervals so as not to present a bomber target. There is evidence indeed that Nazi bombers have been feeling for the path by which the BEF will advance. Bomb craters in the road and demolished houses, these tell the story.”
    The camera spanned a street where some of the houses had sustained heavy damage and where debris littered the street. “Of course, there is a different story sometimes in the relics of Nazi bombers brought down by the RAF.” Soldiers carried proudly the rear tail fin of an airplane emblazoned with the swastika.
    “So, history repeats itself and the British Army for the third, fourth, and fifth time goes to fight in the Low Countries.” The last line irritated Marc, and he was sure Marie as well, because he recognized the over-the-top bragging in the statement.
    “And history repeats the pitiable scenes of refugees streaming westward from the war area.” People streamed down a road in wagons, on foot, or with horses, a city in the background. Just then, the screen went bright white and the sound cut off. “Film, film,” called out several voices in the crowded theater as the lights flashed on.
    “The film must have broken,” Marc said, as he looked back at the projector room. He could hear the film reel slapping against the projector. The lamp then went dark as an usher came to the front of the theater.
    “It will be just a minute,” he said in both English and French.
    The crowd stopped their chorus of complaints and the usher walked to the back of the theater. The screen came alive again. A cannon fired. “S.” A second fired, “C.” Then a third fired, “A.” “Service