He heard the roar of the tanks before he saw them. But soon enough, everything came into view. First a marching squad holding a banner that read U.S. 28TH INFANTRY DIVISION. The tanks rolled slowly enough to see every turn of their tracks. Soldiers sat atop them, some as still as statues, others taking the opportunity to wave and smile at their adorers.

Behind the tanks came the motorcycle brigade, and surprisingly, these were the vehicles that seemed to rouse the girl’s attention.

“Mére! Mére!” she called. And her mother looked up in acknowledgment of where she was pointing.

Indeed, the motorcycles were exciting. Collectively, their engines formed a sound so loud that it reverberated inside Tom’s heart. His chest swelled with pride. The war was by no means over, but this victory was one well worth celebrating.

Clap, snap, clap, snap. Next came the precise sounds of the soldiers’ boots, marching down the Champs with impeccable precision, the type of discipline that helped them win back this city. Thousands and thousands of them marched down the boulevard and Tom counted them twenty-four across.

Among it all, flags waved as the people shouted, “Américain!” in a chorus.

The procession came to a halt and Tom looked far to his right to see that the Arc de Triomphe was their destination. The French military lined the street, their bright uniforms standing in contrast to the army green of the U.S. soldiers. The band played on, though their trumpeting had dimmed with distance. A speaker came to a podium, but Tom was too far to hear what he was saying.

But nobody needed the words. The wellspring of joy said all that was needed.

He would love to share this hope with Margaret, this signal that the war could, indeed, be over soon.

He handed the girl back to her mother and made his way back to the Rue di Rivoli, skimming the shop walls so as to keep clear of the people who were pressed against each other at the edge of the sidewalk. He’d seen something on his way over that had scarcely captured his attention, but now it was exactly what he wanted.

He passed a grocer and a bakery, his stomach growling at him to stop, but he kept going until he found the newspaper stand that had what he’d been looking for.

A postcard showing the Arc de Triomphe.

He purchased two of them with some of the last change in his pocket and kept walking until he could find a park bench on which to sit. He pulled out a pen and began to write.

The first was to his mother.

And then the second:

Dearest Margaret,