| Original caption: “Parisians march through the Arc de Triomphe jubilantly waving flags of the Allied Nations as they celebrate the end of World War II. German military leaders signed an unconditional surrender in Reims, France, on May 7, 1945.” For the victors, in Paris as in London and New York, it was impossible to prevent, even had anyone wished to do so, the outburst of patriotic zeal before the official day of victory. Among those who witnessed and participated in the Parisian explosion of joy was an American war correspondent for Yank Magazine, Ralph G. Martin (March 4, 1920 – January 9, 2013), who had been with the soldiers throughout the war in Europe. He sent a report to his magazine the next day, with an account of how May 7 had begun, and how it evolved: “It started out phoney. It started when a photographer staged a shot with some French babes kissing some slightly overhappy soldiers in front of Rainbow Corner. Watching the whole thing curiously, quietly, were several dozen soldiers sitting at the tables outside the Red Cross Club, sipping Cokes. ‘I keep telling everybody that the war is really over,’ said the Military Policeman at the door who was no longer checking passes, ‘but nobody believes me. I told one guy and he just said, What…again…?’” That was only part of the mood that afternoon, There was something else. There was this. 2 paratroopers were just standing in front of the club when an excitable Frenchman ran up to them, waving a French newspaper, yelling “La guerre est finie…La guerre est finie…” After he raced by, spreading the news, 1 of the paratroopers simply said, “For him, not for us.” Then there was another soldier who listened to somebody tell him that the war was over and then said bitterly, “Which war, the war they’re fighting in Paris?” That was Monday afternoon, and then the mood changed. It changed slowly. You could feel it change; you could hear it. 1st the singing by small crowds, loud singing by people who had drunk lots of cognac and were walking down the Champs Élysées arm-in-arm until they had a small parade. Then the parades getting longer and the crowds getting bigger and the planes swooping down low dropping flares and dozens of people piling onto any jeep that slowed down. The Champs Elysées was the centre of it and every soldier had a girl or 2 girls or a dozen girls. And everybody was singing and everybody was everybody’s buddy. It spread fast. Some of it was forced. Some guys were getting drunk not just because they really wanted to, but just because they felt they had to. But most of the soldiers on the Champs were just letting themselves go, catching the spirit of it. “We’re forgetting about the CBI tonight. We’re forgetting about every goddam thing,” said Private 1st Class Natale J. Mangano (January 10, 1922 – May 25, 2020) of Company H, 94th Infantry Division, 3rd Army. “We’re just gonna have a helluva time, that’s all. Why not?” There were very few lonely people. “I can’t find anybody to celebrate with. I don’t know anybody here. I’m just on a three-day pass. Every time I find me a girl she disappears. And I can’t get a drink. All the bars are closed. But don’t worry, I’ll make contact before the night’s over. I’ve gotta make contact. I’m going back to the outfit tomorrow.” It looked like that about midnight at the Arc de Triomphe. It looked like it was going to last all night long and not stop for days and days.” An American serviceman in Paris, Staff Sergeant William E. Beatty (September 12, 1920 – July 9, 2006), wrote to his mother and sister in Baltimore, Maryland, that evening. “Paris is getting very excited tonight, for, as you on that side of the water no doubt know, from all indications the war is just about over. In fact it seems that Victory in Europe Day has poked its nose around the corner – or perhaps the people (we included) are poking our noses round the corner. All afternoon the bits of news we have been able to gather have been quite ‘hot.’ Morning papers of both Paris and London stated that it was only a few hours away. Later a news bulletin appeared on our bulletin board saying that the German Foreign Office had announced capitulation? And finally the Paris evening papers burst out into full headlines with an Associated Press report of the actual signing of the armistice at Rheims at 0241 Hours this morning. The hold-up seems to be the official announcement from Washington, London and Moscow, and naturally we were wondering if that will come in a matter of hours or days. But all indications seem that this really is IT.” 4 days later, Sergeant Beatty sent his mother and sister an account of the rest of the events of May 7 in the French capital: “Within about a half-hour after I came out from supper tonight crowds seemed to come from everywhere and gather on the Champs-Elysées. French policemen are as thick as flies, and the fences that have been piled up along the streets suddenly appeared along the curbs. Everybody was milling around, I suppose just waiting for the ‘last horn to blow.’ We know that the official time will be announced by sirens and church bells, and just as when we were expecting an air raid, whenever I heard a car start up or anything remotely resembling a whistle, it sort of made me jump. I suppose you’d call it ‘peace-jitters.’” “I just heard the news at 1600 Hours in French, and from what I could make out there is still fighting in Czechoslovakia where they refuse to accept the capitulation of the Wehrmacht. After the string of big news that came out in the papers for the past week or so, from the kicking of the bucket by [Führer und Reichskanzler (“Leader and Reichchancellor”) Adolf Hitler (April 20, 1889 – April 30, 1945)] and [Italian Duce and Prime Minister Benito Mussolini (July 29, 1883 – April 28, 1945)], the big surrenders et cetera, the news of the Luftwaffe and submarines giving up took almost insignificant space in the papers.” “As it’s now the middle of the afternoon where you are, I can’t help wondering what’s going on if the news is the same as it is here. I can imagine the papers are full of it and that they have been screaming extras for the past week, unless they’ve calmed down a bit after getting the country unduly excited a week ago.’ At 3 o’clock that afternoon, precisely when United Kingdom Prime Minister Winston S. Churchill (November 30, 1874 – January 24, 1965) was addressing the British people, General Charles de Gaulle (November 22, 1890 – November 9, 1970), Chairman of the Provisional Government of the French Republic, whom the British had hoped would wait until later in the day, broadcast to his fellow Frenchmen. “The war is won!” he declared. “Victory is won!” His address was followed, Carl Levin (October 28, 1912 – April 18, 2002) reported for the New York Herald Tribune, “by the shrieking sound of the last air raid All Clear signal France ever wants to hear.” After his speech, de Gaulle went to the Arc de Triomphe to lay a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, 1 of the 1,000,000 and a half French dead from World War I, the war in which de Gaulle himself had been taken prisoner. As he turned from the ceremony to leave, the vast crowd surged forward, trampling on the special guard of honor of crippled French World War I veterans. A witness of the zeal and antics of the Parisians that day was the American serviceman, Staff Sergeant Beatty, who wrote home to his mother and sister 3 days later with a full account of the day. “The Stars and Stripes and New York Herald had huge 3- or 4-inch (7 to 10 centimeters) headlines VICTORY; French papers had equivalent banners; the time was published: 1500 Hours Paris time would be officially Victory in Europe Day. So, we went to work, doing our best to get our papers “drafted” with several others to represent the Office of the General Purchasing Agent at an assembly in the Palais de Chaillot at 1400 Hours, where we were to officially help celebrate the end of the war.” “The huge auditorium, a modern theatre comparing favorably to Radio City, was filled with representatives of the various units in Paris. It was timed so we would get the President’s speech at 1500 Hours. To fill in time, the Glenn Miller Band — minus Glenn Miller [(March 1, 1904 – December 15, 1944)], you know he was lost en route to here from England — gave a short concert of mostly swing music. At 1455 Hours, the program, or service, I haven’t yet decided which it was, started. It was a mixture of religious and patriotic features. First we sang “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Then we heard United States President Harry S. Truman (May 8, 1884 – December 26, 1972) proclaim the end of the war in Europe, direct from Washington. I could not help wishing, the same as the President stated, that he wished President Roosevelt had been able to see this great day, and I’m sure it would have given me a much greater thrill to hear him announce it.” Truman’s radio broadcast, like Churchill’s earlier, was transmitted throughout the world. The President declared: “This is a solemn but glorious hour. My only wish is that President Franklin D. Roosevelt [(January 30, 1882 – April 12, 1945)] had lived to witness this day.” American rejoicing, he said, was “sober and subdued by the supreme consciousness of the terrible price we have paid to rid the world of Hitler and his evil band. Let us not forget, my fellow Americans, the sorrow and heartbreak in the homes of so many of our neighbors – neighbors whose most priceless possession has been rendered as a sacrifice to redeem our liberty.” The war against Hitler had cost a 132,000 American lives, and more than half a 1,000,000 casualties in 3 years, 4 months and 7 days of fighting in the Mediterranean and European theaters. Yet 1 task remained to be completed. “We must work to finish the war,” Truman told his listeners in every land. Only when the last Japanese division had surrendered unconditionally “will our fighting job be done.” Unconditional surrender did not mean, he said, “the extermination or the enslavement of the Japanese people,” but it would mean the end of the influence of those military leaders “who have brought Japan to the present brink of disaster.” Truman then appealed to every American “to stick to his post until the last battle is won. Until that day, let no man abandon his post or slacken his efforts.” After Truman had spoken “we had prayers by the Catholic, Protestant and Jewish Chaplains,” Beatty wrote home from Paris, “interspersed by a selection by the combined Communication Zone and Seine Section Choirs, which had rehearsed only a few minutes before the programme. They sang “God of our Fathers.” The feature, next to the President’s speech, was a talk by Lieutenant General John C. H. Lee [August 1, 1887 – August 30, 1958)], Commanding General of Communications Zone (Com Z) which as you know, is our headquarters. Following his speech, we sang “America the Beautiful,” then the orchestra played all 4 National Anthems: the stirring “Marseillaise” of France, the new and martial “Madelon” of Russia, the majestic “God Save the King” of Great Britain, and finally the grand and glorious “Star Spangled Banner.” “At the close of the National Anthems there seemed to be a pause in which nobody knew just what to do, so General Lee stepped out into the middle of the stage and said very informally: ‘Thanks to the Orches-tra, Thanks to the Choir’ – then making the V-sign, shouted ‘Victory in Europe Day!’ Everyone clapped and cheered, and went outside to see how the rest of Paris was carrying on. “As we came out of the theatre, people seemed to be everywhere. The fountains in front of the palace were turned on for the first time since the war. Airplanes were flying all around, mostly very low. A Mitchell Bomber flew under the Eiffel Tower. I had heard of a small plane in the last war flying through the Arc de Triomphe, but with my own eyes I saw that beaten. I spent the rest of the afternoon walking around, watching Paris celebrate Victory.” “I walked along the Avenue de Tokio and Cours la Reine to Place de la Concorde. Everyone seemed to be everywhere. Jeeps, trucks, both civilian and military were packed with people, both civilian and military. I don’t think any jeep had less than twenty people on it and trucks as many as they could hold and more. Flags were flying from the vehicles; horns were blowing and everything sort of gave the impression of a huge informal Fireman’s Parade. Military Police and French gendarmes tried their best to direct traffic, but I don’t think they had much luck. People were all over the streets, but when a vehicle came along, they slowly made room and it would pass thru with no casualties.” “Place de la Concorde was packed with people; soon a Piper Cub plane came over, flying low, dropping streamers of papers, which were picked up as fast as, or before, they landed. From the top of the wall bordering the Tuileries Gardens I could see a solid mass of people reaching all the way up to the Arc de Triomphe. I barged my way up Rue Royale to Place de la Madeleine: the same thing was going on there, people everywhere. Finally, after about an hour or so walking through the crowds I had made a complete circle and was back to the mess hall, I should say restaurant, for supper. It was a terribly hot day. We’ve had hot weather all week, so surprising, as just a week before Victory in Europe Day we had an inch of snow – on May 1.” William Beatty decided to go to the cinema with some fellow GIs. Then, “we did a little more exploring, to see the people and town lit up. The town only, I mean, was lit up: there seemed to be surprisingly little drinking and wild celebrating, at least the part we saw. Of course if we had toured Montmartre we’d probably have found some wild parties going on in the cafes. We just walked – and walked, eventually ending back at the Trocadero. By this time it was just about dark, and the fountains were illuminated – again for the first time since the beginning of the war. It was really beautiful, comparing only to the New York World’s Fair. Perhaps it wasn’t nearly so colorful, there really weren’t any colors, but what made them seem so pretty was what it meant – the first time Paris could really be called the ‘City of Light’ in over five years. We were too tired of walking by then to do anything but sit down and take it easy again, so sat by the fountains getting a slight spray from them. People were wandering around between the jets of water, getting mildly soaked. It seemed very much like a park or seashore at home.” “From there we walked up Avenue Kleber, along the same street which was strewn with burned out tanks and trucks when we arrived here last September, but this time it was, just as every other main street, full of people: people going from anywhere to anywhere, glad to be able to walk around in peace time in a city full of lighted streets. Fireworks were being shot off from the ground and from airplanes. The streets were lighted as much as possible. There is of course no blackout, but the pre-war lighting hasn’t yet been put back into operation. All lights aren’t lit, and to save ‘juice’ they aren’t as strong as usual.” “There was a bottleneck in the human traffic at the Place de lÉtoile, where stands the Arc de Triomphe. Here it was packed and jammed. Still nothing exciting happening, just people, people, and more people, watching the rest of the people who were out too. Well, just to be out. After all, it was Victory in Europe Day, and the people in France consider this their day perhaps more than any other country.” “About midnight, we started out to fight our way through the crowds back to our billet. We supposed that there wouldn’t be any bed-check that night. Certainly nobody would be around to see that all the good little GIs were tucked up into our comfortable little trundle beds at midnight on Victory in Europe Day! The streets were just as full of people as ever, perhaps more so. There was no Victory parade, just everything very informal with numerous groups, particularly of students, barging through the crowds singing and giving what I suppose were school cheers.” “About half way down the Champs-Élysées a group of about a dozen students who were proceeding down the street broadside practically surrounded us and yelled “American Army – Flip Hip Hurray!” – for an instant it made us feel as though we were the whole Army and personally responsible for winning the war! Finally we reached our destination, our happy GI home, and turned in for the evening, or rather the rest of the morning. It may sound like peculiar behavior for Victory in Europe Day when all of Paris, the United States Army included was out, but as far as I was concerned I’d seen enough crowds for one day, and not being one to tear around felt the best thing was to turn in, but the heat and the noise outside was not at all conducive to sleep.” The city seemed to be alive all night, but evidently the crowds all went home eventually, for when we went to breakfast Wednesday morning everything seemed very calm, like a deserted village.” Nearly 200 miles south of Paris, in the village of Montlugon, lived 13-year-old Saul Friedländer (born October 11, 1932). In 1942, he had been saved from deportation by his parents, who had given him to Catholic nuns, with whom he had been brought up as a Catholic. The loyalty of the nuns had been to Marshal Pétain and Vichy. Neither the triumph of the Free French, nor the exhilaration of Victory in Europe Day, could change those attitudes, as Friedländer recalled: “The church bells pealed and the whole town celebrated. ‘It’s not like in 1918,’ Madame Robert said to us regretfully. ‘And then there’s our poor Marshal. Let us pray for him.’ We went for our walk despite all this, and as I remember, the general manifestation of popular joy seemed monstrous and indecent to us.” But even at Montluçon, “crowds were jostling each other everywhere, and people were kissing each other, obliging us to lower our eyes – without, however, causing us to make an abrupt volte-face the way we had when one day, on one of our walks, we sighted the troops of female boarding students from Sainte-Jeanne. On the walls, crosses of Lorraine and the hammer and sickle had replaced the Allied snail pasted up by the Germans, and the whole was topped with posters showing the smug, stupid face of the imperturbable [comedian] Fernandel [Fernand Contandin (May 8, 1903 – February 26, 1971)].” “There was no Te Deum to celebrate the German surrender at our school, as I remember, but instead a constant concern for the lot of the victor of Verdun. When, later on, Pétain’s trial began, we faithfully read the speeches of his defense counsel, Maître Isorni, whereas the State Prosecutor, who was doubtless a Freemason, was unanimously held up to obloquy. The portraits of the Marshal remained on the walls for a long time, and when they were finally taken down, it was the end of an era at Saint-Béranger, too.” “The war was over; my parents had not come back. The Red Cross thought that it had been able to identify a couple at Theresienstadt whose names corresponded to those of my father and mother, but a typhus epidemic had put the camp in quarantine, and we had to wait. An unreal wait: the days went by without a sign, and during all this time I kept asking myself. How will I greet my parents? Will there be any way to express my happiness?” Saul Friedländer’s parents did not come back. They had been murdered by the Nazis. | |
| Image Filename | wwii0881.jpg |
| Image Size | 243.65 KB |
| Image Dimensions | 1500 x 1098 |
| Photographer | |
| Photographer Title | |
| Caption Author | Written or Adapted by Jason McDonald |
| Date Photographed | May 7, 1945 |
| Location | |
| City | Paris |
| State or Province | Île-de-France |
| Country | France |
| Archive | |
| Record Number | |
| Status | Caption ©2026 MFA Productions LLC Please Do Not Duplicate or Distribute Without Permission; Image in the Public Domain |
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