In August 1944, I was a little over two years old. My mother was still breast feeding me because there was no kind of baby food to be had except the occasional wheat flour to be cooked with water and saccharin. She was subsisting herself mostly on rutabaga with a couple of ounces of animal fat each week. My father was sharing with her and with my older brother his own ration of animal fat. Photographs of the time show both my parents looking ten years older than they actually were. They were gradually starving.
I note in passing that the occupying Nazis were considered soft on France of all the countries they occupied. France was their soft spot, you might say. All the same, they had to feed their giant armies fighting on several fronts. They could not be sentimental about French civilians, they figured.
I mention August 1944 because that’s when US armies (with a small Free French contingent they had to the courtesy to allow to lead the way) finally broke into Paris where my family lived. They brought with them c-rations, Carnation powdered milk in large quantities, even chocolate, and huge joy.
Another case of US militarism, obviously.