Monday, Dec. 23, 1918.
Well, dear Family, here I am at sea, and everything is fine. At noon
on Saturday our tugs pulled us away from the dock ahead of the
"Prinzes Juliana" which lay alongside. Great waving of handkerchiefs
between the blue-hatted crowds of Y.M.C.A. girls on both ships. The
harbor was misty and the sky line of New York was very beautiful and
shadowy. As we steamed out we passed the "Baltic" coming in, laden
with troops. The boys were wild with enthusiasm at returning home.
Many had climbed way up the rigging and as we passed they all cheered
and we cheered back, and handkerchiefs fluttered and hats were waved.
Then we went by the Statue of Liberty and out to sea. Before long the
deck was covered with tired Y.M.C.A. girls lying prostrate in their
steamer chairs with their eyes closed. You never saw so many green
capes and blue hats in your life! We are in the great majority on the
boat. The sea was calm and silvery, and it was delicious to have
nothing to do but to enjoy it and to let that salt water lethargy
creep over you. However, I also felt a cold creeping over me, in
spite of "red pills" and fresh air, and Sunday when I woke up I had a
feeling in my chest that made me decide the better part of valor was
to remain in bed. It was a nuisance, because the weather outside was
like a day in June. I looked out of the porthole onto a level blue sea
and warm, balmy air blew in. It was unbelievable. The ship's doctor
visited me, tapped me and put on a hot compress, and I lay in my upper
berth all day in a sort of feverish stupor, enjoying the faint motion
of the ship and the singing from the church service which floated in
to me clearly, and this morning I woke up practically well. I have
been out all day, walked four miles and feel splendid. Such weather
you never dreamed of for December. Clear blue skies, a chipper breeze
off the starboard bow and waves just big enough to make us pitch
gently in a very unobjectionable way. This evening's clouds are piling
up round the horizon, so who knows but old Eolus may be getting ready
to send us a Christmas present.
There are four girls to each stateroom. My room-mates are very nice
girls, and we get along very well in spite of the congestion. There is
a Miss S., a very splendid, dark-haired, athletic-looking girl who
attracts me exceedingly. Then there is Miss A. from Baltimore, with a
strong Southern accent, kind-hearted and sensible. Also a quiet
little mouse of a girl, Miss C., who is very earnest and wants to
improve each moment, and was quite worried about herself because she
sat in her chair a whole afternoon and didn't do anything.
There is a sprinkling of Englishmen on board, a few American men, ten
Japanese, an Italian Colonel who apparently is very much of a
lady-killer, one Y.M.C.A. _man_ and about a hundred of us in our high
collars and greenish suits.
The "Caronia" has been an armored cruiser in the Pacific during the
first part of the war, and then was hastily fitted up to carry troops.
She is in rather bad condition, battered and dirty. Nevertheless ship
life seems just what it was before the war. The food is good, tea is
served, the attendants with their nice English voices are all so
remarkably courteous and--charming! That is the only word for it. And
now I must go and dress for dinner, which means, I shall put on a
clean high collar. Ugh!
Sunday, Dec. 29th.
I must tell you about our Christmas at sea. It is the custom on all
English ships for the stewards at midnight to go all through the ships
singing carols. As I lay in my berth I heard them begin, such a fine
men's chorus, singing in harmony. They came down our corridor, passed
us, the sound gradually dying away, then the "Y" girls began and also
went all over the ship, singing very well. Christmas was a wet, foggy
day. The old "Caronia" would put her nose down into a wave and send a
shower of spray over the decks. There were a few seasick people, yet
one would hardly have called it rough. In the morning there was a
short Christmas service, but the nicest part of the day came in the
afternoon and will always stand out in my memory. All the girls had a
tremendous lot of candy and fruit, and they decided to divide it all
up so that every man employed on board the ship should get a present
from the Y.M.C.A. In the afternoon we all went way down into the
lower regions of the ship to sing and to distribute our gifts. There
all the men who work down in the darkness were assembled. The "Y"
girls sang, then the men sang, Christmas carols at first, but the
party got merrier and merrier, and funny songs and solos and stunts of
all kinds were performed. An old piano had been brought down. One of
the stewards, a true comedian, gave us several awfully good songs,
with a charm and a rhythm that were quite irresistible. One little
Irish-looking boy with waving dark hair and a mischievous, sensitive
face, sang cockney songs, the others joining in the chorus. Then, as
the "Y" girls sang a catchy "rag" he was pushed forward and began a
nimble clog dance. The first thing I knew, I was in the ring dancing
with him! There was a shout of surprise from everybody, and they kept
us at it over and over again. Finally we left, feeling really happy.
It had been one of those rare parties where every one contributed to
the entertainment. A few days later the enclosed expression of
gratitude from the "catering department" was handed to each "Y" girl,
also several others, equally appreciative, from the engineers and
members of the crew.
The day after Xmas is a holiday in England. The men were again trying
to have a little festivity down below and I was asked to go down and
dance for them, so of course I did. I did the "Cachuca" to horrible
old waltz music banged out by one of the stewards, I did every dance I
ever knew and more than I knew; and then we had songs and more stunts
from the men. Such good songs, and so catchy. It was great fun, and
the men were so appreciative. And all down in the dark, damp, unknown
region of a big ship!
The American men on board are not to our country's credit; a poor lot.
The Italian colonel is the centre of attraction. He is a fascinating
person, liked by men and women equally. He has borrowed my guitar for
the voyage and sings and whistles to delighted groups.
This morning, after a foggy but calm voyage, we came up on deck to
find everything glistening in sun. The sea was streaked in green and
black and the white caps gleamed, while ever widening patches of blue
appeared among the clouds. To port, barely distinguishable in the gray
clouds, was Ireland. Pretty soon, on the other side, Wales came into
sight. The day has become brighter and brighter. Continually we pass
little steamers. There is the thrill of approaching land. We do not
know where we are going. Such a delightful, irresponsible sensation! I
know just how a boy must feel in the army.
New Year's Day, 1919.
Here I am, writing like any soldier at a Y.M.C.A. canteen in
Liverpool. There are four of us crowded round one little table in a
large, bare, smoky room. The place is buzzing with soldiers, a game of
billiards is going on in one corner and in another a graphophone is
never allowed one moment's rest.
You would laugh, (or perhaps you wouldn't!) if you could see me
camping out in the wilds of England. Sunday night when we were all at
dinner on the "Caronia" the engines suddenly stopped throbbing, and
when we went up on deck there were the lights of Liverpool on either
side of us, a sky full of stars above, and little lighted steamers
scudding about. We were to ride at anchor in the harbor all night. A
tug brought the Alien Officer on board, and each one of us and our
passports had to undergo his scrutiny. It was a tedious business, and
as I did not come till near the end of the alphabet he didn't get
around to me till after midnight. One thing I have learned already is
the immense advantage of belonging to the first of the alphabet. Your
future is made or marred by your initial.
Monday we were up at five thirty, and finally, after interminable
bustle and waiting and crowding, we and our luggage were through the
customs. The Y.M.C.A. here weren't expecting us, and were rather
overwhelmed at the prospect of housing us. They got accommodations for
the first thirty (of the alphabet) at a good hotel. The remaining
sixty-five were sent to a Y.M.C.A. hut called Lincoln Lodge, where one
floor of soldiers' barracks was turned over to us. Imagine a huge
chill room with brick walls, containing four hundred double-decker
beds and nothing else. The atmosphere was like a tightly bottled and
preserved London fog. It was raining outside. On each bed was a
burlap-hay mattress and a coarse blanket. After lunch downstairs I
fixed myself up in my own blankets with my fur coat on top, got very
comfortable and had a three hours' rest. Every night I ever spent on
the rocky ground at our Mountain Lake stood me in good stead, and I
didn't mind my lumpy, "rolly" mattress a bit, but it has been hard on
many of the girls. That night I slept twelve and a half hours, and
woke at nine thirty yesterday much refreshed. In the morning I helped
with the dish washing down in the canteen in the basement; such a
filthy place I don't wonder the "flu" spreads. I don't want to begin
to criticise so soon, but if I see much more of the conditions I saw
there I shall do my little bit to instigate a reform, at least where I
work.
In the afternoon I went with a nice Washington girl, Miss P. and a
great enormous Irish officer with a gentle smile and sweet voice, to
see a German submarine in the harbor. It was one of their largest
models which has surrendered. We were allowed on board and examined it
all. It gave me a strange feeling to be walking that deck and to read
the German signs everywhere, and to see those deadly guns, now become
the playthings of little boys who swarmed over the boat and up into
the gunners' seats.
New Year's Eve the Y.M.C.A. made use of all of us girls and gave a
dance, five of us furnishing the music, I alternately playing my
guitar and then using it as a drum, beating it on the back with my
ring. It made quite a hit. And really with two violins, ukulele and
piano we weren't a half bad orchestra. The "Y" men were immensely
grateful as they had searched the town unsuccessfully for a band. The
place was jammed with soldiers, American, Canadian and British, and
really it was a very jolly, nice affair. And now we are on the point
of departure for London.
Paris, January 12, 1919.
So much has happened since I wrote you from Liverpool and we have all
passed through so many moods that I wonder whether I can think back
and tell you everything. We left Liverpool for London a hundred
strong, the Y.M.C.A. having reserved enough first class coaches for us
all. We were a jolly party in our compartment. I played the guitar and
we all sang. We had afternoon tea served at stations and it was all
very much like peace times except that the train was not heated at all
and was excessively damp and cold, and in the compartments were
various signs ordering the public to keep the shades down after dark
and on no account to let any light show. The English landscape was
beautiful, soft and undulating, but _damp_ looking. That dampness gets
into your soul. The trees were brown, without leaves, yet the grass
in the fields was vivid green.
We arrived in London after dark, about eight p.m. There we were met by
some "Y" men, and after the identification of baggage, which with a
hundred girls is a desperate affair, we were all loaded into huge
trucks or "brakes" as they call them, and carted to our various
destinations. About twenty of us were dumped out at the Melbourne
Hotel, a decidedly God-forsaken place just off Russell Square. There I
shared a room with Miss P. an awfully nice Washington girl. If you
could see that room! It was desperately cold, and so damp the towels
were wet. A broken gas mantle way up near the ceiling gave a dim
greenish light which seemed to mix up with the fog and become part of
the oppressing atmosphere. We were back in the land of pitcher and
bowl and slop jar, and brushing your teeth from a tumbler. Neither of
us had heroism enough to bathe, but crawled into our humid bed with
sweaters and warm wrappers and bedsocks on, and all the capes and fur
coats piled on top. Somehow we shivered ourselves to sleep.
The next morning the sun was actually shining. After a sloppy
breakfast, we all reported at the Imperial Hotel where we were given
instructions on all kinds of things. We were to be sent to Paris in
relays just as quickly as possible. In the meantime London was ours.
Miss P., who knew London, and I went shopping. I was chiefly
interested in discovering all evidences of war. London _had_ changed
somehow, yet not exactly in the way one might vaguely imagine. Shops
were all thriving apparently, Liberty's windows as entrancing as ever,
movement and crowds everywhere. Yet if you observed closely you saw
how few automobiles and taxis there were, though the busses were the
same as ever, except that there were women-conductors. The streets
were absolutely flooded with men in uniform, soldiers of all kinds.
There were many Australians and New Zealanders, tall, lean men with
weather-beaten faces and a certain attractive swagger which is
augmented by their broad-brimmed hats turned up at one side. Canadians
were everywhere, and in less numbers, Americans. And of course the
British in their splendid uniforms with their unmistakable bearing. I
was glad to see so many, many specimens of noble Anglo-Saxons. They
seem to me to be the hope of England. The most striking of all are the
Scotch; perfect giants of men, in their kilts and plaids, bare knees
and all. Then there were many wounded, men wearing the blue hospital
uniform, with arms and legs gone, heads bandaged, limping forth to get
the air; but most of them smiling. Miss P. and I decided that the
greatest evidence of the terrible strain of war was in the expression
of people on the street. No one ever smiled. Faces were dull and
joyless. Clothes were old. Shoes were shapeless and soggy. Every one
seemed hopeless rather than actively sorrowful. And in the keen,
blonde faces of the men one sees about Whitehall, the men on the
inside of affairs, there was a far-away, set, determined expression.
We had arrived in London on New Year's day, Wednesday, and were to
leave on Sunday. Sunday afternoon we were all taken to South Hampton
and after interminable business at the customs house we boarded a
channel boat for Havre. A smooth passage. At 5.45 a.m. I looked out of
the porthole and there was the shore of France, all black, with little
lights twinkling and a great white searchlight flashing back and forth
over the water. After breakfast, when we went up on deck, the sky was
rosy with the approaching sunrise, and suddenly in a burst of glory
the sun came out of a golden cloud and warmed us all! It was an
indescribably beautiful scene. The masts of many ships and all the
ropes and rigging against the glowing pink clouds in the sky, the
beloved bustle of a harbor, the French language, the smiling French
faces, the excitement of arrival at dawn, all made us happy, and I,
for one, loved France with all my heart at that moment. We were
gathered on the wharf for some time, where we watched red-capped
German prisoners unloading our trunks from the ship. Then, in rows of
fours, we were marched up through the muddy streets to the Y.M.C.A.
headquarters. There we were given a good, direct talk by the man in
charge and were again marched off for an early luncheon. My admiration
for the Y.M.C.A. is rising continually. I am proud and thrilled to be
a part of it. I am glad I came.
"Premiere Classe" coaches were reserved for us on our trip to Paris.
We left Havre at noon, closely packed into our compartments. Such
wonderful country as we went through! We stopped at Rouen and had fine
views of the Cathedral, the excited "Y" girls running from one side of
the car to the other in their effort to miss nothing. In the Rouen
station a fine old lady was giving coffee at a Red Cross canteen. A
continuous stream of soldiers in blue came up to her booth. I saw one
greenish-coated Italian soldier step up and order coffee just as a
French soldier was beginning his. The two chinked their cups together,
while the shrewd-faced old lady in her flowing Red Cross cap beamed at
them.
The train then became crowded, and a French soldier came into our
compartment. I got to talking with him. He had been a prisoner in
Germany ever since August, 1914, and had been back in France just five
days. He was very young, with one of the saddest faces I ever saw. I
asked him how he had been treated. He said that he had never seen any
cruelty to prisoners, except that the last two years of the war they
had been so poorly nourished. Much else he told us about the French
attitude toward their allies. I have talked with many French and
American boys during this past week and have heard many stories, but
they must wait till I get home. Apparently the men in the ranks from
Australia, Canada and the United States, get on well with each other
and with the French, but they say many things against the English. I
think this is due to a sort of provincial antipathy on the part of our
boys to anything "different" from what they are used to. I have run
against this attitude in many since I have been here and it seems to
me a great pity. Whenever I hear boys talking against the English I am
going to try to make them see differently. I have found one exception.
Such a nice boy whom I talked with yesterday in the train. He had been
in the one U.S. division that fought at Ypres. As he described the
battle line his face was drawn with the horror of it, yet he had to
talk about it, and I let him, hoping he would "get it off his chest"
that way. "One thing is," he said, "that no one knows what the
British have been through in this war. Terrible as the Marne and the
Argonne were, Ypres was ten times worse. It was the most frightful
place on the front, and the British have done wonders in holding it."
He told me of many of the horrors, and talked about the wonderful
chaplain of his regiment who ministered to the dying boys wherever
they fell and who saw to it that the thousands of unburied dead were
buried and their identification tags secured. He said that you could
tell by looking at a Prussian officer that he would stick a knife
through a baby! Then we got to talking about his home in Ohio. When we
parted he gave my hand a grip like a vise and said: "You're the first
honest-to-goodness American girl I've talked to for fifteen months. I
sure won't forget you!" To digress still further, I just want to say
that it is a new and I believe quite wonderful experiment, this
sending of the right sort of girls to work and to associate with the
boys in the army. War is bad. The herding of men in armies is bad. I
have never before realized how much men need good women. It is up to
us to _be_ good, in all the joyous, efficient, and true sense of the
word.
To return to our trip to Paris. After our soldier left us, two nice
French women squeezed into our compartment. The train got fuller and
fuller. In the corridor a tall English officer sat on his bag and
puffed his pipe at us. Next to him three exuberant French poilus half
lay and half sat all in a heap, their shrapnel helmets, canteens and
packs piled about them. There was much laughter and snatches of song
among them, and many winks at the English officer who remained
supremely indifferent to them. One of them smoked two cigarettes at a
time for our benefit, sometimes puffing one through his nose and the
other through his mouth. It was long after dark, and we had had
nothing to eat or drink since eleven a.m., and we were all squeezed so
tight we couldn't move. At last I offered the officer my large
suitcase for a seat, which he accepted. One of the French soldiers sat
on it with him, the ice was broken, and we all had a very delightful
time till we got to Paris at midnight. A hasty bite at the canteen,
and we were rushed to another station and put on the train for
Versailles where a hotel was reserved for us. There we have stayed
under very damp and cold conditions, going into Paris every day for
more conferences, physical examinations, etc. Tomorrow I expect to
receive my assignment. I have no idea where it will be.
You should see la Place de la Concorde. All the captured German guns
have been gathered there. These great, hideous things fascinate me in
a strange way, and I wandered among them the other day examining them.
There are hundreds of trench mortars that sent the dreaded
"Minnenwurfer"; ugly, chunky guns, peculiarly vicious looking. Around
the obelisk are arranged the long-distance guns, their gigantic
muzzles pointing in the air. Hundreds and hundreds of guns! As you
look toward the Arc de Triomphe the Champs Elysees is lined on both
sides with guns close together, all the way. They are all camouflaged,
mottled and streaked in green and brown. It is bewildering to look at
them. They are the symbol, I suppose, of a great indelible mark in the
book of history, which later generations will gaze on with curiosity.
But now, one little mortal standing in the presence of those recently
silenced mouths, can only shiver and go away. It is too soon.
January 24th.
I have hated to write for the simple reason that I have been having
bronchitis. Not serious at all, but I thought a whole ocean between us
might make you think it was serious. Really, if I _had_ to be sick, I
am lucky to have been here in comfortable quarters with medical care
and no one depending on me for work. But it was a nuisance and a delay
when I didn't want to be delayed.
January 26th.
I have been out now, yesterday and to-day and am feeling finely. Here
in Paris the "Y" has its own medical staff and all its workers are
given the best of care. Out "in the field" we come under the army
doctor's care. But I don't expect to need any such care. I have
received my assignment which is Semur, somewhere near Dijon. All I can
find out about it is that there is _mud_ and that I "shall be on my
own resources and initiative a good deal." They must have some
confidence in me. Oh, I am so eager to get to work!
It is wonderful to be in Paris just now, even though one must stay
indoors. I find the French newspapers intensely interesting and read
them from cover to cover. A truly lofty spirit runs through them all.
The men who write the editorials are certainly spiritual leaders,
public teachers and guides. I keep running across things I want to
send to you just to show what an elevating force a newspaper can be.
It is because they, with every other industry, have been working for
the salvation of their country. And yet--Europe is blind. Never has
there been such need for understanding of economics and Christian
strength. Thank heaven, some of the leaders of the Peace Conference
seem to possess both!
Yesterday I passed one of the "mutiles de la guerre." He had no legs.
He was propelling himself by his hands and arms in a sort of bicycle,
crossing the street valiantly. A steamer rug decently wrapped around
him concealed his deformity. He was in his uniform. The machine struck
the curb and stopped. He could not force it over. How happy I was to
be there for just that moment! I easily lifted him and helped him
over. He thanked me with sweet French courtesy, and he went on, and I
went on; but his gentle, thin, suffering face!
One sees almost none of the terrible results of war in Paris. London
was far, far worse. I am told that the French Government has provided
other places for "les mutiles." Instead, all over Paris are sturdy
bands of little "poilus," marching in their extremely _supple_ order.
And many times a day squads of French cavalry go clattering under my
window. The reserves are being demobilized and they are everywhere.
Pouillenay, France,
February 7, 1919.
Dearest Family: If I have let more than a week go by since my last
letter please forgive me. These have been days full of events, and in
the brief intervals between events I have had to rest in order to keep
a full supply of energy on tap for the occasion to come. When one is
the only woman among some 1500 men, one must not slump. But I'll tell
you all about it.
On the Monday after I wrote you last, the doctor signed my release and
things began to move. I was to go to Semur, in Burgundy. I knew no
more about it than that. Tuesday, at 2.30 I was to pull out of the
Gare de Lyons.
In order to travel in France which is all under military rule, a great
many documents, tickets, and identification papers are necessary, and
it takes a great deal of labor and patience to procure them all. The
Y.M.C.A. office in Paris is an enormous and hectic place, with its
various departments poorly co-ordinated; so I, like every one else,
did a great deal of running up and down stairs and much retracing of
steps before everything concerning baggage, tickets, money, equipment,
mail, etc., was attended to.
Tuesday morning, I and my baggage were at the station two hours ahead
of train-time as I had been warned was necessary. There I received the
joyful news that there was no 2.30 train to Semur. That there was one
at nine in the evening and another at 7.00 a.m. I had been in France
long enough not to be upset by a mere trifle like that, so I set about
registering my baggage and attending to the dozens of things that are
necessary at the station. A most delightful old porter was my guide,
counsellor and friend, leading me through the maze of red tape with
unfaltering steps. I entrusted all my handbaggage to him for the
night, which would seem rash to all who hadn't looked into his shrewd
and kindly face. And then I walked back into Paris with only a
toothbrush in my pocket. After reporting my delay at headquarters, who
scowled at me for their mistake, I got a room at the Hotel Richepanse,
near the Place de la Concorde. Rooms are hard to find in Paris these
days, and I had to do a good deal of wandering before I secured this
one. I was glad I didn't have my copious and heavy luggage. After a
good rest, I did a little frivolous shopping, including a fetching and
most unmilitary hat. Heaven knows when I shall wear it, but it folds
up flat and I couldn't resist it. And I had supper with a harmless
little "Y" girl and went to bed early.
The next morning at 5.30 I crept down six flights of stairs in the
pitch dark. By the light of a candle in the lobby an old woman gave me
a cup of black coffee and a hunk of bread. I drank the coffee and took
the bread and went out into the blue black of just-before-dawn. The
street was deserted, and I munched my bread as I hurried along. My
adventure was beginning! Arriving at La Place de la Concorde I could
see the obelisk and the yawning guns silhouetted against the lighting
sky. I went down into the Metro and in time arrived at the station. My
dear old porter was outside looking for me. We got the bags and
guitar, and he installed me in a first class compartment where there
were already two French officers. With much courteous fuss, room was
made for me and the bags were stowed away on top. Then I asked the
porter to buy for me the "Echo de Paris" paying him for all he had
done. We waited for some time, and the officer sitting next to me, an
elderly gentleman in a great bearskin coat over his uniform, offered
me his paper, saying, "He will never bring you yours, Mademoiselle;
you have too much confidence in these men." "Oh, I am sure he will
bring it," I replied. "Il a ete si aimable pour moi tout le temps;"
which made both men smile and shrug their shoulders.
The whistle blew, the train jerked, when suddenly the door opened and
there was the fat old porter all out of breath with my newspaper.
"Voila, Mademoiselle!" he cried, flourishing it at me. "They didn't
have the Echo in the station and I had to go way up the street for
it." And the Frenchmen cheered!
Two nice American officers came into our compartment and we all had
breakfast together in the dining-car. Everybody talks to everybody
else in France now. They got off the train in an hour or so, and I
was left to the mercies of the French army which immediately started a
rapid cross-fire of conversation with me as the target. In reality we,
or at least I, had an awfully good time and they told me many amusing
and interesting things which I can't tell you because I foresee that
this letter is going to be horribly long.
At two o'clock I got off at a God-forsaken little junction called Les
Laumes. My spirits were high, however, because all around were
snow-covered beautiful hills, patches of woods, and winding roads
outlined by slender poplars with bunches of green mistletoe growing
way up in their branches. There are many Americans billeted at Les
Laumes. Poor boys! A big M.P. (military policeman) met me at the
station. The M.P. is your salvation if you are honest and your terror
if you are not. This was a tall, powerful, bushy-eyebrowed young
westerner. He picked up my bags as if they were nothing at all and
escorted me to the restaurant.
How can I ever begin to describe to you the sweetness and the fineness
of our boys over here! I am proud, proud of America. I love the real
spirit of her which these boys have preserved and strengthened in
these little villages way off in France. You think I ought to work
with children. But I tell you these boys are children; wonderfully
powerful and dexterous children; and I play and work with them as
though they were children, and we have had happy times together. I see
now what there is for me to do. I pray that I may do it, in order to
help them and be worthy of them during these difficult, tedious,
dangerous days of waiting, with nothing to do.
But to return to my nice M.P. with the bushy eyebrows. He got me an
army car to take me to Semur, with a soft-voiced Southerner to run it.
It was a delightful ride of twenty miles or so through chilly country
glistening with snow; and all the time the boy talked of home in
Mississippi, and his mother, and what he wanted to do when he got
back. He took me to the Y.M.C.A. headquarters at Semur. There I met
Mr. M. of Salem, Mass., who is my chief. It seems that Semur is the
centre of all Y.M.C.A. activities with the 78th Division which did
much heroic fighting all along the front. Mr. M. is a delightful
gentleman and a real man. He has been with the boys in the midst of
the fighting. We had a good talk. He finally decided to send me to
Pouillenay with the 2nd Battalion of the 311th Infantry, 78th
Division. "This is an experiment, Miss Shortall," he said. "You will
be the only American woman in the town. The town is off the main line
and the boys have not had their share of comforts and amusements. The
"Y" has run to the dogs. Everything is gloomy. Do you want the job?" I
said it was just what I wanted. The next morning a nice "Y" man put me
and my baggage into a car and ran me over to Pouillenay about ten
miles over the hills.
Pouillenay is a tiny, peaked-roofed village of mud and stones, with a
river babbling through its centre where the women wash and the geese
wade, and old stone bridges span it. All about are hills, lovely
hills. In this French setting, place 1500 American boys in khaki! They
are everywhere! The dazed and stupefied old natives wandering around
in their wooden shoes are in the minority. The crooked streets resound
to American voices, American jokes and songs, and huge U.S. trucks go
thundering over the ancient cobblestones, while the insulted geese go
to the side of the road looking so wrathfully dignified and stately
that I laugh every time I see them, and the black and white speckled
hens shriek and run for their lives in all directions, often into the
houses whose doors are on the level with the street. This town was to
be my home. I was left in the care of Lieutenant Robinson, who has
been most kind to me, as every one else has been. (I'll send you
descriptions of my friends here after I discover who censors the
mail!)
Billets were found for me at the house of Mme. and M. Gloriod, the
nicest old couple that ever were. I have a tiny room with a tiny
stove, which nevertheless eats lots of wood. Madame Gloriod, energetic
and kindhearted, rosy-cheeked and jolly, brings a delicious breakfast
to me every morning and lights my fire. Talk about luxury! And I eat
it in leisure from the depths of my voluminous bed. (More undeserved
good luck, mother!) And all this costs me about three francs a day. My
regular "mess" aside from breakfast is at Battalion Headquarters,
presided over by Major S. who they say was a well known New York
lawyer before the war. He is in every way a cultivated gentleman
admired by the whole battalion. He has been extremely kind to me,
making me feel quite at home. At his mess are six other officers,
lieutenants of various colors. I have also dined with the officers of
the other companies and it is very jolly. But I am not here for the
gay life; don't believe it. My headquarters is the Y canteen, a
miserable little room with a counter, a stove, and rough benches
around it. The men pour in here and smoke and talk. My guitar is at
their disposal and they use it. Often I play it and we have real
sings. My third night, while a group of us were singing, Corporal
Johnson, of F Company, huge and sandy-haired, and Corporal Martin,
stalwart and handsome, burst into the crowded room followed by other
members of F Co. "Clear the way!" shouted Corporal Martin, making his
way toward me, and then with a sweeping bow and with a grand manner he
invited me to "mess" with the men of the best platoon of the best
company of the best battalion of the best etc., etc., on the following
evening. Of course I accepted on the spot. "Now shall we give the lady
a song?" said Sergeant Riggs, stepping out. And they sang. They raised
the roof! Great songs they were too. Then I was presented with a mess
kit just like the soldiers and with mock solemnity was given a lesson
in how to use it. Then I rehearsed it for their benefit, my purposeful
blunders calling forth roars of laughter.
The next evening they called for me. In army style we marched snappily
through the streets to F Co. mess hall, a long wooden building with
dirt floor. I was placed in the front row with a corporal on either
side to keep me in position. The mess was a real and delicious feast.
Those boys had contributed extra to it, and a whole pig had been
roasted, not to mention caldrons of vegetables, jelly-cake, doughnuts,
and coffee--_sweetened_ coffee! I drank a quart of it at least. Then
Sergeant Riggs, a humorous character and my staunch friend now, gave a
speech welcoming me to Pouillenay. I can tell you it made the tears
come to my eyes, these men, so chivalrous, so unreserved in their
welcome of a woman into their midst; and I dedicated myself there and
then to them, resolved to do everything in my power to make their stay
here brighter and better. But the biggest thing that I do is not of my
doing at all; it lies in simply being a woman. You really wouldn't
laugh if you were over here and saw these boys hungering for love and
for home. Well, of course I answered the sergeant's speech, and then
there was cheering and then singing. Corporal Martin then stepped
forward and said in his oratorical manner. "We have now come to the
conclusion of this ceremony, which consists in your washing your mess
kit." Roars of laughter! I was placed in the line and we all moved up
to the garbage pail; next, to a huge tank of decidedly greasy hot
water into which we plunged our mess kits; then on to a kettle of
rinsing water where we gave them another dip. That being over, I was
invited to a show given by one of the other companies in one of the
mess halls, and as there was half an hour to spare, it was decided
that we have a parade through the town. Of course it was dark by this
time. So with a sergeant taking one arm and a corporal the other, we
marched and marched, singing all the time, through the little black
streets, up the hill and round the church and down again, over the
bridge and back to the mess hall where the show awaited us. "Now you
can write home that you have marched with the American army," said
Sergeant Riggs.
On another day I happened to be passing when F Co. was drilling. The
sergeant insisted that I join the ranks. So with a rifle I blundered
through the drill, my mistakes causing much merriment.
I really have been doing a little work; don't worry. I have been cook
and nurse for three boys with influenza, two in their gloomy billets
and the other in a cold, damp house. That has taken a good deal of
time. Also the Y.M.C.A. has just put up a large tent to be used
instead of its present inadequate quarters and I, with the help of
many boys, have been fixing it up. On Wednesday I went to Semur on a
shopping tour, riding in on an open limber drawn by mules. The driver
told me those mules had delivered many loads of rations to the boys in
the front trenches by night and had been through gas and shell fire of
the worst kind. It seems that mules can stand much more than horses.
At the Semur Y.M.C.A. I was able to get flags and posters, tables and
benches for our tent, which were loaded on to the limber. The next day
we set to work on our interior decorating. Never did the hanging of
magnificent paintings in a rich mansion receive more consideration
than the placing of our French and American posters. Symmetry is the
rule of the army! If I put a picture on one side of the tent, it was
absolutely necessary to put one of the same size exactly opposite. At
the end of the long tent are the French and American flags crossed,
and under them, cut with painstaking care from a 1917 Liberty Loan
poster, hangs the Liberty Bell with the words "Ring it Again" above. A
wreath of smilax gathered from the woods encircles each electric
light. Really it is very pretty and gay. But there is a big drawback;
the dampness. The floor is covered with damp sawdust, and one little
stove burning green wood is not enough to dry it. The captain of the
Supply Co. has promised another stove, but until it comes and has been
kept burning several days we can't think of moving in. I have my heart
set on making it the brightest and warmest spot in town. Wine and
cognac shops are my strong competitors. I must get busy.
How would you like to send all your copies of "Life" and any other
magazines to me instead of to the great unknown? They would be
greatly appreciated in Pouillenay. And here's a novel suggestion from
a "highbrow Shortall." Papa, (I exempt Mamma), won't you invite H. and
M. to every musical comedy that comes along, and whenever you hear a
song that is new and good and snappy, send me the music "toot sweet"
as the boys say.
Feb. 14th.
On the other side of this card I have marked my present home on "Main
Street." If you follow this road over the hills you come to the
heights where Vercingetorix of the Gauls made his last stand against
Julius Caesar. This is historical country. Where javelins and arrows
once flew thick, hordes of Americans are now living, the latest
liberators of these old vineyards. And almost on the site of a pagan
temple stands the Y.M.C.A. tent where a twentieth century priestess
from Chicago hands out cigarettes and plays ragtime. We are in our
tent and drawing crowds.
One of these streets is called "La rue des Quatres Ponts." It is as
pretty as its name, but the American boys don't see any beauty in any
of it, and I can't blame them. All they care about is "God's own
country." I do hope for their sakes that the Division will be ordered
to move soon.