Feb. 18th.
Here is another view of our tiny town. Just at present everything is
buried under most fearful and wonderful mud. I never stir without my
arctics. I am glad I brought two pairs.
Yesterday being Sunday, I made about forty gallons of hot chocolate
which I served in the tent all the afternoon. It was a rainy day and
you should have seen the men pile in and gather round the huge army
caldron with their cups. The tent was warm and cheerful and it was all
very jolly.
The day before I had a new experience. I rode over to Semur in a
side-car or "wife-killer" as they call them; you know, those little
basket affairs attached to a motor-cycle. The Catholic chaplain who is
also a young lieutenant, drove it, and we went about forty miles an
hour over hill and dale. He was officiating at a funeral in Semur,
while I bought cups, dishpans, and various other utensils for our
chocolate outfit. I packed them all into the side-car and you should
have heard our load jingle and clatter as we whizzed back over the
rough road!
Feb. 23rd.
Yesterday (Saturday afternoon) I walked with three officers to the
town of Alise, about five miles from Pouillenay. It is a most
picturesque little village on the hillside. Above it on the top of
the hill is an enormous statue of Vercingetorix. It is here that he
made his last stand against Caesar. On the top of the hill are the
ruins of a Roman village; a small coliseum, a temple with several
beautiful columns still standing, baths, aqueducts, and all the
paraphernalia of first class ruins. The three lieutenants I went with
are very jolly, nice men, and we poked and pried into everything in
most irreverent and frivolous spirit. One of them, Lieut. McK., a very
young Princeton fellow, had recently studied up the ruins and kept
giving information about them in highbrow manner. Every statement he
made was immediately challenged by the others, and great betting
contests arose as to the depth of wells, Roman methods of heating
water, etc., all with the continuous stream of jokes that congenial
Americans keep up when they are off for a good time. These were the
officers of F Co., 311th Infantry, who have been very cordial to me.
March 1st, 1919.
Again a full, full week has slipped past, and I haven't even begun to
tell you of the week before that. Such a life as I have gotten myself
into! If I had any time to ponder at all I might get dizzy, but
luckily there is nothing for me to do except use my wits and go on.
Since I last wrote you I have been from ballet dancer on the mess
hall stage to mother-confessor and staid counsellor of homesick boys.
I have been cook and dishwasher, both on a wholesale scale, and I have
been hostess at an officers' ball.
I must tell you about the ballet dancing because it was such fun. I
didn't want Valentine's day to go by without some little celebration,
so I got the sergeants of the various companies together to see if we
couldn't get up an impromptu stunt show. Everybody joined in
enthusiastically, and in the afternoon we had an uproarious rehearsal
in the Supply Co. Mess Hall which is also the Pouillenay theatre. A
few violins and two drums were scraped together, and in half an hour
we had a little orchestra playing such contagious ragtime that every
one was jigging and beating time and cutting all sorts of capers.
These boys went simply wild over the first music they had heard in
months. The orchestra with the aid of a toothless old piano did
wonders. There is lots of talent buried in khaki! The snare drum
rolled finely, and another snare drum with the membrane loosened
played the part of a rather pudgy, indecisive bass drum. It didn't
matter! One boy made an ingenious whistle out of his mess kit, and
trilled and whistled, generally playing the part of piccolo, giving
life to the orchestra. The rehearsal, if it didn't put the finishing
touches on our performance, at least was jolly good fun and filled us
with invincible self-confidence for the evening. I had arranged a
Valentine tableau for the end, and Mme. Gloriod at home had pinned
hundreds of paper flowers on my gray steamer rug in the form of a huge
heart. I had even written a sentimental poem which I was to read
aloud, and on the whole it was to be a very pretty valentine, when
suddenly, about six o'clock came the news that a Y.M.C.A. moving
picture show had come to town and would have the mess hall that
evening. Our show was off. I was disappointed, especially since the
movie machine broke down in the middle of the performance and couldn't
be fixed. However, we decided to give our show on the following
Monday. And we did. And a ripping good show it was! It went off with
snap and the audience was gratifyingly appreciative. Imagine the long,
narrow mess hall with its dirt floor, board tables and benches,
crowded and packed with soldiers. The light was dim and the air thick
with tobacco smoke. At one end is the rough board stage with army
blankets pinned up for curtains. Below the stage was the orchestra,
all alert for its first performance, and back of the curtains were we,
the actors, packed in pretty tight, amid all the excitement and bustle
and fun of the moment before the curtain rises. There was I, alone,
among all those great rough men! Yet I don't know why I should call
them rough. More sweet consideration was never shown any one than was
shown me that evening. My overshoes were taken off; a chair was placed
for me in the "wings"; as soon as I finished my part my coat was put
on and buttoned up for me; and in a thousand little ways these boys
took care of me. I did two dances for them. One was a scarf dance that
I made up to the "Missouri Waltz," and then the good old cachuca,
arranged for another waltz. I had to adapt my dances to the available
music. Of course I won an easy triumph, having no competitors, and
being the first girl they had seen on the stage for many a day.
There's no danger of my getting vain; don't worry. The other stunts
ranged from the comic to the serious. All were loudly applauded. Some
were awfully good. One sensitive-faced boy played the violin. He had
been gassed on the front and had completely lost his voice. It seemed
as though he put everything he could not say into that three-dollar
violin, such a beautiful, living tone he got. The miserable
instrument, the acoustics of the rude mess hall and the jangling piano
accompaniment could not detract from the real music he gave us, and
the crowd, recognizing it to be real, whistled and clapped and
demanded more. Two nights after, we repeated our show, and this time
the Major honored us with his presence and said many nice things to us
afterward.
Since this show, the battalion orchestra has become an institution. I
have made several trips to Semur in search of instruments. The last
time I came back in the Major's side-car in the pouring rain with two
cornets, a saxophone and a flute packed in around me under the
blankets. These were given me by the Entertainment Department at
General Headquarters, after nearly an hour's arguing to convince them
that they were needed. It is a great addition. Now the orchestra plays
always at the movies when they come to town, about twice a week, and
last Friday they played at our dance. I will tell you about that.
I thought it was about time to do something for the officers, as they
need fun just as much as the enlisted men, so I proposed a dance.
"Where will you get the girls?" they said. "The Red Cross nurses in
Semur," said I. "There is no hall here large enough for a dance," said
they. "Yes there is!" said I. Mme. Gloriod had told me of a wooden
floor made to fit over the tank in the village "lavoir," which the
mayor of Pouillenay had had made in the happy days before the war.
The lavoir is a good-sized stone structure with a large tank of soapy
water in the middle, round which the women scrub and pound their
clothes, gossiping, laughing and scolding all the day long in their
raucous French. It is not easy to imagine an up-to-date American dance
in this mediaeval, sloppy spot. The Major and a few other optimists
backed me up and told me to go ahead. After more or less trouble I got
the Red Cross nurses and four or five "Y" girls from various towns
committed to last Thursday evening. One lieutenant engaged the Semur
orchestra, which is several months older and more professional than
ours. Then I made a memorable call on the Mayor of Pouillenay, M.
Champenois, a delightful, impressive old Frenchman. I found him in the
parlor of his little stone house seated at a huge desk; his sweet
little wife, with black lace in her hair, tending the fire. They made
me come in and sit down, and an hour went by in the discussion of art,
literature, and the affairs of the world, before they would let me
approach the business of the day. When finally I did make my errand
known, he granted me the lavoir free of charge, undertaking to have
the floor put down himself. We parted the best of friends.
Then followed two days of real work; scrubbing, heating, and
decorating and lighting the lavoir. To make a long story short, it
was charming when we got through. Evergreens, flags, candles and four
electric lights softened and illuminated the dank old place, while two
stoves made it reasonably dry and warm. The floor was sprinkled with
cornmeal. And the dance was a real success; lots of fun, and also with
something distinguished and graceful about it. It was what you might
call "a real lace party," though the only lace on the scene were the
festoons of ancient cobwebs that swayed from the big oaken rafters
high above the reach of the longest broom. As the atmosphere of a
battalion radiates from its commanding officer, I give Major S. the
credit for that unmistakable "touch" that marked our dance.
No sooner off with one dance than I began plotting another. It seemed
too bad that the enlisted men shouldn't have a chance, and the lavoir
all decorated and ready. Major S. gave me permission, and M.
Champenois generously allowed me to keep the lavoir another evening.
Where to get the girls? The Red Cross nurses are allowed to dance only
with officers. I went to Mme. Gloriod, who helps me out on every
proposition. She made me a list of the names of about thirty French
girls, the "four hundred" of Pouillenay, so to speak, and in the
afternoon, with two dear little girls to guide me, I interviewed the
stern mammas of the said damsels, assuring them it was "comme il
faut," urging them to come. About ten accepted, many of the others
being in mourning or else sick. Orders were sent to three companies of
the battalion, inviting them, making it clear that each was to have
one hour of dancing, then was to leave, giving the next a chance. That
was the only way we could manage. Whew! didn't they come! At seven the
hall was packed with Supply Co. men, and a good many others that had
no business there, despite the vigilant guard at the door. The French
girls came. Our valiant orchestra struck up. We whirled; we bumped
into each other; we Virginia-reeled; we circled; and--the hour was up.
All too quick! The men, intoxicated by this taste of fun, refused to
leave. The guards could not clear the room. Low, discontented
mutterings were heard. "The officers danced all night, why can't we?"
"We'll break your whole show up if you make us go." "We'll take all
the girls off with us." "We'll stay as long as we like." I was angry.
It was a moment that required all my tact. I didn't want the evening
to break up in a riot. I didn't want to call an officer if I could
help it. But they would not go. All the French girls got scared and
began coming up to me to say they must go home. I induced them to
stay, somehow. I was on the point of calling off the whole dance there
and then, when the thought of my dear F Company waiting quietly
outside to get in, made me suddenly resolve to put the thing through.
I talked to the boys, putting it up to their sense of fair play, and
thank goodness, most of them filed out. F Company came in and the
dance went on with increased gusto. The hour was up--I called it
out;--quietly, like one man F Co. marched out on the minute and E Co.
came in. I can tell you my heart warmed toward F Co. that stood by me
from the beginning! E. Co. was fine too, and when the dance was over
they escorted me home and gave me a cheer of thanks.
And the next morning, by eleven o'clock, the French women in their
sabots and dirty petticoats were kneeling round the soapy water in the
lavoir, doubtless chattering about the last two nights' events.
March 18th.
Innumerable interruptions! It doesn't seem possible that ten days have
slipped by since this letter was begun, and I apologize for letting
them. Meanwhile I have been doing everything under the sun. One of my
latest jobs is that of bandmaster. I am coaching and coaxing and
imploring three coronets, two clarinets, one saxaphone and a trombone,
not to mention the old piano, to become friends instead of deadliest
enemies. Nothing but implicit faith in the ultimate triumph of harmony
over discord has enabled me to survive the shrieks and grunts and
clashings of our rehearsals. I have had to orchestrate and write out
all the music myself, and incidentally I am acquiring some interesting
and practical knowledge of "the brasses." It is great fun. As soon as
they are good enough I will annex them to our string orchestra. Indeed
I have already promoted one clarinet player, a cunning little Italian,
who now ripples away among the violins.
Our Sunday afternoon chocolate parties are very gay now. We bring over
the rattle-top piano from the mess hall to the tent and the orchestra
plays all afternoon. The tent is packed with soldiers, most of whom I
know pretty well by this time. Near the entrance am I in my blue
Y.M.C.A. apron, and my assistants, making kettleful after kettleful of
_delicious_ chocolate. I am very careful to have it delicious. The
boys line up and we hand them out cupfuls, and cakes, which they take
back to the tables and drink at their leisure while listening to the
music or playing checkers. All the little French boys in town
congregate round the chocolate caldron and all are eager to help in
any way, well knowing what their reward will be. I keep them busy too,
and before the afternoon is over each one has a "chocolatey" little
mouth and a broad smile and nothing but "kind feelings" for the
Americans. I am good friends with these little fellows in their
pinafores and wooden shoes. Yesterday I played tag with them, and what
a clatter they made in their ungainly sabots, which nevertheless did
not prevent their running outrageously fast when I was "it."
Spring is coming. Every morning I listen to the unfamiliar songs of
strange birds. Yet they speak the sweet message that needs no
interpreting. Occasionally we have a fair day between the rainy ones,
and how fair it is! On one of these days I went for a wonderful
horseback ride with a fine young artillery lieutenant about Hy's age.
We cantered gloriously over open fields. We climbed up a high hill.
There we were among rocks and ferns and pines, birds warbling about
us, skylarks singing out of sight, the warm sun on us, and behind and
beyond the graceful, harmonious view of the long valley with the
canal, fringed with poplars, glinting through it, and the cultivated,
nicely outlined fields, each a different shade of green, stretching
far up the opposite hillside.
Well, I mustn't spend any more time on the scenery, for I will either
bore you or make Mamma envious. Here comes another interruption! I am
really feeling very well. I am very happy. Every one is more than kind
to me. I am convinced I did the right thing to come.
Pouillenay, April 1st.
It is a beautiful bright morning. All is serene in the Y.M.C.A. tent,
a few boys writing home and a little group huddled round the stove
waiting to go through the "Delouser," a monstrous machine which
steamed into town this morning. This is in preparation for GOING HOME,
for the 78th has received its orders and will probably leave
Pouillenay about April 16th. There is an atmosphere of excitement
throughout the town. The longed-for news has come and nothing can
surpass the supreme happiness of these homesick boys, who have endured
so much heroically, and yet who are so like children. Orders have come
that the Y.M.C.A. workers are to move with the Division, so I am to
have my first experience of army travel. I am certainly glad that I am
to be allowed to go along. I would be broken-hearted if I had to leave
my battalion while they were still in France.
Many, many things have been happening since I last wrote. Last week
the Lightning Division underwent inspection by General Pershing. The
review was held in Les Laumes, and I went over to see it. I had not
realized before what an immense body of men an Army Division is. On
the vast muddy field stood, motionless, ranks and ranks of khaki-clad
soldiers, their protective coloring blending with the green-brown of
the field. Here and there the Stars and Stripes and the vivid blue and
red of the Infantry and Artillery flags made bright spots on the
monotonous brown scene.
General Pershing arrived an hour late, an impressive military figure
on his beautiful horse. The inspection lasted almost two hours. Then
he presented the D.S.M. to about fifty men, pinning the medal on each,
and shaking each by the hand. The band played the Star Spangled
Banner, and the whole vast body stood rigidly at Attention. The sun
came out, making the scene brilliant and lighting up a lovely white
village on the top of the hill in the background. It was very
beautiful.
The General next went up into the grand stand and the review began,
which means that the whole Division marched past. The Infantry came
first in their orderly files, dipping their colors as they went by.
Then came the Artillery in its seeming magnificent disorder. The great
horses plunging, caissons rattling, drivers holding the reins taut,
scarlet flags fluttering, it galloped over the muddy, bumpy field with
a wonderful rush. This was followed by the Motorized Artillery which
came out of the woods like a swarm of huge creeping beetles. Weird
monsters they were, and their deafening rattle reached us at a
distance like some great magnified buzz. General Pershing gave a
speech next, but I couldn't stand up a minute longer so I left, one of
the officers who had also had enough taking me back in his car. So
when our boys came marching back at 8.30 that evening, after eleven
and a half hours on their feet, I was able to greet them with hot
chocolate and cakes in the tent, to their great satisfaction.
Let's see; what else have I been doing? I have been cooking simple
meals regularly for the sick boys in the infirmary, and feeding one of
them who is too weak to sit up. Then my knowledge of dressmaking has
been taxed to the limit, for I was called upon to make a stylish gown
for the lady in the battalion show; the lady being a tall and
extremely lanky man. We have had lots of fun out of it. We are told
that our show is the best in the Division, and it is now touring the
whole area, playing every evening. Often I go with them, just for fun,
and to dress the lady. We have good times, singing as we tour the
country in the two big ambulances that the army provides for our
transportation. The boys treat me like their sister.
Of course I am most needed in Pouillenay in the evenings, and that is
where I usually am, doing my utmost to bring amusement and gaiety into
the tent. I fly from one thing to another. I get the chocolate made,
forty gallons or so, (that's the easiest thing I do, Mamma!) then I
give two men the job of serving it while I fly for my guitar, tune it
up, spend a lot of energy coaxing some bashful soul to play, perhaps
getting some one to play the mandolin too, then organizing a Virginia
reel or a square dance. It invariably takes coaxing, cajoling,
insisting, to get them started, and then they get going, and we dance
and swing our partners and grand right and left on the dirt floor, a
helpful crowd of bystanders clapping their hands, whistling and
singing in syncopated rhythm. Then usually the music gives out, and I
take the guitar and play anything and everything I know. Jigs, reels,
Italian and Russian tunes, all call forth some response from this
cosmopolitan army of ours, and we have songs and dances of all
nationalities. What scenes that guitar of mine has taken part in since
you gave it to me fourteen years ago! Needless to say, I am glad I
brought it with me, though it will always be the worse for wear as a
result.
Last night the Supply Co. gave a party in honor of its commander,
formerly Captain W. who has just been made a major. He is a great old
character, much beloved by his men. The banquet was a surprise to him.
The mess hall was crowded with men, while on the stage the officers'
table was set. They had invited me and I went in dancing costume
prepared to perform after dinner. The regimental band was there and
played continuously. I wish you could have seen the bass drum! It had
the kaiser's portrait painted on it, so that every time the drummer
beat it he hit the kaiser on the head. No wonder he played with
spirit! It is a first-class brass band and I found it rather thrilling
to dance to it.
I can tell you the main events that happen, but the real things, the
chance meetings in sympathy, the gripping handclasp, the halting story
of disappointment, the seeking for a little mothering, and yes, for
love too--these things I cannot write. I can only give and withhold
sympathy as it seems right, and pray and strive to be very true and
very clear and very strong.
Oh, but it's easy to make chocolate!
Pouillenay, France,
Monday, April 14th, 1919.
Just a line this morning before I get up, that being the only way I
can get a word in edgewise. Once up and dressed, my time is no longer
my own; but safe in bed, I am mistress of myself, and though I may be
interrupted every ten minutes, the unarguable helplessness of my
position is my great protection, and nothing but my conscience can
move me. The first hour or so of day is the only time I reserve for
myself. It is only thus that I ever see a newspaper, that my hair
gets shampooed, clothes mended, or that you occasionally get a letter.
This is the time when the men are out drilling or working on the
roads, and the tent is empty, so I take advantage of it.
Interruption. By conscience! There is nothing to do about it. I must
get up.
April 17th.
You have asked about the Americans' attitude toward the French. In
general it is not flattering. Though I don't sympathize at all with
the boys in this feeling toward the French, whom I love, yet I see
perfectly how it has come about. It springs from the limitations of
both nations. Our boys are terribly homesick and restless. Separated
by time and distance from their country, they have come to glorify it
even more than it deserves. Coming for the most part from thriving
towns and farms, accustomed to work, but with the most modern
appliances, they are disgusted by the lack of sanitation and the
primitive methods of the peasants in these tiny old villages. It is
the contempt of young, pressing, large-scale methods of getting
results, for ancient, tranquil ways. It is our fierce elimination of
waste versus their huge quantity of tiny savings. Nor is our
efficiency more materialistic than this French thrift, though each
appears sordid to the other. We are different, that is all. We are
both greedy.
And then our soldiers meet mostly the worst sort of French girl, which
gives them a bad impression of the country. Also, the French are
making money off of us for all they are worth. Not the authorities,
perhaps, but the people, in all their transactions. It is, in truth,
rather disgusting and ungrateful of them, but perfectly inevitable
after the glowing descriptions of the wealth of America which they
continually hear, and since our boys _will_ pay almost anything for
what they want, and since they are foolish enough to buy tawdry and
worthless souvenirs by the thousands at ridiculously high prices.
And then again, we _never_ see an example of fine, strong, and young
French manhood. We see the poor old tottering men and the degenerate.
Once in a while a French soldier comes through town, and he is usually
a poor specimen. We forget that our towns would be equally desolate if
we had been at war four years.
It is difficult for this army of simple, honest, normal boys to
imagine what they have not seen. Also the weather gets on everybody's
nerves. You are inclined to despise anybody so poor-spirited as to
settle down and live in such a climate. This continuous, everlasting,
never-ending cold rain taxes your temper to the limit. And yet, many
very sweet friendships have sprung up between our soldiers and the old
women in whose houses they are billeted, their "French mothers" as
they call them. And I feel perfectly sure that when they all get home
and the dream of America has come true--or perhaps hasn't come
true--they will look back on France with real affection and with a
little sense of ownership; and they will think of even their
discomforts with pleasure. This has been their big adventure; but
since they are not bent just now upon reading the book of their own
lives, they don't know it.
Paris, May 11th, 1919.
Another shift of scene. Oh, what a change it is! Back to Paris! back
to the world, some might say, but--deserted by my family who are now
joyously on the water going home. Gone are those happy, remarkable
days in darling Pouillenay, gone my beloved Battalion of khaki-clad
boys, and left behind is the peaceful, beautiful countryside of the
Cote d'Or with its white cattle on the green hills, its ducks and its
chickens, its skylarks, and its dear population in sabots.
It has been impossible to send you anything but postal cards the last
few weeks because I have been so busy. Also the 78th's post office
was disorganized owing to preparations for moving, so I must go back
a long way if I am to give you any idea of what has been happening.
Let's see.
The day before Easter the sun came out. Sergeant R. and I went out to
gather flowers for Easter decorations for the tent. The fields were
covered, fairly sparkling, with little yellow primroses too pretty for
words. And in the wet places were masses of delicate lavender flowers.
Brooks gurgling, sprays of wild fruit blossoms in the hedges,
everything juicy and green and radiant. After weeks of rain the sun
had actually broken forth to glorify it all. We filled baskets with a
feathery mixture of gold and lavender, this sweet-natured, devoted boy
and myself, and we had a good time.
The next morning, Easter Day, I was up very early, and by breakfast
time the tent was a perfect bower of flowers. It was really lovely.
And the surprise and pleasure of the boys! "Seems as though we was
back home!" "I forgot all about its being Easter!" "Say, I never
thought we could _have_ Easter in France!" And one boy who kept
hanging round all day taking it all in, said, "What'd you go to all
that trouble for? It's no use doing that over here." Yet he was back
every morning to watch me arrange the flowers, for I kept them always
in the tent after that, and the little French children would bring me
fresh ones.
On Easter morning an open air memorial service had been planned in
honor of those in the Battalion who had been killed. The day was
beautiful. The Battalion assembled in a beautiful little field on the
outskirts of the town, the four companies drawn up facing each other.
The choir, which I had drilled, composed of about twenty men, stood
together. A platform had been built in the centre, from which Major
S., always fine, gave a splendid short address. The chaplain then
delivered a sermon, less impressive. The choir sang "Rock of Ages,"
which was quite solemnly beautiful. Next the roll was called, which
was astonishingly long. It was a strain on those standing ranks of
boys to hear the names of their dead comrades, and the tears were
coursing down many cheeks. The choir sang "My Faith Looks Up To Thee."
Taps were sounded, followed by a roll of drums. There was a moment of
tense silence. Then to the relief of all, the little Battalion Band
struck up a quickstep and the Companies marched off cheerily. It was
truly a beautiful service, and the warm sun and birds warbling in the
trees gave it an added sweetness. It meant a great deal to the men.
After the service I walked back to the tent with the Colonel and the
Major, who came in and admired my decorations as much as I could wish.
In the afternoon was a thrilling baseball game between our Battalion
and the 1st Battalion of the 312th Infantry. (Baseball has been our
great amusement of late.) I slipped away before it was over to get my
kettle boiling, so that afterward I had hot chocolate and cakes for
all the boys that wanted it; it never has to go begging. In the
evening we gathered round the poor rheumatic piano and sang and sang
till old Mathieu, the electrician, turned the lights off. Now doesn't
that sound like a happy Easter?
Meanwhile preparations for moving were going on. All the stoves were
taken from the billets and of course the weather turned cold and rainy
again. We froze, and we waded in mud, but we didn't care; we were
"going home."
The next big stunt I pulled off was a candy pull. It took me a day's
journey in the side-car to get the ingredients, two whole crates of
Karo corn syrup and ten pounds of margarine. Company F allowed me to
use their kitchen which was next to the tent, and I found a
professional candy-maker who superintended the cooking. What a time we
had! Rain pouring outside, our merry little orchestra playing for all
it was worth in the tent, tent packed with soldiers, I in my blue
apron dashing back and forth from mess hall to tent with fresh
batches of candy ready to be pulled, which was seized by eager and
_clean_ hands, pulled and twisted until it was white, and consumed in
no time. I had had plenty of water heated and there was a tremendous
scrubbing of big calloused hands when some fellow "guessed he'd have a
try at it." We made more delicious candy than the battalion could eat,
and sent it round to the officers. Altogether the evening was voted a
hilarious success.
And the next day the Division began to entrain for Bordeaux. Not my
Battalion, but other Infantry Regiments, the Machine Gunners and the
Artillery. I left Pouillenay for three days and went to Epoisse, the
entraining point, to help serve cocoa and cakes to the departing
soldiers. The weather was abominable, a driving wet snow all the time
and we had to stand in it for hours. "We" were four girls. It was a
most exhausting business. I got back to Pouillenay rather the worse
for wear, but I couldn't stop on my last day with my boys, and I was
busy with a thousand things. I made fudge for my platoon and took it
to their billet in the evening. The good old tent had been taken down
in my absence and there was nothing left of the "Y". There in the dark
billet of the 1st Platoon of F Co. I had my last good time with my
boys. It was raining as usual. They received me with a cheer, and
when they saw the fudge, the cheer grew louder. We got up a Virginia
reel and how those boys swung me round! And when we were too hot to
dance more, we sang, until we were hoarse. And then I had to go, for
Lieut. J. of F Co. was giving a little party for the Major and I had
promised to be there with my guitar.
That last night was an uproarious one in Pouillenay. The estaminets
did their worst--it was their last chance at American francs--and way
into the morning the streets resounded with drunken yells. I fear the
majority were celebrating. I don't blame them. If the Y.M.C.A. had let
us keep our tent we might have planned a counter-drive, but as it was,
we could do nothing. That night, as I lay listening to the noise, I
became aware of a new sound. I couldn't believe my ears--but yes, I
had heard it once before in England--a nightingale! That piercing,
passionate, ecstatic song! It rang out between the shouts of the
revelers in the street below. How much more it seemed to say than
those drunken voices of men! and yet all that it says is through the
soul of man.
The day of departure dawned, warm and cloudy. I was to "hike" with my
platoon over to Les Laumes, the entraining point, a distance of five
kilometres. In my heart I knew that this was my last day with the
battalion, though most of the boys expected me to go down to Bordeaux
after them. But Y.M.C.A. headquarters had ordered me to stay three
days at Les Laumes, serving cocoa. So we marched over. In an hour we
were at the ugly little railroad town where the Engineers have been
quartered all winter. I left the battalion to march off to their
lunch, while I went down to the Y.M.C.A. to help the cocoa contingent.
There I found the other girls working. Pretty soon the boys came in to
get their last sweet, hot, "hand out" from the "Y," then I went with
them to the station. There at the railroad gate I said goodbye. How I
shook hands! Sometimes my voice would break as I talked, which made me
furious with myself. They had all gone through the gate and a group of
officers stood around me to say goodbye. "Well, Sis, how are you
standing it?" said one. "She hasn't cried yet," said another. "Don't
set me off," I begged. So Lieut. M. mercifully stuffed a cake into my
mouth, which made us all laugh. These kind boys! Well, they had all
passed through the train gate. I didn't follow them because I couldn't
seem to get command of myself and I _wouldn't_ send them off with
anything but a smile. I went back to the "Y" hut. There I worked like
fury, and talked and laughed with the men, and in half an hour I was
all right again. The long train of freight cars loaded with my family
was still standing at the station. I went out on the platform. A cheer
came from every carful. I started at the engine and went down the
line, stopping at every car. I threw myself into a rollicking mood and
got them all to laughing. "But we'll see you in Bordeaux won't we,
Miss Shortall?" came from all sides, and I would have to explain. When
I got to the first platoon of F Co. Sergeant R. picked me up and put
me in the car, and many were the half humorous, half serious threats
of keeping me, and making me go with them. I certainly was tempted to
do it. Major S. came along and found me there. How I hated to say
goodbye to him, this kind friend whose attitude of respect, of
comradeship, has typified that of the whole battalion toward me! He
has been my great encourager through it all. The splendid morale of
his men, as you must realize, has been largely due to his fine spirit
which permeated the battalion.
And so--they were gone. Some strange officer in a car kindly took me
back to Pouillenay. That deserted town! For me, its soul had departed.
There was the familiar scene, inanimate. No figures in khaki anywhere,
no one whistling to me or waving, nothing left of them but their fresh
tracks in the mud everywhere, and wave on wave of loneliness surged
through me, that was almost terrifying in its intensity. Thank heaven
the sun had come out! I walked up my street, talking to the
disconsolate French women who stood in the doorways looking out as
though all the joy in life had departed. Truly, the best comment on
the behaviour of our boys is the genuine sorrow of the French at
seeing them go. I got up to my billet where dear M. and Mme. Gloriod
met me, their faces covered with tears. It was good to see them again,
and they were overjoyed at seeing me. Mme. Gloriod began getting me
something to eat, while I, too exhausted to think or feel, went to
bed.
And now, to pass briefly over the next four days in Pouillenay, I am
back in Paris. Where they will send me I haven't the least idea. I
volunteered to go home, because the "Y" is swamped with workers now,
and had the satisfaction of being told that I was not the kind they
wanted to send home. This means a good deal to me because I am quite
aware that, not being as strong as the majority, I have given fewer
hours of service than most of them, and now to have from all sides
tokens of appreciation is overwhelmingly gratifying.
I have a "Memory Book" of the 2nd Bn., 311th Inf. which you will be
interested in seeing when I get home. The Major wrote a little verse
on the first page, stamping it with the official seal. It goes:
She put the "Pull" in Pouillenay,
Likewise the push there, too.
Her middle name's Efficiency,
And lassie--here's to you!
By the way, if any members of the Battalion come to see you, I know
you will give them a real welcome. Also, if by chance the 78th
Divisional Show should play in Chicago, it really would be jolly to do
something for the Cast and Management. It is to be composed largely of
boys from our Battalion.
Goodbye. There is lots more to say, but I really can't.
American Y.W.C.A. Hostess House,
Chateau "La Gloriette,"
Chaumont, May 24th.
Paris is over with. There was much waiting and rushing and guessing
and meeting of friends. I have seen so many, old and new-made, ladies
and gentlemen. I have run around in civilian clothes--my uniform went
to the cleaner's--and have gone to the theatre and dined in
restaurants and listened to orchestras, dodged taxis and ridden in
them, gone to bed late, spent some money,--in short, have done all the
things I ordinarily avoid doing.
In Paris you see more Americans then French, and more American women
than men, all in assorted uniforms. They certainly have brought a mob
of women over here! and now they are trying to ship them home as fast
as possible. The Y.M.C.A. is sending workers, men and women, home at
the rate of several hundred a week.
They have given me a reassignment. Yesterday I came to Chaumont where
G.H.Q. is stationed, and I shall be sent out from here--somewhere, to
do--something. At present I don't know anything about it. Meanwhile I
am most comfortably lodged in the Y.W.C.A. Hostess House, a large and
beautiful chateau with lovely grounds. I am now sitting on an old
stone wall on the hillside which I came upon after following a shady
path. Beside me are bushes drooping with white and purple lilacs, all
about me birds are warbling, and beyond and below is a panorama of
sunny France through which runs a white road where American trucks go
thundering by in clouds of dust. And it is all very lazy and hazy
and--satisfactory. For I don't seem to be thinking beyond. One doesn't
when one is "militaire." One gives oneself up to the powers above. No
one doesn't, either! Not at critical moments. One can steer and
veer--gently.
Now it begins to look as though the work of the Y.M.C.A. were nearly
over. No more personnel is allowed in Germany, the army of occupation
being fully equipped, and if there is nothing to do, one ought to go
home. If, after the signing of the Peace, it seems necessary to keep
our army over here some time, I shall make an effort to be sent to the
Rhine. Wherever our boys are waiting, and getting disgusted, I want to
be.
It is likely that a good friend of mine, a Lieutenant of Co. F may
come to see you. I asked him to, as he lives near Chicago. He is a
fine fellow and has been so kind to me. I think he would enjoy our
home. I can see the garden and everything, and sometimes--I wish I
were there.
Chaumont, June 11th, 1919.
Again I sit in the garden of the chateau, but what a world of things I
have seen and done since I last wrote you from this spot! I have a
sinking feeling, that this is going to be a long letter, and I wonder
how I will ever find time to finish it.
The day after my last long letter I left Chaumont with another girl to
go to an entraining point just out of Gondrecourt, where we were to
serve chocolate to the departing troops. We started in an automobile
with all our baggage, a "Y" man being our chauffeur. As usual, orders
were vague and mixed, and we landed in several wrong towns, before we
found out where we were wanted. This however entailed so much driving
over exceptionally lovely country, that we really didn't mind. At
length, in the late afternoon we reached our destination, Barisey la
Cote, a railhead, and I believe the most desolate spot in France.
Picture a freight yard in all its heat and hideousness, and a
collection of wooden barracks, no trees, and you will see the place.
Big Bay is pretty in comparison. The water was bad, and had to be
chlorinated and hauled from afar, the weather was blazing hot, the
dust lay inches deep on the roads, ready to rise in a stifling cloud
at the passage of any vehicle. Here we found some five hundred men
(about a hundred colored), and many hundreds of mules and horses. Part
of the 7th Division was there temporarily on its way home. The rest
were the railhead force.
The first thing for us to do was to search for a billet. As always,
the officers could not be outdone in their courtesy to us women in the
A.E.F. and every effort was made to make us comfortable. A little
asbestos shack of two rooms was turned over to us, and an orderly
assigned to us. I wish you could have seen "Mac, the housekeeper" as
we came to call him, the most lovable little Irishman who took the
best of care of us. For beds we had two wooden frames with chicken
wire stretched over them, and plenty of blankets. As we expected to
stay ten days it was worth while making our little home attractive, so
with a few scarfs that I had, and flowers, photographs and books, we
made a charming living-room which men and officers appreciated to the
full. My companion, Miss B., is a jolly girl and we have become great
pals. She plays ragtime "to beat the band," which is a good
accomplishment over here. Both of us being short and dark, we have
been taken for sisters everywhere.
The entraining work at the railhead left us a great deal of spare
time, and we decided to open a little "Y". An open shed with a roof
was procured and we started in to arrange it. The boys entered into
the idea with enthusiasm. One volunteered to wire it for electric
lights, others put down a floor, and everybody helped decorate it with
flags, and bright chintz which the Y.M.C.A. gave us. A lieutenant lent
me a truck, and through a stroke of luck I obtained a piano which was
the finishing touch. We soon had a gay, festive pavilion, and how
those boys, who were just sick with boredom, flocked there! Again I
felt that this work was immeasurably worth while. Miss B. and I
worked together pretty well, luckily. We had dances and stunt shows,
and singing all the time, and lemonade always on tap, both at the
railway station and at our "Y," so you see our hands were full. Most
of the men were westerners, and enlisted, not drafted, and I couldn't
help compare them with my boys of the 78th. As a class, I believe they
are more forceful and more responsive. It is the independent, tall
ranch owner or cow puncher, in comparison with the small storekeeper
or factory hand. Don't think I am forgetting for a moment my friends
in my dear battalion who stood above the average, but they _did_ stand
above the average. As a crowd, the western boys sing better, dance
better, talk better, and swear louder! But everywhere in the United
States is the respect for the American woman the same, and everywhere
our soldiers are our devoted, helpful brothers.
Well--to cut this short--I forgot to tell you about the darkies! It
was my first experience with them over here. Against the advice of a
southern lieutenant, I went into their barracks one day and got to
talking with them. "Don't any of you boys play or sing?" I asked.
"Yes'm. Ah'm a musician mahself," modestly replied a coal black boy.
"Are you? well what do you play?" "Oh, mos' anything, ma'am." "Do you
play the guitar?" "Yes'm, we've got a guitar but the _strangs_ is
broke." Of course I was able to remedy that, and gave them all the
"strangs" they needed, in addition lending them my guitar, which they
never failed to return to me in good condition at the specified time.
They had a great time, sitting out on piles of lumber, twanging the
guitars and singing. You could almost imagine you were down on the old
Mississippi. Whenever I passed, some one would call out, "Miss, ain't
you gwine to play for us?" And I would take the guitar and sing, while
black, attentive faces packed close all around me. "Give us jes one
mo', Miss," they would plead when I started to go. My greatest hit was
"When Yankee Doodle learns to parley-vous francais," and when I would
come to "Ulala! Sweet Papa!" they would smack their knees, and giggle
with delight. One evening they came down to our "Y" and one clogged,
while another played the piano, and another evening they came and sang
to us. On the whole the white boys were on good terms with the blacks,
though they had one little row while we were there. The whites were
playing the blacks at baseball. The game was a comic affair, and was
proceeding with the utmost good nature, when one boy thoughtlessly
called a darky a "nigger." Great outrage! The colored boys refused to
play, the game was called off, and the black team retreated in sulky
silence. However, they all made up the next day, and the game was
resumed.
Now I must skip over all the little human events that go to make our
days, and tell you about our trip to the front. I have seen it, the
strip of land on which the world's attention has been focused for so
long. I have been to No Man's Land, and the Argonne, and Verdun. For a
long time I had no desire to go. Something in me shrank from the
thought of hundreds of unimaginative tourists speeding over the ground
where men have so recently died by the thousands. It seemed like
flaunting our lives in the very faces of those who had laid down
theirs that we might live more happily. Also, from all we have heard,
and read, and felt, I thought I could picture the war and the front as
vividly as if I had been there. And so I could. Strange as it may
sound, nothing surprised me up there. I am not filled with any more
hatred or horror after seeing it than I was before. It is now a vast
desolation. I hope the world is going to be better for it. Perhaps the
flowers that are even now covering the raw wounds in the earth are the
flowers of hope, ready to sow the seeds of promise. I don't know
whether to describe to you just what I have seen or not. I'll try.
We were a party of eight Y.M.C.A. workers, four men and four girls. We
travelled in two ramshackle old Fords. Ours had come from a salvage
pile, but it still had plenty of life in it, and got over the ground
with a terrific amount of noise and jarring. The noise was indeed a
Godsend, for it made conversation impossible, and mercifully
obliterated even our most brilliant sallies of wit. I was able to
retreat behind the motor's unmuffled roaring far into the landscape
and into my own thoughts, and there I stayed most of the time.
We left Gondrecourt on Thursday afternoon, June 5th. It was one of
those soft days, delicious humid air, that brought out all the
fragrance of the country, a gray sky and a soft light that gave us the
true essence of the colors in the fields because there were no
shadows. A tapestry day, when all shades were subdued, woven through a
warp of mist.
This part of France, gently undulating, with fields of grain and
carefully tended wood, is very lovely. There is a luxuriant grace
about it. It is a land of carved stone crosses. We kept passing them
by the roadside, beautiful in form and varied in design. It is the
land of Jeanne d'Arc, and often we passed her image with a vase of
fresh flowers beneath it.
In the early evening we arrived at Bar-le-Duc, a sweet little city
built round the famous old chateau on the hill. As we drove through
the streets I was struck by the sign "Cave," "Cave Voutee," or "Cave,
12 hommes," printed on the fronts of the houses. All places of shelter
from bombs were clearly marked. Turning a corner we came upon a
building in ruins. Then upon one with a hole in the roof. Bar-le-Duc
had not escaped the enemies' ravages. There we spent the night. The
next day we lunched at St. Menehould, then went out into the Argonne
itself. Oh, I can't describe it! Think of cultivated fields giving way
to vast rank stretches; ditches and shell holes everywhere; rusty,
tangled barbed wire on all sides; miles and miles of broken, sagging
telephone wires; pathetic pulverized villages, scarcely discernible on
the plain; tops of hills sawed off and furrowed by shell fire; lonely
wooden crosses dotting the fields everywhere; refuse of all kinds
along the roadside--a man's puttee, a wrecked automobile, rusty iron,
a rifle belt, piles of unexploded shells; and signs in French and
English bearing severe traffic orders spoke eloquently of the mad
congestion on the roads, now so lonely. This whole immense silence and
desertion told of pressing crowds, of fierce exertion, of wild
excitement, of cursing and of praying, of roaring and blazing and
dying. Eight months ago it was hell on fire. And now there was not a
soul in sight, nor a sound. The hot sun beat on it all. Now and then
came a fetid odor that turned you sick. The war is over.
Stopping at a prison camp for gasoline, a lieutenant came up to me,
and seeing the lightning streak on my shoulder he told me that he too
belonged to the 78th and remembered meeting me last winter. He offered
to take me and whoever else was interested through the wood of
Ardennes where the 78th had fought in October. You can imagine I was
glad to go. So I have seen the scarred and blasted woods and ravines
through which my boys panted and bled and kept on. I seemed to almost
live through it with them, and I felt the exhilaration of battle more
than the horror, and wished fervently that I could have been a man
fighting with them. We came to a place where the Germans had blown up
two engines. Right there Lieut. S. said the 311th had its supply dump.
And sure enough, on a tree I saw the good old Lightning Sign! I took
it down, for I know the boy who made all the signs, and intend to give
it to some one for a souvenir.
But to skip over more quickly, we spent that night at Romagne, where
the great American-Argonne cemetery is being made. The next day we
visited Grand Pre, the town which the 78th took; a terrible wreck,
bearing the signs of hot street fighting, the standing walls being
nicked and riddled with machine gun fire. Here again my spirit was
back with my fighting boys reliving it all with them.
And then, following the long desolate front, we went to Verdun. But I
can't give you any more descriptions. That Verdun battle field! That
stronghold, which the Germans did not pass! I will never forget it.
Even the Argonne is a green, fertile place in comparison. Blasted
skeleton forests, dead fields, plowed and plowed again with shells.
Death, and the silence of death.
I found myself repeating under my breath some verses of poetry that
had caught my eye last winter, written by an officer.
"Nous avons cherche la Victoire.
Ou se cache-t-elle, dis-moi?
Et, repassant la Meuse noire,
Elle me crie, 'Au fond de toi.'"
and
"Est-ce vrai que la mort est une vie immense?
Est-ce vrai que la vie est l'amour de mourir?"
_Lieut. Joachim Gasquet, auteur des
"Hymnes de la Grande Guerre."_
In such ways I tried to understand and to visualize all that had taken
place there.
We returned to Gondrecourt Sunday evening. On Monday I had a new and
comic experience. The Y.M.C.A. announced an auction of all its
supplies and I was asked to conduct it, being the only American who
spoke French. They tell me that I have missed my vocation, that I
ought to have been a saleslady. Any way I made a lark out of it, and
gave the shrewd old French ladies tit for tat, which delighted them.
Now I am back in Chaumont working in the library of the "Y." It is a
temporary job. I have half an idea I shall be homeward bound soon.
Goodbye dear family. This pen will drive me distracted, and they cost
ten dollars over here!
June 25th.
Officers' Hut, Chaumont.
Another change of job. From buck privates to elderly majors and
lieutenant colonels! About a week ago I was assigned to the Officers'
Hut at Chaumont. This has been, naturally, the largest and pleasantest
officers' "Y" in France, but owing to the daily diminishing of the
personnel at G.H.Q. the business of the "Y" is rapidly falling off. I
was sent here principally on account of my knowledge of French. Ahem!
There is a large restaurant and a French force employed, and I am the
medium of communication with them. I manage to keep the peace by
translating the orders diplomatically, softening them and _politening_
them.
There are many pleasant aspects to this work. I enjoy very much being
with cultivated people again, though my fondness for the expressive
doughboy is as great as ever. After all, there is something
comfortable about good grammar, and I confess that a conversation with
a dash of high-browism contains a pleasure all its own.
The first day I was here I met Colonel MacC. of Chicago. He has been
very kind to me. Sunday evening he took me to call on some French
friends of his and we had a very delightful time.
The atmosphere of Chaumont is totally different from that of dear
little Pouillenay. There are many American girls, Red Cross, Y.M.C.A.
and Y.W.C.A., and giddy telephone girls. Every night there is a party
at the chateau and much gaiety. The boys here certainly have a great
deal of entertainment. The social pace is too much for me. I get out
of things as much as I can without being too rude. It won't last much
more than a week anyway, and then I shall be ready and glad to come
home.
Peace has come! "Le jour de gloire est arrive." Early yesterday
morning, I was awakened by the strains of a band approaching nearer
and nearer. It didn't sound like an American band, and I jumped out of
bed to see what it was. There in the early grayness of morning French
soldiers were marching to a band composed of bugles and drums. They
marched seriously, with rifles over their shoulders and bayonets
fixed. This was their triumphant march, yet there was no triumph in
it. As I watched the little blue figures keeping step to their strange
yet spirited march, the tears came to my eyes, and I felt the tragedy
of France, and I loved her. In Paris they say there were all sorts of
gay doings, in which the Americans took part, but I shall always
remember this little column of men, marching solemnly through the town
of Chaumont.
Paris, July 15.
"Plans have been seething these last ten days since I have been in
Paris, but after a great deal of sifting and shifting I have accepted
the offer of the French Red Cross. I am discharged from the Y.M.C.A.
and am enrolled as a member of the "Union des Femmes de France!" This
means that I finish the summer working in the devastated regions of
France, and I go next Thursday to Noyon. They permitted me to keep my
old uniform and my cape. It seemed so stupid to buy another expensive
suit when my present one is practically as good as new. (I do believe
these Y.M.C.A. uniforms are imperishable!) So I removed the triangle
from my sleeve, and I now form part of an organization totally French,
but--they allow me to retain the dear old red patch with its Lightning
Streak, which means so much to me, on my left shoulder."
* * * * *
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