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The Call and the Answer
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The great thrilling, throbbing spirit of war did not reach the United
States until that memorable spring of 1918. Then it came in a mighty
tidal wave of vitalized force and energy. Our country, woefully
late, was at last awakened to terrific speed. Great human cargoes
and innumerable tons of supplies held transports and ships to their
guards. Cities, towns and villages were suddenly transformed into great
inspirational centers of war activity. Meanwhile we were watching the
map of France, noting with deep anxiety the stubborn resistance of the
war-weary French to the slow but certain advance of the enemy. Once
again it moved with pitiless and determined face toward Paris—the heart
stream of all France. Although General Joffre had once checked the
German raiders and sent them to confusion and death, their lesson was
not yet learned and they were again throwing human force against the
principles of right. But now that so many of the heroes of France had
fallen, how would the foe be met? Surely there was urgent need of a
strong army to stand at the Marne once again.
The American Forces already in France were calling not only for help,
but haste. Suddenly, we found ourselves included in this call with
passport in hand. Not all at once did its full significance come to
us, but in those waiting days, as we sat at our desk and tried to
concentrate on war-work at home, quite unconsciously, we would find
the passport in our hands and our eyes searching the war map on the
wall. Slowly we began to realize that we were to make an effort to
reach “over there” where thousands of our own men had gone and other
thousands must go.
Then one dark afternoon, as the rain came down in torrents, the buzz
of the telephone at our elbow told us our time had come. We asked no
questions, for those were days of deep secrecy, but looked for the last
time at the war map in the office—studied it as never before, wondering
where in that war-wrecked country across the Atlantic we would find our
place of service. We breathed a little prayer, said good-bye to our
fellow workers, knowing that tomorrow we would be on the ocean eastward
bound and went out to meet her who was to try the unknown with us and
who would prove the faithful companion of all our “overseas” life.
There was no sleep that night for us; friends came and went, and two
ever faithful ones lingered lovingly for the last possible service.
Of necessity, in those days, there were strict laws and many sentries
at the docks, so that when we entered there was little hope of
rejoining our loved ones for a second adieu. We took the precaution,
however, to beg them to wait for a final sign of parting and while
going through the ordeal of having baggage examined and passed, learned
that our sailing time had been delayed four hours. We determined
upon an effort to rejoin those waiting so patiently outside the
dock. Making a wide detour, we passed quietly by the sentry who was
striding to and fro with gun on his shoulder. Now whether he could not
quite grasp the fact that colored women were really going to join the
American Expeditionary Forces, or had seen the close clinging hug given
one of the women by the little lad and lassie near him—or whether the
twinkle in our eye did it, we do not know—but we passed, and in that
very act much of the sadness of our parting was removed. We rode across
14th Street, a jolly party, had our lunch and returned to the dock,
where from an upper pier with smiles and tears all mingled, we waved a
final adieu.
How wonderful is love at such a time! There they stood lovingly and
lingeringly—the cousin of one of us who had come all the way from
the Middle West for this leave-taking; two brave children with the
dear little woman whose true and tried devotion made us know that she
would mother them as her own till we came back to take her place; and
that other friend with whom we had crossed in peaceful days, joyously
roaming over England and the Continent. That last picture remained with
us, to cheer us for all the months of our absence.
And now there was no turning back. Months ago the war zone was just
six hundred miles from the coast of France—but now the United States
was at war, and as we stepped on the gang plank, war-zone passes were
surrendered. We were crusaders on a quest for Democracy! How and where
would that precious thing be found?
What a spectacle was that sun-lit bit of New York harbor that June
afternoon! All about us were transports filled with khaki-clad men,
crowding port holes, every bit of deck and perched on every beam. These
thousands of youths of fearless and deathless spirit, would quickly
follow us over there, and many of them, in war’s thunderous tumult,
quickly pay the supreme sacrifice. How they whistled, sang and cheered
as our little French liner, _Espagne_, steamed slowly away from them to
brave alone the sea peril of that time!
First to the south and then to the east we sailed over seas of glass,
with never a storm or gale, but tremendous speed. They were cheerful
days, although they were ever-watchful ones, with life-belts close at
hand. No lights showed on deck at night nor on the whole horizon. Yes,
just once! By the big blazing cross at the foremast, we saw the form
of a hospital ship, bringing its toll of human wreckage to the waiting
hands and hearts of its native heath.
For all the trip there was no anxious face or word that revealed the
danger that so constantly lurked near us. Even the frequent summons
for life-boat drills were answered with mirthful banter. An unfailing,
kindly courtesy, and, in many cases, real comradeship marked the
fellow-workers with whom we crossed. Perhaps it was due to the quiet
but wonderful personality of the leader of this group, Mr. William
J. Sloane, Chairman of the War Council of the Young Men’s Christian
Association. The four hundred Polish recruits entertained us with song,
verse and dance; while usually we had music and movies in the salon.
Our Sunday afternoon at sea, we sat in the dining salon with the sun’s
rays stealing through the closed portholes and falling upon us in long,
flickering, gold lines. Dr. Henry Coffin talked to us in his forceful
way of heroes of old. Some one sang “Speed Away,” and then there was a
triumphal outburst of “Eternal Father Strong to Save!” The morning of
the ninth day we entered the Gironde River and steamed slowly between
vine-clad heights, overtopped by stately chateaux; between flowering
meadows, with picturesque villas, up to Bordeaux. It was thus we
“Answered the Call.”
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That for which millions prayed and sighed,
That for which ten thousands fought,
For which so many freely died,
God cannot let it come to naught.