NO PLACE FOR A LADY
—1—
And so—This was Brest, France! Two more weeks almost disappeared into
history. I was getting inured to this army life, for it was getting so
that I didn’t notice how fast the days flew by. There was something
doing every day and I was busy—which probably accounts for the speedy
passage of time.
I’d been thinking it over and decided when I got back home I’d write to
the Secretary of War and suggest that they put a huge sign up in front
of the entrance to this man’s war and put on the sign these words: FOR
MEN ONLY. This business certainly was for men only. It was no place for
a woman—at least, not a nice woman, I mean a decent girl like me. Of
all the rough-necks—I never imagined there were so many in the Land of
the Free and Home of the Brave. I was meeting them here, though. I was
thrown in with people that I’d never meet in the course of a lifetime at
home: I mean, some of these men were specimens such as I would never
have an opportunity of knowing in the United States. I guess one never
knows how the other half lives nor how they think, but I was beginning
to get a pretty good conception.
However, to get back to the story:—We came ashore on a dirty old
lighter that must have been a coal barge before the war. The day we
landed was one of the three hundred and fifty days of rain in the
customary French year. Up around that part of Brittany, the natives must
be thankful that Leap Year doesn’t come every year, because the chances
are it would be just another rainy day. The usual quota of sunshiny days
there is one-per-month. I always recalled France as a land of sunshine
and sparkle, but the first ten days in Brest sadly disillusioned me. We
had only one day that didn’t show a rainfall!
And imagine poor little me tramping through the mud and water in a cold,
drizzling downpour—me, who was experiencing the first “hike” of this
kind in my life! Everyone except the high officers had to march from the
docks out to the Pontanezan Barracks, a walled camp that was built by
Napoleon more than a hundred years ago. This place is four miles out of
Brest, and it wouldn’t have been such a bad walk if there hadn’t been so
much mud and other contributing causes for discomfort. We never had any
adequate drill on board the transport, most of us were suffering from
the effects of that awful dysentery, all of us were weak of legs and
weaker in the stomach. It was certainly one tough stretch, and I hope I
don’t have to go to war like that any more. I’d prefer to ride to my
death in a G.M.C. or a flivver ambulance.
When we were just getting started, Ben let Esky out of his barracks bag
and observed very sourly, “If this ain’t a hell of a fine way to welcome
a bunch o’ real heroes, my old man was a priest!”
A priest by the name of Garlotz! “Was he a priest, Ben?” the man on the
other side of him inquired, probably for the sake of hearing Ben’s
profanity.
“Priest hell!” declared the big boy. “I don’t think he knew what a
priest looks like. My old man helped build the subway with a pick and
shovel!” And he proceeded, between curses anent the weather, the frogs,
the officers, the Government, the President, and General Pershing’s
progeny even unto the fourth and fifth generations, to tell us about his
“old man” who, it seems, was a remarkably able man who never got a
nickel for fighting but could beat the daylights out of his
prize-fighting son any time he became drunk enough to so desire. Anyone
would have to read between the lines of that speech to discern the fact
that Ben must really have thought a lot of his father. Personally, it
never before occurred to me that he had a father: a man like Ben is so
eye-filling that you just don’t think of him as having a family
somewhere, and a father and mother just like ordinary people.
Well, anyway, the column moved slowly forward, the under-officers
feeling the strain every bit as much as the enlisted men and allowing us
to break ranks and “fall out” with unexpected frequency. I guess we fell
out at least five times before we reached the gate to the barracks, and
when we arrived there we stood around for more than half an hour waiting
to be assigned to quarters, while rumors of all kinds were running
around and considerable confusion arose as a result of someone’s remark
that we’d probably have to sleep in pup tents outside the walls because
the barracks within were all filled. This rumor threw Ben into a fit of
profanity that could not be stopped until orders came to move along. Ben
had no use whatever for pup tents. He said, “I can’t get my feet under
cover in one of those damned pillow cases!” Like most rumors in the
army, this one proved false and we finally found ourselves located in a
wooden shed just off the parade ground of the camp. We were soaked to
the skin, but mighty glad to be there.
Everybody ditched his luggage and made a line for the little corrugated
iron building around the corner. The dysentery was still operative....
Nobody was very hungry that noon, but by nighttime we were all ready for
chow.
One reason for this was that we had no sooner begun to take life easy in
our new quarters than Chilblaines appeared on the scene without any
warning and told the top-kicker he had come over to see that the men got
a work-out. “They might catch cold if they remain idle now, sergeant.
Get them out and we’ll warm them up for a half hour or so. Can’t afford
to leave any of them in the hospital here.”
Well, everybody was sore. You could see that the top-kicker didn’t like
the idea at all, and the rest of us couldn’t begin to express our
thoughts. Whoever expected a headquarters company to go out and drill
like a crew of infantrymen? Some of these fellows couldn’t do much
better than I did, and I had some tall and quick thinking to do to keep
in line as we marched up and down and back and forth the length and
breadth of that parade ground. Chilblaines kept us at it for an hour and
some of us almost sat down in our tracks when he finally dismissed us.
It was then that someone offered the information that “Chilblaines rode
out with the General—that’s why he felt so fresh and strong.”
The chorus of curses and other kindred expressions that greeted this
announcement almost made me deaf. Ben’s opinion sounded literary and
mild compared to the others, and he said, “Chilblaines musta been born
in dog days, cause he’s a son-of-a-b—— as sure as hell!”
I said that I thought he had an overdeveloped sense of his own
importance in this army and that he probably figured this was a way to
prove his leadership.
“Leadership hell!” growls Ben. “That guy couldn’t lead me nowhere. I
wouldn’t even let him lead me to a drink of good rye whisky right this
minute. If we was in the front lines and he told me to go forward I’d
turn around and knock his teeth down his throat so he couldn’t give
orders.” The thought of such a golden pleasure, however remote as a
possibility, was a never failing source of enjoyment for Ben. His idea
of heaven would be to have Chilblaines and himself locked in a room
together.... Well, my opinion of Chilblaines is unprintable, too.
That drilling in the rain was a tea party, compared to what happened the
following morning. At four A.M. we were called up by the top-kick, who
was very apparently pretty mad about something. He ordered us all out in
our slickers—which could mean just one thing: a bath.
As soon as Ben heard what was coming, he divined at once the fine
Italian hand of Chilblaines. “That b——! There ain’t a drop of white
man’s blood in that whorehound’s veins!” He cursed him, between shivers,
for all he had around his huge frame was the far too small slicker which
the Q.M.C. clerk said was the largest size they had. “Jesus Maria!
Gettin’ a guy up at this hour, before daybreak, to take a bath!”
“Pipe down there!” ordered the top-kicker from the front of the shed.
“There’s only one bath and this is the only hour we could get. Come
along!”
But Ben was not to be so quickly calmed. “God Almighty!” he exclaimed.
“You’d think we was criminals in a prison, instead of volunteers in an
army!”
Meantime I was thinking in double time, for this call to the showers
presented an unexpected problem that had to be solved at once. The
top-kick was exhorting them to snap into it and I had to suppose that he
would wait at the door to see that everyone went. I waited until Ben
started for the door, then when he was directly between me and the
sergeant, I ducked under my bunk and pulled Esky down beside me so that,
with the blankets hanging down and Esky covering the front, I hoped to
escape the top-kick’s inquisitive eye.
Sure enough, he came down the line to see that everyone had gone. For a
breathless moment I was convinced that he was inspecting my bunk with
suspicion. Then suddenly he turned and went away, closing the door
behind him. But I waited several minutes, to make sure that he had gone.
Then I pushed Esky out of the way and threw off the slicker. Down at the
end of the shed were two fire buckets, and to these I ran. I dowsed my
head in one of them and poured the other over my legs. Then I ran back
to my bunk and pulled off my shirt, and back to the buckets again. I was
shivering all over, but I made sure that I was wet enough to look it,
then I returned to the bunk and got ready for the crucial moment.
I had to stand there with the towel in my hand for several minutes
before the first of the bathers returned, but as soon as the door opened
I started a vigorous rubbing, and slipped into my clean shirt. I heard
one of the men swear and another said, “I never saw such cold water in
my life!”
When the top-kick appeared I was frantically rubbing my head and neck.
He was shivering himself but he made a trip down the aisle and stopped
rather suspiciously near me. I thought he was going to say something,
but I exclaimed, “God, but that water was cold, sergeant!” And I was
shivering so genuinely that he was impressed. He looked around our end
of the shack and went back to his own bunk to dress.
Ben had come in during the inspection and when the sergeant had
retreated, he leaned across the bunk and said, very confidentially, “He
asked me where you was and I said ‘He’s been here and gone back
already.’ It was colder’n a ninety-year-old witch an’ I don’t blame ya a
bit fer duckin’ it!”
Good old Ben! He sure was a simple and good-hearted friend to me. He was
so omnisciently clever about some things, so clever he readily accepted
the simplest and plainest explanation and let it go at that. And he took
pleasure in helping to slip anything over on anyone in authority. I
thanked him sincerely for telling the top-kicker that lie and we
proceeded to get dressed for what turned out to be a very dismal,
dreary, hopeless day, the first of a series that were distinguished by
their similarity in the matter of dreariness.
There was nothing much for any of us to do these days. Now and then the
General had something to get out, but he had simply been marking time
for the most part and when he marked time I exhibited my ability as a
lock-stepper. Marking time was the one part of the manual of drill that
I did best.
Ben and I listened to all the current rumors. We heard that we were
going south from here to train for immediate action; that the Germans
were raising hell and we’d be in the trenches in two weeks; that we were
going to Italy to help the wops lick the Austrians; that ... that ...
that ... and so on almost ad infinitum. And I knew that all of them were
entirely false and without foundation. I don’t understand how rumors
traveled so well in the army, but they certainly did spring up and cover
the camp overnight. The whole army seemed to be just one vast buzz all
the time. Every man you met had some inside news to impart. None of this
bothered me, however, for the General had told me that the division
would go to a training area for at least a month before being used for
anything.
I went into Brest several times, but there was no particular excitement
or entertainment to be found down there, because part of the city was
under quarantine for cholera and the authorities had restricted all
places of amusement that might interest me. Ben said he hadn’t seen a
single one of these mademoiselles that looked clean enough to be of
interest to a man of his tastes, and I quite agreed with him. Most of
them were disappointing—nothing like before the war. Now they all
looked so hard and worn, and the ones that American soldiers met were
the same ones that the English, Australians, Italians, Portuguese and
French Colonials had met before us. An American soldier must be
conceited indeed if he thinks he could teach these girls anything in the
way of love and its devices.
It seemed to me that the French people were of two minds about us. The
lower classes seemed to welcome us with open arms, call benedictions
upon our heads, but they looked upon us as wild specimens of humanity
from the outskirts of civilization. And in this view the upper-class
Frenchmen concurred, I imagine, for the major portion of all France had
had little or no acquaintance with Americans, not even the tourist class
which has always been distinguished traditionally for its ignorance,
lack of taste and vulgar displayism. As far as I could make out, the
better-class French people were not quite certain whether we were savage
barbarians or civilized Indians. They thought that they had nothing in
common with us except this little matter of a war and the fact that we
both belonged to the same species of the animal kingdom. They were glad
of our help—just as they had been glad to use their own varicolored
colonials, those half-savages who used knives instead of guns and
refused to go into action without bayonets.
It struck me that they felt toward us much the same as we would feel
toward an army of Russians or Japanese in America: we would rejoice over
their coming to our aid, but we would feel rather condescending toward
them and surely would not relish the thought of our daughters mingling
with them as social equals. Nice French girls would not have anything to
do with American soldiers: any more than nice American girls would
accept Japanese soldiers without reservations.... From some of the
first-person narratives I’d heard in this camp, I should say that some
of these Americans were sadly deluded on this point. Their “conquests”
weren’t much to rave about, if they only knew the truth.
It was the lower classes that took us to their hearts. They discovered
that Americans were jolly good fellows with pockets full of francs and a
tremendous fancy for wine, women and excitement. Naturally they weren’t
so finicky. They weren’t used to being finicky anyway. From the stories
I heard, it seemed that they were even open-hearted enough to accept our
colored soldiers as genuine American Indians: they thought the darkies
were real cavemen, noble specimens of virile nature, who looked every
inch the part and apparently, with a mademoiselle, more than established
the fact of their virility. In some camp towns, the street girls didn’t
have anything to do with the white soldiers. Obviously they were as
deluded as our soldiers were in other places.... Indeed, that was my
view of the whole works just now: everyone misunderstood everyone else,
and the result was a sort of not unpleasant but not very congenial
confusion.... Of course, the mademoiselle end didn’t interest me, but
Ben said he just found out about a place where he could get a girl for a
cake of American soap. I told him he’d better swipe a carton from the
canteen and start a harem. He said that when the regulars first appeared
in France it was possible to get the prettiest and most adept girl in
town for a tobacco coupon, and he was bemoaning the fact that he had a
whole box full of coupons at home that he was too late to use now. It
certainly was tough: he should have enlisted a year earlier: he would
have had children scattered all over France by now! I’ll bet he was a
son-of-a-gun with the women: sometimes he reminded me of nothing so much
as a great animal, a sort of Bull of the Camps, as it were. Of course, I
knew that he was more than an animal: the things he said very often
showed unmistakable signs of intelligence, and he certainly was a good
friend to have.
We had to drill several times, and every morning we had calisthenics.
The setting-up stuff didn’t bother me but the drilling was a little too
much—I guess I wasn’t built for that kind of stuff. My back got a kink
in it and the muscles of my legs seemed to knot right up after a mile or
so of walking under the strain of drill. Every morning when I heard the
call to “fall in” my mind would start to sing that army ballad about the
sergeants “who are the worst of all,” because
“He gets you up in the morning before the bugle call;
And it’s Squads Right! Squads Left!
Right Front Into Line!
Then the dirty son-of-a-b——, he gives you double time!”
Of course it really wasn’t the top-kicker’s fault. He didn’t like to
drill any more than we, but orders is orders. Even Esky didn’t care for
this kind of exercise. He came out with us the first couple of mornings,
but very quickly decided that this was not his kind of play. Now he
didn’t pay any attention to “fall in” but as soon as he heard “fall out”
he was right in the middle of things, begging the fellows to play with
him. He got enough exercise. He was the mascot of this Headquarters
Company.
I wrote home twice during the fortnight. Nothing much to tell them
except the events of our last four weeks, and to send my new address
with A.P.O. number.
At last we received our first mail from the States and I didn’t know
just what to make of it. There was a gushing letter from
Vyvy—apparently Leon carried out my instructions and told her that he
was coming over at once. But the letter from Aunt Elinor was not so
reassuring, particularly the following parts:
“Leonard Lane is at Booneville.... Has a broken arm to show for
his wild ride in that snowstorm.... Was lucky to be rescued less
than an hour after the accident, but it was in the country and
he did not reach me by phone until midnight.... He has not been
home since that time.... Left the hospital and went direct to
Booneville. But he will not stay here long. As soon as his arm
is safely mended he will do something.... Poor boy ... just a
bunch of nerves.... And I am very near a breakdown. If anything
happens to you I shall never forgive myself.... Why did you have
to be so foolish!
“Vyvy has called several times. She expects to hear from you as
soon as you land. She also informs me that your Jay-Jay has been
transferred and expects to go to France very soon. I intend to
get in touch with him and ask him to look you up.”
Well, the last man in the world I wanted to meet was Jay-Jay. I’m quite
sure that I couldn’t be with him very much before he would become
suspicious. In fact I thought he suspected something already, because in
the other letter which I received from Aunt Elinor, there was this
disquieting information:
“Jay-Jay called, expecting to find you here. I was really sorry
to tell him that you had suddenly decided to go out West as a
camp entertainer. I don’t think he believed it: he seemed very
surprised and said he couldn’t understand that at all. ‘Why
didn’t she let me get her a place?’ he asked, but of course I
told him that there was no telling what you might do. He asked
about Leon and I gave him your address and asked him to see you
and let me know how you are getting along. I’m so worried about
you—but then you probably are better able to take care of
yourself than your brother. I hope so.
“Vyvy met Jay-Jay in town. He said he had seen Leon in camp the
day after her party, and Vyvy told him he must be mistaken
because Leon did not leave here until three o’clock in the
afternoon. I don’t know what he thinks, but he must have some
ideas of his own.... I think you would do well to tell him the
truth and let him help you. He has influence, you know, and
might be able to make things easier for you.
“Another week or so and Leonard’s arm will be out of the sling.
He is determined to act at once. I don’t know what he will do
but will let you know as soon as I hear from him....”
Auntie was foolish. The idea of my confessing to Jay-Jay and being under
obligation to him for his silence! I knew him well enough to know that
he would be delighted to have something like that on me. He was just the
kind that would take advantage and I was in no position to defend myself
under the circumstances. No, sir—I didn’t want to see Mr. Marfield at
all, and if I did see him, I didn’t know what I’d say or do. He was
suspicious already. If God was really with me, he’d keep us from
meeting. I didn’t like his type of officer anyway—and the more I
thought about him, the less I liked him. I always said there was
something about him I didn’t like: it was that suspiciousness, I guess.
You didn’t feel that you could trust him at all, and I certainly did not
want to take any chances on a man like that in a time like this!
My troubles seemed to be beginning. I hadn’t had a good bath since that
one on board ship and I couldn’t see how I could get one until we moved
from this place: there wasn’t a single public bath in the unrestricted
area in Brest. And to add to all this my tummy was feeling not so good
and my back was aching sort of ominously. If it wasn’t one damned thing
it was another. Armies and war certainly are For Men Only. This was no
place for one woman, and I can’t imagine what it would be like if this
camp were full of women instead of men. Anyways it would be worse than
now. Women just can’t be bunched and crowded in together.
It occurred to me that I might try Christian Science. They claim that if
you have enough faith and wish hard enough, you can do anything—even
grow a new limb where one has been amputated. I guess it would take more
than Christian Science to change me into a man now: perhaps if my mother
and father had used Christian Science, the change could have been made,
or rather the necessity of change prevented. However, I doubt very much
if those devilish little ova and those other jiggers, gametes or
spermatozoa or whatever they call them, pay much attention to what their
owners think and wish. I guess we are God’s children, after all—more
than our parents’ probably.
Anyway, I wished I were Leonard Lane. I didn’t feel so good. Maybe
“fightin’ is a lot of fun” but I just didn’t feel kittenish enough to
enjoy this prelude to battle.
And with that Jay-Jay to think about besides!
—2—
Unexciting days passed until a day came when we learned that we were
leaving for Le Mans in the morning. Didn’t know how long we’d be there,
but from all I could learn Le Mans was a training area and the division
might be there for a month or six weeks. The General seemed to think
that we would be used as a replacement division. I didn’t know where he
got the idea but that was the dope.
Nothing new happened, except that I heard from home again and Aunt
Elinor said Vyvy heard that Jay-Jay had left the United States: if that
was the case, he was liable to blow in any time and if he should
discover that my outfit was still here, I didn’t see how I could avoid
being found by him. Naturally I was glad we were moving out in the
morning. He wouldn’t be free to hop all over the A.E.F. looking for me
and it might be a long time before he got to Le Mans, by which time I
shouldn’t be there. There was still hope.
Ben and I attended a song-fest in the afternoon—one of those affairs
where a professional pep-guy gets up on a platform and leads the
drunk-driven cattle in singing and cheering. Well, there was some excuse
for cheering, as to-day the sun let us have a glimpse of himself, and
that was cause for celebrating around this neck of the land of the franc
and the plumbingless house. The songs, however, were really not much to
write home about. Ben had learned already that “Pack Up Your Troubles”
and “Madelon” were not army songs at all: they were for dress parade, he
said. The real army songs were too dirty filthy rotten to sing at any
sanctioned get-together. The real barrack-room ballads were fit only for
barrooms and bedrooms and bathrooms—that is, if you sing in your
bath.... To-day we waited patiently to see if they would sing something
interesting, but the best they had to offer was “Keep the Home Fires
Burning”—and Ben almost choked on his tobacco-quid when they started
that. If there was one song that should never have been written, it was
that! I quite agreed with Ben on that point. Ben said, “That song’s a
lotta bull an’ what a man wants in a time like this is more calves and
less bull!” Ben was certainly droll: he stood beside the “Y” window,
waiting for the song leader to pass—I swear he only missed the poor
devil’s nose by an inch. When my boy friend hurled the saliva, fond
mothers shooed their loved ones off the street. A veritable Hawkeye!