Dec. 28, 1917.
The wind is swirling and howling outside and it is very cold, about the
coldest day we’ve had, I think. I have put a little table over nearer
the stove than my big desk-table is and here a couple of feet away from
the fire, the heat is quite noticeable. It’s an amusing sight to see
Miss Taylor and me doing our work down here mornings with mittens on.
With those nice fingerless ones, we can typewrite or write most
comfortably. It’s the wind that is making things so cold this evening.
Not that it has been warm on the days when there was no wind, for it has
been for over two weeks that some fire buckets in my sitting-room have
been solid ice. Useful in case of fire, I can hear some one say. Yes,
but to-day some chemical fire extinguishers, that I have been making a
big howl for, have arrived upon the scene and I shall sleep more
peacefully, for our huts are like match-boxes. Every morning the water
in our pitchers is frozen and the ink in fountain pens. We have to jerk
our tooth-brushes out of the glasses and pry the soap off of the
soap-dishes. In the Mess, our drinking-water bottles have ice in them,
like the Waldorf. There is one story that some believe and some don’t,
but the nurse swears it is true, and that is--that her hot-water bottle
was frozen solid in the morning in her bed. I asked about it and learned
that it had been placed outside her sleeping bag and had slipped down to
the foot of the bed where the blankets were loose, but it was frozen. It
is most amusing the howls one hears in the mornings; it is so hard to
get up. The fires don’t get things warmed up a bit, for a long time, and
it is like getting up out of doors. We all have schemes about how to
dress at night so that dressing in the morning will necessitate the
least exposure and the least changing. It is awfully funny and doesn’t
hurt us a bit. The chilblains hurt and are awful, but heroic treatment
helps. There are parades of barefoot ladies who go and walk in the snow
nights, then come in and rub and roar; then there are the cold-water
foot baths, which are said to be worse than the snow treatment.
Occasionally a day or two off duty is necessary for very bad hands or
feet. Almost everybody wears two pairs of woolen stockings and monstrous
shoes, and oh! the money that is being spent on having shoes made to
order--very high ones with extra thick soles. But on the whole a
stranger would think our group looks mighty fat and well. There are a
lot of coughs that hang on. To-day, for instance, out of my 99 women, I
have just three off duty sick,--one has an infected thumb; another an
infected toe; and the third, poor dear, has been having a painful
attack. But at home in steam-heated apartments, we could not do better
than that. Some dear lambs walk with a good deal of a limp when they
first go on duty in the mornings, but as the days progress their feet
feel better. I have been awfully lucky, though I came near getting some
trouble started. I walked downtown with Major Veeder last Sunday, when
we were going down to dinner, and that night the balls of my feet and
the heels got very burning and swollen, but vigorous treatment stopped
the trouble.
This is a very quiet Sunday--Dec. 30th, 1917,--and every nurse is having
a full half day off duty. We have over eight hundred patients, but there
are not so very many that are desperately sick. I want to tell you all
about our wonderful Christmas and I hope I won’t be much disturbed, for
I am in the office, as Miss Taylor is off duty. The nurses and doctors,
helped by a few home gifts, raised about $600 to be spent for
Christmas. About $200 of that, it was decided, was to go to some Rouen
charity for children. So one cold day, Major Murphy, Major Veeder, and I
went to look up the names of some philanthropic organizations that had
been given us by the Mayor. I forgot to say that the first move was a
call that Major Veeder and I made on the Mayor to get a list of the
accredited charities. You would have been amused and proud (?) to hear
me explain in slow and careful French who we were and what we wanted.
But I got it over, and the list was sent us with many respectful
salutations. When we visited some of the societies on the list, we had a
most interesting time. We three would take turns in speaking the French
and explaining what we wanted. We’d rehearse on the front door steps
like so many kids. We visited a refuge for little boys--such a poor,
bare place, managed by a priest and some sisters; then a sort of
industrial school; then the office of the Society for the care of war
orphans. Here we got the names of ten families to which we could send
special New Year’s baskets. We decided to give something to each of
these societies, and, in all, spend about $200. There has been lots of
fun about the baskets, for the doctors auctioned off the privilege of
having a family, and with each family there went the name of a nurse who
was to help. Many of the families got visited yesterday, and baskets of
clothes and toys and food were purchased, and on New Year’s morning,
they are going to be delivered.
Then for our patients, we bought pork, extra, for their dinner, and
beer. The English Government sent them plum puddings. We wanted turkey
or chicken, but found we could not afford it for so many. But they loved
the pork. We had been making fancy Christmas stockings for days, and a
committee, of which Ruth Cobb was chairman, had been having a very bad
time trying to buy and get delivered enough supplies to fill them. There
had been great fun filling them. We had requisitioned all the candy and
cigarettes we could from the officers, and we got them to help fill, so
by Christmas Eve, when we had about 750 filled, we thought we were quite
safe, as a great many patients had been sent out, but that evening we
were notified to be prepared to receive two convoys of a hundred each,
during the night. The Committee almost wept, but they got very busy and
by 10 o’clock on Christmas morning every patient in the hospital had
received a stocking with fruit, tobacco, candies, nuts, and some kind of
a present in it. Only one of the convoys had arrived by noon--the other
one got delayed somewhere. The patients were just like little boys with
their stockings, and the nurses had just as much fun with them as
though they had been. The one-armed men could not untie the necks of
their stockings, which had to be tied up tight, and so their shouts all
through those tents: “Oh, Sister, come and snip mine next.” The Sisters
dashed around, snipping and untying and pulling snappers and fitting on
paper caps. The British Red Cross sent us a lot of decorations and
things we could use for the stockings, and the Australian Red Cross gave
some money as did the American Red Cross. The boxes the St. Louis
Chapter of the American Red Cross sent for the Unit have not arrived
yet.
Now about the singing on Christmas Eve, which was the loveliest part of
the whole Christmas to me. At 8:15 about 50 bundled-up nurses left the
quarters and walked down across the snow, each carrying her candle
lantern. It was the loveliest sight, for the night was perfect. It was
not too cold and the snow made everything so bright. I had my violin to
start them with and keep them on the key. We began at one corner of the
camp and just as soon as we had started we were joined by all the
officers and a number of the enlisted men, and soon up-patients gathered
around too, so as we went from place to place between the lines of tents
we must have been a crowd of over 200 people. I wish you could have seen
what I saw. I knew the tunes so well I could watch the others as I
played. Officers and nurses, and patients and nurses looking together
over one sheet of words (we had had the words mimeographed, for we have
only two hymn books of the same kind), while one of them held the
lantern so that the light fell on the paper. And all were singing so
intently and so happily. One group of patients, who said they wanted to
learn those “Yankee tunes,” pushed and shoved to be by me every time
because they said they wanted to be near the “band.” We sang--“Oh, Come,
All Ye Faithful.” That everybody knew; and “Hark, the Herald Angels,”
and “It Came upon the Midnight Clear,” and “Oh, Little Town of
Bethlehem,” and “Holy Night, Silent Night.” We sang in eight places. It
is something I shall never forget if I live to be a hundred, and I
imagine a good many felt the same way. If there only were some other way
we could have community singing. There is nothing like it. I was worn to
a frazzle afterwards, but it was worth any amount of effort. The night
nurses said the patients loved it, only there was not enough of it,
though we sang for an hour and a half all together.
After the singing we in our hut had a little hut party. We had a little
Christmas tree, with fool presents on it for each one of us with a
rhyme. You don’t know what lovely tree decorations can be made out of
the silver-foil out of candy boxes; a bit of gilt fringe which was
carefully raveled was a great find. We had a nice little family party,
ending with cocoa and little cookies; then parted for the night. At
midnight Ruth and I went with a group of the Catholic nurses over across
the road to the midnight service in their chapel.
Christmas night we had a party in our Mess for just our American
officers and nurses. The Mess had been beautifully decorated with holly
and greens and we had our dinner early (4 and 5), so that all the tables
could be taken out and a stage set. Three or four of the doctors and a
couple of nurses acted a little burlesque which they adapted from
something they saw in _Punch_. It was full of local hits and was very
amusing and clever. Then we had a monologue by another of the doctors,
which was very good; then some songs by another doctor. Do you know
“Joan of Arc, They are Calling You”? That was one of them. Then came the
“Army Alphabet” written by two of the nurses and read by me. It wound up
with a scene about “U is us as we used to be” and gave a chance for a
bunch of pretty girls to dress up in mufti, and how pretty they did look
after all this somber uniform stuff. They had a little business about
going to say good-by to a friend of theirs who was just off for France
as a nurse, then when I got to--
“Y’s for the years and years till we’ve done,
When we’ve healed every Tommy and killed every Hun,
Then old and decrepit and wrinkled and gray,
To America’s shores we’ll wend our way.
They set dogs on old ‘Rip’--
He was gone twenty years--
Oh, what will they do--
When this Unit appears?”
Then they had a scene to show how we would appear. It was killingly
funny and brought down the house. Then we wound up with a dance. Lots of
the group said it was the nicest Christmas they could possibly imagine.
I was so glad, for it might have been so different, for Christmas is a
lonesome time and nobody had time to be lonesome here. We have not had
any mail for ages. Some packages came through the week before Christmas,
but I have had no letters from the States since those that came written
about November 24th. We keep hoping every day that a big batch will
arrive.
All the hospitals around us are entertaining a lot this week. They are
having “at homes” or concerts or little plays, and there seems to be
something doing every afternoon or evening. It is an awfully good thing,
and I really suppose we ought to give some sort of an affair here, but
how I don’t want to!
Now good night and loads and loads of love to you all, you very dear
ones. The Red Cross card Mother sent nearly broke me up,--especially
what she wrote on the back.
Jule.
January 22, 1918.
I have just realized that it is about three weeks since I last wrote. I
don’t know how it happened to be so long, except that I guess there has
not been very much of special interest to say. I have not done all my
thanking for Christmas presents yet and I have been getting along with
those little by little and so had not noticed that I had not written a
regular for so long. The past two weeks have been very mild, in great
contrast to the month before. The warmish, damp weather has not been any
too good for the general health of the group, for we have continued to
have a good deal of the “flue,” as the British call the influenza. But
the chilblains are all better.
The hospital has continued to have about the same number of patients
right along. We vary between eight and ten hundred, sending out some
every day and getting in convoys nearly every night. We get such a lot
of medical cases now and such a lot of trench feet, which are such
dreadful things. They are the result of wet and cold and are often very
serious. They are very painful and sometimes result in gangrene. To-day
one poor lad had to be told that he would have to lose both feet because
of this trouble, and he is simply crushed. To-morrow he will buck up,
but to-night it seems too much to be borne. We have some terribly sick
men, but not so large a proportion of them as awhile ago. I am sending
as many nurses away for their leave as I possibly can while the work is
not so dreadfully heavy. I have had about thirty away for their fifteen
days already. Ruth Cobb is in Paris now with Miss Watkins. Most of the
nurses go to Paris. Three have been down to Cannes, but they were sent
through the British authorities. In a few days my splendid assistant is
going to Paris with three of her pals. I shall miss her very much as she
is a wonderful right-hand man, and one I depend on a lot. After she gets
back, which will be Feb. 8th, I expect to go for my leave. I am planning
to go to London, for I want to see Elizabeth M. and I want to get away
from nurses. I could not do that in Paris, nor at Cannes, nor at
Mentone; besides which I don’t want to go to any of those places alone,
and I can’t go very well with any nurses from here. So it’s London for
me. I don’t mind the Channel trip, nor possibilities of air raids, nor
bad weather.
I find I am right tired though it is not from hard, physical work of any
kind, for I certainly am not doing that. I guess it is from
responsibility, and more or less of a long-continued strain. Anyway a
change will do me good. We all get fifteen days every six months if we
can manage it. You see we are all overdue here, and there are so many of
us I can’t possibly get around before the second fifteen days will be
due. I will cable from London some time while I am there just to let you
know I am there safely.
More strange gifts still come along.... I am not properly grateful for
cast-off clothes, I’m afraid, especially when they are flung at one
without a word. However, I ought to be ashamed to growl. But so many,
many people have been so wonderfully good to us and have sent us such
superlative things with dear notes saying that the best was none too
good for us, I am afraid we are plain spoiled.
You can’t imagine what fun we have talking about what we will do first
when we get home. It is a favorite game. Some want theaters, some want
real concerts, like symphonies, some want warm, marble bath-rooms, some
great big soft beds, some lovely fluffy evening clothes, some automobile
rides in parks, some ice-cream. A whole lot want some kind of bread
stuffs, muffins, biscuits, popovers, waffles, pancakes. That is what I
want among other things, but most of all I want to see my family and my
friends. The days go by rapidly, but it seems years since we left, and
it is going to be a long, long time before we get home. We play games at
the table about the food, pretending that it is something else. We have
awfully good food considering, but of course it gets monotonous and
tiresome, and one needs to be good and hungry all the time to enjoy it.
But most of us are very hungry at meal-times and have good appetites; it
is when you are a bit off your feed you think how nice it would be to
have some good milk toast with real butter, real milk, and real bread.
To-day, for instance, I’ll tell you what our food was. Breakfast: good
oatmeal with boiled milk and sugar, coffee, war bread, which one of the
group toasted before the fire for our table, “bacon” the eternal, which
is fried ham, and not very good. Lunch: a kind of meat loaf, rice, with
cheese (which we have about every other day), bread and butter, cocoa,
and stewed figs, stewed without sugar. With the meat and rice was
creamed yellow turnip. Dinner: brown meat and gravy, boiled potatoes and
beets, coffee and a kind of chocolate bread-pudding, which somebody said
was bread soaked in left-over cocoa. This really was not a very good day
for food, but you see it was all nourishing, and it was cooked well, but
it is not fancy. After lunches and dinners like that, if we have some
candy or fruit cake in our rooms, we go and have some of that for
dessert. Mother’s box from Charles with all the fancy things for a
tea-party came yesterday. It had been opened and not very well repacked,
so that the crackers and cookies were a bit the worse for the journey,
but I think I can freshen them up. It is queer that any one should have
found it necessary to open a box of crackers to see what it contained.
The music E. sent and the songs that Mother sent all came safely and I
am so glad to have it all. Sunday night I had a beautiful time with one
of the nurses, playing through the new book of duets. The new songs are
being used constantly. Mrs. McB.’s box of books arrived this week after
its long wanderings. It was most welcome. The books are already giving
the greatest pleasure. I have already read three of them myself. Even
the doctors come to me for books every now and then, so it is fine to
have some good ones on hand to lend to them as well as the nurses.
I see Phil every once in a while. He was down last night at a little
dance in our mess which I did not attend. I have learned both the
onestep and the foxtrot over here in my old age! I was down to dinner
twice the week before with him. It is very pleasant to walk down with
him late in the afternoon, wander around a little, get a good dinner,
then walk back again, talking over all the latest news from letters or
camp gossip. He seems to be enjoying his work at No. 25 Stationary
Hospital very much, though he does not find the work at all arduous.
This is a very dull letter, but it is meant to tell you that we are all
“carrying on” as usual, are all “in the pink” and feeling “champion.” A
few of our number have been a bit “seedy,” but are “going on fine.” We
are all wondering “where do we go from here,” but rumor says that we
won’t be moved before Summer, which we hope is true. We have very few
among us who are “grousers,” but even they would not like to leave this
place.
Tell Elsie, please, that I use her brown jacket every night and it is
the nicest thing. I don’t need anything for my sitting-room now that it
is so comfortable and attractive. It has a little coal stove in it now,
which makes it awfully nice for evenings. I am not there much in the
daytimes except for French lessons. I am always having some flowers
there, people are so nice. I have some white lilacs (!) there
now--lovely forced things that are really sweet.
It is getting late and I must beat it to bed. I’ll try to write sooner
this next time.
With loads and loads of love,
Jule.
Dad’s letter dated Dec. 25th is the latest I have heard from you, I
think. A nice letter from Isabelle dated Dec. 13th arrived a few days
ago.
Feb. 6, 1918.
A draft of men is marching by singing and whistling and shouting, which
shows us that they are off to the front, for that is the way the troops
leave to go to the trenches. I am very tired and spunkless to-night, and
I haven’t any lofty thoughts and inspirations, for the needs of the
flesh are seeming to predominate, and what I want more than anything
else is a wonderful hot bath in a beautiful warm bathroom, and then such
a long sleep in a beautiful big bed, where I cannot hear any
bugle-calls, any breakfast bells, any coughing nurses, or anything
except perhaps soothing, joyriding automobiles. You can see my state of
mind. Miss Taylor has been away on her leave for almost a fortnight,
which has meant that things have been a good deal harder for me, even
though I have had a very capable nurse to assist me in the office. But I
am edgy and irritable and need to get away myself.
We have had a lot of perplexities to deal with, and I have needed to use
continuous alertness of mind to keep up with the details. For instance,
it requires five separate papers for each nurse who goes on leave, and I
have had fifteen gone at a time for over two months, the group changing
every day or so, and I must see that every paper is correct or
something will go wrong; the Ford won’t be there to take them to the
train, they won’t have the papers which enable them to get the military
fare on the train, or they won’t have the proper form of request for a
new serge uniform which they can order and get fitted in Paris, or they
will arrive back at the station with a heavy suitcase and no way of
getting home except with much difficulty; or some one won’t be scheduled
to take their work in the wards, or they won’t have received their
salary before they left, or they have not told at which hotel they were
planning to stay, etc. etc.
Ah well, I will be a much nicer person when I get back from my leave. I
am due to go on the 11th to London to be with Elizabeth M.
The present group that are on leave, at least most of them, had the
experience of being in a bombed city. Ruth was there and thought it all
most interesting. Their hotel was near enough to the bombed district to
make the experience unforgettable, although they were not in any way
alarmed or hurt.
Will Elsie please thank little Alice for her fine letter? I didn’t know
that she could write so well and use such big words. I hope she will
write me again soon. I am crazy about my little service flag. It is
quite a curiosity here. The cold you have had over there has been far
worse than ours. So far we have had only about a month of really cold
weather. Some of my Jewish nurses--I have three or four--were much
interested in the “Chosen People.” I am so glad that there is a chance
of Dad’s getting the song-books for us. We had a great sing a week ago
Sunday evening, only such hymns! regular revival ones.
It is late and I must get to bed. I do feel your love and I need it so
much.
Loads and loads of love.
Feb. 10, 1918.
It is a glorious, sunny, mild, Springy day here. The patients who can
walk are crawling out into the sun. Many beds have been carried out so
that some of the sickest may have the benefit of the warm rays of the
run. The nurses walk around with a kind of sauntering air that shows
that they are able to appreciate the lovely day and the precious lack of
rush. This afternoon there will be many walks. Last Sunday afternoon I
had a perfect walk. We were gone from two to six-thirty, and walked
miles through lovely country roads and lanes. Pussy-willows are out and
bushes show budding leaves, and it feels as though Spring were really
here. But we are likely to have more cold weather yet, we are told. I am
_on_ until about four-thirty. Miss Taylor is back and I am due to go
to-morrow. Phil is coming down soon to play basket-ball with our
officers against some Canadian officers. There is a good place to play
right in front of the grand stand on the track, which is all turf. I am
looking forward most eagerly to my leave. I need to see new faces for a
while. Phil and I had dinner together down town a few days ago. I had
many errands at the Base Cashier’s, banks, etc., and met him at our
favorite rendezvous--the Cathedral; then we wandered around together,
did little errands, had a nice dinner, and were back here by
eight-thirty.
That evening we had a lecture in the Mess by one of our young
officers--a very brilliant young fellow--on the war. He has been giving
a series of talks to us. The first was on the Western front and its
changes, and the second was on the Balkan States. The nurses were much
interested. We are too near to be able to get any kind of a good view of
the whole situation, and we have not time to hunt for it in periodicals.
We have no further word about the Vassar proposition. It would be a
fearfully hard thing to leave this Unit.
I shall have such a nice time with Elizabeth in London. Food is scarce
there; the paper says they in London can have only one meat meal a week!
But what do I care? I’m bringing E. a present of sugar! I’ll write you
from there. Loads and loads of love.
Jule.
London W.
Friday, February 15, 1918.
I want to tell all the details about going on leave to England, for it
is something of an experience. On Monday morning the eleventh, when I
left, I had to report at the office of the D. D. M. S. in Rouen to get
my travel warrant. Although I had asked for leave to England with
permission to go on my own expense, because we are not asking leave
permission from the British, I was told that that was not going to be
possible, but that I would be sent through just as the English Sisters
are. The Havre train left about half past ten and reached Havre about
twelve-thirty. I was held up at the station when I wanted to leave and
had to show my identification papers, but was soon let through. I
learned afterwards that if I had been with some English Sisters that
were going to England too, I’d have been met and conducted as the others
were. As I did not know that and was not with the others I went off by
myself and was rather glad I did as I had a very interesting time. I
went to a near-by hotel, that I had heard was the best, and had a very
good lunch. Strangely enough, in the dining-room I ran into Mrs.
Christy, the Chief Nurse of the N. Y. Presbyterian Unit, who was on her
way to Cannes. I had only two words with her, as she was just leaving,
but when I told her I was going to England, she said she wasn’t allowed
to. It is most strange how different rules and regulations get through
to the different Units.
As I had the whole afternoon before me to spend in Havre I went to the
nice women at the office and asked their advice as to the best
promenade. They spoke no English, but we were able to understand each
other beautifully. They directed me by means of two trams and a
funicular railway to a very high part of the town, with a lovely view
over the city and harbor. It was a glorious, sunny day so I had a
beautiful time wandering about by myself. After walking quite a long way
I found myself near a cemetery as a pitiful little French procession was
entering. I followed just to see how this sort of thing was done in the
French way. The funeral was for two tiny babies which were borne in tiny
boxes on small litters carried by two men each. Two priests walked ahead
and behind followed the relatives and friends. This was not really a
cheerful way to spend part of one’s holiday, especially as I could see
at a little distance the interment of an Australian soldier, but it was
interesting. I wandered around and talked to little children and watched
people and gazed at aëroplanes sailing over the town for over three
hours, then I went back to the hotel and had tea and then read until
dinner time.
At dinner a Frenchman engaged me in conversation, much to my interest,
as he spoke not a word of English and was just going over to England. He
was as nervous and excited as could be and seemed so glad to talk. He
had been wounded and was now permanently out of the army. At dinner we
had had, among other vegetables, something called “soissons,” which I
had discovered to be a kind of bean. In the cab which the Frenchman and
I took together to go to the quay he told me that he had been wounded at
“Soissons” and that was why he always took “soissons” when they were on
the menu. He showed me the watch charm he had had made from the piece of
shell that had been taken out of his chest. They are so cunning, some of
these French people. I lost him on the boat and didn’t see him again
except in the distance the next morning.
On the boat I found that by paying a reasonable sum I could have a
stateroom by myself instead of having to share with six English Sisters
the ladies’ saloon, which has had berths put into it which are perfectly
comfortable, but which afford no privacy. I had a splendid night and
slept like a top almost the whole night through. I woke once to find
that the boat was tossing a little, but I was too tired and sleepy to
care and promptly went to sleep again. I had not undressed very much,
but even the discomfort of day clothes could not keep me awake. I was
quite surprised when the stewardess called me at six-thirty, and we were
approaching the docks of Southampton. I don’t know what time the boat
left Havre. We went on board at eight-thirty and I was asleep before we
left. After a breakfast of sorts on the boat we landed about
seven-thirty. As the train to “town” didn’t leave till nine-thirty there
was plenty of time to send telegrams back to Rouen and on to Elizabeth
in London. I came on to London with the English Sisters, who told me
they had been met and taken care of and put on the boat and fed with a
spoon almost every minute since they got off the train at Havre. I was
awfully glad I was not with them, but was also glad to know that that
was the way nurses traveling to England are looked after ordinarily, if
they are not as exclusive and standoffish as these English ladies
thought I was. I took pains to show them that I had not meant to be, but
I simply had not expected to be looked after.
London is just as fascinating as ever. There has been no sunshine since
I have been here, but the weather has not been at all bad. It is just
dark and smoky. It is wonderful to be here with Elizabeth in a home. Jim
is so awfully busy with his hospital work we scarcely see him at all.
He often does not get in for meals, and so far he has had to be out
every evening. Elizabeth is doing some very hard work on the American
Committee at the Embassy. This is regular social service work for
Americans in difficulties and is a part of the continuation of that big
committee that did such splendid work at the beginning of the war. The
committee that E. is on takes care of the women and married men with
children and it still has plenty to do.
I have just been reveling in the civilization and comfort of this home.
E.’s china and silver and linen are a perfect joy which I never
appreciated in any home so much before. The food question is getting
pretty serious, but at present there is enough to eat, though Jim says
he doesn’t know how long there will be. It is very difficult to get
things, as only small quantities can be sold at a time. There is no milk
to be had except for invalids and children, there is scarcely any
butter, sugar is sold by cards, and in a few days almost everything is
going to be rationed. The sugar card that was issued to me before I left
France allows my hostess to buy for me sugar not to exceed one and one
seventh ounces a day for the exact time I am to be here. I brought E. a
present of some domino lump sugar which you would have thought was a box
of diamonds. When one is to lunch out anywhere one produces one’s own
sugar from one’s pocket; otherwise the meal would be sugarless.
I have been sleeping and sleeping ever since I arrived. I have my
breakfast in bed almost every morning and lie abed afterwards in lazy
sloth. The roar of the city is utterly soothing to me. Am I not an
urbanite? Sometimes it is too dreadfully quiet at our camp at Rouen. My
room is very high up in this narrow, tall English house, so that the
noise of the streets is somewhat less than it would sound down lower. I
have not wanted to be energetic yet, but I have been having such a good
time, mostly doing nothing. E. and I have made pleasant pilgrimages out
of the need of doing several small errands, and we have been to the
theater twice already. I just ache for the theater and am leading E. a
quite willing martyr right up to as many shows as I can get in. We have
seen Charles Hawtrey in “The Saving Grace,” which was very entertaining,
and not too much about the war, and this afternoon we went to the
Colosseum to a variety show which included Mrs. Lillie Langtry and Vesta
Tilley. To-morrow we are going to see Mrs. Patrick Campbell in “The
Thirteenth Chair”--all of which you see is the greatest dissipation.
I have not seen a single American nurse so far as I know, and I have not
visited a single hospital and don’t mean to. This morning I went to pay
my respects to the British Matron-in-Chief. She was less formidable than
the last time I saw her and was really quite cordial. She took me to see
General Goodwin, who is to be Director General of the medical forces and
who has recently returned from the States. He was most charming and I
had a delightful talk with him. I was glad of a chance to tell these
British officials how fortunate we think we are to have been sent to
work with the British, and to tell them how we have appreciated all the
innumerable courtesies they have shown us and the way they have helped
us.
E. and I have had lunch down town one day and we have had her
mother-in-law and brother-in-law here to dinner. I have had a splendid
real shampoo for the first time since we left London last June. We have
several pleasant little things planned to do next week, but I like best
just sitting around here on real, soft-cushioned sofas. E.’s two little
boys are darlings. I don’t see them much as most of the time they are
off with “nurse.” Jim is four and a half now and John just two.
You see I am having a wonderful rest. Good night, and loads of love.
Jule.
Rouen, March 14, 1918.
Here I am back with my children, very happy that I am not to return to
the States, and perfectly content to stay here where I know I am needed
and can be of use. The future is on the lap of the gods. If I get orders
to go to Paris, or anywhere else, I will go, leaving these dear people
with the greatest regret. But I have nothing to worry about and can go
about my work with the greatest peace.
We are having a great number of the most pitiful cases these last few
nights; gassed men in terrible condition. Nearly three hundred the last
two nights, and a hundred and fifty due to-night. Major Murphy said that
last night’s convoy was the worst he has seen since we have been here.
Ambulance load after ambulance load of stretcher cases with bandaged
eyes and burning lungs. The men tell awful stories of whole companies
affected so that not a man, an officer, or a doctor is able to do a
thing for anybody else. It seems to be a new kind of gas. At any rate
the effects seem to be different from those we have observed before. The
masks have not seemed to protect the men. We have had so many put on the
Seriously Ill and Dangerously Ill lists to-day, Miss Taylor has been
writing letters to families all day.
March 18, 1918.