Chapter 4

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 château 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 château, 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 Côte, 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 français," 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 château on the hill. As we drove through the streets I was struck by the sign "Câve," "Câve Voutée," or "Câve, 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.