Part 10

It has been a pretty long time since I last wrote a regular letter. It has not been because we were so terribly busy, for in the last ten days our census has come down a little and things stopped being quite as strenuous as they had been since the first of October. Sometimes, however, I find it hard to write and I put it off, thinking that I’ll be feeling more like doing it the next day. I usually love to write. These last few days, however, we have been most busy, for on the 13th at noon we had notice that our long-expected 31 nurses would arrive that afternoon. Capt. Johnston and I went down to meet them, leaving the people here scurrying around trying to get enough food to feed all those extra people and to work out the plans we made long ago, as to how we would house them until the V. A. D.’s were taken away.

The next day most of the V. A. D.’s were taken away to the different hospitals in this neighborhood, and to-day we are beginning to settle down. The details of the records that are necessary, both for the outgoing people as well as for the new-comers, have been very numerous and complicated, but Miss Taylor and I and the little stenographer have put things through in fairly rapid shape. I have yet many payrolls and traveling expense vouchers and pay allotments and lists galore to attend to, but the most immediate and important ones are finished.

We have started the new ladies all off on the wards and they seem very much interested and thrilled and glad to be here. Since it is almost three months since they left St. Louis, they are mighty glad to arrive somewhere and get started to work. Poor things, they have to go through the adjusting that we all had. They never will get used to some things, such as the awful wounds, the appalling cheeriness of the men, and the sight of the troops marching off to the front.

There is a perfect hubbub outside now, for the new enlisted men who arrived to-day with the officers are celebrating with a couple of drums. I have been so occupied all day I have not had a chance to see the new officers, but I have seen Dr. Thomas for half a second. So E. may know that her package will doubtless be forthcoming pretty soon.

One of my children has just been in here. A little while ago she received a cable that her father is not expected to live, which she can’t help interpreting to mean that he is dead, as she does not think her family would have cabled otherwise. She is a night nurse and is, of course, going right on with her work to-night. She is the first of our group to whom a big sorrow has come. Of course, we all know they must come, but when they do, we feel so far away.

I have been making many speeches this week. Just a little while ago I had a long talk with all my American nurses; then of course I had to have a farewell talk with the V. A. D.’s; and then all the poor new nurses had to have me tell them, not rules and regulations, for they can read those on the bulletin board, but a little about the way we all feel after six months and some of the processes we have been through, which they are pretty sure to have to go through too. It is very curious with a group of people such as I have here, how they light up and are moved when they are interpreted to themselves. It is the greatest delight to me to try to make them see themselves and what they are doing, in large terms. I try to fit the daily trials and depressions and difficulties, and the way they take them, into their right place in their sense of patriotism. I tell them how they felt when they were at the wonderful service at the Cathedral at home, and at places where the bands played and the flags waved, as in London, and such places, and then I try to show them how their daily work can be a part of such feelings. And when I told them of the change that had come over most of us in the six months we have been here, I surprised them so much. I told them we had come glad to pay that part of the price that was convenient. We had been quite willing to give say six months’ service, and give up our big pay for a while, and to stay as long as our future plans were not interfered with, and as long as our health did not suffer, and so long as it really was not a hardship to any one. But I had seen the change coming to us all, that a bigger price than that was expected of us. I told them how proud I was to see them all coming to the conclusion that no price would be too big to pay for what we were working for. I told them of the peace that I knew had come to them because individually they had decided that their future plans did not count, their hopes deferred were of no importance, or their health, so long as their efficiency was not impaired, or their families, or their salaries, or their whole lives.

The change has really come. It has been most noticeable. I felt it in myself of course, and no longer am restless and questioning. And the questions of so many that came to me for the first few months about the possible length of time, etc., have entirely ceased. About two weeks ago I had to tell two nurses, for whom I had applied for discharge after six months, that it was refused. One was to go home to be married and the other to join her husband whom she married one hour before we left St. Louis. Both were so splendid about the matter, and acted as though this was the decision that they themselves would have made; I was most impressed. And that is the spirit of the whole group. Nurses say all the time, “I couldn’t be hired to go home now, knowing what I know now.” Oh, they are so fine. The new group seem so surprised to find us so happy. They also seem much surprised to find us so well off for food and general conditions. We all look more husky and rosy-cheeked and fat than they do.

I am going to send this much along with Phil’s, as there is no telling when I can continue. The Gerard book and “The Chosen People” we are glad to have. Thank you so much.

With loads and loads of love,

Julia.

Nov. 25, 1917.

We had our first military funeral on the 23d, for our little boy Sergeant who died of pneumonia. It was most impressive. At two o’clock all who could be spared from the wards assembled in front of the grand stand. The procession started there, first the group of sergeants who were honorary pallbearers, then all the Officers, then American enlisted men, then British enlisted men, then about fifty blue-coated nurses. We marched in twos down to the mortuary and lined up along the road; then the quaint French hearse, driven by a man in a three-cornered hat, was driven through the long line of his friends. His brother, a little private from the Canadian Army, accompanied by one of our men, walked just behind, and the six active pallbearers, his best friends, walked on the two sides. Then we all fell in and marched the mile through the mud to the military cemetery. It is just a big field, nearly filled with small wooden crosses, each bearing the name of a soldier. Ours was the first American laid there. The two padres were waiting for us in their surplices, the dearly loved British clergyman, Dr. Page, and our new young American, Mr. Taylor, who came to relieve Dean Davis. This special place has been set apart for Americans.

It is a lovely, quiet place outside the wall of an old French burying-place. Far off to the West were the blue, blue hills that are on the other side of Rouen, and nearer a long double row of bare, black poplars. And near were the rows and rows of others who had given their all and gone on before. One could almost feel a welcoming stir as we laid our first American among them. A little group of French people had gathered to see what had brought so large a cortège to a place where there are daily interments and where every day the firing squad gives the last salute for the brave boys from our hospitals. The beautiful words of the service had new meaning to them. Then the salute from the firing squad, and “Taps” from the bugler. While the officers and most of the nurses marched away, his Masonic “brothers,” led by our Rabbi, held their symbolic ceremony. There were many flowers, weird French wreaths, which were hung all over the outside of the hearse when it left the mortuary. If only Evart’s mother could have been here, it would have comforted her to feel the love and respect of all his friends and to see the quiet, lovely place where he is laid to rest.

We know that both the American groups have been most fortunate to have had no deaths before this. In the natural course of events they are bound to come, and to have our first not till after six months have passed since we left home, was not to be expected. We will have others, but oh, if I could only bring all my nurses back home safe to their families! Of course, it can’t be, some will have to be sent back because of ill health; there is a question about the lungs of one now, and some we shall have to leave behind. It is a fearful thing to have the responsibility of one hundred women so far away from home. Sometimes it all seems so much, too much for me,--their health, their happiness, their reputation and morals, their general safety and welfare. I try to remember that the responsibility is not all mine. There are strong men helping me, but they only have the important things to attend to about them; I have the accumulation of all the little things as well.

All our recently received patients have been so tremendously elated and excited about the advances made towards Cambrai. It has been wonderful to see their enthusiasm. We have been quite busy taking care of the poor things, 71 operations in 48 hours, a couple of days ago. It has been raining again, and such a wind and rain storm as we had all last night and this morning, but this afternoon it cleared up beautifully and is very cold.

A few days ago an interesting little incident occurred. There was a knock at my office door. When I opened it, there was a patient in his clumsy blue suit, steadying himself against the wall. “Can you tell me where I can find the Matron?” he said. “Yes, right here,” I answered. “I am the Matron. What can I do for you?” He was so wobbly he almost had to lean up against the wall. “Somebody told me,” he said, “that you had a violin. I am a professional violinist and I have not touched a violin for five months, and to-day I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I got up out of bed to come and find you.” I made him come in and sit down. As it happened I had a new violin and bow, which had been bought for our embryo orchestra, here in my office. The violin was not tuned up, but that didn’t matter. The man had it in shape in no time and then he began to play, and how he could play! We let him take the violin down to his tent, and later I sent him some of my music. He was a shell shock, and all the evening and the next few days until he was sent to England he played to wrapt audiences of fellow patients. In our wards we have lots of kinds of music, from gramophones to comb-and-tissue-paper bands. The men are keen about anything that makes a tune. A lot of harmonicas would be a great blessing.

We had such a wonderful lot of letters this morning. I got 12 and Phil 9. I had four from Mother--October 29, November 1, and November 8, and I forget the other date, as Phil has it with him. We had a wonderful time reading each other’s mail. I could not finish until way into the afternoon, I had so many things to do. Letters do make such a difference. I was so glad all these came this A.M., for it is very cold and we admitted 250 patients at noon, but letters will counteract most anything. Somebody wrote in the only copy of the _Survey_ I have seen since I left home that the two things that did troops the most good were letters and singing, and it is true about nurses too. Speaking of singing, can you send me some copies of the new Army and Navy Song Book--say 2 or 3 dozen, if they are not too expensive, or more if possible? I have 100 women, but of course we never can all get together at one time. The October 6th _Survey_ mentioned that book as excellent. I’ll answer the letters soon. They were wonderful and full of juicy bits. You are all so very, very dear to write so much and your letters make such a difference.

Phil has his “Board” to-morrow and will soon know what is to happen to him.

Lovingly,

Julia.

December 8, 1917.

Dearest Dad and Mother:--

I wonder if this will reach you before Christmas, if so it brings you all my love. It is just beastly not being able to send presents, but we found so few things that were not dutiable and worth the trouble you’d have to take, so hardly any one in the Unit is sending gifts. I have been writing notes and letters as much as I could, but I have not sent half on my list, for I have been feeling quite badly the past week and for the past three days have been in bed. It’s just an inflammation or infection in my trachea,--not really bronchitis but quite an acute affair which has made me very sick. I have been having wonderful care here in my own room and people are just spoiling me. Steam and benzoin inhalations have done me the most good. Major Fischel and Lieut. Praetz, the throat specialist, have been seeing me every day and I am about to be well, and hope to be up to-morrow. It began with terrific hoarseness and the trouble has stayed below my throat, and also there has been a bad cold in my head,--but with chills and a little fever; it might have been much worse if I had not had such good care. It has been very cold and damp and many of my poor children have had very bad colds and coughs. I was awfully embarrassed to have to go and do likewise. My cough is much better, and I really don’t feel as sick to-day as I did yesterday and before.

Ruth has been doing so much for me and looking after me and lots of others too. Phil is here beside me now, reading. E.’s eiderdown jacket came just in the nick of time, and I’ve looked very smart in it, my Jaeger bag and darker brown blanket. My little oil stove has made the room quite comfortable (for me in bed); not so much so for my callers, as the floor is quite cold. Everything was frozen solid yesterday morning,--I mean fire-buckets, etc., but to-day is milder and I’m not needing the stove at all this afternoon. I have been showered with flowers and books and all sorts of things, but I am keen to get up.

To-day Miss Taylor brought a lot of mail, a few letters, and packages of all sorts. It’s being very hard to keep track of all the things that are being sent to us. I am trying to keep a list. It is down in the office now. But lots of strangers are sending things. Some day I’ll write you a story about missionary barrels! But I’ll surely send you a list of things that have been sent. We do appreciate gifts here, but, oh Mother, some have been so funny, and never in the whole of our lives have we seen so much candy and chocolate.

This is not a good preamble to say thanks for your dear things which have been so thoughtful. The white cap and wristlets came to-day and are wonderful, so soft and nice. I shall very probably wear the cap nights. I have been using one of the khaki crocheted caps you sent Phil as a sample and model for some dark blue ones for my nurses. I am having them made in town. They must be dark blue to be uniform and to go with the dark blue sweaters. My night nurses’ heads nearly freeze. Phil let me have two of the brown caps right away till I can get blue ones made. I am having my two night supervisors wear them. Just think, they are out of doors these freezing nights practically the whole twelve hours. You see they go from tent to tent and all over the place, looking after the sickest and the dying patients and helping the nurses any way they can. Often it is just comforting the nurses that is their main job. Night before last on one line two men died suddenly almost at the same moment and the poor little nurse could hardly stand it, but the supervisor just had to comfort and brace, as well as help physically. These supervisors have a hut to go into where all the night nurses have suppers and where there is a little stove. They write their reports there, but it is almost twelve solid hours out of doors every night for a month. We have them all bundled up with gaiters and knickers and two or three sweaters and caps and coats and mittens, but they do get chilled through. If you want to knit us some regulation wristlets with a hole for the thumb, please do. We need lots of them. They can be either gray or dark blue. Our nurses are not wearing anything on duty that isn’t gray or dark blue. The sweaters were too awful until this rule went out, lavender, old rose, yellow, green, dirty white, etc.

Well, so much for caps,--you could send us more of those too, if you want to, or mufflers, all gray or dark blue, preferably dark blue. The wristlets with thumb holes can be worn working and the fingers are left free. I’ve knitted several pairs here myself.

Well, to return to presents. The Cross handkerchief case with the beauty handkerchiefs also came and I just love them. They are so dainty and wonderful and so _unsuitable_ for active service that I know that is the reason you sent them and I’m so glad. I shall use them too, and not let them get lost and they’ll be so _inappropriate_ held in a gray-mittened hand mopping a frozen nose, but so nice! I have a weenty bottle of rose perfume that L. put in my medicine case,--I’m sure for just such a contingency!

We love your letters so much. The Nov. 1st one with all its inclosures was fine.

We are so glad people are sending us things for our men for Christmas. Oh, they need them so badly, the poor, poor things, and we want them to have a wonderful Christmas, and they are sure to. For many of our friends are sending us things or money for them. The underwear I have heard from, from Paris, and it ought to arrive soon. The _Outlook_ has begun to come and is fine. We shall enjoy that tremendously, for it condenses things for us in a way we need. I could use some more bed-socks, high ones. We have to wear them in bed, and I find that by putting the pajama leg inside the sock, my legs and feet are very comfortable. I’d like them to come nearly to the knees; any color will do.

We were so glad to know about your service flag. I wish we could have a picture of it, as we don’t know what it is like. The cold cream you sent I wanted very much. I have to use quantities of it to keep from chapping, and we can’t get any glycerine over here. Some of my nurses have such dreadfully chilblained hands and feet, and they are so painful.

D.’s letters are very interesting. Please thank her for them. I just can’t write and answer them all. You’ve no idea how many strangers I have to write to,--in the States, I mean,--answering questions and acknowledging gifts; but I just love to get the letters from the girls; I can’t write them often. I’m snowed under now with letters that need to be answered.

You must think of us over here as having one of the happiest Christmases possible. Our work is pitiful, but we are at peace in our hearts and very happy to be here. I never felt so at peace and quiet in my mind. We have a very big and vital work to do right here and that is enough, and we are blessed beyond all words to be here and able to do it.

I believe there is more real peace on earth in men’s and women’s hearts now in the midst of this world turmoil than has ever been known before. No one should be sorry for us, for any of us who are here in connection with the army. You can’t be sorry enough for the wounded and sick, but most of them too are very peaceful, undisturbed, and unafraid. Oh I wish I could tell you what all this is meaning, as I see it. Maybe some day I can, for every day I am seeing things more clearly, but as yet I can’t write it all down,--after a while perhaps. We talk about it, from time to time, some of us, every once in a while, and oh, dear people, no greater thing can ever come into any one’s life than this chance of ours,--to get away from little things and self and to know what the things of the Spirit are, and what true values really are.

A happy Christmas to you all and oh, so much love. I can’t bear to stop writing when I think that this will reach you at Christmas time. (Phil is going to Paris to-morrow and may not be back by Christmas.) But together or apart, we’ll be thinking of you all and praying to God to spare you till we can see you again. But if it can’t be that way, it won’t matter so much, for if any one of you goes on before, you will be just so much nearer to us, for you will understand the end from the beginning and be content as you watch how we fight our fight, and we’ll feel your nearness and get strength and comfort from it, and there won’t be anything but complete love and understanding between us. It is going to be a long time before we come home, but it doesn’t matter, miles make no difference. You are wonderful, and we, of course, must be wonderful too.

I believe this will be one of your happiest Christmases, as it is ours.

Good-night, good-night, dear ones,

Julia.

Dec. 15, 1917.

My little Corona has come back from London where it went to be cleaned and I feel as though an old and dear friend had come back. It’s a cold Saturday night. Up in the Mess nurses are making Christmas stockings, one thousand of them, so that they can be filled with all kinds of nice little things that we are receiving from all over the country, and be given, one to each man on Christmas morning. It really is quite a job for each nurse to make ten stockings, but they are getting done. The hospital is not quite so heavy as it has been very steadily all autumn, and temporarily, at least, the pressure has let up a bit. I have sent five nurses away on leave. After six months’ service each nurse is entitled to 15 days’ leave with pay, but up to now we have not been able to spare the nurses, for we have always a few who are sick. I have six sick ones over in the Sick Sisters’ Hospital now, but if things stay as they are now, I won’t have to send for the ones who are on leave. My sick ladies are not very sick. One has an infected finger, another an infected big toe, and the others have slight fevers, or very bad colds which are really the grippe. It is such a blessing that we have such a splendid place to send our sick nurses.