Part 7

_Sept. 2, 1917--Sunday_: We all have rubber boots. Some had bought them for themselves and some were sent by Mrs. Whitelaw Reid. She is being a regular fairy godmother to us. She has sent me, as a personal present from her, the most wonderful Jaeger sleeping bag. It’s a perfect beauty, and so soft and warm. She is sending sleeping bags for all the nurses, but I imagine not fancy ones like mine. She sent us sheets and pillowcases, which we were so glad to have, as we had been using stained old things that had been issued to us from the hospital supplies. She also has sent extra hot-water bottles, instrument kits, rubber aprons, rubber coats, and hats, and she has just written that she is going to attend to getting gray uniforms for us. She is Chairman of the London Chapter of the American Red Cross, and is apparently much interested in the American nurses that are with the British forces. She has just written that she will send us woolen spencer waists to wear under our uniforms, if I want them. I think I shall let her send them. She has also written that she would like me to run over to London to talk things over with her. I should like to go, but I am afraid I cannot, as Dr. Murphy is just about to go up to the front with a surgical team.

I made my final trip over to the Hospital for Sick Sisters yesterday to see Miss S. before she goes to the Convalescent Home at E. She has entirely recovered, and has made a most remarkable record for herself and our surgeons. We shall have her back on duty in a very few days, probably about ten.

_Sept. 3d_: This letter has been written at several different sittings, and the result is going to be pretty poor. Now that I have not such interesting descriptions to give you or accounts of adventures, I am almost ashamed to send on these dull commonplace letters. It is a glorious, cool, sunny day to-day, and the hospital is not very heavy. I have been off duty a while, sitting under the trees up in our compound, reading an _Atlantic Monthly_ story aloud to Ruth as she lay on a blanket on the ground. Her mother has just sent her some _Centurys_ and the August _Atlantic_. We are getting the _Scribner_, and Dr. Clopton brought me his August _Harper’s Monthly_, so we feel very rich. But for 69 American nurses these few copies won’t go very far. In a little while the band from a neighboring base depot is coming to play for our patients. I have been trying to manage this for some time, and at last the day has come. And to-night there is to be another little dance in our mess. All our tables have to be taken out, but we keep our guests after the ball is over, and make them bring the tables back and help set them for breakfast. To-night our officers are giving the party, and we are the guests, but in our mess, as that is the only possible place for dancing. We have had word from Washington that 30 more nurses are coming to us. We shall then lose our V. A. D.’s, for which I shall be sorry, for though they are more or less of a problem, the advantage of having an interesting group like them in such close contact outweighs any difficulties I may have with them.

We are all wonderfully well, and everything is well with us. In spite of all that I say about bands and dances and the sun shining, there is always the other side. Almost every day we have a death, if not more than one. Night before last a poor boy died of tetanus, and just a few days ago we had the sad experience of helping a poor mother watch her son die, oh so hard. We had sent for her from England, and she was so glad to be here. She came every day from the Y. M. C. A. hostel, and sat by his side. He knew her when she first came. He had such terrible wounds, and he could not stand the awful infection of them all. She was here with him all that last night, and when he stopped breathing about three o’clock, Miss Claiborne, the Surgical Night Supervisor, took her away to the night nurses’ hut, a tiny place where they have their suppers at midnight. She made her some coffee and wrapped her in blankets and fixed her comfortably in chairs. The poor soul did not weep a tear. She slept till morning, then went back to her hostel, and slept all day, the Y. M. C. A. worker told us. The next day she came to get his little belongings. I took her down to the mortuary, and it was not until she saw the flowers Miss Watkins had put down there on him that she went to pieces. She went to the funeral that afternoon, then left, so full of gratitude to us, as though we had done anything.

Sept. 3.

Dearest Family:--

Such a wonderful lot of letters as I’ve had recently. I am sending Mother’s letter on to Phil. I have had two notes from him. He is so lucky in having the splendid chance he has, so near the front. Our men envy him. I will try to keep close track of him, and write him often, so he won’t feel so far away; and if he should get sick or hurt, he is to have my address on him all the time, and I could get to him at once. I am sure I have sufficient pull with officials, and I should work it hard. He is, of course, in much more danger than we are here. You must realize that. But there are not so many dressing stations and field ambulances shelled or bombed. And he will be all right. He is lucky to be there, and I wish I were too. I suppose he will write you that there is no danger, but I want you to know the truth. A Clearing Station was bombed the other day, and people killed and an American nurse injured, and he is nearer the front than that Clearing Station, we understand. I’ll let you know everything I know, so don’t worry; and if he gets hurt, I’ll look after him all I can.

Loads and loads of love to you all. You must not think I am doing anything but exactly what I wanted most to do, and there is no heroism in that. I am very happy at being so much better.

3d Canadian b. b. s.

4th Sept., 1917.

Dear Miss Stimson:--

This note is on behalf of your brother, who was admitted to-day into this hospital, slightly wounded in the muscles of the back by shrapnel.

There is no cause for alarm. He will be sent on to the Base after a short treatment here, and will let you know from there how he is getting along.

Yours sincerely, T. M. Chaplain.

B. E. F. 4-9 17

Dear Miss Stimson:--

I very much regret to have to inform you that your brother was wounded this morning, he was hit in the back, and I don’t think it is serious; the piece of shell entered his back just below the right scapula in a slanting direction. I sent him on immediately to C. C. S., and I am advising him to try to get down to your hospital. The Boche began shelling our Dressing Station and we thought they had finished and went back to our tents, when he sent a parting shot--so to speak, which nearly got the lot of us. I think he will be able to write to you himself to-morrow, so there is no need to worry. He has proved himself a very good officer whilst with me, and I am very sorry to have to lose him, as we very rarely get them back, once they go to the Base. I greatly regret that this has happened.

Believe me,

Very sincerely yours, G. H. L. H., Lieut. Col.

Sept. 8, 1917.

Dearest Mother:--

By the time this reaches you you will have received my cable about Phil. I will repeat what I said just in case it may not have arrived safely. I sent it this noon. “Phil slight shrapnel wound right shoulder. To be brought here. Don’t worry. Will cable often.” The news came in the mail that came in this morning. The two inclosed notes were in the bunch of letters that I received. I read the Chaplain’s first and afterwards found the one from the Colonel. I shall write to thank both these people who were so kind as to write me. I have been able to get a little more information about Phil from Major C. of the Cleveland Unit. Last evening Major C. telephoned me but I was undressed and could not go to the telephone. Miss Taylor took the message and said that Major C. just wanted to know if I knew where my brother was. She has told him that I did not know exactly, but that he was at some Field dressing station with a B. E. F. unit. That was all. This morning, wondering why Major C. was asking about Phil, I called him up and had just the same conversation with the Major. He said he had himself just come down from the front and that there were a number of Americans up there and wasn’t it pleasant for me to have my brother over here? I still wondered why this conversation, until the mail came. Then I called up Major C. again and asked him if he knew that Phil was wounded, and he said Yes; he had seen him but had not wanted to tell me until I had been notified some other way. He said that Phil had been stationed not very far from where he was, and when he heard that he was hurt, he had gone over to see him. This was the morning after the accident. He said he saw Phil soon after the operation. I said operation? and he said, “Yes, the usual operation removing the shrapnel pieces and opening up for drainage.” He said Phil had been in a good deal of pain at the time but was sitting up in bed. He could not write himself as it was his right shoulder. He said, “I talked over with him about where he wanted to go and he said he wanted to be brought to No. 12 General.” I broke in, “Will they allow that since this is not an officers’ hospital?” He said, “Oh yes, if that is what the officer wants. They have the opportunity to choose where they want to be sent, and Phil had chosen here.” “Of course,” Major C. said, “this may not be final that he is to come to you, but I personally saw all the authorities I could and I think he will be brought to you very soon.” Then he went on to say, “You may take it from me you need not worry about your brother’s condition, for it is not a serious wound. It probably will take a long time to heal as it is a deep muscle wound, but there is no occasion for anxiety.” I thanked him profusely for his kindness and hung up.

Then I went to Col. Fife, who was terribly nice and said he would make inquiries at once about having Phil brought here. He told me afterwards that he communicated with the D. D. M. S. (Deputy Divisional Medical Supervisor), who is responsible for all the hospitals in this area, and now all I can do is to wait. It must be that the boy will be brought down on the next convoy. He was hurt the 4th and this is the 8th, so I may expect him any time. But of course he has to be sent on a regular ambulance train. Col. Fife and I talked the matter over and I told him I knew Phil would rather be put in one of our hospital tents and be taken care of here among his friends than be sent to any fancy officers’ hospital. Major Murphy left this morning with our second Surgical team to go to the front, as luck would have it, but Major Clopton will give him every possible care when the boy gets here. There is much interest and solicitude here in the camp about Phil, for his is the first real casualty that has happened to a relative or friend of any of us. When Phil gets here, if he does not feel too badly, he will be just spoiled to death. Major Clopton says that there are excellent doctors up at the 3d Canadian C. C. S. where he was taken. And Dr. Schwab spoke up and said that they have a good neurologist there too, and it’s sure to be a good hospital if there’s a good neurologist there. The other men laughed and said, “That is why this is such a good hospital, isn’t it?” (Dr. Schwab is our neurologist and is a splendid one too.)

I have just been notified that a convoy is to be prepared for at 1 A.M. and I shall be on hand to meet it on the chance that Phil may come in it. I shall leave this letter open until after the convoy is in.

I cabled because I was so afraid the English authorities might send a message to you, and any way I was sure you had rather know the exact facts always just as soon as possible. I shall be so relieved when the boy gets here and I can look after him. For when he is once here, he will get as good care as he could get in any place in the world. I’m so glad I’m a nurse and am here. Isn’t it wonderful for me to be here?

P.S. Phil did not come on the convoy last night. I saw Major C., who said that Phil was to receive every care, because he had spoken to the officers in charge of him and had identified him and told them who he was.

Sept. 10, 1917. Monday.

Dearest Mother:--

Another day has gone and I have not made much progress about getting Philip here. After much telephoning and pulling wires we have found out that Phil has been sent to No. 20 General Hospital at E. and is likely to be transferred to England. I am going to raise the roof to-day--to see if I can’t go there to see the D. D. M. S. of that area and see why the boy can’t be brought here. I am going to do everything possible before I give up, and anyway I shall see him, for if he gets sent to England, I shall go over. I was going anyway next week, as Mrs. Whitelaw Reid had written for me to come over about uniforms, etc. and Major Murphy and Col. Fife had said they thought I ought to go, so I’ll go anyway if Phil gets sent over there, but probably not if I can get him here. All reports are that his condition is good.

It just occurred to me that you may not have received my letter of the 8th--telling all I know about his injury. The inclosed notes were my original information. I will cable just as soon as I know anything more definite. You poor old dears--you’ll be so shocked by my cable just as I was by these notes Saturday. I felt sick at my stomach all day after getting them. But don’t you worry, Phil is strong and he will get well fast.

Lovingly, Julia.

Sept. 19, 1917.

You cannot imagine how much my mind is at rest, for I have Phil here with me and everything is all right. After waiting and waiting for some word as to the chances of bringing him down from C., on Saturday last, the 15th, I called the Aide of the D. D. M. S., and asked him to see what he could do for me. On Sunday he telephoned that he had learned that Phil was not able to travel, but that I could have an ambulance and go up Monday morning, the 17th, and see the boy. It was necessary to send an ambulance up to N. to bring a Chinaman up to the British hospital for Chinese that is there. I was told I could take an officer with me if I wanted to and if we found Phil well enough to travel, we could bring him down. So I asked Capt. Veeder to go with me, and Col. Fife gave us both two days’ leave of absence. It is about 130 miles to C. We left at 10 A.M., and I took with me all the things that we might possibly need if we were to bring Philip back, extra pillows, a feeding cup, thermos, hypodermic set, etc., etc.

We had a beautiful trip up. The country for two thirds of the way is most lovely and the day was beautiful. Both Capt. Veeder and I sat on the front seat with the driver. The car was a great big regular ambulance that can be used to carry four stretcher cases. The shelves for the two upper cases can be hooked up. We made very good time. Had dinner at a little hotel in E., stopped twenty minutes to say hello to our friends of the Philadelphia Unit, had our tea en route from the lunch box we brought from here, dropped our Chinaman at N., and dashed on along the coast and reached C. about 6:30.

We went to the Chicago Unit’s hospital and were taken in most cordially by Miss Urch, the chief nurse, and Capt. Veeder by Col. Collins, the Commanding Officer. They told us that 20 General was just next door, and that Phil was getting along finely. Col. Collins had seen him. He said he thought we could take him back with us and that we would go down to see him right after dinner. Meanwhile he would send word that I was coming.

After dinner he escorted us through the pitch-black darkness to the hospital. On account of recent air raids they have no outside light at night and no unshaded inside. The result is very spooky. Ten days or so ago the Boche had flown over and dropped some bombs on those hospitals, killing a doctor from Boston, attached to the Peter Bent Brigham Unit which is at C. also, and right next door to the Chicago Unit and their officers’ hospital where Phil was. Several other people had been hurt, some doctors and enlisted men. I saw a crater made by one of the shells. Phil was sitting propped up in bed and he seemed mighty glad to see me. He had no temperature and the M. O. said I could take him the next day: so we told them to have him ready at 10 A.M., and left. He did not look very badly, and, although his back is very painful when he moves and he finds it difficult to stay in one position very long, we could tell that the trip down would really not do him any greater harm than to tire him very much. There was no danger of hemorrhage.

Then we went back to No. 12 Unit and were each of us given the greatest hospitality. I had my first tub bath since I left London, though I took it by the light of my electric torch. The quarters up there are better than ours, but our location is much better than any of the others that we saw. We came back even more satisfied with our station than we were when we left. We got a good start in the morning, having the personal attention of Col. Patterson of the Boston Unit and Col. Collins of the Chicago Unit and the M. O. of the 20 General and several other people. The pillows that we fitted around Phil’s back made it quite bearable for him, and frequent turnings and readjustments and feedings and pleasant converse made the hours go pretty rapidly. Capt. Veeder spelled me on sitting inside on the little hard seat between the two stretcher places. It was fearfully dusty, but I had plenty of nice cloths and could keep the boy fairly comfortable. We stopped for lunch coming back at E. Capt. Veeder and I went inside to see about ordering and to let Phil rest quietly a few minutes while we had our lunch. We were near the window of the dining-room, when suddenly I saw the wife of the inn-keeper climbing into the ambulance with a large loaf of bread in one hand and a plate of something in the other. I rushed out to stop her and pulled her out looking quite horrified and saying “beaucoup malade.” Phil had wakened up from a little nap and was convulsed to see her standing there holding out the loaf of bread to him. I took the food back inside and in a few minutes the Captain and I fed him comfortably with a nice little audience standing around with much curiosity. Then we went on our way, stopping once more about 4 to get some hot tea and to have a little lunch.

We reached here at 6:45 and really I don’t think Phil was much the worse for wear except very dirty and pretty tired. Col. Fife and Major Clopton met us and made arrangements to have him put in an empty tent, so the stretcher bearers pulled him out of the ambulance and carried him in and we got him into a nice, clean, comfortable bed, and you can imagine he was pretty glad to get there. His dinner was soon sent down to him from the officers’ mess and he was cleaned up just enough to make him comfortable. Major Clopton decided not to do his dressing until the next morning, but to let him rest. He had a fairly comfortable night, he said, sleeping at intervals, but he had not been sleeping well before he left C. The next morning his temperature was only 99.6, so you see the trip really did not do him any harm. When Major Clopton dressed him at 10, I went down to watch. He has what to you would appear to be a pretty nasty wound, but what compared to so many of the things we see here is really a very small matter. A jagged piece of shell about an inch long entered just below the lower angle of his right shoulder blade and tore right down through the muscles to the sacroiliac joint, which is where the pelvic bones join the spine. It did not injure his spine at all, for he can move very well except that he has pain. The doctors at the Clearing Station opened up the whole tract almost, which was of course necessary for free drainage.

Phil said that after the dressing the wound felt very much more comfortable. He eats finely and is now having the time of his life, having all his old friends visit him and make much of him. I have not had much time to talk with him since I have been back, for of course there was accumulated work for me to attend to, but I am so relieved to have him here it does not matter whether I have time to spend with him or not. I have seen that he has plenty of magazines and picture puzzles to do, and he has been reading to-day all the letters from the various members of the family that I have received in the past month, and also the copies of all my letters to you all. I shall see him to-night probably. We shall have him up in a chair out in the sun to-morrow; in fact he may have been out to-day. He is occupying a tent alone although there are 13 other beds in the tent where he is. I have said that he does not need to stay alone, but while we are light it can easily be managed. He has a convalescent patient as his personal servant, a “blue boy,” as we call them, a “light duty patient” who is so proud because he has an officer to wait on. There are American orderlies in his division of course, but the blue boy fetches his meals and putters over him, etc. Of course my nurses are in charge.

I brought all his kit and belongings down with him in the ambulance. I have his metal helmet hanging here in my office. You can’t really imagine what a narrow escape he had until you see the dent in the edge of the thick steel hat that was made by the piece of shell. It broke the edge and made a curved dent about an inch wide. It is a perfect miracle he was not killed. It was the helmet that saved his life. He is so marvelously fortunate, for no permanent damage has been done, and Major Clopton does not think he will have any permanent disability, and he might so easily have been killed or paralyzed by that little piece of shell.

Friday, Sept. 28, 1917.

Yesterday afternoon I was writing a little note here in my office when I heard the bugles sound for calling the convoy party and I finished my note saying, there comes the convoy we have been expecting and I must get busy. I must tell you how busy we got. It is now a little more than 24 hours later. On my way to the receiving tents I met a sergeant, who said to me that the men coming in were in very bad shape. They were being carried out from the receiving tents as fast as possible, after their cards had been made out and their throats examined for diphtheria suspects. We have had a lot of diphtheria brought to us and a number of our own people have caught it. We now have four nurses away in the contagious hospital near here, one has diphtheria and the other three had positive throats without any clinical symptoms, so they just have to be kept away from everybody until they are negative. So all suspected throats are isolated in a special line until cultures can be made and examined.