o 0- .. ... .0* \ ■j-o' <^°^ %* ^K ^^°^ 0^ A^-^ V.^^^ 'bV .♦" ... ^Pv^. ^\ "^-^ ♦^ ' .v'.ctvV^''' ^^. c.4^"* »*lSi^'. 'ec ^^ /^ "oV" V «o *°-'*^. ECHOES of FRANCE Verses from my Journal and Letters BY Amy Robbins Ware American Red Cross and Army Educational Corps A. E. F. March 14th, 1918 to July 14th, 1919 and afterwards Distant thunder, a moment's lull; The storm's snap, and afterclap; Fair rainbow, and then afterglow. THE FARNHAM COMPANY PUBLISHERS EDISON BUILDING MINNEAPOLIS. MINN. Copyright 1920 by Amy Robbins Ware m) 1 7, '921 S)C(.A617061 I Q To The lads who "Went West" and were sleeping there 'neath the flower-strewn fields or in No-Man's-Land of Far-away Happy-sad France this little Book is Reverently Dedicated. GREETING EST-CE QUE c'eST VOUS? A greeting to those for whom and with whom I served during 16 months sojourn in France in 1918-19. To Mothers of boys "Gone West" and those who returned, I hope this assurance that Amer- ican women were at the scene of action may be a comfort. Those who toiled in making ready supplies for "over there," may like to know how it fared with us in the field. To the wonderful group of gallant bird-men, including my radio-boys, at Issoudun, as well as Red Cross and "Y" workers, "Distant Thunder" may hold a reminiscent interest. "The Lull" just touches the Biarritz leave area so dear to many. "The Storm" will recall incidents of St. Mihiel to officers and corps-men of Field Hospital No. 41. Those who labored in that gigantic tent Hospital, No. 9 at Vaubricourt also will hear an echo of their experience there. IV Especially I hope that Staff, Corps-men and Nurses of Evacuation Hospital No. 11 may have through my little book a crystallized memory of days of the Argonne drives at Brizeaux-Forestiere. Perhaps by this time even the patients who endured so much so bravely, may care to recall those hours in far away France. "The Rainbow" shows a unit of the A. E.G. at the "Center" at Savenay, where the eight big Base Hospitals were, in the Spring of 1919. Through this center also came all the Army Nurse Corps that spring on their way home. Here it was, that grand woman, Jane Delano, was buried. And I believe many members of the A.E.F. will react sympathetically to fancies in the "Afterglow." Amy Robbins Ware, A.R.C., A.E.C., A.E.F. ROBBINSDALE, MINNESOTA, November 19th, 1920. PREFACE As the years roll by, images that we have preserved in our minds, images intense and warm, gradually grow dimmer and dimmer and vanish into the forgotten. It is scarcely believable, nevertheless it is true, that even those deep-graven impressions of our departure for the war, in the darkness, our apprehensive skulking across the ocean; our terror and agony of the combat; our grief and pain of the sickrooms; our delight, later, of the sweet country and its brave, fine people, are already fading. What a pity! These are hard- won treasures of ours which we may well guard, jealously, for they, alone, are all we possess of our great ad- venture. The anguish and pain, despair and rage, are now part of us — but, so are the lovely flowers, the brilliant blue sky, and the joyous spirit of France. This I told Mrs. Ware when I heard a few of her verses. It seemed to me as though they had been caught off the forge, they glowed and sparkled with the heat which had created them. VI Written in the darkened ship and in the roaring Forest of Argonne they caught the terrific im- pressions of the hour and preserved them for us. While we were still in France I asked her to put them together in a book, these impressions of nurse, radio instructor, canteen worker, and teacher, who met adventure in many guises at every turn in what was, probably, the most varied career of all the splendid women who served so well with the Expeditionary Forces. We shall need many books like this as we march along the years; we shall need them to revive our sleeping memories so that we may live through the great experience once more. At such a moment it will be to a little book of verse like this, full of color and warmth, of grief and pain, and of serene and tranquil beauty, that we shall turn. Edmund Baehr. University of Cincinnati, November 11th, 1920. VII FARTHEST ENEMY ADVANCE 1914 l-l-l-l-l-l ON OCT. 1, 1918 oooo ON NOV. 11, 1918 BOUNDARIES -•- FOREWORD New York Harbor, 5 o'clock p. M, March 14th, 1918. BECAUSE Because the mem'ry of my soldier father Is so vivid to me; And years ago his only son passed on To the Far Countree; Because in Tripler Hospital my Mother Lent her youthful strength for Two years in the awful havoc of Our own Civil War, And has stood by me to the very moment Of my sailing; Because my sisters are the staunchest Champions unfailing; And I have a Friend most wonderful; Because I feel the urge today Of generations of Americans Who will not let me stay: I have this night started on the voyage So fraught with chance, I hope will carry me across the darkened Mine-strewn Sea to France, XI Andrew Bonnev Robbins Co. A., 8th Regt. Minnesota Volunteers Anoka, Minnesota, 1861 XII Adelaide Julia Walker (Robbins) Volunteer Nurse, Tripler General Hospital Columbus, Ohio, 1862 XIII Amy Robbins Ware, A. R. C, A. E. F. XIV INTRODUCTION The author of this record of the late War, set down in rhythmic prose or verse, is a friend and former student of mine. Mrs. Ware's transcript of the Great Struggle has the advantage of being personal; she saw, ex- perienced, was part of all that she depicts for the benefit of others. This renders her account authen- tic, gives it vividity, and makes it carry conviction. Many a beautifully written book falls on languid, lackadaisical ears, for it is about nothing in particular; a noise in a vacuum. In sharp contrast with all such, is this unique, unconven- tional, honest setting down of actual and stirring occurrences, since she who went through with it, had the enormous asset of being participant in the mightiest international movement in all human history. It is by the re-duplicated testimony of millions of eye witnesses like Mrs. Ware, that we stay-at- homes can get a synthesis on the whole, and re-live its scenes through the imagination. The author's co-workers, and innumerable other mortals who, like myself, merely looked on and humbly helped in civic ways, will be glad to read her Echoes of France. Richard Blrton. University of Minnesota, November 1st, 1920. XV CONTENTS ECHOES OF FRANCE Page Dedication Ill Greetings (Est-ce que c'est vous?) IV Preface, by Edmund Baehr VI Foreword, Because XI Introduction, by Richard Burton XV Part One, DISTANT THUNDER 1 The Horse of Troy 2 Moonlight in France 4 A Shrouded City 5 Paris 6 Veil of Ste. Genevieve 7 Refugees 8 Le pays 10 First Flash of Camp 12 In the Greatest Cause 12 Field 10 14 The Flag of France 18 To Speak Each Other in Passing 19 Forced Landings, or Free Milk in France 20 The Heathen Chinee 23 Back Home on Leave 24 More Than Life 25 Retrospect 26 In Memoriam 33 Reverie 34 Part Two, THE LULL, an Interval 3 5 Impressions: 1. Le matin, Biarritz 36 2. Under the Arcades of Bayonne 36 3. Pau, the Pearl of the Pyrenees 36 4. Ebb-tide at Saint Jean du Luz 37 Night at Lourdcs, a Sonnet 37 Rejuvenation 38 XVI CONTENTS— Cont. ECHOES OF FRANCE Page Part Three, THE STORM 39 J 'attends, c'est la guerre 41 The Advance on St. Mihiel 44 Forced March 45 Stove-pipe and Water-tank 47 The Abri 48 Behind the Lines 49 American Hospital Train 53 Birds of the Night 54 "Strike Tents' 56 Vaubricourt en passant '>7 En route Again 59 In the Shadow of Beaulieu, Meuse-Argonne 60 One of my Heroes, Harold Johns 61 An Echo of the Argonne 62 For the Life of a Surgeon 65 "xjvlidnight 66 In a Tent 67 Le cheval blesse et des oeufs 69 No-Man's-Land 73 In the Night 77 Furnaces of War 80 Part Four, THE AFTERCLAP 81 Last Rose of Verdun, a sonnet 83 Pitiful Hope of the Future 84 The Heart of the Argonne 87 Puddings 'n'everything 90 Quai d'Orsay 91 The Afterclap 91 Lvtcrian Riviera 92 XVII CONTENTS— Cont. ECHOES OF FRANCE Page Part Five, THE RAINBOW 95 L'arc en ciel des fleures de la France 96 A. E. C. at Savenay 98 Sam Brownes 99 The Wake 100 Inspection 106 20 Days" Leave 107 Foxglove's Mirror 108 Apologia For the Blimps 110 Blimps 112 Ode to la Loire 114 The Edge of the World, a Sonnet 117 Peace 118 Part Six, AFTERGLOW 119 Homeward 120 Back in God's Country 122 Vanishing Gold at the Rainbow's End 126 Memories of Martial Music: 1. The Chopin Funeral March 127 The Last Salute 128 2. Taps 129 3. Retreat 130 4. Reveille 131 Etchings 132 5 '"Till we meet again " 133 Echo and re-echo 134 Fagot Willows 136 Aftermath 137 The Sunset Gun 138 6. The Star-Spanglcd Banner Carry On 139 XVIII LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Page Map of S. O. S. and Z. O. A VIII Andrew B. Robbins, 8th Minnesota Volunteers 1861 . . . XII Adelaide Julia Walker (Robbins), Volunteer Nurse, Tripler General Hospital 1862 XIII Amy Robbins Ware, A. R. C, A. E. F., 1918 XIV PiGs at Issoudun 11 High in the Air Above Us 17 The Heathen Chinee 22 The Red Cross Sewing Shop 29 Lest our Young Soldiers Roam 30 Lieutenant Mark Hamilton, U. S. Air Service 32 In Memoriam 33 Gas Mask and Helmet 40 Our 1000-gallon Tank-car and the Engineers 46 Camouflaged Monsters 50 On the American Hospital Train 52 Birds of the Night 55 Stretcher Bearers in No Man's Land 57 One of my Heroes, Harold Johns 61 Le chc\al blesse 69 The Borders of Hell 72 The Roads Were Infernally Cut up 74 In the Trenches of the Argonne 77 Capt. Homer Youngs 82 lis ne passeront pas 83 Comrades in France 85 Exermont, the Heart of the Argonne 86 The Beach at Nice 93 Sam Brownes 99 The Studio 104 La Loire at Blois 115 Soldiers" Bunks on the "Impcrator" 120 "The Old Girl in the Harbor" 1 23 The Last Salute 128 XIX ECHOES OF FRANCE Part One DISTANT THUNDER March 14th, 1918 to August 15th, 1918 The angry clouds of war have gathered; The distant thunder rumbles westward. Echoing round the whole vast girth Of the shuddering, horror-stricken earth. At sea, French Liner, La Touraine, carrying U. S. troops and German mail, sailing without convoy. Night of March 23rd, 1918. THE HORSE OF TROY In the midst of this hurricane month of Mars In the fourth year of the war, We dodged from the Goddess of Liberty's gate In the gloom of a growing storm. The scudding clouds drove on before And the flying feet of our plunging steed Sent a jet of spray with a mocking fling Backward into the night. Nine nights we have ridden the ranging mare On the trail of an unlit way. While she rattled the bit with an angry jerk And neighed as a Banshee sprite. Our eyes still smart from the stinging lash Of her streaming wind-whipped mane, While we clung to the pommel and strove to pierce The perilous course that she held. Already one man has been shaken off, As a fly from her foam flecked flank; And ever the spray leaped higher As we lunged through the lashing waves, 'Till muscle and bone and brain were tired With a sickening weariness, And we shivered and wondered what next would come As her hoofs clove the mine strewn track. And so we have come to the last tense night When we should make a dash for the goal, But the bucking beast is exhausted quite, She has dropped to a calmer gait, Recking not that some prowler grim May note how her paces lag And hurl us into eternity With a curse and a "Spurlos Versenkt!" But if they take heed that our saddle-bags Are filled with the German mail. We may reach our destination, safe Ere another sun goes down. Then out from this charger, descended direct In the line of Troy's famed sire. Our hundreds of hidden warriors bold Will come forth on the shores of France. Bordeaux-Paris Express, Midnight, March 24th, 1918. MOONLIGHT IN FRANCE Resting on my steamer roll, I am watching the first fair moonlit night in France speeding past the windows. We are hastening toward Paris, which they tell us is under siege of a long range gun. This glorious moonlight only lays that fair city a victim of raiders in the air. All wires were down, the Red Cross man who came for us told us all we know. The dear little villages are slipping away in the night; dark vines etched on their pale grey walls. Tall Lombardy poplars mirrored in the peaceful streams are sentinels who guard the sleeping countryside. How vividly they recall memories of this happy land four interminable years ago when I last gazed enraptured upon its quaint and lovely restfulness. QuAi d'Orsay, Paris, Morning March 25th, 1918. A SHROUDED CITY How strange it is! Place de la Concorde looked from the bridge like a group of watchmen's towers on railroad crossings, little square buildings up in the air; in reality these are sandbag shields to the dear beautiful monuments. Everywhere "Abri" signs indicate the refuge entrances. When the "Alerte" sounds or the siren screeches, every one dashes in. No traffic, no taxis, we go to our hotel on the Rue Caummartin in a "cam- ionette." The big shop windows are protected from vibrations by decorative lattice- work of pasted paper strips. Being French, of course these have a real artistic value. It is all very tense, — Paris under siege! Paris, March 26th, 1918. How changed I find my beloved Paris tonight! Her charm in this veil of darkness is superb. PARIS I knew her in her gay mood, When she pledged to life's delight In a sparkling cup of laughter And all the world was bright. Tonight we wander through the Bois In a silence that is deep; Deep also are the mingled shadows Of lost memories that sleep. But when I stretch my hand to touch My lovely wistful friend. She has faded in the mist where Vagrant fancies blend. My thoughts take wing and follow The fluttering vision back, — The months of anguish that intervene Seem years on years, all black. Perhaps I loved her but lightly In those vivid care free days, But the suffering that transfigures hei Binds me in undreamed ways. The Soul that has come into being No joy alone could give, But fathered of tragic sorrow It shall forever live! Paris, March 26th, 1918. Ste. Genevieve guardian of Paris wrought a miracle of mists, as I came down the Champs Elysees tonight. VEIL OF SAINTE GENEVIEVE A pale moon bends above the Seine And dark eyed buildings look askance At me, while shrouded fountains Huddle close the treasure-trove of France. A dim blue glow shows here and there From regions under ground, All is expectant, hushed and still. No sign of human life, no sound. I feel the solemn presence Of a myriad sepulchers. Somewhere a Mother prays in anguish For that sleeping babe of hers. Sainte Genevieve has heard her. For a mist comes drifting o'er Veiling the towers of Notre Dame And swathing Sacre Coeur, While the Arc is hidden safely "Neath that sheltering mantle's hem Whose ample folds are swiftly gathering Tour Eiffel under them. So the city rests in her billowy couch Invisible from above. Secure in the protection Of a gentle guardian's love. QuAi d'Orsay, Paris, March 29th, 1918. REFUGEES I have bought my billet militaire And am waiting at the gate, Friend porter has my baggage But my faith in him is great. The station seethes with refugees Who have fled from Chantilly way Because the Boches are coming fast And may be there today. Gesticulating and jabbering, They carry their treasured Penates; Wicker baskets, and odd straw crates, — Beasts and birds inhabit these. Ungainly cloth-wrapped bundles Obtruding here and there; And many mirthless children Hovering everywhere. Haggard faces bear the imprint Of tragic days of danger, This is a strange new France in which I am an utter stranger. At last the jostling, struggling line Compactly moves along. The gates are open and we pass through A strange assorted throng. Friend porter has "place reservee" To which he points with pride. He has held it with "les baggages" My faith is justified! The wife of a young French officer With only a place in the aisle, Bids adieux to her soldier husband With lips that bravely smile. Surely the crucial challenge Already has been hurled At breathless waiting Paris, — Gentle France, — the World! On the Train to Issoudun, (P. L. & M.) March 29th, 1918. LE PAYS The little towns are quaint and picturesque as of yore; But in the fields are only old men, Saddened women and little children; The joyous spirit of youth, alas, is seen no more. Black is omnipresent in the sombre suits of woe, Only uniforms of France, horizon blue. Relieve the gloom with their fair hue. Even these do keep in mind the cause of all the black, though. In a Truck, Issoudun to Camp. It is 11 kilometres from Issoudun to Camp. A gentle rolling country with the familiar sky-line of Lomhardy poplars, low vine-trellised buiklings, and pine groves here and there. 10 3rd Aviation Instruction Centre, March 29th, 1918. PiGs AT ISSOUDUN Les prisonniers de la guerre, P. G.s, are working on the roads in their green uniforms with visored, red-trimmed caps. Someone has painted an "i" into the brand on some of these uniforms, making it read "P i G". 3rd Aviation Instruction Centre, IssouDUN, Loir-Indre, March 29th, 1918. (From a letter home). FIRST FLASH OF CAMP Camp is much like Marmarth, N. D., in color, quality and quantity of mud. It also recalls Bill Hart's films by the predominance of men, and in the long low barrack buildings of wood. The air teems with planes. There are about twenty of us in the Red Cross Canteen, directed by Miss Given-Wilson. We are under such strict regulations as to uni- forms, etc., that I shall probably be shot at sunrise before long. The "Thou shalt nots" are too numerous to be easily remembered. April 10th, 1918. IN THE GREATEST CAUSE Today I asked for my cousin Who flew with the Lafayette men. The answer struck at the heart of me A blow that numbed me then. 12 April 10th, 1918. Driving his Spad in a swift pursuit Flying beyond the Boches' lines, As he peaked in lightning maneuvres He crashed 'mid their bursting mines. He already had earned his Croix de Guerre Ere ever I crossed the Sea In the vanished hope I could lend a hand If such need as this should be. So the roar and onrush of tempests That are raging in fury so great Come echoing back to the training camp Where eager bird-men wait. They long to try their pinions wide Out there "gainst the hazards new Of this man-made chance to wage a war In the great un-charted blue. I know I am not comprehending yet What this is that I have been told. It is quite too vast at the moment As I glimpse what the future must hold. The thought that sustains us now is "We each have but one life to give, And if it could count in the greatest cause One would not choose rather to live." 13 ISSOUDUN, May 14th, 1918. ( Four go to Field 10 today.) FIELD 10 I cannot describe my yearning For the free young lads who flew, Not knowing from day to day Whether they would come through; And the wracking nights of sleeplessness When someone was missing from mess. ( In my dreams the final salutes still ring On that field whence Spirits take wing.) Each time as the sound of a muffled drum Grew through the listening heat My heart would stop for a second To catch the familiar beat, And a clamping, choking feeling Would take me by the throat, At the thought of the waiting Mothers In a land so far remote. 14 Field 10. To the strains of that martial music The Fiat camion, Bearing its flag-draped casket, Solemnly moves on,- — With the slowly marching comrades Taking a last farewell Of another brave young buddy "Gone West," because, — he fell. And we stand with flowers garnered Under the morning skies With the dewy tears still glistening In their lovely starry eyes. Sweet tribute of the spring-time To honor our glorious dead, Who have given their lives as nobly As if thev had fought instead. 15 ISSOUDUN May 14th, 1918. And while the fateful pronouncement Of "Dust to dust"" rings out, High in the air above us Mock combats are whirring about, And two new graves stand open Awaiting the next who fall, For rarely a day goes by But the final bugles call. Those eager soaring eagles Fly with a purpose high To do their daring duty When their time shall come to try. Not the least of that daring duty These flights in the unknown air "When they go with a vast uncertainty Their new-fledged wings to wear. The youthful, utter courage Of these boys at Issoudun Lends a positive exaltation To our grief when their bit is done. And always after a funeral There has to be a dance, — One cannot think on death too long When he must fly in France. 16 Field 10, Issoudun, May 30th, 1918. High in the air above us mock combats are whirring about. 17 ISSOUDUN, May 22ncl, 1918. THE FLAG OF FRANCE High bird notes sound the morning call Of Nature's reveille To which my soul enraptured Stands attention happily. And when the dawn grows radiant On the fields of Issoudun, ! walk to greet Aurora As she ushers in the Sun. The touch of her slender finger tips As she leans from out the sky, Tells to the waiting blossoms That the Goddess is passing by. Bluet, Marguerite, Coquelicot, In little quivering thrills Spread triple colored petals O'er the dew-starred springtime hills. A breeze sweeps a deep salaam To the Golden Queen's advance. And over the fields that instant Is unfurled the flag of France. 18 3rd Aviation Instruction Centre, May 24th, 1918. Lieut. Woik, director of the Radio School is ordered away. I am to take his place! TO SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING' Each night when my canteen day is done I go for a half mile walk, To "Y Hut 2," by the big stone shop Where they have the testing block. But it isn't the walk I go for, Ah no! I'm so tired, I'll say, I could just /a// into my army bunk, For at five begins my day. But those eager ambitious youngsters Must learn the wireless key. If they want to earn their brevets And their "Sam Browne belts," you see. The two hours are divided — ■ Theory, machines, and tactics; The rest of the flying moments In messages swift the key clicks. So every night but Sunday, In weeks that are far too short, We tap the queer big knobs they use And think it rare good sport. 19 3rd Aviation Instruction Centre, May 24th, 1918. My thoughts tonight have flown backward To a window on Loring Park, Where I taught the Navy League girls to send. And the "why?" of a radio spark. May 26th, 1918. FORCED LANDINGS or FREE MILK IN FRANCE When the dew is on the daisies And the hay is in the mow, And your mascot goat is blatting And the milk is in the cow, What in the deuce can you do, boy. But go for a spin in the blue, boy, And bring it back in a paiP So you try to mount your Nieuport When the sky is free of bumps, And hope the C. O. will not have A prying fit of grumps. For there surely is nothing to do, boy, But go for a spin in the blue, boy, And bring it back in a pail. 20 May 26th. 1918. Yet when you're sailing up above And cows are down below, You won't believe how hard it is A simple cow to know. But sure and the job is to do, boy. As you circle up there in the blue, boy, For to bring it back in a pail. From the vantage point of heaven You pick a "likely" mammal. Quickly force a landing, And light a fragrant Camel. You hope that the critter won't moo, boy, Until you are perfectly through, boy, And have carried it back in a pail. But when you get your treasure And come sailing into camp. You're rewarded by the antics Of the funny little scamp, For he knows just what is to do, boy, With the manna that came from the blue, boy, And was carried back in a pail! o C o 6 o c o x> CO a 22 3rd Aviation Instruction Centre, July 1st, 1918. THE HEATHEN CHINEE To teach the heathen chinee how to iron! Well what do you think of that? How Mother would laugh if she saw me, — One's little, the other enormously fat. "Ma-pa-bon, voo-bon, Ugh-lai-e-e, Lets go. And they stand there and watch what I'm doing. And mimic and chuckle and grin. The way that they mix up the language And juggle with speech is a sin. "Ma-pa-bon, voo-bon, Ugh-lai-e-e, Let's go!" I don't know a thing about ironing. Any one knows that knows me, But the pleats that I put in my uniform blouse Are the reason I have to be The model this sweltering hot summer weather For stupid and comical Heathen Chinee. "Ma-pa-bon, voo-bon! Ugh-lai-e-e, Lets-go!" 23 ISSOUDUN, August 1st, 1918. (From letters home.) BACK HOME ON LEAVE Marie and I had the surprise of our lives this morning. I was scrubbing tables in the canteen, twelve done, ten to go; and she was grinding coffee to beat the band which was just completing its musical march 'round the square. At the witching hour of six forty five who should come galloping into our paddock but Lieutenant X , of the picture frames carved from "props,"' a zither built from the ground up, of "laminated wood," and all the other time-killing devices with which he was wont to slay 99-Hved Time, while he champed the bit to get to the FRONT. He has been! Flown in long distance reconnaissance, driving a "Salmson," for a terrific number of hours. Had a three days leave to Paris, and took the first train "back home, to see how all the folks were. You didn't think I'd stay in Paris, did you, and not come home a-talL" 24 ISSOUDUN, August 1st, 1918. (After ail, perhaps the grilling work we do, does count for the main object, to bring a piece of America here to France for them.) He is subtilely but decidedly changed, though. Something evanes- cent, something that meant youth has left him. Something different and just as intangible has come, and it makes for confidence and power. Yet, how reluctant I feel to see youth go, even for this finer, broader spirit! Nearly a Year Later. MORE THAN LIFE I saw Lieutenant X. . . , yesterday before I left Paris. More than youth has gone now. He was so wounded that he says he will never return to the States. Life wouldn't mean much to him there now. (One thing war does, is to make death seem a very simple, not very terrible thing, after all.) 25 En train, Issoudun to Paris, August 12th, 1918. RETROSPECT A sadness steals o'er me That closing episodes will ever see; For Camp has opened wide the doors of Life, Filling the hours with myriad duties rife. Since I arrived in winter's waning day, Adding my little mite to make things gay For those young lads, forever on the wing, Who smile through everything. "On marmites" is a shift, Will test you out, if you may have the gift To stoke two ranges huge with softest coal ; As with dainty touch you fill the hot drink bowl ; Open ten tin cans for every marmite filled, "Coffee-grinding" a kilo and a half well milled; Keeping the"caisse" supplied the while you're seen Scouring great marmites clean. 26 En train, Issoudln to Paris, "On Officers", how queer! It sounded oddly to my novice ear, But very soon I learned all that it meant As up and down our flying footsteps went. Two hundred officers, five times a day, With "set ups", mess by courses, flowers gay; Fiv'e plates at once, sans trays, and take your turn. (Oh, how those hot bowls burn!) "Sandwiches", a busy Shift, slicing, spreading, filling, 'til you're dizzy. Bread puddings, too, "like Mother used to make," "I'll tell the world that they're not hard to take!" Boiled eggs, sausages, and apples were great treats, Fresh milk, hot drinks, "nubbins and other eats," Dispensed at "Caisse" for the enlisted men. (Hark! The Chopin march, again!) En train, Issoudun to Paris, August 12th. 1918. When your shift is "Canteen," You keep the twenty two big tables clean. Pick up and wash in hot suds "minerale" Huge baskets full of tin cups; gather all The scraps in pails; make festive bouquets bright; And see that checker sets and chess are right. Thus do we make an atmosphere of home, Lest our young soldiers "roam."' "The Red Cross Sewing Shop" Is where our new-made officers would stop To have a brevet wing sewed on, with space Above the pocket for the honor badge of "ace." And Sergeants chevrons, on the proper sleeves. Or braids, one, two, or more, straight and in clover leaves, For officers and men we mended, pressed. Likewise for those "Gone West." 28 issoudun, July, 1918. THE RED CROSS SEWING SHOP OmCIAL RED CROSS For officers and men we mended, pressed, likewise for those "Gone West" 29 issoudun, Summer, 1918. 30 En train, Issoudun to Paris, August 12th, 1918. Flowers for the Canteen, And officers" mess-hall that might be seen. We gathered in brief intervals "off duty;" In spring there is so much of beauty In France that truly it was a delight to go O'er fields and meadows where sweet flowers blow. And garner them for eager, gallant men. Or weave them for Field 10. Not least among the tasks Which our strange, varied Service asks. Is that we dance of nights, and make as tho' We felt all light of heart, and did not know That just today, one we had "mothered" well, In flying of a faulty Nieuport, fell. This is the lesson we must learn from France, - "Smile on, and face War's chance! " 31 Lieut. "Sandy" Hamilton, 1 18 Aero Squadron than whom none was more sadly missed. 32 3rd Axiation Instruction Centre, August 5th, 1918. IN MEMORIAM All honor is due to the boys who flew, And are sleeping under the flowers. So brave, so gay and so young were they In the hope of those golden hours. 33 En train, Issoudun to Paris, August 12th, 1918. REVERIE Sunshine and shadows; grilling toil and the sweet recompense of real appreciation: Music, joy, hope, exuberance of the life military; and again, — Music, the passing of life, and the burial niilitary, with its own exalted grief. All this and more, Issoudun has been to me. Now at the close of the episode, I am glad to find that I can still accept life on the terms offered, — being thankful both for the sunshine and the shadows: Sunshine for its own sake, and shadows for showing the sunshine more fair. "To be saddened by the inescap- able is a great mistake," one can not, one must not, in time of war! 34 ECHOES OF FRANCE Part Two THE LULL (An Interval) August 15th, 1918, to September 10th, 1918. Sometimes as the tempest foregathers Comes a hush, When the throb of the tense waiting Silence is heard. IMPRESSIONS Le Matin, Biarritz, August 16th, 1918. The morning sounds of Biarritz Begin at break of day, With the shrill call of the fish-wife, And "Madelon" across the way. While down below us boom the drums The dashing whitecaps play. Under the Arcades of Bayonne, August 25th, 1918. My spirit rides at anchor Or drifts the summer sea, Sipping ices here at Bayonne, Where the best makillas be; And all the world seems filled With peace and harmony to me. The Pearl of the Pyrenees, September 6th, 1918. Oh, Pau is as lovely a jewel As any I ever have seen. Set in the crown of the mountains With bezel of malachite green. 36 Ebb-tide at Saint Jean du Luz, September 1st, 1918. As I lie in the edge of the Bay of Biscay Where the shore curves to St. Jean du Luz. With the sweet baby arms of a kiddy Clinging close as the gentle waves ooze; The toil and the grief of the months that are gone Slip away as a dream while I muse; With the mountains that frown on the borders of Spain Just a donkey ride hence, if you choose. Night at Lolrdes, September 7th, 1918. The night hour veils this grotto shrine; wind sighs, And dark rain buffets hurrying worshippers, Who come to light tall white cathedral tapers Within that strange uncanny spot where lies The cast off crutch or brace of those who rise And walk again. Notre Dame de Lourdes answers Who e'er purge at this weird shrine of hers, Moroccan soldier, and the poilu sage, Or malformed human victims of disease; (But he who hath not faith to come, — so dies.) While some there be who offer votive hostage. And kiss yon rock to purchase pain's surcease For those who struggle in the wars that rage Beyond the shadow of these Pyrenees. 37 En train, Biarritz to Paris, September 9th, 1918. REJUVENATION Oh, the glad exhilaration Of sharp contact with the sea, And the glowing exaltation When ashore it carried me! It was Biarritz for bathing In the jolly dashing waves; And now it's back to Paris With the health that courage saves. If Fate should send a challenge That would prove a crucial test I trust that I could meet it By serenely "Going West." 38 ECHOES OF FRANCE Part Three THE STORM September 10th, 1918, to November Uth, 1918. The storm breaks in fury of death-dealing hail With its poisonous blasts 'gainst which naught will avail, The lightning's lance, and the yawning earth- quake; — In these tempests that rage more than life is at stake. En route to St. Mihiel, Sept. 10th, 1918. An American mask and a little tin derby. 40 Paris, September 10th, 1918. When I arrived this morning the R. C. had just asked for 30 volunteers to the Front. My orders are "Observe what is needed and supply it". J ATTENDS, CEST LA GUERRE I sit in my Paris room tonight, With the heavy curtains tightly drawn So the Gothas cannot spot us as they fly. My knapsack lies there ready packed for Starting in the morning before dawn. (Life's great adventure has begun for me.) The bells already have stricken twelve In the region where bells still ring, And my thoughts are turning westward to the land Where my youth was spent, in the happy Carefree days long gone, where glad birds sing. The house on the hill in the autumn, The glowing warmth of open fires, soft rain. And the bittersweet vine on the side porch trellis. I cannot keep me from wondering,— Shall I ever be there again? 41 Paris, September 10th, 1918. The gas-mask drill seems all unreal, But that queer steel helmet I shall carry On my shoulder in the morning, and the canteen. And the mess kit, show that it was not Just a dream. (How life's values vary!) I pray that Mother may not know Until it is all over, — no not that! I don't mean "all over" in the way it sounds, I mean I hope she will not know until I'm safe returned from the great combat. My thoughts are all a strange confusion Of things I did when I was just a Tiny child and learned to know no fear while Father Let me hold his little finger as we Watched the warring wind and lightning play. They say such things occur to people Who are about to die, but that can't be, Because I've still no fear of other storms with Deadly man-made lightnings that glare, And all the ghastly havoc there to see. (But I'll be sadly missing Father's hand.) 42 And yet I do not know, I think that Now as then his presence will sustain. In bygone days there never was a time he Would not smooth my childish troubles All away and make me glad again. Even when a baby frog, one day, Fell down between the sidewalk boards, He took one up so I could get the silly little Fellow out again. So kind he led us. By example and by just rewards. (How very long ago that must have been!) I hope the ghastly siren does not Screech tonight, I am so very tired. And there are so few hours left before I must Put on these strange trappings and fare forth Into that Unknown, which I desired. (There is an odd ache in my throat that will not go away.) Suddenly the vision of a little Child reaches her baby arms to mine Out of the mists of Yesterday, "I will be A good little girl while you're gone, I will!" Oh, dearer than any gift divine — ( I hid my face in the pillows to smother the sound of a tempest of tears, as the flood of memories swept over me.) 43 Paris, to Neufchateau, September 12th, 1918. THE ADVANCE A strangely silent city I crossed in the pre-dawn hour. I think I know now how a pilot feels when he steers in a dead blank fog. The Marne in the light of a cheerless day, is over-riding the underbrush on the oozy sodden fields. Chateau Thierry is behind us; Neufchateau is here. The dusk comes on apace. Our journey will continue in the morning. Neufchateau to Sorcey-sur-Meuse, September 13th, 1918. "A FORCED MARCH" All night long the camions passed Advancing on St. Mihiel; Khaki clad men, gas masks alert, And little brown hats of steel. Now we are a part of the line That makes the swift advance; With them our lot is cast By war's uncertain chance. See, Field Hospital forty one. In yonder old stone quarry! ( Before another week is run Full many a tragic story — ) 45 Field Hospital 41, SoRCEY, Sept. 12th, 1918. o CO c c LxJ c CO bJD o 3 O - 'V ••%^ • 46 Field Hospital 41, Sorcey-Sur-Meuse, September 13 th, 1918. STOVEPIPE and TANK-CAR Two sheet iron covered ovens In the rocky hill, Two hundred-litre marmites Of chocolate to fill Underneath a little shelter With a short stove-pipe. A primitive equipment With which to turn the trick. The biggest difficulty Service must be quick! The draught would be much better With a long stove-pipe. A thousand gallon tank-car Is always on the track Filled with mountain water The Engineers haul back. They're our sure dependence for Tarpaulin, or field-range. And a long stove-pipe! :p=r=*=f^=*^r=«==p f-P-F^s- " Water" 47 Field Hospital No. 41, September 13th, 1918. (From a letter home) THE ABRI We have folding cots with army blankets, and gas masks for pillows. Our steel helmets hang at our heads, within hand's reach. Our abri is a short rough walk from the tent. Down crude cut steps into a root-cellar like hole. It is im- portant because Jerry flies by night, every night that it does not rain. The sentry who patrols will sound the "alerte" when they come, so I will sleep 'til then. Tomorrow there will be thousands of activities when the patients come from beyond the barrage-lit hill, where the deadly thunder is already begin- ning its ominous roar. 48 Field Hospital No. 41, Midnight, September 13th, 1911 After all those months at Issoudun these real combats are irresistibly fascinating to watch! BEHIND THE LINES AT ST. MIHIEL I sat on the steps of the abri While bombs from the avions fell And heard the shriek of the shrapnel Hissing its message of hell. The shuddering sky was shaken With a quivering deluge of red. My tremblirig soul revolted To think of the mangled and dead. "Twas only today,^ — this morning, I followed the swift moving train Bearing its burden of brave men Into the Valley of Pain. Hour after hour they have rolled on Winding their tortuous way. Rumbling, camouflaged monsters Transporting the troops all day. 49 En route to St. Mihiel, September 12th, 1918. ■m4 ib i^fe^ mm ■ '■ '-'; ■ 'f ^■-'.';:^i.^ Si R^ii^jfe ■ ■; SP p tli, -/I iWli ^^' ;«l ^^ ^^ * 'J H #*:^' ^ fc « B t'<.-r.r-:.-.." .«l1 1 f '< '''M -i'-v •'■'•' i> W^ :'/p; S^^^H^ Jrt* 'I i \ ^. H^'^'^s--' '■-.■■■■■ ■•^•? ^ ^■j^ » ■■■ jBt^r^SI '■4 -In. CO a o o bJD c o a c CO O 50 Field Hospital #41, Night, September 13th, 1918. How eager they were when they saw us Who had followed them over the Sea For the sake of the Mothers who could not come, In the bitter need there will be. Laughing high spirited soldiers, Your youth is a glorious power; But the iron will enter your very souls In the life-time of this hour! The shells are snapping and crashing In that seething chaldron of hate, While our valiant Sons of Liberty Charge forward to grapple with fate. They'll be carried to us, on that shell- torn road, Those wrecks of gallant men! Lord grant that we hold a steady nerve That we shall not fail them then. Field Hospital #41, c 4-) a CO O X c 03 < c O 52 Field Hospital No. 41, ( from a letter home). September 14th, 1918. ON THE AMERICAN HOSPITAL TRAIN A convoy of two hundred and fifty patients goes out on the American train tonight. We will serve those from #11, and #39, as well as our own #4rs, on the stretchers in the cars, because we are the only Red Cross unit at hand. Cigarettes, cocoa, chocolate-bars, gum, cookies, and jelly sandwiches we can give freely, our supply is ample. By the happiest and strangest coin- cidence, each glass of jelly in this entire consignment, bears the name of Mrs. Capron, one of my unit here. Her delight in dispensing it to these lads is a pleasure to behold. I wish all those who are toiling at home could Know that the things are really "coming across." 53 Field Hospital #41, September 17th, 1918. To one who knows them well, there is as much difference in the sounci of a German and an American plane, as between the spoken words of the language. BIRDS OF THE NIGHT Out of the pulsing darkness Comes swooping a great black bird, And the throb of its evil heart-beat In the lurid night is heard, — Whirr-rr-rr, whirr-rr-rr. It needs not to see the marking Of a cross upon the wing To know the certain fledging place Of that monstrous harpy thing, — Whirr-rr-rr, whirr-rr-rr. I crouch down one step further Into the oozing trench. And my heart takes up the rhythm With a terrifying wrench, — Blurr-rr-rr, blurr-rr-rr. From its aerie beyond the hilltop An eagle hears the sound And flings a challenge skyward As it quickly spurns the ground, — Purr-a-rr-a-rr, purr-a-rr-a-rr. At that note of reassurance From the bird of the bullseye mark My pulses ease their throbbing And I strive to pierce the dark, — Blurr-a-rr-a-rr, blurr-a-rr-a-rr. 54 Far in the dim dark heavens Th" avenging shadow swings Spitting deadly flame streaked venom While the pending swan-song rings - \\'hirr-rr-rr, whirr-rr-rr. A flash, a flop, the cross-winged monster Blazing plunges to the hill, A twisted mangled work of carnage, For its human heart is still, — And the brave young eagle soaring In the darkness slips away, Ready for still other combats Of the now on-coming day, — Purr-a-rr-a-rr, purr-a-rr-a-rr. Field Hospital #41, September 18th, 1918. "STRIKE TENTS" Last night a fragment of shrapnel shell Dropped by a bird of the night, Struck one of the men from my home town As it swerved in its death-dealing flight. He died in the span of a moment With his poor throat mangled and torn. It was only a few yards from where I sat; And they laid him to rest in the early morn. So the C. O. ordered a zigzag trench Dug through the stony soil, To make us safe from the "daisy cutters" By this urgently strenuous toil. Just as our dearly wrought promenade Was ready against the need, Came commands "Break camp immediately, And on sealed orders proceed." We have pulled up stakes and packed our stores. And now we are on the way To another spot in the U. S. line For another fight on another day. 56 Evacuation Hospital #9, September 26th, 1918. I grieve to leave my little Irish buddy. There never were so many hours, her good cheer could'nt last another. VAUBRICOURT EN PASSANT I have left little Jane Mc Cullagh With that onslaught of work at nine Where days and nights of receiving ward In a lurid nightmare combine. The litter bearers come hurrying In a never ending rush For the ambulances keep rolling up From the dressing-station crush. SIGNAL CORPS OFFICIAL Stretcher bearers en route to dressing station, with wounded man, passing a dead horse on the field. 57 Evacuation Hospital #9, Vaubricourt, September 26th, 1918. The racks on which to set stretchers Fill two thirds of the tent. A ticket tied to each patient Tells to which ward he is sent. You must watch Captain Roberts' signal If the hot drink is to give; For it chokes them under the ether, But if they must wait, it helps them live. Each night to the very tent top Mount "processions of wounded men;" And German prisoners need "translating" For the records now and then. The cocoa forever must be on tap From the kitchen out in the rain, And cups incessantly sterilized To be safe to use again. From the ward of Lieutenant Carey Hundreds go out in a night; It is just as important, and much the same, A task that is far from light. Then the canteen for the walking men, And the dozens of wards beside ; With only twenty four hours in a day. It is hard to tell how to divide. 58 Vaubricourt to Brizealx-Forestiere, Meuse-Argonne, September 26th, 1918 This noon Capt. Pennington asked me if I could be ready to move on in 45 minutes, so we're off! EN ROUTE AGAIN Another hospital w ith no Red Cross at all Is in most tragic need of help that we could give, So Captain Pennington is sending us still further up, With such equipment, we can make a shift to live, The while we set up our establishment out there. To carry on the work which meets one everywhere. Lieutenant Hoyle and I were leaving Number Nine In a camion filled with many strange supplies, - Cots and lumber, stoves, bricks, mortar, marmites, blankets. Tar-paper, nails, and food for needs that might arise. As we were starting from the Camp at Vaubricourt, Came Margaret Brown in search of missing Mobile 4, So we joined forces, and away we drove together. Tossing cigarettes and bars of chocolate as we went, To marching men, en route to the inferno just ahead, From which yet others are returning weary, spent. Of these who march beside us on the muddy way. How many will be carried back to us today! Brizeaux-Forestiere, Meuse Argonne, Evening, September 26th, 1918. (From letteis home) IN THE SHADOW OF BEAULIEU Croix Rouge Ambulance, so the sign reads, but it looks more like stock exhibit buildings at the State Fair, with side- show tents interspersed. Lo, and behold ! Corps men and officers of Evacuation Hospital #1 1 who were casual with Field #41 at Sorcey! I am unexpectedly at home in the bosom of my St. Mihiel family. September 27th, 1918. While the little building we are to have for the Red Cross was being enlarged I worked today in the sterilizing room, pre- paring surgeons" coats, and making surgical dressings. It is dark now, the sky glows in the familiar pulsating red, casting the trees that crown Beaulieu hill, sharp silhouettes against the ominous glare. The rush is beginning. It will be many hours before we pause again. 60 Evacuation Hospital #41, Brizeaux-Forestiere, September 30th, 1918. 1 low young and sure of life he was! An American hero" of the Argonne fight. I envy the mother of such a son even because he has made the supreme sacrifice. HAROLD JOHNS, ONE OF MY HEROES. In the bleak drear fog of this autumn day I watched while his spirit passed, This bronze crowned son of the Southland Unconquered to the last. He asked that I would not "write Mother" And tell her that he was here, For a few days, until he was better. To spare her a useless fear. And now he has slipped past the border Of this realm of bitter pain,- In my heart is a deep sad thankfulness That he need not suffer again. I count him one of my heroes so brave, Dear Lord, how young he seems; I know that after full many a day 1 shall see this boy in my dreams. But those w ho will carry their burden of grief Through all of the coming years, Are awaiting the message that I must send Confirming their hearts" worst fears. 61 Brizeaux-Forestiere, October 4th, 1918. The courage of a nineteen year old lad, shot through the lung, was the wonder and admiration of us all. AN ECHO OF THE ARGONNE How well I remember, dear lad, the night I came to you out of the agonies of that unspeakable hell, in which you had been changed from the gay boy you must have been, to the wonder-man for whom I came to care so tenderly. You said you had no mother, and I, — I have no son! The incessant thunder of the dread barrage shook the very tentpole where you lay all white and breath- less of your ghastly wounds. You thought I was an angel on that night, and your transfigured smile gave my heart pause, as I sought your fluttering pulse, and bent to catch the whispered word which seemed so near your last. 62 October 4th. 1 never hoped to see you more. On that dread night of terrors I thought you would have passed on to your well earned rest. Yet in the morning when I made my rounds you were still there. Each weary day that dragged its tedious course, I held you steady while the tortures that meant life to you, tore my very soul to shreds. Your head pressed tight against me and your two hands gripped in mine we fought it out together, you and I. You never flinched, just drew your breath in those great agonizing gasps, while the cold sweat drenched my shoulder. You were so young, so brave, I could not let you die. 63 Brizeaux-Forestiere, October 4th, 1918. Then suddenly they sent you to some other place. It was a bleak drear day. There seemed so little I could do to rob that fearful journey of its agonies! And yet you smiled up at me from the stretcher there, that strange sweet smile that seemed scarce of this earth a part. You said you did not suffer. And 1 shuddered when I thought the drug that held your pain in leash might loose its hold before you came to that far haven that I could not even know. ****** Dear boy, you might have been my son. And I have never known if you survived that journey, or whether you lie buried there in that sad France, which I should love more tenderly, if you were sleeping there. Brizeaux-Forestiere, October 5th, 1918. No nurse is available to tai