I DIDN'T write yesterday; just rested. We went into the cathedral in the morning. It was crowded with soldiers. Then a long walk in the afternoon and early to bed for the trip to-day.
All night long troops went through in the dark. I stood on my little balcony watching the moving mass of men marching through with only an occasional flash of light from a pocket lamp to show them the turn at the fountain. It seemed the most sinister thing, that moving of regiments in the dark. I watched for an hour and then went back to bed. The sound of marching feet went on until dawn. I could not sleep; I kept wondering what the men thought as they went along in the darkness, so silent, men from all over the world marching together against a common enemy. It was a thrilling sound, those thousands of feet on the cobble stones. I feel that I shall never hear it again without the thought of that darkness last night.
We left for the trip promptly this morning. The French Colonel of the division gave us his car and provided us with gas masks. I think the latter make one rage even more than the submarine. Such a dirty, underhanded, sneaking kind of warfare forced on a civilized world! The masks are an awful trial; I certainly don't blame the children for refusing to wear them.
It was a wonderful morning, sunny and warm after the awful cold of winter, and a look of spring in the fields. Of course we may have more snow, but it does not seem possible such days. It was perfectly quiet everywhere, not a sign of war; just beautiful rolling country at the first glance; then we began to notice the clever camouflage of barbed wire, and entrances to communicating trenches.
We stopped at the first village to get our escort, the officer who takes charge of you on such a trip and makes things as safe as possible. While waiting we stepped into an officers' graveyard by the side of the road. There was a big shell hole near, but the gallant rows of crosses seemed to stand fearlessly in the sunshine.
Our second errand was at M---, where Section 0, American Ambulance, were busy getting the picturesque old cowyard converted into a livable camp. The barracks were being cleaned with a right good will. There was much laughter and talk. Two big smiling boys were disinfecting the beds. I shall never forget the fun they were getting out of that disagreeable job. The rows of ambulances were under cover. There was no sign of a camp, just a farmyard, but these cars run between the first-aid dressing stations and the base hospital.
It was there I discovered with a jolt that we were within range of German guns; and from there on I noticed our road was screened. Here and there a section would be clear, but the sign "Ne pas stationner" (Do not linger here) sent our car leaping past the gaps with a speed that took your breath away.
At every village we stopped and hunted about among the ruins of little farm buildings until we found the few civilians, old men, women and a few older children clinging to cellars of what once was home to them. I cannot understand it. I know all the reasons why they stay, but I do not see how they stay; I feel I should go anywhere to get away from the guns and the gas.
We stopped for lunch at the village of B---. About half of the village was in complete ruins, the rest just sort of casually wrecked here and there. There were eight people left in the village, the Mayor, his wife and sister, the curé and his old mother, and three old men. The Mayor begged us to eat with them in all that was left of his house–one low-ceilinged room with a big fireplace with its little iron crucifix on the mantelshelf. There was a low table in the middle of the room with long benches on either side, where we spread out our lunch, sardines and black bread. Such hospitality as that man and his wife offered us . They begged us to eat their bread and save our own. We knew the bread they had was a strict ration and if we took it they would go without, but we ate of theirs and left ours on the table unnoticed in the formalities of departure.
The restored church was the most poignant thing we saw there with its temporary roof built by the soldiers. And the most amusing person we met was the curé's mother. When she discovered that we were Americans she said: "Mais, vous n'êtes pas noires . . . vous avez l'air de Françaises!" ("But you are not black, you look like French women").
We sped along the road some distance, not very far I should say, when a soldier seemed to come up out of the ground by the roadside where we slowed down to turn sharply to the right, to skirt what looked like a low green hill. I asked where he had come from and the French officer explained, from the frontline trench so many yards away!
Yes, there I was within yards of German trenches. I am going to disappoint you horribly; I wasn't thrilled a bit; I was terrified, just completely terrified, and I had but one thought, and that was to turn the car around and fly for safety. But of course you don't do it–you go on. The car stopped, and presently signs of movement on the side of that green hill showed that we had reached something.
We got out of the car and walked across the little open space, and there it was–the First Aid Dressing Station. That small green hill was a human beehive, the home of many men connected with the battery there. It was the cleverest disguise you can imagine; you would never have noticed it a few yards away. It has never been shelled.
The French surgeon showed us his little hospital in the hill, the room where the men receive first-aid treatment and bandages, each man given the tetanus toxin and then rushed back by ambulance to the nearest hospital. That clever doctor is constantly experimenting with the gas he catches in a trap, and he has saved hundreds of lives by his results in new protective measures. He has wonderful baths for his men there also, a fine big shower room built in the hillside. When the sector is quiet, men come back in relays from the trenches, have their baths, and go back clean.
It was all perfectly amazing to me, the normality of life attempted and achieved. I can't imagine taking a bath if I were in a frontline trench opposite German trenches, and yet I saw in the two hours we were up there this afternoon dozens of men with their towels over their arms going back and forth to the showers, hot showers, mind you, and there was a recreation room also.
The colonel of the battery had a concert for us–two violins and a 'cello, and the men played beautifully. It was all unbelievable. All the time the battery located somewhere behind us was firing the famous 75's over our heads! The colonel apologized for the noise; he said he would stop it, only it was their custom at that hour to drop a few shells into the German trenches and he didn't want to disappoint any one! I disgraced my whole family, I suppose, by jumping every time a shell went over us, but it amused the poilus tremendously, so I don't care. I was frightened out of my wits and it was impossible not to show it. None of this was included in my education, –shells that you can't even see whizzing over your head had not been my idea of cannonballs. I thought them large, round, and black and perfectly visible in their flight,–just an old-fashioned gentlemanly performance. Now I know that a shell is simply two bangs a few seconds apart, and that you feel as if one were absolutely all you could bear.
The poilus, bless them, kept me from running; they were so smiling and careless, and so interested in us. I was so glad we had the car full of cigarettes. The gallantry, the bravery, the cheer of those men up there, I count the most precious impression of to-day– a whole little world in itself.
I saw that little open rack on wheels in which the wounded are brought back from the trenches on the tiny track. Once it brought a dead man and the surgeon pointed to the left, and there the little track ran up to a wooded corner where the graves were, all carefully tended. Twice wounded men were brought in, treated and put gently into the ambulance by our American boys, and out on to the road and away. The sight did much to reconcile me to the noise of the 75's.
On our way back we visited three hospitals, all under fire, screened from the roads, and filled with wounded men. There are no women nurses in these French hospitals, and I longed for them. The men looked so uncomfortable and the wards had that clumsy man look. Many of the men were septic; oh, such terrible suffering and such cheerful patient faces!
How are we ever to forget the fact that the Germans bomb hospitals?
You can imagine that I am rather limp after the day. We came into T–just at sunset; the siren was blowing and the firing from the forts was heavy. I surprised myself by not noticing it very much; it was all so mild after our day. Just a few minutes ago word came from our host at lunch that an hour after we left, the bombardment of his village began again and there is nothing left "ce soir." He had gotten away with his wife, and was "so thankful that the kind Americans had escaped."
These beloved French people, they break your heart! Can you imagine thinking of the safety of some casual French visitors, if your village had been completely demolished and you had barely escaped?
To-night I'd rather be an American Red Cross nurse in France than, well, than the Queen of Belgium I have been envying for three years!
THE day has been so tremendous, I doubt if there is any use beginning with this wobbly, half-burned candle that I blow out every time the siren screams. We are having a lively evening!
We left in a big gray car–9807–at nine this morning. We went spinning along the road from T--- to N--- , a wonderful road, not a war road but a park boulevard and most amazing! That road is kept in perfect condition all the time. Troops move rapidly here, I assure you.
N--- is a lovely old city, in a valley with wonderful hills all around it. We motored right to the beautiful square with its fine old buildings and gateways, where the splendid Préfet has his office. Picking up his secretary there, we went out to see the big refugee home "Aux Familles réfugiées des Villages Lorrains." It has been a great friendly shelter for eight thousand women and children during the past four years and now it is to be evacuated. About twelve hundred women and children pass on this week to new shelters farther away, where it is safe.
It is difficult to describe the sadness of the whole situation. These homeless people have come to love the big Caserne, its dormitories, kitchens, offices, all so neat and clean. As we talked with the women in the dormitories, their one constant question was: "When can we go home?" And to tell them that they are only going farther away from their little farms, was a most difficult task.
These women had the most pathetic but amazing beds I ever saw. Most of them were piled high with their precious feather "puffs" we call them, which they had brought with them in their flight. Everywhere were the little evidences of their past, in an embroidered pillow-case or a bit of china on the shelf. Many little porcelain Madonnas stood guard.
The women in that Caserne have been making sand bags during all these months. Two million sand bags in a year have been their contribution, besides yards of beautiful embroidery which has been sold.
A thousand children and two hundred women, a sad weary procession must move, as spring comes on–the time for planting and the time of hope,–to far off places to wait. It is too bad; the great Préfet has done so much for his people here.
After lunch at a café in the old square, we went off to the south to see some of the reconstruction work and to locate new dispensary sites. We passed village after village completely destroyed; their beautiful old yellow stones and red tiled roofs all débris and holes; and such lovely country! At last we came to Vitrimont, the little village Madame de B--- has been living in and helping to restore with Mrs. C–'s generous funds. Our Red Cross Children's Hospital back at T--- holds a weekly dispensary there for the district. Nothing but a visit to the village could give the picture to you.
First we asked for the Mayor, then for Madame de B–. A little boy ran off to tell the Mayor, who was working in his garden. He welcomed us warmly and began at once to show us the village. The houses are being restored with the same yellow stone, tiled roofs all a high archways, preserving absolutely the original look of the village, with certain improvements–such as sewage in the street– but still the fountains at either end, as before, where the village jugs are filled.
The little church has been most beautifully restored just as it was before, and the Mayor spoke so feelingly of that. Madame de B--- married her French cavalry general there last fall, and the people feel that now this gracious American woman belongs to them forever.
Then we went to see the Mayor's own little house, a new one, near the church. He has nothing left but his little dog. His wife was one of eight women killed by a bomb at L---, where they had crowded into a church for safety. That tall fine looking man of sixty had a dignity about him that was most touching. We walked slowly down, rather naturally, it seemed, to the heart of his grief–the little graveyard where the Germans had made their trench right by the wall. It was difficult to sense the tragedy of it all. As you looked at the ruins and then off to the beautiful spring fields, you felt as though you had looked upon a murder. An old woman was sitting by the wall who had been there in 1870. She had escaped death then and now, she told us, but her beautiful village was gone.
It is difficult to put into words what the sympathy and help of Madame de B--- has meant to those simple people. She has lived with them for over a year and they love her and cling to her, and show it in such pretty ways. Her little house is full of expressions of their feeling. Her citizen's paper presented to her by the Mayor, hangs on the wall of her two-room house; one of the village girls she has taught to sew and embroider, proudly but shyly pointed it out to me.
From there, we flew still farther south along the highway through shelled villages to the old town of Gerbéviller,–up, up the winding street filled with débris, ruins everywhere, to the little convent and church which Sister Julie defended so heroically in that cruel attack on her beloved village. For over an hour she told us the whole story of that martyrdom, her fine old face all alight, twinkling now with humor, then a look of horror and sadness would pass across her eager face, then anger– oh, such flashing anger–as she told of her encounter with the Germans when they tried to kill her wounded men. "Tous les grands blessés sont frères" ("All wounded men are brothers") was her now famous challenge to the barbarians!
Sister Julie and six of her nuns stayed under that cruel fire and cared for the wounded, and to hear the story from her was a rare experience. She vivified the whole tragedy by the marvelous use of her hands as she talked.
We came away most reluctantly, along the road past the temporary houses put up by the French Government, very good houses built more or less like the old ones. The dispensary service given by the American Fund for French Wounded and the Red Cross, under dear Dr. K–, is a great one. That woman doctor is as beloved in Gerbéviller as Madame de B--- is in Vitrimont. I am feeling a bit proud of American women to-night.
We came back through the stricken country to N--- at top speed. Just as we whirled into the old square, we saw the crowd–a fallen German plane brought down by an anti-aircraft gun. It was a thrilling moment; just that grip at your heart until you were sure it was an enemy machine. It was just dusk; there was no time to stop if we were to make our hôtel at T--- before things became lively. As it was, it did grow dark while we flew along the screened roads. We watched the signal lights for the airmen, saw the "evening stars" light up No Man's Land, like the strongest of electric lights. One could read a paper in our motor, with little effort. It was quite dark when we came in, but every post expected us and passed us rapidly.
And now things are lively. What do you do? Well, you just decide to go to bed, trust to the American, French, Italian and every kind of soldier you know is about, knowing that bombs are no respecters of persons or soldiers!
I SUPPOSE sooner or later you will notice in the American papers that the school children of every district in Paris are being provided with supplementary food by the American Red Cross, and that is true; but oh, it is not all! It began yesterday in the 11th district here, and I went with the doctors from the Bureau, the Mayor of the district, and the head of the Public Schools of the district, to watch it all begin in the different schools, and I am in despair at the thought of trying to put into words the delicate, exquisite expression of the gratitude of the children, and their eagerness about us Americans, and their delight over the Red Cross buns made in our own bake shop in the district, from a specially worked out formula prepared by Dr. M---- who is in charge of the Paris work.
The children had expressed themselves in many ways. At each school some welcoming poster greeted us: "Thanks to the American Red Cross" and "Welcome to our American granters," which was the quaint sign in English at one school.
At another, the art class had decorated the entire end of the big assembly hall, Washington and Lafayette in gay blue wreaths with colored drawings on either side; one of an American Red Cross nurse helping a little child; the other of an American woman giving buns and chocolate to the children. The cooking class at that school had prepared delicious custards made by magic without using any ingredients forbidden by food regulations The girls served it to us themselves and they were so pleased over our exclamations of delight. Their shining eyes and soft pink cheeks made even the palest of them pretty.
Of course, the Red Cross bun for afternoon is only one part of our gift. All these schools have canteens for the children and the A.R.C. is giving ham, beef, lentils, beans, macaroni, potatoes, rice, confiture, lard, cheese, sugar, peas, flour, milk–thousands of kilos of these foodstuffs. The Red Cross bun is just one little gift that permits of a bit of sentiment in its expression.
In some of the schools the children had made tiny paper American flags and pinned them on the buns, and at another, paper flowers had been made and were presented to us, a pink rose bud as thanks for a fat looking bun.
The neat little kitchen at another school had our flag on the chimney, and a bright faced French woman tried to thank the Americans for her little child. A kind American woman, a Mrs. S–of Michigan, is paying for her little fatherless girl, and this hard working mother wanted to thank us for the kindness of one of our country women but she couldn't, she just sobbed into her clean apron.
I can't give it to you in any order. It just remains with me as a most moving picture; hundreds of little children, the boys in their black aprons, the girls in checked dresses, and above them, shining eyes, smiles, and an eagerness that choked me.
At one school, before we distributed the buns from the gaily decorated baskets, a little girl read quite clearly and distinctly in the prettiest of English, the following:
"I am very happy to have been chosen to thank you for the new act of kindness which the American Red Cross is showing to the children of our schools. We are deeply moved at the thought that the United States do so much to help us in our great trial and that they even think of our little ones who will after the war be the builders of a renovated world. We feel sure that they and we with them, will always be grateful to the noble Nation who out of pure Love of Justice and Right did not hesitate to enter this terrible war and support us by every means in its power."
She was quite close to us and she knew her little speech well so that she was able to look at us with big star-like eyes as she spoke. All the other children, some four hundred of them, listened breathlessly with their eyes fastened upon us, as we listened to their little representative. I don't believe I'll ever forget the tenseness of those moments. All the little children of France seemed to confront us with their clear eyes, and I was overwhelmed for a moment by the smallness of the American gift. But it isn't small, and they made us feel that it was ten times larger than it is.
There was another tense moment when a teacher asked for a show of hands of those whose fathers were fighting. Many, many thin hands rose white against the blackboards; but when the question was put,–how many whose fathers have fought, every hand went up.
Oh, you may hear disgruntled ones criticize even the heroic French soldiers, but there can be no question about the contribution French children have made to this great cause. They have had to see everything in their home world changed and made difficult, often the giving up of their homes, giving up of their food and clothing and all the little gay things of childhood. That was what made a goose out of me yesterday; the real fun those children were getting out of our gift, the fun of thanking us. They sang our "Star Spangled Banner" in English. That was most amusing for them and very fine for us. They sang it with a real ringing zest that brought the tears.
They sang it in French and that interested them all. You could see the little ones who were not singing, listening to every word.
At one of the girls' schools, two charming little girls of fourteen, I should say, holding American and French flags, recited this touching tribute:
"Salut à la noble Amérique
Un peuple avec nous combattant!
Honneur à son geste héroïque
Et serrons la main qu'il nous tend.
Comme aux grands jours de notre Histoire.
Que soient liés nos deux pays
Et contre les Boches maudits
Marchons ensemble à la Victoire!
Debout contre la barbarie!
Marchons, luttons tous ardemment
Il faut pour sauver la Patrie,
Terrasser le monstre allemand.
Et nous pourrons revoir encore
Sous le soleil longtemps voilé
Le grand étendard étoilé
S'unir au drapeau tricolore.
Sous les drapeaux d'Amérique et de France
Toujours unis par la Fraternité
Nous combattrons pour notre délivrance
Pour la Justice et pour la Liberté."
And when they had finished and we had clapped and called "Bravo, Bravo," the girl with the American flag stepped forward to say a special word of thanks in English. It was a great moment. She looked like a little Jeanne d'Arc, with her thick wavy hair cut short, beautiful hazel eyes, and flaming cheeks, and with our lovely flag furled around her. But it was too much; she could not remember the English. "We thank you" was all she could say. You know how undignified I can be at times; well, I just hugged her tight, flag. and all, and assured her that we understood. There was no need for words.
The school lunches of the American Red Cross in Paris will be recorded in kilos and packages, of course. To me, they will always suggest that little Jeanne d'Arc with our beloved flag, saying "We thank you" for the children of France to the children at home.
I AM here again for a few days. It is simply heavenly, like spring at home in New England, all earthy, and birds calling. The old greenhouses here are filled with wonderful blooms, and the whole landscape is a dream of soft green fields and feathery trees. All the windows and doors of the château stand open. The well children, or well-enough children, are having their games and lessons out of doors; "courant d'air" is going to lose its terror for these children; they now ask to have the windows open, the nurses tell me. Violets are everywhere, and the children have filled my room with little squeezed-up bunches of them, and still bring more. They are so eager to give us something.
The whole place has been so happy for every one until three days ago. Of course every hospital, even convalescent ones, have to have deaths, but until now this wonderful old place has escaped. You remember the terrible sickness of little Albert at Christmas time? It seemed to us then that if he could get well, no child need die. Well, three lovely spring days ago, beloved little Jean-Baptiste went away "to mother" as Victoire said. Yes, my blessed little family of five that I have written you so much about is now four. The children came here from Evian to get well and strong and "wait for father," and after a month Cyr is sunburned and well. Victoire is now a normal little girl of twelve instead of an old woman. Juliette is positively fat, and Louis is all over his whooping cough and getting rosy again, but their baby Jean just couldn't. He had gone too far down, a war baby with four terrifying years lived through with all that means of neglect and privation. And he seemed to us to try so hard to get well; he loved everything and everybody. As for Victoire, she was his little mother. I don't believe any child of her own will ever be more to her than this little brother. And to make it all worse, the day Jean-Baptiste died, word came that father was alive and coming soon, and yesterday he arrived. We all feel that his coming just then saved Victoire. It was terrible for them all, but the four that are left are, in a way, more to the father than the last little son he had seen but once as a tiny baby, and the father's joy in them helped them over these first days, without Jean-Baptiste. Mr. C--- is a tall, splendid looking man, with dark, kindly eyes like Cyr's, and a smile that lights up his tired face whenever he looks at the children. He is so grateful to the hospital for the care of the children that it helped Dr. O---- to get over this first death.
It is amazing the way this doctor felt, who had seen countless children die in hospitals at home. He kept saying to me the last days, "We have got to save this child. Why, his father is fighting up there in that hell to save the whole blooming world. We must save Jean-Baptiste for him."
It's terribly real, this feeling over here of the great debt we owe and it comes out constantly in unexpected places. I have watched it at Evian, among the doctors and nurses in their fight to save some of those dreadfully sick children. I have never seen such tenseness and determination, and children have been saved as though by miracles. I shall never forget the quiet rebuke I received last week when I was urging the Médecin-chef at the Evian hospital to spare himself a little; he was fairly staggering with fatigue, having examined some seven hundred children daily besides carrying the service of the two hundred bed hospital. He looked at me almost sternly and answered, "You forget these are the children of the men who said 'They shall not pass,' and they didn't pass." A very simple, real statement. That's just the difference between the children here and the children at home as yet. These are the loved ones of the men of the Marne, of Verdun, and these kiddies are now just about five times as precious to the life of the nation as they were before the war. So little Jean was very precious, and this happy old place is sad to-day.
But a beautiful thing was revealed by the little lad's death. You remember how difficult it has been to win the old servants we acquired with the château, especially old Jean, the butler? Well, I think no one is sadder to-day than Jean. He loves the children now and all the staff, I think, and it was old Jean who made the little spot of earth all green and full of blooms before Victoire took her father there this afternoon. And to-night, Jean asked our doctor most anxiously whether he thought the Red Cross would ever want to put a younger man in his place. Dr. O--- answered, "Why, do you like it here, Jean ?" Jean hesitated a moment–he is a reserved old man–then he put his arm around Dr. O--- 's shoulder, and with the tears rolling down his cheeks, said, "Never so much as now, M. le Docteur, this is the best of my life." I think he will stay to the end. The only quarrels we ever have "below stairs" now are caused by endless arguments as to which one of them is to do some particular thing for either the children or the staff.
The ambulance men talk of the "Victory of les Halles" as the only fight they have been in. As dear H---- said this afternoon, "It helps me to wait for that military assignment."
H---, you know, has at last been accepted by the army. We are all glad for him. He is so anxious to go. He confided to me long ago, when I was making perfectly futile efforts to comfort him, "You don't understand, Mrs. How'd I feel goin' back home when this business is over and the only kind of powder I could talk about would be 'talcum'?" The disgust in his voice was monumental. I stopped arguing.
I FEEL all ground up into bits to-day. I have been visiting munition factories! Now, don't expect me to describe all the shells and things I saw in the process of making. I could not do it. I recognized the shells when they began to look like shells, but I didn't recognize any of the early stages of munition making. The manager tried to explain to me the intricacies of the small charges that are put into these big shells. I tried desperately to follow, but I found when I came away that I could not describe the process.
But I have certain impressions that are so deep I'll never forget them.
I have a feeling for oil to-night that is indescribable; it is in my nose, my mouth, my eyes, my hair, all over my shoes, my uniform. The long sheds were filled with machinery and workers. Eight thousand women standing shoulder to shoulder with six thousand men, seemed to blur before you in the general whirl of oil. It was everywhere. It seemed to be the medium that molded that thundering building into one great machine. That is one of my deepest impressions.
Then it was just noise; such a noise that struck you all over, not only in the ears, but in your heart, you felt all thumpy and throbbing. I could not hear anything that was said to me–just this terrible roar of machinery.
Then it was just speed. Every section I looked at was flying at such rapidity, I could not distinguish human worker from the oily monster she worked with. I could not breathe. Hands and levers flashed back and forth; things moved everywhere; chain racks holding shells rolled constantly overhead–half finished shells, finished shells. red hot shells, cool shells ---everything moved. All those human beings working at an unthinkable speed were becoming part of that tremendous output of might against the enemy. It was a long time before I could seem to take in any of the detail.
Then I began to see faces–individual faces of the men and women; and I saw through the oil and the grime the same cheerfulness, the same determination, that I felt among the poilus at the front. It was unexpected. So many people talk about the awfulness of everything, of war, of women in munitions, of any labor connected with the present situation. Now you know I am not a feminist, or a militant suffragist; I am just one of thousands of college women who are thinking about things. And I didn't feel the depression I expected. Those people seemed to be working with a spirit that is higher than any wage or condition. There seemed to be just the same glorious dash I felt when close to the French front. That factory was a great big vital line of defense, and the workers seemed to be filled with the spirit of fighting men and armies, and it all looked worth while.
I know there is a big serious side to the situation, the sacrifice of the child life of the country–but for these heroic women there was no choice; isn't any choice yet. These munition factories are the whole gist of the situation, and the women know it. I hope my country will hurry with our own munitions. The quicker we are, the sooner the women of France and England can have a choice. In the meantime everything is being done by Government and Red Cross and Y. W. C. A. to help the women and their children. The factory I have been in to-day has a big canteen for its workers, a fine hospital and dispensary. There are over three hundred minor accidents a day. I saw some of them and to me they seemed major, but the Verdun standard of things as we call it in France is bewildering.
To watch a woman handling those red hot shells, swinging them quickly into position in the proper machinery without dropping them, makes you hold your breath. You know beginners do drop them occasionally.
But in spite of all I was thrilled by the sights of the day; the crêche for the children, the rooms set aside for the mothers to nurse their babies, the infinite care of the French Government! The women receive an allocation of one franc a day for a month before the birth of a child, and for six weeks after, one franc, fifty centimes, and this helps so much, for the women have a chance to rest.
I feel to-night that the children of the eight hundred thousand women in munition factories in France have a very special claim on us
The Y. W. C. A. have their splendid clubhouse for the women workers here, and it was an amazing experience to face that crowded hall during the noon hour to-day, and hear those women sing their beloved songs! So many of them looked so young, most of them looked strong, and they all looked happy and cheerful. That is what has stirred me so. I expected depressing sadness; I found a splendid, glowing spirit of service.
The Red Cross work in this city includes visiting nursing care for children of those women, and help in the crowded clinics of the city, besides the hospitals for our Evian children.
In one of the sheds where twenty five thousand shells a day are turned out, I spoke to a fine looking woman of about forty, with oil streaked face. "I worked outside the first two years, but since my two boys went I came in here. I feel nearer them here," she said. A new point of contact for shells! Yes, I think that is the reason for this spirit. Those shells are--- their message to the front line trenches the answers of the women of France to the enemy of their country, the message of faith and confidence to their own fighting men. I have heard so much of "shell shock," I can't tell you what a feeling this new sense of "shell comfort" gives me.
I CAN'T tell you where this is because it is U. S. Army, but I must tell you the experience. We got out at the dark station at two o'clock this morning, after a "sit up" sleep from Paris. It is a wonderful station, hundreds and hundreds of men on the platforms, coming and going, for this is the station for the Verdun front, and it always thrills me. The biggest French Red Cross canteen is here; it holds three or four thousand men. We went in for a while and watched the poilus at the long tables. The happy cheer of it all must help them to go on back to the job they have so well in hand. In the inky blackness we found the Grand Hôtel de la Cloche, but no room, "pas de chambre," the night concierge informed us; but he gave us permission to try the hard, narrow sofas in the salon, which we did most gratefully. Every once in a while as the night wore on I would hear B--- marching around trying to keep his feet warm, he said, and to get the crick out of his neck. The sofa arms, hard and narrow, were the only pillows.
But it was a "beautiful mornin' by the grace of God," and we were stirring early, walking out to the central camouflage factory before nine o'clock. Our American officers want the American Red Cross to give them a crêche for the children and babies of the seven or eight hundred women who work in the factory, and we came down to plan it with them. I love to think that our men thought of it, and asked for such a thing for the little French children.
It is a most amazing place. We went to the open sheds where they color the thousands upon thousands of meters of burlap. The material is unrolled on the ground and women paint with big brooms; the paint is water color and smells like a cheese factory. The ground, the workers, the buildings, the very sky itself, seemed covered with green, yellow, brown, brown, yellow, green mixtures. It is terrible stuff to work with, so wet, so messy, and so smelly. Then the burlap is hung in the sheds to dry. These long sheds stand right in the open country, with great fields all around, level, with the spring green coming on. The new buildings have all been built in the last six weeks.
The women are of all ages, many old, old women working in the long sheds, and many women of child-bearing age. The need for a crêche is great, as many women must continue to nurse their babies, and there must be some place free from paint!
As we stood in the sunshine in the big wet fields, we could see the long shed covered with green where the paint is thrown on the burlap, –one hundred thousand quarts of paint in eight hours is the record. Outside, the women roll and unroll the stuff to dry or to paint. Then there is the long, low barracks where the women work on the burlap after it is dry. In one it is tied to the wire netting cut in different stated lengths. In another, bunches of different colored raffia are tied together and then tied to the wire. In another, the burlap is cut to look like trees and foliage. One barrack is given over to the sculptors; "trench heads" are made there, strong soldier heads leaning forward slightly; rows of them deeply colored look like real men.
The children are very much in the way there, but many women cannot work unless they bring the children. Well, their work is for the protection of our soldier boys. We must help with their children. So the plan is complete, and will be carried out tout de suite.
A big, roomy barrack in the fields will be fitted up for the children, with a trained aide in charge. Lt. D. E. W. from Texas is the medical officer here, and he went over the plans with us and will give us his help and interest. If you could have seen him, standing there, tall and straight in the sunlight, with that look in his keen eyes under the wide brim of his hat, like cattle ranchers you see in the West; his slow drawl, his quiet manners, and his bigness! The men all love him, K--- said, and he is a fine doctor. The children love him, too. We feel safe about the crêche under his keen supervision.
I love this army of ours that has come to help and doesn't forget the children. The Red Cross is eager to carry out every wish of our men for anything they feel is needed by them, or by the civilians they see.
A RATHER bad day. At one-thirty a terrible explosion. I was alone in my room and the first thought was a day air raid. Then a second explosion and crashing of glass in the street. It sounded very near and I stood waiting, not knowing what to do. The third bang and more glass falling; then silence. When I could move, I went to find out what it was. There was great excitement, a hand grenade factory at – had blown up and fire had started.
The Red Cross acted quickly. We knew it meant death for many and injury for thousands of women and children cut by flying glass. All the afternoon our nurses and doctors have worked near the scene of the tragedy, as near as the police could allow. Many buildings are unsafe and hundreds are homeless. Late to-night the Red Cross had a two hundred bed hôtel ready for the women and children who could be brought into the city. The fire is burning still, and smaller explosions take place as the flames spread. We fear an air raid to-night, as the fire will light up the country for miles and if this is all treachery today, the enemy will not lose such an opportunity unless the rain saves us. Those poor children this afternoon, many of them so badly cut and bruised, and all so frightened! The explosion broke hundreds of windows in Paris seven miles away. You can imagine what it felt like to be a block from the factories. Our chief nurse came in late this evening looking as though she had been in a coal mine, her face black with smoke and soot, and so full of the agony of it all. Of course this is but an accident of war, but if you could have seen those children out there this afternoon you would never forget. In a street not far from the disaster we found an old woman sitting on the curbstone, bleeding badly from superficial cuts on face and hands, her three grandchildren sitting close to her, all of them with glass wounds, but none of them crying. The grandmother was dazed but calm. She said both the father and mother of the children were in the factories. She had heard nothing from them, but she was hoping they were alive because the explosion began during the noon hour and she thought they might not have been in the factory. Our nurse wanted her to come to a safe place with the children, but she refused to leave the street in front of their tenement home in case they came to find her. Such pluck! The building has been condemned and the people are not allowed to enter, but they cling to the streets. The French are so kind always in their treatment of their people. They are rushing temporary shelters out, tents, blankets, and mattresses, so the people can stay near their possessions.
I SPENT the morning in our children's clinic at Grenelle. We did not have a raid last night, thanks to a heavy rain. But many people of the poorer districts spent most of yesterday after the explosion in the "Caves," not knowing what it was, and when they did know, fearing further trouble. So the clinic was crowded this morning with women and their tired, sick children.
One starved looking mother with a tiny baby had spent the time in a very damp cellar and both of them had terrible colds. I shall never forget the picture of the care they received. Our nurse was so fine, so sympathetic, and as she worked, the mother told her many things. The baby was her only one and her man was in the trenches. His permission was due very soon and nothing must happen to his baby. You feel so sorry for these poor people during these air raids. The air is full of rumors about that "offensive" promised by the Germans, and all the women in that clinic this morning were busy discussing its probability. They said: "If it begins, there will be no more permissions for a time." And these women, hard at work here, with the children to care for, live for their men to come home. One woman in very shabby black, lost her man last week and she looked as though she would never smile again, and yet no bitterness! Her little boy of six has a bad bronchitis, but he is a sturdy little chap and she told me, without a quiver, that she wished he were big enough to take his father's place at Verdun. "We must finish," she said–"finish!"
At that clinic we have a small day nursery or crêche for the children whose mothers are working, and a regular kindergartner (I hope some one will think up a non-German word for that) teaches the children and they have the best of times. We are proud of the Grenelle center; it is a real neighborhood house, small, with a staff of four, doctor, nurse, aide and French teacher, to meet the needs of their neighbors. The French are good neighbors. I asked a tired poilu at the Gare du Nord last night, why he kept on fighting. Four years, he told me, he has been in the war, and he was very tired, but his answer to my question was a wonderful one: "We've got to show those Germans how to be neighbors; they don't know how to live next to other people."
AT eight o'clock this morning began the bombardment of Paris! It seems unbelievable, and no one knew it as a fact until about three this afternoon. Then the rumor was confirmed. It had been very strange all day; the explosions seemed to come about every twenty minutes. In Place–, sixteen people were reported killed and injured at noon time. At one o'clock a terrific bang seemed to have struck very near, "in the Tuileries," our small office page reported. Every one looked up into the blue sky for the answer to the puzzle. After the miserable raid last night our minds thought only of "Avions." But at three o'clock the word from the war office came,–a long distance gun! Well, if guns can fire seventy-five miles, I imagine we are in for a warm time of it. The children of this city! What can we do to help, where can they go to play, or to work, or to do anything else –if a shell is going to drop every twenty minutes? The news from the front is bad tonight; the offensive is on hot and heavy, and it is a breathless moment here. Late this afternoon after an hour of quiet, I walked out to Dr. B–'s hospital, A.R.C. No. 1. The beautiful Champs Elysées, always crowded with the French children laughing and playing, rolling hoops and riding the ponies, was all silent, empty; just busy, preoccupied grown ups went hurriedly on their way. It is only eight o'clock, but it is a clear night. A raid is inevitable. I think I'll have a nap before undressing.
FROM nine last evening until midnight, the raid went on. We sat in the dark on the Entresol, talking of that western front; the raids make us seem nearer it. The Allies are giving up ground. We had a telegram yesterday announcing the giving up and destruction of our little ten bed hospital for children at Nesle. "All out safely," but where? We do not know. They say to-night that H--- has been taken. It does not seem possible. The guns began at seven this morning. We all needed an alarm clock after the night. Breakfast was served very daintily in the cellar of this hotel for the dining room here is a glass covered courtroom, and no one wants to sit under glass. The shells have dropped every twelve minutes to-day. The morale of the people is wonderful. Children must be looked out for, yes, but the rest of the French shrug their shoulders. They are perfectly calm and confident! There must be two guns!
A BLACK day–perhaps the blackest in our history. The whole world waits; rumors ebb and flow. The retreat goes on, the gun goes on, the raids go on, but the A. R. C. has just one thought–to do everything in its power to meet the emergency. Our Children's Bureau is deep in the work for the refugee women and children pouring into the city from the north. The stations receiving them are now manned with doctors, nurses and aides, to help the French handle this terrible situation. The canteens go all night; the trains are bringing thousands of the old and sick men and women, women with their children, from the region we thought safe. They are weary and hungry but not in a panic. It is marvelous. Last night in the station I saw a tired woman feeding a five months' old baby sweet chocolate. The baby was happy but the mother knew that was wrong. We found that in the flight, and terror of those days, her milk had stopped. In a few minutes our doctor discovered fourteen other mothers in the same condition. Our nurses prepared milk formulas for the babies all night and all day, as the morning trains brought more. The people are being carried through to towns and cities farther south now. Paris is no place to keep them. The raids make the station work so difficult, as we have to get them down under ground. The children are tired and dirty, and sick some of them, but they do not seem frightened. The Red Cross is cooperating with French nurses and Government in removing as many children as possible from Paris. Workers from the war zone pour in, but the French are confident.
A BUSY day, not a moment for anything but emergencies. The retreat goes on. The women and children pour into the stations from the north. Two little frail children died at the Gare du Nord this afternoon. It was awful, but the mothers were wonderful. One woman said this was the third time she had lost everything in flight, but still she smiled bravely through her tears. The French and American Red Cross are working hand in hand these days. The rush at the canteens and rest rooms at the stations has made heavy work and we are eager not to have the soldier canteens suffer, as the stations are crowded with troops on their way to the front. The gun began just at three this afternoon and the rumors are bad. The first shell struck a church and the evening papers say over ninety people were killed, mostly women and children. I have no direct word as yet.
THE gun was quiet this morning, and the news from the front is good. The Allies are holding. Bishop McCormick of Western Michigan preached a sermon that would make him famous if he were not already so. His text was, "As cold water to thirsty lips, so is good news from a far country." It was all sort of choking and tremendous but it sent us back to the railroad stations with fresh courage. Refugees, women and children, continue to pour into Paris and all organizations, both French and American, are uniting in the effort to move them on to peace and safety south of Paris.
One little disheveled woman at the Gare du Nord, with three sturdy boys clinging to her, told me how an American soldier helped her to get out of Amiens in his camion, where the bombardment was "terrifique." I suppose it was one of our Ambulance men, but her gratitude was as great as though the entire American Army had escorted her to Paris. Oh, for ten million men!–But the Allies are holding! I think we can stand the air raid to-night with actual delight. Three shells from "Bertha Krupp" late this afternoon, but Paris seemed to be smiling. The boulevards were crowded. The fact that it was Easter overshadowed even the long distance guns. A wonderful people!
A WEEK of shells, air raids, night hours in the cellar, work in the day time, but no one minds. The Allies are still holding.
A wonderful new work has been developing in the Children's Bureau this week. Long before Christmas you remember our soldier boys began doing many things for the children they came into touch with in the villages. In every little French town where our boys are quartered, the village children had a Christmas party with the American soldiers. Constantly we have received money from our soldiers "for the kids." The "Stars and Stripes" (the newspaper for the U. S. troops) decided that it might be a good plan to organize that feeling and give the boys a wider field in which to express their friendliness for the little children they see. The newspaper asked us if we would take the trouble and the responsibility of providing French children for our American companies to "father" and "brother." You can imagine our delight. We said that the American Red Cross could supply any kind of French children, with hair of any color, or eyes of any color, for our boys to be interested in. The plan suggested by the paper on Palm Sunday was that five hundred francs or one hundred dollars be the sum given by the men for a year's contribution to the care, education, or useful training of any kind, for a French child; the application of the money to be left to the discretion of the Children's Bureau of the A. R. C.
The response from our men was immediate. In ten days twenty children have been "adopted" by our soldiers. They have sent their money, and the "dimensions" they wanted, and we have supplied the child, that is, we apply the money and we furnish the company with the photograph of their child, his history and how they can keep in touch with him.
Several days ago we had a letter from Company G, –Regiment of U. S. They wrote as follows:
"Company G met Easter morning. We want to adopt a little boy of six with blue eyes, the son of a man who fell at Verdun."
They are not difficult to find–little sons of men who fell at Verdun! We found Henri, a darling laddie with blue eyes. We had him photographed at once and his picture and his history sent to the company. Miss P---, in writing of Henri, said that he had two brothers and two sisters. To-day we received the answer:
"Company G takes the whole bunch."
I love it. I think one of the most beautiful things in France to-day is the feeling our men have for the devastated lives of the little children. I don't suppose many of the men could say anything about it but this is what they are doing, in their simple, direct way. Some of the letters are so funny. One company wrote: "You pick out the kid, but please have it old enough to eat anything the fellows want to send it." I suppose they feared a "bottle" baby.
But it is all so big and fine, and coming at this time when we are all breathless with anxiety, it is like "the wind on the heath."
WE have been here for two days. We sail some time to-night. It is difficult to believe that we are going home for a few weeks, after the ten busy months here. I have been sitting out on deck in the dark sort of listening to my own thoughts, and I find that the A. R. C. seems to be just two factors to me: our soldier boys and the little children. When we left Paris on Friday, eighty children had been adopted by eighty American companies, and the letters continue to make one laugh and cry. To-night I stood and watched from our deck the unloading of a big ship next to us at the wharf. The country was all dark; the wharf was lighted by torches that moved about, here and there; now deep black shadows, now whole vivid scenes flashed out for seconds at a time.
Once, the flash showed a line of poilus drawn up close to the wharf to welcome the troops from home, then the light revealed a group of excited little children close to the ship's gangway; and down that gangway moved a constant stream of soldiers. Their broad brim hats, (the American hat,) made the familiar silhouette against the dark sky when a torch cast the light just there, and as each company reached the soil of France, they gave a cheer, a real American cheer, that thrilled us to the core. Then childish voices called "Vive la France! Vive l'Amérique!" and again our boys' ringing cheer, and presently a company's band began "Over There," only to be drowned out by a united roar from all the men on the wharf. "Sheer animal spirits," said some one near me, and I think my whole ten months in France rose up within me and said, No! Those cheers were hoarse with feeling. I knew those men were choked by a spiritual exaltation that will grow and grow as we have seen it grow in other men from home. during these months here. Sending their money into our Bureau for the children! What is that but their way, their simple practical way, of recognizing the spiritual significance of their fight for the future, for the safety of the world, for the little children?
An American newspaper woman was discussing some of the finer issues of our struggle with a British Army officer at the front. She spoke rather depressingly about the materialistic trend of the world, the apparent failure of things spiritual, the rather Godless state of the universe. The officer listened quietly for a time and then, looking her straight in the eyes, answered: "Stay in the front line trenches awhile. We believe in God like Hell up here!" And our boys, many of them before they have reached the front line trenches, have shown their "faith."
Last week at the Beauvais Canteen, just back of that awful retreat, a wounded American soldier came in with head bandaged, blood and mud staining his cheeks. It was natural that the Red Cross worker should turn eagerly to him to find out what he wanted. But in front of that rough counter stood a row of little refugee children waiting for milk. The American lad waved the worker aside, with: "I can wait. Kids first, please."
And France has heard that note and will never forget that the American Soldiers and the American Red Cross came to her help with those rough boyish words in their hearts, "Kids first, please."