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186 TO DRAGMA OF ALPHA OMICRON PI TO DRAGMA OF ALPHA OMICRON PI 187
new roads behind the retreating army. But they always coughed—
this American army of ours. I have lain i n bed and heard not a
sound, not even the tramp of feet, yet knew they were passing by
their continuous coughing.
Ever since I was a small child the sight o f marching men and
women has made me feel absurdly t e a r f u l . I d i d n ' t lose that feeling
when I donned my Red Cross uniform, but i t was submerged in the
desire to say something f r i e n d l y to each man as he passed. Perhaps
that big fellow or that round-faced youngster lived near me at home.
Perhaps I knew his sister or his mother. What I actually did was
just to sing out occasionally "Going to the f r o n t ? " or "Going to
rest?" always c a r e f u l to guess r i g h t so that the answer m i g h t come
back "You bet!"
I often wondered how I myself would feel when actually under
fire. But, again, when that time came i t was not the f e e l i n g I had
imagined.
I n the Paris air raids, Alice in Wonderland lived again for me
and I shall always rejoice that during the last raid I happened to be
in Paris. I shall always rejoice, too, that I leaned out of my hotel
window instead of descending to the "cave." I shall never forget
the hushed crowds stealing underground; the deathlike stillness, save
f o r the t i n k l i n g o f the bells around the l i t t l e dogs' necks, as they,
too, trotted down with their masters. Then came the deafening
continued barrage right over my head. Finally the lovely, welcome
notes of the " a l l clear" bugle. Paris rose again from the dead.
Laughing, chattering crowds poured out into the streets and back
into their homes. Surely this was not w a r ! I had been to one of
Barrie's plays.
Very differently d i d I feel under shell fire at the f r o n t . T h e r e
was nothing fantastic there. I t was real and ugly.
I had motored up in a truck toward Thiraucourt to bring down to
the lx>ys i n one o f the hospitals a piano l e f t behind i n a dugout
by the fleeing Germans. Great shell holes, each like the foundation
dug f o r a house, tore up the roads. Bouillionville, Essay, Euvesin,
once little French farming villages, were now but fast disappearing
heaps of stone, useful only f o r road making. I n every niche and
corner of the woods and towns, American troops were quartered.
Suddenly the great German guns began booming, getting the range
with the help of their planes. Over the hills came the big shells
tearing, whistling, screeching. I felt thrilled without experiencing
an iota of fear. They fell at regular intervals a few hundred yards
f r o m me, burying themselves in the earth but doing no damage. It
was interesting. I t was like watching a man shooting at a target.
W o u l d he hit or would he miss the bullseye next time? A n ammuni-
tion dump burst into flames. H e was getting nearer. A pair of
horses attached to a truck went down. Then I saw a negro soldier
f a l l . A piece of the shell had pierced his heart and he lay i n a
pool of blood.
A l l at once, there swept over me the overwhelming fear that I
might be the next v i c t i m . T h r o u g h my mind passed the thought
that a f t e r a l l I was of some value back home; that i t was a foolish way
to die. Should I make a deliberate attempt to run f r o m danger or
should I take the chance of staying? I lacked the nerve to r u n , so
I took the chance of staying, and made some poor j o k e to the
doughboy standing near me. B u t as soon as possible I ordered
my chauffeur to push on! The air raids had fascinated me. Shell
fire at the f r o n t had cowed me.
I f the trappings of war were a revelation, so were the men who
made the war machine a living thing. O n the stage, war is action.
T h e heroes are always busily going over the top. I n reality war is
waiting—waiting i n the trenches, waiting on duty i n out-of-the-way
places; waiting i n replacement camps; waiting in hospitals.
I t was f r o m the 35,000 men who waited to die or to get well in
my hospitals that I learned of the stuff of which heroes are made.
Before I sailed for France I had read a book which found nothing
but ugliness and gore in the soldiers' hospitals. I accepted that book
and undertook my hospital work with many misgivings.
I found it was true that war was not a crucible i n which the
souls of men were purified. Near the hospital a negro was hung by
the military authorities f o r assaulting a seventy-year-old French
woman. The chap in W a r d A had stolen all the money from under
his d y i n g comrade's p i l l o w . T h e first-class private i n the guardhouse
had drunk too much and killed the M . P. on duty at the crossroads.
Here was the ugliness I had looked f o r !
But that is not the whole picture of those thousands of men.
I n the fore-ground radiated their devotion to one another, their
homesickness, their sense of humor saving many a hopeless situation.
"Buddy" they always called one another. Your "guy" was your
very best pal.
" H e y there, Sister," w o u l d be shouted at me as I went through the
ward, "don't forget to give my guy in the corner some cigarettes, too."
A hundred times a day I was struck by their thoughtfulness and
gentleness toward one another. Perhaps i t was a reaction f r o m the
job of being cruel.
"The war can't end too soon f o r me!" was an oft-repeated phrase.
T h e most popular question seemed to be "when are we going home?"
" B u t you've only been over a few weeks," I would argue.