July 18th. Every one woke up feeling pretty ragged. Goodness knows how the nurses stand it as well as they have, because they stick their noses out in the cold gray dawn looking pretty fresh.
At Troyes last night some Canadian nurses came down to meet the train. The station was simply packed with soldiers.
Well, ten thirty a. m. and the miserable, dirty old train draws into Vittel, and it was with some pleasure that I saw the end of the rat-hole we had lived in for thirty-eight hours.
Met by a French officer. They knew we were coming, but had no orders what to do with us, so we are bundled through a deserted town to the Hotel Vittel Palace, which is an annex of one of the larger hotels and has been serving as a military hospital. Well, the least said about this place the better. No towels, no toilet articles or looking glasses. There is one bathtub at the end of a long corridor which we all have to use. No one to clean it out. In fact, nothing is done and the whole place, in spite of the fact it is a hospital, is filthy. McWilliams, James, Stillman and I have one room which could hold two in a pinch. Nowhere to store anything. The mess is horrible. It is in the old ballroom surrounded with beds. We sit on hard benches. Breakfast is hard bread, no butter and some horrible liquid called coffee without sugar—worse than anything we had during the Spanish War.
July 20th. Vitell. Just kicking around. No orders. There is a rumor we are to move about twenty miles from here into barracks which are now under construction. Anything to get out of here.
The French are most polite. The men all salute us in the streets, several men and women coming up and talking to us. When Russell, James, Stillman and myself went to a neighboring hotel for a good lunch we were given a good round of hand-clapping as we walked into the dining-room. I shouted in return, "Vive la France." Many officers have come up and spoken to us. I have never tried to talk French so hard in my life and that which I do speak is simply awful, but they take it in good part and try and help me out.
This morning in watching the tennis I asked a Frenchman where I could get racquets and balls. He brought up an English captain (Lucas), who explained everything to me and insisted on introducing me to a Frenchwoman, Madame Somebody, who, he said, played a good game, so have a date to play with her at five p. m., consequently have rummaged to get a pair of tennis shoes, but there is nothing big enough for me, except a pair of dirty brown canvas sneakers, and I have to wear my long military trousers. I hate doing things when I have not the appropriate clothes.
I went out this afternoon trying to make some arrangement at the different hotels for an officers' mess, but they want ten francs which is too much as practically all the men are living on their pay. The English do well for their men and officers. They give a good mess and, I think, clothing allowance, for they all seem to be on Easy Street.
Well, here goes for the tennis!
The tennis was good fun. The two women played very well, but the men—first one and then a younger fellow took up the game—were not much good.