And so—they were gone. Some strange officer in a car kindly took me back to Pouillenay. That deserted town! For me, its soul had departed. There was the familiar scene, inanimate. No figures in khaki anywhere, no one whistling to me or waving, nothing left of them but their fresh tracks in the mud everywhere, and wave on wave of loneliness surged through me, that was almost terrifying in its intensity. Thank heaven the sun had come out! I walked up my street, talking to the disconsolate French women who stood in the doorways looking out as though all the joy in life had departed. Truly, the best comment on the behaviour of our boys is the genuine sorrow of the French at seeing them go. I got up to my billet where dear M. and Mme. Gloriod met me, their faces covered with tears. It was good to see them again, and they were overjoyed at seeing me. Mme. Gloriod began getting me something to eat, while I, too exhausted to think or feel, went to bed.
And now, to pass briefly over the next four days in Pouillenay, I am back in Paris. Where they will send me I haven't the least idea. I volunteered to go home, because the "Y" is swamped with workers now, and had the satisfaction of being told that I was not the kind they wanted to send home. This means a good deal to me because I am quite aware that, not being as strong as the majority, I have given fewer hours of service than most of them, and now to have from all sides tokens of appreciation is overwhelmingly gratifying.
I have a "Memory Book" of the 2nd Bn., 311th Inf. which you will be interested in seeing when I get home. The Major wrote a little verse on the first page, stamping it with the official seal. It goes:
She put the "Pull" in Pouillenay,
Likewise the push there, too.
Her middle name's Efficiency,
And lassie—here's to you!
By the way, if any members of the Battalion come to see you, I know you will give them a real welcome. Also, if by chance the 78th Divisional Show should play in Chicago, it really would be jolly to do something for the Cast and Management. It is to be composed largely of boys from our Battalion.
Goodbye. There is lots more to say, but I really can't.
American Y.W.C.A. Hostess House,
Chateau "La Gloriette,"
Chaumont, May 24th.
Paris is over with. There was much waiting and rushing and guessing and meeting of friends. I have seen so many, old and new-made, ladies and gentlemen. I have run around in civilian clothes—my uniform went to the cleaner's—and have gone to the theatre and dined in restaurants and listened to orchestras, dodged taxis and ridden in them, gone to bed late, spent some money,—in short, have done all the things I ordinarily avoid doing.
In Paris you see more Americans then French, and more American women than men, all in assorted uniforms. They certainly have brought a mob of women over here! and now they are trying to ship them home as fast as possible. The Y.M.C.A. is sending workers, men and women, home at the rate of several hundred a week.
They have given me a reassignment. Yesterday I came to Chaumont where G.H.Q. is stationed, and I shall be sent out from here—somewhere, to do—something. At present I don't know anything about it. Meanwhile I am most comfortably lodged in the Y.W.C.A. Hostess House, a large and beautiful château with lovely grounds. I am now sitting on an old stone wall on the hillside which I came upon after following a shady path. Beside me are bushes drooping with white and purple lilacs, all about me birds are warbling, and beyond and below is a panorama of sunny France through which runs a white road where American trucks go thundering by in clouds of dust. And it is all very lazy and hazy and—satisfactory. For I don't seem to be thinking beyond. One doesn't when one is "militaire." One gives oneself up to the powers above. No one doesn't, either! Not at critical moments. One can steer and veer—gently.