But to return to my nice M.P. with the bushy eyebrows. He got me an army car to take me to Sémur, with a soft-voiced Southerner to run it. It was a delightful ride of twenty miles or so through chilly country glistening with snow; and all the time the boy talked of home in Mississippi, and his mother, and what he wanted to do when he got back. He took me to the Y.M.C.A. headquarters at Sémur. There I met Mr. M. of Salem, Mass., who is my chief. It seems that Sémur is the centre of all Y.M.C.A. activities with the 78th Division which did much heroic fighting all along the front. Mr. M. is a delightful gentleman and a real man. He has been with the boys in the midst of the fighting. We had a good talk. He finally decided to send me to Pouillenay with the 2nd Battalion of the 311th Infantry, 78th Division. "This is an experiment, Miss Shortall," he said. "You will be the only American woman in the town. The town is off the main line and the boys have not had their share of comforts and amusements. The "Y" has run to the dogs. Everything is gloomy. Do you want the job?" I said it was just what I wanted. The next morning a nice "Y" man put me and my baggage into a car and ran me over to Pouillenay about ten miles over the hills.
Pouillenay is a tiny, peaked-roofed village of mud and stones, with a river babbling through its centre where the women wash and the geese wade, and old stone bridges span it. All about are hills, lovely hills. In this French setting, place 1500 American boys in khaki! They are everywhere! The dazed and stupefied old natives wandering around in their wooden shoes are in the minority. The crooked streets resound to American voices, American jokes and songs, and huge U.S. trucks go thundering over the ancient cobblestones, while the insulted geese go to the side of the road looking so wrathfully dignified and stately that I laugh every time I see them, and the black and white speckled hens shriek and run for their lives in all directions, often into the houses whose doors are on the level with the street. This town was to be my home. I was left in the care of Lieutenant Robinson, who has been most kind to me, as every one else has been. (I'll send you descriptions of my friends here after I discover who censors the mail!)
Billets were found for me at the house of Mme. and M. Gloriod, the nicest old couple that ever were. I have a tiny room with a tiny stove, which nevertheless eats lots of wood. Madame Gloriod, energetic and kindhearted, rosy-cheeked and jolly, brings a delicious breakfast to me every morning and lights my fire. Talk about luxury! And I eat it in leisure from the depths of my voluminous bed. (More undeserved good luck, mother!) And all this costs me about three francs a day. My regular "mess" aside from breakfast is at Battalion Headquarters, presided over by Major S. who they say was a well known New York lawyer before the war. He is in every way a cultivated gentleman admired by the whole battalion. He has been extremely kind to me, making me feel quite at home. At his mess are six other officers, lieutenants of various colors. I have also dined with the officers of the other companies and it is very jolly. But I am not here for the gay life; don't believe it. My headquarters is the Y canteen, a miserable little room with a counter, a stove, and rough benches around it. The men pour in here and smoke and talk. My guitar is at their disposal and they use it. Often I play it and we have real sings. My third night, while a group of us were singing, Corporal Johnson, of F Company, huge and sandy-haired, and Corporal Martin, stalwart and handsome, burst into the crowded room followed by other members of F Co. "Clear the way!" shouted Corporal Martin, making his way toward me, and then with a sweeping bow and with a grand manner he invited me to "mess" with the men of the best platoon of the best company of the best battalion of the best etc., etc., on the following evening. Of course I accepted on the spot. "Now shall we give the lady a song?" said Sergeant Riggs, stepping out. And they sang. They raised the roof! Great songs they were too. Then I was presented with a mess kit just like the soldiers and with mock solemnity was given a lesson in how to use it. Then I rehearsed it for their benefit, my purposeful blunders calling forth roars of laughter.
The next evening they called for me. In army style we marched snappily through the streets to F Co. mess hall, a long wooden building with dirt floor. I was placed in the front row with a corporal on either side to keep me in position. The mess was a real and delicious feast. Those boys had contributed extra to it, and a whole pig had been roasted, not to mention caldrons of vegetables, jelly-cake, doughnuts, and coffee—sweetened coffee! I drank a quart of it at least. Then Sergeant Riggs, a humorous character and my staunch friend now, gave a speech welcoming me to Pouillenay. I can tell you it made the tears come to my eyes, these men, so chivalrous, so unreserved in their welcome of a woman into their midst; and I dedicated myself there and then to them, resolved to do everything in my power to make their stay here brighter and better. But the biggest thing that I do is not of my doing at all; it lies in simply being a woman. You really wouldn't laugh if you were over here and saw these boys hungering for love and for home. Well, of course I answered the sergeant's speech, and then there was cheering and then singing. Corporal Martin then stepped forward and said in his oratorical manner. "We have now come to the conclusion of this ceremony, which consists in your washing your mess kit." Roars of laughter! I was placed in the line and we all moved up to the garbage pail; next, to a huge tank of decidedly greasy hot water into which we plunged our mess kits; then on to a kettle of rinsing water where we gave them another dip. That being over, I was invited to a show given by one of the other companies in one of the mess halls, and as there was half an hour to spare, it was decided that we have a parade through the town. Of course it was dark by this time. So with a sergeant taking one arm and a corporal the other, we marched and marched, singing all the time, through the little black streets, up the hill and round the church and down again, over the bridge and back to the mess hall where the show awaited us. "Now you can write home that you have marched with the American army," said Sergeant Riggs.
On another day I happened to be passing when F Co. was drilling. The sergeant insisted that I join the ranks. So with a rifle I blundered through the drill, my mistakes causing much merriment.
I really have been doing a little work; don't worry. I have been cook and nurse for three boys with influenza, two in their gloomy billets and the other in a cold, damp house. That has taken a good deal of time. Also the Y.M.C.A. has just put up a large tent to be used instead of its present inadequate quarters and I, with the help of many boys, have been fixing it up. On Wednesday I went to Sémur on a shopping tour, riding in on an open limber drawn by mules. The driver told me those mules had delivered many loads of rations to the boys in the front trenches by night and had been through gas and shell fire of the worst kind. It seems that mules can stand much more than horses. At the Sémur Y.M.C.A. I was able to get flags and posters, tables and benches for our tent, which were loaded on to the limber. The next day we set to work on our interior decorating. Never did the hanging of magnificent paintings in a rich mansion receive more consideration than the placing of our French and American posters. Symmetry is the rule of the army! If I put a picture on one side of the tent, it was absolutely necessary to put one of the same size exactly opposite. At the end of the long tent are the French and American flags crossed, and under them, cut with painstaking care from a 1917 Liberty Loan poster, hangs the Liberty Bell with the words "Ring it Again" above. A wreath of smilax gathered from the woods encircles each electric light. Really it is very pretty and gay. But there is a big drawback; the dampness. The floor is covered with damp sawdust, and one little stove burning green wood is not enough to dry it. The captain of the Supply Co. has promised another stove, but until it comes and has been kept burning several days we can't think of moving in. I have my heart set on making it the brightest and warmest spot in town. Wine and cognac shops are my strong competitors. I must get busy.
How would you like to send all your copies of "Life" and any other magazines to me instead of to the great unknown? They would be greatly appreciated in Pouillenay. And here's a novel suggestion from a "highbrow Shortall." Papa, (I exempt Mamma), won't you invite H. and M. to every musical comedy that comes along, and whenever you hear a song that is new and good and snappy, send me the music "toot sweet" as the boys say.
Feb. 14th.
On the other side of this card I have marked my present home on "Main Street." If you follow this road over the hills you come to the heights where Vercingetorix of the Gauls made his last stand against Julius Cæsar. This is historical country. Where javelins and arrows once flew thick, hordes of Americans are now living, the latest liberators of these old vineyards. And almost on the site of a pagan temple stands the Y.M.C.A. tent where a twentieth century priestess from Chicago hands out cigarettes and plays ragtime. We are in our tent and drawing crowds.
One of these streets is called "La rue des Quatres Ponts." It is as pretty as its name, but the American boys don't see any beauty in any of it, and I can't blame them. All they care about is "God's own country." I do hope for their sakes that the Division will be ordered to move soon.