Had a slight attack of influenza...

Influenza Epidemic of 1918–19, also called Spanish Influenza Epidemic, was the most severe influenza outbreak of the 20th century and, in terms of total numbers of deaths, possibly the most devastating epidemic in human history. Influenza is caused by a virus that is transmitted from person to person through airborne respiratory secretions. An outbreak can occur if a new strain of influenza virus emerges against which the population has no immunity. The Influenza Epidemic of 1918–19—which is more precisely called a pandemic because it affected populations throughout the world—resulted from such an occurrence. On average influenza pandemics occur every 30 to 40 years, so it was not the event but the severity and speed of transmission of the virus that marked this episode as unusual. 

The outbreak occurred in three waves. The first apparently originated in Camp Funston, Kansas, U.S., in early March 1918. American troops that arrived in western Europe in April to participate in World War I are thought to have brought the virus with them, and by July it had spread to Poland. The first wave of influenza was comparatively mild; however, during the summer the virus mutated into a more lethal strain and a second more severe form of the disease emerged in August 1918. Pneumonia often developed quickly, with death usually coming two days after the first indications of the flu. For example, at Camp Devens, Massachusetts, U.S., six days after the first case of influenza was reported, there were 6,674 cases. The third wave of the epidemic occurred in the following winter, and by the spring the virus had run its course. In the two later waves about half the deaths were among 20- to 40-year-olds, an unusual age pattern for influenza.

In this letter to his mother, Grant talks about having an attack of flu. His only lasted a day or so but this was most likely an early wave of the deadly Spanish Influenza pandemic. Grant talks about it making the rounds in the army. 

Convois Autos.,
S.S.U. 647,
Par B.C.M.,
France.

Tuesday, June 25, 1918

Dear Mother:-

I can’t tell you how badly it makes me feel to hear you say, as you did in your May 20 letter received but a few minutes ago, that my April letter had arrived.  Are you really only getting one letter a month from me?  McCrackin from Montana says his mother only receives about one letter a month from him.  Why is it and where do they all go to?  I must have written all of ten to you in April.  I’m at a loss to know the reason for it.  Other parents are receiving mail regularly from this side.  For the last two weeks I have been writing you every 48 hours as we are relieved and come back to rest up for another 48 hours on post.  I’m due to go out again tonight but have had a slight attack of influenza; which seems to be going the rounds of the army so am to be held over a shift--meaning 48 hours more.  The fever lasts about 3 days but my attack must have been light for my fever left me last night.  Am up and around today though rather shaky on my twigs.  Putnam, Klein, Wilder and Bodfish are all out with the same ailment so perhaps you can imagine how very busy the available men must be.  McGuire left us with this same disease about three weeks ago (they thought it best to take him to a hospital.)  He was evacuated several times and we have lost track of him.  It was last reported that he was at a Base Hospital near Base #66 where we were in early April so this morning our Lieutenant left in his staff car to hunt for him.  We want McGuire back with us very much indeed.

Lieutenant Anderson has left us and we have a new Lieut. (Lieut. Smith) from V.M.I.(Virginia Military Institute) who has just been over here since the first of the year.  He’s a “true blue” and the fellows are wild about him.  Many changes are taking place with us these days but without a word of complaint from any of us for we know our Lieutenant is behind us and fighting for us.

Our division is moving but we do not move with them.  We stay right here and work with the new division which will be French and American--rookies.  (Not French rookies, you understand, because there are none such).

Nothing more has been done about permissions and probably won’t be for awhile.

Got a letter from Bill Everett today but he had not received my letter telling of the proposed permission.  I certainly wish I could write as much in detail as he does.  In fact I sometimes wonder if the reason for my letters not reaching you is not due to my trying to tell too much.  Gee, but his work is interesting.

Things are looking fine on the front. Very encouraging developments as you note by the papers.

Got a bill from Literary Digest people.  Shall I pay it?  I would be glad to because it is very much appreciated (the paper, I mean).

Boost the Red Cross and Salvation Army.  They are doing splendid work over here.

Your loving son,

Grant.

A year has taken me a long, long, way from home both in thought and person.

Ever since Grant embarked on this great adventure, he adopted the use of several French words in his diary and letters. "Repos" and "permission" are two words that appear frequently since both were highly desired by men on both sides of the fighting. When an army is en repos it's at rest in the rear, away from the bloody carnage. Going on permission (military leave) was even more coveted than repos because one could get far away from the fighting, recharge one's batteries and try to forget.

In this letter to his mother, Louise, Grant describes being en repos and the tantalizing carrot of permission dangling before him.

Convois Autos.,

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

                       

Friday – June 14, 1918

 

Dearest Mother:-

It’s been almost two weeks since I last wrote you. And a busy two weeks it has been, too.  We are still where we were and have been for the last two months. (Read the first article in the Literary Digest for May 4). Several of our cars have been laid up so that some have had to do extra work. I am now on my third day of rest. Tomorrow will be my fourth and last. It’s just like coming back on repos to come to this camp of ours. It’s as quiet as the cemetery next door--far enough back so that we can only hear the big guns and sufficiently out-of-the-way and small enough so that we are not bothered by air-raids.  Have spent my time back here this “hitch” just sleeping and eating. It feels great to be able to sleep in a good bed in a large airy room free from bugs and rats. We (#647) played the French Engineers in soccer last night after supper. This is the third game in a series of five which we have played these boys. They have won two games (2-1 and 1-0) and we have won one (2-1). It is rather difficult for us to depend upon 11 men who play because we are continually shifting in and out of this place. Soccer provides diversion and excellent exercise. The Frenchmen are fine sports and enjoy playing with us as much as we do them.

Soccer

Stuart Hugh Fraser AKA Fraze (1892-1990)

We have a new Lieutenant now and he is a peach. Hasn’t been over here long but so far we are very enthusiastic over him. As soon as he found out that we hadn’t had a permission of any kind in over nine months his first action was to arrange a permission schedule.  We paired off and we have just drawn for numbers. You have heard me speak of Fraser, New York, old #61 man?  He and I are going together. Regulations permit only 5% of any group leaving on permission at the same time which means two men in our section. I drew № 2 which means that we ought to be out of here in about three weeks. Am as excited as a kid about this thing. Maybe by the time this letter reaches you “Fraze” and I will be off in some corner of France on a real vacation for 7 days. Hap is going with McCrackin.  They drew № 5. Johnnie is trying to get to England with an English cousin--1^st Lieut. in English army. Johnnie drew № 14. Poor kid, and he did want to get away early. The irony of the whole thing is the fact that the government already owes us two permissions.  Before we make the rounds of this permission another will have already passed. Like this: Not including non-coms and our Lieut. we have, at present, 34 men in the section who are eligible for permission. That means 17 permissions when paired off. We are allowed 7 days exclusive of traveling time which means that each pair will probably be gone 10 days.  All right, 17 permissions of 10 days each means 170 days or better than five months and a half before we make the rounds and we are supposed to get a leave every four months.  Can you explain that? I can’t. But I’m so tickled to get any at all that I’m not complaining--just pondering.

Am writing Bill Everett today to tell him the glad news and see if we can’t get together. Bill’s situation will have a lot to do with where we will spend our permission. I should like to get down south again if possible.  The government may have something to say about where we are going, however. The good old days of going where you will when you will have passed, I’m afraid. So much for myself.

Mother, I have just received a letter from Dot, dated May 19, in which she told me all about her engagement party. I really can’t tell you how deeply I was affected by what you did for her in my absence. That letter put me to bed and kept me there for two days.  You know, Mother, a year has taken me a long, long, way from home both in thought and person. Now don’t misunderstand me. I think of you all very, very often but I can’t place myself back there among you. I’ve tried it time and again but it simply will not work.  I can’t explain it. Maybe because the nature of our work over here compels us to put most of our energy and thought behind our work and to forget everything else. Home seems so far off and a thing of the past because we have cast it out of our minds in our determination to stick over here until this thing is over.  We know not when that time will be. It may be a year, it may be a hundred. In any circumstance it’s our duty to stick it out. It isn’t a pleasant thought but it’s the truth. Anyway when Dot told me what you had done it broke me all up and a terrible attack of homesickness set in. It’s the first real severe attack I have ever had and hope it’s the last. Went up on the hill last night alone and had it out. Feel much better today. The novelty of this experience is no longer here to buoy us up. That has worn off long ago and it is now a continual night of bad dreams and horrible sights. I’ve had enough.  God, when will this thing be over?

 

Dorothy Houghton Willard (1894-1979)

Dorothy’s party evidently made her very happy and I’m very happy too although it hardly seems possible that I can be a part of it. She mentioned hoping for a letter or card or cablegram from me on May 18. I would have cabled if I could have done so just as I would have from the hospital. One can’t depend on mails. It is really most discouraging. I did write her but I have no assurance but what that letter will go just where many more of mine have gone.
 

I don’t want Dot to take that nurse’s course, training, I don’t want her to come to France. Her mother says Dot isn’t physically strong enough and then she--Dot--has the wrong idea back of it all. She says she wants to do her bit just as if that necessitated coming over here. She is willing to attempt a branch of work which she herself admits she isn’t crazy about just to get over here and to see me. I would love to have her near me but not in present France nor while doing work she didn’t like and isn’t fit for.

 

Somebody from Minneapolis inquired for Hap and me at camp here other day but we were both up on post. He left no name but said he would be around again. Would like to know who it could be. Thought everybody from Minnesota was an officer outside of Hap and me but this fellow, they say, was a private.

 

Here’s hoping that by the time this letter reaches you I will be off on our permission with Fraze and Bill. Bill will like Fraze I’m sure.

 

Thank you, dear people, for all you have done for me.  I feel more helpless than ever.

The same old barrels of love.

Grant.

I could get fat here if I could stay about two weeks.

Grant composed this letter to his mother, Louise, while sitting in a bucolic French setting. He describes in detail the gas attack that he went through a month and a half before.

Convois Autos.,

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

                          

Sunday – June 2, 1918

Dear Mother:-

The letter which I started to you last Wednesday morning at 3 o’clock will never reach you because, on reading it over the next day, I was too ashamed of it to drop it in the box. I wrote it while watching a most beautiful sunrise which seems to have gone to my head. I’m sure my morose stoicism would have startled you quite as much as it did me when I reread what I had set down on paper. It was really the first time I had been alone long enough to work into a philosophic frame of mind aided, no doubt, by the time of day and surroundings for a long time. This all took place in a town which at one time, not more than four years ago, had undoubtedly been a very beautiful place but these same four years in the firing lines has left it a lonely, desolate pile of rocks and dust. The inhabitants of this town are like so many rats or ground moles coming up out of their holes in the ruins to get a bit of fresh air and sunshine now and then but first looking carefully around to assure themselves that a common enemy is not dropping bits of Kultur in their vicinity.

     

The circumstances under which this letter is being composed, however, are quite different, being in full accord with the day. (I am sitting on a blanket with a shade tree as a back and protection against a hot sun. It is in a garden full of fragrant flowers in full bloom, honey-suckle, lilacs, daffodils and many others which I cannot call by name. And a million little bugs all very curious at my present occupation.) All of this is our back yard. These are our new quarters. To be sure, we sleep in a room over the stables but this garden is where we live. Next door is the church and cemetery. At present there are four big bells going full tilt in the belfry and I can look across and see a venerable old priest up there urging the bells on to more racket. It sounds like my Ford making a rough road at 30 per.

We have only changed our headquarters. We are still operating in the sector where we have been for the last month and a half. We have many new posts due to the shifting and interchanging of the American and French forces. This change takes me away from Boots Weidemann but give us a much better place to live. We work out of here on seven day shifts. I could get fat here if I could stay about two weeks.

The last two weeks have indeed been strenuous ones. Due to two or three of the cars being laid up for repairs and three of the drivers being in the hospital with a fever which seems to be going the rounds it has been necessary for some of us to work overtime. This is my first visit to our base for three weeks. Then the ambulance company to which we are attached has had their Fords replaced by GMCs which they consider to be too big for use for front work. I think they will find their mistake before long, however, they are a much more practical car for rough roads and heavy loads than a Ford. I only wish we had them.

About those cablegrams I sent to you. I gave them to a boy who went in to Paris and he was to send them for me--one for you and one for Dot. He returned this week and had forgotten all about them. You will have my letter telling you about my “slight” wound before a cablegram sent now would reach you so I can only hope and pray that my name has not been posted. Lest that letter be lost I will repeat my message in this.

On April 19 I was sent to a hospital with Kendrick, Risley, McCrackin, Swain, Dunlap, Gaynor and McEnnis, all 647 men, for a slight attack of gas (mustard). We were only there for three days and are perfectly all right again now. It was so trivial that I would have said nothing about it had Jack Kendrick not been reported in the States as “seriously wounded” and nearly driven his mother frantic. On hearing of this we all cabled but had to send them into Paris as there is no way of cabling from here. Mine never got off, as I have already explained. I hope you never saw my name and haven’t been worrying. You see the Boche made a raid and fed us gas for five hours. One shell hit our house and exploded in the hay directly over the room in which we were living (the gas was so bad in the cellar that we didn’t dare stay there even with our masks on). At daylight we started working our masks. We found it almost impossible to drive with our masks on and perhaps we took them off too soon. Perhaps we got gassed during the afternoon while running back and forth to our room while we evacuated the dressing station there. The gas from that one shell which pierced our roof hung there for days. My dose probably came from a gas shell which exploded in the roads, over which I was driving, about 100 yards ahead of me. I thought it was a 77 high explosive from the dust it blew up and didn’t stop to put on my mask. The dust proved to be fumes of a new gas which they call “fruit gas” (smelling like decayed fruit). We weren’t wasting any time on the road so we barely got a whiff of the stuff but it made us sick to our stomachs and caused the tears to flow in streams making if difficult to drive. My aide got it much worse than I did apparently for he is still suffering. Nobody seems to know when they were gassed because we all wore masks most of that day. Some got it in the lungs causing them to cough for weeks. (I’m talking about the eight of us now.) Some merely had trouble with their eyes for about a week or ten days. Some of us got body burns from the mustard gas. Jack Kendrick had a combination of all three and suffered considerably. The body burns didn’t develop until about ten days after the exposure. We were all released from the hospital long before we should have been but our work being so closely allied with the hospitals we were able to get treatment while we worked.

Have gotten into communication with Bill Everett and maybe we will be lucky enough to meet some of these days. We would to be up with the big noise soon.

Hap [Ahlers] tells me to tell you to tell his family that he is feeling fine. Even Hap is getting thin. What do you know about that?

     

I’ve simply got to go exploring around here before it gets dark.

     

Sincerely hope you are all well and haven’t been worrying.

Barrels of love,

Grant.

We got a little more Boche gas than was good for us.

In May 1918 Grant entered a very busy period in which he had no time to write in his journal but continued to write letters to friends and family. Censorship of his letters continued to be an annoyance, and he tried throughout the war to find ways to get his letters to their recipients without being "cut to pieces."

In this letter he tries to assuage any panic his family might have felt when they read his name on a casualty list in the newspapers.  

Convois Autos.,
S.S.U. 647,
Par B.C.M.,
France.

Friday – May 24, 1918

Dear Family:-

I want to get this off by the Base Censor so will make it short and snappy and write you later at greater length. Dot tells me that one of my letters was all cut to pieces by the censor, so I’m taking no more chances.

I have already cabled you: “Don’t be alarmed at any casualty list. Am feeling fine.” You see, in a little action not long ago eight of us got a little more Boche gas than was good for us. We went to a hospital for a few days’ rest. The other day on looking through a casualty list I saw Jack Kendrick’s name and “severely wounded” after it. It frightened me somewhat because I know you see the lists and if his name appeared why not the rest of us. There were eight of us from 647 in at the same time: Kendrick, Jack Swain, Jack McEnnis, Speed Gaynor, Risley, Wallace McCrackin, Deveraux Dunlap and myself. It was nothing serious at all and hope you haven’t worried. We are all back on the job again feeling fine. It was so trivial that I had planned on saying nothing about it until I saw Kendrick’s name. Believe me when I say that we are perfectly all right again. We couldn’t help but get well in a hurry as they put us on liquid diets when none of us had eaten for two days previous. We would have starved if we hadn’t gotten well in a hurry.  No more hospitals for me. It’s a good story which I hope I can tell you in another letter.

Have been getting your letters quite regularly of late. Day before yesterday I received Dad’s mailed April 22 and Marion’s of the same date and one from Johnnie. Today I got a bunch of real old mail dated back in the earlier part of March. It must be about cleared up now. I hope you have received the letters which were supposed to have reached you during that month in which you received none.

The Liberty Loan was truly a great success, wasn’t it? If Germany’s success depended along on your ability to raise money she would have been defeated long ago. But we are doing our best over here and if you should ask me for my opinion I would say that things never looked so bright for the Allies as they do right now taking everything into consideration. I wish I could go more into detail but censorship regulations forbid.

Have a call now and will mail this on my way out. Will write at greater length tomorrow if all goes well.
 
Love,

Grant.

I never saw such ghastly sights in my life as I saw that morning.

    The advent of chemical weapons was one of the most vicious aspects of the First World War. While far more soldiers were killed by bullets and artillery, those that perished from poison gas died an agonizing death, sometimes weeks, months or years after the attack. 
    Today, nearly one hundred years later, the chemical weapons from WW I are still with us. More than a billion various kinds of artillery shells were fired in the North and East of France. And one in four did not explode. So the large number of buried shells is a problem that has lasted for a century, and will continue to be for a century more longer. In France unexploded chemical shells are discovered nearly every day, and as they age and corrode, their contents can be released with deadly results.
    Between 1945 and 2000, more than 660,000 bombs, 13.5 million and 24 million mines and various unexploded shells were found, neutralized and destroyed by members of France's intrepid bomb-disposal teams. 617 of them have been killed and thousands more injured in the removal of the shells in that time.
    In this diary entry, Grant Willard describes one of his horrifying encounters with chemical warfare. This one just happened to be a case of friendly fire. 

Sunday, May 19, 1918:

Summer has come in earnest. No more coats (if we can help it), and no more heavy underwear (if we could possibly get a hold of something light). France is perfectly glorious in such weather.

We are still with the 26th doing the same work as before. Nothing much of excitement has happened since the Seicheprey experience. We have been putting in its work since we left the hospital. Kendrick still has a cough and his burns troubled him for a long time. Risley’s eyes have bothered him ever since. The sun hurts them. Gaynor’s throat still bothers him. A week after we were discharged from the hospital I took a bath. About an hour afterward I began breaking out in the most painful way. They said it was gas and gave me a solution of something to wash in. It helped some, but I am still pretty sore in some places.

We were sent back on duty, after returning from Ménil-la-Tour two weeks ago, on May 9. Swain, Dunlap and I went to Commanderie and Hap and McCrackin went to Gironville[-sous-les-Côtés]. The first day was very quiet. We work on 48 hour shifts at these posts. At Commanderie we live in a two room abri doing our own cooking. We always have a good time up at these posts because there are no officers, except the French who are very nice with us, and we are our own bosses. The work is light as a rule; we make but two posts--Ranval and St. Agnant[-sous-les-Côtes] (the latter is supposed to be a night post, being within ½ km of the front line, but we have often made it in daytime). 

On the 2nd night we were told to be ready for an attack in the St. Agnant sector. Maybe the Boche heard about it too, maybe it was accidental. The attack was set for 4 A.M. the following morning. The Boche sent over much gas at 2 A.M. with terrific results on the Americans. We were all called out at 3 A.M. and we kept very busy carrying gas patients all through the attack. The French made the attack, but the American boys suffered. 

Canadian soldier with gas burns.

I never saw such ghastly sights in my life as I saw that morning. Boys apparently alright to start back to the hospital with a little gas would die while you were trying to load them into your car. I watched three boys pass off thusly and felt so faint and sick I could see no more and retired to an abri while they loaded my car. I talked with one boy who was sitting up on his stretcher waiting to be loaded into my car. His name was “Schmittie” and a great favorite among his friends. He said they were taken by surprise and that a gas shell had exploded at the door of their dug-out and hadn’t wakened them. 19 in that one dug-out were gassed. He asked which car he was going down in and was advised to lie down and be quiet. Ten minutes later he was dead. Apparently no suffering except a cough. That was enough for me. We worked all through the day and late into the night carrying gas patients. The attack was a success bringing in 100 prisoners and destroying many Boche front line fortifications. My aide was in bed for four days with a gas cough and stomach trouble. Must have gotten it off of the clothes of patients.

One other gas attack, one turn at Gironville were all that happened after that. We had a pretty good rest in all. We swim in the Meuse now, walk into Commercy and around the surrounding country. The Lieutenant is feeling pretty good these days. He expects another ten days will find us in Nancy getting our cars painted the French grey ready to join a French division. Here’s hoping!

Every day is Mothers’ Day with me.

John Joseph "Black Jack" Pershing (September 13, 1860 – July 15, 1948) was the United States Army general who led the American Expeditionary Forces in World War I. Owing to a request from General Pershing, Grant wrote his mother a very interesting and descriptive letter just a few days after he'd last written her.

Sunday – May 12, 1918
Dear Mother:-

John J. Pershing (1860-1948)

General Pershing has sent out a request that every soldier in France with the American Army write home to his or her mother on this day-–Mothers’ Day. Not a bad idea and although I just mailed you a long letter I will get this one started today. Haven’t a carnation to wear and I guess there is no chance of commandeering one (that’s something I have never seen in France--a carnation) but I don’t need one anymore today than any day. Every day is Mothers’ Day with me.

One year ago today Dot and I were pacing the Board Walk at Atlantic City, N.J. About this time (10 A.M.) I had bought her a bouquet of lily-of-the-valley and I myself was wearing a white carnation. Those were surely happy days. After our promenade we sat down to a table with white table cloth and napkins and ate a delicious chicken dinner. Will those good times ever return? Yes, surely they will.  Even better days are in store for us all after this long period of privations has terminated. 

It’s a typical American May day direct from Minnesota today. The sky is cloudy and threatening. The river is swelled with recent rains. The hills are a brilliant green with very heavy foliage. This is the most beautiful post of any on the two fronts we are covering.  These are seven of us up here at present-–three of our cars and one French ambulance which takes care of the French wounded in this sector. We are now driving with our own aides so we are a very happy party indeed.

We are living in a two-room, corrugated steel abri well protected with logs and stones. The back room is our sleeping room where the seven of us sleep on stretchers arranged on racks of two layers. (I have an upper.) The front room is our sitting room, dining room, kitchen and library. It is now being used for all purposes at once. Hap and I are writing on the tables.  Titchener (son of the famous psychologist) is reading; Woodie is munching crackers; the Frenchman (a very nice young fellow who has been several times wounded so that it is necessary for him to be in some non-combatant branch of the service) is preparing our noon meal on a stove which some ingenious hand has made from a gasoline “bidon” [gas can]. Judging from the smell I should say that he is preparing a tasty “slum-guillion” with onions in it.  The other two boys are off on a call.  McCrackin, “the Montana banker” (Hamilton, Montana) is driving the car with Bert (ex-instructor of French in eastern public schools) as his aide.

As I sit here writing I can look out over a beautiful valley in the middle of which sits a chateau enclosed with an eight foot stone wall now pierced with many shell holes. On the hillside across the valley is a quarry where men in uniform work all day long extracting the soft stone for road building. Today, being Sunday, everything is quiet except the wind which toils on continuously, never resting.  One would little suspect that these roads and valleys are a veritable nest of batteries but so it proved when, last week, there was “something doing” up here. The French are very clever at hiding their positions. I was driving along a piece of road the other day over which I had driven many times before, never suspecting that there was such a thing as a gun in the vicinity. Bang! Bang! Bang! Went a battery of “heavies” right beside me. My “Henry” didn’t like it very well and tried to shin a tree. After enticing it back into the road I tried to locate the battery but I couldn’t see a sign of it. It was two days later, after the positions had been changed, that I discovered they had been within 20 yards of the road. This just goes to show how cleverly the Frenchmen had done their work. I wish they would blow a whistle or something to warn the ignorant ambulance driver. They’d like to scare the liver out of a man.

Last week we had considerable work to do in this sector and for 48 hours none of us had a chance to sleep but it has again quieted down.  We have been up here today since 8 o’clock this morning and have had but one call.

Since last writing you I have received several letters and packages. Your letter of April 3 from Long Beach, Tib’s of the same date, Dad’s mailed Apr. 8 enclosing Liberty Loan “dope,” a card from the Sperrys, a couple from Dot.  Also a sweater, socks, air-pillow, photographs, a book and a comfort kit from Dot. Two Literary Digests also arrived. All were very welcome. The packages Dot sent over by Agnes Nicholson and were mailed to me from Paris.

Louise R. Willard (1867-1940)

You speak of putting my order for things from home in early because of each request having to be O.K.’d by our commanding officer. That order has since been rescinded. But there isn’t a thing I can think of that I want. At present I am carrying my big Harvard laundry sack chuck full of unworn, hand-made clothing from the States. It’s all gratefully received but I can’t possibly wear everything at once and to carry it is against regulations but always possible. I have more socks than I could wear in a week with a change after each meal, enough sweaters to start a good sized clothing store and enough head-gear for every changing wind. Just listen while I tell you of the various types of hoods I have or have had: in the first place we were issued-–1 campaign hat, 1 rain hat, 1 driver’s lid, 1 trench helmet (the campaign hat has since been recalled). In addition I have two fatigue caps and an old Red Cross cap which I wear whenever possible for comfort’s sake. I have received through the mail 3 woolen helmets (all too late for last winter), 1 knit trench-helmet and 1 toque.  Don’t let anybody tell you about how the boys “over there” are suffering from lack of knit goods. I haven’t been able to give any of my things to any of the boys because they are all amply supplied. The sweaters are the most practical of the things which I have received. I have already worn through three of them and am on my fourth.  There are undoubtedly some, however, who are less fortunate than myself who welcome everything in this line which they receive through organizations like the Red Cross to which you are all contributing. Don’t let my own equipment discourage you in your good work.

The only thing I can think of now that I want next to a declaration of peace is some paper for a No. 509 loose-leaf I-P notebook. I enclose a sample of the kind I would like. I asked for this once before but I guess you never got the letter.

With much love to all,

Grant.

By May 1918, Grant Willard had been away from home for a year. The only "family" he had near him were the members of SSU 647, and the makeup of that unit was markedly different than that of Norton-Harjes 61 the year before. 647 was an U.S. Army unit containing men from different walks of life. Some were, of course, the well-educated sons of privilege--the "gentlemen volunteers"--with whom he'd volunteered in the Norton-Harjes unit. But in this new unit Grant was rubbing shoulders with men from the East, Midwest and South whose backgrounds and experiences were far different from his own.

On this day in 1918, Grant wrote his mother, Louise, a candid letter describing his comrades. Part of this letter was censored or Grant used a code so as not to divulge the true names of the French villages were he was serving.

Convois Autos.,

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

Monday – May 6, 1918

Dear Mother:-

You know, we have a very cosmopolitan outfit in #647. It wasn’t so noticeable until we fell in with the various American units which were all organized from some definite state or group of states. The question is frequently asked, “What part of the States do you fellows come from?”

Where upon we have to recite the history of #647:

SSU 647's insignia

Speed Gaynor and Jack McEnnu (inseparable) hail from New York--sons of finance are they–-never have done a stroke of work in their lives until they hit France. Speed is a musician and particularly clever on the ukulele which instrument is with him continually. It’s a great help to us all and when McGuire is present with his mandolin they make music which attracts people everywhere within earshot.

Leo McGuire claims Oklahoma as his home. He is part Indian which shows in his skin. He is a great favorite among the fellows though he is very quiet except on certain occasions when he is the nucleus of the whole party. Mac has been very quiet and sober of late and isn’t quite himself. You see, the Boche shot his car out from under him the other day with a 77 and Mac had to carry his orderly to a place of safety where they were later picked up by another of our cars. The orderly is still in the hospital but Mac refused to go even to rest up awhile. He was all for going back and salvaging his car until the Lieutenant flatly refused to allow a man to go close to it. Neither man was badly hurt – just nerves, you know. I passed the car the other night about dusk and though you can be I wasn’t wasting any time on the road I had a good look at the ruins. I pronounce it a miracle that either boy came out alive. Now don’t let this worry you a bit because we are no longer allowed to make this post in the day time and it is perfectly safe after dark.

Snader with a case of roast beef

Then there is Horn Snader, the section humorist. He’s a wonder. Been over here about two years now in service. He is about 35 years of age, no parents, no home, no business but more friends who would do anything under the sun for him than anybody I ever met. Before he came to France which I think is the only country he hadn’t previously traveled, he had spent his time in a little bit of everything from the race track to tutoring rich young men’s sons, who, due to some defect, are unable to take care of themselves. He and some wealthy young man bought up a hotel in Bermuda some years back and you laugh your slats loose listening to Horn tell of their experiences. It’s hard to describe Horn because he takes and impersonates so many different parts that it’s hard to tell when you're with Horn Snader.

From the southern states we have “Woodie” Woodell, Jack Swain, Deveraux Dunlap and Tod Gillette--four mighty well-liked boys. Woodie and Tod come from Florida while Jack and Dev are only too proud to boast of Dallas, Texas. These four all talk with the southern dialect and stick together like brothers. Anyone of them will give you half and more if you would take it, of anything they own. Woodie was manager of a steam laundry before coming to “do battle,” as he says. While at training camp he became bored with doing just what the others did and no more so he went into the kitchen and is now a 1st class cook. He’s ashamed of his position and is so afraid that someone back in the States will get a hold of it that he gets terribly blue whenever he thinks of it. He can’t get rid of his cook’s job because he’s too good at it. Tod was manager of an artificial Florida ice plant when he too a sudden dislike to the Boche and left within a week’s notice. Dev. and Jack are from Sewanee College of the South and were in an officers’ training camp when they decided that it was too slow getting to France that way so they resigned and volunteered with the Norton-Harjes unit.

Jack Kendrick our 2nd Sergeant is a Connecticut boy. His family was at one time very wealthy but suddenly went to pieces financially causing his father’s death and leaving Jack a mother and sister to take care of. He did it so admirably through the automobile business which he built up that he was able to come to France 3 years ago with the Norton-Harjes unit and has been over here ever since. He is a nervous, overgrown kid who talks and stutters so fast you can hardly understand him. He’s afraid of nothing except that someone in the section is going to have a little excitement which he can’t share. When we are doing front work he is never at the base post where he belongs but can always be found at the most advanced position seeing that everything runs smoothly. The Frenchmen think the world of Jack and as to the feeling of the section is would be putting it mildly to say that there is no officer in our section, commissioned or non-commissioned, from whom, we had rather take orders than Jack.

Then there is Pinky Harris, New York, about 30 years of age who has seen a great deal of life and can speak Kipling by the yard. We also have six men from Clark’s College in Worchester--everyone a good scout. And one could go on describing every man in the section ending up with the same phrase--“he is a good scout.” There is not a man in the outfit whom you would be ashamed of in your own home. We’ve had nothing but perfect accord since we have been together.

We are pretty well split up as we are here for the purpose of helping out other Ambulance companies. Ten of our cars are working in one sector with one company and five in another with another. Five cars are kept idle. Our system of shift (rather intricate) is this: our base past is at V[ignot] where five cars are kept idle. At M[andres-aux-Quatre-Tours], some distance off, we have a base for ten cars which work together. From this base five cars go to A[nsauville] for 24 hours. From  A[nsauville] two cars are sent further up to B[eaumont]. When one of these cars gets a call it stops at  A[nsauville] on the way back to the hospital and sends another car up to take his place at  B[eaumont] and when he returns from the hospital he parks at  A[nsauville] . In this way everybody is subject to the same calls and everybody has an equal chance. Morning and night the 24 hour shifts are made – 2 and 3 cars respectively. I am at base  M[andres-aux-Quatre-Tours] now and go on every night for my 24 hours. Hap is up here with me but goes on in the evening and I don’t see much of him. Sometimes I find myself making my bed beside him but when I wake up it is either because I have a call or because it’s morning and Hap has gone out on call. Tomorrow our 7 days is up and return to  V[ignot]. The other sector is worked with  V[ignot] as the base and five cars stay on posts 48 hours after which time they return to  V[ignot] and the five idle cars go on. Though this system may seem intricate on paper it is really very simple and satisfactory. We are on the move practically all the time. The other Ambulance Cos. have gradually withdrawn to rear work in order to give them a chance to overhaul their much overworked cars.

Edmund Anderson and the unit insignia.

We have had a comparatively easy time of it up here on this sector. Two weeks ago there was considerable excitement here and every car was busy for two days but everything is serene again.

In many ways I am mighty glad to have had this chance of working with the boys from across the sea though we are only loaned to them. When this division is withdrawn we don’t know what will become of us. Perhaps we will go with them. They are a fine bunch of boys and great fighters. Most of them come from the eastern states. Haven’t met a soul among them I know but there must be some. Weiderman’s company is not attached to this division though they happen to be here at present.

Will finish this after supper before I go on duty and mail it here. Our Lieut. won’t censor this letter. There is another way.

7 P.M. Sargent Kendrick just came in to say that we would be relieved at 8 A.M. tomorrow so we will stay in here tonight which gives me more time in which to finish this letter.

We ate what we called “slum gullion” for dinner tonight. It’s nothing more nor less than a stew consisting of meat, potatoes, tomatoes and whatever else they may have lying around the kitchen – on toast. We have coffee three times a day with milk when there is any. Tonight we have dates for dessert. This ambulance company feeds very well.

Got a letter from Bill Everett the other day. I hope we can meet though I don’t see how except by chance. He may be right near me and I now know anything about it except by a chance meeting. Isn’t that a sad state of affairs?

Mother, the prospect of us all being reunited soon doesn’t look very promising, does it? A year ago at this time I had left you and was on my way to say good-bye to a very dear little girl in Pennsylvania. Though it seems far more than a year since that time things have cleared up a lot for me. She is a dear, isn’t she, Mother? You know it now perhaps as well as I do. Perhaps better than I do with your superior experience. But I feel far better now than I did then. I am surer of my ground. I’m surer of her. I don’t think any longer – I know. But I have been awfully foolish in a great many ways. I’m afraid I have hurt Mrs. Houghton pretty deeply and now, as I look back on it, I can see how and why. My problem now is to make good to her. I no longer want Dot over here with me but want her right in Ambler with her mother and moreover I want her to look at this whole thing more in the way Marion is looking at it. How can I make her happy to stay and do as her mother wants her to do? That’s my problem now.

Well, I must quit now and read the evening papers--Daily Mail, New York Herald, and Tribune.

Much love to all,

Grant.