Grant becomes the unit's grease monkey for a spell.

Friday, August 30, 1918:

Was initiated this morning into the esteemed order of the mechanics for S.S.U. 647. Rority, a boy from Allentown, who joined us last February, has been acting as tire, gasoline, oil and general shop “puss boy” for us since he joined us and for some time has been particularly anxious to get on a car. Seven months on a job of that kind, especially when a man doesn’t like his work and isn’t adapted to it, is too much and is apt to gnaw on a man’s sweet disposition. I, on the other hand, have been driving a car over here for 15 months almost constantly with a shift every 48 hours. Mine was the best job of the two, but even it gets boresome. Sometime ago I put the proposition up to McCrackin and yesterday he told me I could change places with Rority for awhile until I got sick of the job. I suppose I’ll soon tire of my new job and want my car back again. But in the meantime, I can at least unpack my bags and have a place -- a regular place -- to hang my clothes and a regular bed in which to sleep. If the report, that we are soon to see a push on this front, is true I rather imagine I will get my car back again. Everybody will have a chance then. Action on this front means trouble, for this place could be a hell-hole and I guess the Boche are capable of making it one.

Jack Swain has been awarded the D.S.C. making three now in our section to receive this citation out of the five awarded to the whole American Ambulance service in France. Tod Gillett of course got the cross for what he was attempting to do when he was killed; Jack got his for trying to rescue Tod under heavy barrage before he was further mutilated; Leo McGuire got his for his brilliant work in the Seicheprey affair when his car was shot out from in under him and he reported in to headquarters later asking for another car with which to return to this post.

News from the west is most encouraging. Noyon, Ham, Bapaume are the principal cities now in our hands since day before yesterday. Péronne will probably be captured today.

Had a delightful swim in the Moselle this P.M. Rather cold, but refreshing. Dunlap, Swain, Kirkpatrick, Johnnie Taylor, Rority, Anderson and myself. Swell diving-board and swing.

No mail! None for two weeks.

The Boche are a bunch of low-bred dogs! Wait till we get through with them.

Millery is a small town on an oxbow in the Moselle River in northeastern France. It really is a lovely spot. Two brooks run down separate valleys through the town, forming a V, before they empty into the Moselle. The streets rise up through these valleys on high bluffs. The architecture is typical for the region--houses with wooden beams, stone/stucco walls and tile roofs. Due to its topography on the east bank of the Moselle, Millery has been spared being speared by freeway or railroad, leaving its quaintness intact. The times I've been fortunate enough to visit Millery, I got the feeling that it hasn't changed that much from those weeks in the late summer of 1918 when my grandfather and his comrades were billeted there. Time seems to have stood still.

Wednesday, August 28, 1918:

We have had three different homes in this little place of Millery. We are now in a large, prosperous farm house on the edge of town. These towns up here have not been evacuated. Even Pont-à-Mousson was full of civilians until about a month ago. Gardens are full and prosperous looking. The family who lives on and runs this farm were born here. The old lady’s parents and grandparents have lived right here for 200 years. This particular old lady went through the battle of 1870 right here. She told us that it was different in those days from what it is now. She has had Boche officers in this very house. All that was necessary then was to give them a bottle of wine and the place was safe. The Boche have not advanced further than Pont-à-Mousson in the present war.

Have been out on post twice since we have been in this sector. Once to a place called Maidières or part of Pont-à-Mousson and once to Woods #3. I expect to go out again tonight. All of our posts are very far forward, one being within 500 yards of the lines and everybody living above ground. Four more posts are within a mile of the lines and in very delicate places should anything break. The lines of resistance and most of the artillery are behind us on these posts. We are up with the machine guns and snipers. Went with Capt. Whitney up to an observation post when I was on duty at Woods #3. We could look right down into Bochland, but only with the aid of glasses could we see beings. We saw a couple of Boche limbers on the road and some soldiers fishing in pond some way back. An observation balloon had been pulled down and was lying on the ground not very far back. After we had found it with the glasses we could see it with the naked eye. I tried to tell the captain that he should report it to the artillery post, but he seemed to think they must know about it and didn’t want to butt-in.

Beautiful weather, and wonderful nights for avions. Night before last a whole squadron of Boche came over apparently on their way to Nancy. There were clouds coming from that direction and they looked like rain clouds. Later it did rain. Anyway the planes turned without reaching Nancy and flew back over us again. They dropped a couple of flares and for about half an hour kept this place hopping up and down with bomb after bomb. They didn’t bother this end of town, but played havoc with the other end where most of the civilians live. In one household they killed the wife and two daughters of an old man who comes around to our camp after scraps and swill. He is almost crazy. One other old lady was killed and several others wounded including two small children and only two soldiers (both Americans, wounded slightly). That bunch of low-bred dogs! Wait till we get through with them.

Patients were lying outside the Hospital walls in the damp night air.

In mid-August 1918, SSU 647 was sent to rest up along the banks of the Moselle River. In a few weeks one of the major American offensives would begin around St. Mihiel. 

In this paradoxical journal entry, Grant gives us a fun account of his permission on the Mediterranean coast and his jarring return to the Western Front.

Tuesday, August 21, 1918:

Have grown very lax with my diary. Must take a brace and get back to writing every day.

Stuart Fraser

On July 24 Stuart Fraser and I left camp for a 7 day permission in Cette [Sète], department of Hérault, on the Mediterranean Sea near Spain. It was on a Wednesday. We went to Toul by camionette Wed. A.M., caught a 12:42 train for Nancy and spent our first night there in the Hotel Angleterre. We experienced a small air raid that night, but no damage was done in the city itself. Frase and I watched it from our window. Thursday A.M., July 25, at 7:15 we embarked for Dijon arriving there about 2 P.M. We caught the 2:10 P.M. from Dijon for Tarascon. We reached Tarascon Friday morning at 3:30 and caught a 4:00 local for Cette. We reached Cette about 8:00 A.M. Friday, July 26.

The natives were startled to see 2 Americans arrive in their midst and went out of their way to be nice to us. We put up at the Hotel Terminus near the station. A very interesting place was the Terminus. An old codger ran the place and gave us a room without so much as asking our names. We were known as Américains de trente-six (36 being the number of our room). A queer room on the 4th étage was our home while in Cette. The 4th floor was the dance hall, a large tiled room overlooking a park. Rooms led off of this floor and ours was right on the corner. The only window overlooking the court was a small barred window too high to look out of. The other window overlooked what might have been an air shaft or a dungeon. The floor was red tile spotted with brilliantly colored Spanish rugs. Our only light at night was a candle and we had no running water. We paid 8 francs a day for this room. Our meals at the Terminus were the redeeming feature. The meats were particularly good and the meat sauces couldn’t be beaten. We paid 10 francs a day a piece for meals exclusive of breakfasts which we never ate.

Our program was eating, swimming, drinking and sleeping. Wow, how we did sleep! Always early to bed and never up before 10 in the morning. We bathed twice a day on la plage. The water felt a bit cold, but very refreshing. The beach was the most popular place in town. Cafes and a very find theater line the beach and make it very attractive after the heat of day. Don’t go to Cette in August. It’s too damn hot. Don’t go to Cette in the winter! It’s too damn dusty and dirty. Go sometime between June and August or September and January. We picked up an acquaintance with two English boys who came into Cette on a “tramp” for a few days. We went down to look over their boat and they showed us around. One was chief gunner and the other was the wireless officer. We took a fancy to them and had them up for several meals. Afterward we went swimming. A great pair! They knew more late American songs than we did and sang them very well. All this time we were getting better acquainted with the old man in the Cafe next door. Guess he took pity on us because we spoke such miserable French. Anyway he used to treat us often out of his private wine cellar and we got sugar while the rest of them got saccharine. The old man’s nephew came after the two English lads had left and Frase and I took him on for a whirl. He was nothing, but a kid of 20 years who had been wounded and wore the Croix de Guerre. Just out of the hospital, we played billiards with him, took him swimming with us, fed him a couple of good meals, went to grand and comic opera with him.

After that the Cafe was ours. The old man couldn’t do enough for us. He was in Africa with the French army for 27 years and had many interesting stories to tell. After Charlie, the Frenchman, left Cette, we played around with a couple of French dames -- Elaine and Emma. They liked to go swimming with us and usually met us at the beach every morning. We had much fun with them. Then came Johnnie and Eric and the rest of our permission in Cette was spent with them. In all it was a beautiful permission.

We regretfully left on Friday, Aug. 2, for camp. We had a beautiful course mapped out for our return journey, but they fell through miserably. At Avignon we were unable to take the Marseilles train as we planned because it was for officers only so we stayed there until 1:52 Sat. A.M. catching a local for Dijon. The train was crowded and what sleep we got was in the aisle of the car prone on the floor. We reached Dijon at noon on Saturday and took a 3:30 local for Langes reaching there about 9:30 that evening. The first train out for Toul left at 4:30 Sunday A.M. We had only eaten one meal during the day and were almost starved. The best we could do by way of food was cheese, kippered canned herring and beer at the French canteen. We slept in casualty barracks on boards with no blankets until we were awakened in time to catch our train. We reached Toul about 10:30. It looked like home to us. In Toul we washed, shaved our mustaches to please the Lieutenant and ate a gorgeous dinner. We caught a 6:00 train Sunday, Aug. 4, for camp and arrived there about 7 P.M. in time for something to eat. We hated coming back, but the place surely did look good to us.

We were put right to work and have worked ever since.

On the night of Aug. 7 the 89th Division came in to replace the 82nd. We were scheduled to leave on Aug. 9 with the 82nd after the two Colonels had had something of a scrap over us. On the evening of the 7th Fritz gassed the Jury Woods and the Flirey sector very heavily. Early on the morning of the 8th every car was called into action and up to 4 P.M. that day we evacuated from the front 782 gas patients from the 89th. Think of that. Their first night at the front to have almost a regiment wiped out in casualties. To whom belongs the blame no one seems to know. It will be remembered that the 89th was General Woods’ Division in the States and came over with a wonderful record. On the evening of the 8th their ambulance train came so our Lieutenant called us all off duty for a good night’s rest before pulling out the next day. About 10 P.M. that night the 89th begged us to help evacuate to Toul. They had more patients than they could handle and they were lying outside the Hospital walls in the damp night air. The Lieut. was pretty sore about it all so he called for volunteers. The section to a man volunteered and we worked all night in inky blackness. We carried over a 1000 patients. By 11 A.M. Aug. 9, we had camp packed up ready to move. We left about 11:30 for Nancy. It was a queer convoy. Only one car dropped out, but everybody was asleep. Every time we stopped we took a nap. At Nancy we were barracked across from the Auto Park and stayed there until Aug. 16. The Lieut. gave us every possible bit of freedom. We had passes into Nancy at any time up to 10:30 at night. We did very little work and much play. Frase and I slept up on pay because the payroll was signed in our absence, but there was enough money in the section to keep us going. The air raids in Nancy were a bit bothersome, but we soon got used to them.

On Aug. 16 we moved up here to Millery, a small town about midway between Nancy and Pont-à-Mousson--a very beautiful and interesting place. It is almost on the lines but seldom touched by shell fire. It’s a very quiet sector and has been since the beginning of things. There are many American Divisions in here. Those that I know are--1st, 2nd, 26th, 30th, 42nd, 77th, 82nd and the 89th is in the adjoining sector. What are they all doing up here? The 1st and 2nd, of course, are very much shot up having just come down from their remarkable record at Soissons and Château-Thierry. The 26th also deserved a rest having been in the lines since March sometime. The 42nd has been in as long. Really, these 4 divisions have suffered severely. Captain Whitney at Woods #3 told me that officially the Americans have had 57,000 casualties since they have been in action. The majority of these, of course, come from the 1st and 2nd Division (the 5th and 6th) have received most of the credit particularly in the Cantigny success. But after talking with a few of the 9th and 23rd also of the 2nd Division it is readily seen that they have been through just as much. They are inclined to resent the publicity and praise awarded the Marines. I suppose this is only natural. On the night of Aug. 17 Hap and I stood beside the road watching the Marines coming out (the 82nd relieved them hp here in Pont-à-Mousson. They were only in here about 2 weeks). It was so dark we couldn’t see faces. I’ll bet 50 Minneapolis and U of M men we know well passed us within that half-hour. Big fellows they were and all in good spirits. I wish we could have seen them in day light.

Every man in the outfit would take a car and drive into Berlin this afternoon...

When Grant Willard arrived in France in May 1917, it was as an American civilian; he was a volunteer with the American Volunteer Motor Ambulance Corps, better known as the Norton-Harjes Corps. He wore a uniform but it was devoid of rank--he was just Volunteer Willard.

Three months later when all the volunteer ambulance outfits were melded into the U.S. Army, Grant had to decide whether to quit driving and return to the U.S., or stay in France and sign up for up for some service in the American Army, or continue as an ambulance driver for the same. With his decision to join the army came the lowly rank of "private." The presence of a military hierarchy posed a dilemma for him and his fellow former volunteers. Suddenly some advanced up the hierarchy and outranked their comrades. Grant analyses this dilemma in this letter he wrote to his mother ninety-four years ago today.

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

Saturday – Aug. 17, 1918

Dear Mother:-

As I wrote Dad, we were in an auto park repairing our cars. Yesterday we moved again but not very far. Things are still in a bit of a mess. I don’t think we will stay in this particular location very long. Our barracks here are poor and I’m sure the Lieutenant is far from satisfied.

The text of this letter is going to be founded on a  statement made by Dot in her last letter to me: “I’m rejoicing with you over the change in Lieutenants, and expect great things to happen, as a result. I knew before something was wrong.” I’m wondering if you people are thinking the same thing. It is natural to suppose that after so many boys and men whom you know and with whom we kids used to pal have come to France as officers with nowhere near the training and experience that we have had that you should be expecting your son to be something more than a mere 1st class private with a year and a half’s experience at the front. Of course it seems funny to you and there are several things that we over here have never been able to explain. Sometimes, when I look at the young officers of other organizations, I can hardly help boiling over with wrath. But I’m going astray from my topic. I think I can safely say that unless the war should continue 20 years longer you may be prepared to receive your boy, a 1st class private, when he returns to American unless, of course, he should transfer into some other branch of the work as he wanted to do a long time ago. Things have turned out exactly as I thought they would when I tried to transfer into aviation or artillery last November. I did this more because I knew you would all be expecting to see me return with a bar at least and not because I myself wanted one particularly. Frankly, I’m more contented right now than I would possibly be anywhere else in the army. I only grow a bit nervous when I think of returning home and meeting all those young officers. It’s a hard situation to explain, Mother, but it’s an actual one. Just to show you that I haven’t gone completely “to the dogs” let me tell you again of a few of the the boys in our outfit whose stories I chance to know. 

Horn Snader getting provisions.

Snader, a man 35 years old; a man of real mentality, character and education; a natural leader of men having led men in various fields all his life. He knows France, French and has been doing front work in France for three years. He’s a 1st class private in our section.

Leo McGuire, Oklahoma-–Croix-de-Guerre and D.S.C.--has been over here for 3 years doing volunteer ambulance work with Norton-Harjes; very popular, hard working--splendid material for an officer and he would need very little training. 1st Cl. Pvt. 

Oh well, what’s the use of going through the list? I could name at least 20 men of this command who come from the finest families and have had very liberal educations and who would have made good officers, excellent officers, had they been appointed at the proper time. Now I doubt very much if a single man among these 20 would take a commission from our central bureau if it was served to him on a gold platter unless every man of that 20 were offered the same thing. We’re too close. We’re like a big family or club. We have our insignia and seal, a copy of which I will send you later. There is no end of pride in our organization. Our work is a pleasure as much as our base-ball, soccer, orchestra and jazz-band. Every man in the outfit would take a car and drive into Berlin this afternoon if the Lieutenant so much as intimated that he would like it it we would. That’s the kind of an organization we have and we’re too proud of it to smash it up.

Condemn me if you like but while Hap, Fraser, and I were talking this very thing over the other night we came to the unanimous decision that, unless every man in our outfit who deserved it, was offered a chance at a commission that not one of us was in favor of accepting a chance if offered us. We have seen enough army life to know when to leave well-enough alone. If a man is partially contented he ought to be satisfied in this man’s army or in any man’s army – they’re all the same.

Hap and I thought we had better nip this thing in the bud before it spread too far with you people. I wonder if you will ever be able to understand. Frankly I should be very much surprised if any of us, excepting Jack Kendrick, should we stay on in the ambulance service to the end of the war, ever wear a shoulder strap. Jack was a sergeant and was sent into school. He is still a sgt. but I don’t think he will be very long.

Talk this over with Dad and let me hear what you think of it. Someday I can shed a lot more light on this puzzling problem than I can from this side of the sea.

Richard Norton (1872-1918)

You probably read of Mr. Richard Norton’s death a few weeks ago. Meningitis, and it took him after only a day’s illness. Very, very sad. He would far rather had died from wounds while helping the allied cause than in such a manner.

Am enclosing a few pictures. It is my desire to send as many pictures to you to keep for me as the censor will permit. They are hard to carry around and keep in good condition.

Much love,
Grant.

We have feared our own fire much more than that of Fritz.

On August 9, 1918, SSU 647 moved from the front at Toul to the great city of Nancy, the historic center of Lorraine. Two days later, Grant wrote his father in Mankato and described some of the dangers of his work. Throughout the war, he was more candid with his father than his mother.

The ambulance work was dangerous. Not only due to enemy (and friendly) fire, but also because they had to drive at night with no headlights over country roads at a high rate of speed. Accidents happened.


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

Sunday – August 11, 1918

Dear Daddie:-

In your good letter dated July 7 you asked for more experiences. Here’s a recent one in which you noble son took no part whatever:  We were working with a division of rookies fresh from the States--in the trenches for the first time. ‘Twas a pitch black night on a road over which it was reported the many Boche spies were passing every night (this is the way the new boys interpreted the order to stop and examine every person who passed a certain point). The driver of Ambulance #16 was answering a night call along this road when suddenly from behind a clump of bushes directly beside the road there came a flash – crack! Snap! The bullet tore through the body of the car directly over the driver’s head.  He stopped, got out and in his rich Irish brogue shouted, “Hey!  What the hell you doin’ behind that bush?” A rookie guard stepped warily forward with fixed bayonet.  “I challenged you three times; why didn’t you stop?” was his quavering question. “Oh, so you’re a guard are you? Thought you was a bloody Boche. A fine man you are with a gun. Couldn’t even hit your man at 20 feet. I’m going to report you in at headquarters and have you sent into the front lines. It’ll improve your shooting.” With that he climbed back into his car and disappeared in the darkness. He wasn’t even stopped at this point on this return trip. He had “buffaloed” the rookie. But he was shot at and very nearly hit by an unseen and unheard man. Instead of reporting it as he should have done he came back laughing about what “poor shots these rookies are anyway.”

Here’s my point, Dad: it’s an actual fact that while working with these green divisions, as we have been during the last four months, we have feared our own fire much more than that of Fritz. If Fritz gets you in an ambulance it’s more luck (for him) than good shooting whereas if a guard misses you it’s darn poor shooting. At night it is doubly dangerous because neither the guard nor you can see anything distinctly enough to be sure of one another. In a Ford Ambulance it is difficult enough to hear your own thoughts to say nothing of hearing a guard challenging you from behind a tree or stone wall. It is very exasperating to be stopped by a green guard who doesn’t know his business and have to talk the whole thing over with him when you are answering an emergency call somewhere. Some have orders to stop everything and hold them until the necessary pass-word is given. (We very seldom use pass-words in an ambulance section.) When we get caught this way we have to go with the guard or corporal of the guard to his commanding officer and tell our story all over again. If the commanding officer is green, as is often the case, he is quite apt to be afraid to take the responsibility of letting us pass so we have to find his commanding officer, etc. All this time the emergency patients are waiting.

Night driving over busy roads in an ambulance is treacherous enough without the guards and M.P.s making it more so. One dark night an M.P. dashed into our dressing station up front, white in the face and trembling like a leaf. “They shot me! They shot me! They shot me!” he kept screaming. The doctor dressed his hand which a bullet had grazed and finally got his story. Two batteries of light field-pieces were moving in. They had been stopped by this M.P. and closely questioned. ‘Twas on a bad corner and the artillery boys resented the wait. They started on a run again and as the last caisson was passing a rider had taken a chance shot at the M.P.  This is how we all love them. They’re a bloody nuisance but, I guess, an indispensable one.

Mother spoke of the terrors of night driving in her last letter. It really isn’t so bad after one becomes accustomed to it. It is nowhere near as bad as if you were to take the car out on some dark night and try driving around Horse-shoe Bend without lights. In the first place everything is dark. There are no passing lights to blind us. Then at night over here everything hugs the right side of the road so that in passing a train of stuff going up our greatest danger is in meeting something coming down on a road too narrow for three vehicles abreast. Of course the majority of night accidents on the road happen while passing traffic. This is where we lose out. Our cars are too light to stand the messaging of a 5-ton truck or gun-carriage.

After we have worked awhile with a division we teach them a code of signals to be used on the road at night. Each driver carries a whistle and it doesn’t take long to teach them how to use them. It is also possible to work up a code of signals with the M.P.s after they have had a bit of experience.

But with all these modern conveniences night driving on the darkest nights is very nerve-wearing on a driver. The man who doesn’t know the road over which he is driving is out of luck. We had a sad instance of this not long ago when one of the new boys, sent to us to increase our number to full strength, ran his car into a tree while passing a truck on a dark road and killed a top-sergeant who was riding on the front seat with him. He didn’t know the road well enough to know that this was a particularly dangerous spot.

Last Friday we moved from where we were--temporarily attached to the last division we worked with on the old front. We are now in a big auto park laid up for repairs for a week or so. It is uncertain where we will go from here but it isn’t likely that we will return to the same front and there being very little choice of location and big demand for men further west leads us to believe that another week will find us up where the “big stuff” is going on. We are all hoping we will to up there because it would be hard to go back to the States and admit that 647 played no part in the Great American action up there. I know you will be glad too to know that we are up where the Boche are getting hell and where the Americans are putting in their first big licks.

Our Lieutenant is a whirlwind. He got a piano for us which we carry everywhere. Now he wants to buy musical instruments of all kinds for a jazz band. We have a great deal of sport together and enjoy our vacations tremendously.

W. D. Willard (1867-1952)

Dad, you spoke of sending me money if I wanted any. Do you remember that last 100 or 150 francs you sent me? I put that in the Morgan Harjes bank in Paris to be used on a rainy day, so to speak. That day came when we started on permission. The 275 francs which I had in the bank at the time came in most handy and I should like that much there again for my next permission which ought to come along in about four months. Any money which you can spare me would be put right into another permission fund and would be deeply appreciated.

Have received three packages of the note-book paper I asked for and now have a great sufficiency. Thank you much.

Our mail has been delayed during our movement but hope to hear from you soon.

Love to all,
Grant.

I can’t begin to tell you how queer it felt to be an independent citizen of France once more.

For months, Grant had been looking forward to and writing his mother about the possibility of getting some leave (in French: permission)--a few days or even a week, away from the madness of the front lines, in which he could take his mind off the realities of the war.

Frase

In this wonderfully descriptive letter, he tells his mother all about the permission he spent with his buddy, Stuart Hugh Fraser (1892-1990), on the French Mediterranean coast. Born in London and raised in New York City, Fraser was one of Grant's best friends from the Great War. I've often wondered how much they stayed in touch after the war. Marriage, children and careers most likely took precedence. Through research, I've learned that Fraser married a Brazilian woman, raised a family in Bahia, and lived to be nearly 100 years old--outliving Grant by more than twenty years!

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

Tuesday – August 6, 1918

Dearest Mother:-

I use to make complete report of a most splendiferous seven day permission. There is so much to tell I must start right in.

As I have told you in previous letters, we drew lots in pairs for turns on permissions and Fraser and I drew #2. We immediately looked about for a place to go. Any place but Aix-les-Bains was in a general way our main idea. Why didn’t we want to go to that famous place where all Americans are going for leave and reporting such good times? Maybe you will understand when I say that the very fact that everybody was and is going there was quite sufficient for our wanting to get away from it all–military police, signing paper, answering roll-calls, eating with a howling mob–you know–all that sort of thing. Then, too, we spent a month last year down in the Vosges in very similar country and we wanted to see something different. The Mediterranean furnishes many places such as we were looking for. Nice and Marseilles are closed to privates. All border departments are barred. Our next idea was to select some small, quiet place on the sea as near Spain as we could get, make this our headquarters and make trips out from here if we wanted to. Sète was decided upon–in the department of Hérault. Sète is a famous harbor, a small place of about 50,000 people and near Spain. We had our eyes on a couple of boat trips out of Sète which looked very inviting if the risk of being interned or submarined was not too great. Well, anyway on Wednesday, July 24, Frase and I started for Sète. We passed through familiar country, after leaving Dijon, over the good old P.L.M. (Paris-Lyon-Marseille) which so promptly delivered us at Nice last October. From Avignon we left the main road and took a branch down the coast to Sète arriving there the following Friday morning at 7:40 after two days of almost steady travel. I can’t begin to tell you how queer it felt to be an independent citizen of France once more. No one to boss you around–tell you when to get up in the morning–no K.P.ing to do–no Ford Ambulance to fight with. And the lights! One little gas light on the corner blinded us. We just stood there looking at it and talked about Broadway.

We got rooms at the Terminus Hotel. The room with two meals a day amounted to 14 francs a day which, at the present rates, would correspond to a little less than $2.50 [$38 in 2012] a day. This we figured to be very good under present conditions though we had no running water in the room and no light but a candle. The room, in fact the whole hotel, is very Spanish. Our room led off a large, tile floor dance hall. The tile floor of our room was dotted with brilliantly coloured rugs. The fireplace was large and looked very practical–but, of course, an electric fan would have been much more practical for this time of year. The only window overlooking the court yard was a small barred window opened onto an air shaft on the entrance to the dungeon. Frase and I couldn’t figure out which it resembled the closest.

Our daily program was about as follows: rise at 10 a.m.; go to the café next door for coffee; then to the beach for a cool plunge in the sea. By that time it was noon and we returned to the hotel for a delicious meal of soup, fish, vegetable, meat, potatoes, and salad. Very good red wine was served with each meal.(Sète is a big wine harbor.) After dinner we repaired to the café for coffee. An old French gentleman ran the café and we grew to be very firm friends. He had served 27 years in the French army in Africa. A very interesting old man. Our second day there his nephew came to stay a few days with him. He’s a young boy of 19 who is just out of the hospital after a month of suffering with a stomach wound. Frase and I took charge of him, took him to one opera and one operetta. He also went swimming with us. This pleased his uncle very much indeed and our afternoon coffee always turned into a visit until 3 or 3:30 when we again visited “la plage” and soaked to our heart’s content. The beach was a very popular place and we met many people there–some French, some English and some Spanish. After our swim we would sit down in a café on the beach and have a cool drink of something or other. I think we tried every drink that Sète knows anything about. Then we returned to the hotel for a repetition of the noon meal followed by coffee at our café. When there wasn’t some kind of a concert in the evening we spent out time in promenading about the town. There was usually a concert, however. We took in one grand opera (something or other of the “Hugenots”) most of which went over our heads but we enjoyed the music. Our French vocabulary isn’t as extensive as it might be but the two combined managed to accomplish a great deal. The next day after the Grand Opera we went to Corniche (a bathing beach) a little outside of Sète and met a man there who proved to be the drummer for the big orchestra. He expects to go to America with the orchestra in October and was very much pleased at the prospect. He shadowed us everywhere after that and talked New York continually. Through him we got the best seats in the house for the next two operettas. These we could understand better and enjoyed the comedians very much. The company which is now playing in Sète is one of the biggest French companies practicing for winter season, we were told. The men artists were mostly Spanish.

There was an English merchantman in the harbor loading up with merchandise and one day Frase and I walked down to look them over. We got acquainted with the wireless officer and chief gunner. They have been out since Xmas and expect to be out several months longer before returning to England. They were both young chaps and very interesting so Frase and I took them on for a whirl. They ate five dinners with us at the hotel and took in two of the concerts with us. It all pleased them very much. They didn’t like France and French people and hadn’t left the boat in Sète until we got ahold of them. They were wild about the swimming and the meals took their breath away. They certainly had had some close calls from submarines but were very optimistic and gave a glowing account of what the American navy is doing. The American navy is ideal in their estimation, particularly the submarine-chasers and lighter craft.

Well, anyway, we had such a good time in Sète that we spent our full seven days right there and bemoaned the day we had to leave. Our homeward journey was marked by many pauses because of poor connections, crowded trains and moving troops and Boche prisoners. For two nights we were up changing trains, sleeping when and where we chanced to have time and a place to rest our heads. Our money ran short so that we had to economize on meals (a great hardship) so that we were glad to see camp night before last.

But it was worth while. Our vacation would have been cheap at a million dollars. It makes a big difference in one’s attitude of the future.

Now I must quit and leave room for the Lieutenant’s name. Expect another letter before this week is up.

Ever yours with love,

Grant.