From the edge of these woods we look over into Boche land.

Tuesday, October 2, 1917:

Sommedieue 2008

1 P.M. - Still here at Bergerac. Haven’t yet received a call. Slept like a log all night. Dreamed of home because I read a letter from Mother just before going to bed. It was so real that I had to think several minutes after I woke up in order to locate myself.

Startling news! The Chief just drove up in the staff car and excitedly announced that Sommedieue had been shelled and that the section had orders to move out immediately. The division is also moving. The section moves to Marquenterre, our most advanced post. Somewhat of a joke, moving up within 2 kilom of the Boche trenches in order to get away from shell fire. The Chief ordered us to stay on duty until relieved. Soon our cars were passing and each one stopped to give its version of the shell fire. 22 shells were sent in and the town was pretty well blown up. None of the boys were touched, though a shell had uprooted a tree in the next yard to ours and deposited half of it on our eating tables and the other half clear over our house into the road in front. Our Captain in the town was cut above the eye slightly and one dog was killed. Outside of these casualties the only damage done was to property.

Was relieved at 6 P.M. and went to our new barracks at Marquenterre. We are quartered in wooden shacks, surrounded by heavy woods and many abris. Our cars are scattered and heavily camouflaged. We have instructions to use no lights whatsoever and not to leave the barracks except when necessary. From the edge of these woods we look over into Boche land. The Frenchmen up here are afraid we are going to draw shell fire.

A hysterical woman threw herself on my back...

The name Agnes Nicholson appears several times in Grant's diary and letters. Born in New Jersey in 1894, she was a friend of his fiancée, Dorothy. She sailed to France in October 1916 to volunteer as an auxiliary nurse with the American Hospital in Paris. When she came out to the front, Grant went to see her.

Friday, September 28, 1917:
 

Bill Sloan and Art Jacob took me over to Landrecourt this A.M. at 4 o’clock where I took the train for Bar-le-Duc to see Agnes Nicholson who was there on a tour of inspection of refugee work before returning to America. I arrived in Bar at 10:30, got a hair cut and went immediately to 99 Boul. de la Rochelle where Agnes was staying. The French maid informed me that she knew no Miss Nicholson. Miss Alexander would see me in the afternoon.

I ate lunch alone, went to Hôpital de la Gare and was directed to an English canteen for further information. There I was told that Miss Nicholson had left the day before. A call on Miss Alexander later verified the fact that Agnes had departed. I was somewhat crest fallen. Inquired about return trains. A train leaving Bar at 4:30 arrived at Landrecourt about 7 P.M. Preferring to spend the night at Bar I reserved a room in Hôtel de la Gare right near the depot planning to take the 6 o’clock in the morning. Took a hot bath and went to bed.

At 12:30 I suddenly woke up to the most awful racket I ever heard. Sirens and steam whistles were going full tilt. Machine guns were blazing away close by and the hum of Boche motors told me right away that we had visitors. It was as light as day out. Then the swish of a falling bomb and the accompanying crash sent me out of bed and into my clothes. The hall ways and stairs were crowded with hysterical men and women. I made my way to the main floor and was just at the mouth of the cellar when a bomb hit close by and the old building rocked on it foundation. A hysterical woman threw herself on my back with such force that the two of us went with exceeding speed into the cellar. I proved to be a good cushion for her for she was undamaged and I only slightly mussed up. The abri was crowded with excited people. No more bombs were dropped so I went back to my bed, which, by the way, was the best bed I have slept in over here in France.

Saturday, September 29:

The excitement of last evening was too great for these people--they forgot to call me so I awoke too late to catch my train. Not wanting to stay over another day I decided to take a chance on bumming rides to Sommedieue. I picked up a ride as far as Naives when the camion had a blow out so I started walking on. When I had walked about 8 miles and was beginning to feel pretty much discouraged a Ford car with four Section 26 (A.F.S.) men headed toward Bar stopped and after talking a minute I decided to return to Bar with them and as far as Ancemont in the evening if none of our cars showed up. At 3:30 we five started to return. We called on Sect.29 on our way home. We got to Ancemont about 6:30 and they fed me there and then sent an ambulance over to Sommedieue with me. Very decent of them.

I am up a tree as to the future.

100 years ago, Grant's day of reckoning was rapidly approaching: whether to join the U.S. Army and continue driving ambulances or to leave the service completely and return home. It was an uncertain time for him and his future wife, Dorothy Houghton. He looked for guidance from home, but in the end would have to make up his own mind.

Sunday, September 23, 1917:

Got a dandy letter from Dot this P.M. I hadn’t heard since Sept. 10 and was beginning to wonder where the hold up was. She said that many of her college friends were being caught in these hurried marriages and that she had tried to look superior, but was inwardly jealous and wanted me more than ever. Poor girl! God knows that she can’t want me any worse than I want her, but what am I to do? What can I do? If it is wise for these young people to get married the way they are how in the world do they make ends meet financially? The best salary I could possibly pull would not exceed $100 and I couldn’t ask a girl brought up as she has been to live on that without something very much better to look forward to when war is over. God help me decide this question for the best interests of the sweetest girl in the world. I sat right down and wrote an answer to the effect that I am up a tree as to the future. To stay here without her until the end of the war is quite impossible. To return, knowing as little as I do of conditions in U.S., and run a chance of being drafted as a private in infantry, which has proved the biggest suicidal organization in the army over here even as high as 1st Lieut, would be absurd in my estimation. To sign up with some satisfactory department over here with a furlough of a couple of weeks in the States is possible, but highly improbable. There seems to be no other horn of this dilemma. I have put it up to Dot and told her I would stay over here until I received her answer.

Monday, September 24:

The occasion worthy of note today was the appearance of Colonel Riggs and Major Stell who talked to us for an hour in the back yard about the new organizations as run by the American Government. In substance their information was about as follows: the recruiting officer is now in this army zone and is expected here in a couple of days. They want to find out how many men are going to stay in the new organization so that they may complete the sections by inter-changes and a new supply of men from Allentown. The request for this militarization was made by the French Government to Washington. They say that the chances are that we will remain approximately as we are under the French Government, etc. No guarantee is given, however, and no definite promises made. They say they are going to keep the Norton-Harjes men together as much as possible. They require that you sign up for the remainder of the war. The general sentiment throughout the sections seems to be opposed to signing on for any such term with all the uncertainty. Most everyone now plans on returning to America. I had personally much rather stay right over on this side where I know something of conditions than to return now. I would like to master the French language and see some more of this country and people. C'est la guerre!

Grant experiences a Bastille Day he'd never forget.

On July 2, 1917, Norton-Harjes Section 61 wound its way from Dijon to the town of Rupt in the Vosges Mountains. And there they remained encamped in a beautiful setting until the end of July. There was plenty of time to hike, swim, read and relax in this valley far from the horrors of the battlefield. On the 16th Grant wrote home to tell of an adventure while walking to and from Remiremont.

Monday – July 16, 1917

Dear Family:-

Tempus fugit!

It doesn’t seem very long ago since I wrote but I must take a few minutes to thank you for the gum and cigarettes. They were much appreciated. You couldn’t have selected anything more welcome at this particular time. American tobacco is a luxury and the supply, consisting of 2 lbs. of smoking tobacco, which I brought with me is just about depleted. Gum cannot be bought at all in this country. If the opportunity again presents itself instead of sending cigarettes I would prefer a pound can of Prince Albert pipe tobacco. A pipe full of American tobacco brings more satisfaction out here under these conditions than a good hot bath with clean clothes, both of which are luxuries. I couldn’t imagine myself admitting such a thing a couple of months ago to say nothing about actually feeling it but conditions now are quite different.

We are still in the same place as when last I wrote but that doesn’t tell you much. It is reported that orders for movement will come in a couple of days. We will not be sorry to move.

Saturday, July 14, is a big day in France, as you undoubtedly know. With the French in this district it seems to be a day when everyone gets drunk. I am pleased to state that not a single man in our section was under the influence of the stuff. In view of the fact that perhaps your knowledge of French history is as slight as mine, though I can hardly believe such could be the case, I will tell you what I know of July 14. In 1789 Louis XVI was King of France. It seems he was a devil and very unpopular. On July 14, 1789 the people rose up in their wrath, overthrew the government and tore down the Bastille where many were imprisoned and made to suffer unjustly. Then I think came a government run by a body of five men which was overthrown in ‘92 or ‘93 and another republic established. Anyway July 14th is the date of the fall of the Bastille and everybody is supposed to get drunk.

We had the day off (war was called off for the day) and six of us went down to a town about 7 miles from here, walking all the way, and had a good meal. It was a peach and only cost us about 4ƒ apiece or 80¢ in Am. money. On our way back we were invited in to a barrack and hospital just out of town. It was a large place and we later learned that it is one of the best in France. Thinking us to be American officers we were introduced to French majors, captains and lieuts. They were having a band concert in the park within and when we put in our appearance we were given a salute by the buglers and a French Lieut. (1st) stepped up and conversed with us in English. Privates stood at attention, as we passed, Lieutenants saluted. Gee! We felt queer. Then we were invited inside and were ushered into the theater where a performance was about to take place. We sat in leather arm chairs in the front row reserved exclusively for officers. Each chair had a place card in it bearing some officer’s name. I sat in Major somebody’s chair. In front of us was a row of wounded on their stretchers. Behind us were hordes of pretty nurses and then came the non-coms and privates. The show was good for an amateur get-up and several changes were made for our benefit. After it was all over we shook hands with officers and were saluted all over again and told to tell our “brother officers” that they were welcome anytime. It was a great experience and we laughed much over it all the way home. The officers over here ride in their own cars. If some of them could have seen us hoofing it for headquarters afterward they would never be nice to us again. Such is life in the army. Sherman was quite right.

Must mail this before it is too late. Several of us are going for a swim soon.

Much love,  

Grant

The sea really is quite heavy. The foredecks are continually being washed.

Tuesday, May 22:

Arose about noon and ate hearty dinner. Sea is rougher with an occasional wave washing second deck.

Dorothy’s letter today was the best yet. I will certainly miss them when they run out. I wish I were on my homeward way to her instead of leaving her.

Miss Emma Mullen who lives in Paris, but is an American, is on board and very, very nice to American Ambulance men. I met her thru Tish Libby. She makes delicious coffee every afternoon and I was invited to join her party this P.M. Met many nice people among whom were Miss Lynch going to France on a special commission for the New York Sun and Mr. Symons, the baritone. I hope he sings for us before we arrive in Bordeaux.

The sky is overcast and the wind picking up. I have been very thankful for my fur coat. Warm clothes are a comfort. Paul Hoerr has been sick today and looks like a ghost. The sea really is quite heavy. The foredecks are continually being washed.

Dorothy's steamer letter No. IV for Tuesday. Written en route to Philadelphia on May 18, 1917.

Deacon lover,-

The train has just stopped at Elkino Park & I’m thinking of you as you got off here yesterday. I wish we could put the darn old clock back by some “hook or crook”. But every good thing as well as those that aren’t so good, must come to an end. Which may be interpreted to mean that even our present pain and sorrow at parting cannot last forever. Another happy holiday will come some day—and then (with war a thing of the past) we can give ourselves up to the complete enjoyment of each other.

We have been living on the sunniest hill tops—you & I—and even though we must both go down into separate valleys where there will be no sun for a while; we shall not lose for one second, the vision we gained in high places together. And someday, God willing, we shall make those dream-like visions—realities.

I bought a lot of music yesterday—among which was your old favorite—There’s a Long, Long Trail. I’m going to learn how to play that, and make myself sing it, even if I don’t feel very much like warbling just at present.

On the way to N.Y. 2.15 P.M.! I’m so happy for I’m coming to you. I was so afraid that something might happen to prevent my getting off early, but it didn’t. Then came the awful thought that I was so afraid that something might happen to prevent my getting off early, but it didn’t. Then came the awful thought that maybe you’d have to sail before Saturday, and I might not see you again, before you go. But that too has been relegated—with all other disturbing notions—to the dump heap. God’s in his heaven, and all’s right with the world—this present chaos is but part of his general plan of things, and will eventually prove a blessing in disguise.

Just before I left school, mother phoned to say good-bye and send her love and best wishes to you through me. She has been perfectly dear with me ever since Thursday. I think a lot of the trouble was due to me, and her misunderstanding of how things actually were. We’ve had a long talk together, and as a result, I feel sure that everything is going to be all right in that direction. So don’t worry. Your letter must have worked wonders—but there that’s nothing new, I’ve always maintained that—for her voice over the phone was so sweet & cheerful & loving. All she said was I’ll be thinking of you. Honey, be brave and don’t worry. Everything will turn out O.K. and I know it will.

I came across an old telegram from you sent to Glen Morris the day after our all night session. It said: “Reported for work 8.30 this A.M., feeling fine, hope you are the same”. (here my pen saw fit to run dry!) It made me laugh to recall that funny night, when you had to sleep out on the porch. I can just imagine you sending another such telegram (if it were possible) about your Red Cross work—only then it would read P.M. instead of A.M. wouldn’t it?

Do you know I believe I loved you then,- for I simply hated to go upstairs and leave you down there alone. Once I nearly came down to see if you were comfortable, but lost my nerve. So I went to bed, and thought about you instead!

Isn’t it wonderful the way things all work out? I can’t believe yet that we are really engaged; and on the other hand, I can’t remember a time since we’ve known each other that I haven’t hoped & felt that we would be some day.

Mother was horribly shocked last night when I told her I’d go to France with you tomorrow, if I only could. She seemed to think I was forward & lacking in modesty & grace,--to say nothing of being an ungrateful daughter. I guess she’s forgetting how she felt. But you understand me, don’t you, Grant? And love me faults and all??? That’s all that seems to matter now—what you say and think. And I don’t care a hang what any one else thinks as long as I know that you really love me.

I guess I’m selfish too, for my dreams & thoughts are all of you. Everything else has just sort of sunk into the background. But the background now for a time must become foreground, until you return again. Then I shall awake as from a bad dream, and know that I am yours again & forever.

Dorothy.

Grant Willard's first full day at sea:

Sunday, May 20, 1917:

Some of the fellows are sick today and a lady across from us was sick all night. The water is very quiet, however, and the day perfect. Physically I feel fine, but my heart aches for Dorothy. I have read two of the steamer letters she wrote and it made me hate myself for leaving America. It made me curse this war with its sorrows and heart rendings. Dorothy has grown dearer to me than anything I have ever wanted or possessed. I hope these 6 months will go quickly.

My fur coat has proved very practical and a constant companion. I have slept flat on my back on the forward deck in the sun this P.M. and have read some of Robert Service which Dorothy gave me. This trip is going to be a great rest, I’m sure.

I forgot to say that there are about 350 passengers aboard and easily 300 of these are Ambulance Drivers, some units from colleges and some individuals as myself. There are a number of Dartmouth boys aboard, Harvard, Williams and Columbia -- also M.I.T. is pretty well represented.

At night the windows are covered and the deck in pitch blackness. The fellows congregate in crowds and sing to the accompaniment of mandolins and ukuleles.

We had good fried chicken for dinner tonight. We can’t possibly complain of food so far. It is well cooked and of great variety,

Tish and I sat alone in the dark on deck for 2 hours this evening listening to the music of the mandolin and groups of men singing. Went to bed about 10:30.

The "steamer letter" was a byproduct of the great era of ocean travel. Friends and lovers would write a letter or postcard to their loved one for each day of an ocean voyage, noting the day on which the letter could be opened and read. This is the 1st steamer letter that Dorothy Houghton wrote to Grant:

Steamer-letter no. 1

For Saturday only.

Friends Select School

May 17, 1917

Dear Other Part of Me,-

I am going to write you a letter for every day that you’ll be on board—that is for the first week—if you’re much longer than that you’ll have to resort to repetition. So although you must be Post office, postmaster and receiver, all in one, you must play fair and not read them all at once, but save one for each day. Or you would be like the little girl whose brother told her not to swallow her candy too quickly ’cause he couldn’t get it up again! Of course on ship-board many things do come to the surface which one never expects—so this rule may only hold good on land! You can tell me someday how it worked.

First of all, according to the custom of all steamer letters, I wish you, Deacon-lover, “Bon voyage”. And in this particular case, a very happy busy six months of service for your country and mine, and a speedy return to the good old U.S.A. and me! You know—and this is not said in most steamer letters—that I am waiting for you. Furthermore I am thinking of you and praying for you all the time. I have put you in God’s hands, and I am not afraid, for He can take far better care of you than even I could do, though I want to so much.

You know too that I love you—I feel as if I always had and know I always will—no matter what happens. So please, for my sake don’t run any unnecessary risks just for the glory & adventure of this new experience. I wish you were not to be stationed right along the battle front—sometimes I shall get awake at night and think of you in that long convoy of ambulances way over there across the waters, picking your way out in the dark, or by the occasional fire of the big guns. That’s when I’ll cease to be brave and perhaps choke myself with some red-hot tears, for I’ll want you so—just as I used to have you with your big strong arms around me. But I’m going to work hard and keep busy and therefore happy, and the first thing we know summer will have come and gone, and you’ll be home again. And the very best Christmas present I’ll ever have—will be your own dear self.

School is over now—I started this in Study Hall early this morning. It’s Thursday, my day to stay here until 4.00 so I’ll have a nice long visit with you. We had a lecture on Birds by Schuyler Matthews from 1-2 o’clock. And as usual I wished for you. It was awfully good for Mr. Matthews imitated the different bird-calls so cleverly. Each song is individual and yet each means practically the same thing, in English:- “I love you—come to me”. How wonderfully this whole big scheme of things is worked out. Who could love & study nature and not believe that a Great Mind had planned it all? I love the trees, birds and flowers, and I want to know more about them. For even if I haven’t you, there will still be beauty. That reminds me of our friend, Sara Teasdale:- “Ah, beauty, are you not enough? Why am I unsatisfied and crying after love?” Why indeed? When we are made that way. I’ll never forget how surprised I was to learn, during a course in psychology at college, that the little lights we love to watch in summertime under the trees,--i.e. lightning bugs or “glow-worms” to be more poetical,--were all for a definite purpose. I had always thought they were just to look pretty, and not tiny beacons to light the way to each other. Yet how natural and simple it all is. At first, I’ll admit, the idea wasn’t pleasing—I felt that it wasn’t quite nice, and it rather disgusted me. But I’ve learned a lot since then—about myself & other things.

I wish I were going to meet you again today at Broad St. Station (and you may safely bet I’ll keep on wishing it) but instead I’m going to beat my way out on the trolley. It’s a heavenly day and the ride of an hour & a half won’t be half bad—even if I can’t get an open car; and then (here’s evidence of my economical nature) I’ll only spend 10¢. Think of it!

Your telegram arrived about noon, and made me laugh. I believe you are in love, Deac-dear. You seemed to forget more than you remembered. I love to bring them though for somehow it makes me feel very domestic and near you. I feel that way too when I sew or embroider things for future use. That’s something I haven’t told you—I’ve already started a “hope-chest”. Marion has one, so you must know what they are;--but you can’t know how exciting it is to make & save things for them. I have enough now for very light house-keeping—a luncheon set, two silver forks from Senior Parlor (V.C.) and a half dozen spoons (we’d never use knives!); also a goodly assortment of towels, not to mention my own personal belongings—any of which seeming unnecessary I stowe away. Well, I must go—this will be enough for one day.

All yours,

Dot

He comes to me highly recommended by people of character and standing.

One hundred years ago this month, Grant R. Willard was in New York finalizing his plans to travel to France to volunteer on the Western Front. 

Check out the fascinating passport application below. He (and others) had to swear that he was of sound character and was truly going to France to "do his duty as a volunteer."

May 9, 1917: Grant writes home to his mother

In April 1917, Grant R. Willard, of Mankato, Minnesota, left home to volunteer in France with the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps on the Western Front. Though he thought he'd only be gone for six months, it would be two years before he came back to America a changed man.

Before shipping out, he spent time wooing a woman from Pennsylvania named Dorothy Houghton. While staying with cousins in Brooklyn, Grant related his feelings about the young woman.

360 E. 19th St.

Brooklyn, N.Y.

May 9, 1917

Mother dear:-

The reaction has come. The strain of the past few weeks has weakened me so that my second inoculation got the best of me. Cousin Elsie doesn’t know it but I was very sick last night with a fever which I thought would burn me up. It is now about 1 P.M. and I have been up but a few minutes. My fever is gone, my arm much better and my throat not half so sore. Tomorrow I hope to be back to par as far as physical health is concerned.

Now for a few heart throbs – my four days in Ambler have made a new man of me. The whole trip out was misery. I thought the suspense would kill me before I saw Dot at the depot. Even after I had been here for two days the suspense still stayed by me. I was so afraid that something would go wrong somewhere and that she would find she had made a mistake in her man. So for two whole days I was bound to be as natural as possible – to be toward her as I would be toward any other girl. They were two hard days. Sunday, though a gloomy day in temperature and brightness was a day which will never be forgotten by me. She is more wonderful than I had dared believe, Mother, and everything has turned out so beautifully. I wish now more than ever that I could have arranged some way to come just this far and no farther but I was deathly afraid to hesitate even a minute lest I be sent, thru conscription, in the opposite direction in which case I’m sure I should have literally pined away. It’s going to be awfully hard to leave the country but the future now looks bigger and brighter than ever before. I think it’s going to be good for all concerned.

Another thing which I am afraid you don’t understand: it wasn’t easy for me to leave home, Mother. It was one of the hardest things I ever did. But don’t you see I couldn’t for a minute let myself down to it? I played human psychology pretty hard, I’ll tell you, and you all were perfectly wonderful for not taking my pins out from under me as you could very easily have done. I saw no further than Ambler. Now I am beginning to look a bit further than Ambler and it hurts like blazes -- not fear but just the thought of being so far from ease and comfort into a new land of misery and suffering. Nobody can deliberately pick up and pull away from a home which has meant as much to him as my home has and go to a new land of venture and hard work without some feeling. Though maybe it doesn’t show it is there and there to stay. As for personal danger, I think this is barely worth considering. Of course, I won’t admit there is any more danger than we are every day subjected to here in this country. No transports between here and the foreign countries have been in anyway molested and there is hardly a possibility that they will be. The danger over there is nothing when compared to the service rendered. So you see, Mother, that by the method of comparisons my move can be strongly fortified and I still feel with all my heart that my course has been the right one for me.

I have come here from Ambler to make sure about my boat. I didn’t understand Dad’s telegram. I find there is no boat until a week from Saturday as I had interpreted the telegram. So I shall be here until Friday noon when I shall again return to Ambler to be with Dorothy until the following Friday if Mrs. Houghton doesn’t kick me out.

Cousin Elsie and Lillian have been very, very nice to me. Cousin Elsie wishes me to say that your letter, grandma’s letter and Alice’s letter have all been received and appreciated. They both send love to all.

Tomorrow I meet Mr. Norton for final arrangements for leaving this country May 19th. I think I will have my trunk sent right out here for packing.

I will write you again from Ambler next week. Dad’s letter enclosing Mr. Hatcher’s has been received. I hope to be able to use it.

These things remember then: Your eldest son is doing what he considers his duty with a much easier heart than he has had for many months and that he is already looking forward to his return when this horrible thing is over with.

Much love-

Grant