Will we ever know what the accident was?

Friday, May 25, 1917:
 

The water is more quiet today and the day more clear. Got up at 10 A.M. and took a nice hot salt-water bath after which I shaved and went to dinner. Paul was there, but looks like a wet dish rag. He won’t eat a thing.

We get wireless news every day posted on the bulletin board and today we were informed that the Mongolia returned to New York with the bodies of two nurses killed on board by accident. Will we ever know what the accident was? We get news from France, England, America keeping us posted right up to date.

Read Service until 4 P.M. Crawled into a life boat with my blanket and lay flat on my back for three hours. At 4 I attended Miss Mullen’s tea -- only she always serves coffee -- and afterward played bridge with Miss Lynch against Mr. Symons and Gregory. We won. After dinner Mr. Symons and I played Miss Lynch and Gregory and lost. Went to bed about midnight.

We are running more carefully these nights. We have been passing a number of ships by day and goodness knows how many by night. Up to last night we have been running in utter darkness, but now we have a mast light and red and green on either side. The decks are very dimly lit whereas formerly there was no light whatever. We have had one life boat drill and have another tomorrow P.M. It consists of nothing more than reporting with your life belt at your particular boat on the spar deck.

Paul ate quite heartily this evening and looks much better than he has for several days.

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

The boat was a good, stable French liner...

One hundred years ago today Grant Willard set sail for France and a life-altering experience.

THE S.S. CHICAGO was not a massive ocean liner of the day like RMS Titanic or Lusitania. At 508 feet she was little more than half the length of the ill-fated Titanic, and not nearly as fast. Still, she was a pretty ship. Hull painted black and superstructure white, she had twin screws, twin masts and twin funnels painted in the French Line colors of red capped in black. She had room for 360 second-class passengers and twice that number in third class. In those days the CGT (Compagnie Générale Transatlantique) made money shipping thousands of immigrants to America in steerage class. Sailing first between Le Havre and New York, and then Bordeaux and New York, the Chicago transported passengers adequately if not opulently. Then along came World War I and her voyages became more dangerous and less profitable. She had to contend with raiding German U-boats and much fewer passengers willing to risk an Atlantic crossing. Her hair-raising trips were often reported in The New York Times: FRENCH LINER ESCAPES SUBMARINES or a similar headline was not uncommon. Such was the Chicago’s condition when she set sail from New York’s Pier 57 at West 15th Street on May 19, 1917, with 325 young American volunteer ambulance drivers aboard including Grant Willard.

He wrote to his mother before sailing:

May 19, 1917

Dear Mother:-

All red-tape completed. Am aboard. Lillian, Adell Pattison, and Dot saw me off. Everything is aboard and I am feeling fine. Tish Libby and Paul Hoerr are here also. Don’t know who my cabin partner will be.

The last two weeks have been wonderful, Mother. They ought to keep me satisfied for a long time. I will be glad when 6 mos. are up and I promise you that if I can conscientiously do so I shall be in America again in December.

Please keep well and happy and don't worry. The boat is a good, stable French liner. 

In his private journal he wrote:

Saturday, May 19:

Met Dorothy at Martha Washington about 9 A.M. and we went right down to the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique, Pier 57 where I got my baggage inspected. Then we sent downtown to the offices of the French lines where I got some more French paper money, and accidentally met Paul Hoerr who was making final preparations to going over with us this afternoon. Dot and I then went over to the Aquarium at the Battery and from there to Wall Street where considerable excitement was taking place over non-listed stocks. It being about lunch time we went to a quiet little café‚ for our final meal together. It was a good meal, but I couldn’t put much enthusiasm into it. It surely was hard to realize that all our happiness of the past two weeks was about to conclude for 6 months.

At the pier we met Lillian Hutchinson and Adele Pattison. After a short visit I bade them good-bye and with Paul Hoerr, boarded the good French liner Chicago at 1:46 P.M. The girls all left. About 3:40 the gang planks were pulled and we were pushed out into the Hudson River. Many, many people were on the pier waiving [sic] all kinds of flags and handkerchiefs. It was a sight which would make any man’s blood sing for awhile. The English ship Mongolia sailed out about 15 minutes before we did with a load of American Army officers and nurses on board. I didn’t envy them their trip, but surely hope they get through O.K.

Tish Libby, Paul Hoerr and myself got deck chairs together and most of the rest of today was spent on deck. We eat in divisions. Paul Hoerr and I eat second service which means lunch at 12:00 and dinner at 7:15 with breakfast anywhere from 6 to 8:30 A.M. The meals so far have been excellent with usually 3 meats and a couple of vegetables, French bread & cheese & plenty of red and white wine.

My roommate is a William Sloan of New York. About 30 years old, married, two children, architect receiving education in Paris. Speaks French fluently and is very nice. He got two big baskets of fruit given him and has told me it was mine whenever I wanted it.