Dad, listen: I’ve certainly gotten myself into a bad hole.

Sailing to France in 1917, Grant Willard was desperately in love with Dorothy Houghton, and had asked her to marry him. Through a romantic haze he imagined a situation where his love would come to France, work with a war relief organization and be near him. But the more he lived through the war and saw its effects, the more he realized he'd made a terrible mistake encouraging her to come. He'd sent mixed signals to his fiancée and angered her mother. At a low point, he poured his heart out to his father back in Minnesota...

Convois Autos.,

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

Tuesday, April 30, 1918

Dear Dad:-

Your letter dated Mar. 31 reach me today together with 14 others--the first I had received for more than a month.  You see we have been on the move for sometime now I rather imagine it’s a puzzle for the Post Office to follow us. 

You see I am sending this letter through the base censor--a route I just discovered the other day. Through this channel we can send things of personal nature (nothing military) which we wouldn’t care to send through our own Lieutenant. It’s rather unfortunate that your own Lieutenant censors your mail. A man who isn’t quite right will read every bit of your letter with interest and jot down in his memory a few things which don’t concern him. That is why my recent letters have been so monotonous and scattered. When one’s letters are read aloud to the office force and used to furnish amusement for whomever might be present one doesn’t care about sending anymore letters than he has to. Please accept this reason for my long period of silence temporarily until I can explain the whole miserable situation to you.

Now, Dad, listen: I’ve certainly gotten myself into a bad hole. You remember back in December when I was so stuck on Dorothy’s coming over here in some War Relief capacity? Well, I did want her then because the future did look bright for a while and I believed every word I wrote you in response to your advice to drop the matter. I wanted her then, do now and always will but as to her actually coming to France I have turned a right-about face and am just as stuck in the other direction. 

Grant (second from right) with his parents
and siblings after the war in Mankato.

What has changed my mind? A combination of several things. In the first place I wanted her in France because it never dawned on me that I could possibly have her. I never really visualized her in France. And when her letters came telling of various plans and threats I laughed at them. I didn’t take them seriously. Then like a thunder clap it all came on me. Miss Mullen’s horrible death on Good Friday gave me an awful jolt from which I haven’t quite recovered. Then came a letter from Mrs. Houghton which cut my soul in two and laid it on the table in front of me where I saw it all. A brute! That’s just what I’ve been. A perfect stranger, so to speak, tried to enter Mrs. Houghton’s home and heart and rob it of just about its most precious gem without even consulting her. Of course she didn’t like it. She knew Dorothy much better than I did and yet I, in my thoughtless excitement, forgot all about her. Result:- a mess and I’m on the bottom. 

I don’t want Dorothy in France in this horrible mess over here. I don’t want anybody dear to me to come over here now. Being with the Americans has made a big change in me. I can’t get over the queer feeling which came over me on seeing my first dead American soldier and on hearing of Miss Mullen’s death. We’ve got to win this war and we are going to but we can do it without Dorothy or you or mother or Sis on this side. It’s a different proposition with Tib and John. When their times come it is their duty to come but France is not a place for women in these days nor those people who can be of more service in the States. 

I have written Dorothy a long letter trying to convince her that I am right in changing my mind and that her duty is to do what her mother wishes. I have written Mrs. Houghton but what could I say to her? I was wrong and am to blame. I told her that much but some way couldn't find much else to say. I’m anxious, very anxious as to what Dorothy’s going to do. It wouldn’t be right for her to come, Dad, nor to prepare to come against her mother’s wishes and I’ve got to put an end to it. Will you please show this letter to Marion and ask her to please use her influence with Dorothy in any way she judges best? I’m telling you these things that you might understand just how things stand between us and in hopes that you may be able to shed a little light my way, though I guess this is entirely my battle. 

The last letter from Dot, says she is announcing our engagement in some Vassar publication and that her mother is doing the same in the Philadelphia papers. I certainly hope this will make Dot happier. I’m tickled to death. You know, I don’t like this formal stuff--announcement parties, teas, ring and things. I hope it will satisfy poor, little heart-sick Dot. 

Dad, I’m more than thankful for the money. I really don’t need it as I have managed to hang on to 200 francs from my salary looking toward a permission (long over-do) but that 100 will give me that much better permission. Don’t know where I’ll go. To the mountains if I can get there. You see, when we are paid regularly we really fair pretty well. It is reported that we will be drawing “wagoners” pay soon (40.20) and then we are now to get two dollars extra due to a recent citation. That’s pretty snappy pay when you are off where you can’t spend any. 

About the picture--I left a film in Paris to have more prints made that I might send you one but I never got back in there to get them and we are not allowed to send pictures of any kind under this organization--neither are we allowed to take any. Never mind, I have a whole collection which will be yours (to look at) someday. I took a lot of them and hope they are never lost. 

Much love from – Your war-tired son.

Section Sixty-one

Henry Selden Kingman (1893-1968) was a volunteer from Minnesota in Grant's section of the Norton-Harjes Ambulance. They served together until the unit's dissolution in the fall of 1917. His letters home were published in a book called Section sixty-one: selections from letters of Henry S. Kingman, member S.S.A.U. 61, Norton Harjes Ambulance Corps, May to October, 1917.

Kingman's book is an invaluable primary source for historians of the volunteer American ambulance services in the First World War. It is also useful for filling in details missing from Grant's diary and letters. He described his experience in France in great detail.

(Incidentally, after the war he became a respected banker in the Midwest. As president of the Farmers &; Mechanics Savings Bank in Minneapolis he helped Grant get a position there in 1945.)

Below is a letter Kingman wrote to his parents on June 22, 1917:

Sandricourt, June 22, 1917.

My dear Father and Mother: After a month of beautiful weather we're taking a dose of two days' rain, showers, clouded skies and cold. The camp runs with a slimy oozing mud-but rubber boots and slickers keep one comfortable. Two nights ago a violent thunderstorm raised havoc with the poor lads in the barns and tents, while one tent blew down and all but floated away. But there's little complaint on any side, which is quite remarkable, as three weeks in one place with continued disappointments as to our going wears on one's nerves.

Two sections have been made up since I last wrote. Section Sixty-one includes all the old men here with about a dozen of the newer arrivals-George Reed and Tut Stair also being in the list. Our section commander is to be a Mr. Bullard who's had a year's experience at the front. He gave us a talk Sunday last and appears to be a thoroughly fine fellow. We are to have a French section-it being a section held in reserve by the French government to replace any section which has run out of cars. There are to be twenty new Fiat cars I understand and about five staff cars for transport, officers, etc. The cars are supposed to be at Dijon and to be ready at any time, which is getting to be an old story, of course. Whether we will pick them up at Dijon or be met with them in Paris, no one seems to know.

It's been an interesting week outside of the routine life. The boys have begun contributing to French production-which is a very sane proposition. Harvesting has begun with hay the initial crop, but it will soon be followed by the other grains. About twenty men go from camp each day to nearby farms where they stack and pitch hay from seven A.M. to five P.M. I had my turn at it Monday -but saved a sore back by the fact that an early morning rain made the hay too wet. Result was the six of us spent a very pleasant half holiday. After a round of milk at the farm house, we hunted out a guide to show us thru a chateau that lay close by, not a very large estate but extremely rare in its trees and woods with a stream running close by the chateau itself. The grounds were in very good condition considering no one was living there this summer. The formal flower gardens looked beautiful with their plan and straight edges but upon closer examination the vegetation in them proved to be potatoes and haricots verts, which shows the extent of intensive cultivation. The man opened the chateau for us and showed it from cellar to garret.

Of course, it was not in perfect condition-all the real valuables had been removed -but with an hour or two of preliminaries it could have been made very habitable. These chateaux in exterior are all very similar, large white four-cornered affairs, extremely plain, but here we had opportunity to see the interior furnishings with their beautiful paneled walls, dark oak, hand carved, while tapestried walls in the bedrooms made a similar effect to our own wall-papered ones. But what surprised me was the real hominess of the outfit. I had always imagined them so cold-but no doubt the rugs and furniture softened the various rooms. The blankets were even on some of the beds-the latter beautiful four-posters each set off in a little niche back of the main room-while a small staircase, usually spiral, always led to a small chamber above the room for the valet or femme de chamber.

But we've broken into more than vacant chateau life. Fritz and Libby discovered a treat and included me on their second visit. In the course of their walk one afternoon they came to these chateau grounds-two miles from here- rang a huge bell to see what would happen and were given entrance. They understood the gateman to say that it was an old ladies' home but it developed to be more than that. So yesterday the three of us went. At this chateau lives Madame Dupret and her twenty-year-old son. The latter speaks a little English while his mother speaks understandable French. It was truly delightful there sitting in a French parlor-with all the glory of a habitable chateau-the books and pictures -flowers galore about the room-high white paneled walls. There were two ladies calling upon Madame so our attentions were entirely confined to the young man. But Madame overlooked nothing in the way of serving delicious tea which was made more so by the addition of a flavor of rum. Cakes and cigarettes were also served and they couldn't do enough for us. We talked of the war, French, English, and American customs, and closed the call with a beautiful walk thru their gardens. The boy is home for a month, having been wounded in the side and is now convalescent. He's a second lieutenant in the Alpine Chasseurs--the highest type of infantry service in the French army; his mother a delightful woman and most hospitable. They begged us to come again and the boy walked some distance with us on the way home. I think we shall make several calls if we remain here long. I think it must be a joy for the boy and his mother to have someone for company. The father died several years ago.

Besides this break into French society I attended a wedding a week ago; a young couple invited all those who wanted to come. The farm where we went lies a mile up over the hill and we poured in there fifty strong shortly after supper. After a wait, the couple and bridal party showed up, and here in this French farm-yard we were a merry party. Andrews contributed his accordion for the music, and the boys danced with the three girls in the bridal party, while the bride and groom looked on wreathed in smiles. We took up a hat collection of about forty francs for a wedding present, and the beauty of it was that the groom thought it for the music and wanted to contribute. Then they served a litre of white wine all around and we drank to the “little poilu.” Cakes were produced and everyone had a good time. The groom in his blue uniform made a splendid figure, while the bride was a true French dairy-maid. That concludes the big events of the week barring the best, which is always the arrival of mail; and the gods were good to me with at least a dozen letters most of them from you. More later with much love to you all.

Ever affectionately, HENRY.