I sure am in love with this side of the pond.

Grant Willard's brother, Harold, known as "Tib," was two years his junior. Following his graduation from the University of Minnesota in 1917, Tib wanted to serve in France, but couldn't pass the physical examination. He suffered from varicose veins and was forced to have an operation that nearly killed him. A blood clot broke loose and settled in his lungs, causing a pulmonary embolus. Disabled and in great pain, Tib spent the winter of 1917-18 in California with his mother. The climate and rest got him back on his feet, but he never got to serve in France. Several of Grant's letters discuss Tib's frustration at being sidetracked.

Varicosis and pulmonary embolus notwithstanding, Tib lived to be a very old man; he was nearly 90 when he passed in 1984. He became a professor of animal husbandry at the University of Wyoming.

Convois Autos.,

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

Monday, March 11, 1918

Dear Tib:-

Have been postponing this letter long enough. I was in hopes of receiving some definite information as to what has been ailing you. The first inkling I had of your illness was about two weeks ago when a letter from Mother spoke of your doing nicely after 3 weeks in bed. Today another letter from Mother dated Feb. 10 says in part, “he looks white and thin but has a good appetite and is in good spirits – the left lung, Dr. said, might not be normal for another month – the limb is not swelling much so we really feel that he is getting along nicely.” My guess is pleurisy. Is that right? It’s tough, Tib.

I had pictured you as busily engaged in pumping up balloons or flying in the clouds making diagrams of Boch fortifications and artillery placements, directing shell fire, dodging enemy planes, etc., etc. Am tickled to death that you selected this department of the work, Tib, and hope your sickness won’t interfere with your following it up as far as you can go. Balloons and planes are two of my pets. Wish you could see them in action as we have seen them. Stick to it, kid.

But you have been pretty darn lucky in your nurses. Wow! How I envy you! Five weeks should have seemed like a day to you under your circumstances. Sis writes that you are a first-class patient with your voice going when your fiddle won’t. I would have contracted pleurisy (or whatever it was that you had) in a minute if I could have traded places with you for about five weeks. I don’t know that I could have stood more than five weeks without longing for this side again, however, for I sure am in love with this side of the pond.

Mother’s letter dated Feb. 10 arrived today. You sure have been having some cold weather over there this winter. It ought to be about over now. Mother’s dissertation on dark flour, barley gems, rye bread, buckwheat, etc., was very interesting. If your wheatless days are responsible for the white bread we are getting over here in the American Army we are very much obliged to you all. It sure is good bread. We eat oatmeal for breakfast now which is a rare treat after having nothing but black coffee and bread–the coffee sometimes with sugar and sometimes without.

Well, Tib, stick to it, old boy, and go the limit on this balloon business. Hap and I will be very glad to hear from you when you can write.

As ever,

Bub.

Grandma Robbins

Grant Willard's maternal grandmother, Abigail Williams Baldwin Robbins, died in Mankato on the last day of 1917. She was 74 years old. Due to the slowness of wartime mail delivery, Grant didn't learn of the fact for weeks.

His Grandma Robbins was a transplanted New England Yankee from Chester, Vermont, where her family had lived for generations. She and her husband, George, moved to Minnesota some years after their daughter married W.D. Willard.

Convois Autos.,

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

Friday, March 8, 1918

Dear Family:-

Don’t blame too much of the dirt on this paper to transportation. My supply of writing paper has diminished to such an extent that this letter will clean me out until I can get into the village for more.

There is no new information of interest. Since last writing I have found out that we are permitted to say that we are with the American Army at Base Hospital #66. The work is going along about as usual with no mishaps nor streaks of good fortune worth mentioning.

Got my first letter from you in about a month and a half day before yesterday. I guess it was the first of yours addressed to S.S.U. 647. Miss Mullen must hold much of my mail and I can’t understand why she doesn’t forward it. Maybe she never received my letter.

It must be very, very strange at home without Grandma Robbins. It’s very hard for me to get accustomed to the fact that she is not still in the old yellow home on Second Street. Yes, she was a wonderful pal, always ready for a laugh and a joy ride. I sincerely hope that there is nothing to the rumor that my coming over here as I did had considerable to do with bringing on the trouble.

Allen Alhers just came in from a trip with a very red face and says it is very cold out. Must go out and drain my car before it freezes.

Hope to hear from you again soon.

Much love,

Grant.

It’s a “pippin,” Mother.

By February 1918, Private Grant Willard's ambulance unit was working from Base Hospital 66 in Neufchâteau, France--an ancient town overlooking a valley at the confluence of the Meuse and Mouzon in southwest Lorraine. The inhabitants are called Néocastriens. From this small town Grant wrote to his mother to reveal the contents of several care packages.

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

Feb. 23, 1918

Dear Mother:-

A slight reorganization has taken place in our midst due to a little argument with the censor. We are now permitted to write but one letter a day confining our thoughts to a two page space on one side only. So you see I shall have to write oftener and you will have to be content with far less information than I have given in former letters.

I received your orders to remain silent until I could acknowledge some packages from you. I am obeying those orders explicitly. I now have the pleasure of informing you that on Feb. 7 I received from Miss Mullen three big packages – two from you and one from [Aunt] Beatrice [Willard]. Yours contained underwear (2 suits), socks, wristlets, sweater and gloves. The one from Beatrice contained a wonderful cake in excellence condition, gloves and a camphor stick. You bet they were welcome. Miss Mullen made coffee to go with the cake and while and she and Tish Libby ate and drank I opened packages and tried on their contents. The sweater has hardly been off since. It’s a “pippin,” Mother. Did you make it yourself? A perfect fit! Thanks a lot for the whole outfit. It was very much needed. As near as I can figure out I am still one package shy – the one containing Dad’s maple sugar candy. That will probably come out as soon as I can get word into Miss Mullen as to how to send them.

Other packages which I have received recently are: (1) A Xmas box of eats and smokes from Zella Duritt, Isabelle Phelps and Cleo McLean who are teaching in Sauk Center. (2) Two excellent books from Dot: [Henry] Van Dykes’ Fighting for Peace and a collection of Alfred Noyes’s latest. (3) A box of chocolates from Alice Farr. (4) Carry On from Mrs. Parry. (5) A box of stuffed dates from Bernice Morrow. I hope the letters which I have sent to all of these people will arrive safely.

Wish I could tell you about our whereabouts and work but I can’t so we will dismiss the subject after saying that we are well and are finding enough to do to keep us out of trouble. The food is good as are the quarters. Will write again soon.

Much love,

Grant.

Moving Out from Sandricourt

Grant Willard's boredom with life at Sandricourt ended in February 1918. He and the rest of Section sanitaire américaine (S.S.U.) 647 moved first to a base outside Paris and then to another closer to the battle zone in Lorraine. While in Paris he managed to have two good visits with his friend, Emma Mullen. Unbeknownst to Grant, it would be the last time he would see her alive.

Wednesday, February 20, 1918:

Many things have happened since my last writing. Sandricourt had certainly worn out as far as we were concerned. However, it wouldn’t be fair to omit the one bright spot in our existence there. It was a little café about a mile from camp in the village of Courcelles. The place was run by a mother and her two daughters--Suzan and Henriette. Suzan was 19 years old and Henriette about 10. “Joe” Harris, an old #11 man, could speak very good French and used to patronize all the neighboring cafés in search of good food of which he was a very good judge. He’s a very happy-go-lucky sort of fellow in the neighborhood of 30 years--very popular with the fellows as well as the surrounding neighborhood. He had worked up a very fine reputation at “Suzan’s” place where he went often for her lobster. Fraser, Hap and I fell in with him and soon it developed into almost nightly parties at Suzan’s where we ate canned lobster with a mustard sauce, egg omelet, French fried potatoes, jelly and toast always winding up with “café noir.” The old lady always held the little private dining room for us and Suzan always waited on us. During the coffee the whole family would come in and we would have a jolly time. These evening parties, while knocking holes in our pocket books, will long be remembered.

[We] received orders late Tuesday night, January 29, to leave for Fort de Vanves the following morning to join the remainder of the section in setting up our cars. We were sent down on a truck and put to work guarding in Fort de Vanves. We did the guarding in 3 hour shifts beginning at 6:30 P.M. and ending at 6:30 A.M. This put us on every other night. When on guard we were given the morning off, otherwise we reported with the others for setting up cars. We worked hard and, on the whole, did our work well. The cars were all set up and ready to leave on Tuesday, February 5. Col. Jones inspected us on Thursday and on Friday we left for Neufchâteau at 8 A.M.

Fort de Vanves is an old fort on the outskirts of Paris, originally a stronghold just outside of the Porte d’Orléans with a moat and all, but is now an automobile park where cars are brought and made new. They also made and repaired stretchers. We weren’t supposed to go to Paris, but most of us kept enough of our Red Cross uniforms to protect us against M.P.’s and we went in when we felt so inclined. Some of the boys went in every night. I sneaked in twice--once the morning after the air raid--Thursday, January 31--and one evening--Monday, February 4. I saw no damage done by the air raid, but people with whom I spoke were very much worked up over it. About 23 bombs were dropped pretty well near the heart of the city. The casualties amounted to about 50 killed and 200 wounded. Miss Mullen had run out on the street looking for excitement during the whole raid. She’s a brick! I got a box of chocolates from Alice Farr and a book of poems from Dot on my first visit with Miss Mullen. My second visit brought me two packages of clothing from home and a cake from Beatrice Willard. Miss Mullen made coffee for the cake and she and Tish and I had a real visit.

From Ft. de Vanves we traveled an old and familiar road via Fère Champenoise, where we spent the first night and Ligny-en-Barrois where we spent the second (Sat. Feb. 9). We parked our cars in the same place as in July when Sect. 61 passed through on it’s way to Brabant-le-Roi and thence to Verdun. On Sunday about 4 P.M. we reached Neufchâteau after having passed over the same road as we did in July. It was very interesting. The trip up had been made in beautiful weather. Nothing green, but nice days for driving.

Neufchâteau is very different now from what it was when we last saw it. It is jammed with American troops who swarm the streets every evening and make things disagreeable indeed. It is no longer the quiet little French town with its more solemn civilians and soldiers, but a loud and boisterous place where English is heard on every side. The Americans haven’t gotten into the spirit of this thing yet, but one can hardly blame them. How could they--trouble free and care-free young ruffians who can’t understand what France has sacrificed in 3 years of this struggle for life. I am longing for the day when they may actually get a taste of what France has suffered and when some of these petty, snobbish young officers will find no room for them in a man’s army.

We are now stationed at Base Hospital #66 for wounded and sick men and horses. Some of the section has been sent on detached service to Gondricourt, but the majority of us are here doing very light work. We are with the American Army -- not the French as we had hoped. I think we have been sent up here to be sized up by American officials while in service. We all hope to make good so as to get out of here as soon as possible. We carry only sick--no wounded--to various hospitals in this section. Vittel, 30 km south of here is the most interesting trip. Vittel is the famous water center of France. All tourists used to visit the fine hotels in Vittel and bathe in this famous water. There is also a gambling casino here which rivaled that of Monte Carlo before the war. These hotels and casino have been turned over to the American Army and are now being used as hospitals.

Estimated American troops in France now total between 400,000 and 500,000

Thursday, January 17, 1918:

Another trip has been made by our section to Bar-le-Duc leaving with cars from here Saturday January 12, but I begged off on grounds of no gloves and with five others spent a very pleasant vacation in these barracks. The weather was delightful so that the boys were able to return Monday night. They reported the most successful convoy yet and all seemed to be in good spirits, only bringing back two malades--stomach trouble.

The most excitement this place has seen for some time took place yesterday when 300 new Allentown men marched in on us. They just arrived from the States landing, direct route, at Brest. About 25,000 troops came over in their convoy and they report that the Vaterland [S.S. Leviathan] arrived safely the week before with 12,500 on board depositing her cargo in England. Things are picking up. It is estimated that American troops in France must now total between 400,000 and 500,000 in number.

This new crowd are almost unanimously “Kites” and, of course, most green. They are much awed with the trenches around here and the guns in an artillery school in Chantilly almost created a havoc. They are all casuals and have wild ideas that they are going out soon.

Censored

During his time in France, many of Grant's letters to the United States were subject to military censorship. He sometimes got around this by giving letters to Miss Emma Mullen to mail from Paris directly.

The letter below is an example of one that was censored before it reached his family in Minnesota. He even censored his own writing by using only first initials when recounting a tale about his comrades.

Grant had good reason to mind what he wrote in letters. His fellow Norton-Harjes volunteers, William Slater Brown and E. E. Cummings, were jailed in September 1917 on suspicion of espionage based on what French censors had read in some of Brown's letters. Cummings used the experience for the basis of his autobiographical novel, The Enormous Room, published in 1922. In an interesting coincidence Cummings only refers to Brown as B____ in the book.

January 14, 1918

Dear Family:-

Like the polar bears, this camp seems to be waking from a long winter period of somnambulism. This rejuvenation has ooooozed into our very spirits just as this French mud oooozes through our waterproof army shoes.

(1) We haven’t had snow or rain for two days and we have actually caught sight of the sun for awhile each of these two days andIt’s pretty hard to pick out a cause. There seem to be two more likely causes.

(2) “for every action there is an equal and contrary reaction.”

The power of resignation in us mortals seems to be asserting itself and such remarks as these are frequently heard. “There must be worse places in France than S__________” or “Try to imagine yourself in the trenches during this weather and be thankful for that nice fire you are sitting beside.” Yes, though well nigh half of our time in France has already been spent right here in this camp we could fare far worse, so why complain?

There is very little of what I would like to say that would seep through to you so you will have to be content, for the time being, with the more commonplace. The camp is very small now-–like one big happy family. Food has improved, details have diminished and the sun has shone. The evenings are spent around one stove in the middle of the barracks solving many such trivial problems as the termination of this little contest between Fritz and the rest of the world. Sometimes the answer is, “as soon as Uncle Sam gets into the trenches;” sometimes it is, “this coming February because the Bible says so;” other times it is “30 years more.” Whereupon countless pictures are painted of the various men in our section 30 years from now in an old soldiers’ home somewhere.

The idiosyncrasies of men in and about camp are very fertile bases for many of our evening talks. You would think yourself in a ladies sewing-bee at times. For instance: since we have been here in camp there has been in our midst a young glutton whom I’m sure could have eaten Ben Johnson under the table. Many futile attempts had been made to discourage this “cuckoo” on his way toward starving the American army in France by consuming all the grub himself but it only served to whet his desire to be a camp hero. Until one fine day there appeared in camp a youngster whose age lacked two years of being a score but whose age was in no way indicative of his capacity. This chap almost starved to death until one week they tried him out on K.P. (Kitchen Police) and it was there that we “learned about eating from him.” His first breakfast consisted of twenty-four pieces of toast and eight bowls of milk and the look of surprise that came into his face when someone called his attention to it was basis enough for a very heated discourse on the art of gormandizing, that night around the fire. The congregation seemed to be split in sentiment some maintaining that S___, who had long before been unanimously awarded the “brown-derby” could still hold good his reputation and the remainder contending that H___ would still be eating when S___ had passed out. The meeting grew quite boisterous until H___ himself entered, having sat one hour and a half longer at the table than we had. “H___,” exclaimed one of the debaters, “do you think you can out-eat S___?” “Who me?” quoth the youth, “Why, I would eat him under with one hand tied behind my back – broad – bladed knives and shovels barred.” Whereupon there arose a challenge from the S___ supporters and the contest was arranged. Arrangements were put into the hands of a grub committee, entrance tickets sold for 50 centimes a piece and all bets were covered. It was the most evenly divided contest I have ever known. On Saturday morning of the contest the camp found a notice on the bulletin board which read something like this: [censored] in France [censored] are slowly [censored] gormandizing or unnecessary consumption of food in this camp will be looked upon with disfavor by its officers” – signed by one of the camp majors. This put an end to the contest but not to the discussion. It still goes on. The boys had trained for it, H___ still maintaining that he could [censored] in the [censored] I never [censored]. Put a little gravy on a piece of board and he would eat it and pass up his plate for more. Doesn’t it all remind you of a ladies sewing circle?

But now I must leave you. I am going down to a near-by village and eat in style this evening. We shall probably have an omelet and French-fried potatoes both of which this lady makes to perfection. And we sit down to a table and are waited on.

Hope your not too cold and suffering from lack of coal.

Much love – Grant.

P.S.:- You’ve asked me so many times if there wasn’t something you could send me. At last I’ve thought of something – three or four tubes of Kolynos tooth paste and the same number of Williams shaving cream tubes, each tube costing 25¢, when I left the States. Also, if you can find them without going to too much expense, -- a pair of warm leather driving gloves or gauntlets. Fingers are necessary and gauntlets are preferable because they prevent the wind from mounting your arm. These are all nonperishable goods and I’m sure will reach me eventually addressed to:

Pvt. Grant R. Willard

Convois Automobiles,

S.S.U. 647

Par B.C.M.

Paris, France.

This is the latest and best address.

Much love,

Grant.

Talk of your cold! Through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

The winter of 1917-18 was one of the coldest in the 20th century. There are references to the cold winds and heavy snows that blanketed the trenches in various WWI memoirs. Encamped in the old stone farmhouse on the Sandricourt estate, Grant Willard and the rest of the ambulance men endured the cold but at least would not have to worry about gun or shell fire until the spring.

Sunday, January 13, 1918:

Three weeks ago when I started to write in this book while in bed I was prevented by the cold. There was a good fire going in a stove at the foot of my bed, but it is impossible to heat the air at a greater radius than 3 ft. and then it passes out a hole in the roof.

They say that “history repeats itself.” A good deal of history has been repeated right here in this place and most of it seems like ancient history to us. There seems to be no more purpose and forethought to this camp than before. We are still doing the same odd jobs, talking about the same things and cursing our fate -- what fools we humans are!

Christmas was a dull day here. There was supposed to be no details, but the worst of them had to go on of course. There was the sanitary detail, guard and kitchen detail. I was assigned to K.P. to help give the boys as merry a Christmas as possible. There was nothing during the day which would mark it in any way from any other day and as I look back on it now it hardly seems possible that Christmas has come and gone. In the evening there was a stupid entertainment in the YMCA and afterward presents were passed out to every man in camp. There were the various individual gifts to the YMCA from the States to the men each with the name and address of the donor enclosed. Mine was from a Miss Clara N. Bartlett, 57 Baldwin St., Charlestown, Mass. Then the Red Cross gave little bags or comfort kits to all army men. These contained handkerchiefs, tooth brushes, tooth paste, smoking tobacco, candy, gum etc. and were very practical indeed and the boys were very grateful for them. The YMCA gifts were nice, but contained such a silly lot of trash such as toys, puzzles and rank chewing tobacco.

The Saint-Nazaire trip was miserable. Saint-Nazaire being on the coast gets the benefit (?) of the ocean breezes only instead of there being breezes during our stay there they had become heavy winds combined with rain, sleet and snow. We were there but one day during which time we all got thoroughly chilled a

nd soaked. We slept in barracks with no stoves. I was never so cold in my life, but was somewhat cheered up when I found that I drew a staff car to drive instead of one of the trucks. There were about eight staff cars, eight trucks had no shelter except one isinglass curtain while the other cars could be entirely closed in.

On Tuesday, December 17, we left Saint-Nazaire headed for Sandricourt, but instead of driving a nice staff car I was shivering in a light truck. Little Keever wasn’t feeling well so we traded cars. Thanks to my fur coat I came through without freezing anything. We spent our first night at Angers and the second night at Chartres. The cathedral at Chartres is supposed to be very wonderful, but we pulled in in the dark and left before we were entirely awake the next morning so we didn’t even see the cathedral. Sandricourt never looked so good before. All the cars came through whole with one exception and that was when Harris skidded into a tree and bent his rear-X (not his’n but the car’s, I mean).

On Wednesday, the day after Christmas, we took 24 ambulances up to Bar-le-Duc--that is we started to take them. Because there had been so much trouble on previous convoys with meals and sleeping quarters Major Chaudron was sent along with us. The ambulances were newly equipped American Field Service Fords. Its the neatest equipment I have seen on any ambulances in France. The bodies are wood instead of papier-mâché; The tool equipment is most complete; the driving seat is much more comfortable than those of the American Army issue. [The trip] will pass down as one of the worst trips Section 647 ever took. The weather couldn’t have been worse. The roads were slippery and the snow flew with a swift, cold wind right into our faces making it impossible to drive into at times. We made la Ferté-Gaucher for the first night. It was a shame that the weather was so poor because we passed through territory which really marked the battle of the Marne in ’14. We skirted Coulommiers which marks pretty closely the center of General Foch’s attack upon the advancing Boche and resulted in his outflanking them and forcing the whole German right wing to beat a hasty retreat from, you might say, the gates of Paris. The French corporal led the convoy and made most of his stops in villages thus giving us a chance to run into cafés for coffee. In these places we heard many interesting stories of the retreat at first hand.

Thursday broke cold, but clear not snowing until the afternoon. ’Twas a very interesting day. The roads were sheer ice and many was the car that turned around on the road while trying to stop. Just out of Sézanne, Pop Carry skidded into a curb and broke a rear wheel. A little further on Fraser skidded off the road and turned over. Fortunately he escaped without a scratch. The Boche retreat in this sector was so rapid and their stay so short that everything was left without much devastation. The graves in this district line the roads, the more elaborate French crosses contrasted with the plain Boche crosses. We spent the night comfortably in a school house at St. Dizier where I stood guard from 2:30 to 4:30 A.M. “Talk of your cold! Through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.” [This is a line from "The Cremation Of Sam McGee" by Robert Service.] From St. Dizier it was but a short run into Bar-le-Duc. Poor old Bar-le-Duc is a different place today than it was last September. Boche planes have

completely demolished certain sections of the city. Inhabitants are scarcer than ever before. They told us that the place hadn’t been bombed for three months and already the people were beginning to move back to the city. They are deathly afraid of bombs in Bar and one certainly can’t blame them.

We took the 5:50 train for Paris arriving there shortly after 10 P.M. Went right to bed very tired and I personally suffering from indigestion. We were given the day in Paris. Johnny and I called on Miss Mullen in her new quarters--Hotel Brighton. Returned to Sandricourt on the 7:10 very tired and glad to be back in our more or less comfortable barracks.