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.

Sitting in my car sipping coffee from my big French bowl, unshaven and smeared with grease...

It's always interesting to compare what Grant kept to himself in his diary and what he shared in his letters. Naturally, due to military censorship, he couldn't divulge battle details, etc., but he also shielded his family from the really painful details of his work.On the same day that he wrote the account of Tod Gillett's brutal death in his diary, he sat down and wrote this chatty letter to his mother, Louise, never mentioning the loss that his outfit had suffered.

He does mention, however, the startling appearance at the front of an old friend from back home--Marguerite Marsh (1890-1925). A few years older than Grant, Marsh left her job at the Mankato Public Library to volunteer with the Red Cross in France. She was the inspiration behind Maud Hart Lovelace's novel Emily of Deep Valley. 

Convois Autos.,

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

Monday – July 15, 1918

Dearest Mother:-

Wednesday last brought me the biggest surprise I have had since coming to France. I was sitting in my car sipping coffee from my big French bowl, unshaven and smeared with grease (having put in the day at cleaning and repairing my car after 48 hours on post) when a Dodge car drove up and out of the back seat hopped Marguerite Marsh. The surprise was so complete that I didn’t recognize her at first and when I finally did I was so dumbfounded that I couldn’t say two consecutive sentences. She didn’t recognize Hap at all and I had to casually mention his name before she could remember him. We didn’t have a chance to visit for she had to leave right away but I did find out where she is located and hope to see her again before long. She is just about 50 kilometers from here. Maybe I can get down that way on my permission.

It all came about this way: Johnnie Taylor and two other boys had gone into a pretty good sized town not far from here to spend the day at shopping. They were in a department store looking over some post cards when in walked Marguerite. She also wanted cards. They fell into a casual discussion in which Marguerite chanced to mention Minnesota. “Do you happen to know anyone from Mankato or St. Cloud?” asked Johnnie. “Mankato!” screamed Marguerite, “That’s my home.” “Do you know ‘Jess’ Willard or ‘Hap’ Ahlers?” was Johnnie’s next question.Marguerite allowed as how she did and grabbing Johnnie she thrust him into the car and ordered him to show them the way to “Hap” Ahlers and “Jess” Willard. And Johnnie filled the bill. I only wish she could have stayed longer with us. I guess she was about as glad to see us as we were here for we have since heard that when she tore madly forth from the Department Store she had in her hand a pile of post cards unpaid for. Honest Marguerite! The two boys who were left behind in the mad rush had quite a time with the girl behind the counter in figuring out how many cards the “questionable young mademoiselle” had “gotten away with.” Marguerite looks well. We didn’t have a chance to discuss her work and how she likes it. She looks very stunning in her uniform.

Yesterday was “la grande fête” day all over France. You remember last year at this time I wrote to you from the Vosges telling you about our celebration down there--how we were taken for American officers at a hospital down there and treated as such? Well there is no chance of their ever making that mistake again. Our uniforms give us away. But we celebrated just the same--that is, those of us who were fortunate enough to be back in camp yesterday did. We played the Frenchmen a tough game of soccer and managed to win by a score of 2-1. It was a hard game and many are the stiff joints in camp today but we had much fun out of it.

At 7:30 in the evening we listened to a very good concert at the Y.M.C.A. violin, voice and piano. It’s the first thing of its kind since Elsie Janis visited this sector some weeks ago and made such a decided “hit.” Our truck transported the piano for the occasion from a nearby town and on its return trip it stopped over night at our camp. We have a very good pianist in our outfit so you can imagine the rest. Dancing, Virginia-reel, square-dance and singing until long after dark. The result is that our Lieutenant is going to try to rent a piano for the section during the time that we are located here. A dance has also been proposed with real girls for partners. So you see war is not all hell. In addition to all of this we have our permissions still to look forward to. They ought to be starting soon with everything so quiet up here.

I am glad my name did not appear on any casualty list which met your eye so as to cause you undue worry until you knew the facts. The gas has left no noticeable effects on any of us.Am well and as happy as can be expected – hoping harder than ever for the termination of this mess so that we can get home.

Much love to all,

Grant.

P.S. – I don’t believe that Miss Mullen was a confirmed member of any particular religious denomination. Of course, while in France, being so highly in sympathy with French character and customs, she attended the Catholic church when any at all.

As to her being a socialist or not I can’t say. Perhaps if you can define what you mean by socialism I can answer your question. She was no pupil of Scheiderman or Leibknecht, I can assure you of that much. Neither was she an ardent advocate of Bolshevism. Of this I am just as sure. She was thoroughly in sympathy with everything for which the allies are fighting today though a bit inclined to criticize the U.S. for her tardiness in joining in the big fight. This she attributed to the evils in our present form of government overlooking the fact that the same evils exit wherever politics play as prominent a part in the government as in our own country. We have had many interesting talks on this subject and if this doesn’t answer your question I can go more into detail and quote from a few of the letters I have received from her. Even though she were a sort of socialist let us remember this about her: She was absolutely true from core out to the allied cause and threw every ounce of her energy into helping it along. Her numerous letters and interesting talks were an inspiration to the higher and better life to many a youth on this side. This part of her I shall never forget.

GRW

SSU 647 loses a man

It's been two months since we've seen a diary entry from Grant Willard--the last one was on May 19, 1918. Was it the war that kept him from recording his experiences? Not at all; he was simply out of paper! 

Grant wrote his diary on 5½ x 8½ inch, narrow-ruled notepaper. It is actually ledger paper—the right margin on both sides of each sheet being divided in red ink into two columns for bookkeeping purposes. When his supply ran low in May 1918 he asked his mother to send him more, which finally arrived at the front in July. He wrote in graceful legible cursive.

In this diary entry, Grant recounts in detail the horrific death of one of his comrades. Tod Gillett was a doomed man: on June 14, 1918, his ambulance was destroyed by a direct hit while it was parked at base; five days later Gillett was killed by another direct hit on a replacement vehicle.  

Monday, July 15, 1918:

Much has transpired since last writing in this book almost two months ago.

Our headquarters has shifted from Vignot to Lagney, a small town, near Ménil-la-Tour. We have excellent quarters here and are sufficiently exclusive to make life in the army worth living. There are few Americans in town and except for the many and numerous foolish calls sent in by the 26th Ambulance headquarters we are left pretty much to ourselves. But the 26th has gone now. They thought they were going to Château-Thierry and as near as we can find out from letter received from them that is where they are now. We made many friends among them and had it not been for some of the officers in our service we would have been glad to go with them. But we are left to break in a brand-new division (the 82nd) on this front. 7 new men have been sent us bringing our total up to 44 men. 15 new cars and 12 men from the 82nd have been attached to us temporarily for training--so we have a pretty good-sized camp now. Since this new division has come in with a division of French to train them the whole sector has become tranquil and peaceful as it should be and was until the 26th cut hell loose.

Gillett in his first destroyed ambulance.

June 14, 1918: the Boche staged another raid on Xivray[-et-Marvoisin] instead of Seichesprey and made things very uncomfortable for everybody back as far as Ansauville. They penetrated the town of Xivray, but were forced back by the 103rd boys who put up a good fight. The Boche retired with heavy losses to their former lines, but didn’t stop shelling Rambucourt, Beaumont, Mandres and Hamonville and even Ansauville until after the 26th had departed. On the morning of the 14th Beaumont and Rambucourt and the road between were particularly heavily shelled. In the yard at Beaumont we had four cars hit during the day, but as luck would have it no one was in or near them. Tod Gillett’s car suffered a direct hit knocking it out completely. The other three motors were left intact and were not irreparable. The whole section worked all day and all night of the 14th evacuating the wounded from Beaumont and Rambucourt. Rambucourt was in the 103’s territory and should have been covered by them, but the same old story -- they had cold feet so 647 did their work for them while they stood back and took the credit.

June 19, 1918: the Boche raided Jury Woods, but were driven out. We suffered again. The road between Beaumont and P.C. Condy ( a 1st aide station on the Flirey road) was under very heavy shell fire during this raid in an endeavor to silence the batteries which line the road. A call came in from P.C. Condy for a car while the shelling was very heavy. King at Beaumont (a very particular friend of ours) took the call and told them he wouldn’t send a car down until after the shelling had ceased. They said it was an emergency and they had to have a car immediately.

Ambulance in which Gillett was killed.

It was Tod’s turn out. He got there alright and loaded up with three slightly wounded. On the return trip the car was hit--Tod was killed and his aide escaped injury except for a general shake-up. Two of the patients were killed and the third escaped further injury. A runner brought the news in to Beaumont and Jack Swain (Tod’s best friend and college chum) together with Richardson (one of the boys in the Beaumont dressing station) crawled down to Tod through a very heavy barrage. They crawled down a ditch with the shells passing over their heads and breaking on the batteries and dugouts directly across the road. Then came a temporary lull in the shelling giving Jack and “Rich” enough time to get Tod out and the other two boys. Tod died immediately. The shell had lit under the right front wheel of the car sending a piece of éclat through the right side of Tod’s neck almost severing his head. “Dud” Mills, Tod’s aide, was on the side of the explosion, but escaped. C’est la guerre! Jack and Deveraux Dunlap were particularly hard hit by the accident, having known Tod for so long. They were immediately called off post and Luyx and I were sent up to replace them. Tod’s body was held for us as a special favor to us--thanks to Lieut. Comfort at Beaumont.

Gillett's grave in Arlington National Cemetery

June 20, 1918: I carried the body to Ménil-la-Tour where he was put into a zinc cask purchased by Jack and Dev. at Toul and the funeral ceremony took place that afternoon. The boys were pretty lifeless for several days as Tod was a great favorite with us all. Big, tall, mammoth hearted Florida boy that he was! King broke down completely because of his sending Tod out. We have had many nice notes from King since the 26th has gone. A French school mistress living next to us in Lagney was particularly nice to us during our hard times. She donated many flowers for Tod’s grave and has kept it freshly covered ever since the ceremony. She has looked after us all like a mother. I wish there was something we could do for her.

(N.B. On a trip to Ménil-la-Tour in 2010 I tried to find Gillett's grave in the churchyard. I didn't find one so I went so far as to ask the staff at the village hall if there were any record of an American having been buried there in 1918. There was none. As it turns out, Gillett's remains were removed to Arlington National Cemetery sometime after the war.)

I know a Red Cross Lieutenant who went over the top armed with a drum of hot tea and bag of crackers.

It's no exaggeration to say that the Y.M.C.A. was very near and dear to Grant Willard's father. W.D. Willard first became a "Y" enthusiast whilst a student at the University of Minnesota in the 1880s, and helped establish the Mankato Y.M.C.A. in 1892. He served on the board for decades and took much pride in guiding young people through the organization. So when his son went off to serve in France during the Great War, W.D. was naturally curious about the effectiveness of the Y.M.C.A. on the Western Front.

In this letter to his family, Grant speaks frankly about his displeasure with the Y.
  

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

Friday – July 5, 1918

Dear Family:- 

This letter is to answer one from Mother dated May 23, one from Marion dated May 20, one from Dad of June 2 and one from John of June 3. All of these letters came to me the other day when I was down with a slight attack of influenza. This blooming disease seems to be making the rounds in all armies on this side. The fever only lasts a few days but it is miserable while it lasts. We have carried many cases of this disease in our cars in the last two months.

Now I have much to tell you so might as well start right in:

First, I have lost my fountain pen – hence the pencil.

Second, that clipping you sent me regarding Harold Tucker was very interesting because it gave me the first clue of where to look for him. I thought we must be with his division but a division is scattered over such a wide area that unless one knows right where to look it is almost impossible to locate a man. When your clipping came, however, I knew right where to go and went there “tout de suite.” The report is quite true, according to a sergeant and very close friend of Harold’s who used to be in a company with him. Tuck was a sergeant in charge of an anti-tank gun. During a certain action up here, the one which you may have read in the [Literary] Digest for May 4, he and his company were caught in their dugout by the Boche and taken back somewhere into Bochland. I certainly hope he is being treated fairly well, anyway. Tuck’s a big boy and a natural fighter. I hope his strength or quick tongue won’t “do him dirt.”

The irony of the whole thing is the fact that we had been working side by side practically for a month. Ten of our cars were even attached to his regimental headquarters for awhile. Even while he was being taken I couldn’t have been very far from shouting distance from him had we both been outside and had the guns not been making such a terrific racket. We were still running cars down into the town when the Germans entered but they never got to our end of the village. It was after this little affair that eight of us went to the hospital with gas. It was during this affair and while coming up out of this village that Leo McGuire had his car picked out from in under him with only a scratch for himself and a broken collar-bone for his orderly. He has since been awarded a D.S.C. for his experience.

Tuck was doing good work, they tell me, and was very well liked among the fellows who knew him. Here’s hoping he comes back to us all right.

Now about the Y.M.C.A. work of which you have asked me several times to speak. I hope I’m fair when I say that the Y.M.C.A. has already lost a great deal of popularity among the young men in their great undertaking on this side. This is particularly true with their work in the war zone among the men who form the reserve infantry--(this is about as far front as the Y.M.C.A. goes). And before I go any further I want to say that these following statements are not made alone from personal observation but personal observation together with discussions to which I have listened, regarding this work.

There’s a lack of efficiency in the organization somewhere. I think they have selected men of too small caliber to handle their smaller departments--the men in charge of the tents and huts, I mean. Questions like this are frequently heard asked by a soldier of a soldier, “Why is it that when I go to the Y.M.C.A. to buy a can of milk they ask me 1 fr. 50 for it when I can go down to the Salvation Army or over at the Q.M. and get the same thing for 70 centimes?” The answer is often: “Oh, I don’t know.”

They’re robbers! I’m through with the Y.M.C.A. Whenever you do get a few minutes off and want to run over to the Y.M.C.A. to get something to eat they are either closed, out of stock or else they want a double price for everything.” Or it maybe this: “Go to the Salvation Army if you want to buy anything. They’re sure to be open and they won’t stick you. They’re awfully nice too.” We in the ambulance service are on the road a great deal of the time and occasionally in passing a Y.M.C.A. drop off to buy a cake of chocolate or cookies or something. It is very exasperating to find the window closed with a sign hanging up giving the hours during which articles are sold over the counter. 

During some recent action up here the Red Cross were serving chocolate and tea up in the very trenches (front line) and were furnishing cigarettes and drinks to the principle dressing stations for the wounded which were coming in rather rapidly–this all free of charge. The Salvation Army in a town a short way back were serving coffee and doughnuts night and day for 1 franc (1 large cup of hot coffee and 3 doughnuts) to the troops coming back. They had men up in the trenches to tell the officers that their men could get refreshments that night on their way out if they would stop at such and such a place. The Y.M.C.A. in the meantime were running usual hours, usual prices and usual stock (bibles, chocolate, cigars and sometimes cigarettes). The fellows noticing this couldn’t help it. One Y.M.C.A. man I know notices it also. So he bought his stock out of his own pocket and made up some chocolate and sat outside a dugout near a place where men were swarming to and from the trenches and gave out his stock of cigarettes, chocolate, hot-chocolate, etc., to the men as they passed. He has since told me that his performance, during that 48 hours which he worked there steadily almost without food himself, almost cost him his job. But here was a man who realized the narrowness of his limitations so he went ahead out of his own pocket.  He gave away his entire stock at a critical moment. He made a big hit with the men by doing so. I know a Red Cross Lieutenant who went over the top with the boys one night but instead of being armed with rifle and hand-grenade he shouldered a drum of hot tea and carried a bag of crackers. These are the men who are doing work which counts and their work is the work which will always be remembered. I’m not saying that the entertainments which the Y.M.C.A. furnishes to the officers, nurses and wounded way back of the lines are not a great success because from what we hear and read we are led to believe they are doing a great work. But up here the Y.M.C.A. shows up very weakly beside the Salvation Army and Red Cross. Have I made myself clear?

Yes, Miss Mullen and her secretary were among those killed while in church on Good Friday. Their bodies were found on Saturday so badly mutilated that their pass-ports alone told the authorities whom they had found. Miss Mullen was buried in Paris on the following Wednesday. Her secretary, Mlle. Floch, was laid away in her home in Brittany. Someday, when these cursed fools in Germany are wiped off the face of the earth, I suppose Miss Mullen’s body will be taken to Fox Lake, Wisconsin where she was born and where her father and mother are buried.

I asked the Lieutenant if he would pass the enclosed pictures and he very graciously gave his permission. Hope they reach you all right. Hang on to them because they are a very small part of a highly prized collection. The groups are of the old section #61.

Will try to write Sis and Johnnie this week.  Give Tib my sympathy in his trouble but tell him not to get discouraged.  Perfect health is essential in this work and to get perfectly well before he attempts anything in the war line again.

I must quit.

Much love to all,

Grant.

Had a slight attack of influenza...

Influenza Epidemic of 1918–19, also called Spanish Influenza Epidemic, was the most severe influenza outbreak of the 20th century and, in terms of total numbers of deaths, possibly the most devastating epidemic in human history. Influenza is caused by a virus that is transmitted from person to person through airborne respiratory secretions. An outbreak can occur if a new strain of influenza virus emerges against which the population has no immunity. The Influenza Epidemic of 1918–19—which is more precisely called a pandemic because it affected populations throughout the world—resulted from such an occurrence. On average influenza pandemics occur every 30 to 40 years, so it was not the event but the severity and speed of transmission of the virus that marked this episode as unusual. 

The outbreak occurred in three waves. The first apparently originated in Camp Funston, Kansas, U.S., in early March 1918. American troops that arrived in western Europe in April to participate in World War I are thought to have brought the virus with them, and by July it had spread to Poland. The first wave of influenza was comparatively mild; however, during the summer the virus mutated into a more lethal strain and a second more severe form of the disease emerged in August 1918. Pneumonia often developed quickly, with death usually coming two days after the first indications of the flu. For example, at Camp Devens, Massachusetts, U.S., six days after the first case of influenza was reported, there were 6,674 cases. The third wave of the epidemic occurred in the following winter, and by the spring the virus had run its course. In the two later waves about half the deaths were among 20- to 40-year-olds, an unusual age pattern for influenza.

In this letter to his mother, Grant talks about having an attack of flu. His only lasted a day or so but this was most likely an early wave of the deadly Spanish Influenza pandemic. Grant talks about it making the rounds in the army. 

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

Tuesday, June 25, 1918

Dear Mother:-

I can’t tell you how badly it makes me feel to hear you say, as you did in your May 20 letter received but a few minutes ago, that my April letter had arrived.  Are you really only getting one letter a month from me?  McCrackin from Montana says his mother only receives about one letter a month from him.  Why is it and where do they all go to?  I must have written all of ten to you in April.  I’m at a loss to know the reason for it.  Other parents are receiving mail regularly from this side.  For the last two weeks I have been writing you every 48 hours as we are relieved and come back to rest up for another 48 hours on post.  I’m due to go out again tonight but have had a slight attack of influenza; which seems to be going the rounds of the army so am to be held over a shift--meaning 48 hours more.  The fever lasts about 3 days but my attack must have been light for my fever left me last night.  Am up and around today though rather shaky on my twigs.  Putnam, Klein, Wilder and Bodfish are all out with the same ailment so perhaps you can imagine how very busy the available men must be.  McGuire left us with this same disease about three weeks ago (they thought it best to take him to a hospital.)  He was evacuated several times and we have lost track of him.  It was last reported that he was at a Base Hospital near Base #66 where we were in early April so this morning our Lieutenant left in his staff car to hunt for him.  We want McGuire back with us very much indeed.

Lieutenant Anderson has left us and we have a new Lieut. (Lieut. Smith) from V.M.I.(Virginia Military Institute) who has just been over here since the first of the year.  He’s a “true blue” and the fellows are wild about him.  Many changes are taking place with us these days but without a word of complaint from any of us for we know our Lieutenant is behind us and fighting for us.

Our division is moving but we do not move with them.  We stay right here and work with the new division which will be French and American--rookies.  (Not French rookies, you understand, because there are none such).

Nothing more has been done about permissions and probably won’t be for awhile.

Got a letter from Bill Everett today but he had not received my letter telling of the proposed permission.  I certainly wish I could write as much in detail as he does.  In fact I sometimes wonder if the reason for my letters not reaching you is not due to my trying to tell too much.  Gee, but his work is interesting.

Things are looking fine on the front. Very encouraging developments as you note by the papers.

Got a bill from Literary Digest people.  Shall I pay it?  I would be glad to because it is very much appreciated (the paper, I mean).

Boost the Red Cross and Salvation Army.  They are doing splendid work over here.

Your loving son,

Grant.

A year has taken me a long, long, way from home both in thought and person.

Ever since Grant embarked on this great adventure, he adopted the use of several French words in his diary and letters. "Repos" and "permission" are two words that appear frequently since both were highly desired by men on both sides of the fighting. When an army is en repos it's at rest in the rear, away from the bloody carnage. Going on permission (military leave) was even more coveted than repos because one could get far away from the fighting, recharge one's batteries and try to forget.

In this letter to his mother, Louise, Grant describes being en repos and the tantalizing carrot of permission dangling before him.

Convois Autos.,

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

                       

Friday – June 14, 1918

 

Dearest Mother:-

It’s been almost two weeks since I last wrote you. And a busy two weeks it has been, too.  We are still where we were and have been for the last two months. (Read the first article in the Literary Digest for May 4). Several of our cars have been laid up so that some have had to do extra work. I am now on my third day of rest. Tomorrow will be my fourth and last. It’s just like coming back on repos to come to this camp of ours. It’s as quiet as the cemetery next door--far enough back so that we can only hear the big guns and sufficiently out-of-the-way and small enough so that we are not bothered by air-raids.  Have spent my time back here this “hitch” just sleeping and eating. It feels great to be able to sleep in a good bed in a large airy room free from bugs and rats. We (#647) played the French Engineers in soccer last night after supper. This is the third game in a series of five which we have played these boys. They have won two games (2-1 and 1-0) and we have won one (2-1). It is rather difficult for us to depend upon 11 men who play because we are continually shifting in and out of this place. Soccer provides diversion and excellent exercise. The Frenchmen are fine sports and enjoy playing with us as much as we do them.

Soccer

Stuart Hugh Fraser AKA Fraze (1892-1990)

We have a new Lieutenant now and he is a peach. Hasn’t been over here long but so far we are very enthusiastic over him. As soon as he found out that we hadn’t had a permission of any kind in over nine months his first action was to arrange a permission schedule.  We paired off and we have just drawn for numbers. You have heard me speak of Fraser, New York, old #61 man?  He and I are going together. Regulations permit only 5% of any group leaving on permission at the same time which means two men in our section. I drew № 2 which means that we ought to be out of here in about three weeks. Am as excited as a kid about this thing. Maybe by the time this letter reaches you “Fraze” and I will be off in some corner of France on a real vacation for 7 days. Hap is going with McCrackin.  They drew № 5. Johnnie is trying to get to England with an English cousin--1^st Lieut. in English army. Johnnie drew № 14. Poor kid, and he did want to get away early. The irony of the whole thing is the fact that the government already owes us two permissions.  Before we make the rounds of this permission another will have already passed. Like this: Not including non-coms and our Lieut. we have, at present, 34 men in the section who are eligible for permission. That means 17 permissions when paired off. We are allowed 7 days exclusive of traveling time which means that each pair will probably be gone 10 days.  All right, 17 permissions of 10 days each means 170 days or better than five months and a half before we make the rounds and we are supposed to get a leave every four months.  Can you explain that? I can’t. But I’m so tickled to get any at all that I’m not complaining--just pondering.

Am writing Bill Everett today to tell him the glad news and see if we can’t get together. Bill’s situation will have a lot to do with where we will spend our permission. I should like to get down south again if possible.  The government may have something to say about where we are going, however. The good old days of going where you will when you will have passed, I’m afraid. So much for myself.

Mother, I have just received a letter from Dot, dated May 19, in which she told me all about her engagement party. I really can’t tell you how deeply I was affected by what you did for her in my absence. That letter put me to bed and kept me there for two days.  You know, Mother, a year has taken me a long, long, way from home both in thought and person. Now don’t misunderstand me. I think of you all very, very often but I can’t place myself back there among you. I’ve tried it time and again but it simply will not work.  I can’t explain it. Maybe because the nature of our work over here compels us to put most of our energy and thought behind our work and to forget everything else. Home seems so far off and a thing of the past because we have cast it out of our minds in our determination to stick over here until this thing is over.  We know not when that time will be. It may be a year, it may be a hundred. In any circumstance it’s our duty to stick it out. It isn’t a pleasant thought but it’s the truth. Anyway when Dot told me what you had done it broke me all up and a terrible attack of homesickness set in. It’s the first real severe attack I have ever had and hope it’s the last. Went up on the hill last night alone and had it out. Feel much better today. The novelty of this experience is no longer here to buoy us up. That has worn off long ago and it is now a continual night of bad dreams and horrible sights. I’ve had enough.  God, when will this thing be over?

 

Dorothy Houghton Willard (1894-1979)

Dorothy’s party evidently made her very happy and I’m very happy too although it hardly seems possible that I can be a part of it. She mentioned hoping for a letter or card or cablegram from me on May 18. I would have cabled if I could have done so just as I would have from the hospital. One can’t depend on mails. It is really most discouraging. I did write her but I have no assurance but what that letter will go just where many more of mine have gone.
 

I don’t want Dot to take that nurse’s course, training, I don’t want her to come to France. Her mother says Dot isn’t physically strong enough and then she--Dot--has the wrong idea back of it all. She says she wants to do her bit just as if that necessitated coming over here. She is willing to attempt a branch of work which she herself admits she isn’t crazy about just to get over here and to see me. I would love to have her near me but not in present France nor while doing work she didn’t like and isn’t fit for.

 

Somebody from Minneapolis inquired for Hap and me at camp here other day but we were both up on post. He left no name but said he would be around again. Would like to know who it could be. Thought everybody from Minnesota was an officer outside of Hap and me but this fellow, they say, was a private.

 

Here’s hoping that by the time this letter reaches you I will be off on our permission with Fraze and Bill. Bill will like Fraze I’m sure.

 

Thank you, dear people, for all you have done for me.  I feel more helpless than ever.

The same old barrels of love.

Grant.

I could get fat here if I could stay about two weeks.

Grant composed this letter to his mother, Louise, while sitting in a bucolic French setting. He describes in detail the gas attack that he went through a month and a half before.

Convois Autos.,

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

                          

Sunday – June 2, 1918

Dear Mother:-

The letter which I started to you last Wednesday morning at 3 o’clock will never reach you because, on reading it over the next day, I was too ashamed of it to drop it in the box. I wrote it while watching a most beautiful sunrise which seems to have gone to my head. I’m sure my morose stoicism would have startled you quite as much as it did me when I reread what I had set down on paper. It was really the first time I had been alone long enough to work into a philosophic frame of mind aided, no doubt, by the time of day and surroundings for a long time. This all took place in a town which at one time, not more than four years ago, had undoubtedly been a very beautiful place but these same four years in the firing lines has left it a lonely, desolate pile of rocks and dust. The inhabitants of this town are like so many rats or ground moles coming up out of their holes in the ruins to get a bit of fresh air and sunshine now and then but first looking carefully around to assure themselves that a common enemy is not dropping bits of Kultur in their vicinity.

     

The circumstances under which this letter is being composed, however, are quite different, being in full accord with the day. (I am sitting on a blanket with a shade tree as a back and protection against a hot sun. It is in a garden full of fragrant flowers in full bloom, honey-suckle, lilacs, daffodils and many others which I cannot call by name. And a million little bugs all very curious at my present occupation.) All of this is our back yard. These are our new quarters. To be sure, we sleep in a room over the stables but this garden is where we live. Next door is the church and cemetery. At present there are four big bells going full tilt in the belfry and I can look across and see a venerable old priest up there urging the bells on to more racket. It sounds like my Ford making a rough road at 30 per.

We have only changed our headquarters. We are still operating in the sector where we have been for the last month and a half. We have many new posts due to the shifting and interchanging of the American and French forces. This change takes me away from Boots Weidemann but give us a much better place to live. We work out of here on seven day shifts. I could get fat here if I could stay about two weeks.

The last two weeks have indeed been strenuous ones. Due to two or three of the cars being laid up for repairs and three of the drivers being in the hospital with a fever which seems to be going the rounds it has been necessary for some of us to work overtime. This is my first visit to our base for three weeks. Then the ambulance company to which we are attached has had their Fords replaced by GMCs which they consider to be too big for use for front work. I think they will find their mistake before long, however, they are a much more practical car for rough roads and heavy loads than a Ford. I only wish we had them.

About those cablegrams I sent to you. I gave them to a boy who went in to Paris and he was to send them for me--one for you and one for Dot. He returned this week and had forgotten all about them. You will have my letter telling you about my “slight” wound before a cablegram sent now would reach you so I can only hope and pray that my name has not been posted. Lest that letter be lost I will repeat my message in this.

On April 19 I was sent to a hospital with Kendrick, Risley, McCrackin, Swain, Dunlap, Gaynor and McEnnis, all 647 men, for a slight attack of gas (mustard). We were only there for three days and are perfectly all right again now. It was so trivial that I would have said nothing about it had Jack Kendrick not been reported in the States as “seriously wounded” and nearly driven his mother frantic. On hearing of this we all cabled but had to send them into Paris as there is no way of cabling from here. Mine never got off, as I have already explained. I hope you never saw my name and haven’t been worrying. You see the Boche made a raid and fed us gas for five hours. One shell hit our house and exploded in the hay directly over the room in which we were living (the gas was so bad in the cellar that we didn’t dare stay there even with our masks on). At daylight we started working our masks. We found it almost impossible to drive with our masks on and perhaps we took them off too soon. Perhaps we got gassed during the afternoon while running back and forth to our room while we evacuated the dressing station there. The gas from that one shell which pierced our roof hung there for days. My dose probably came from a gas shell which exploded in the roads, over which I was driving, about 100 yards ahead of me. I thought it was a 77 high explosive from the dust it blew up and didn’t stop to put on my mask. The dust proved to be fumes of a new gas which they call “fruit gas” (smelling like decayed fruit). We weren’t wasting any time on the road so we barely got a whiff of the stuff but it made us sick to our stomachs and caused the tears to flow in streams making if difficult to drive. My aide got it much worse than I did apparently for he is still suffering. Nobody seems to know when they were gassed because we all wore masks most of that day. Some got it in the lungs causing them to cough for weeks. (I’m talking about the eight of us now.) Some merely had trouble with their eyes for about a week or ten days. Some of us got body burns from the mustard gas. Jack Kendrick had a combination of all three and suffered considerably. The body burns didn’t develop until about ten days after the exposure. We were all released from the hospital long before we should have been but our work being so closely allied with the hospitals we were able to get treatment while we worked.

Have gotten into communication with Bill Everett and maybe we will be lucky enough to meet some of these days. We would to be up with the big noise soon.

Hap [Ahlers] tells me to tell you to tell his family that he is feeling fine. Even Hap is getting thin. What do you know about that?

     

I’ve simply got to go exploring around here before it gets dark.

     

Sincerely hope you are all well and haven’t been worrying.

Barrels of love,

Grant.