You can say one thing about life here: there’s no chance for ennui. It’s a constant barrage of one thing after another and I can’t think of anything I like better.
Do tell mother that Freddie and I are both well and hearty. She’s not to worry about us in the least. If she’s feeling fluttery, she should call Dr. Sands, although I am quite certain there’s nothing wrong with her that a brisk walk and a good dose of fresh air wouldn’t cure.
—Miss Frances Englund, ’09, to her aunt Miss Millicent Rattner
September 1917
Grécourt, France
It wasn’t Emmie who found a way to bring the villagers to them. It was Julia.
They were at dinner in their tiny dining room in the first barrack, crammed around a makeshift table, eating lukewarm vegetable soup that Marie had carried over in a battered tureen from her tarpaulin-covered house, everyone talking over each other about their day.
“I don’t see how we can do it all,” Margaret said, poking at her soup. She had been part of the group detailed to go to three of the nearer villages with Julia, serving double duty as driver and social worker. “There’s just so much. We didn’t get through even half of what we intended.”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” said Mrs. Rutherford serenely.
“Before Rome can be built, it needs to be washed,” said Dr. Stringfellow. “The levels of hygiene are appalling. We need well pumps and washtubs. By the dozen.”
“Also fine-toothed combs,” put in Emmie, trying not to scratch.
“Miss Randolph, will you add those to the list? Miss Randolph will be in charge of our store.”
Emmie couldn’t help but notice that Maud, beneath her aloof expression, seemed rather pleased with the appointment. “I’ll need to go to Paris,” Maud said importantly. “We can’t rely on anything arriving unless we fetch it ourselves.”
“Next week,” said Mrs. Rutherford. “You can take the White.”
“I can’t drive,” said Maud, looking at Mrs. Rutherford with barely contained contempt.
“Then you can take the train,” said Mrs. Rutherford, “and someone will meet you at Amiens.”
“With all the packages?” demanded Maud.
“You’ll manage,” said Mrs. Rutherford. “You can collect our chickens while you’re there. We’re expecting—how many, Miss Van Alden?”
“Seventy-two,” said Emmie.
“How am I meant to take seventy-two chickens on the train?”
“In crates, presumably,” offered Fran Englund with a remarkably straight face.
“Oooh, goody,” said Liza. “Could you add DeWitt’s biscuits to the list? I’ve gone through all of mine.”
“And candies—not for us, for the children,” Emmie hastily amended.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Anne Dawlish, looking up. “I went through my whole stock of Tootsie Rolls bribing the children to come see Dr. Stringfellow.”
Dr. Stringfellow snorted. “I’m hardly that scary.”
Emmie made the mistake of glancing at Kate, who had such a Kate-like expression of polite disbelief that Emmie had to take refuge in her napkin rather than disgrace herself by laughing out loud.
“But how do we ever get to them all?” Margaret was still worrying at her soup. “There are just so many. And they all need so much.”
“Yes, like seventy-two chickens,” muttered Maud.
Emmie leaned forward eagerly. “Kate and I were discussing this just earlier today, weren’t we, Kate? Not the chickens, I mean, but how to let everyone know we’re here. What we need is to bring the ones who can come this far here to us—to show them what we can do for them. We could have a party! A children’s party. If we could get even some portion of them here . . .”
“How would they get there?” asked Fran, dunking a hunk of day-old war bread in her soup in an attempt to soften it. “Some of those villages are quite far.”
“Oh, that’s no matter,” said Mrs. Rutherford, brushing that aside. “They’ll find a way if they want to come—they walk the most tremendous distances. They might come for curiosity’s sake, if nothing else. But we’ll want to find something—”
“We should have a mass.” Julia’s crystalline voice cut through the group.
“A mass?”
“A church ceremony,” said Julia impatiently. “The church is still standing, isn’t it?”