* * *
Fred had been in no hurry to officially discharge Phil, as our hospital was greatly benefiting from his knowledge, and everyone, especially I, enjoyed having him around. But we understood that a discharge would mean that he would be assigned elsewhere. But by the end of March, he had completed treatment and there was no way to justify his status.
Phil and I had been having supper together his last few nights after he was officially discharged as a patient, as he awaited orders. We were late that Monday night, and the crew was already pushing tables aside for the weekly dance when we gathered with our bully beef and wax beans to have a chat.
He pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his chest pocket and tossed it on the table. “So I have orders.”
I grabbed the paper. The top half was a bunch of numbers that meant something to army sorts but was gibberish to me. I followed down until I saw Permanent Change of Station: Report to Paris Station soonest. “Well, you poor devil. Paris.”
“I can hardly believe it, Sis. I mean, I’ve spent the war lagging about, and I get this?”
“I’m very happy for you. Truly. You deserve it.” I probably wasn’t hiding very well the tiny bit of envy I felt.
“The best part is I get to continue my work on infectious diseases. Self-appointed expert and all.” He grinned, his boyish face lighting up. “There are some astounding developments at the Institut Pasteur. Phages, tinier even than bacteria, may be the answer to eradicating disease. But still a long way off.”
“I shall miss you around here.”
“Any decision? Does this mean you’re turning down Vassar?” he said.
I pushed the food around on my plate. No longer holding back on my portions, I wasn’t as obsessed with food as I had been. And wax beans were an evil substance. “Haven’t yet. But I believe I’m going to.”
“I’m a bit surprised. You haven’t seemed to have the same passion for this place since…”
He didn’t have to say it. Since Charlotte died. It was true but not something I wanted to admit, even to Phil. And it wasn’t only Charlotte. It was also the game I had to play with my relationship with Fred. I was tired of it all. I looked up at Phil and shrugged my shoulders. He seemed to read my mind.
“And what does Fred think of this? Is he another reason you want to stay? Is that the choice then?”
I cocked my head and raised my eyebrows.
“Don’t think everyone doesn’t know.” He carefully folded his napkin. “Why don’t you just admit it and go on with it? This”—he waved a hand toward the room—“won’t last forever.”
“Yes, and what of that? What happens when we return to St. Louis and he is chief of surgery or medicine or whatever? And if they will have me back, I’m chief of nursing. The situation won’t change. Or I go to New York and he goes to St. Louis. What then? It’s impossible in any case.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Last time I checked, it was a free country.”
“Realistically speaking, any way you cut the cake, I would need to give up my career.”
“Has he asked you to do that?”
“No. In fact, we haven’t even discussed it.”
“Well, don’t you think you ought to?”
I pondered whether I should discuss Marie Curie’s warnings with Phil. I was sure he would just wave them off as the ramblings of an out-of-date and slightly erratic personality. I gathered my plate and eating utensils, even as Phil dug into his dessert: blueberry pie.
“Congratulations on Paris, Phil. I’m truly happy for you.”
* * *
At long last, a meeting was scheduled among the doctors and myself, the agenda being whether I was to be disciplined for performing a procedure outside my practice when I clamped the femoral artery of Private Dempsey. I was actually surprised they still wanted to address this, as after a number of weeks, it seemed to be moot. But the timing of it made it awkward, for I was about to tread upon their guarded turf once more.
Colonel Fife had returned due to the importance of the issue in the entire theater and called the meeting to order, with Drs. Valentine, Ernst, and Murphy and two new doctors also in attendance. The American Red Cross representative was invited but had declined to travel from Paris to attend. We will accept whatever decision is made by the local board, they had written.
I wasn’t apprehensive in the least. I arrived last, and all the men popped up in a chivalrous show, Colonel Fife even pulling out my chair for me. It wasn’t that I ever minded these customs, but I wondered if they weren’t perpetuating a schism between male and female workers that we were trying to mend.
“Miss Stimson, we have concluded the medical business early so as not to waste your precious time. Therefore, we should move on to the matter directly involving you. That is the performance of a surgical procedure, namely a venous cutdown. We have exchanged considerable discussion, including the possibility and, to some, the probability that the soldier would have died if not for your efforts. Dr. Valentine, your findings, please.”
Dr. Valentine wiped his glasses and straightened his small stack of papers. He then loudly cleared his throat. Oh, the drama. I watched it as if in the audience of a particularly dull play. I wanted to be found not guilty, of course, but the emptiness I had been feeling inside ever since we lost Charlotte prevented me from experiencing any emotion either way. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, really; it was more a gut feeling of the futility of it all. I almost wanted them to tell me to go home. Then I wouldn’t have to make the difficult choices I had been steadily avoiding.
“Gentlemen and gentle lady, we have taken serious consideration to the events of March 10, 1918, and have the following findings.”
I glanced at Fred, hoping for a sign of support. But he stared at his fingers, his face arranged in a neutral position. He wouldn’t give anything away. I realized we hadn’t even spoken of the matter just between the two of us, and I didn’t know on which side he fell.
“That the chief nurse, Miss Julia Stimson, did exceed her authority by performing a procedure that is clearly the purview of the medical staff.
“That the procedure was performed after a reasonable effort was made to provide medical staff for the event.
“That medical staff, in the person of a medical student, was in attendance.
“That the chief nurse was acting under duress, without adequate time for careful evaluation of the situation.
“That policies and procedures have since been clarified.” Dr. Valentine then looked at me, giving me the first eye contact since I had arrived. It seemed a good sign.
“We, the medical board of the BEF General 12 and AEF General 20, find that although we cannot condone the action, we do not recommend a reprimand, and we find no further action necessary.”
At this, several in the group cheered. Fred, in particular, remained silent.
Colonel Fife tapped his fist on the table for attention. “Can I see a show of hands. Are we all in agreement?”
All raised their hands. I breathed a sigh of relief. I suppose I was more concerned than I realized.
“Thank you, Miss Stimson. Please continue your important work here.”
At that, they all stood, and I realized I was being dismissed.
“Thank you, doctors, but if you don’t mind, I do have an issue to address.”
There were groans and shaking of heads as they eased back into their chairs.
I opened my satchel and took out a document I had mimeographed. I circled the table, giving each of them a small stack of papers. “So as not to take up too much time, I’ve written my findings for you to review later. But here is the summary. As you know, we have experienced the tragic loss of one of our nurses to influenza. In addition, we have had a number of deaths of soldiers and the incapacitation of an even larger number.
“My request is simple. I wish to
notify the other units in theater of our measures of containment. Although not perfect, as even modest concessions are difficult in our conditions, we do what we can.
“Furthermore, I request that we create a united protocol to be presented to the medical community at large, our allies, and of course back home. As we know, this influenza has not been isolated here in Europe, and the constant movement between theaters creates further risk of spread.”
I don’t know what I expected their reaction to be, but I certainly didn’t anticipate the silent, awkward exchanges of doubtful looks.
“Any comments, gentlemen?”
Fred stood up. “As this is not on our agenda and we’ve had no notice of this…this unusual request, I recommend we take our assigned reading”—at this, there were several chuckles—“and discuss at a later date.”
They all stood and filed out of the room, avoiding me altogether. Except for Fred, who, bless his heart, rested a hand on my shoulder and said, “Congrats, Two Bits.”
“Thank you, Fred. I’m not sure I’d still be here if not for you.”
“Still authorized to be here or want to?”
“Both.” I gathered up the stacks of paper that half of them had left behind.
* * *
The exact mechanism for issuing warnings regarding the dangerous influenza to the folks back home was not included in my recommendations to the medical staff. I had thought that I was already stepping out of my lane, and to go further would have alienated them from the idea. Some of that stemmed from my earlier lesson on the value of having it seem their own idea. But with the improper surgery accusation still hanging over my head, I had been doubly careful.
But this issue was too important to leave to the chance that they would agree with me and take the swift action necessary. And they certainly did not seem moved by my words at the meeting. I wanted to give myself a knock on the head; my timing was awful.
So I conjured up new ways to seek their support. My immediate thought was to get Fred involved. We had worked so well together on the procedure manual project, and of course it was enjoyable to work with him as well.
But Marie Curie’s warnings nagged at me. The proper thing to do seemed to be to distance myself personally and professionally, no matter how sad that made me.
I thought about all this as I did busywork in my office. Many of my daily tasks—correspondence, ordering supplies, authorizing leave, completing pay vouchers—were routine, and my goal was to complete them all before lunchtime so I could spend the afternoon making rounds, checking in with the nurses, and helping out in the operating tent when needed. I desperately wanted to go back to the CCS, but we had enough staff to cover it and only one person to cover for me in my absence. It simply wasn’t logical for me to go.
As we got further into springtime, the number of influenza cases dropped sharply. Thanks to careful hygiene and isolation, no more of my nurses became ill. The diphtheria cases also recovered, and my nurses were nearly at full strength.
The casualties continued to wax and wane with the movement of the front and the changes in weapons. We grew hopeful that the war was nearing an end when things slowed down and the enemy pulled back, only to be thrown back into a cycle of trainloads of casualties pouring in, all-night surgery sessions, then a busy recovery period.
We did not keep patients through their entire recovery and rehabilitation, whether they returned to their units or were sent back to England. We had become rather specialized; as we had a fine team of surgeons and excellent, experienced nurses, the worst of the surgical and neurological cases were sent to us. We got them through surgery and the first critical day or two, then we sent them on to other hospitals for longer recovery if they needed it.
So it was not surprising that the medical staff took little interest in a campaign to prevent another influenza outbreak. But losing Charlotte and the possibility of having lost many more if we hadn’t acted quickly and had Phil present to guide us wasn’t far from my mind. I rolled different ideas in my head. Posters in the cities? A radio campaign? Training at medical schools? Letters to Congress? The answer to that campaign eluded me, just as my own path seemed to become clearer to me.
I was loath to leave my nurses, but at the same time, I believed they deserved fresh leadership and direction. I had given them all I had to give. But what should I do?
I retired to my room and picked up my violin. I ran my fingers over its smooth wood, carefully tightened its strings into tune. I played a tune of my own making, letting the bow sing to its own rhythm. It was probably not music to anyone else’s ears, but it was a soothing comfort to me. My violin was telling me I had to go my own way, find my own song.
I knew the direction had to be toward more power, more responsibility. If I was to begin making the changes that I had seen as necessary, I would need to leave the relative comfort of my known territory. Several positions with the Red Cross headquarters in Paris were opening. I would write a letter expressing my interest in the morning. It was time to move on.
CHAPTER 24
I had not cooked a single thing in over six years. My flat in St. Louis had nothing but a single kerosene burner and an icebox for which I regularly failed to acquire ice. There was a bakery along my walk home that offered wonderful bread, so my lack of an oven was no issue. Aside from building a lunch sandwich from tinned meat, I had taken all my meals at the hospital.
And since arriving in France, I always ate at the mess tent, except for the occasional outing in town. But my mother had taught all five of us girls how to cook, and it was a skill I thought I was in danger of forgetting completely. And so, for a break in routine and the unrelenting sorrow over the loss of Charlotte, I requested a group cooking class from our mess cook, Alice.
She was only too glad to help. I posted a notice on the bulletin board, and we were both pleased to have seven nurses including me, one orderly, and Fred sign up for the event.
Although they had separate dining areas, Alice and her staff fed not only the patients, who frequently numbered over one thousand, but all the staff and visitors as well. They did this in a remarkably small space, a tent similar in size to the ward tents, and some storage space within the grandstand structure.
I arrived at 7:00 a.m. to ensure all was ready for our class. There were huge steel pots and saucepans hung from hooks over the cookstoves that lined both sides of the tent. At either end were clusters of sinks and crates of supplies. Down the center were two rows of tables for preparation. They formed an assembly line, with setups for different stages, such as peeling, chopping, and trimming.
At the appointed time, the nine of us cooking students gathered outside the tent, shivering in the early morning dew. Alice took us to her herb and vegetable gardens and pointed out the various crops. The vegetables were still just rows of tiny seedlings, but several herbs were ready for harvest.
She handed out several small baskets and pairs of scissors. “Pick you some thyme and chives,” Alice said in her Alabama drawl. “You two.” She indicated Fred and me. “You look like you can handle the potatoes.” She pointed to a pile of potatoes in fifty-pound sacks. “Bring them inside.”
Fred couldn’t resist giving me a smirk and teasing bump of the elbow. To which I responded, “Oh, shut up.”
Of course the orderly and my nurses rushed to help with the potatoes. The men threw sacks over their shoulders, and the women carried them in teams of two.
We gathered in a semicircle around Alice as she gave a brief tour and explained the meal preparation routine. “Raw meat is handled at its own station to avoid cross-contamination. Things to be boiled are gathered in the far corner from the dining room. We keep pots on the boil all day and night, for it would take too long to start them over again each morning.
“We will be making a potato dish today. Potatoes dauphinoise, a traditional dish, which I learned in the south of France.” Alice,
whom I had never seen without her full apron, paused for her audience to appreciate this. After a few nods and smiles (from her frown, it seemed a disappointing response), she continued. “This recipe will use knife skills, sautéing, vegetable prep, and baking, so a nice mix for you. And it’s hard to muck up.”
With that, she got a better reaction, as my nurses laughed.
Alice moved to the center table where lay a tray loaded with something the size of a turkey, hidden underneath a cloth. “Do you know the three secrets to French cooking?” Now that she had everyone’s rapt attention, she pinched the top of the cloth and pulled it away with a flourish. “Butter, butter, and butter.”
There were oohs and aahs, as indeed, the “turkey” was a huge mound of the creamy colored stuff. It certainly hadn’t come from the British supply channels. There was no way I would ask how she came upon such a treasure.
Then she broke us up into groups of three, and we circulated between the tasks: washing, drying, then peeling a mountain of potatoes, sautéing mushrooms, asparagus, and green beans, and slowly warming a mixture of milk, cream, butter, and herbs to a simmer. Alice brought out a huge ham bone, which still had a fair amount of meat attached. This entered the rotation as we used surgical skill to separate the meat from the bone, then finely diced the meat.
My group of three included Nora and Corey, a young nurse from New York City who had recently joined us. We had divided up the ham assignment, with Corey cutting the meat off the bone, Nora separating the fat and gristle, and me attempting to slice the remaining meat into equal-sized little cubes. Alice came by and sniffed. “Smaller.”
Nora said, “I’m thinking of what we can do to honor Charlotte.”
“Oh?” I said. “What is your idea?”
“Well, there’s no point in erecting some kind of plaque or monument here or even at Saint-Sever.”
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