I liked this girl.
Cass gave a little whoop. “Not on your life.”
“I’ll wager I’m better.”
“Behind the wheel?” Cass shook her head. “What foolish fancy.”
“Speaking of fancies, do you race?”
Cass paled, obviously astonished. “Are you challenging me to a race?”
“Now, girls,” I interrupted them, but the smile wouldn’t leave my face. I hadn’t shared a laugh with friends in a long time.
That night I wore my best dress from Olive, and it gave me a small sense of pride to think that a dress—and a girl, for that matter—had made it from Paris, Kentucky, to Paris, France. A bit too frilly for my tastes, the dress didn’t come close to the military chic of the day. I walked down the steps to the lobby, where the captain waited for me, holding a small bouquet of flowers.
The sight of him almost squeezed the air out of my lungs. He looked freshly shaved and combed, and that spicy scent emanated from him. But that bit of unease, like a tiny warning—the same way I’d felt in the bar—was still there. Handsome, yes, but in a superlative, sort of impenetrable way.
After thanking the captain for the flowers, I asked one of the bellmen to take them upstairs to my room so they wouldn’t wilt over the evening. “Do you mind?” I asked Captain Brohammer.
“Of course not. As you wish.”
So polite and gentlemanly.
We took a taxi to a restaurant. Because of the war, portions were small and menus offered soups and ragoûts rather than grilled or roast beef and pork. I drank my first Bourgogne that night.
Felix requested that we communicate on a first-name basis, and over dinner he told me much of his life story. Raised on Long Island, he had excelled in athletics and then attended Yale with the idea that someday he would go to medical school. But his father’s military service nudged him to apply to West Point, and he graduated with an officer’s commission. Discovering he liked the military life, he’d eventually decided to become a career army man.
“I’d rather wear a suit of blue than a white surgical gown,” he explained.
“The doctors I’m going to be working with are so dedicated. I admire them greatly. They’ve had to fight every step of the way to get here on just plain moxie.”
He leaned back in his chair. “You’re a serious one, aren’t you?”
In his eyes I registered something that felt soulless, and it muted me for a moment. I didn’t know what I wasn’t seeing, but something about him seemed missing. I thought he’d want to know more about the doctors’ story, and his lack of interest rattled me a bit. “Not always. But this is serious business for them . . . and for me, too.”
He scoffed. “You’ve just arrived. You’re in Paris. Enjoy yourself for a while. You’ll see the front soon enough.”
Funny, earlier that day I’d done a lot of laughing and teasing. So why did Captain Brohammer have this effect on me? I said, “I’m trying.”
He reached across the table for my hand. I found his own large and big-boned but soft to the touch. No calluses. He perused my eyes. “Try harder. Please.”
I had no idea what to say. His face unreadable, I had no idea what he expected. “I’m not very experienced with dating. I suppose I’m not good at it.”
His eyelids lowered just a tad. “Are you a virgin?”
I couldn’t believe it. But he had said it. He’d asked the most private question I could imagine. I pulled my hand away. “My dear sir. What a question.”
His face, a mask. “It has been known to happen, and if you are, it would explain a lot.”
Still stunned, I couldn’t speak again for a moment. I found it difficult to believe that the modern, well-educated man spoke this way to a woman. But I had led a sheltered life; perhaps I didn’t recognize acceptable conversation any longer. After the outrage faded, I began to doubt myself. Was I old-fashioned?
“You’re probably scared, and that could explain . . .” He glanced about the room, then looked back at me. “I’m not accustomed to the rebuff, you know.”
“Are you talking about our meeting at the bar?”
“Of course I am.” He took my hand again and began to lift it to his lips.
Too fast, everything transpiring far too swiftly. But I let him brush his lips across my knuckles, then I slipped my hand away again. I couldn’t make sense of this tête-à-tête, and I couldn’t relax around him. “You don’t mean to tell me that every girl you show interest in drops everything to turn her focus on you?”
He gave a low chuckle. “I mean just that.”
“They must not have valued their friends very much.”
“Not necessarily. They just valued me more.” He leaned closer. “But not you. You want to make me work for it.”
My mouth had gone dry. I sipped the wine, and moments later my mouth went dry again. The same feeling I’d had at the bar crept over me. He disturbed me, but maybe I just didn’t understand the norms. The captain had taken me on a real date, and in Paris. What he’d said rang true; I had to find a way to enjoy myself.
“In case you’re wondering, I will work for it,” he added.
I smiled and decided to play along. “Will you succeed?”
“Of course I will.”
I made myself laugh. “I guess there’s nothing wrong with confidence, but you’re rather impressed with yourself, aren’t you?”
He sat back a bit. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
Like acid in my stomach, that uncomfortable feeling turned to something more noxious. I’d told Cass I didn’t like vanity in a man. This went far beyond vanity. I should’ve followed my instincts. Felix Brohammer was a cocky braggart and a cad. He disgusted me, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of the evening with him.
The conversation stalled. The captain’s eyes filled with disappointment, but I detected a hint of outrage, too. “When you said you weren’t good at this, you weren’t kidding.”
“And you, sir, despite thinking so highly of yourself, surely do not know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”
He sat still for a long and tortured moment, then he burst out in laughter. “So you’ve done it,” he said. “You’ve made me laugh. Now I like you even more.”
Had this man recently escaped from an insane asylum? I scrutinized him then, in awe of his gall.
“Let’s start over,” he said as he leaned forward again.
I didn’t want to start over. I wanted to leave. I wanted out of this date. We’d finished the main course, but most likely Felix Brohammer had dessert in mind, perhaps followed by a stroll along the quay. Maybe I could feign a sudden illness. Or plead fatigue because I’d walked around all day.
In the end, I didn’t have the nerve. So I went through the motions, and every moment lasted for eras. As we walked, he told me about his unit—he commanded an engineering battalion that worked alongside the infantry building bridges and roads and so on. He said his men had once built a bridge in three hours.
Night began to fall; the streetlights turned off at ten o’clock, the darkness a safeguard against attacks from the Boche Gothas, German heavy bombers.
At long last I could tell him I had a curfew and must return to the hotel before midnight. He steered me there, and before we reached the hotel doors where slabs of light leaned out onto the sidewalk, he took me around the waist and pulled me closer. He gently took my chin in one hand and lifted it toward his face.
I turned my head.
Brohammer let his hand fall away from my face and stood perfectly still for a few long moments, then he dropped his other hand from my waist. “I see,” he said.
“I-I’m sorry.”
A long, unbearable silence ensued. I studied my shoes and soothed myself with the idea that soon I would go inside and leave his presence. Brohammer lightly took my upper arm and started walking again. He led me to the hotel entrance, and I began to thank him for a lovely evening. Maman had taught me to do this, no matter what, when someone had shown generosity toward me.<
br />
But he interrupted me, saying, “You can stop now.”
And so I said good night and slipped inside.
Finally I could breathe. All night long my dress had felt too tight, although it fit me perfectly. Brohammer had never asked me one thing about myself. Then I realized that the dress hadn’t constricted me; the captain’s presence had.
The next day, two of the ambulances arrived from the shop, where they’d been equipped with all-wooden bodies, electric headlights, and rolled canvas windshields instead of glass ones, which could easily shatter. The third ambulance wasn’t ready yet, but we could no longer wait. We five drivers had to get started painting the ambulances and stenciling “American Women’s Hospital” in an arc on the sides. We would finish by painting large red Geneva crosses on the roof.
Before we got started, Kitty and Lottie ran up to me. “How was it last night, you lucky dog, you?” asked Kitty, bouncing on her toes.
And Lottie practically squealed, “It must have been dreamy. Tell us all about it.”
I put my hands on my hips and faked indignation. “Now, you know a girl isn’t supposed to kiss and tell.”
The night before, I had told Cass all of it, and for a long time she’d merely sat, listened with rapt attention, and pensively looked around our room.
“If I were you, I’d say nothing about it. I doubt the evening was pure torture, and those three girls,” she said, meaning the other drivers, “would give anything to be in your shoes. To others, his interest is the highest of compliments, and you’ll seem thorny if you don’t even give him a try.”
“Thorny!”
“You’re sprouting them now as we speak! Even some of the doctors and nurses might find your resistance a little laughable. Best to keep it under wraps.”
I’d been pacing the floor but stopped. Cass never ceased to surprise me. She stretched and then finished, “Besides, you’ll probably never see him again.”
I managed to shirk the girls’ questions and stuck to the work at hand. After painting, we filled our handmade boxes and storage lockers, along with a third oblong driver’s box that would stay inside the cab. In the latter we stored chains, rope, spark plugs, and tire chalk, and we stocked the exterior running board boxes with extra tire inner tubes, a bucket, and a pump. On the rear we strapped spare water and cans of reserve gasoline, oil, and kerosene. The back of each ambulance accommodated two stretchers on the floor and a third one centered above them; they slid in on rails installed by the shop and attached to the crossbeams above. In the event of an emergency, though, the vehicle could squeeze in ten sitting or standing passengers if the stretchers were taken out or moved aside. Other passengers could sit squeezed in the cab next to the driver.
Now we would do what we’d come for, and we prepared to leave Paris.
Cass and I awakened before dawn the next morning to drink strong, bitter coffee and do some final engine checks. When the day broke, it was time to go. I placed my hand over my upper chest where my baby locket lay under my blouse. I had decided to wear it always, for luck.
Our convoy consisted of two completed ambulances, a few automobiles to deliver the doctors and nurses, and one supply truck. My ambulance would take the lead, as I could converse with the French along the road and also with the guide who would accompany us. As I bent over to crank my engine to life, I sensed a presence. I took note and stood up straight, then looked toward the hotel door.
Brohammer stood on the sidewalk. Why was he here? He mouthed something to me. I stared, dumbfounded, and read his lips as he mouthed it again: I forgive you.
Suppressing a shudder, I concentrated on the task at hand. When my engine began turning over, I had to jump into the driver’s seat, right the gas and spark by fine-tuning the steering column levers, and swap the ignition from the battery to the magneto. Please don’t stall, I begged.
Soon all the vehicles rumbled, idling, ready to go. I kept my gaze averted from the sidewalk, not wanting Brohammer to distract me again. So angry he’d come here, so flummoxed by him and his attention, I nevertheless had to let it go and stay focused.
Lottie shouted from the street just before she jumped in back, “Look, Arlene, it’s your beau!”
Then I had to do it. I turned and lifted my eyes. Brohammer, still standing there, smiling. A cold, unfeeling, untouchable smile.
I didn’t dignify him with a response.
Moments later, we started on our way. Lottie, Kitty, and one of the aides sat in the back of my ambulance. A woman from the village where we would work sat in front with me. She would guide us to Neufmoutiers-en-Brie, in the Seine-et-Marne, some twenty-five miles from Paris. Utilizing a small château assigned to the AWH by the French Sixth Army, we would treat not only villagers and refugees, but also the military in the area, as need be.
All the months of preparation had come down to this moment.
Nervously, I squeezed the steering wheel as we navigated the vexing narrow lanes of Paris in our precious Fords, then drove beyond the city limits. Though our ambulances could traverse any topography and could attain speeds of fifty-five miles per hour, a flat-land steady speed of thirty miles per hour was ideal.
Each ambulance had cost the outrageous sum of $1,600, which included the chassis, overseas and overland shipping, early maintenance, and a customized body. The responsibility for my vehicle landed squarely on my shoulders. The ambulances had monetary value, but even more important, they were truly the means to save lives.
After leaving all signs of Paris behind us, we drove through an area destroyed earlier in the war. Everywhere we went, we witnessed a wasteland of crumbled brick and stone, pockmarked roads, and underground dugouts. The earth smelled foul. Most of the trees had fallen from the effects of bombing and shelling, and some people had stuck dead branches up along the sides of the roads to look like trees, hiding the road from the Germans. Some trees—olive and fruit-bearing varieties—had barely survived and were scorched and stripped of their leaves.
Entire villages decimated and much of the farmland charred and pitted with shell holes, the countryside looked unlivable. I was stunned when we saw people—dazed and weak and with hopelessly haunted eyes and rail-thin bodies. Amid the walls left standing in the villages, a curl of smoke sometimes drifted upward from a lean-to or cellar, showing us that people did somehow live in the rubble of war. In one village, I spotted an old man walking with a stick; in another, some children building play towers with fallen chunks of debris. They stared at me as though they’d never seen a woman driving a car, but they always waved and shouted, “Vive l’Amérique!”
Desolation seemed to ride along with us as we crossed the land; I hadn’t envisioned it this terrible. Papa would’ve hated to see this, and I heard no sounds from the back. Everyone in the ambulance must have been astounded, too. Such widespread devastation, such downtrodden and defeated-looking people. Those safe in the United States had no idea.
Even so, occasionally Brohammer entered my mind. I forgive you. What did that mean? I didn’t know and had to shake it off; I had a huge responsibility here.
We could hear the dull thunder of distant shells, lest we forget that the war still raged close by. Cemeteries lined with small, plain wooden crosses also provided a constant reminder. The roads twisted and rose and fell, showing me why the agile Model T had been chosen for our ambulances.
The village woman, Camille, who would become one of our kitchen maids later, said in French, “Up ahead, a sharp turn at the bottom of the hill.”
I spotted the curve and braked to take it slowly. I steered around the bend, where the road fell off even more, and then my ambulance nose-dived into a shell crater.
After a few moments, Camille said without emotion the French equivalent of whoops.
A cloud of dust fell all around the ambulance like dry rain.
I coughed and tried my door, which wouldn’t open. We’d landed close to the crater wall on my side. “Is anyone hurt?” I asked.
Camill
e wiggled out on her side and worked her way around back, then moved up to her door again. “All are well.” She looked inside the cab at me. “Funny thing,” she said, her gaze roaming to the crater wall in front of us. “When I came through here yesterday, this hole was not here.”
Chapter Ten
NEUFMOUTIERS-EN-BRIE, FRANCE
JULY 1918
When I got out, the back wheels, suspended in the air, still spun. With the help of some rope, chain, and Cass’s ambulance, we pulled my vehicle out of the crater. I had to change the inner tube in the right front tire, but the ambulance had suffered no other damage. No one seemed upset or angry about my mistake.
Cass, of course, had to say, “And they put you in the lead?”
I gave her a hideous glare.
Beryl walked up to Cass and me as I changed the inner tube. She said, “When you’re in front, you’re bound to make the first mistake.”
My hands hopelessly covered in grease now, I’d also ripped a portion of my jacket hem while I crawled out of the ambulance on the passenger side. Already I’d learned to expect anything around a bend. “I won’t make this one again.”
Soon we moved on. We passed groups of poilus, French infantrymen. Obviously exhausted, their faces unshaven and grimy, they looked toward us, their weary eyes posing a question, Can you give us a lift? But most of them asked for nothing. At one point a soldier did ask for a ride, and Camille responded, “C’est interdit.” It’s forbidden.
The poilu replied, “Merci quand même.” Thanks all the same. In his eyes, no guile, no blame. Just acceptance of a sort that I found more woeful than resistance. The war still raged, but both the land and the people appeared already conquered.
I drove onward, a sick feeling in my stomach. A few moments later I asked Camille in French, “Who has forbidden us to help these soldiers?”
“The médecin-chef. She said if we stop for one, we have to stop for all, and if they don’t look injured or sick, we must carry on. We must arrive before nightfall since you can’t turn on your lights.”
I gripped the steering wheel. Of course by médecin-chef she meant Dr. Logan, and I did have to yield the doctor’s point, but I found it painful to simply drive past those unsung heroes.
Mercy Road Page 8
