by Helen Wells
“Are they going to walk far?” Josie Franklin inquired, with one fascinated eye on the deceptive road, the other anxiously on her suitcase.
“They’ll march about twenty miles today. Oh, don’t look so scared!” Captain Endicott teased the girls as their faces changed. “You’ll be taking sizable hikes yourselves, and wearing camouflage and flinging yourselves in foxholes in a day or two.”
“We will?” Cherry gulped. All the other girls were listening, wide-eyed. They did not notice that the bus was slowing down.
“Certainly. You’re going to have basic training like any soldier, except for handling guns. Don’t you want to know how to protect yourselves in case there’s no military man around to protect you?” He smiled at Cherry engagingly—just the sort of smile that she did not care for, Cherry thought.
“We-ell, yes, but,” said Cherry, and she spoke for all of them, “what about nursing? I don’t even see the hospital buildings.”
“Right here.” Captain Endicott’s handsome face looked amused. “All out, please!”
Cherry clambered down. She found herself in a deserted, unpaved street, lined with rows and rows of long, one-story, wooden hospital buildings, which looked like barracks—“or shoe boxes,” thought Cherry. The hospital buildings were in a quiet area at the edge of the Post. “Surgical,” said a sign on one building. “Medical W-l,” another sign said. On the screened-in porch of W-l, two boys in maroon bathrobes were sitting limply in rocking chairs. At the end of the street stood the big brick Main Hospital with an American flag, and under it, a Red Cross flag.
“Now you’ll meet the Chief Nurse,” Captain Endicott said. With official papers in hand, and last-minute tugs at their hats, the girls trooped after him into the Main Hospital. “It looks like any other hospital,” Cherry thought, half-disappointed but reassured. Captain Endicott ushered them into a big office. He had suddenly become stiff and formal.
“This is Lieutenant Glenn,” he said, as a young nurse smilingly rose from her desk. “She is the Chief Nurse’s assistant.” He managed an extra, pointed glance at Vivian before he left. Cherry was annoyed. She might have been less annoyed had she known that this would be the last they would see of Captain Endicott for the next two wild weeks.
The Chief Nurse came in. She was a rather grim-looking individual, a large square woman with clipped gray hair. Cherry noticed the gold caduceus with the letter N of the Medical Corps on the left side of her white uniform collar, and the silver ash leaf of Lieutenant-Colonel on the right side, as she listened to her somewhat chilling greeting. It appeared that they would have to get into the swing of things immediately, there was no time to lose. However, from now until suppertime, they might walk about camp “to adjust themselves.” She warned them that once Sergeant Deake took over, they would have little freedom. Cherry suspected she probably would not see this stern Chief Nurse often, and she was not sorry.
“But who is Sergeant Deake?” Ann wanted to know. They had escaped outdoors again, after filling out a number of forms.
“Sergeant Deake will reveal himself soon enough,” Cherry predicted. “Let’s all go sight-seeing while we can.”
So for the rest of the afternoon, Cherry with her friends trotted, then trudged, then limped, all over Fort Herold. They saw pretty little chapels, three trim white movie houses, recreation halls, mess halls, libraries, repair shops, the enormous motor pool, the high water tower which Cherry used as a landmark against getting lost, the fire department, jeeps all over the place, men drilling and exercising and wrestling and marching, miles and miles and more miles of neat barracks. “This is a complete world!” Cherry declared. “Only—oh, my feet!”
It was a relief to go at last to Nurses’ Quarters. It was one of those beautiful brick buildings with long verandas. Each girl had her own attractive room, sharing the bath with the girl next door. Their luggage was awaiting them. Pleasant Lieutenant Glenn, the Chief Nurse’s assistant, showed them the handsome sitting room and library downstairs, and added, “I’m your house mother, in addition to my other duties.”
“No dining room?” Bertha Larsen asked hungrily.
Lieutenant Glenn laughed. “If you want supper, you’ll have to hike to Nurses’ Mess.”
Hike they most certainly did. Cherry thought they would never get there. Vivian groaned that it must be at least ten miles.
“I just hope,” Cherry said grimly, “that supper is worth it.”
A good hearty supper, served in a big hall, cheered her, and the presence of friendly older nurses was cheering, too. But then, Cherry realized, she would have to walk all the way back again!
“We’ll take it in easy stages,” Cherry decided, as they all started out across the shadowy Post. Lighted windows gleamed here and there, and khaki-clad figures drifted by. Cherry wished she would bump into Lex. They passed rows of barracks, each with its brooms and mops hanging neatly out in front, the men sitting on the front steps, smoking and talking. Staggering on, they dropped onto soda fountain stools at the crowded cafeteria, and strengthened themselves with cokes and swing records on the juke box. “I could sleep on a plank tonight!” Cherry declared. “On a piano! On a washboard! On anything! I’m adjusted, but my feet aren’t!”
By ten o’clock the Post was darkened and growing quiet. Cherry fell into bed, already in love with this orderly, comradely Army world. It was her world now. She belonged!
She awoke next morning to the brassy call of bugles. Cherry got into her own white nurse’s uniform and cap and her old navy blue cape, double-quick time. Dawn breakfast—then the Chief Nurse swore them into office, for the duration of the war plus six months. There would be no backing out now! They met Colonel Dorsey, the Post’s Commanding Officer. Then they were whisked through another physical examination, and given inoculations. Next, they tried on uniforms—all white for ward duty, with an olive drab cape to wear on Post. This was the uniform Cherry would wear here at Herold, starting this morning. For outdoors and dress wear, they were fitted for an officer’s handsome suit and cap, all superb tailoring and gold Army insignia. Fine russet leather gloves and matching bag completed the uniform. For field work, they received a dust-colored coverall. Red Cross arm bands came next. Then Cherry tried on her dashing olive drab trench coat, with a button-in lamb’s-wool lining. Off they rushed again—this time to the lecture hall.
Just as Cherry was going into the hall, a young lieutenant was coming out. He politely stood aside and saluted. She gulped with surprise and hastily managed to salute back. At the foot of the stairs, two over-conscientious privates saluted her as they passed. Cherry jumped again, but she painfully saluted. “I now am,” she reminded herself, remembering her oath of office, “by Act of Congress, an officer and a lady. And I certainly am being treated as such!”
The rest of the girls, as they sank rather bewildered into the lecture hall chairs, were fumblingly trying to practice the salute. Their amused lecturer taught them to salute, first of all.
Cherry liked all five instructors—the three older Army nurses and the two male Administrative officers. In rapid succession, they told her she was part of the Army now, would go anywhere and stay as long as needed, and share the Army’s responsibility to supply medical and nursing care for its sick and wounded men. “Nurses are the first women to reach the front lines,” the eldest Army nurse told them proudly, “and often the only women.” That was all right with Cherry! She learned that the Army had all kinds of hospitals—large general hospitals with a thousand to two thousand beds; station hospitals, equally big or for only a hundred and fifty men; small post hospitals like Herold’s. In combat zones, the Army might ask Cherry to work in a surgical hospital or an evacuation unit or a field hospital. She might ride a hospital ship or train or plane. Sometimes nurses and doctors formed shock teams and went right into the smoky deafening air of battle.
“The need for nurses is so urgent,” the lecturer continued, “we must ship you out soon, so you will have your four weeks’ basic traini
ng immediately.” It turned out that right through all four weeks they would be entrusted to Sergeant Deake’s mercies for drill and calisthenics. For the last two weeks, they would nurse under supervision on the Post’s wards. Finally, they would go out with the troops on maneuvers. Just then, bugles and drums struck up a thundering march from the practice room near by, and the lecturer hoarsely shouted the rest.
Right now, for the first two weeks, they would have classes in ward management and nursing practice (Army style), including all the reports and paper work, transportation and care of the wounded, military discipline, customs and courtesy; and they would learn how the Army and the Army Nurse Corps were organized. Their classroom after today would be an empty Army hospital ward.
“Class dismissed,” shouted the instructor over the bugles and the drums. They dashed off to Nurses’ Mess, with the deafening clamor of the bugles replaced by the thunder of cannon.
Armed with this knowledge, and fortified by a whopping noon dinner, Cherry rushed out to collide with Sergeant Deake.
Sergeant Deake lined up the girls on the drill ground. It was the last week in September, but the afternoon sun was hot. They marched, perspiring and grim, in their dust-colored coveralls, as the hard-bitten little man screamed orders at them despairingly.
“No, no, NO! You start with your left foot—doncha know your own left foot, Miss?”
“Not Miss—Lieutenant!” redheaded Gwen Jones snapped back.
Sergeant Deake mopped his leathery face and neck. “Did I ask to train my superior officers? Did I? Not in all my twenty years in the Army! And females I’m stuck with—females!” he complained. “S’no use, but try it again. Forward, march! Hut-tup-thrip-four!”
They marched off in a straggly line, with about as much rhythm as a broken-down jalopy lurching along.
“Holy fried frogs!” Sergeant Deake yelled at them. “Don’t go climbing up each other’s heels—it wears out your shoes! Now try to keep together, nitwi—ladies—try!” he exhorted them contemptuously. “Count cadence, count!”
Dripping, breathless, torn between fury and giggles, they marched around and around the field, counting aloud. Cherry’s back itched furiously. She dared not do anything about it, except wiggle a bit.
“Detail, halt! Fall out for a ten-minute break. You with the red cheeks! What do you think you’re doing—dancing? Maybe I better get you a band!” he shouted.
Cherry whirled. “Try to be civil, lovey! I’m doing my best!”
“Lovey!” someone hooted derisively.
“Lovey!” someone else echoed. Laughingly, it spread through their ranks, “Hi, Sergeant Lovey!” “Lovey, our commander!” “Go on, order us around, Lovey, we love it!”
The wiry little man glared his best, especially at Cherry. He seemed really to dislike them. Sergeant Isaiah Deake, tough top-kick, who neither liked nor understood women, who loved the Army as a male hide-out from women, who regarded all women here as intruders, nuisances, and nitwits, was henceforth known as Lovey, the ladies’ pet.
Late that night, after further wear and tear, Cherry was sure she would never walk again, but the next morning she was as good as new, even her feet. Unsuspecting, the girls all devoured an enormous breakfast and trustfully started in trucks for the drill ground.
They saw Sergeant Deake’s gnarled figure waiting for them on the field. When the half-dozen boys who drove the trucks all sweetly called out to him, “ ’Morning, Lovey!” a fierce glint came into his eyes.
“Let’s see you march—if possible. Detail, ’ten-tion! Forward, march! Hut-tup-thrip-four! By the right flank—”
They marched like seasoned soldiers. Their lines were straight and evenly spaced, their steps aligned. The girls swung along straight-backed, with verve and the hint of a grin. Sergeant Deake’s eyes bugged out. Cherry did not feel it was worth while to mention to him that they had drilled for hours last night, by flashlight, of their own accord, with her idea of a march on the victrola for inspiration.
“Detail, halt!” he got out feebly at last. “What came over you?”
There was a stirring in the ranks, like suppressed laughter. Apparently Sergeant Deake had not yet learned that nurses were veterans at discipline long before they entered the Army.
“Now will you love us, Lovey?” someone hidden in back called out.
“I’ll never love you!” the sergeant barked at them. “And I’ll be obliged to you not to love me! Love! Love in the Army! Great shades of Hannibal’s elephants! I’m your commanding officer!”
Cherry raised her eyebrows. “So Lovey doesn’t want us to love him,” she grinned to herself. “He wants to be only our commanding officer.” She tucked that information away for further, and devilish, use.
“You females are so smart, are you?” Sergeant Deake shouted. The man was unconvinced. “All right, let’s see you perform some other tricks!”
Cherry was not prepared for the tricks Sergeant Deake pulled out of his bag. When he marched them down to a high wall, covered with nets, she shuddered.
“Get up there,” he ordered them, “and climb down. That’s the side of a ship and those are landing nets. You’re climbing down into the water. Now, you know-it-all women, climb!”
Cherry climbed up a ladder to get to the dizzy height of the “ship,” then monkey-wise worked her hands and feet into the net. It was a long way down to the hard ground below, thirty feet, and in the middle of it the nets started to sway alarmingly. It was Sergeant Deake, tugging at the nets, for realism and for sheer meanness.
“Ahoy for our good ship Seasick!” Cherry yelled out to her classmates.
Plump Bertha Larsen was having hard going, and Josie clung to the nets, terrified. But no one took a tumble. When they all “went ashore” safely, Lovey was not at all proud of his “females.”
“See, nurses can do anything,” they told him airily, mopping their faces.
“Bah!” Sergeant Deake spluttered. “I wash my hands of you! Let Lieutenant Graham handle you wild Injuns! Females in the Army! Let me work with real soldiers who have some respect for their commander! You’re a waste of time!”
So the next day, the girls were confronted by a formal young man who was their superior officer. There was no fooling with him. When Lieutenant Graham explained gas mask drill, no one felt much like fooling, anyway. The nurses stood in rows on the grass, dressed for this drill in their white uniforms. Each girl wore on her heavy belt a gas mask in a carrier held in place by a strap over the right shoulder. Cherry found that it took concentration and perfectly co-ordinated movements to get those masks on in the space of seconds. But with practice, they were mastering it. The young lieutenant had them sniff “sniff sets”—bottles containing the identifying odors of lewisite and mustard and other gasses. It left them choking and impressed. Neither the gasses nor the young lieutenant was much fun. Next day, the girls were glad to see that Sergeant Deake was, resignedly, back again.
“Look at you!” he said gloomily, as they lined up before him. “Fatigues and curls! Field boots and—pink nail polish!” He eyed Cherry. He still had not forgiven her for the nickname she had tagged onto him.
Their feud grew livelier, day by day, into the second week of training. Cherry wondered what Lovey could possibly think up next. Sergeant Deake had them dive into foxholes and slit trenches; march along a road, then run for cover in the woods, throwing themselves flat; crawl cautiously on their hands and knees searching for booby traps; wiggle through mud and plow through sandy marshes. They certainly were learning how to take care of themselves, getting ready for anything, anywhere.
“We’re doing all this,” Cherry panted to him during their ten-minute rest period, pushing her black curls out of her eyes, “only because we want to win your praise, Lovey!” He turned scarlet.
The truth was, the nurses made good soldiers. They felt a real group spirit and group pride in their platoon’s progress. But the better they did, the less Sergeant Deake gave them credit for and the less he liked
them. “But we admire you,” Gwen teased him, and Vivian tucked her camera in the huge catch-all pocket of her coveralls one day and snapped a picture of him, to his chagrin.
The crisis came when Sergeant Deake had to teach them something about camouflage. The girls stood in the sun and wind, watching him, and grinning. “You take your helmet,” he shouted, taking off his own heavy metal helmet, which was covered with net. “Then you pick some leaves, like this. Then you stick the leaves in the net and kinda fix it up. Then you put your helmet on, see? Now nobody’d know it was you—you’re disguised as a tree!”
They howled. Cherry could not resist calling out, “We’d know it was you!”
“What a stylish leafy bonnet!” Gwen teased.
“Thanks for the style notes, Lovey!”
Sergeant Deake exploded. For punishment, he drilled them and then took them on an eight-mile hike. They almost regretted the joke, but not quite.
“ ’Night, Lovey!” Cherry called, unsquelched, as she staggered off the field. “See you tomorrow in that helmet!”
“I’ll see you at inspection of quarters next Saturday morning!” Sergeant Deake promised her ferociously.
Cherry dropped on her bed after supper, heavy boots and all. A message said Captain Upham had phoned. But Cherry was too tired to call back. No time to see him anyway. There was a knock and Vivian Warren wearily came in from the room next door.
“Oh!” Vivian moaned. “My feet! My legs!” She dropped onto the bed alongside Cherry. “I’m so tired I don’t even wish I could see Paul Endicott.”
“Hi,” Cherry said weakly, moving over an inch or so. “My feet are all beat-up too. Darn that Deake. But someone else is getting just as rugged a medical-and-basic workout as we are, so cheer up.”
“You mean the enlisted men who are going to be medical corpsmen? What befalls them?”
“Plenty. I read in the Manual, Cherry said virtuously, “that they get thirteen weeks of basic training in Medical Department techniques, first aid and ward stuff. Then we nurses teach them some more when they come to help us on the wards. There’s about seventy or eighty boys here in the Hospital Corps School. Poor things.” She rubbed her knees tenderly.
