“People used to camp under the Hope River Bridge,” Bitsy tells them through the open passenger window. “It’s safe there, the water is good and you can fish.”
“Do you know them?” I ask as we pull away.
Bitsy shakes her head no. “They were probably just traveling through the area,” she says. “Do you think I know every colored person in West Virginia?”
“Just about.”
March 22, 1942
Arrived at the home of Luella Bonnet of Burnt Town at 4:05 and shortly afterward, at 5:37 P.M., Baby Boy Bonnet (no name yet) 7 pounds, 3 ounces was born to the widow Luella Bonnet, with a hand presentation. No complications. Present at delivery, Bitsy Proudfoot and myself.
Luella was as silent as Time through the whole labor, rocking in her chair and then, like Daisy, she refused to push, even though, in this case, she was conscious and wide-awake. It was like she didn’t want the infant to come out.
Finally, when I saw the baby’s hand along the side of his ear, I took Luella’s index finger, put it near her vagina, and the unborn infant grasped it, as if he knew it was his ma’s. The feeling of his tiny grip must have brought the woman out of her trance, because with four mighty grunts she soon delivered him.
Later, we learned that Bo Bonnet, the father, was another victim of the attack on Pearl Harbor. A medic in the navy, he went down trying to save other sailors. Now I know why she didn’t call or come visit me. She was grieving. How hard must that be to let go of one love and give birth to a new love at the same time!
Luella seemed pleased with her baby and put him to the breast right away. The two other children were as good as gold and waited in the living room until the baby was born and then they crawled in bed with their mother.
Sometimes life is just too sad, I think, but I must remember that tiny hand coming out, reaching . . . reaching for the light . . . and then taking hold.
19
March 30, 1942
Cave-In
On my way to Luella’s, making a postpartum visit to the grieving woman, yesterday, I felt a jolt. A huge blast shook my Olds and at the same time I saw smoke billowing up over the mountain.
Instantly, a forlorn siren began to wail. I’d heard that sound before, and an iron spike stabbed through my middle. It was the emergency siren at a nearby coal mine, and it meant trouble, big trouble—an explosion, a fire, or a cave-in.
Remembering the cave-in at the Wild Cat Mine ten years ago, when Dan and I together tended the injured, I follow the sound of the siren into the camp. Here, small identical wooden houses line the road on both sides. On every porch, a woman stands listening, wondering what’s happened.
When I get to the source of the warning signal, I find myself in an industrial compound of five brick buildings. An enormous structure called a tipple, which is used to load the coal into hopper cars, looms four stories above the buildings.
At the farthest end of the brick-paved lot where the rails thread into the mountain, smoke pours from the mouth of the mine. Men rush toward the hole, but a foreman blocks the way. “Stand back!” I hear him say through a megaphone, but the siren obscures most of his words. All I can make out when I jump from my car is . . . “Unsafe . . . one hundred and five men still in the tunnel . . . levels of methane too high and it’s burning . . .”
The faces of the miners, blackened by coal dust, show evidence of their concern. These men must have been on their way home from the previous shift, but they’ve rushed back to try to save their comrades.
At the door to the toolshed, five men with “Rescue Team” written on their yellow jackets are putting on firefighting equipment and gas masks, preparing to enter the inferno. Since I’m apparently the first medical person to respond, I stand back and watch as scores of silent women, some carrying babies and toddlers, stream into the area.
This is a much bigger operation than the Wild Cat Mine over by Hazel Patch. Here I don’t know anyone and have no idea how to offer my services. I’m thinking of retreating when a pickup truck pulls in behind my vehicle and cuts me off. Three men jump out of the cab and another four out of the truck bed. They have clean faces, some brown and some white, but all wear the familiar hard hat with a lamp on the front and I imagine they’re miners from the graveyard shift here to help.
“Hey fellas!” I call. “I was just passing when I heard the explosion and a siren went off. I’m a nurse and thought I might be able to help. Is there a clinic around here or someone in charge?” (This is not strictly true. I’m not a registered nurse, like Becky, but I have nursed many ill people and I do know first aid.)
“Follow me, ma’am,” a short, swarthy fellow wearing blue coveralls, yells. “Name’s Frank.”
The office we enter is in chaos, and since there are no injured to help yet, I shrink into a corner and look around. All over the wall are patriotic posters. “MINE AMERICAN COAL . . . WE’LL MAKE IT HOT FOR THE ENEMY,” one says.
“Rescue teams of five men will be readied at the tool shop every fifteen minutes. Anyone who wants to can sign up to volunteer . . . and men . . . I don’t need to tell you this, but I will; say your prayers for those trapped, and if you go back in, be as careful as hell.”
The man I take to be a supervisor collapses in a wood chair as the miners hurry out. “Frank,” he whispers to the man in the blue coveralls. “Can you shut and lock the door before a new crowd comes in? I have to think.” He pulls out a roll of paper and studies a map of the mine.
“Right, Chief,” Frank says, complying with his orders.
“I’m sorry,” the boss says, sensing my presence in the corner and looking over. “Are you someone’s wife or sister? As you can see, we’re working on a rescue plan and I can’t give you any more information.”
“She’s a volunteer nurse with the Red Cross,” Frank informs him, embroidering the facts to fit his imagination. “I told her to come in here to find out where she can set up a treatment station.” (There’s no need to correct the fellow at this time, and I do wrap bandages for the local Red Cross.)
“Oh, thanks. I didn’t mean to be rude.” The supervisor runs his fingers through his silver hair. “We don’t have a physician in the camp. He joined the army a few weeks ago and we haven’t found a new one. You can use the clerk’s office for a hospital. Get some of the women to run home for blankets and bandages. It will give them something to do.”
Frank leads me out to the cobbled yard and points to a tall, olive-skinned woman with a red bandanna over her hair. “Ask Felicia Ricci. Her husband is trapped in the mine. She’ll help you.” Then he runs toward the tool shed.
“Mrs. Ricci!” The dark-haired beauty whips around and I introduce myself. “A miner named Frank said you were a woman who could get things done. I’m Patience Hester, a nurse, and I’ve volunteered to set up a makeshift infirmary.”
There’s another explosion farther up the mountain and a new hole opens on the face of the slope. Felicia’s face turns white and she makes the sign of the cross. More smoke billows out of the main entrance. “My Martino is in there,” she explains with tears in her eyes.
Finally, someone thinks to turn off the siren. A hundred silent women stand peering into the black hole, hoping to catch a sight of a loved one limping into the light.
Rescue
Felicia and I quickly organize the makeshift hospital. Women bring blankets and pillows and we put them on the desks and tables to make beds. We bring in more water, rip up old sheets for bandages, and then go back outside to await the news. Every few minutes my assistant puts her hand on her belly as if she has a stomachache. Every few minutes she makes the sign of the cross.
One by one the rescue teams enter the shaft with picks and shovels. There must be twenty-five men in there by now. Exhausted, the first crew comes out, but the news isn’t good.
The rockslide about half a mile from the entrance is blocking the way, and there are several uncontrolled fires.
Finally, help begins to arrive from outside. Fir
st on the scene is a truck full of volunteer firemen from Delmont. Then from Liberty comes the hearse, followed by Sheriff Hardman and my husband in the squad car. The hearse, I think, is premature, until I remember that the long black van doubles as an ambulance. Dr. Blum and Becky must be at the CCC camp, miles away.
“Dan! Dan! Up here!” I call from the porch of the makeshift infirmary, relieved to have a more experienced medical person at hand, but he and Hardman head for the toolshed, where men are volunteering. Dan’s carrying his vet bag and he and Hardman approach the supervisor.
Suddenly, there’s action at the mouth of the mine and two rescue workers stumble out, carrying the first victim on a stretcher. The man’s face is covered with his bloodied shirt and one of his arms droops over the side of the pallet like a piece of rope. The boss, on the steps of the headquarters, waves that I should step forward.
Stethoscope, from my birth kit, around my neck, I hurry through the crowd, trying to look like I know something useful, but the results of my exam are not good. The man’s head is crushed and he has no pulse. I look at the boss and shake my head sadly.
A young woman falls to the ground and is surrounded by other women. The dead man must be her husband, and since I was careful to hide his shattered face she has recognized him by the wedding ring on his limp hand.
Next, a low coal cart arrives pulled by three burly fellows. It’s full of dead men, and the wailing of mothers and sisters, wives and lovers continues. Frank follows me with a clipboard writing down the names of the deceased.
Finally, there’s some good news, forty-two dust covered miners, some limping, some half dragging comrades, appear from behind us, straggling down the road from the coal company village, singing, “Over hill, over dale. As we hit the dusty trail. And those Caissons go rolling along.”
They have burst through a barricade in an unused shaft and marched around the mountain. Martino Ricci, Felicia’s husband, leads the crew, and I will admit I cried for joy when she ran to him.
“Don Stoddard is still alive down there,” Ricci says to the boss. “His left arm is shattered and trapped under a two-ton slab of sandstone. Another explosion and he’s a goner. If we had a doctor, he could amputate . . . and we could get Don out in thirty minutes.”
The supervisor wipes his face and looks around wildly. Not me, I think. Maybe Nurse Becky could amputate an arm, but not me.
Sheriff Hardman steps forward and nods toward Daniel. “We have a doctor of veterinary medicine here!”
The next thing I see is Dan putting on rescue gear. He will not fight Hitler or the Japanese, but without a thought for his own life, he’s going a mile underground in a hole filled with methane gas to do the emergency surgery. He looks up at me, standing on the porch of the makeshift clinic, smiles, and salutes like a soldier.
March 28, 1942
Heroes Underground
The Saturday Liberty Times, for a change, was not all about war.
SIXTEEN MEN BURIED ALIVE! EIGHT MORE RECOVERED DEAD the headlines say. And underneath, the article begins, “In the blink of an eye, women were widowed and children became orphans.”
According to Mr. Blaze, the Delmont Coal Company isn’t unionized, and though the mines are supposed to be inspected, inspections are rare. The reporter celebrated the fallen miners as heroes, the same as soldiers who take up arms to protect our liberty. There was no mention of Dan.
When we went to the coal miners’ memorial service a few days later, we left the children with Becky.
In front, on the dais of the First Presbyterian Church in Delmont, there were two American flags on poles and a table lined with framed photographs of the men who died. The preacher spoke of the miners as heroes underground who should be praised the same as soldiers who die in battle. I look around at the widows and children, some crying, some dry-eyed staring forward. The lives of these family members are forever changed.
“Grief takes about a year,” Mrs. Kelly once told me. “It’s different for everyone, but one thing I can tell you. You’ll suffer with the first daffodil, the first red leaves of the fall, the first snow. . . . On each occasion you’ll think of the person you love and it will rip your heart out, then when there’s nothing left you’ll get better.” She was right, but she knew from experience.
WHEN THE SERVICE is over, we all march down to the church basement for lunch, and at the bottom of the stairs we stop to shake hands with a representative of each grieving family.
Standing in line for food are about twenty people, dressed in their Sunday clothes, including Felicia Ricci, the woman who helped me set up the medical triage area, and her husband, Martino. We wave to each other across the big room and I can now see a little round belly under her navy blue dress with red, white, and blue buttons. Funny I didn’t notice it before, but my mind was on other things.
A few CCC men in uniform are already sitting at the tables, mostly officers. One is Lou Cross, and I’m glad when he comes over to greet us. “Nice to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Hester,” Lou says in a friendly way. “Though it’s a sad occasion . . .” Like the other CCC men he’s dressed in uniform, but he wears his with style, his pants low on his hips and his brown tie tucked neatly between the second and third button of his khaki shirt.
“Yes, a terrible time,” Dan says. “The disaster must have devastated the mining community. Patience was passing by, pulled in to help with the injured, and saw the whole thing firsthand. I came at the end and was able to help a little.” He shrugs, minimizing his own heroic actions.
Mr. Cross steps so close, I can smell his shaving soap. “It shouldn’t have happened, you know. The federal government gives the mine operators wartime quotas to meet, but when men are tired they get sloppy; they make mistakes.”
“That’s why we need unions. This wouldn’t have happened if the United Mine Workers had been here,” I start to get on my soapbox, but Dan gently squeezes my arm.
“Let’s get a cup of coffee,” he says.
“That’s all I want,” I answer, moving up in line. “It always seemed strange to me to have a big feast after a funeral. I was surprised to see you wearing the CCC uniform, Mr. Cross. I didn’t know you still worked at the White Rock camp.”
“Oh, it’s only to give the brass some time off, occasionally, and it won’t be for long,” he answers, looking around as if he’s passing on secret information.
“I heard the gossip,” Dan says.
“Not gossip!” Lou counters. “You can take it from me, the CCC camp’s closing. It’s just a matter of time. . . .”
Soon, we are on our way home, passing through Liberty. “You’re awfully, quiet. Something wrong?” Dan asks. “I mean, other than feeling sad for the miners and their families.”
“No . . . I mean, it is sad. All of it . . . the war . . . the death of the miners, but I was thinking about the CCC camp.”
“You mean, what Lou said . . . about the camp closing? There’s been talk before.”
“If it’s true, Isaac and Becky will be out of their jobs.”
“You know that old expression: I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened.”
I can’t help but laugh, and below us, as we cross the stone bridge, the Hope River laughs too, sparkling golden in the low setting sun.
20
April 2, 1942
The Pregnant Ladies Society
Today is my day for spring prenatal visits. I used to have patients schedule appointments every month, but it took most of the afternoon and half the people didn’t show up. Now I put an announcement in the Liberty Times about four times a year that says something like “The Pregnant Ladies Society will meet with midwife Patience Hester at her home on Salt Lick Road from 10:00 to 12:00 on Wednesday. All mothers welcome.” I call the group a society because it sounds more like a social club.
As expected, the group today is small. Only Ada Mullins, a blonde, who’s eighteen and just a few months pregnant showed up, and later a new woman, Ruby Martin, w
ho’s seven months along. Ruby, a red-headed cook from the Mountain Top Diner, who wears scarlet lipstick and nail polish to match, said she’s trying to decide if she wants to deliver at home or in the hospital. Both women are expecting their first child.
After I did their examinations, we talked about the advantages and disadvantages of both places. “Home is more private,” I told them. “You’re cared for by those who know and love you. Mothers can walk around inside their houses during labor or even out in their yards. They can eat light nourishment. They can deliver in any position they want and hold their baby right away. The father can be at their side . . . the disadvantage of home delivery is that in an emergency a Cesarean is not immediately available, and neither is pain medicine.”
Ada had no doubt that homebirth was for her; home or the Baby Cabin, but after she saw the cabin, I think she found it appealing. Ruby wasn’t so sure.
“But what if something happens?” she asked, her red lips tight with worry. “What if the mother bleeds too much or the baby’s too big? What if he doesn’t breathe?”
Finally, I had to ask. “Ruby, what makes you even consider a homebirth or birth in the Baby Cabin? You seem to be focused on all the bad things that can happen. The fact is that with a healthy mother and an experienced midwife, those things rarely occur at a home delivery or can be dealt with at the time. Note, I don’t claim they never happen.”
“My granny says I’m made for birthing babies!” Ada interjects in her squeaky Minnie Mouse voice, her smooth, narrow face as innocent as Mira’s. Ruby just stares at her, amazed at the young woman’s confidence.
Finally, Ruby opens up. “It’s the strangers in the hospital,” she says. “I hate being around people I don’t know. Even now, see how my hands shake. Every time I go to the doctors in Torrington, my blood pressure goes up. They keep talking about toxemia, whatever that is, and it makes me more nervous.” (When I did Ruby’s exam, her blood pressure was 154/90. Hoping she’d settle down, I planned to repeat it after we ate refreshments.) Soon, I have to decide what to tell her.
Once a Midwife Page 11
