Mercy Road Read online

  Slowly she leaned back in the chair again. “I have a proposition for you: if you make it to the end of the war, I’ll reward you with a bonus.”

  I waited, holding my breath.

  “Let’s make it an even one thousand dollars.”

  I gasped. “That’s too generous.”

  “Many donors have given generously to us, and many of us can pay our own way. It’s not too much if I say it isn’t.”

  “I’m honored, of course. And of course, I’ll stay till the war’s end.”

  She placed her hands on her thighs and seemed about to stand. “Now that that’s settled . . .”

  “I can’t thank you enough.”

  She stilled then, and her gaze held something much more pressing than appraisal now—a sizing up to the highest degree. “Don’t thank me so hastily. You haven’t been over there yet.”

  My mouth had gone even drier, but I managed to say in a brave, sure voice, “I can bear it.”

  She extended her hand. “I hope so. I’m trusting you.” I could see her mollify a bit. “So, we have a deal? A thousand dollars in your pocket when it’s over?”

  I hadn’t imagined anything this auspicious; it was too much to hope for, but I could see that Dr. Rayne had made a completely serious offer. Perhaps I did have much to offer, too. But a thousand dollars? A dream come true. Papa would’ve said, Quelle aubaine. “What good fortune.”

  Dr. Rayne waited for my answer. “Most assuredly so,” I replied, then shook her hand; I found her handshake firm, like a man’s. We stood, and she ushered me out to the door.

  There she stopped and said, “Come back tomorrow dressed for work in a shop and prepared to start studying with a mechanic. And Miss Favier . . .” Her eyes razor-sharp and blue, she finished, “Remember what I’ve told you. All of it.”

  Chapter Seven

  NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

  MAY 1918

  In the middle of May, we embarked on the first leg of our journey by train to New York City. The organization formed by the women doctors, the American Women’s Hospital, had raised two hundred thousand dollars by then, enough to send the first team to France.

  When we arrived, we gathered at the AWH headquarters, 437 Madison Avenue, in rooms donated by Otto Schlesinger. After final plans and many speeches, tailors measured us for our uniforms—a mid-calf-length woolen skirt, topped by a single-breasted, belted long-sleeved jacket with both chest and hip pockets, a blouse and tie, and then a rather mannish brimmed hat. Those of us who couldn’t pay for uniforms received aid from donors.

  In June, the entire AWH team departed for the docks, where the Model T chassis that we would rebuild into ambulances overseas were already waiting for us, and boarded an army vessel transporting soldiers to Europe.

  I’d had three weeks of training with Cass Frank, a woman of about thirty and the leader of the ambulance drivers. A little heavyset, she wore her hair in an unflattering bun and wore mechanic’s overalls stained with grease. I could easily see why the AWH had hired her. She projected an air of competence, and she owned her own car, something almost unheard of for a woman.

  In a bay loaned to us by a mechanic’s shop, Cass and I had worked on her Ford engine for so long, so intensely, that a line of grease lived under my cuticles, my knuckles stayed constantly chapped, and my fingers ended at chipped nails. Cass said we had “man hands,” but neither of us cared. She taught me how to take the engine and practically the entire vehicle apart and put it back together again.

  When three newly hired drivers joined us, Cass had to train them even faster than she did me, and I often helped her. Talk of maintenance and repairs consuming us, we’d had no time for talk of our lives, no time to get to know one another as friends.

  But now on a journey to cross the ocean for twelve days, we had little to do.

  On board, the sea of khaki green on deck spread as wide as the midnight waters beyond the ship’s railings. The men, just boys really, amused themselves with pranks and laughter. They struck me as unprepared, likely still at the naive stage of being excited to participate in an adventure. Had anyone warned them about what they would see, as Dr. Rayne had warned me?

  The AWH Team Number One consisted of an all-female contingent of ten doctors, a dentist, six nurses, five chauffeuses—as everyone had started calling us—and three volunteer aides. With Cass and I assigned to share a cabin, it soon became clear we would spend lots of time together.

  Bundled up against the cold sea and spray, we walked the decks for fresh air and exercise, and she asked me why I had joined the team. Facing the open sea that dampened my face, I gave her my pat answer about the fire, losing Papa, and needing money to rebuild. Just that morning I’d written a letter to Luc and enclosed as much money as I could spare. Breeding season would soon end.

  She listened, watching me with empathetic eyes.

  “Once the opportunity presented itself, I realized I could not only earn money but also go to France and be of some help. My father was born there, and he always intended . . .” I had to clear my throat. “To take me there someday.”

  Cass stared at me, her head slightly cocked in a curious pose. “My God, Arlene . . .”

  “My father used to say ‘Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid.’ It means ‘little by little, the bird makes its nest.’” The tiny smile I wore froze. I could see Papa’s face, gentle but forceful love in his eyes, on the day he’d first said this to me. Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid. And I could see his smile.

  “You must miss him.”

  I nodded, grateful she’d asked me only a yes-or-no question. Thoughts of Papa always made me mute.

  A few minutes later, I managed to say, “Thank you for training me.”

  “My pleasure.” We stopped at the railing and looked out over the sea. “You’ve gained the necessary skills, and you’ll have that plus a special advantage over there.” I knew what she was going to say. “You speak—”

  “French.”

  “Exactly.”

  I learned that before the AWH hired her, Cass had worked as a matron at a factory. She and Dr. Rayne became acquainted over the course of setting up physicals for the new female hires. After a while Dr. Rayne mentioned taking Cass overseas.

  She said, “When I learned it would be an all-woman team, I had to join.”

  I nodded. Even after only a few weeks in Cincinnati, I had witnessed what women could do. On the streetcars, I’d met many women workers—widows and mothers, girls without marriage prospects, and wives whose husbands were sick, injured, drunks, or just lazy.

  Cass sighed. “We’re living in a world that still doesn’t know what to do with free-thinking, smart women. This is our chance to change that. The British, however, have sent female doctors and ambulance drivers to France from the war’s beginning.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  She continued: “Our doctors are a new breed of women with their own ambitions. They’ve fought hard to go overseas on their own. I admire their pluck.”

  I told her more about Maman, Luc, the horses, and the land. “I have to work and earn money—it’s not a choice now. Without my income, we’ll have to sell the horses and the land just to survive. So I understand the doctors’ determination.”

  The ship began to lift and surge, and a spray of seawater hit us. “Enough of this,” Cass said. We slipped back inside and brushed the droplets from our coats. “I know what we can do. We both need haircuts.”

  I was puzzled. “Haircuts?”

  “The bob is all the rage in New York, and it probably came from Europe.”

  “Do you know how to cut hair?” I asked.

  “No. Do you?”

  I shrugged. “No. But how hard can it be?”

  “Precisely,” Cass replied. “After all, we can fix engines.”

  I nodded. “And take them apart and put them together again.”

  Smiling with either forced or real confidence—I didn’t know her well enough yet to say f
or certain—she stated resolvedly, “We can do this.”

  “I agree. Do you have some scissors?”

  She scoffed at me. “Of course I have scissors. I have everything.”

  “One question,” I said. “Why do we have to be in style?”

  “Except for me, have you noticed they hired only young, pretty drivers?”

  I shook my head. “Why?”

  “Gasoline will be in short supply, and it’s controlled by poor Frenchmen. Dr. Rayne says the ambulance drivers must be pretty to talk their way into getting fuel.”

  I was still puzzled. “But you said these were a new breed of women.”

  “Yes, but they’re also practical.”

  “So we’re to be pretty and stylish.”

  She nodded. “And besides, all this”—she touched her bun—“is just going to get in the way.”

  That night we washed each other’s hair and then cut it while it was still damp. We laughed as we spilled long locks everywhere and used curling rods to create the waved bob of the day. When the evening ended and I climbed into my bunk, it seemed I’d made a friend. Cass was so affable and strong—who wouldn’t like her? Only then did I realize she’d told me nothing about her personal life, while I had told her just about everything concerning mine.

  Over the next few days, Cass and I chatted with just about everyone on the AWH team, except the lady in charge, Dr. Herberta Logan. Assigned her own small stateroom, she rarely emerged except for meals.

  We shared some polite conversations with the nurses, two of whom were obviously hired by Dr. Logan; they were as old-fashioned as could be. Nurse Helton and Nurse Carpenter, unmarried and devoutly Catholic, prayed the rosary together daily on the deck. The others kept themselves apart, too.

  The other three ambulance drivers—Lottie, Kitty, and Eve—were young and adorable in their red lipstick and lacy gloves, their hair flying free of any pins and combs. They wore high-heeled boots—Kitty’s sported bows—which they would have to put aside once we began working. Lottie rolled her eyes at the nurses, but she and the others did nothing more than share passing nods or simple greetings with the men on board. Apparently they’d received the same stern warnings I had. We were on a mercy mission, and there would be no hanky-panky.

  Dr. Rayne whispered to me when Dr. Logan finally arrived late and pale at the dinner table one night, “Seasickness.” We ate in the dining hall, where, despite the war, some niceties still existed, including decent food. Like Dr. Rayne, Dr. Herberta Logan appeared to be in her forties, but her statue-like face, white and smooth, evidenced no lines or crinkles about the eyes—although I had heard that she, also like Dr. Rayne, had come into a life of service due to personal tragedy. Both were widows who had lost a child. Dr. Logan emitted a powerful presence similar to Cass’s air of competence, only hers was loftier and more commanding.

  I strained to hear the conversation across from me and could make out only some mention about our setup in France, where we would establish a hôpital mixte, serving civilians and, to my surprise, soldiers, too. From what I could gather, everything centered on business and no pleasure.

  Cass, who sat on the other side of me, whispered, “I wonder if Dr. Logan wears a corset in the operating room.” She kept her face deadpan. “And in bed, as well.”

  I hid my smile beneath my gloved hand. “Please!” I touched my neck and the ends of my hair, amazed by the feel of it, so short. Cass’s bob still surprised me every time I saw it, too. It did make her look more stylish, younger as well.

  I could barely tear my eyes away from Dr. Logan. Whereas Cass discerned something unyielding in her, I saw our leader as a woman of quiet strength and graceful determination. So far, I’d had no conversations or personal meetings with her—I’d received only a short introduction, during which she pierced me through with unflinching but not unkind eyes. To me, she was something of a puzzle, and I hoped someday to get to know her, as I’d gotten to know Dr. Rayne.

  Our small groups stuck mostly to themselves. But Dr. Rayne rose exceptionally above the rest of us. A friend to everyone, she flowed like a river around and between our separate islands.

  On the thirteenth day at sea, we docked in Liverpool, England, and the next day we boarded a train for Southampton. We arrived just before midnight. The next evening we pulled out of the harbor at dusk to cross the English Channel by night on board a hospital ship.

  I would never forget the feeling of cutting a path through the surge as an uninvited storm battered the prow and lurched the ship to and fro. As we plunged onward into an impenetrable black abyss, I could hear some of our American boys singing hymns. Rock of Ages, cleft for me . . .

  As the first red splashes of dawn appeared in the east, lights flashed at us from shore. Scores of men in uniform pushed up against the railing and cheered the red, green, and white beacons on land. After our dark crossing on an unlit ship, those lights felt like the jewels of heaven, and as the sun began to rise, dozens of ships came up from the west, bound for France, carrying our men into the jaws of war. Closer to shore the bulky American transports bounced through the chop, coming toward us.

  Cass and I hugged each other hard, congratulating ourselves for making it over, even though our safe almost-arrival had nothing to do with anything we’d done.

  We debarked on one of the big docks at Le Havre, and I was finally in France.

  On the slow train to Paris, Cass gave me the window seat so I could better enjoy my first glimpses of Papa’s birthland. On the second day, we began to see farmhouses, fields, small woods, and tiny, compact villages with the traditional tall steeples in their centers. Soldiers stood guard at tunnels, bridges, and major crossings, and faster troop trains carrying soldiers to the front passed us over and over. As we chugged through villages, we saw blind men being helped to walk furtively down the narrow lanes. Children dressed in dark breeches, dresses, and aprons raced along the track, reaching out their hands. Cass and I longed for something to toss to them.

  Everywhere, women did the work of men. Wearing head scarves, they tended to the fields. Dr. Rayne, who had insisted I start calling her by her first name, Beryl, told us the men were either dead or fighting. Now the women had to mend fences, handle heavy farm equipment, and corral livestock. Many wore black, and we heard no laughter or music.

  I’d not expected to see such wartime effects so far from the battlefield. I’d imagined the front line with its muddy trenches, shell bombardment, grenades, and barbed-wire traps, but I hadn’t anticipated a country engaged in war in every way. That was the battered France we entered, however, as we joined the war on our own.

  Chapter Eight

  PARIS, FRANCE

  JUNE 1918

  When we debarked in Paris under a gray sky, my first impression was that the city functioned in full-blown denial of the war. As we headed to our quarters by bus, concierges smiled and chatted on sidewalks in front of hotels. The sun broke through the clouds, and the city came more alive. We passed beautiful cars and beautiful girls wearing impossibly fashionable little hats, walking impossibly adorable little dogs. With their doors propped open, the cafés hosted many well-dressed women sipping espressos at their tables as if they had nothing else to do. Many of them wore uniform-style looks with tailored blazers adorned with braids. Beryl told us the fashion of the day was called “military chic.” I noticed some female factory workers, but Paris swarmed with military uniforms, ranging in color from a grayish, heathered blue to almost-black navy. Mixed in we saw the happy reds of the Turks’ tunics, and of course America’s khaki. French soldiers on leave wore tin hats, muddy uniforms, and worn boots.

  Of course Paris could not altogether deny the war. Paper tape crisscrossed shop windows, sandbags protected the bases of most monuments, and nailed-on boards covered the priceless stained-glass windows of cathedrals. I spotted the Eiffel Tower from afar, but we couldn’t get close. It now served as a radio transmission station and was therefore off-limits.

  But nothing
could diminish the excitement of arriving in Paris, the city of my father’s birth. We got off the bus and filed into the grand lobby of the elegant art deco Hôtel Lutetia on the Left Bank. All of us, including Dr. Logan, had reservations to stay there.

  Rooms in Paris had become scarce, and Cass and I thanked our lucky stars for our assigned front room, which we would share, while the other three drivers would have to cram into a single room near the back.

  Standing in the lobby, Beryl said, “By the looks of it, you’d think Paris was immune to the war.”

  I later learned that the Boche had gotten close enough to fire on the city with a huge weapon called the Paris Gun. Really a cannon, it could unleash the power of nine million horses with explosive strikes and had hit the church of Saint-Gervais in the Marais, a very old district, killing eighty-eight people and reminding Parisians that they did indeed live in harm’s way. They simply didn’t act that way.

  After we’d settled in, our leaders told the team we could rest for the remainder of the day, but on my first day in Paris, I had no intention of lounging in a hotel room. Cass and I took a walk to the Champs-Élysées and the Arc de Triomphe, some of Paris’s grandest attractions, which thrilled us. Finally I soaked in the sights of my father’s Paris, dazzled by the elaborately fronted stone buildings, with their slate roofs, rows of splendid tall windows, and handsome wrought-iron railings. We strolled through narrow side streets lined with tiny shops, apartments above them, and we crossed the gleaming Seine on ornate bridges and gazed down on charming, toylike riverboats. Above us potted flowers on balconies occasionally let loose a petal or two, and we gazed up in awe at lovely clock towers, steeples, and domes.

  How I wished Maman and Luc could see these same sights. I longed to be an artist who could capture it all on canvas and bring it back, just as Papa had once brought back a painting of Provence to his fiancée. I could imagine my father as a youth running the lanes here with his friends, riding a bicycle, and climbing the hill to Montmartre. Once he’d told me he grew up bourgeois. A horse expert, my grandfather had made a brave move to Canada in order to have a farm of his own. My father had done the same thing when he started from scratch in Paris, Kentucky, and I filled with pride for being a Favier.