“Home at last”—just a few miles
from the south coast of England across from the Channel Isles and the French
coast below Calais. Home in Ringwood but—horrors! No go.
As the GIs and medical staff worked day and night to gear up for
patients, we Red Cross staff were grounded.
None of our Red Cross recreation and office furniture and supplies
arrived with the 95th, supplies as expected. The Army didn’t have a clue why, so the 3 of
us in Recreation decided to write home for help.
How dreadful it would be if we had
no personal items for the GI patients, especially at crisis times, like
Christmas we speculated. Soldier
patients and the hospital, at such times used soap, toothbrushes, washcloth,
shaving supplies and cigarettes, pipes, and tobacco, if possible, bagged in a
small ditty bag from the Red Cross. None
had arrived, nor had games, books, craft shop tools, office materials and,
worst of all, records and the combination radio and record player.
I wrote family and friends to plead
for small boxes of personal items, playing cards, chips, to be mailed to me and
the other two co-workers did the same.
My parents put the plea into the Lamar
Daily News asking all the readers to send the items. Our efforts made us feel better. Later we learned that military rules forbade
asking for packages because of limited mailing capacity. Too late!
We didn’t know that.
We took the train to London to seek
help from the British Red Cross. The
compassionate official listened and exclaimed “How LOVELY!” No help there. But we were furious at her unconcern. Much later we learned that in England “How
lovely!” is like we say “Damn, hell, spit!”
Finally everything arrived, we set
up the recreation hall, complete with a wood and metal workshop, card tables,
sofa, chairs, office needs, phonograph and radio combo with many current pop
and country music records, and a fairly good selection of classical music
too. There were carrying baskets to take
comic books, cards and personal items into the wards. There were many craft shop supplies: paints, wool for knitting, some leather, many
tools and designs, instructions.
The local Red Cross provided an
upright piano and two or three volunteers.
They let us know that they were there to help us any other ways they
could. One, a doctor’s wife from
Ringwood, was invaluable in working with me to set up and run the
workshop. Together we learned lots from
the GIs—we knew how to countersink screws and everything!
Ordinarily
we had two or three hundred guys in their striped cotton flannel army pajamas
and long dark blue robes in the big concrete building at a time. Probably half were NP
patients—neuropsychiatric or now named traumatic distress disorder, TDD. They were usually distant, hard to talk to,
didn’t participate often. Frequently
chaplains from their outfits came by to visit, even one or two from their
outfits, sometimes knowing something about a fellow that might suggest how we
might draw him out. Seldom did any of
our three psychiatrists assist us—or
the patients, as far as I could determine.
The rec. hall was open early in the
morning until 9pm each night. Card
tables and small group arrangements were always available for their use and we
scheduled large group events as often as possible. We had sings, games—bingo several times a
week at night as well as daytime. Occasionally party times were scheduled with
group relays, games, talent programs if some of the GIs (or officers) had
singing or other talents. The loud
country music almost never stopped from morning until night. I’d almost never listened to it before so I
found it tiring—so
relentless—often the same two or three selections got played over and over
again for 10 hours!
We worked literally day and
night. The routine was to have two days
off after working 12-hour days for two weeks. Then at separate times each of us
five took off separately for a couple days.
I usually stayed in a boarding house outside Salisbury Cathedral Close
and spent the day visiting old book stores, antique shops and interesting park
areas or just meditating, resting in the beautiful old 14th Century
Gothic nave. En route sometimes I got
off the bus at Stonehenge and strolled over that ancient worship shrine,
resting. Once in a while I’d take a bus
into Bournemouth and enjoy that sophisticated city—also staying in a boarding
house.
After a few weeks I bought a used
bike. Then I could have a lunch packed
and spend the vacation day biking all over the hedge-rowed farm country
enjoying the quiet fresh air, often strolling into a tiny church with its
Bibles chained to the pews, reading the cemetery carvings—and usually having
lunch in the sun on top a stone vault.
Sometimes I drove by an all-Black
American army post, a few miles from our outfit. Several GIs always ran following me inside
their fence wanting to chat with me.
Like the English girls I waved and greeted them—but couldn’t stop. I didn’t dare say anything and give away my
secret nationality. What a treat it must
have been for them to feel comfortable greeting a white girl their own ages!