Attended at two movies - "The Uninvited". Policed the building in the morning with G.I.s doing the hard labor. Had Hillbilly songs with guitar on the radio - got three requests while he was on. That's the stuff to feed the troops - hillbilly music - they eat it up.
Wrote a letter for Col Johnson after the last movie, and then had coffee with Capt E. in his office. He's quite excited over his news commentary program he's taking over next week. So am I - he has a decided accent, but beautiful timbre to his voice. Charming person - glad we're friends. The most conscientious doctor here I daresay. Told me about the 60 German prisoners we got after D-Day in this hospital - our first patients! Most embarrassing to all concerned. He spoke German to them and they were well-behaved for their month's stay.
Joe Crowe leaving tomorrow.
28.4.10
Wednesday, January 10, 1945
Had a patient Talent Night, off the cuff. Nobody at rehearsal, but Dusty wasn't worried. Found a Lt who sings beautifully at the last minute - he sang "Mandalay" and "One Alone" - we wept, it was so wonderful to hear a good fresh voice over here. Joe Crowe sang "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" - what a love of a boy he is - sincere and dependable. So sorry to lose him. Jimmie Livingston threw us with his really liquid piano playing - Gershwin particularly. He's another sweet-cute character, has home bonds at home, and a Packard in storage. Now in a psycho-neurotic ward for nerves, but the piano helps. Wish he could stay here.
F/Lt Parker came over to kiss me goodbye as he is flying to Antwerp in the AM to look over an RAF base there. Promised me some perfume from Brussels. Gave him a suitable farewell to last two weeks, when he's due back.
Had four birthday cakes today.
F/Lt Parker came over to kiss me goodbye as he is flying to Antwerp in the AM to look over an RAF base there. Promised me some perfume from Brussels. Gave him a suitable farewell to last two weeks, when he's due back.
Had four birthday cakes today.
(pictured: Jimmie Livingston, at work)
24.4.10
Tuesday, January 9, 1945
Meeting on organizing our recreation program - plans, new schedule for better coverage of wards. Who should drop in to see me but Lt Harry Walley - now Det Commander at the 155th Gen. It was so long since I'd seen him I hardly knew him. Had lunch at the mess, and he told me that Orval is on Taipan - been to Hawaii, Marshalls, Guadulein, all the messy ones - now a j.g. (and a father!).
Two wonderful letters from Durham in France - he writes like an angel. Said he helped a French mother with her bundle of clothes and gave a magic show for the babes on the floor. Said the Arabs bring their girls with them. Wanted to know about our "B-kit" after reading the New Yorker piece. Found an article by Mark Murphy in "Air Force" - he's a S/Sgt with them. (Still don't know what a ARCB-K looks like.)
Two wonderful letters from Durham in France - he writes like an angel. Said he helped a French mother with her bundle of clothes and gave a magic show for the babes on the floor. Said the Arabs bring their girls with them. Wanted to know about our "B-kit" after reading the New Yorker piece. Found an article by Mark Murphy in "Air Force" - he's a S/Sgt with them. (Still don't know what a ARCB-K looks like.)
23.4.10
Monday, January 8, 1945
F/Lt Parker came in for late tea at Mead House, and I was so pleased to have it laid, with the toast warming on the hearth. Some friends of his in, too, playing the piano, and John sang "Rose of Tralee" with his arm around my waist. Then we talked to Michael, aged 11 - who converses like an enthusiastic undergraduate - a striking boy - such fun to see John with a child - he is a warm, gay, adult sort of person who beams at the world through his spectacles. We had a beer at the Black Horse, then back to Mead House for a rarebit. Damned good, too, and jam tart, also.
Took him to his van and asked him not to kiss me before his men. He said, "Don't be absurd!" and kissed me twice, to their admiring pleasure. Good for the morale, John is. Spent several hours and lunch with Mrs. Murray and the children. I'm tired and can't get rested - bought a beautiful brown shiny tea kettle.
Took him to his van and asked him not to kiss me before his men. He said, "Don't be absurd!" and kissed me twice, to their admiring pleasure. Good for the morale, John is. Spent several hours and lunch with Mrs. Murray and the children. I'm tired and can't get rested - bought a beautiful brown shiny tea kettle.
Sunday, January 7, 1945
Usual day - opened the office. But I took 24 rehabilitation patients to Kemble Aerodrome on a tour, where we looked at all the splendid British planes with their famous names. Those sweet little Typhoons! Magnificent tea afterward - jam tarts, currant buns, bread and butter, and cold tongue. Very cold at the 'drome, though. F/Lt John Parker out to our mess for dinner - Capt E. and Phyllis at our table. Later a movie, also cold. He's a dear person - blithe as a child. Called me "sweet" and "dahling" at table to Capt E.'s horror, who considered it a violation of the Geneva Treaty, I think, judging by his stern glances. After the movie we walked downtown very fast and checked in at the Red Cross for coffee and sandwiches. Then to Mead House where we both had rooms. My room had a WAFF in it. I slept in bed sox and sweater and was very comfortable: no heat, of course, but la, la - heated towel racks in the morning!
Saturday, January 6, 1945
Club Dance - F/Lt Parker out to the club where we drank beer only, and chattered our teeth off. Then over to the 192nd where Maj Kirk bought us beers in lieu of our not having guest cards. John doesn't know the meaning of the RAF motto: per ardva ad astra - having been too busy the last six years to learn it, especially on Gibraltar. We decided on the free translation of "through danger to the stars" as being the most satisfying. John was modestly pleased at (yesterday) receiving a commendation from the King on his meritorious service in the RAF. Actually he was overjoyed, and had tried to call me last night to tell me about it. Thinks it was for evacuating his unit effectively from "Gib" in 48 hours last winter. We went over to dance as I said, but remained to talk far into the night, as usual.
Shopped this morning in town - bank, and needles, and tarts. Short-changed a ten shilling note, but recovered it later. The fog was bitter cold - glad for a ride home in a 192nd staff car.
Shopped this morning in town - bank, and needles, and tarts. Short-changed a ten shilling note, but recovered it later. The fog was bitter cold - glad for a ride home in a 192nd staff car.
Friday, January 5, 1945
Hamilton Greene hasn't seen a pub in late years, so we went to the Fleece for an ale, as it was his last night at the 188th. Took him to the Red Cross Officers' Club afterwards in his G.I. clothes and people observed us enviously. His face is a distinguished one - lined but soft and boyish. Fine dark eyes. Told me about being a part-time auditor in his home town in Vermont. For an artist he has an unusual sense of civic obligation. He is altogether a person of great integrity and charm. Shall miss him.
Wednesday, January 3, 1945
Gathered up Hamilton Greene, the correspondent for King Features, and took him to the Murray's for dinner downtown. He looked charming, although he wore great snub-nosed G.I. shoes and overcoat. (Had come here from Bastogna in pj's after being shot up with the 7th over there.) It was the first time he had been off the post - had seen our town years ago when he was working here in England at illustrating. Mr. Murray was genial and gay - a Scotsman with a beautiful university accent - he gave us Manhattans, ginger liqueur, claret with the bird, and Scotch and sodas. Delightful apartment and two elfin children, Peter and Fiona, who made my heart ache. We couldn't tear ourselves away until 2 am - a most luxurious evening and the first home I've been in since last spring in the USA.! Ethel Murray is from Forest Hills, L.I. She is the most attractive woman I know in England.
(pictured: Mrs. Ethel Murray)
22.4.10
Tuesday, January 2, 1945
Still fatigued from the Christmas rush. F/Lt Parker at the club in the evening - an English show had rendered me hysterical, with G.I.s walking out in droves while a Mendelssohn concerto was played. The E.N.S.A. shows are unpredictable. They mix low comedy with high opera, and the confused audience reacts very badly. Lt Larson had to call an "At ease!" once to stop the noise. I was so tired that after dancing with John at 192nd and drinking a beer I collapsed in foolish tears when saying goodnight. Who knows how long anything will last? (pictured: an ENSA - Entertainments National Service Association - show night)
Monday, January 1, 1945
Day off - Open House at the club between 2-4 pm. Paid my respects to Col Abrahamson, drank an eggnog and came home to rest. F/O Jack Hobbes called me at the club, so we had dinner at the Fleece. He is 21, dark soft eyes and long lashes. Very shy - was at Oxford when called up - flies in training ships over our hospital every night. I brought him out to the club and he seemed most entertained. A precious boy - I felt like his maiden aunt. He lives at High Wycombe in Bucks., at a place called Rosecroft. Said I must call there in my travels and have tea with his mother.
Sunday, December 31, 1944
F/Lt Parker came in a great English lorry and we drove to his base at Donn Ampney for New Year's Eve. First went to his sergeant's dance where Steve, a Scottish sergeant poured us whiskeys and sherries. Wonderful time there - then to his officers' club where we talked with Wg Cdr Hallam before one of the three fireplaces. I love his club - they've suspended parachutes from the ceiling to make a canopy effect - and somehow a baronial impression. Later saw John's little private den - a half hut. He needs one of my little brass paraffin lamps to brighten it - shall give him one.
Celebrated the passing of 1944 rather absent mindedly I'm afraid. Back to Mead House to sleep where I was tortured with cold all night.
Celebrated the passing of 1944 rather absent mindedly I'm afraid. Back to Mead House to sleep where I was tortured with cold all night.
21.4.10
Looking Back...from October 1962, Virginia Cooley Strong
We arrived in London on September 8, 1944 via Liverpool on the hospital ship USAHS Blanche Sigman, a small converted liberty ship. We had waited three weeks in Charleston Port for the ship. There were 19 American Red Cross personnel to be used in various U.K. hospitals as replacements. The "invasion" was successfully completed and U.S. troops were rolling across France, but with fearful casualties - the war in Europe had eight months to go, and our 188th General Hospital in Cirencester, old Roman town in the Cotswolds, was one of 98 or so from the Channel to the Scottish border. It had been in operation four months only, but by the next May it would have its 10,000th patient - its capacity was normally 1500 beds. Even so, deaths were few and far between. Until late Spring of 1945 not more than half a dozen had occurred. In a way it was a recuperative hospital - when a man was able to be flown from the war zone, yet needed considerable surgery and care, say 60 days of it, he would go to England to be rehabilitated for limited service, or to be sent home if long treatment was needed.
An Assistant Field Director, her secretary, and three recreation workers comprised the average Red Cross staff.l I was at the bottom, a lowly staff aide, just where I belonged. I had no musical ability, no recreation experience, and no social work in my background. I was in college an English major, later a dress sales woman, an office clerk, an interviewer, and a publicist for the U.S. Employment Service. Also, I had worked a year on the Federal Writers Project, helping to compile the "Ohio Guide". I had written some historical articles for a trade publication, and done some freelance newspaper work on the side. My only qualification for "work with sick soldiers" (as one of the Washington staff called it) was an adventurous spirit and a compeling desire to be of direct, tangible service to wounded men far from home and family. It was selfish enough and no credit is expected. We worked harder than ever before or since in our lives, and enjoyed it more. We were forever admiring the nurses and doctors with whom we shared an equal military status socially, and "in case of capture". But we never were allowed to give a patient medical aid, not even a glass of water. Ours was personal service and diversion, and I think we succeeded except that we were spread too thin. Hospital experience, as a patient, is one that is most easily forgotten and should be, but I hope some of the 10,000 remember the Red Cross gals with a friendly feeling, even if they have forgotten us individually. Seldom did they write back from home, nor did we expect it. We just wanted them to be happy and successful. We weren't allowed to date G.I.s, hence the endless cups of Mess Hall coffee. But I married mine (one of mine!), and admit that it is nobody's fault that we did not live happily forever after. At the time we needed each other as a hope for the future. Later, it was not the same world at all, and we were not even the same people.
So, I took our child nine years later and went back to England, probably trying to find a little of what I'd lost. I never did, of course. But in traveling 13 countries in six years I found Europe, and also some wonderful G.I.s, healthy but homesick as ever. We slept in the same little London hotel where her father and I had rested nine years before. Now it is quite modern, not at all the same. We saw he honeymoon hotel from a car window as we drove through Malvern, and visited the old hospital, now mostly in ruins. Next time I go back I expect the heartache will be cured, nothing lasts forever. I will find out by visiting St. Gabriel's Church, parish of Hanley Swan, Worcestershire, England.
Nothing before had been so exciting as arriving in Liverpool and going to London in the black-out of September 1944. To me it was as good as dying and arriving in heaven. In fact, during the later bombings when no one went to shelters, we hardly cared what happened to us; we were so interested in being in London. Would I go to San Francisco if bombs were dropping? We went to London - to shop and see plays, and eat at Grosvenor Mess! I had never heard of Cirencester, but it was made to order for me.
By October the twilight began at 4 o'clock and soon it was dark, and colder by November than I'd ever been. Our Nissen hut had six beds, one a spare for guests. Its heart was an old iron stove that never wanted to burn, especially coke. It usually went completely out at night so we took turns getting up to start it, after which we made tea, coffee, and toast, and served our mates in bed. This way we got an hour's extra sleep and missed the powdered eggs at the mess. Once somebody made a fire on one match, but it was agreed that to be a champ you had to do it with the only match in the hut.
We didn't get our diaries until Christmas so they missed the best time. Space made me leave out much, but I wasn't writing for posterity, but release of some kind. I could have told the story of Wayne's little hen that came into Paris triumphant on his third tank's green turret, of Hamilton Greene's bullet wound that carried off his ulcer neat as pie, of the bath-robed G.I. who didn't congratulate me on my marriage until he'd found I'd taken a G.I., not a limey or an officer. Or the prize-winning Christmas tree that didn't get a prize in the hospital competition because its loveliness was due to condoms blown up into silvery white balloons. And the Winter wonderland that Ward 16 became when it was festooned with four dozen rolls of toilet paper. Or the party for the 200 children that lasted too long and became a grand escorted tour to ward latrines. But a low point to end them all was Paddy Chayefsky's talent show skit, uncensored, that sent us females right through the floor...
An Assistant Field Director, her secretary, and three recreation workers comprised the average Red Cross staff.l I was at the bottom, a lowly staff aide, just where I belonged. I had no musical ability, no recreation experience, and no social work in my background. I was in college an English major, later a dress sales woman, an office clerk, an interviewer, and a publicist for the U.S. Employment Service. Also, I had worked a year on the Federal Writers Project, helping to compile the "Ohio Guide". I had written some historical articles for a trade publication, and done some freelance newspaper work on the side. My only qualification for "work with sick soldiers" (as one of the Washington staff called it) was an adventurous spirit and a compeling desire to be of direct, tangible service to wounded men far from home and family. It was selfish enough and no credit is expected. We worked harder than ever before or since in our lives, and enjoyed it more. We were forever admiring the nurses and doctors with whom we shared an equal military status socially, and "in case of capture". But we never were allowed to give a patient medical aid, not even a glass of water. Ours was personal service and diversion, and I think we succeeded except that we were spread too thin. Hospital experience, as a patient, is one that is most easily forgotten and should be, but I hope some of the 10,000 remember the Red Cross gals with a friendly feeling, even if they have forgotten us individually. Seldom did they write back from home, nor did we expect it. We just wanted them to be happy and successful. We weren't allowed to date G.I.s, hence the endless cups of Mess Hall coffee. But I married mine (one of mine!), and admit that it is nobody's fault that we did not live happily forever after. At the time we needed each other as a hope for the future. Later, it was not the same world at all, and we were not even the same people.
So, I took our child nine years later and went back to England, probably trying to find a little of what I'd lost. I never did, of course. But in traveling 13 countries in six years I found Europe, and also some wonderful G.I.s, healthy but homesick as ever. We slept in the same little London hotel where her father and I had rested nine years before. Now it is quite modern, not at all the same. We saw he honeymoon hotel from a car window as we drove through Malvern, and visited the old hospital, now mostly in ruins. Next time I go back I expect the heartache will be cured, nothing lasts forever. I will find out by visiting St. Gabriel's Church, parish of Hanley Swan, Worcestershire, England.
Nothing before had been so exciting as arriving in Liverpool and going to London in the black-out of September 1944. To me it was as good as dying and arriving in heaven. In fact, during the later bombings when no one went to shelters, we hardly cared what happened to us; we were so interested in being in London. Would I go to San Francisco if bombs were dropping? We went to London - to shop and see plays, and eat at Grosvenor Mess! I had never heard of Cirencester, but it was made to order for me.
By October the twilight began at 4 o'clock and soon it was dark, and colder by November than I'd ever been. Our Nissen hut had six beds, one a spare for guests. Its heart was an old iron stove that never wanted to burn, especially coke. It usually went completely out at night so we took turns getting up to start it, after which we made tea, coffee, and toast, and served our mates in bed. This way we got an hour's extra sleep and missed the powdered eggs at the mess. Once somebody made a fire on one match, but it was agreed that to be a champ you had to do it with the only match in the hut.
We didn't get our diaries until Christmas so they missed the best time. Space made me leave out much, but I wasn't writing for posterity, but release of some kind. I could have told the story of Wayne's little hen that came into Paris triumphant on his third tank's green turret, of Hamilton Greene's bullet wound that carried off his ulcer neat as pie, of the bath-robed G.I. who didn't congratulate me on my marriage until he'd found I'd taken a G.I., not a limey or an officer. Or the prize-winning Christmas tree that didn't get a prize in the hospital competition because its loveliness was due to condoms blown up into silvery white balloons. And the Winter wonderland that Ward 16 became when it was festooned with four dozen rolls of toilet paper. Or the party for the 200 children that lasted too long and became a grand escorted tour to ward latrines. But a low point to end them all was Paddy Chayefsky's talent show skit, uncensored, that sent us females right through the floor...
(pictured: USAHS Blanche Sigman)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
