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She cleared her throat. “There’s really no need—”

“Make that three days doing nothing,” said Mrs. Barrett firmly.

Chapter Twenty

Miss Moran has organized the work in a wonderful way and her system of reports is a thing to be proud of, but I feel strongly that the Unit needs a director who is not a specialist in any one thing, neither a doctor nor a social worker nor a chauffeur, but only there to direct. . . . The Unit has been like Topsy to this point, growing at an astonishing pace, but I feel like something more systematic can now be worked out.

I wanted to get a “taste” of the work, as you might say, so I went out with the girls on my second day here. The weather turned, bucketing down snow, but twenty-one blankets had been promised to Sancourt, and those girls were determined to get the blankets through. You wouldn’t believe the adventures we had going all of twelve kilometers: the machine stalled, we couldn’t see the road for the drifts, the tires burst, and one of the girls had to stop and rub snow on her feet to prevent frostbite. But we got those blankets through and made it home by dark. The peasants of Sancourt slept warm that night, even if the girls at Grécourt didn’t.

It’s grueling work, but they take it on without a grumble. By the following day, the roads were too thick with snow for the machines to get through, and you would have thought that would be that, but our lady doctor (Julia Pruyn, ’11) slung her supplies over her back and our social worker (Eleanor Baldwin, ’14) grabbed up a valise of milk bottles—four gallons’ worth!—and a massive bottle of malted milk to boot and they hauled it all two miles through the snow on foot. The kiddies of Canizy had to have their milk, you see—and there were some sick children too—and since the cars couldn’t go, they walked. As simple as that. And nobody thought it was anything out of the ordinary. It’s just what they do.

I only hope I can be worthy of them. They resist utterly having money spent on them, because the more they spend on themselves, the less they have for the people. But I’m working hard to bring them a few comforts—whether they like it or not!

—Mrs. James R. Barrett (née Ruth Irwin), ’02, Director, to the Paris Committee

February 1918

Grécourt, France

“I’ve made you sandwiches for the train.” Emmie pressed a waxed-paper packet into Kate’s hands. “And for Julia too.”

Kate blindly accepted the packet. “It’s ridiculous to be taking a vacation when there are only eight of us left.”

“Nine if you count Mrs. Barrett,” pointed out Emmie. “Don’t squish the sandwiches—you’ll want them later.”

“Mrs. Barrett doesn’t count,” said Kate, tucking the sandwiches into her carpetbag. Both Kate and the carpetbag were meant to be in the Red Cross truck already, on their way to the train, but Emmie couldn’t seem to get her out the door of the barrack. “It’s not as though she’s in the fields with the plows.”

“I’m sure if we needed the extra pair of hands, she could muck in sorting seeds,” said Emmie consolingly.

“Hmmm,” said Kate, which was the noise Kate always made when she didn’t want to disagree, but did.

Emmie knew exactly what she meant. Mrs. Barrett was a brilliant director, but being a director was very different from being a member of the Unit. Which was exactly why the committee had chosen her, of course, so that she could direct without being distracted by daily duties. But it was different from what they were used to. It was all different.

Emmie knew Kate hated it. Kate hated leaving, hated going to Paris, hated giving up the reins of command to Mrs. Barrett. Kate hated the new house that had been put up behind the château, furnished with a rug—a real rug, not a rag rug—donated by Mrs. Morrow of the Paris Committee, a piano that Mrs. Barrett had wrangled goodness only knew where, and a framed copy of the Stuart portrait of George Washington, so that their first president eyed them beadily at all their meetings.

The entire tone of the enterprise had changed. They still trekked out to their villages in all weathers, but there was now a housekeeper to cook their meals and maids to clean their rooms while they were out doing their rounds. It made the hardscrabble months feel a bit like children playing house, as though a grown-up had arrived and replaced their tent of tree branches and twine with a proper one, store-made.

“It’s only two weeks,” said Emmie. She wasn’t sure whether she minded Kate leaving or was relieved by it. “Two weeks in a real bed will do you a world of good.”

It had been horrible seeing the bruised look in Kate’s eyes when Mrs. Barrett had handed out their new schedules, or when Mrs. Barrett had spoken to someone who had spoken to someone who had miraculously produced enough essence to keep their trucks running for the next month. Kate was still, officially, assistant director, but Mrs. Barrett had made it very clear that the weight of the work wasn’t on her shoulders any longer. They had a director now, a proper one, and Kate could get on with the regular work of the Unit, with driving and social work, and not bother herself with larger issues.

Emmie had never seen Kate look so lost, not even that first week at Smith when they’d all been wandering wide-eyed around Northampton.

“Yes, but we’ve got so much to do,” said Kate, worrying at the handle of her carpetbag. “Mrs. Barrett just doesn’t understand. We’re short-handed already. Dr. Clare still doesn’t have her pass, and with Julia coming to Paris . . .”

“Gwen Mills is itching to take over the dispensary,” said Emmie cheerfully. “She can’t wait to have full sway over the bottles and bandages.”

“Gwen isn’t a doctor,” said Kate sharply.

“No,” said Emmie soothingly, “but poor Julia does look done in—and we have that nice Dr. Stapleton from Nesle three times a week.”

Kate bit down hard on her lower lip. “Yes, about that . . .”

Emmie chivvied Kate toward the door. “I know it’s not a replacement for having a doctor of our own—we were spoiled with Dr. Stringfellow!—but the rest of us can deal with the minor cuts and scrapes and fevers. I do worry about Julia. If you won’t go for yourself, go to keep an eye on her. She needs the rest and you’re the only one she’ll listen to. If I say anything, she just tells me to stop fussing.”

“I don’t think it’s overwork,” said Kate guardedly. “If Mrs. Barrett had only left well enough alone . . .”

“You’re as bad as Julia,” Emmie said firmly, maneuvering Kate out the door. “Anyway, it’s decided. There’s no getting around it. Mrs. Barrett says everyone needs to get away at least once every six weeks, and you’re first because you’ve been working hardest.”