In her diary and memoir, Millard wrote about the personal interactions, both welcome and unwelcome, that she and her fellow nurses experienced with French doctors. After the war, Millard returned home and married her American fiancé, who had served in France with the AEF.
May 13th
One of the girls just brought up the mail and tossing me a letter, said: “Here’s one from Romeo.” It was postmarked Brest, but no hint of where he is going from there. It is thrilling to know he is so near but what good will it do? The war will have to last a long time for me to save up enough leave to make it worth while. Let’s see—twelve hours every two months. With luck and good management I should be able to take off about three days by the fall.
It is still quiet here, but I have noticed a strange tension in the air and several things have happened that make me realize doctors are definitely human beings. Today as I was coming through the corridor in the officers’ ward with a tray in my hands, I met Dr. Girard. I hardly know him; he has been in the theatre, as they call the surgery, almost constantly since I arrived. He stared at me in an odd sort of way and would not let me pass. Then he took the tray from my hands, set it on the window ledge and without further ado, grabbed me in his arms and kissed me vigorously. I struggled free with some difficulty, and he gravely handed me the tray again and began walking along beside me as if nothing had happened. I was quite upset because someone might have come along, but thank goodness no one did. I thought his behavior very undignified and silly and told him so. I tried to hurry away from him but he deliberately kept step with me and although he looked exactly as if we were discussing medical matters, he was calling me all sorts of French pet names and asking me when I would go to Paris with him. I said: “Absolument jamais!” and ducked into a ward. I don’t think absolument jamais is very good French but I hope he knew I meant it.
Why doesn’t Doctor Le Brun notice me once in a while? Yesterday I saw him in the ward sitting on the bed beside Hansen, a big gawky Swede from Minneapolis who has lost his right arm. Le B. was showing him how easy it is to write with the left hand. Le B. is left handed, does all his operating with his left hand. When he had gone I saw Hansen scribbling away, practicing cheerfully with his tongue tucked out of the corner of his mouth.
If Le B. asked me to go to Paris with him, I’m not so sure I would say Absolument jamais! He is a dear. So good to all the men. Pats them and calls them Mon Petit and Mon Vieux. Not like the cold-blooded, goateed Moreau whom we all dislike, and who works like a mechanical man, without one spark of feeling. One of the surgery nurses told me he began operating the other day before the ether had taken effect.
May 16th
Dr. Le Brun noticed me today. As I was coming out of the surgery with an armful of bottles he smiled at me and said: “Bien fait, bébé, bien fait.” Good work, baby, or words to that effect. It may not be exactly an impassioned speech but it is a lot coming from Dr. Le B. He isn’t young, must be thirty-five, and he probably has a wife and children—or at least a fiancée down in Lyons. But I hope not.
I seldom have time to think of Ted these days, but when I do get ’round to it, I love him dearly, and perhaps it is best to stick to one’s own nationality. I must write to him tonight.
The little contretemps in the corridor with Dr. Girard was only one of the incidents which marked that period of comparative inactivity. Immediately after a big drive, everyone appeared to relax from accumulated fatigue. But after having rested a bit, our heroic doctors would begin looking about them, and it was natural that they should observe and admire the fresh vigor of the American unit. Nearly all of us had some similar adventure to report, and I am bound to confess that some of us were not above flirting outrageously with these not indifferent and altogether interesting males who were naturally somewhat woman-conscious after a long period of grim duty and military segregation. But apart from a normal amount of: “He said and I said . . .” and highly exaggerated accounts of being: “Scared to death, he looked so strange and wouldn’t let me go . . .” I think we all emerged from our experiences none the worse, except for an increased opinion of our own seductiveness.
Remembering this period of slightly hysterical romanticism on the part of the hospital staff, I also recall Madame de R., one of the French nurses who had given her services to her country ever since the outbreak of the war. She had become, after the four long years of experience, head surgical assistant to one of the older doctors. She was by no means young herself, but very straight and brisk with hair dyed a reddish gold. She was the only nurse among the fifty odd who used cosmetics; her lipstick and macquillage were in the height of Parisian fashion; and her irregular features gave, by some trick of artifice, the impression of extreme attractiveness. I learned that she was a somewhat déclassée vicomtesse who had been for years the mistress of the surgeon she assisted. She went with him everywhere as his special nurse. At first we were inclined to resent her privileges and air of authority, but we soon found that she was a grand person, an understanding friend to all of us, and that she genuinely admired our spunk and appreciated our hard work.
Although she had lived a life of mondaine luxury until the war, no one was more efficient and tireless than this nearly middle-aged woman. We learned to love her devotedly. Her iron cot, with a shelf across the head for her belongings on which stood silver-framed photographs of her glamorous intimates, was the Mecca for all who needed a sympathetic ear in which to pour their troubles, real and imaginary.
There were still many details of duty which were not clear in my mind. Knowing she was thoroughly experienced and always glad to give the newcomers a lift, I sometimes went to her for advice. Should I change an uncomfortable dressing for the Canadian Captain without waiting for the doctor’s orders? Could I ask an orderly to help me feed the bad cases so their food would not get cold? Was it all right to give an extra dose of morphine where the first had not given enough relief? She was so understanding and practical and never failed to make the humane decision which, during the first days, I hesitated to make for myself.
I recall the occasion of my first visit. She was propped up on her cot, against elaborately embroidered pillows, a fine lace boudoir cap on her red locks, wearing a sacque with lace frills at the throat and wrists. A rich silk comforter was thrown over the bed and her beautiful linen sheets were marked with a coronet and a monogram. I felt like a country mouse in my blue flannel dressing gown and knitted slippers, and sat quite awe-struck on the edge of the bed feeling as though I were having an intimate audience with the queen. In her relaxed moments Madame de R. was every inch the Parisian vicomtesse, and her splendor was a striking contrast to the gray bathrobes and drab army blankets on the other cots in the room.
May 18th
Took a long walk with Dr. Le Brun today. The woods were beautiful and I will never forget that walk. If I thought he was wonderful yesterday, I think he is much more so today. We talked and talked about so many things—partly in French and partly in English. He is shy about speaking English, although he really does very well. We fill in here and there with whichever word fits best and have a grand time. He has a delightful sense of humor. I discovered that today, and it is a dangerous thing to find out about someone you already like a lot. As we strolled along he surprised me by stopping suddenly and saying: “Ah, bon jour, Moreau!” I turned in dismay, expecting to greet the unpopular Dr. Moreau, but all I saw was a scraggy old goat, moving his chin whiskers up and down as he munched from the bushes. The resemblance was so ludicrous and my relief so intense that I laughed until I was weak.
Le B. asked me if I had ever been in love. I said: “No.” I don’t feel tonight as if I ever have been really in love. I wonder if Ted would mind if I shifted to somebody else, especially a Frenchman. I wouldn’t be surprised if I completely forgot Ted, that is if Le B. shows any further signs of interest.
As we walked along, the roads were like bee-hives, with French troops moving forward although at the moment we are not very near the line. We had to step to the side to let them pass. Hundreds of poilus, singing Madelon as they swung along, their gray-blue overcoats pinned back at the knees.
Then a regiment of Americans, some marching, some in trucks and others astride the guns on the great cumbersome tractors. They were all grinning like pleased youngsters on the way to a picnic. One of them leaned down and shouted: “Hey, listen, where is all this trouble anyway?” That sticks in my mind for some odd reason. It seems to be the spirit of the entire A.E.F. They don’t know what they are in for, and I do. Yet I am glad to see them marching up to the front. How can I be glad? It is all very puzzling. It must be because everything is so topsy-turvy these days.
Le B. remarked as they passed that one could see the difference in temperament between the French poilu and the American doughboy by the way they wear their helmets. The French plant theirs solidly on their heads, having learned from bitter experience that this is where they will do the most good. But our boys still wear theirs cocked jauntily over one ear.
Then Le B. and I had quite a heated argument as to whether it is better to be serious about life, or to take it all as a joke; but that didn’t get us very far because we both had to agree that you are born one way or the other and that is the way you stay, whether you like it or not.
We found the most beautiful carpet of lilies of the valley growing wild under the trees. The stems grow eighteen inches high and the blossoms are enormous. A great bunch of them are beside me in my toothbrush glass as I scribble this and the fragrance is overpowering. We picked armfuls of the lovely things and on the way home stopped in the church-yard and put a few on some of the graves. With a few in my belt and a spray in his buttonhole, we strolled back through the high-walled lanes to supper, the inevitable prime ribs of horse, au jus.
From I Saw Them Die (1936)