Hertha writes letters to politicians. She attends meetings,
demands to see a general to show him her invention.
If mustard gas can move into a trench full of soldiers,
it can move out. This fan can quickly sweep out poison,
and is collapsible so it can be easily carried.
A fan? We’re fighting a war, not hosting a tea party.
The military budget goes to weapons.
The gas can ruin their lungs and minds.
Men are dying.
Some scientists are working on large machines
with filters and motors to clear out the gas.
Ma’am, your idea is too simple to work.
By “scientists” she knows he means men
who don’t work in a parlor
equipped with soap dishes, battered pie plates, and kettles.
She says, Simple fans can work as well and will be cheaper.
The general waves a hand to dismiss her.
But Hertha doesn’t leave. She thinks of the women
building parts for ships and planes in factories:
welding propellers, gluing fabric on airplane wings.
Some women are code breakers, radio operators,
electricians, and engineers
who make ways to intercept messages.
Marie and Irène Curie haul X-ray machines
to the front lines.
They tell doctors how to save lives by scanning for bullets
or broken bones before aiming surgical knives.
You must try my invention, Hertha insists.
She keeps talking to this man and more. At last,
one hundred thousand Ayrton fans are sent to battlefields.