It's My Country Too

by Jerri Bell, Tracy Crow

  [Near the end of the war, Petty Officer Bright is reassigned to the Naval Air Station at Cape May, New Jersey.]

  As personnel yeoman at the air station, I appeared at Mast daily with the commanding officer of the station. Upon my reading the charge, the master-at-arms would step forward, explain the situation and have the man tell his story. The captain would pronounce the sentence and I would record it. I was also the stenographer on Naval Courts and Boards. These assignments placed me in a position to be embarrassingly aware of some of the failings and misdemeanors of the men. But I was impressed by the way members of the courts would make every effort to assure that justice was done.

  There was certainly no discrimination by reason of sex in the assignment of duties. On my second day at Cape May, a call came over the loud speaker, “All hands on the starboard watch, report to the hangar for sweeping down.” I trooped over with the other office workers and was given a broom, learning the hard way what a huge space a dirigible hangar was. . . .

  Late in 1918, one of the coastal northeast storms that sweep the New Jersey coast regularly in the fall and early winter, hit the area. To transport personnel living ashore as well as to deliver material arriving by rail, the station maintained a truck. On this particular morning when the truck left for its regular six-mile run from the town to the air station, the wind was blowing a gale and a blizzard was under way.

  After four miles, we could go no farther. At times, the ocean was running across the road, battering the houses between the road and the sea. There was nothing to do but start walking across the fields, heading directly into the wind, sleet, and snow which cut our faces. After the first mile, the men formed a double line abreast, and we three women fell in behind. I was nearly frozen. I had lost a rubber—there were no galoshes in those days—and my thin Navy cape kept slipping from my numb hands. The chief in charge finally told the women and men to fall in close and walk lockstep. I drew the leading chief, who was a foot taller than I, and, matching my step with his stride, I soon had my blood circulating. Upon reaching the station, we were sent to the dispensary to thaw out.

  During the day, the road to the station was washed out, making it impassable even at low tide. A minesweeper was ordered to take us back via the inland waterway to Cape May. . . . We rolled and pitched with such force that the warrant officer in charge was a worried man as he endeavored to get back to the protection of the breakwater.

  I myself never got out of the galley. One of the yeomen (F) was very, very seasick. The other, scared almost to the point of hysteria, helped me nonetheless as we made coffee and egg sandwiches for the men on deck. I have never been more frightened. Not only was there the angry sea to contend with, but the hot coals continually spilling out of the galley range had to be shoveled back. A heavy lurch of the boat landed me on a crate of eggs. From then on, we had scrambled egg sandwiches.

  After fighting the storm for five hours, the crew managed to get us back to the air station at ten o’clock that night. The dock was gone, carried away by an Eagle boat which had rammed it in an attempt to tie up. The boathouse had landed on the forward deck of the Eagle.

  Our minesweeper finally tied up at the marine railway and we got ashore by pulling ourselves, flat on our stomachs, along the elevated, open ties. The day ended as it began: in the dispensary. After hot drinks, we three yeomen were bedded down there for the night. . . .

  As I look back to World War I, I need to stress the fact that the accomplishments of the more than ten thousand women who served as yeomen (F) were not limited to purely clerical duties. They served ably as translators, draftsmen, fingerprint experts, camouflage designers, and recruiters. Five of them, connected with the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery, served with naval hospital units in France; and one found her place in the operations of the Office of Naval Intelligence in Puerto Rico. Old records reveal that a few yeomen (F) were stationed at Guam, the Panama Canal Zone, and Hawaii.

  Once all of the women had been released from active duty, on 31 July 1919 Secretary [of the Navy Josephus] Daniels sent the following message: “It is with deep gratitude for the splendid service rendered by yeomen (F) during our national emergency that I convey to them the sincere appreciation of the Navy Department for their patriotic cooperation.”

  Lela Leibrand

  (1891–1977)

  U.S. Marine Corps

  Lela Leibrand was one of the first ten women to join the Marines in 1918. A divorcée with a young daughter, she used an eighth-grade education and a stenographer’s course to get a job as a newspaper reporter in Missouri in 1911. By 1916 she was writing movie scripts in Hollywood. The Marine Corps assigned her to the Publicity Bureau; as a private, she wrote articles for the Recruiters’ Bulletin, Marines Magazine, and Leatherneck. After her promotion to sergeant, she edited newsreels with footage of the war in Europe and the first military training film, All in a Day’s Work. Discharged from the Corps at the rank of sergeant, she returned to Hollywood where she married John Rogers and managed the career of her daughter, Virginia McMath (Ginger Rogers). Leibrand wrote the following article for an unidentified publication in 1918 or 1919.

  The Girl Marines

  Cherchez la femme! (Find the woman!) It is no longer a problem down at Headquarters in Washington. Girls, girls everywhere! And the Marines might just as well accustom themselves to us for we’ve come down among them to stay four years!

  The moment your Marine Corps sent out the call for girls we flocked to the recruiting stations in every village, hamlet and town, eager to be one of that splendid body of men who have rendered such excellent account of themselves “over there.” And, we found they were most particular who they enrolled. “One hundred per cent men; one hundred per cent women,” seemed to be the slogan resulting in about four hundred being chosen out of as many thousand applicants. Believe us, we who are in are mighty glad it was us! It’s an enormous satisfaction to know you can rate such an organization.

  Many of us have left splendid positions back home to answer the call of our country in her hour of stress, even as the boys, because we knew we could be useful. Others of us have come because the Marine Corps pays a better wage than most private concerns for the same kind of work, and the hours, 8.30 a.m. to 4.30 p.m., are especially light. Then, not the least inducement is that fascinating uniform,—enough to make any girl leave home. Have you seen them? Done up in one we have to salute officers and everything.

  You see, we are here to attend to your official business while you go out to fight. Some of the officers and men are most skeptical as to our intentions and we’ve found we must convince them we mean business. . . . We are going to do it, too, by honest effort, rigidly applied. Our work is exacting, and the detail cruel, in a way, for it keeps us upon the tips of our mental toes every moment of each day. To trifle means an error; errors mean inaccurate records. It can’t be done in the Marines! However, the men are kind and considerate and patient with us, though a bit dazed at the newness of it.

  There’s romance in the work; real, live, human romance. We keep in closer touch with you than you dream. If you are transferred we know where from and to. If you are hurt, we know when, where and how much. When you reach another step in progress of your training, marksmanship, promotion, we hear about it and see to it you get the proper credits on your records and—the additional pay! But, when we read “Ashore France, servg. With Army fr,” stamped on your card—well, it is but a little hope, just a thought, but it is a prayer that God will watch over you and care for you, in the end delivering you safely home, truly glorified, to that little mother who writes us occasionally that we might know exactly where she may be reached the speedily “in case of emergency.” Romance, did you ask? Each one of you is a special little story all by yourself. Sssh! We know when you’re brigged, too!

  Oh, I mustn’t forget to tell you about our drills. You boys would turn dark green with envy to see us “right face,” “left face,” “salute” (at the heathenish hour of 8.30 in the morni
ng). And, Corporal Lockout, who is in charge of our drills said (and these are his exact words), “Girls learn the drills much easier than men.” He added he doesn’t know why, but we do. . . . We do police duty in our offices, too, but we didn’t have to be drilled to that.

  However, Corporal Lockout whispers to me that the drilling is only a means to an end. Discipline is the goal! Military discipline, at that. Personalities and sex must be subdued. The girls must learn as the men have learned, they are privates in the Marine Corps; must learn to accept discipline as the men accept it, without a single consideration for the fact that in private life they were self-governing young ladies. There is to be no proviso to this discipline. We are Marines! That says it all! And, once our lesson has been told to us, I hear from various sources, in ominous tones, leniency will cease to exist. The chaff will be separated from the wheat. A sort of forewarning. Now, do you gather a bit of our importance among you? We are not a fad by any means. . . .

  All this is just to let you know we are here, also to warn you that, whatever you do, remember the eagle eyes of the Marinettes are right upon you. Watch your step!

  Kate Walker

  (ca. 1850s–1931)

  U.S. Lighthouse Service

  Katherine Gortler emigrated from Germany to the United States in the 1870s. While working as a waitress to support her young son, she met John Walker, a retired sea captain who taught her English. After their marriage, John Walker kept first the Sandy Hook lighthouse in New Jersey, and then the lighthouse at Robbins Reef, a tower surrounded by water one mile from the tip of Staten Island that served as a key navigation aid in the approach to New York Harbor. John died of pneumonia in 1886; his last words to Kate were “Mind the light, Kate!” Walker did so for the next thirty-three years, boarding her daughter, Mamie, in Staten Island during the school year. She rescued as many as fifty people, most of them fishermen blown onto the rocks of Robbins Reef in storms. She rarely went ashore; her son, Jacob, served as assistant keeper and courier. Walker was seventy years old at the beginning of the First World War. She retired in 1919 at seventy-three, and in 1921 she and three other women lighthouse keepers were awarded the World War I Victory Medal for their service. The New York Times interviewed Walker for the article “Kept House Nineteen Years on Robbin’s Reef,” published March 5, 1905, from which this excerpt is taken.

  Lonesome? [Walker says in response to a reporter’s question.] I have no time to be lonesome. There is as much housework to do here as—as—at the—the Waldorf.

  [The reporter describes this as her “exploding,” as if in indignation.]

  I have my meals to get regularly, although there is often nobody but myself here to eat them. Then there are all the beds to make, the floors to scrub, the windows to clean, and—ach, there is plenty to do.

  [The reporter adds that Walker resents an unintentional implication that because she is a lighthouse keeper, she doesn’t have the same household duties as other women.]

  This lamp in the tower—it is more difficult to care for than a family of children. It need not be wound more than once in five hours, but I wind it every three hours so as to take no chances. In nineteen years that light has never disappointed sailors who have depended upon it. Every night I watch it until 12 o’clock. Then, if all is well, I go to bed, leaving my assistant in charge.

  [The reporter notes that she always refers to her son as her “assistant” when discussing duties of the lighthouse.]

  I am always up in time to put out the light at sunrise. Then I post my log from which monthly reports to the government are made out. We have to put everything down, from the amount of oil consumed to the state of the weather. Every day I clean the brass work of the lamp, and every month I polish the lenses. The latter is a two days’ job.

  Merle Egan Anderson

  (1890–1986)

  U.S. Army Signal Corps

  Merle Egan Anderson, of Helena, Montana, joined the telephone operators of World War I known as the “Hello Girls” in 1917 and sailed to France. The Hello Girls discovered after their return from the war that they did not rate veteran status. For sixty years, Anderson campaigned to have them recognized as veterans. When President Jimmy Carter signed the bill granting the Hello Girls veteran status in 1977, only fifty of the women—thirty-three of whom had served in France—were still alive to receive their honorable discharges and Victory Medals. Egan was among them. The excerpt below is from her unpublished memoir, held in the collection of the Women in Military Service for America Memorial Foundation.

  I was in a different world. Nothing was real. It was hard to believe that men were dying in a war a few hundred miles from us.

  But at the office next morning life became real again. Sergeant Carr greeted me with, “We have a new job. Beginning Monday we are to train soldiers to operate front line switchboards. I hope you are familiar with magneto boards.”

  I said, “I certainly am. We have a lot of magneto boards in our small offices in Montana.” So we spent the rest of the day outlining the procedure we would follow.

  When I arrived at our office on Monday, the room had been transformed into a miniature battleground, wired with several magneto boards. We also greeted our first class of ten soldiers. They were all “casuals” having, somehow, become detached from their outfits. They were a sorry looking lot and their first greeting was, “If we have to be telephone operators, where are our skirts?”

  I said, “Okay, fellows, before you start you must realize that this is a serious business. Any soldier can carry a gun but if you operate one of these switchboards in the front lines, a whole regiment may depend upon you.” That seemed to sober them and I soon had willing students.

  Most classes lasted a week or ten days since, in addition to operating the switchboards, they had to learn the regulation phrases for all operators as well as a few French phrases in case they connected with French lines. The Army needed soldier operators at some of the smaller exchanges so they were prepared for those jobs also. Since they were detached from their regiments, they were usually without pay checks so I spent my “small change” for sweets from the PX for their “graduation” celebration. They could always eat free Army food in the chow line.

  One young redhead in my second class seemed so lost that he aroused my “motherly instincts” and I took him to La Central for dinner. Christie scolded me, accused me of “robbing the cradle.” I told her I was adopting him.

  She looked at me in amazement and said, “Have you lost your mind?”

  I said, “The poor boy is lost in the Army. He is the son of a Pennsylvania minister, has been detached from his friends and is so homesick and lost that I told him I would be his sister and he could call me ‘Sis,’ which he proceeded to do.” Somehow, the fact that I was around seemed to help, and when he was assigned to an operating job he wrote regularly.

  In contrast, there was the “hard boiled” regular Army sergeant who took one look and stated, “I am not going to report to any woman.” I asked Sergeant Carr what I should do.

  He said, “Assign him to K.P. Duty.”

  So, when he again refused to cooperate, I said, “Okay, report for K.P.”

  He said, “Says who?”

  I replied, “I do.”

  That set off the fireworks. I was treated to all of the cuss words in his vocabulary. I smiled and said, “Okay, go tell that to Lieutenant Hill.” He reported to some officer, was assigned to K.P. and, in a few days returned somewhat subdued and became one of my best students. We parted friends. . . .

  Just before the final Meuse-Argonne Drive I had been given the seemingly impossible task of training sixty-three men to operate switchboards for the front lines and a time limit of three days. Our hours were long and strenuous. I was fortunate in having a couple of experienced telephone men in the group who were able to explain the operations of the switchboards while I taught the needed operating technique. Somehow the job was accomplished and I have often wondered how many of those men survived.r />
  About the same time, I learned that some of our Signal Corps women were operating switchboards directly behind the front lines, and, later, when Grace Banker, the chief operator of that group, was stationed in Paris, she told me she had been awarded the Distinguished Service Medal. After her death in 1968, I had the privilege of receiving her story of those front line experiences and had them published in Yankee Magazine (March 1974).

  [Egan returns to the United States ten months after she deploys to France.]

  I was back in the United States! At almost the same spot from which I had sailed ten months earlier, but was I that same person? I suddenly realized I was not. . . .

  When we reached Army headquarters I received a shock. Although the Army owed me a month’s salary plus “per diem allowance,” totaling nearly two hundred dollars, I was informed I could have neither until I paid them the sixty dollars they had failed to deduct from my first two months’ salary. Such deduction was to cover the thirty dollar a month allotment I had made to my mother.

  When we enlisted we had been told we must have five hundred dollars to cover cost of uniforms and other equipment, so I had found it necessary to borrow one hundred dollars from my mother and stepfather to augment the money I had available. The allotment would repay them and also give me money I now needed so I went to a nearby telegraph office and wired for one hundred dollars. Then I proceeded to the Quartermaster Department to arrange for transportation.

  [Egan later marries her prewar sweetheart, Hal, and tries to settle into the life of a Montana housewife.]

  For the first week we had nothing but stew for dinner. Each day I added a new ingredient and by the end of the week my patient husband said, “Dear, can’t we have something else soon?” So I began to study cookbooks and experiment and eventually became . . . a good cook.