Old Glory and Verdun, and other stories

In Short

This book is a collection of vivid, documentary-style sketches and personal essays chronicling the experiences of nursing staff and volunteers during the final stages of the First World War. It moves from the chaotic, blood-soaked wards of base hospitals to the mobile, high-stakes environment of evacuation units near the front. By focusing on the daily labor of medical personnel and the quiet resilience of French refugees, the author creates a grounded, humanistic portrait of a world upended by conflict, emphasizing the strange, shared humanity that persists even in the shadow of total war.

The Story

The narrative begins with a young, inexperienced volunteer reporting for duty at a major American war hospital in France. She arrives armed only with an optimistic "Florence Nightingale" dream and a three-month first-aid course, only to be immediately confronted by the "grim reality" of the wards. She is forced to confront the physical horror of mangled flesh and the psychological toll of constant, agonizing noise. Through her eyes, we see the transition from the orderly, permanent base hospitals to the frantic, mobile nature of the evacuation hospitals that follow the shifting front lines.

As she learns the trade—scrubbing floors, carrying waste, and assisting in surgeries—the focus expands to the people she encounters. She describes the ward orderlies who provide stability, the wounded soldiers who debate the nature of the enemy, and the refugees fleeing the gas-filled districts. The narrative captures the grueling rhythm of the hospital, where surgeons work for forty-eight hours straight, and where a single three-minute delay in an operation is the difference between life and death.

The story progresses toward the intensity of the Château-Thierry sector. The author describes the relentless flow of camions carrying soldiers toward the line and the steady, somber return of those same men on stretchers. We witness the "spite attack," a moment of wanton cruelty where a German incendiary shell strikes a hospital tent. Despite this, the medical team perseveres. The book does not end with a grand victory, but with the quiet, persistent labor of the nurses and surgeons working under the moonlight. The wounded continue to arrive, the cannons continue to boom, and the American troops continue to advance, leaving the reader with an image of a "vast gypsy encampment" of suffering men who remain resilient despite the surrounding carnage. The book concludes with the recognition that while the war is a "rotten business" that poisons the soul, the work of mercy remains a constant, necessary response to the devastation.

How It Unfolds

The arrival The narrator reports for her first day at the base hospital, nursing a "deadly ague of fear" and feeling like an unprepared freshman. She quickly realizes that her previous training has evaporated, replaced by the immediate, overwhelming need to assist with severe physical trauma.

The daily grind The narrative shifts to the essential, unglamorous work of the nursing staff, which involves everything from scrubbing floors to managing the delicate emotional needs of soldiers. She observes how different medical workers handle the strain, noting that some possess a "grace" or "gift" for comfort, while others succumb to bitterness.

The refugee experience The focus widens to include the civilian cost of the war, particularly the plight of those clinging to their ancestral soil in the war zone. Through an encounter with a young girl and a local official, the author illustrates the stubborn, heart-wrenching attachment of the French people to their homes despite constant bombardment.

The front-line reality The scene moves to the evacuation hospitals, which represent a more mobile and dramatic form of medical service. These chapters detail the surgical "running fights with death" and the extreme logistical challenges of maintaining a hospital within striking distance of the enemy.

The final stand The book culminates in the intense atmosphere of the American advances, specifically at Château-Thierry. Here, the narrative captures both the brutal, inhuman nature of the fighting and the quiet, persistent dedication of the medical team as they treat both Allied and enemy wounded under the moonlight.

The People

The narrator is the primary lens, a woman whose initial romanticized view of the war is stripped away and replaced by a sober, resilient professional identity. She serves as a witness, learning from those around her how to "mobilize" her emotions.

Justin, the old French orderly, acts as her mentor. He represents the steady, practical wisdom of the seasoned veteran, teaching her the physical mechanics of nursing and the importance of maintaining composure under pressure.

Coussin, a wounded soldier, provides a touch of domestic humanity to the hospital ward. His quiet, stubborn efforts to spend extra time with his wife, Fabienne, serve as a poignant reminder of the lives that exist outside the conflict.

The various surgeons and nurses, such as the "slim, gold-haired Scotch miss" and the unnamed major, represent the spectrum of medical service. Some are "grenadiers" who demand discipline, while others are noted for their kindness and their ability to stay "lovable" even amidst the trauma.

The wounded soldiers themselves are a diverse group—syndicalists, anarchists, and conservatives—who provide the intellectual and moral commentary on the war. They are not merely objects of pity, but active participants in a debate about the nature of the "bad microbe" of war.

In Its Own Voice

"In short, all the carefully acquired artificial knowledge I had been able to absorb in a three-months’ First Aid Course in New York, all the data, the neat lists of questions and answers, had faded clean out of me, like a cheap dye, now that I was faced up with the immediate and grim reality."

(The author reflects on her arrival at the hospital and the immediate collapse of her theoretical training.)

"He talked for ten minutes, brilliantly, earnestly, caustically, holding the thermometer like a cigarette in one corner of his mouth; and at the end of that time he had proved not indeed that the Germans were right, but that war itself was so intrinsically degrading and hellish—despite what romanticists might say to the contrary of its elevating spiritual effect on the soul—that it exerted a debasing influence on whoever engaged in it."

(A wounded soldier critiques the nature of the conflict while the narrator takes his temperature.)

What It's Really About

The book is a meditation on the "microbe" of war, arguing that the true enemy is not a particular nationality, but the conflict itself, which dehumanizes everyone it touches. It challenges the romantic myths of heroism, suggesting instead that the only true dignity is found in the persistent, unglamorous, and often dangerous work of healing. The author questions how a soul remains intact when exposed to such systematic destruction, and she finds the answer in small, human connections: a wife’s kiss, the memory of a kind doctor, or the simple act of providing a cup of coffee to a soldier. It is a defense of the "human" against the "mechanical" forces of the modern battlefield.

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate firsthand historical accounts and the literature of the Great War will find this book deeply compelling. Its strength lies in its sensory detail—the smell of gangrenous wounds, the sound of screams, and the sight of dust-caked soldiers. It is a raw, honest look at the period, characterized by a lack of sentimentality that is rare for its time.

A modern reader should be prepared for the author’s period-specific attitudes, particularly the binary, patriotic view of the Americans as heroes and the Germans as "Huns." The prose is straightforward and journalistic, reflecting the urgent, pragmatic nature of the work described. You will not find modern literary introspection here; instead, you find the voice of a woman forced to adapt to a world where the normal order of things has been replaced by the "Inquisition" of modern surgery. It is a haunting, sturdy book that stays with you, not because of its grand arguments, but because of its quiet documentation of how people—both soldiers and nurses—managed to remain human when everything around them was designed to make them something less. For those who want to understand the "backwash" of the Great War, this is an essential, if difficult, piece of history.