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A DOCTOR IN FRANCE

A DOCTOR IN FRANCE 1917 ? 1919

The Diary of

HAROLD BARCLAY

Lieutenant-Colonel American Expeditionary Forces

New York Privately Printed 1923

Copyright 1923 by Helen Barclay Printed in the United States of America

EDITOR'S NOTE

Harold Barclay, son of Sackett Moore and Cornelia Barclay Barclay, was born in New York City, August 14, 1872. At Cazenovia, N.Y., his parents had their country home and there by the beautiful Lake of Cazenovia he spent his early years and grew up with that great love for the country and dislike of cities which lasted all his life.

He entered Harvard University but left after the first year as he wished to go to Europe. After traveling a few months he went to Germany to study music. He had a beautiful voice and was a natural musician, and so great was the encouragement he received from his teachers that for some time he considered making music his life work. But other counsels prevailed and he finally chose the career of a physician--a choice which his great success fully justified.

In 1899 he graduated from the College of Physicians and Surgeons. He had, however, found time to serve his country in the Spanish-American War, when he acted as medical assistant in Troop A, United States Volunteers in Porto Rico.

In April, 1906, he married Helen Fuller Potter, daughter of the Rev. Dr. Eliphabet Nott Potter.

During all these busy years, his love of music and travel continued and always when possible his holidays were spent in European travel or scientific studies in France or Germany.

When in 1917 America entered the World War, Dr. Barclay received a commission as captain and went overseas in the Roosevelt Hospital Unit. Promoted to Major in February, 1918, he was later transferred to the 42nd Division, in which he served during the heavy fighting at Ch?teau-Thierry and St.-Mihiel. In November, 1918, he became a Lieutenant-Colonel and was ordered home January 2, 1919.

Dr. Barclay was traveling with his wife in France when his sudden death occurred at Biarritz in the summer of 1922.

PART I

We are told that we are really going to sail the following morning, and that we must go home, pack and have everything on the pier before sundown that night. Max is packing my things for me--an officer's trunk, a Gladstone bag and a canvas roll with poncho blankets and a "Gold Medal" canvas cot. We hustle them down to Pier 60 and leave them standing there with a feeling that they will not be seen again, as the whole pier is a mass of motor trucks and boxes of every description. We are to sail on the S.S. "Lapland" on the south side of the pier. The "Baltic" has just docked and is discharging cargo at a tremendous rate. The rattle of the winches is deafening and there are literally hundreds of stevedores at work.

With a silent farewell my baggage is left, and then back to the house where Helen and I lunch and start for Mt. Kisco for the afternoon.

One still feels terribly conscious and queer in uniform. My memory keeps going back to the days when Rob and I enlisted for the Spanish War, a thousand little details keep coming up that I had long forgotten. Camp Alger and its chaos, Newport News, and the transport "Mississippi" and all its horrors.

The enlisted men leave on sight-seeing coaches at 9:30, after a preliminary line-up in the courtyard, and cheers for Colonel Mackay and every one connected with the outfit. The officers get down as best they can, so I go down in Dr. Dowd's motor with Floyd, arriving on the pier at ten a.m.

The "Lapland" has been painted war gray and is fitted with a new mine-sweeping device, of which more later. There was quite a crowd of people down there to see us off. Mrs. Vanderbilt, Clarence Mackay,--and dozens of others whom I do not know. Except for the uniforms and the gray paint on the ship, it seems just like a summer vacation trip. Our baggage is wonderfully handled and everything put on board in the same manner as in peace times. We are supposed to sail at twelve sharp. The heat is intolerable. Our staterooms are fine; No. 33, upper deck room. My lot was first cast with the Chaplain, but I told him McWilliams and I were old Spanish War veterans, and so he let McWilliams bunk with me.

At one o'clock we are still at the pier. Two hundred and sixty-five, or some such number, of cots have not appeared and our indefatigable Quartermaster Ward will not leave without them, so sweat on, and the poor devils who came down to the pier wait on!

About three thirty the cots are stowed on board, the whistle sounds long blasts, the hawsers are cast off, and the thud of the great engines begins. The crowd rush down to the end of the pier, where many have waited since nine thirty in the morning apparently without any lunch. They must be nearly dead.

The thrill of other voyages comes back so vividly to my mind as the great ship slowly warps out into mid-channel, but I am alone now and all is so different, yet it is hard to realize it and I cannot help feeling it must be a great big holiday--the harbor seems so bright, gay and peaceful. We steam at a snail's pace down the bay, and in front of the Battery the ship seems to float for ten minutes or so, the engines just turning over. Officers, nurses and men gaze on the tall buildings as if they were things of stupendous beauty. Each man seems to identify some building that he knows about, or has worked in. I know none of them, and try to locate the Barclay Building, but cannot.

Finally we slip by the Battery, Governors Island and into the Lower Bay. The waters seem crowded with shipping, the Dutch and English flags being especially in evidence. There is one converted German steamer flying the American flag. The "Vaterland" was lying quietly at her pier.

The glasses Mr. Bird gave me were a source of great fun in trying to pick out the details of the ships. They practically all had stern guns, and the Dutch ships had great spears of national colors all over their sides. Off Tompkinsville, or rather St. George's, Staten Island, we passed the Dreadnought "Kansas," her decks crowded with jackies in white duck. She looked awfully spick and span.

Just below Tompkinsville we went through the opening in the net. One could see distinctly the large buoys that marked its position, and the small blocks that separated it. At the opening a Monitor lay anchored and there were several motor-boats, of about forty to sixty feet long, with big markings of "S.P. No. so and so." It was the first real realization of war I had felt, and it gave one quite a little thrill.

Steaming more rapidly down the channel now and passing numerous tugboats apparently commandeered for patrol duty. Finally the pilot boat comes in sight and the pilot slips down the side into the little rowboat. Full steam ahead is given and we at last feel the motion of the long Atlantic sweep.

At noon General Headquarters are established in the foyer on Deck 4, with typewriters clicking away. There is much issuing of order and proclamation. McWilliams is made officer of the day and totes a cumbersome revolver lent him by Floyd and which is the badge of office.

Captain Trinder, the Adjutant--a bully fellow full of punch and go--gave the officers a talk on some of the elements of their duty in the lounge room, and was listened to with marked attention as every one is keen about mastering the details of his work.

Thousands of questions are asked about the most elementary details, because we are an absolutely ignorant lot as far as the military end is concerned. What little drill knowledge I picked up in the Troop or in the Spanish War has absolutely vanished.

An edict has been put out from G. H. Q. that no rum is to be sold on board and we are reduced to ginger ale and soda water. I managed to pinch just one cocktail the first night, and it was good.

The afternoon dragged along. We were ordered to get out life-preservers and carry them with us wherever we go. This is an absolute rule and we cannot be separated from them for an instant. The officers and men walk around with the preservers strapped to their backs, carrying them even to meals, where one kicks them under the table between one's feet while eating.

The rubber suits were gotten out and fixed on. I don't believe they can ever be adjusted in a general excitement which is bound to ensue in a smash-up, and then besides if there is any leak in the rubber, such as a pin prick, they would slowly fill with water. I shall depend on the old life-preserver.

The night is wonderful. Officers and nurses sit on deck singing. And they sing well. A beautiful full moon.

Visiting our only prisoner, I found him to be a clean-cut, alert man of apparently more than average intelligence. I made the poor devil as comfortable as possible, but was obliged to go through his baggage in search of any incriminatory evidence and to take any weapons away from him. These consisted of three razors, which were turned over to H. Q. Thompson, the prisoner, is, I believe, an actor--probably a super. He expressed a strong desire for a bible, so sent him the Chaplain later. He thanked me very profusely for this. I exceeded orders and allowed him to be on deck four hours, instead of two, as the day was stifling and his cabin not the coolest place in the world.

At night all singing was stopped as they say sound carries for a long distance over the water.

The life boats have all been swung out and men assigned to them. I am commanding officer of boat No. 21, starboard side, or the alternate No. 22, port side. Which boat is launched depends upon which side we are struck and how the ship lists.

Being the Fourth of July the dinner had an extra course and a few extra British and American flags about. In the evening we assembled in the Second Cabin for a smoker, only no one was allowed to smoke as all ports being closed you could cut the atmosphere. However, cigars and cigarettes were passed around and, I suppose, were used later. We had the usual burst of song, but it was such a beautiful warm night with a full moon that every one hurried on deck. I made my last round at eleven p.m. and turned in for a sound night's sleep.

At four p.m. the stern gun fired three practice shots at a smoke target. The target was allowed to float about a mile leeward. The first shot was over, but the second and third were bull's-eyes. It was very pretty to see the shell ricochet. It made thin splashes in the water. In one it was markedly deflected to the left.

No smoking on decks after nightfall, and the smoking-room is so hot with everything locked up that one rather went without than sit indoors. It was a beautiful moonlit night and Russell and I sat on deck till twelve p.m., then turned in where I found McWilliams snoring peacefully.

Turned in about eleven and read "Captains Courageous" for a couple of hours, but got dreaming about subs and could not sleep. The ship's company on the whole seem more or less concerned, but all keep cheerful. My only hope is, that if anything happens, I won't lose my head.

The nurses had a party. There were shrieks of laughter until late in the night.

At five p.m. all the boat commanders were summoned to Colonel Winter's room to talk over final arrangements for boat personnel. They have not swung my boats out yet, although I have spoken several times to Trinder about it. They say that part of the ship is so much lower that if a sea kicked up they would have to swing them in again. I certainly have a mean station.

About five p.m. the Captain began his zig-zag course, making wide sweeps every five or ten minutes. There were rumors that a torpedo-boat would turn up late this afternoon, but now, at eleven p.m., there is nothing in sight. And with it all it is the most beautiful night ever conceived. A little moon half on the wane came peeping up out of a bank of clouds, about ten thirty, making its silver path of light and doubtless silhouetting us clearly against the sky.

Passed a small freighter lower on the horizon before dinner. Everything is scanned with most suspicious glances and carefully shunned. Well, here it goes for a few hours' sleep, or an attempt at it, for it's up at the first break of dawn.

Nothing of any particular interest, except we sighted another C. P. boat with a torpedo-boat escort. It was curious to watch her. First she was on one side and then the other. The zigzagging gets one completely confused as to position.

About six this evening a speck on the horizon and we break our number from the fore truck and in a few minutes we come in plain view of our convoy. She is a torpedo-boat destroyer, No. 38, with the "Stars and Stripes" flying astern. We had a feeling of great relief. We gave her a hearty cheer. To bed now and clothes off.

Our destroyer was changed during the night. The rumor is that 38 went in assistance to some other ship that was below us in our vicinity.

There are surprisingly few boats seen--two sailboats, a trawler, and one large steamer is preceding us. Just after lunch a large French dirigible circled over us. She has been hovering around since early morning, presumably looking for subs.

It is pack up to-night and if we have luck we shall land early in the a.m. About eight p.m. we sight the lighthouse off the bar, but cannot cross until high tide on account of the risk of striking a mine.

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