Ruth turned to the officer. “Captain, Chief Corporal Faucher has declined my request to join the ambulance corps on the basis that I’m an American, despite that I legally reside in France and meet the driving requirements.”
The captain looked at the corporal. “Is this true?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Regulations do not exclude foreigners,” the captain said.
The corporal shifted his weight. “I’m aware, sir. I thought that neutral Americans should be excluded from serving since this is a European conflict.”
The officer rubbed his chin.
Ruth fought away the urge to speak and held her tongue.
“Does she meet our criteria?” the officer asked.
“She does,” Madame Bain blurted. “She claims to have mechanical skills, which would be beneficial to the corps. Most of our women do not have experience with vehicle repairs.”
The corporal clenched his jaw.
“See that she’s moved on to be tested,” the captain said.
“Oui, monsieur,” the corporal said.
The captain stepped closer to the corporal. “To be clear, we have more ambulances than drivers. I expect that all qualified women—unless they’re from an enemy nation—be accepted into corps.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
The captain walked away.
“Give me your application,” the corporal said, his voice bitter.
Ruth gave it to him, which he signed and handed back to her. She turned to Madame Bain. “Merci.”
The woman nodded.
Ruth left feeling sorry for Madame Bain, who would likely be the target of the corporal’s resentment. The eyes of candidates fell upon her as she walked toward the staging area. Some of the candidates smiled or nodded their heads in approval. Ruth, her shoulder muscles tense, took in deep breaths to calm her nerves.
Lucette approached her. “I can’t believe you stood up to them.”
“Nor I,” she said, feeling like she’d come within inches of being struck by a speeding train.
“I overheard pieces of your conversation. What happened?”
“I’ll tell you everything after we pass their driving test,” Ruth said. “The army needs women to drive their ambulances, and nothing is going to stop us from joining the corps.”
CHAPTER 9
SAINT-QUENTIN, FRANCE—JANUARY 7, 1940
Ruth gripped the steering wheel as she drove the ambulance over a rutted dirt road near the French border with Belgium. Despite wearing long underwear beneath her military-issued uniform and wool coat, her teeth chattered from the damp, frigid weather. Northern France was experiencing record cold temperatures, and the vehicle was not equipped with a heater. She and Lucette, who was following her in another ambulance, had been dispatched from a hospital in Saint-Quentin. Their orders were to transport ill soldiers from a section of the Maginot Line, near Maubeuge, to Saint-Quentin to receive medical care.
Ruth and Lucette had passed their military driving tests. They’d received a week of training, which was focused on dispatch procedures, reading road maps, the proper method to load injured soldiers into the ambulance’s four cots—two bunks on each side of the compartment—and how to change a flat tire. Their preparation contained no medical instruction, with the exception of a brief lesson on repairing loose bandages and administering sulfanilamide and morphine.
“Your ambulance’s medical kit is only for emergencies,” an elderly instructor had said, holding a tin of sulfa powder. “Army medics will provide first aid. Your job is to transport injured soldiers to a hospital as fast as possible.”
Time is of the essence, Ruth had thought. Minutes could be the difference between life and death for a maimed soldier. For the week of training, Ruth asked questions and listened intently, all the while determined to acquire the skills to evacuate people to safety.
After their indoctrination into the corps, Ruth and Lucette were assigned to the same post—an auxiliary ambulance section in Saint-Quentin that was attached to the French Army. The military didn’t have a dedicated barracks for women, so they were provided living quarters at a dilapidated boardinghouse next to a hospital. Ruth didn’t mind the faucets that dispensed water the color of rust, the mice infestation, or that the only means of heat was a woodstove in a communal kitchen. After all, she’d expected to be working around the clock and rarely in her sleeping quarters. But her days were filled with much idle time. The front was calm, except for occasional aerial skirmishes between Allied aircraft and the Luftwaffe, and most of her infrequent dispatches were to retrieve sick soldiers from the front. Ruth, a hardworking woman by nature, disliked having nothing to do. But she also knew that a busy ambulance driver meant that people were suffering. At night, under the scratching of rodents in the walls, she prayed that the Phony War would remain in a phase of purgatory until a peace treaty was signed.
A large rut bounced Ruth from her seat. She downshifted to the lowest gear, pressed the accelerator, and propelled her ambulance up a steep incline. As she crested the hill, a concrete blockhouse came into view. It was the only fortification in sight, and it was clear to Ruth that this area of the front was not as strongly defended as other sections of the Maginot Line.
A bearded army officer emerged from the blockhouse and waved his arms.
Ruth and Lucette parked their ambulances near the fortification.
“Lieutenant Legrand?” Ruth asked, getting out of her vehicle.
“Oui,” the soldier said.
“We’re here to transport some of your men to the hospital in Saint-Quentin.”
“I’m glad you arrived,” the lieutenant said, his breath misting in the cold air. “We have four men who’ve fallen ill with fever, diarrhea, and vomiting.”
Dysentery, Ruth thought.
“We also have another man with frostbite on his feet.”
“Are any of them able to walk?” Lucette asked.
