The Weber Literary Journal The Story of Pierre LaMont By Elizabeth Seppich MY GREAT disappointment had always been that I was not a man, for to men, I thought, the big and noble things were left to do. To be a doctor, I argued, and alleviate the sufferings of humanity, would satisfy the innate craving of one's soul. When the great War came along to fill the minds of men, I desired more than ever to be a man to fight a winning battle. It was at this point that I heard one day at one of my mother's clubs, a plea by a famous surgeon and philanthropist, for nurses to go abroad. He pointed out that plucky girls could do as much towards winning a war as men could. From that day my mind was made up; I knew that what I sought was to be found on the battlefields of old Europe. I arrived in France in the Spring. We proceeded gradually towards the hospitals near the firing line, and as we moved from place to place, I found that there was a work for me that indeed a woman's voice, touch, presence would do wonders towards lessening pain. But this story is not going to be about any of the bed-side experi-ences,*of which I had innumerable. Rather, I'm going to relate here the saddest real story I ever knew. Monsieur Pierre La Mont was a proud old gentleman still tightly clinging to the history of his name a history which reached back hundreds of years to the days when the feudal nobility ruled France. The La Monts had erected a wondrous castle in medieval times on a vast estate, and had been privileged members of the Estates General, the governing body of the Empire. M. La Mont had four sons, ranging in age from sixteen to twenty-two years. When the call of honor came, not a La Mont waited. The family displayed that splendid patriotism which is the heritage of Frenchmen. Even M. La Mont himself would have gone in response to the summons, had it not been that his fifty years rendered him unfit for military service. But though he had not gone to war, he had, nevertheless, succeeded in making himself very useful to his country. At the time when the very first wounded were carried back from the ground of action, he 10 The Weber Literary Journal had turned his palace into a hospital and had himself acted as superintendent. It was in this residence, as we came to Amiens, that I was stationed. With characteristic French hospitality, the man invited me on the second evening, to sit by the fireplace and offered me a cup of coffee; then with characteristic French loquacity and gesticulation he said in almost perfect English, "It is indeed a pleasure to have so lovely a lady in my house. The Red Cross order to which you belong is truly, as you Americans say, 'The Greatest Mother in the World.' In my prayers I have asked that my dear sons may have received the blessed touch of a Red Cross Nurse's hands before they died." And he reverently crossed himself. "Oh," I murmured sympathetically, "are all of your sons dead?" "No," he answered proudly, blinking back the tears, "three have died for France, but one, the oldest one please God will live to perpetuate our name." I thrilled with pride for M. La Mont. Bravely he had borne the news that three of his own flesh and blood had been killed in war against the Hun. I was beginning to picture to myself the glorious day which was surely near at hand, when our American boys and his beloved French son should celebrate together the Allied victory, when he began again, "I have applied to the War Council for a pass to our front line trenches, where my boy is. If my petition is granted three committees have already refused me I shall leave immediately for the district where Gaspard is fighting. They have promised me that if I receive the pass, my last boy will be allowed to come home with me. I shall prepare for his marriage with Mademoiselle Helene Dore, his promised wife, immediately upon his return. I feel sure that the good name of La Mont will not die." Somehow, during the rest of my stay, I watched almost as eagerly as he, for word from the War Council. I was not gratified, however, as we were ordered to move on about a week later, to temporary hospitals only a few miles from the southernmost field of action. That was in April. On the eleventh of November following we received news early in the morning that an armistice had been signed that night suspending all hostilities. I was glad glad that the precious lives of thousands of men and boys would be saved. A conflicting emotion surged within me, however, as the day of the eleventh wore on. I felt a sort of depression in leaving a land where there was a fresh opportunity to serve with each hour. 11