# 20 Hrs. 40 Min./Chapter 1

Layout 2
20 HRS. 40 MIN.
CHAPTER I
TORONTO DAYS
THERE are two kinds of stones, as everyone knows, one of which rolls. Because I selected a father who was a railroad man it has been my fortune to roll.
Of course rolling has left its mark on me. What happened to my education is typical. Until the eighth grade I stayed the school year with my grandmother in Atchison, Kansas, and attended a college preparatory school. With the exception of two grades skipped, one spent trying a public school and one conducted at home under a governess-friend, my course was fairly ​regular—not including time out for travelling. However, it took six high-schools to see me through the customary four year course. Would it be surprising, considering this record, if I should come out with a right round "ain't" or "he done it" now and then?
Despite such risks there are advantages in a changing environment. Meeting new people and new situations becomes an interesting adventure, and one learns to value fresh experiences as much as old associations.
When the war broke out for the United States I was at Ogontz School, near Philadelphia. My sister was at St. Margaret's College in Toronto and I went to visit her there for the Christmas holidays.
In every life there are places at which the individual, looking back, can see he was forced to choose one of several paths. These turning points may be marked by a trivial circumstance or by one of great joy or sorrow.
​In 1918 Canada had been in the war four weary years—years the United States will never appreciate. Four men on crutches, walking together on King Street in Toronto that winter, was a sight which changed the course of existence for me. The realization that war wasn't knitting sweaters and selling Liberty Bonds, nor dancing with handsome uniforms was suddenly evident. Returning to school was impossible, if there was war work that I could do.
I started training under the Canadian Red Cross and as soon as possible completed the first-aid work necessary to qualify as a V.A.D. or nurse's aide. Those four men on crutches!
My first assignment was to Spadina Military Hospital, a rather small institution occupying an old college building converted for war use. Day began at seven and ended at seven, with two hours off in the afternoon. There were many beds to be made and trays and "nurishment" to ​be carried, and backs to be rubbed―some lovely ones!
Most of the men had been through a physical and emotional crisis. Many were not sick enough to be in bed and not well enough to find real occupation. Even when jobs were offered many lacked the mental stamina to take them―or make good at them, if taken. Spiritually they were tired out. Generally speaking they were a far harder group to care for than the really sick. For with the latter the improvements noted by the patient from day to day are cheerful mile posts, while these poor lads had lost even that means of happiness.
The first day I was in the hospital there was a fire. It was not serious enough for attendants to do anything but slam windows shut and stand by to carry out patients. Nearly everyone enjoyed the excitement except a few of the autumnal nurses and the poor fellows in the shell-shock ward. They suffered greatly for a few days from ​the effects of the unexpected disturbance which was to most of the other men a welcome break in their colorless existence.
Of course one of the jobs of a V.A.D. was to be a merry sunshine, not difficult for me whose I.Q. is low enough to insure natural cheerfulness. Despite our best efforts time often dragged. I wonder if we might not have accomplished more if we had all been good-looking and especially, perhaps, if we'd all worn brilliant colors instead of our grey and white uniforms. It's a pet theory of mine that color in a drab world can go a long way in stimulating morale. There's a suggestion, here, perhaps, for the management of the next war.
The monotony of the hospital prevailed with its food also. Even after ten years I am unable to look a jelly-roll in the eye. They were the diurnal diet in the officers' mess, just as rice puddings prevailed in the wards. I have a depressing memory of passing out little rice puddings ​in endless procession from the diet kitchen to the patients. Sometimes they came back untouched but bearing crosses and the inscription R.I.P. However, those who rated rice pudding were entitled to ice cream―if they could get it. We K.P.'s often did the getting for the patients most in need of cheer. Our funds were immorally collected, the winnings of matching pennies in the kitchen.
The war was the greatest shock that some lives have had to survive. It so completely changed the direction of my own footsteps that the details of those days remain indelible in my memory, trivial as they appear when recorded.
Days of routine slipped by quickly enough into months of nursing. I hope what we did was helpful. Somebody had to do it. There is so much that must be done in a civilized barbarism like war.
War followed one everywhere. Even entertainments weren't always merely fun. Often
WILMER STULTZ
​they meant having tea with a group of women who were carrying their war work into their homes. I remember, for instance, hours spent with a power sewing machine making pajamas.
The aviation I touched, too, while approached as an entertainment was of course steeped with war. Sometimes I was invited to a flying field, Armour Heights, on the edge of the city. I think there were many planes there; I know there were many young pilots being trained—some very young. (As a matter of fact I wasn't exactly grey with age—twenty, then.)
But the planes were mature. They were full-sized birds that slid on the hard-packed snow and rose into the air with an extra roar that echoed from the evergreens that banked the edge of the field. They were a part of war, just as much as the drives, the bandages and the soldiers. I remember well that when the snow blown back by the propellers stung my face I felt a first urge to fly. I tried to get permission to go up, but ​the rules forbade; not even a general's wife could do so—apparently the only thing she couldn't do. I did the next best thing and came to know some of the men fortunate enough to fly. Among them were Canadians, Scotch, Irish and even Americans who could not pass our rigorous tests but were accepted in Canada at that time.
They were terribly young, those air men—young and eager. Aviation was the romantic branch of the service and inevitably attracted the romanticists. The dark side did not impress the enlisted men or me. To us there was humor in the big padded helmets, despite their purpose, which was to prevent scalp wounds in the crashes that were frequent in those days. The boys smeared their faces with grease, to prevent freezing, and that seemed funny, too. The training planes were often under-powered, but no matter how well that was understood, the pilots joked about possible unpleasantness.
I have even forgotten the names of the men I ​knew then. But the memory of the planes remains clearly, and the sense of the inevitability of flying. It always seemed to me one of the few worth-while things that emerged from the misery of war.
I lived through the Armistice. Toronto was forty riots rolled into one that memorable day. Whistles awakened us. They blew continuously. Electric cars were stalled in the streets which were deep with trash. Insane old ladies crawled on top and hooked men's hats with their umbrellas. Fresh lads grabbed girls and powdered their faces with flour. Bands marched without knowing where they were going. There were speeches that were not heard and food that went untasted. Flags appeared everywhere, with confetti and streamers.
Those months in Toronto roused my interest in flying, although I did not realize it at the time. Perhaps it was the glamour of the environment, the times, or my youth. Aviation had come close to me.
SLIM GORDON
MRS. GUEST RETURNING TO NEW YORK IS MET BY COMMANDER BYRD FROM WHOM SHE PURCHASED THE "FRIENDSHIP"