After landing on
Utah Beach on D+4, she was killed during an artillery barrage outside
Elsenborn, Belgium, on October 21, 1944. Bob Welch delivers the life and death
of Army nurse 2LT Frances Y. Slanger by weaving her early life from Lødz and Boston with narratives of World War II. Welch is a master at the
craft of writing. Slanger also wanted to be a writer, but always struggled with
English. Her incessant scribbling got better and she poured her heart into a
letter to Stars and Stripes that was
granted the front page by editors who did not know that she was dead.
It
is 0200 and I have been lying awake for one hour, listening to the steady, even
breathing of the other three nurses in the tent. Thinking about some of the
things we had discussed during the day. The rain is beating down on the tent
with a torrential force. The wind is on a mad rampage and its main objective
seems to be to lift the tent off its poles and fling it about our heads.
The
fire is burning low and just a few live coals are on the bottom. With the slow
feeding of wood and finally coal, a roaring fire is started. I couldn't help
thinking how similar to a human being a fire is; if it is allowed to run down
too low and if there is a spark of life left in it, it can be nursed back...So
can a human being. It is slow, it is gradual, it is done all the time in these
Field Hospitals and other hospitals in the ETO.
We
had read several articles in different magazines and papers sent in by grateful
GIs, praising the work the nurses around the combat areas. Praising us--for
what? I climbed back into my cot. Lt. Bowler was the only one I had awakened. I
whispered to her. Lt. Cox and Lt. Powers slept on. Fine nurses and great girls
to live with...of course, like in all families, an occasional quarrel, but
these were quickly forgotten.
I'm
writing this by flashlight. In this light it looks something like a
"dive". In the center of the tent are two poles, one part chimney,
the other a plain tent pole. Kindling wood lies in disorderly confusion the
ground.. We don't have a tarp on the ground. A French wine pitcher, filled with
water stands by. The GIs say we rough it. We in our little tent can't see it.
True, we are set up in tents, sleep on cots and are subject to the temperament
of the weather.
We
wade ankle deep in mud. You have to lie in it. We are restricted to our
immediate area, a cow pasture or hay field, but then, who is not restricted? We
have a stove and coal. We even have a laundry line in the tent. Our GI drawers
are at this moment doing the dance of the pants, what with the wind howling,
the tent waving precariously, the rain beating dow, the guns firing and me with
a flashlight writing. It all adds up to a feeling of unrealness.
Sure,
we rough it, but in comparison to the way you men are taking it, we can't
complain, nor do we feel that bouquets are due us. But you, the men behind the
guns, the men driving our tanks, flying our planes, sailing our ships, building
bridges and to the men who pave the way and to the men who are left behind--it is
to you we doff our helmets. To every GI wearing the American uniform, for you
we have the greatest admiration and respect.
Yes,
this time we are handing out the bouquets...but after taking care of some of
your buddies; seeing them when they are brought in bloody, dirty, with the
earth, mud and grime, and most of them so tired. Somebody's brothers, somebody's
fathers and somebody's sons. Seeing them gradually brought back to life, to
consciousness and to see their lips separate into a grin when they first welcome
you. Usually they kid, hurt as they are. It doesn't amaze us to hear one of
them say, 'How'ya, Babe' or 'Holy Mackerel, an American woman!' or most
indiscreetly, 'Howabout a kiss?'
These
soldiers stay with us but for a short time, from 10 days to possibly two weeks.
We have learned a great deal about our American soldier, and the stuff he is
made of. The wounded do not cry. Their buddies come first. The patience and
determination they show, the courage and fortitude they have is sometimes
awesome to behold. It is we who are proud to be here. Rough it? no. It is a
privilege to be able to receive you, and a great distinction to see you open
your eyes and with that swell American grin say, “Hi-ya babe!”—Stars and Stripes, November 7, 1944.
The story came to Bob Welch in December 2000 when he was a columnist for the Register-Guard in Eugene, Oregon. A reader had found a short biography
of Slanger and asked Welch to pursue her story. He did. He got a call from
Eugene resident Sallylou Cummings who had served with Slanger. She was then 82.
The Greatest Generation was slipping away and Welch made one of the last grasps
for it. He succeeded admirably.
Bob Welch has
written nine books, spanning an impressive range of genres. Among them, listed
and summarized for sale on his website (http://bobwelch.net/) are :
- The Keyboard Kitten: Gets Oregonized
- 52 Little Lessons from It’s a Wonderful Life
- Resolve: From the Jungles of WWII Bataan, the Epic Story of a Soldier, a Flag, and a Promise Kept
- Cascade Summer
Welch's biography of Frances Y. Slanger is both warm and objective.
He brings her to life. She was an otherwise small person who had one great
moment. Ultimately, we all are or Shelley would not have written “Ozymandias.” But
Frances Slanger was also an individual representative sample from the self-generating
process that is America. Not only has that system generated its own power, it
generates selves. Born Freidel Yachet Schlanger, she remade herself
according to an inner image that too few others in her life shared. Parents,
teachers, and hospital supervisors were ignorant of her powerful potential
energy. Welch found it.
- World War II Remembered: History in Your Hands, a Numismatic Study by C. Frederick Schwan and Joseph E. Boling, BNR Press, 1995. 864 pages.
- Comprehensive Catalog of Military Payment Certificates by Fred Schwan, BNR Press, 2002. 400 pages.
An official history
of 2LT Frances Y. Slanger here:
Another review here:
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