Some Memorial Day reading

I've just finished reading the seventh in a series of books beginning with "Maisie Dobbs." Maisie is a former nurse who served in France during World War I. We learn about her early life and wartime service in the first novel. The series then follows her life during the years following the war as she recovers from both physical and psychological wounds while creating a career for herself as an investigator for hire. The reader is also immersed into life in England as the country, its veterans, and citizens attempt to recover from the remains of war. The characters are engaging and the plot lines well driven. It's not often that I remain with a series, but after reading seven books, the last being released in 2010, and I'm definitely hoping for more.

Jacqueline Winspear, the author, began this series in part because of her interest in the experiences of her grandfather during wartime and its aftermath. She tells more about that here. As I looked at the picture of Jacqueline's grandfather, I couldn't help thinking of mine.

Andrew Percy Nyborg was also a veteran of WWI. He was an Idaho ranch boy who was wounded in France. In his own words:

The summer of 1917, Rhoda Foote the girl I later married, came up to cook for her two brothers who were farming a ranch of Fred Bailey's 1/2 mile from our ranch. I became acquainted with her that summer. In September of that year I was drafted into the U. S. Army and left St. Anthony October 20th for Camp Lewis which is now known as Fort Lewis. I trained there 9 months with the 91st Division also known as the Eveready or Power River Division. The pine tree was the symbol which stood for eveready as don't change winter or summer. The 91st Division was originated at this time. Starting June 1918 the 91st Division was sent to France and became a major fighting unit of World War I September 1918. We were sent across the states by train on the Great Northern. We were given a great send off. Wherever the train stopped, the home folks showered us with ice cream, candy, tobacco, and about everything else they could think of.

We were moved from St. Mihiel to the Meuse-Ligomne Sector. This was the first the 91st was given a place in the front line with full command of its Division. Sept. 20th, we suffered a few raids with a few casualties. On Sept. 26th, at 4:30, we went over the top on our first time under fire. The next four days and nights, I never had my shoes or clothes off and lived mostly on hardtack and corn beef. I was a camping scout. Went out in front of troops to locate the main body of the company. It was raining most of the time we were in the front lines. On the night of Sept. 28th, it was raining and the mud was about ankle deep. We were marching in the dark to keep from getting separated to a new point on the front line. The orders was no smoking or lights of any kind. Then we were told that they didn't know which way the enemy was and the lives of the Company depended on us guards. We stood 2 hours guard, and the rest of the Company would get what rest and sleep they could.

When I was relieved from my 2 hour watch, the man that took my place said, "Do you smoke?" and I said, "No." He said, "I wish I could say that." He wasn't afraid of the enemy, but he was afraid of the strain without a smoke. I felt that I was blessed that our Church has standards to live up to, that help you out in some pretty tough places sometimes.

The next afternoon, I was wounded in the neck, a bullet going through my steel helmet, splitting my ear and lodging in the tissue of my lung. Dr. Larsen said he didn't see how it missed the heart. He took a x-ray and located it. This was one night I could not lay down or stand as it sort of paralysed my body for 3 months. I could not run or carry anything without my legs going out from under me. I could walk around slow, but that was about the size of it.

This night I felt I was blessed again as what I needed most was given me. First I guess I would of bled to death, but Wood Jenkins was next to me and put on my first aid. Though after dark, I got to my feet and started to mosey around. Didn't know where I was or where I was going and along came two solders with a couple of German prisoners. They helped me to walk and had the Germans pick up a buddy wounded in the leg and pack him back. When we got back to the first aid station, one of the Germans gave me his overcoat, something I surely needed.

In the night, I went to the sargent in charge as there was no place but the wet ground to lay on and was sure in misery. It was hard to stand and harder to lay down. And I remember him telling me it was a fourth mile back to the next station where they were hauling them back from the front. I thought I started on back, but the next morning about 8:00 o'clock, a buddy came in the German barrack across the little valley from where our first aid station was and told me I had better get out of there as the Germans had started to shell them. I was on a German bunk. I walked on back that morning to the next station. There they redressed my wound, took off my clothes, gave me pajamas and a blanket, put me on a seat with a Red Cross driver, and sent me back to the Hospital. They had to cut my shoes and socks off, as I had had them on for 5 days and nights.

I put the next 3 months in the Hospital and Convalescent Camp waiting for my outfit to come out of Belgium. My Father passed away while I was in the Hospital on Oct. 2, 1918 in Salt Lake City, Utah; but I didn't get the word till 6 weeks after. It was that long for my mail to catch up with me. I returned to the United States on April 1918 and was discharged from the Army that month at Camp Russel, Wyoming.

My Grandpa Nyborg passed away from a heart attack when I was 7 years old. I remember my mother telling me of the bullet he received in France and then carried for the rest of his life. Three of his children served during World War II, including my mother who joined the Women's Army Air Corp. I am grateful for their service, but I am even more grateful that they all lived and were a part of my life. I will always remember them on Memorial Day when an American flag waves over their grave sites.