For my Day 1 countdown, I thought I’d share some of Ila’s poetry with you — poems that were sprinkled throughout my cache of letters. I hope you enjoy reading them.

Nick Fewings, Bournemouth, UK

The poem below is the only one that was not part of the cache of letters. This poem was one that she sent me in a letter several years ago. She added a note on the bottom that read: “I wrote this in 1936 when I was a student nurse.”

The Life of a Nurse

The life of a nurse is hard to beat,
If you stop to consider the things she must eat.
Or all the fried foods the patients do crave,
For the dear little nurse, the dietitian does save.

On Monday it’s boiled beans, of course they are cold,
And for dinner that night, it’s bean salad we’re told.
Then on Tuesday, the menu varies a bit,
And it’s good old baked beans straight from the pit.

Wednesday they ship in a carload of carrots.
The nurses could scream, but they know that they daren’t.
From then on it’s creamed carrots, carrots and peas,
Chilled carrots, carrot salad, buttered carrots and cheese.

When at last the supply of carrots is diminished
They resort to that good old green vegetable spinach.
So on Thursday for lunch, they find spinach and eggs
And for dinner that night, it’s spinach a-la-maise.

Friday is fish day, the whole world round,
And to be up in style, the dietitian has found
That there’s nothing so cheap as sardines by the case
So on Friday it’s sardines, with a small piece of cake.

Saturday the kitchen is thoroughly swept
So baked hash is the best dish the dietitian can get.
Now this dish takes care of the entire weeks’ scraps
And is called “Kitchen Mystery” among the white caps.

Sunday starts out the new week with a bang.
For there’s chicken, and salad, and hot rolls and jam.
But the joy of this meal, lasts only one day,
For on Monday, it’s beans in the same old way.

Still the nurses live on, and struggle and slave,
The dietitian keeps figure to try to save,
But there’s only one thing, that’s a ride in the hearse,
That ever could beat the life of a nurse.

---

Date unknown but sometime in 1941 prior to Pearl Harbor

. . . On the following pages are a couple of poems I wrote just recently. The first one is for Mildred’s boyfriend who jilted her, or for Bill*, I didn’t know which.

Untitled

All day long I’m wondering
Why you went away.
Wishing, hoping, praying
You’ll come back some day.

Was it my fault that we parted?
Was it something that I said?
Did I make a big mistake
Or a little one instead?

Are you happy since we parted?
Are you glad that we are through?
Do you ever sit and wonder
If I’m really feeling blue?

If you’re happy, that’s just dandy
’cause I’m very happy, too.
I’ve found a brand new honey
That can really outshine you.

Yes, I’m wishing, hoping, praying,
You’ll come back some day.
So I can look at you and laugh,
And send you on your way.

Untitled

Are you the kind of person
Who rejoices when it rains?
Do you like to see it splatter
As it hits the window pane?

Does it wash away your troubles
And leave your mind all clean?
And make you see another day
With new hopes, thoughts and dreams?

Do you thank God for the freshness
That it brings upon the air?
And wonder what it would be like
Without a rainbow fair?

If you aren’t the kind of person
Who rejoices when it rains
Then you’d better see a doctor
Even though you have no pain.

---

The poem below was included with one of Ila’s letters while she was still in Australia. I think, based on her reference to a hut, that this poem was written while she was still at Camp Cable but she and another nurse had moved from the barracks-type housing for the Army nurses into a small hut which gave them a little more privacy and personal space.

Army Nurse

She had no dainty things a woman 
loves,
And yet, time was when she was very
chic.
In her Parisian wrap and stylish
gloves,
Gardenias, and primrose on her check.

Whatever moved this girl to leave
behind
The finery of silk and jeweled things?
The pleasured way of life -- she was
the kind
Whose graceful fingers called for
lovely rings!

Now, in her hut she finds a Spartan
bed,
A combat helmet pillowing her head,
While cannon serenades her slumber
trance;
She brushes back her wind disheveled
hair.
And whispers to the stars a simple 
prayer  --

Of gratitude! That she can be of use.

---

I debated with myself about including this last poem. Here’s why. The term “draft Dodger” is a pejorative and was used to describe any man who didn’t join the military. The correct term for men who were qualified to serve but took actions to avoid military service was draft evasion¹ which is a crime. Sadly, men who were conscientious objectors were also lumped into the category of draft evaders as the general public didn’t make a distinction between conscientious objection to war and draft evasion. Another reason I’m not entirely comfortable including this poem is the pejorative nature of the term “draft dodger”.

But I decided to include it because Ila’s poem is a great example of the public’s view about men who did not serve in WWII. Sadly the general public saw all men who did not join the military as suspect, especially men who appeared to be physically healthy and demonstrated no obvious reason why they could not serve. And although we no longer have a draft in this country, some folks may still hold a negative view of men who do not serve in the military. (Note: I’m not even getting into any discussion about women in the military right now. I’m just trying to get everything done with this book before I plunge into something new.)

Even older men were suspect. I remember as a kid hearing my grandmother talking with other family members about what my grandfather did during the war. Grammy said that Grampy was very unhappy that he wasn’t accepted when he tried to register. He was 40 years old when Pearl Harbor was bombed. But he failed the physical and was rejected. In spite of that he felt guilty and worried that others would think he was “dodging the draft.” Instead he served as an air raid warden, went out at night to check that no visible light shone from any homes in Lincoln. But, I believe he always felt guilty that he couldn’t do more. In fact, I seem to recall my grandmother saying that “we don’t talk about this in front of Nolan. . .” [Nolan was my grandfather’s first name.]

Still I think Ila’s poem, Draft Dodgers Only, reflects a specific time as well as Ila’s talent for poetry.

Draft Dodgers Only

I am writing this short letter, and every word is true,
Don't look away "Draft Dodger" for it's addressed to you.
You feel at ease, and in no danger,
Back in your old home town.
You cooked up some pitiful stories,
So that the board would turn you down.
You never think of the real men, who leave there day-by-day.
you just think of their girl friends,
Whom you get when they're away.
You sit at home and read the paper,
You jump and say, "We will win."
Just where do you get that "We" stuff?
This was will be won by men.
Just what do you think, "Draft Dodger"?
That this fine nation would do, if all our men were slackers,
And scared to fight like you?
Well, I guess that's all, Mr. Slacker.
I suppose your face it red.
American is no place for  your kind and it is true, every word I have said.
So in closing this letter, "Draft Dodger"
Just remember what I say,
Keep away from my girl, I warn you,
Because I'm coming back some day.

by
A Soldier

---

Tomorrow: BOOK LAUNCH BLAST OFF!

¹To learn more about draft evasion check out this link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Draft_evasion (accessed 11/9/2020).