"21"At its new headquarters, the American Field Service----- free of the Ambulance in fact and in name----came into its own.
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Day and night for three years--- the incessant details and the constant creation--- the construction and improvement of the ambulances---the perfecting and organizing of supplies for cars and men --- the relationship with the French Army and its officers at the front and rear ---the problem of ever-shifting volunteers--- the constant necessary contact with the United States ---nothing was too small not to be looked after, nothing was too large to be conceived and put into motion. I want you to see him as I did and you all couldn't. Your job was at the front. But it was his vitality, imagination, and strength of purpose that got you there, kept watching over you while you were there. And all the time the American Field Service was growing until nearly 3,000 volunteers were serving --- really a great undertaking when you realize that men, money and supplies came from all over the United States across the ocean to France, and that the sections were then scattered throughout the French front ---all this conceived and co-ordinated by 'Doc' Andrew.
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In December 1915, Andrew enlisted the help of a driver from the Section 3 in Alsace: Stephen Galatti, another Harvard graduate. Galatti would soon become Andrew's indispensable "right hand man".
When you walked into 21, rue Raynouard, in the spring of 1917 you saw that things were moving. Baggage, supplies, men --- innumerable men --- troops of them --- green young recruits in an endless procession were all over the place. The office force harried with overwork paid little attention to you. If you got one of them into a corner and told him what you wanted he passed the buck wearily to someone else. Fisher rounding up a squad for driving practice told you: "Yes I used to look out for that but Ewell's doing it now." Ewell handed you on to Denny. When you found Denny bossing a corvée unloading châssis from a truck in the grove he sent you back to Peter Kent. You saw Mr. Cartier, Miss Lough, Muhr, Mme Grimbert, Jeanne: ---you just got a glimpse of Doc. Andrew jumping into his car on the way to wring concessions from some French official.
Finally if you persisted in your quest someone steered you to a door marked Mr Galatti. You went in (he always managed time to see everyone) and noticed first the most disorderly desk in the world. That desk defied description. It had everything on it: letters, papers, books, scratch pads, pencils, cigarettes, more papers, more letters, more and more papers, more and more letters. You could just look over the top of it and see Galatti sitting on the other side. You stated your case and he listened to you. Very likely while you were talking he answered the phone, made illegible notes on a scratch pad about a couple of unrelated subjects, but that didn't matter: he heard you; understood you perfectly.
Sometimes he told you that you couldn't have what you wanted, --- that was final: you felt that it couldn't be done, --- you knew that he didn't say it just to get rid of you and save himself trouble. Sometimes if he thought you were talking nonsense he didn't answer at all but just listened and listened until bye and bye you got tired and went away. He never called you a damned fool. He never called anyone a damned fool. When you think that men were going through the rue Raynouard at the rate of 50 a week and that every one of them had his own little grievance, you wondered how he ever managed to keep his temper. But he did --- it wastes time to lose one's temper and he couldn't spare the time. But generally when you had rambled through your plea he said something brief and decisive: "The best train is 8 A.M. Gare de l'Est", or "Try 26 avenue des Ternes" or "Your cousin is in section 8. He'll be down on permission in a day or two" or "I'll see about it."
And he always did see about it. At first you didn't believe he would. You didn't believe he could possibly remember or find the time to do anything if he did remember, but he fooled you. No matter how preposterous your request, if he said it would be all right it was all right; --- a day or two later, he produced your missing trunk, or found a place for you in the section you had set your heart on.
Everybody was working harder that Spring than he had ever worked before but Galatti did as much as the rest of us. He never took a holiday. Seven days a week he got to the office at least at 8 A.M. Sometimes he went away at seven in the evening, sometimes later. And such days he put in: he wired the agent at Bordeaux, selected just the right person to fill a vacancy, sent off livrets, dictated letters, ordered brass donor-plates and saw that they got put on the right ambulances, listened to kicks, organized new sections, and if as often happened a wire came in at five announcing that 50 men would be up from Bordeaux at 7:30 --- oh very well --- it was all in the day's work. He hustled just a little harder than usual and at 7:30 he had enough cars at the Quai d'Orsay to carry them and their baggage, --- supper and beds were waiting for them. Then, if a convoy was leaving the next morning at six he would be on hand to see them start.
The most marvelous thing about it all was his memory. Down under the welter of papers on his desk there was a card catalogue, but it was buried too deep for reference. He didn't have to look at it: he knew where the cars were and where the men were. If Section 8 reported that they hadn't received a barrel of oil, he knew right out of his head what day it had been shipped, who had driven it to the rue Pinel and the name of the Maréchal des Logis there who would do something about tracing it.
That was the life he led from the Spring of 1916 to late in the Fall of 1917. He stuck at the job not because he wanted it but because no one else could handle it. He never complained but I know perfectly well that it wasn't the job he would have chosen. Everyone was wild to get to the front again ---to get into the fun and excitement. Once I remember I went into his office to tell him that if I couldn't go back to a section I was going home. But I didn't tell him that: I thought of the grind he'd been going through ---was going through---was looking forward to, ---with no fun ---no excitement---no honors---no publicity, and I was ashamed of myself.
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