Selected Journal Entries from My Great Grand Mother, Isidora Wilcox

By Jenna Cartwright

During WWI a corps of female ambulance drivers transported injured men from the front to medical camps all throughout Europe and Africa. This is the story of one such woman, and the sacrifice she made. Will she be able to find love after the consequences of war change her forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jenna Cartwright
• Release date: Jun 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463595633

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Selected Journal Entries from My Great Grandmother, Isidora Wilcox

By Jenna Cartwright

Copyright 2018 by Cartwright Publishing. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of this material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.

December 11th, 1915

When I came to, I recognized where I was. I had heard stories of this hospital in the days after the Battle of the Marne. Five hundred men bleed from their wounds while they sat outside on a pile of hay in the pouring rain. They waited to have their leg or arm amputated, sometimes, too often, both. In those days there was no way to save the limbs. It was an assembly line of carnage where young men were told they'd never be whole again.

George Crile, a volunteer physician from Cleveland's Lakeside Hospital, wrote back to the states saying he had to remove hundreds of limbs for no reason other than the fact he lacked the antiseptic needed to treat the infected flesh. The Allied Forces prioritized sending bullets, artillery, and machine guns to the front, but when they realized they were losing as many soldiers to infection as they were to German shells, that all changed. I think going forward, after the war, all hospitals, everywhere, will adopt these practices. Everything must be sterile. Everything must be cleaned.

Maybe it's easier to focus on that and not the truth of why I'm here. It's a truth I can't remember. I grasp at it but it's