When in 1916 Gertrude Stein commenced driving Aunt Pauline for the American Fund for French Wounded, she was a responsible if not an experienced driver. She knew how to do everything but go in reverse. She said she would be like the French Army, never have to do such a thing. Delivering to hospitals in Paris and the suburbs offered no difficulties, for there was practically no civilian traffic. One day we were asked to make a delivery to a military hospital in Montereau, where we would lunch after the visit to the hospital. It was late by the time that had been accomplished and the court of the inn that had been recommended was crowded with military cars. When Gertrude Stein proposed leaving Aunt Pauline, for so our delivery truck had been baptised—not in champagne, only in white wine—in the entrance of the court, I protested. It was barring the exit. We can’t leave it in the road, she said. That would be too tempting. The large dining-room was filled with officers. The lunch, for wartime, was good. We were waiting for coffee when an officer came to our table and, saluting, said, The truck with a Red Cross in the entrance to the court belongs to you. Oh yes, we proudly said in unison. It is unfortunately barring the exit, he said, so that none of the cars in the court can get out. I am afraid I must ask you to back it out. Oh that, cried Gertrude Stein, I can not do, as if it were an unpardonable sin he were asking her to commit. Perhaps, he continued, if you come with me we might together be able to do it. Which they did. But Gertrude Stein was not yet convinced that she would have to learn to go in reverse.
