Reporting Under Fire (2 page)

Not exactly a war correspondent but a globetrotter nonetheless, Nellie Bly famously circled the world in seventy-two days in 1889, topping the fictitious record set by Phileas Fogg in Jules Verne's
Around the World in Eighty Days.
And
Leslie's Illustrated Weekly
dispatched Anna Benjamin to Cuba during the Spanish-American War in 1898, where she became the nation's first female photojournalist.

For the better part of the 1800s, Victorian ideals confined middle- and upper-class American women to home, a sphere of domesticity where women ran their households and raised their children. However, late in the century, Victorian rules loosened, and some women stepped into the workplace in their high-button shoes. They filled traditional roles as teachers and nurses and also took jobs in factories or as clerks in offices and department stores. Women were a common sight at newspapers, although they were confined to working on the ever more popular “women's pages.” The gritty job of reporting on crime, corruption, and general evil on the streets wasn't thought to be ladylike. “Girl reporters,” as newspapermen called them, weren't welcome to work at the city desk, the heart and soul of a daily newspaper.

Given that women rarely wrote hard news at home in the United States, it was even more of a reach for a young girl to dream of reporting from overseas. But as the 19th century rolled into the 20th, and as more and more girls got an education, a few began to think beyond the boundaries set for women just 20 years earlier. After all, there were fashion stories to be written from Paris and society news from London, and so a few young women reporters found their way to Europe. And when male reporters flocked overseas in 1917 to cover the American Expeditionary Force in the Great War, a handful of young women followed them to the front lines. All kinds of obstacles stood in their way, namely editors at home and army officials both at home and overseas. It was unthinkable that someone wearing a skirt had any business in a battle zone.

I
n the early hours of June 29, 1914, transatlantic cable traffic from Europe buzzed with reports from the tiny nation of Serbia, far away in the Balkans. Editors on the foreign desks of big American newspapers rolled up their sleeves and got to work to rush the news onto their front pages: the Austrian archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, the duchess Sophie, had been assassinated during a state visit to Sarajevo, Serbia's capital.

On July 28, exactly one month after the assassination, Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia. That single declaration triggered all-out war across Europe as a complex set of treaties lunged into motion. Nine days later, most of Europe was at war—Germany and Austria-Hungary (the Central powers) battling France, Great Britain, Italy, and Russia (the Allied powers). Both sides expected the fighting to be short and glorious, but on
August 22, when 27,000 French soldiers died on a single day in the opening battles, reality began to hit home.

Under President Woodrow Wilson's isolationist policies, the United States tried to stay out of Europe's Great War, but in April 1917, Americans were finally sucked into the bloody conflict. Untried and idealistic, American youths left cities and farms to fight “the war to end all wars.” The American Expeditionary Force, commanded by General John “Black Jack” Pershing, arrived in France that summer. Pershing came fresh from his previous command a year earlier when he had led American soldiers into Mexico to capture the bandit Pancho Villa.

American reporters secured credentials from the US government and followed troops into France. All were men.
A war was no place for a woman,
went the thinking of the time. After all, few women had broken through the invisible wall that blockaded “girl reporters” from the tobacco-spitting environs of the city desk. Although it was the era of the “New Woman” in the United States and American women had made some progress in filling professional jobs since 1900, in 1917 they still did not even have the right to vote.

Only a handful of women made their way into war zones as battles raged in France. With the backing of the
Saturday Evening Post,
Mary Roberts Rinehart, a popular mystery writer, went to the front early in the war and was appalled at the dreadful medical care available for wounded soldiers. Another, a photographer named Helen Johns Kirtland, went to France on her honeymoon, got to the trenches, and took memorable photographs. Peggy Hull, who had mistakenly upstaged Pershing in Texas, sidestepped the ban on women reporters and went to France as well.

It was July 4, 1917…. I was in Paris [sitting in a sidewalk café with two Frenchwomen. Suddenly] … a low murmur reached our ears … It grew louder and louder … and we heard the rhythm of marching feet, the military rhythm of marching feet … the musical shuffle of the precise… left… right… left… right… the heartening sound of youthful marching feet… the murmur grew into a roar! … Down the boulevard came the familiar khaki… the broad sombreros of the American army!… PARIS WENT MAD!

—Peggy Hull, “The Last Crusade, 1918, A.D.,”
The Pointer

She paced the platform back and forth, waiting for the railroad to bring passengers from Kansas City to the east and Denver to the west. As trains came and went, she approached the travelers to ask for tidbits of news and gossip. Where had they been? Where were they going? What events were changing their lives? When the platform was empty and folks had gone their way, this girl reporter wrote up her findings and filed them with the editor of her small town newspaper, the
Junction City Sentinel.
The passengers might have noticed the ink stains on her fingers—not that she minded. Henrietta Eleanor Goodnough was plenty happy to typeset the articles she wrote.

Henrietta quit high school when she was 16, ready to do what it took to become a newspaper reporter. When she'd gleaned
enough experience at home, she moved on. In two years' time, Henrietta lived in five states: Kansas, Colorado, California, Hawaii, and Minnesota. In Denver, she married George Hull, a newspaperman, and took his name. The marriage lasted only four years; Hull was a drunk, and when he stripped and tried to climb a flagpole naked (a fad that lasted long into the 1920s), Henrietta decided she'd had enough.

In Denver, Henrietta met and fell in love with another reporter, Harvey Duell. Harvey fell for Henrietta too; but he had his mother to think of, and she didn't approve of her son marrying a divorcée. Henrietta decided that absence might make Harvey's heart grow fonder, so true to style, she moved to Minnesota to work at the
Minneapolis Daily News.
There her editor insisted she change her name, saying he “wouldn't be caught dead putting at the head of any column in his newspaper a name such as Henrietta Goodnough Hull.” Henrietta changed her name to Peggy. And when Harvey didn't propose and a better job appeared in Ohio, she moved to Cleveland.

In the course of her many jobs, Peggy had worked in both public relations and advertising. Reporters looked down on this kind of writing, but amid a growing market of department store shoppers, newspaper owners counted on advertising to sell papers. Women might not have the vote, but savvy editors hired them to write both ad copy and features from the “woman's angle.”

Product placement was a typical component of these stories, and Peggy Hull, girl reporter, was assigned to write an advertising column at the Cleveland
Plain Dealer.
Peggy supposedly went “a-shopping” and made up stories featuring products and services her readers could buy in downtown Cleveland. Her copy was so good she was featured in a pair of trade magazines,
Editor & Publisher
and the
Journalist,
which explained that Peggy's

chief stunt … is to “have things happen to her” as she puts it, in order make the interest keen…. An example of one of her “happenings” was to have herself held up by a masked bandit, which story was used to advertise a bank.

Though she blatantly sold advertising as real news, Peggy tacked disclaimers at the end of her columns, a “P.S.” to clarify that prices and locations she mentioned were purely advertising. Readers didn't seem to mind, and she kept her bosses and their advertisers happy.

Peggy grew up near Fort Riley, Kansas, and had always idolized the soldier's life. When Cleveland became the first American city to sponsor a National Guard Training Course for Citizens, she signed up for its Women's Auxiliary. “I'm going to learn to shoot a rifle and to do Red Cross work,” she wrote in the
Plain Dealer.
“The drills and exercise are splendid from a health standpoint, and the military training teaches self-control, a good thing for the majority of us because we are so apt to lose our heads in an emergency.” She wrote a description of her uniform and went on to mention the frilly Easter outfit she'd wear off duty. Her Easter finery, of course, was available for purchase at a Cleveland store.

In 1916, Peggy began wearing a uniform full time. That year, the Mexican bandit Pancho Villa began a series of terrorist raids on American towns along the US-Mexican border, terrorizing and killing American citizens. On March 15, 1916, troops led by army general John J. Pershing were ordered to cross from Texas into Mexico to chase down Villa. The Ohio National Guard was sent to patrol the border, and Peggy decided to go along.

In true fashion, she got a head start. She boarded a train for El Paso, Texas, took a room in a hotel, and went to work as a freelancer. She had the
Plain Dealer's
promise to pay her for
anything she wrote that could promote its advertisers. She stopped at home in Kansas on her way south.

“Wherever the army was there was Peggy,” the
El Paso Morning Times
said later. “When reviews [parades] were held at Fort Bliss, Peggy was there on the friskiest mount in the corrals…. When General Murgia [Mexican General Francisco Murgía] entertained General [J. Franklin] Bell in the hippodrome in Juarez toasts were drunk to Señorita Peggy, the pride of the Americans present. She was the friend of every soldier in the American army.”

Peggy adored the pomp and circumstance of army life, but she wrote about its sordid side as well. As with all armies, Pershing's forces had its share of camp followers, prostitutes who found willing customers among the soldiers. In time, Peggy grew to understand the despair these scorned women shared, and when they were thrown out of town she wrote a sympathetic article about eight “little girls in red satin middy blouses … with a stigma that marks them ‘undesirables.'”

Peggy joined 20,000 of Pershing's men on a 15-day march from Texas into New Mexico. She set off wide-eyed and excited, daydreaming of the entrance she'd make one day meeting an editor at the biggest New York newspaper, only to stumble over a rock and fall into a mesquite bush. The boots she'd bought hurt her feet so badly she fell behind and limped into camp with a pair of straggling soldiers. She was so sore the next morning she thought of turning back, until the sound of a bugle gave her the boost she needed.

Though the march was short that day, a sudden sandstorm created chaos all along the line of soldiers.

Units became separated. Minor commands were lost. Water wagons were overturned in the desert or else lost their way and wandered from the main column. The
wind raged and blinded us all with fine white sand. We had no luncheon and no dinner. About 1 o'clock in the morning after the storm had spent itself, our weary field kitchen staggered into camp and the First Kentucky Field Hospital—I was traveling with them—turned out for food—and such food. Sanded bacon—sanded bread— sanded coffee sweetened with sanded sugar.

I felt as though I had never had a bath…. My hair was bristling and hard to sleep on. I didn't want a military career then, but I had convinced the general I did want one and I couldn't quit.

“Private” Peggy Hull was a tough young woman, and she hung on for four more days. She stood in chow lines with enlisted men to get her meals and slept on the ground in a small tent. Then, at the halfway point of the march, she was ordered to appear at the officers' mess tent. She'd received a “promotion,” and as “Lieutenant Hull,” Peggy was welcome to dine with the officers. Her toughness had won their admiration. What was more, Peggy Hull became the first American woman to “embed” with American forces, a term that didn't show up in the English language for another 80 years.

But Peggy's days with the
Plain Dealer
were numbered. There was only so much advertising a girl in Texas could sell for a department store in Cleveland, plus the paper had sent a male reporter to cover army news. When her editor asked her to come home, she sent her answer, which appeared in a feature article several years later:

“Won't come back; fire me if you like,” she wired.

He did.

Plucky as ever, Peggy got a new job with the
El Paso Morning Times.
She decided to blend in with the men she covered and
put together an outfit to wear in the field. Years later, her close friend, another newspaperwoman named Irene Corbally Kuhn, wrote about Peggy's days along the Texas-Mexican border:

Peggy always dressed for the role. She wore a trim officer's tunic, short skirt, boots, Sam Browne belt [a wide leather belt with a strap that ran over the shoulder], and a campaign hat. She went right along on the marches with the boys, never complained that her feet hurt, nor interrupted things to powder her nose. Nighttime, she rolled up in her poncho and slept on the ground with the rest of them.

Peggy may have dressed to fit in, but the fact was that any girl reporter would cause a ruckus among thousands of soldiers. Even General Pershing knew her name. Peggy had ridden out to greet the general as he led his soldiers back from Mexico, and their picture ran the next day in the
Morning Times.
Pershing was not pleased to see himself upstaged by Peggy, whose place in the photo made it seem she'd led the parade.