From a bio:

During World War II, the artist enlisted in the Women's Army Corps and was attached to Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower's staff. Lippincott tells a story of Gen. George Patton storming into Eisenhower's office in London demanding to see him. She told Patton flatly that Eisenhower was busy and that he would have to take a seat and wait and that he should keep his mouth shut, too.

From another bio of her in the Santa Fe New Mexican:

One of her major themes was the loss of life during war. She saw this reflected in the World War I graveyards and battlefields she visited with her mother, who would die before Lippincott returned to Europe during the next world war.

The transport ship Lippincott took to London brought back memories of her childhood trip to France with her parents, but the crowded conditions, mass seasickness, and constant danger from German U-boats gave this journey a different tenor. In her journal Lippincott wrote that some of the gun crews were so young that she suspected the sailors had not learned to shave.

“I can hear the vibrations of the ash-can (depth charge) like the rumble of distant guns,” she wrote. “One innocent babe has been encouraged to believe it is the bolts and nuts tossing in the bottom of the ship.”

World War II turned Lippincott’s life inside out. She was stationed in London under Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower. Friends and family members say her epilepsy began with injuries she suffered during the Blitz. She fell several stories when the building she lived in was hit during a bombing raid.

When Lippincott was stressed, Crase said, “she would be right back on Normandy Beach. She had never really been there, but she heard about the soldiers picking up the dead bodies, and that just tore her apart. She was privy to some of the meetings that took place before D-Day, and the knowledge of what was coming haunted her.”

Lippincott was discharged from the Women’s Army Corps in 1945, but memories of the war continued to haunt her. In hard-to-read handwriting, she scribbled her thoughts about war onto the endpapers of books in her personal library. One of her endpaper entries reads: “Whoever you are, you did not believe you’d die again and hear the young despair of soldiers dying in the fields deep in sun-drenched poppies, and that the earth troubles now again with remembered gunfire, and nights are violent hells.”

Janet Lippincott