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EIGHTEEN MONTHS IN THE WAR ZONE
• • • .• ••• «••
GOING ON DUTY AFTER A REST
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
THE RECORD OF A WOMAN'S WORK ON THE WESTERN FRONT
BY
KATE JOHN FINZI
With an Introduction by
Major-General Sir Alfred Turner, K.C.B.
With Sixteen Plates
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne 1916
1ii5
m^^
BeMcate^
To THE Memory of those
WHOM I HAVE LOST
458042
FOREWORD
When the great history of this almost untellable War comes to be told, historians will find them- selves faced with a collection of evidence so devious, so at variance, that their task will be well-nigh stupendous. Whether, when they come to sift their data, they will have time to cast more than a passing glance at the great military bases that sprung up in an allied country, where once an in- vading army had stood, remains to be seen. That these bases, and in especial the largest and nearest to the firing line, Boulogne, have played a large role in the scheme of things cannot be denied.
Yet, of all the many thousands who lived and passed through Boulogne, there remains not one who can tell of the gradual development of that once insignificant fishing town into one of the greatest bases in the War Zone.
Surely, therefore, it behoves those of us who love every inch of her harassing cobblestones; to whom her picturesque squalor is a thing of ever- lasting joy ; those of us who see in the sun-bathed
masts, half-hidden in grey mists, pictures whose
vii
Foreword
Turneresqueness vies with Turner; who can clasp fisherfolk, peasants and townsmen by the hand and be proud to claim them friends — it behoves us to recapture what can never be recaptured again, because there is none left to tell the tale — a pic- ture of Anglicised Boulogne in war-time.
True, our Boulognese coast is not riddled with fortifications like the approaches to an English naval port, nor are our fields honeycombed with trenches (though go past Calais, northward, towards Dunkirk, and you shall see what you shall see !). Yet there were days in 1914 when Boulogne promised to play a larger role in the history of England than she had ever played before — days when hospitals stood empty and all were prepared to evacuate the town at a moment's notice, in reply to the mayor's already printed mandates — days when, had the enemy but known how efficiently he had pierced the British lines, he might have realised his dream of devastating our island home and sweeping the coast with his long-range guns from Calais to Boulogne.
Those days will never return. Between us at the base and our enemies are a myriad valiant lives and countless guns of every size and device, a force, in fact, which no German strategy in the
viii
Foreword
world, scrupulous or unscrupulous, can overcome ; and still the little temporary British city grows and grows, a city of tents and red crosses and corrugated iron huts; and still stalwart British forms, marching along the winding white roads, cast longing glances at the dim coast of distant Albion.
But it is not for those who heard the call in the later months so much as in memory of those early heroes of Mons, who knew the bitterness of a valiant retreat, the horror of forced marches along parched roads, with only the prod of the next man's bayonet to keep him awake, and only a flap cut from the tail of his shirt between the pitiless sun and the dreaded delirium that would leave him a prey to the Huns' barbarities; in memory of these it is that I take up the pen to run the gaunt- let of a thousand critical eyes on a way fraught with difficulties.
My acknowledgments are due to Mr. A. M. James for permission to use his photograph of the cemetery, and to my brother Edgar, whose patience in putting together what is of necessity a piecy document has made the publication of this diary possible.
IX
*^Nq easy hopes or lies Shall bring us to our goal. But iron sacrifice Of body, will, and soul. There is but one task for all — For each one life to give; Who stands if freedom fall ? Who dies if England live?''
— RuDYARD Kipling.
CONTENTS
Introduction by Major-General Sir Alfred
Turner, K.C.B xv
BOOK I 1914— As It Was in the Beginning
CHAPTER
1. October, 1914 .
2. November, 1914
3. December, 1914
3
40 68
|
BOOK II |
||||
|
1915— Order Out of Chaos |
||||
|
4. January, 1915 |
89 |
|||
|
5. February, 1915 |
• |
103 |
||
|
6. March, 1915 |
112 |
|||
|
7. April, 1915 |
> |
. 124 |
||
|
8. May, 1915 |
. 136 |
|||
|
9. June, 1915 |
146 |
|||
|
10. July, 1915 |
160 |
|||
|
11. August, 1915 . |
171 |
XI
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
12. September, 1915 179
13. October, 1915 188
14. November, 1915 202
15. December, 1915 211
BOOK III
1916--Scrapped
16. January, 1916 225
17. February, 1916 240
Epilogue 259
xu
LIST OF PLATES
Going on Duty after a Rest . . Frontispiece
FACING PAGE
A Hospital Ship ....... 16
At an Improvised Casualty Clearing Station . 28
A Ward in the Sugar-shed Clearing Station . 32
Extemporised Operating Theatre at a Clearing
Station . . . . . . . .42
*'The Revered Calvary to which all Wise
Fishermen Pray " . . . . 56
Lord Roberts's Funeral : The Scene on the Quay 64
Ambulances held up by the High Tide . . 66
A Meal at the Indian Camp .... 80
Indian Encampment in the Snow .... 88
The First Hut at the Base .... 96
" The Bridge, through the arches of which is a glimpse of landscape as peaceful as any Tuscan Village" 110
Hospital Ships in the Harbour . . . .138
Our New Hut .160
xiii
List of Plates
FACING PAGE
Interior of a Hut . . . , . .160
Extemporised Hospital in a Hut . . . .184
The Marquee devoted to the Storage of Tables,
ETC 208
The Busy Dinner-hour in a Hut . . . 208
" The City of Little White Crosses " . . . 250
INTRODUCTION
By Major-Gen. Sir ALFRED TURNER, K.G.B.
In the following pages Miss Kate Finzi gives in a plain, unvarnished style a terrible and graphic picture of the horrors of war, which have been intensified, as never before, owing to the ferocious savagery of the German troops, as systematically ordered by their officers and commanded by the Kaiser himself, the greatest criminal in the world's record ; for this war, planned and prepared deliber- ately by him, is the greatest crime ever committed against civiHsation and humanity. It is charitable to designate him a criminal lunatic, or, as his prototype Caligula was described, an epileptic, with highly developed criminal instincts.
When one reads of such sufferings as those described by Miss Finzi, one wonders for what end Providence can have allowed such an inhuman monster to exist and cause such sorrow, such suffering, such death and destruction to be inflicted on mankind.
XV
Introduction
The books written upon the vast conflict are already legion, but I think this is the first record — a most pathetic and interesting record — of what happened at the base hospitals at Boulogne, where tens of thousands of wounded, maimed and mutilated incessantly arrived, to be passed on to England, or to linger there till death came as a happy release from their sufferings.
How many officers and men of those glorious ''first seven divisions" which left these shores in August, 1914 — a tiny but, for its size, an incomparable army, which stemmed the seemingly irresistibly flowing tide of von Kluck's legions against Paris — the '* contemptible little army of General French," as it was described by the imperial braggart of Germany, lie buried near the spot where stands the memorial pillar in honour of Napoleon's army of invasion in 1804. After the war it will be incumbent on us, with the approval of our firm and faithful Allies, whose spirit, bravery and skill in fighting has astounded the world, to raise another monument especially to the memory of our heroic countrymen who withstood the hordes of the Hun and thwarted his advance both on Paris and Calais.
Miss Finzi's book is quite unpretentious, and
xvi
Introduction
is a simple record of facts which brings home vividly to our minds the sickening horrors of war and the awful sujfferings that our gallant defenders have had to undergo in doing their duty, in the service of their King and country, for the honour and integrity of the Empire, and for the safety and protection of the people in this country in this great war of hberation. What they have been protected from can well be gathered from the openly expressed threats of the Germans — soldiers, mihtary writers, professors and ministers of German religion — that the crimes and outrages which they committed in Belgium and France, Poland and Serbia, should be as nothing to those which they would make our people suffer. It is well that these things should be brought home to our people, who, owing to our insular position, have experienced nothing of the horrors of war and are apt to make too light of them from want of power to realise them.
Naturally there was great confusion at the base, owing to the suddenness with which war broke out upon nations entirely unprepared for it and taken by surprise, for, although dark suspicions of the evil designs of Germany lurked in many men's minds, the extent of the infamy
xvii
Introduction
of the Kaiser and his pan-Gcrinan parasites did not enter into the minds of many people, not even in the ease of those who, Hke myself, thought they knew Germans well. The latter veiled their innate brutality, their blood lust, and their intention to aequire world domination througli brute foree, with consummate eraftiness.
Miss Finzi gives a graphie account of the troubles that had to be surmounted, owing to insufficiency oF hospital requisites, beds, medicines, doctors and nurses; bufc this was inseparable from the nature of things, and has long since been righted. We may indeed be proud of our services of mercy; nothing can exceed their value and efficiency, namely the R.A.M.C. and our nurses. If our gallant soldiers and sailors engaged, through political blunder, in the ** Gallipoli gamble'' and Kut disaster had been as well tended and supplied as those in France, how many lives, thrown away through political ineptitude, would now have been spared to us 1
Miss Finzi writes most modestly of her own work, but we know that she and all the genuine nurses and helpers worked devotedly and well, and that the deepest debt of gratitude is due from the nation to them, who softened the horrors of war
xviii
Introduction
to our soldiers, who ministered aid to them when
they were sore stricken by wounds or diseases, and
mitigated tlieir tortures. It nuist not be forgotten
that for many months the capture of Cahiis seemed
not impr()bal)le ; the Huns had no doubts upon
the subject, and time after time, as in the case of
Paris and Verdun, the bloodthirsty Kaiser gave his
vain and arrogant orders : "To be taken at all
cost, no matter at what sacrifice !^^ A truly
beneficent ruler and father of his people ! The
R.A.M.C. and nurses, therefore, were working
at terrible disadvantage, with no certainty that
the bestial and brutish enemy would not shortly
appear, to wreak upon them his savage instincts
of nuirder and lust, signs of which were constantly
brought in to them : terrible wounds caused by
expanding bullets, and, worst of all, accounts by
eye-witnesses and victims of the perpetual and
designed firing upon hospitals, dressing stations,
stretciier-bearers, it l)cing, apparently, a craze of
the Germans to kill and ill-treat what is helpless
and cannot resist them. Tales also were related
of civil population — men, women and children —
being butchered, and Red Cross nurses outraged
in the most fiendish numner, and then mutilated
and murdered. With such possible prospects and
xix
Introduction
fate at the hands of men compared to whom the Iluns of Attila, the Goths of Alaric, the Tartars of Timur and the Mongols of Genghis Khan deserved a crown of mercy. Imagine what our nurses are and what blessings they have brought to our soldiers and sailors. At the commencement of the Crimean War there were no Army nurses and no civil nurses, except those dreadful creatures described by Charles Dickens in " Martin Chuzzle- wit," such as Sairey Gamp and Betsy Prig — fat, waddling, coarse, ignorant, unclean and unkempt, and usually smelling of gin ; they attended births, sick-beds, and laying out of corpses, in which they took great pride, as it brought them in touch with the undertaker, to their mutual advantage. Con- trast such so-called nurses, in their poke bonnets, smelly robes and clogs, with their huge, bulging umbrellas, their noisiness and heavy hands, with those of to-day, with their neat and serviceable uniform, their gentleness, their light hands, their kindness and sympathy with their suffering patients. As the late Dean Hole wrote in his '' Now and Then," they might be compared to a beautiful yacht scudding along in a light breeze, under a blue sky and shining sun, w^hile the ancient apologies for nurses rolled along, a water-
XX
Introduction
(or gin and water) logged barge in the Thames in a thick, yellow November fog. (Dean Hole.)
It was to Florence Nightingale, of ever-blessed memory, that we owe the foundation of our Army nursing system in 1854. When the news of the battle of the Alma came, and of many thousands of wounded men with no nurses and a totally insuffi- cient medical staff, and not a single ambulance, she volunteered to take out a number of nurses. For a wonder her offer was accepted, for in those days every sort of change in Army matters was considered a pernicious innovation. She took out thirty-four nurses to the Crimea, and before long had 10,000 wounded in her charge. The work which she and her nurses did was marvellous, and they stuck to it till their health broke down, as our present nurses have done. After the war £50,000 was subscribed for the purpose of found- ing an institution for the training of nurses in connection with St. Thomas's and King's College Hospitals. From that time the Army nursing system has steadily developed under the practical and ever-ready patronage of Royalty, till it reached its present perfection. In the Soudan and South African Wars the services of the nurses were in- valuable. When the present war showed itself to
xxi
Introduction
be one of such gigantic dimensions, and when our Army, due to the genius of Lord Kitchener, swelled to the size of millions, it was feared that a sufficient number of Army nurses could not be forthcoming; but then the women of England showed what they were made of. Hundreds and thousands devoted themselves at once to training as nurses, others to the less-skilled work required in hospitals for the victims of war; and now, owing to them and the admirable chiefs and subordinate officers of the R.A.M.C, and to the patriotic and self-sacrificing manner in which private medical practitioners have come forward with their services, little or nothing is wanted, considering the gigantic nature and scope of this terrible war.
Miss Finzi is to be congratulated upon having written a most interesting and readable book, full of facts and personal experiences, such experiences as, please God, no one will again have to relate; and this will be so when once the Hohenzollerns, the cause of all trouble in Europe and elsewhere for many decades, are exterminated or driven into obscurity.
The work shows forth in bright colours the universal devotion of our nurses — heroic women
who face all dangers and hardships for the sake of
xxii
Introduction
doing good to others. Among these must ever stand forth the name of Edith Cavell, who spent her whole Hfe in mitigating the sufferings of others, who nursed even German officers in her hospital who had probably committed unspeakable crimes and atrocities in Belgium. This weighed as nothing, as might have been expected, in the eyes of the barbarous Teutons, to whom mercy, justice and gratitude are unknown. She was done to death vilely and brutally, but her martyrdom will never be forgotten or forgiven; it will be one of the foulest of the many foul stains on the fame of the Kaiser and his accomplices, while it will ever shed a ray of glory upon the noble record of our British Nurses.
Alfred E. Turner.
BOOK I
1914 As It Was in the Beginning
EIGHTEEN MONTHS IN THE WAR ZONE
CHAPTER I October, 1914
October 21st, London. It was not without a sense of relief that we watched the hands of the station clock move on to the stroke of six, heard the train doors slam, and cast a last look at the anxious little group of friends who clustered round the carriage doors to bid us farewell and God-speed.
To be quite frank, their cheering savoured somewhat of mourning and much of admonition.
Were we not the tattered remnants of a once- flourishing Red Cross detachment, whose energies and equipment aUke had been left behind at the enforced evacuation of Ostend? Were we not about to face all kinds of undreamed-of perils?
So they whispered to us ; but as we relapsed
3
Eighte^ri iMiifitlis; ihvthe War Zone
into our seats, to the accompaniment of a cheery- chorus of rag-times from the extensive repertoire of the recruits in a neighbouring carriage, our hearts beat hard with trepidation and anticipation of the Great Unknown. After all, who were we amongst the countless thousands clamouring to ^'get out" to the scene of action?
Merely two Englishwomen, of none too much experience and no too great age, whom it might please Fate to carry into the scene of action, there to play the smallest of parts and to be vouchsafed an insight into the vagaries of war.
Southampton, It was a clear, still, moonhght night when we reached Southampton, the docks silent and darkened. Outside many ambulance wagons awaited their turn to be loaded. The hotel to which we had been recommended had been commandeered as an embarkation office.
Moreover, Mr. N , the clergyman who was
to have met us and finished the journey with us, failed to turn up. So, after passport formali- ties, we went straight on board.
All we carried by way of luggage was one small hand-valise apiece, containing, besides changes of underwear, the regulation Red Cross
4
October, 1914
caps, aprons, dresses — that uniform so effective en masse, so unbecoming to the individual.
October 22nd, s.s, , 8 a.m. The cabins
were nearly all taken for the officers of the Irish regiment crossing on the boat, so we passed a more or less restless night in the saloon. As the stewardess said: *' We like to give the men the best of everything. Who knows when they will next sleep in a bed?" It makes one choke to see these fine strapping fellows going out so cheerfully to meet their fate. It is only then that one ceases to think of war as a great game, and sees it as a great slaughter !
When we set sail the mysterious blue, herald of dawn, was over all, but we are entering Havre harbour in a sea that is black and dreary and full of forebodings.
Le Havre, The post office here might be in Finsbury, the cablegram window in Leadenhall Street, for Havre is full of British Tommies in their smart new khaki and gilt numerals and badges, and they walk up and down the streets in twos and threes — very much at home, or separately — equally lost.
Eighteen Months in the War Zone When we landed at Havre the Rev. E —
N , our khaki-clad parson, joined us; and,
having deposited our luggage at the station and lunched, we wended our way to the British Con- sulate, and British and French Red Cross offices, in the hope of gleaning some news of the rest of our party, who seemed to have vanished off the face of the globe.
Our Red Cross uniform carries with it a strange mixture of respect and suspicion — respect for the noble symbol we bear, suspicion on account of the many unlicensed people of somewhat doubt- ful repute who have flooded the country since the outbreak of war, perpetrating many indiscretions, opening many uncalled-for charities — all under the name of the Red Cross, with which, ten chances to one, they have no connection at all.
To us, however, everybody is so kind and courteous, and our parson, being a tall, white- haired man of military bearing, and in appearance much more like a general than a sky-pilot, com- mands universal respect and salutes.
We decided to spend a night at Havre and
call early for news at the Consulate, and it was
then that my modicum of French and savoir-
faire in the ways of hotels and hotel proprietors
6
October, 1914
stood us in good stead, for the rest of the party knew no word of French and appeared never before to have travelled abroad.
At the Consulate we came across Lady ,
one of the women we were seeking and who was supposed to be seeking us. As we entered the room a familiar voice rang out : ' * In the name of the Belgian Government you can do anything ' ' — and we found ourselves face to face with the chic little woman who, charming though she may be at a London ''at-home," is, we fear, liable to give our Allies a false impression ^f Enghsh women in war-time.
She has already courted notoriety quite success- fully in Belgium, where she would appear at the most busy moment in the wards with a smile and a ''May I see round your hospital?" only to be followed by her press-man with a camera. Seeing she has never, to our knowledge, done a day's work in the wards, we are growing tired of her portraits in the daily papers and weekly journals :
''Lady rendering valuable aid to a
severely wounded Belgian," or:
" A war heroine who is giving her services at the front."
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
We retired early, but the incessant sounds of coming and going made sleep impossible to me. As the moon peeped through the open window on to the restless form of my companion, I crept out of bed and knelt by the embrasure. She looked very young with her halo of fair hair, and for the first time I realised how utterly alone we were. It is odd how quickly people come into one's life nowadays, become the most important factor of existence, and, meteor-like, pass out of one's ken, leaving nothing but a fast-dimming memory to prove how large they once loomed on the horizon. After all — war or no war — we are absolute strangers, of different interests, different education, different social standing. Yet for weal or woe our lot is cast together. Only for a moment these thoughts assailed me; then the bigness of the Great Game in which we are to play our parts drove all little personal feelings away.
October 2Uh, Rouen. We arrived yesterday
in the wild-goose chase after the Mrs. C who
wired for us and was to have given us employ- ment, and are installed at a little hotel perched on the top of the hill, from the windows of which
8
October, 1914
we can enjoy the old garden, gorgeous in its autumn tints of brown, gold and green.
There being an over-sufficient number of well- equipped hospitals here, as in Havre, we have not
bothered to inquire after work, but the Rev. E
N has gone on to Paris, and so we spent the
day enjoying the sights of Rouen. Of the beauties of the Gothic Cathedral of St. Ouen, of the smart- ness of our Tommies, of the less solid but strikingly lithe and businesshke-looking French soldiers, in their historic and treasured red trousers and blue coats, there is much to be said. Yet it is the incongruity of the cosmopolitan crowd that is most noteworthy.
Dusky Zouaves, in wide pantaloons and brilliant coatees, are to be seen on all sides — mostly with bandaged limbs, be it noted — and alongside swarthy Indian Mussulmans, clad in khaki and topped with turbans. Side by side with them go interpreters in mufti, Scottish soldiers in tartans and covered kilts. Little French girls walk past with R.A.M.C. badges and numerals pinned across their shawls ; Army nurses, in grey and red; the usual crowd of dark Frenchwomen in their sombre weeds.
Watching the seething mass of humanity on
9
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
the quay, the marching soldiers, the footsore, homeless refugees, the motley crowd culled from every conceivable race and every quarter of the globe, it seems as if the Powers Above had decided to aboHsh the distinction between east and west, black and white, and weld together one race to combat the oncoming Germans. For surely we are pitted against a foe so strong in physique, and so brave and cunning, that many years of strenuous training and thrift will be required to fit the united races to withstand his onslaught.
October 25th. Mr. N returned last night
from Paris armed with introductions to Lord
at Boulogne headquarters, where we are to
go, and the information that the Paris hospitals are being steadily cleared.
All this time we have had very little news. Since the fall of Antwerp on October 9th, and the beginning of the Ypres-Armenlieres battle two days later, we have had nothing but rumours to subsist on, and these alternately wildly optimistic and disquieting.
It seems so strange to think, while wandering through the churches here, glorying in the leisure to enjoy the exquisite contour of the Gothic arches,
lO
October, 1914
the rich mediaeval windows, the Renaissance chapels, that to those enemies, who are proving themselves such utter Vandals, we really owe so much of our knowledge of Art and Architecture. Can any cultured being who has at some time or another associated with his art-loving foe, studied his literature, perused Burckhardt, delved into the depths of Faust's philosophy and the heights of Zarathustra's madness; sat on Brunhilde's rock or felt the Valkyrie riding past in the furious sweep of the snowstorm ; gazed from the heights of the Black Forest into the unknown stretch of sky beyond the blue hills with that yearning for beautiful things engendered by a land endowed by Nature with every gift; and, descending into the darkening forests, realised the milieu which inspired Grimm's ''Fairy Tales" and Morgen- stern, and even the translators of Ibsen and Jacobsen — can such a being fail to be nonplussed at this huge upheaval?
October 26th, Train militaire. We are passing through the lovely Norman country at a snail's pace in a military train bearing French soldiers to the front. Their distant '' Marseillaise " sounds less hearty than our Tommies' 'Mt's a long way
II
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
to Tipperary," but then they already know the devastation War has wrought in their homes ; they are the defenders of an invaded country.
The cost of our ticket to Abancour (mihtary rate, for our uniform amongst the French receives the utmost consideration) is 1 franc 50 centimes. After Abancour, it appears, there are no trains to Boulogne, so how we are to get across the sixty intervening miles no man knows !
Abancour, 7.30 p.m. We reached the neat little model village of Abancour at dusk. It stands on a wind-swept plain, over which the lowering clouds are scurrying menacingly this evening. Just as at Havre market women offered us flowers "for the blessed Croix Rouge," so here the pro- prietor of the post-card shop insists on giving us pastilles de menthe to take on our journey.
Eu, This is the nearest point we can get to Boulogne, and having knocked up the sleepy hotel-keeper at 10 p.m. to obtain a night's lodg- ing, having made bovril for us all out of the tablets some good friend had thrust into my travelling kit, and served out rations of horse-flesh sandwiches and nuts to make them savoury, I have at last tumbled into my damp bed, wrapped in a travelling rug.
12
October, 1914
A dismal rain has set in, which brings to mind the words of the secretary at the Rouen Consulate : " When winter sets in the fighting must tempor- arily cease. I know every inch of Belgium ; know, too, that no attack can be made on country so sodden that every wheel sinks at least a yard into the ground. Believe me, what the Germans have they will hold — at least this winter. For Belgium will be impregnable ! ' '
October 27th. We arose at 5 a.m. to catch a train bound towards Abbeville, and, after a re- freshing draught of black coffee in glasses, found ourselves installed in the train, with the prospect of staying there till 5 p.m. If we had wondered at finding Eu well guarded on all sides, we no longer did so when w^e learned that only a few weeks back it was in enemy hands, and formed, in fact, the German headquarters on the march on Paris.
Shortly before reaching Abbeville a young Belgian soldier in the carriage next door put his head in to inquire politely whether we were some of the infirmieres anglaises who had tended the Belgian wounded in Ostend.
It appeared he recognised Miss A , as soon
as she doffed her ugly felt uniform hat, as the
13
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
nurse who had dressed his wounded back the day he was carried into the Casino hospital after the Battle of Termonde.
His career, which he sketched delightedly for our edification, perched on the arm of the window seat, had been eventful, to say the least of it.
Aged 17, Fernand L , of Brussels, together
with fifteen others of his school class of twenty, joined the ranks as volontaires and served through Namur. Captured by the Germans in a farm- house where he was scouting, he contrived to escape and reach his native town, where the now famous burgomaster, the valiant M. Max, got his papers visM, By asserting that he was only fifteen years old, and therefore not liable to military service, he finally reached Cherbourg, and is now on his way back to the front, hoping to join some regiment at Calais.
A charming boy, full of enthusiasm for the war and the conviction that we shall soon be marching into Berlin, his one regret, when he heard how the hospital equipment had had to be abandoned to the enemy, was that he had not helped himself to a much-needed blanket.
" Had I but known," he exclaimed, '' I would have taken four ! ' '
14
October, 1914
Fernand L was clad in a wonderful com- bination of garments that he seemed to have gleaned on his journeyings; most remarkable amongst them were the green knitted socks and pair of canvas shoes which some Good Samaritan had given him at Ostend, in those days when even the supply of anaesthetics was apt to run low. Proudest of all was he of the fact that he had once spent a few days in Liverpool to play in a football match, which fact, he felt, bound him to his allies more than any of the forced ties of war. His com- panion, a few years his senior, who spoke seven languages, was a good-looking youth with a radiant smile. They had been together through various escapades, and were full of the atrocities of the Germans, which, alas ! seem authentic enough.
Once when they were fleeing they had come to a deserted village where a farmer gave them shelter. His only daughter had been brutally mutilated and murdered before her own parents because, in re- sisting the embraces of an officer, she scratched out one of his eyes.
" They cut off her breasts and carried away a foot as a trophy," was the tale they told.
As they got out, the Belgians, in token of gratitude, pressed into our hands the little paper
15
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
flags of the Allies that they were wearing and buttons from their coats. Then, seizing a note- book from my pocket, Fernand L inscribed
their names and addresses at Bruges, exacting at the same time promises that we would call and see them, or their families, on our way '' to the Rhine in a few months " !
The well-guarded lines, the ammunition trains, the big guns and horses and other paraphernalia of war — how real it all begins to seem !
At Abbeville, where we explored the shops and camps and churches, a nasty rumour came through, via two cavalry officers, that the Germans are at Calais, and many of the townsfolk appeared at their doors to bewail their fate.
On leaving every place of beauty one wonders how long it will remain safe from the Vandals — one leaves it with a sentimental longing to linger for " one last look.''
October 27th, Boulogne, The sky was a lurid red as our train steamed into Boulogne, and an evening mist hung over the town. On all sides high masts rose into the sky ; hospital ships, ambu- lance trains, little fishing-smacks, one does not know to which to give most attention. Every-
i6
October, 1914
where the population of picturesque fisherfolk in their brown blouses gives way admiringly to the Red Cross ambulances and officials who carry on their work on such an enormous scale.
The journey had seemed long enough in spite of its many incidents, as day by day we watched the pretty though uninteresting fields slip by, or restlessly paced the stations during the intermin- able halts, with little food for thought, save vague surmises as to the future, and little to eat save the slightly bitter bread of the people and apples, the only things obtainable at wayside stations already ransacked by the hordes of hungry soldiers who had passed through earlier ; and oftentimes we had been glad enough to descend from the carriages to re- fresh ourselves at the station pumps, marked '^drinkable" or ** non-drinkable," as the case might be.
We had formed an odd trio. The tall, bent figure of the clergyman, with his dreamy de- meanour and utter obliviousness of all things prac- tical; my commandant, a young woman who, having spent most of her life at hospital work, hailed every diversion from the same gleefully. Everything to her was new, for she had never been
out of England before, and to a veteran traveller
c 17
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
her joy at the ways of this new country was ex- traordinarily interesting. Thirdly, there was my- self, fresh from the salutary discipline of the wards of a London hospital.
And now it is all over, that journey. The destination is reached. The Unknown will soon be revealed.
The Commissioner to whom we were directed received us with open arms.
''Nurses — thank God! " was the exclamation as we were turned over to the mercies of the billet- ing oflBcer, who designated an airy room over- looking the quayside, on the third floor of the Red Cross headquarters, for our use.
Yet it appears that in spite of the dearth of nurses there are many formalities to be gone through before we can begin work; and as only nurses who have had three years' training in a big London hospital are to be accepted (for is anything but the best good enough for our fighting men?), there may be some difficulty for probationers.
Thus, having deposited our bundles in our
billets, we were sent to see Lady at the hotel,
where she combines the duties of lady-in-waiting to Queen Amelie of Portugal and organiser-in- chief of the Red Cross nurses.
i8
October, 1914
Here we learned for the first time of the confusion that arises out of the fact that both quahfied nurses and members of the Voluntary Aid Detachment are wearing the same uniform ; we heard, too, of the difficulties experienced by the authorities to prevent unlicensed people organising hospitals which they are unfitted to run.
As we wended our way back wearily through the hghted, crowded streets teeming with Ufe
(Miss A having signed a year's contract as
a trained nurse), something told me that this is to be the scene of my activities too ; that so long as my betrothed is in France, Providence will let me play my part.
On returning to headquarters we learned for the first time the unpleasant function of the Censor. All letters have to be left open, posted in the military box, and, if they are to pass the Censor, must contain no mention or description of places, troops, ships, people we have met on our journey, etc.
This is not merely a precaution against spies, we are told, but a measure of prudence in regard to false rumours; for men who have never got farther than Boulogne, and never been within gun- shot, have been known to write home long tirades
19
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
about the bloody trenches in which they stand all day, dodging fragments of shells and killing Germans by the score !
October 2Sth, After breakfast this morning we set out to see whether there were any letters from home at the Consulate. On our way up the hill a funeral overtook us. There were four hearses and seven coffins, each covered with a Union Jack, which contrasted strangely with the wxird-shaped French funeral carriages and the drivers in cos- tumes like beadles with large three-cornered hats.
We followed the cortege a quarter of an hour up the hill to the cemetery, where the newly consecrated ground was full of freshly covered graves.
The coffins were soon lowered, and as they lay there in a row not an eye of the little group of onlookers was dry.
The R.A.M.C. pall-bearers, the chaplain who went through the service with a rapidity that showed his familiarity with the job, a handful of French peasants — that was all. And they laid them to rest at the top of the hill, and only two English nurses who never saw them could bear the message of their last resting-place to their
20
October, 1914
homes. God! that such wanton destruction should be.
Opposite our window, as I write, the ambulance men are deftly unloading a train and carrying their sad, still burdens aboard the hospital ship on which
Miss A crossed from Ostend. All day long,
all night long, the wagons come and go. Funerals pass, not one, but three, four, five at a time, fol- lowed by orderlies; turbaned Sikhs and Gurkhas, looking quaintly odd with their unaccustomed shirts (gifts, no doubt, from some willing helpers at home) hanging loose below their coats, like a flounced skirt, and creating a perfect sensation whenever they pass the simple peasant folk.
Later, we walked into Wimereux and took snapshots of the wounded Tommies who thronged the beach. They were mostly arm and leg cases, and a cheery, if rough-looking, lot too, in their bedraggled khaki, which, from the distance, was scarcely distinguishable from the sands.
The Reverend E N has found plenty
to do, and is already taking work out of the over- taxed Bishop's hands. I, in the meantime, am making the best of my leisure and enjoying every hour of the sunshine. ''Father N.," as we call the padre, got into conversation with an Army
21
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
veteran to-day at lunch, whose views were inter- esting.
'' Do you think the Germans will get to Calais? " he asked.
''Probably not; but if they do, they'll make for here. This is the place they're after — as a post for their submarines. And Heaven knows what we shall do with our stores. It won't be possible to get them away in time!"
About a mile along the quay we came upon the debris of a camp with the fire still burning; piles of reaping machines, traction engines and carts, all bearing the names of English firms from Manchester to Crouch End, lay alongside ; and, finally, in the distance there hove in sight the French refugee ship which was blown up in the Channel yesterday between here and Folkestone.
In the evening we joined a group of nurses round the fire. They are pleasant girls just down from Paris, where they did relieving work at some of the hotel hospitals.
The Astoria in particular they describe as a maze. " You go to get a drink of milk for a patient, and when you've found the milk you've lost your man and may hunt for hours, only to find in the end that his need has already been
22
October, 1914
supplied," they say. Their assistants were culled from the French nobiUty, whose unflagging efforts to help are typical of France's indomitable spirit. Amusing incidents often occur.
One doctor, on being much pressed, accepted an invitation to tea with a well-known aristocratic family, who assured him they were inviting people who would be of especial interest to him. His amusement on arriving may be pictured when he found that the other guests consisted of a roomful of wounded Tommies.
Another doctor, overwhelmed by the amount of titles to whom he had been introduced, meeting a nurse in the corridor, began wearily with :
" Look here, I say, now, are you a blooming princess ? ' ' before he gave his orders !
In spite of the wonderful dirt and bad drainage that reigns in the nurses' quarters, we must be grateful, they say, for our accommodation. Nurses aren't expected to require much, it seems. Some- one quoted the old chestnut from Punch of the lady who, on being asked by the newly arrived nurse in which room she was to sleep, exclaimed in blank amazement :
" Oh, but I thought you were a trained hospital nurse ! "
23
Eighteen Months in the War Zone October 2dth. Let me tell the tale of No. —
Stationary Hospital. It should go down to pos- terity as a memorial of what British resourceful- ness may achieve, even if its existence was the outcome of the proverbial British state of unpre- paredness. For what in the annals of History has equalled the holocaust and chaos of modern war- fare, of which there was no precedent, of which everything has had to be learned by the bitterest experience?
Three days before we left England, at the be- ginning of the fight for Calais, which continues to
grow more violent daily, a certain Major N
found himself in charge of the wounded who were being brought down by the thousand in trains, and left helpless on their stretchers by the quayside to await the arrival of the ever-busy hospital ships.
Already the C and I Hotels were
choc-a-bloc with wounded, who lay so close to- gether in the corridors that it was necessary to climb over one stretcher to reach the next patient, and often stand astride the pallets to dress the wounds.
The Casino was opened, but in less time than it takes to tell was as crowded as the others.
A disused sugar shed, a vast wooden barn whose
24
October, 1914
cracked cement floor is piled high with dust, whose smashed glass roofing is besmirched with dirt, is hardly an ideal site for a hospital, but it is the best thing to hand, and the Major commandeered it, and here, before the lumber had been cleared, before the glass had been repaired or the walls whitewashed, the wounded began to tumble in. It wasn't much of a place, but it was out of the torrential rain which had set in and bade fair to continue, and it was less cold than the open air.
By day and night the orderlies worked, alter- nately preparing the place and attending to the wounded. A solitary English girl who happened to be on the spot had volunteered her services, and was doing her best single-handed in the wards. One day the Major, walking on the quay, saw some Red Cross nurses. They were the identical ones we had met on their arrival from Paris. On hear- ing they were waiting for their orders, and that they were all qualified women, he commandeered them, even as he had commandeered his barn. Back they came to Headquarters to fetch more assistance.
" Why don't you come too? It's a case of all hands aboard ! " said one. It was thus I came to work at the first clearing station at the base. Such
25
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
was the stationary hospital when, laden with all the loaves we could carry to supplement the ration biscuits, we set to work in the " casualty ward " this afternoon.
For the thousand wounded likely to come through daily there are six fully-trained nurses and myself, besides the male staff of R.A.M.C. doctors and orderlies, and two or three Red Cross surgeons and lady doctors.
Ten beds and a number of sacks of straw form the main equipment. Planks, supported by two packing-cases, are the dressing-table. At one end men are engaged in putting in three extemporary baths, others whitewashing the walls.
A boatload had just left for England as I came in, and we proceeded to get a meal for those who remained. But it was a struggle to get sufficient tea out of the orderlies, who had been working all night and were dead beat. The men's delight at the bread and old newspapers we had brought in was incredible.
Those who were able to, clustered round the solitary stove in the centre. Great rough, bearded fellows, covered with mud from the
trenches in which they have lived for weeks, how
26
October, 1914
different they look from those who set out ! The worst cases lay on their stretchers as they had arrived. One said simply, as I took him his tea, '' This is heaven, Sister."
A tall, dark man entered — the CO., someone said. **Take those two Germans down to the boat," I heard him order. Then, turning to us, ''You'd better come to our mess-room and get some tea yourselves," he said. " Four trainloads are expected in shortly."
We trooped into the small sanctum dignified by the name of ''mess-room," where the Major's orderly was busy preparing tea on a Primus stove. There was no milk, but the bitter black beverage out of the large tin mugs was welcome none the less. Someone had secured a cake that we cut with a sword as the cleanest thing present.
Next to the mess-room are the officers' quar- ters (into which we were privileged to take one glance) — small whitewashed cubicles furnished with a camp bed, a shaving-glass about three inches by six inches in size, and an old sugar-box converted into a washstand.
Tea finished, we set to work to get "beds" ready for the next batch, the first of the four train- loads expected. Ten bedsteads for a thousand
27
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
men ! It sounds almost incredible, but it is never- theless true; and although we are told that more are expected at any moment, we have only wooden pallets at present and a limited supply of blankets. One to lie on, two for cover, a coat for a pillow was the order of the day until a pile of mattresses came in.
October SOth. We worked till midnight and were on duty again by 7.30 this morning. From our billets to the hospital is nearly half an hour's walk, which, over the rough cobblestones in the blinding rain, is hardly attractive. At any rate, it has the advantage of clearing the haunting smell of the gas-gangrene out of our nostrils. As we came on duty this morning, laden with every old journal we could find, a huge, burly Scotsman let himself down from the ambulance train. We gave him a newspaper, but he was inclined to talk. He is the first man I've met so far who has signified his longing to get back to the firing-line.
" While I've a limb left," he said, " I should like to have a pot at the Germans. And I can fire my machine as well with two fingers as with five — if they'll let me."
The cause of his indignation was the mutilated
28
AT AN IMPROVISED CASUALTY CLEARING STATION
** This is Heaven, Sister ! "
October, 1914
corpse of a Red Cross nurse they had found in a Httle village where the Germans had been.
" God knows how far they'd dragged her round with them, but she was horribly mutilated," he said with a shiver. ''I'm a big man, but our major was bigger, yet neither of us could help choking. And can ye wonder we want to get at 'em again ? ' '
The worst part of the wounds is the fearful sepsis and the impossibility of getting them any- thing like clean.
" First time I've had my boots off for seven weeks ! " is the kind of exclamation that recurs all day, as we literally cut them off. Hardly any of the boots have been off for three weeks, with the result that they seem glued on, whilst the feet are like iron, the nails like claws.
Some of the men have not had their wounds dressed since the first field dressing was applied, for the simple reason that the rush on the hospital trains makes it impossible to attend to any but the worst cases, many of whom, as it is, are dying of haemorrhage, accelerated by the jolting on the journey.
There is no time to do anything but the dress- ings, and if we did want to wash the patients there
29
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
is nothing but the red handkerchiefs we hang round the lights for shades by night, for towels by day.
Water, especially boiling water, is at a pre- mium, as it all has to be fetched from outside where the veteran cook stokes hard all day in the driving rain, ladling us out a modicum into each bowl from his cauldrons.
" I never thought to see such sights," exclaimed a nurse of thirty years' experience as a new trainload came in. But we have no time to think of our own sensations.
Fingerless hands, lungs pierced, arms and legs pretty well gangrenous, others already threaten- ing tetanus (against which they are now beginning to inoculate patients), mouths swollen beyond all recognition with bullet shots, fractured femurs, shattered jaws, sightless eyes, ugly scalp wounds ; yet never a murmur, never a groan except in sleep. As the men come in they fall on their pallets and doze until roused for food.
A few are enraged to madness at the sight of a German.
''They fired on our Red Cross!" they cry. '' Burnt every man alive ! Why do we treat them so well?"
30
October, 1914
Quite a number of prisoners who had been taken near Lille were brought into the clearing station this morning. Being the only linguist present, I was installed as interpreter. They were in a horrible state of nerves, and asked when they were likely to be killed.
One of them was nastily peppered about the heart with shrapnel and asked : '* When shall we be shot?" I explained whilst dressing his wounds that Britain is a civilised country, and, in contrast to the Huns, does not hit a man when he is dovni. Never shall I forget the look of relief on the man's face.
" They told us we'd be tortured if you got us ! " he exclaimed.
Later on I was asked to send a card to his mother. It was difficult to know what to say, but " Your son, though a prisoner and wounded, is safe and being well cared for," seemed to meet the occasion. Suddenly without a word he seized the scissors from my belt. Recalling tales of vindictive prisoners, I stepped back. The pre- caution was unnecessary, for the little Hun was only cutting a button off his coat pocket.
" Hier, Sie haben ja nichts genommen " {" Here, you have not taken anything"), he ex-
31
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
claimed, Teuton boorishness veiling the kindliness as he handed me the " souvenir."
A strangely human incident occurred a little later.
A group of Tommies were watching a Boche having a bayoneted hand dressed. He spoke quite good English, but was apparently too frightened to answer any of their sallies. Presently, however, he turned to me with a request that he might be allowed to send a line to his wife to say he was alive.
" 'E's young to 'ave a wife, Sister," suggested a lame man, the maintenance of whose large family apparently proved a burden to him.
" 'Ow old are yer.'* You ? " he added, address- ing the prisoner.
The Hun pulled out an old letter-case and abstracted the portrait of a pretty English-looking girl in a garden arbour.
" My vife," he exclaimed. " She has seven- teen years, I nineteen. Ve was married two days when I come away !"
In a moment the hostile crowd round him was turned to one of sympathisers. ^* Poor beggar! After all, he probably doesn't want to fight any more than we do," said the lame man.
32
A WARD IN THE SUGAR-SHED CLEARING STATION
October, 1914
" No," replied the prisoner, and all the racial antagonism of Saxon versus Prussian showed itself in his words, " Ve Saxons not want war — ve want peace — but they not ask us !"
October 31sf. Who could beheve, had they not seen for themselves, the manifold horrors of war? The vermin, against which there is no coping, vermin that in ordinary times one never saw. The men are alive with them, so are we, a fact which necessitates a tremendous " search" at every available opportunity. Even amputated limbs are found to be crawling.
The girl who was working single-handed in this barn until we arrived was walking along the quay yesterday when a feeble voice called her from a stretcher. It was her brother. He died in the night, but she is on duty all the same.
All day long the rush continues. The question *' Shrapnel or bullet?" rings incessantly in our ears as each man comes up to get his dressing done.
One boy of nineteen had no fewer than six bullet wounds in one arm and two in each leg. It took two of us an hour to dress his wounds, and afterwards, as I washed his beardless face in response to a gentle request, I could scarce refrain
D 33
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
from sending up a prayer of gratitude that my own brothers are dead and not mutilated hke these boys.
Towards sunset I was called to the side of a youthful Saxon already rigid with tetanus.
Through his clenched teeth he could still groan to the orderly's command to He still : " Ich kann nicht still liegen." {" I can't lie still ").
At seven o'clock (after nearly twelve hours' work) we went home to dinner, and, it being our turn to take night shift, were back again at our posts, with clean aprons and a satisfied inner man, two hours later. The orderly officer called for any who had not yet had their second anti-typhoid injection, and I, being one of them, was injected on the spot.
During the long night, as we hurried from patient to patient in the darkened cry-haunted ward, covering the restless sleeping figures, moving them into more comfortable positions, with a prayer for each one's mother, I could screw up no feeling of resentment towards the dying Saxon boy, in spite of the cries of our men, but only against that vile Prussianism that brought up its children to regard rapine and slaughter as a divine necessity. By midnight things were quiet
34
October, 1914
enough to allow us to cut up dressings as best we might. By this time, owing to there not being a chair in the place, I confess my legs were almost giving way. Moreover, the injection took speedy effect, and a stiffening arm and rising temperature do not facilitate work of this kind. Frankly, I do not think any of us will ever be as busy again, and our one prayer was for strength to '* carry on." Many of the men were tormented by coughs that kept the others awake. All we had to give them was lukewarm water and the rinsings of a con- densed milk tin. (For euphony we called it '*milk.")
Those who could not sleep for vermin lit cigarette after cigarette until their supply ran out. At 2 A.M. we retired to the nurses' ''bunk" — a whitewashed, rat-ridden, ill-smelling partitioned compartment, whose sole furniture consisted of two shelves — until someone was inspired to fetch the " dressing-table " (two empty boxes — oh, joy of joys ! upon which we took it in turns to sit) — and a coke fire, on which we boiled eggs for our midnight meal. Half-way through my egg the orderly called me : " The prisoner can't last much longer. Will you come and speak to him. Sister?" It seemed as if the ward were one huge
35
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
battlefield, for cries greeted me on all sides. '* Get at 'em, lads !" shouted the burly Scot in the corner as he urged forward his comrades in his sleep. ''Christ help us!" groaned an armless dragoon, coming round from the anaesthetic.
I soothed the dying German as best I could when the awful spasms came, and through his clenched teeth he signified the pain in the ''kreuz" (small of the back). What could I say but " Guter Junge — bleib still. Es dauert nicht mehr lange!" (" Good boy — lie still. It will not last long now!") With his remaining hand he pressed mine as I wiped the pouring sweat from his brow. After all, suffering is a great leveller.
The orderly, an old South African campaigner, looked at the light that began to flood the sky.
" They usually go West at this hour," he remarked grimly, with a shudder. I shuddered too ; the place was alive with spirits.
For a moment we seemed to hear the sigh of the departing, feel the rushing of many wings as they brushed past. Then a gaunt, muffled figure appeared at the door bearing a lantern, for all the world hke a hoary figure of ''Time," and we. awoke to reality.
36
October, 1914
''I've brought down a trainload," he said. "A round dozen of them are urgent cases and must have beds."
Perforce we had to shift the sleeping forms on to the concrete floor, all bruised and torn and bleeding though they were, cutting shorter their all too short rest.
An officer was brought in wounded in the abdomen, but cheerfully talking of getting home. He, too, passed away before eight o'clock.
From the nursing point of view the work is most unsatisfactory, as disinfectants, to say nothing of dressings, are continually at low ebb. To-day the iodine ran out. One of the surgeons came round and signified his intention to dress a bad femur case. I had got together what things I could when he called for iodine. There being none to be had, he sighed resignedly, and with " Then we will leave the dressings for the present," walked off, only to return an hour later with a quantity he had found in the town.
Of course there can be no attempt at asepsis in a place so ill ventilated, or, rather, not venti- lated at all, for there are no side windows, and, although the skylight is sufficient for lighting
37
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
purposes, the ventilation is effected by means of the excessively draughty entrances.
It is distinctly unhealthy, and the odours in the place are indescribable and never to be for- gotten. There is no lavatory accommodation — although latrines are situated along the quay, whither the bhnd are led by the armless, the lame carried on orderlies' backs.
Refuse of all sorts that cannot be burned in the incinerator is disposed of in the sea, and it is good to note that the sacks of straw are being gradually replaced by real beds and the supply of blankets is greatly augmented.
Unsatisfactory, too, from the nursing point of view is the fact that the men pass through the clearing station so rapidly that we seldom do the same dressing twice; and though there are days when, owing to rough seas or overladen boats, we are able to watch the progress of the patients, for the most part it is only the immovable cases that remain, and the rest are hurried through, leaving one wondering how they will get on.
Did I say hurried through? There is no need to hurry the men who are to go home, for no sooner is a boat announced than a general scramble ensues, and they will leave their breakfast, cloth-
38
October, 1914
ing, even their treasured trophies behind, in order not to be late.
" Just a bit of 'ome, and we'll be twice as strong for the next bit o' fightin'," they say.
There follows the inspection of labels (for each man is labelled for his destination : blue for England, yellow for Havre, white for a con- valescent depot), and sad indeed are the faces of those to whom the medical officer has not vouch- safed the coveted blue ticket.
Just as day dawned, with a last spasm, more awful than the others, the little Saxon prisoner died. As his close-clenched jaws relaxed the orderly remarked : " Not bad-looking for a corpse. Sister; must have been a pretty child!"
I asked for his corpse number, but it was not to be found. In my heart I wished the boy'» mother could have known he died well cared for.
It is all very primitive ; we have no screens to hide what once was mortal from the others.
We came off duty at 10 a.m., just as another batch of 1,100 men began to arrive, and on our way home caught a glimpse of K. of K., who is paying an incognito visit, as he stepped from a destroyer.
39
CHAPTER II November, 1914
November 1st. It is impossible to keep note of the daily occurrences. Things move too quickly out here — besides, if the spirit is willing the flesh is very exhausted. Nevertheless, not for a moment do our spirits flag; on the contrary, the worse things grow the more cheerful do we become, the more determined to make the best of things. It is strange that all the years we worked hard to amuse ourselves at home not one brought an eighth of the satisfaction of this.
There is a wonderful dearth of utensils, though the store grows larger daily. It is no infrequent occurrence to have to sally out to the nearest chemist to buy air cushions, eye baths, etc., as they are required.
Night, and the wards are full. Another train
disgorges its burden. The stretcher cases have to
remain on stretchers. The walking cases are
40
November, 1914
huddled round the stove, extended on the con- crete, their blood-stained, bug-ridden greatcoats for coverings.
Without, for a moment the rain has ceased, and in the clear night the moon smiles peacefully over the silver, gleaming sea.
What a contrast to the scene within ! The restless figures of the wounded — the busy nurses.
Everyone is exhausted, for it is an almost superhuman task for seven women to tackle by day and by night ; but they say the Army Nursing Service will be here in sufficient numbers soon. The lady doctors have been invaluable, their zeal unflagging. They are splendid operators, and in the midst of the worst rushes never careless. Besides their work here they spend much time at the ''Women's Hospital" at a chateau some three miles out of Boulogne, where everything is run by volunteer women workers, who act as doctors, nurses, orderlies and quarter- masters.
The theatre looks quite smart, with the large sterilisers that have been installed and the operating table. What tales those whitewashed walls could tell!
41
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
Will those who are knitting away at home ever realise the value of their own handiwork, I wonder?
If they could but see the eager faces of the men as the meagre stores are issued, and they receive those ill-fitting coats, and socks, and card- board-footed shoes (the nightingales they one and all disdain); could they for a single moment glance at the contented expression of the ** movable cases" as they wriggle out of their creeping shirts, so torn, so stiff with congealed blood and stained with Flanders mud, into garments that are both soft and warm, all those hours of patient knitting would be well re- warded ; they would know they are not labouring in vain.
In spite of the so-called '^ Red Cross Store Room" that is being replenished daily by stock drawn from all sources, of course there aren't enough things to go round, and although we grouse at the wise quartermaster's inquiries as to whether each article we need is an imperative necessity or not, in our heart of hearts we know him to be in the right.
A strange thing happened to-day. A man came in with a badly shattered forearm. I dressed
42
EXTEMPORISED OPERATING THEATRE AT A CLEARING STATION
"The theatre looks quite smart with the huge sterilisers that have been installed and the operating table"
November, 1914
it myself, and can vouch for the fact that in other respects he seemed fit enough.
Not long afterwards one of his companions dis- engaged himself from the group by the stove and came to me, saying : " Sister, that man has gone bhnd suddenly."
I remarked it must be nonsense, and told him to go to sleep. Nevertheless, on passing a light before the other man's eyes there was never a flicker. He was blind, as the medical officer can vouch; whether it is temporary or not we shall never know, for the cases pass through so quickly.
November 2nd. Someone has been asked to volunteer to run the military baths. I, being the one whose work in hospital must be of least value, naturally did so, and was accepted.
November 3rd. Most of the men are very subdued, and either loath to talk of what they have been through or ultra-full of reminiscences, many of which have to be taken with a grain of salt.
A large percentage of them stammer or have developed a nervous impediment in their speech,
43
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
owing, no doubt, to the strain of the past months ; and this is very often the case in Territorial regi- ments, whose members were accustomed to a more or less easy life in peace time.
Quite a number of the London Scottish — whose ' ' charge ' ' has been so boomed by the daily papers as a proof of the efficiency of the Territorial Army — are coming down now. They are very annoyed and very ashamed of the fuss that has been made of them.
' ' We only did what is done by one regiment or another every day," they said, *' and now we hardly like to show our faces for the ridicule that must be cast upon us by the Regulars, who have seen ten times as much fighting and never been mentioned at all."
The " dum-dum " lie is no lie at all. Anyone who has seen the strangely mutilated limbs can vouch for that. In one case the bullet passed clean through one leg and exploded in the other. Bah ! the smell of the gas gangrene — shall we ever forget it?
We hear many tales about the Germans from the men. Devoid of honour, they train machine- guns on ambulances, and accredit us with the same devilish tricks. One French civilian ambulance
44
November, 1914
unit was totally destroyed a few days back, and wounded, surgeons, stretcher-bearers and nurses alike were blown to atoms.
November 7th. I am now installed as ** Lady Superintendent of Military Baths," an entirely new post !
The scene of my activities is the public baths in the Rue des Vieillards, that have been rented from the old proprietress. With six orderlies to do the rough work — the washing of towels, the cleaning of the twenty baths, and my own spacious office in which to do the men's dressings — things are cheerful enough.
About 100 men come through each day — the convalescents in the morning, so that the whole forenoon is taken up with dressings.
The difficulties at first were many, a fact which considerably enhanced the joy of the work.
1. To get the place clean was a veritable chef- d^oeuvre.
2. Drawing things from the Ordnance is no easy matter. One must not buy what may be drawn; and as I have no notion of what can be drawn there is often considerable delay.
3. Persuading the orderlies that water for
45
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
dressings must be boiled, and not lukewarm, is likewise far from easy.
The days are no longer so strenuous. I arrive at eight to see that the men are getting on with their work, cut up dressings, leave out and mark towels until ten o'clock, when the convalescents begin to arrive.
By 3.30 I am able to go down to the clearing station to write letters for the helpless.
To-day a man who was brought in with a badly fractured pelvis dictated one to his brother. It ran :
'' Dear George, — After going through all the big battles of Mons, the Marne and the Aisne, I am sad to say I've got hit at last, but hope soon to be home with you all. I'm glad to know you've joined to be a soldier, and hope soon to hear you're helping in the fight."
''It isn't true. Sister," he added; "but per- haps it will help him through, poor fellow — if I die!"
Needless to say, none of the hospital personnel
have time to sandwich letter-writing for the men
in between their medical work, and civilian help
is welcome in this matter. -^
46
November, 1914
No one who has not seen the intricacies of the office work of a large miUtary hospital can have the least conception what an amount of fore- thought, what a number of clerks are involved. The distribution of the wounded into the different wards, the notification and specification of each case — each is an art in itself. Whilst in the quartermaster's domain the drawing of rations for an elastic number of patients, ranging each meal from 50 to 400, is wellnigh stupendous.
And although we who know nothing of these matters have often laughed at the theoretical red tape of the Army, there is no denying that, in working order, it is a thing to be venerated rather than scoffed at.
November Sth, On the Ramparts of Boulogne. After the hush of the unornamental cathedral the soft autumn breezes out here are refreshing. Even in the well ventilated baths the pungent smell of segregated humanity permeates. What a strange place is Boulogne now, the city of hospitals, every hotel a hospital, every road thronged with troops and nurses !
Yesterday I had a slight fracas with my corporal, a nice but utterly untrained boy, who
47
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
has a way of wandering into the oflBce, cigarette in mouth.
Now, there is no law in the Army, so far as I can make out, that compels an orderly to pay the slightest respect toward a nurse. He must stand at attention when addressed by a junior subaltern, but may loll and smoke at his ease whilst taking a nursing sister's orders. Thus it seems that from time immemorial a slight antagonism has reigned, for the men are apt to take advantage of a woman, who, unless she have infinite tact, often enough finds things hard.
However, after two cups of black coffee to give me the requisite courage, I faced the little difficulty boldly. "Corporal," I suggested, '*it doesn't matter what you do outside, but I would rather you didn't smoke in the office. You set the example to the others, who are beginning to turn the office into a sort of smoking-room. Besides, it isn't usual in the Service, is it?"
There was an awkward silence, as the poor boy blushed and grunted. Then I changed the subject, and think all will be well, for though surly in manner he is most anxious to please.
One afternoon I was asked to go and speak
48
November, 1914
to some prisoners at the Imperial (No.
General Hospital), where Miss A is now
working. A young " Freiwillige " of 19 imme- diately inquired : " What about Paris?"
''What do you mean?" I asked, astonished.
''When did we take it?" was the somewhat surprising reply.
On the whole, in spite of the rigorous discipline that makes it necessary for German officers to go behind their men to save their own skins and goad on their victims ; in spite of the fact that they seem to be treated like cattle and have been found chained to their machine-guns, as a whole (and probably as the outcome of the patriotism that is inculcated into every German from his earliest days) they seem loyal to their superiors; and, relieved though they appear at being captured, are not garrulous on the score of the reign of terrorism from which they have escaped. For not the most warlike can covet the privilege of being driven in massed formation, over heaped-up corpses, into the face of the enemy's fire that literally mows them down like hay. It turns even our own machine-gun men sick.
As we were about to turn in, ten funerals went up without even an escort, as the R.A.M.C.
K 49
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
orderlies are too engrossed with their duties to- wards the hving to be spared.
So die the flower of EngUsh manhood ! Buried in their deal boards in French clay, with only a French grave-digger or two and a cluster of chil- dren playing round the massive gates to see them to their last resting-place.
Well might the bells of Shoreditch peal, muffled, on All Saints' Day !
November 9tJi. The autumn leaves are falhng. Before me sit a group of convalescents in the courtyard, basking in what there is of mellow sun- light— awaiting their turn for baths. To say they look dejected is too mild. There is a look of weariness in their eyes that appals one. There is no mistaking a man from the front. They all have it — the trench-haunted look.
" Any man who says he wants to go back is a liar," say most. "It isn't fighting; it's murder, you see." And one is left all the more astounded at the heroism with which they face the inevitable when it comes to returning to the front, the unanimity of their: ''Are we down-hearted? Never! " as they march off.
On the whole there is wonderfully little
50
November, 1914
''swinging the lead" or "dodging the column," as the men themselves call malingering ; and though some of the medical officers were apt to look upon the early cases of trench feet as much ado about nothing, it has since been found that the acutest pain is often present when all swelling has subsided.
It is a rehef to get back in the evenings to the society of the nurses. Many of them already look knocked up. " Fifty patients on my floor, and only two orderlies," says one. And at home thousands of trained workers are w^aiting for work.
We often wonder that no use is made of the members of the Voluntary Aid Detachments as probationers under the trained nurses. True, in their present stage of efficiency (or inefficiency, for what are a number of first-aid lectures or stretcher drills as compared with the real hospital training?) many of them might prove more of a hindrance than a help in an emergency. Never- theless, they could be of as much use as proba- tioners out here — where, everything having been improvised, the inconveniences necessitate much extra labour — as they could be at home.
It is ridiculous to imagine that V.A.D.'s, with their theoretical experience, are competent
51
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
to run hospitals by themselves; i£ is equally ridiculous to allow the valuable qualified nurses to run themselves to death, doing jobs an untrained woman can do, instead of utilising the many eager workers willing to take over the menial work.*
It will not be hard to sift the wheat from the chaff, the seekers after sensation from the genuine workers. For there is no romance in the work of a hospital, no jaunts to battlefields bearing cups of w^ater to the dying, no soothing of pillows and holding the hands of patients; but ten to twelve hours each day occupied in the accomplishment of tasks so menial that one would hesitate to ask a servant to perform them.
November 10th. We awaken to bugle calls, we fall asleep to the sound of tramping feet. Oh, that long weary high road into the jaws of death ! The sudden evacuation of Boulogne seems less imminent now than it did, though the German advance on Calais continues. Now that England has declared war on Turkey, we realise how little of the big scheme of things we see in our niche. Sometimes, between waking and sleeping, a vision
* This has since been done, and members of Voluntary Aid Detach- ments are now used extensively in France as probationers in military hospitals where they come under direct War Office control.
52
November, 1914
of home comes back to me, of soft carpets and steaming hot baths, and everywhere clean linen and creature comforts and ease. After all, I should like to end my days as I began them — in luxury.
November 11th, No wonder Boulogne is full to overflowing. No wonder the little out-of-the- way cafes have taken on something of the glamour and eclat of Rumpelmayer or the Ritz. No won- der everyone who can afford to be is in France. One feels it in the air, it is the Real Thing ; one is no longer a looker-on, but a moving factor of things who can afford to pity those at home whose activities have not yet had occasion to be called into play.
The town itself consists of the Haute Ville enclosed by massive thirteenth century ramparts flanked by round towers, whose history for years centred round Godfrey de Bouillon, and the four celebrated gates (Porte Gayole, Porte des Dunes, Porte de Calais and Porte des Degres). Crowning all stands the Cathedrale de Notre Dame, whose dome from the distance, whether viewed from the town or the environing country, brings back faint remembrances of St. Peter's in the Holy City.
There is nothing of great artistic interest or 53
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
value to be found within (unless it be the seventh century antiquities in the crypt), but the spirit of earnest devotion that characterises all Catholic places of worship, uniting every worshipper and raising the lowliest edifice to equality with the most ambitious building, is more marked here than in any church I have yet visited. The reverence of the bare-headed peasants, holding up their woollen shawls as coverings for their heads, of the shambling wounded, of the smart mondaines, is alike worthy of those Russian aUies who recognise no sin greater than lack of veneration to their God.
The legend of the miraculous* statue of Our Lady of Boulogne, as depicted in a picture over the altar of the chapel in the cathedral, dates back to the year 636. In that year a strange boat, radiating with light, was seen to enter the har- bour, propelled by some miraculous power and devoid of sailors or pilot. When the excited popu- lation reached the shore it was to find on the bridge of the barque a beautifully carved image of the Holy Virgin .carrying the infant Jesus, beside which lay a silver-bound copy of the Scriptures.
Over the spot that marked the miraculous image's first resting-place in the Haute Ville the oft-destroyed cathedral has grown, and although,
54
November, 1914
after many vicissitudes, the Holy Statue was finally destroyed during the eighteenth century Reign of Terror, many are the pilgrimages still made to the solitary relic of the holy image — a hand that was cut oflp prior to the burning, which is preserved in a gilt heart, suspended from the new statue.
The fame of its miracles spread abroad so widely that not only did kings and princes hasten to pay homage, but some unscrupulous priests at St. Cloud attracted large numbers of pilgrims by trafficking in the public faith and maintaining that they were in possession of the miraculous statue. Hence the name of the Bois de Boulogne in Paris, and the fact that the image is known as Our Lady of Boulogne-sur-Mer.
Beyond Notre Dame runs the Calais — St. Omer road which has seen so much bloody traffic in the past and may see so much more in a few days.
Guns, ammunition convoys and ambulances rumble along it ceaselessly by day and night, paus- ing only to answer the challenge of the sentries posted at intervals at every cross-road of im- portance. The ruined Jesuit monastery lies along this road, alive with wounded Indians, who, when
55
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
convalescent, are shifted into the outlying tents that form the Convalescent Depot.
Only about one mile away on the same road stands the Colonne de la Grande Armee, that huge Doric column surmounted by the figure of Napoleon, erected to commemorate the expedition against England and commenced 110 years ago, when Marshal Soult (as the inscription on the base tells us) laid the first stone in the presence of the whole army.
Walking townwards one comes across the fisher village built in tier upon tier of squalid, unsanitated streets, as odorous as the Naples of ten years ago — and as picturesque ; and pinnacled by St. Pierre- des-Marins, whose lofty fourteenth century Gothic spire is one of the few" architectural beauties to be found here, and whose interior, so full of votive offerings, witnesses the toll of matelot lives exacted yearly by the sea from those who would snatch their living from her.
Crowning all stands the revered Calvary to which all wise fishermen pray as they sail in and out of the harbour.
From here the panorama of the whole place is laid bare, the jetees, the coast, the Gare Maritime, the Bassin Loubet, the River Liane winding in and
56
Z
Pi
CD C/3
November, 1914
out of the valley and losing itself finally in the mists ; and nearer, the gay flower-market and the Halle des Poissons, where the vendors, almost as soon as the nets of herrings are unladen, are rid of what fish they can get in these troublous times, when every man who is not fighting is traw^ling for mines.
Noveinber 12th. As I sit beside the dying embers of my office fire, in which great valleys and gorges are discernible in the glowing coal and a mountainous summit capped by a fairy castle, I wonder what happiness there is to equal the fire- side that one has earned oneself.
It might almost be home (after all, all fires, like all winds and sunshine, or thunder and rain, are consolingly the same !), only instead of soft pile carpets and arm-chairs I have a packing-case for seat and an inverted saucepan on my knee for table. Instead of flowers, the trestled table is adorned with bandages and bottles of lotion and packets of dressings.
Instead of a gong to announce '' dressing time," and soft decolletee frocks donned before long mirrors, and well-appointed dining-tables and the announcement that " Dinner is served," there
57
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
are only the promptings of my hungry inside to tell me mealtime is due, and it would be as well to scrub up, remove the mackintosh apron, and smooth my hair under the unbecoming white cap before the dinner is gobbled up !
Yet, until one has worked five hours to earn five minutes' rest, one does not know the meaning of leisure.
Until one has felt the clinging of the helpless hand, or run to the call of a feeble voice, one does not know the greatest of all joys — the joy of service.
The rapidity with which the Gare Maritime Hospital is developing is marvellous. Instead of wallowing to our ankles in a slush of disinfectant and rain-water, the wards are well swept, with two strips of cheery red carpet on either side. Instead of boards and blankets, some 200 real beds have been installed, with sheets of coarse calico and pillows. Instead of empty crates (and those at a premium) there are chairs, whilst towels supplant the red handkerchiefs which now hang desolately from the lamps by night and day.
Just at present the casualty ward, in which an emergency operation theatre has been opened, is lying empty, so are the other wards. One wonders
58
November, 1914
why? The truth is, things are looking fairly bad. The enemy is only forty-five miles from Calais and still presses on to the goal. There is a rumour that the Germans are through the lines everywhere, that we have no men to send (though the French are supposed to be reinforcing) until the 8th Division of ''K's" untrained army comes out, and the evacuation of Boulogne is imminent. We are told to be prepared to leave at a minute's notice, for once through the lines the enemy can march here unmolested. Despite the violent storm, all the wounded whom it is possible to move have been sent home (an ominous fact, for their removal should betoken an advance on our part), and still the ambulance trains come back from the front empty. A pestilential battle rages at Arras; Dixmude has fallen (yes, several of the Censor's censors have been dismissed for letting us know this !) A hundred questions assail us. Will the hopeless cases have to be left behind? What will be done to the many millions' worth of stores in this spy-ridden place ?
Heaven knows ! We can but " wait and see." We are lost in amazement at the lukewarmness of the masses at home who do not seem to realise the significance of this move.
59
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
But let me return to No. Stationary Hos- pital, where the staff is greatly augmented and Army nurses work side by side with those of the Red Cross.
If there is some slight friction between the two it is easily understood, for how can the newly arrived Army sisters be expected to find in a dirty, evil-smelling barn anything but the violation of all the laws of hygiene ? Whereas to those Red Cross sisters, who have built it up with their life's blood, so to speak, who have watched it evolve under their weary fingers, it is a place of supreme beauty and first importance.
If there is some slight friction amongst the authorities, too, it is soon explained. For it is as much the duty of the Red Cross to cherish its own rights as it is for the Army to centralise and control, at a time like this, every existing institu- tion to prevent the misuse of public funds.
Both are in the right.
At home no one seemed quite to realise the exact position of the Red Cross and the various Army medical services. Out here, except that a distinct antagonism between the two organisations prevails, the position is equally vague.
The British Red Cross Society and the St.
60
November, 1914
John Ambulance Association were originally formed to supplement the requirements of the military and naval medical services in war time, thus obviating the expense of keeping up an exceptionally large staff in days of peace. On this understanding the War Office took nominal control of the various B.R.C.S. enterprises, super- vising the First Aid examinations and keeping a register of all its members. The value of that registration of B.R.C.S. members by the War Office is not quite obvious at present, for the War Office appears to disclaim all responsibility for the Red Cross. There are even rumours that a large portion of its personnel is to be greatly reduced and eventually sent from the base. In fact, no one's work or position is clearly defined. The work of the Royal Army Medical Corps, the Nursing Service, '' Q.A.I.M.N.S.," Re- serve, Indian and Territorial, was well defined enough. Field ambulances, clearing stations, stationary hospitals (so-called because they are movable !) and base hospitals were their sphere, and vaguely it was understood that the Voluntary Aid Detachments were destined for use with the Territorial Forces.
Then, when at the outbreak of hostilities there
6i
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
came the call for more workers, many doctors and fully-trained nurses, anxious to get to that mysterious and alluring unknown, the Front, threw up their good posts and sold their patiently built-up practices in order to join the Red Cross.
Many of them are already regretting their impetuousness. Not only the members of the Voluntary Aid Detachments, who have hitherto played at work under War Office supervision and with War Office sanction, but the much-needed trained nurses and doctors (many of them specialists of the first order) find themselves some- what shelved, oftentimes deprived of the best surgical work by those of their juniors who had had the foresight or good luck to join the Reserve or Territorials instead of a volunteer concern whose position is, as yet, indefinite and whose scope, so far, limited. Many even find themselves on the Reserve Staff and waiting for work. A certain restlessness that prevails amongst these is easily explained, for it is not always possible to console oneself with the idea that inaction is merely a respite and preparation for the next call upon one's energies, when that call is lying all
around in understaffed hospitals.
62
November, 1914
Ncyvember ISth. Perhaps it was the uncon- querable instinct to help lame dogs over stiles that prompted the Matron to ask after some German literature for a prisoner whose two legs had been amputated. I, as linguist and jack-of -all-trades, w^as deputed to forage for Hun books, and, for the first time, found my conversance with the language a matter of embarrassment rather than of jpride.
As I entered the French bookseller's, and asked for what I wanted, the girl eyed me with suspicion. Then, ''We are not pro-German," she said with hauteur.
Fearful to return, my mission unaccomplished, I tried shop after shop.
" You can climb on that ladder and see for yourself," said a young girl, pointing to a high ladder and daring me up it with her scornful eyes. I unearthed and returned with an old paper-backed novel for the prisoner, with a heavy heart, wonder- ing if I was unpatriotic to have carried out my orders — but the legless man had died in the meantime.
Such is the spirit of France — vengeance on a ruthless, untrustworthy enemy.
Such the spirit of England, maybe hyper- quixotic — never to hit a man when he is down.
63
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
November 15th. Last night Lord Roberts died. The little wrinkled old man, who only a week ago was in our midst, walking round our wards, cheering on the wounded, encouraging the Indians, has finished as he began, in the sphere of action.
November 17th. This morning the mail boat is accompanied by six French destroyers. In the town all flags are flying half-mast; in the station are massed guards, French, English, Indian. The Sikhs are fine-looking specimens of humanity, and objects of great interest to the peasants who crowd round exchanging souvenirs. The smaller hillmen look as if they would be very formidable foes, though at present many of them lie curled up asleep on sacks, and covered with sacks, as peace- fully as children.
Later. After the coffin of the great httle man, who has, alas ! lived to see his worst fears for his country realised, had been borne on board, we went to look at the armoured train that is in hospital. A strange, formidable-looking thing, too, is this vehicle of destruction, daubed with many-hued, very futuristic patches, and guarded by sentries.
64
<
D O
w X
H
z
o
w z
u
1/3
H
November, 1914
A large legend announced the train's destina- tion as " Berlin," whilst great guns, daubed with their appropriate names, " Homeless Hector " and "Weary Willie," pointed their inquiring noses? innocuously at the sky.
This, we were told, was the armoured train which, under Commander Samson's guidance, played such havoc with the enemy and caused the Kaiser to put a price worth having on that gallant officer's head.
November 2Srd. The baths closed most sud- denly and unexpectedly last night. The owners' exorbitant demands for money — damages for towels which we have not even used, walls, ceil- ings, windows, etc., that are in the same good repair as when we came — have made it imperative to commandeer the place or, to avoid friction and expense, erect new ones.
After the Major and his interpreter driver (a dentist who volunteered his services) had spent nearly two hours haranguing Madame and her homme d'affaires, we cleared the place out.
Snow fell for the first time during the night, and it is freezing so hard this morning that the hot
F 65
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
water thrown over the stones outside for cleansing purposes becomes ice at once.
Having a free day, I explored the place from Le Portel, the quaint little fishing village where fishwives, with their wide, hooped skirts, their quaint poke bonnets or characteristic snowy white headgear and clogs, predominate, to the St. Pierre quarter, cobbled like the new town itself, but built in tier after tier of terraces, characterised by an indescribable, if picturesque, squalor and dirt.
Everywhere we are followed by children beg- ging for ''souvenirs." I wonder what the state of our clothes would be had we cut off a uniform button for each one who asked !
The tide is high up over the front to-day. Ambulances and cars are held up on the Wimereux road. It is a wonderful sight, the big waves rolling over the main road, whilst venturesome drivers who run the gauntlet find their cars immovable in three feet of water and subject to the ungentle washing of the sea.
November 24t/i. Being on night duty with a private patient who is so restless that neither of us gets a minute's peace, I am having an excellent opportunity of observing things as they are; and,
66
X H
>^ n
D O
K en U <
OQ
November, 1914
after all, there is plenty to be noted that will never be brought to light.
November 29th. In the morning when one comes off duty, full of anticipation of the exhilara- ting morning walk, the joy of the clear, cold sea air, there are usually plenty of odd jobs to be done. At present we are engaged in making sandbags for those hospitals which are destitute of them. In this we have the assistance of two small French Boy Scouts who, having noticed us staggering under the load of our baskets, volunteered to find a wheel- barrow and bring us up a certain quantity of sand every morning.
^7
CHAPTER III December, 1914
December 2nd. They say that the Germans have been finally driven back, that our men are en- joying a rest from the trenches, that many officers have gone home on forty-eight hours' leave.
Converted motor-buses with boarded windows, all of steel-grey hue, come down with loads of cheery though exhausted men on their way home.
Most of the cases in hospital are now medical, rheumatism and the newest disease, " trench feet," which was at first identified as frost-bite. Each medical officer has a different method for treating it. Most wrap the limbs in cotton- wool, but the agony the men go through whilst ' ' thawing ' ' is awful. Many feet are already gangrenous and have to be amputated.
They are again clearing out, which leads us to expect a big battle.
Rumour has it that Belgrade has fallen to the
Austrians.
68
December, 1914
December 6th. Yesterday morning, having for some weeks back collected with great avidity all kinds of comforts for the men, I took my goods up to the convalescent camp that stands on the hill by the Calais road. We obtained a lift in an ambulance and wallowed in the indescribaole mud at the camp. It had been a frightful night. Hail, wind, thunder, lightning, blinding rain — the elements let loose ! Several of the tents were down, and the men shivered as they ambled about their light fatigue work. The condition of the con- valescents is pitiable. They grabbed things like so many wild beasts ; indeed, they had the look of weary wild beasts in their eyes.
I don't know which were the more acceptable — cigarettes or old papers. The former to soothe their racked nerves and warm them up in the tempestuous weather, the latter to divert their attention, momentarily at least, from their own sufferings. Undoubtedly the illustrated journals are most useful. The men seem unable to con- centrate their attention on anything not pictorial.
We took them knitted things too — and even our own body belts and gloves were requisitioned in the vain effort to make our gifts go round, and we came home with hands stiff with cold.
6q
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
December Sth. In the afternoon we were allowed a glimpse at the Indian camp, where, after seeing the wards, conspicuous for their neatness and order and the lack of nurses (all Indian hospitals are staffed, needless to say, by order- lies), we were entertained for tea in the officers' mess.
It was a picturesque sight, that tent lighted by two smoky oil-lamps, by the hght of which four doctors were playing cards as we entered.
As we sat over the camp fire of glowing coals in a perforated bucket such as night watchmen warm their hands by in the raw London mornings, a sudden squall arose, threatening to bring the tent down. One felt hke part of an Arctic expedition at the overhead crash, the icy blast, and could not help surmising as to the thoughts of the Indians at the caprices of the European climate as their great, wistful eyes rested on the barren fields.
The tales of their pluck, recuperative powers, and apparent imperviousness to pain are astound- ing. The medical officers told us that it is almost impossible to keep them in bed. No sooner are they round from an anaesthetic than they are up and smoking, quite oblivious of an amputated limb!
70
December, 1914
December 12th, 2 a,m. A dark, starless morn- ing, and we have just arrived back from Dunkirk. The road to Calais, when we left twelve hours ago, was fairly plain sailing.
There were the barriers to pass (some fifteen between Boulogne and Dunkirk) where the '' laissez-passer," describing car, occupants, des- tination and object of visit, etc., has to be shown; and in between we scorched along at top speed, thankful for the fact that there is no speed limit in France, and getting frozen through and through despite our furs and rugs.
After Calais things grew more interesting. For the first time entrenchments, barbed-wire defences and guns hove in sight, whilst here and there the desolate stretches of country w^ere relieved by figures against the skyline — old women working in the fields, or a solitary picket of soldiers.
We drew into Dunkirk about four o'clock; each of us had different business to transact; the four men on Red Cross work, I on a visit to Lady S , in charge of a Belgian hospital.
Incidentally, there were the streets and houses to visit, destroyed only yesterday by German bombs. A miserable spectacle they were, the skeleton ruins in the pouring rain ; no less miser-
71
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
able-looking than we, covered in the thick Flanders mud that defied all efforts to keep it out of the car.
It was almost dinner-time when we found our- selves at the C Hotel, and, whilst the men
were sipping their vermouth, we noticed a man busily engaged in what seemed to be letter- but what proved to be leader- writing. He introduced
himself as C , the Daily Mail correspondent
whose articles adorn the central pages of that paper.
Truly the path of the war correspondents of to-day lies along no bed of roses ! Eyed with sus- picion by the authorities, forced to change their abode daily, they lead the life of veritable refugees.
The dining-room was a fine sight, as by degrees it filled up, each table resplendent with Belgian, French or British uniforms ; and we were loath to leave the warm hotel for the blinding rain without.
Whilst waiting for the car Mr. C entertained
us at the piano ; anything we asked for he played — rag-time, opera, comedy, classical music. And the last sound, rendered more beautiful by means of his exquisite touch, that greeted us as we passed into the night was the haunting Barcarolle from the Tales of Hoffmann,
72
December, 1914
It was at Gravelines that we lost our way, at about ten o'clock. It was pitch dark. Nowhere a light visible, only the powerful acetylene head- lamps of the car. We tried to find the main road and instead found ourselves back in the town. We made another effort, but failed. We aroused the inhabitants of a house where there seemed to be a red glow behind the closed shutters.
''Tout droit," they told us.
We went ''tout droit," and found ourselves back again. We fetched out the proprietor of a hopeful-looking bar.
" Tout droit," he said. This time we ran into a barrier, and only just escaped being shot by the Belgian sentry.
" Back into the town — and tout dmt," were his directions. We got back. There seemed no difficulty about that. We hammered in vain at a door. Judging by the noise, we succeeded in arousing every dog in the neighbourhood, but not a human being came to our rescue. More wild spurts ! Yet it was not until some two hours later that we found ourselves on a broad road, which proved to be the right one. But our troubles were not at an end even then, for the driver, by this time, was in such a state of exasperation that he
73
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
vowed nothing in the world would persuade him to go farther than Calais. " It's like driving in the sea ! " he grumbled, as in truth it was, for the mud was Uterally flowing over the floor of the car, and our condition was indescribable.
Eventually, by means of much persuasion, not untinged by bribery, he was prevailed upon to finish the journey, throughout which he maintained for the most part a surly silence, interpolated only by semi-audible remarks about the folly of English people who would travel in all weathers.
December ISth. It is now necessary for every worker in the hospitals to have a permit. It is time, too, for many are the rumours of spies who have crept in and gleaned valuable information from the wounded.
A word about the position of volunteer workers. There is no denying that in the early days, before the staff of the Army hospitals was up to the full strength required by the extraordinary demands of modern warfare, they did an immense amount of good. But a plea must be put in for the central organisation, which has been effected so wonder- fully by those in charge.
One by one the hospitals run by well-meaning
74
December, 1914
but little experienced women are vanishing or coming under War Office control. One by one free-lance workers brought to the scene of action by motives of patriotism or curiosity are being banished to their proper sphere or sent home.
It is very hard on them, one realises, after they have given so much, yet, hard though it may be, it is but one of the lesser evils of war.
The position of those members of the Volun- tary Aid Detachments still here is precarious to the last degree.
They have been relegated to rest station and canteen work where, in the disused railway trucks they have rigged out so well as kitchens and emergency dressing-rooms, they administer to the wounded on the trains by day and night, veritable angels of mercy, as the men say. Yet none of them is allowed to do hospital work. One cannot help wondering that the authorities do not utilise them as probationers under trained nurses instead of using up the strength of the qualified workers in menial jobs. But apparently the law out here is " scrap and discard," which may be a good motto for Ford cars, but seems somewhat hard on human beings.
75
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
December 17th. The news of the bombard- ment of Scarborough, the wholesale slaughter of women and children, which has just come through, must be greatly gratifying to the Germans !
We wonder if it will bring the reality of war home to the people of England.
December ISth. The craving for music, for something to relieve the tension, is almost unbear- able. Fortunately, the French attitude towards piano playing has slightly relaxed lately ; they no longer stand agape at the idea of overwrought nurses enjoying a few simple songs, and we have been able to hire some wxll-worn copies of popular tunes to strum on the exceedingly out-of-tune piano. What we lack in music we are repaid for by the picturesqueness of Boulogne. Here stand a batch of khaki Tommies surrounded by an admiring group of French children. " Eengleesh soldyer," they cry gleefully, clinging to the men's arms and not to be moved until some souvenir has been obtained, a button, a hat badge, a cigarette-end. Along the front, the incessant tramp of feet by day and night, recruits, young conscripts full of life and enthusiasm, squads of more sombre men who have already received their baptism of fire,
76
December, 1914
trams laden with Army and Red Cross nurses, the former in their ugly red capes so successfully de- vised by Florence Nightingale to hide the human form divine.
The stormy nights, too, are very beautiful, when one may watch the searchlights catching the crested waves, until the sea seems alight with a myriad hghtships.
The papers tell us of the appointment of Prince Hussein Kamel Pasha as Sultan of Egypt. It seems such a wonderfully clever diplomatic coup that it drives all thoughts of our surroundings from our minds.
December 19th. Such a pretty kettle of fish ! and one which nothing but a miracle can remedy. No doubt in every big enterprise there are to be found unscrupulous men who, in default of a super- vising and restraining hand, will omit to administer public funds with the same thrift that they would their own. Thus, in reply to accusations of ex- travagance levelled at the Society, the British Red Cross in Boulogne have decided to retrench. Alas ! that the originators of the scheme have no sense of humour or justice.
In spite of the fact that the nurses are the only 77
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
people who are working at anything like full pres- sure out here, they have received a notice that calmly brushes aside the very one-sided six months' contract under which they came out (for, unUke the Army Nursing Sisters who, besides their pay, receive allowances and war gratuities after active service, sick pay if their health is impaired, and a pension if disabled, the British Red Cross nurses agreed to demand no redress if disabled on active service), to the effect that on January 1st the Joint War Committee has decided to lower their fees from £2 2s. to the unprofessional sum of £l, and those who are not agreeable to this breach of contract may consider themselves dismissed.
Thus, at the New Year, 300 fully trained women, most of whom have relinquished highly responsible positions in order to come out, are faced with the alternative of accepting barely a living wage (for £l minus 7^ per cent, and 10 per cent, co-operating percentage and minor weekly ex- penses is httle enough for those who have the future to consider), or returning home, only to find their posts filled.
The arguments for this breach of contract are specious though unconvincing, the reasons given being :
78
December, 1914
1. ''A desire to have as much as possible avail- able for the sick and vroimded."
2. *'To remove the * injustice ' from the St. John nurses, who have in the past been receiving less than one-half the salary paid to other nurses."
But then, why did the authorities draw up a contract by which the Red Cross refused voluntary workers, whilst the Order of St. John accepted gratuitous services from those who could afford to render them? Yes, both the arguments are ex- cellent ; but one cannot help asking why the small body of nurses who have spent years in training, and who are dependent on their earnings, are the only body to suffer by the new economies, whilst a number of orderlies continue to draw salaries higher than those of the qualified nurses. What, too, of the high salaried officials, of the untrained dressers, until recently earning £2 per week and gaining experience in the wards (this experience being counted in their studies)? Above all, what of the principle of this breach of contract, the signing of invalid documents?
But these, after all, are minor details, and one must survey the work of the British Red Cross Society in toto. The true tale of these mistakes will never be told, for the blunders of a few indi-
79
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
viduals will no doubt be wiped away by the memory of the great achievements of the institution in equipping hospitals, making good deficiencies in the regular supplies, and supplementing those sup- plies by little luxuries whose absence on a bed of pain is a real privation.
There is no denying that what the Red Cross lacks in organisation it makes up for in generosity, as many a patient could tell, many a hospital testify ; and, all things considered, is it in any way less well organised than other institutions in this chaotic zone, in these chaotic times, where only the unforeseen seems to occur, and where the duplication of authority is so bewilder- ing that it is almost an impossibility to lay one's finger on the man responsible for any particular department ?
December 24t/i. If no one else has benefited by the war, certainly the Boulogne shopkeepers cannot complain ! Never in the annals of their ex- istence have they flourished so well. Prices have been forced up, not only in accordance w^ith the laws of supply and demand, but for the benefit of the influx of the rich and influential foreigners,
who consider it beneath their dignity to bargain.
80
A MEAL AT THE INDIAN GAMP
• • «
J| -W t^fe ^MJ
INDIAN ENCAMPMENT IN THE SNOW
December, 1914
One so often hears officers complaining of how they are *' rooked " out here instead of receiving the consideration of war prices. It is a pity that, in a country where bargaining is the order of the day, and successful bargaining is regarded as an art to be envied and emulated, we do not view the matter more broadmindedly, for this ignorance of racial differences is apt to lead to misunder- standing.
On another score the French have the upper hand. Why don't we have conscription? they ask. We wonder too, but the people at home don't seem to take things seriously.
I had occasion to take down some casks of
oranges to the Barracks, a kind of auxiliary
convalescent camp, where the ''BX," or unfit men, live in a large concrete island swimming in the mud. The ambulance man who drove me groaned and swore vociferously at the number of whole-skinned youths '* swanking " about the base.
'' Why aren't they in the trenches.'^ " he asked. '* On our convoy we've nothing but men who have been refused for the Army. I've only been in Boulogne six hours (he was going on leave), and I'm disgusted with it all ! "
G 8l
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
December 26th. Christmas Day dawned the coldest, whitest Christmas anyone could wish for. The little church was packed for morning service, in spite of the fact that most of us had been to midnight mass at St. Nicholas, a service more note- worthy for the crowded congregation who surge unceasingly in their efforts to get to the fore than for any particular beauty or fervour.
All the afternoon we worked hard at concerts in the hospital and soldiers' institute, where I acted as accompanist. No doubt one day we shall grow accustomed to war, but I own that the crowded wards of the vast bam of men (whose hearty ap- plause and cheery choruses covered the deficiencies of the performance), the uniforms, the white caps, the cheerfulness born of the determination to make the best of the abnormal circumstances, struck me as a never-to-be-forgotten thing. And in every hospital it is the same.
The men are all hung Hke Christmas trees with their presents, which they treasure as mementoes of this memorable year. Nor have the nurses been forgotten, and the little fur-lined cape sent to each one by H.M. Queen Alexandra is a gift that could not be bettered; for it is bitterly cold, with the damp cold that is a far greater tax upon one's
82
December, 1914
powers of endurance than a crisp frost, and furs are a great luxury, as all the men glorying in their new sheepskin coats can testify.
It was not till nearly nine that our work ceased and we got any dinner at all, the midday meal having been cut out for a rehearsal.
December 29th. It was very impressive, the Seymour Hicks concert, to which some twenty of us were bidden. It took place in a large shed on the Quai du Bassin, which a pile of empty baskets and an occasional turnip prove to have been a vegetable market in other days.
The stage, built up of a stack of trestle tables, was ornamented with flags.
Looking round from our front seats at the 2,000 eager faces behind, there was a feeling of awe in our hearts as we realised how much devolved on us as representatives of our countrywomen out here.
Rain and hail beat down. The performance began. To our unaccustomed ears it was like a dream.
Of a sudden, an extra gust brought down the light wire and we were in blackness. The CO. shouted that no men were to leave their seats, and
83
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
the pianist played some of their own songs, to which they sang. Oh, how they sang, their deep voices threatening to bring the roof off!
In after years it will be interesting to note the music of 1914, the rise and wane of '* Tipperary " and '' Sister Susie " and a hundred other popular songs that have made life cheery for our warriors.
By the light of two carriage lamps the per- formance was finished, and, as we filed out, the men pressed forward to shake hands with nurses and artists indiscriminately, with a *' Thank 'ee kindly "
What a night! Hail and wind, thunder and rain, rockets and guns, the beat, beat, beat on the panes, the howling, the whistling of the wind, the clouds scurrying across the sky, the incessant noise without, the awful cold within. Above my bed the ceiling has nearly fallen in, whilst buckets act as receptacles for the rain in no fewer than three places. And dare we complain, whilst our men are in the trenches?* Never!
The success of the concert makes one realise the tension at w^hich we are living, makes one wish that something could be done to reUeve it — a cinema opened, weekly concerts, etc., organised for the benefit of those who are working, as well as
84
December, 1914
for the wounded, in order to make life more normal.
After all, it is as injurious to live at this highly strung pitch as it is to exist on a grey level, and " Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die " is not the spirit that makes for endurance in war or peace.
December 81st. A miracle has occurred, for the protest lodged by the Red Cross nurses has been heard, a compromise arrived at by which the original contract is to be fulfilled. Let their stand, which was not effected without much determina- tion and hard work on the part of the leaders, be recorded as one of the first women's trade unions.
So ends 1914. God grant that the New Year may bring us Peace, or, if not Peace, the strength to play our parts in the great game worthily of our men!
85
BOOK II
1915 Order Out of Chaos
CHAPTER IV January, 1915
January Sth. If Art be Selection, then surely is that of keeping a War Diary, that shall be true, unbiased and yet not dull, the hardest of all Arts!
For our eyes are so focused on the smaller things out here that we are apt to ignore the larger issues altogether.
Yet — even as, looking back at bygone years, it is the little things that count — the branch that taps against the study window, the sickly scent of lime trees, the odd pattern on the nursery cup, the wind across the fields, the broken doll, so is it by little things alone that we can draw true pictures of our own times.
The days have been too busy collecting " woollies " for those who need them, getting to- gether a library for the "BX" men, writing letters for the wounded, to keep my diary.
There is much humour as well as pathos in the 89
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
letters that are dictated, and hackneyed phrases, such as " Hoping this finds you as it leaves me " and " I take up the pen to tell you," recur fre- quently, often with ambiguous meanings.
'' Dear Wife, — You will be glad to hear that I have lost an arm, but am still alive and hope to be home with you soon. Hoping this finds you as it leaves me, Yours Truly, A. S.," ran one I took down to-day.
One is reminded of the anecdote of the man who, when asked if he had ever been in love, re- phed : "In love? Of course, my dear sir, on many occasions, and each time with the same un- swerving devotion," when, as is not infrequently the case, one man contrives to keep up an appar- ently parallel correspondence with that portion of the community whom he designates as his ' ' Lidy friends," and, equally oblivious of amanuensis and censor, dispatches missives, identical in expressions of passionate devotion, to each of the respective recipients. Romance, too, ripens quickly out here, and each of the aforementioned five happy damsels who was " My dear Miss X " a week ago becomes " My darling sweetheart " to-day. One wonders what will happen to the remaining four when, in due course, the returning hero decides
90
January, 1915
upon which of the unsuspecting maidens to bestow his comprehensive heart !
One day I went over to see some friends at Calais, where they are leading the same gendarme- hunted life as the Dunkirk journahst, in order to be near their Belgian fiances. Every three days they have to change their quarters, and though it is only a fortnight ago that I received their invi- tation, it was only after inquiring at four hotels that I ran them to earth.
Calais is feeling very thrilled at her own im- portance, for the enemy are bombing her with a vigour that marks her as a foe worthy of attention.
The attitude of the French towards the Bel- gians, whose headquarters lie here, is less enthusi- astic than ours ; indeed, one might safely say it is one of mistrust. England opened her arms not to the true Belgians alone, that little gallant army to whose valour we owe so much, but, for their sake, indiscriminately to the hordes of German spies who came over with the first influx of refugees, to the dregs of humanity who were let loose when the cosmopolitan prison doors were thrown open.
France was wiser. Hospitality, she said, is all very well, but first of all we will sift our guests and
9^
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
discover which of them are deserving. And sifting them she is, allotting them freedom in their own sphere, but not freedom to circulate in the zone of other armies. Not that France for a moment belittles or undervalues the achievement of that valiant little country or its heroic King, but she realises — as do most Belgians themselves — the danger attendant upon this promiscuous harbour- ing of unregistered adults whose political leanings may be entirely alien.
In due course, no doubt, when our paroxysm of Belgian mania dies, we too shall come to see the wisdom of this measure.
January 9th. We are now beginning to receive Christmas packages sent out from home some six weeks back, which, owing to lack of sorters to attend to them, have been held up at Havre. Hitherto, the postal arrangements have been most primitive and as surprising as they were vague. Some letters and packages would arrive by the French post, some via the Red Cross service, and yet others by the military mail from Havre. A missive might take anything from three days to four weeks on its way from home.
But now we are less cut off from civilisation,
93
January, 1915
and not only letters but papers as well arrive regularly; and perhaps the most welcome sound of the day is the newsboys' cry as they run along the quay or dart into hotels and hospitals with lightning-like rapidity, heralding their arrival with shouts of " Dailee Mai-il! Mirreure! Times!''
To-day Major X asked me to run a
canteen for his men, whose lot, too far from the town to be able to enjoy the shops, is far from enviable. True to the principle of doing anything that is needed, I am off home to get the stores together.
January lUh. The five days' ''furlough" have passed as a dream, and it was with a sigh of infinite relief that I stepped once more on to French soil.
The extraordinary '' let's - muddle - along - it - can't -last -for- ever " attitude at home is dis- tinctly depressing, and the fact that half of the people are quite content to let others do their job whilst they look on with an amused smile and reap the benefit of the shortage of men makes one long to see them well *' strafed."
As I sat in the theatre beside an old friend,
93
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
now an enthusiastic captain in K.'s Army, and thought how soon the brave fellow would be facing the Reality of what he enjoys now so thoroughly as a Theory, and listened to the cheap patriotism of the show, it seemed the cheaper for the lack of action.
Why, after all, should our beautiful island be left with the uniBt, the loafers, the ''funks" as fathers for the future generations ? In every other country the army is representative, not of the pick of the land, but of the average male population. We, however, seem bent on committing race suicide.
But as the old familiar quay hove in sight my spirits rose. Here, after all, lies work that must be done. It is the Real Thing.
If my leave has been short it has been pregnant with interest. The personal side centred itself on the lost trunk, containing all my worldly posses- sions in the way of wearing apparel, which was sent out in November and has failed to arrive. Scotland Yard have traced it as far as Boulogne, they say. I drew their attention to the wonderful No Man's Land that reigns where all luggage is dumped on the quay.
Once off the boat the Enghsh Uabihty ceases,
94
January, 1915
and so, as the French will take no responsibility, the goods lie there until someone, usually not the rightful owner, helps himself,
Thus when a box addressed : '' Captain Y ,
Xth Regiment — Fur Coat — to be delivered imme- diately," that has lain for three weeks in the rain, disappears at last, one may be quite safe in assum- ing that the same fur coat will be fetching a good price on the Paris market a few days hence.
The second and more important interest is the canteen.
Just as the control of all cars and hospitals has been now taken over definitely by the War Office, surely even so small a thing as canteen work should all be under one organisation. The Y.M.C.A., it appears, have a recreation hut for the men at the convalescent camp and a big hut on the quay.
To the Y.M.C.A., then, let our energies be dedicated! For they are a coming factor in the scheme of things, and individual enterprise, gratifying and profitable though it may be to the individual, is hardly pro bono publico.
January 15th. There are hours when one would love a little solitude — the solitude that is,
95
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
after all, as necessary for well-being as food and rest; hours when the time to digest and sift the manifold occurrences of the day, the presence of a congenial friend to replace the many acquaint- ances with whom circumstances have herded us together, and a browse over a favourite poet, would be very welcome. Yet, in truth, poetry no longer matters, art no longer matters, music no longer matters to most of us ; nothing really matters save life and death and the end of this carnage. Nor will the old regime, the old art, the old literature ever again satisfy those who have seen red and faced life shorn of its trappings of superficiality and conventions. Yet in spite of the fact that all around us we see butchery and the degrading results of Germany's peculiar kultur, in spite of the fact that the spiritual side of life has been — is still — so utterly dormant as to be almost a thing of another existence, on the whole an attitude of great enthusiasm and gratitude prevails for the privilege of being able to work.
January ISth, My first glimpse at a canteen !
Let me describe the scene as we entered to find a long queue of shivering Tommies waiting. The long " hut," at the end of which, on a plat-
96
January, 1915
form, the piano tinkles incessantly, seemed smaller by reason of the many chairs and forms.
The counter, on the clearing of which our attention was turned first, like the tables, is covered with red-and- white check oilcloth, which facilitates the swabbing up of the ever crowded place.
Behind the counter are tables, on which, in between serving the men, we busy ourselves with the preparation of cocoa, the cutting up of cakes and bread, an occupation which I discover to be as much a science as an art.
In the little kitchen the great struggle is to get water boiling in time, and to keep it boiling, in response to the demand. The difficulty at the counter is to keep tea and coffee hot without letting them stew. At one end we take it in turns to take money and to dole out tickets, which are exchanged for goods at the counter. The advan- tages of the ticket system are mostly noticeable during a "rush," when it diverts the stream of men and obviates the necessity of serving food with coin-soiled hands.
One must, it seems, keep as little as possible
on the counter, for fear of tempting Providence
and the impecunious ! But a wonderful medley H 97
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
of tobacco, soap, bootlaces, chocolate, etc., is displayed on shelves at the back.
Here the men can write home on paper suppHed free by the Y.M.C.A. (A big notice on the wall reminds them to *' Write home now.") They can read (a small library, which my fingers are itching to catalogue, lies at the end of the building) ; they can bank here, and play games, and get advice on all problems, mental and moral.
The value of the work can best be estimated by the men's appreciation of it in their letters home, their continual inquiries after similar insti- tutions ''up the line," their sorrow when they hear : " No, we're not up there yet — but shall be soon."
The workers consist of Y.M.C.A. secretaries, mostly Nonconformist ministers, and volunteer ladies who wander on duty when the spirit moves them, which sometimes necessitates one shift going without its meals.
A pleasant little music teacher, who is spend- ing her holiday out here, and is useful for organising concerts, accompanying the men, etc., initiated me into the work. The rest of the ''staff" consists of a French girl, to cook the
secretaries' meals, and a half-witted man, supposed
98
January, 1915
to tend the fires, help with the washing up, etc., but who is invarial)ly inspired to play hymns just when most needed.
January 25th. A naval battle off the Dogger Bank is reported, which reminds me of the letters I receive from a naval friend, whose life on board
the is spent patrolling the North Sea and
longing for action. How different from the fight- ing friends one runs into occasionally ! The other day I came across one who was down with a touch of tonsilitis, having passed through Mons and every big battle that succeeded it unscathed. " I shouldn't at all mind going home with a smashed arm ! " he remarked with an almost involuntary sigh, gazing wistfully at the hospital ship as she sailed majestically out of harbour, her gleaming red cross casting weird lights on the dark water.
January 28t/i. There are times when one is unkind enough to wish one's co-workers the dis- cipline of three months as junior probationer in a large hospital. Last night I arrived to find myself the only worker, and although I enjoyed the rush right enough, it was impossible to get things done
99
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
to time, and many of the men had to go away unserved.
The methylated spirit ran out, and so demobil- ised the services of the Primus stoves. The secre- tary had a bad headache, and was therefore only able to sit at the till, and the odd man was inspired to make night hideous with his discordant hymns, and, having had a tiff with one of the ladies earlier in the day, refused to do a stroke of work. It was a particularly busy night, never less than a hundred men in the hut, I should say, and ten o'clock found me still washing up cups with the aid of a little chauffeur whose vehicle had gone wrong! Faute de mieux he accompanied me along the roughest part of the quay, where one is apt to be molested by the drunken navvies who reel about at night.
January SOth. Wish hard enough and it shall be given unto you ! Yesterday was a day of joy, for in it I found a real girl friend of my own age and kind.
She appeared on the scene one morning like a breath of fresh air, this young American.
^' What are you doing over here?" I asked. " Come to see the war?"
lOO
January, 1915
" Guess you're about right," she repUed, with an accent you could cut with a knife. " Nothing else would have dragged me away from God's own country ! ' '
January 31sL The old order changeth — even in Boulogne ! In less than a week the Red Cross
will be installed at the C , where once was the
Allied Forces Base Hospital. In less than a week all Red Cross cars come under direct supervision of the A.S.C.
To-day the Red Cross sisters at the Gare
Maritime (No. Stationary Hospital) have
received their conge, even those *' original six" who built it up, being superseded by Army nurses.
Most of the nurses I know have dispersed, many to St. Omer, where in a big monastery hospital they are stamping out enteric amongst the civilian population in order to safeguard our
men. Miss A has gone to L , where, from
Dr. Le Page's hospital, she writes of wonderful surgical work.
I too would be glad of a new sphere of action, for I am lost in amazement at the sea of petty jealousies. Where is the unity of purpose that bound us all together in the beginning? Is dis-
lOI
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
union the outcome of overwrought nerves? Even at the hut discord reigns.
The lady in charge dishkes both the music teacher and the American girl, who in turn live at daggers drawn with the respective people of their respective parties and are envious of each other. And yet they one and all are extremely nice folk. One must attribute it to some especially puissant sprite and to Pandora's carelessness !
I02
CHAPTER V February, 1915
February 2nd. This morning, in company with our chief, Mr. H , I went over to pro- spect in the new sphere of action. The lower part of the hotel that the Association has taken is devoted to a canteen, whilst on the first floor there is a library and writing-room, and above, seven spacious rooms lie empty until such a time as the hostel is started. The hostel is a grand scheme for billeting gratis the relatives of badly wounded men, who could otherwise not afford the journey.
My heart sank at sight of the minute kitchen, the range of which seemed literally hidden by pots and pans ; but no doubt one day we shall get it in order.
The secretary — a Scottish padre — is full of enthusiasm for football, with which he hopes to keep the men at the base well amused.
In the afternoon, on exploring for myself, I
discovered that the most interesting feature of the
103
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
place is the isolation compound that lies along- side the enteric hospital. Here all infectious ill- nesses are treated in bathing-boxes rigged out as wards; here are patients indulging in every con- ceivable disease, from mumps and measles to diphtheria, typhoid and the dreaded spinal meningitis.
Farther along, attached to the Casino, whose spacious gaming rooms make wonderfully cheerful wards, is a smaller hotel, where the men suffering from skin diseases are treated. One's heart goes out to these men, especially the wounded ones, who through no fault of their own are afflicted with the foul diseases that follow in the train of war.
The main road is lined with hospitals — the " British," the " Anglo-American," the " Rawal Pindi" (so called because the unit was mobihsed in that far-away Indian station), and others.
The great objection to the converted hotels is the smallness of the well-appointed rooms, which gives one the desire to knock down intervening walls and form them into one spacious room to save the sisters' feet and the patients' voices !
One is lost in admiration now at the organisa- tion of things, just as two months ago one was
104
February, 1915
appalled by the state of unreadiness. Nothing that can be done for our men is omitted.
February Srd. For the last time I watch the moon wane, the sun rise over the mist-bathed harbour. Will the picture I have learned to love so well ever fade? The countless masts rising to the sky, the water dashing over the distant break- water, the clock at the Gare Maritime, now visible, now obscured by srnoke from the packet-boat's funnel.
The incoming destroyers, the sister hospital ships lying abreast, the distant windmill on the hill, round which many corrugated iron buildings are springing up (bakeries, they say), the weather- beaten tars, the women, their backs bent with the weight of their sacks of mussels and cockles, tramp- ing along barefooted or in sabots, the ceaseless stream of ambulances.
February Sth. Laden with parting gifts and consoled by parting regrets (strangest among them those of our padre, who will miss having someone to darn his socks !), we found ourselves at our new domain — the American girl and I.
Certainly the circumstances of our arrival were 105
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
far from favourable, for my colleague fell very ill the day we arrived, and after a night spent on the floor of her ten-by-eight-feet-long room (oh, those boards ! — my bones still ache, my head swims in memory of them), we installed her in a military hospital, and set to work to " carry on."
Two other workers have arrived from England ; neither of them having done hard manual labour before, they are apt to find this somewhat strenuous, though to our more veteran hands it is child's play. Footsoreness, too, that bane of all amateur workers, is their portion.
There are times when one wonders if all new things are horrid !
This morning, at Mattins in the little tin church, for instance, when the convalescent soldier organist, with the angelic face and absolute lack of any musical instinct, crashed out his last discordant notes, when the congregation, consisting of three nurses, the old, old man who took round the plate, and two maiden ladies who acted as choir, trooped into the sunshine, I could not but cast a longing thought at St. John's, with its dim religious glow and mellow organ and congregation of muddy soldiers.
106
February, 1915
February 12th. Besides getting the place in order, we are busily employed in thinking out new dishes for the men. To the ordinary store of cakes and drinks we have already added custard, stewed fruits, and bread puddings.
In spare moments I catalogue the library, and have evolved a good system by which the men fill in the register themselves on taking out a book, thus dispensing with a librarian. The library book is like this :
Rank Name Number Regt. No. of Name of Date
Book Book taken Pte. J.Smith 30496 R.F. 4 "She" Feb. 1
Cpl. J.Philips 5328 R.A.M.G. 299 "Last Days Feb. 10
of Pompeii'*
February 16th. Yesterday, a train being de- railed close by here on its way up to the front, and the men left stranded, we took them up a supply of cigarettes and chocolates that good friends at home had sent out.
The canteen is growing like wildfire, and we are heart and soul in our work, which we estimate by the material return in the till each evening. We have trebled the receipts in two weeks, which shows how the men are flocking to it.
February ISth. The day — the great day of the German blockade. We are wondering how
107
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
far the enemy will really carry out his scheme. Certainly no mail boat has come in to-day, and we are without letters or newspapers. The suspen- sion of communication with England is nothing new, but we are speculating if this time it will be a matter of weeks instead of days.
Being hors de combat with a sore throat — the toll exacted apparently by this germ-filled place from every worker who comes to stay — I have leisure to note our surroundings. The walls of the large, airy room, which though devoid of all save the necessities of life is luxury embodied by reason of its cleanliness, are bare except for a few unpaid bills held together by a file, a few hastily scrawled quotations from favourite authors to remind us that we once had time to indulge in beautiful pictures, to roam into the realms of beautiful books.
By the window, acting as a couch, are two large wooden cases in which gramophones for the men had been sent out, and which prove a great attrac- tion to the friendly little mice who come out and hold long confabulations, not only under cover of night, but frequently, when things are quiet, by day. They are welcome enough to the wooden boxes, but when they take to running over our
1 08
February, 1915
beds, our clothing as it lies on the chairs, and finally even over our faces, they can hardly expect to be well received!
The view from the window is superb. Before us, in front of the little grey church, the river runs down to the sea, now gently, now turbulently. To the right a peep of the ocean. To the left the bridge, through the arches of which is a glimpse of landscape as peaceful as any Tuscan village, and over which the trains pass inter- mittingly up to the front by day and by night. They rush past with a whistle that is more of a shriek and a groan, as if they themselves realised the value of their burden — the guns, the ammu- nition wagons, the trainloads of men in khaki or in blue clustered along the edge of the overcrowded trucks designed to carry ' ' eighteen horses or thirty-six men."
In contrast with the rushing up-trains the loaded ambulances crawl creakingly down at a snail's pace.
God ! That such things should be ! If the heart of the world were big enough, surely it would break at so much misery, so much destruc- tion. For what have all previous generations laboured, legislating, studying to salve human
109
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
ills? For this! Wanton destruction, rapine, murder.
February 21st. These are exciting times. Last night there was the sound of guns at sea. An engagement off Dover is recounted, but papers no longer get through to us. A sudden explosion about five o'clock the same day, and the subse- quent report of a sunken hospital ship, afterwards said to have been a neutral (Dutch?) liner, leaves us with but the vaguest idea of what really happened.
Just as the doctor, a kindly little man, who was invalided down some weeks ago from his field
ambulance at B , had appeared, stethoscope
in hand, all attention was riveted on a funeral that passed by — that of a nursing sister who has just died of the fatal spotted fever. The flower- bedecked coffin, the whole available hospital unit marching slowly with arms reversed, made an impressive sight. One wondered if she had ever received so much attention in her lifetime as at her death. The doctor told me that in India, where the intense heat is sometimes conducive to suicide, the fear of not having a miHtary funeral
often acts as a deterrent.
no
"THE BRIDGE, THROUGH THE ARCHES OF WHICH
IS A GLIMPSE OF LANDSCAPE AS PEACEFUL AS
ANY TUSCAN VILLAGE"
February, 1915
No sooner was the cortege past than a broken aeroplane rolled by on a heavy trolley, and left us wondering if that was the crash we heard yester- day.
An air raid on Calais, packet-boat nearly sunk, torpedoes off Boulogne — it almost seems as if we are going to see the real thing.
Martial law here has become very strict. The roads are guarded so that one cannot move an inch without showing passports. Lights have to be out by 9 P.M., and even my diary has to be penned behind a screen of bedclothes with the aid of a candle stump. Seeing that we only finish work at 9 P.M., have to get home, eat our supper, and go to bed in the dark, it is rather tiresome, and we are now engaged in rigging up light-proof curtains.
On returning to work after my first committee meeting — the very existence of which proves the method that is creeping into the erstwhile chaos — I was greeted by the news of our Dardanelles Expedition which is now occupying all our atten- tion.
Ill
CHAPTER VI March, 1915
March 5th. March was inaugurated by an amusing incident. At about midnight the alarm was given — a Taube or Zeppehn signalled from Calais — bells rang, guns boomed, the whole of the French population turned out, and the police raided a nurse's room because a light was visible — and, after all, nothing happened.
That the Germans still have hopes of getting to Calais is obvious from their Press comments on the range of their coast guns.
'' The chief point of which lies in the suggestion that from Calais the harbour defences of Dover can be bombarded over a front of five and a half miles!" (See extract from Daily MaiL) Their preparations for billeting a number of troops in Belgium are large : ''At Liege 20,000 men are expected." The order has been given for the Wimereux hospitals to be cleared.
" It is our duty to keep the men here and feed
112
March, 1915
the front," said one of tHe C.O.s to-day. '' And when we are told to clear it means a big move."
March 10th. In spite of the fact that a great battle is raging at Neuve Chapelle, where the British have made a great push, the ''all star" concert party, sent over by the Y.M.C.A. in London, gave a performance in the large gaming room of the Casino (once the haunt of so much frivolity). The worst cases lay in beds in the centre, whilst the blue- jacketed lesser cases clustered behind, and the sisters flitted to and fro in their grey dresses and red capes attending to the more serious.
"Messieurs, faites vos jeux, le jeu est fait!" Over and over again the suave voice of the croupier seemed to ring in my ears — as it had so often rung in this very room in peace time. " Faites vos jeux." What an awful thing this new game of War is, only those who have seen can grasp.
" Le jeu est fait!" — and here in this gilded hall, that once witnessed such a different game, we see the results.
Stretchers were brought in all through the performance. As I glanced up during the cheer- ful chorus of ' ' Here we are — here we are — here
I 113
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
we are again!" a man was borne in with his eyes blown out. He lay very still, as if the unaceus- tomedness of it was yet upon him. The tears blinded me. Then he too began to sing.
The spirits of the men are wonderful. " It's worth losing a limb to live through a victory!" they say.
When our work was over we left the close, smoke-choked room (and it is wonderful how soldiers who have had a sufficiency of open-air life seem to revel in closed doors and windows !) for a short stroll. It was a still, foreboding night. The barriers were well guarded, darkness reigned over the town, and as we strolled along the rough road our path was lighted only by the passing ambulances, whilst across the lowering heavy heavens played the searchlights.
Ambulance after ambulance passed, a few going fast, most, alas ! at the slow, cautious speed that betokens the worst.
What untold misery these crushed bits of humanity mean, borne swiftly to the silent city of suffering ! How gladly we would suffer for them ! Yet not a moan, not a groan, in those great wards whilst mind and will have power to cope with the agonies of the flesh.
114
March, 1915
March 12th. We heard interesting anecdotes of our fighters at Christmas-time from an import- ant man on the court martial. One private, under cover of festivities, sUpped down to the base, where for some months he has hved in style on French bounty as an officer of the Guards ! Another man, an N.C.O. employed in office work, was told off to write out notices forbidding the men over- burdened with Christmas gifts to return things home, as they have been doing. He handed in the documents, and with them a big parcel to be censored, which when opened was found to con- tain a quantity of socks, bearing the legend : '' These may come in useful."
March ISth, Soup is the latest addition to our bill of fare for the men, who greatly appreciate it as being more nourishing than tea.
Our battle with Primus stoves is never-ending. The roar of these little indispensable instruments of torture haunts us, and an effigy of one will assuredly be engraven on some of our tomb- stones ! Apropos of food, we have grown almost into vegetarians, the meat we get being mostly horse — which, dressed in the delightfully piquant French style, is tasty but not nourishing — or the
115
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
eternal pork that occurs and recurs with clockwork regularity alternately disguised as veal, lamb or mutton.
There are days when we envy the men — whose rations of good bully beef they affect to scorn — with all our hearts.
The spring push continues. The rapidity with which the Neuve Chapelle men were brought down to the base, often finding themselves in hospital twelve hours after they fell, is incredible.
Last night a Red Cross ambulance driver, who had passed through before, came in for some coffee. As he counted his change I noted his eyes were dim with unshed tears. When he confessed that the strain of many sleepless nights is begin- ning to tell on him, I could find few words of comfort.
The awful groans, the prayers for release as he drives along the jolting roads, petrify him. And these last days have been pregnant with work for the ambulances. The culminating point was reached to-night, when, the car breaking down on a lonely road, he stepped round to find out how his men were, and discovered that of four only one still Uved.
ii6
March, 1915
March ISth. To-day the news came that the hostel is to be officially opened. From the batch of War Office correspondence with which I am now inundated I glean ;
1. '' Arrangements have now been made to send to France at the pubhc expense a limited number of relatives of soldiers reported to be in a very serious condition in the Base Hospitals."
2. " The number will be limited to six persons at each of the Bases and to one relative in the case of each soldier, the accommodation being provided by the Y.M.C.A., and visits will only be allowed in cases in which the Medical Officer considers that the patient would benefit by the presence of a relation."
The rest of the documents relate to the laws that govern the free passage, and the certificates to the effect that the relative is unable to pay necessary expenses required before passage is granted, every emergency being admirably pre- pared for.
Walking out after some necessary shopping, I noticed how the Wimereux road has changed — is changing. Often during the winter months we tramped along in the blinding rain wondering at
the loneliness of it all, meeting none but pickets
117
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
at the barricades, the storm-swept roads Hghted every twenty minutes by a passing tram !
And now? Spring is beginning to show in every cranny. The few trees are bursting with buds. The road is one incessant rush of cars. The once sleepy-looking fort, with its visible guns facing the sea, booms an occasional shot across the bows of a defaulting vessel, and French soldiers manoeuvre on the cliffs.
It seems as if spring had put life into every- thing. To the left a camp hospital is springing up, and khaki figures toil away with ropes and canvas. To the right, by the sea, walls of earth are being thrown up that look like trenches, but are in reality drains.
Even the men from the trenches are full of the dramatic contrasts of warfare in spring — the song of the lark or nightingale interrupted by the bursting of the "Jack Johnsons"; the burned trees and sprouting buds. They tell us, too, most extraordinary tales of women being found in the German trenches we have recently gained : some maintain they were French civilian prisoners; others that they were the wives of some of the front-trench Huns. At any rate, the extra- ordinary fact remains that they really were there.
ii8
March, 1915
March 19th. With the aid of a fatigue party of R.A.M.C. men I succeeded in getting the upstairs rooms of our place into a semblance of order. The French staff, too, were invaluable, nothing being too much trouble for the pauvres blesses. Anxieties never some singly, and to-day proved our heaviest day owing to an influx of Canadians and an army of navvies in Government employment. No sooner were things straight than in came our first two " wounded relatives " — as we have decided to dub our guests. Weary, dazed, helpless as children, there was nothing to do but find them some hot supper and get them to bed, with promises of conducting them to the hospital the first thing in the morning.
There being no cupboards in the hostel, we have set to work to make them out of old packing-cases, and with the remnants of our cur- tains and old tablecloths we find them to be, if not beautiful, quite as serviceable as could be expected.
One difficulty we cannot overcome is the odour from the cesspool that forms our drain- age system, and makes one of the valuable rooms quite untenantable and another hardly aromatic !
U9
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
March 21st, On our way home last night we paused a moment to look at the sky.
Gazing from the bridge into the water, it seemed a very Paradise. Every little star was reflected in the river, and a yellow crescent moon rode low in the heavens. No sound save the murmur of the sea. Suddenly there fell upon our ears the strains of a mandoline in the distance that transported us of a sudden to the sunny shores of the Adriatic.
Our delay might have cost us dear, for on our arrival home my attic was on fire, some clothing that my companion had put on the stove pipes to air having caught, smouldered, and set light to linoleum and woodwork. Another ten minutes and nothing could have saved this jerry-built wooden villa. It was dawn before we slept, and, needless to remark, I feel like a kipper to-day, the smell of the smoke is so strong ; or some amphibious animal, for the floor is inundated with water.
March 2Srd. The news of victories and losses in the outside world affects us greatly, and the fall of Przemysl to the Russians has had a very good effect on our spirits.
For ourselves, we are growing accustomed to 1 20
March, 1915
alarms. We have so many Zeppelin scares that they begin to be of no interest. A horn is sounded. The French sentries on the bridge grow seemingly agitated; the French guard turn out. Groups of people stand gazing Calais-wards into the sky. An aeroplane comes over — scouting — and that is all.
Apparently, however, the biplane that passed so close that it seemed almost on top of our balcony yesterday, was one of those which dropped bombs on Dover ! Our first conscious sight of hos- tile craft, this, though we saw something strangely resembling a periscope on the glassy waters.
March 26th. A strange little tragedy is being enacted in our kitchen. Our landlady's husband was reported *' missing," and whilst she was gone in search of further information a neighbour, who had been fighting by his side, came in to confirm the worst fears. He was killed by a sniper, we were told, after only one month in the trenches; and but yesterday the poor little woman was spending one franc fifty to send him a fourpenny piece of sausage.
She came in happily content, having learned no particulars, talking cheerfully of the now
121
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
fashionable khaki uniforms the women are adopt- ing, and the weeping figures in the kitchen pulled themselves together and pretended nothing had occurred.
March 29th. When the news was broken they feared for her reason. For the last three days she has lain foodless and sleepless, hugging the portrait of her husband to her heart, sorting out his old letters, whilst groups of weeping, crepe-swathed friends throng the stuffy, unventilated room.
The Boulogne regiment, it seems, has had a bad cutting-up. Hardly a woman who is not a widow now. '* Mort pour la patrie!" they cry sadly — " et apres la guerre.'* "
To us any condition of ''apres la guerre" has become unthinkable. • Sometimes it seems it must be the end of the world.
March SOth, According to the local customs, Madame will not leave the house until the news of her husband's death has been officially an- nounced by the Mayor. Thus any shopping expeditions in quest of the mourning which engrosses her whole attention have to be made surreptitiously.
122
March, 1915
The official news may be a long time in coming — weeks, perhaps months — nevertheless, until she has, with the calm resignation demanded by the occasion, received the official confirmation of the news, she will not show her face out of doors. We all pray the ceremony may be soon over, for surely nothing could be worse for a mourner than an uninterrupted brooding over pots and pans in a hot or crowded kitchen.
123
CHAPTER VII April, 1915
April 1st. In spite of the difficulties of getting teams together, the football league has flourished, and to-day we had the great final match between Australians and the A.S.C., for which, at a few hours' notice, aided by a solitary car, we managed to give a fairly successful tea.
Thanks to the football and the various other " tournaments," the canteen is becoming quite an important factor of the little colony out here. We find that draught, chess and billiard tournaments draw the men (who are apt to be ''cUquy " and shy of each other) together more than anything else, whilst French lessons — held by a poor little Belgian soldier, himself far from fluent in the language — prove a tremendous attraction, and serve the additional purpose of adding a moiety to his minute income.
We have moved on to the premises in order to be better able to attend to our ** relatives," as they have a way of turning up at ten at night,
124
April, 1915
quite exhausted with the novelty of their experi- ence. To be honest, the interest of their journey seems to a great extent to mitigate the bitterness of their loss or the sadness of their visit.
" Law bless us, Miss, what a lot we shall 'ave to tell 'em at 'ome, which we shouldn't 'ave 'ad if our dear Bill 'adn't died for 'is country!" said a Manchester washerwoman to-day.
We are a strange party at meals, for most of them have never seen a tablecloth nor slept between sheets before, and their wonderment can be well gauged.
It is surprising how often one comes across Nature's gentlemen ; one is ashamed at not having had time to see them in ordinary life. A cab- driver from " Edinbury " is here to-day, who, in spite of the fact that he had never before been outside his native town, has manners that would grace a king.
April Sth. One is not always fortunate in one's companions out here, but, having no choice in the matter, is fain to make the best of them.
I don't think I have described our various workers. There is, for instance, the short, drab- looking type of woman who gives one the impres-
125
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
sion that she is capable only of practical things — a model housewife and cook — but who, on further acquaintance, affords some food for comment; for, alas ! her distrait little brain is eternally going off at a tangent; she has neither method nor common sense. If there is a tactless thing to be said, she will say it. If there is a foolish thing to be done, she will do it. To-day, to our horror, one of these, for instance, turned to an old man from Derbyshire — who was out to see a son dying of spotted fever — ^just as he was taking his depar- ture.
" By the way," she said, " if you find anyone at home whose son is dying out here, do tell them that it is such a pretty cemetery and so well cared for. . . ."
I need say no more.
At every inconvenient moment she tells one anecdotes of her family history — how her daughters have bought a white rabbit, how her second husband committed suicide (we are not surprised !), how a third cousin has been mentioned in dispatches.
She alternately adopts a de haul en has tone towards the men and informs them that she is an officer's widow and has never done any work
126
April, 1915
before, or tries to claim kinship with the enUsted navvy because he is John Smith and she has a connection of the same name.
Is it to be wondered that there is sometimes friction? We have had a trying time recently, and have come to the conclusion that what one does not learn of petty jealousy and feminine hate out here is not worth learning ! And the genus "official enemy" — unknown, hitherto, to me — ^is quite common. It consists of people who want one's job, or one's friends, or anything else one has; but, most of all, they want one out of the country and out of the way.
To keep our judgment unbiased we have conned Kipling's wonderful ''If" and find some measure of comfort in murmuring, as we fall asleep :
« If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs
and blaming it on you — If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, yet make
allowance for their doubting, too — If you can wait — and not be tired by waiting or being lied
about, don't deal in lies — Or being hated, don't give way to hating — and yet not look too
good nor talk too wise.*'
We have had quite a number of minor worries,
too, which culminated this evening, when, our
127
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
last bucketful of coal, borrowed from a friendly hospital, having been exhausted, it was found impossible to obtain more than half a litre of methylated spirits (with which we had hoped to carry on our work by means of Primus stoves) from anywhere. For the first time not only hot dishes had to be abandoned, the pancakes and fried fish which the men like so well, but even the hot drinks, which we endeavoured to replace by lukewarm lemonade made from the remnants of our boiled water. Heaven alone knows from where we shall get our coal to-morrow, for the shortage seems to be getting worse. If only the people at home would realise what it means out here, and cease striking ! When things had settled down and the place was closed, I felt a blow of fresh air was imperative, for the vitiated atmo- sphere of the rooms is choking and we have no time to walk by day.
As we slipped outside, Captain M passed.
" What on earth are you doing here?" he asked. I replied that we had been breathing Woodbine fumes for twelve solid hours, and had come out to get some air.
" Take care not to be run in by the sentries,"
he said. " I will accompany you if I may, for
128
April, 1915
safety's sake." It is true we are bounded by sentries north, south, east and west.
We walked briskly to the beach, where a full moon lit up the sea, forming what looked like a broad path straight up to heaven.
We were laughing over the tale of the immortal Dr. Spooner who concluded one of his sermons with the words : " And now, dear friends, I must draw to a close, for I see I am already
addressing beery wenches !" when Captain M ,
asking ''May I smoke?" proceeded to light his pipe, or try to do so, for each time he lit a match the breeze put it out. Whilst he retired to light it by the rocks someone quoted another Spooner- ism— when to a negligent student he said : " You have hissed all my mystery lessons and tasted half a worm ! ' '
Laughing and all but forgetting our weariness, we turned to go home.
In the distance we discerned figures coming towards us — steadily and from all sides.
''Strange!" said someone. "The beach seemed deserted enough when we came."
"Why, it's gendarmes!" I cried.
And sure enough it was, and they were advancing, rifles cocked and loaded.
J 129
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
They came straight up to us and halted four paces away, just as we were debating whether to run away or trust to luck that our escort could protect us.
In a stentorian voice the leader exclaimed accusingly ; ''You lit three matches."
No one denied it, and on Captain M par- leying with them, it transpired that under martial law the beach and cliffs are entirely forbidden precincts after sundown.
On discovering who we were they owned that they had seriously debated the advisability of shooting us from the cliffs, and would certainly have done so had we turned tail and fled !
Insignificant though the incident is, it serves to show how efficiently our Alhes guard their coast, how thorough and quick they are in their methods, and how little they leave to chance, even at a hospital base.
April 22nd. It has been impossible to write. We have been working sixteen to eighteen, even twenty, hours per day. The rush of troops that preceded and succeeded the British success at Hill 60 has broken up most of the camp workers, so that we have taken to rising at 4 a.m., motor-
130
April, 1915
ing to the camp in the car now devoted to the '* relatives," and turning our hands at other people's jobs before it is time to begin oiu* own.
Camp work is different from anything in the world. The crowd is such that it is impossible (with our limited number of workers and in- suflBcient equipment) to keep supplies equal to demand.
After an hour spent in handing out field service post cards (which is all the men may send home from here) one is dizzy from the crowd. Twenty thousand cards disappear in less time than it takes to tell, although each man is in reality only allowed one.
They will come up time after time pleading for a second. ''I've a wife and sl mother," says one; while the wilier will ask: ''Can I have a second for the company sergeant-major, who is outside the tent?"
"What, the same company sergeant-major?" I inquired, after the twentieth application of this kind.
If you ^re cutting up loaves or buttering bread you become breathless in your haste as the many hungry eyes gaze eagerly at the food.
Many of the men have gone foodless since they 131
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
embarked, ten hours ago, and some, who have eaten, have been so sea-sick as to be quite collapsed. They are alternately full of anticipa- tion and trepidation about the Great Unknown, and a quiet " It isn't nearly as bad as it was at the beginning" sends many of them away more reassured.
The turf inside the tent is an odd mixture of slush where the rain beats in, and almost concrete mud where the trampling is worst. It has been found necessary to put up a barrier by the " counter," which is made of empty packing- cases, but often, where the crowd is greatest, it literally gets rooted up.
It is hard to say which is the more impressive sight : to arrive at dawn and watch the shivering figures emerge from their tents, wrapped in those fine new blankets of theirs, and cluster round our quarters, held back by the stern arm of the military policeman until six o'clock announces that we are prepared — or nominally so — ^for the rush ; or to watch them march off at night.
On Sunday there was a service. The men came running to the tents and called for their favourite hymns. There were two oil lamps in the centre, and someone secured a candle for my
132
April, 1915
counter. Never can I forget that scene — averted eyes, tense set mouths, and rugged faces with the tears rolUng down. Men who had never prayed before prayed then, for they had the Unknown to face and they knew it. They Ufted the tent with their voices. Then, seeing I was the last Enghsh girl many of them would ever set eyes on, a number came up to shake hands and say good-bye and ''Thank you." Heaven knows for what !
Then we watched them march off. The camp gleamed white in the moonlight. A crescent moon was over the silver sea, across which the lights of England were plainly discernible.
By the flare of one great lamp they came up out of the dark, and, company after company, hke a phantom army, passed into the night.
It seemed like a dream. The receding tramp, tramp, tramp, the distant sound of drums, the deserted tents. And only the lazy flap of the canvas in the breeze remained to remind us of those heroes who have gone up to ''carry on" the great game.
April 2Uh, Sick Ward 21. What a very beautiful place hospital can be, viewed from the
133
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
standpoint of a patient ! What matter that legs are too weak to walk or heads to think? What matter that one's old vulcanite pen feels like cast iron and runs on by itself?
Here are ministering angels who were once mere nurses. Here are friends armed with many good things, with irises and kingcups from the fields and carnations from the south — and news- papers. Yet, alas! the news is not good. In spite of the Allied landing in Gallipoli that raises our expectation of a speedy termination of things, the situation on the Western front is bad. We are now falling back, and the Germans have started an effective offensive at Ypres. It is dreadful to be able to do nothing but listen all night long to the tramp of the newly arrived troops, the sickening sound of the creeping '' stretcher cases," to listen and to pray that all will be well.
April 29th, Hardelot. If one were asked to award the palm for good work during the war, one would not hesitate to say that it was due to those whose energies are devoted to the sick nurses.
There is none of the glory, none of the kudos, 134
April, 1915
none of the laurel-wreath interest that rewards those working amongst the men.
Just the steady, dullish daily duties of caring for and tending an ever-changing stream of weary women ! Yet what work can have more far-reach- ing influence on the wounded and sick than the fact that the nursing sisters are strong and fit to cope with their strenuous work?
Here, in the far-away forest of Hardelot, in the beautiful yet simple house lent by the Duke of Argyll, that, with its distempered white walls, old oak furniture and bright chintzes, seems a veritable bit of England, the Red Cross have opened a home where worn-out nurses may rest and recuperate.
It is like an oasis in this arid land. Lying in the woods on a bank of luscious pine-needles and green moss, while the birds sing, it seems to unaccustomed ears almost perfect; and the calm pines lift their stately heads to the clear blue sky, swaying rhythmically, contentedly, in the breeze. It is intoxicating.
135
CHAPTER VIII May, 1915
May 2nd. This morning we attended Church Parade at the veterinary camp hard by. The chaplain, who had brought out a recently formed brass band, conducted the service in a large sand- pit from which most of the horses had been removed to the sides. A few tents were dotted about, a few sick animals still rolled in the sand as the men came on parade, whilst a narrow path winding up to the dark pine woods above made us feel for all the world like part of a Wild West Buffalo Bill show.
How the French peasants stared, open- mouthed, as the service proceeded, wondering at our madness as we stood there in the sand-pit, with a misty rain enveloping everything, singing at the top of our voices. Many of the men recog- nised nurses who had been at clearing stations, as we wended our way amongst the sick and wounded
horses, the foals, the ''prisoner" animals, and
136
May, 1915
glanced at the well-equipped but insufficiently stocked dispensary.
The now famous Pre Catalan farm supplied us with tea, and I could not help recalling how just a year ago we had been lounging in a punt on the Ranelagh lake listening to a band — under some- what different circumstances ! No doubt, some- where at home, people are still punting on the river, or enjoying a Sunday afternoon nap under the trees, or, being energetically inclined, a round of golf or game of tennis, in surroundings very similar to these. Only as we wandered home past the famous Hill 243, through woods blue with hyacinths, fragrant with wild orchids, primroses, kingcups, violets and every perfect flower one could desire or dream of, and every perfect wood- land perfume one could experience, and every perfect colour the eye could imagine, the sound of guns booming heavily and not very far away greeted us ominously.
May 4t/i. In an erstwhile hotel facing the sea the Secunderabad General Hospital is situated. Not only are the wards often overcrowded, but rows and rows of beds in the spacious hall, neigh- bouring villas and auxiliary tents help to cope with
^37
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
the numbers. An all-pervading smell of ''ghi," or melted butter, makes one think that Little Black Sambo and all the tigers must have been put in the melting-pot.
Odd black figures, with imfathomable eyes and strange turbans, move about their business stealthily, vs^hilst in the little duty-room two kindly theatre sisters dispense tea to any visitors who call on an uneventful day between the fashionable hours of four and five.
Such is Hardelot. For, apart from the hospital, the Claims Commission, the one shop, hotel and post office, every building is shut up and barred.
A convoy of some fifty ambulances on the road tells its own tale. Sauntering into the one and only shop, I secured the last bottle of ink (which proved to be red), and betaking myself to the sand-dunes, set to work on my diary. Across the vast, untrodden expanse of sand the sun cast long shadows; little fishing boats, bathed in the glow, glided slowly homewards.
Hardelot is said to be an inspiring place. Was not the ''Tale of Two Cities" penned here? Was not many an historical drama enacted, verse inspired, music created?
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May, 1915
Yet France in war-time to anyone incapacitated is wellnigh unbearable.
Again and again unpleasant scenes come up (and when humour flags is life worth living?). The subaltern so unnerved by the sight of his batman (only slightly hit) who was drowned in the mud, that he could do nothing but reiterate, with staring eyes, " And, for all I know, he is there still." Tales of healthy bits of land where, if you ask your way to a certain reserve trench, the direction will be : " First on the left, and past the dead Frenchman on the ant-heap," half- humorous reminiscences of trench-digging where other things — no need to specify — besides caps and boots are turned up, haunt one incessantly, and Morpheus refuses to be wooed.
All day long one notes the veering wind with beating heart, conscious that the prevailing west wind is all-propitious to the German's latest in- vention of the Devil, the poison-gas ; conscious of the long nights in which one has lain awake as the sound of the receding sea was replaced by the ghastly choking of the ward of gassed cases opposite (a sound comparable only to a roomful of panting dogs), or the cough of the man dying with a bullet through his lungs.
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Eighteen Months in the War Zone
May Uth. At home there are strikes and rumours of strikes, instigated, no doubt, by Ger- man emissaries, but none the less shameful for that ; and one and all, as the men come down from that '*hell with the lid off," where, inch by inch, the Germans are regaining that for which so many lives were sacrificed, their cry is for ammunition.
" We could have held our lines but for the lack of ammunition of the right kind,^^ they say — ^for it seems that ordinary shells are useless when pitted against high explosives and gas.
No one who has not heard that appeal direct from dying lips (for dying men don't lie) can know how great is the longing to tell about it at home — to let the slackers know that for each shell not forthcoming ten valuable lives are lost, ten homes needlessly bereaved. It is intolerably unjust that the man who refuses to do his duty out here is promptly shot, whilst the man who strikes at home is merely bribed with offers of higher wages.
After all, it is a war not only of men, but of arms and ammunition, and it lies in the hands of those at home as much as those out here to see the thing through.
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May, 1915
May 16th. At a certain canteen recently a splendid, strapping fellow has been much in evi- dence. A fine all-round sportsman of good breed- ing, always ready to lend a hand where required, he made himself beloved by men and canteen- workers alike. In particular he endeared himself to the man in charge of the canteen, to whom he would talk of his wife and children and sports prowess in days gone by.
Over his fighting experiences, however, a veil was drawn ; and seeing that even to hint a question about it was to bring a look of unutterable terror, of trench-haunted madness into his eyes, the sub- ject was left in abeyance.
Being neither wounded nor sick, nor attached to the regiment at the base, it was usually assumed that he was an officer's servant, which assumption was corroborated by the amount of spare time on his hands, for he seemed always at the canteen.
One day he came to the man in charge with the request that he should find him some remunerative work. Amazed, the civilian asked, '^Why? Aren't you drawing your pay? " Then the truth leaked out. Months back, during an infantry advance, in a fit of madness he had boarded a passing ambulance and found himself at the base.
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Eighteen Months in the War Zone
In plain words, he was a deserter. For weeks he had Hved, evading the canny A.P.M.'s minions by the skin of his teeth, sleeping one night in a barn, the next in a railway truck, the third on the sands, and always feeding at the canteen. A dozen times he had thought the game was up. The strain was beginning to tell, and now that he was down to his last sou there was nothing left for it but to give himself up or cut and run.
Well, for the sake of the wife he was going to risk it.
He did so. But the authorities who scrutinise those little seemingly useless papers on the boat were too sharp for him, and he passed for ever out of the life of the only civilian who knew his story — to be exact, out of the lives of all his friends.
And is not slackness at home all the more reprehensible when one realises the penalties to which men O.A.S. are liable? Is it to be wondered at that we in France would gladly hear the death-sentence passed on every one of those traitor strikers.'*
May 17th. Far, far out, the fisher-folk, their hair and faces white with brine, are shrimping. So far out is the tide that they are mere dark specks
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May, 1915
against the red glow. Farther along the coast a number of A.V.C. officers from remount camps are enjoying a chukker of polo on the firm sands. The sound of heavy firing that had been so audible during the afternoon in the Dover-Calais direction has ceased. The friends who had come out to visit the invalids have departed by the last tram, on which a tall Sikh was busy teaching the French conductor to talk English. The result may be better pictured than described. When they set to work to do a little bartering, ransacking each other's pockets for souvenirs, exchanging two pencils for a cigarette, a penny for a halfpenny, it was interesting to note that the businesslike Frenchman — the bargainer par excellence — had met his match at last.
And to-morrow a month's sick leave in BUghty ! Baths unlimited ! Beef that is beef and not horse ! Lamb that is lamb and not goat ! Every fibre aches for civilisation.
May 23rd, London, No doubt the waitress at the terminus was rather amused by the arrival of three travel-stained creatures, one in mufti and two in uniform, whose first demand was for glasses of clear, cold water. But could she have
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Eighteen Months in the War Zone
known she would have been astonished to find that,
in spite of our bad crossing, our hunger, and the
subsequent good dishes she set before us, none of
us remembered anything half as good as this first
unboiled, unchlorinated, unsterilised draught.
It is impossible to blame anyone for failing
to take war seriously at home. Here, where
"business as usual" is the motto, it is literally
inconceivable that anything extraordinary is going
on in the world. No wonder that a certain
number of women were prating recently of the
forthcoming Peace Conference at The Hague.
Even those who are worst hit, who have lost their
nearest and dearest, are so engrossed in their little
charities, their bandage-making and knitting and
Red Cross lectures, that they have little leisure to
mope. London is as gay or gayer than ever, not
a bit purged, for every man home on leave is busy
making the best of time. How different from the
Frenchman, whose one idea on getting out of the
trenches is to set his house in order, to instruct
the women who are doing his work how to
manipulate the latest agricultural implements, to
help prepare for the harvest ! Aldershot and its
vicinity, for all the many lives that have passed
out of it for ever, is the same. And here, in the
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May, 1915
big country houses one visits, people have still leisure to indulge in nerve attacks at the sight of their milliners' bills. Even the rise of that new species, the very temporary gentleman officer, is less remarkable at home. The only change one notices (bar a few dances and cricket matches that have been skipped, maybe out of respect for those who will dance and play no more) is the Continental atmosphere of the streets and theatres.
London is almost as Belgian as Boulogne is anglicised. Rotund Belgians sit knitting in the stalls, their sombre day dresses contrasting strangely with our erstwhile brilliant audiences.
'' Evening dress optional but unfashionable," as one theatre announces.
A joy for ever is the element of free-and-easy good-humour brought over by our Colonials. If the last ten months have done no other good, they have at least knit together, in bonds that can never be riven, our wonderful Empire.
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CHAPTER IX June, 1915
June 11th — Cumberland. Speaking to a gathering of village folk on work in France, I invited debate. " If King George 'as got wot Kaiser Bill wants, why don't they go and fight it out themselves? " asked one man. " Wot differ- ence would it make to us if the country is ruled by Germans or Enghshmen? " said another, a lazy fellow whose fields had remained fallow for years, quite oblivious of the fact that under German regime he would have been in the firing-line months ago. The rest of the audience shivered with the helpless indecision as to what their right course should be : which shows the little faith felt in the present Government, half hoping for, half fearing the conscription of labour that seems imminent.
That there should exist men who openly con- fess that from their point of view the end of the
war will be disastrous is almost incredible. Yet I
146
June, 1915
have come across a clergyman, working in a Midland manufacturing centre, who has many instances of this indifference to recount.
Is it not useless to hope that this war will be the last? So long as men are actuated by motives of commercial profit and agrarian gain, the dream of Universal Peace must remain a chimaera ; and the present upheaval, essential to the checking and wiping out of Germany's abnormal line of develop- ment, is destined to be only the first step towards the Ideal of Progress which Europe (the Central Powers included) had flattered herself to be following.
Most astounding of all is the utter obliviousness on the part of all at home to the seriousness of the shell campaign, illustrated by the ridicule hurled at those of us who uphold the NorthcUffe Press.
As I settled into the corner of the railway car- riage, after a delightful week-end with a dear friend in Surrey, a batch of illustrated journals and the Morning Post were pressed upon me.
No one can be a more devout devotee of the Morning Post Court Circular than my humble self, knowing full well that to miss that interesting document means a gradual drifting without the
147
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
pale of one's many acquaintances. Nevertheless, I asked meekly for " The Daily Mail, please ! "
" That you, with your love of literature, should read such stuflP! " she groaned.
Then, confidently :
'' My dear, at any other time I should have cut you dead for such a thing."
There was no time to explain, as the train steamed out, that I go to my newspaper for news and not for literature.
Yet I could not refrain from marvelling at the contumely showered on the only organ strong enough to bring the truth before the public and combat the weaknesses of a desultory Government.
The second astounding thing at home is the fact that no one seems to realise the difference between the Front and the Base.
Anywhere in France — Paris excepted — seems to be '*the Front," and no one who has not been privileged to peep behind the scenes seems to realise the gap that intervenes between the fighting line and the back of the Front, as one might call the Base.
And one is introduced to a strange medley of people, all '' going to the Front."
Not only veteran soldiers and raw recruits and
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June, 1915
nurses, but charming women of leisure who contemplate migrating with their retinue some- where abroad and earning fame " at a canteen or anything that is wanted — just behind the lines!"
Now, although I can claim to have worked longer at our Base than any other British woman (with one exception), to have withstood the in- clemency of its climate and its laws successfully for eight consecutive months, and might therefore pretend to be an authority as to where it really is, not a single friend have I succeeded in convincing that I am not a true heroine — risking my life daily with shells bursting all around and the Huns a few yards away. What they want are descriptions of weeping gas victims and death-bed scenes (that in reality are far better forgotten — ^if it is possible) and incidents such as a youthful convalescent sapper confided to me recently — of the man who, though his head was blown clean off at midday, was found to be convulsively clawing the earth with fingers that seemed yet alive at sundown !
For such yarns there seems to be a great de- mand, and if I told them that heroism at the Base consisted of maintaining continual cheerfulness in
face of odds like bursting boilers which, for want
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Eighteen Months in the War Zone
of men, cannot be repaired ; if I hinted at the dull- ness of buttering endless loaves, of wheedling Primus stoves into working order, of changing French money for English at a varying rate of exchange, of living amongst a strange, hetero- geneous crowd of people, far away from one's own friends, and stifling longings for one's lares et penates, of the dreadful monotony and various other details of barmaiding, amateur and other- wise, I should not be believed.
Therefore, with many a wiser, I seek shelter behind a discreet silence, except when the insist- ence of the '* Do-tell-me-all-about-it ! Have-you- seen-lots-of -horrors? " girl elicits an ironical reply to the effect that most of our time is spent in champagne lunches and moonhght picnics.
June 12th, I must not omit to note the very interesting meeting with Mr. Henry James — the American author — who has so enthusiastically cast in his lot with the Allies. It was at a tea at the American Embassy. On being introduced, having heard of our work in France, he made no secret of his views.
^' You young people are wonderful. You are achieving what no other generation could ever,
150
June 1915
will ever, achieve! After all, this is a young people's war! "
I went home with a heart throbbing with pride at belonging to a generation that, swept by the great driving spirit (maybe something analogous to Maeterlinck's " Spirit of the Hive ") from little ruts in life into the great vortex of war, has already proved its metal.
Over and over again one is struck by the ex- traordinary altruism that is displayed by those taking part in what, after all, is but a tremendous life-and-death struggle.
Everywhere esprit de corps prevails amongst the men. Take the private. Maybe he reared poultry in some out-of-the-way farm in Somerset. Maybe his pathetically wizened face tells of a childhood in the slums. Whatever his life was before, he is Private Tommy Atkins now, of the Blankshires — the finest regiment, the finest company, the finest platoon in the British Army; a V.C. regiment he will announce with pride, as he sits down by the dusty roadside to enjoy the ten minutes' halt in what seems an interminable route march.
And the very Temporary Lieutenant whom one knew only a year ago as the *'knut," as, in the newest check trousers a VAmericain, he
15?
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
lounged bemonocled in the Park, what of him? Was he not correct — very correct and always cor- rect, as he patronised every function of the season — blase, bored and boring, always ready to criti- cise every affair with an amusing cynicism?
He, too, chameleon-like, has taken on the tone of his surroundings. Behold him in khaki, a born leader of men! His boredom has become sang- froid, his cynicism has blossomed into a brisk humour that keeps the mess alive, his subservience to the law of the " correct thing " has taught him to face every undreamt-of tight corner with a non- chalance wonderful to behold.
Yes, Henry James is right. '' It is a Young People's War." It may be an ironical fate that designs the younger generation to lay down their lives for the political blunders of the older — but the true tragedy is not in the youths cut down in the flower of their manhood, nor the girls broken in health by the magnitude of the task they have tackled; the true tragedy is in the derehct " dug- outs " vainly hunting for jobs, the aged women wringing their hands, with the cry, '* We are too old to help!"
And when our American friend, speaking of his countrymen's work and schemes for ameliorat-
152
June, 1915
ing the lot of starving Belgium, remarked that our work will not have finished with the cessation of hostilities, for then alone will the full pinch and hardships of war be felt, the destitution shorn of the gilding of excitement and uncertainty, I knew he spoke truly.
The end of the last month all eyes were focused on Italy's rupture with Austria (we note that dip- lomatic relations with Germany are not broken off, no doubt for reasons commercial). To all who have travelled much in that land of sunshine it was apparent that, whichever way politics might trend, public feehng (barring that section of the proletariat under strong Papal influence) would always be with the Allies; nor was it possible to imagine any alKance between Italy and her hereditary foe, the Hun, other than an alliance of convenience. The Italian's contempt for Teuton boorishness is as ineradicable as the Italian's con- fidence in the brilliant future awaiting his own kingdom.
June IMh. Two days later the Coalition Min- istry, which we pray fervently may remedy our shortage of war materials, was formed. Now, attention is turned towards the East, the
153
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
Cameroons, the Dardanelles. Mr. Winston Churchill has raised our hopes to the tiptop of expectation with his mysterious promises of some unparalleled and crushing success in Gallipoli, So much so, that everyone speaks with confidence of the termination of the war within a few months.
Yesterday some were only restrained from hoisting flags by the desire to see the rumours confirmed. Alas ! on opening the morning papers we were but greeted with the news of fresh Aus- trian successes.
June 20th. With the receipt of " Marching Orders" this morning, England and Home seemed suddenly very dear. Like a dream they come back, those places I have visited — the peace- ful Lakes ; the cheerful Felixstowe hotel, where one could revel in the soft, subdued lights and pretty frocks ; Bedford, which with all its khaki seems to be playing at war more than any other city, and where one or two people are still extant who saw the Russians come through from Archangel at the beginning of operations, and even touched the snow on their caps ! And the different country houses, the different friends, how little touched they seem by it all ! True,
154
June, 1915
in one or two once over-pretentious houses the food is less lavish, the staff less numerous, the clothes less exaggerated; which seemed a great improvement.
Only I seem changed, and all the things we once accepted as necessities of Hfe are become luxuries, from books and baths to the once des- pised draught of clear cold water !
Yes, as to the sound of the soft-toned grand we sat by the fire enjoying the ever sweet smell of burning logs, whilst, with the inscrutable smile of one to whom the mysteries of Life and Death are revealed, the death mask of the woman who was found in the Seine looked down from her oak beam, and the hour-glass speeded its atoms along the road to eternity, for the first time France and work seemed anything but attractive.
June 29th. It is worth the journey to be amongst our men again, to be welcomed as they alone welcome one, with hearty handshakes and hopes that one has " come back to stay."
Things have progressed a good deal, too, in our small world. In the beginning, were one only rich enough, or endowed with a title sufficiently illus- trious or notorious (it mattered not which), one
.^55
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
might rent an hotel or a chateau, turn it into a French or Belgian Red Cross Hospital, and resort to a little harmless hospital work in France when- ever London became boring.
True, the authorities never encouraged these little pleasure trips, but now that Boulogne has been definitely declared within the War Zone, entrance and egress are a very different matter, and it re- quires quite an amount of strategy for anyone not afiiliated to some recognised society, and armed to the teeth with permits, to get here at all.
There seems also to have been a systematic ''rounding up " of undesirables, and one by one the so-called "officers," who, in the beginning, had made the nights hideous with their champagne suppers, have disappeared.
Naturally, we too have progressed.
In place of skeleton buildings, well-planned camps lie along the shore, complete even to their Imperial red letter-boxes. Once swampy con- valescent camps display smart flower gardens, whilst Thomas Atkins moves about less molested by demands for souvenirs, and somewhat solaced for his enforced absence from home by the wel- come accorded to him by his AlHes. If the average man's vocabulary does not run much
156
June, 1915
beyond the five phrases, "Bong jour!'' "Com- pris ? " " No bon! " " Nar poo! " (" Je ne peux pas!'') "Promenade ce soir?" the few excep- tions have made remarkable progress.
One wonders what the residents of Brighton would say if a number of friendly French work- men erected all along the Downs a miniature vil- lage of asbestos and corrugated iron huts, inter- spersed with tents and planted with trim little gardens of bright flowers and evergreens ; installed pillar-boxes bearing French arms, their electric power-station, their orderly- and mess-rooms, sur- rounded the whole by a mass of barbed wire, and having notified everywhere that this was Hospital
No. , to which there is ''No Admittance,"
proceeded to explain smilingly to the bewildered Brightonians that the huts are stable enough to last for seven years.
If one could fathom the conflicting feelings of Brighton under these conditions, one might have some small understanding of the astonishment with which our Allies, already hard stricken by war, contemplate the problem of this little Britain in France.
And there certainly are problems. Take, for instance, the guarding of the roads. Naturally
157
Eighteen Months in the War Zone
enough, even in the British War Zone the French are loath to give up command of the road. One cannot expect them to forget completely that only one hundred years ago we were on a hostile and not on a friendly mission! And so until recently they guarded the barriers with fixed bayonets. Alas! the valiant men whose zealous watch was apt to prove irksome have now been called up to the firing-line. We shall no longer be tempted (those of us who are facetiously inclined) to play pranks.
There was a certain art in producing, instead of one's miUtary pass, a card of membership of some long-forgotten club or any legal-looking document, providing it bore a portrait afl&xed, and, brandishing it in the watchful guard's face with a loud " LaisseZ'passer militaire,^^ dash on to one's destination. An old Hippodrome ticket has been known to act as well. Ten chances to one, being unable to read English, the guard would let one through, and the delay would be amply repaid by the good laugh.
But as I said, the many minor barriers have disappeared, and there is no bluffing the men who guard the entrance and egress to the town.
June 30th. Since the German introduction of
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June, 1915
methods of warfare that would shame a savage — the poison gas, the sinking of the Lusitania — the whole attitude of our men towards the enemy has changed, and one can safely predict that next Christmas there will be no exchange of civilities and cigarettes with the Huns as there was last.
Even at home the sluggards seem to be rousing ; and the ' ' Frightf ulness ' ' whereby the Germans hope to scare Britain into a compromise is, on the contrary, acting as a much-needed tonic.
One is struck out here by the psychology of the youthful subalterns. The high anticipation of '* getting out," the silent horror of which they say so little when they are brought face to face with the ''Real Thing," and which, once conquered, leads to a resigned fatalism.
It's the same with all of them. " Che sara, sara, and if we are to be hit, well, the sooner it's over the better, only it would be nice to know if it's to be an arm, or sight or — the other thing. No matter, anyhow. We shall know it soon enough, and in the meantime there is that long-delayed ninety- six hours' leave in the future to dream of "
Aye, that leave that many of them will never get !
159