_An Englishwoman in the F. A. N. Y. Corps in France and Belgium_
_Told by Grace MacDougall_
This is a vivid record of service by an English nurse. It is one
of the first accounts of the systematic care of the wounded in
modern war. She relates graphically her adventures with the field
ambulances owned and driven by the woman; their heroic service
to their country on the road to Lierre, at Malines, during the
bombardment and flight at Antwerp. She tells how the corps came
to Calais, life at the regimental camp, and the stories of the
convalescents in the hospitals. The chapter here related is by
permission of her American publishers, _Robert M. McBride and
Company_.
[10] I--STORY OF AN ENGLISH GIRL ON THE ROAD TO DUNKIRK
One day in the spring of 1915 Chris and I started off for the front
with "Flossie," the little Ford ambulance. It was a perfect day, a
cold wind blowing but a blue sky overhead. The road between Calais
and Dunkirk flew past; the walls of Gravelines and the narrow winding
streets were left behind. Dunkirk itself was gay with zouaves in their
baggy red trousers. Along by the canal we raced past ponderous convoys
toiling up with their loads. Many a staff car and "_ravitaillement_"
wagon met us and sped on their ways. And so to Furnes, no longer the
busy centre of activity it had been earlier, but a desolate town with
one or two large shell holes in the square. No shops, no cafés, except
in the side streets--all was quiet and deserted. So we left Furnes,
too, behind. Along the straight bare road we whizzed, and now not far
off we heard the old familiar booming. We passed the picket at Pervyse,
and there drew up to make inquiries.
As we halted we caught sight of two Englishmen pacing slowly along
a side path, looking at the rows of damaged houses--the streets of
ruin--and on recognising one as Major G----, a familiar figure in
Belgian lines, we hailed him. He introduced his companion, Lord Curzon,
and on learning our errand they made further inquiry, and let us know
that the fighting was in the neighbourhood of Oostvleteren. We ran
on past the field with its 300 shell holes that had formed our first
landmark in November. Our old "_poste_" at the cross-roads was occupied
by strangers, who hailed us with delight, and with them we left a few
hundred cigarettes and some socks for the ---- Division. A shell,
mistaking its direction, came crashing to earth on the roadway near by,
so we hastened our farewells and shot off past the little church that
had been bombarded steadily for months. It was still standing, but the
troops once quartered in the cottages round about had been withdrawn.
The canal bridge, where the morning washing parade was held regularly
in December, was deserted. No life seemed to exist in that once busy
spot; and the shrapnel whizzing over us in the sky, directed against
the railway to our right, was a sign of the times. We slowed up at
Lampernisse, and sadness seized us. The church was down. I recalled its
friendly tower--the throng of soldiers that had surrounded it, the gay
faces of the little blue Belgians that had met one cheerily on every
side. To-day there was quiet and stillness, and the outer walls of the
church were represented by heaps of loose stones. Inside the pillars
stood--broken wall, broken altar; fragments of glass and melted lead
from the windows that had been. As we watched, the _curé_ appeared, sad
of face. He came to us simply, and at our few faltering words tears
came to his eyes.
"There were 40 wounded inside," he said gently; "we saved all we
could." A grave at my feet was churned up--broken bits of wood stuck
upright in the earth; a heavy stone monument had turned sideways and
lurched forward like a drunken man; and something else lay near, thrown
out of the earth to which in happier days the priest had committed it.
I shuddered involuntarily. The _curé_ asked if we could take one of
his remaining parishioners to safety: she was old and bedridden; her
cottage was there in the shadow of the church. Shells came daily and
at any time one might strike the roof that sheltered her. We took a
stretcher up the tiny path, and in at the little door. There on the
floor on a mattress lay an old withered woman. We carried her out
gently, the _curé_ helping. General J---- passed--a brave and kindly
man, adored by the soldiers. He remembered us, and approved our action.
Then he asked us to lunch with him on our return journey.
We started off slowly and evenly and reached Alveringhem, where the
_curé_ had told us a convent of nuns took in such old and helpless
peasants. Alas! the mother superior refused. Nothing would shake her
decision; she would have no more--her hands were full. I looked round
the large waiting-room, and begged her to let the poor old thing lie
there. But it could not be. So we went on several miles farther, and
were directed to a home kept by an Englishwoman for refugees. We sent
messengers on every side to find her--unsuccessfully--so we left the
old woman in the house in charge of the other refugees, as we could
find no one with authority. We left full particulars and departed. We
were late, as the difficulty in finding shelter for our charge had been
greater than we anticipated.
We lunched off sandwiches _en route_, and explained our non-appearance
for lunch at Divisional Headquarters. General J---- was very charming,
and gave us tea and invited us to lunch for another day.
We had arranged to dine at an artillery mess at Ramscappelle, and so
hurried on there. Things were fairly lively, and after a wonderful
dinner we had some music, and then in the darkness went up to the
trenches. The rockets and flares were fascinating. Viewed from afar
they are strangely remote, but very friendly here, when one crouched
down amongst all these gallant men--soldiers and heroes whose country
had been torn from them, whose wrongs cry out for vengeance, whose
simple response to honour saved the whole of Europe from being overrun
by the barbarous Boches.
We made sure the doctors had no cases to dispose of, and returned to
the brickyard, where "Flossie" waited patiently. The flares and a
pocket flashlight were all the light we had, and we got off across
bumpy roads--in and out of shell holes. Once we nearly had a nasty
smash, but that was near Furnes. A convoy of great heavy wagons
had been left on the wrong side of the road, and as lights were
not permitted and the night very dark Chris was driving slowly and
warily--peering into the shadows. She brought "Flossie" to a violent
halt, our bonnet touching the first of these unwieldy monsters!