THE ZEPPELIN RAID
Once while on night duty I got up to go to a concert in the town at the
theatre in aid of the _Orphelins de la Guerre_. I must say when the
Frenchman makes up his mind to have a charity concern he does it
properly, and with any luck it begins at 2.30 and goes on till about 9
or possibly 10 p.m.
This was the first we had attended and they subsequently became quite a
feature of the place. It was held on a Sunday, and the entire population
turned out _colimenté_ and _endimanché_ to a degree. The French and
Belgian uniforms were extraordinarily smart, and the Belgian guides in
their tasselled caps, cheery breeches, and hunting-green tunics added
colour to the scene.
The Mayor of the town opened the performance with a long speech, the
purport of which I forget, but it lasted one hour and ten minutes, and
then the performance began. There were several intervals during which
the entire audience left the salle and perambulated along the wide
corridors round the building to greet their friends, and drink champagne
out of large flat glasses, served at fabulous prices by fair ladies of
the town clad in smart muslin dresses. The French Governor-General,
covered with stars and orders, was there in state with his
aides-de-camp, and the Belgian General ditto, and everyone shook hands
and talked at once. Heasy and I stood and watched the scene fascinated.
Tea seemed to be an unheard of beverage. Presently we espied an
Englishman, very large and very tall, talking to a group of French
people. I remark on the fact because in those days there were no English
anywhere near us, and to see a staff car passing through the town was
quite an event. We were glad, as he was the only Englishman there, that
our people had chosen the largest and tallest representative they could
find. Presently he turned, and looked as surprised to see two khaki-clad
English girls in solar topees (the pre-war F.A.N.Y. headgear), as I
think we were to see him.
The intervals lasted for half an hour, and I came to the conclusion they
were as much, if not more, part of the entertainment as the concert
itself.
It was still going strong when we left at 7 p.m. to go on duty, and the
faithful "Flossie" (our Ford) bore us swiftly back to hospital and
typhoids.
On the night of March 18th, 1915, we had our second Zeppelin raid, when
the Hospital had a narrow escape. (The first one occurred on 23rd
February, wiping out an entire family near the "Shop-window.") I was
still on night duty and, crossing over to Typhoids with some dressings,
noticed how velvety the sky looked, with not a star to be seen.
We always had two orderlies on at night, and at 12 o'clock one of them
was supposed to go over to the kitchen and have his supper, and when he
came back at 12.30 the other went. On this particular occasion they had
both gone together. Sister had also gone over at 12 to supper, so I was
left absolutely alone with the fifty patients.[4]
None of the men at that time were particularly bad, except No. 23, who
was delirious and showed a marked inclination to try and get out of bed.
I had just tucked him in safely for the twentieth time when at 12.30 I
heard the throb of an engine. Aeroplanes were always flying about all
day, so I did not think much of it. I half fancied it might be Sidney
Pickles, the airman, who had been to the Hospital several times and was
keen on stunt flying. This throbbing sounded much louder though than any
aeroplane, and hastily lowering what lights we had, with a final tuck to
No. 23, I ran to the door to ascertain if there was cause for alarm. The
noise was terrific and sounded like no engine I had ever heard in my
life. I gazed into the purple darkness and felt sure that I must see the
thing, it seemed actually over my head. The expanse of sky to be seen
from the yard was not very great, but suddenly in the space between the
surgical side and the Cathedral I could just discern an inky shadow,
whale-like in shape, with one small twinkling light like a wicked eye.
The machine was travelling pretty fast and fairly low down, and by its
bulk I knew it to be a Zeppelin. I tore back into the ward where most of
the men were awake, and found myself saying, "_Ce n'est rien, ce n'est
qu'un Zeppelin_" ("It's nothing--only a Zeppelin"), which on second
thoughts I came to the conclusion was not as reassuring as I meant it to
be. By this time the others were on their way back across the yard, and
I turned to give 23 another tuck up.
Such a long time elapsed before any firing occurred; it seemed to me
when I first looked out into the yard I must be the only person who had
heard the Zepp. What were the sentinels doing, I wondered? The
explanation I heard later from a French gunnery lieutenant. The man who
had the key to the ammunitions for the anti-aircraft guns was not at his
post, and was subsequently discovered in a drunken sleep--probably the
work of German spies--at all events he was shot at dawn the following
day. In such manner does France deal with her sons who fail her. As soon
as the Zepp. had passed over, the firing burst forth in full vigour to
die away presently. So far, apparently, no bombs had been dropped. I
suggested to Pierre we should relight one or two lamps, as it was
awkward stumbling about in complete darkness. "_Non, non, Miske_, he
will return," he said with conviction. Apparently, though, all seemed
quiet; and Sister suggested that after all the excitement, I should make
my way across the yard to get some supper. Pierre came with me, and at
that moment a dull explosion occurred. It was a bomb. The Zeppelin was
still there. The guns again blazed away, the row was terrific. Star
shells were thrown up to try and locate the Zepp., and the sky was full
of showering lights, blue, green, and pink. Four searchlights were
playing, shrapnel was bursting, and a motor machine gun let off volleys
from sheer excitement, the sharp tut-tut-tut adding to the general
confusion. In the pauses the elusive Zepp. could be heard buzzing like
some gigantic angry bee. I wouldn't have missed it for anything. It
looked like a fireworks display, and the row was increasing each minute.
Every Frenchman in the neighbourhood let off his rifle with gusto.
Just then we heard an extraordinary rushing noise in the air, like steam
being let off from a railway engine. A terrific bang ensued, and then a
flare. It was an incendiary bomb and was just outside the Hospital
radius. I was glad to be in the open, one felt it would be better to be
killed outside than indoors. If the noise was bad before, it now became
deafening. Pierre suggested the _cave_, a murky cellar by the gate, but
it seemed safer to stay where we were, leaning in the shadow against the
walls of Notre Dame. Very foolish, I grant you, but early in 1915 the
dangers of falling shrapnel, etc., were not so well known. These events
happened in a few seconds. Suddenly Pierre pointed skywards. "He is
there, up high," he cried excitedly. I looked, but a blinding light
seemed to fill all space, the yard was lit up and I remember wondering
if the people in the Zepp. would see us in our white overalls. The
rushing sound was directly over our heads; there was a crash, the very
walls against which we were leaning rocked, and to show what one's mind
does at those moments, I remember thinking that when the Cathedral
toppled over it would just fit nicely into the Hospital square.
Instinctively I put my head down sheltering it as best I could with my
arms, while bricks, mortar, and slates rained on, and all around, us.
There was a heavy thud just in front of us, and when the dust had
cleared away I saw it was a coping from the Cathedral, 2 feet by 4!
Notre Dame had remained standing, but the bomb had completely smashed in
the roof of the chapel, against the walls of which we were leaning! It
was only due to their extreme thickness that we were saved, and also to
the fact that we were under the protection of the wall. Had we been
further out the coping would assuredly have landed on us or else we
should have been hit by the shrapnel contained in the bombs, for the
wall opposite was pitted with it. The dust was suffocating, and I heard
Pierre saying, "Come away, Mademoiselle." Though it takes so long to
describe, only a few minutes had elapsed since leaving to cross the
yard. The beautiful East window of the Cathedral was shivered to atoms,
and likewise every window in the Hospital. All our watches had stopped.
Crashing over broken glass to the surgical side, we pantingly asked if
everyone was safe. We met Porter coming down the stairs, a stream of
blood flowing from a cut on her forehead. I hastily got some dressings
for it. Luckily it was only a flesh wound, and not serious. Besides the
night nurses at the Hospital, the chauffeurs and housekeeper slept in
the far end of the big room at the top of the building. They had not
been awakened (so accustomed were they to din and noise), until the
crash of the bomb on the Cathedral, and it was by the glass being blown
in on to their stretcher beds that Porter had been cut; otherwise no one
else was hurt.
I plunged through the débris back to the typhoids, wondering how 23 had
got on, or rather got out, and, would you believe it, his delirium had
gone and he was sleeping quietly like a child! The only bit of good the
Boche ever did I fancy, for the shock seemed to cure him and he got well
from that moment.
The others were in an awful mess, and practically every man's bed was
full of broken glass. You can imagine what it meant getting this out
when the patients were suffering from typhoid, and had to be moved as
little as possible! One boy in Salle V had a flower pot from the
window-sill above fixed on his head! Beyond being slightly dazed, and of
course covered with mould, he was none the worse; and those who were
well enough enjoyed his discomfiture immensely. Going into Salle III
where there were shouts of laughter (the convalescents were sent to that
room) I saw a funny sight. One little man, who was particularly fussy
and grumpy (and very unpopular with the other men in consequence), slept
near the stove, which was an old-fashioned coal one with a pipe leading
up to the ceiling. The concussion had shaken this to such an extent that
accumulations of soot had come down and covered him from head to foot,
and he was as[5] black as a nigger! His expression of disgust was beyond
description, and he was led through the other two wards on exhibition,
where he was greeted with yells of delight. It was just as well, as it
relieved the tension. It can't be pleasant to be ill in bed and covered
with bits of broken glass and mortar, not to mention the uncertainty of
whether the walls are going to fall in or not. "Ah," said the little
Sergeant to me, "I have never had fear as I had last night." "One is
better in the trenches than in your Hospital, Miske," chimed in another.
"At least one can defend oneself."
One orderly--a new one whom I strongly suspected of being an
_embusqué_--was unearthed in our rounds from under one of the beds, and
came in for a lot of sarcasm, to the great joy of the patients who had
all behaved splendidly.[6] With the exception of Pierre and the porter on
the surgical side, every man jack of them, including the Adjutant, had
fled to the _cave_. A subsequent order came out soon after which amused
us very much:--In the event of future air raids the _infirmiers_
(orderlies) were to fly to the _cave_ with the convalescents while the
_très malades_ were to be left to the care of the _Mees anglaises_![7]
It took us till exactly 7 a.m. to get those three wards in anything like
order, working without stopping. "Uncle," who had dressed hurriedly and
come up to the Hospital from his Hotel to see if he could be of any use,
brought a very welcome bowl of Ivelcon about 2.30, which just made all
the difference, as I had had nothing since 7 the night before. It's
surprising how hungry Zeppelin raids make one!
An extract from the account which appeared in _The Daily Chronicle_ the
following morning was as follows:--
"One bomb fell on Notre Dame Cathedral piercing the vault of one of the
Chapels on the right transept and wreaking irreparable damage to the
beautiful old glass of its gothic windows. This same bomb, which must
have been of considerable size, sent débris flying into the courtyard of
the Lamarcq Hospital full of Belgian wounded being tended by English
Nurses.
"Altogether these Yeomanry nurses behaved admirably, for all the menfolk
with the exception of the doorkeeper" (and Pierre, please), "fled for
refuge to the cellars, and the women were left. In the neighbourhood one
hears nothing but praise of these courageous Englishwomen. Another bomb
fell on a railway carriage in which a number of mechanics--refugees from
Lille--were sleeping, as they had no homes of their own. The effect of
the bomb on these unfortunate men was terrible. They were all more or
less mutilated; and heads, hands, and feet were torn off. Then flames
broke out on top of this carriage and in a moment the whole was one huge
conflagration.
"As the Zeppelin drew off, its occupants had the sinister satisfaction
of leaving behind them a great glare which reddened the sky for a full
hour in contrast with the total blackness of the town."
Chris took out "Flossie," and was on the scene of this last disaster as
soon as she could get into her clothes after being so roughly awakened
by the splinters of glass.
When the day staff arrived from the "Shop-window," what a sight met
their eyes! The poor old place looked as if it had had a night of it,
and as we sat down to breakfast in the kitchen we shivered in the icy
blasts that blew in gusts across the room, for of course the weather had
made up its mind to be decidedly wintry just to improve matters. It took
weeks to get those windows repaired, as there was a run on what glaziers
the town possessed. The next night our plight in typhoids was not one to
be envied--Army blankets had been stretched inadequately across the
windows and the beds pulled out of the way of draughts as much as
possible, but do what we could the place was like an icehouse; the snow
filtered softly through the flapping blankets, and how we cursed the
Hun! At 3 a.m. one of the patients had a relapse and died.