CONCERNING BATHS, "JOLIE ANNETTE," "MARIE-MARGOT" AND "ST. INGLEVERT."
After this event I was sent back for a time to the _blessés graves_ on
the surgical side on day duty. All who had been on duty that memorable
night had had a pretty considerable shock. It was like leaving one world
and stepping into another, so complete was the change from typhoids.
The faithful Jefké was still there stealing jam for the patients,
spending a riotous Saturday night _au cinéma_, going to Mass next
morning, and then presenting himself in the Ward again looking as if
butter would not melt in his mouth!
A new assistant orderly was there as well. A pious looking individual in
specs. He worked as if manual labour pained him, and was always studying
out of a musty little book. He was desperately keen to learn English and
spoke it on every possible occasion; was intensely stupid as an orderly
and obstinate as a mule. He was trying in the extreme. One day he told
me he was intended for higher things and would soon be a priest in the
Church. Sister Lampen, who was so quick and thorough herself, found him
particularly tiresome, and used to refer to him as her "cross" in life!
One day she called him to account, and, in an exasperated voice said,
"What are you supposed to be doing here, Louis, anyway? Are you an
orderly or aren't you?" "_Mees_," he replied piously, rolling his eyes
upwards, "I am learning to be a father!" I gave a shriek of delight and
hastened up to tea in the top room with the news.
We were continually having what was known as _alertes_, that the Germans
were advancing on the town. We had boxes ready in all the Wards with a
list on the lid indicating what particular dressings, etc., went in
each. None of the _alertes_, however, materialized. We heard later it
was only due to a Company of the gallant Buffs throwing themselves into
the breach that the road to Calais had been saved.
There were several exciting days spent up at our Dressing Station at
Hoogstadt, and one day to our delight we heard that three of the
F.A.N.Y.'s, who had been in the trenches during a particularly bad
bombardment, were to be presented with the Order of Leopold II. A daily
paper giving an account of this dressing station headed it, in their
enthusiasm, "Ten days without a change of clothes. Brave Yeomanry
Nurses!"
It was a coveted job to post the letters and then go down to the Quay to
watch the packet come in from England. The letters, by the way, were
posted in the guard's van of a stationary train where Belgian soldiers
sorted and despatched them. I used to wonder vaguely if the train rushed
off in the night delivering them.
There was a charm and fascination about meeting that incoming boat; the
rattle of chains, the clang as the gangway was fixed, the strange cries
of the French sailors, the clicking of the bayonets as the cordon formed
round the fussy passport officer, and lastly the excitement of watching
to see if there was a spy on board. The _Walmer Castle_ and the
_Canterbury_ were the two little packets employed, and they have
certainly seen life since the war began. Great was our excitement if we
caught sight of Field Marshal French on his way to G.H.Q., or King
Albert, his tall form stooping slightly under the cares of State, as he
stepped into his waiting car to be whirled northwards to _La Panne_.
The big Englishman (accompanied by a little man disguised in very plain
clothes as a private Detective) also scanned every passenger closely as
he stepped on French soil, and we turned away disgustedly as each was
able to furnish the necessary proof that he was on lawful business.
"Come, Struttie, we must fly," and back we hurried over the bridge, past
the lighthouse, across the Place d'Armes, up the Rue de la Rivière and
so to Hospital once more.
When things became more settled, definite off times were arranged. Up to
then sisters and nurses had worked practically all day and every day, so
great was the rush. We experienced some difficulty in having baths, as
there were none up at the "Shop." Dr. Cools from the Gare Centrale told
us some had been fitted in a train down there, and permission was
obtained for us to use them. But first we were obliged to present
ourselves to the Commandant (for the Railway shed there had been turned
into an _Hôpital de Passage_, where the men waited on stretchers till
they were collected each morning by ambulances for the different
Hospitals), and ask him to be kind enough to furnish a _Bon pour un
bain_ (a bath pass)! When I first went to the Bureau at the gare and saw
this Commandant in his elegant tight-fitting navy blue uniform, with
pointed grey beard and general air of importance, I felt that to ask him
for a "bath ticket" was quite the last thing on earth! He saw my
hesitation, and in the most natural manner in the world said with a bow,
"Mademoiselle has probably come for _un bon_?" I assented gratefully,
was handed the pass and fled. It requires some courage to face four
officials in order to have a bath.
Arrived at the said train, one climbed up a step-ladder in to a truck
divided into four partitions, and Ziské, a deaf old Flamand, carried
buckets of boiling water from the engine and we added what cold we
wanted ourselves. You will therefore see that when anyone asked you what
you were doing in your free time that day and you said you were "going
to have a bath," it was understood that it meant the whole afternoon
would be taken up.
At first we noticed the French people seemed a little stiff in their
manner and rather on the defensive. We wondered for some time what could
be the reason, and chatting one day with Madame at the dug-out I
mentioned the fact to her.
"See you, Mademoiselle, it is like this," she explained, "you others,
the English, had this town many years ago, and these unlettered ones,
who read never the papers and know nothing, think you will take
possession of the town once again." Needless to say in time this
impression wore off and they became most friendly.
The Place d'Armes was a typical French marketplace and very picturesque.
At one corner of the square stood the town hall with a turret and a very
pretty Carillon called "Jolie Annette," since smashed by a shell. I
asked an old shopkeeper why the Carillon should be called by that name
and he told me that in 1600 a well-to-do _commerçant_ of the town had
built the turret and promised a Carillon only on the condition that it
should be a line from a song sung by a fair lady called "Jolie Annette,"
performing at a music hall or Café Chantant in the town at that time.
The inhabitants protested, but he refused to give the Carillon unless he
could have his own way, which he ultimately did. Can't you imagine the
outraged feelings of the good burghers? "_Que voulez-vous,
Mademoiselle_," the old man continued, shrugging his shoulders, "_Jolie
Annette ne chante pas mal, hein?_" and I agreed with him.
I thought it was rather a nice story, and I often wondered, when I
heard that little song tinkling out, exactly what "Jolie Annette" really
looked like, and I quite made up my mind on the subject. Of course she
had long side curls, a slim waist, lots of ribbons, a very full skirt,
white stockings, and a pair of little black shoes, and last but not
least, a very bewitching smile. It is sad to think that a shell has
silenced her after all these years, and I hope so much that someone will
restore the Carillon so that she can sing her little song once again.
In one corner of the square was a house (now turned into a furniture
shop) where one of the F.A.N.Y.'s great-grandmothers had stayed when
fleeing with the Huguenots to England. They had finally set off across
the Channel in rowing boats. Some sportsmen!
Market days on Saturdays were great events, and little booths filled up
the whole _place_, and what bargains one could make! We bought all the
available flowers to make the wards as bright as possible. In the
afternoons when there was not much to do except cut dressings, I often
sat quietly at my table and listened to the discussions which went on in
the ward. The Belgian soldier loves an argument.
One day half in French, and half in Flemish, they were discussing what
course they would pursue if they found a wounded German on the
battlefield. "_Tuez-le comme un lapin_," cried one. "_Faut les
zigouiller tous_," cried another (almost untranslatable slang, but
meaning more or less "choke the lot"). "_Ba, non, sauvez-le p'is qu'il
est blessé_," cried a third to which several agreed. This discussion
waxed furious till finally I was called on to arbitrate. One boy was
rapidly working himself into a fever over the question. He was out to
kill any Boche under any conditions, and I don't blame him. This was his
story:
In the little village where he came from, the Germans on entering had
treated the inhabitants most brutally. He was with his old father and
mother and young brother of eight--(It was August 1914 and his class had
not yet been called up). Some Germans marched into the little cottage
and shaking the old woman roughly by the arm demanded something to
drink. His mother was very deaf and slow in her movements and took some
time to understand. "Ha," cried one brute, "we will teach you to walk
more quickly," and without more ado he ran his sword through her poor
old body. The old man sprang forward, too late to save her, and met with
the same fate. The little brother had been hastily hidden in an empty
cistern as they came in. "Thus, Mademoiselle," the boy ended, "I have
seen killed before my eyes my own father and mother; my little brother
for all I know is also dead. I have yet to find out. I myself was taken
prisoner, but luckily three days later managed to escape and join our
army; do you therefore blame me, _Miske_, if I wish to kill as many of
the swine as possible?" He sank back literally purple in the face with
rage, and a murmur of sympathy went round the Ward. His wound was not a
serious one, for which I was thankful, or he might have done some harm.
One evening I was wandering through the "Place d'Armes" when some
violins in a music shop caught my eye. I went in and thus became
acquainted with the family Tétar, consisting of an old father and his
two daughters. They were exceedingly friendly and allowed me to try all
the violins they had. At last I chose a little "Mirecourt" with a very
nice tone, which I hired and subsequently bought.
In time Monsieur Tétar became very talkative, and even offered to play
accompaniments for me. He had an organ in a large room above the shop
cram full of old instruments, but in the end he seemed to think it might
show a want of respect to Madame his late wife (now dead two years), so
the accompanying never came off. For the same reason his daughter, who
he said "in the times" had played the violin well, had never touched her
instrument since the funeral.
* * * * *
There was one special song we heard very often rising up from the Café
Chantant, in the room at the dug-out. When I went round there to have
supper with them we listened to it entranced. It was a priceless tune,
very catching and with lots of go; I can hear it now. I was determined
to try and get a copy, and went to see Monsieur Tétar about it one day.
I told him we did not know the name, but this was the tune and hummed it
accordingly. A French Officer looking over some music in a corner
became convulsed and hurriedly ducked his head into the pages, and I
began to wonder if it was quite the thing to ask for.
Monsieur Tétar appeared to be somewhat scandalized, and exclaimed, "I
know it, Mademoiselle, that song calls itself _Marie-Margot la
Cantinière_, but it is, let me assure you, of a certainty not for the
young girls!" No persuasion on my part could produce it, so our
acquaintance with the fair _Marie-Margot_ went no further than the tune.
The extreme gratitude of the patients was very touching. When they left
for Convalescent homes, other Hospitals, or to return to the trenches,
we received shoals of post cards and letters of thanks. When they came
on leave they never failed to come back and look up the particular
_Miske_ who had tended them, and as often as not brought a souvenir of
some sort from _là bas_.
One man to whom I had sent a parcel wrote me the following letter. I
might add that in Hospital he knew no English at all and had taught
himself in the trenches from a dictionary. This was his letter:
"My lady" (Madame), "The beautiful package is safely
arrived. I thank you profoundly from all my heart. The shawl
(muffler) is at my neck and the good socks are at my feet as
I write. Like that one has well warmth.
"We go to make some café also out of the package, this
evening in our house in the trenches, for which I thank you
again one thousand times.
"Receive, my lady, the most distinguished sentiments on the
part of your devoted
"JEAN PROMPLER,
"1st Batt. Infanterie,
"12th line Regiment."
I remember my first joy-ride so well. "Uncle" took Porter and myself up
to St. Inglevert with some stores for our small convalescent home, of
which more anon.
Before proceeding further, I must here explain who "Uncle" was. He
joined the Corps in 1914 in response to an advertisement from us in the
_Times_ for a driver and ambulance, and was accepted immediately. He was
over military age, and had had his Mors car converted into an ambulance
for work at the front, and went up to Headquarters one day to make final
arrangements. There, to his intense surprise, he discovered that the
"First Aid Nursing Yeomanry" was a woman's, and not a man's show as he
had at first supposed.
He was so amused he laughed all the way down the Earls Court Road!
He bought his own petrol from the Belgian _Parc d'Automobiles_, and,
when he was not driving wounded, took as many of the staff for joy-rides
as he could.
The blow in the fresh air was appreciated by us perhaps more than he
knew, especially after a hard morning in the typhoid wards.
The day in question was bright and fine and the air, when once we had
left the town and passed the inevitable barriers, was clear and
invigorating, like champagne. We soon arrived at St. Inglevert, which
consisted of a little Church, an _Estaminet_, one or two cottages, the
_curé's_ house, and a little farm with parish room attached. The latter
was now used as a convalescent home for our typhoid patients until they
were strong enough to take the long journey to the big camp in the South
of France. The home was run by two of the F.A.N.Y.s for a fortnight at a
time. It was no uncommon sight to see them on the roads taking the
patients out "in crocodile" for their daily walk! Many were the curious
glances cast from the occupants of passing cars at the two khaki-clad
English girls, walking behind a string of sick-looking men in uniform.
Probably they drove on feeling it was another of the unsolved mysteries
of the war!
We found Bunny struggling with the stove in the tiny kitchen, where she
soon coaxed the kettle to boil and gave us a cup of tea. Before our
return journey to Hospital we were introduced to the Curé of St.
Inglevert, who was half Irish and half French. He spoke English well and
gave a great deal of assistance in running the home, besides being both
witty and amusing.
We visited the men who were having tea in their "refectory" under
Cicely's supervision, and once more returned to work at Lamarck.