TYPHOIDS AGAIN, AND PARIS IN 1915
I was on night duty once more in the typhoid wards with Sister Moring
when we had our third bad Zeppelin raid, which was described in the
papers as "the biggest attempted since the beginning of the war." It
certainly was a wonderful sight.
The tocsin was rung in the _Place d'Armes_ about 11.30 p.m. followed by
heavy gunfire from our now more numerous defences. Almost simultaneously
bomb explosions could be heard. We hastily wrapped up what patients were
well enough to move, and the orderlies carried them to the "cave."
Returning across the yard one of them called out that there were three
Zeppelins this time, but though the searchlights were playing, we saw no
sign of them, and presently the "all clear" was sounded.
We had just got the patients from the _cave_ back into bed again when
half an hour later a second alarm was heard. Our feelings on hearing
this could only be described as "terse," a favourite F.A.N.Y.
expression. If only the brutes would leave Hospitals alone instead of
upsetting the patients like this.
The sky presented a wonderful spectacle. Half a dozen searchlights were
playing, and shells were continually bursting in mid-air with a dull
roar. On our way back from the _cave_ where we had again deposited the
patients, the searchlights suddenly focussed all three Zeppelins. There
they were like huge silver cigars gleaming against the stars. They
looked so splendid I couldn't help wishing I was up in one. It seemed
impossible to connect death-dealing bombs with those floating silver
shapes. Shrapnel burst all round them, and then the Zepps. seemed
suddenly to become alive, and they answered with machine guns, and the
patter of bullets and shrapnel could be heard all around. The Commander
of one of the Zepps. apparently fearing his airship might be hit, must
have given the order for all the bombs to be heaved overboard at once,
for suddenly twenty-one fell simultaneously! You can imagine what a
sight it was to see those golden balls of fire falling through the air
from the silver airship. They fell in a field just outside the town near
a little village called _Les Barraques_, the total bag being five cows!
In spite of the three Zeppelins the Huns only succeeded in killing a
baby and an old lady. At last they were successfully driven off, and we
settled down hoping our excitements were over for the night, but no, at
3.30 a.m. the tocsin again rang out a third alarm! This was getting
beyond a joke. The air duel recommenced, bombs were dropped, but
fortunately no serious casualties occurred. Luckily at that time none of
the patients were in a serious condition, so we felt that for once the
Hun had been fairly considerate. It was surprising to find the
comparatively little damage the town had suffered. We had several others
after this, but they are not worth recording here.
One patient we had at that time was a Dutchman who had joined the
Belgian Army in 1914. He was a very droll fellow, and told me he was the
clown at one of the Antwerp Theatres and kept the people amused while
the scenes were being changed. I can quite believe this, for shouts of
laughter could always be heard in his vicinity. He was very good at
imitating animals, and I discovered later that among other
accomplishments he was also a ventriloquist. Sister and I, when the
necessary feeds had been given, used to sit in two deck chairs with a
screen shading the light, near the stove in the middle ward, until the
next were due. One night I heard a cat mewing. It seemed to be almost
under my chair, I got up and looked everywhere. Yes, there it was again,
but this time coming from under one of the men's beds. It was a piteous
mew, and I was determined to find it. I spent a quarter of an hour on
tiptoe looking everywhere. It was not till I heard a stifled chuckle
from the bed next the Dutchman's that I suspected anything, and then,
determined they should get no rise out of me, sat down quietly in my
chair again. Though that cat mewed for the next ten minutes I never
turned an eyelash!
I liked night duty very much, there was something exhilarating about it,
probably because I was new to it, and probably also because I slept like
a top in the daytime (when I didn't get up, breathe it quietly, to steal
out for rides on the sands!). I liked the walk across the yard with the
gaunt old Cathedral showing black against the purple sky, its poor East
window now tied up with sacking.
One night about 1 a.m. I came in from supper in my flat soft felt
slippers, and from sheer joy of living executed, quite noiselessly, a
few steps for Sister's benefit down the middle of the Ward! It was a
great temptation, and needless to say not appreciated by Sister as much
as I had hoped. I heard subdued clapping from the clown's bed, and there
was the wretch wide awake (he was not unlike Morton to look at), sitting
up in bed and grinning with joy!
The next morning as I was going off duty he called me over to him. "_He,
Miske Kinike_," he said, in his funny half Dutch, half Flemish, "if
after the war you desire something to do I will arrange that you appear
with me before the curtain goes up, at the Antwerp Theatre!" He made the
offer in all seriousness, and realizing this, I replied I would
certainly think the proposition over, and fled across to have breakfast
and tell them my future had been arranged for most suitably.
The rolls, the long French kind, were brought each morning in "Flossie,"
by the day staff on their way up from the "shop" referred to in a
F.A.N.Y. alphabet as
"R's for the 'Roll-call'"--a terrible fag--
"Fetching six yards of bread, done up in a bag!"
The other meals were provided by the Belgians and supplemented to a
great extent by us. I am quite convinced we often ate good old horse.
One day, when prowling round the shops to get something fresh for the
night staff's supper, I went into a butcher's. The good lady came
forward to ask me what I wished. I told her; and she smiled agreeably,
saying, "Impossible, Mademoiselle, since long time we have only horse
here for sale!" I got out of that shop with speed.
The orderlies on night duty, on the surgical side, were a lazy lot and
slept the whole night through, more often than not on the floor of the
kitchen. One night the incomparable "Jefké," who was worse than most,
was fast asleep in a dark spot near the big stove, when I went to get
some hot water. He was practically invisible, so I narrowly missed
stepping on his head, and, as it was, collapsed over him, breaking the
tea-pot. Cicely, the ever witty, quickly parodied one of the "Ruthless
Rhymes," and said:--
"Pat who trod on Jefké's face
(He was fast asleep, so let her,)
Put the pieces back in place,
Saying, 'Don't you think he looks _much_ better'?"
(I can't vouch for the truth of the last line.)
One day when up at the front we attended part of a concert given by the
Observation Balloon Section in a barn, candles stuck in bottles the only
illuminations; we were however obliged to leave early to go on to the
trenches. Outside in the moonlight, which was almost as light as day, we
found the men busy sharpening their bayonets.
Another day up at Bourbourg, where we had gone for a ride, on a precious
afternoon off, we saw the first camouflaged field hospital run by
Millicent, Duchess of Sutherland, for the Belgians--the tents were weird
and wonderful to behold, and certainly defied detection from a distance.
Heasy and I were walking down the _Rue_ one afternoon, which was the
Bond Street of this town, when the private detective aforementioned came
up and asked to see our identification cards. These we were always
supposed to carry about with us wherever we went. Besides the hospital
stamp and several others, it contained a passport photo and signature.
Of course we had left them in another pocket, and in spite of
protestations on our part we were requested to proceed to the citadel or
return to hospital to be identified. To our mortification we were
followed at a few yards by the detective and a soldier! Never have I
felt such an inclination to take to my heels. As luck would have it, tea
was in progress in the top room, and they all came down _en masse_ to
see the two "spies." The only comfort we got, as they all talked and
laughed at our expense, was to hear one of the detectives softly
murmuring to himself, "Has anyone heard of the Suffragette movement
here?"
We learnt later that Boche spies disguised in our uniform had been seen
in the vicinity of the trenches. That the Boche took an interest in our
Corps we knew, for, in pre-war days, we had continually received
applications from German girls who wished to become members. Needless to
say they were never accepted.
The first English troops began to filter into the town about this time,
and important "red hats" with brassards bearing the device "L. of C."
walked about the place as if indeed they had bought every stone.
Great were our surmises as to what "L. of C." actually stood for, one
suggestion being "Lords of Creation," and another, "Lords of Calais"! It
was comparatively disappointing to find out it only stood for "Lines of
Communication."
English people have a strange manner of treating their compatriots when
they meet in a foreign country. You would imagine that under the
circumstances they would waive ceremony and greet one another in
passing, but no, such is not the case. If they happen to pass in the
same street they either look haughtily at each other, with apparently
the utmost dislike, or else they gaze ahead with unseeing eyes.
We rather resented this "invasion," as we called it, and felt we could
no longer flit freely across the Place d'Armes in caps and aprons as
heretofore.
In June of 1915, my first leave, after six months' work, was due.
Instead of going to England I went to friends in Paris. The journey was
an adventure in itself and took fourteen hours, a distance that in peace
time takes four or five. We stopped at every station and very often in
between. When this occurred, heads appeared at every window to find out
the reason. _"Qu' est ce qu'il y'a?"_ everyone cried at once. It was
invariably either that a troop train was passing up the line and we must
wait for it to go by, or else part of the engine had fallen off. In the
case of the former, the train was looked for with breathless interest
and handkerchiefs waved frantically, to be used later to wipe away a
furtive tear for those _brave poilus_ or "Tommees" who were going to
fight for _la belle France_ and might never return.
If it was the engine that collapsed, the passengers, with a resigned
expression, returned to their seats, saying placidly: "_C'est la
guerre, que voulez-vous_," and no one grumbled or made any other
comment. With a grunt and a snort we moved on again, only to stop a
little further up the line. I came to the conclusion that that rotten
engine must be tied together with string. No one seemed to mind or
worry. "He will arrive" they said optimistically, and talked of other
things. At every station fascinating-looking _infirmières_ from the
French Red Cross, clad in white from top to toe, stepped into the
carriage jingling little white tin boxes. "_Messieurs, Mesdames, pour
les blessés, s'il vous plaît_,"[8] they begged, and everyone fumbled
without a murmur in their pockets. I began with 5 francs, but by the
time I'd reached Paris I was giving ha' pennies.
At Amiens a dainty Parisienne stepped into the compartment. She was clad
in a navy blue _tailleur_ with a very smart pair of high navy blue kid
boots and small navy blue silk hat. The other occupants of the carriage
consisted of a well-to-do old gentleman in mufti, who, I decided, was a
_commerçant de vin_, and two French officers, very spick and span,
obviously going on leave. _La petite dame bien mise_, as I christened
her, sat in the opposite corner to me, and the following conversation
took place. I give it in English to save translation:
After a little general conversation between the officers and the old
_commerçant_ the latter suddenly burst out with:--"Ha, what I would like
well to know is, do the Scotch soldiers wear the _pantalons_ or do they
not?" Everyone became instantly alert. I could see _la petite dame bien
mise_ was dying to say something. The two French officers addressed
shrugged their shoulders expressive of ignorance in the matter. After
further discussion, unable to contain herself any longer, _la petite
dame_ leant forward and addressing herself to the _commerçant_, said,
"Monsieur, I assure you that they do _not_!"
The whole carriage "sat up and took notice," and the old _commerçant_,
shaking his finger at her said:
"Madame, if you will permit me to ask, that is, if it is not indiscreet,
how is it that you are in a position to know?"
The officers were enjoying themselves immensely. _La petite dame_
hastened to explain. "Monsieur, it is that my window at Amiens she
overlooks the ground where these Scotch ones play the football, and then
a good little puff of wind and one sees, but of course," she concluded
virtuously, "I have not regarded, Monsieur."
They all roared delightedly, and the old _commerçant_ said something to
the effect of not believing a word. "Be quiet, Monsieur, I pray of you,"
she entreated, "there is an English young girl in the corner and she
will of a certainty be shocked." "_Bah, non_," replied the old
_commerçant_, "the English never understand much of any language but
their own" (I hid discreetly behind my paper).
As we neared Paris there was another stop before the train went over the
temporary bridge that had been erected over the Oise. We could still see
the other that had been blown up by the French in order to stem the
German advance on Paris in August 1914. This shattered bridge brought it
home to me how very near to Paris the Boche had been.
As I stepped out of the Gare du Nord all the people were looking
skywards at two Taubes which had just dropped several bombs. Some
welcome, I thought to myself!
Paris in War time at that period (June, 1915) wore rather the
appearance of a deserted city. Every third shop had notices on the doors
to the effect that the owners were absent at the war. Others were being
run by the old fathers and mothers long since retired, who had come up
from the country to "carry on." My friend told me that when she had
returned to Paris in haste from the country, at the beginning of the
war, there was not a taxi available, as they were all being used to rush
the soldiers out to the battle of the Marne. Fancy taxi-ing to a
battlefield!
The Parisians were very interested to see a girl dressed in khaki, and
discussed each item of my uniform in the Métro quite loudly, evidently
under the same impression as the old _commerçant_! My field boots took
their fancy most. _"Mon Dieu!"_ they would exclaim. "Look then, she
wears the big boots like a man. It is _chic_ that, hein?"
In one place, an old curiosity shop in the Quartier St. Germain, the
woman was so thrilled to hear I was an _infirmière_ she insisted on me
keeping an old Roman lamp I was looking at as a souvenir, because her
mother had been one in 1870. War has its compensations.
I also discovered a Monsieur Jollivet at Neuilly, a job-master who had a
few horses left, among them a little English mare which I rode. We went
in the Bois nearly every morning and sometimes along the race course at
Longchamps, the latter very overgrown. "Ah, Mademoiselle," he would
exclaim, "if it was only in the ordinary times, how different would all
this look, and how Mademoiselle would amuse herself at the races!"
One day walking along near the "Observatoire" an old nun stopped me, and
in broken English asked how the war was progressing. (The people in the
shops did too, as if I had come straight from G.H.Q.!) She then went on
to tell me that she was Scotch, but had never been home for thirty-five
years! I could hardly believe it, as she talked English just as a
Frenchwoman might. She knew nothing at all as to the true position of
affairs, and asked me to come in to the Convent to tea one day, which I
did.
They all clustered round me when I went, asking if I had met their
relation so-and-so, who was fighting at the front. They were frightfully
disappointed when I said "No, I had not."
I went to their little chapel afterwards, and later on, the Reverend
Mother, who was so old she had to be supported on each side by two nuns,
came to a window and gave me her blessing. My Scotch friend before I
left pressed a little oxidized silver medal of the Virgin into my hand,
which she assured me would keep me in safety. I treasured it after that
as a sort of charm and always had it with me.
A few days later I was introduced to Warneford, V.C., the man who had
brought down the first Zeppelin. He had just come to Paris to receive
the _Légion d'Honneur_ and the _Croix de Guerre_, and was being fêted
and spoilt by everybody. He promised towards the end of the week, when
he had worked off some of his engagements, to take me up--strictly
against all rules of course--for a short flight. I met him on the
Monday, I think, and on the Wednesday he crashed while making a trial
flight, and died after from his injuries, in hospital. It seemed
impossible to believe when first I heard of it--he was so full of life
and high spirits.
We went to Versailles one day. The loneliness and general air of
desertion that overhang the place seemed more intensified by the war
than ever. The grass had grown very long, the air was sultry, and not a
ripple stirred the calm surface of the lake. It seemed somehow very like
the Palace of a Sleeping Beauty. I wondered if the ghost of Marie
Antoinette ever revisited the Trianon or flitted up and down the wooden
steps of the miniature farm where she had played at being a dairymaid?
As we wended our way back in the evening, the incessant croaking of the
frogs in the big lake was the only sound that broke the stillness. There
was something sinister about it as if they were croaking "We are the
only creatures who now live in this beautiful place, and it is we, with
our ugly voices and bodies, who have triumphed over the beautiful vain
ladies who threw pebbles at us long ago from the terraces."--We turned
away, and the croaking seemed to become more triumphant and echoed in
our ears long after we had left the vicinity.
At night, in Paris, aeroplanes flew round and round the city on scout
duty switching on lights at intervals that made them look like
travelling stars. They often woke one up, and the noise of the engines
was so loud it seemed sometimes as if they must fly straight through
one's window. I used to love to get up early and go down to "Les
Halles," the French Covent Garden, and come back with literally armfuls
of roses of all shades of delicate pink, white, and cream. Tante Rose
(the only name I ever knew her by) was a widow, and the aunt of my
friend. She was one of the _vieille noblesse_ and had a charming house
in Passy, and was as interesting to listen to as a book. She asked me
one day if I would care to go with her to a Memorial Service at the
_Sacré-Coeur_. Looking out of her windows we could see the church
dominating Paris from the heights of Montmartre, the mosque-like
appearance of its architecture gleaming white against the sky.
At that moment the dying rays of the sun lit up the golden cross
surmounting it, and presently the whole building became a delicate rose
pink and seemed almost to float above the city, all blue in the haze of
the evening below. It was wonderful, and a picture I shall always carry
in my mind. I replied I would love to go, and on the following day we
toiled up the dazzling white steps. The service was, I think, the most
impressive I have ever attended. Crowds flocked to it, all or nearly all
in that uniform of deep-mourning incomparably _chic_, incomparably
French, and gaining daily in popularity. Long before the service began
the place was packed to suffocation. Tante Rose looked proudly round and
whispered to me, "Ah, my little one, you see here those who have given
their all for France." Indeed it seemed so on looking round at those
white-faced women; and how I wished that _some_ of the people in
England, who had not been touched by the war, or who at that time (June,
1915) hardly realized there even was one, could have been present.
During another visit to Tante Rose's I heard the following story from an
_infirmière_. A wounded German was brought to one of the French
hospitals. In the bed adjoining lay a Zouave who had had his leg
amputated. The Boche asked for a drink of hot water, the hottest
obtainable. When the Nurse brought it to him he took the glass, and
without a word threw the scalding contents in her face! The Zouave who
had witnessed this brutal act, with a snarl of rage, leapt from his bed
on to the German's and throttled him to death there and then. The other
_blessés_ sat up in bed and cheered. "It is thus," she continued calmly,
"that our brave soldiers avenge us from these brutes." I looked at her
as she sat there so dainty in her white uniform, quite undismayed by
what had taken place. It was just another of those little incidents that
go to show the spirit of the French nation.
Some American friends of mine took me over their hospital for French
soldiers at Neuilly. It was most beautifully equipped from top to
bottom, and I was especially interested in the dental department where
they fitted men with false jaws, etc. Every comfort was provided, and
some of the patients were lying out on balconies under large umbrellas,
smiling happily at all who passed. I sighed when I thought of the
makeshifts we had _là bas_ at Lamarck.
I also went to a sort of review held in the Bois of an _Ambulance
Volant_ (ambulance unit to accompany a Battalion), given and driven by
Americans. They also had a field operating theatre. These drivers were
all voluntary workers, and were Yale and Harvard men who had come over
to see what the "show" was really like. Some of them later joined the
French Army, and one the famous "Foreign Legion," and others went back
to the U.S.A. to make shells.
It was very interesting to hear about the "Foreign Legion." In peace
time most of the people who join it are either fleeing from justice, or
they have no more interest in life and don't care what becomes of them.
It is composed of dare-devils of all nationalities, and the discipline
is of the severest. They are therefore among the most fearless fighters
in the world, and always put in a tight place on the French front. There
is one man at the enlisting dépôt[9] who is a wonderful being, and can size
up a new recruit at a glance. He is known as "Le Sphinx." You must give
him your real name and reason for joining the Legion, and in exchange he
gives you a number by which henceforth you are known. He knows the
secrets of all the Legion, and they are never divulged to a living soul;
he never forgets, nor do they ever pass his lips. One of the most
cherished souvenirs I have is a plain brass button with the inscription
"Légion Étrangère" printed round it in raised letters.
As early as June, 1915, the French were showing what relics they had
brought back from the battlefields. No better place than the
"Invalides," with Napoleon's tomb towering above, could have been chosen
for their display. Part of the courtyard was taken up by captured guns,
and in two separate corners a "Taube," and a German scout machine, with
black crosses on their wings, were tethered like captured birds. There
the widows, leading their little sons by the hand, came dry-eyed to show
young France what their fathers had died in capturing for the glory of
_La Patrie_.
"Dost thou know, Maman," I heard one mite saying, "I would like well to
mount astride that cannon there," indicating a huge 7.4, but the woman
only smiled the saddest smile I have ever seen, and drew him over to
gaze at the silvery remains of the Zeppelin that had been brought down
on the Marne.
The rooms leading off the corridors above were all filled with souvenirs
and helmets, and in another, the captured flags of some of the most
famous Prussian Regiments were spread out in all their glory of gold and
silver embroideries and tassels.
We went on to see Napoleon's tomb, which made an impression on me which
I shall never forget. The sun was just in the right quarter. As we
entered the building, the ante-room seemed purposely darkened to form
the most complete contrast with the inner; where the sun, streaming
through the wonderful glass windows, shone with a steady shaft of blue
light, almost ethereal in colouring, down into the tomb where the great
Emperor slept.