THE ENGLISH CONVOY
My second leave was spent for the most part at a garage in the
neighbouring town near the village where we lived. I positively dreamt
of carburettors, magnetoes, and how to change tyres! The remaining three
of my precious fourteen days were spent in London enjoying life and
collecting kit and such like. We were to be entirely under canvas in our
new camp, and as it was mid-winter you can imagine we made what
preparations we could to avoid dying of pneumonia.
The presentation of a fox terrier, "Tuppence," by name, I hailed with
delight. When all else froze, he would keep me warm, I thought!
It may be interesting to members of the Corps to know the names of those
who formed that pioneer Convoy. They are: Lieutenant Franklin, M.
Thompson (Section Leader), B. Ellis, W. Mordaunt, C. Nicholson, D.
Heasman, D. Reynolds, G. Quin, M. Gamwell, H. Gamwell, B. Hutchinson,
N.F. Lowson, P.B. Waddell, M. Richardson, M. Laidley, O. Mudie-Cooke, P.
Mudie-Cooke and M. Lean (the last three were new members).
I met Lowson and Lean at Victoria on January 3, 1916, and between us we
smuggled "Tuppence" into the boat train without anyone seeing him;
likewise through the customs at Folkestone. Arrived there we found that
mines were loose owing to the recent storms, and the boat was not
sailing till the next day. Then followed a hunt for rooms, which we duly
found but in doing so lost "Tuppence." The rest of the time was spent
looking for him; and when we finally arrived breathless at the police
station, there was the intelligent dog sitting on the steps! I must here
confess this was one of the few occasions he ever exhibited his talents
in that direction, and as such it must be recorded. He was so well bred
that sometimes he was positively stupid, however, he was beautiful to
look at, and one can't have everything in this world.
The next morning the sea was still fairly rough; and I went in to the
adjoining room to find that the gallant Lowson was already up and
stirring, and had gone forth into the town in search of "Mother-sill." I
looked out at the sea and hoped fervently she would find some.
We went on board at nine, after a good breakfast, and decided to stay on
deck. A sailor went round with a megaphone, shouting, "All lifebelts
on," and we were under way.
I confided "Tuppence" to the care of the ship's carpenter and begged him
to find a spare lifebelt for him, so that if the worst came to the worst
he could use it as a little raft!
We watched the two destroyers pitching black against the dashing spray
as they sped along on either side convoying us across.
We arrived at Boulogne in time for lunch, and then set off for our
convoy camp thirty kilometres away, in a British Red Cross touring car
borrowed from the "Christol Hotel."
We arrived there amid a deluge of rain, and the camp looked indeed a
sorry spectacle with the tents all awry in the hurricane that was
blowing.
Bell tents flanked one side of the large open space where the ambulances
stood. A big store tent occupied another and the cook-house was in a
shed at the extreme corner, with the Mess tent placed about as far from
it as possible! I fully appreciated this piece of staff work later.
There were also a lot of bathing machines, which made me vaguely wonder
if a Snark had once inhabited the place.
"The fourth (viz. sign of a Snark) is its fondness for bathing machines
Which it constantly carries about,
And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes--
A sentiment open to doubt."
My surmises were brought to an abrupt end.
"Pat, dear old Pat. I say, old bird, you won't mind going into the
cook-house for a bit, will you, till the real cook comes? You're so
good-natured (?) I know you will, old thing."
Before I could reply, someone else said:
"That's settled then; it's perfectly ripping of you."
"Splendid," said someone else. Being the chief person concerned, I
hadn't had a chance to utter word of protest one way or the other!
When I _could_ gasp out something, I murmured feebly that I _had_
thought I was going to drive a car, and had spent most of my leave
sitting in a garage with that end in view.
"Oh, yes, of course you are, old thing, but the other cook hasn't turned
up yet. Bridget (Laidlay) is worked off her feet, so we decided you'd be
a splendid help to her in the meantime!"
There was nothing else for it.
I discovered I was to share a tent with Quin, and dragged my kit over to
the one indicated. I found her wringing out some blankets and was
greeted with the cheery "Hello, had a good leave? I say, old thing, your
bed's a pool of water."
I looked into the tent and there it was sagging down in the middle with
quite a decent sized pond filling the hollow! "What about keeping some
gold fish?" I suggested, somewhat peevishly.
Whatever happened I decided I couldn't sleep there that night, and with
Quin's help tipped it up and spread it on some boxes outside, as the sun
had come out.
That night I spent at Lamarck on a stretcher--it at least had the virtue
of being dry if somewhat hard.
When I appeared at the cook-house next morning with the words, "Please
mum, I've come!" Bridget literally fell on my neck. She poured out the
difficulties of trying to feed seventeen hungry people, when they all
came in to meals at different hours, especially as the big stove
wouldn't "draw." It had no draught or something (I didn't know very much
about them then). In the meantime all the cooking was done on a huge
Primus stove and the field kitchen outside. I took a dislike to that
field kitchen the moment I saw it, and I think it was mutual. It never
lost an opportunity of "going out on me" the minute my back was turned.
We were rather at a loss to know how to cope with our army rations at
first. We all worked voluntarily, but the army undertook to feed and
house (or rather tent) us. We could either draw money or rations, and at
first we decided on the former. When, however, we realised the enormous
price of the meat in the French shops we decided to try rations instead,
and this latter plan we found was much the best. Unfortunately, as we
had first drawn allowances it took some days before the change could be
effected, and Bridget and I had the time of our lives trying to make
both ends meet in the meantime. That first day she went out shopping it
was my duty to peel the potatoes and put them on to boil, etc. Before
she left she explained how I was to light the Primus stove. Now, if
you've never lit a Primus before, and in between the time you were told
how to do it you had peeled twenty or thirty potatoes, got two scratch
breakfasts, swept the Mess tent and kept that field kitchen from going
out, it's quite possible your mind would be a little blurred. Mine was.
When the time came, I put the methylated in the little cup at the top,
lit it, and then pumped with a will. The result was a terrific roar and
a sheet of flame reaching almost to the roof! Never having seen one in
action before, I thought it was possible they always behaved like that
at first and that the conflagration would subside in a few moments. I
watched it doubtfully, arms akimbo. Bridget entered just then and,
determined not to appear flustered, in as cool a voice as possible I
said: "Is that all right, old thing?" She put down her parcels and,
without a word, seized the stove by one of its legs and threw it on a
sand heap outside! Of course the field kitchen had gone out--(I can't
think who invented that rotten inadequate grating underneath, anyway),
and I felt I was not the bright jewel I might have been.
Our Mess was a huge Indian tent rather out of repair, and, though it had
a bright yellow lining, dusk always reigned within. The mugs, tin
plates, and the oddest knives and forks constituted the "service." It
was windy and chilly to a degree, and one of the few advantages of being
in the cook-house was that one had meals in comparative warmth.
My real troubles began at night when, armed with a heavy tray, I set off
on the perilous journey across the camp to the Mess tent to lay the
table. There were no lights, and it was generally raining. The chief
things to avoid were the tent ropes. As I left the cook-house I decided
exactly in my own mind where the bell-tent ropes extended, ditto those
of the store tent and the Mess, but invariably, just as I thought I was
clear, something caught my ankle as securely as any snake, and down I
crashed on top of the tray, the plates, mugs, and knives scattering all
around. Luckily it was months since the latter had been sharp, or a
steel proof overall would have been my only hope. Distances and the
supposititious length of tent ropes are inclined to be deceptive in the
dark. Nothing will make me believe those ropes were inanimate--they
literally lay in wait for me each night! When any loud crash was heard
in camp it was always taken for granted it was "only Pat taking another
toss."
The wind, too, seemed to take a special delight in doing his bit. Our
camp was situated on the top of a small hill quite near the sea, and
some of the only trees in the neighbourhood flourished there, protected
by a deep thorn hedge. This, however, ended abruptly where the drive led
down to the road. It was when I got opposite the opening where the wind
swept straight up from the sea my real tussle began. As often as not the
tin plates were blown off the tray high into the air! It was then I
realized the value of a chin. Obviously it was meant to keep the lid on
the soup tureen and in this acrobatic attitude, my feet dodging the tent
ropes, I arrived breathless and panting at the door of the Mess tent.
The oil lamp swinging on a bit of wire over the table was as welcome a
sight as an oasis in the desert.
We had no telephone in those days, and orderlies came up from the Casino
hospital and A.D.M.S. with buff slips when ambulances were wanted. At
that time the cars, Argylls, Napiers, Siddeley-Deaseys, and a Crossley,
inscribed "Frank Crossley, the Pet of Poperinghe," were just parked
haphazard in the open square, some with their bonnets one way and some
another--it just depended which of the two drives up to camp had been
chosen. It will make some of the F.A.N.Y.s smile to hear this, when they
think of the neat rows of cars precisely parked up to the dead straight,
white-washed line that ultimately became the order of things!
The bathing machines had their uses, one near the cook-house acting as
our larder, another as a store for spare parts, while several others
were adopted by F.A.N.Y.s as their permanent abodes. One bore the
inscription, "The Savoy--Every Modern Inconvenience!"
Some R.E.'s came to look at the big cook-house stove and decided it must
be put on a raised asphalt sort of platform. Of course this took some
time, and we had to do all the cooking on the Primus. The field kitchen
(when it went) was only good for hot water. We were relieved to see tins
of bully beef and large hunks of cheese arriving in one of the cars the
first day we drew rations, "Thank heaven that at least required no
cooking." It was our first taste of British bully, and we thought it
"really quite decent," and so it was, but familiarity breeds contempt,
and finally loathing. It was the monotony that did it. You would weary
of the tenderest chicken if you had it every other day for months. As
luck would have it, Bridget was again out shopping when, the day
following, a huge round of raw beef arrived. How to cope, that was the
question? (The verb "to cope" was very much in use at that period.)
Obviously it would not fit into the frying pan. But something had to be
done, and done soon, as it was getting late. "They must just have
chops," I said aloud, in desperation, and bravely seizing that round of
beef I cut seventeen squares out of it (slices would have taken too
long; besides, our knife wasn't sharp enough).
They fried beautifully, and no one in the Mess was heard to murmur. When
you've been out driving from 7.30 a.m. hunger covers a multitude of
sins, and Bridget agreed I'd saved the situation.
The beef when I'd finished with it looked exactly as if it had been in a
worry. No _wonder_ cooks never eat what they've cooked, I thought.
To our great disappointment an order came up to the Convoy that all
cameras were to be sent back to England, and everyone rushed round
frantically finishing off their rolls of films. Lowson appeared and took
one of the cook-house "staff" armed with kettles and more or less
covered with smuts. It was rightly entitled, "The abomination of
desolation"--when it came to be gummed into my War Album!
Quin was a great nut with our tent ropes at night, and though she had
not been in camp before the war, assured me she knew all about them.
Needless to say, I was only too pleased to let her carry on.
When I rolled in at night after washing up in the cook-house she would
say: "You must come out and tighten the tent ropes with this gale
blowing, it won't be funny if the whole thing blows over in the night."
But none of the horrors she depicted ever persuaded me to turn out once
I was safely tucked up in my "flea bag" with "Tuppence" acting as a
weight to keep the top blankets in place. In the morning when I awoke
after a sound night's sleep, I would exclaim triumphantly: "There you
are, 'Squig,' what price the tent blowing down? It's as safe as a rock
and hasn't moved an inch!"
"No?" the long-suffering "Squig" would reply bitterly, "it may interest
you to hear I've only been up _twice_ in the night hammering in the pegs
and fixing the ropes!"
The only time I didn't bless her manipulation of these things was when I
rose at 6.30 a.m., by which time they had been frozen stiff and shrunk
to boot. The ones lacing the flap leading out of the tent were as hard
to undo as if they had been made of iron. On these occasions "Tuppence,"
who had hardly realized the seriousness of war, would wake up and want
me instantly to go out, half dressed as I was, and throw stones for his
benefit! That dog had no sense of the fitness of things. If I did not
comply immediately he sat down, threw his head in the air, and "howled
to the moon!" The rest of the camp did not appreciate this pastime; but
if they had known my frenzied efforts with the stiffened ropes "Squig"
had so securely fixed over-night, their sympathies would have been with,
rather than against, me.
One night we had a fearful storm (at least "Squig" told me of it in the
morning and I had no reason to doubt her word), and just as I was
rolling out of bed we heard yells of anguish proceeding from one of the
other tents.
That one had collapsed we felt no doubt, and, rushing out in pyjamas
just as we were, in the wind and rain, we capered delightedly to the
scene of the disaster. The Sisters Mudie-Cooke (of course it would be
their tent that had gone) were now hidden from sight under the heavy
mass of wet canvas on top of them. The F.A.N.Y.s, their hair flying in
the wind, looking more like Red Indians on a scalping expedition than a
salvage party, soon extricated them, and they were taken, with what
clothes could be rescued, to another tent. Their fate, "Squig" assured
me, would have assuredly been ours had it not been for her!
Madame came into existence about this time. She was a poor Frenchwoman
whom we hired to come and wash the dishes for us. She had no teeth,
wispy hair, and looked very underfed and starved. Her "man" had been
killed in the early days of the war. Though she looked hardly strong
enough to do anything, Bridget and I, who interviewed her jointly, had
not the heart to turn her away, and she remained with us ever after and
became so strong and well in time she looked a different woman.
The Mess tent was at last moved nearer the cook-house (I had fallen over
the ropes so often that, quite apart from any feelings I had left, it
was a preventive measure to save what little crockery we possessed).
The cars were all left in a pretty rotten condition, and the petrol was
none too good. How Kirkby, the one mechanic, coped at that time, always
with a cheery smile, will never be known. As Winnie aptly remarked, "In
these days there are only two kinds of beings in the Convoy--a "Bird"
and a "Blighter"!"[12] Kirkby was decidedly in the "Bird" class.
"Be a bird, and do such and such a thing," was a common opening to a
request. Of course if you refused you were a "blighter" of the worst
description.
As you will remember, I was only in the cook-house as a "temporary
help," and great was my joy when Logan (fresh from the Serbian campaign)
loomed up on the horizon as the pukka cook. I retired gracefully--my
only regret being Bridget's companionship. Two beings could hardly have
laughed as much as we had done when impossible situations had arisen,
and when the verb "to cope" seemed ineffective and life just one
"gentle" thing after the other.
I was given the little Mors lorry to drive. To say I adored that car
would not be exaggerating my feelings about it at all. The seat was my
chief joy, it was of the racing variety, some former sportsman having
done away with the tool box that had served as one! "Tuppy" also
appreciated that lorry, and when we set off to draw rations, lying
almost flat, the tips of his ears could just be seen from the front on a
line with the top of my cap.
One of my jobs was to take Sergeant McLaughlan to fetch the hospital
washing from a laundry some distance out of the town. He was an old
"pug," but had grown too heavy to enter the ring, and kept his hand in
coaching the promising young boxers stationed in the vicinity. In
consequence, what I did not know about all their different merits was
not worth knowing, and after a match had taken place every round was
described in full. I grew quite an enthusiast.
He could never bear to see another car in front without trying to pass
it. "Let her rip, Miss," he would implore--"Don't be beat by them
Frenchies." Needless to say I did not need much encouragement, and
nothing ever passed us. (There are no speed limits in France.) There was
a special hen at one place we always tried to catch, but it was a wily
bird and knew a thing or two. McLaughlan was dying to take it home to
the Sergeants' Mess, but we never got her.
One day, as we were rattling down the main street, one of the tyres went
off like a "4.2." We drew to the side, and there it was, as flat as a
pancake.
There are always a lot of people in the streets of a town who seem to
have nothing particular to do, and very soon quite a decent-sized crowd
had collected.
"We must do this in record time," I said to McLaughlan, who knew nothing
about cars, and kept handing me the wrong spanners in his anxiety to
help. "See," exclaimed one, "it makes her nothing to dirty her hands in
such a manner."
"They work like men, these English young girls, is it not so?" said
another. "_Sapristi, c'est merveilleux._"
"One would truly say from the distance that they _were_ men, but this
one, when one sees her close, is not too bad!" said a third.
"Passing remarks about _you_, they are, I should say," said McLaughlan
to me as I fixed the spare wheel in place.
"You wait," I panted, "I'll pay them out."
"See you her strong boots?" they continued. "Believe you that she can
understand what we say?" asked one. "Never on your life," was the
answer, and the wheel in place, they watched every movement as I wiped
my hands on a rag and drew on my gloves. "Eight minutes exactly,"
whispered McLaughlan triumphantly, as he seated himself beside me on the
lorry preparatory to starting.
The crowd still watched expectantly, and, leaning out a little, I said
sweetly, in my best Parisian accent: "_Mesdames et Messieurs, la séance
est terminée_." And off we drove! Their expressions defied description;
I never saw people look so astounded. McLaughlan was unfeignedly
delighted. "Wot was that you 'anded out to them, Miss?" he asked. "Fair
gave it 'em proper anyway, straight from the shoulder," and he chuckled
with glee.
I frequently met an old A.S.C. driver at one of the hospitals where I
had a long wait while the rations were unloaded. He was fat, rosy, and
smiling, and we became great friends. He was at least sixty; and told me
that when War broke out, and his son enlisted, he could not bear to feel
he was out of it, and joined up to do his bit as well. He was a taxi
owner-driver in peace times, and had three of them; the one he drove
being fitted with "real silver vauses!" I heard all about the "missus,"
of whom he was very proud, and could imagine how anxiously she watched
the posts for letters from her only son and her old man.
Some months later when I was driving an ambulance a message was brought
to me that Stone was in hospital suffering from bronchitis. I went off
to visit him.
"I'm for home this time," he said sadly, "but won't the old missus be
pleased?" I looked at his smiling old face and thought indeed she would.
He asked particularly if I would drive him to the boat when he was sent
to England. "It'll seem odd to be going off on a stretcher, Miss," he
said sadly, "just like one of the boys, and not even so much as a
scratch to boast of." I pointed out that there were many men in England
half his age who had done nothing but secure cushy jobs for themselves.
"Well, Miss," he said, as I rose to leave, "it'll give me great pleasure
to drive you about London for three days when the war's over, and in my
best taxi, too, with the silver vauses!"
(N.B. I'm still looking for him.)
Life in the Convoy Camp was very different from Lamarck, and I missed
the cheery companionship of the others most awfully. At meal times only
half the drivers would be in, and for days at a time you hardly saw your
friends.
There were no "10 o'clocks" either. Of course, if you happened to be in
camp at that time you probably got a cup of tea in the cook-house, but
it's not much of a pastime with no one else to drink it with you.
"Pleasant Sunday Evenings" were also out of the question for, with all
the best intentions in the world, no one could have spent an evening in
our Mess tent (even to the accompaniment of soft music) and called it
"pleasant!" They were still carried on at Lamarck, however, and whenever
possible we went down in force.
A BLACK DAY IN THE LIFE OF A CONVOY F.A.N.Y.
(_By kind permission of Winifred Mordaunt,
From "Barrack Room Ballads
of the F.A.N.Y. Corps."_)
Gentle reader, when you've seen this,
Do not think, please, that I mean this
As a common or garden convoy day,
For the Fany, as a habit
Is as jolly as a rabbit--
Or a jay.
But the're days in one's existence,
When the ominous persistence
Of bad luck goes thundering heavy on your track,
Though you shake him off with laughter,
He will leap the moment after--
On your back.
'Tis the day that when on waking,
You will find that you are taking,
Twenty minutes when you haven't two to spare,
And the bloomin' whistle's starting,
When you've hardly thought of parting--
Your front hair!
You acquire the cheerful knowledge,
Ere you rush to swallow porridge,
That "fatigue" has just been added to your bliss,
"If the weather's no objection,
There will be a car inspection--
Troop--dismiss!"
With profane ejaculation,
You will see "evacuation"
Has been altered to an earlier hour than nine,
So your 'bus you start on winding,
Till you hear the muscles grinding--
In your spine.
Let's pass over nasty places,
Where you jolt your stretcher cases
And do everything that's wrong upon the quay,
Then it's time to clean the boiler,
And the sweat drops from the toiler,
Oh--dear me!
When you've finished rubbing eye-wash,
On your engine, comes a "Kibosch."
As the Section-leader never looks at it,
But a grease-cap gently twisting,
She remarks that it's consisting,--
"Half of grit."
Then as seated on a trestle,
With the toughest beef you wrestle,
That in texture would out-rival stone or rock,
You are told you must proceed,
To Boulogne, with care and speed
At two o'clock.
As you're whisking through Marquise
(While the patients sit at ease)
Comes the awful sinking sizzle of a tyre,
It is usual in such cases,
That your jack at all such places,
Won't go higher.
A wet, cold rain starts soaking,
And the old car keeps on choking,
Your hands and face are frozen raw and red,
Three sparking-plugs are missing,
There's another tyre a-hissing,
Well--! 'nuff said!
You reach camp as night's descending,
To the bath with haste you're wending,
A hot tub's the only thing to save a cough,
Cries the F.A.N.Y. who's still in it,
"Ah! poor soul, why just this minute,
Water's off!"
_N.B._--It was a popular pastime of the powers that be to turn the water
off at intervals, without any warning, rhyme or reason--one of the
tragedies of the War.