THE PASSING OF THE LITTLE LORRY, "OLD BILL" AND "'ERB" AT AUDRICQ
A mild sensation was caused one day by a collision on the Boulogne road
when a French car skidded into one of ours (luckily empty at the time)
and pushed it over into the gutter.
"Heasy" and Lowson were both requested to appear at the subsequent Court
of Enquiry, and Sergeant Lawrence, R.A.M.C. (who had been on the
ambulance at the time) was bursting with importance and joy at the
anticipation of the proceedings. He was one of the chief witnesses, and
apart from anything else it meant an extra day's pay for him, though why
it should I could never quite fathom.
As they drove off, with Boss as chaperone, a perfect salvo of old shoes
was thrown after them!
They returned with colours flying, for had not Lowson saved the
situation by producing a tape measure three minutes after the accident,
measuring the space the Frenchman swore was wide enough for his car to
pass, and proving thereby it was a physical impossibility?
"How," asked the Colonel, who was conducting the Enquiry, "can you
declare with so much certainty the space was 3 feet 8 inches?"
"I measured it," replied Lowson promptly.
"May I ask with what?" he rasped.
"A tape-measure I had in my pocket," replied she, smiling affably the
while (sensation).
The Court of Enquiry went down like a pack of cards before that tape
measure. Such a thing had never been heard of before; and from then
onwards the reputation of the "lady drivers" being prepared for all
"immersions" was established finally and irrevocably.
It was a marvel how fit we all kept throughout those cold months. It was
no common thing to wake up in the mornings and find icicles on the top
blanket of the "flea bag" where one's breath had frozen, and of course
one's sponge was a solid block of ice. It was duly placed in a tin basin
on the top of the stove and melted by degrees. Luckily we had those
round oil stoves; and with flaps securely fastened at night we achieved
what was known as a "perfectly glorious fug."
Engineers began to make frequent trips to camp to choose a suitable site
for the huts we were to have to replace our tents.
My jobs on the little lorry were many and varied; getting the weekly
beer for the Sergeants' Mess being one of the least important. I drew
rations for several hospitals as well as bringing up the petrol and
tyres for the Convoy, rationing the Officers' Mess, etc.; and regularly
at one o'clock just as we were sitting at Mess, Sergeant Brown would
appear (though we never saw more of him than his legs) at the aperture
that served as our door, and would call out diffidently in his high
squeaky voice: "Isolation, when you're ready, Miss," and as regularly
the whole Mess would go off into fits! This formula when translated
meant that he was ready for me to take the rations to the Isolation
hospital up the canal. Hastily grabbing some cheese I would crank up the
little lorry and depart.
The little lorry did really score when an early evacuation took place,
at any hour from 4 a.m. onwards, when the men had to be taken from the
hospitals to the ships bound for England. How lovely to lie in bed and
hear other people cranking up their cars!
Barges came regularly down the canals with cases too seriously wounded
to stand the jolting in ambulance trains. One day we were all having
tea, and some friends had dropped in, when a voice was heard calling
"Barges, Barges." Without more ado the whole Mess rose, a form was
overturned, and off they scampered as fast as they could to get their
cars and go off immediately. The men left sitting there gazed blankly at
each other and finally turned to me for an explanation--(being a lorry,
I was not required). "Barges," I said; "they all have to hurry off as
quickly as possible to unload the cases." They thought it rather a
humorous way of speeding the parting guest, but I assured them work
always came before (or generally during) tea in our Convoy! Major S.P.
never forgot that episode, and the next time he came, heralded his
arrival by calling out at the top of his voice, "Barges, Barges!" with
the result that half the Convoy turned out _en masse_. He assured his
friends it was the one method of getting a royal welcome.
I shall never forget with what fear and trepidation I drove my first lot
of wounded. I was on evening duty when the message came up about seven
that there were eight bad cases, too bad to stay on the barge till next
morning, which were to be removed to hospital immediately. Renny and I
set off, each driving a Napier ambulance. We backed into position on the
sloping shingly ground near the side of the canal, and waited for the
barge to come in.
Presently we espied it slipping silently along under the bridge. The
cases were placed on lifts and slung gently up from the inside of the
barge, which was beautifully fitted up like a hospital ward.
It is not an easy matter when you are on a slope to start off smoothly
without jerking the patients within; and I held my breath as I
declutched and took off the brake, accelerating gently the meanwhile.
Thank heaven! We were moving slowly forward and there had been no jerk.
They were all bad cases and an occasional groan would escape their lips
in spite of themselves. I dreaded a certain dip in the road--a sort of
open drain known in France as a _canivet_--but fortunately I had
practised crossing it when out one day trying a Napier, and we
manoeuvred it pretty fairly. My relief on getting to hospital was
tremendous. My back was aching, so was my knee (from constant
clutch-slipping over the bumps and cobbles), and my eyes felt as if they
were popping out of my head. In fact I had a pretty complete "stretcher
face!" I had often ragged the others about their "stretcher faces,"
which was a special sort of strained expression I had noticed as I
skimmed past them in the little lorry, but now I knew just what it felt
like.
The new huts were going apace, and were finished about the end of April,
just as the weather was getting warmer. We were each to have one to
ourselves, and they led off on each side of a long corridor running down
the centre. These huts were built almost in a horse-shoe shape and--joy
of joys! there were to be two bathrooms at the end! We also had a
telephone fixed up--a great boon. The furniture in the huts consisted of
a bed and two shelves, and that was all. There was an immediate slump in
car cleaning. The rush on carpentering was tremendous. It was by no
means safe for a workman to leave his tools and bag anywhere in the
vicinity; his saw the next morning was a thing to weep over if he did.
(It's jolly hard to saw properly, anyway, and it really looks such an
easy pastime.)
The wooden cases that the petrol was sent over in from England, large
enough to hold two tins, were in great demand. These we made into
settees and stools, etc., and when stained and polished they looked
quite imposing. The contractor kindly offered to paint the interiors of
the huts for us as a present, but we were a little startled to see the
brilliant green that appeared. Someone unkindly suggested that he could
get rid of it in no other way.
When at last they were finished we received orders to take up our new
quarters, but, funnily enough, we had become so attached to our tents by
that time that we were very loath to do so. A fatigue party however
arrived one day to take the tents down, so there was nothing for it.
Many of the workmen were most obliging and did a lot of odd jobs for us.
I rescued one of the Red Cross beds instead of the camp one I had had
heretofore--the advantage was that it had springs--but there was only
the mattress part, and so it had to be supported on two petrol cases for
legs! The disadvantage of this was that as often as not one end slipped
off in the night and you were propelled on to the floor, or else two
opposite corners held and the other two see-sawed in mid-air. Both great
aids to nightmares.
"Tuppence" did not take at all kindly to the new order of things; he
missed chasing the mice that used to live under the tent boards and
other minor attractions of the sort.
The draughtiness and civilization of the new huts compared with the
"fug" of the tents all combined to give us chills! I had a specially bad
one, and managed with great skill to wangle a fortnight's sick leave in
Paris.
The journey had not increased much in speed since my last visit, but
everything in Paris itself had assumed a much more normal aspect. The
bridge over the Oise had long since been repaired, and hardly a shop
remained closed. I went to see my old friend M. Jollivet at Neuilly, and
had the same little English mare to ride in the Bois, and also visited
many of the friends I had made during my first leave there.
I got some wonderful French grey Ripolin sort of stuff from a little
shop in the "Boul' Mich" with which to tone down the violent green in my
hut, that had almost driven me mad while I lay ill in bed.
The Convoy was gradually being enlarged, and a great many new drivers
came out from England just after I got back. McLaughlan gave me a great
welcome when I went for the washing that afternoon. "It's good to see
you back, Miss," he said, "the driver they put on the lorry was very
slow and cautious--you know the 'en we always try to catch? Would you
believe it we slowed down to walking pace so as to _miss_ 'er!" and he
sniffed disgustedly.
The news of the battle of Jutland fell like a bombshell in the camp
owing to the pessimistic reports first given of it in the papers. A
witty Frenchman once remarked that in all our campaigns we had only won
one battle, but that was the last, and we felt that however black things
appeared at the moment we would come out on top in the end. The news of
Kitchener's death five days later plunged the whole of the B.E.F. into
mourning, and the French showed their sympathy in many touching ways.
One day to my sorrow I heard that the little Mors lorry was to be done
away with, owing to the shortage of petrol that began to be felt about
this time, and that horses and G.S. wagons were to draw rations, etc.,
instead. It had just been newly painted and was the joy of my
heart--however mine was not to reason why, and in due course Red Cross
drivers appeared with two more ambulances from the Boulogne _dépôt_, and
they made the journey back in the little Mors.
It was then that "Susan" came into being.
The two fresh ambulances were both Napiers, and I hastily consulted
Brown (the second mechanic who had come to assist Kirkby as the work
increased) which he thought was the best one. (It was generally felt I
should have first choice to console me for the loss of the little Mors.)
I chose the speediest, naturally. She was a four cylinder Napier, given
by a Mrs. Herbert Davies to the Red Cross at the beginning of the war
(_vide_ small brass plate affixed), and converted from her private car
into an ambulance. She had been in the famous old Dunkirk Convoy in
1914, and was battle-scarred, as her canvas testified, where the bullets
and shrapnel had pierced it. She had a fat comfortable look about her,
and after I had had her for some time I felt "Susan" was the only name
for her; and Susan she remained from that day onwards. She always came
up to the scratch, that car, and saved my life more than once.
We snatched what minutes we could from work to do our "cues," as we
called our small huts. It was a great pastime to voyage from hut to hut
and see what particular line the "furnishing" was taking. Mine was
closed to all intruders on the score that I had the "painters in." It
was to be _art nouveau_. I found it no easy matter to get the stuff on
evenly, especially as I had rather advanced ideas as to mural
decoration! With great difficulty I stencilled long lean-looking
panthers stalking round the top as a sort of fresco. I cut one pattern
out in cardboard and fixing it with drawing pins painted the Ripolin
over it, with the result that I had a row of green panthers prowling
round against a background of French grey! I found them very restful,
but of course opinions differ on these subjects. Curtains and cushions
were of bright Reckitt's blue material, bought in the market, relieved
by scrolls of dull pink wool embroidered (almost a stitch at a time) in
between jobs. The dark stained "genuine antiques" or _veritables
imitations_ (as I once saw them described in a French shop) looked
rather well against this background; and a tremendous house-warming took
place to celebrate the occasion.
No. 30 Field hospital arrived one day straight from Sicily, where it had
apparently been sitting ever since the war, awaiting casualties.
As there seemed no prospect of any being sent, they were ordered to
France, and took up their quarters on a sandy waste near the French
coastal forts. The orderlies had picked up quite a lot of Italian during
their sojourn and were never tired of describing the wonderful sights
they had seen.
While waiting for patients there one day, a corporal informed me that on
the return journey they had "passed the volcano Etna, in rupture!"
A great many troops came to a rest camp near us, and I always feel that
"Tuppence's" disappearance was due to them. He _would_ be friendly with
complete strangers, and several times had come in minus his collar
(stolen by French urchins, I supposed). I had just bought his fourth,
and rather lost heart when he turned up the same evening without it once
more. Work was pouring in just then, and I would sometimes be out all
day. When last I saw him he was playing happily with Nellie, another
terrier belonging to a man at the Casino, and that night I missed him
from my hut. I advertised in the local rag (he was well known to all the
French people as he was about the only pure bred dog they'd ever seen),
but to no avail. I also made visits to the _Abattoir_, the French
slaughter house where strays were taken, but he was not there, and I
could only hope he had been taken by some Tommies, in which case I knew
he would be well looked after. I missed him terribly.
Work came in spasms, in accordance with the fighting of course, and when
there was no special push on we had tremendous car inspections. Boss
walked round trying to spot empty grease caps and otherwise making
herself thoroughly objectionable in the way of gear boxes and
universals. On these occasions "eye-wash" was extensively applied to the
brass, the idea being to keep her attention fixed well to the front by
the glare.
One day, when all manner of fatigues and other means of torture had been
exhausted, Dicky and Freeth discovered they had a simultaneous birthday.
Prospects of wounded arriving seemed nil, and permission was given for a
fancy-dress tea party to celebrate the double event. It must be here
understood that whether work came in or not we all had to remain on duty
in camp till five every day, in case of the sudden arrival of ambulance
trains, etc. After that hour, two of us were detailed to be on evening
duty till nine, while all night duty was similarly taken in turns.
Usually, after hanging about all day till five, a train or barges would
be announced, and we were lucky if we got into bed this side of 12.
Hardly what you might call a "six-hour day," and yet nobody went on
strike.
The one in question was fine and cloudless, and birthday wishes in the
shape of a Taube raid were expressed by the Boche, who apparently keeps
himself informed on all topics.
The fancy dresses (considering what little scope we had and that no one
even left camp to buy extras in the town) were many and varied. "Squig"
and de Wend were excellent as bookies, in perfectly good toppers made
out of stiff white paper with deep black ribbon bands and "THE OLD
FIRM" painted in large type on cards. Jockeys, squaws, yokels, etc., all
appeared mysteriously from nothing. I was principally draped in my
Reckitts blue upholsterings and a brilliant Scherezade kimono, bought in
a moment of extravagance in Paris.
The proceedings after tea, when the cooks excelled themselves making an
enormous birthday cake, consisted of progressive games of sorts. You
know the kind of thing, trying to pick up ten needles with a pin (or is
it two?) and doing a Pelman memory stunt after seeing fifty objects on a
tray, and other intellectual pursuits of that description. Another stunt
was putting a name to different liquids which you smelt blindfold. This
was the only class in which I got placed. I was the only one apparently
who knew the difference between whisky and brandy! Funnily enough, would
you believe it, it was the petrol that floored me. Considering we
wallowed in it from morning till night it was rather strange. I was
nearly spun altogether when it came to the game of Bridge in the
telephone room. "I've never played it in my life," I said desperately.
"Never mind," said someone jokingly, "just take a hand." I took the tip
seriously and did so, looking at my cards as gravely as a judge--finally
I selected one and threw it down. To my relief no one screamed or
denounced me and I breathed again. (It requires some skill to play a
game of Bridge when you know absolutely nothing about it.)
"Pity you lost that last trick," said my partner to me as we left the
room; "it was absolutely in your hand."
"Was it?" I asked innocently.
We had a rush of work after this, and wounded again began to pour in
from the Third Battle of Ypres.
Early evacuations came regularly with the tides. They would begin at 4
a.m. and get half an hour later each day. When we took "sitters" (i.e.
sitting patients with "Blighty" wounds), one generally came in front and
sat beside the driver, and on the way to the Hospital Ships we sometimes
learnt a lot about them. I had a boy of sixteen one day, a bright cheery
soul. "How did you get in?" (meaning into the army), I asked. "Oh, well,
Miss, it was like this, I was afraid it would be over before I was old
enough, so I said I was eighteen. The recruiting bloke winked and so did
I, and I was through." Another, when asked about his wound, said, "It's
going on fine now, Sister (they always called us Sister), but I lost me
conscience for two days up the line with it."
We had a bunch of Canadians to take one day. "D'you come from Sussex?"
asked one, of me. "No," I replied, "from Cumberland." "That's funny," he
said, "the V.A.D. who looked after me came from Sussex, and she had the
same accent as you, I guess!" Another man had not been home for five
years, but had joined up in Canada and come straight over. A Scotsman
had not been home for twenty, and he intended to see his "folks" and
come out again as soon as he was passed fit by the doctors.
One fine morning at 5 a.m. we were awakened by a fearful din, much worse
than the usual thing. The huts trembled and our beds shook beneath us,
not to mention the very nails falling out of the walls! We wondered at
first if it was a fleet of Zepps. dropping super-bombs, but decided it
was too light for them to appear at that hour.
There it was again, as if the very earth was being cleft in two, and our
windows rattled in their sockets. It is not a pleasant sensation to have
steady old Mother Earth rocking like an "ashpan" leaf beneath your feet.
We dressed hurriedly, knowing that the cars might be called on to go out
at any moment.
What the disaster was we could not fathom, but that it was some distance
away we had no doubt.
At 7 a.m. the telephone rang furiously, and we all waited breathless for
the news.
Ten cars were ordered immediately to Audricq, where a large ammunition
dump had been set on fire by a Boche airman.
Heavy explosions continued at intervals all the morning as one shed
after another became affected.
When our cars got there the whole dump was one seething mass of smoke
and flames, and shells of every description were hurtling through the
air at short intervals. Several of these narrowly missed the cars. It
was a new experience to be under fire from our own shells. The roads
were littered with live ones, and with great difficulty the wheels of
the cars were steered clear of them!
Many shells were subsequently found at a distance of five miles, and one
buried itself in a peaceful garden ten miles off!
A thousand 9.2's had gone off simultaneously and made a crater big
enough to bury a village in. It was this explosion that had shaken our
huts miles away. The neighbouring village fell flat like a pack of cards
at the concussion, the inhabitants having luckily taken to the open
fields at the first intimation that the dump was on fire.
The total casualties were only five in number, which was almost
incredible in view of the many thousands of men employed. It was due to
the presence of mind of the Camp Commandant that there were not more;
for, once he realized the hopeless task of getting the fire under
control, he gave orders to the men to clear as fast as they could. They
needed no second bidding and made for the nearest _Estaminets_ with
speed! The F.A.N.Y.s found that instead of carrying wounded, their task
was to search the countryside (with Sergeants on the box) and bring the
men to a camp near ours. "Dead?" asked someone, eyeing the four
motionless figures inside one of the ambulances. "Yes," replied the
F.A.N.Y. cheerfully--"drunk!"
The Boche had flown over at 3 a.m. but so low down the Archies were
powerless to get him. As one of the men said to me, "If we'd had rifles,
Miss, we could have potted him easy."
He flew from shed to shed dropping incendiary bombs on the roofs as he
passed, and up they went like fireworks. The only satisfaction we had
was to hear that he had been brought down on his way back over our
lines, so the Boche never heard of the disaster he had caused.
Some splendid work was done after the place had caught fire. One
officer, in spite of the great risk he ran from bursting shells, got the
ammunition train off safely to the 4th army. Thanks to him, the men up
the line were able to carry on as if nothing had happened, till further
supplies could be sent from other dumps. It was estimated that four
days' worth of shells from all the factories in England had been
destroyed.
An M.T. officer got all the cars and lorries out of the sheds and
instructed the drivers to take them as far from the danger zone as
possible, while the Captain in charge of the "Archie" Battery stuck to
his guns; and he and his men remained in the middle of that inferno
hidden in holes in their dug-out, from which it was impossible to rescue
them for two days.
Five days after the explosion Gutsie and I were detailed to go to
Audricq for some measles cases, and we reported first to the Camp
Commandant, who was sitting in the remains of his office, a shell
sticking up in the floor and half his roof blown away.
He gave us permission to see the famous crater, and instructed one of
the subalterns to show us round. There were still fires burning and
shells popping in some parts and the scenes of wreckage were almost
indescribable.
The young officer was not particularly keen to take us at all and said
warningly, "You come at your own risk--there are nothing but live shells
lying about, liable to go off at any moment. Be careful," he said to me,
"you're just stepping on one now." I hopped off with speed, but all the
same we were not a whit discouraged, which seemed to disappoint him.
As Gutsie and I stumbled and rolled over 4.2's and hand grenades I
quoted to her from the "Fuse-top collectors"--"You can generally 'ear
'em fizzin' a bit if they're going to go 'orf, 'Erb!" by way of
encouragement. Trucks had been lifted bodily by the concussion, and
could be seen in adjacent fields; many of the sheds had been half blown
away, leaving rows of live shells lying snugly in neat piles, but as
there was no knowing when they might explode it was decided to scrap the
whole dump when the fires had subsided.
We walked up a small hill literally covered with shells and empty hand
grenades of the round cricket ball type, two of which were given to us
to make into match boxes. Every description of shell was there as far as
the eye could see, and some were empty and others were not. We reached
the summit, walking gingerly over 9.2's (which formed convenient steps)
to find ourselves at the edge of the enormous crater already half filled
with water. It was incredible to believe a place of that size had been
formed in the short space of one second, and yet on the other hand,
when I remembered how the earth had trembled, the wonder was it was not
even larger.
It took weeks for that dump to be cleared up. Little by little the live
shells were collected and taken out to sea in barges, and dropped in
mid-ocean.
Not long after that the "Zulu," a British destroyer, came into port half
blown away by a mine. Luckily the engine was intact and still working,
but the men, who had had marvellous escapes, lost all their kit and
rations. We were not able to supply the former, unfortunately, but we
remedied the latter with speed, and also took down cigarettes, which
they welcomed more than anything.
We were shown all over the remains, and hearing that the "Nubia" had
just had her engine room blown away, we suggested that the two ends
should be joined together and called the "Nuzu," but whether the
Admiralty thought anything of the idea I have yet to learn!
Before the Captain left he had napkin rings made for each of us out of
the copper piping from the ship, in token of his appreciation of the
help we had given.
The Colonials were even more surprised to see girls driving in France
than our own men had been.
One man, a dear old Australian, was being invalided out altogether and
going home to his wife. He told me how during the time he had been away
she had become totally blind owing to some special German stuff, that
had been formerly injected to keep her sight, being now unprocurable.
"Guess she's done her bit," he ended; "and I'm off home to take care of
her. She'll be interested to hear how the lassies work over here," and
we parted with a handshake.
Important conferences were always taking place at the Hôtel Maritime,
and one day as I was down on the quay the French Premier and several
other notabilities arrived. "There's Mr. Asquith," said an R.T.O. to me.
"That!" said I, in an unintentionally loud voice, eyeing his long hair,
"I thought he was a 'cellist belonging to a Lena Ashwell Concert party!"
He looked round, and I faded into space.
Taking some patients to hospital that afternoon we passed some
Australians marching along. "Fine chaps," said the one sitting on the
box to me, "they're a good emetic of their country, aren't they?" (N.B.
I fancy he meant to say emblem.)
Our concert party still flourished, though the conditions for practising
were more difficult than ever. Our Mess tent had been moved again on to
a plot of grass behind the cook-house to leave more space for the cars
to be parked, and though we had a piano there it was somehow not
particularly inspiring, nor had we the time to practise. The Guards'
Brigade were down resting at Beau Marais, and we were asked to give them
a show. We now called ourselves the "FANTASTIKS," and wore a black
pierrette kit with yellow bobbles. The rehearsals were mostly conducted
in the back of the ambulance on the way there, and the rest of the time
was spent feverishly muttering one's lines to oneself and imploring
other people not to muddle one. The show was held in a draughty tent,
and when it was over the Padre made a short prayer and they all sang a
hymn. (Life is one continual paradox out in France.) I shall never
forget the way those Guardsmen sang either. It was perfectly splendid.
There they stood, rows of men, the best physique England could produce,
and how they sang!
Betty drove us back to camp in the "Crystal Palace," so-called from its
many windows--a six cylinder Delauney-Belville car used to take the army
sisters to and from their billets. We narrowly missed nose-diving into a
chalk pit on the way, the so-called road being nothing but a rutty
track.
The Fontinettes ambulance train was a special one that was usually
reported to arrive at 8 p.m., but never put in an appearance till 10,
or, on some occasions, one o'clock. The battle of the Somme was now in
progress; and, besides barges and day trains, three of these arrived
each week. The whole Convoy turned out for this; and one by one the
twenty-five odd cars would set off, keeping an equal distance apart,
forming an imposing looking column down from the camp, across the bridge
and through the town to the railway siding. The odd makes had been
weeded out and the whole lot were now Napiers. The French inhabitants
would turn out _en masse_ to see us pass, and were rather proud of us on
the whole, I think. Arrived at the big railway siding, we all formed up
into a straight line to await the train. After many false alarms, and
answering groans from the waiting F.A.N.Y.s, it would come slowly
creaking along and draw up. The ambulances were then reversed right up
to the doors, and the stretcher bearers soon filled them up with four
lying cases. At the exit stood Boss and the E.M.O., directing each
ambulance which hospital the cases were to go to. Those journeys back
were perfect nightmares. Try as one would, it was impossible not to bump
a certain amount over those appalling roads full of holes and cobbles.
It was pathetic when a voice from the interior could be heard asking,
"Is it much farther, Sister?" and knowing how far it was, my heart ached
for them. After all they had been through, one felt they should be
spared every extra bit of pain that was possible. When I in my turn was
in an ambulance, I knew just what it felt like. Sometimes the cases were
so bad we feared they would not even last the journey, and there we were
all alone, and not able to hurry to hospital owing to the other three on
board.
The journey which in the ordinary way, when empty, took fifteen minutes,
under these circumstances lasted anything from three-quarters of an hour
to an hour. "Susan" luckily was an extremely steady 'bus, and in 3rd.
gear on a smooth road there was practically no movement at all. I
remember once on getting to the Casino I called out, "I hope you weren't
bumped too much in there?" and was very cheered when a voice replied,
"It was splendid, Sister, you should have seen us up the line, jolting
all over the place." "Sister," another one called, "will you drive us
when we leave for Blighty?" I said it was a matter of chance, but
whoever did so would be just as careful. "No," said the voice decidedly,
"there couldn't be two like you." (I think he must have been in an Irish
Regiment.)
The relief after the strain of this journey was tremendous; and the joy
of dashing back through the evening air made one feel as if weights had
been taken off and one were flying. It was rather a temptation to test
the speed of one's 'bus against another on these occasions; and "Susan"
seemed positively to take a human interest in the impromptu race, all
the more so as it was forbidden. The return journey was by a different
route from that taken by the laden ambulances so that there was no
danger of a collision.
We usually had about three journeys with wounded; twelve stretcher cases
in all, so that, say the train came in at nine and giving an hour to
each journey there and back, it meant (not counting loading and
unloading) roughly 1 o'clock a.m. or later before we had finished. Then
there were usually the sitting cases to be taken off and the stretcher
bearers to be driven back to their camp. Half of one head light only was
allowed to be shown; and the impression I always had when I came in was
that my eyes had popped right out of my head and were on bits of
elastic. A most extraordinary sensation, due to the terrible strain of
trying to see in the darkness just a little further than one really
could. It was the irony of fate to learn, when we did come in, that an
early evacuation had been telephoned through for 5 a.m. I often spent
the whole night dreaming I was driving wounded and had given them the
most awful bump. The horror of it woke me up, only to find that my bed
had slipped off one of the petrol boxes and was see-sawing in mid-air!
THE RED CROSS CARS
"They are bringing them back who went forth so bravely.
Grey, ghostlike cars down the long white road
Come gliding, each with its cross of scarlet
On canvas hood, and its heavy load
Of human sheaves from the crimson harvest
That greed and falsehood and hatred sowed.
"Maimed and blinded and torn and shattered,
Yet with hardly a groan or a cry
From lips as white as the linen bandage;
Though a stifled prayer 'God let me die,'
Is wrung, maybe, from a soul in torment
As the car with the blood-red cross goes by.
"Oh, Red Cross car! What a world of anguish
On noiseless wheels you bear night and day.
Each one that comes from the field of slaughter
Is a moving Calvary, painted grey.
And over the water, at home in England
'Let's play at soldiers,' the children say."
Anon.