CHAPTER XIII

CONVOY LIFE

The Prince of Wales was with the Grenadiers at Beau Marais when they

came in to rest for a time. One day, while having tea at the Sauvage,

Mademoiselle Léonie, sister of the proprietor, came up to me in a

perfect flutter of excitement to say that that very evening the Prince

had ordered the large room to be prepared for a dinner he was giving to

his brother officers.

I was rather a favourite of hers, and she assured me if I wished to

watch him arriving it would give her great pleasure to hide me in her

paying-desk place where I could see everything clearly. She was quite

hurt when I refused the invitation.

He was tremendously popular with the French people; and the next time I

saw her she rushed up to me and said: "How your Prince is beautiful,

Mees; what spirit, what fire! Believe me, they broke every glass they

used at that dinner, and then the Prince demanded of me the bill and

paid for everything." (Some lad!) "He also wrote his name in my

autograph book," she added proudly. "Oh he is _chic_, that one there, I

tell you!"

One warm summer day Gutsie and I were sitting on a grassy knoll, just

beyond our camp overlooking the sea (well within earshot of the

summoning whistle), watching a specially large merchant ship come in.

Except for the distant booming of the guns (that had now become such a

background to existence we never noticed it till it stopped), an

atmosphere of peace and drowsiness reigned over everything. The ship was

just nearing the jetty preparatory to entering the harbour when a dull

reverberating roar broke the summer stillness, the banks we were on

fairly shook, and there before our eyes, out of the sea, rose a dense

black cloud of smoke 50 feet high that totally obscured the ship from

sight for a moment. When the black fumes sank down, there, where a whole

vessel had been a moment before, was only half a ship! We rubbed our

eyes incredulously. It had all happened so suddenly it might have taken

place on a Cinema. She had, of course, struck a German mine, and quick

as lightning two long, lithe, grey bodies (French destroyers) shot out

from the port and took off what survivors were left. Contrary to

expectation she did not sink, but settled down, and remained afloat till

she was towed in later in the day.

A "Y.M.C.A." article on "Women's work in France," that appeared in a

Magazine at home, was sent out to one of the girls. The paragraph

relating to us ran:--

"Then there are the 'F.A.N.N.I.E.S.,' the dear mud-besplashing

F.A.N.Y.s. (to judge from the language of the sometime bespattered, the

adjective was not always 'dear'), with them cheeriness is almost a cult;

at 6 a.m. in the morning you may always be sure of a smile, even when

their sleep for the week has only averaged five hours per night."

There were not many parties at Filbert during that summer. Off-time was

such an uncertain quantity. We managed to put in several though,

likewise some gallops on the glorious sands stretching for miles along

the coast. (It was hardly safe to call at the Convoy on your favourite

charger. When you came out from tea it was more than probable you found

him in a most unaccountable lather!) Bathing during the daytime was also

a rare event, so we went down in an ambulance after dark, macks covering

our bathing dresses, and scampered over the sands in the moonlight to

the warm waves shining and glistening with phosphorus.

Zeppelin raids seemed to go out of fashion, but Gothas replaced them

with pretty considerable success. As we had a French Archie battery near

us it was no uncommon thing, when a raid was in progress, for our

souvenirs and plates, etc., to rattle off the walls and bomb us (more or

less gently) awake!

There was a stretch of asphalt just at the bottom of our camp that had

been begun by an enterprising burgher as a tennis club before the war,

though others _did_ say it was really intended as a secret German gun

emplacement. It did not matter much to us for which purpose it had been

made, for, as it was near, we could play tennis and still be within

call. There was just room for two courts, and many a good game we

enjoyed there, especially after an early evacuation, in the long empty

pause till "brekker" at eight o'clock.

"Wuzzy," or to give him his proper name, "Gerald," came into existence

about this time. He arrived from Peuplinghe a fat fluffy puppy covered

with silky grey curls. He was of nondescript breed, with a distinct

leaning towards an old English sheep dog. He had enormous fawn-coloured

silky paws, and was so soft and floppy he seemed as if he had hardly a

bone in his body. We used to pick him up and drop him gently in the

grass to watch him go out flat like a tortoise. He belonged to Lean, and

grew up a rather irresponsible creature with long legs and a lovable

disposition. He adored coming down to the ambulance trains or sitting

importantly on a car, jeering and barking at his low French friends in

the road, on the "I'm the king of the castle" principle. Another of his

favourite tricks was to rush after a car (usually selecting Lean's), and

keep with it the whole time, never swerving to another, which was rather

clever considering they were so much alike. On the way back to Camp he

had a special game he played on the French children playing in the

_Petit Courgain_. He would rush up as if he were going to fly at them.

They would scream and fall over in terror while he positively laughed at

them over his shoulder as he cantered off to try it on somewhere else.

The camp was divided in its opinion of Wuzzy, or rather I should say

quartered--viz.--one quarter saw his points and the other three-quarters

decidedly did not!

A priceless article appeared in one of the leading dailies entitled,

"Women Motor Drivers.--Is it a suitable occupation?" and was cut out by

anxious parents and forwarded with speed to the Convoy.

The headlines ran: "The lure of the Wheel." "Is it necessary?" "The

after effects." We lapped it up with joy. Phrases such as "Women's

outlook on life will be distorted by the adoption of such a profession,

her finer instincts crushed," pleased us specially. It continued "All

the delicate things that mean, must mean, life to the feminine mind,

will lose their significance"--(cries of "What about the frillies you

bought in Paris, Pat?") "The uncongenial atmosphere"--I continued,

reading further--"of the garage, yard, and workshops, the alien

companionship of mechanics and chauffeurs will isolate her mental

standing" (shrieks of joy), "the ceaseless days and dull monotony of

labour will not only rob her of much feminine charm but will instil into

her mind bitterness that will eat from her heart all capacity for joy,

steal away her youth, and deprive her of the colour and sunlight of

life" (loud sobs from the listening F.A.N.Y.s, who still, strangely

enough, seemed to be suffering from no loss of _joie de vivre_!) When

the noise had subsided I continued: "There is of course the possibility

that she will become conscious of her condition and change of mind, and

realize her level in time to counteract the ultimate effects(!). The

realization however may come too late. The aptitude for happiness will

have gone by for the transitory joys of driving, the questionable

intricacies of the magneto--" but further details were suspended owing

to small bales of cotton waste hurtling through the air, and in self

defence I had to leave the "intricacies of the magneto" and pursue the

offenders round the camp! The only reply Boss could get as a reason for

the tumult was that the F.A.N.Y.s were endeavouring to "realize the

level of their minds." "Humph," was Boss's comment, "First I've heard

that some of them even had any," and retired into her hut.

We often had to take wounded German prisoners to No. 14 hospital, about

30 kilometres away. On these occasions we always had three armed guards

to prevent them from escaping. The prisoners looked like convicts with

their shorn heads and shoddy grey uniforms, and I always found it very

difficult to imagine these men capable of fighting at all. They seemed

pretty content with their lot and often tried to smile ingratiatingly at

the drivers. One day going along the sea road one of them poked me in

the back through the canvas against which we leant when driving and

said, "Ni--eece Englessh Mees!" I was furious and used the most forcible

German I could think of at a moment's notice. "Cheek!" I said to the

guard sitting beside me on the box, "I'd run them over the cliff for

tuppence."

He got the wind up entirely: "Oh, Miss," he said, in an anxious voice,

"for Gawd's sake don't. Remember we're on board as well."

The Rifle brigade came in to rest after the Guards had gone, and before

they left again for the line, gave a big race meeting on the sands.

Luckily for us there was no push on just then, and work was in

consequence very slack. A ladies' race was included in the Programme for

our benefit. It was one of the last events, and until it came off we

amused ourselves riding available mules, much to the delight of the

Tommies, who cheered and yelled and did their best to get them to "take

off!" They were hard and bony and had mouths like old sea boots, but it

was better than toiling in the deep sand.

There were about fourteen entries for our race, several of them from

Lamarck, and we all drew for polo ponies lent from the Brigade. Their

owners were full of instructions as to the best method to get them

along. We cantered up to the starting post, and there was some delay

while Renny got her stirrups right. This was unfortunate, as our ponies

got a bit "cold." At last the flag fell, and we were off! It was

ripping; and the excitement of that race beat anything I've ever known.

As we thundered over the sands I began to experience the joys of seeing

the horses in front "coming back" to me, as our old jockey stable-boy

used to describe. Heasy came in first, MacDougal second, and Winnie and

I tied third. It was a great race entirely, and all too short by a long

way.

One day I was detailed to drive the Matron and our section leader to a

fête of sorts for Belgian refugee orphans. On the way back, crossing the

swing bridge, we met Betty driving the sisters to their billets. I

thought Matron wanted to speak to them and luckily, as it turned out, I

slowed down. She changed her mind, however, and I was just picking up

again as we came abreast, when from behind Betty's car sprang a woman

right in front of mine (after her hat it appeared later, which the wind

had just blown across the road). The apparition was so utterly

unforeseen and unexpected that she was bowled over like a rabbit in two

shakes. I jammed on the brakes and we sprang out, and saw she was under

the car in between the wheel and the chassis. Luckily she was a small

thin woman, and as Gaspard has so eloquently expressed it on another

occasion, _platte comme une punaise_ (flat as a drawing-pin). I was

horrified, the whole thing had happened so suddenly. A crowd of French

and Belgian soldiers collected, and I rapidly directed them to lift the

front of the car up by the springs, as it seemed the only way of getting

her out without further injury. I turned away, not daring to look, and

as I did so my eye caught sight of some hair near one of the back

wheels! That finished me up! I did not stop to reason that of course the

back wheels had not touched her, and thought, "My God, I've scalped

her!" and I leant over the railings feeling exceedingly sick. A friendly

M.P. who had seen the whole thing, patted me on the arm and said, "Now,

then, Miss, don't you take on, that's only her false 'air," as indeed

it proved to be! The woman was yelling and groaning, "_Mon Dieu, je suis

tuée_," but according to the "red hat" she was as "right as rain,

nothing but 'ysteria." I blessed that M.P. and hoped we would meet

again. We helped her on to the front seat, where Thompson supported her,

while I drove to hospital to see if any damage had been done. Singularly

enough, she was only suffering from bruises and a torn skirt, and of

course the loss of her "false 'air" (which I had refused to touch, it

had given me such a turn). I can only hope her husband, who was with her

at the time, picked it up. He followed to hospital and gave her a most

frightful scolding, adding that of course the "Mees" could not do

otherwise than knock her down if she so foolishly sprang in front of

cars without warning; and she might think herself lucky that the "Mees"

would not run her in for being in the way! It has always struck me as

being so humorous that in England if you knock a pedestrian over they

can have you up, while in France the law is just the reverse. She sobbed

violently, and I had to tell him that what she wanted was sympathy and

not scolding.

It took me a day or two to get over that scalping expedition (of course

the story was all round the camp within the hour!) and for some time

after I slowed down crossing the bridge. This was the one and only time

anything of the sort ever happened to me, thank goodness!

Our camp began to look very smart, and the seeds we had sown in the

spring came up and covered the huts with creepers. We had as many

flowers inside our huts as we could possibly get into the shell cases

and other souvenirs which perforce were turned into flower vases--a

change they must have thought rather singular. The steady boom of the

guns used to annoy me intensely, for it shook the petals off the roses

long before they would otherwise have fallen, and I used to call out,

crossly, "_Do_ stop that row, you're simply ruining my flowers." But

that made no difference to the distant gunners, who carried on night and

day causing considerably more damage than the falling petals from my

roses!

We began to classify the new girls as they came out, jokingly calling

them "Kitchener's" Army, "Derby's Scheme," and finally, "Conscripts."

The old "regulars" of course put on most fearful side. It was amusing

when an air-raid warning (a siren known as "mournful Mary") went at Mess

and the shrapnel began to fly, to see the new girls all rush out to

watch the little white balls bursting in the sky, and the old hands not

turning a hair but going on steadily with the bully beef or Maconochie,

whichever it happened to be. Then one by one the new ones would slink

back rather ashamed of their enthusiasm and take their seats, and in

time they in turn would smile indulgently as the still newer ones dashed

out to watch.

We had no dug-out to go to, even if we had wanted to. Our new mess tent

was built in the summer; and we said good-bye for ever to the murky

gloom of the old Indian flapper.

One day I had gone out to tea with Logan and Chris to an "Archie"

station at Pont le Beurre. During a pause I heard the following

conversation take place.

Host to Logan: "I suppose, being in a Convoy Camp, you hear nothing but

motor shop the whole time, and get to know quite a lot about them?"

"Rather," replied Logan, who between you and me hardly knew one end of a

car from the other, "I'm becoming quite conversant with the different

parts. One hears people exclaiming constantly: 'I've mislaid my big end

and can't think where I've put the carburettor!'" The host, who appeared

to know as much as she did, nodded sympathetically.

Chris and I happened to catch the Captain's eye, and we laughed for

about five minutes. That big-end story went the round of the camp too,

you may be quite sure.

Besides the regular work of barges, evacuation, and trains we had to do

all the ambulance work for the outlying camps, and cars were regularly

detailed for special _dépôts_ the whole day long. Barges arrived mostly

in the mornings, and I think the patients in them were more surprised

than anyone to see girls driving out there, and were often not a little

fearful as to how we would cope! It was comforting to overhear them say

to each other on the journey: "This is fine, mate, ain't it?"

When we drove the cases to the hospital ships the long quay along which

we took them barely allowed two cars to pass abreast. Turning when the

car was empty was therefore a ticklish business, and there was only one

place where it could be done. If you made a slip, there was nothing

between you and the sea 50 feet below. There was a dip in the platform

at one point, and by backing carefully on to this, it was just possible

to turn, but to do so necessitated running forward in the direction of

the quay, where there was barely the space of a foot left between the

front wheel and the edge. I know, sitting in the car, I never could see

any edge at all. If by any chance you misjudged this dip and backed

against the edge of the platform by mistake the car, unable to mount it,

rebounded and slid forward! It was always rather a breathless

performance at first; and beginners, rather than risk it, backed the

whole length of the quay. I did so myself the first time, but it was

such a necktwisting performance I felt I'd rather risk a ducking. With

practice we were able to judge to a fraction just how near the edge we

could risk going, and the men on the hospital ships would hold their

breath at the (I hope pardonable) swank of some of the more daring

spirits who went just as near as they could and then looked up and

laughed as they drove down the quay. After I was in hospital in England,

I heard that a new hand lost her head completely, and in Eva's newly

painted 'bus executed a spinning nose-dive right over the quay. A sight

I wouldn't have missed for worlds. As she "touched water," however, the

F.A.N.Y. spirit predominated. She was washed through the back of the

ambulance (luckily the front canvas was up), and as it sank she

gallantly kicked off from the roof of the fast disappearing car. She was

an excellent swimmer, but two R.A.M.C. men sprang overboard to her

rescue, and I believe almost succeeded in drowning her in their efforts!

This serves to show what an extremely touchy job it was, and one we had

to perform in fogs or the early hours of a winter's morning when it was

almost too dark to see anything. Some Red Cross men drivers from Havre

watched us once, and declared their quay down there was wider by several

feet, but no one ever turned on it. It seemed odd at home to see two

girls on army ambulances. We went distances of sixty miles or more

alone, only taking an orderly when the cases were of a very serious

nature and likely to require attention _en route_.

Once I remember I was returning from taking a new medical officer (a

cheerful individual, whose only remark during the whole of that

fifteen-mile run was, "I'm perished!") to an outlying camp. I wondered

at first if that was his name and he was introducing himself, but one

glance was sufficient to prove otherwise! On the way back alone, I

paused to ask the way, as I had to return by another route. The man I

had stopped (whom at first I had taken to be a Frenchman) was a German

prisoner, so I started on again; but wherever I looked there were

nothing but Germans, busily working at these quarries. No guards were

in sight, as far as I could see, and I wondered idly if they would take

it into their heads to hold up the car, brain me, and escape. It was

only a momentary idea though, for looking at these men, they seemed to

be quite incapable of thinking of anything so original.

Coming back from B. one day I started a huge hare, and with the utmost

difficulty prevented the good Susan from turning off the road, lepping

the ditch, and pursuing 'puss' across the flat pastures. Some sporting

'bus, I tell you!

The Tanks made their first appearance in September, and weird and

wonderful were the descriptions given by the different men I asked whom

I carried on my ambulance. They appeared to be anything in size from a

hippopotamus to Buckingham Palace. It was one of the best kept secrets

of the war. When anyone asked what was being made in the large foundries

employed they received the non-committal reply "Tanks," and so the name

stuck.

My last leave came off in the autumn, and while I was at home Lamarck

Hospital closed on its second anniversary--October 31, 1916. The

Belgians now had a big hut hospital at the Porte de Gravelines, and

wished to concentrate what sick and wounded they had there, instead of

having so many small hospitals. A great celebration took place, and

there was much bouquet handing and speechifying, etc.

Our work for the Belgians did not cease with the closing of Lamarck, and

a convoy was formed with the Gare Centrale as its headquarters, and so

released the men drivers for the line. The hospital staff and equipment

moved to Epernay, where a hospital was opened for the French in an old

Monastery and also a convoy of F.A.N.Y. ambulances and cars was

attached, so that now we had units working for the British, French, and

Belgians. Another unit was the one down at Camp de Ruchard, where

Crockett so ably ran a canteen for 700 convalescent Belgian soldiers,

while Lady Baird, with a trained nurse, looked after the consumptives,

of whom there were several hundreds. It will thus be seen that the

F.A.N.Y. was essentially an "active service" Corps with no units in

England at all.

I had a splendid leave, which passed all too quickly, and oddly enough

before I left home I had a sort of premonition that something was going

to happen; so much so that I even left an envelope with instructions of

what I wanted done with such worldly goods as I possessed. I felt that

in making such arrangements I might possibly avert any impending

catastrophe!

Heasy was on leave as well, and the day we were due to go back was a

Sunday. The train was to leave Charing Cross at four, which meant that

we would not embark till seven or thereabouts. It was wet and blustery,

and I did not relish the idea of crossing in the dark at all, and could

not help laughing at myself for being so funky. I had somehow quite made

up my mind we were going to be torpedoed. The people I was staying with

ragged me hard about it. It was the 5th of November, too! As I stepped

out of the taxi at Charing Cross and handed my kit to the porter, he

asked: "Boat train, Miss?" I nodded. "Been cancelled owin' to storm," he

said cheerfully. I leapt out, and I think I shook him by the hand in my

joy. France is all right when you get there; but the day you return is

like going back to school. The next minute I saw Heasy's beaming face,

and we were all over each other at the prospect of an extra day. My old

godfather, who had come to see me off, was the funniest of all--a

peppery Indian edition. "Not going?" he exclaimed, "I never heard of

such a thing! In my day there was not all this chopping and changing." I

pointed out that he might at least express his joy that I was to be at

home another day, and fuming and spluttering we returned to the D's.

It's rather an anti-climax, after saying good-bye and receiving

everyone's blessing, to turn up suddenly once more!

Heasy and I duly met at Charing Cross next morning, to hear that once

more the leave boat had been cancelled owing to loosened mines floating

about. Again I returned to my friends who by this time seemed to think I

had "come to stay." On the Wednesday (we were now getting to know all

the porters quite well by sight) we really did get off; but when we

arrived at Folkestone it was to find the platform crammed with returning

leave-men and officers, and to hear the same tale--the boat had _again_

been cancelled. None of the officers were being allowed to return to

town, but by dint of good luck and a little palm oil, we dashed into a

cab and reached the other station just in time to catch the up-going

train. "We stay at an hotel to-night," I said to Heasy, "I positively

won't turn up at the D's _again_." We got to town in time for lunch, and

then went to see the _Happy Day_, at Daly's (very well named we

thought), where Heasy's brother was entertaining a party. He had seen us

off, "positively for the last time," at 7.30 that morning. We saw him in

the distance, and in the interval we instructed the programme girl to

take round a slip of paper on which we printed:--"If you will come round

to Stalls 21 and 22 you will hear of something to your advantage."

George Heasman came round utterly mystified, and when he saw us once

more, words quite failed him!

On the Thursday down we went again, and this time we actually _did_ get

on board, though they kept us hanging about on the Folkestone platform

for hours before they decided, and the rain dripped down our necks from

that inadequate wooden roofing that had obviously been put up by some

war profiteer on the cheap. The congestion was something frightful, and

there were twelve hundred on board instead of the usual seven or eight.

"We can't blow _over_ at any rate," I said cheerfully to Heasy, in a

momentary lull in the gale. There were so many people on board that

there was just standing room and that was all. We hastily swallowed some

more Mother-sill and hoped for the best (we had consumed almost a whole

boxful owing to our many false starts). We were in the highest spirits.

The only other woman on board was an army sister, who came and stood

near us. Lifebelts were ordered to be put on, and as I tied Heasy's the

aforementioned Sister turned to me and said: "You ought to tie that

tighter; it will come undone very easily in the waves!" Heasy and I were

convulsed, and so were all the people within earshot. "You mustn't be so

cheerful," I said, as soon as I could speak.

It was the roughest crossing I've ever experienced, and there was no

time to indulge in "that periscope feeling," so aptly described by

Bairnsfather; we were too busy exercising Christian Science on our

"innards" and trying not to think of all the indigestible things we'd

eaten the night before! We rose on mountains of waves one moment and

then descended into positive valleys the next. I swear I would have been

perfectly all right if I had not heard an officer say "I hope it will

not be too rough to get into Boulogne harbour. The last time I crossed

we had to return to Folkestone!" * * * * Luckily his fears were

incorrect, and at last we arrived in the harbour, and I never was so

glad to see France in all my life! The F.A.N.Y.s had almost given us up

for good, and were all very envious when they heard of our adventures.

Towards the end of that month the "Britannic," a hospital ship, was

torpedoed. As a preventive measure against future outrages of the kind

(not that it would have made the Germans hesitate for a moment) twenty

prisoners were detailed to accompany each hospital ship on the voyage to

England. These men, under one of their own Sergeant-Majors, sat on the

edge of the platform until all the wounded were on board, and then were

marched on into a little wooden shelter specially erected. As they sat

on the edge, their feet rested on the narrow quay along which we drove,

and I loved to go as near as possible and pretend I was going over them,

just for the fun of watching the Boches roll on their backs in terror

with their feet high in the air. A new method of saying _Kamerad_! Those

prisoners did not care for me very much, I don't think, and I always

hope I shan't meet any of them _après la guerre_. Unfortunately this

pastime was stopped by the vigilant E.M.O.

My hut was closed for "winter decorations," and the crême de menthe

coloured panthers were covered up by a hunting frieze. It was a

priceless show, one of the field appearing in a _chic_ pair of red

gloves! I suppose they had some extra paint over from the pink coats.

Scene I. was the meet, with the fox lurking well within sight behind a

small gorse bush, but funnily enough not a hound got wind of him. Scene

III. was a good water-jump where one of the field had taken a toss right

into the middle of a stream. Considering the sandy spot he had chosen as

a take-off, he had no one to thank but himself. A lady further up on a

grey, obviously suffering from spavin, was sailing over like a two-year

old. The last scene was of course a kill, the gentleman in the pink

gloves on the black horse being well to the fore. Altogether it was most

pleasing. Silk hunting "hankies" in yellow and other vivid colours,

ditto with full field, took the place of the now chilly looking

Reckitt's blue, and a Turkey rug on the floor completed the

transformation.

When an early evacuation was not in progress, breakfast was at eight

o'clock, and at 10 minutes to, the whistles went for parade, which was

held in the square just in front of the cars. Those who were late were

put on fatigues without more ado, but in the ordinary way if there were

no delinquents we took it in turns, two every day.

Often when that first whistle went, it found a good many of us still

"complete in flea-bag," and that scramble to get into things and appear

"fully dressed" was an art in itself. An overcoat, muffler, and a pair

of field boots went a long way to complete this illusion. Once however,

Boss, to everyone's pained surprise, said, "Will the troopers kindly

take off their overcoats!" With great reluctance this was done amid

shouts of laughter as three of us stood divested of coats in gaudy

pyjamas.

Fatigue consisted of two things: One--"Tidying up the Camp," which was a

comprehensive term and meant folding up everyone's bonnet covers and

putting them in neat piles near the mess hut, collecting cotton waste

and grease tins, etc., and weeding the garden (a rotten job). The second

was called "Doing the stoke-hole," i.e. cleaning out the ashes from the

huge boiler that heated the bath water, chopping sticks, laying the

fire, and brushing the "hole" up generally.

Opinions were divided as to the merits of those two jobs. Neither was

popular of course, but we could choose. The latter certainly had its

points, because once done it was done for the day, while the former

might be tidy at nine, and yet by 10 o'clock lumps of cotton waste might

be blowing all over the place, tins and bonnet covers once more in

untidy heaps. I often "did the boiler," but I simply hated chopping the

sticks. One day the axe was firmly fixed in a piece of hard wood and I

was vainly hitting it against the block, with eyes tight shut, when I

heard a chuckle from the top of the steps. I looked up and there was a

Tommy looking down into the hole, watching the proceedings. Where he'd

come from I don't know. "Call those 'ands?" he asked. "'Ere, give it to

me"--indicating the axe. "I guess y'aint chopped many sticks, 'ave yer?"

"No," I said; "and I'm terrified of the thing!" I sat on the steps and

watched him deftly slicing the wood into thin slips. "This is a

fatigue," I said, by way of an explanation. That tickled him! He stopped

and chuckled, "You do fatigues just the same as we do?" he asked. "I

never heard anything to beat that. Well I never, wot's the crime, I

wonder? Look 'ere," he added, "I'll chop you enough to last fatigues for

a month, and you put 'em somewhere in the meantime," and in ten

minutes, mark you, there was a pile that rejoiced my heart. He was a

"Bird," that man, and no mistake.

After brekker was over the first thing that had to be done before

anything else was to get one's 'bus running and in order for the day.

Once that was done we could do our huts, provided no jobs had come in;

and when that was done the engine had to be thoroughly cleaned, and then

the car. I might add that this is an ideal account of the proceedings

for, as often as not, we went out the minute the cars were started.

Three days elapsed sometimes before the hut could have a "turn out." On

these occasions one just rolled into one's bed at night unmade and

unturned, too tired to care one way or the other.

Some of the girls got a Frenchwoman, "Alice" by name, to do their "cues"

for them. She used to bring her small baby with her and dump him down

anywhere in the corridor, sometimes in a waste paper basket, till she

was done. One morning he howled bitterly for about an hour, and at last

I went out to see what could be the matter. "Oh, Mees, it is that he has

burnt himself against the stove, the careless one" (he couldn't walk, so

it must have been her own fault). "I took him to a _Pharmacie_ but he

has done nothing but cry ever since."

Now I had fixed up a small _Pharmacie_ in one of the empty "cues,"

complete with sterilised dressings and rows of bottles, and bandaged up

whatever cuts and hurts there were, in fact my only sorrow was there

were not more "cases." Considering the many men we had had at Lamarck

burnt practically all over from fire-bombs, I suggested that she should

bring the baby into the _Pharmacie_ and see if I could do anything for

it. She was quite willing, and carried it in, when I undid the little

arm (only about six inches long) burnt from the elbow to the wrist! The

chemist had simply planked on some zinc ointment and lint. I got some

warm boracic and soaked it off gently, though the little thing redoubled

its yells, and a small crowd of F.A.N.Y.s dashed down the passage to see

what was up. "It's only Pat killing a baby" was one of the cheerful

explanations I heard. So encouraging for me. I dressed it with Carron

oil and to my relief the wails ceased. She brought it every morning

after that, and I referred proudly to my "out-patient" who made great

progress. Within ten days the arm had healed up, and Alice was my

devoted follower from that time on.

We had a lot of work that autumn, and barges came down regularly as

clockwork. Many of these cases were taken to the Duchess of Sutherland's

Hospital. She had given up the Bourbourg Belgian one some time before

and now had one for the British, where the famous Carroll-Dakin

treatment was given. One night, taking some cases to the Casino

hospital, there was a boy on board with his eyes bandaged. He had

evidently endeared himself to the Sister on the train, for she came

along with the stretcher bearers and saw him safely into my car.

"Good-bye, Sister," I heard him say, in a cheery voice, "thank you a

thousand times for your kindness--you wait till my old eyes are better

and I'll come back and see you. I know you must look nice," he

continued, with a laugh, "you've got such a kind voice."

Tears were in her eyes as she came round to speak to me and whisper that

it was a hopeless case; he had been so severely injured he would never

see again.

I raged inwardly against the powers that cared not a jot who suffered so

long as their own selfish ends were achieved.

That journey was one of the worst I've ever done. If the boy had not

been so cheerful it would have been easier, but there he lay chatting

breezily to me through the canvas, wanting to know all about our work

and asking hundreds of questions. "You wait till I get home," he said,

"I'll have the best eye chap there is, you bet your life. By Jove, it

will be splendid to get these bandages off, and see again."

Was the war worth even one boy's eyesight? No, I thought not.

CHAPTER XIV

CHRISTMAS, 1916

Taking some wounded Germans to No. 14 hospital one afternoon we were

stopped on the way by a road patrol, a new invention to prevent

joy-riding. Two Tommies rushed out from the hedges, like highwaymen of

old, waving little red flags (one of the lighter efforts of the War

Office). Perforce we had to draw up while one of them went into the

_Estaminet_ (I noticed they always chose their quarters well) to bring

out the officer. His job was to examine papers and passes, and sort the

sheep from the goats, allowing the former to proceed and turning the

latter away!

The man in question was evidently new to the work and was exceedingly

fussy and officious. He scanned my pink pass for some time and then

asked, "Where are you going?" "Wimereux," I replied promptly. He looked

at the pass again--"It's got "_W_imer_oo_," here, and not what _you_

said," he answered suspiciously. "Some people pronounce it 'Vimerer,'

nevertheless," I could not refrain from replying, rather tartly.

Again he turned to the pass, and as it started to snow in stinging

gusts (and I was so obviously one of the "sheep"), I began to chafe at

the delay.

As if anyone would joy-ride in such weather without a wind screen, I

thought disgustedly. (None of the cars had them.)

"Whom have you got in behind?" was the next query.

I leant forward as if imparting a secret of great importance, and said,

in a stage whisper: "Germans!"

He jumped visibly, and the two flag-wagging Tommies grinned delightedly.

After going to the back to find out if this was so, he at last very

reluctantly returned my pass.

"Thinks we're all bloomin' spies," said one of the guards, as at last we

set off to face the blinding snow, that literally was blinding, it was

so hard to see. The only method was to shut first one eye and then the

other, so that they could rest in turns!

On the way back we passed a motor hearse stuck on the Wimereux hill with

four coffins in behind, stretcher-wise.

The guard gave a grunt. "Humph," said he, "They makes yer form fours

right up to the ruddy grave, they do!"

We were not so far from civilization in our Convoy as one might have

supposed, for among the men in the M.T. yard was a hairdresser from the

Savoy Hotel!

He made a diffident call on Boss one day and said it would give him

great pleasure to shampoo and do up the "young ladies' hair" for them in

his spare time "to keep his hand in." He was afraid if the war lasted

much longer he might forget the gentle art!

We rose to the occasion and were only too delighted, and from then

onwards he became a regular institution up at the Convoy.

News was brought to us of the torpedoing of the "Sussex," and the

terrible suffering the crew and passengers endured. It was thought after

she was struck she would surely sink, and many deaths by drowning

occurred owing to overcrowding the lifeboats. Like the "Zulu," however,

when day dawned it was found she was able to come into Boulogne under

her own steam. After driving some cases over there, I went to see the

remains in dry dock. It was a ghastly sight, made all the more poignant

as one could see trunks and clothes lying about in many of the cabins,

which were open to the day as if a transverse section had been made. The

only humorous incident that occurred was that King Albert was arrested

while taking a photo of it! I don't think for a moment they recognized

who he was, for, with glasses, and a slight stoop, he does not look

exactly like the photos one sees, and they probably imagined he was

bluffing. He was marched off looking intensely amused! One of the French

guards, when I expressed my disappointment at not being able to get a

photo, gave me the address of a friend of his who had taken some

official ones for France, so I hurried off, and was lucky to get them.

The weather became atrocious as the winter advanced and our none too

water-tight huts showed distinct signs of warping. We only had one

thickness of matchboarding in between us and the elements, and, without

looking out of the windows, I could generally ascertain through the

slits what was going on in the way of weather. I had chosen my "cue"

looking sea-ward because of the view and the sunsets, but then that was

in far away Spring. Eva's was next door, and even more exposed than

mine. When we happened to mention this state of affairs to Colonel C.,

he promised us some asbestos to line the outer wall if we could find

someone to put it up.

Another obliging friend lent us his carpenter to do the job--a burly

Scot. The fact that we cleaned our own cars and went about the camp in

riding breeches and overalls, not unlike land-girls' kit, left him

almost speechless.

The first day all he could say was, "Weel, weel, I never did"--at

intervals.

The second day he had recovered himself sufficiently to look round and

take a little notice.

"Ye're one o' them artists, I'm thinkin'," he said, eyeing my panthers

disparagingly. (The hunting frieze had been taken down temporarily till

the asbestos was fixed.)

"No, you mustn't think that," I said apologetically.

"Ha ye no men to do yon dirty worrk for ye?" and he nodded in direction

of the cars. "Scandalizing, and no less," was his comment when he heard

there were not. In two days' time he reported to his C.O. that the job

was finished, and the latter overheard him saying to a pal, "Aye mon,

but A've had ma outlook on life broadened these last two days." B.

'phoned up hastily to the Convoy to know what exactly we had done with

his carpenter.

Work was slack in the Autumn owing to the fearful floods of rain, and

several of the F.A.N.Y.s took up fencing and went once a week at eight

o'clock to a big "Salle d'Escrime" off the Rue Royale. A famous Belgian

fencer, I forget his name, and a Frenchman, both stationed in the

vicinity, instructed, and "Squig" kindly let me take her lessons when

she was on leave. Fencing is one of the best tests I know for teaching

you to keep your temper. When my foil had been hit up into the air about

three times in succession to the triumphant _Riposte!_ of the little

Frenchman, I would determine to keep "Quite cool." In spite of all,

however, when I lunged forward it was with rather a savage stamp, which

he would copy delightedly and exclaim triumphantly--"Mademoiselle se

fâche!" I could have killed that Frenchman cheerfully! His quick orders

"_Paré, paré--quatre, paré--contre--Riposté!_" etc. left me

completely bewildered at first. Hope was a great nut with the foils and

she and the Frenchman had veritable battles, during which the little

man, on his mettle and very excited, would squeal exactly like a

rabbit. The big Belgian was more phlegmatic and not so easily moved.

One night I espied a pair of boxing gloves and pulled them on while

waiting for my turn. "Mademoiselle knows _la boxe_?" he asked

interestedly.

"A little, a very little, Monsieur," I replied. "Only what my brother

showed me long ago."

"Montrez," said he, drawing on a pair as well, and much to the amusement

of the others we began preliminary sparring. "Mademoiselle knows

_ze-k_-nock-oot?" he hazarded.

I did not reply, for at that moment he lifted his left arm, leaving his

heart exposed. Quick as lightning I got in a topper that completely

winded him and sent him reeling against the wall. When he got his breath

back he laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks, and whenever I

met him in the street he flew up a side alley in mock terror. I was

always designated after that as _Mademoiselle qui sait la boxe--oh, la

la_!

In spite of repeated efforts on the part of R.E.s. there was a spot in

the roof through which the rain persistently dripped on to my face in

the night. They never could find it, so the only solution was to sleep

the other way up! _C'est la guerre_, and that's all there was to it.

One cold blustery day I had left "Susan" at the works in Boulogne and

was walking along by the fish market when I saw a young fair-haired

staff officer coming along the pavement toward me. "His face is very

familiar," I thought to myself, and then, quick as a flash--"Why, it's

the Prince of Wales, of course!" He seemed to be quite alone, and except

for ourselves the street was deserted. How to cope? To bob or not to

bob, that was the question? Then I suddenly realized that in a stiff

pair of Cording's boots and a man's sheepskin-lined mackintosh, sticking

out to goodness knows where, it would be a sheer impossibility. I

hastily reviewed the situation. If I salute, I thought, he may think I'm

taking a liberty! I decided miserably to do neither and hoped he would

think I had not recognized him at all.[13] As we came abreast I looked

straight ahead, getting rather pink the while. Once past and calling

myself all manner of fools, I thought "I'm going to turn round, and

stare. One doesn't meet a Prince every day, and in any case 'a cat may

look at a king!'" I did so--the Prince was turning round too! He smiled

delightfully, giving me a wonderful salute, which I returned and went on

my way joyfully, feeling that it had been left to him to save the

situation, and very proud to think I had had a salute all to myself.

Christmas came round before we knew where we were, and Boss gave the

order it was to be celebrated in our own mess. Work was slack just then

and Mrs. Williams gave a tea and dance in the afternoon at her canteen

up at Fontinettes. It was a picturesque-looking place with red brick

floor, artistic-looking tables with rough logs for legs and a large open

fireplace, typically English, which must have rejoiced the hearts of men

so far from Blighty.

It was a very jolly show, in spite of my partner bumping his head

against the beam every time we went round, and people came from far and

near. It was over about five, and we hastened back to prepare for our

Christmas dinner in Mess.

Fancy dress had been decided on, and as it was to be only among

ourselves we were given carte blanche as to ideas. They were of course

all kept secret until the last moment. Baby went as a Magpie and looked

very striking, the black and white effect being obtained by draping a

white towel straight down one side over the black nether garments

belonging to our concert party kit.

I decided to go as a _Vie Parisienne_ cover. A study in black and

daffodil--a ravishing confection--and also used part of our "FANTASTIK"

kit, but made the bodice out of crinkly yellow paper. A chrysanthemum of

the same shade in my hair, which was skinned back in the latest

door-knob fashion, completed the get-up.

Baby and I met on our way across the camp and drifted into mess

together, and as we slowly divested ourselves of our grey wolf-coats we

were hailed with yells of delight.

Dicky went as Charlie's Aunt, and Winnie as the irresistible nephew. Eva

was an art student from the Quartier Latin, and Bridget a charming

two-year old. The others came in many and various disguises.

We all helped to clear away in order to dance afterwards, and as I ran

into the cook-house with some plates I met the mechanic laden with the

tray from his hut.

The momentary glimpse of the _Vie Parisienne_ was almost too much for

the good Brown. I heard a startled "Gor blimee! Miss" and saw his eyes

popping out of his head as he just prevented the tray from eluding his

grasp!

Soon after Christmas a grain-ship, while entering Boulogne harbour in a

storm, got blown across and firmly fixed between the two jetties, which

are not very wide apart. To make matters worse its back broke and so

formed an effectual barrier to the harbour and took from a fortnight to

three weeks to clear away.

Traffic was diverted to the other ports, and for the time being Boulogne

became almost like a city of the dead.

One port had been used solely for hospital ships up till then, and the

scenes of bustle and confusion that replaced the comparative calm were

almost indescribable. We saw many friends returning from Christmas

leave, who for the most part had not the faintest idea where they had

arrived. There were not enough military cars to transport the men to

Fontinettes, so besides our barge and hospital work we were temporarily

commissioned by the Local Transport Office.

I was detailed to take two officers inspecting the Archic stations north

of St. Omer one wet snowy afternoon, and many were the adventures we

had. It was a great thing to get up right behind our lines to places

where we had never been before, and Susan ploughed through the mud like

a two-year old, and never even so much as punctured. We were on our way

back at a little place called Pont l'Abbesse, about 6.30, when the snow

came down in blinding gusts. With only two side lamps, and a pitch dark

night, the prospect of ever finding our way home seemed nil, and every

road we took was bordered by a deep canal, with nothing in the way of a

fence as protection. It was bitterly cold, and once we got completely

lost; three-quarters of an hour later finding ourselves at the same

cottage where we had previously asked the way!

At last we found a staff car that promised to give us a lead, and in

time we reached the main St. Omer road, finally getting back to

Pont-le-Beurre about 10 p.m. I 'phoned up to the Convoy to tell them I

was still in the land of the living, and after a bowl of hot soup sped

back to camp.

My hands were so cold I had to sit on them in turns, and as for feet, I

didn't seem to have any. Still it was "some run," and the next day I

spent a long time hosing off the thick clay which almost completely hid

the good Susan from sight.

Another temporary job we had was to drive an army sister (a sort of

female Military Landing Officer) to the boat every day, where she met

the sisters coming back from leave and directed them to the different

units and hospitals.

One of the results of the closing of Boulogne harbour was that instead

of the patients being evacuated straight to England we had to drive

them into Boulogne, where they were entrained for Havre! A terrible

journey, poor things. Twenty to twenty-four ambulances would set off to

do the thirty kilometres in convoy, led at a steady pace by the Section

Leader. These journeys took place three times a week, and often the men

would get bitterly cold inside the cars. If there was one puncture in

the Convoy we all had to stop till a spare wheel was put on. We eagerly

took the opportunity to get down and do stamping exercises and "cabby"

arms to try and get warm. To my utmost surprise, on one of these

occasions my four stretcher patients got up and danced in the road with

me. Why they were "liers" instead of "sitters" I can't think, as there

was not much wrong with them. _À propos_ I remember asking one night

when an ambulance train came in in the dark, "Are you liers or sitters

in here?" and one humorist scratched his head and replied, "I don't

rightly know, Sister, I've told a few in my time!" To return to our long

convoy journeys: once we had deposited our patients it was not

unnaturally the desire of this "dismounted cavalry" unit to try the

speed of its respective 'buses one against the other on the return

journey; to our immense disappointment this idea was completely nipped

in the bud, for Boss rode on the first car.

Permission however was given to pass on hills, as it was considered a

pity to overheat a car going down to second gear when it could easily

have done the hill on third! That Boulogne road is one of the hilliest

in France, and Susan was a nailer on hills. I remember arriving in camp

second one day. "How have _you_ got here?" asked Boss in surprise, "I

purposely put you nineteenth!"

Heasy, Betty, and I in celebration of two years' active service had

permission to give a small dance in the mess at the beginning of the new

year. We trembled lest at the last moment an ambulance train might

arrive, but there was nothing worse than an early evacuation next

morning and all went off excellently. I was entrusted to make the "cup,"

and bought the ingredients in the town (some cup), and gravely assured

everyone there was absolutely "nothing in it." The boracic powder was

lifted in my absence from the _Pharmacie_ to try and get the first

glimmerings of a slide on that sticky creosoted floor. The ambulances,

fitted with paper Chinese lanterns, were temporarily converted into

sitting out places. It was a great show.

There was one job in the Convoy we all loathed like poison; it was known

as "corpses." There was no chance of dodging unpopular jobs, for they

worked out on an absolutely fair system. For instance, the first time

the telephone bell went after 8 a.m. (anything before that was counted

night duty) it was taken by a girl whose name came first in alphabetical

order. She rushed out to her car, but before going "warned" B. that when

the bell next went it would be _her_ job, and so on throughout the day.

If you were "warned," it was an understood thing that you did not begin

any long job on the car but stayed more or less in readiness. If the

jobs got half through the alphabet by nightfall the last girl warned

knew she was first for it the next morning.

To return to the corpses. What happened was that men were frequently

falling into the canals and docks and were not discovered till perhaps

three weeks later. An ambulance was then rung up, and the corpse, or

what remained of it, was taken to the mortuary.

One day Bobs was called on to give evidence at a Court of Enquiry with

regard to a corpse she had driven, as there was some mystification with

regard to the day and hour at which it was found. As she stepped smartly

up to the table the Colonel asked her how, when it occurred some ten

days ago, she could be sure it was 4.30 when she arrived on the scene.

"It was like this," said she. "When I heard it was a corpse, I thought

I'd have my tea first!" (This was almost as bad as the tape measure

episode and was of course conclusive. I might add, corpses were the only

jobs that were not allowed to interfere with meals.)

"Foreign bodies," in the shape of former Belgian patients, often drifted

up to camp in search of the particular "Mees" who had tended them at

Lamarck, as often as not bringing souvenirs made at great pains in the

trenches as tokens of their gratitude. It touched us very much to know

that they had not forgotten.

One night when my evening duty was nearing its close and I was just

preparing to go to my hut the telephone bell rang, and I was told to go

down to the hospital ship we had just loaded that afternoon for a man

reported to be in a dying condition, and not likely to stand the journey

across to England--I never could understand why those cases should have

been evacuated at all if there was any possibility of them becoming

suddenly worse; but I suppose a certain number of beds had to be cleared

for new arrivals, and individuals could not be considered. It seemed

very hard.

I drove down to the Quay in the inky blackness, it was a specially dark

night, turned successfully, and reported I had come for the case.

An orderly, I am thankful to say, came with him in the car and sat

behind holding his hand.

The boy called incessantly for his mother and seemed hardly to realize

where he was. I sat forward, straining my eyes in the darkness along

that narrow quay, on the look-out for the many holes I knew were only

too surely there.

The journey seemed to take hours, and I answered a query of the

orderly's as to the distance.

The boy heard my voice and mistook me for one of the Sisters, and then

followed one of the most trying half-hours I have ever been through.

He seemed to regain consciousness to a certain extent and asked me from

time to time,

"Sister, am I dying?"

"Will I see me old mother again, Sister?"

"Why have you taken me off the Blighty ship, Sister?"

Then there would be silence for a space, broken only by groans and an

occasional "Christ, but me back 'urts crool," and all the comfort I

could give was that we would be there soon, and the doctor would do

something to ease the pain.

Thank God, at last we arrived at the Casino. One of the most trying

things about ambulance driving is that while you long to get the patient

to hospital as quickly as possible you are forced to drive slowly. I

jumped out and cautioned the orderlies to lift him as gently as they

could, and he clung on to my hand as I walked beside the stretcher into

the ward.

"You're telling me the truth, Sister? I don't want to die, I tell you

that straight," he said. "Goodbye and God bless you; I'll come and see

you in the morning," I said, and left him to the nurses' tender care. I

went down early next day but he had died at 3 a.m. Somebody's son and

only nineteen. That sort of job takes the heart out of you for some

days, though Heaven knows we ought to have got used to anything by that

time.

To make up for the wet autumn a hard frost set in early in the year.

The M.T. provided us with anti-freezing mixture for the radiators, but

the antifreezing cheerfully froze! We tried emptying them at night,

turning off the petrol and running the engine till the carburettor was

dry (for even the petrol was not above freezing), and wrapping up the

engines as carefully as if they were babies, but even that failed.

Starting the cars up in the morning (a detail I see I have not mentioned

so far), even in ordinary times quite a hard job, now became doubly so.

It was no uncommon sight to see F.A.N.Y.s lying supine across the

bonnets of their cars, completely winded by their efforts. The morning

air was full of sobbing breaths and groans as they swung in vain! This

process was known as "getting her loose"--(I'm referring to the car not

the F.A.N.Y., though, from personal experience, it's quite applicable to

both.)

Brown or Johnson (the latter had replaced Kirkby) was secured to come if

possible and give the final fillip that set the engine going. It's a

well-known thing that you may turn at a car for ten minutes and not get

her going, and a fresh hand will come and do so the first time.

This swinging left one feeling like nothing on earth, and sometimes was

a day's work in itself.

In spite of all the precautions we took, whatever water was left in the

water pipes and drainings at the bottom of the radiators froze solidly,

and sure enough, when we had got them going, clouds of steam rose into

the air. The frost had come to stay and moreover it was a black one.

Something had to be done to solve the problem for it was imperative for

every car to be ready for the road first thing in the morning.

Camp fires were suggested, but were impracticable, and then it was that

"Night Guards" were instituted.

Four girls sat up all night, and once every hour turned out to crank up

the cars, run them with bonnet covers on till they were thoroughly warm,

and then tuck them up again till the next time. We had from four to five

cars each, and it will give some idea of the extreme cold to say that

when we came to crank them again, in roughly three-quarters of an hour's

time, they were _almost_ cold. The noise must have been heard for some

distance when the whole Convoy was roaring and racing at once like a

small inferno. But in spite of this, I know that when it was not our

turn to sit up we others never woke.

As soon as the cars were tucked up and silent again we raced back to the

cook-house, where we threw ourselves into deck chairs, played the

gramophone, made coffee to keep us awake, or read frightening books--I

remember I read "Bella Donna" on one of these occasions and wouldn't

have gone across the camp alone if you'd paid me. A grand midnight

supper also took up a certain amount of time.

That three-quarters of an hour positively flew, and seemed more like ten

minutes, but punctually at the second we had to turn out again,

willy-nilly--into that biting cold with the moon shining frostily over

everything apparently turning it into steel.

The trouble was that as the frost continued water became scarce--baths

had stopped long ago--and it began to be a question of getting even a

basinful to wash in. Face creams were extensively applied as the only

means of saving what little complexions we had left! The streets of the

town were in a terrible condition owing principally to the hygienic

customs of the inhabitants who _would_ throw everything out of their

front doors or windows. The consequence was that, without exaggeration,

the ice in some places was two feet thick, and every day fresh layers

were formed as the French housewives threw out more water. No one

remained standing in a perpendicular position for long, and the

difficulty was, once down, how to get up again.

Finally water became so scarce we had to bring huge cans in a lorry from

the M.T., one of the few places not frozen out, and there was usually

ice on them when they arrived in camp. Then the water even began to

freeze as we filled up our radiators; and, finally, we were reduced to

chopping up the ice in our tank and melting it for breakfast! One

morning, however, Bridget came to me in great distress. "What on earth

shall I do," said she, "I've finished all the ice, and there's not a bit

left to make the tea for breakfast? I know you'll think of something,"

she added hopefully.

I had been on night guard and the idea of no hot tea was a positive

calamity.

I thought for some minutes. "Here, give me the jug," I said, and out I

went. After looking carefully round to see that I was not observed, I

quietly tapped one of the radiators.

"I'll tell you after breakfast where it came from," I said, as I

returned with the full jug. Bridget seized it joyfully and must have

been a bit suspicious as it was still warm, but she was much too wise to

ask any questions.

We had a cheery breakfast, and when it was over I called out, "I hope

you all feel very much better and otherwise radiating? You ought to at

all events!"

"Why?" they asked curiously. "Well, you've just drunk tea made out of

'radium,'" I replied. "Absolutely priceless stuff, known to a few of the

first families by its original name of 'radiator water,'" and I escaped

with speed to the fastnesses of my hut.

THE STORY OF A PERFECT DAY

(_From "Barrack Room Ballads of the F.A.N.Y. Corps,"

By kind permission of Winifred Mordaunt, F.A.N.Y._)

We were smoking and absently humming

To anyone there who could play--

(We'd finished our tea in the Mess hut

Awaiting an ambulance train--)

Roasting chestnuts some were, while the rest,

Cut up toffee or sang a refrain.

Outside was a bitter wind shrieking--

(Thank God for a fug in the Mess!)

Never mind if the old stove is reeking

If only the cold's a bit less--

But one of them starts and then shivers

(A goose walking over her tomb)

Gazes out at the rain running rivers

And says to the group in the room:

"Just supposing the 'God of Surprises'

Appeared in the glow of a coal,

With a promise before he demises

To take us away from this hole

And do just whatever we long to do.

Tell me your perfect day."

Said one, "Why, to fly to an island

Far away in a deep blue lagoon;

One would never be tired in my land

Nor ever get up too soon."

"Every time," cried the girl darning stockings,

"We'd surf-ride and bathe in the sea,

We'd wear nothing but little blue smockings

And eat mangoes and crabs for our tea."

"Oh no!" said a third, "that's a rotten

Idea of a perfect day;

I long to see mountains forgotten,

Once more hear the bells of a sleigh.

I'd give all I have in hard money

For one day of ski-ing again,

And to see those white mountains all sunny

Would pretty well drive me insane."

Then a girl, as she flicked cigarette ash

Most carelessly on to the floor,

Had a feeling just then that her pet "pash"

Would be a nice car at the door,

To motor all day without fagging--

Not to drive nor to start up the thing.

Oh! the joy to see someone else dragging

A tow-rope or greasing a spring!

Then a fifth murmured, "What about fishing?

Fern and heather right up to your knees

And a big salmon rushing and swishing

'Mid the smell of the red rowan trees."

So the train of opinions drifted

And thicker the atmosphere grew,

Till piercing the voices uplifted

Rang a sound I was sure I once knew.

A sound that set all my nerves singing

And ran down the length of my spine,

A great pack of hounds as they're flinging

Themselves on a new red-hot line!

A bit of God's country is stretching

As far as the hawk's eye can see,

The bushes are leafless, like etching,

As all good dream fences should be.

There isn't a bitter wind blowing

But a soft little southerly breeze,

And instead of the grey channel flowing

A covert of scrub and young trees.

The field of course is just dozens

Of people I want to meet so--

Old friends, to say nothing of cousins

Who've been killed in the war months ago.

Three F.A.N.Y.s are riding like fairies

Having drifted right into my dreams,

And they're riding their favourite "hairies"

That have been dead for years, so it seems.

A ditch that I've funked with precision

For seasons, and passed by in fear,

I now leap with a perfect decision

That never has marked my career.

For a dream-horse has never yet stumbled;

Far away hounds don't know how to flag.

A dream-fence would melt ere it crumbled,

And the dream-scent's as strong as a drag.

Of course the whole field I have pounded

Lepping high five-barred gates by the score,

And I don't seem the least bit astounded,

Though I never have done it before!

At last a glad chorus of yelling,

Proclaims my dream-fox has been viewed--

But somewhere some stove smoke is smelling

Which accounts for my feeling half stewed--

And somewhere the F.A.N.Y.s are talking

And somebody shouts through the din:

"What a horrible habit of snoring--

Hit her hard--wake her up--the train's in."

CHAPTER XV

CONVOY PETS, COMMANDEERING, AND THE "FANTASTIKS"

We took turns to go out on "all-night duty"; a different thing from

night guards, and meant taking any calls that came through after 9 p.m.

and before 8 a.m. next morning.

They were usually from outlying camps for men who had been taken ill or

else for stranded Army Sisters arriving at the Gare about 3 a.m. waiting

to be taken to their billets.

It was comparatively cheery to be on this job when night guards were in

progress, as there were four hefty F.A.N.Y.s sitting up in the

cook-house, your car warm and easy to crank, and, joy of joys, a hot

drink for you when you came back!

In the ordinary way as one scrambled into warm sweaters and top coats

the dominant thought was, would the car start all right out there, with

not a hand to give a final fillip once the "getting loose" process was

accomplished?

Luckily my turns came round twice during night guards, and the last time

I had to go for a pneumonia case to Beau Marais. It was a bright

moonlight night, almost as light as day, with everything glittering in

the frozen snow. Susan fairly hopped it! After having found the case,

which took some doing, and deposited him in No. 30 hospital, I sped back

to camp.

As I crossed the Place d'Armes and drove up the narrow Rue de la Mer,

Susan seemed to take a sudden header and almost threw a somersault! I

had gone into an invisible hole in the ice, two feet deep, extending

half across the street. For some reason it had melted (due probably to

an underground bakery in the vicinity). I reversed anxiously and then

hopped out to feel Susan's springs as one might a horse's knees. Thank

goodness they had not snapped, so backing all the way down the street

again, relying on the moon for light, I proceeded cautiously by another

route and got back without further mishap.

Our menagerie was gradually increasing. There were now three dogs and

two cats in camp, not to mention a magpie and two canaries, more of

which anon. There was Wuzzy, of course, and Archie (a naughty looking

little Sealyham belonging to Heasy) and a mongrel known as G.K.W. (God

knows what) that ran in front of a visiting Red Cross touring car one

day and found itself in the position of the young lady of Norway, who

sat herself down in the doorway! I did not witness the untimely end, but

I believe it was all over in a minute.

One cat belonged to Eva, a plain-looking animal, black with a half-white

face, christened "Miss Dip" (an inspiration on my part suggested by the

donor's name, on the "Happy Family" principle). She was the apple of her

eye, nevertheless, and nightly Eva could be heard calling "Dip, Dip,

Dip," all over the camp to fetch her to bed. Incidentally it became

quite an Angelus for us.

Considering the way she hunted all the meat shops for tit bits, that cat

ought to have been a show animal--but it wasn't. One day as our fairy

Lowson was lightly jumping from a window-sill she inadvertently "came in

contact" with Dip's tail, the extreme tip of which was severed in

consequence! In wrathful indignation Eva rushed Dip down to the Casino

in an ambulance, where one of the foremost surgeons of the day operated

with skill and speed and made a neat job of it, to the entire

satisfaction of all concerned. If her tail still remains square at the

end she can tell her children she was _blessée dans la guerre_. The

other cat was a tortoiseshell and appropriately called "Melisande in the

Wood," justified by the extraordinary circumstances in which she was

discovered. One day at No. 35 hut hospital I saw three of the men

hunting in a bank opposite, covered with undergrowth and small shrubs.

They told me that for the past three days a kitten had been heard

mewing, but in spite of all their efforts to find it, they had failed to

do so. I listened, and sure enough heard a plaintive mew. The place was

a network of clinging roots, but presently I crawled in and found it was

just possible to get along on hands and knees. It was most

mysterious--the kitten could be heard quite loud one minute, and when

we got to the exact spot it would be some distance away again. (It

reminded me of the Dutch ventriloquist's trick in Lamarck). It was such

a plaintive mew I was determined to find that kitten if I stayed there

all night. At last it dawned on me, it must be in a rabbit hole; and

sure enough after pushing and pulling my way along to the top of the

bank, I found one over which a fall of earth had successfully pushed

some wire netting from the fence above. I waited patiently, and in due

time caught sight of a little black, yellow, and white kitten; but the

minute I made a grab for it, it bolted. I pulled the netting away, but

the hole was much too deep for so small a creature to get out by itself,

and it was much too frightened to let me catch it. With great difficulty

I extricated myself and ran to the cookhouse, where I soon enlisted

Bridget's aid. We got some small pieces of soft raw meat and crawled to

the top of the bank again. After long and tedious coaxing I at last

grabbed the little thing spitting furiously while Bridget gave it some

food, and in return for my trouble it bit and scratched like a young

devil! It was terribly hungry and bolted all we had brought. When we got

her to the cook-house she ran round the place like a mad thing, and

turned out to be rather a fast cat altogether when she grew up. We

tossed for her, Bridget won, and she was duly christened with a drop of

tinned milk on her forehead, "Melisande in the Wood."

The magpie belonged to Russell, and came from Peuplinghe. Magpies are

supposed to be unlucky birds. This one certainly brought no luck to its

different owners. Shortly after its arrival Russell was obliged to

return to England for good. Before going, however, she presented Jacques

to Captain White at Val de Lièvre. Sure enough after some time he was

posted to the Boche prisoner camp at Marquise--a job he did not relish

at all. I don't know if he took Jacques with him, but the place was

bombed shortly after and the Huns killed many of their own men, and

presumably Jacques as well. So he did his bit for France.

The canaries belonged to Renny--at least at first she had only one. It

happened in this wise. The man at the disinfector (where we took our

cars and blankets to be syringed after an infectious case), had had a

canary given him by his "best girl" (French). He did not want a canary

and had nowhere to keep it, but, as he explained, he did not know enough

of the language to say so, and thought the easiest way out of the

difficulty was to accept it. "Give me the bird, proper, she 'as," he

added.

The trouble was he did not reckon on her asking after it, which she most

surely did. He could hardly confess to her that he had passed the

present on so instead he conveyed the news to her, somehow, that the

"pore little bird had gone and died on 'im." She expressed her horror

and forthwith produced a second!

"Soon 'ave a bloomin' aviary at this rate," he remarked as he handed

the second one over! No more appeared, however, and the two little

birds, both presumably dead, twittered and sang merrily the length of

the "cues."

As the better weather arrived so our work increased again, and in March

the Germans began a retreat in the west along a front of 100 miles. We

worked early and late and reached the point of being able to drive

almost asleep. An extraordinary sensation--you avoid holes, you slip the

clutch over bumps, you stop when necessary, and go on ditto, and at the

same time you can be having dreams! More a state of coma than actual

sleep, perhaps. I think what happened was one probably slept for a

minute and then woke up again to go off once more.

I became "Wuzzy's" adopted mother about now and, whenever I had time,

combed and brushed his silver curls till they stood out like fluff. He

could spot Susan miles away, and though it was against rules I sometimes

took him on board. As we neared camp I told him he must get down, but he

would put on an obstinate expression and deliberately push himself

behind my back, in between me and the canvas, so that I was almost on

the steering wheel. At other times he would listen to me for awhile,

take it all in, and then put his head on my shoulder with such an

appealing gesture that I used to risk being spotted, and let him remain.

He simply adored coming out if I was going riding, but I disliked having

him intensely, for he ran about under the horses, nibbling at them and

making himself a general nuisance. He would watch me through half shut

eyes the minute I began polishing my riding boots; and try as I would to

evade him he nearly always came in the end.

He got so crafty in time he would wait for me at the bottom of the drive

and dash out from among the shrubs just as I was vanishing. One day we

had trotted some distance along the Sangatte road, and I was just

congratulating myself I had given him the slip, when looking up, there

he was sitting on a grassy knoll just ahead, positively laughing and

licking his chops with self-satisfied glee. I gave it up after that, I

felt I couldn't cope with him, and yet there were those who called him

stupid! I grant you he had his bad days when he was referred to as my

"idiot son," but even then he was only just "peculiar"--a world of

difference.

One job we had was termed "lodgers" and consisted of meeting the

"sitting" cases from an ambulance train, taking them to the different

hospitals for the night, and then back to the quay early next morning in

time to catch the hospital ship to England. The stretcher cases had been

put on board the night before, but there was no sleeping accommodation

for so many "sitters." An ordinary evacuation often took place as well,

so that before breakfast we had sometimes carried as many as thirty-five

sitting cases, and done journeys with twelve stretchers. One day at No.

30 hospital I saw several of the girls beside a stretcher, and there was

the "Bovril king" lying swathed in blankets, chatting affably! He was

the cook at No. 30, a genial soul, who always rushed out in the early

hours of the morning when one was feeling emptiest, with a cup of hot

soup. He called it doing his bit, and always referred to himself proudly

as the "Bovril king." Alas, he was now being invalided home with

bronchitis!

Hope came back from leave and told me she had been pursued half way down

Regent Street by a fat old taxi driver who asked after me. It was dear

old Stone, of course, now returned to civil life and his smart taxi with

the silver "vauses!" I have hunted the stands in vain for his smiling

rosy face, but hope to spot him some day and have my three days' joy

ride.

One precious whole afternoon off, a very rare event, I went out for a

ride with Captain D. He rode "Baby," a little bay mare, and I rode a

grey, a darling, with perfect manners and the "sweetest" mouth in the

world. He was devoted to "Baby," and wherever she went he went too, as

surely as Mary's little lamb.

We struck off the road on to some grass and after cantering along for

some distance found we were in a network of small canals--the ground was

very spongy and the canal ahead of us fortunately not as wide as the

rest. We got over safely, landing in deep mud on the other side, and

decided our best plan was to make for the road again. We espied a house

at the end of the strip we were in with a road beyond, and agreed that

there must be a bridge or something leading to it. Captain D. went off

at a canter and I saw Baby break into a startled gallop as a train

steamed up on the line beyond the road. They disappeared behind the

house and I followed on at a canter. I turned the corner just in time to

see them almost wholly immersed in a wide canal and the gallant Captain

crawling over Baby's head on to the bank! It was one of those deceptive

spots where half the water was overgrown with thick weeds and cress,

making the place appear as narrow again.

The grey was of course hot on Baby's track. Seeing her plight I

naturally pulled up, but he resented this strongly and rose straight on

his hind legs. Fearing he would over-balance, I quickly slacked the

reins and leant forward on his neck. But it was too late; that slippery

mud was no place to try and regain a foothold, and over he came. I just

had time to slip off sideways, promptly lost my foothold and collapsed

as well. How I laughed! There was Captain D. on one side of the canal

vainly trying to capture his "wee red tourie" floating down stream, and

Baby standing by with the mud dripping from her once glossy flanks; and

on the other was I, sitting laughing helplessly in the mud, and the grey

(now almost brown) softly nosing my cap and eyeing his beloved on the

further bank with pained surprise!

To crown all, the train, which had come to a standstill, was by the

irony of fate full of Scottish soldiers on their way up the line. Such a

bit of luck in the shape of a free cinema show had rarely come their

way and they were bent on enjoying it to the fullest extent. The fact

that the officer now standing ruefully on the bank was in Tartan riding

"troos" of course added to the piquancy of the situation.

The woman had come out of her cottage by this time and kept exclaiming

at intervals, "Oh, la-la, Oh, la-la," probably imagining that this

mudbath was only a new pastime of the mad English. She at last was kind

enough to open the gate; and thither I led the grey and then across a

plank bridge beyond, previously hidden from sight.

We scraped the mud off the saddles under a running fire of witty

comments from the train. I knew the whole thing had given them so much

enjoyment that I bore them no illwill. I could see their point of view

so well, it must have been such fun to watch! "Hoots, mon," they called

to the now thoroughly embarrassed D., as we mounted, "are ye no going to

lift the lassie oop?" I was glad we were "oop" and away before the train

started again, and as we trotted along the road, cries of "Guid luck to

ye!" "May ye have a happy death!" (which is a regular north-country

wish, and a very nice one when you come to think of it), followed us.

The batman eyed us suspiciously as we reached Fontinettes where he was

waiting for the horses, and remarked that they seemed to have had a "bit

roll." My topcoat I'm glad to say covered all traces of the "bit roll" I

had indulged in on my own. It was a great ride entirely.

One night for some reason I was unable to sleep--a rare occurrence--and

bethought me of an exciting spy book, called the _German Submarine

Base_, I had begun weeks before but had had no time to finish. All was

dead quiet with the exception of the distant steady boom of the guns,

which one of course hardly noticed. I had just got to the most thrilling

part and was holding my breath from sheer excitement when whiz! sob!

bang! and a shell went spinning over the huts. For a moment I thought I

must be dreaming or that the book was bewitched. Next minute I was out

of bed like a rabbit, and turning off the light, dashed outside just as

the second went over. I naturally looked skyward, but there was not a

sign of anything and, stranger still, not even the throb of an engine. A

third went over with a loud screech, and my hair was blown into the air

by the rushing wind it caused. I saw a flash from the sea and Thompson

said she was wakened by my voice calling, "I say, come out and see this

new stunt." Soon everyone was up and the shells came on steadily,

blowing our hair about, and making the very pebbles rush rattling along

the ground, hitting against our feet with such force we thought at first

it must be spent shrapnel. Some of those shells screeched and some

miauled like huge cats hurtling through the air to spring on their prey.

These latter made a cold shiver run down my spine; the noise they made

was so blood-curdling. One could cope with the ordinary ones, but

frankly, these were beastly. Luckily they only went over about every

tenth. It was something quite new getting shells of this calibre from

such a short range, and "side-ways," too, as someone expressed it; quite

a different sensation from on top. The noise was deafening; and then one

struck the bank our camp was built on. We had no dug-out and seemingly

were just waiting to be potted at. We got the cars ready in case we were

called up, and the shells whizzed over all the time. There was another

explosion--one had landed in our incinerator! Good business! Another hit

the bank again! Once more the fact of being so near the danger proved

our safety, for with these three exceptions, they all passed over into

the town beyond. The smell of powder in the air was so strong it made us

sneeze. It was estimated roughly that 300 shells were lobbed into the

town, and all passing over us on the way.

It was a German destroyer that had somehow got down the coast

unchallenged, and was--we heard afterwards--only at a distance of 100

yards! What a chance for good shooting on our part; but it was a pitch

black night and somehow she got away in the velvet darkness. Sounds of

firing at sea--easily distinguishable from those on land because of the

"plop" after them--continued throughout the night and we thought a naval

battle was in progress somewhere; however, it proved to be one of the

bombardments of England, according to the papers next day. To our great

disappointment, our little "drop in the bucket" of 300 odd shells was

not even mentioned.

There was much eager scratching in the bank for bits of shells the next

day. One big piece was made into a paper-weight by the old Scotch

carpenter, and another was put on the "narrow escape" shelf among the

other bits that had "nearly, but not quite!"

Wild rumours had got round the camps and town that the "lady drivers had

got it proper," been "completely wiped out," in fact not one left alive

to tell the lurid tale. So that wherever we drove the next morning we

were greeted with cheery nods and smiles by everyone. The damage to the

town was considerable, but the loss of life singularly small. The Detail

Issue Stores had gone so far as to exchange bets as to whether we would

appear to draw rations that morning, and as I drove up with Bridget on

the box we were greeted right royally. One often found large oranges in

one's tool box, or a bag of nuts, or something of the kind, popped in by

a kindly Tommy who would pass the car and merely say: "Don't forget to

look in your tool-box when you get to camp, Miss," and be gone before

you could even thank him! All the choicest "cuts" were also reserved for

us by the butcher and we were altogether spoilt pretty generally.

Tommy is certainly a nailer at what he terms "commandeering." I was down

at the M.T. yard one day and as I left, was told casually to look in the

box when I got to camp. I did so, and to my horror saw a wonderful foot

pump--the pneumatic sort. I had visions of being hauled up before a

Court of Enquiry to produce the said pump, which was a brand new one and

painted bright red. On my next job I made a point of going round by the

M.T. yard to return the "present." I found my obliging friend, who was

pained in the extreme at the mere mention of a pump. "Never 'eard of

one," he affirmed stoutly. "Leastways," he said reminiscently, looking

at me out of the corner of his eye, "I do seem to remember something

about a stawf car bein' in 'ere this morning when yours was"--and he

smiled disarmingly. "Look 'ere," he continued, "you forget all about it,

Miss. I 'ates to see yer puffing at the tyres with them old-fashioned

ones, and anyway," with a grin, "that car's in Abbeville now!"

Another little example of similar "commandeering" was when my friend of

the chopped sticks turned up one day with a small Primus stove: "I 'eard

you was askin' for one, and 'ere it is," and with that he put it down

and fled. After the pump episode I was full of suspicions about little

things that "turned up" from nowhere, but for a long time I had no

opportunity of asking him exactly where the gift had come from. One

night, however, one of the doctors from the adjacent hut hospital was up

in camp, and Primus stoves suddenly cropped up in the conversation.

"Most extraordinary thing," said he, "my batman is as honest as the day,

and can't account for the disappearance of my stove at all. No one went

into my hut, he declares, and yet the stove is gone, and not so much as

a sign of it. One thing is I'd know it if I saw it again." I started

guiltily at this, and got rather pink--"Look here," I said, "come into

my hut a moment." He did so. "By Jove! that's my stove right enough," he

cried, "I know the scratches on it. How on earth did you get it?" "That

I can't tell you," I replied, "but you can have it back" (graciously),

"and look here, it wasn't _your_ batman, so rest easy." He was too wise

to ask unnecessary questions (one didn't in France), and only too

thankful to get his Primus, which he joyfully carried back in state. It

was a pity about it, because they were impossible to get at that time,

and our huts had already been raided for electric kettles.

Gothas came frequently to visit us at night and terrible scenes took

place, during which we were ordered out amid the dropping bombs to carry

the injured to hospital, but more often than not to collect the dead, or

what was left of them.

One morning I was in great distress, for I lost my purse through the

lining of my wolf-coat. It was not the loss of the purse that worried

me, but the fact that I always kept the little medal of the Virgin and

Child in there, given me by the old Scotch nun in Paris "for

protection." "Eva," I called, "I've lost my luck--that little charm I

had given me in 1915--I do wish I hadn't. I'm not superstitious in the

ordinary way, but I kind of believe in that thing;" she only laughed

however. But I took the trouble to advertise for it in the local

paper--unfortunately with no result. I was very distressed.

Our concert party got really quite a slap-up show going about this time.

We also had a drop scene behind--a huge white linen sheet on which we

_appliquéd_ big black butterflies fluttering down to a large sunflower

in the corner, the petals of which were the same yellow as the bobbles

on our dresses. We came to the conclusion that something of the sort was

necessary, for as often as not we had to perform in front of

puce-coloured curtains that hardly showed us up to the best advantage.

One of the best shows we ever gave I think was for the M.T. _dépôt_.

They did so much for us one way and another repairing cars (not to

mention details like the foot pump episode), that we were only too glad

to do something for them in return. The _pièce de résistance_ (at least,

Dicky and I thought so) was a skit we got up on one of "Lena's" concert

party stars--a ventriloquist stunt. We thought of it quite suddenly and

only had time for one rehearsal before the actual performance. I paid a

visit to Corporal Coy of the mortuary (one of the local low comedians,

who, like the coffin-cart man at Lamarck, "had a merry eye!" and was a

recognized past-master in the art of make-up), and borrowed his little

bowler hat for the occasion. He listened solemnly to the scheme, and

insisted on making me a fascinating little Charlie Chaplin moustache

(the requisites for which he kept somewhere in the mortuary with the

rest of his disguises!) and he then taught me to waggle it with great

skill!

Dicky was the "doll" with round shiny patches of red on her cheeks and a

Tommy's cap and hospital blue coat. She supplied the glassy stare

herself most successfully. For these character stunts we simply put on

caps and coats over our "Fantastik" kit and left the rest to the

imagination of the audience who was quick (none quicker) to grasp the

implied suggestion. I was "Mr. Lenard Ashwell" in aforementioned bowler,

moustache, and coat. We made up the dialogue partly on the basis of the

original performance, and added a lot of local colour. I asked the

questions, and was of course supposed to ventriloquize the answers, and,

thanks to the glassy stare of my doll, her replies almost convinced the

audience I was doing so.

They had all seen the real thing a fortnight before, so that we were

greeted with shouts of laughter as the curtain went up.

The trouble was, as we had only written the book of words that day it

was rather hard for me to remember them, so I had taken the precaution

of safety-pinning them on my doll's back. It was all right for her as

she got the cue from me. It was not difficult, half supporting her as I

appeared to be, to squint behind occasionally for the next jest! On one

of these occasions my incorrigible doll horrified me by winking at the

audience and exclaiming, to their delight, "The bloke's got all the

words on my back!" She then revolved out of my grasp, and spun slowly

round on her stool. This unrehearsed effect quite brought the house

down, and not to be outdone, I raised my small bowler repeatedly in

acknowledgment!

I was a little taken aback the next morning when the man at the petrol

stores said, "My, but you wos a fair treat as Charlie Chaplin last

night, Miss." (It must have been Corporal Coy's moustache that did it,

not to mention lifting my bowler from the rear!)

The more local colour you get in a show of that sort the better the men

like it, and we parodied all the latest songs as fast as they came out.

Winnie and "Squig" in Unity More's "_Clock strikes Thirteen_" were

extremely popular, especially when they sang with reference to cranking

up in the mornings:

Wind, wind. _Oh_ what a grind!

I could weep, I could swear, I could scream,

Both my arms ache, and my back seems to break

But she'll go when the clock strikes thirteen.

Oh, oh (with joy), at last she will go!

There's a spark from the bloomin' machine,

She's going like fire, when bang goes a tyre

And we'll start when the clock strikes thirteen!

The whole programme was as follows:--

1. The FANTASTIKS announce their shortcomings in

chorus of original words to the opening music of the Bing

Boys--"We're the FANTASTIKS, and we rise at six and

don't get much time to rehearse, so if songs don't go, and

the show is slow, well, we hope you'll say it might have

been worse," etc., etc.

2. _Violin_ 1. "Andantino" (Kreisler) }

} P.B. WADDELL

2. "Capriccioso" (Drdla) }

3. _Recitation_ Humorous N.F. LOWSON

4. _Chorus Song_ "Piccadilly" FANTASTIKS (in monocles)

5. _Stories_ M. RICHARDSON

6. _China Town_ FANTASTIKS

(Sung in the dark with lighted Chinese lanterns, quite

professional in effect--at least we hoped so!)

7. _Recitation_ Serious B. HUTCHINSON

8. Mr. Lenard Ashwell and his } { M. RICHARDSON

Ventriloquist Doll } { P.B. WADDELL

9. _Duet_ "When the Clock strikes Thirteen" G. QUIN AND

W. MORDAUNT

10. _Violin Solo_ "Zigeunerweisen" (Sarasate) P.B. WADDELL

11. _Song_ "Au Revoir" W. MORDAUNT

12. _The Kangaroo Hop_ FANTASTIKS

The chorus wore their goat-coats for this last item, and with animal

masks fixed by elastic, bears, wolves, elephants, etc., it was

distinctly realistic.

When "God save the King" had been sung, and the usual thanks and cheers

given, and received, the Sergeant-Major from the Canteen (with the

beautiful waxed moustache) rushed forward to say that light refreshments

had been provided. The "grizzly bears" were only too thankful, as they

had had no time to snatch even a bun before they left camp.

CHAPTER XVI

THE LAST RIDE

The hardest job in the Convoy was admittedly that of the big lorry, for,

early and late, it was first and last on the field.

It took all the stretchers and blankets to the different hospitals,

cleared up the quay after an early evacuation, brought stretchers and

blankets up to the Convoy, took the officers' kits to hospital and

boats, and rationed the ambulance trains and barges. "Jimmy" took to the

Vulcan instinctively when the Convoy was first started and jealously

kept to the job, but after a time she was forcibly removed therefrom in

order to take a rest. I could sympathize--I knew how I had felt about

the little lorry.

The job was to be taken in fortnightly turns, and while the old Vulcan

lorry was being overhauled a Wyllis-Overland was sent in its place.

The disadvantage of the lorry was that you never saw any of your

friends, for you were always on duty when they were off, and vice versa;

also you hardly ever had meals when they did. Eva's fortnight was almost

up, and I was hoping to see something of her before I went on leave when

one night in she came with the news that I was the next one for

it--hardly a welcome surprise; and down at barges that evening--it was a

Sunday--Gamwell, the Sergeant, told me officially I was to take on the

job next morning at 5 a.m.

When I got back to Camp I went for a preliminary run on it, as I had

never driven that make before. The tyres were solid, all vestige of

springs had long since departed from the seat and the roof was covered

with tin that bent and rattled like stage thunder. The gears were in the

middle and very worn, and the lever never lost an opportunity of

slipping into first as you got out, and consequently the lorry tried to

run over you when you cranked up! Altogether a charming car. You drove

along like a travelling thunder-clap, and coming up the slope into Camp

the earth fairly shook beneath you. I used to feel like the whole of

Valhalla arriving in a Wagner Opera! It was also quite impossible to

hear what anyone said sitting on the seat beside you.

The third day, as I got out, I felt all my bones over carefully. "When I

come off this job," I called to Johnson, "I shall certainly swallow a

bottle of gum as a wise precaution." He grinned appreciatively.

Lowson, who had had her turn before Eva, appropriately christened it

"Little Willie," and I can affirm that that car had a Hun soul.

You were up and dressed at 5 a.m. and waited about camp till the

telephone bell rang to say the train had arrived. Schofield, the

incinerator man who was usually in the camp at that hour, never failed

to make a cup of tea--a most welcome thing, for one never got back to

camp to have breakfast till 11 or 11.30 a.m. I used to spend the

interval, after "Little Willie" was all prepared for the road, combing

out Wuzzy's silver curls. He always accompanied the lorry and was

allowed to sit, or rather jolt, on the seat beside me, unrebuked. After

breakfast there was the quay to clear up and all the many other details

to attend to, getting back to camp about 3 to go off in an hour's time

to barges. When a Fontinettes ambulance train came down, the lorry

driver was lucky if she got to bed this side of 2 a.m.

All social engagements in the way of rides, etc., had to be cancelled in

consequence, but the Monday before I went into hospital the grey and

Baby appeared up in camp about 5.30. I was hanging about waiting for the

telephone to say the barge had arrived, but as there was a high wind

blowing it was considered very unlikely it would come down the canal

that evening. I 'phoned to a station several miles up to enquire if it

was in sight, and the reply came back "Not a sign," and I accordingly

got permission to go out for half an hour. I was so afraid Captain D.

might not consider it worth while and could have almost wept, but

fortunately he agreed half an hour was better than nothing, and off we

went up the sands, leaving the bob-tailed Wuzzy well in the rear. What a

glorious gallop that was--my last ride! The sands appeared almost

golden in the sun and the wind was whipping the deep blue waves into

little crests of foam against the paler turquoise of the sky. Already

the flowers on the dunes had burst into leaf, for it was the "merrie

month of May," and there, away on the horizon, the white cliffs of

England could just be discerned. Altogether it was good to be alive.

"Hurrah," I cried, as we slowed down to a walk, "five more days and then

on leave to England!" and I rubbed the grey's neck with joy. Alas! that

half hour flew like ten minutes and we turned all too soon and raced

back, thudding along over the glorious sands as we went.

I got to the Convoy to find there was no news of the barge, but I had to

dismount all the same--duty is duty--and I kissed the grey's nose,

little thinking I should never see him again. The barge did not come

down till 9 o'clock the next morning. _C'est la guerre_--and a _very_

trying one to boot!

The weather was ideal just then: warm and sunny and not a cloud in the

sky except for those little round white puffs where the Archie shells

burst round the visiting Huns.

One afternoon about 5 o'clock, when breakfast had been at lunch time and

consequently that latter meal had been _n'apoo'd_ altogether, I went

into the E.M.O.'s for the chits before leaving for camp. (These initials

stood for "Embarkation Medical Officer" and always designated the office

and shed where the blankets and stretchers were kept; also,

incidentally, the place where the Corporal and two men slept.) As I

entered a most appetising odour greeted my nostrils and I suddenly

realized how very hungry I was. I sniffed the air and wondered what it

could be.

"Just goin' to have a cockle tea," explained the Corporal. "I suppose,

Miss, you wouldn't care to join us?" I knew the brew at the Convoy would

be long since cold, and accepted the invitation joyfully.

Their "dining-room" was but the shed where the stretchers were piled up,

many of them brown and discoloured by blood, and bundles of fusty army

blankets, used as coverings for the wounded, reached almost to the

ceiling. They were like the stretchers in some cases, and always sticky

to the touch. I could not repress a shudder as I turned away to the much

more welcome sight of tea. A newspaper was spread on the rough table in

my honour and Wheatley was despatched "at the double" to find the only

saucer! (Those who knew the good Wheatley will perhaps fail to imagine

he could attain such a speed--dear Wheatley, with his long spindle legs

and quaint serio-comic face. He was a man of few words and a heart of

gold.)

I look back on that "cockle tea" as one of my happiest memories. It was

so jolly and we were all so gay and full of hope, for things were going

well up the line.

I had never tasted cockles before and thought they were priceless. We

discussed all manner of things during tea and I learnt a lot about their

aspirations for _après la guerre_. It was singular to think that within

a short month, of that happy party Headley the Corporal alone remained

sound and whole. One was killed by a shell falling on the E.M.O. One was

in hospital crippled for life, and the third was brought in while I was

there and died shortly after from septic pneumonia. Little did we think

what was in store as we drank tea so merrily!

Wheatley insisted on putting a bass bag full of cockles into the lorry

before I left, and when I got to camp I ran to the cook-house thinking

how they would welcome a variation for supper.

"Cockles?" asked Bridget. "Humph, I suppose you know they grow on sewers

and people who eat them die of ptomaine poisoning?" "No," I said, not at

all crestfallen, "do they really, well I've just eaten a whole bag full!

If they give me a military funeral I do hope you'll come," and I

departed, feeling rather hurt, to issue further invitations.

I was drawing petrol at the Stores the next day and as I was signing for

it the man there (my Charlie Chaplin friend) kindly began to crank up.

As he did so I saw Little Willie move gently forward, and ran out to

slip the gear back into "neutral."

"It's a Hun and called 'Little Willie,'" I explained as I did so.

"Crikey, wot a car," he observed, "no wonder you calls it that. Don't

you let him put it acrosst you, Miss."