"He's only four more days to do it in," I thought joyfully, as I rattled

off to the Quay, and yet somehow a premonition of some evil thing about

to happen hung over me, and again I wished I hadn't lost my charm.

The next day was Wednesday, and I had been up since 5 and was taking a

lorry-full of stretchers and blankets past a French Battery to the

E.M.O.'s. It was about midday and there was not a cloud in the sky. Then

suddenly my heart stood still. Somehow, instinctively, I knew I was "for

it" at last. Whole eternities seemed to elapse before the crash. There

was no escape. Could I urge Little Willie on? I knew it was hopeless;

even as I did so he bucketed and failed to respond. He would! How I

longed for Susan, who could always be relied upon to sprint forward. At

last the crash came. I felt myself being hurled from the car into the

air, to fall and be swept along for some distance, my face being

literally rubbed in the ground. I remember my rage at this, and even in

that extreme moment managed to seize my nose in the hope that it at

least might not be broken! Presently I was left lying in a crumpled heap

on the ground. My first thought, oddly enough, was for the car, which I

saw standing sulkily and somewhat battered not far off. "There _will_ be

a row," I thought. The stretcher bearer in behind had been killed

instantaneously, but fortunately I did not know of this till some time

later, nor did I even know he had jumped in behind. The car rattled to

such an extent I had not heard the answer to my query, if anyone was

coming with me to unload the stretchers.

I tried to move and found it impossible. "What a mess I'm in," was my

next thought, "and how my legs ache!" I tried to move them too, but it

was no good. "They must both be broken," I concluded. I put my hand to

my head and brought it away all sticky. "That's funny," I thought,

"where can it have come from?" and then I caught sight of my hand. It

was all covered with blood. I began to have a panic that my back might

be injured and I would not be able to ride again. That was all that

really worried me. I had always dreaded anything happening to my back,

somehow.

The French soldiers were down from their Battery in a trice, all great

friends of mine to whom I had often thrown ration cigarettes.

Gaspard (that was not his name, I never knew it, but always called him

that in my own mind after Raymond's hero) gave a cry and was on the

ground beside me, calling me his "little cabbage," his "poor little

pigeon," and presently he half lifted me in his arms and cradled me as

he might a baby. I remained quite conscious the whole time. "Will I be

able to ride again?" kept hammering through my brain. The pain was

becoming rapidly worse and I began to wonder just where my legs were

broken. As I could move neither I could not discover at all, and

presently I gave a gasp as I felt something tighten and hurt terribly.

It was a boot lace they were fixing to stop the hæmorrhage (bootlaces

are used for everything in France). The men stood round, and I watched

them furtively wiping the tears away that rolled down their furrowed

cheeks. One even put his arm over his eyes as a child does. I wondered

vaguely why they were crying; it never dawned on me it had anything to

do with _me_. "Complètement coupée," I heard one say, and quick as a

shot, I asked, "Où est-ce que c'est qu'est coupé?" and those tactful

souls, just rough soldiers, replied without hesitation, "La jaquette,

Mademoiselle."

"Je m'en fiche de la jaquette," I answered, completely reassured.

I wished the ambulance would come soon. "I _am_ in a beastly mess," I

thought again. "Fancy broken legs hurting like this. What must the men

go through!"

It was singular I was so certain they were broken. But a month before I

had received a wire from the War Office stating one of my brothers had

crashed 1,000 feet and had two legs fractured, and without more ado I

took it for granted I was in a similar plight. "I won't sit up and

look," I decided, "or I shall think I'm worse than I am. There's sure to

be some blood about," and the sun beat down fiercely, drying what there

was on my face into hard cakes. My lower lip had also been cut inside

somehow. One man took off his coat and held it high up to form a shade.

I saw everything that happened with a terrible distinctness. They had

already bound up my head, which was cut and bleeding profusely.

The pain was becoming almost intolerable and I wondered if in time I

would cry, but luckily one does not cry on those occasions; it becomes

an impossibility somehow. I even began to wish I could. I asked to have

my legs lifted a little and the pain seemed to ease somewhat. I shall

never forget those Frenchmen. They were perfect. How often I had smiled

at them as I passed, and laughed to see them standing in a ring like

naughty schoolboys, peeling potatoes, their Sergeant walking round to

see that it was done properly!

The little French doctor from the Battery, who had once helped me change

a tyre, came running up and I covered the scratched side of my face lest

he should get too much of a shock. "Je suis joliment dans la soupe," I

said, and saw him go as white as a sheet. "These Frenchmen are very

sympathetic," I thought, for it had dawned on me what they were crying

about by that time.

Just then an ambulance train came down the line and the two English

doctors were fetched. A tourniquet which seemed like a knife, and hurt

terribly, was applied as well as the bootlace. I was also given some

morphia. "This will hurt a little," he said as he pushed in the needle,

which I thought distinctly humorous. As if a prick from a hypodermic

could be anything in comparison with what was going on "down there"

where I hadn't courage to look! His remark had one good effect though,

because I thought: "If he thinks _that_ will hurt there can't be much to

fuss over down there."

Would the ambulance never arrive? I wondered if we were always so

long--which F.A.N.Y. would come? "She's cranked up by now and on the

way, probably as far as the bridge," I thought. I drove all the way down

in my own mind and yet she did not arrive, but they had 'phoned to the

French hospital in the town and not the Convoy. I did not know this till

I saw the French car arrive.

It seemed an age. Gaspard never moved once from his cramped position and

kept saying soothingly from time to time: "Allons, p'tit chou, mon

pauvre petit pigeon, ça viendra tout à l'heure, hé la petite."

At last the ambulance came. I dreaded being lifted, but those soldiers

raised me so tenderly the wrench was not half as bad as I had

anticipated. I had been there just over forty minutes. Then began the

journey in the ambulance. The men gave me a fine salute as I was taken

off and I waved good-bye. One of the Sisters from the train came in the

car with me and also the little French doctor whose hand I hung on to

most of the way, and which incidentally must have been like pulp when we

arrived.

As luck would have it the driver was a new man, and neither the doctor

nor the sister knew the way, so I had to give the directions. The doctor

was all for taking me to the French military hospital, but I asked to

be taken to the Casino.

"So this is what the men go through every day," I thought, as we were

into a hole and out again with a bump and the pain became almost too

much to bear. The doctor swore at the driver, and I took another grip of

his hand. "Bien difficile de ne pas faire ça," I murmured, for I knew he

had really manoeuvred it well. The constant give of the springs

jiggling endlessly up and down, up and down, was as trying as anything.

The trouble was I knew every hole in that road and soon we had to cross

railway lines! The sister, who was a stranger too, began to worry how

she would find her way back to the train, but I assured her once arrived

at the Casino, she only had to walk up to our camp to get a F.A.N.Y.

car. "I hope there won't be many people there when I'm pulled out," I

thought, "I hate being stared at in such a beastly mess," above all I

hated a fuss.

Now we had come to the railway lines. "What would it have been like

without morphia?" I wondered. Of course the drawbridge was up and that

meant at least ten minutes wait till the ships went through. My luck

seemed dead out. At last I heard the familiar clang as it rattled into

place, and we were over.

I dared not close my eyes, as I had a sort of feeling I'd never be able

to open them again. "Only up the slope and then I'm there. If I can't

keep them open till then, I'm done." The pain was getting worse again,

and from what the sister said I gathered something down there had begun

to hæmorrhage once more. Still no thought of the truth ever dawned on

me.

At last we arrived and slowly backed into place. I could not help seeing

the grim humour of the situation; I had driven so many wounded men there

myself. The Colonel, who must have heard, for he was waiting, looked

very white and worried, and Leather, one of the Duchess' drivers,

started visibly as I was pulled out. I was told after that my

complexion, or what could be seen of it, was ashen grey in colour and if

my eyes had not been open they would have thought the worst. I was

carried into the big hall and there my beloved Wuzzy found me. I heard a

little whine and felt a warm tongue licking my face--luckily he had not

been with me that morning.

"Take that ---- dog away, someone," cried the Colonel, who was peevish

in the extreme. "He's not a ---- dog," I protested, and then up came a

Padre who asked gravely, "What are you, my child?" Thinking I was now

fairly unrecognisable by this time with the Frenchman's hanky round my

head, etc., I replied, "A F.A.N.Y., of course!" This completely

scandalized the good Padre. When he had recovered, he said, "No, you

mistake me, what religion I mean?"

"He wants to know what to bury me under," I thought, "what a thoroughly

cheerful soul!" "C. of E.," I replied as per identity disc. He then took

my home address, which seemed an unnecessary fuss, and I was left in

peace. Captain C. was there as well and came over to the stretcher.

"I've broken both legs," I announced, "will I be able to ride again?"

"Of course you will," he said.

"Sure?" I asked.

"Rather," he replied, and I felt comforted.

I was then carried straight through ward I. into the operating theatre.

The men in bed looked rather startled, and Barratt, a man I had driven

and been visiting since, was near the door. What he said is hardly

repeatable. When the British Tommy is much moved he usually becomes

thoroughly profane! I waved to him as I disappeared through the door

into the theatre.

I was speedily undressed. Dicky appeared mysteriously from somewhere and

was a brick. The room seemed to be full of nurses and orderlies and then

I went slipping off into oblivion as the chloroform took effect (my

first dose and at that time very welcome) and at last I was in a land

where pain becomes obliterated in one vast empty space.

* * * * *

I woke that afternoon and of course wondered where I was. Everything

seemed to be aching and throbbing at once. I tried to move, but I felt

as if I was clamped to the bed. "This is terrible," I thought, "I must

be having a nightmare." Then I saw the cradle covering my legs. "What

could it be?" I wondered, and then in a flash the scenes of that morning

(or was it a week ago?) came back to me. I wondered if my back was all

right and felt carefully down the side. No, there was no bandage, and I

sighed with relief, though it ached like fury. I could feel the top of

the wooden splints on the one leg but nothing but bandages on the other.

My head had been sewn up, also my lip, and a nice tight bandage replaced

the hanky.

It was thumping wildly and presently an unseen figure gave me something

very cool to sip out of a feeding mug. Things straightened out a bit

after that, and I saw there were quantities of flowers in the room,

jugfuls in fact, which had been sent to cheer me along. Then something

in my leg, the one that was hurting most, gave a fearful tug and a jump

and I drew in my breath with a sobbing gasp. What could it be? It felt

just as if someone had tugged it on purpose, and it took ages to settle

down again. I looked mutely at my nurse for an explanation, and she put

a cool hand on mine.

It was the severed nerve, and I learnt to dread those involuntary jumps

that came so suddenly from nowhere and seized one like a deadly cramp.

Everything, including my back, was one vast ache punctuated by those

appalling nerve jumps that set every other one in my body tingling.

How I longed to turn on my side, but that was a luxury denied me for

weeks.

My friend Eva had heard the cheerful news when she returned from

Boulogne, where she had been all day, and she and Lowson were allowed to

come and see me for a few minutes.

"I've broken both legs," I stated. "Isn't it the limit? They don't half

hurt." They nodded sympathetically, not daring to give me a hint of the

real state of affairs.

"Captain C. says I'll be able to ride again though," I added, and once

more they nodded.

"I told you what would happen when I lost that charm," I said to Eva.

I asked after "Little Willie," and heard his remains had been towed to

camp, though being a Hun he would of course manage to escape somehow!

I had an adorable V.A.D. to look after me. The best I ever want to have.

She seemed to know exactly what I wanted without being told. I felt

almost too tired to speak, and in any case it's not easy with stitches

in your mouth.

The Padre, not my friend of the entrance hall I was glad to note, came

to see me and I had a Communion Service all to myself, as they thought I

might possibly die in the night.

I dreaded the nights as I'd dreaded nothing before in my life; with

darkness everything seemed to become intensified. Whenever I did manage

to snatch a few moments' sleep the dreadful demon that seemed to lurk

somewhere just out of sight would pop up and jerk my leg again. I would

think to myself "Now I will really catch him next time," and I would lie

waiting in readiness, but just as I thought I was safe, jerk! and my leg

would jump worse than ever. I clenched my fists in rage, and the V.A.D.

came from behind the screen to smooth the pillows for me. I used to lie

and think of all the thousands of men in hospital and perhaps even lying

untended in No-man's-land going through twice as much as I, and wondered

if the world would really be any the better for all this suffering or if

it would be forgotten as soon as the war was over. It seemed to be

rather a waste if it was to be so.

When morning came there were the dressings to be done. At 10 o'clock I

used to try and imagine it was really 11, and all over, but the rattle

of the trolley and terribly cheerful voice of Sister left room for no

illusions on that score. My hands were useful on these occasions, and at

the end of the half hour were excellent examples of the shape of my

teeth! They were practically the only parts completely uninjured, and I

knew that whatever happened I could still play the violin again.

I could not understand why one leg had jumping nerves and the other

apparently had none and argued that the one must be half-broken to

account for it. The B.E.F. specialist also paid frequent visits.

Then one evening, the third or fourth I think, Captain C. came in and

sat down in the shadow, looking very grave.

I think it must have been one of the worst half-hours he ever spent. It

is not a job any man would relish to tell someone who is particularly

fond of life that they have lost one leg and the other has only just

been saved! I was speechless for some minutes; in fact I refused to

believe it. It took a long time for the full horror of the situation to

dawn on me. It will seem odd that I did not feel I had lost my leg, but

one never has that sensation even when on crutches; the nerves are

unfortunately too much alive.

Captain C. stayed a long time and the evening drew on but still he sat

there and talked to me quietly in the darkness. I wondered why I

couldn't cry, but somehow it seemed to have nothing to do with me at

all. I was not the girl who had lost a leg. It was merely someone else I

was hearing about. "Jolly bad luck on them," I thought, "rotten not to

be able to run about any more."

Then my leg jumped and it began to dawn on me that I was the girl to

whom those things had happened. Still, I could not cry. Useless to urge

how lucky it was my knee had just been saved. What use was a knee, I

thought bitterly, if I could never fly round again! When was the very

soonest I could get about with one of these artificial legs, I asked,

and he swore to me that if all went well, in a year's time. A year! I

had fancied the autumn at latest. Little did I know it would be even

longer. That night was the worst I'd had. It is a useless occupation to

kick against the pricks anyway, and the hours dragged slowly on till

morning came at last. When it was light enough I looked round, as well

as I could at least, lying flat on my back, for something to distract my

thoughts. Seeing a _Pearson's Magazine_ with George Robey on the cover,

I drew it towards me and saw there was an article by him inside. Quite

sure that "George" would cheer me up if anyone could I turned the pages

and found it. It not only cheered me but gave me the first real ray of

hope. There in print was all Captain C. had told me the night before,

and somehow, to see a thing in print is doubly convincing. It was on

disabled soldiers and the pluck with which they bore their misfortunes.

There was one story of two of his friends who walked into his

dressing-room one day. After dancing about the place they told him they

were out of the army.

"I don't see much wrong with you," said G., eyeing them up and down.

They then whacked their legs soundly and never flinched once, for they

each had an artificial one! I blessed George from the bottom of my

heart. Someone told him this, and he promptly sat down and wrote to me,

enclosing several signed postcards and a drawing of himself at the end

of the letter--his own impression of what he looked like in the

pre-historic scene in _Zigzag_--and a promise of a box for the show as

soon as I got to Blighty. Some jolly good fellow!

The countless flowers I received were one of the chief joys. I simply

adored lying and looking at them.

Every single person I knew seemed to have remembered me, and boxes of

chocolates filled my shelf as well.

The Parc d'Automobiles Belges sent such a huge _gerbe_ that two men had

to carry it, and, emblazoned on a broad ribbon of the Belgian colours,

spanning the whole thing, was my name and an inscription in letters of

gold! Captain Saxon Davies, from the "Christol" in Boulogne, had fruit

sent over in the boat from Covent Garden delivered at the hospital every

morning by motor cycle. I felt quite overwhelmed; everyone seemed

determined to spoil me.

One day the Padre had come in to see me and was just concluding a prayer

when there was a tap, and the door opened on the instant. A large

bottle, the size of a magnum, was pushed in by an orderly, who, seeing

the Padre, departed in haste. (I was squinting up through my eyelashes

and saw it all and just pulled myself together in time to say "Amen.")

I knew who had sent it and hastened to explain: "It's not champagne,

Padre, it's Eau de Cologne!" That surprising sportsman replied: "Isn't

it? Bad luck. Have you a scent spray? No? Well, I'll get you one!" (Some

Padre!)

On the Sunday one of my people came over, thanks to the cheery telegrams

the War Office had been dispatching. It seemed an unnecessary fuss--the

Colonel, too, showed distinct signs of "needle"--but it was a dear

little Aunt who is never flustered by anything and who greeted me as if

we had parted only yesterday. The word "leg" was not included in her

dictionary at all. One is apt to be a bit touchy at first about these

little things, and though I had seen the most terrible wounds in our

hospital, amputations had always rattled me thoroughly.

The little Aunt subsequently entertained the austere A.P.M., while her

papers were being put in order, with most interesting details of my

childhood and how she had brought me up from a baby! The whole interview

was described to me as "utterly priceless," by the F.A.N.Y. who had

taken her there.

The French Battery sent daily to enquire and presently I was allowed

visitors. I began to realize after a while that in losing a leg you find

out exactly who your real friends are. There are those whom I shall

never forget who came day after day to read or talk to me--friends who

paid no attention when the leg gave one of its violent jerks, but went

on talking as if nothing had happened, a fact that helped me to bear it

more than all the expressed sympathy in the world. The type who says

"Whatever was that? How dreadful!" fortunately never came. It was only

due to those real friends that I was saved from slipping into a slough

of despond from which I might never have hoped to rise. Eva gave up

rides and tennis in order to come down every day, and considering the

little time there was to devote to these pastimes I appreciated it all

the more.

To say I was the best posted person in the place is no exaggeration. I

positively heard both sides of every question (top and bottom as well

sometimes) and did my best to make as little scandal as possible!

I was in a room off the "Grand Circle" of the one-time Casino, an

officers' ward. One night the Sister had left me for a moment and I

could have sworn I saw three Germans enter. I thought they said to me

that they had come to hide and if I gave them away they would hit my

leg. The mere suggestion left me dumb and I distinctly seemed to see

them getting under the two other empty beds in the room.

After a few minutes it dawned on me what a traitor I was, and bit by bit

I eased myself up on my elbows. "I must go and tell someone these

Germans are here," I thought, and turned back the clothes. After

throwing the small sand bags on the floor that kept my bad leg in

position, I next seized the cradle and pitched that overboard. I then

carefully lifted first one leg round and then the other and sat swaying

on the side of the bed. The splints naturally jutted out some distance

from the end of my one leg and this struck me as being very funny. I

wondered just how I could walk on them. Then I looked down at the other

and the proposition seemed funnier still; though I could feel as if the

leg was there, when I looked there was nothing. It was really extremely

odd! I sat there for some time cogitating these matters and was just

about to try how I could walk when very luckily in came an orderly.

"Germans!" I gasped, pointing to the two beds. I must have looked a

little odd sitting swaying there in a very inadequate "helpless" shirt

belonging to the hospital! With a muttered exclamation he rushed forward

just catching me in his arms, and I was back in bed in a twinkling. The

whole thing was so clear to me; even now I can fancy I really saw those

Germans, and the adorable V.A.D., after searching under the beds at my

request, sat with me for the rest of the night. My "good" leg was tied

securely down after that episode.

I was dead and buried (by report) several times that first week in

hospital and Sergeant Richardson from the Detail Issue Stores, who saw

we always had the best rations, came up to see me one afternoon. He was

so spick and span I hardly recognized him, and in his hand was a large

basket of strawberries. The very first basket that had appeared in the

fruiterers' that year. He sat down and told me how anxious "the boys"

were to hear how I really was. All sorts of exaggerated rumours had been

flying about.

He related how he had first heard the news on that fatal Wednesday and

how "a bloke" told him I had been killed outright. "I knocked 'im down,"

said the Sergeant with pride, "and when he comes to me the next morning

to tell to me you wos still alive, why, I was so pleased I knocked 'im

down again!"

Bad luck on the "bloke," what? I was convulsed, only the trouble was it

hurt me even to laugh, which was trying.

He had been out in Canada before the war as a cowboy and had always

promised to show me some day how to pick things off the ground when

galloping, a pastime we agreed I should now have to forgo. I assured him

if I couldn't do that, however, I had every intention of riding again.

Had I not heard that morning of someone who even hunted! I began to

appreciate the fact that I had my knee.

CHAPTER XVII

HOSPITALS: FRANCE AND ENGLAND

An old Frenchman came to the hospital every day with the English papers,

and looked in to leave me the _Mirror_, for which he would never accept

any payment. He had very few teeth and talked in an indistinct sort of

patois and insisted on holding long conversations in consequence! He

told me he would be _enchanté_ to bring me some novels _bien choisis par

ma femme_ (well chosen by my wife) one day, and in due course they

arrived--the 1 franc 25 edition.

The names in most cases were enough, and the pictures in some a little

more! If they were his wife's idea of suitable books for _jeunes filles_

I wondered vaguely with what exactly the grown-ups diverted themselves!

I had not the heart to tell him I never read them.

All the French people were extraordinarily kind and often came in to see

me. They never failed to bring a present of some sort either.

Mademoiselle Marguerite, the dear fat old lady who kept the flower shop

in the Rue, always brought some of her flowers, and looking round would

declare that I was trying to run an opposition to her! Madame from the

_Pharmacie_ came with a large bottle of scent, the little dressmaker

brought some lace. Monsieur and Madame from the "Omelette Shop" (a

popular resort of the F.A.N.Y.s) arrived very hot and smart one Sunday

afternoon. Monsieur, who was fat, with large rolls at the back of his

neck, was rather ill at ease and a little panting from the walk

upstairs. He had the air of a man trying to appear as if he were

somewhere else. He tiptoed carefully to the window and had a look at the

_plage_. "The bonhomme wished to come and assure himself which of the

_demoiselles anglaises_ it was, to whom had arrived so terrible a

thing," said Madame, "but me, I knew. Is it not so, Henri?" she cried to

her husband. "I said it was this one there," and she pointed

triumphantly to me. As they were going he produced a large bottle of

Burgundy from a voluminous pocket in his coat tails. "Ha! _le

bonhomme!_" cried the incorrigible wife, "he would first see which

demoiselle it was before he presented the bottle!" Hubby appeared to be

slightly discomfited at this and beat a hasty retreat.

And one day "Alice," whose baby I had doctored, arrived, and even she,

difficult as she found it to make both ends meet, had not come without

something. As she left she produced a little packet of lace wrapped in

newspaper, which she deposited on my bed with tears in her eyes.

I used to lie awake at nights and wonder about those artificial legs,

just what they were like, and how much one would be able to cope with

them. It was a great pastime! Now that I really know what they _are_

like it seems particularly humorous that I thought one would even sleep

in them. My great idea was to have the whole thing clamped on and keep

it there, and not tell anyone about it! Little did I know then what a

relief it is to get them off. One can only comfort oneself on these

occasions with the ancient jest that it is "the first seven years that

are the worst!"

It is surprising how the illusions about artificial legs get knocked on

the head one by one. I discussed it with someone at Roehampton later. I

thought at least I should have jointed toes! An enterprising French firm

sent me a booklet about them one day. That really did bring things home

to me and I cried for the first time.

My visitors varied in the social scale from French guttersnipes

(Jean-Marie, who had been wont to have my old boots, etc.), to

brigadier-generals. One afternoon Corporal Coy dropped in to enquire how

I was. As he remarked cheerfully, "It would have fair turned me up if

_you'd_ come round to the mortuary, miss!"

He then settled himself comfortably in the armchair and proceeded to

entertain me. I only wished it didn't hurt so much to laugh. I asked him

if he had any new songs, and he accordingly gave me a selection _sotto

voce_. He would stop occasionally and say, "Noa, I can't sing you that

verse, it's too bad, aye, but it's a pity!" and shaking his head

mournfully he would proceed with the next!

He was just in the middle of another when the door opened suddenly and

Sir A---- S---- (Inspector-General of Medical Services) was ushered in

by the Colonel. (The little corporal positively faded out of existence!)

I might add he was nearly if not quite as entertaining.

"Nobby" Clark, a scion of the Labour Battalion, was another visitor who

called one afternoon, and I got permission for him to come up. He was

one of the local comedians and quite as good as any professional. I

would have gone miles to hear him. His famous monologue with his

imaginary friend "Linchpin" invariably brought the house down. He was

broad Lancashire and I had had a great idea of taking him off at one of

the FANTASTIK Concerts some time, but unfortunately, it was not to be.

He came tiptoeing in. "I thought I might take the liberty of coming to

enquire after you," he said, twisting his cap at the bottom of my bed (I

had learnt by this time to keep both hands hidden from sight as a hearty

shake is a jarring event). I asked him to sit down. "Bein' as you might

say fellow artistes; 'aving appeared so often on the same platform, I

had to come," he said affably! "I promised 'the boys' (old labour men of

about fifty and sixty years) I'd try and get a glimpse of you," he

continued, and he sat there and told me all the funny things he could

think of, or rather, they merely bubbled forth naturally.

The weather--it was June then--got fearfully hot, and I found life

irksome to a degree, lying flat on my back unable to move, gazing at the

wonderful glass candelabra hanging from the middle of the ceiling. How I

wished each little crystal could tell me a story of what had happened in

this room where fortunes had been lost and won! It would have passed the

time at least.

A friend had a periscope made for me, a most ingenious affair, through

which I was able to see people walking on the sands, and above all

horses being taken out for exercise in the mornings.

The first W.A.A.C.s came out to France about this time, and I watched

them with interest through my periscope. I heard that a sand-bagged

dug-out had also been made for us in camp, and tin hats handed out; a

wise precaution in view of the bricks and shrapnel that rattled about

when we went out during air raids. I never saw the dug-out of course. We

had a mild air-raid one night, but no damage was done.

My faithful friends kept me well posted with all the news, and I often

wonder on looking back if it had not been for them how ever I could have

borne life. The leg still jumped when I least expected it, and of course

I was never out of actual pain for a minute.

One day, it was June then, the dressings were done at least an hour

earlier than usual, and the Colonel came in full of importance and

ordered the other two beds to be taken out of the ward. The Sister

could get nothing out of him for a long time. All he would say was that

the French Governor-General was going to give me the freedom of the

city! She knew he was only ragging and got slightly exasperated. At

last, as a great secret, he whispered to me that I was going to be

decorated with the French _Croix de Guerre_ and silver star. I was

dumbfounded for some minutes, and then concluded it was another joke and

paid no more attention. But the room was being rapidly cleared and I was

more and more puzzled. He arranged the vases of flowers where he thought

they showed to the best advantage, and seemed altogether in extremely

good form.

At last he became serious and assured us that what he had said was

perfectly true. The mere thought of such an event happening made me feel

quite sick and faint, it was so overwhelming.

The Colonel offered to bet me a box of chocolates the General would

embrace me, as is the custom in France on these occasions, and the

suggestion only added to my fright!

About 11 o'clock as he had said, General Ditte, the governor of the

town, was announced, and in he marched, followed by his two

aides-de-camp in full regalia, the English Base Commandant and Staff

Captain, the Colonel of the hospital, the Belgian General and his two

aides-de-camp, as well as some French naval officers and attachés. Boss,

Eva, and the Sister were the only women present. The little room seemed

full to overflowing, and I wondered if at the supreme moment I would

faint or weep or be sick, or do something similarly foolish. The General

himself was so moved, however, while he read the "citation," and so were

all the rest, that that fact alone seemed to lend me courage. He turned

half way through to one of the aides-de-camp, who fumbled about (like

the best man at a wedding for the ring!) and finally, from his last

pocket, produced the little green case containing the _Croix de Guerre_.

The supreme moment had arrived. The General's fingers trembled as he

lifted the medal from its case and walked forward to pin it on me.

Instead of wearing the usual "helpless" shirt, I had been put into some

of the afore-mentioned Paris frillies for the great occasion, and

suddenly I saw two long skewer-like prongs, like foreign medals always

have, bearing slowly down upon me! "Heavens," I thought, "I shall be

harpooned for a certainty!" Obviously the rest of the room thought so

too, and they all waited expectantly. It was a tense moment--something

had to be done and done quickly. An inspiration came to me. Just in the

nick of time I seized an unembroidered bit firmly between the finger and

thumb of both hands and held it a safe distance from me for the medal to

be fixed; the situation was saved. A sigh of relief (or was it

disappointment?) went up as the General returned to finish the citation,

and contrary to expectation he had not kissed me! He confided to someone

later I looked so white he was afraid I might faint. (It was a pity

about that box of chocolates, I felt!)

Two large tears rolled down his cheeks as he finished, and then came

forward to shake hands; after that they all followed suit and I held on

to the bed with the other, for in the fullness of their hearts they gave

a jolly good shake!

I was tremendously proud of my medal--a plain cross of bronze, with

crossed swords behind, made from captured enemy guns, with the silver

star glittering on the green and red ribbon above. It all seemed like a

dream, I could not imagine it really belonged to me.

I was at the Casino nearly two months before I was sent to England in a

hospital ship. It was a very sad day for me when I had to say goodbye to

my many friends. Johnson and Marshall, the two mechanics, came up the

day before to bid goodbye, the former bringing a wonderful paper knife

that he had been engaged in making for weeks past. A F.A.N.Y button was

at the end of the handle, and the blade and rivets were composed of

English, French, and Boche shells, and last, but by no means least, he

had "sweated" on a ring from one of Susan's plugs! That pleased me more

than anything else could have done, and I treasure that paper knife

among my choicest souvenirs. Nearly all the F.A.N.Y.s came down the

night before I left, and I felt I'd have given all I possessed to stay

with them, in spite of the hard work and discomfort, so aptly described

in a parody of one of Rudyard Kipling's poems:

THE F.A.N.Y.

I wish my mother could see me now with a grease-gun under my car,

Filling my differential, ere I start for the camp afar,

Atop of a sheet of frozen iron, in cold that'd make you cry.

"Why do we do it?" you ask. "Why? We're the F.A.N.Y."

I used to be in Society--once;

Danced, hunted, and flirted--once;

Had white hands and complexion--once:

Now I'm an F.A.N.Y.

That is what we are known as, that is what you must call,

If you want "Officers' Luggage," "Sisters," "Patients" an' all,

"Details for Burial Duty," "Hospital Stores" or "Supply,"

Ring up the ambulance convoy,

"Turn out the F.A.N.Y."

They used to say we were idling--once;

Joy-riding round the battle-field--once;

Wasting petrol and carbide--once:

Now we're the F.A.N.Y.

That is what we are known as; we are the children to blame,

For begging the loan of a spare wheel, and fitting a car to the same;

We don't even look at a workshop, but the Sergeant comes up with a sigh:

"It's no use denyin' 'em _nothin_'!

Give it the F.A.N.Y."

We used to fancy an air raid--once;

Called it a bit of excitement--once;

Prided ourselves on our tin-hats once:

Now we're the F.A.N.Y.

That is what we are known as; we are the girls who have been

Over three years at the business; felt it, smelt it and seen.

Remarkably quick to the dug-out now, when the Archies rake the sky;

Till they want to collect the wounded, then it's

"Out with the F.A.N.Y."

"Crank! crank! you Fannies;

Stand to your 'buses again;

Snatch up the stretchers and blankets,

Down to the barge through the rain."

Up go the 'planes in the dawning;

'Phone up the cars to "Stand by."

There's many a job with the wounded:

"Forward, the F.A.N.Y."

I dreaded the journey over, and, though the sea for some time past had

been as smooth as glass, quite a storm got up that evening. All the

orderlies who had waited on me came in early next morning to bid

goodbye, and Captain C. carried me out of my room and downstairs to the

hall. I insisted on wearing my F.A.N.Y. cap and tunic to look as if

nothing was the matter, and once more I was on a stretcher. A bouquet of

red roses arrived from the French doctor just before I was carried out

of the hall, so that I left in style! It was an early start, for I was

to be on board at 7 a.m., before the ship was loaded up from the train.

Eva drove me down in her ambulance and absolutely crawled along, so

anxious was she to avoid all bumps. One of the sisters came with me and

was to cross to Dover as well (since the Boche had not even respected

hospital ships, sisters only went over with special cases).

It struck me as odd that all the trees were out; they were only in bud

when I last saw them.

Many of the French people we passed waved adieu, and I saw them

explaining to their friends in pantomime just what had happened. On the

way to the ship I lost my leg at least four times over!

The French Battery had been told I was leaving, and was out in full

force, and I stopped to say goodbye and thank them for all they had done

and once again wave farewell--so different from the last time! They were

deeply moved, and followed with the doctor to the quay where they stood

in a row wiping their eyes. I almost felt as if I was at my own

funeral!

The old stretcher-bearers were so anxious not to bump me that they were

clumsier in their nervousness than I had ever seen them! As I was pulled

out I saw that many of my friends, English, French, and Belgian, had

come down to give me a send off. They stood in absolute silence, and

again I felt as if I was at my own funeral. As I was borne down the

gangway into the ship I could bear it no longer, and pulled off my cap

and waved it in farewell. It seemed to break the spell, and they all

called out "Goodbye, good luck!" as I was borne round the corner out of

sight to the little cabin allotted me.

Several of them came on board after, which cheered me tremendously. I

was very keen to have Eva with me as far as Dover, but, unfortunately,

official permission had been refused. The captain of the ship, however,

was a tremendous sportsman and said: "Of course, if my ship starts and

you are carried off by mistake, Miss Money, you can't expect me to put

back into port again, and _I_ shan't have seen you," he added with a

twinkle in his eye as he left us. You may be sure Eva was just too late

to land! He came along when we were under way and feigned intense

surprise. As a matter of fact he was tremendously bucked and said since

his ship had been painted grey instead of white and he had been given a

gun he was no longer a "hospital," but a "wounded transport," and

therefore was within the letter of the law to take a passenger if he

wanted to. The cabin was on deck and had been decorated with flowers in

every available space. The crossing, as luck would have it, was fairly

rough, and one by one the vases were pitched out of their stands on to

the floor. It was a tremendous comfort to me to have old Eva there. Of

course it leaked out as these things will, and there was even the

question of quite a serious row over it, but as the captain and everyone

else responsible had "positively not seen her," there was no one to

swear she had not overstayed her time and been carried off by mistake!

At Dover I had to say goodbye to her, the sister, and the kindly

captain, and very lonely I felt as my stretcher was placed on a trolley

arrangement and I was pushed up to the platform along an asphalt

gangway. The orderlies kept calling me "Sir," which was amusing. "Your

kit is in the front van, sir," and catching sight of my face, "I

mean--er--Miss, Gor'blimee! well, that's the limit!" and words failed

them.

I was put into a ward on the train all by myself. I didn't care for that

train much, it stopped and started with such jolts, otherwise it was

quite comfy, and all the orderlies came in and out on fictitious errands

to have a look and try and get me anything I wanted. The consequence was

I had no less than three teas, two lots of strawberries, and a pile of

books and periodicals I could never hope to read! I had had lunch on

board when we arrived at one o'clock, before I was taken off. The

reason the journey took so long was that the loading and unloading of

stretchers from ship to train is a lengthy job and cannot be hustled. We

got to London about five. The E.M.O. was a cheery soul and came and

shook hands with me, and then, joy of joys, got four stretcher-bearers

to take me to an ambulance. With four to carry you there is not the

slightest movement, but with two there is the inevitable up and down

jog; only those who have been through it will know what I mean. I had

got Eva to wire to some friends, also to Thompson, the section leader

who was on leave, and by dint of Sherlock Holmes stunts they had

discovered at what station I was arriving. It was cheering to see some

familiar faces, but the ambulance only stopped for a moment, and there

was no time to say anything.

As I was driven out of the station--it was Charing Cross--the old flower

women were loud in their exclamations. "Why, it's a dear little girl!"

cried one, and she bombarded Thompson with questions. (I felt the

complete fool!) "Bin drivin' the boys, 'as she? Bless 'er," and they ran

after the car, throwing in whole bunches of roses galore! I could have

hugged them for it, dear fat old things! They did their bit as much as

any of them, and never failed to throw their choicest roses to "the

boys" in the ambulances as they were driven slowly past.

My troubles, I am sorry to say, began from then onwards. England seemed

quite unprepared for anything so unorthodox, and the general impression

borne in on me was that I was a complete nuisance. There was no

recognized hospital for "the likes of us" to go to, and I was taken to a

civilian one where war-work seemed entirely at a discount. I was carried

to a lift and jerked up to the top floor by a housemaid, when I was put

on a trolley and taken into a ward full of people. A sister came

forward, but there was no smile on her face and not one word of welcome,

and I began to feel rather chilled. "Put the case there," she said,

indicating an empty bed, and the "case," feeling utterly miserable and

dejected, was deposited! The rattle and noise of that ward was such a

contrast to my quiet little room in France (rather humorous this) that I

woke with a jump whenever I closed my eyes.

Presently the matron made her rounds, and very luckily found there was a

vacant room, and I was taken into it forthwith. There was a notice

painted on the wall opposite to the effect that the bed was "given in

remembrance" of the late so-and-so of so-and-so--with date and year of

death, etc. I can see it now. If only it had been on the door outside

for the benefit of the visitors! It had the result of driving "the case"

almost to the verge of insanity. I could say the whole thing backwards

when I'd been in the room half an hour, not to mention the number of

letters and the different words one could make out of it! There was no

other picture in the room, as the walls were of some concrete stuff, so,

try as one would, it was impossible not to look at it. "Did he die in

this bed?" I asked interestedly of the sister, nodding in the direction

of the "In Memoriam."--"I'm sure I don't know," said she, eyeing me

suspiciously. "We have enough to do without bothering about things like

that," and she left the room. I began to feel terribly lonely; how I

missed all my friends and the cheerful, jolly orderlies in France! The

frowsy housemaid who brought up my meals was anything but inspiring. My

dear little "helpless" shirt was taken away and when I was given a good

stuff nightdress in its place, I felt my last link with France had gone!

The weather--it was July then--got terribly hot, and I lay and

sweltered. It was some relief to have all bandages removed from my right

leg.

There were mews somewhere in the vicinity, and I could smell the horses

and even hear them champing in their stalls! I loved that, and would lie

with my eyes shut, drinking it in, imagining I was back in the stables

in far away Cumberland, sitting on the old corn bin listening to Jimmy

Jardine's wonderful tales of how the horses "came back" to him in the

long ago days of his youth. When they cleaned out the stables I had my

window pulled right up! "Fair sick it makes me," called my neighbour

from the next room, but I was quite happy. Obviously everyone can't be

satisfied in this world!

The doctor was of the "bluff and hearty" species and, on entering the

first morning, had exclaimed, in a hail-fellow-well-met tone, "So you're

the young lady who's had her leg chopped off, are you? ha, ha!" Hardly

what one might call tactful, what? I withdrew my hand and put it behind

my back. In time though we became fairly good friends, but how I longed

to be back in France again!

Being a civilian hospital they were short-staffed. "Everyone seems mad

on war work," said one sister to me peevishly, "they seem to forget

there are civilians to nurse," and she flounced out of the room.

A splendid diversion was caused one day when the Huns came over in full

force (thirty to forty Gothas) in a daylight raid. I was delighted! This

was something I really _did_ understand. It was topping to hear the guns

blazing away once more. Everyone in the place seemed to be ringing their

electric bells, and, afraid I might miss something, I put my finger on

mine and held it there. Presently the matron appeared: "You can't be

taken to the cellar," she said, "it's no good being nervous, you're as

safe here as anywhere!" "It wasn't that," I said, "I wondered if I might

have a wheel chair and go along the corridor to see them." "Rubbish,"

said she, "I never heard of such a thing," and she hurried on to quiet

the patient in the next room. But by dint of screwing myself half on to

a chair near the window I did just get a glimpse of the sky and saw

about five of the Huns manoeuvring. Good business!

One of the things I suffered from most, was visitors whom I had never

seen in my life before. There would be a tap at the door; enter lady,

beautifully dressed and a large smile. The opening sentence was

invariably the same. "You won't know who I am, but I'm Lady L----, Miss

so-and-so's third cousin. She told me all about you, and I thought I

really _must_ come and have a peep." Enters and subsides into chair near

bed smiling sweetly, and in nine cases out of ten jiggles toes against

it, which jars one excessively. "You must have suffered _terribly_! I

hear your leg was absolutely _crushed_! And now tell me all about it!

Makes you rather sick to talk of it? Fancy that! Conscious all the time,

dear me! What you must have gone _through_! (Leg gives one of its

jumps.) Whatever was that? Only keeping your knee from getting stiff,

how funny! _Lovely_ having the _Croix de Guerre_. Quite makes up for it.

What? Rather have your _leg_. Dear me, how odd! Wonderful what they do

with those artificial limbs nowadays. Know a man and really you can't

tell _which_ is which. (Naturally not, any fool could make a leg the

shape of the other!) Well, I really _must_ be going. I shall be able to

tell all my friends I've _seen_ you now and been able to cheer you up a

little. _Poor_ girl! _So_ unfortunate! Terribly cheerful, aren't you?

Don't seem to mind a bit. Would you kindly ring for the lift? I find

these stairs _so trying_. I've enjoyed myself so much. Goodbye." Exit

(goodby-ee). In its way it was amusing at first, but one day I sent for

the small porter, Tommy, aged twelve (I had begun to sympathise with

the animals in the Zoo). "Tommy," I said, "if you _dare_ to let anyone

come up and see me unless they're _personal_ friends, you won't get that

shell head I promised you. Don't be put off, make them describe me.

You'll be sorry if you don't."

Tremendous excitement one day when I went out for my first drive in a

car sent from the Transport Department of the Red Cross. Two of the

nurses came with me, and I was lifted in by the stalwart driver. "A

quiet drive round the park, I suppose, Miss?" he asked. "No," I said

firmly, "down Bond Street and then round and round Piccadilly Circus

first, and then the Row to watch the people riding" (an extremely

entertaining pastime). He had been in the Argentine and "knew a horse if

he saw one," and no mistake.

The next day a huge gilded basket of blue hydrangeas arrived from the

"bird" flower shop in Bond Street, standing at least three feet high,

the sole inscription on the card being, "From the Red Cross driver." It

was lovely and I was extremely touched; my room for the time being was

transformed.

I was promised a drive once a week, but they were unfortunately

suspended as I had an operation on July 31st for the jumping sciatic

nerve and once more was reduced to lying flat on my back. There was a

man over the mews who beat his wife regularly twice per week, or else

_she_ beat him. I could never discover which, and used to lie staring

into the darkness listening to the "sounds of revelry by night," not to

mention the choicest flow of language floating up into the air. I was

measured for a pair of crutches some time later by a lugubrious

individual in a long black frock coat looking like an undertaker. I

objected to the way he treated me, as if I were already a "stiff,"

ignoring me completely, saying to the nurse: "Kindly put the case

absolutely flat and full length," whereupon he solemnly produced a tape

measure!

I was moved to a nursing home for the month of August, as the hospital

closed for cleaning, and there, quite forgetting to instruct the people

about strangers, I was beset by another one afternoon. A cousin who has

been gassed and shell-shocked had come in to read to me. There was a tap

on the door. "Mrs. Fierce," announced the porter, and in sailed a lady

whom I had never seen in my life before. (I want the readers of these

"glimpses" to know that the following conversation is absolutely as it

took place and has not been exaggerated or added to in the very least.)

She began with the old formula. "You won't know me, etc., but I'm

so-and-so." She did not pause for breath, but went straight ahead. "It's

the second time I've been to call on you," she said, in an aggrieved

voice. "I came three weeks ago when you were at ---- Hospital. You had

_just_ had an operation and were coming round, and would you believe it,

though I had come _all_ the way from West Kensington, they wouldn't let

me come up and see you--positively _rude_ the boy was at the door." (I

uttered a wordless prayer for Tommy!)

"It was very kind of you," I murmured, "but I hardly think you would

have liked to see me just then; I wasn't looking my best. Chloroform has

become one of my _bêtes noires_." "Oh, I shouldn't have minded," said

the lady; "I thought it was so inconsiderate of them not to let me up.

So sad for you, you lost your _foot_," she chattered on, eyeing the

cradle with interest. I winked at my cousin, a low habit but excusable

on occasions. We did not enlighten her it was more than the foot. Then I

was put through the usual inquisition, except that it was if possible a

little more realistic than usual. "Did it bleed?" she asked with gusto.

I began to enjoy myself (one gets hardened in time). "Fountains," I

replied, "the ground is still discoloured, and though they have dug it

over several times it's no good--it's like Rizzio's blood at Holyrood,

the stain simply won't go away!" My cousin hastily sneezed. "How very

curious," said the lady, "so interesting to hear all these details

_first_ hand! Young man," and she fixed Eric with her lorgnettes, "have

_you_ been wounded--I see _no_ stripe on your arm?" and she eyed him

severely. Now E. has always had a bit of a stammer, but at times it

becomes markedly worse. We were both enjoying ourselves tremendously:

"N-n-n-no," he replied, "s-s-s-shell s-s-s-shock!"

"Dear me, however did _that_ happen?" she asked. "I w-w-was b-b-b-blown

i-i-i-into t-t-t-the air," he replied, smiling sweetly.

"How high?" asked the lady, determined to get to the bottom of it, and

not at all sure in her own mind he wasn't a conscientious objector

masquerading in uniform. "As all t-t-the other m-m-men were k-k-killed

b-b-b-by t-t-t-the same s-s-shell, t-t-there was n-n-no one t-t-there

t-t-t-to c-c-c-count," he replied modestly. (I knew the whole story of

how he had been left for two whole days in No-man's-land, with Boche

shells dropping round the place where he was lying, and could have

killed her cheerfully if the whole thing had not been so funny.)

Having gleaned more lurid details with which we all too willingly

supplied her, she finally departed.

"Fierce by name and fierce by nature," I said, as the door closed. "I

wonder sometimes if those women spend all their time rushing from bed to

bed asking the men to describe all they've been through--I feel like

writing to _John Bull_ about it," I added, "but I don't believe the

average person would believe it. Tact seems to be a word unknown in some

vocabularies." The cream of the whole thing was that, not content with

the information she had gleaned, when she got downstairs, she asked to

see my nurse. The poor thing was having tea at the time, but went

running down in case it was something important.

"Will you tell me," said Mrs. F. confidentially, "if that young man is

engaged to Miss B.?" (The "young man," I might add, has a very charming

fiancée of his own), and how we all laughed when she came up with the

news!

The faithful "Wuzzy" had been confided to the care of a friend at the

Remount Camp, and I was delighted to get some snaps of him taken by a

Frenchman at Neuve-Chapelle--I felt my "idiot son" was certainly seeing

life! "In reply to your question" (said my friend in a letter), "as to

whether I have discovered Wuzzy's particular 'trait' yet, the answer as

far as I can make out appears to be 'chickens'!"

In time I began to get about on crutches, and the question next arose

where I was to go and convalesce, and the then strange, but now all too

familiar phrase was first heard. "If you were only a man, of course it

would be _so_ easy." As if it was _my_ fault I wasn't? It was no good

protesting I had always wished I had been one; it did not help matters

at all.

I came to the conclusion there were too many women in England. If I had

only been a Boche girl now I might at least have had several Donnington

Halls put at my disposal! I was finally sent to Brighton, and thanks to

Lady Dudley's kindness, became an out-patient of one of her officers'

hospitals, but even then it was a nuisance being a girl. Another

disadvantage was that all the people treated me as if I was a strange

animal from the Zoo; men on crutches had become unfortunately a too

familiar sight, but a F.A.N.Y. was something quite new, and therefore an

object to be stared at. Some days I felt quite brazen, but others I went

out for about five minutes and returned, refusing to move for the rest

of the day. It would have been quite different if several F.A.N.Y.s had

been in a similar plight, but alone, one gets tired of being gaped at as

a _rara avis_.

The race meetings were welcome events and great sport, to which we all

went with gusto. I fell down one day on the Parade, getting into my bath

chair. It gave me quite a jar, but it must be got over some time as a

lesson, for of course I put out the leg that wasn't there and went smack

on the asphalt! One learns in time to remember these details.

It was ripping to see friends from France who ran down for the day, and

when the F.A.N.Y.s came over, how eagerly I listened to all the news!

The lines from one of our songs often rang through my brain:

"On the sandy shores of France

Looking Blighty-wards to sea,

There's a little camp a-sitting

And it's all the world to me--

For the cars are gently humming,

And the 'phone bell's ringing yet,

Come up, you British Convoy,

Come ye up to Fontinettes--

On the road to Fontinettes

Where the trains have to be met;

Can't you hear the cars a-chunking

Through the Rue to Fontinettes?

"On the road to Fontinettes

Where the stretcher-bearers sweat,

And the cars come up in convoy,

From the camp to Fontinettes.

"For 'er uniform is khaki,

And 'er little car is green,

And 'er name is only FANNY

(And she's not exactly clean!)

And I see'd 'er first a'smoking

Of a ration cigarette.

And a'wasting army petrol

Cleaning clothes, 'cos she's in debt."

On the road to Fontinettes, etc.

I longed to be back so much sometimes that it amounted almost to an

ache! This, and the fact of being the only one, I feel sure partly

accounted for it that I became ill. According to the doctor I ought to

have been in a proper hospital, and then once again the difficulty arose

of finding one to go to. Boards and committees sat on me figuratively

and almost literally, too, but could come to no conclusion. Though I

could be in a military hospital in France it was somehow not to be

thought of in England. Finally I heard a W.A.A.C.'s ward had been opened

in London at a military hospital run by women doctors for Tommies, and I

promptly sat down and applied for admittance. Yes, I could go there, and

so at the end of November, I found myself once more back in London. I

was in a little room--a W.A.A.C. officers' ward, on the same floor as

the medical ward for W.A.A.C. privates. I met them at the concerts that

were often given in the recreation room, and they were extremely kind

to me. I was amused to hear them discussing their length of active

service. One who could boast of six months was decidedly the nut of the

party! We had a great many air raids, and were made to go down to the

ground floor, which annoyed me intensely. I hated turning out, apart

from the cold; it seemed to be giving in to the Boche to a certain

extent.

I loved my charlady. She was the nearest approach to the cheery

orderlies of those far away days in France, I had struck since I came

over. Her smiling face, as she appeared at the door every morning with

broom and coalscuttle, was a tonic in itself. I used to keep her talking

just as long as I could--she was so exceedingly alive.

"Do I mind the air rides, Miss? Lor' bless you no--nothin' I like better

than to 'ear the guns bangin' awy. If it wasn't for the childer I'd fair

enjoy it--we lives up 'hIslington wy, and the first sounds of firing I

wrep them up, and we all goes to the church cryp and sings 'ims with the

parson's wife a'plying. Grand it is, almost as good as a revival

meeting!"

(One in the eye for Fritz what?)

I asked her, as it was getting near Christmas, if she would let me take

her two little girls (eight and twelve respectively) to see a children's

fairy play. She was delighted. They had never been to a theatre at all,

and were waiting for me one afternoon outside the hospital gates, very

clean and smiling, and absolutely dancing with excitement. I was of

course on crutches, and as it was a greasy, slippery day, looked about

for a taxi. It was hopeless, and without a word the elder child ran off

to get one. The way she nipped in and out of the traffic was positively

terrifying, but she returned triumphant in the short space of five

minutes, and we were soon at the door of the theatre.

I had to explain that the wicked fairies leaping so realistically from

Pandora's box weren't real at all, but I'm sure I did not convince the

smaller one, who was far too shy and excited to utter a word beyond a

startled whisper: "Yes, Miss," or "No, Miss." There were wails in the

audience when the witch appeared, and several small boys near us doubled

under their seats in terror, like little rabbits going to earth,

refusing to come out again, poor little pets!

In the interval the two children watched the orchestra with wide-eyed

interest. "I guess that guy wot's wyving 'is arms abaht like that

(indicating the conductor) must be getting pretty tired," said the elder

to me. I felt he would have been gratified to know there was someone who

sympathised!

Altogether it was a most entertaining afternoon, and when we came out in

the dark and rain the eldest again slipped off to get a taxi, dodging

cabs and horses with the dexterity of an acrobat.

Christmas came round, and there was tremendous competition between the

different wards, which vied with each other over the most original

decorations.

At midday I was asked into the W.A.A.C.'s ward, where we had roast beef

and plum pudding. The two women doctors who ran the hospital visited

every ward and drank a toast after lunch. I don't know what they toasted

in the men's wards, but in the W.A.A.C.'s it was roughly, "To the women

of England, and the W.A.A.C.s who would win the war, etc." It seemed too

bad to leave out the men who were in the trenches, so I drank one

privately to them on my own.

As I sat in my little ward that night I thought of the happy times we

had had last Christmas in the convoy, only a short year before.

CHAPTER XVIII

ROEHAMPTON: "BOB" THE GREY, AND THE ARMISTICE

After Christmas it was thought I was well enough to be fitted with an

artificial limb, and in due course I applied to the limbless hospital at

Roehampton. The reply came back in a few days.

"DEAR SIR, (I groaned),

"You must apply to so-and-so and we will then be able to

give you a bed in a fortnight's time, etc.

_Signed_: "SISTER D."

My heart sank. I was up against the old question again, and in

desperation I wrote back:

"DEAR MADAM,

"My trouble is that I am a girl, etc."

and poured forth all my woes on the subject. Sister D., who proved to be

an absolute topper, was considerably amused and wrote back most

sympathetically. She promised to do all she could for me and told the

surgeon the whole story, and it was arranged for him to see me and

advise what type of leg I had better wear and then decide where I was to

be put up later. He was most kind, but I returned from the interview

considerably depressed for, before I could wear an artificial leg,

another operation had to be performed. It took place at the military

hospital in January and I felt I should have to hurry in order to be

"doing everything as usual" by the time the year was up, as Captain C.

had promised.

For some reason, when I came round I found myself in the big W.A.A.C.s'

ward, and never returned to my little room again. I did not mind the

change so much except for the noise and the way the whole room vibrated

whenever anyone walked or ran past my bed. They nearly always did the

latter, for they were none of them very ill. The building was an old

workhouse which had been condemned just before the war, and the floor

bent and shook at the least step. I found this particularly trying as

the incision a good six inches long had been made just behind my knee,

and naturally, as it rested on a pillow, I felt each vibration.

The sheets were hard to the touch and grey in colour even when clean,

and the rows of scarlet blankets were peculiarly blinding. I realised

the meaning of the saying: "A red rag to a bull," and had every sympathy

with the animal! (It was so humorous to look at things from a patient's

point of view.) It had always been our ambition at Lamarck to have red

top blankets on every bed in our wards. "They make the place look so

bright and cheerful!" I daresay these details would have passed

unnoticed in the ordinary way, but I had already had eight months of

hospitals, during which time I had hardly ever been out of pain, and all

I craved was quiet and rest. Some of the women doctors were terribly

sarcastic.

We were awakened at 5 a.m. as per hospital routine (how often I had been

loth to waken the patients at Lamarck), and most of the W.A.A.C.s got up

and dressed, the ones who were not well enough remaining in bed. At six

o'clock we had breakfast, and one of them pushed a trolly containing

slices of bread and mugs of tea from bed to bed. It rattled like a

pantechnicon and shook the whole place, and I hated it out of all

proportion. The ward was swept as soon as breakfast was over. How I

dreaded that performance! I lay clenching the sides of the bed in

expectation; for as surely as fate the sweeping W.A.A.C. caught her

brush firmly in one of the legs. "Sorry, miss, did it ketch you?" she

would exclaim, "there, I done it agin; drat this broom!"

There were two other patients in the room who relished the quiet in the

afternoons when most of the W.A.A.C.s went out on pass. One of them was

a sister from the hospital, and the other a girl suffering from cancer,

both curtained off in distant corners. "Now for a sleep, sister," I

would call, as the last one departed, but as often as not just as we

were dropping off a voice would rouse us, saying: "Good afternoon, I've

just come in to play the piano to you for a little," and without waiting

for a reply a cheerful lady would sit down forthwith and bang away

virtuously for an hour!

We had had a good many air raids before Christmas and I hoped Fritz

would reserve his efforts in that direction till I could go about on

crutches again. No such luck, however, for at 10 o'clock one night the

warnings rang out. I trusted, as I had had my operations so recently, I

should be allowed to remain; but some shrapnel had pierced the roof of

the ward in a former raid and everyone had to be taken down willy-nilly.

I hid under the sheets, making myself as flat as possible in the hopes

of escaping. I was discovered of course and lifted into a wheel chair

and taken down in the lift to the Padre's room, where all the W.A.A.C.s

were already assembled. Our guns were blazing away quite heartily, the

"London front" having recently been strengthened. Just as I got down,

the back wheel of my chair collapsed, which was cheering!

We sat there for some time listening to the din. Everyone was feeling

distinctly peevish, and not a few slightly "breezy," as it was quite a

bad raid. I wondered what could be done to liven up the proceedings, and

presently espied a pile of hymn-books which I solemnly handed out,

choosing "Onward Christian Soldiers" as the liveliest selection! I could

not help wondering what the distant F.A.N.Y.s would have thought of the

effort. In the middle of "Greenland's spicy mountains," one W.A.A.C.

varied the proceedings by throwing a fit, and later on another fainted;

beyond that nothing of any moment happened till the firing, punctuated

by the dropping bombs, became so loud that every other sound was

drowned. Some of the W.A.A.C.s were convinced we were all "for it" and

would be burnt to death, but I assured them as my chair had broken, and

I had no crutches even if I could use them, I should be burnt to a

cinder long before any of them! This seemed to comfort them to a certain

extent. I could tell by the sound of the bombs as they exploded that the

Gothas could not be far away; and then, suddenly, we heard the engines

quite plainly, and there was a terrific rushing sound I knew only too

well. The crash came, but, though the walls rocked and the windows

rattled in their sockets, they did not fall.

Above the din we heard a woman's piercing scream, "Oh God, I'm burning!"

as she ran down the street. Simultaneously the reflection of a red glare

played on the walls opposite. All was confusion outside, and the sound

of rushing feet pierced by screams from injured women and children

filled the air. It was terrible to sit there powerless, unable to do

anything to help. The hospital had just been missed by a miracle, but

some printing offices next door were in flames, and underneath was a

large concrete dug-out holding roughly 150 people. What the total

casualties were I never heard. Luckily a ward had just been evacuated

that evening and the wounded and dying were brought in immediately. It

was horrible to see little children, torn and maimed, being carried past

our door into the ward. The hum of the Gotha's engines could still be

heard quite distinctly.

Sparks flew past the windows, but thanks to the firemen who were on the

spot almost immediately, the fire was got under and did not spread to

the hospital.

It was a terrible night! How I longed to be able to give the Huns a

taste of their own medicine!

The "All clear" was not sounded till 3 a.m. Many of the injured died

before morning, after all that was humanly possible had been done for

them. I heard some days later that a discharged soldier, who had been in

the dug-out when the bomb fell, was nearly drowned by the floods of

water from the hoses, and was subsequently brought round by artificial

respiration. He was heard to exclaim: "Humph, first they wounds me aht

in France, then they tries to drown me in a bloomin' air raid!"

There was one W.A.A.C.--Smith we will call her--who could easily have

made her fortune on the stage, she was so clever at imitations. She

would "take you off" to your face and make you laugh in spite of

yourself. She was an East-ender and witty in the extreme, warm of heart

but exceedingly quick-tempered. I liked her tremendously, she was so

utterly alive and genuine.

One night I was awakened from a doze by a tremendous hubbub going on in

the ward. Raising myself on an elbow I saw Smith shaking one of the

W.A.A.C.s, who was hanging on to a bed for support, as a terrier might a

rat.

"You would, would you?" I heard her exclaim. "Sy it againe, yer

white-ficed son of a gun yer!" and she shook her till her teeth

chattered. I never found out what the "white-ficed" one had said, but

she showed no signs of repeating the offence. I felt as if I was in the

gallery at Drury Lane and wanted to shout, "Go on, 'it 'er," but just

restrained myself in time!

A girl orderly was despatched in haste for one of the head doctors, and

I awaited her arrival with interest, wondering just how she would deal

with the situation.

However, the "Colonel" apparently thought discretion the better part of

valour, and sent the Sergeant-Major--the only man on the staff--to cope

with the delinquent. I was fearfully disappointed. Smith checkmated him

splendidly by retiring into the bath where she sat soaking for two

hours. What was the poor man to do? It was getting late, and for all he

knew she might elect to stay there all night. He knew of no precedent

and ran in and out of the ward, flapping his arms in a helpless manner.

I felt Smith had decidedly won the day. Imagine an ordinary private

behaving thus!

There were sudden periodical evacuations of the ward, and one day I was

told my bed would be required for a more urgent case--a large convoy was

expected from France and so many beds had to be vacated. Three weeks

after my operation I left the hospital and arranged to stay with friends

in the country. As it was a long railway journey and I was hardly

accustomed to crutches again, I wanted to stay the night in town.

However, one comes up against some extraordinary types of people. For

example, the hotel where my aunt was staying refused to take me in, even

for one night, on the score that "_they_ didn't want any invalids!" I

could not help wondering a little bitterly where these same people would

have been but for the many who were now permanent invalids and for those

others, as Kipling reminds us, "whose death has set us free." I could

not help noticing that at home one either came up against extreme

sympathy and kindness or else utter callousness--there seemed to be no

half-measures.

In March I again hoped to go to Roehampton, but my luck was dead out. I

could still bear no pressure on the wretched nerve, and another

operation was performed almost immediately.

The W.A.A.C.s' ward was all very well as an experience, but the noise

and shaking, not to mention the thought of the broom catching my bed

regularly every morning, was too much to face again. The surgeon who was

operating tried to get me into his hospital for officers where there

were several single rooms vacant at the time.

Vain hope. Again the familiar phrase rang out, and once more I

apologised for being a female, and was obliged to make arrangements to

return to the private nursing home where I had been in August. The year

was up, and here I was still having operations. I was disgusted in the

extreme.

When I was at last fit to go to Roehampton the question of accommodation

again arose. I never felt so sick in all my life I wasn't a

man--committees and matrons sat and pondered the question. Obviously I

was a terrible nuisance and no one wanted to take any responsibility.

The mother superior of the Sacred Heart Convent at Roehampton heard of

it and asked me to stay there. Though I was not of their faith they

welcomed me as no one else had done since my return, and I was

exceedingly happy with them. It was a change to be really wanted

somewhere.

In time I got fairly hardened to the stares from passers-by, and it was

no uncommon thing for an absolute stranger to come up and ask, "Have you

lost your leg?" The fact seemed fairly obvious, but still some people

like verbal confirmation of everything. One day in Harrod's, just after

the 1918 push, one florid but obviously sympathetic lady exclaimed,

"Dear me, poor girl, did you lose your leg in the recent push?" It was

then the month of June (some good going to be up on crutches in that

time!) Several staff officers were buying things at the same counter and

turned at her question to hear my reply. "No, not in this _last_ push,"

I said, "but the one just before," and moved on. They appeared to be

considerably amused.

How I loathed crutches! One nightmare in which I often indulged was

that I found, in spite of having lost my leg, I could really walk in

some mysterious way quite well without them. I would set off joyfully,

and then to my horror suddenly discover my plight and fall smack. I woke

to find the nerve had been at its old trick again. Sometimes I was

seized with a panic that when I did get my leg I should not be able to

use it, and worse still, never ride again. That did not bear thinking

of.

I went to the hospital every day for fittings and at last the day

arrived when I walked along holding on to handrails on each side and

watching my "style" in a glass at the end of the room for the purpose.

My excitement knew no bounds! It was a tedious business at first getting

it to fit absolutely without paining and took some time. I could hear

the men practising walking in the adjoining room to the refrain of the

"Broken Doll," the words being:

"I only lost my leg a year ago.

I've got a 'Rowley,' now, I'd have you know.

I soon learnt what pain was, I thought I knew,

But now my poor old leg is black, and red, white and blue!

The fitter said, 'You're walking very well,'

I told him he could take his leg to ----,

But they tell me that some day I'll walk right away,

By George! and with my Rowley too!"

It was at least comforting to know that in time one would!

Half an hour's fitting was enough to make the leg too tender for

anything more that day, and I discovered to my joy that I was quite

well able to drive a small car with one foot. I was lent a sporting

Morgan tri-car which did more to keep up my spirits than anything else.

The side brake was broken and somehow never got repaired, so the one

foot had quite an exciting time. It was anything but safe, but it did

not matter. One day, driving down the Portsmouth Road with a

fellow-sufferer, a policeman waved his arms frantically in front of us.

"What's happened," I asked my friend, "are we supposed to stop?" "I'm

afraid so," he replied, "I should think we've been caught in a trap."

(One gets into bad habits in France!)

As we drew up and the policeman saw the crutches, he said: "I'm sorry,

sir, I didn't see your crutches, or I wouldn't have pulled you up." The

friend, who happened to be wearing his leg, said, "Oh, they aren't mine,

they belong to this lady." The good policeman was temporarily

speechless. When at last he got his wind he was full of concern. "You

don't say, sir? Well, I _never_ did. Don't you take on, _we_ won't run

you in, Miss," he added consolingly, turning to me. "I'll fix the

stop-watch man." I was beginning to enjoy myself immensely. He regarded

us for some minutes and made a round of the car. "Well," he said at

last, "_I_ call you a couple o' sports!" We were convulsed!

At that moment the stop-watch man hurried up, looking very serious, and

I watched the expression on his face change to one of concern as the

policeman told him the tale.

"We won't run you in, not us," he declared stoutly, in concert with the

policeman.

"What were we doing?" I asked, as he looked at his stop-watch.

"Thirty and a fraction over," he replied. "Only thirty!" I exclaimed, in

a disappointed voice, "I thought we were doing _at least_ forty!"

"First time anyone's ever said that to _me_, Miss," he said; "it's usual

for them to swear it wasn't a mile above twenty!"

"A couple o' sports," the policeman murmured again.

"I think _you're_ the couple of sports," I said laughing.

"Well," said the stop-watch man, lifting his cap, "we won't keep you any

longer, Miss, a pleasant afternoon to you, and (with a knowing look)

there's _nothing_ on the road from here to Cobham!"

Of course the Morgan broke all records after that!

Unfortunately, in July, I was obliged to undergo an operation on my

right foot, where it had been injured. By great good luck it was

arranged to be done in the sister's sick ward at the hospital. It was

not successful though, and at the end of August a second was performed,

bringing the total up to six, by which time I loathed chloroform more

than anything else on earth.

Before I returned to the convent again, the King and Queen with Princess

Mary came down to inspect the hospital.

It was an imposing picture. The sisters and nurses in their white caps

and aprons lined the steps of the old red-brick, Georgian House, while

on the lawn six to seven hundred limbless Tommies were grouped, forming

a wonderful picture in their hospital blue against the green.

I was placed with the officers under the beautiful cedar trees and had a

splendid view, while on the left the different limb makers had models of

their legs and arms. The King and Queen were immensely interested and

watched several demonstrations, after which they came and shook each one

of us by hand, speaking a few words. I was immensely struck by the

King's voice and its deep resonant qualities. It is wonderful, in view

of the many thousands he interviews, that to each individual he gives

the impression of a real personal interest.

I soon returned to the convent, and there in the beautiful gardens

diligently practised walking with the help of two sticks. The joy of

being able to get about again was such that I could have wept. The

Tommies at the hospital took a tremendous interest in my progress.

"Which one is it?" they would call as I went there each morning. "Pick

it up, Miss, pick it up!" (one trails it at first). The fitter was a man

of most wonderful patience and absolutely untiring in his efforts to do

any little thing to ease the fitting. I often wonder he did not brain

his more fussy patients with their wooden legs and have done with it!

"Got your knee, Miss?" the men would call sometimes. "You're lucky."

When I saw men who had lost an arm and sometimes both legs, from above

the knee too, I realised just how lucky I was. They were all so

splendidly cheerful. I knew too well from my own experience what they

must have gone through; and again I could only pray that something good

would come out of all this untold suffering, and that these men would

not be forgotten by a grateful country when peace reigned once more.

I often watched them playing bowls on the lawn with a marvellous

dexterity--a one-armed man holding the chair steady for a double

amputation while the latter took his aim.

I remember seeing a man struggling painfully along with an

above-the-knee leg, obviously his first day out. A group of men watched

his efforts. "Pick it up, Charlie!" they called, "we'll race you to the

cedars!" but Charlie only smiled, not a bit offended, and patiently

continued along the terrace.

At last I was officially "passed out" by the surgeon, and after eighteen

months was free from hospitals. What a relief! No longer anyone to

reproach me because I wasn't a man! It was my great wish to go out to

the F.A.N.Y.s again when I had got thoroughly accustomed to my leg. I

tried riding a bicycle, and after falling off once or twice "coped"

quite well, but it was not till November that I had the chance to try a

horse. I was down at Broadstairs and soon discovered a job-master and

arranged to go out the next day. I hardly slept at all that night I was

so excited at the prospect. The horse I had was a grey, rather a

coincidence, and not at all unlike my beloved grey in France. Oh the joy

of being in a saddle again! A lugubrious individual with a bottle nose

(whom I promptly christened "Dundreary" because of his long whiskers)

came out with me. He was by way of being a riding master, but for all

the attention he paid I might have been alone.

I suggested finding a place for a canter after we had trotted some

distance and things felt all right. I was so excited to find I could

ride again with comparatively little inconvenience I could hardly

restrain myself from whooping aloud. I presently infected "Dundreary,"

who, in his melancholy way, became quite jovial. I rode "Bob" every day

after that and felt that after all life was worth living again.

On November 11th came the news of the armistice. The flags and

rejoicings in the town seemed to jar somehow. I was glad to be out of

London. A drizzle set in about noon and the waves beat against the

cliffs in a steady boom not unlike the guns now silent across the water.

Through the mist I seemed to see the ghosts of all I knew who had been

sacrificed in the prime of their youth to the god of war. I saw the

faces of the men in the typhoid wards and heard again the groans as the

wounded and dying were lifted from the ambulance trains on to the

stretchers. It did not seem a time for loud rejoicings, but rather a

quiet thankfulness that we had ended on the right side and their lives

had not been lost in vain.

The words of Robert Nichols' "Fulfilment," from _Ardours and Endurances_

(Chatto & Windus), rang through my brain. He has kindly given me

permission to reproduce them:

Was there love once? I have forgotten her.

Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.

Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir

More grief, more joy, than love of thee and mine.

Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth,

Lined by the wind, burned by the sun;

Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth,

As whose children we are brethren: one.

And any moment may descend hot death

To shatter limbs! pulp, tear, blast

Beloved soldiers, who love rough life and breath

Not less for dying faithful to the last.

O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony,

Open mouth gushing, fallen head,

Lessening pressure of a hand shrunk, clammed, and stony

O sudden spasm, release of the dead!

Was there love once? I have forgotten her.

Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.

O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier

All, all, my joy, my grief, my love are thine!

CHAPTER XIX

AFTER TWO YEARS

My dream of going out to work again with the F.A.N.Y.s was never

realised. Something always seemed to be going wrong with the leg; but I

was determined to try and pay them a visit before they were demobilised.

On these occasions the word "impossible" must be cut out of one's

vocabulary (_vide_ Napoleon), and off I set one fine morning. Everything

seemed strangely unaltered, the same old train down to Folkestone, the

same porters there, the same old ship and lifebelts; and when I got to

Boulogne nearly all the same old faces on the quay to meet the boat! I

rubbed my eyes. Had I really been away two years or was it only a sort

of lengthy nightmare? I walked down the gangway and there was the same

old rogue of a porter in his blue smocking. Yet the town seemed

strangely quiet without the incessant marching of feet as the troops

came and went. "We never thought to see _you_ out here again, Miss,"

said the same man in the transport department at the Hotel Christol!

I went straight up to the convoy at St. Omer, and had tea in the camp

from which they had been shelled only a year before. This convoy of

F.A.N.Y.s, to which many of my old friends had been transferred, was

attached to the 2nd army, and had as its divisional sign a red herring.

The explanation being that one day a certain general visited the camp,

and on leaving said: "Oh, by the way, are you people 'army'?"

"No," replied the F.A.N.Y., "not exactly."

"Red Cross then?"

"Well, not exactly. It's like this," she explained: "We work for the Red

Cross and the cars are theirs, but we are attached to the second army;

we draw our rations from the army and we're called F.A.N.Y.S."

"'Pon my soul," he cried, "you're neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, but

you're thundering good red herrings!"

It was a foregone conclusion that a red herring should become their sign

after that!

The next day I was taken over the battlefields through Arcques, where

the famous "Belle" still manipulates the bridge, and along by the Nieppe

Forest. We could still see the trenches and dug-outs used in the fierce

fighting there last year. A cemetery in a little clearing by the side of

the road, the graves surmounted by plain wooden crosses, was the first

of many we were to pass. Vieux Berquin, a once pretty little village,

was reduced to ruins and the road we followed was pitted with shell

holes.

It was pathetic to see an old man and his wife, bent almost double with

age and rheumatism, poking about among the ruins of their one-time home,

in the hope of finding something undestroyed. They were living

temporarily in a miserable little shanty roofed in by pieces of

corrugated iron, the remains of former Nissen huts and dug-outs.

In Neuf Berquin several families were living in new wooden huts the size

of Armstrongs with cheerful red-tiled roofs, that seemed if possible to

intensify the utter desolation of the surroundings.

Lusty youths, still in the _bleu horizon_ of the French Army, were busy

tilling the ground, which they had cleared of bricks and mortar, to make

vegetable gardens.

My chief impression was that France, now that the war was over, had made

up her mind to set to and get going again just as fast as she possibly

could. There was not an idle person to be seen, even the children were

collecting bricks and slates.

I wondered how these families got supplies and, as if in answer to my

unspoken question, a baker's cart full of fresh brown loaves came

bumping and jolting down the uneven village street.

Silhouetted against the sky behind him was the gaunt wall of the

one-time church tower, its windows looking like the empty sockets of a

skull.

Estaires was in no better condition, but here the inhabitants had come

back in numbers and were busy at the work of reconstruction. We passed

"Grime Farm" and "Taffy Farm" on the way to Armentières, then through a

little place called Croix du Bac with notices printed on the walls of

the village in German. It had once been their second line.

In the distance Armentières gave me the impression of being almost

untouched, but on closer inspection the terrible part was that only the

mere shells of the houses were left standing. Bailleul was like a city

of the dead. I saw no returned inhabitants along its desolate streets.

The Mont des Cats was on our left with the famous monastery at its

summit where Prince Rupprecht of Bavaria had been tended by the monks

when lying wounded. In return for their kindness he gave orders that the

monastery was to be spared, and so it was for some time. But whether he

repented of his generosity or not I can't say. It must certainly have

been badly shelled since, as its walls now testify. On our right was

Kemmel with its pill-boxes making irregular bumps against the sky-line.

One place was pointed out to me as being the site of a once famous

tea-garden where a telescope had been installed, for visitors to view

the surrounding country.

We passed through St. Jans Capelle, Berthen, Boschepe, and so to the

frontier into Belgium. The first sight that greeted our eyes was Remy

siding, a huge cemetery, one of the largest existing, where rows upon

rows of wooden crosses stretched as far as the eye could see.

We drove to Ypres via Poperinghe and Vlamertinge and saw the famous

"Goldfish" Château on our left, which escaped being shelled, and was

then gutted by an accidental fire!

I was surprised to see anything at all of the once beautiful Cloth Hall.

We took some snaps of the remains. A lot of discoloured bones were lying

about among the _débris_ disinterred from the cemetery by the

bombardments.

Heaps of powdered bricks were all that remained of many of the houses.

The town gasometer had evidently been blown completely into the air,

what was left of it was perched on its head in a drunken fashion.

Beyond the gate of the town on the Menin Road stood a large unpainted

wooden shanty. I wondered what it could be and thought it was possibly a

Y.M.C.A. hut. Imagine my surprise on closer inspection to see painted

over the door in large black letters "Ypriana Hotel"! It had been put up

by an enterprising _Belge_. Somehow it seemed a desecration to see this

cheap little building on that sacred spot.

The Ypres-Menin Road stretched in front of us as far as the eye could

see, disappearing into the horizon. On either hand was No-man's-land. I

had seen wrecked villages on the Belgian front in 1915 and was more or

less accustomed to the sight, but this was different. It was more

terrible than any ruins I had ever seen. For utter desolation I never

want to behold anything worse.

The ground was pock-marked with shell-holes and craters. Old tanks lay

embedded in the mud, their sides pierced by shot and shell, and worst of

all by far were the trees. Mere skeletons of trees standing gaunt and

jagged, stripped naked of their bark; mute testimony of the horrors they

had witnessed. Surely of all the lonely places of the earth this was by

far the worst? The ground looked lighter in some places than in others,

where the powdered bricks alone showed where a village had once stood.

There were those whose work it was to search for the scattered graves

and bring them in to one large cemetery. Just beyond "Hell-fire Corner"

a padre was conducting a burial service over some such of these where a

cemetery had been formed. We next passed Birr Cross Roads with

"Sanctuary Wood" on our left. Except that the lifeless trees seemed to

be more numerous, nothing was left to indicate a wood had ever been

there.

The more I saw the more I marvelled to think how the men could exist in

such a place and not go mad, yet we were seeing it under the most ideal

conditions with the fresh green grass shooting up to cover the ugly

rents and scars.

Many of the craters half-filled with water already had duckweed growing.

Words are inadequate to express the horror and loneliness of that place

which seemed peopled only by the ghosts of those "Beloved soldiers, who

love rough life and breath, not less for dying faithful to the last."

We drove on to Hooge and turned near Geluvelt, making our way back

silently along that historic road which had been kept in repair by gangs

of workmen whose job it was to fill in the shell holes as fast as they

were made.

As we wound our way up the steep hill to Cassel with its narrow streets

and high, Spanish-looking houses, the sun was setting and the country

lay below us in a wonderful panorama. The cherry-trees bordering the

steep hill down the other side stood out like miniature snowstorms

against the blue haze of the evening. We got back to find the Saturday

evening hop in progress (life still seemed to be formed of paradoxes).

It was held in the mess hut, where the bumpy line down the middle of the

floor was appropriately called "Vimy Ridge," and the place where the

shell hole had been further up "Kennedy Crater." The floor was

exceedingly springy just there, but it takes a good deal to "cramp the

style" of a F.A.N.Y., and details of this sort only add to the general

enjoyment.

The next day I went down to the old convoy and saw my beloved "Susan"

again, apparently not one whit the worse for the valiant war work she

had done. Everything looked exactly the same, and to complete the

picture, as I arrived, I saw two F.A.N.Y.s quietly snaffling some horses

for a ride round the camp while their owners remained blissfully

unconscious in the mess. I felt things were indeed unchanged!

That evening I hunted out all my French friends. The old flower lady in

the Rue uttered a shriek, dropped her flowers, and embraced me again and

again. Then there was the _Pharmacie_ to visit, the paper man, the

pretty flapper, Monsieur and Madame from the "Omelette" Shop, and a host

of others. I also saw the French general. For a moment he was

puzzled--obviously he "knew the face but couldn't put a name to it,"

then his eye fell on the ribbon. "_Mon enfant_," was all he said, and

without any warning he opened his arms and I received a smacking kiss on

both cheeks! _Quel émotion!_ Everyone was so delighted, I felt the

burden of the last two years slipping off my shoulders.

Quite by chance I was put in my old original "cue." I counted the doors

up the passage. Yes, it must be the one, there could be no doubt about

it, and on looking up at the walls I could just discern the shadowy

outlines of the panthers through a new coating of colour-wash.

The hospital where I had been was shut up and empty, and was shortly

going to become a Casino again. How good it was to be back with the

F.A.N.Y.s! I had just caught them in time, for they were to be

demobilised on the following Sunday and I began to realise, now that I

was with them again, just how terribly I had missed their gay

companionship.

It was a singular and happy coincidence that on the second anniversary

of the day I lost my leg, I should be cantering over the same fields at

Peuplinghe where "Flanders" had so gallantly pursued "puss" that day so

long ago, or was it really only yesterday?

FRANCE,

_May 9th, 1919._

* * * * *

_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury, England._

[Transcriber's Notes:

The original text had no footnotes. I put markers in where the text was

changed in any way.

Varied hyphenation retained. Obvious spelling and punctuation errors

repaired and noted.

[1] Space introduced in "everyone" to read "every one[1] of those men" Chapter II page 14

[2] Period added "one had done." Chapter III page 25

[3] Position of opening parenthesis on this sentence surmised. Chapter

VI page 47 "terms!)"

[4] Period added at end of paragraph Chapter VII on page 51 "patients."

[5] Word changed from "a" to "as" Chapter VII on page 55 "he was as[5]

black"

[6] Typo fixed "splendily" to "splendidly" Chapter VII page 56 "behaved

splendidly"

[7] Extraneous quotation mark removed from "_Mees anglaises_!" Chapter VII page 56

[8] Closing quote added Chapter IX page 78 "to vous plaît_,"[8] they"

[9] Typo fixed depôt changed to dépôt to match remainder of text Chapter

IX page 85 "enlisting dépôt[9] who"

[10] Comma changed to a period Chapter X page 90 "places.[10] Up"

[11] F.A.N.Y.work--space introduced to F.A.N.Y. work Chapter X page 108

[12] Ending quotation mark added. Chapter XI page 122. "Blighter"!"

[13] Period inserted "at all.[13] As we" Chapter XIV page 182