Sunday, the 4th of October, dawned with an extraordinary feeling of
relief and expectancy in the air. The invincible British had arrived,
huge guns were on their way, a vast body of French and British
troops was advancing by forced marches, and would attack our
besiegers in the rear, and beyond all possibility of doubt crush them
utterly. But perhaps the most convincing proof of all was the round
head of the First Lord of the Admiralty calmly having his lunch in the
Hotel St. Antoine. Surely nothing can inspire such confidence as the
sight of an Englishman eating. It is one of the most substantial
phenomena in nature, and certainly on this occasion I found the sight
more convincing than a political speech. Obviously we were saved,
and one felt a momentary pang of pity for the misguided Germans
who had taken on such an impossible task. The sight of British troops
in the streets and of three armoured cars carrying machine guns
settled the question, and we went home to spread the good news and
to follow the noble example of the First Lord.
In the afternoon three of us went off in one of the motors for a short
run, partly to see if we could be of any use at the front with the
wounded, and partly to see, if possible, the British troops. We took a
stretcher with us, in case there should be any wounded to bring in
from outlying posts. Everywhere we found signs of the confidence
which the British had brought. It was visible in the face of every
Belgian soldier, and even the children cheered our khaki uniforms as
we passed. Everywhere there were signs of a new activity and of a
new hope. The trenches and wire entanglements around the town,
already very extensive, were being perfected, and to our eyes they
looked impregnable. We did not then realize how useless it is to
attempt to defend a town, and, unfortunately, our ignorance was not
limited to civilians. It is a curious freak of modern war that a ploughed
field should be stronger than any citadel. But, as I say, these things
were hidden from us, and our allies gave the finishing touches to their
trenches, to the high entertainment of the Angels, as Stevenson
would have told us. If only those miles of trench and acres of barbed
wire had been placed ten miles away, and backed by British guns, the
story of Antwerp might have been a very different one.
The road to Boom is like all the main roads of Belgium. The central
causeway was becoming worn by the constant passage of heavy
motor lorries tearing backwards and forwards at racing speed. The
sides were deep in dust, for there had been little rain. On each side
rose poplars in ordered succession, and the long, straight stretches of
the road were framed in the endless vista of their tall trunks. And in
that frame moved a picture too utterly piteous for any words to
describe--a whole country fleeing before the Huns. The huge
unwieldy carts of the Belgian farmer crept slowly along, drawn by
great Flemish horses. In front walked the men, plodding along beside
the splendid animals, with whose help they had ploughed their fields
--fields they would never see again. In the carts was piled up all that
they possessed in the world, all that they could carry of their homes
wrecked and blasted by the Vandals, a tawdry ornament or a child's
toy looking out pitifully from the heap of clothes and bedding. And
seated on the top of the heap were the woman and the children.
But these were the well-to-do. There were other little groups who had
no cart and no horse. The father and a son would walk in front
carrying all that a man could lift on their strong backs; then came the
children, boys and girls, each with a little white bundle over their
shoulder done up in a towel or a pillowslip, tiny mites of four or five
doing all they could to save the home; and last came the mother with
a baby at her breast, trudging wearily through the dust. They came in
an endless stream, over and over again, for mile after mile, always in
the same pathetic little groups, going away, only going away.
At last, with a sigh of relief, we reached Boom, and the end of the
lines of refugees, for the Germans themselves were not far beyond.
At the Croix Rouge we asked for instructions as to where we were
likely to be useful. Boom had been shelled in the morning, but it was
now quiet, and there was no fighting in the neighbourhood. We could
hear the roar of guns in the distance on the east, and we were told
that severe fighting was in progress in that direction. The British had
reinforced the Belgian troops in the trenches at Duffel, and the
Germans were attacking the position in force. Taking the road to the
left, we passed the great brick-fields which provide one of the chief
industries of Boom, and we drove through the poorer portion of the
town which lies amongst them. It was utterly deserted. It was in this
part of the town that the shelling had been most severe, but a large
number of the shells must have fallen harmlessly in the brickfields, as
only a house here and there was damaged. If, however, the object of
the Germans was to clear the town of inhabitants, they had certainly
succeeded, for there was not a man, woman, or child to be seen
anywhere. It is a strange and uncanny thing to drive through a
deserted town. Only a few days before we had driven the same way,
and we had to go quite slowly to avoid the crowd in the streets. This
time we crept along slowly, but for a very different reason. We
distrusted those empty houses. We never knew what might be hiding
round the next corner, but we did know that a false turning would take
us straight into the German lines. It was the only way by which we
could reach our destination, but we were beyond the main Belgian
lines, and our road was only held by a few isolated outposts. After a
mile or so we came upon a small outpost, and they told us that we
should be safe as far as Rumps, about three miles farther, where their
main outpost was placed. An occasional shell sailed over our heads
to reassure us, some from our own batteries, and some from the
enemy's. We only hoped that neither side would fire short.
At Rumps we found the headquarters of the regiment, and several
hundred troops. At the sight of our khaki uniforms they at once raised
a cheer, and we had quite an ovation as we passed down the street.
At the Etat Majeur the Colonel himself came out to see us, and his
officers crowded round as he asked us anxiously about the British
arrivals. He pulled out his orders for the day, and told us the general
disposition of the British and Belgian troops. He told us that the road
to Duffel was too dangerous, and that we must turn northwards to
Contich, but that there might be some wounded in the Croix Rouge
station there. He and his men were typical of the Belgian Army--
brave, simple men, defending their country as best they could, without
fuss or show. I hope they have come to no harm. If only that army had
been trained and equipped like ours, the Germans would have had a
hard struggle to get through Belgium.
We turned away from the German lines northwards towards Contich.
Our road lay across the open country, between the farms which mean
so much of Belgium's wealth. In one field a man was ploughing with
three big horses. He was too old to fight, but he could do this much
for his country. Surely that man deserves a place in his country's Roll
of Honour. Shells were falling not four fields away, but he never even
looked up. It must take more nerve to plough a straight furrow when
the shells are falling than to aim a gun. I like to think of that man, and
I hope that he will be left to reap his harvest in peace. A little farther
on we came upon the objective of the German shells--a battery so
skilfully concealed that it was only when we were close to it that we
realized where it was. The ammunition-carts were drawn up in a long
line behind a hedge, while the guns themselves were buried in piles
of brushwood. They must have been invisible from the captive balloon
which hung over the German lines in the distance. They were not
firing when we passed, and we were not sorry, as we had no desire to
be there when the replies came. An occasional shell gives a certain
spice to the situation, but in quantity they are better avoided.
As we approached Contich a soldier came running up and told us that
two people had just been injured by a shell, and begged us to come to
see them. He stood on the step of the car, and directed us to a little
row of cottages half a mile farther on. At the roadside was a large
hole in the ground where a shell had fallen some minutes before, and
beside it an unfortunate cow with its hind-quarters shattered. In the
garden of the first cottage a poor woman lay on her back. She was
dead, and her worn hands were already cold. As I rose from my knees
a young soldier flung himself down beside her, sobbing as though his
heart would break. She was his mother.
Behind the cottage we found a soldier with his left leg torn to
fragments. He had lost a great deal of blood, and he was still bleeding
from a large artery, in spite of the efforts of a number of soldiers
round who were applying tourniquets without much success. The
ordinary tourniquet is probably the most inefficient instrument that the
mind of man could devise--at least, for dealing with wounds of the
thigh out in the field. It might stop haemorrhage in an infant, but for a
burly soldier it is absurd. I tried two of the most approved patterns,
and both broke in my hands. In the end I managed to stop it with a
handkerchief and a stick. I would suggest the elimination of all
tourniquets, and the substitution of the humble pocket-handkerchief.
It, at least, does not pretend to be what it is not. Between shock and
loss of blood our soldier was pretty bad, and we did not lose much
time in transferring him to our car on a stretcher. The Croix Rouge
dressing-station was more than a mile farther on, established in a
large villa in its own grounds. We carried our man in, and laid him on
a table with the object of dressing his leg properly, and of getting the
man himself into such condition as would enable him to stand the
journey back to Antwerp.
Alas! the dressing-station was destitute of any of the most elementary
appliances for the treatment of a seriously wounded man. There was
not even a fire, and the room was icy cold. There was no hot water,
no brandy, no morphia, no splints, and only a minute quantity of
dressing material. A cupboard with some prehistoric instruments in it
was the only evidence of surgery that we could find. The Belgian
doctor in charge was doing the best he could, but what he could be
expected to do in such surroundings I do not know. He seemed
greatly relieved to hear that I was a surgeon, and he was most kind in
trying to find me everything for which I asked. From somewhere we
managed to raise some brandy and hot water, and a couple of
blankets, and with the dressings we had brought with us we made the
best of a bad job, and started for home with our patient. Antwerp was
eight miles away. It was a bitterly cold evening, and darkness was
coming on. It seemed improbable that we could get our patient home
alive, but it was perfectly certain that he would die if we left him where
he was. It seemed such a pity that a little more forethought and
common sense could not have been expended on that dressing-
station, and yet we found that with rare exceptions this was the
regular state of affairs, whether in. Belgium or France. It seems to be
impossible for our professional brethren on the Continent to imagine
any treatment apart from a completely equipped hospital. Their one
idea seems to be to get the wounded back to a base hospital, and if
they die on the way it cannot be helped. The dressing-stations are
mere offices for their redirection, where they are carefully ticketed, but
where little else is done. Of course, it is true that the combatant forces
are the first consideration, and that from their point of view the
wounded are simply in the way, and the sooner they are carried
beyond the region of the fighting the better; but if this argument were
carried to its logical conclusion, there should be no medical services
at the front at all, except what might be absolutely necessary for the
actual transport of the wounded. I am glad to say that our later
experiences showed that the British influence was beginning to make
itself felt, and that the idea of the wounded as a mere useless
encumbrance was being modified by more humanitarian considerations.
And in a long war it must be obvious to the most hardened militarist
that by the early treatment of a wound many of its more severe
consequences may be averted, and that many a man may thus
be saved for further service. In a war of exhaustion, the ultimate
result might well depend on how the wounded were treated in the field.
The road was crowded with traffic, and it was quite dark before we
reached Antwerp. Our patient did not seem much the worse for his
journey, though that is perhaps faint praise. We soon had him in our
theatre, which was always warm and ready for cases such as this.
With energetic treatment his condition rapidly improved, and when we
left him to go to dinner we felt that our afternoon had not been entirely
wasted.