destination--wherever that might be--we entrained once more and
travelled all the balance of that day and night.
Promptly at 3 p.m. Reggy fell asleep, and didn't wake once, not even to
eat, until the following morning at six o'clock, when with a crash he
was thrown off his couch to the floor of the train. Thus rudely
startled, but not quite wide awake, he ejaculated:
"Torpedoed, by Gad!"
We didn't take time to wake Reggy and explain the situation, but sprang
to our feet and threw open the door of the train. What had happened?
We were at Boulogne; our train had collided with another in the railway
yards, but fortunately only one coach was crushed and no one hurt. We
descended to the tracks and found other coaches on other trains in a
similar condition.
It was not difficult to understand the cause. The German spy leaves
nothing undone, and was very careful to attend to such details as
changing the railway switches to the wrong tracks. By now the spies
have been almost completely weeded out; but in those days they were very
active.
How thorough was their system was well illustrated when, later on, the
Western Cavalry entered the trenches. A wooden horse rose instantly
above the German trench, bearing this legend: "Western Cavalry, come
over and get your horses!" Our boys promptly shot the offending animal
full of holes. It fell; but in a moment was raised again with bandages
about its neck and leg!
Despite the early morning hour, in a railway car a few yards from us,
several young Englishwomen were busy serving hot cocoa and rolls to the
hungry soldiers. The interior of the coach had been transformed into a
kitchen and travelling buffet. Every man in uniform was welcome to
enter and partake free of charge. We took advantage of this practical
hospitality and, much refreshed, returned to our own train.
At another platform a regiment of Ghurkas were engaged loading their
equipment. One came across to our engine and drawing some hot water
from the boiler, washed his teeth and mouth with infinite care.
The Ghurka is so like the Jap in appearance that when, later, we saw a
body of these brave little chaps, with their turned-up Stetson hats,
marching along the street, for a moment we actually mistook them for our
Oriental allies. It was only when we observed their short broad swords
(kukris) that we realised it could be none other than these famous men
from India.
The colonel was at the station to meet us. How glad we were to see his
genial face once more!
"Your billets are all arranged," he said. "The officers will stay at the
_Louvre_ and the non-commissioned officers and men at the _Jean d'arc_
theatre."
The men were lined-up and, now that the unit was once more complete,
formed quite an imposing sight. In those days medical units wore the
red shoulder straps; the privilege of retaining these coloured straps
has been granted only to members of the First Contingent.
The men marched across _Le Pont Marguet_, up the main thoroughfare,
along the _Rue Victor Hugo_, crossing the market place, and in a narrow
street not far from the market found the little theatre. It made a
perfect billet, the main hall serving as a mess room, and the gallery as
an excellent dormitory.
The quartermaster, Reggy, and I were billeted in one large room at the
_Louvre_. Our window overlooked the basin and across the quay we could
see the fish-wives unloading the herring boats as they arrived in
dozens. With their queer wooden shoes (sabots) they clack-clacked
across the cobblestones; their large baskets, overflowing with fish,
strapped to their backs. Among all the varied odours of that odorous
city, that of fish rises supreme. It saluted our nostrils when we
marched in the streets, and was wafted in at our windows when the
thoughtless breeze ventured our way.
We could see too, the Channel boats arriving at the dock, bringing
battalion after battalion of troops. These rapidly entrained, and were
whisked away in the shrill-whistling little French trains toward the
battlefront.
Sometimes convoys of London 'busses, now bereft of their advertisements
and painted dull grey, filled with "Tommies" destined for the "big
show," passed by the door and rolled away into the far beyond.
The second morning of our stay at Boulogne Reggy awoke feeling that he
really must have a bath. Why he should consider himself different from
all the other people in France, is a matter I am not prepared to
discuss. A bath, in France, is a luxury, so to speak, and is indulged
in at infrequent intervals--on fete days or some other such auspicious
occasion.
He rang the bell to summon the maid. In a few moments a tousled blonde
head-of-hair, surmounted by a scrap of old lace, was thrust inside the
door.
"_Monsieur?_" it enquired.
Reggy prided himself upon his French--he had taken a high place in
college in this particular subject, but, as he remarked deprecatingly,
his French seemed a bit too refined for the lower classes, who couldn't
grasp its subtleties.
"_Je veux un bain_," he said.
He was startled by the ease with which she understood. Could it be that
he looked--but, no, he appeared as clean as the rest of us. At any
rate, she responded at once in French:
"_Oui, monsieur_. I'll bring it in to you." She withdrew her head and
closed the door.
"What the deuce," cried Reggy, as he sat up quickly in bed. "She'll
_bring in_ the bath! Does she take me for a canary?"
"A canary doesn't make such a dickens of a row as you do," growled the
quartermaster, "looking for a bath at six a.m."
I tried to console him by reminding him that it was much better to have
Reggy sweet and clean than in his present state, but he said it made
small difference to him as he had a cold in his head anyway. Reggy, as
an interested third party, began to look upon our controversy as
somewhat personal, and was about to interfere when a rap at the door cut
short further argument.
Two chambermaids entered the room, carrying between them a tin pan about
two feet in diameter and six inches in depth. It contained about a
gallon of hot water. They placed it beside his bed.
"_Voici, monsieur!_" cried she of the golden locks.
Reggy leaned over the side of the bed and looked down at it.
"_Sacre sabre de bois;_" he exclaimed. "It isn't a drink I want--it's a
bath--'bain'--to wash--'laver' ye know!"
He made motions with his hands in excellent imitation of a gentleman
performing his morning ablutions. They nodded approvingly, and laughed:
"_Oui, monsieur_--it _is_ the bath."
"Well, I'll be d----" But before Reggy could conclude the two maids had
smilingly withdrawn.
Reggy explored the room in his pyjamas and emptied our three water
pitchers into the pan.
"Now I'll at least be able to get my feet wet," he grumbled. "Where's
the soap?" he exclaimed a moment later. "There isn't a bally cake of
soap in the room."
It was true. This is one of the petty annoyances of French hotels.
Soap is never in the room and must be purchased as an extra, always at
the most inopportune moment. After half an hour's delay Reggy succeeded
in buying a cake from the porter, and his bath proceeded without further
mishap. He then tumbled into bed again and fell asleep.
The maids shortly returned to carry out the bath, but when they saw how
Reggy had exhausted all the water in the room they held up their hands
in undisguised astonishment.
"Monsieur is extravagant," they exclaimed, "to waste so much water!"
Fortunately "Monsieur" was fast asleep, so the remark passed unnoticed.
Later we approached the _concierge_, and asked here if there were not a
proper bath-tub in the place. She laughed. _Les Anglais_ were so much
like ducks--they wanted to be _always_ in the water.
"But I will soon have it well for you," she declaimed with pride. "I am
having two bath tubs placed in the cellar, and then you may play in the
water all the day."
At the time we looked upon this as her little joke, but when, weeks
later, one early morning we noticed a tall _Anglais_ walking through the
hotel "lounge" in his pyjamas, with bath towel thrown across his arm, we
realised that she had spoken truth. The bath tubs were really and truly
in the cellar.
It was ten days before we succeeded in locating the building which we
wanted for our hospital. All the suitable places in Boulogne were long
since commandeered. Every large building, including all the best
hotels, had been turned into hospitals, so that we were forced to go far
afield. Finally, twenty-two miles from the city, we found a summer
hotel exactly suited to our needs. It was in a pine forest, and close
to the sea shore, an ideal spot for a hospital.
During these ten days the talent of our corps conceived the idea of
holding a concert in the _Jean d'arc_ hall.
At this time all theatres, music halls, and even "movies" in France were
closed, and music was tabooed. France was taking the war seriously.
She was mourning her dead and the loss of her lands. The sword had been
thrust deeply into her bosom, and the wound was by no means healed. The
streets were filled with widows, and their long black veils symbolised
the depth of the nation's grief.
Let those who will admire the light-heartedness of Britain--Britain
wears no mourning for her heroes dead. In Britain it is _bourgeois_ to
be despondent. We keep up an appearance of gaiety even when our hearts
are heaviest. But France is too natural, too frank for such deception.
What she feels, she shows upon the surface. At first our apparent
indifference to our losses and hers was a source of irritation. France
resented it; but now she knows us better. We are not indifferent--it is
merely an attitude. The two nations now understand one another, and in
that understanding lies the foundation of a firmer friendship.
With success and confidence in the future, France has risen out of the
"slough of despond." She has recovered a portion of her old-time
light-heartedness. We thought her effervescent, artificial and
unstable; we have found her steadfast, true and unshakable. She has
manifested throughout this desperate struggle a grim and immutable
determination that has been the marvel of her allies and the despair of
her enemies.
Realising the temporary distaste for amusement in France, our little
concert was intended to be private and confined solely to our own unit.
But a few of the new-found French friends of the boys waived their
objections to entertainment, and as a special favour volunteered to
come.
It was a strange and moving sight to see a Canadian audience in that
far-off land, gravely seated in their chairs in the little hall, waiting
for the curtain to rise. Our staff of Nursing Sisters honoured the boys
with their presence, and every officer and man was there. Thirty or
forty of the native population, in black, a little doubtful of the
propriety of their action, were scattered through the khaki-clad.
The boys outdid themselves that night. How well they sang those songs
of home! We were carried back thousands of miles across the deep to our
dear old Canada, and many an eye was wet with tears which dare not fall.
But reminiscence fled when Sergeant Honk assumed the stage. Some one
had told Honk he could sing, and--subtle flatterer--he had been
believed. With the first wild squeaky note we were back, pell-mell in
France. The notes rose and fell--but mostly fell; stumbling over and
over one another in their vain endeavour to escape from Honk. Some
maintained he sang by ear. Perhaps he did--he didn't sing by mouth and
chords long lost to human ken came whistling through his nose. The song
was sad--but we laughed and laughed until we wept again.
[Illustration: THE SONG WAS SAD--BUT WE LAUGHED AND LAUGHED UNTIL WE
WEPT AGAIN]
At the end of the first verse he seemed a little bewildered by the
effect, but he had no advantage over us in that respect. At the end of
the second verse, seeing his hearers in danger of apoplexy, he
hesitated, and turning to Taylor, the pianist, muttered in an aside:
"They downt understand h'English, them bloakes--this ayn't a funny
song--blimed if I downt quit right 'ere, and serve 'em jolly well right
too!"
And under a perfect storm of applause and cries of protest, Honk
departed as he had come--anglewise.
Tim and his brother then had a boxing-bout; and Cameron, who acted as
Tim's second, drew shrieks of joy from his French admirers, between
rounds, as he filled his mouth with water and blew it like a penny
shower into the perspiring breathless face of Tim.
"A wee drap watter refraishes ye, Tim," he declared argumentatively
after one of these showers.
"Doze Pea-jammers tinks it's funny," Tim puffed. "Let dem have a good
time--dey ain't see'd nuthin' much lately---an' a good laff 'ull help
dem digest dere 'patty de frog-grass!"
*CHAPTER VII*
It was my fate, or fortune, to be in charge of the advance party which
was detailed to prepare for the opening of our hospital.
Captain Burnham and I, with about forty N.C.O.s and men, and with two
days' rations, left Boulogne one cold November afternoon, a few days
after the concert. After a slow train journey of three hours' duration,
we were deposited at the railway station of a fishing village on the
coast.
If Boulogne prides itself on its odour of dead fish, this little place
must be an everlasting thorn in its side; for all the smells of that
maladorous city fade into insignificance before the concentrated
"incense" of the back streets of Etaples. We didn't linger
unnecessarily in the village, but pushed on at the "quick-march" and,
crossing the bridge, were soon on the broad paved road which runs
through _Le Touquet_ forest.
It was just dusk, and snow had fallen to the depth of about two inches;
the most we saw in two winters during our stay in that part of France.
It was a crisp, cold evening, and the swinging pace of our march did
much to keep us warm.
From time to time we passed large summer residences and artistic villas
partly hidden in the woods, but all the doors were closed, and all the
windows were dark. Not a human being passed us on the road, and the
noise of our shoes crunching through the crusted snow was the only sound
which broke the solemn stillness of the air.
Our men too seemed oppressed with the weird solitude of the forest and
seldom spoke above a whisper.
"Seems as though the world were dead," said Burnham, after we had walked
nearly two miles in silence.
"Yes," I replied, "it gives one a creepy feeling passing through this
long dark avenue of pines. The houses too look as if the inhabitants
had fled and that no one had the courage to return."
"I understand the _Bosches_ were through quite close to here," Burnham
remarked, "in their first mad dash for Paris, and that some German
soldiers were killed near the outskirts of this wood."
"By the gruesomeness of it I can imagine they were _all_ killed," I
replied.
By this time we had turned at right angles to our former path and
entered another long avenue of trees. The white walls of an isolated
mansion stood out in the distance against the black-green of the forest
and the fading purple of the evening sky. The grounds about it were
enclosed by a high pointed iron fence; it looked a veritable prison.
After tramping another mile we emerged into an open space between the
trees and the rolling sand dunes of the coast, and saw before us a large
limestone building, three stories in height and almost surrounded with
broad, glass-enclosed balconies. The tracks of a disused tramway ran to
the gate, and the rust upon the rails spoke more forcibly than ever of
desolation and desertion.
We passed through the stone gateway and crossed the snow-covered lawn.
Everything was as dark and dreary as the grave. Surely no one was
within! We mounted the steps and rang the bell. Its peal reverberated
strangely through the empty halls. After a few moments, however, a
light appeared and a solitary man entered the rotunda; he turned the
electric switch, flooding the room with a bright light. He came to the
door, unlocked it, and rolled it back slowly upon its wheels.
"Gut evening, zhentlemen," he said in English, but with a peculiar
Franco-German accent difficult to diagnose. "It iss fery kolt, iss it
not?"
We acknowledged the fact.
"You are vrom the Canadian Hospital?" he queried.
"You were evidently expecting us," I replied. "We are the advance party
from that hospital."
He pushed the door wide for us to enter. We didn't debate the propriety
of accepting the hospitality of a German, but marched in at once.
"Your dinner vill be retty in a leedle vhile. I vill haf Alvred ligh'd
you the grate, und you soon fery comfortable vill be."
"Show me to the kitchen first," I asked him, "and let me see what
arrangements you have for supper for the men. When they are made
comfortable it will be plenty of time for our dinner."
He piloted us into a large room with red tile floor. There was good
accommodation for the men, and the kitchen ranges were close by. They
had their cooks and rations with them, and as soon as we had chosen
their sleeping quarters and had seen that everything was satisfactory we
returned for our own dinner.
In a commodious room, just off the rotunda, a roaring coal fire was
blazing on the hearth. Big easy-chairs had been conveniently placed for
us, and Burnham and I fell into them and stretched our tired feet toward
the fender upon the rich red Turkish rug. The table was spread close
by, and we noticed the fine linen, the sparkling cut glass, crested
silver and _Limoge_ china. The scent of delicious French cooking was
wafted to us past the heavy silken hangings of the door. Presently our
German host appeared once more:
"Vat vine vill the zhentlemen have mit zehr dinner?" he enquired
politely.
Burnham threw himself back into his seat and laughed aloud. "Holy
smoke!" he chuckled, "and we are at the war!"
"What wines have you?" I enquired tentatively.
"Anyzing you wish to name, zir," he responded with a certain show of
pride.
I thought I would put him to the test. "Bring us a bottle of 'Ayala,'
'04 vintage," I commanded.
"Mit pleasure, zir." And he bowed and retired to get it.
Burnham slapped his knee and burst out: "Am I awake or dreaming? We
walk four miles through a stark forest on a winter night, enter a
deserted hostel, are received by a German spy and feted like the Lord
Mayor. I expect to fall out of the balloon any minute and hit the earth
with a nasty bump!"
"I'm a little dazed myself," I admitted, "but it's all a part of the
soldier-game. Some other day we'll find the cards reversed, and have to
play it just the same."
Our host, however, was not a German, although that was his native
tongue. He came from that little-known country of Luxembourg, which,
sandwiched in between France and her Teutonic enemy, has still
maintained a weak and unavailing neutrality. Being too small and
unprotected to resist, the German army marched unmolested across it in
the early days of war.
"Alvred," who was a French-Swiss, and spoke more languages than I can
well remember, waited upon us at table. We were just finishing an
excellent five-course dinner with a tiny glass of _coin-treau_, when the
sound of a motor-car stopping at the door aroused us from our dream of
heavenly isolation.
As we stepped into the hall, the door opened, and in walked the colonel,
the senior major and the quartermaster, who had followed us from
Boulogne by road.
"Well, how do you like our new hospital?" the colonel demanded with a
satisfied smile.
"We love it," Burnham exclaimed. "It is weird, romantic and altogether
_comme il faut_."
I suggested that a liqueur and a cigar might not be unacceptable after
their long drive. The colonel smiled appreciatively as he replied:
"We _are_ a bit chilly after our journey; I think a little drink will do
us good. What do you say, Major Baldwin?" This question was addressed
to the senior major, who, with the others, had now entered our dining
room.
The artistic surroundings drove the major into poetry at once. He
exclaimed:
"'Ah! my beloved, fill the cup that clears
To-day of past regrets and future fears.'"
"Splendid!" cried Burnham enthusiastically. "Now, let's have 'Gunga
Din'--you do it so well! How does it go? 'You're a better drink than I
am, Gordon Gin!'"
"No, no!" said the major deprecatingly. "You mustn't abuse Kipling--it's
too early in the evening."
Whether the major intended abusing that famous author at a later hour,
or merely reciting from him, we didn't enquire. We talked until late,
formulating our plans for the morrow and for many days to come. We made
a tour of inspection about the building. The colonel unfolded his plans
as we walked along the halls.
"This suite," he said, as we came to the end of the hall, "will make a
splendid pair of operating rooms, an anaesthetic and a sterilising room.
The fifth will do for a dressing room for the surgeons, and in the sixth
Reggy will have full sway--that will be his eye and ear reformatory. On
the left we'll install our X-ray plant, so that all surgical work may be
done in this one wing."
"What about the hotel furnishings," I enquired, "are they to remain in
places?"
"Everything must go, except what is absolutely necessary to the comfort
or care of patients," he replied. "It seems a pity, but we are here not
only to cure patients, but to protect the Government from needless
expense. In the morning set the men to work dismantling the entire
building."
We walked along to the opposite end of the hall.
"Here's a fine room," exclaimed Major Baldwin, as he peeped into the
dainty boudoir which I had chosen as a bedroom. "Who sleeps in this
luxurious state?"
"I do--for to-night," I replied.
"I want that room for myself," he declared. "It looks like the best in
the place."
How is it we always want that which the other fellow has? Its value
seems enhanced by its inaccessibility.
"It shall be yours to-morrow night," I replied to this covetous request.
It was no deprivation to give it up as there were fifty other rooms,
which the Major had not seen, more richly decorated and more attractive
than mine. This little room was cosy and prettily furnished in
bird's-eye maple. It boasted an Axminster rug, a brass bed, and the
glow from the open fire lent it a charm which had captivated Major
Baldwin's eye.
There were other suites of rooms, with private baths attached, and hot
and cold running water. The floors were covered with costly Persian
rugs, and the furniture was of hand-carved olive wood or mahogany.
Private balconies overlooked the golf course and the forest. Every
detail bespoke wealth and luxury combined with the most modern
contrivances for comfort.
The colonel was amused at us: "Pick out whatever rooms you like," he
said, "and enjoy yourselves while you may, for in three days' time no
one but patients will live in this building. The men will sleep in the
Golf-club house, the nurses in one of these deserted villas, and we
shall have another villa for ourselves."
We discovered that our hospital building was owned by an English
company; hence the great number of bathrooms--thirty-four in all. The
halls and glass enclosed balconies were steam heated throughout, and
each room had its old-fashioned open fireplace to combat the chill of
winter days.
At midnight the colonel and his party left us and commenced their return
journey to Boulogne. Burnham and I climbed the stairs to my bedroom,
our footsteps echoing loudly through the untenanted halls. We sat and
chatted for an hour before the fire. I was getting very sleepy--we had
dined well--and as I looked at Burnham his form seemed to dwindle to
smaller and smaller proportions until he looked like a pigmy from
Lilliput. I amused myself awhile watching this strange phenomenon. By
and by his diminutive size provoked me to remark:
"Do you know, Burnham, although an hour ago when you entered the room, I
mistook you for a full-grown man, I can now see that in reality you are
only about ten inches tall--yet your every feature is perfect."