AT FURNES RAILWAY-STATION
_21 November._--I am up to my eyes in soup! I have started my
soup-kitchen at the station, and it gives me a lot to do. Bad luck to
it, my cold and cough are pretty bad!
It is odd to wake in the morning in a frozen room, with every pane of
glass green and thick with frost, and one does not dare to think of Mary
and morning tea! When I can summon enough moral courage to put a foot
out of bed I jump into my clothes at once; half dressed, I go to a
little tap of cold water to wash, and then, and for ever, I forgive
entirely those sections of society who do not tub. We brush our own
boots here, and put on all the clothes we possess, and then descend to a
breakfast of Quaker oat porridge with bread and margarine. I wouldn't
have it different, really, till our men are out of the trenches; but I
am hoping most fervently that I shan't break down, as I am so "full with
soup."
[Page Heading: WORK IN THE SOUP-KITCHEN]
Our kitchen at the railway-station is a little bit of a passage, which
measures eight feet by eight feet. In it are two small stoves. One is a
little round iron thing which burns, and the other is a sort of little
"kitchener" which doesn't! With this equipment, and various huge
"marmites," we make coffee and soup for hundreds of men every day. The
first convoy gets into the station about 9.30 a.m., all the men frozen,
the black troops nearly dead with cold. As soon as the train arrives I
carry out one of my boiling "marmites" to the middle of the stone
entrance and ladle out the soup, while a Belgian Sister takes round
coffee and bread.
These Belgians (three of them) deserve much of the credit for the
soup-kitchen, if any credit is going about, as they started with coffee
before I came, and did wonders on nothing. Now that I have bought my
pots and pans and stoves we are able to do soup, and much more. The
Sisters do the coffee on one side of eight feet by eight, while I and my
vegetables and the stove which goes out are on the other. We can't ask
people to help because there is no room in the kitchen; besides, alas!
there are so many people who like raising a man's head and giving him
soup, but who do not like cutting up vegetables.
After the first convoy of wounded has been served, other wounded men
come in from time to time, then about 4 o'clock there is another
train-load. At ten p.m. the largest convoy arrives. The men seem too
stiff to move, and many are carried in on soldiers' backs. The
stretchers are laid on the floor, those who can "s'asseoir" sit on
benches, and every man produces a "quart" or tin cup. One and all they
come out of the darkness and never look about them, but rouse themselves
to get fed, and stretch out poor grimy hands for bread and steaming
drinks. There is very little light--only one oil-lamp, which hangs from
the roof, and burns dimly. Under this we place the "marmites," and all
that I can see is one brown or black or wounded hand stretched out into
the dim ring of light under the lamp, with a little tin mug held out for
soup. Wet and ragged, and covered with sticky mud, the wounded lie in
the salle of the station, and, except under the lamp, it is all quite
dark. There are dim forms and frosty breaths, and a door which bangs
continually, and then the train loads up, the wounded depart, and a
heavy smell and an empty pot are all that remain. We clean up the
kitchen, and go home about 1 a.m. I do the night work alone.
_24 November._--We are beginning to get into our stride, and the small
kitchen turns out its gallons and buckets of liquid. Mrs. ---- has been
helping me with my work. It is good to see anyone so beautiful in the
tiny kitchen, and it is quaint to see anyone so absolutely ignorant of
how a pot is washed or a vegetable peeled.
I have a little electric lamp, which is a great comfort to me, as I have
to walk home alone at midnight. When I get up in the morning I have to
remember all I shall want during the day, as the villa is a mile from
the station, so I take my lantern out at 9.30 a.m.!
I saw a Belgian regiment march back to the trenches to-day. They had a
poor little band and some foggy instruments, and a bugler flourished a
trumpet. I stood by the roadside and cried till I couldn't see.
* * * * *
[Page Heading: A LETTER HOME]
_To Miss Mary King._
FURNES, BELGIUM,
_27 November._
DEAR MARY,
You will like to know that I have a soup-kitchen at the station here,
and I am up to my neck in soup. I make it all day and a good bit of the
night too, for the wounded are coming in all the time, and they are half
frozen--especially the black troops. People are being so kind about the
work I am doing, and they are all saying what a comfort the soup is to
the men. Sometimes I feed several hundreds in a day.
I am sure everyone will grieve to hear of the death of Lord Roberts, but
I think he died just as he would wish to have died--amongst his old
troops, who loved him, and in the service of the King. He was a fine
soldier and a Christian gentleman, and you can't say better of a man
than that.
I feel as if I had been out here for years, and it seems quite odd to
think that one used to wear evening dress and have a fire in one's room.
I am promising myself, if all goes well, to get home about
Christmas-time. I wish I could think that the war would be over by then,
but it doesn't look very like it.
Remember me to Gwennie, and to all your people. Take care of your old
self.
Yours truly,
S. MACNAUGHTAN.
* * * * *
_1 December._--Mrs. Knocker and Miss Chisholm and Lady Dorothy went out
to Pervyse a few days ago to make soup, etc., for Belgians in the
trenches. They live in the cellar of a house which has been blown inside
out by guns, and take out buckets of soup to men on outpost duty. Not a
glimpse of fire is allowed on the outposts. Fortunately the weather has
been milder lately, but soaking wet. Our three ladies walk about the
trenches at night, and I come home at 1 a.m. from the station. The men
of our party meanwhile do some house-work. They sit over the fire a good
deal, clear away the tea-things, and when we come home at night we find
they have put hot-water bottles in our beds and trimmed some lamps. I
feel like Alice in Wonderland or some other upside-down world. We live
in much discomfort, which is a little unnecessary; but no one seems to
want to undertake housekeeping.
I make soup all day, and there is not much else to write about. All
along the Yser the Allies and the Germans confront each other, but
things have been quieter lately. The piteous list of casualties is not
so long as it has been. A wounded German was brought in to-day. Both his
legs were broken and his feet frost-bitten. He had been for four days in
water with nothing to eat, and his legs unset. He is doing well.
[Page Heading: PERVYSE]
On Sunday I drove out to Pervyse with a kind friend, Mr. Tapp. At the
end of the long avenue by which one approaches the village, Pervyse
church stands, like a sentinel with both eyes shot out. Nothing is left
but a blind stare. Hardly any of the church remains, and the churchyard
is as if some devil had stalked through it, tearing up crosses and
kicking down graves. Even the dead are not left undisturbed in this
awful war. The village (like many other villages) is just a mass of
gaping ruins--roofs blown off, streets full of holes, not a window left
unshattered, and the guns still booming.
* * * * *
_To Mrs. Charles Percival._
FURNES, BELGIUM,
_5 December._
DARLING TAB,
I have a chance of sending this to England to be posted, so I must send
you a line to wish you many happy returns of the day. I wish we could
have our yearly kiss. I will think of you a lot, my dear, on the 8th,
and drink your health if I can raise the wherewithal. We are not famous
for our comforts, and it would amaze you to see how very nasty food can
be, and how very little one can get of it.
I have an interesting job now, and it is my own, which is rather a
mercy, as I never know which is most common, dirt or muddle. I can have
things as clean as I like, and my soup is getting quite a name for
itself. The first convoy of wounded generally comes into the station
about 11 a.m. It may number anything. Then the men are put into the
train, and there begins a weary wait for the poor fellows till more
wounded arrive and the train is loaded up, and sometimes they are kept
there all day. The stretcher cases are in a long corridor, and the
sitting-up cases in ordinary third-class carriages. The sitters are
worn, limping men, with bandaged heads, and hands bound up, who are yet
capable of sitting up in a train.
The transport is well done, I think (_far_ better than in South Africa),
but more women are wanted to look after details. To give you one
instance: all stretchers are made of different sizes, so that if a man
arrives on an ambulance, the stretchers belonging to it cannot go into
the train, and the poor wounded man has to be lifted and "transferred,"
which causes him (in the case of broken legs or internal injuries
especially) untold suffering. It also takes up much room, and gives
endless trouble for the sake of an _inch and a half_ of space, which is
the usual difference in the size of the stretchers, but that prevents
them slipping into the sockets on the train.
Another thing I have noticed is, that no man, even lying down in the
train, ever gets his boots taken off. The men's feet are always soaked
through, as they have been standing up to their knees in water in the
trenches; but, of course, slippers are unheard of. I do wonder if ladies
could be persuaded to make any sort of list or felt or even flannel
slippers? I saw quite a good pattern the other day, and will try to send
you one, in case Eastbourne should rise to the occasion. Of course,
there must be _hundreds_ of pairs, and heaps would get lost. I do
believe other centres would join, and the cost of material for slippers
would be quite trifling. A priest goes in each corridor train, and there
is always a stove where the boots could be dried. I believe slippers can
be bought for about a shilling a pair. The men's feet are _enormous_.
Cases should be marked with a red cross, and sent per S.S. _Invicta_,
Admiralty Pier, Dover.
[Page Heading: THE SHELLING OF LAMPERNESSE]
The fighting has had a sort of lull here for some time, but there are
always horrible things happening. The other day at Lampernesse, 500
soldiers were sleeping on straw in a church. A spy informed the Germans,
who were twelve miles off, but they got the range to an inch, and sent
shells straight into the church, killing and wounding nearly everyone in
it, and leaving men under the ruins. We had some terrible cases that
day. The church was shelled at 6 a.m., and by 11 a.m. all the wounded
were having soup and coffee at the station. I thought their faces were
more full of horror than any I had seen.
The parson belonging to our convoy is a particularly nice young fellow.
I have had a bad cold lately, and every night he puts a hot-water bottle
in my bed. When he can raise any food he lays a little supper for me, so
that when I come in between 12 and 1 o'clock I can have something to
eat, a lump of cheese, plum jam, and perhaps a piece of bully beef,
always three pieces of ginger from a paper bag he has of them. Last
night when I got back I found I couldn't open the door leading into a
sort of garage through which we have to enter this house. I pushed as
hard as I could, and then found I was pushing against horses, and that a
whole squad of troop horses had been shoved in there for the night, so I
had to make my entry under their noses and behind their heels. Pinned to
the table inside the house was a note from the parson, "I can't get you
any food, but I have put a bottle of port-wine in your room. Stick to
it."
I had meant to go early to church to-day, but I was really too tired, so
I am writing to you instead. Now I must be getting up, for "business
must be attended to."
Well, good-bye, my dear. I am always too busy to write now, so would you
mind sending this letter on to the family?
Your loving sister,
S. MACNAUGHTAN.
* * * * *
_December._--Unexpected people continue to arrive at Furnes. Mme. Curie
and her daughter are in charge of the X-ray apparatus at the hospital.
Sir Bartle Frere is there as a guest. Miss Vaughan, of the _Nursing
Times_, came in out of the dark one evening. To-day the King has been
here. God bless him! he always does the right thing.
_6 December._--My horizon is bounded by soup and the men who drink it.
There is a stir outside the kitchen, and someone says, "Convoi." So then
we begin to fill pots and take steaming "marmites" off the fire. The
"sitting cases" come in first, hobbling, or carried on their comrades'
backs--heads and feet bandaged or poor hands maimed. When they have been
carried or have stiffly and slowly marched through the entrance to the
train, the "brancard" cases are brought in and laid on the floor. They
are hastily examined, and a doctor goes round reading the labels
attached to them which describe their wounds. An English ambulance and
a French one wait to take serious cases to their respective hospitals.
The others are lifted on to train-stretchers and carried to the train.
[Page Heading: A QUESTION OF STRETCHERS]
Two doctors came out from England on inspection duty to-day. They asked
if I had anything to report, and I made them come to the station to go
into this matter of the different-sized stretchers. It is agony to the
men to be shifted. Dr. Wilson has promised to take up the question. The
transport service is now much improved. The trains are heated and
lighted, and priests travel with the lying-down cases.
_8 December._--I have a little "charette" for my soup. It is painted
red, and gives a lot of amusement to the wounded. The trains are very
long, and my small carriage is useful for cups and basins, bread, soup,
coffee, etc. Clemmie Waring designed and sent it to me.
To-day I was giving out my soup on the train and three shells came in in
quick succession. One came just over my head and lodged in a haystall on
the other side of the platform. The wall of the store has an enormous
hole in it, but the thickly packed hay prevented the shrapnel
scattering. The station-master was hit, and his watch saved him, but it
was crumpled up like a rag. Two men were wounded, and one of them died.
A whole crowd of refugees came in from Coxide, which is being heavily
shelled. There was not a scrap of food for them, so I made soup in great
quantities, and distributed it to them in a crowded room whose
atmosphere was thick. Ladling out the soup is great fun.
_12 December._--The days are very short now, and darkness falls early.
All the streets are dark, so are the houses, so is the station. Two
candles are a rare treat, and oil is difficult to get.
Such a nice boy died to-night. We brought him to the hospital from the
station, and learned that he had lain for eight days wounded and
untended. Strangely enough he was naked, and had only a blanket over him
on the stretcher. I do not know why he was still alive. Everything was
done for him that could be done, but as I passed through one of the
wards this evening the nurses were doing their last kindly duty to him.
Poor fellow! He was one of those who had "given even their names." No
one knew who he was. He had a woman's portrait tattooed on his breast.
_19 December._--Not much to record this week. The days have become more
stereotyped, and their variety consists in the number of wounded who
come in. One day we had 280 extra men to feed--a batch of soldiers
returning hungry to the trenches, and some refugees. So far we have
never refused anyone a cup of soup; or coffee and bread.
I haven't been fit lately, and get fearful bad headaches. I go to the
station at 10 a.m. every morning, and work till 1 o'clock. Then to the
hospital for lunch. I like the staff there very much. The surgeons are
not only skilful, but they are men of education. We all get on well
together, in spite of that curious form of temper which war always seems
to bring. No one is affable here, except those who have just come out
from home, and it is quite common to hear a request made and refused,
or granted with, "Please do not ask again." Newcomers are looked upon as
aliens, and there is a queer sort of jealousy about all the work.
[Page Heading: WAR WORKERS' DIFFICULTIES]
Oddly enough, few persons seem to show at their best at a time when the
best should be apparent. No doubt, it is a form of nerves, which is
quite pardonable. Nurses and surgeons do not suffer from it. They are
accustomed to work and to seeing suffering, but amateur workers are a
bit headlong at times. I think the expectation of excitement (which is
often frustrated) has a good deal to do with it. Those who "come out for
thrills" often have a long waiting time, and energies unexpended in one
direction often show themselves unexpectedly and a little unpleasantly
in another.
In my own department I always let Zeal spend itself unchecked, and I
find that people who have claimed work or a job ferociously are the
first to complain of over-work if left to themselves. Afterwards, if
there is any good in them, they settle down into their stride. They are
only like young horses, pulling too hard at first and sweating off their
strength--jibbing one moment and shying the next--when it comes to
"'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard 'igh road," one finds who is going
to stick it and who is not.
There has been some heavy firing round about Nieuport and south of the
Yser lately, and an unusual number of wounded have been coming in, many
of them "gravement blessés."
One evening a young French officer came to the kitchen for soup. It was
on Wednesday, December 16th, the day the Allies assumed the offensive,
and all night cases were being brought in. He was quite a boy, and
utterly shaken by what he had been through. He could only repeat, "It
was horrible, horrible!" These are the men who tell brave tales when
they get home, but we see them dirty and worn, when they have left the
trenches only an hour before, and have the horror of battle in their
eyes.
There are scores of "pieds gelés" at present, and I now have bags of
socks for these. So many men come in with bare feet, and I hope in time
to get carpet slippers and socks for them all. One night no one came to
help, and I had a great business getting down a long train, so Mrs.
Logette has promised to come every evening. The kitchen is much nicer
now, as we are in a larger passage, and we have three stoves, lamps,
etc. Many things are being "straightened out" besides, my poor little
corner and war seems better understood. There is hardly a thing which is
not thought of and done for the sick and wounded, and I should say a
grievance was impossible.
I still lodge at the Villa Joos, and am beginning to enjoy a study of
middle-class provincial life. The ladies do all the house-work. We have
breakfast (a bite) in the kitchen at 8.30 a.m., then I go to make soup,
and when I come back after lunch for a rest, "the family" are dressed
and sitting round a stove, and this they continue to do till a meal has
to be prepared. There is one lamp and one table, and one stove, and
unless papa plays the pianola there is nothing to do but talk. No one
reads, and only one woman does a little embroidery, while the small
girl of the party cuts out scraps from a fashion paper.
The poor convoy! it is becoming very squabbly and tiresome, and there is
a good deal of "talking over," which is one of the weakest sides of
"communal life." It is petty and ridiculous to quarrel when Death is so
near, and things are so big and often so tragic. Yet human nature has
strict limitations. Mr. Ramsay MacDonald came out from the committee to
see what all the complaints were about. So there were strange
interviews, in store-rooms, etc. (no one has a place to call their
own!), and everyone "explained" and "gave evidence" and tried to "put
matters straight."
It rains every day. This may be a "providence," as the floods are
keeping the Germans away. The sound of constant rain on the window-panes
is a little melancholy. Let us pray that in singleness and cheerfulness
of heart we may do our little bit of work.
[Page Heading: EXPEDITION TO DUNKIRK]
_23 December._--Yesterday I motored into Dunkirk, and did a lot of
shopping. By accident our motor-car went back to Furnes without me, and
there was not a bed to be had in Dunkirk! After many vicissitudes I met
Captain Whiting, who gave up his room in his own house to me, and slept
at the club. I was in clover for once, and nearly wept when I found my
boots brushed and hot water at my door. It was so like home again.
I was leaving the station to-day when shelling began again. One shell
dropped not far behind the bridge, which I had just crossed, and
wrecked a house. Another fell into a boat on the canal and wounded the
occupants badly. I went to tell the Belgian Sisters not to go down to
the station, and I lunched at their house, and then went home till the
evening work began. People are always telling one that danger is now
over--a hidden gun has been discovered and captured, and there will be
no more shelling. Quel blague! The shelling goes on just the same
whether hidden guns are captured or not.
I can't say at present when I shall get home, because no one ever knows
what is going to happen. I don't quite know who would take my place at
the soup-kitchen if I were to leave.
_25 December._--My Christmas Day began at midnight, when I walked home
through the moonlit empty streets of Furnes. At 2 a.m. the guns began to
roar, and roared all night. They say the Allies are making an attack.
I got up early and went to church in the untidy school-room at the
hospital, which is called the nurses' sitting-room. Mr. Streatfield had
arranged a little altar, which was quite nice, and had set some chairs
in an orderly row. As much as in him lay--from the altar linen to the
white artificial flowers in the vases--all was as decent as could be and
there were candles and a cross. We were quite a small congregation, but
another service had been held earlier, and the wounded heard Mass in
their ward at 6 a.m. The priests put up an altar there, and I believe
the singing was excellent. Inside we prayed for peace, and outside the
guns went on firing. Prince Alexander of Teck came to our service--a
big soldierly figure in the bare room.
[Page Heading: CHRISTMAS IN BELGIUM]
After breakfast I went to the soup-kitchen at the station, as usual,
then home--_i.e._, to the hospital to lunch. At 3.15 came a sort of
evensong with hymns, and then we went to the civil hospital, where there
was a Christmas-tree for all the Belgian refugee children. Anything more
touching I never saw, and to be with them made one blind with tears. One
tiny mite, with her head in bandages, and a little black shawl on, was
introduced to me as "une blessée, madame." Another little boy in the
hospital is always spoken of gravely as "the civilian."
Every man, woman, and child got a treat or a present or a good dinner.
The wounded had turkey, and all they could eat, and the children got
toys and sweets off the tree. I suppose these children are not much
accustomed to presents, for their delight was almost too much for them.
I have never seen such excitement! Poor mites! without homes or money,
and with their relations often lost--yet little boys were gibbering over
their toys, and little girls clung to big parcels, and squeaked dolls or
blew trumpets. The bigger children had rather good voices, and all sang
our National Anthem in English. "God save our nobbler King"--the accent
was quaint, but the children sang lustily.
We had finished, and were waiting for our own Christmas dinner when
shells began to fly. One came whizzing past Mr. Streatfield's store-room
as I stood there with him. The next minute a little child in floods of
tears came in, grasping her mother's bag, to say "Maman" had had her arm
blown off. The child herself was covered with dust and dirt, and in the
streets people were sheltering in doorways, and taking little runs for
safety as soon as a shell had finished bursting. The bombardment lasted
about an hour, and we all waited in the kitchen and listened to it. At
such times, when everyone is rather strung up, someone always and
continually lets things fall. A nun clattered down a pail, and Maurice
the cook seemed to fling saucepan-lids on the floor.
About 8.15 the bombardment ceased, and we went in to a cheery
dinner--soup, turkey, and plum-pudding, with crackers and speeches. I
believe no one would have guessed we had been a bit "on the stretch."
At 9.30 I went to the station. It was very melancholy. No one was there
but myself. The fires were out, or smoking badly. Everyone had been
scared to death by the shells, and talked of nothing else, whereas
shells should be forgotten directly. I got things in order as soon as I
could and the wounded in the train got their hot soup and coffee as
usual, which was a satisfaction. Then I came home alone at
midnight--keeping as near the houses as I could because of possible
shells--and so to bed, very cold, and rather too inclined to think about
home.
_26 December._--Went to the station. Oddly enough, very few wounded were
there, so I came away, and had my first day at home. I got a little
oil-stove put in my room, wrote letters, tidied up, and thoroughly
enjoyed myself.
A Taube came over and hovered above Furnes, and dropped bombs. I was at
the Villa, and the family of Joos and I stood and watched it, and a
nasty dangerous moth it looked away up in the sky. Presently it came
over our house, so we went down to the kitchen. A few shots were fired,
but the Taube was far too high up to be hit. Max, the Joos' cousin, went
out and "tirait," to the admiration of the women-kind, and then, of
course, "Papa" had to have a try. The two men, with their little gun and
their talk and gesticulations, lent a queer touch of comic opera to the
scene. The garden was so small, the men in their little hats were so
suggestive of the "broken English" scene on the stage, that one could
only stand and laugh.
[Page Heading: A BELGIAN DINNER-PARTY]
The Joos family are quite a study, and so kind. On Christmas Eve I dined
with them, and they gave me the best of all they had. There was a
pheasant, which someone had given the doctor (I fancy he is a very small
practitioner amongst the poor people); surely, never did a bird give
more pleasure. I had known of its arrival days before by seeing
Fernande, the little girl, decorated with feathers from its tail. Then
the good papa must be decorated also, and these small jokes delighted
the whole family to the point of ecstasy.
On Christmas Eve Monsieur Max conceived the splendid joke, carefully
arranged, of presenting Madame Joos--who is young and pretty--and the
doctor with two parcels, which on being opened contained the child's
umbrella and a toy gun. There wasn't even a comic address on the
parcels; but Yrma, the servant, carefully trained for the part, brought
them in in fits of delight, and all the family laughed with joy till the
tears ran down their cheeks. As they wiped their eyes, they admitted
they were sick with laughter. After supper we had the pianola, played by
papa; and I must say that, when one can get nothing else, this
instrument gives a great deal of pleasure. One gets a sort of ache for
music which is just as bad as being hungry.
_27 December._--Bad, bad weather again. It has rained almost
continuously for five weeks. Yesterday it snowed. Always the wind blows,
and _something_ lashes itself against the panes. One can't leave the
windows open, as the rooms get flooded. It is amazingly cold o' nights,
I can't sleep for the cold.
We have some funny incidents at the station sometimes. A particularly
amusing one occurred the other day, when three ladies in knickerbockers
and khaki and badges appeared at our soup-kitchen door and announced
they were "on duty" there till 6 o'clock. I was not there, but the scene
that followed has been described to me, and has often made me laugh.
It seems the ladies never got further than the door!
Some people might have been firm in the "Too sorry!
Come-some-other-day-when-we-are-not-so-busy" sort of way. Not so Miss
----. In more primitive times she would probably have gone for the
visitors with a broom, but her tongue is just as rough as the hardest
besom, and from their dress ("skipping over soldiers' faces with
breeches on, indeed!") to their corps there was very little left of
them.
[Page Heading: OUR TROUBLE WITH SPIES]
It wasn't really from the dog-in-the-manger spirit that the little woman
acted. The fact is that Belgians and French run the station together,
and they are all agreed on one thing, which is, that no one but an
authorised and registered person is to come within its doors. Heaven
knows the trouble there has been with spies, and this rule is absolutely
necessary.
Two Red Cross khaki-clad men have been driving everywhere in Furnes, and
have been found to be Germans. Had we permitted itinerant workers, the
authorities gave notice that the kitchen would have to close.
In the evening, when I went to the station, another knickerbockered lady
sat there! I told her our difficulties, but allowed her to do a little
work rather than hurt her feelings. The following day Miss ---- engaged
in deadly conflict with the lady who had sent our unwelcome visitors.
Over the scene we will draw a veil, but we never saw the knickerbockered
ladies again!
_31 December, 1914._--The last day of this bad old year. I feel quite
thankful for the summer I had at the Grange. It has been something to
look back upon all the time I have been here; the pergolas of pink
roses, the sleepy fields, the dear people who used to come and stay with
me, and all the fun and pleasure of it, help one a good deal now.
Yesterday was a fine day in the middle of weeks of rain. When I came
down to breakfast in the Joos' little kitchen I remarked, of course, on
the beauty of the weather. "What a day for Taubes!" said Monsieur Max,
looking up at the clear blue sky. Before I had left home there was a
shell in a street close by, and one heard that already these horrible
birds of prey had been at work, and had thrown two bombs, which
destroyed two houses in the Rue des Trèfles. The pigeons that circle
round the old buildings in Furnes always seem to see the Taubes first,
as if they knew by sight their hateful brothers. They flutter disturbed
from roof and turret, and then, with a flash of white wings, they fly
far away. I often wish I had wings when I see them.
I went to the station, and then to the hospital for slippers for some
wounded men. Five aeroplanes were overhead--Allies' and German--and
there was a good deal of firing. I was struck by the fact that the night
before I had seen _exactly_ this scene in a dream. Second sight always
gives me much to think about. The inevitableness of things seems much
accentuated by it. In my dream I stood by the other people in the yard
looking at the war in the air, and watching the circling aeroplanes and
the bursts of smoke.
At the station there was a nasty feeling that something was going to
happen. The Taubes wheeled about and hovered in the blue. I went to the
hospital for lunch, and afterwards I asked Mr. Bevan to come to the
station to look at some wounded whose dressings had not been touched for
too long. He said he would come in half an hour, so I said I wouldn't
wait, as he knew exactly where to find the men, and I came back to the
Villa for my rest. As I walked home I heard that the station had been
shelled, and I met one of the Belgian Sisters and told her not to go on
duty till after dark, but I had no idea till evening came of what had
happened. Ten shells burst in or round the station. Men, women, and
children were killed. They tell me that limbs were flying, and a French
chauffeur, who came on here, picked up a man's leg in the street. Mr.
Bevan sent up word to say none of us was to go to the station for the
present.
At Dunkirk seven Taubes flew overhead and dropped bombs, killing
twenty-eight people. At Pervyse shells are coming in every day. I can't
help wondering when we shall clear out of this. If the bridges are
destroyed it will be difficult to get away. The weather has turned very
wet again this evening. We have only had two or three fine days in as
many months. The wind howls day and night, and the place is so well
known for it that "vent de Furnes" is a byword. No doubt the floods
protect us, so one mustn't grumble at a sore throat.
[Page Heading: SHELLS AT FURNES]
_1 January._--The station was shelled again to-day. Three houses were
destroyed, and there was one person killed and a good many more were
wounded. A rumour got about that the Germans had promised 500 shells in
Furnes on New Year's Day.
In the evening I went down to the station, and I was evidently not
expected. Not a thing was ready for the wounded. The man in charge had
let all three fires out, and he and about seven soldiers (mostly drunk)
were making merry in the kitchen. None of them would budge, and I was
glad I had young Mr. Findlay with me, as he was in uniform, and helped
to get things straight. But these French seem to have very little
discipline, and even when the military doctors came in the men did
nothing but argue with them. It was amazing to hear them. One night a
soldier, who is always drunk, was lying on a brancard in the doctor's
own room, and no one seemed to mind.
_3 January, Sunday._--I have had my usual rest and hot bath. I find I
never want a holiday if I may have my Sundays. I spent a lazy afternoon
in Miss Scott's room, she being ill, then went to Mr. Streatfield's
service, dinner, and the station. A new officer was on duty there, and
was introduced to the kitchen. He said, "Les anglais, of course. No one
else ever does anything for anybody."
I believe this is very nearly the case. God knows, we are full of
faults, but the superiority of the British race to any other that I know
is a matter of deep conviction with me, and it is founded, I think, on
wide experience.
_6 January._--I went to Adinkerke two days ago to establish a
soup-kitchen there, as they say that Furnes station is too dangerous. We
have been given a nice little waiting-room and a stove. We heard to-day
that the station-master at Furnes has been signalling to the enemy, so
that is why we have been shelled so punctually. His daughter is engaged
to a German. Two of our hospital people noticed that before each
bombardment a blue light appeared to flash on the sky. They reported
the matter, with the result that the signals were discovered.
[Page Heading: THE SHELLING GETS WORSE]
There has been a lot of shelling again to-day, and several houses are
destroyed. A child of two years is in our hospital with one leg blown
off and the other broken. One only hears people spoken of as, "the man
with the abdominal trouble," or "the one shot through the lungs."
Children know the different aeroplanes by sight, and one little girl,
when I ask her for news, gives me a list of the "obus" that have
arrived, and which have "s'éclaté," and which have not. One can see that
she despises those which "ne s'éclatent pas." One says "Bon soir, pas
des obus," as in English one says, "Good-night, sleep well."
_10 January._--Prince Alexander of Teck dined at the hospital last
night, and we had a great spread. Madame Sindici did wonders, and there
were hired plates and finger-bowls, and food galore! We felt real
swells. An old General--the head of the Army Medical Corps--gave me the
most grateful thanks for serving the soldiers. It was gracefully and
delightfully done.
I am going home for a week's holiday.
_14 January._--I went home _via_ Calais. Mr. Bevan and Mr. Morgan took
me there. It was a fine day and I felt happy for once, that is, for once
out here.
Some people enjoy this war. I think it is far the worst time, except
one, I ever spent. Perhaps I have seen more suffering than most people.
A doctor sees a hospital, and a nurse sees a ward of sick and wounded,
but I see them by the hundred passing before me in an endless train all
day. I can make none of them really better. I feed them, and they pass
on.
One reviews one's life a little as one departs. Always I shall remember
Furnes as a place of wet streets and long dark evenings, with gales
blowing, and as a place where I have been always alone. I have not once
all this time exchanged a thought with anyone. I have lived in a very
damp attic, and talked French to some kind middle-class people, and I
have walked a mile for every meal I have had. So I shall always think of
Furnes as a wet, dark place, and of myself with a lantern trudging about
its mean streets.