THE SPRING OFFENSIVE
_Villa les Chrysanthèmes, La Panne._--I have been to London for a few
days to see about the publication of my little war book. I got frightful
neuralgia there, and find that as soon as I begin to rest I get ill.
I went to a daffodil show, and found myself in the very hall where the
military bazaar was held last year. I saw the place where the Welch had
their stall. What fun we had! How many of the regiment are left? Only
one officer not killed or wounded. Lord Roberts, who opened the bazaar,
is gone too. All the soldiers whom I knew best have been taken, and only
a few tough women seem to weather the storm of life.
I had to see publishers in London, and do a lot of business, and just
when I was beginning to love it all again my holiday was over. There had
been heavy fighting out here, and I felt I must come back. My dear
people didn't want me to return, and were very severe on the subject,
and Mary scolded me most of the time. It was all affection on their
part, although it made "duty" rather a criminal affair!
There was endless difficulty about my passport when I returned. The
French Consulate was besieged by people, and I had to go there at 8.30
a.m. and wait till the doors were opened, and was then told I must first
go to the Foreign Office to get an order from Colonel Walker. I went
down to Whitehall from Bedford Square, and was told I must get a letter
from Mr. Coventry. I went to Pall Mall and Mr. Coventry said it was
quite impossible to do anything for me without instructions from Mr.
Sawyer. Mr. Sawyer said the only thing he could do (if I could establish
my identity) was to send me to a matron who would make every enquiry
about me, and perhaps in three days I might get an Anglo-French
certificate, through which Mr. Coventry might be induced to give me a
letter to give to Colonel Walker, who might then sign the passport,
which I could then take to Bedford Square to be visé{4}.
I got Sir John Furley to identify me, and then began a dogged going from
place to place and from official to official till at last I got the
thing through. I felt just like a Russian being "broken." There is a
regular system, I believe, in Russia of wearing people out by this sort
of official tyranny. I do not know anything more tiring or more
discouraging! I had all my papers in order--my passport{5}, my "laissez
passer," a letter from Mr. Bevan, explaining who I was and asking for
"every facility" for me, and my photograph, properly stamped. I am now
so loaded with papers that I feel as if I were carrying a library about
with me. Oh, give me intelligent women to do things for me! The best-run
things I have seen since the war began have been our women's unit at
Antwerp and Lady Bagot's hospital at Adinkerke.
[Page Heading: QUARRELLING]
I came back refreshed. I think everyone (every woman) out here has
noticed how indifferent and really "nasty" people are to each other at
the front. It is one of the singular things about the war, because one
always hears it said that it is deepening people's characters, purifying
them, and so on. As far as my experience goes, it has shown me the
reverse. I have seldom known so much quarrelling, and there is a sort of
queer unhappiness which has nothing to do with the actual war or loss of
friends. I can't be mistaken about it, because I see it on all sides.
At the ---- hospital men and women alike are quarrelling all the time.
Resignations are frequent. So-and-so has got So-and-so turned out;
someone has written to the committee in London to report on someone
else; a nice doctor is dismissed. Every nurse has given notice at
different times. Most people are hurt and sore about something. Love
seems quite at a discount, and one can't help wondering if Hate can be
infectious! It is all frightfully disappointing, for surely one's heart
beat high when one made up one's mind to do what one could for suffering
Belgium and for the sake of the English name.
Those two poor girls at ----! I know they meant well, and had high ideas
of what they were going to do. Now they "use langwidge" to each other
(although I know a very strong affection binds them), and very, very
strong that language is.
Poor souls, the people here aren't a bit happy. I wonder if the work is
sufficiently "sanctified." One never knows. Lady Bagot's is the happiest
and most serene place here; her men are Church Army people, and they
have evening prayers in the ward. It _does_ make a difference.
Scandals also exist out here, but they are merely silly, I think, and
very unnecessary, though a little conventionality wouldn't hurt anyone.
Sometimes I think it would be better if we were all at home, for
Belgians are particular, and I hate breeches and gaiters for girls, and
a silly way of going on. I do wish people could sometimes leave sex at
home, but they never seem to. I wonder if Crusaders came back with
scandals attached to their names!
I got back here in one of those rushes of work that come in war time
when fighting is near. At first no car could be spared to meet me at
Boulogne, so I had to wait at the Hôtel Maurice for two or three days. I
didn't mind much as I met such a lot of English friends, and also
visited some interesting hospitals; but I knew by the thousands of
wounded coming in that things must be busy at the front, and this made
one champ one's bit.
The Canadians and English who poured in from Ypres were terribly
damaged, and the asphyxiating gas seems to have been simply diabolical.
It was awful to see human beings so mangled, and I never get one bit
accustomed to it. The streets were full of British soldiers, and the
hospitals swarmed with wounded. I went to visit the Casino one. The
bright sun streamed through lowered blinds on hundreds of beds, and on
stretchers lying between them. Many Canadians were there, and rows of
British. God! how they were knocked about! The vast rooms echoed to the
cries of pain. The men were vowing they could never face shells and hand
grenades any more. They were so newly wounded, poor boys; but they come
up smiling when their country calls again.
But it _isn't right_. This damage to human life is horrible. It is
madness to slaughter these thousands of young men. Almost at last, in a
rage, one feels inclined to cry out against the sheer imbecility of it.
Why bring lives into the world and shell them out of it with jagged
pieces of iron, and knives thrust through their quivering flesh? The
pain of it is all too much. I am _sick_ with seeing suffering.
[Page Heading: DUNKIRK SHELLED]
On Thursday, April 29th, Mr. Cooper, and another man came for us, and we
left Boulogne. At Dunkirk we could hardly credit our eyes--the place had
been shelled that very afternoon! I never saw such a look of
bewilderment and horror as there was on all faces. No one had ever
dreamed that the place could be hit by a German gun, yet here were
houses falling as if by magic, and no one knew for a moment where on
earth or in heaven the shells were coming from. Some people said they
came from the sea, but the houses I saw hadn't been hit from the sea,
which lies north, but from the east. Others talked of an armoured train,
but armoured trains don't carry 15-inch shells. So all anyone could do
was to _gape_ with sheer astonishment.
Dunkirk, that safest of places, the haven to which we were all to fly
when Furnes or La Panne were bombarded! Everybody contradicted one, of
course, when one declared that no naval gun had been at work, but the
fact remains that a long-range field-piece had been hidden at Leke, and
Dunkirk was shelled for three days, and, as far as I know, may be
shelled again. The inhabitants have all fled. The shops are not even
shut; one could help oneself to anything! The "état major" has left, and
so have all the officials; 23,000 tickets have been taken at the railway
station, and the road to Calais is{6} blocked with fleeing refugees.
It was rather odd that the day I left here and passed through Furnes it
was being shelled, and we had to wait a little while before we could get
through; and when I arrived at Dunkirk the bombardment was just over,
and a huge shell-hole prevented us passing down a certain road.
Well, I got back to my work at Adinkerke in the midst of the fighting,
and reached it just as the sun was setting. What a scene at the station,
where I stopped before reaching home to leave the chairs and things I
had bought for the hospital there! They were bringing in civilians
wounded at Ypres and Poperinghe, which place also has been shelled (and
yet we say we are advancing!), and there were natives also from
Nieuport.
[Page Heading: WOUNDED WOMEN AND CHILDREN]
One whole ambulance was filled with wounded children. I think King Herod
himself might have been sorry for them. Wee things in splints, or with
their curly heads bandaged; tiny mites, looking with wonder at their
hands swathed in linen; babies with their tender flesh torn, and older
children crying with terror. There were two tiny things seated opposite
each other on a big stretcher playing with dolls, and a little
Christmas-card sort of baby in a red hood had had its mother and father
killed beside it. Another little mite belonged to no one at all. Who
could tell whether its parents had been killed or not? I am afraid many
of them will never find their relations again. In the general scrimmage
everyone gets lost. If this isn't frightfulness enough, God in heaven
help us!
On the platform was a row of women lying on stretchers. They were
decent-looking brown-haired matrons for the most part, and it looked
unnatural and ghastly to see them lying there. One big railway
compartment was slung with their stretchers, and some young men in
uniform nursed the babies. I shall never forget that railway compartment
as long as I live. A man in khaki appeared, thoughtful, as our people
always are, and brought a box of groceries with him, and sweet biscuits
for the children, and other things. Thank Heaven for the English!
At the hospital it was really awful, and the doctors were working in
shifts of twenty-four hours at a time.
I left my tables, chairs, trays, etc., for the hospital at the station,
and returned early the next day, for numbers of wounded were still
coming in. I wanted slippers for everyone, but my Belgian helpers had
given a hundred pairs of mine away in my absence. They were overworked a
little, I think, so I overlooked the fact that they lost their tempers
rather badly. Besides, I will _not_ quarrel. In a small kitchen it
would be too ridiculous. The three little people fight among themselves,
but I don't fancy I was made for that sort of thing.
There was nothing but work for some time. My "éclopés" had been entirely
neglected, and no one had even bothered to buy vegetables for the men.
On Sunday, May 2nd, I went to see Dr. de Page's hospital. I saw a baby
three weeks old with both his feet wounded. His mother came in one mass
of wounds, and died on the operating table--a young mother, and a pretty
one. A young man with tears in his eyes looked at the baby, and then
said, "A jolly good shot at fifteen miles."
They can't help making jokes.
There were two Scots lying in a little room--both gunners, who had been
hit at Nieuport. One, Ochterlony from Arbroath, had an eye shot away,
and some other wounds; the other, McDonald, had seven bad injuries.
Ochterlony talked a good deal about his eyes, till McDonald rolled his
head round on the pillow, and remarked briefly, "I'd swop my stomach for
your eyes."
Sunday wasn't such a nasty day as I usually have--in fact, Sunday never
is. But that station, with its glaring hot platform, its hotter kitchen,
and its smells, takes a bit of sticking. I have discovered one thing
about Belgium. Everything smells exactly alike. To-day there have been
presented to my nose four different things purporting to have different
odours, drains, some cheese, tobacco, and a bunch of lilac. There was no
difference at all in the smells!
[Page Heading: WAR WEARINESS]
I am much struck by the feeling of sheer weariness and disgust at the
war which prevails at present. People are "soul sick" of it. A man told
me last night that he longed to be wounded so that he might go home
honourably. Amongst all the volunteer corps I notice the same thing.
"Fed up" is the expression they all use, fed up with the suffering they
see, fed up even with red crosses and khaki.
When one thinks of primrose woods at home, and birds singing, and
apple-blossom against blue sky, and the park with its flower-beds newly
planted, and the fresh-watered streets, and women in pretty dresses--but
one mustn't!
_6 May._--Mrs. Guest arrived here to stay yesterday, and her chauffeur,
Mr. Wood, dined here. It is nice to be no longer quite alone. Last night
we were talking about how horrible war is. Mrs. Guest told me of a sight
she had herself seen. Some men, horribly wounded, were being sent away
by rail in a covered waggon ("fourgon"). One man had only his mouth left
in his face. He was raving mad, and raged up and down the van, trampling
on other men's wounded and broken limbs.
Certainly war is a pretty game, and we must go on singing "Tipperary,"
and saying what fun it is. A young friend of mine at home gave me a
pamphlet (price 2d.) written by a spinster friend of hers who had never
left England, proving what a good thing this war was for us all. When I
said I saw another aspect of it, the kind, soothing suggestion was that
I must be a little over-tired.
_7 May._--They say La Panne is to be bombarded to-day. The Queen has
left. Some people fussed a good deal, but if one bothered one's poor
head about every rumour of this sort (mostly "dropped from a German
aeroplane") where would one be?
I was much touched when some people at home clubbed together and sent me
out a little car a short time ago. But, alas! it had not been chosen
with judgment, and is no use. It has been rather a bother to me, and now
it must go back. Mr. Carlile drove it up from Dunkirk, and it broke down
six times, and then had to be left in a ditch while he got another car
to tow it home. Since then it has lain at the station.
I can't get anyone to come and inspect it. The extraordinary habit which
prevails here of saying "No" to every request makes things difficult,
for no privileges can be bought. Sometimes, when I hear people ask for
the salt, I fancy the answer will be, "Certainly not." Two of our own
chauffeurs live quite close to the station: they say they are busy, and
can't look at my car. One smiles, and says: "When you _have_ time I
shall be _so_ grateful, etc." Inwardly one is feeling that if one could
_roar_ just for once it would be a relief.
Sometimes at home I have felt a little embarrassed by the love people
have shown me--as if I have somehow deceived them into thinking I was
nicer than I really am. Out here I have to try to remember that I have a
few friends! In London I couldn't understand it when people praised me
or said kind things.
There is only one straight tip for Belgium--have a car, and understand
it yourself. Never did I feel so helpless without one. But the roads are
too bad and too crowded to begin to learn to drive, and there are
difficulties about a garage.
[Page Heading: MY CAR]
This evening Mr. Wood and I went to Hoogstadt, and towed that
_corpse_--my car--up to La Panne for ---- to inspect. The whole Belgian
army seemed to gather round us as we proceeded on our toilsome journey,
with breaking tow-ropes (for the "corpse" is heavy) and defective
steering-gear. _They_ were amused. I was just cracking with fatigue.
Needless to say, ---- didn't come. As the car was a present I can't send
it back without the authority of a chauffeur. If I keep it any longer
they will say I used it and broke it....
There were some fearful bad cases at Hoogstadt to-day, and we were
touched to see an old man sitting beside his unconscious son and keeping
the flies off him, while he sobbed in great gusts. One Belgian officer
told us that the hardest thing he had to do in the war was to give the
order to fire on a German regiment which was advancing with Belgian
women and children in front of it. He gave the order, and saw these
helpless creatures shot down before his eyes.
At the Yser the other night two German regiments got across the river
and found themselves surrounded. One regiment surrendered, and the men
of the other coolly turned their guns on it and shot their comrades
down.
Some of our corps were evacuating women and children the other day. One
man, seeing his wife and daughter stretched out on the ground, went
mad, and ran up and down the field screaming. We see a lot of madness.
_8 May._--The guns sound rather near this morning, and the windows
shake. One never knows what is happening till the wounded come in. I sat
with my watch in my hand and counted the sound of bursting shells. There
were 32 in one minute. The firing is continuous, and very loud, and
living men are under this fire at this moment, "mown down," "wiped out,"
as the horrible terms go. I loathe even the sound of a bugle now. This
carnage is too horrible. If people can't "realise" let them come near
the guns.
They were shelling Furnes again when I was at Steenkerke the other day,
and it was a strange sound to hear the shells whizzing over the peaceful
fields. One heard them coming, and they passed overhead to fall on the
old town. Under them the brown cattle fed unheeding, and old women hoed
undisturbed, and the sinking sun threw long shadows on the grass. And
then a busy ambulance would fly past on the road; one caught a glimpse
of blood-covered forms. "Yes, a few wounded, and two or three killed."
Old women are the most courageous creatures on this earth. When everyone
else has fled from a place you can see them sitting by their cottage
doors or hoeing turnips in the line of fire.
It was touching to see a little family of terrified children sheltering
with their mother in a roadside Calvary when the shells were coming
over. The poor young mother was holding up her baby to Christ on His
cross.
[Page Heading: THE CRUCIFIX UNDAMAGED]
There is a matter which seems almost more than a coincidence, and one
which has been too often remarked to be ignored, and that is, that in
the midst of ruins which are almost totally destroyed the figure of
Christ in some niche often remains untouched. I have seen it myself, and
many writers have commented on the fact. Sometimes it is only a crucifix
on some humble wall, or it may be a shrine in a church. The solitary
figure remains and stands--often with arms raised to bless. At Neuve
Chapelle one learns that, although the havoc is like that wrought by an
earthquake, and the very dead have been uprooted there, a crucifix
stands at the cross-roads at the north end of the village, and the
pitiful Christ still stretches out His hands. At His feet lie the dead
bodies of young soldiers. At Nieuport I noticed a shrine over a doorway
in the church standing peacefully among the ruins, and at Pervyse also
one remained, until the tower reeled and fell with an explosion from
beneath, which was deliberately ordered to prevent accidents from
falling masonry.
I had to go to Dunkirk this afternoon and while I was there I heard that
the _Lusitania_ had been torpedoed and sunk with 1,600 souls on board
her. What change will this make in the situation? Is America any use to
us except in the matter of supplies, and are we not getting these
through as it is? A nation like that ought to have an army or a navy.
Dunkirk was nearly deserted owing to the bombardment, and it was
difficult to find a shop open to buy vegetables for my soup-kitchen.
Still, I enjoyed my afternoon. There was a chance that shelling might
begin again at any time, and a bitter wind blew up clouds of prickly
dust and sand; but it was a great relief to be out in the open and away
from smells, and to have one's view no longer bounded by a line of
rails. God help us! What a year this has been! It tires me even to think
of being happy again, cheerfulness has become such an effort.
_10 May._--I went to see my Scottish gunner at the hospital to-day. He
said, "I can't forget that night," and burst out crying. "That night" he
had been wounded in seven places, and then had to crawl to a "dug-out"
by himself for shelter.
Strong healthy men lie inert in these hospitals. Many of them have face
and head wounds. I saw one splendid young fellow, with a beautiful face,
and straight clear eyes of a sort of forget-me-not blue. He won't be
able to speak again, as his jaw is shot away. The man next him was being
fed through the nose.
The matron told me to-day that last night a man came in from Nieuport
with the base of a shell ("the bit they make into ash trays," she said)
embedded in him. His clothing had been carried in with it. He died, of
course.
One of our friends has been helping with stretcher work, removing
civilians. He was carrying away a girl shot to pieces, and with her
clothing in rags. He took her head, and a young Belgian took her feet,
and the Belgian looked round and said quietly, "This is my fiancée."
[Page Heading: THE "LUSITANIA"]
_11 May._--To-day being madame's washing day--we ring the changes on
the "nettoyage," "le grand nettoyage," and "le lavage"--everything was
late. The newspaper came in, and was full of such words as "horror,"
"resentment," "indignation," about the _Lusitania_, but that won't give
us back our ship or our men. I wish we could do more and say less, but
the Press must talk, and always does so "with its mouth." M. Rotsartz
came to breakfast. The guns had been going all night long, there was a
sense of something in the air, and I fretted against platitudes in
French and madame's washing. At last I got away, and went to the sea
front, for the sound of bursting shells had become tremendous.
It was a sort of British morning, with a fresh British breeze blowing
our own blessed waves, and there, in its grey grandeur, stood off a
British man-of-war, blazing away at the coast. The Germans answered by
shells, which fell a bit wide, and must have startled the fishes (but no
one else) by the splash they made. There were long, swift torpedo-boats,
with two great white wings of cloven foam at their bows, and a great
flourish of it in their wake, moving along under a canopy of their own
black smoke. It was the smoke of good British coal, from pits where
grimy workmen dwell in the black country, and British sweat has to get
it out of the ground. Our grey lady was burning plenty of it, and when
she had done her work, she put up a banner of smoke, and steamed away
with a splendid air of dignity across the white-flecked sea. One knew
the men on board her! Probably not a heart beat quicker by a second for
all the German shells, probably dinner was served as usual, and men got
their tubs and had their clothes brushed when it was all over.
I went down to my kitchen a little late, but I had seen something that
Drake never saw--a bit of modern sea-fighting. And in the evening, when
I returned, my grey mistress had come back again. The sun was westering
now, and the sea had turned to gold, and the grey lady looked black
against the glare, but the fire of her guns was brighter than the
evening sunset, and she was a spit-fire, after all, this dignified
queen, and she, "let 'em have it," too, while the long, lean
torpedo-boats looked on.
I went to the kitchen; I gave out jam, I distributed socks, I heard the
fussy importance of minor officials, but I had something to work on
since I had seen the grey lady at work.
In the evening I dined quietly on the barge with Miss Close and Maxine
Elliott. We had a game of bridge--a thing I had not seen for a year and
more (the last time I played was down in Surrey at the Grange!), and the
little gathering on the old timbered barge was pleasant.
Some terrible stories of the war are coming through from the front. An
officer told us that when they take a trench, the only thing which
describes what the place is like is strawberry jam. Another said that in
one trench the sides were falling, and the Germans used corpses to make
a wall, and kept them in with piles fixed into the ground. Hundreds of
men remain unburied.
[Page Heading: GERMAN PRISONERS]
Some people say that the German gunners are chained to their guns. There
were six Germans at the station to-day, two wounded and four prisoners.
Individually I always like them, and it is useless to say I don't. They
are all polite and grateful, and I thought to-day, when the prisoners
were surrounded by a gaping crowd, that they bore themselves very well.
After all, one can't expect a whole nation of mad dogs. A Scotchman
said, "The ones opposite us (_i.e._, in the trenches) were a very
respectable lot of men."
The German prisoners' letters contain news that battalions of British
suffragettes have arrived at the front, and they warn officers not to be
captured by these!
_12 May._--To-day, when I got to the station, I was asked to remove an
old couple who sat there hand in hand, covered with blood. The old woman
had her arm blown off, and the man's hand was badly injured. We took
them to de Page's hospital.
The firing has been continuous for the last few days, and men coming in
from Ypres and Dixmude and Nieuport say that the losses on both sides
have been enormous. There were four Belgian officers who lived opposite
my villa, whom one used to see going in and out. Last night all were
killed.
At Dixmude the other day the Duke of Westminster went to the French
bureau to get his passport visé. The clerks were just leaving, but he
begged them to remain a minute or two and to do his little business.
They did so, and came to the door to see him off, but a shell came
hurtling in and killed them both, and of a woman who stood near there
was literally nothing left.
Last night ---- and I were talking about the _gossip_, which would fill
ten unpublishable volumes out here.... Why do these people come out to
the front? Give me men for war, and no one else except nuns. Things may
be all right, but the Belgians are horrified, and I hate them to "say
things" of the English. The grim part of it is that I don't believe I
personally hear one half of what goes on and what is being said. They
are afraid of shocking me, I believe.
The craze for men baffles me. I see women, _dead tired_, perk up and
begin to be sparkling as soon as a man appears; and when they are alone
they just seem to sink back into apathy and fatigue. Why won't these mad
creatures stop at home? They _are_ the exception, but war seems to bring
them out. It really is intolerable, and I hate it for women's sake, and
for England's.
The other day I heard some ladies having a rather forced discussion on
moral questions, loud and frank.... Shades of my modest ancestresses! Is
this war time, and in a room filled with men and smoke and drink, are
women in knickerbockers discussing such things? I know I have got to
"let out tucks," but surely not quite so far!
Beautiful women and fast women should be chained up. Let men meet their
God with their conscience clear. Most of them will be killed before the
war is over. Surely the least we can do is not to offer them temptation.
Death and destruction, and horror and wonderful heroism, seem so near
and so transcendent, and then, quite close at hand, one finds evil
doings.
[Page Heading: A TREASURE]
_14 May._--I heard two little stories to-day, one of a British soldier
limping painfully through Poperinghe with a horrid wound in his arm and
thigh.
"You seem badly wounded," a friend of mine said to him.
"Yus," said the soldier; "there were a German, and he wounded me in
three places, but"--he drew from under his arm a treasure, and his poor
dirty face was transformed by a delighted grin--"I got his bloody
helmet."
Another story was of an English officer telephoning from a church-tower.
He gave all his directions clearly and distinctly, and never even hinted
that the Germans had taken the town and were approaching the church. He
just went on talking, till at last, as the tramp of footsteps sounded on
the belfry stairs, he said, "Don't take any notice of any further
information. I am going." He went--all the brave ones seem to go--and
those were the last words he spoke.
Rhodes Moorhouse flew low over the German lines the other day, in order
to bombard the German station at Courtrai. He planed down to 300 feet,
and became the target for a hundred guns. In the murderous fire he was
wounded, and might have descended, but he was determined not to let the
Germans have his machine. He planed down to 100 feet in order to gather
speed. At this elevation he was hit again, and mortally wounded, but he
flew on alone to the British lines--like a shot bird heading for its own
nest. He didn't even stop at the first aerodrome he came to, but sailed
on--always alone--to his base, made a good landing, handed over his
machine, and died.
In the hospitals what heroism one finds! One splendid fellow of 6 feet 2
inches had both his legs and both his arms amputated. He turned round to
the doctor and said, smiling, "I shan't have to complain of beds being
too short now!" And when someone came and sat with him in his deadly
pain, he remarked in his gentle way, "I am afraid I am taking up all
your time." His old father and mother arrived after he was dead.
Ah! if one could hear more, surely one would do more! But this
hole-and-corner way of doing warfare damps all enthusiasm and stifles
recruiting. Why are we allowed to know nothing until the news is stale?
Yesterday I heard at first hand of the treatment of some civilians by
Germans, and I visited a village to hear from the _people themselves_
what had happened.
My work isn't so heavy now, and, much as I want to be here when the
"forward movement" comes, I believe I ought to use the small amount of
kick I have left in me to go to give lectures on the war to men in
ammunition works at home. They all seem to be slacking and drinking, and
I believe one might rouse them if one went oneself, and told stories of
heroism, and tales of the front. The British authorities out here seem
to think I ought to go home and give lectures at various centres, and I
have heard from Vickers-Maxim's people that they want me to come.
I think I'll arrive in London about the 1st of June, as there is a good
deal to arrange, and I have to see heads of departments. One has to
forget all about _parties_ in politics, and get help from Lloyd George
himself. I only hope the lectures may be of some use.
* * * * *
[Page Heading: TO MRS. FFOLLIOTT]
_To Mrs. ffolliott._
VILLA LES CHRYSANTHÈMES,
LA PANNE, BELGIUM,
_16 May._
DARLING OLD POOT,
One line, to wish you with all my heart a happy birthday. I shan't
forget you on the 22nd. Will you buy yourself some little thing with the
enclosed cheque?
This war becomes a terrible strain. I don't know what we shall do when
four nephews, a brother-in-law, and a nephew to be are in the field.
I get quite sick with the loss of life that is going on; the whole land
seems under the shadow of death. I shall always think it an idiotic way
of settling disputes to plug pieces of iron and steel into innocent boys
and men. But the bravery is simply wonderful. I could tell you stories
which are almost unbelievable of British courage and fortitude.
I am coming home soon to give some lectures, and then I hope to come out
here again.
Bless you, dear Poot,
Your loving
SARAH.
* * * * *
_17 May._--I saw a most curious thing to-day. A soldier in the Pavilion
St. Vincent showed me five 5-franc pieces which he had had in his
pocket when he was shot. A piece of shrapnel had bent the whole five
until they were welded together. The shrapnel fitted into the silver
exactly, and actually it was silvered by the scrape it had made against
the coin. I should like to have had it, but the man valued his souvenir,
so one didn't like to offer him money for it.
A young Canadian found a comrade of his nailed to a door, and stone
dead, of course. When did he die?
A Belgian doctor told Mrs. Wynne that in looking through a German
officer's knapsack he found a quantity of children's hands--a pretty
souvenir! I write these things down because they must be known, and if I
go home to lecture to munition-workers I suppose I must tell them of
these barbarities.
Meanwhile, the German prisoners in England are getting country houses
placed at their service, electric light, baths, etc., and they say girls
are allowed to come and play lawn tennis with them. The ships where they
are interned are costing us £86,000 a month. Our own men imprisoned in
Germany are starved, and beaten, and spat upon. They sleep on mouldy
straw, have no sanitation, and in winter weather their coats, and
sometimes even their tunics, were taken from them.
Fortunately, reprisals need not come from us. Talk to Zouaves and Turcos
and the French. God help Germany if they ever penetrate to the Rhine.
A young man--Mr. Shoppe--is occupied in flying low over the gun that is
bombarding Dunkirk in order to take a photograph of it.
It seems to me a great deal to ask of young men to give their lives when
life must be so sweet, but no one seems to grudge their all. Of some one
hears touching and splendid stories; others, one knows, die all alone,
gasping out their last breath painfully, with no one at hand to give
them even a cup of water. No one has a tale to tell of them. God,
perhaps, heard a last prayer or a last groan before Death came with its
merciful hand and put an end to the intolerable pain.
How much can a man endure? A Frenchman at the Zouave Poste au Secours
looked calmly on while the remains of his arm were cut away the other
night. Many operations are performed without chloroform (because they
take a shorter time) at the French hospital.
[Page Heading: A HEAVENLY HOST]
I heard from R. to-day. He says the story about Mons is true. The
English were retreating, and Kluck was following hard after them. He
wired to the Kaiser that he had "got the English," but this is what men
say happened. A cloud came out of a clear day and stood between the two
armies, and in the cloud men saw the chariots and horses of a heavenly
host. Kluck turned back from pursuing, and the English went on unharmed.
This may be true, or it may be the result of men's fancy or of their
imagination. But there is one vision which no one can deny, and which
each man who cares to look may see for himself. It is the vision of what
lies beyond sacrifice; and in that bright and heavenly atmosphere we
shall see--we may, indeed, see to-day--the forms of those who have
fallen. They fight still for England, unharmed now and for ever more,
warriors on the side of right, captains of the host which no man can
number, champions of all that we hold good. They are marching on ahead,
and we hope to follow; and when we all meet, and the roll is called, we
shall find them still cheery, I think, still unwavering, and answering
to their good English names, which they carried unstained through a
score of fights, at what price God and a few comrades know.