So many friends have asked me to tell them about our life here in
Brittany, that I have selected a few facts, hoping that these little
wavelets, on the ocean of war-literature at present inundating the
country, may prove of interest.
Let me first tell the story of an American girl of whom we are all very
proud—a girl whose courage and devotion has won her the Croix de Guerre
and the Médaille d'or des Epidemes.
The Vicontesse de la Mettrie, daughter of the late Comte Amedee de
Gasquet—James of New Orleans and Dinard—and grand-daughter of the late
Colonel George Watson Pratt, of Albany, has lived in Dinard all her
life. On the 18th of August, 1914, she offered her services as a nurse,
and since that date has been constantly on duty, never sparing herself
in her devotion to her wounded.
I cannot do better than translate from the order of the day, read at
the army headquarters, the following citation:
"The Vicontesse Henri de la Mettrie, whose husband went to the front
early in August, 1914, became hospital-nurse in the military hospitals,
first at Rennes, and afterwards at the front on the Somme, and on the
Aisne, these last places since 1916. She has just become the object
of highly laudatory 'citation' in general orders of the army for the
18th of February, 1918, in the following terms: 'Has shown, during the
bombardment of the ambulance of ————, the utmost courage, devotion and
sang froid. On the 30th of November, 1917, her ambulance was subjected
to a prolonged bombardment and, although slightly wounded herself
from bursting shell, she immediately rescued two dangerously injured
stretcher bearers, who fell at her side. She refused to seek shelter
and showed the greatest courage throughout all danger.
"The Croix de Guerre is accorded with this citation. Madame de la
Mettrie has further earned the gratitude of her compatriots by giving
her blood, by infusion, to save the life of one of her wounded men
(dying in her hospital at the front) and she had the joy of knowing
she had saved his life." Let me add in passing, that, before the war,
the Vicontesse de la Mettrie was a lively, gay young woman of fashion,
fond of automobiling, hunting, traveling and dancing. The contrast of
these carefree days before the war when young, rich and lovely, with
a devoted husband and a loving family about her, she could reasonably
look forward to every happiness—and the present tragic months under the
German guns must be at times overwhelming.
Her last posts have been in such dangerous zones, often under
bombardment night and day, that, before the war-office allowed her
to go, she was obliged to sign three papers, stating, respectively:
First—that she had no children or parents dependent on her; second—that
she fully realized the danger, and went at her own risk and peril;
third—that her husband knew when and where she was going, and fully
gave his consent.
Those people in America who think war-nursing consists of attending to
nice, clean, interesting young men in big, airy, spotless wards, with
sunshine pouring in at the open windows, flowers on a table near the
bed, and pretty Red Cross nurses serving wine, jellies and afternoon
tea, would be rather surprised to look in upon these ambulance-stations
at the front, behind the first dressing stations.
Imagine a shelltorn, gunswept desert; low, wooden encampments
partitioned off into long rooms, full to overflowing with wounded;
ankle-deep mud separating the different sheds; appalling food; no
possibility of baths or even elementary cleanliness; no comfort of
any kind. For sleeping quarters each nurse has a cubicle 5 feet by
9 feet, a cot, a chair, a washbasin on a box, and a small trunk for
her clothes. Under the cot is a hole, long and large and deep enough
for a person to lie in, into which they pop when the bombardment
alarm is given. The damp cold is intense in these desolated regions,
the work equally so. Always on the alert for gas attacks or shells,
always ready, night and day, for the arrival of freshly wounded from
the trenches, only a few yards away, operations often, deaths often,
fatigue always, dirt, stenches, vermin, the sacrifice of youth, good
looks and ease—these are some of the demands that a military nurse
under army orders must consider all in a day's work.
The Croix de Guerre is the highest decoration given by the French
Government for deeds of valor or endurance under fire, and many are the
sons of France who wear it on their blue tunics. That it also gleams
on the uniforms of some of her daughters, shows how unfailing is the
heroism and patriotism inspiring alike the men and women of France.
All these four long, weary years this has been the lot of the French.
Behind the lines reigns a constant anxiety. In the cities, in the
villages, in the lonely farms, everywhere, the homes are empty of their
men-folk. Millions of families living in fear of what crushing news the
next hours may bring. Lucky those households whose men are still in the
fighting line.
A slight idea of the degradation and misery endured in the German
prison camps may be gathered from a letter received from the brother of
one of my maids. He is now at Leysin, in Switzerland, trying to regain
his health and recover his eyesight. At times he is almost blind, the
result of the typhus. If he loses it completely, he will indeed be
a helpless burden to his family, as he is a cabinetmaker by trade.
His father and mother are humble folk who have brought up their nine
children honestly and well, educating them, giving each a good trade,
and, before the war, looking forward themselves to a well-earned rest
in their old age. Now this large family is completely ruined and broken
up. This eldest son almost blind, the second son disappeared since 1914
in the holacust of the war, the third son fighting in Italy. Next month
the fourth boy, barely eighteen, joins the colors.
The poor old father, struck down by paralysis, has been slowly dying
for months. The rest of the family, the old mother, four small
children and a young girl, are entirely dependent on the wages of my
maid, except for 110 francs ($23) a month, given as allowance by the
French Government to those whose men are fighting. The old mother
has a patch of ground where she grows a few vegetables. One boy of
fourteen receives a few francs as electrician (the only wage earner at
home). Out of her wages of $20.60 a month, my good Marie has helped
her family, bought clothes and medicines for the sick father and the
children, and managed to send twice a month, for the last three and
one-half years, a box to the prisoner brother. Naturally, all her
savings are gone. This is typical of thousands of families all over
France—it is not a hard-luck story.
These monthly boxes sent to the prisoners usually contain a half pound
of coffee, costing 28 cents; a quarter pound of sugar, costing 5 cents;
one-half pound of chocolate, costing 25 cents; one-half pound of rice,
costing 18 cents; one-half pound of butter, costing 50 cents; one-half
pound of figs, costing 14 cents; one box of sardines, costing 42 cents;
one jar of jam, costing 25 cents; one can of condensed milk, costing 55
cents; one box of dates, costing 35 cents; one piece of soap, costing
20 cents; two packages of cigarettes, costing 25 cents; one pair of
wool socks; one cotton shirt; packing, costing 50 cents; one box of
meat and beans, costing 39 cents.
The letter of Marie's brother is as follows:
"Madame permits me to address to her my sincere thanks for the money
which allows me to purchase some strengthening food, which my poor
state of health so greatly demands.
"Since my arrival in Switzerland, I asked no further help from my
sister nor my family, who, as Madame knows, have struggled against
such great difficulties, due to present conditions. How much they have
voluntarily borne during my stay in Germany, when it was so urgent!
It is absolutely certain that if I am still in this world it is to
thanks of the solicitude of my sister and of my family, who deprived
themselves daily in order to send me food.
"Being wounded the 29th of August, 1914, and made prisoner, I dragged
about the hospital for five and one-half months. The 15th of February,
1915, I was sent to the camp at Cassel at the very moment of the
outbreak of typhus, which appeared the 29th of February. I would not
know how to describe to you, Madame, the scenes of horror which I
witnessed at that time. I would have to write a book, even then I would
lack words to give you the smallest conception of all the great misery
whose ghastly impression will remain forever engraved in my soul.
"After nursing a large number of my comrades, attempting by my goodwill
to make up for my inexperience, my own turn came. I was struck low by
this appalling sickness the 19th of April, 1915. After a few days in
the hospital I conquered this awful illness, but in what a state. I
could not walk but with the aid of crutches. I was a human rag. The
care which I ought to have had was substituted by a complete neglect
on the part of the authorities, even the most ordinary and needful
precautions were denied me.
"For the following two months I lay on the floor, only a threadbare
blanket for covering. It is useless, Madame, to recite to you the
treatment of utmost rigor to which I was subjected. It was the same
for all of us. Alas, how many unfortunates have died of it! Two
thousand five hundred are the official figures recognized by the German
authorities in our hospital.
"They will have to answer before the tribunal of humanity for this
horror added to so many others of which they are guilty. They are
entirely responsible, for they never made the slightest effort to
prevent contagion, or to attenuate, in any way, the hideous results.
Quite the contrary! They remained inert, rejoicing in the work of
desolation passing before their eyes. Their cynical ferocity permitted
the German general commanding our camp to explain in the presence of
these dying prisoners: 'I make war in my own way.' He made us feel,
we unfortunate mori-bunds, that if we were left without the most
elementary care of nursing, abandoned in a most tragic state, it was
entirely due to him, the German general commanding.
"After a long time, the Red Cross, horrified by the ravages caused
by this scourge, and by the indifference of the German authorities,
obtained after great difficulty, the privilege of sending some French
doctors to our camp at Cassel. These devoted men did their whole duty,
more than their duty, no matter how trying and disheartening. There,
where the deepest despair reigned, their arrival gave us a gleam of
hope. By their sublime abnegation and absolute devotion, they succeeded
in stamping out this pest; alas, by the sacrifice of their lives. Two
of our dear doctors thus paid the debt, but to those who saw them at
their work—courageous, cheering, consoling their poor comrades, prey to
this vile disease, the remembrance of them will remain forever vivid
and holy—these two heroes.
"I have witnessed the most horrible misery, but I would do wrong to let
you think I was the greatest sufferer. Whoever has been prisoner in
Germany has seen the same spectacle, the acts of refined cruelty one
hoped had disappeared forever from the world. I enclose two photos,
which will give you some idea of the actual conditions endured by so
many thousand unfortunates fallen into German hands. One shows the
interior of a shed where the prisoners are crowded, a bed of infection
for all kinds of diseases. The other shows the punishment meted out for
the merest peccadillo. They need no comment.
[Illustration: French Wounded Huddled in Shed in German Prison]
[Illustration: Refined Cruelty as Practised on French Officer in German
Prison for Some Slight Infraction of Rules]
"I cannot close this recital of misery without a word, which I judge
very necessary, about this unhappy life, so bravely supported by so
many thousands of unfortunates. What would have become of us, but for
such kind souls as you? How many of my wretched companions have only
been sustained morally and physically, through these days of trial, by
the regular arrival of parcels sent by kind unknown friends!
"If these charitable people could hear half of the expressions of
gratitude, and see the pleasure caused by these shipments, they would
assuredly feel rewarded. I want you to know this, as I feel it will
especially interest you. Your kindness towards me proves it. Thanks
from me and thanks from them.
"I long to return to France. I await with impatience the day of
expatriation, which will permit me to see again my old parents, my
family, and to embrace once more my little girls—poor darlings,
deprived so early of my affection and care. But I am resigned to wait,
and to re-establish here in Switzerland my health, so necessary after
this war. I know, Madame, you have given things to my little ones; from
me many thanks.
"Receive, Madame, my sincerest salutations and the assurance of my
profound gratitude.
"Your devoted,
"F. F.
"Interne Français.
"Hotel du Chamessaire, Leysin, Suisse."
With this authentic picture before us, shall we not do well, we
Americans, to realize what our own boys will have to face, should they
fall into German hands?
Dinard has recently been obliged to open her doors to one thousand
homeless children from Nancy. That historical and beautiful old town in
Lorraine is no longer a safe place for kiddies. Twelve thousand have
been sent here to Brittany, escorted by American Red Cross doctors and
American nurses, and their school-masters and mistresses. Poor little
mites, they look white and frightened and suppressed, but they must
be relieved to feel they can run about the beach without the fear of
bombs—that terror, night and day, which for so many months has haunted
them.
Now the soft lapping of the waves replaces the roar of cannon; the
green fields of Brittany, the crumbling buildings of their old home;
but their little hearts are heavy, many a baby is crying for "maman"
when bed-time comes. Their wan cheeks are growing rosy in the breezes
from the Atlantic. Good butter, milk, eggs and peaceful sunny days,
freedom from the fear of bombardment, are building up their fragile
little bodies, and the strained look is leaving their eyes, and they
are becoming normal children again.
We are constantly suffering from the spy fever. Every once in a while
it breaks out in a virulent form. Everyone looks askance at his
neighbor. The most absurd rumors circulate through the whole community,
and the world and his wife are in a feverish state of exasperation,
each one offering excellent advice as to the suppression of spies,
German agents, pro-boches, etc., etc.
Of course, there is some foundation for their fears. If you take up a
map of Brittany, you will see that the coast line is greatly indented.
There are high, rocky cliffs and innumerable caves which might easily
shelter whole cargoes of enemy supplies. Remote little beaches might
serve as landing places, and there are all sorts of rumors about tanks
of gasoline, barrels of butter, piles of fresh vegetables and meat
being hidden in these natural warehouses, and as to how the submarines
come in, signalled from shore by their spies, telling them when and
where to land.
Undoubtedly there are bases for supplies along the coast. It is wild
and uninhabited for miles, the little fishing villages, sheltering
along the shore-line in rocky bays and inlets, are practically denuded
of able-bodied men; only women, children and old folk living in these
little stone cottages facing the rough Atlantic, and who are they to
dare to withstand armed Germans?
All the waters along the coast are infested with the German U-boats.
Last week the little English packet, running between Saint-Malo and
Southampton, was torpedoed ten miles off the Isle of Wight. Only the
captain and four others, who happened to be on deck, were saved by
clinging to wreckage. All the crew, the two stewardesses, and the cabin
boys were drowned before they could reach the deck. We knew them well,
these courageous people who have so often made the journey since the
war began, and now they are lying under these green waters, martyrs to
their duty.
The submarines take weekly toll, but no names are mentioned in the
papers, only the total amount of tonnage lost each week. So, added to
the horror of the war, is the horror of the sea. In many a little home
along the coast, the wife and mother waits for the man who will never
return.
At Paimpel, seventy-five miles away, sixty-six out of the seventy
anti-bellum fishing smacks have been sunk. What it means to the poor
fishing folk can be better imagined than described. Four or five
families would often put the savings of a generation into a fishing
boat, and the whole population of many villages lived entirely off the
product of the sea. Naturally, their poverty is great, and they don't
know where to look for help. As one sits on the rocks, looking at the
beautiful turquoise ocean with the great space of radiant blue above,
and the coast-line stretching away for miles into the hazy distance, it
is hard to realize that beneath these sunny waters, perhaps a mile or
two away, lurks that hideous instrument of death, the German submarine.
One cannot deny their presence—they make themselves too often
conspicuous. Ten days ago, a British transport was torpedoed and went
down off Jersey, about fifty miles from here. Every once in a while a
French destroyer comes into Saint-Malo harbor, or a military balloon
mounts guard in the translucent air.
A story was told recently which bears out these facts, but I don't
believe, myself, that it is possible. During the high spring tides
we had this month of March, the sea went out on the ebb to a great
distance, leaving exposed many rocky islets and long sandy beaches. One
small island has deep water on one side, where a U-boat could be safely
hidden, and a sandy stretch to the landward side forms an ideal harbor.
The story runs that a few days ago two well-dressed men walked into
a little country inn, in a small village, ordered a lunch of young
vegetables, chicken, cigars and liqueurs. Smiling pleasantly over their
meal, before leaving, they called for paper and ink.
They paid for their food in French money, and left a note for the
Sous-Préfet of Saint-Malo. Imagine that official's chagrin, on opening
it, to find the following:
"Monsieur le Sous-Préfet—We had an excellent lunch and wish to state
that we perceive you still eat well in France.
"Captain Fritz.
"Lieut. Johann.
"U-boat off Brittany, March, 1918."