When the Yankees return home after the great war is over, those who
have been quartered in Brittany will carry back a vivid impression of
long stretches of green forests and fields, of tumbling green waters,
of gray-and-white skies with dashes of tender blue, of glinting
sunshine lying warm on blue slate roofs, of low stone villages
huddled about quaint church-towers, and of granite buildings of
unknown antiquity—and some may carry home recollections of yellow- or
auburn-haired girls, rosy-cheeked, clad in heavy black peasant costumes
and white muslin "coiffes."
It rains often in this west country, skies hang low, and there is much
hazy atmosphere and blue-wrapped distances, but the temperature is so
mild, roses bloom all winter, mimosa spread their golden sprays over
southern walls. The hedgerows and uplands are aglow early in January
with primroses and gorse, all shades of golden yellows, cutting sharp
against green backgrounds and vapory skies.
The air is mild and damp, and it is probably due to this purity of
atmosphere, that the Breton is as hardy and as vigorous as he is, for
their cottages, with the dirt floors, walled-in beds, and lack of
cleanliness, are about as sanitary as in the days of Anne of Brittany.
Since 1914 these good people have been called upon to provide
hospitality for all kinds of foreigners; strangers who, in ordinary
life, had never even heard of this part of the world, and who probably
never had any desire to see it—but Kaiser Wilhelm arranged otherwise,
and they poured in in their thousands. Somehow or other, food and
lodging were found for them, and they became tremendously at home.
Some, much too much so!
First came the Belgians, poor, driven, dazed creatures, carrying all
sorts of parcels and bundles, footsore, limping, weary; fleeing before
that first dreadful on-rush of Germans in August, 1914. Everyone worked
to get them food, clothing and lodging; but, scattered all over the
province, they were wretchedly unhappy crowds, knowing no language
but Flemish or Walloon, isolated and lost in France, and with their
families in Belgium. English and Americans took charge of them, and, by
tireless generosity and exertion, provided them with the necessities of
life.
I know of one Belgian hospital at St. Lunaire, which, for the last
four-and-a-half years, has been dependent on five English girls, who,
through all sorts of trouble, complications and work have kept it
going—and going competently and well.
From England they obtained the necessary surgical and hospital
supplies, but often and often they had to dip deep into their own
pockets—it was a flimsy summer hotel, in no way suited to a hospital
service; but, nothing daunted, they stuck at it courageously, giving
time, health, and wealth, never relaxing their efforts, or becoming
discouraged—brave, unselfish, untiring volunteers!
Many a Belgian, exiled, wounded, homesick, has a special little shrine
in his heart for the Misses de Montmorency and Miss Amscott.
After the Belgian invasion, came the French wounded.
I would not dare say how many thousands have passed through the
Dinard hospitals, where they were nursed by French, English, Belgian
and American Red Cross ladies. For years, the streets were full of
bandaged, limping creatures, happy to recuperate in our soft climate.
While these were in our town, we were suddenly inundated by hordes of
Russians; strong, vigorous young men, with a charming disregard for all
discipline, and an ardent determination to do exactly as they chose.
When remonstrated with, they just laughed and said: "Kaput czar, kaput
Russia—kaput tout," and that is all there was to it. They weren't going
to fight any more, or obey anyone. They traveled when it pleased them,
getting on or off of trains, without inquiring about their destination,
carefully ignoring all formalities, such as tickets, time, or
overcrowding, and behaved themselves generally as if law and order had
disappeared with the czar. Great, strapping chaps they were, too; in
clean, well-brushed uniforms and fine boots, apparently not concerning
themselves in the least as to the war or the future, sauntering about
our streets, amusing themselves as they saw fit, and finally becoming
so unbearable that a few were hauled up and shot by the authorities at
St. Malo, and the rest sent off somewhere, at the unanimous request of
St. Malo and Dinard.
In ordinary times, these Belgians and Russians would never have heard
of Dinard, and been perfectly satisfied not to, but then so would we
have been, had William the Kaiser permitted them to remain at home.
Last March, the third invasion took place—twelve hundred boys and girls
from Nancy, aged four to twelve years. They were quartered at the Royal
Hospital and at St. Lunaire, and the American Red Cross sent down
nurses and doctors to look after them. They needed everything—clothing,
boots, medical attendance and hygiene—being in a shocking condition,
having hidden in cellars for months during the bombardment of Nancy;
their faces were yellow and pinched, their bodies unhealthy and sickly,
their morale at its lowest ebb.
Mr. Thomas Ewing Moore, representative of the American Red Cross,
formed a committee of ladies, with the Marquise de Sigy as president,
who tells me they distributed, in four months, over ten thousand
garments, shoes, boots, hats, underwear, etc.
After the Nancy children had been comfortably installed and attended
to, French refugees from the Aisne began to pour in, fleeing before
the German offensive of last March. Again the American Red Cross came
to their relief, and over $100,000.00 was spent on them—clothing,
food, medicines, coal were purchased, homes found, furniture bought—a
tremendous work all over Brittany.
All these invasions gave a great deal to do, no one could afford to be
idle, and I must say the call was nobly responded to. A branch of the
Surgical Dressings Service (American Red Cross) was installed by Mrs.
Austin, an "ouvroir" opened, which did splendid work from October,
1917, to September, 1918. 300,000 dressings were sent to Paris;
English, French, Belgian and American ladies worked all day and every
day; and, thanks to President Mrs. John C. Howard's tact, it proved
to be a most harmonious circle. From accounts one hears on all sides
of other "ouvroirs," harmony is not precisely their most conspicuous
feature.
Elmer Stetson Harden is the one American volunteer serving in our
Brittany regiments. He won the highest praise for his fine courage
under fire, which earned him the Croix de Guerre. His officers
and companions consider it rather splendid of him, a rich and
independent American, to volunteer as a simple "poilu," and to refuse
all promotion, satisfied to remain with them through dangers and
discomforts, sharing their everyday life out of love for France. It is
the more praiseworthy, as he is beyond the age limit; Medford, Mass.,
may well be proud of this son of hers. He has been wounded twice. After
months of suffering in a Dinard hospital, is now cheery and well. I
met him yesterday at a luncheon and was glad to see such a wholesome
American in horizon-blue.
After all these different invasions—Belgian, French, wounded,
children—you can imagine we looked with some misgiving on a Yankee one.
The American Y. M. C. A. opened in August, 1,200 men in Dinard, 2,000
across the bay at St. Malo and Paramé; but now, after three months, I
can frankly say they are welcome everywhere.
Well-behaved, well-mannered, cheery, healthy, young, they come like a
fresh breeze from the sparkling Atlantic, bringing hope, courage and
enthusiasm in their wake.
It is so delightful for us war-weary Dinardais to come in contact
with anything so vital, and vigorous, that we open our doors to them,
bidding them welcome, with patriotic fervor.
All the Anglo-American colony, as well as the French aristocracy at
Dinard, have entertained them, either at luncheon or teas, and the
Y. M. C. A. has done its utmost to make their short vacation a happy
and memorable one. Trips to Mont St. Michel, Dinan and Combourg are
included in their week's stay. Vaudeville performances, dances,
concerts, everything to make them feel at home and "comfy." My French
friends are much impressed by their intelligence and manliness. My
friend, the Countess de Durfort, receives 200 every Friday at her
feudal Castle of Combourg, and often tells me what pleasure it gives
her to entertain "ces braves Américains."
La Baronne de Charette, née Miss Antoinette Polk, of Tennessee,
great-niece of President Polk, and widow of Général de Charette, the
famous leader of the Papal Zouaves in the war of 1870, has opened her
old Chateau every Wednesday to 200 Yankees.
Her Brittany home lies in a hollow surrounded by gray-bearded oaks,
near the river Ranee. It is full of historical souvenirs of all kinds.
Royalty has spent many happy days beneath its high-peeked roof; parties
and festivities of all sorts taking place here.