officer of a Zouave Regiment, in blue and gold Zouave, blue sash,
crimson bags like petticoats, and black puttees, and his smartly dressed
sister, came into my carriage; both very nice and polite and friendly.
He was 21, had fought in three campaigns, and been wounded twice; now
convalescent after a wound in the foot a month ago--going to the depôt
to rejoin. Her husband also at the front, and another brother. I changed
at Versailles, and was given tea, and a slight wash by the always
hospitable station duty Sisters, who welcome you at every big station.
The No.-- G.H. here they belong to is a very fine hotel with lovely
gardens, and they are very proud of it--close to the Palace.
10 A.M., _Juvisy._--I am now in an empty 1st class saloon (where I can
take a long walk) after a long wait, with _café au lait_ and an omelette
at Juvisy, and 'The Times' of October 5th.
There is a pleasing uncertainty about one's own share on Active Service.
I haven't the slightest idea whether, when I get to Villeneuve in half
an hour's time, I shall--
(_a_) Remain there awaiting orders either in a French billet, a railway
carriage, or a tent;
(_b_) Be sent up to Braisne to join a train; or
(_c_) Be sent down to Havre to ditto.
We had a man in No.-- Stationary who got through the famous charge of
the 9th Lancers unhurt, but came into hospital for an ingrowing toe
nail!
_Villeneuve_, 5 P.M.--Like a blithering idiot, I was so interested in
the Gunner's Diary of his birthday "in my hole" that I passed Villeneuve
Triage, and got out the station after! Had to wait 1-1/2 hours for a
train back, and got here eventually at 12. Collared four polite London
Scottish to carry my baggage, and found the Sister in charge of Train
Ambulance people.
I wish I could describe this extraordinary place. It is the Swindon of
France; a huge wilderness of railway lines, trains, and enormous
hangars, now used as camps and hospitals. Sister B. is encamped in a
shut-off corner of one of these sheds surrounded by London Scottish
cooking and making tea in little groups; they swarm here. I sleep
to-night in the same small bed in an empty cottage with a Sister I've
never seen before. We meal at a Convent French Hospital. I delivered my
"Very Urgent" envelope to the R.T.O. for the Director of Supplies, and
reported to Major ----, and after lunch had an hour's sleep on The Bed.
There are rows of enterics on stretchers in khaki in this shed, waiting
for motor ambulances to take them to Versailles No.-- G.H., being nursed
here meanwhile. There are also British prisoners (defaulters) penned in
in another corner, and French troops at the other end!
III.
On No.-- Ambulance Train (1)
FIRST EXPERIENCES
_October 13, 1914, to October 19, 1914_
"In lonely watches, night by night
Great visions burst upon my sight,
For down the stretches of the sky
The hosts of dead go marching by.
* * * * *
Dear Christ, who reignst above the flood
Of human tears and human blood,
A weary road these men have trod:
O house them in the home of God."
III.
On No.-- Ambulance Train (1).
FIRST EXPERIENCES.
_October 13, 1914, to October 19, 1914._
Ambulance Train--Under fire--Tales of the Retreat--Life on the Train.
_Tuesday, October 13th._--At last I am on the train, and have just
unpacked. There is an Army Sister and two Reserve, a Major ----, O.C.,
and two junior officers.
Don't know yet what messing arrangements are. We each have a bunk to
ourselves, with a proper mattress, pillow, and blankets: a table and
seat at one end, lots of racks and hooks, and a lovely little
washing-house leading out of the bunk, shared by the two Sisters on each
side of it: each has a door into it. No one knows where we are going; we
start this afternoon.
6 P.M.--Not off yet. We had lunch in a small dining-car, we four
Sisters at one table, Major ---- and his two Civil Surgeons at another,
and some French officials of the train at another. Meal cooked and
served by the French--quite nice, no cloth, only one knife and fork.
They are all very friendly and jolly.
In between the actual dealing with the wounded, which is only too real,
it all feels like a play or a dream: why should the whole of France, at
any rate along the railways and places on them, be upside down, swarming
with British soldiers, and all, French and English, working for and
talking of the one thing? everything, and every house and every hotel,
school, and college, being used for something different from what it was
meant for; the billeting is universal. You hear a funny alternation of
educated and uneducated English on all sides of you, and loud French
gabbling of all sorts. By day you see aeroplanes and troop trains and
artillery trains; and by night you see searchlights and hear the
incessant wailing and squawking of the train whistles. On every platform
and at every public doors or gates are the red and blue French soldiers
with their long spikey bayonets, or our Tommies with the short broad
bayonets that don't look half so deadly though I expect they are much
worse. You either have to have a written passport up here, or you must
know the "mot" if challenged by the French sentries. All this from Havre
and St Nazaire up to the Front.
The train is one-third mile long, so three walks along its side gives
you exercise for a mile. The ward beds are lovely: broad and soft, with
lovely pillow-cases and soft thick blankets; any amount of dressings and
surgical equipment, and a big kitchen, steward's store, and three
orderlies to each waggon. Shouldn't be surprised if we get "there" in
the dark, and won't see the war country. Sometimes you are stopped by
bridges being blown up in front of you, and little obstacles of that
kind.
_Wednesday, October 14th._--Still in the siding "waiting for orders" to
move on. There's a lot of waiting being done in this war one way and
another, as well as a lot of doing. What a splendid message the French
Government have sent the Belgian Government on coming to Havre! exciting
for the people at Havre: they used to go mad when dusty motor-cars with
a few exhausted-looking Belgians arrived in Havre.
We seem to be going to Rouen and up from there. Villeneuve is going to
be evacuated as a military P.O. centre and other headquarters, and
Abbeville to be the place--west of Amiens.
I had an excellent night, no sheets (because of the difficulties of
washing), my own rug next me, and lots of blankets: the view, with
trucks on each side, is not inspiring, but will improve when we move:
have only been allowed walks alongside the train to-day because it may
move at any minute (although it has no engine as yet!), and you mayn't
leave the train without a pass from the Major.
M.O.'s and Sisters live on one waggon, all our little doors opening into
the same corridor, where we have tea; it is a very easy family party.
Our beds are all sofas in the daytime and quite public, unless we like
to shut our doors. It is pouring to-day--first wet day for weeks.
Orders just come that we move at 8.46 for Abbeville, and get orders for
the Front from there.
6.30 P.M.--Another order just come that our destination is Braisne, not
Abbeville. They have always seen shells bursting at Braisne. I'm glad
it's Braisne, as we shall get to the other part next journey, I expect.
8.45 P.M.--Started at last.
_Thursday, October 15th_, 10 A.M.--Braisne. Got here about 8 o'clock.
After daylight only evidence of the war I could see from my bed were
long lines of French troops in the roads, and a few British camps;
villages all look deserted. Guns booming in the distance, sounds like
heavy portmanteaux being dropped on the roof at regular intervals. Some
London Scottish on the station say all the troops have gone from here
except themselves and the R.A.M.C. There are some wounded to come on
here.
There is an R.E. camp just opposite in a very wet wood, and quagmires of
mud. They have built Kaffir kraals to sleep in--very sodden-looking;
they've just asked for some papers; we had a few. They build pontoons
over the Aisne at night and camp here by day.
4 P.M.--We have only taken twelve cases on as yet, but are having quite
an exciting afternoon. Shells are coming at intervals into the village.
I've seen two burst in the houses, and one came right over our train.
Two French soldiers on the line lay flat on their faces; one or two
orderlies got under the train; one went on fishing in the pond close by,
and the wounded Tommies got rather excited, and translated the different
sounds of "them Jack Johnsons" and "them Coal-boxes" and "Calamity
Kate," and of our guns and a machine-gun popping. There is a troop train
just behind us that they may be potting at, or some gunners in the
village, or the R.E. camp. There have been two aeroplanes over us this
afternoon. You hear the shell coming a long way off, rather like a
falsetto motor-engine, and then it bursts (twice in the trees of this
wood where we are standing). There is an endless line of French horse
transport winding up the wood on the other side, and now some French
cavalry. The R.T.O. is now having the train moved to a safer place.
The troops have all gone except the 1st Division, who are waiting for
the French to take their place, and then all the British will be on the
Arras line, I believe, where we shall go next. (There's another close to
the train.) They make such a fascinating purring noise coming, ending in
a singing scream; you have to jump up and see. It is a yellowish-green
sound! But you can't see it till it bursts.
None of the twelve taken on need any looking after at night besides what
the orderly can do, so we shall go to bed.
We had another shell over the train, which (not the train) exploded with
a loud bang in the wood the other side; made one jump more than any yet,
and that was in the "safer place" the R.T.O. had the train moved to.
_Friday, October 16th_, 2 P.M.--Have had a very busy time since last
entry. The shelling of the village was aimed at the church, the steeple
of which was being used by the French for signalling. A butcher was
killed and a boy injured, and as the British Clearing Hospital was in
the church and the French Hospital next door they were all cleared out
into our train; many very bad cases, fractured spine, a nearly dying
lung case, a boy with wound in lung and liver, three pneumonias, some
bad enterics (though the worst have not been moved). A great sensation
was having four badly wounded French women, one minus an arm, aged 16;
another minus a foot, aged 61, amputation after shell wounds from a
place higher up. They are in the compartment next three wounded
officers. They are all four angelically good and brave and grateful; it
does seem hard luck on them. It was not easy getting them all settled
in, in a pitch-dark evening, the trains so high from the ground; and a
good deal of excitement all round over the shelling, which only left off
at dusk. One of the C.S.'s had a narrow shave on his way from the train
to the R.T.O.; he had just time to lie flat, and it burst a few yards
from him, on the line. S. and I stayed up till 3 A.M. and then called
the others, and we got up again at 8 and were all busy all the morning.
It is a weird business at night, picking your way through kitchens and
storerooms and wards with a lantern over the rickety bridges and
innumerable heavy swing-doors. I was glad of the brown overall G. sent
me, and am wearing the mackintosh apron to-day that N. made me. We are
probably staying here several days, and are doing day and night duty
entire--not divided as last night. I am on day. We have a great many
washings in the morning, and have to make one water do for one
compartment--(the train ran out of water this morning--since refilled
from the river alongside); and bed-makings, and a lot of four-hourly
treatment with the acutes. The enteric ward has a very good orderly, and
excellent disinfecting arrangements. It is in my division of the train.
Lack of drinking water makes things very difficult.
I thought things were difficult in the hospitals at Le Mans owing to
lack of equipment, but that was child's play compared to the structural
difficulties of working a hospital on a train, especially when it stands
in a siding several days. One man will have to die on the train if we
don't move soon, but we are not full up yet. Twenty-seven men--minor
cases--bolted from the church yesterday evening on to the train when the
shells were dropping, and were ignominiously sent back this morning.
It has so far been the most exciting journey the train has had. Jack
Johnson has been very quiet all the morning, but he spoke for a little
again just now. I'm going to have a rest now till four.
Four Tommies in one bunk yesterday told me things about the trenches and
the fighting line, which you have to believe because they are obviously
giving recent intimate personal experiences; but how do they or any one
ever live through it? These came all through the Retreat from Mons.
Then through the wet weather in the trenches on the Aisne--where they
don't always get hot tea (as is said in the papers, much to their
scorn). They even had to take the tea and sugar out of the haversacks of
dead Germans; no one had had time to bury for twelve days--"it warn't no
use to them," they said, "and we could do with it."
In the Retreat they said men's boots were worn right off and they
marched without; the packs were thrown away, and the young boys died of
exhaustion and heat. The officers guarded each pump in case they should
drink bad water, and they drank water wrung out of their towels!
"And just as Bill got to the pump the shell burst on him--it made a
proper mess of him"--this with a stare of horror. And they never
criticise or rant about it, but accept it as their share for the time
being.
The train is to-day in a place with a perfect wood on both sides,
glowing with autumn colours, and through it goes a road with continual
little parties of French cavalry, motors, and transport waggons passing
up it.
_Saturday, October 17th._--We are to stay here till Monday, to go on
taking up the wounded from the 1st Division. They went on coming in all
yesterday in motor ambulances. They come straight from the trenches, and
are awfully happy on the train with the first attempts at comforts they
have known. One told me they were just getting their tea one day,
relieving the trenches, when "one o' them coal-boxes" sent a 256 lb.
shell into them, which killed seven and wounded fifteen. _One_ shell! He
said he had to help pick them up and it made him sick.
10 P.M.--Wrote the last before breakfast, and we haven't sat down since.
We are to move back to Villeneuve to-morrow, dropping the sick probably
at Versailles. Every one thankful to be going to move at last. The gas
has given out, and the entire train is lit by candles.
Imagine a hospital as big as King's College Hospital all packed into a
train, and having to be self-provisioned, watered, sanitated, lit,
cleaned, doctored and nursed and staffed and officered, all within its
own limits. No outside person can realise the difficulties except those
who try to work it.
The patients are extraordinarily good, and take everything as it comes
(or as it doesn't come!) without any grumbling. Your day is taken up in
rapidly deciding which of all the things that want doing you must let go
undone; shall they be washed or fed, or beds made, or have their
hypodermics and brandies and medicines, or their dressings done? You end
in doing some of each in each carriage, or in washing them after dinner
instead of before breakfast.
The guns have been banging all the afternoon; some have dropped pretty
near again to-day, but you haven't time to take much notice. Our meals
are very funny--always candles stuck in a wine bottle--no
tablecloth--everything on one plate with the same knife and fork--coffee
in a glass, served by a charming dirty Frenchman; many jokes going on
between the three tables--the French officials, the M.O.'s, and us. Our
own bunks are quite civilised and cosy, though as small as half a big
bathing-machine--swept out by our batman.
We have some French wounded and sick on the train.
I see some parsons are enlisting in the R.A.M.C. I hope they know how to
scrub floors, clean lavatories, dish out the meals, sleep on the floor,
go without baths, live on Maconochie rations, and heave bales and boxes
about, and carry stretchers; the orderlies have a very hard life--and no
glory.
Must turn in.
_Sunday, October 18th_, 9 P.M.--Got under way at 6 A.M., and are now
about half-way between Paris and Rouen. We outskirted Paris. Passed a
train full of Indian troops. Put off the four wounded women at Paris;
they have been a great addition to the work, but very sweet and brave;
the orderlies couldn't do enough for them; they adored them, and were so
indignant at their being wounded. Another man died to-day--shot through
the pelvis. One of the enterics, a Skye man, thinks I'm his mother; told
me to-night there was a German spy in his carriage, and that he had "50
dead Jocks to bury--and it wasn't the buryin' he didn't like but the
feeling of it." He babbles continually of Germans, ammunition, guns,
Jocks, and rations.
Sunday is not Sunday, of course, on a train: no Padre, no services, no
nothing--not even any Time. The only thing to mark it to-day is one of
the Civil Surgeons wearing his new boots.
We shan't get any letters yet till we get to the new railhead. I'm
hoping we shall get time at Rouen to see the Cathedral, do some
shopping, have a bath and a shampoo, but probably shan't.
_Monday, October 19th._--Rouen, 9 P.M. Got here late last night, and all
the wounded were taken off straight away to the two general hospitals
here.
One has 1300 cases, and has kept two people operating day and night. A
great many deaths from tetanus.
Seen General French's 2nd despatch (of September) to-day in 'Daily
Mail.' No mail in, alas! Had a regular debauch in cathedrals and baths
to-day. This is the most glorious old city, two cathedrals of surpassing
beauty, lovely old streets, broad river, hills, and lovely hot baths and
hair shampooing. What with two cathedrals, a happy hour in a hot bath, a
shampoo, and delicious tea in the town, we've had a happy day. The train
stays here to-night and we are off to-morrow? for ----?
IV.
On No.-- Ambulance Train (2)
FIRST BATTLE OF YPRES
_October 20, 1914, to November 17, 1914_
"The thundering line of battle stands,
And in the air Death moans and sings;
But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,
And Night shall fold him with soft wings."
--JULIAN GRENFELL.
IV.
On No.-- Ambulance Train (2).
FIRST BATTLE OF YPRES.
_October 20, 1914, to November 17, 1914._
Rouen--First Battle of Ypres--At Ypres--A rest--A General Hospital.
_Tuesday, October 20th_, 6 P.M.--Just leaving Rouen for Boulogne. We've
seen some of the Indians. The Canadians seem to be still on Salisbury
Plain. No one knows what we're going to Boulogne empty for.
We have been busy to-day getting the train ready, stocking dressings,
&c. All the 500 blankets are sent in to be fumigated after each journey,
and 500 others drawn instead. And well they may be; one of the
difficulties is the lively condition of the men's shirts and trousers
(with worse than fleas) when they come from the trenches in the same
clothes they've worn for five weeks or more. You can't wonder we made
tracks for a bath at Rouen.
We've just taken on two Belgian officers who want a lift to Boulogne.
_Wednesday, October 21st._--Arrived at Boulogne 6 A.M. Went on to
Calais, and reached St Omer at 2 P.M., where I believe we are to take up
from the motor ambulances. A train of Indians is here. Some Belgian
refugees boarded the train at Boulogne, and wanted a lift to Calais, but
had to be turned off reluctantly on both sides. Have been going through
bedding equipment to-day.
No mail for me yet, but the others have had one to-day.
3.30 P.M.--Off for Steenwerck, close to the Belgian frontier, N.W. of
Lille. Good business Just seen five aeroplanes. Have been warned by
Major ---- to wear brassards in prominent place, owing to dangerous
journey in view!
4.30.--This feels like the Front again. Thousands and thousands of
Indian troops are marching close to the line, with long fair British
officers in turbans, mounted, who salute us, and we wave back; transport
on mules. Gorgeous sunset going on; perfectly flat country; no railway
traffic except _de la Guerre_.
6 P.M., _Steenwerck_.--Pitch dark; saw big guns flashing some way off.
The motor ambulances are not yet in with the wounded. The line is cut
farther on.
8 P.M.--We have had dinner, and have just been down the line to see the
place about 100 yards off. The Germans were here six days ago; got into
a big sewer that goes under the line, and blew it up. There is a hole 30
feet long, 15 across and 15 deep--very good piece of work. They occupied
the station, and bragged about getting across to England from Calais.
The M.O. who lives here, to be the link (with a sergeant and seven men)
between the field ambulances and the trains, dined with us. It is a wee
place. The station is his headquarters.
_Thursday, October 22nd._--Took on from convoys all night in pitch
darkness--a very bad load this time; going to go septic; swelling under
the bandages. There was a fractured spine and a malignant oedema, both
dying; we put these two off to-day at St Omer. We came straight away in
the morning, and are now nearly back at Boulogne.
YPRES.
_Friday, October 23rd._--All unloaded by 11 P.M. last night. (1800 in a
day and a night.) No.-- A.T. was in; visited M. and S. Bed by 12;
clothes on for forty hours. Slept alongside quay. Two hospital ships
in; watched them loading up from ambulances. No time to go ashore. The
wounded officers we had this time said the fighting at the Front is very
heavy. The men said the same. They slept from sheer exhaustion almost
before their boots were got off, and before the cocoa came round. In the
morning they perked up very pleased with their sleep, and talked
incessantly of the trenches, and the charges, and the odds each regiment
had against them, and how many were left out of their company, and all
the most gruesome details you can imagine. They seem to get their blood
up against the Germans when they're actually doing the fighting--"you're
too excited to notice what hits you, or to think of anything but your
life" ("and your country," one man added). "Some of us has got to get
killed, and some wounded, and some captured, and we wonder which is for
us."
11.15.--Just off for ----? I was in the act of trotting off into the
town to find the baths, when I met a London Scottish with a very urgent
note for the O.C.; thought I'd better bide a wee, and it was to say
"Your train is urgently required; how soon can you start?" So I had a
lucky escape of being left behind. (We had leave till 1 P.M.) Then the
Major nearly got left; we couldn't start that minute, because our
stores weren't all in, and the R.T.O. came up in a great fuss that we
were holding up five supply trains and reinforcements; so the British
Army had to wait for us.
The worst discomforts of this life are (_a_) cold; (_b_) want of
drinking water when you're thirsty; (_c_) the appalling atmosphere of
the French dining-car; (_d_) lack of room for a bath, and difficulty of
getting hot water; (_e_) dirt; (_f_) eccentricities in the meals; (_g_)
bad (or no) lights; (_h_) difficulties of getting laundry done; (_i_)
personal capture of various live stock; (_j_) broken nights; (_k_) want
of exercise on the up journey. Against all these minor details put being
at the Front, and all that that includes of thrilling interest,--being
part of the machinery to give the men the first care and comparative
comfort since they landed, at the time they most need it--and least
expect it.
6 P.M.--Hazebrouck again. We are said to be going to Belgium this
time--possibly Ypres. There are a terrible lot of wounded to be got
down--more than all the trains can take; they are putting some of them
off on the stations where there is a M.O. with a few men, and going back
for more.
There were two lovely French torpedo-boats alongside of us at Boulogne.