An armoured train, protective coloured all over in huge dabs of red,
blue, yellow, and green against aeroplanes, is alongside of us in the
station, manned by thirty men R.N.; three trucks are called Nelson,
Jellicoe, and Drake, with guns. They look fine; the men say it is a
great game. They are directed where to fire at German positions or
batteries, and as soon as they answer, the train nips out of range. They
were very jolly, and showed us their tame rabbit on active service. They
have had no casualties so far. Our load hasn't come in yet. We are _two
miles_ from our fighting line. No firing to-night to be heard--soon
began, though.
_Sunday, October 25th._--Couldn't write last night: the only thing was
to try and forget it all. It has been an absolute hell of a
journey--there is no other word for it. First, you must understand that
this big battle from Ostend to Lille is perhaps the most desperate of
all, though that is said of each in turn--Mons, the Aisne, and this; but
the men and officers who have been through all say this is the worst.
The Germans are desperate, and stick at nothing, and the Allies are the
same; and in determination to drive them back, each man personally seems
to be the same. Consequently the "carnage" is being appalling, and we
have been practically in it, as far as horrors go. Guns were cracking
and splitting all night, lighting up the sky in flashes, and fires were
burning on both sides. The Clearing Hospital close by, which was
receiving the wounded from the field and sending them on to us, was
packed and overflowing with badly wounded, the M.O. on the station said.
We had 368; a good 200 were dangerously and seriously wounded, perhaps
more; and the sitting-up cases were bad enough. The compound-fractured
femurs were put up with rifles and pick-handles for splints, padded with
bits of kilts and straw; nearly all the men had more than one
wound--some had ten; one man with a huge compound fracture above the
elbow had tied on a bit of string with a bullet in it as a tourniquet
above the wound himself. When I cut off his soaked three layers of
sleeve there was no dressing on it at all.
They were bleeding faster than we could cope with it; and the agony of
getting them off the stretchers on to the top bunks is a thing to
forget. We were full up by about 2 A.M., and then were delayed by a
collision up the line, which was blocked by dead horses as a result. All
night and without a break till we got back to Boulogne at 4 P.M. next
day (yesterday) we grappled with them, and some were not dressed when
we got into B----. The head cases were delirious, and trying to get out
of the window, and we were giving strychnine and morphia all round. Two
were put off dying at St Omer, but we kept the rest alive to Boulogne.
The outstanding shining thing that hit you in the eye all through was
the universal silent pluck of the men; they stuck it all without a whine
or complaint or even a comment: it was, "Would you mind moving my leg
when you get time," and "Thank you very much," or "That's absolutely
glorious," as one boy said on having his bootlace cut, or "That's
grand," when you struck a lucky position for a wound in the back. One
badly smashed up said contentedly, "I was lucky--I was the only man left
alive in our trench"; so was another in another trench; sixteen out of
twenty-five of one Company in a trench were on the train, all seriously
wounded except one. One man with both legs smashed and other wounds was
asked if it was all by one shell: "Oh yes; why, the man next me was
blowed to bits." The bleeding made them all frightfully thirsty (they
had only been hit a few hours many of them), and luckily we had got in a
good supply of boiled water beforehand on each carriage, so we had
plenty when there was time to get it. In the middle of the worst of it
in the night I became conscious of a Belgian Boy Scout of fourteen in
the corridor, with a glass and a pail of drinking water; that boy
worked for hours with his glass and pail on his own, or wherever you
sent him. We took him back to Calais. He had come up into the firing
line on his cycle fitted with a rifle, with tobacco for the troops, and
lived with the British whom he loved, sharing their rations. He was a
little brick; one of the Civil Surgeons got him taken back with us,
where he wanted to go.
There were twenty-five officers on the train. They said there were
11,000 Germans dead, and they were using the dead piled up instead of
trenches.
About 1 o'clock that night we heard a rifle shot: it was a German spy
shooting at the sentry sailor on the armoured train alongside of us;
they didn't catch him.
It took from 4 to 10 P.M. to unload our bad cases and get them into
hospitals on motor ambulances: they lay in rows on their stretchers on
the platform waiting their turn without a grumble.
There have been so many hundreds brought down this week that they've had
suddenly to clear four hotels for hospitals.
We are now in the filthiest of sidings, and the smell of the burning of
our heaps of filthy _débris_ off the train is enough to make you sick.
We all slept like logs last night, and could have gone on all day; but
the train has to be cleaned down by the orderlies, and everything got
ready for the next lot: they nearly moved us up again last night, but we
shall go to-day.
I think if one knew beforehand what all this was going to be like one
would hardly want to face it, but somehow you're glad to be there.
We were tackling a bad wound in the head, and when it was finished and
the man was being got comfortable, he flinched and remarked, "That leg
is a beast." We found a compound-fractured femur put up with a rifle for
a splint! He had blankets on, and had never mentioned that his thigh was
broken. It too had to be packed, and all he said was, "That leg _is_ a
beast," and "That leg is a _Beast_."
_Monday, the 26th_, 7 A.M., _Ypres._--We got here again about 10 P.M.
last night in pouring wet, and expected another night like Friday night,
but we for some reason remained short of the station, and when we found
there was nothing doing, lay down in our clothes and slept, booted and
spurred in mackintosh, aprons, &c. We were all so tired and done up
yesterday, M.O.'s, Sisters, and orderlies, that we were glad of the
respite. There was a tremendous banging and flashing to the north about
three o'clock, and this morning it was very noisy, and shaking the
train. Some of it sounds quite close. It is a noise you rather miss when
it leaves off.
One of the last lot of officers told us he had himself seen in a barn
three women and some children, all dead, and all with no hands.
The noise this morning is like a continuous roll of thunder interrupted
by loud bangs, and the popping of the French mitrailleuses, like our
Maxims. The nearest Tommy can get to that word is "mileytrawsers." There
are two other A.T.'s in, but I hear we are to load up first.
This place is full of Belgian women and children refugees in a bad way
from exhaustion.
A long line of our horse ambulances is coming slowly in.
Had a very interesting morning. Got leave to go into the town and see
the Cathedral of St Martin. None of the others would budge from the
train, so I went alone; town chock-full of French and Belgian troops,
and unending streams of columns, also Belgian refugees, cars full of
staff officers. The Cathedral is thirteenth century, glorious as usual.
There are hundreds of German prisoners in the town in the Cloth Hall. It
was a very warrish feeling saying one's prayers in the Cathedral to the
sound of the guns of one of the greatest battles in the world.
An M.O. from the Clearing Hospital, with a haggard face, asked me if I
could give him some eau-de-Cologne and Bovril for a wounded officer
with a gangrenous leg--lying on the station. Sister X. and I took some
down, also morphia, and fed them all--frightful cases on stretchers in
the waiting-room. They are for our train when we can get in. He told me
he had never seen such awful wounds, or such numbers of them. They are
being brought down in carts or anything. He said there are 1500 dead
Germans piled up in a field five miles off. They say that German
officers of ten days' service are commanding.
_Tuesday, October 27th, Boulogne._--We got loaded up and off by about 7
P.M., and arrived back here this morning. There are two trains to unload
ahead of us, so we shall probably be on duty all day. It is the second
night running we haven't had our clothes off--though we did lie down the
night before. Last night we had each a four-hour shift to lie down, when
all the worst were seen to. One man died at 6 A.M. and another is dying:
many as usual are delirious, and the hæmorrhage was worse than ever: it
is frightfully difficult to stop it with these bad wounds and compound
fractures. One sergeant has both eyes gone from a shell wound.
The twelve sitting-up cases on each carriage are a joy after the tragedy
of the rest. They sit up talking and smoking till late, "because they
are so surprised and pleased to be alive, and it is too comfortable to
sleep!"
One man with a broken leg gave me both his pillows for a worse man, and
said, "I'm not bad at all--only got me leg broke." A Reading man, with
his face wounded and one eye gone, kept up a running fire of wit and
hilarity during his dressing about having himself photographed as a Guy
Fawkes for 'Sketchy Bits.'
_Wednesday, October 28th._--Got to Boulogne yesterday morning; then
followed a most difficult day. It was not till 10 P.M. that they began
to unload the sick. The unloading staff at Boulogne have been so
overworked night and day that trains get piled up waiting to be
unloaded. Fifty motor ambulances have been sent for to the Front, and
here they have to depend largely on volunteer people with private
motors. Then trains get blocked by other trains each side of them, and
nothing short of the fear of death will move a French engine-driver to
do what you want him to do. Meanwhile two men on our train died, and
several others were getting on with it, and all the serious cases were
in great distress and misery. As a crowning help the train was divided
into three parts, each five minutes' walk from any other--dispensary on
one bit, kitchen on another. Everybody got very desperate, and at last,
after superhuman efforts, the train was cleared by midnight, and we went
thankfully but wearily to our beds, which we had not got into for the
two previous nights.
To-day was fine and sunny, and while the train was getting in stores we
went into the town to find a _blanchisserie_, and bought a cake and a
petticoat and had a breath of different air. We expect to move up again
any time now. Most welcome mails in.
News of De Wet's rebellion to-day. I wonder if Botha will be able to
hold it?
'The Times' of yesterday (which you can get here) and to-day's 'Daily
Mail' say the fighting beyond Ypres is "severe," but that gives the
British public no glimmering of what it really is. The ---- Regiment had
three men left out of one company. The men say General ---- cried on
seeing the remains of the regiments who answered the rolls. And yet we
still drive the Germans back.
There is a train full of slightly wounded Indians in: they are cooking
chupatties on nothing along the quay. The boats were packed with refugee
families yesterday. We had some badly wounded Germans on our train and
some French officers. The British Army doesn't intend the Germans to
get to Calais, and they won't get.
_Thursday, October 29th, Nieppe._--Woke up to the familiar bangs and
rattles again--this time at a wee place about four miles from
Armentières. We are to take up 150 here and go back to Bailleul for 150
there. It is a lovely sunny morning, but very cold; the peasants are
working in the fields as peacefully as at home. An R.A.M.C. lieutenant
was killed by a shell three miles from here three days ago. We've just
been giving out scarves and socks to some Field Ambulance men along the
line.
Just seen a British aeroplane send off a signal to our batteries--a long
smoky snake in the sky; also a very big British aeroplane with a
machine-gun on her. A German aeroplane dropped a bomb into this field on
Tuesday, meant for the Air Station here. This is the Headquarters of the
4th Division.
_Friday, October 30th, Boulogne._--While we were at Nieppe, after
passing Bailleul, a German aeroplane dropped a bomb on to Bailleul.
After filling up at Nieppe we went back to Bailleul and took up 238
Indians, mostly with smashed left arms from a machine-gun that caught
them in the act of firing over a trench. They are nearly all 47th Sikhs,
perfect lambs: they hold up their wounded hands and arms like babies for
you to see, and insist on having them dressed whether they've just been
done or not. They behave like gentlemen, and salaam after you've dressed
them. They have masses of long, fine, dark hair under their turbans done
up with yellow combs, glorious teeth, and melting dark eyes. One died.
The younger boys have beautiful classic Italian faces, and the rest have
fierce black beards curling over their ears.
We carried 387 cases this time.
_Later._--We got unloaded much more quickly to-day, and have been able
to have a good rest this afternoon, as I went to bed at 3 A.M. and was
up again by 8. It was not so heavy this time, as the Indians were mostly
sitting-up cases. Those of a different caste had to sleep on the floor
of the corridors, as the others wouldn't have them in. One compartment
of four lying-down ones got restless with the pain of their arms, and I
found them all sitting up rocking their arms and wailing "Aie, Aie,
Aie," poor pets. They all had morphia, and subsided. One British Tommy
said to me: "Don't take no notice o' the dirt on me flesh, Sister; I
ain't 'ad much time to wash!" quite seriously.
Another bad one needed dressing. I said, "I won't hurt you." And he said
in a hopeless sort of voice, "I don't care if you do." He had been
through a little too much.
It is fine getting the same day's London 'Daily Mail' here by the
Folkestone boat.
It is interesting to hear the individual men express their conviction
that the British will never let the Germans through to Calais. They seem
as keen as the Generals or the Government. That is why we have had such
thousands of wounded in Boulogne in this one week. It is quite difficult
to nurse the Germans, and impossible to love your enemies. We always
have some on the train. One man of the D.L.I. was bayoneted in three
different places, after being badly wounded in the arm by a dumdum
bullet. (They make a small entrance hole and burst the limb open in
exit.) The man who bayoneted him died in the next bed to him in the
Clearing Hospital yesterday morning. You feel that they have all been
doing that and worse. We hear at first hand from officers and men
specified local instances of unprintable wickedness.
_Saturday, October 31st._--Left Boulogne at twelve, and have just
reached Bailleul, 6 P.M., where we are to take up wounded Indians again.
Somehow they are not so harrowing as the wounded British, perhaps
because of the block in language and the weirdness of them. Big guns are
booming again. (This was the most critical day of the first battle of
Ypres.)
H. sent me a lovely parcel of fifty packets of cigarettes and some
chocolate, and A. sent a box of nutmilk choc. They will be grand for the
men.
One drawback on having the Indians is that you find them squatting in
the corridor, comparing notes on what varieties they find in their
clothing! Considering the way one gets smothered with their blankets in
the bunks it is the most personally alarming element in the War so far.
_Sunday, November 1st, Boulogne_--_All Saints' Day._--We loaded up with
British after all, late in the evening, and had a very heavy night: one
of mine died suddenly of femoral hæmorrhage, after sitting up and
enjoying his breakfast.
_12 noon._--We are still unloaded, but I was up all night, and so went
out for a blow after breakfast. Found two British T.B.D.'s in dock; on
one they were having divine service, close to the quay. I listened
specially to the part about loving our enemies! Then I found the
English Church (Colonial and Continental), quite nice and good chants,
but I was too sleepy to stay longer than the Psalms: it is ages since
one had a chance to go to Church.
After lunch, now they are all unloaded, one will be able to get a stuffy
station sleep, regardless of noise and smells.
We carried thirty-nine officers on the train, mostly cavalry, very brave
and angelic and polite in their uncomfortable and unwonted helplessness.
They liked everything enthusiastically--the beds and the food and the
bandages. One worn-out one murmured as he was tucked up, "By Jove, it is
splendid to be out of the sound of those beastly guns; it's priceless."
I had a very interesting conversation with a Major this morning, who was
hit yesterday. He says it's only a question of where and when you get
it, sooner or later; practically no one escapes.
Rifle firing counts for nothing; it is all the Coal-boxes and Jack
Johnsons. The shortage of officers is getting very serious on both
sides, and it becomes more and more a question of who can wear out the
other in the time.
He said that Aircraft has altered everything in War. German aeroplanes
come along, give a little dip over our positions, and away go the
German guns. And these innocent would-be peasants working in the fields
give all sorts of signals by whirling windmills round suddenly when
certain regiments come into action.
The poor L. Regiment were badly cut up in this way yesterday half an
hour after coming into their first action; we had them on the train.
They say the French fight well with us, better than alone, and the
Indians can't be kept in their trenches; it is up and at 'em. But we
shall soon have lost all the men we have out here. Trains and trains
full come in every day and night. We are waiting now for five trains to
unload. It is a dazzling morning.
_Monday, November 2nd._--On way up to ----. The pressure on the Medical
Service is now enormous. One train came down to-day (without Sisters)
with 1200 sitting-up cases; they stayed for hours in the siding near us
without water, cigarettes, or newspapers. You will see in to-day's
'Times' that the Germans have got back round Ypres again (where I went
into the Cathedral last Monday). No.-- A.T. was badly shelled there
yesterday. The Germans were trying for the armoured train. The naval
officer on the armoured train had to stand behind the engine-driver with
a revolver to make him go where he was wanted to. The sitting-up cases
on No.-- got out and fled three miles down the line. A Black Maria shell
burst close to and killed a man. They are again "urgently needing"
A.T.'s; so I hope we are going there to-night.
Eighty thousand German reinforcements are said to have come up to break
through our line, and the British dead are now piled up on the field.
But they aren't letting the Germans through. Three of our men died
before we unloaded at 8 P.M. yesterday, two of shock from lying ten
hours in the trench, not dressed.
_Tuesday, November 3rd, Bailleul_, 8.30 A.M.--Just going to load up;
wish we'd gone to Ypres. Germans said to be advancing.
_Wednesday, November 4th, Boulogne._--We had a lot of badly wounded
Germans who had evidently been left many days; their condition was
appalling; two died (one of tetanus), and one British. We have had a lot
of the London Scottish, wounded in their first action.
Reinforcements, French guns, British cavalry, are being hurried up the
line; they all look splendid.
_Wednesday, November 11th._--Sometimes it seems as if we shall never
get home, the future is so unwritten.
A frightful explosion like this Hell of a War, which flared up in a few
days, will take so much longer to wipe up what can be wiped up. I think
the British men who have seen the desolation and the atrocities in
Belgium have all personally settled that it shan't happen in England,
and that is why the headlines always read--
"THE BRITISH ARMY IMMOVABLE." "WAVES OF GERMAN INFANTRY BROKEN."
"ALLIES THROW ENEMY BACK AT ALL POINTS." "YPRES HELD FOR THREE
WEEKS UNDER A RAIN OF SHELLS."
You can tell they feel like that from their entire lack of resentment
about their own injuries. Their conversation to each other from the time
they are landed on the train until they are taken off is never about
their own wounds and feelings, but exclusively about the fighting they
have just left. If one only had time to listen or take it down it would
be something worth reading, because it is not letters home or newspaper
stuff, _but told to each other_, with their own curious comments and
phraseology, and no hint of a gallery or a Press. Incidentally one gets
a few eye-openers into what happens to a group of men when a Jack
Johnson lands a shell in the middle of them. Nearly every man on the
train, especially the badly smashed-up ones, tells you how exceptionally
lucky he was because he didn't get killed like his mate.
_Boulogne, Thursday, November 12th_, 8 P.M.--Have been here all day. Had
a hot bath on the St Andrew. News from the Front handed down the line
coincides with the 'Daily Mail.'
_Friday, 13th._--Still here--fourth day of rest. No one knows why;
nearly all the trains are here. The news to-day is glorious. They say
that the Germans did get through into Ypres and were bayoneted out
again.
_Friday, November 13th, Boulogne._--We have been all day in Park Lane
Siding among the trains, in pouring wet and slush. I amused myself with
a pot of white paint and a forceps and wool for a brush, painting the
numbers on both ends of the coaches inside, all down the train; you
can't see the chalk marks at night.
This unprecedented four days' rest and nights in bed is doing us all a
power of good; we have books and mending and various occupations.
_Saturday, November 14th._--Glorious sunny day, but very cold. Still in
Boulogne, but out of Park Lane Siding slum, and among the ships again.
Some French sailors off the T.B.'s are drilling on one side of us.
Everything R.A.M.C. at the base is having a rest this week--ships,
hospitals, and trains. Major S. said there was not so much doing at the
Front--thank Heaven; and the line is still wanted for troops. We have
just heard that there are several trains to go up before our turn comes,
and that we are to wait about six miles off. Better than the siding
anyhow. Meanwhile we can't go off, because we don't know when the train
will move out.
The tobacco and the cigarettes from Harrod's have come in separate
parcels, so the next will be the chocolate and hankies and cards, &c. It
is a grand lot, and I am longing to get up to the Front and give them
out.
_Sunday, November 15th._--We got a move on in the middle of the night,
and are now on our way up.
The cold of this train life is going to be rather a problem. Our
quarters are not heated, but we have "made" (_i.e._, acquired, looted) a
very small oil-stove which faintly warms the corridor, but you can
imagine how no amount of coats or clothes keeps you warm in a railway
carriage in winter. I'm going to make a foot muff out of a brown
blanket, which will help. A smart walk out of doors would do it, but
that you can't get off when the train is stationary for fear of its
vanishing, and for obvious reasons when it is moving. I did walk round
the train for an hour in the dark and slime in the siding yesterday
evening, but it is not a cheering form of exercise.
To-day it is _pouring_ cats and dogs, awful for loading sick, and there
will be many after this week for the trains.
Every one has of course cleared out of beautiful Ypres, but we are going
to load up at Poperinghe, the town next before it, which is now
Railhead. Lately the trains have not been so far.
_Monday, November 16th, Boulogne_, 9 A.M.--We loaded up at Bailleul 344.
The Clearing Hospitals were very full, and some came off a convoy. One
of mine died. One, wounded above the knee, was four _days_ in the open
before being picked up; he had six bullets in his leg, two in each arm,
and crawled about till found; one of the arm wounds he got doing this. I
went to bed at 4. The news was all good, taken as a whole, but the men
say they were "a bit short-handed!!" One said gloomily, "This isn't War,
it's Murder; you go there to your doom." Heard the sad news of Lord
Roberts.
We are all the better for our week's rest.