imagine what the lying-downs are like. They are very anxious cases to
look after, partly because they are another race and partly because they
can't explain their wants, and they seem to want to be let die quietly
in a corner rather than fall in with your notions of their comfort.
At Bailleul on our last journey we took on a heavenly white puppy just
old enough to lap, quite wee and white and fat. He cries when he wants
to be nursed, and barks in a lovely falsetto when he wants to play, and
waddles after our feet when we take him for a walk, but he likes being
carried best.
Some Tommies on a truck at Railhead brought him up for us; they adore
his little mother and two brothers.
_Friday, February 5th, Boulogne._--We did get in late last night, and
got to bed at 1 A.M. They are unloading during the night again now, and
also loading up at night.
One boy last night had lost his right hand; his left arm and leg were
wounded, and both his eyes. "Yes, I've got more than my share," he said,
"but I'll get over it all right." I didn't happen to answer for a
minute, and in a changed voice he said, "Shan't I? shan't I?" Of course
I assured him he'd get quite well, and that he was ticketed to go
straight to an eye specialist. "Thank God for that," he said, as if the
eye specialist had already cured him, but it is doubtful if any eye
specialist will save his eyes.
To-day has been a record day of brilliant sun, blue sky and warm air,
and it has transformed the muddy, sloppy, dingy Boulogne of the last two
months into something more like Cornwall. We couldn't stop on the train
(there were no orders likely), in spite of being tired, but went in the
town in the morning, and on the long stone pier in the afternoon, and
then to tea at the buffet at the Maritime (where you have tea with real
milk and fresh butter, and jam not out of a tin, and a tablecloth, and a
china cup--luxuries beyond description). On the pier there were gulls,
and a sunny sort of salt wind and big waves breaking, and a glorious
view of the steep little town piled up in layers above the harbour,
which is packed with shipping.
VIII.
On No.-- Ambulance Train (6)
ROUEN--NEUVE CHAPELLE--ST ELOI
_February 7, 1915, to March 31, 1915_
"Under the lee of the little wood
I'm sitting in the sun;
What will be done in Flanders
Before the day be done?
* * * * *
Above, beyond the larches,
The sky is very blue;
'It's the smoke of hell in Flanders
That leaves the sun for you.'"
--H.C.F.
VIII.
On No.-- Ambulance Train (6).
ROUEN--NEUVE CHAPELLE--ST ELOI.
_February 7, 1915, to March 31, 1915._
The Indians--St Omer--The Victoria League--Poperinghe--A bad load--Left
behind--Rouen again--An "off" spell--_En route_ to Êtretat--Sotteville--
Neuve Chapelle--St Eloi--The Indians--Spring in N.W. France--The
Convalescent Home--Kitchener's boys.
_Sunday, February 7th._--This is a little out-of-the-way town called
Blendecque, rather in a hollow. No.-- A.T. has been here before, and the
natives look at us as if we were Boches. There are 250 R.E. inhabiting a
long truck-train here. We have given them all our mufflers and mittens;
they had none, and the officer has had our officers to tea with him. Our
men have played a football match with them--drawn.
We went for a splendid walk this morning up hill to a pine wood bordered
by a moor with whins. I've now got in my bunky-hole (it is not quite
six feet square) a polypod fern, a plate of moss, a pot of white
hyacinths, and also catkins, violets, and mimosa!
I suppose we shall move on to-night if there is a marche.
Many hundreds of French cavalry passed across the bridge over this
cutting this morning: they looked so jolly.
One of the staff who has been to Woolwich on leave says that K.'s new
army there is extraordinarily promising and keen. So far we have only
heard good of those out here, from the old hands who've come across
them.
9.45 P.M.--We are just getting to the place where all the fighting
is--La Bassée way. Probably we shall load up with wounded to-night.
There's a great flare some way off that looks like the burning villages
we used to see round Ypres. It is a very dark night.
_Monday morning, February 8th._--We stood by last night, and are just
going to load now. All is quiet here. Said to have been nothing
happening the last few days.
7 P.M.--Nearing B. We've had a very muddly day, taking on at four
different places. I have a coach full of Indians. They have been
teaching me some more Hindustani. Some of them suddenly began to say
their prayers at sunset. They spread a small mat in front of them, knelt
down, and became very busy "knockin' 'oles in the floor with their
'eads," as the orderly describes it.
We have a lot of woundeds from Saturday's fighting. They took three
German trenches, and got in with the bayonet until they were "treading"
on dead Germans! The wounded sitting-ups are frightfully proud of it.
After their personal reminiscences you feel as if you'd been jabbing
Germans yourself. They say they "lose their minds" in the charge, and
couldn't do it if they stopped to think, "because they're feelin' men,
same as us," one said.
A corporal on his way back to the Front from taking some people down to
St O. under a guard saw one of his pals at the window in our train. He
leaped up and said, "I wish to God I could get chilblains and come down
with you." This to an indignant man with a shrapnel wound!
I've got five bad cases of measles, with high temperatures and throats.
_Tuesday, February 9th._--Again they unloaded us at B. last night, and
we are now, 11 A.M., on our way up again. The Indians I had were a very
interesting lot. The race differences seem more striking the better you
get to know them. The Gurkhas seem to be more like Tommies in
temperament and expression, and all the Mussulmans and the best of the
Sikhs and Jats might be Princes and Prime Ministers in dignity, feature,
and manners. When a Sikh refuses a cigarette (if you are silly enough to
offer him one) he does it with a gesture that makes you feel like a
housemaid who ought to have known better. The beautiful Mussulmans smile
and salaam and say Merbani, however ill they are, if you happen to hit
upon something they like. They all make a terrible fuss over their kit
and their puggarees and their belongings, and refuse to budge without
them.
Sister M. found her orders to leave when we got in, but she doesn't know
where she is going. So after this trip we shall be three again, which is
a blessing, as there are not enough wards for four, and no one likes
giving any up. It also gives us a spare bunk to store our warehouses of
parcels for men, which entirely overflow our own dug-outs. As soon as
you've given out one lot, another bale arrives.
We have had every kind of infectious disease to nurse in this war,
except smallpox. The Infectious Ward is one of mine, and we've had
enteric, scarlet fever, measles, mumps, and diphtheria.
7 P.M.--We got to the new place where we wait for a marche, just at
tea-time, and we had a grand walk up to the moor, where you can see
half over France each way. There is a travelling wireless station up
there. Each pole has its receiver in a big grey motor-lorry by the
roadside, where they live and sleep. The road wound down to a little
curly village with a beautiful old grey church. On the top of the moor
on the way back it was dark, and the flash signals were morsing away to
each other from the different hills. It reminded me of the big forts on
the kopjes round Pretoria.
I had my first French class this afternoon at St Omer, in the men's mess
truck. There were seventeen, including the Quartermaster-Sergeant and
the cook's boy. I'd got a small blackboard in Boulogne, and they all had
notebooks, and the Q.M.S. had arranged it very nicely. They were very
keen, and got on at a great pace. They weren't a bit shy over trying to
pronounce, and will I think make good progress. They have a great pull
over men of their class in England, by their opportunities of listening
to French spoken by the French, such a totally different language to
French spoken by most English people. My instruction book is Hugo's,
which is a lightning method compared to the usual school-books. They are
doing exercises for me for next time.
_Wednesday, February 10th_, 9 P.M.--We woke at Merville after a
particularly rocky, noisy night journey, and loaded up there with
woundeds and sick, also Indians (but not in my wards for once). My
_blessés_ kept me busy till the moment we unloaded this evening at B.,
and I had not time to hear much about their doings. One extraordinarily
sporting boy had a wound right through his neck, involving his
swallowing. It took about half an hour to give him a feed, through a
tube, but he stuck it, smiling all the time.
Another older man was shot in the stomach, and looked as if he wouldn't
get over it. He told me he'd already been in hospital eight weeks, shot
in the head at the Aisne. I said what hard luck to have to go through it
again. "It's got to be done," he said. "I didn't give it a thought. I
think I shall get over this," he said, "but I don't want to go back a
third time." He has a wife and three children in Ireland.
We are to move up again at 4 A.M. Just had dinner (soup, boiled beef as
tough as a cable, and ration cheese and coffee), and the 'Daily Mail.'
_Thursday, February 11th._--We have spent most of the day at St Omer,
and got a lovely walk in this morning, along the canal, watching the big
barges which take 2000 tons of beetroots for sugar.
There is a scheme on foot for fitting up these big barges as transport
for the sick (this one came from Furnes) as moving Clearing Hospitals.
I've been over one, in Rouen. They are not yet in use, but might be
rather jolly in the summer.
It is the warmest spring day we've had. I had my second French class
this afternoon again at St Omer. We are now moving on, up to Bailleul. I
expect we shall take patients on this evening, and have them all night.
_Friday, February 12th_, 6 A.M.--We did a record loading up in fifty
minutes last night, chiefly medical cases, and took eight hours to crawl
to Boulogne. Now we are on the way for Havre, but shall not get there
till about 10 P.M. to-night, so they will have a long day in the train.
A good many of the lying-downs are influenza, with high temperatures and
no voice. It is a bore getting to B. in the night, as we miss our mails
and the 'Daily Mail.'
7 P.M.--This is an interminable journey. Have not yet reached Rouen, and
shan't get to Havre till perhaps 2 A.M. The patients are getting very
weary, especially the sitting-ups. The wards of acute liers you can run
like a hospital. Some of the orderlies are now getting quite keen on
having their wards clean and swept, and the meals and feeds up to time,
and the washings done, but it has taken weeks to bring them up to it.
When they do all that well I can get on with the diets, temperatures,
treatments, and dressings, &c. On the long journeys we take round at
intervals smokes, chocolate, papers, hankies, &c., when we have them.
The Victoria League has done me well in bales of hankies. They simply
love the affectionate and admiring messages pinned on from New Zealand,
and one of them always volunteers to answer them.
We shall be up in shifts again to-night.
We are all hoping to have a day in Rouen on the way back, for baths,
hair-washing, shopping, seeing the Paymaster, and showing the new Sister
the sights. For sheer beauty and interestingness it is the most
endearing town; you don't know which you love best--its setting with the
hills, river, and bridge, or its beautiful spires and towers and
marvellous old streets and houses.
_Saturday, February 13th_, 2 A.M.--Still on the way to Havre! And we
loaded up on Thursday. This journey is another revelation of what the
British soldier will stick without grumbling. The sitting-ups are eight
in a carriage, some with painful feet, some with wounded arms, and some
with coughs, rheumatism, &c., but you don't hear a word of grousing. It
is only when things are prosperous and comfortable that Tommy grumbles
and has grievances. Some of the liers are too ill to know how long
they've been on the train. One charming Scotchman, who enlisted for K.'s
Army, but was put into the Regulars because he could shoot, has just
asked me to write my name and address in his little book so that he can
write from England. He also says we must "look after ourselves" and
"study our health," because there's a bad time coming, and our Country
will need us! He's done his share, after an operation, and will never be
able to do any more. Everything points to this Service having to put out
all it can, both here and at home. Many new hospitals are being
organised, and there are already hundreds.
We have a poor lunatic on board who keeps asking us to let his wife come
in. The train is crawling with J.J.'s.
_Saturday_, 4.30 A.M.--Just seen the last stretcher off; now going to
undress (first time since Wednesday night) and turn in.
_Saturday, 13th February, Havre._--It is four months to-day since I
joined the train. It seems much longer in some ways, and yet the days go
by very quickly--even the off-days; and when the train is full the hours
fly.
We went into the familiar streets this morning that we saw so much of in
August, "waiting for orders," and had a look at the sea. The train
moved off at tea-time, so we had the prettiest part of the journey in a
beautiful evening sunlight, lighting up the woods and hills. The palm is
out, and the others saw primroses. We have also seen some snowdrops.
After a heavy journey, with two nights out of bed, you don't intend to
do any letter-writing or mending or French classes, but look out of the
window or sleep or read Dolly Dialogues. You always get compensation for
these journeys in the longer journey back, with probably a wait at Rouen
or Sotteville, and possibly another at Boulogne. We have been going up
and down again very briskly this last fortnight between B. and the Back
of the Front.
_Sunday, 14th._--A dismal day at Sotteville; pouring cats and dogs all
day, and the train cold.
_Shrove Tuesday._--We were all day coming up yesterday. Got to B. in the
middle of the night, and went on again to St Omer, where we woke this
morning, so we missed our mails again; it will be a full week's mails
when we do get them. Lovely blue sky to-day. Had a walk with Sister B.
round the town, and now this afternoon we are on the way to Poperinghe,
in a beaten country, where we haven't been for three months. French
class due at 3 P.M. if we haven't got there by then.
We have just passed a graveyard absolutely packed with little wooden
crosses.
_Ash Wednesday, February 17th_, 6 A.M.--We took on a very bad load of
wounded at Poperinghe, more like what used to happen three months ago in
the same place; they were only wounded the night before, and some the
same day. The Clearing Hospital had to be cleared immediately.
We have just got to B., and are going to unload here at 8.30 A.M.
Must stop. Hope to get a week's mails to-day.
A brisk air battle between one British and one French and two Taubes was
going on when we got there, and a perfect sky for it. Very high up.
A wounded major on the train was talking about the men. "It's not a case
of our leading the men; we have a job to keep up with them."
It was a pretty sad business getting them off the train this morning;
there were so many compound fractures, and no amount of contriving
seemed to come between them and the jolting of the train all night. And,
to add to the difficulties, it was pouring in torrents and icy cold, and
the railway people refused to move the train under cover, so they went
out of a warm train on to damp stretchers in an icy rain. They were
nearly all in thin pyjamas, as we'd had to cut off their soaking khaki:
they were practically straight from the trenches. But once clear of
trains, stretchers, and motor ambulances they will be warmed, washed,
fed, bedded, and their fractures set under an anæsthetic. One man had
his arm blown to pieces on Monday afternoon, had it amputated on Monday
night, and was put into one of our wards on Tuesday, and admitted to
Base Hospital on Wednesday. But that is ticklish work.
One boy, a stretcher-bearer, with both legs severely wounded, very
nearly bled to death. He was pulled round somehow. About midnight, when
he was packed up in wool and hot-water bottles, &c., when I asked him
how he was feeling, he said gaily, "Quite well, delightfully warm, thank
you!" We got him taken to hospital directly the train got in at 4 A.M.
The others were unloaded at 9 A.M.
We are now--5 P.M.--on our way to Étaples, probably to clear the G.H.
there, either to-night or to-morrow morning. It hasn't stopped pouring
all day. It took me till lunch to read my enormous mail.
Major T. has heard to-day that the French railway people want his train
back again for passenger traffic, so the possibility of our all being
suddenly disbanded and dispersed is hanging over us; but I believe it
has been threatened before.
_Thursday, February 18th._--In bed, 10 P.M. We have had a very heavy day
with the woundeds again from Bailleul. We unloaded again at B. this
evening, and are to go up again some time to-night.
There is a great deal going on in our front.
There was a boy from Suffolk, of K.'s Army, in my ward who has only been
out three weeks. He talked the most heavenly East Anglian--"I was agin
the barn, and that fared to hit me"--all in the right sing-song.
A sergeant of the D.C.L.I. had a fearful shell wound in his thigh, which
has gone wrong, and as the trouble is too high for amputation they will
have their work cut out to save his life. They were getting out of the
trench for a bayonet charge, and he had just collected his men when he
was hit; so the officer "shook hands with him" and went on with the
charge, leaving him and another man, wounded in the leg, in the trench.
They stayed there several hours with no dressings on, sinking into the
mud (can you wonder it has gone wrong?), until another man turned up and
helped them out; then they _walked_ to the Regimental Aid Post, 200
yards away, helped by the sound man. There they were dressed and had the
anti-tetanus serum injection, and were taken by stretcher-bearers to the
next Dressing Station, and thence by horse ambulance to the Field
Ambulance, and then by motor ambulance to where we picked them up. There
are lots of F.'s regiment wounded.
_Friday, February 19th._--We left B. at 5 A.M. to-day, and were delayed
all the morning farther up by one of the usual French collisions. A
guard had left his end of a train and was on the engine; so he never
noticed that twelve empty trucks had come uncoupled and careered down a
hill, where they were run into and crumpled up by a passenger train. The
guard of that one was badly injured (fractured spine), but the
passengers only shaken.
At St Omer Miss M. and Major T. and I were being shown over the Khaki
Train when ours moved off. There was a wild stampede; the Khaki Train
had all its doors locked, and we had miles to go inside to get out.
Their orderlies shouted to ours to pull the communication cord--the only
way of appealing to the distant engine; so it slowed down, and we
clambered breathlessly on. We are side-tracked now at the jolly place of
the Moor and the Wireless Lorries; probably move on in the night.
_Saturday, February 20th_, 9 P.M.--We've had a very unsatisfactory day,
loading up at four different places, and still on our way down. I'm just
going to lie down, to be called at 2 A.M. Now we're four: two go to bed
for the whole night and the other two take the train for half the night
when we have a light load, as to-day. If they are all bad cases, we have
two on and two off for the two watches. We have some Indians on to-day,
but most British, and not many _blessés_.
The other day a huge train of reinforcements got divided by mistake: the
engine went off with all the officers, and the men had a joy-ride to
themselves, invaded the cafés, where they sometimes get half poisoned,
and in half an hour's time there was a big scrap among themselves, with
fifty casualties. So the story runs.
A humane and fatherly orderly has just brought me a stone hot-water
bottle for my feet as I write this in the rather freezing dispensary
coach in the middle of the train, in between my rounds. All the worst
cases and the Indians were put off at B., and the measles, mumps, and
diphtherias, so there isn't much to do; some are snoring like an
aeroplane.
_Monday, February 22nd._--We got a short walk yesterday evening after
unloading at Rouen. There was a glorious sunset over the bridge, and the
lights just lighting up, and Rouen looked its beautifulest. We slept at
Sotteville, and this morning Sister and I walked down the line into
Rouen and saw the Paymaster and the Cathedral, and did some shopping,
and had a boiled egg and real butter and tea for lunch, and came back in
the tram. Sister S. is in bed with influenza.
The lengthening days and better weather are making a real difference to
the gloom of things, and though there is a universal undercurrent of
feeling that enormous sacrifices will have to be made, it seems to be
shaping for a step farther on, and an ultimate return to sanity and
peace. It is such a vast upheaval when you are in the middle of it, that
you sometimes actually wonder if every one has gone mad, or who has gone
mad, that all should be grimly working, toiling, slaving, from the
firing line to the base, for more Destruction, and for more
highly-finished and uninterrupted Destruction, in order to get Peace.
And the men who pay the cost in intimate personal and individual
suffering and in death are not the men who made the war.
_Wednesday, February 24th._--We have been all day in Boulogne, and move
up at 8.15 this evening, which means loading up after breakfast and
perhaps unloading to-morrow evening. It has given Sister S. another day
to recover from her attack of influenza.
Have been busy one way and another all day, but went for a walk after
tea and saw over the No.-- G.H. at the Casino--a splendid place, working
like clockwork. Lots of bad cases, but they all look clean and
beautifully cared for and rigged up.
_Thursday, February 25th._--Moved up to the place with the moor during
the night. Glorious, clear, sunny morning. Couldn't leave the train for
a real walk, as there were no orders.
This time last year the last thing one intended to do was to go and
travel about France for six months, with occasional excursions into
Belgium!
'The Times' sometimes comes the next day now.
9 P.M.--The ways of French railways are impenetrable: in spite of orders
for Bailleul before lunch, we are still here, and less than ever able
to leave the train for a walk.
This is the fourth day with no patients on--the longest "off" spell
since before Christmas. It shows there's not much doing or much medical
leakage.
_Friday, February 26th._--We loaded up this morning with a not very bad
lot (mine all sitters except some enterics, a measles, and a
diphtheria), and are on our way down again.
I am all ready packed to get off at B. if my leave is in Major M.'s
office.
_Saturday, February 27th_, 9 P.M., _Hotel at Boulogne._--All the efforts
to get my seven days' leave have failed, as I thought they would.
_Wednesday, March 3rd, Boulogne._--There is not a great deal to do or
see here, especially on a wet day.
_Friday, March 5th_, 5 P.M.--On way down from Chocques--mixed lot of
woundeds, medicals, Indians, and Canadians.
I have a lad of 24 with both eyes destroyed by a bullet, and there is a
bad "trachy."
Nothing very much has been going on, but the German shells sometimes
plop into the middle of a trench, and each one means a good many
casualties.
10 P.M.--We've had a busy day, and are not home yet.
My boy with the dressings on his head has not the slightest idea that
he's got no eyes, and who is going to tell him? The pain is bad, and he
has to have a lot of morphia, with a cigarette in between.
We shall probably not unload to-night, and I am to be called at 2 A.M.
The infectious ward is full with British enterics, dips., and measles,
and Indian mumpies.
_Saturday, March 6th, Boulogne._--Instead of being called at 2 for duty,
was called at 1 to go to bed, as they unloaded us at that hour.
Last night we pulled up at Hazebrouck alongside a troop train with men,
guns, and horses just out from the Midlands.