questions as to the work of the Scottish Women's Hospitals. I told them
that what appealed to us most in our French patients was the perfect
discipline and the gratitude of the men. We are all women in the
hospitals, and the men might take advantage of this fact to show want of
discipline, but we never had to complain of lack of obedience. These
soldiers of France may some of them before the war have been just rough
peasants, eating, drinking, and sleeping, even having thoughts not akin
to knighthood; but now, through the ordeal of blood and fire, each one
of them has won his spurs and come out a chivalrous knight, and
they bring their chivalry right into the hospitals with them. We had
also learned to love them for their kindness to one another. When new
wounded are brought in and the lights are low in the hospital wards,
cautiously watching if the nurse is looking (luckily nurses have a way
of not seeing everything), one of the convalescents will creep from his
bed to the side of the new arrival and ask the inevitable question:
"D'où viens-tu?" ("Where do you come from?"). "I come from Toulouse,"
replies the man. "Ah!" says the inquirer, "my wife's grandmother had a
cousin who lived near Toulouse." That is quite a sufficient basis for a
friendship; the convalescent sits by the bedside of his new comrade,
holding the man's hand whilst his wounds are being dressed, telling him
he knows of the pain--that he, too, has suffered, and that soon all
will be well.
[Illustration: Menu, 27 Juillet]
[Illustration: Note by General Nivelle]
Lions to fight, ever ready to answer to the call of the defence of their
country, yet these men of France are tender and gentle. In one hospital
through which I passed there was a baby. It was a military hospital, and
no civilian had any right there, but the medical officers who inspected
the hospital were remarkably blind--none of them could ever see the
baby. One of the soldiers passing through a bombarded village saw a
little body lying in the mud, and although he believed the child to be
dead, he stooped down and picked it up. At the evacuating station the
baby and the soldier were sent to the hospital together; the doctors
operated upon the baby and took a piece of shrapnel from its back, and
once well and strong it constituted itself lord and master and king of
all it surveyed. When it woke in the morning it would call "Papa," and
twenty fathers answered to its call. All the pent-up love of the men for
their own little ones from whom they had been parted for so long they
lavished on the tiny stranger, but all his affection and his whole heart
belonged to the rough miner-soldier who had brought him in. As the
shadows fell one saw the man walking up and down the ward with the child
in his arms, crooning the Marseillaise until the tired little eyes
closed. He had obtained permission from the authorities to adopt the
child, as the parents could not be found, and remarked humorously:
"Mademoiselle, it is so convenient to have a family without the trouble
of being married!"
What we must remember is that the rough soldier, himself blinded with
blood and mud, uncertain whether he could ever reach a point of safety,
yet had time to stoop and pick that little flower of France and save it
from being crushed beneath the _camion_ wheels. I told General Nivelle
that the hospital staff intended to keep the child for the soldier until
the end of the war, and we all hoped that he might grow up to the glory
of France and to the eternal honour of the tender-hearted fighter who
had rescued him.
After lunch we stood for some time watching the unending stream of
_camions_ proceeding into Verdun. I believe it has been stated that on
the average one passed through the village every fifteen seconds, and
that there are something like twelve thousand motor vehicles used in the
defence of Verdun. The splendid condition of the roads and the absence
of all confusion in the handling of this immense volume of traffic is a
great tribute to the organising genius of the chiefs of the French Army.
We left General Nivelle, as General Pétain predicted we should find
him--smiling.
We slept that night at Epernay, in the heart of the Champagne district.
The soil of France is doing its best to keep the vines in perfect
condition and to provide a good vintage to be drunk later to celebrate
the victory of France and her Allies.
The keeping of the roads in good condition is necessary for the rapid
carrying out of operations on the front, and a "marmite" hole is
promptly filled if by a lucky shot the German batteries happen to tear
up the roadway. We were proceeding casually along one road when a young
officer rode up to us and told us to put on speed because we were under
fire from a German battery which daily landed one or two shells in that
particular portion of the roadway. It is wonderful how obedient one
becomes at times! We promptly proceeded to hasten!
After visiting General Debeney and obtaining from him the necessary
authorisation and an officer-escort, we entered Rheims.
The cathedral is now the home of pigeons, and as they fly in and out of
the blackened window-frames, small pieces of the stained glass tinkle
down on to the floor. The custodian of the cathedral told us that during
the night of terror the German wounded, lying in the cathedral, not
realising the strength and beauty of the French character under
adversity, feared, seeing the cathedral in flames, that the populace
might wreak vengeance on them, and it was exceedingly difficult to get
them to leave the cathedral. Many of the prisoners fled into corners and
hid, and some of them even penetrated into the palace of the Archbishop,
which was in flames. All the world knows and admires the bravery of the
curé of the cathedral, M. Landrieux, who took upon himself the defence
of the prisoners, for fear insults might be hurled at them. He knowingly
risked his life; but when, next day, some of his confrères endeavoured
to praise him, he replied: "My friends, I never before realised how easy
it is to die."
One of the churches in the city was heavily draped in black, and I asked
the sacristan if they had prepared for the funeral of a prominent
citizen. He told me that they were that day bringing home the body of a
young man of high birth of the neighbourhood, but that it was not for
him that the church was decked in mourning. The draperies had hung there
since August 1914--"Since every son of Rheims who is brought home is as
noble as the one who comes to-day, and alas! nearly every day brings us
one of our children."
We lunched in the hotel before the cathedral, where each shell-hole has
an ordinary white label stuck beside it with the date. The landlord
remarked: "If you sit here long enough, and have the good luck to be in
some safe part of the building, you may be able to go and stick a label
by a hole yourself."
After lunch we went out to the Château Polignac. To a stranger it would
appear to be almost entirely destroyed, but when M. de Polignac visited
it recently he simply remarked that it was "less spoilt than he had
imagined." This was just one other example of the thousands one meets
daily of the spirit of noble and peasant _de ne pas s'en faire_, but to
keep only before them the one idea, Victory for France, no matter what
may be the cost.
We went later to call on the "'75," _chez elle_. Madame was in a
particularly comfortable home which had been prepared for her and where
she was safe from the inquisitive eyes of the Taubes. The men of the
battery were sitting round their guns, singing a somewhat lengthy ditty,
each verse ending with a declamation and a description of the beauty of
"la belle Suzanne." I asked them to whom Suzanne belonged and where the
fair damsel resided. "Oh," they replied, "we have no time to think of
damsels called 'Suzanne' now. This is our Suzanne," and the speaker
affectionately gave an extra rub with his coat-sleeve to the barrel of
the "'75."
By a wonderful system of trench work it is possible for the gunners, in
case of necessity, to take refuge in the champagne-vaults in the
surrounding district, and it is in the champagne-vaults that the
children go daily to school, with their little gas-masks hanging in bags
on their arms. It appears that at first the tiny ones were frightened of
the masks, but they soon asked to be also given a sack, like their
elders, and now one and all have learnt at the least alarm to put on
their masks. There is no need to tell the children to hurry home. They
realise that it is not wise to loiter in the streets for fear of the
whistling shells. They are remarkably plucky, these small men and women
of France.
During one furious bombardment the children were safe in the vaults, but
one small citizen began to cry bitterly. He was reproached by his
comrades for cowardice, but he replied indignantly: "I fear nothing for
myself--I am safe here; but there is no cellar to our house, and oh!
what will happen to the little mother?" The teacher reassured him by
telling him that his mother would certainly take refuge in somebody
else's cellar.
On leaving Rheims we passed through various small hamlets where the
houses had been entirely destroyed, and which now had the appearance of
native villages, as the soldiers had managed to place thatched roofs on
any building which had a semblance of walls standing.
At Villars Côterets the Garde Champêtre sounded the "Gare à Vous!" Four
Taubes were passing overhead, so we took refuge in the hotel for tea.
The enemy did no damage in that particular village, but in the next
village of Crêpy-en-Valois a bomb killed one child and injured five
women.
At his headquarters next morning I had the honour of being received by
the Generalissimo Joffre, and telling him of the admiration and respect
which we felt for him and for the magnificent fighting spirit of the
troops under his able command. He replied modestly by speaking of the
British Army. He referred to the offensive on the Somme, and said, "You
may well be proud of your young soldiers--they are excellent soldiers,
much superior to the Germans in every way, a most admirable infantry;
they attack the Germans hand to hand with grenades or with the bayonet,
and push them back everywhere; the Germans have been absolutely
_stupefied_ to find such troops before them." The General then paid a
tribute to the Canadian and Australian troops, and told me that that day
the Australians had taken new territory, adding, "And not only have they
taken it, but like their British and Canadian brothers, what they take
they will hold."
I explained to General Joffre that, whilst I was not collecting
autographs, I had with me the menu of the dinner in the citadel at
Verdun, and that it would give me great pleasure to have his name added
to the signatures already on that menu. All the signatures were on one
side, so I turned the menu over in order to offer him a clear space, but
he turned it back again, saying: "Please let me sign on this side; I
find myself in good company with the defenders of Verdun."
At departing he said to me: "We may all be happy now, since certainly we
are on the right side of the hill" ("Nous sommes sur la bonne pente").
In case this little story should fall into the hands of any woman who
has spent her time working for the men at the front, I would like to
tell her the great pleasure it is to them to receive parcels, no matter
what they contain. Fraternity and Equality reign supreme in the
trenches, and the man counts himself happy who receives a little more
than the others, since he has the joy and the pleasure of sharing his
store of good things with his comrades. There is seldom a request made
to the French behind the lines that they do not attempt to fulfil. I
remember last winter, passing through a town in the provinces, I
noticed that the elderly men appeared to be scantily clad in spite of
the bitterness of the weather. It appeared that the call had gone forth
for fur coats for the troops, and all the worthy citizens of the town
forwarded to the trenches their caracul coats. Only those who are well
acquainted with French provincial life can know what it means to them to
part with these signs of opulence and commercial success.
It is perhaps in the post-offices that you find yourself nearest to the
heart of "France behind the lines."
One morning I endeavoured to send a parcel to a French soldier; I took
my place in a long line of waiting women bound on the same errand. A
white-haired woman before me gave the post-office clerk infinite
trouble. They are not renowned for their patience, and I marvelled at
his gentleness, until he explained: "Her son died five weeks ago, but
she still continues to send him parcels."
To another old lady he pointed out that she had written two numbers on
the parcel. "You don't want two numbers, mother. Which is your boy's
number?--tell me, and I will strike out the other."
"Leave them both," she answered. "Who knows whether my dear lad will be
there to receive the parcel? If he is not, I want it to go to some other
mother's son."
Affection means much to these men who are suffering, and they respond at
once to any sympathy shown to them. One man informed us with pride that
when he left his native village he was "decked like an altar of the
Blessed Virgin on the first of May." In other words, covered with
flowers.
There are but few lonely soldiers now, since those who have no families
to write to them receive letters and parcels from the godmothers who
have adopted them. The men anxiously await the news of their adopted
relatives, and spend hours writing replies. They love to receive
letters, but needless to say a parcel is even more welcome.
I remember seeing one man writing page after page. I suggested to him
that he must have a particularly charming godmother. "Mademoiselle," he
replied, "I have no time for a godmother since I myself am a godfather."
He then explained that far away in his village there was a young
assistant in his shop, "And God knows the boy loves France, but both his
lungs are touched, so they won't take him, but I write and tell him that
the good God has given me strength for two, that I fight for him and
for myself, and that we are both doing well for France." I went back in
imagination to the village, I could see the glint in the boy's eyes,
realised how the blood pulsed quicker through his veins at the sight of,
not the personal pronoun "I" in the singular, but the plural "We are
doing well for France": for one glorious moment he was part of the hosts
of France and in spirit serving his Motherland. It is that spirit of the
French nation that their enemies will never understand.
On one occasion a young German officer, covered with mud from head to
foot, was brought before one of the French Generals. He had been taken
fighting cleanly, and the General was anxious to show him kindness. He
asked him if he would not prefer to cleanse himself before examination.
The young German drew himself up and replied: "Look at me, General; I am
covered from head to foot with mud, and that mud is the soil of France.
You will never possess as much soil in Germany." The General turned to
him with that gentle courtesy which marks the higher commands in France,
and answered: "Monsieur, we may never possess as much soil in Germany;
but there is something that you will never possess, and, until you
conquer it, you cannot vanquish France, and that is the spirit of the
French people."
The French find it difficult to understand the arrogance which appears
ingrained in the German character, and which existed before the war.
I read once that in the Guest-book of a French hotel a Teutonic visitor
wrote:
"L'Allemagne est la première nation du monde."
The next French visitor merely added:
"Yes, 'Allemagne' is the first country of the world--if we take them in
alphabetical order."
* * * * *
I left the war-zone with an increased respect, if this were possible,
for the men of France. They have altered their uniforms, but the spirit
is unchanged. They are no longer in the red and blue of the old days,
but in shades of green, grey, and blue, colours blending to form one
mighty ocean--wave on wave of patriotism--beating against and wearing
down the rocks of military preparedness of forty years, and as no man
has yet been able to say to the ocean "Stop," so no man shall cry "Halt"
to the armies of France.
I have spoken much of the men of France, but the women have also earned
our respect--those splendid peasant-women who even in times of peace
worked and now carry a double burden on their shoulders; the
middle-class women, endeavouring to keep together the little business
built up by the man with years of toil, stinting themselves to save five
francs to send a parcel to the man at the front that he may not suspect
that there is not still every comfort in the little homestead; the noble
women of France, who in past years could not be seen before noon, since
my lady was at her toilette, but who can be seen now, their hands
scratched and bleeding, kneeling on the floors of the hospitals
scrubbing, proud and happy to take their part in national service. The
men owe much of their courage to the attitude of the women who stand
behind them, turning their tears to smiles to urge their men to even
greater deeds of heroism.
In one of our hospitals was a young lad of seventeen, who had managed to
enlist as an "engagé volontaire" by lying as to his age. His old mother
came to visit him, and she told me he was the last of her three
sons--the two elder ones had died the first week of the war at
Pont-Mousson, and her little home had been burned to the ground. The boy
had spent his time inventing new and terrible methods of dealing with
the enemy, but with his mother he became a child again, and tenderly
patted the old face. Seeing the lad in his mother's arms, and forgetting
for one moment the spirit of the French nation, I asked her if she would
not be glad if her boy was so wounded that she might take him home. She
was only an old peasant-woman, but her eyes flashed, her cheeks flushed
with anger, and turning to me she said: "Mademoiselle, how dare you say
such a thing to me? If all the mothers, wives, and sweethearts thought
as you, what would happen to the country? Gustave has only one thing to
do, get well quickly and fight for Mother France."
Because these women of France have sent their men forth to die, eyes
dry, with stiff lips and head erect, do not think that they do not mourn
for them. When night casts her kindly mantle of darkness over all, when
they are hidden from the eyes of the world, it is then that the proud
heads droop and are bent upon their arms, as the women cry out in the
bitterness of their souls for the men who have gone from them. Yet they
realise that behind them stands the greatest mother of all, Mother
France, who sees coming towards her, from all frontiers, line on line of
ambulances with their burden of suffering humanity, yet watches along
other routes her sons going forth in thousands, laughter in their eyes,
songs on their lips, ready and willing to die for her. France draws
around her her tattered and blood-stained robe, yet what matters the
outer raiment? Behind it shines forth her glorious, exultant soul, and
she lifts up her head rejoicing and proclaims to the world that when she
appealed, man, woman, and child--the whole of the French
nation--answered to her Call.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
' was used for raised dots on all "'75's"
Page 70: Closing quote added to poem. "...qui les occupe."
Page 92: Period added to Mme.
Page 98: "Triaucourt" changed to "Triancourt."
Page 110: Changed Debency to Debeney.