in the midst of the world in some pleasant little town away behind the
lines--it may be even Paris; sometimes also Fate sends him to a chateau
where he lives like a prince amid ancestral halls and a sweeping
park--until the day when duty calls him to mount the perilous stairway
of the skies to give mortal combat to the enemy. In the trenches men
welcome an attack as a relief from the deadly monotony of life in pits,
but the airman leaves an easeful, agreeable, social life for the cold,
austere atmosphere of the skies under the pure radiant dome of heaven.
It requires a man of special temperament to withstand so lively a
contrast--not to be softened or unnerved by it. Think of the solitude
of the upper air, careering absolutely alone, perhaps. And there is no
turning back. There is no such word as "funk" in the bright lexicon of
the airman. He is up there because he is fearless, because he does not
dread being solus in the wide heavens, because he is a man and no
craven, because he has nerves of steel and whipcord. And he must be
ready to fight with any weapons. Garros was equally expert in attacking
and bringing down his man with machine-gun, carbine, rifle, or even
revolver, and in ten days before he was captured he had "grassed" three
German aeroplanes. One of the men who fell into his hands having asked
him to announce his capture to the German lines, Garros started off in
that spirit of chivalry common amongst airmen. There is this delightful
about the new arm, it has given a touch of romance to the drab horror of
the war. Whenever a man was captured or killed, airmen from the
opposite camp dropped a letter informing the comrades of the victim,
often with an added word of praise. "Even the Germans are gentlemen in
the air," remarked a young pilot the other day. There is chivalry in
the air. The man with his head near the stars, flying in immeasurable
space, has no room for littlenesses. His heart is large and splendid
like the splendour of his deeds--deeds that make the exploits of the old
heroes pale into insignificance. They are the phenomenal fruit of a
limitless audacity, of a glorious and spring-like youth, of the heyday
of existence, when danger is the mad intoxicant, the heady draught that
puts brightness into the eye, that gives a riotous pleasure to life,
that is like song and wine to the hero clad in the shining and
invincible armour of his own superlative freshness and illusions.
The bodies that crash down from the heavens and the souls that soar into
the white radiance of Eternity have known no petty thought, have
perpetrated no mean deed. Yes, there is chivalry in the Air.
*CHAPTER XX*
*THE POILU'S HOSPITAL*
There is this wonderful and alluring in France, that, recognising the
faults in an administration or department of the public service, she
sets to work immediately to effect reform. And it was clear enough that
the _service de sante_, or hospital service, was grievously defective at
the outbreak of the war. It was a question that had never been properly
worked out. Those who had thought about the subject at all, never
supposed that the demands upon the department would be so terrific.
Probably they thought, as did most Frenchmen, that the war would be of
quick duration and that--well--the inconveniences of the system would be
but temporary, and one would do the best one could in so short a time.
But the actual facts were to give the lie to this prevision as to many
others. The war lasted long, the demands upon the hospital were not
only terrific but protracted. But with the spirit of adaptability, of
which the French have given so many proofs during the war, they set to
work with the resolution to do the best possible. Little by little the
gross defects of the earlier days were remedied; the number of doctors,
which at the beginning had been hopelessly inadequate, was augmented,
and immense improvements were made in the organisation of the hospital
trains. Thereupon the evacuation of the wounded developed on
scientifically humane lines, in spite of the difficulties of an
unexpected kind, mainly brought about by the colossal character of the
war. Thus the wounded rapidly received attention in the ambulances and
were quickly sent away in trains and motor-cars, and reached the most
distant parts of France not later than the morrow of the combat. I was
at Biarritz when the Champagne offensive was taking place, and saw
arrive at the station wounded men, still powdered with the dust of the
trenches, who had been in the fight twenty-four hours before.
The hospitals, however, even the most modern in their equipment, did not
equal the English, still less the American, but the reason was not far
to seek: a lack of money. A great many "sanitary formations" (as they
are called in France) suffered also from a want of motors; in fact the
French, by the very nature of the circumstances, had not the immense
resources that the English possess. English newspapers raised immense
sums for the care of the sick. But if the French had not the money to
devote to the niceties of hospital installation they did the best they
could with the time and means at their disposal. And although, perhaps,
the hospitals were not as clean as would satisfy English tastes, they
served their purpose, which was to restore as many men as possible to
the firing-line and alleviate suffering.
Eternally to their credit is the manner in which the French resolutely
set their house in order after the failure of the system was revealed on
the field of battle. It must be remembered that the long duration of
battles nowadays prevents the wounded from being removed at once, and
often they have to remain the whole of the day where they have fallen
until the night comes and they can be transported. Naturally it is of
high importance in the saving of life that the wounded should be got
away as quickly as possible to avoid the setting in of gangrene.
The Committee, which was formed by M. Millerand at the Ministry of War
in the early days of hostilities, to effect reforms in the army medical
service, fixed the number of sixty motor-cars per army corps. This
number was in direct relation with the accommodation of the hospital
trains. But when the war took on the character of a war of manoeuvres
it became necessary to employ trains used for ammunition and even for
food supply--returning empty to their base--for the evacuation of the
wounded. In a general fashion it may be said that the great
preoccupation of the military command is to transport the wounded away
from the scene of action as rapidly as possible in order to remain
unhampered. One could draw a melancholy picture of the first victims of
the war and its shambles being sent right across France in crawling
trains--the word is applicable in a double sense, a long-drawn-out
agony--before the arrival at the base hospital. Never shall I forget
the first trainful of British wounded I encountered coming from Mons.
The goods train, without seats, benches or beds, crawled and jolted by,
passing my train going in the opposite direction. We shouted words of
cheer, to which many of the Tommies replied, gaily enough. Some even
jumped off the creeping train to pick up the fruit we threw (one fellow,
I remember, with a bandaged leg, hopped on one foot in the permanent
way, determined not to lose a pear that had fallen there). But others,
again, made no reply, and we hushed our voices and bowed our heads as we
saw recumbent figures, stretched in cattle trucks on bundles of straw,
figures that gave no sign. Would they ever speak again, these men lying
alone, untended, in the creaking, jarring train? But these terrible
conditions were quickly changed. At the beginning of the war there were
only five regular hospital trains provided with beds for the wounded,
and a hundred improvised trains, formed to a large extent of the rolling
stock of goods trains. The wounded could not be properly attended in
such trains, because there was a lack of communication between the
different parts, but afterwards, corridor trains were adopted almost
exclusively. Nevertheless the number of the wounded was so great, after
some of the battles, that every sort of train possible and imaginable
had to be pressed into the service. But the Committee, by its wise and
careful dispositions, rendered a great service in providing train
accommodation for sixty thousand wounded to which the Minister of War
added twenty thousand; and which again, I believe, was considerably
increased by General Gallieni during his brief but strenuous period at
the Ministry of War.
As originally conceived the ambulance of the Front was equipped for
major operations as well as the hospital in the rear, but afterwards it
was found inadvisable to perform operations in these conditions where
the surgeon had not the time or the tranquillity of mind necessary for
the purpose; and so by a later arrangement the hospitals for the major
operations were placed fifteen or twenty miles to the rear. And so it
happened that the first mistakes were rectified. Instead of great and
important operations being conducted on the field of battle, subject to
the dangers and interruptions from such a propinquity, the more gravely
wounded, whose state required amputation, were rapidly transported to
these hospitals in the rear after their wounds had been attended to in
the first place, and an examination made in the field hospital, or
ambulances as they are called in France. This system gave much better
results than that adopted in the beginning, whereby the _ambulances de
l'avant_ (or advanced ambulances) and the reserve ambulances, the
divisional ambulances, and the army ambulances, were interchangeable.
They were intended to serve for all the purposes of attending to the
wounded. They were used either as a place of temporary relief for the
wounded or took on a _quasi_ permanent character according to the
necessities of the case. When the advanced ambulances in certain
circumstances became stationary, the reserve ambulances followed the
army on the march. It seemed in many respects an excellent system, and
certainly was very supple and ingenious, for these ambulances became
interchangeable; but they possessed the inconvenience, to which I have
already alluded--that is to say, the proper sort of attention could not
be given to the important cases. Hence the change that the Committee
brought about, whereby the _grands blesses_ were transported to the
hospital at the rear, where the necessary skill and the instruments
required were at their disposal. The present system works in this
manner. The battle takes place. The chief medical officer fixes the
spot in the rear where the formation ought to be established. The
formation establishes itself there in a couple of hours with its
motor-cars. An hour after, it has pitched its first tent and is ready
to shelter the first wounded which come to it from the ambulances,
perhaps in the space of three or four hours. Instruments sterilised in
advance permit the surgeons to commence to operate three hours after
having received their orders to establish the hospital tent. Other
tents can be established to the number of five. A hundred wounded
persons can thus be taken care of and treated in the open country.
Reserve ambulances can be called upon in case of need. As soon as
operated upon, and out of immediate danger, the wounded, in the majority
of cases, can be evacuated to permanent hospitals further back in the
rear.
In case of retreat, the formation, if warned in time, falls back
carrying with it if possible all the wounded and follows the troops.
These tent hospitals carry with them the wherewithal to instal an
operating theatre and a _section d'hospitalisation_, composed of a
hundred beds, five double-walled tents, and the necessary doctors and
male attendants. Of course the problem of removing the wounded from
these tent hospitals at the Front is always a grave one. When the war
took on the character of a siege war, a train acted as a sort of shuttle
from the field ambulances to the station where the "army zone" finished
and the "interior zone" began. The two were generally seventy or eighty
miles apart. Here the wounded were carried to the other train, where
the cases were sorted out and sent to the distant base hospitals. But,
as I have said, the tendency was to keep the slight cases as near as
possible to the lines, and send only to distant parts either medical
cases--infectious diseases, and convalescents--or the more serious
surgical cases, which were entering upon a secondary phase.
One of the most interesting aspects of the question of the treatment and
recovery of the wounded was the utilisation of the mineral waters which
exist in such abundance in France, particularly in the Pyrenees; and all
the well-known stations of this delightful region were filled with
soldiers recovering from their wounds or illnesses incurred in the
service of the country. Magnificent results were obtained also by the
same means in '70. Strongly impregnated sulphur waters gave then, as
they have given during this second war, most admirable results,
particularly in combating the infection of wounds caused by fire-arms.
It is not necessary to insist upon the dreadful error of the theory that
bullet wounds were clean wounds. Before it was discovered that the
bullet infected the surrounding tissue much harm had been done. The
mineral waters were also invaluable in the treatment of nervous
affections arising from wounds and rheumatism contracted in the
trenches. Some really remarkable recoveries have been made in this
glorious region irradiated by the sun and full of pure air charged with
the balsamic odours of a pine-clad district.
Whilst, as I have said, there was rapid improvement made in the various
services, the defect inherent in all administrations, English as well as
French, but perhaps more particularly French, subsisted. For instance,
M. Joseph Reinach, the well-known Deputy, has inveighed especially
against the abuse of red tape in the hospitals. All sorts of dreadful
formalities were necessary to be fulfilled to obtain a lemon or a bottle
of the simplest medicine. There had to be a proper requisition made
with several signatures attached, and this entailed visits to different
offices situated in different parts of the building--a formidable waste
of time. Some string and nails, value 1 fr. 25, appeared in somebody's
report. Immediately there was an imperious demand for details, which
were supplied, of course--though purely imaginary. The precious document
travelled during several weeks from the bottom to the top of the
administrative ladder. Papers even pursue the unhappy doctor or
stretcher-bearer right into the trenches--though, of course, every
reasonable person would admit that records must be kept. M. Reinach,
who, furnished with special powers of investigation, has carried his
inquiries into every part, points out that even if the high
administration decrees simplicity and the different sub-departments
apparently incline, they continue their complicated practices just the
same. Says M. Reinach, and his words will serve to depict the unhappy
state of the public in this country as well as in any other: "We believe
we are governed at one time by this party, at another by that. In
reality, we are governed by the departments in the interests of a
mysterious syndicate of paper merchants. It will require a revolution
more profound than that of '89 to rid us of administrative routine."
And it must be remembered also--one feels authorised to mention it since
it is admitted by M. Reinach, as well as by other thoughtful
Frenchmen---that favouritism and nepotism have made terrible ravages in
this direction as in so many others; but these abuses have been
corrected, we must hope, by the touchstone of war.
One of the most pleasing, and at the same time touching, sides of the
war is the heroism in the hospitals. The majority of the patients belong
to the class of manual labourer, but they were as dignified, as calmly
Stoical, in their way as those who had larger opportunities for
education. Though they had never read Epictetus or Marcus Aurelius, and
were often just simple labourers, they showed invariably a greatness of
soul. Women working in the hospitals have given me pathetic instances
of soldiers' gentleness and resignation. They calmly watch the surgeon
going about his work probing in their own flesh. They look on
apparently unmoved, idly smoking a cigarette. Heroic simple souls of
France. They are always joking, even before a most serious operation;
one cannot overcome their invincible courage and good humour. Often it
is touching enough. In the Metropolitain of Paris I travelled with a
man who had lost his leg--one of the numerous army of the mutilated. In
conversation he had forgotten to alight at a certain station. The train
had already begun to move from the platform, and, to the alarm of those
next to him, the poor fellow tried to jump out. He was pulled back just
in time. "_J'ai oublie_," he said simply, looking reflectively at the
empty trouser leg. In the hospital it is easier, perhaps, to be
uncomplaining, to support with appearance of equanimity the pain and
suffering of the wounds; it is more difficult in the evacuation
stations, where sometimes the wounded have to stay a night exposed to
all the discomfort of a provisional arrangement.
There are, too, pathetic instances of self-sacrifice. The "poilu" (as I
have said elsewhere in this book) is a generous-hearted soul, very
forgiving to his enemies, even when they have done him unspeakable hurt;
he will share food with the wounded Boche in the next bed. He will send
him his comforts. "Here," he says to the nurse, "take this woollen
waistcoat and give it to that chap over there; I have clothes enough."
The humanity of the French and their intrinsic civilisation are revealed
in the intimacy of the hospitals which are tended by those admirable
women whose quiet and unadvertised devotion have inspired the admiration
of every beholder.
Another very charming feature is the care taken of the permanently
crippled. At Lyons, M. Herriot, the mayor, worked hard in this
direction, and established schools where the mutilated could be taught
useful trades. M. Maurice Barres in Paris, chiefly by making use of
columns in the _Echo de Paris_, worked for the same holy cause. One of
the prettiest things is to go into a French hospital and see the
semi-convalescents at work upon ingenious and charming little objects
wherein they show their taste and inexhaustible ingenuity. They are
never at a loss, these sons of France: a cunningly carved flower, an
amusing caricature, a doll with articulated limbs, dainty little
baskets--all these bear witness to the inherent culture and good taste
that are theirs by right of birth, in virtue of having been born on the
fruitful soil of France.
I have spoken of the bravery of the soldier as he lies under the
surgeon's knife; but let us not forget the signal heroism of the
surgeons themselves, and their staffs. They have given proof of a
super-human courage and self-forgetfulness, and surgeons and doctors,
stretcher-bearers and nurses, have frequently figured in the Army Orders
for their absolute devotion to duty. In many cases the enemy granted no
truce for the recovery of the wounded, and it was necessary to seek them
under a hail of bullets and shell fire. Wounds were dressed on the
field of battle during the fight or in ambulances, which the Red Cross
flag did not always protect from the bombardment of the Huns. In many
cases it was perfectly evident that the building was the positive target
of the enemy. The trained nurse, as we understand her in England,
hardly existed at the outbreak of the war, but the women of the Red
Cross worked in the hospitals and made up for a lack of professional
training by a devotion without limits, and a whole-hearted willingness
to learn and adapt themselves to the new conditions. It is true that no
amount of good-will can supply the want of professional knowledge, but I
have the testimony of many doctors that the better-educated Frenchwoman
speedily acquired the essential part of hospital practice. The ladies
who belonged to the various societies under the Red Cross were unpaid,
and had gained their certificates after six-months' service in a
hospital. Three societies form the Red Cross organisation in France:
the Societe de la Croix Rouge, the Societe de Secours aux Blesses, and
Union des Femmes de France. There is a religious basis to the French
Red Cross, and before the war, before every woman who had leisure,
rushed to offer her services to her beloved country, nursing in France
was almost entirely in the hands of the Sisters of Mercy. True, in late
years, in the course of the terrible struggle between Church and State,
many of these splendid women had been driven from France, banished to
carry their beneficence and charity to foreign climes. But when the
German hordes swept over the frontier, France was invaded by another
silent army, an army of white-capped, calm-browed women, who with
exquisite serenity moved to the beds of sickness and suffering. The
nursing sisters returned to their kingdom, and the Head of the State
bowed to receive them, for their heroism is matchless; they blench at no
risks, they falter at no fear of infection; with placid brow they look,
undismayed, at the most fearful sights, and the agonised patient, gazing
into their steadfast eyes, gains strength and courage from the light of
hope and faith that shines there. Never again will the Orders be
banished from France.
And the priests on the battle-field showed equal devotion. Those who
were of military age fought in the trenches side by side with the
"poilu," and prejudice rolled away with the smoke of gunfire. Some
again were stretcher-bearers, while those above fifty became chaplains
and celebrated Mass in little improvised churches behind the lines. The
soldier-priest gave a singular example of Christian courage, an absolute
fearlessness which electrified the soldiers who were fighting by his
side. I was at Perpignan a few weeks after a priest, who had lost an
eye in the trenches, was decorated with the Legion of Honour by the
General commanding the district. Truly the blood of these servants of
Christ, spilt on the battle-field (and many have been killed), is the
seed of the Church, and from their self-sacrifice and heroism will
spring a harvest of love and charity, if not actually a revival of
religion in France. It is, perhaps, too much to expect a general return
to the paths of practising Catholicism, but at least France, having
passed through the agony of blood and tears, will have forged a spirit
of splendid tolerance; for, as the greatest Healer and Physician came
not to bring peace but a sword, the lasting peace that dwells in the
heart of a nation is learnt from that supreme teacher, that incomparable
healer, the sword.
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