near Bar-le-Duc, and it had just received a consignment from Le Bienêtre
du Blessé. Mme. Faure, the Infirmière Major, told me that nothing had
ever been more welcome, and that the spirits of the men had gone up with
a rush. Above all things the French convalescent craves preserves, under
the impression, no doubt, that it is his weary palate alone that longs
to be tickled, but as a matter of fact his system craves the stimulation
and energizing qualities of the sugar.
This hospital is on a splendid estate leased by the Government
shortly after the beginning of the war. More or less sheltered by trees
from the indefatigable taube, eight or nine “barracks” have been
erected, and down their long sides are rows of cots that look as
comfortable as they are neat. As many of the patients as could be moved
were lying on long chairs under the great oaks and lime trees. At the
entrance to the park was a row of low buildings built for the
ever-necessary “bureau,” chemist shop, surgical dressings stores, &c.,
all run with the method and precision characteristic of the French. It
was a quiet and sylvan scene when I saw it, but when guns at the front
are thundering, reminding these men that their comrades in arms are
falling momentarily, or taubes are drumming overhead searching out the
barracks, it seems to me that sustained optimism must be a difficult
feat. If the delicacies always craved by the sick will raise the spirits
of men who have been wounded and perhaps mutilated in the service of
their country, and break the sad monotony of their lives, those in the
enjoyment of health and freedom cannot work too hard to raise the
necessary money. And let it never be forgotten by those whose slogan in
giving, as in other things, is “America first,” that had it not been for
the military genius of the French at the battle of the Marne there would
be no such thing as freedom in the world to-day.
I saw nothing more interesting at these hospitals than the bathtubs
for the wounded brought straight from the front. Even officers who have
been in the trenches for several days are not clean, to say the least of
it, and the first thing to do before the operation is to give them a
bath. If they are grand blessés they must receive as little handling as
possible. Consequently they are transferred from their own stretcher to
one that covers the top of a very large bathtub full of warm water. This
stretcher is lowered mechanically from the head down without jarring the
wounded man. As soon as he is both clean and refreshed the stretcher is
elevated and he is transferred to still another and wrapped in a sheet;
then when dry he is carried to the operating table.
One of the many infirmières majors with whom I talked told me there
was a second and imperative reason for a private kitchen. Military
discipline closes every hospital kitchen in the war zone (both the grand
régime and the petit régime) promptly at 6 P.M. and does not open it
again until 7 the next morning. If a blessé is brought in after 6 there
is not so much as a teaspoonful of milk to give him, and if, as
sometimes happens, he is passed on to another hospital early in the
morning, he leaves without having had sustenance of any sort. It is
difficult for a non-military nation like ours to realize the dry
conservative discipline of a nation that has been military for
centuries, and has worked out an economy in money, food, time, and men
to a point so fine that there is practically no waste.
Witness the immortal tactics of Joffre, who has destroyed the
maximum of Germans with the minimum of Frenchmen. But, as I have said
before, there has never been a war on such a scale as this, and it is
the first time the authorities, always relying upon civilians to do
their part, have been confronted with a new problem in the dietary
kitchen.
Now, however, if the nurses have private supplies it is a simple
matter to make a cup of broth or cocoa over a spirit lamp for a man
brought in after 6 o’clock and faint from pain and loss of blood. It is
done in five minutes and may save his life. In other respects I saw
nothing to criticise in these military hospitals, although I am told
that some of the smaller and newer ones are greatly in need of pillows,
which seem to be scarce in France. But those I inspected were clean,
airy, run like clock work, and the ordinary kitchen (grand régime), for
those well on the road to recovery, was abundantly supplied. In one
hospital outside of Remiramont I even saw a woman occupying a large room
by herself. There are no doctors left in this small town and she had
been brought to the military hospital for treatment. When I looked in at
the door and saw her gray face surrounded by scattered gray hair I could
not imagine for a moment what it was, so little did I expect to see a
woman after having gone through some twenty wards filled with men; most
of them, by the way, with their legs elevated in wooden frames—an
invention, I was told, of Dr. Blake. I never saw any one look more ill.
She had had thirteen children and now had a floating kidney. Several of
her sons had fallen and more were in the trenches. I have often wondered
if she survived.
The Hôpital Central is beautifully located in a high valley just
outside of Bar-le-Duc and looks like a new mining town. It is laid out
in streets and there must be thirty of the wooden barracks besides two
pavilions—long structures of stucco painted white. They are fine
targets for taubes and I can’t think why they are not painted brown. All
of these buildings but one are in charge of Mme. d’Haussonville’s
division of the Red Cross, Société Française de Secours aux Blessés
Militaires; the exception is run by the second division, Société des
Dames Françaises. These women, both of the noblesse and the haute
bourgeoisie, give their services and work like slaves.
The infirmière major, Mlle. de Sézilles, and the médicin chef
walked me through every one of those buildings except those devoted to
infectious cases. The day was hot and I had walked miles already, but
the doctor was inexorable. He had not wanted to show me the hospital,
even although I had brought a personal letter to Mlle. de Sézilles, but
had surrendered when I produced my letter from the Ministère de la
Guerre in which the privilege of visiting the hospitals in the war zone
was extended to me. So he determined I should have my fill.
However, every foot of the way was interesting. Here men were
brought to remain until they were well enough to return to the front or
be transferred to Paris, the blind until their bodies were strong enough
to give them courage for delicate operations or to face life once more.
The men in bed were protected by netting from the loathsome flies which
swarm in this district, and every counterpane was as white as the crisp
gowns of the infirmières. The advanced convalescents in the pavilions
were sitting in the corridors that traverse the front, reading or gazing
at the charming scenery; if blind, merely sunning themselves. They
alone, of all the maimed, look sad.
Mlle. de Sézilles showed me her barrack with great pride, and it
certainly was an unexpected sight in a base hospital. Its corridors were
set with palms and flowering shrubs, every window had its boxes, and
there were pictures above the beds. Each ward, in fact, was a revelation
of the taste or purse of its infirmière major. Some were austere, but in
many an attempt had been made to relieve the barrenness of a military
hospital ward, where the men must lie for weeks, or months, with little
to do but stare at a glimpse of the hills, and during long silence
unbroken by any sound but the raucous voice of war. There is no question
that the wounded in the decorated wards looked more than commonly
cheerful, for not only has the Frenchman a passion for beauty but he is
the most grateful of all the wounded soldiers. And he would answer
politely the most inane question if he were being disemboweled at the
moment.
Mlle. de Sézilles showed me a cupboard stocked with the first
consignment from Le Bienêtre du Blessé we had been able to send, and
once more I heard how welcome it was. “It is good for the morale of the
men, also,” she added. “The poor fellows, courageous as they are, and
gay by temperament, are often depressed. There is nothing like
appetizing food, both immediate and prospective, to raise the spirits of
a convalescent. No medicine so hastens recovery, and they never looked
forward to the pleasures of health as they do to a cup of broth or
cocoa, or a slice of ham and a dish of preserves.” Then, like everybody
else I met in France engaged in any sort of relief work, she spoke with
the deepest gratitude of the practical sympathy of the Americans, of
their enormous generosity. I told her that the Eastern States had borne
the brunt so far, and that California had done well, but that I was
waiting for the West to wake up.
Several Americans have asked me why the rich people of France do
not run this oeuvre themselves. The answer is simple enough. There are
no rich people left in France, not as we estimate riches, at all events.
Between the moratorium, which has cut off their rents, the mobilization
of their farm hands or workmen, taxes, the increased cost of living, and
the constant demands to which they have responded since the first day of
the war (I know one woman who runs three hospitals in the South of
France out of her own pocket), they find themselves at the beginning of
the third year with little to spare. Some have shut up the greater part
of their beautiful apartments or hôtels, and live in the fewest possible
rooms, on the smallest possible sum, giving away every penny they can
squeeze out of their depleted incomes.
Take the case of one Frenchman, of the old noblesse, married to an
American girl. She brought him a large dower, but he was wealthy and it
was a love match. The French trenches run through his northern estate,
and he will not be permitted to set foot on it before the end of the war
unless his regiment happens to be ordered there. It is ruined in any
case. His southern estate is intact, but he receives no rent from his
tenants, and all his able-bodied men are at the front—or dead. To be
sure the women and boys work in the fields, but so they did before the
war, and there is no one to take the place of the absent men. Out of his
invested capital he must pay high and ever higher taxes, he is asked
every day in the week for a subscription, and I believe he runs a
hospital. He would smile at hearing himself called a rich man to-day.
There are so many kind hearts and intelligent minds among the
readers of a newspaper like the _Times_ that I have not attempted to be
eloquent or to make a sentimental appeal. I have merely endeavored to
make the case as clear as possible in the hope that all who can afford
to give one dollar, or many thousands out of their new prosperity, will
respond to the far subtler appeal of the distant soldier suffering in
grateful silence for “The Eternal France.”
* * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Mrs. Ridgley Carter is also spelt Mrs. Ridgely Carter [Ed. don’t know
which is correct]
Mrs. Herman Harges is also spelt Mrs. Herman Harjes [Ed. don’t know which
is correct]
p. 5 Quatier ==> Quartier (2 places)
p. 5 Général ==> Générale
p. 11 euphenism ==> euphemism
p. 11 miliary ==> military
p. 12 Remiremont ==> Remiramont
p. 13 uremitting ==> unremitting
p. 16 sde ==> side
p. 17 elsewhree ==> elsewhere
p. 20 Marquise de Talleyrand-Perigord ==> Marquise de Talleyrand-Périgord
p. 20 Mrs. Mrs. Herman Harges ==> Mrs. Herman Harges
p. 20 Franco-Americaine ==> Franco-Américaine
p. 21 volunatry ==> voluntary
p. 22 are no clean ==> are not clean
p. 22 mininum ==> minimum
p. 23 flowering shrugs ==> flowering shrubs