life there much as usual, excepting that all appeared very quiet. But a
few days after my arrival Lille began to show an extraordinary and sad
animation. The town, which had already given shelter to many refugees
from Valenciennes and villages thereabouts, was suddenly crowded by the
exodus of the inhabitants of Orchies; the latter town, it was reported,
had been completely burnt to the ground by the Germans, only thirty
houses having been left standing.
Life in Lille became horrible. In the streets one met long processions
of miserable creatures, looking haggard and exhausted. Here was a woman
with three tiny children, two of them in a dilapidated perambulator, the
other she carried in her arms. She looked grey with the dust of the
road: I followed her. She was going to the office of some local paper,
whence these poor refugees were directed where to go to find food and
shelter. Waiting at the door of the office were such numbers of these
worn-out human beings that many of them, too tired to stand any longer,
were sitting on the pavement whilst the children were eating pieces of
bread.
One morning I followed the crowd going to get bread at the town hall. I
saw a little boy of four standing at his mother's side while she talked
with another woman. The mother's basket had been put down on the
pavement and a round loaf of bread was partly coming out of it. The
little mite kneeled down on the ground and, going at it with all his
might, he began to eat off the loaf in a way which told a long, sad
tale.
But what one met with amongst one's friends was often more horrible than
the sights in the streets. The tale of the destruction of Orchies had
been believed almost everywhere before any explanation had been
forthcoming, and in these days hatred began to rear its head when people
talked of the Germans.
"If they had burned Orchies," said one of my acquaintances, "it is
because we are too tolerant with them. To brutes we must speak only the
language of brutes. We treat their prisoners like guests; let us put
them all against the wall and shoot them and their wounded, too."
When I replied that we should have little right to complain of German
atrocities if we did what they are reported to do, I was looked at as
too soft and as if I were a woman without patriotic feeling. My friend
told me this as politely as his temper allowed.
I left him and went into the street to try to find some distraction from
his hatred. I chanced to meet a woman of Orchies and inquired what had
happened there. I give her tale as told to me, though I have not been
able to verify it.
"The Germans," said she, "behaved quite well the first time they came
into our town. They were kind to the children and even gave them sweets
and toys, but on their second visit they found that some of their
wounded had had their ears cut off and they ordered that Orchies should
be set on fire."
"It was monstrous," she added, "but I know that an African soldier was
found with a necklace of sixty ears, which he had certainly taken
somewhere. This, too, was monstrous. I do not excuse the Germans for
their crime--I have lost everything myself--but if we allow their
wounded to be mutilated at such times, what can we expect? Who can say
which side is the more barbarous? I must tell you that the officer
ordered to set fire to Orchies was also told to arrest the mayor and
some other men and to have them shot. However, he gave them timely
warning to evacuate Orchies and to make good their escape, so no one was
hurt."
How far this story was true I never knew, but the effect of it on my
fellow creatures I had seen too well, and I went away bearing on my
heart the words of the woman of Orchies: "Who can say which side is the
more barbarous?"
On October 7 we heard that the Germans were outside the city and in many
quarters fear was added to the anguish already overburdening the hearts
of so many. Yet one woman, hearing the Germans were near, exclaimed,
"Say what you like, these men are just like our French men. War is war;
you cannot expect it to be anything but cruel and barbarous. The Germans
are no enemies of mine."
Her words made a bad impression on the listeners, and it was well that
the kind-hearted soul had three brothers in the French Army or she would
have been regarded with much suspicion.
An old lady of my acquaintance almost lost her head with fright. "How
dare they," she said, speaking of the French, "let the Germans take
Lille?"
"What then," said I, "of Rheims?"
"Yes, Rheims, I know it was horrible! But Lille, the most beautiful town
of the North, it is a crime to make it suffer."
Whilst discussing with me the doings of the French Army the old lady had
often argued that Rheims and Arras had had to suffer because this was
necessary to the success of the French operations. Recalling her own
words, I asked: "But what could you say if for the good of the common
cause Lille must suffer as did Rheims and Arras?"
But in her terror, forgetful of what she had said previously, she only
exclaimed: "Lille! It is a crime. What shall we do? How shall we live?"
And I could see fear in her eyes, fear for her belongings as well as for
her life, fear which made her forget for a moment the "good cause of
this war" as she had often put it to me, fear which made her heart give
out a note of real selfishness.
So far as I can remember it was on October 8 that all the gates of the
city were closed, and that there was fighting on the Grand Boulevard,
the great wide thoroughfare which connects Lille with its sister-cities
of Roubaix and Tourcoing. There was also fighting near one of the gates.
On the following day, on returning from my work in Hospital 105, the
people with whom I was living told me of the terrible spectacle they had
witnessed when they had gone to get news of some relations living near
the gate where the fight had taken place. One woman said:
"The fight was on the bridge, which was covered in the evening with the
dead bodies of Germans, amongst them two wounded men whom the Germans
had left behind. By the bridge there is an inn, and we have been told
that five men, civilians, who were there, killed the two 'Boches' by
strangling them. This makes two less of them!"
I looked at her in horror, thinking that fright had turned her brain. I
could find no words to reply. I turned to go to my own room, when she
added:
"In any case, the 'Boches' won't know of it for the bodies are buried
under a heap of stones."
I left her with the words of the woman of Orchies echoing through my
brain: "Who can tell which side is the more barbarous?"
Some of these people I had known before the war to be peaceful, quiet
citizens; they now appeared to me to have suddenly turned into devils.
Fear and danger had made them crazy with hatred. Everywhere one went it
was the same. If I tried to escape it, and took refuge in the street, I
seemed to feel hatred rising from the very ground.
Amongst the fugitives one saw, many had run away before even seeing a
German helmet, but all were full of atrocious tales, all were mad with
hatred and revenge.
Not until the actual shelling of the town began did I fully realise the
havoc that fear and hatred can work! To feel helpless while shells go
whirling over one's head at the rate of sixty a minute, while houses are
burning on either side of one, is a horrible experience. To have to bear
all these horrors without being able to put a stop to them, is
maddening. At such moments one feels like a mouse caught in a trap. One
would have to be more than human not to feel terror.
We all felt this at Lille, the great majority were so panic-stricken
that they made for the gates, quite oblivious of the fact that the gates
were closed and that fighting was going on there.
It is usually in these moments of supreme fear that the lurking hatred
in the soul takes full possession of it, distorting the imagination,
bringing back the most atavistic moral ideas, giving birth to falsehoods
of every description, and widening the gulf of misunderstanding which
seems to part the nations.
I have always known that hatred is the offspring of war. I am well aware
that ever since the beginning of the present crisis the newspapers and
the warmongers have been daily adding fuel to the fire of hatred for
fear that if the fire died out the war would do the same. But over
there, at Lille, I felt that hatred had fallen on the hearts of many
people like a fatal malediction with which they are to be cursed all
their life long and which they will transmit to their descendants.
These people whom fear has driven, like cattle, from their burning
houses, who have suddenly been left without a roof over their heads or
food to eat, are not likely easily to give up their hatred when this
passion of war is a thing of the past. Deep in their hearts will be
written the word "revenge" even though France does not lose a second
Alsace-Lorraine.
This same overpowering feeling of hatred I found amongst most of the
staff of the hospital where I was working, and I was able to note at
first hand the effect it had in the dealings of the nursing staff with
the German wounded.
After October 13, 1914, the Germans took control of all the hospitals at
Lille, and soon they were crowded with German wounded, while, little by
little, as soon as they were able to travel, the French and British were
evacuated and taken to Germany as prisoners of war.
At Hospital 105 the French staff were asked if they would agree to
remain under the German authorities, and most of the doctors and nurses
elected to remain at their post. The hospital was controlled by the
"Société des femmes de France," who financed it and managed the entire
establishment. Many of these women were society ladies and, with the
exception of two or three, most incompetent. Before the German
occupation their activities had mostly been of a showy character. They
were all dainty, smart, and useless, and so they remained under German
rule--those, at least, who did not run away. They avoided nursing
Germans with great skill, and overcrowded the French and English wards.
They were very diplomatic in their dealings with the enemy, as silly and
pitiful in their hatred of the German and their cautious dealings with
him as they were in their other activities. Their hatred was of the
emptyheaded kind, but all the more dangerous for being based on
frivolity of heart and crass ignorance.
Side by side with them were a few intellectual women, professors and
teachers. Most of them followed in the wake of their sisters and behaved
in a similar manner. One of them, a woman I had known before, had spent
many years of her life in Germany and had taught the German language for
nearly twenty years. Before the war she had often told me how lovable
she had found the German people, what good friends she had in Germany
and how she always enjoyed a holiday there, so that when some of my
German patients asked me for books, I thought she would be the very
person to whom to apply for some.
To my astonishment she flew into a passion when she heard my request.
"Want books, do they? They will soon ask for chickens and lobsters."
Walking into my ward, she exclaimed haughtily: "So you are asking for
books! As you set fire to everything, there are no books left for you!"
Very little of the nursing was done by these women, however, who,
instead of being a real help for the most part, put spokes in the wheels
of the more useful helpers. The hardships of overwork, of long hours, of
day and night duties in succession, fell all the more heavily on the
shoulders of a few willing women, the other part of the female element
proving so unreliable.
These women, whose devotion never flagged, comprised three trained
nurses and nine or ten women clerks or teachers, of quite another type
to those mentioned above. It is true they were not all free from hatred,
but, if I may so express it, theirs was almost a hopeful hatred compared
with the blind stupidity of those others.
Amongst the three professional nurses I remember a tall, handsome girl
of 22 or thereabouts. Hers was an ardent soul, one of those souls which
keep young in spite of advancing years. Whatever task this girl sets
herself to do she will carry it through with skill and earnestness.
Whichever cause she champions she will do so in no light spirit, and it
was thus that she hated the Germans with the strongest hatred and yet
nursed them with utter devotion, for she was as earnest a nurse as she
was keen a patriot. There was almost a kind of healthiness about her
hatred, based as it was on deep-rooted feelings, knowing no caution and
no fear. One might hope more for her who, fearless of consequences,
could wave the French flag and shout "Vive la France" when French
prisoners were led away, than for all the fine ladies whose little souls
were filled with great fear and ignorant hatred.
I remember also a small, fair nurse, silent for the most part, but up at
all times of the night as well as working hard all day. She sometimes
opened her heart to me and I found there, as deep-rooted as her
colleague's hatred, a great and sincere love for all men and women, an
unflinching hope that in the long run "brotherhood" will be the
watchword of all humanity.
Amongst these hard-working women many were of this silent type, going
about with sealed lips, but with treasures of unconscious kindliness and
love hidden in their hearts, known only to God.
My daily intercourse with the men on our hospital staff was on the whole
never sufficiently intimate to allow me to speak here of their mental
attitude towards "the enemy." The French doctors I never saw except when
I was on duty, and I had little or no opportunity of speaking with them,
being only an assistant nurse, but I recollect one little incident
connected with Professor L----, a man of acknowledged skill in France.
At the time of which I speak, I had been transferred to a German ward,
and one day, finding myself short of boiled water for the men to drink,
I went to the chemist to ask for some. There I met Professor L----, who
said:
"So you want boiled water for your friends the Germans? What would you
say if I were to put in it a few microbes of cholera morbus?"
"I would hardly believe it of you!"
"Of course, you would not, for I am told that you are surprisingly good
to these Germans. But believe me, if it were not for the fear of
spreading the disease far and wide, this would be the best thing to do."
I have, however, no means of ascertaining that this incident is typical
of the attitude of the average Frenchman on the male staff towards the
Germans. As a matter of fact, they had very little to do with the German
wounded, as these were left entirely in the hands of the German doctors,
aided by the French nurses.
After my transfer to the German wards, where we were very short of
nurses, I soon found myself in sole charge of from 16 to 26 wounded, a
burden which I felt rather too heavy for me, as I had had but little
experience in nursing previous to the war. But it was during this time,
when my duties involved greater responsibility, that I came into closer
contact with doctors, but they were German doctors, of course.
I remember one of them, a small man, somewhat round, whom we had
nicknamed "pupuce" (little flea). Pupuce always appeared to me to be
kindness itself: intent on his work, good to his men and fair to his
helpers. His position as head of a hospital where most of the men were
French, was not an easy one. He was disliked by the majority of the
nurses, mostly those who had not been willing to work under him; yet I
never saw him manifest anything but the greatest tolerance and courtesy
towards all.
But where one felt the smallest amount of hatred existing on either side
was amongst the men who had fought and been wounded.
Being left so much alone with my German patients I got to know them
well. I never had to complain of my "Boches." They were so much like our
own men; yes, so much like them! They were grateful for what was done
for them just in the same way. They showed me photographs of their dear
ones and told me stories of them which made my heart beat ever so
quickly.
But some of them were very funny. They ate, ate, so that one marvelled.
They showed me plainly that I was to heap potatoes and other food on
their plates. It was never too thick or too much for them. These men
were of the peasant type, heavy in features and in general appearance. I
found but few like them amongst our French men. They seemed to feel
kindly towards me. Some of them used to pat me on the back heavily and
call me: "Goode Petite Madam." But their kindness was cow-like, so to
speak, and reminded me of the animals when they have been well fed.
But, of course, all were not like that. I remember many handsome and
intelligent faces of men who seemed to have been born for better things
than butchery. Here was a young man, a student of science, as gentle as
a woman. He seemed to be the soul of all his comrades, so great was his
influence for good over them. Day and night he was ready to help and to
go to the assistance of his fellows, so far as his own wounds would
allow him to do so.
There were many of this type, and many others who seemed like children,
and who could hardly be expected to realise how they got into such a
scrape. One, a young mechanic, a lad with a bright rosy face, discovered
that I was a Socialist, and, with finger on lip, he told me that he also
was one. He whispered the great names of Jaurés, Keir Hardie, and
Liebknecht; I could read in his eyes the hope these names roused in him,
but I could also see that he was scarcely old enough to know his own
mind, and that he might be brutally killed ere he had lived long enough
to strengthen his hopes and to see his goal clearly through the maze of
his youthful dreams.
There were types on the French side corresponding more or less closely
to these.
It is true that the French peasant drinks wine in the place of beer,
eats less than the German, is lighter in build and in wits, but apart
from these superficial differences there is much similarity. Under an
outside show of brains, both are often of dull and shallow intelligence.
The German cracks heavy jokes and the French cynical ones: it is
difficult to choose between them as both show little culture and an
inherent commonplaceness of mind.
Men of greater sensibility, of refined culture, I have found on either
side, and be they French or German, I have nearly always found their
behaviour correspond to that which I have here tried to delineate.
Most of these men had seen many ghastly things, the horrors of which
often remained impressed in their eyes for days and days after their
arrival in hospital. It is often said that the trade of war, the heavy
slaughter in which they have participated, is bound to brutalise them. I
readily believe this to be so in the case of the most vulgar types on
either side, though, even on these, the brutalising and demoralising
effect of the war seems less to be feared than amongst their
corresponding types among the civilians.
It is amongst the soldiers and officers of the fighting ranks that I
have found the greater readiness to fraternise with the enemy, to
acknowledge the good points of the other side.
The men in my ward one day having sent coffee to their French comrades,
the latter replied by sending cigarettes, and soon both sides were
conversing together. The men who have stood face to face in the fight,
who have seen their enemies falling as bravely as they themselves have
done, have little hatred left in their hearts; but those who have
suffered all the horrors of war and who have not found either in work,
or even in participation in the war itself, a means to cool their
overheated feelings, are those who constitute the real danger for the
future work of the pacifists, as, after all, the brutalising effect of
war is not due so much to the use of physical force as to the hatred
which such physical force, bent on destruction, brings in its wake.
What I say here of the men does not, however, apply to the professional
officers. Amongst the Germans these are mostly of the aristocracy. Their
haughty, scarred faces were always repellent to me. Luckily I was not
told off to nurse them. They had a special room of their own.
Once only, at lunch time, when their usual nurse was away at her lunch,
one of them beckoned to me as I was passing their door. Thinking that he
wanted something, I went up to him, but he received me by putting out
his tongue and taking a "sight" at me, to the amusement of all his
friends. This young scamp was no other than Lieutenant von W----, the
son of General von W----. We all knew that he was a cad and Pupuce
himself seemed to find him rather a handful.
I met very few French officers during my stay at Lille, but my knowledge
of the professional military man in time of peace, leads me to believe
that the type I have described, is far from uncommon in France. He is
the embodiment of militarism anywhere, and neither in Germany nor
elsewhere will these men's brutal instincts be checked through war, or
even through defeat.
After leaving Lille, and during my subsequent journey through Northern
France and Belgium, I had the opportunity to note the dealings of the
Germans with the population of these invaded lands.
After the numerous accounts of monstrous atrocities which were
perpetrated over there, I hardly dare to mention here that personally I
did not meet with any of these. I do not mean to imply by this that
atrocities have not happened, but simply that it has been my good
fortune not to come across any.
At Lille itself, the Germans behaved decently when once in occupation.
Posters were put on the walls of the town inviting the population to
keep quiet. It is true that a few days later fresh bills appeared,
worded in very peremptory fashion, warning the inhabitants to keep away
from the bridges, railways, and so forth, under penalty of death for
disobedience. However, to my knowledge, no disturbances occurred. There,
as elsewhere, the Germans tried to reorganise ordinary life as quickly
as possible; they helped to put out fires and to restore quiet and order
amongst the civilians.
At Maubeuge I met with a similar state of affairs, though I came to this
town to find that my father, one of the citizens, had only the day
before come out of prison, where the Germans had kept him for 28 days;
on a false charge of trying to incite the inhabitants of Maubeuge
against the Germans, he and two other men had been arrested. According
to their own account the three of them were given a very fair trial and
were acquitted. My father did not in any way complain of the treatment
he had met with.
I must admit, however, that the three prisoners did not all speak of
their adventure in the same spirit. My father, always quiet and
cool-headed by nature, resolved to make the best of a bad job, and
having obtained paper and ink, wrote about half of a book whilst in
prison. He found the food wholesome, though not always plentiful, and
asked my mother after his release, to make him a pea soup like that he
had had in his cell. The other two, however, one a mere lad, the other
an old-maidish man of 50, complained bitterly of the food and other
things. While narrating his part of the story the middle-aged man turned
to me exclaiming: "Why, your father, no one would believe that he is a
good bit over 60. He took it all so quietly, just as if he were still a
young man!"
I could not but infer from this that in times of such great crisis and
passion a man over there in the invaded parts is often treated by "the
enemy" according to the way in which he himself behaves towards the
so-called "enemy." Coolness of head and courtesy on the one side more
often than not met with the same qualities on the other side.
I suspect it was this, that, after the trial of the three, caused the
President of the Court to apologise to my father, who had proved himself
a man, but not to think of doing so to the two other prisoners, who had
been more sheepish than human.
On the average, the relations between the Germans and the inhabitants,
from stories I have heard and facts I have witnessed, might roughly be
summed up in the following statement: