January, 1915
_January 8th._ If Art be Selection, then surely is that of keeping a
War Diary, that shall be true, unbiased and yet not dull, the hardest
of all Arts!
For our eyes are so focused on the smaller things out here that we are
apt to ignore the larger issues altogether.
Yet--even as, looking back at bygone years, it is the little things
that count--the branch that taps against the study window, the sickly
scent of lime trees, the odd pattern on the nursery cup, the wind
across the fields, the broken doll, so is it by little things alone
that we can draw true pictures of our own times.
The days have been too busy collecting "woollies" for those who need
them, getting together a library for the "BX" men, writing letters for
the wounded, to keep my diary.
There is much humour as well as pathos in the letters that are
dictated, and hackneyed phrases, such as "Hoping this finds you as it
leaves me" and "I take up the pen to tell you," recur frequently, often
with ambiguous meanings.
"Dear Wife,--You will be glad to hear that I have lost an arm, but am
still alive and hope to be home with you soon. Hoping this finds you as
it leaves me, Yours Truly, A. S.," ran one I took down to-day.
One is reminded of the anecdote of the man who, when asked if he had
ever been in love, replied: "In love? Of course, my dear sir, on many
occasions, and each time with the same unswerving devotion," when,
as is not infrequently the case, one man contrives to keep up an
apparently parallel correspondence with that portion of the community
whom he designates as his "Lidy friends," and, equally oblivious of
amanuensis and censor, dispatches missives, identical in expressions
of passionate devotion, to each of the respective recipients. Romance,
too, ripens quickly out here, and each of the aforementioned five
happy damsels who was "My dear Miss X" a week ago becomes "My darling
sweetheart" to-day. One wonders what will happen to the remaining four
when, in due course, the returning hero decides upon which of the
unsuspecting maidens to bestow his comprehensive heart!
One day I went over to see some friends at Calais, where they are
leading the same gendarme-hunted life as the Dunkirk journalist, in
order to be near their Belgian fiancés. Every three days they have to
change their quarters, and though it is only a fortnight ago that I
received their invitation, it was only after inquiring at four hotels
that I ran them to earth.
Calais is feeling very thrilled at her own importance, for the enemy
are bombing her with a vigour that marks her as a foe worthy of
attention.
The attitude of the French towards the Belgians, whose headquarters lie
here, is less enthusiastic than ours; indeed, one might safely say it
is one of mistrust. England opened her arms not to the true Belgians
alone, that little gallant army to whose valour we owe so much, but,
for their sake, indiscriminately to the hordes of German spies who came
over with the first influx of refugees, to the dregs of humanity who
were let loose when the cosmopolitan prison doors were thrown open.
France was wiser. Hospitality, she said, is all very well, but _first_
of all we will sift our guests and discover which of them are
deserving. And sifting them she is, allotting them freedom in their own
sphere, but not freedom to circulate in the zone of other armies. Not
that France for a moment belittles or undervalues the achievement of
that valiant little country or its heroic King, but she realises--as do
most Belgians themselves--the danger attendant upon this promiscuous
harbouring of unregistered adults whose political leanings may be
entirely alien.
In due course, no doubt, when our paroxysm of Belgian mania dies, we
too shall come to see the wisdom of this measure.
_January 9th._ We are now beginning to receive Christmas packages sent
out from home some six weeks back, which, owing to lack of sorters
to attend to them, have been held up at Havre. Hitherto, the postal
arrangements have been most primitive and as surprising as they were
vague. Some letters and packages would arrive by the French post, some
via the Red Cross service, and yet others by the military mail from
Havre. A missive might take anything from three days to four weeks on
its way from home.
But now we are less cut off from civilisation, and not only letters
but papers as well arrive regularly; and perhaps the most welcome sound
of the day is the newsboys' cry as they run along the quay or dart into
hotels and hospitals with lightning-like rapidity, heralding their
arrival with shouts of "_Dailee Mai-il! Mirreure! Times!_"
To-day Major X---- asked me to run a canteen for his men, whose lot,
too far from the town to be able to enjoy the shops, is far from
enviable. True to the principle of doing _anything_ that is needed, I
am off home to get the stores together.
_January 14th._ The five days' "furlough" have passed as a dream, and
it was with a sigh of infinite relief that I stepped once more on to
French soil.
The extraordinary "let's-muddle-along-it-can't-last-for-ever" attitude
at home is distinctly depressing, and the fact that half of the people
are quite content to let others do their job whilst they look on with
an amused smile and reap the benefit of the shortage of men makes one
long to see them well "strafed."
As I sat in the theatre beside an old friend, now an enthusiastic
captain in K.'s Army, and thought how soon the brave fellow would be
facing the Reality of what he enjoys now so thoroughly as a Theory, and
listened to the cheap patriotism of the show, it seemed the cheaper for
the lack of action.
Why, after all, should our beautiful island be left with the unfit,
the loafers, the "funks" as fathers for the future generations? In
every other country the army is representative, not of the pick of the
land, but of the average male population. We, however, seem bent on
committing race suicide.
But as the old familiar quay hove in sight my spirits rose. Here, after
all, lies work that must be done. It is the Real Thing.
If my leave has been short it has been pregnant with interest. The
personal side centred itself on the lost trunk, containing all my
worldly possessions in the way of wearing apparel, which was sent out
in November and has failed to arrive. Scotland Yard have traced it as
far as Boulogne, they say. I drew their attention to the wonderful No
Man's Land that reigns where all luggage is dumped on the quay.
Once off the boat the English liability ceases, and so, as the French
will take no responsibility, the goods lie there until someone, usually
_not_ the rightful owner, helps himself.
Thus when a box addressed: "Captain Y----, Xth Regiment--Fur Coat--to
be delivered immediately," that has lain for three weeks in the rain,
disappears at _last_, one may be quite safe in assuming that the same
fur coat will be fetching a good price on the Paris market a few days
hence.
The second and more important interest is the canteen.
Just as the control of all cars and hospitals has been now taken over
definitely by the War Office, surely even so small a thing as canteen
work should all be under one organisation. The Y.M.C.A., it appears,
have a recreation hut for the men at the convalescent camp and a big
hut on the quay.
To the Y.M.C.A., then, let our energies be dedicated! For they are
a coming factor in the scheme of things, and individual enterprise,
gratifying and profitable though it may be to the individual, is hardly
_pro bono publico_.
_January 15th._ There are hours when one would love a little
solitude--the solitude that is, after all, as necessary for well-being
as food and rest; hours when the time to digest and sift the manifold
occurrences of the day, the presence of a congenial friend to replace
the many acquaintances with whom circumstances have herded us together,
and a browse over a favourite poet, would be very welcome. Yet, in
truth, poetry no longer matters, art no longer matters, music no longer
matters to most of us; nothing _really_ matters save life and death
and the end of this carnage. Nor will the old régime, the old art, the
old literature ever again satisfy those who have seen red and faced
life shorn of its trappings of superficiality and conventions. Yet in
spite of the fact that all around us we see butchery and the degrading
results of Germany's peculiar _kultur_, in spite of the fact that the
spiritual side of life has been--is still--so utterly dormant as to be
almost a thing of another existence, on the whole an attitude of great
enthusiasm and gratitude prevails for the privilege of being able to
work.
_January 18th._ My first glimpse at a canteen!
[Illustration: THE FIRST HUT AT THE BASE]
Let me describe the scene as we entered to find a long queue of
shivering Tommies waiting. The long "hut," at the end of which, on a
platform, the piano tinkles incessantly, seemed smaller by reason of
the many chairs and forms.
The counter, on the clearing of which our attention was turned first,
like the tables, is covered with red-and-white check oilcloth, which
facilitates the swabbing up of the ever crowded place.
Behind the counter are tables, on which, in between serving the men, we
busy ourselves with the preparation of cocoa, the cutting up of cakes
and bread, an occupation which I discover to be as much a science as an
art.
In the little kitchen the great struggle is to get water boiling in
time, and to keep it boiling, in response to the demand. The difficulty
at the counter is to keep tea and coffee hot without letting them stew.
At one end we take it in turns to take money and to dole out tickets,
which are exchanged for goods at the counter. The advantages of the
ticket system are mostly noticeable during a "rush," when it diverts
the stream of men and obviates the necessity of serving food with
coin-soiled hands.
One must, it seems, keep as little as possible on the counter, for fear
of tempting Providence and the impecunious! But a wonderful medley of
tobacco, soap, bootlaces, chocolate, etc., is displayed on shelves at
the back.
Here the men can write home on paper supplied free by the Y.M.C.A. (A
big notice on the wall reminds them to "Write home now.") They can read
(a small library, which my fingers are itching to catalogue, lies at
the end of the building); they can bank here, and play games, and get
advice on all problems, mental and moral.
The value of the work can best be estimated by the men's appreciation
of it in their letters home, their continual inquiries after similar
institutions "up the line," their sorrow when they hear: "No, we're not
up there yet--but shall be soon."
The workers consist of Y.M.C.A. secretaries, mostly Nonconformist
ministers, and volunteer ladies who wander on duty when the spirit
moves them, which sometimes necessitates one shift going without its
meals.
A pleasant little music teacher, who is spending her holiday out here,
and is useful for organising concerts, accompanying the men, etc.,
initiated me into the work. The rest of the "staff" consists of a
French girl, to cook the secretaries' meals, and a half-witted man,
supposed to tend the fires, help with the washing up, etc., but who is
invariably inspired to play hymns just when most needed.
_January 25th._ A naval battle off the Dogger Bank is reported,
which reminds me of the letters I receive from a naval friend, whose
life on board the ---- is spent patrolling the North Sea and longing
for action. How different from the fighting friends one runs into
occasionally! The other day I came across one who was down with a
touch of tonsilitis, having passed through Mons and every big battle
that succeeded it unscathed. "I shouldn't at all mind going home with
a smashed arm!" he remarked with an almost involuntary sigh, gazing
wistfully at the hospital ship as she sailed majestically out of
harbour, her gleaming red cross casting weird lights on the dark water.
_January 28th._ There are times when one is unkind enough to wish one's
co-workers the discipline of three months as junior probationer in a
large hospital. Last night I arrived to find myself the only worker,
and although I enjoyed the rush right enough, it was impossible to get
things done to time, and many of the men had to go away unserved.
The methylated spirit ran out, and so demobilised the services of the
Primus stoves. The secretary had a bad headache, and was therefore only
able to sit at the till, and the odd man was inspired to make night
hideous with his discordant hymns, and, having had a tiff with one of
the ladies earlier in the day, refused to do a stroke of work. It was
a particularly busy night, never less than a hundred men in the hut, I
should say, and ten o'clock found me still washing up cups with the aid
of a little chauffeur whose vehicle had gone wrong! _Faute de mieux_ he
accompanied me along the roughest part of the quay, where one is apt to
be molested by the drunken navvies who reel about at night.
_January 30th._ Wish hard enough and it shall be given unto you!
Yesterday was a day of joy, for in it I found a real girl friend of my
own age and kind.
She appeared on the scene one morning like a breath of fresh air, this
young American.
"What are _you_ doing over here?" I asked. "Come to see the war?"
"Guess you're about right," she replied, with an accent you could cut
with a knife. "Nothing else would have dragged me away from God's own
country!"
_January 31st._ The old order changeth--even in Boulogne! In less than
a week the Red Cross will be installed at the C----, where once was the
Allied Forces Base Hospital. In less than a week all Red Cross cars
come under direct supervision of the A.S.C.
To-day the Red Cross sisters at the Gare Maritime (No. ---- Stationary
Hospital) have received their _congé_, even those "original six" who
built it up, being superseded by Army nurses.
Most of the nurses I know have dispersed, many to St. Omer, where in
a big monastery hospital they are stamping out enteric amongst the
civilian population in order to safeguard our men. Miss A---- has gone
to L----, where, from Dr. Le Page's hospital, she writes of wonderful
surgical work.
I too would be glad of a new sphere of action, for I am lost in
amazement at the sea of petty jealousies. Where is the unity of purpose
that bound us all together in the beginning? Is disunion the outcome
of overwrought nerves? Even at the hut discord reigns.
The lady in charge dislikes both the music teacher and the American
girl, who in turn live at daggers drawn with the respective people of
their respective parties and are envious of each other. And yet they
one and all are extremely nice folk. One must attribute it to some
especially puissant sprite and to Pandora's carelessness!