April, 1915
_April 1st._ In spite of the difficulties of getting teams together,
the football league has flourished, and to-day we had the great final
match between Australians and the A.S.C., for which, at a few hours'
notice, aided by a solitary car, we managed to give a fairly successful
tea.
Thanks to the football and the various other "tournaments," the canteen
is becoming quite an important factor of the little colony out here. We
find that draught, chess and billiard tournaments draw the men (who are
apt to be "cliquy" and shy of each other) together more than anything
else, whilst French lessons--held by a poor little Belgian soldier,
himself far from fluent in the language--prove a tremendous attraction,
and serve the additional purpose of adding a moiety to his minute
income.
We have moved on to the premises in order to be better able to attend
to our "relatives," as they have a way of turning up at ten at night,
quite exhausted with the novelty of their experience. To be honest,
the interest of their journey seems to a great extent to mitigate the
bitterness of their loss or the sadness of their visit.
"Law bless us, Miss, what a lot we shall 'ave to tell 'em at 'ome,
which we shouldn't 'ave 'ad if our dear Bill 'adn't died for 'is
country!" said a Manchester washerwoman to-day.
We are a strange party at meals, for most of them have never seen a
tablecloth nor slept between sheets before, and their wonderment can be
well gauged.
It is surprising how often one comes across Nature's gentlemen; one
is ashamed at not having had time to see them in ordinary life. A
cab-driver from "Edinbury" is here to-day, who, in spite of the fact
that he had never before been outside his native town, has manners that
would grace a king.
_April 8th._ One is not always fortunate in one's companions out here,
but, having no choice in the matter, is fain to make the best of them.
I don't think I have described our various workers. There is, for
instance, the short, drab-looking type of woman who gives one the
impression that she is capable only of practical things--a model
housewife and cook--but who, on further acquaintance, affords some food
for comment; for, alas! her distrait little brain is eternally going
off at a tangent; she has neither method nor common sense. If there is
a tactless thing to be said, she will say it. If there is a foolish
thing to be done, she will do it. To-day, to our horror, one of these,
for instance, turned to an old man from Derbyshire--who was out to see
a son dying of spotted fever--just as he was taking his departure.
"By the way," she said, "if you find anyone at home whose son is dying
out here, _do_ tell them that it is such a pretty cemetery and so well
cared for...."
I need say no more.
At every inconvenient moment she tells one anecdotes of her family
history--how her daughters have bought a white rabbit, how her second
husband committed suicide (we are not surprised!), how a third cousin
has been mentioned in dispatches.
She alternately adopts a _de haut en bas_ tone towards the men and
informs them that she is an officer's widow and has never done any
work before, or tries to claim kinship with the enlisted navvy because
he is John Smith and she has a connection of the same name.
Is it to be wondered that there is sometimes friction? We have had a
trying time recently, and have come to the conclusion that what one
does not learn of petty jealousy and feminine hate out here is not
worth learning! And the genus "official enemy"--unknown, hitherto, to
me--is quite common. It consists of people who want one's job, or one's
friends, or anything else one has; but, most of all, they want one out
of the country and out of the way.
To keep our judgment unbiased we have conned Kipling's wonderful "If"
and find some measure of comfort in murmuring, as we fall asleep:
"_If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs
and blaming it on you--
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, yet make
allowance for their doubting, too--
If you can wait--and not be tired by waiting or being lied
about, don't deal in lies--
Or being hated, don't give way to hating--and yet not look too
good nor talk too wise._"
We have had quite a number of minor worries, too, which culminated this
evening, when, our last bucketful of coal, borrowed from a friendly
hospital, having been exhausted, it was found impossible to obtain
more than half a litre of methylated spirits (with which we had hoped
to carry on our work by means of Primus stoves) from anywhere. For the
first time not only hot dishes had to be abandoned, the pancakes and
fried fish which the men like so well, but even the hot drinks, which
we endeavoured to replace by lukewarm lemonade made from the remnants
of our boiled water. Heaven alone knows from where we shall get our
coal to-morrow, for the shortage seems to be getting worse. If only
the people at home would realise what it means out here, and cease
striking! When things had settled down and the place was closed, I felt
a blow of fresh air was imperative, for the vitiated atmosphere of the
rooms is choking and we have no time to walk by day.
As we slipped outside, Captain M---- passed. "What on earth are you
doing here?" he asked. I replied that we had been breathing Woodbine
fumes for twelve solid hours, and had come out to get some air.
"Take care not to be run in by the sentries," he said. "I will
accompany you if I may, for safety's sake." It is true we are bounded
by sentries north, south, east and west.
We walked briskly to the beach, where a full moon lit up the sea,
forming what looked like a broad path straight up to heaven.
We were laughing over the tale of the immortal Dr. Spooner who
concluded one of his sermons with the words: "And now, dear friends, I
must draw to a close, for I see I am already addressing beery wenches!"
when Captain M----, asking "May I smoke?" proceeded to light his pipe,
or _try_ to do so, for each time he lit a match the breeze put it out.
Whilst he retired to light it by the rocks someone quoted another
Spoonerism--when to a negligent student he said: "You have hissed all
my mystery lessons and tasted half a worm!"
Laughing and all but forgetting our weariness, we turned to go home.
In the distance we discerned figures coming towards us--steadily and
from all sides.
"Strange!" said someone. "The beach seemed deserted enough when we
came."
"Why, it's gendarmes!" I cried.
And sure enough it was, and they were advancing, rifles cocked and
loaded.
They came straight up to us and halted four paces away, just as we were
debating whether to run away or trust to luck that our escort could
protect us.
In a stentorian voice the leader exclaimed accusingly: "You lit three
matches."
No one denied it, and on Captain M---- parleying with them, it
transpired that under martial law the beach and cliffs are entirely
forbidden precincts after sundown.
On discovering who we were they owned that they had seriously debated
the advisability of shooting us from the cliffs, and would certainly
have done so had we turned tail and fled!
Insignificant though the incident is, it serves to show how efficiently
our Allies guard their coast, how thorough and quick they are in their
methods, and how little they leave to chance, even at a hospital base.
_April 22nd._ It has been impossible to write. We have been working
sixteen to eighteen, even twenty, hours per day. The rush of troops
that preceded and succeeded the British success at Hill 60 has broken
up most of the camp workers, so that we have taken to rising at 4 A.M.,
motoring to the camp in the car now devoted to the "relatives," and
turning our hands at other people's jobs before it is time to begin our
own.
Camp work is different from anything in the world. The crowd is
such that it is impossible (with our limited number of workers and
insufficient equipment) to keep supplies equal to demand.
After an hour spent in handing out field service post cards (which
is all the men may send home from here) one is dizzy from the crowd.
Twenty thousand cards disappear in less time than it takes to tell,
although each man is in reality only allowed one.
They will come up time after time pleading for a second. "I've a wife
_and_ a mother," says one; while the wilier will ask: "Can I have a
second for the company sergeant-major, who is outside the tent?"
"What, the _same_ company sergeant-major?" I inquired, after the
twentieth application of this kind.
If you are cutting up loaves or buttering bread you become breathless
in your haste as the many hungry eyes gaze eagerly at the food.
Many of the men have gone foodless since they embarked, ten hours
ago, and some, who have eaten, have been so sea-sick as to be quite
collapsed. They are alternately full of anticipation and trepidation
about the Great Unknown, and a quiet "It isn't nearly as bad as it was
at the beginning" sends many of them away more reassured.
The turf inside the tent is an odd mixture of slush where the rain
beats in, and almost concrete mud where the trampling is worst. It has
been found necessary to put up a barrier by the "counter," which is
made of empty packing-cases, but often, where the crowd is greatest, it
literally gets rooted up.
It is hard to say which is the more impressive sight: to arrive at
dawn and watch the shivering figures emerge from their tents, wrapped
in those fine new blankets of theirs, and cluster round our quarters,
held back by the stern arm of the military policeman until six o'clock
announces that we are prepared--or nominally so--for the rush; or to
watch them march off at night.
On Sunday there was a service. The men came running to the tents and
called for their favourite hymns. There were two oil lamps in the
centre, and someone secured a candle for my counter. Never can I
forget that scene--averted eyes, tense set mouths, and rugged faces
with the tears rolling down. Men who had never prayed before prayed
then, for they had the Unknown to face and they knew it. They lifted
the tent with their voices. Then, seeing I was the last English girl
many of them would ever set eyes on, a number came up to shake hands
and say good-bye and "Thank you." Heaven knows for what!
Then we watched them march off. The camp gleamed white in the
moonlight. A crescent moon was over the silver sea, across which the
lights of England were plainly discernible.
By the flare of one great lamp they came up out of the dark, and,
company after company, like a phantom army, passed into the night.
It seemed like a dream. The receding tramp, tramp, tramp, the distant
sound of drums, the deserted tents. And only the lazy flap of the
canvas in the breeze remained to remind us of those heroes who have
gone up to "carry on" the great game.
_April 24th, Sick Ward 21._ What a very beautiful place hospital can
be, viewed from the standpoint of a patient! What matter that legs
are too weak to walk or heads to think? What matter that one's old
vulcanite pen feels like cast iron and runs on by itself?
Here are ministering angels who were once mere nurses. Here are friends
armed with many good things, with irises and kingcups from the fields
and carnations from the south--and newspapers. Yet, alas! the news is
not good. In spite of the Allied landing in Gallipoli that raises our
expectation of a speedy termination of things, the situation on the
Western front is bad. We are now falling back, and the Germans have
started an effective offensive at Ypres. It is dreadful to be able to
do nothing but listen all night long to the tramp of the newly arrived
troops, the sickening sound of the creeping "stretcher cases," to
listen and to pray that all will be well.
_April 29th, Hardelot._ If one were asked to award the palm for good
work during the war, one would not hesitate to say that it was due to
those whose energies are devoted to the sick nurses.
There is none of the glory, none of the kudos, none of the
laurel-wreath interest that rewards those working amongst the men.
Just the steady, dullish daily duties of caring for and tending an
ever-changing stream of weary women! Yet what work can have more
far-reaching influence on the wounded and sick than the fact that the
nursing sisters are strong and fit to cope with their strenuous work?
Here, in the far-away forest of Hardelot, in the beautiful yet simple
house lent by the Duke of Argyll, that, with its distempered white
walls, old oak furniture and bright chintzes, seems a veritable bit of
England, the Red Cross have opened a home where worn-out nurses may
rest and recuperate.
It is like an oasis in this arid land. Lying in the woods on a bank of
luscious pine-needles and green moss, while the birds sing, it seems to
unaccustomed ears almost perfect; and the calm pines lift their stately
heads to the clear blue sky, swaying rhythmically, contentedly, in the
breeze. It is intoxicating.