August, 1915
_August 3rd._ Two Canadian A.M.C. orderlies were grousing that they
hadn't left God's Own Country to sit twiddling their thumbs in
Boulogne. "We volunteered for active service," says one. "Can't you
picture it years hence," says the second. "Your children around you
asking, like the little boy in the picture, 'And what did _you_ do in
the great war, Daddy?' 'Scrubbed floors, my son!'"
They did not grouse in vain. Two days later they were drafted to
Gallipoli, where no doubt they will see all the active service their
brave young souls demand--and a good deal more, perhaps. They must be
magnificent fighters, these Colonials, whose regime allows of their
initiative having full scope.
_August 12th._ Yesterday the mail boat came in accompanied by two
destroyers.
"Royalty is coming," clamoured the French. "Royalty is expected,"
echoed the men. And, having received an intimation three days back that
Royalty was expected, we awaited developments in our best workaday
frocks.
Presentation at their Majesties' Court is a simple matter compared with
the excitement of receiving a Princess in France. I do not wish to
infer that the Princess was anything but her charming Royal self!
It was the long retinue that preceded and succeeded her, the curiosity
of our French friends as to _who_ was coming (curiosity that we in the
know were not permitted to satisfy), the air of breathless expectancy,
that made the visit and inspection a thing to be remembered. And in due
course, the usual formalities being over, the presentations effected,
our handiwork admired, we were left with the King's cheering message to
rejoice the hearts of those of us who are already beginning to feel so
tired and war worn.
"His Majesty sent an especial message to you workers in France, and
desired me to tell you he considers the fine work you are carrying on
so efficiently, of importance second only to that of the men in the
trenches."
It was certainly a sufficient encouragement to "carry on."
_August 13th._ For a long time now we have hankered after some words
to express all the heroism, the practical heroism, manifested around
us. And when some Good Samaritan at home sent out a volume of Rupert
Brooke's poems, it may be imagined how we acclaimed him forerunner of
the poets who shall sing the greatest tragedy of history.
Almost simultaneously appeared the _Times_ supplement of war poems. For
a year now we have lived outside the charmed sphere of books, and these
documents came as a revelation of the depths to which the cataclysm has
moved our singers. We had thought them dumb by reason of its magnitude.
Kipling, we had been told, was "dead," so far as his influence over the
nation went; but _can_ the influence of the man who wrote "For all we
have and are" die whilst his nation endures?
It may not be great poetry, but it is great patriotism.
And then there is the new school of poets who have arisen--new to us,
that is to say--and who we are told may be heard reading their own
poems every week in London in the mystical precincts of the poetry
bookshops.
_August 17th._ We are working single-handed now. That is to say, whilst
one lady is on leave a second is _hors de combat_ with a bad leg, and,
owing to the I.G.O. authorities' stringent regulations by which free
lances (if there are any to be found) may not be pressed into service,
there are only two of us, which makes it hard work.
And at home we hear of huts where the workers are tumbling over each
other for numbers!
Perhaps one of the most interesting figures in this medley of men is a
certain South African veteran, a blind V.C., the value of whose work
amongst the wounded is immeasurable.
I last saw him being led down by a brother officer to the supper-room
after a diplomatic Court at Buckingham Palace. _Then_ all eyes were
turned on him in pity; _now_ one realises that the vast amount
of good that this one man has been able to achieve--cheering on
fellow-sufferers not yet accustomed to their affliction, showing men
how it is possible to build up a new though sightless life--must have
made his own suffering worth while.
The men worship him, and one word of good cheer from him is worth more
than the ministration of a dozen clergymen.
On the whole the visits of the clergy are not hailed with much
enthusiasm, their arrival being often looked upon as an omen of
approaching death at the Base, or, in the firing-line, of a big advance.
_August 23rd._ A French orchestra was playing yesterday afternoon, and
on the cliffs that form the lawns of No. ---- Stationary Hospital were
gathered together to greet the Royal guest the most fashionable crowd
that the Base could produce. The whole scene, but for the white tents
and blue-clad patients, might have been a smart seaside parade, for the
camp commands an exquisite view of Boulogne, Wimereux and the distant
coast of home. Suddenly, with a boom, a spurt of blackened debris, and
a jet of water house-high, a distant boat was seen slowly to heel over
and turn turtle.
Some attributed the cause to a floating mine, others to an ill-judged
practice gun; but as the mail boat has neither come in nor gone out,
as everyone is full of the sinking of the _Arabic_, we begin to believe
the worst rumours--that a German submarine has at last got through into
the Channel.
Later on, at an official dinner, the truth had not yet been fathomed.
That dinner is, perhaps, worthy of note, as for the first time we heard
our Indian colleagues' views on the European upheaval.
Having exhausted my conversational powers with my dinner partner--a
brawny Yorkshireman in a violent check suit and correspondingly odd
accent, whose conversation for the most part consisted in repeatedly
and dolefully asking if I knew what was the rate of exchange for the
day (for the edification of posterity, be it noted, it is 27 francs 50
centimes)--I turned my attention to the native Christian Indian on my
right. He was by no means lacking in topics of interest, chief amongst
them being the effects of war upon India of the future. He spoke with
the assurance of a man of education, being a barrister, and seemed to
think that the broadening effect of their sojourn in Europe will be
counteracted by the native adoption of Western vices.
An interesting fact to note is the total paralysation of all religious
propagandist movements amongst the Indians. The work of the Y.M.C.A.
amongst the natives at the moment is entirely non-religious. The
secretaries act as interpreters, letter-writers, entertainers; they
have evolved a wonderful system for keeping the men in touch with their
kinsfolk--but any proselytising is strictly barred by the Army.
Not by even so much as the use of Y.M.C.A. notepaper--that might lead
the natives at home to suspect their warriors of being influenced--is
this verdict waived.
Nevertheless, it seems that the Indians have come to look upon the
Association as "both father and mother," to use my informant's phrase,
and turn to it for assistance in most peculiar matters. Said a Sikh to
a local secretary to-day:
"Sahib, you go into town?"
"Yes."
"Sahib, I have one want."
"What is it?"
"Sahib, will you buy me two new teeth?"
_August 30th._ To counteract our little success at Hooge there is the
news of the fall of Warsaw, of Ivangorod, and Brest Litovsk; while in
Gallipoli a new landing at Suvla Bay and General Birdwood's advance at
Anzac brings us such a list of casualties that we can only hope the
venture is worth the cost.
Where, I wonder, is the crushing success Mr. Winston Churchill promised
us, for which people at home were preparing to hang out their flags?