December, 1915
_December 2nd._ Each honours list brings us greater surprises than the
last, for it seems that a man who runs a military grocer's shop at the
Base in perfect security is far more likely to reap a reward than a man
risking his life daily in all the discomfort of the trenches!
We have been convulsed with laughter lately by the antics of a little
chauffeur, erstwhile jockey, whose reckless driving has for some time
been the talk of the place. He has long evaded the arm of the law, but
the other night, very unwisely, knocked down an important French Staff
Officer in the middle of a country road.
"'Op in, and I'll give yer a lift," said the jockey in his most Cockney
accent, with a jerk of the thumb towards the car, as he handed the
French officer a two-franc piece to hold his tongue!
_December 3rd._ The French people often come to us with demands for
contraband goods. "Will we sell them just a _little_ tea, as it is so
expensive in France? Or cigarettes--just a few packets of Woodbines? Or
some matches, as theirs, being a Government monopoly, are both dearer
and of an inferior quality?"
All these little favours we have regretfully to refuse, explaining
that it would be a breach of faith with the French Government, whose
kindness permits goods for the British Forces to come in untaxed and
under bond, but who would not for a moment tolerate the abuse of this
privilege.
But the R.A.M.C. have many opportunities of rendering little services
to the civilian war sufferers.
The confidence in khaki felt by the French population is extraordinary
and highly complimentary. If a child sprains an ankle or cuts his hand
he will go to the first man in khaki for help, be he orderly or medical
officer; and owing to the scarcity of French doctors, medical etiquette
is waived for the time being, and our R.A.M.C. does wonderfully good
work amongst the poor.
To-day our maid--"the little savage"--dropped a heavy window on her
hand. It was badly contused, but she was more frightened than hurt, and
cried unceasingly. Whilst I was donning a hat and coat to take her to
the doctor she disappeared, much to my astonishment.
Half an hour later she turned up, all smiles.
"I was afraid Mademoiselle might take me to a French doctor," she said,
brandishing a bottle of lead lotion triumphantly, "so I went along to
the big hospital that smells so strongly of good disinfectant!"
_December 20th._ Our days are busy preparing for our invitation
Christmas tea, which, by the way, is to be postponed until New Year's
Day, owing to the amount of festivities and work in the hospitals; but
our interest is focused on affairs in Macedonia, the fall of Monastir,
General Townshend's retreat to Kut-el-Amara, Sir John French's
retirement from command in France, and, last of all, the withdrawal
from Anzac and Suvla Bay.
_December 26th._ On Christmas Day we were occupied in decorating the
building, whilst the men, true to their long-anticipated licence (for
to-day restrictions are relaxed), grew very merry over their dinners,
supplemented by unlimited beer. With what results, it were perhaps
indiscreet to mention! But hilarious visits from various groups of
the prospective artists at hospital concerts, clad in their make-up of
mufti and rakish top-hats, with a gait far from steady, make us wonder
how much of the afternoon's programme will perforce have to be omitted!
_December 30th._ Our Sunday evening services are more enthusiastically
attended since we organised a male voice choir, with our best pianist
as president, and an erstwhile Sheffield photographer, who has sung
at the musical festivals, as vice. Quite a number of undreamt-of
denominations are drawn together by the bond of music.
One might almost classify music over here under three
heads--extemporary, local, and imported; and it is not until one has
stood in a crowded hall, or seen the enthusiastic reception accorded to
every effort in that direction, that one realises the large rôle music
plays in the existence of the average Briton, usually accredited with
lack of artistic appreciation.
Some there are whose hunger for music is such that, all untutored in
the art of playing, they are constrained to sit down to any tin kettle
of a piano in a vain attempt to pick out some well-loved melody with
one finger for hours at a time. At these moments the listeners are not
altogether sorry that half the notes have grown dumb from disuse and
dampness!
I wonder if there is anything in all billet, trench or Base existence
to equal an extemporary concert? Whether the means at hand consist of
a penny whistle and comb, a number of lusty voices, or the now almost
obsolete Made-in-Germany mouth-organ, it matters not.
Invariably a leader of men arises (usually a pianist), and as
invariably he shows a genius for discovering local talent. Maybe he
has heard a pal engaged in trench-digging whistle an air from the
"Messiah," maybe a deep voice bellows a few notes of "Till the Boys
Come Home." As sure as he is there, the leader will collect his
material for an impromptu "sing-song."
Then the fun begins. Private Jones, the silent, is discovered to be
the possessor of a magnificent tenor voice, whilst Corporal Rawlinson,
whose buffoonery is the joy of his company, displays extraordinary
aptitude for comic songs and anecdotes, or a newly joined recruit,
hitherto dubbed "Snowball" on account of his pallor, is discovered to
have been a professional clog-dancer in pre-war days.
The leader realises that here is material for a really good Christmas
concert to which every C.O. in the vicinity may be invited with
impunity. "A pantomime," someone suggests, and a pantomime is evolved.
Solos, duets, choruses, all original, are worked up to a perfection
that is incredible, and the neighbourhood is invited to "the Christmas
Pantomime in Three Spasms," for which "carriages and stretchers" are to
be ordered at nine o'clock.
At least, this is how the sergeant responsible for our splendid
Christmas pantomime tells me it originated. Costumiers and wigmakers
from home "come up to the scratch," as the men have it, and supply not
only complete suits for Robinson Crusoe, Man Friday, Dick Whittington,
and Fair Damsels, but make-ups for clowns and harlequins and all the
other paraphernalia of pantomime.
Topical allusions and catchwords are the joy of the audience for many
days to come, and in the intervals of the performance Sergeant Topham,
as a coon, gives humorous anecdotes, and Sapper Hall sings solos, of
which the refrains as a chorus are encored at least a dozen times.
It isn't very great music, but, as one who has heard most of the great
music in most of the great capitals, I should like to state that there
is no more impressive thing in the world than an old barn or outhouse
"somewhere in Flanders," filled with men whose voices threaten to bring
down what remains of the roof for very lustiness. It may be a hymn,
it may be an old melody with modern ribald words, it is the primitive
method primitive man employed in primæval times, of self-expression.
And if Britons do not compose complicated "'Ymns of 'Ate," they do at
least put into their "Tipperary" all the passion of love and patriotism
and determination that otherwise, from sheer natural reserve, must
remain unexpressed.
Of local talent there is much to say. Since the time of the
_troubadours_ and _trouvères_ the fame of the French _chansons_ has
spread abroad, nor has the stress of war lessened our Allies' hold on
the greatest of arts. Even now it is not hard to get together a number
of musical souls to form a miniature orchestra to enliven dreary days.
The appearance of the band is apt to surprise one. The 'cellist, in
private's uniform, has to be back in barracks by nine, he informs one;
the first violin, a minute boy of twelve years old, with a couple of
half-smoked cigarettes tucked behind his ears, casts his eyes longingly
on whatever food is near. He is at a local school of music, and works
so hard that he has little or no time to eat, he explains. The pianist
is a bearded veteran whose six sons are fighting. He was once the _chef
d'orchestre_ at the one and only first-rate hotel, which is now full
of wounded. An officer in the reserve plays the viola; he was a barber
by profession, and picked up his music from an artist sister. Strange
and diverse characters, they are all drawn together by the bonds of
their art, and once they begin to play with all the finesse, all the
charm and taste of their race, the incongruity of their appearance is
forgotten. Nor is it necessary to say that the appreciation accorded by
their khakied Allies is of unparalleled enthusiasm.
I do not remember ever to have heard anything more haunting than a
"Marche des Estropiés," written by a wounded Frenchman as he lay in
hospital and inspired by the ceaseless stream of lame and limping
figures that hobbled past his window. It was a true sample of local
talent that bordered on genius.
We had had a concert in a big wooden canteen hut, and for two hours the
Frenchmen had entertained their Allies by a series of popular tunes.
They did not attempt to hide their contempt at the fact that rag-times
were more favourably received than chamber music, but they played them
with a right good will nevertheless.
Martial law decreed lights out at nine o'clock, and at nine o'clock the
men trooped out. Darkness reigned. Outside the rain beat down drearily
on to the mud-bathed road, above which sound an occasional booming of
distant guns was audible.
Someone said:
"Can't we have some _music_ now?"
The _chef d'orchestre_ understood and smiled.
By the light of two candles the four musicians began to play. Their
repertoire was big--they did not need to call upon Hun music; they
played "Manon" and the haunting Slav music, and Italian things that
breathed sunshine and joy, and "Sappho."
For fear of the military police we blocked up every crack of the
windows. Then, sobbing above the sound of the elements, rose the wail
of the "Marche des Estropiés," till every corner of the darkened hall
seemed flooded with light, and the soul of the most dead materialist
was reborn.
"My son composed it," said the bearded old man, who alternately
conducted as first violin and acted as pianist, simply, as the last
long-drawn note died into the stillness. "And he is in the trenches."
It was only afterwards, when they had gone and the windows were
unbarred and the incessant patter of the rain made the desolation of it
all more awful than before, that we realised how we had hungered for
music, and blessed the local talent that had lifted us for so short a
time out of our weary and narrow rut.
Of imported music, one can only state that if it is to be imported
from home, no matter what its quality or quantity, it will be greeted
uproariously.
Great and small are welcomed alike. From the celebrated oratorio
singers and rag-time kings to the obscure little girl who offers her
services on the score of her promising soprano voice, no one goes away
disappointed with their reception. We show no favouritism! The artists
themselves confess that the bad acoustic properties of the ward hastily
converted into a concert hall, the less boisterous yet none the less
hearty applause, the small audience, necessitated by the beds and
stretchers, all are compensated for by the gleam of happiness in the
eyes of those blue-coated figures, the whispered "It was heaven" from
the boy with the bandaged hand, the hand clasp of the one-armed man.
They find their great reward as much in the feeble applause of the
wounded as in the tumultuous ovation of the fighting men, or a hall
crammed full of white-capped nurses.
A notice announcing the advent of a concert party from "Blighty" is one
of the "thrills" of Front and Base existence. Everyone flocks to hear
it, and the debt owed to the association whose generosity has made it
possible for every Base, and a good many places "Further up the line"
than the Base, to enjoy regularly these Lena Ashwell Concert Parties,
which are one of the most civilising elements of life out here, can
never be repaid.
To be kept in touch with the latest songs, the latest train of thought
from home; to see, after months of the same war-worn faces and
well-known uniforms, daintily-clad artists whose every movement bears
a breath of home; to hear, after the eternal reiteration of the local
favourites' small repertoire, new music, new voices, it borders on an
earthly Paradise.
And, of course, the artists cater for the tastes of their different
audiences, and never forget Mr. Thomas Atkins's love of hearing his
own voice. Anything in which he can join rejoices his heart, and a
valse tune played by a mediocre 'cellist, to which the men are asked to
whistle, often receives an ovation infinitely superior to that accorded
to a famous singer's rendering of old folk-songs, much to the concert
director's surprise.
But then the valse was one that brought memories of home and twilight
evenings spent with loved ones over the piano, or maybe visions of some
irresponsible ball-room mood that our generation will never know again,
and though it wasn't Great Music it went straight to the hearts of the
hearers.
And so, no doubt, one day, when War no longer holds us in its grip, we
shall hearken spellbound to the strain of some melody that our local
band of tin whistles and combs used to play, and mayhap with the divine
discontent of humanity, we shall sigh softly for the good old days of
France, bully beef and tin whistles.
BOOK III
1916
Scrapped
CHAPTER XVI
January, 1916
_January 1st, 1916._ Each New Year's Day one wonders afresh at the
oddness of commencing the year in January, cold January, when all
the world is engrossed in recovering from Christmas benevolence and
bracing itself to hustle through the days with the minimum amount of
cold, instead of Nature's New Year in April. January, this month of
surprises, with its rain and sunshine, sleet and mists, its promises of
rest soon to be found, is surely already a hoary old man with a life
of infinite experience behind him, a month for achieving and not for
beginning things.
At least, this is how we felt when the New Year's festivities, over
which we had taken such trouble, commenced. Our tables, plentifully
laid out with fruits, bonbons and crackers, the gifts of friends at
home as well as those here, betokened rather Christmas than New Year
gaieties.
If our decorations of green garlands, mistletoe, holly and ribbons
were more elegant than effective, they were, at any rate, appreciated,
judging by our guests' criticism as they waited in a queue for the
doors to open.
Throughout the tea, which kept us well occupied as, cans in hand, we
filled and refilled cups, a first-rate volunteer concert party kept the
room in roars of laughter.
Some A.S.C. officers (professionals in peace time) were especially
clever in patter songs, and delight was unbounded when one of them,
unrecognisable in a motley selection of our garments and a gorgeous
wig, in which he impersonated a "flapper," moved coyly among the
audience and, willing or unwilling, embraced all within his reach,
singing in a high falsetto, "You made me love you."
For those unable to come to the early tea we hastily prepared a second
spread for eight o'clock, during which time a local French orchestra
played popular selections.
Thus, with much festivity, by which we hoped to make a slight break
in the monotony of "this Base existence," ended New Year's Day, 1916.
Successful though it was, to me at least there was a certain tinge of
sadness, for it is impossible any longer to conceal the fact that,
owing to failing health, my days of work are numbered.
To be "scrapped" like the Ford cars, to return home a derelict, a Rip
van Winkle, is no pleasing prospect; but--_che sarà, sarà_. We are all
fatalists now, like the men in the trenches.
Nor is the passing of so many familiar faces altogether a pleasing
thing to contemplate, whilst the psychology of new arrivals leaves
us marvelling. Did _we_ ever thrill at the sight of a crowded camp,
a convoy, or feel an odd sensation of pride at the sight of the
khaki-crammed rooms in the early days of our apprenticeship? Were we
inspired to write long descriptions of "The Front"--as they insist on
calling the Base--and of War?
Every now and then one feels tempted to say, "War? What do _you_ know
of war?
"Have _you_ seen men as they came down from the Front during the first
mad months, primitive, demented, at their last gasp, ready to face
death in any form rather than the hellish uncertainty they had just
left? Have _you_ heard the groans of the wounded, seen arms rotting off
and legs smashed to pieces, and dressed black gaping holes in young
boys' sides? Have _you_ seen faces blown beyond recognition--faces
eyeless, noseless, jawless, and heads that were only half heads?
"Have _you_ stood by the dying and watched them in their last agonies,
writhing with tetanus, and prayed God to give a speedy release from
their sufferings?
"Have _you_ been round the cold, extemporised wards and covered up
countless restless forms on their pallets, smelt the smell of the
mud-caked coats that were their pillows, soothed their coughs with what
there was left of tinned milk, hearkening as they cried aloud in their
sleep:
"'Great Lord Jesus, help us!'
"Men who had probably not prayed since their childhood, men who had
probably scoffed at the idea of God--have _you_ heard them live through
their battles again in their slumber or under anæsthetics? 'Get at 'em,
lads--now's your last chance--give it 'em 'ot--ah! ah!'
"Have _you_ removed clothes and boots from helpless limbs caked on
by seven weeks' mud and overrun with vermin? Have _you_ seen forever
nameless enemy corpses washed and carried out to the mortuary, and,
enemy though they were, because of their youth, wished that you could
tell their mothers you had done your best?
"When you have seen this--which you never can see, for this was
'In the beginning,' and now the great System is prepared for every
emergency--and not before, will you know what modern warfare means."
Yet it is all something one would not have missed, although no sane
person would face it a second time; for, as an American said recently:
"Those who have not participated in this war will be for ever lacking
in something which is not to be recaptured later."
_January 5th._ Not only did a Taube honour us with a visit to-day, but
it actually deigned to drop a bomb or two and succeeded in killing a
few women and children, though not a single man, just outside one of
our huts. After an exciting chase it was brought down, we are told, off
Calais; though exactly the object of the visit no one can imagine.
_January 15th._ In the evening the Gymkhana finals and prize-giving
took place. It is surprising what an amount of sport can be found in an
indoor affair of this sort.
True, it needs someone with a strong personality to organise, but
such a personality is in our midst at the moment in the person of
the Rev. Dr. F----, denomination unknown, but humour and strength of
character undeniable. In spite of the fact that he acts as Master of
Ceremonies, clad in a ludicrous medley of garments, khaki breeches,
brown fisherman's blouse, canvas slippers that convert him into a
true "Simplicitas," he is never for a moment lacking in the dignity
necessary to a _Maître de Cérémonies_.
The greatest zeal is shown in participation of the different
sports--the wheelbarrow race, the cock fight, hat-trimming competition,
potato race, the spar pillow fight, for which an odd contrivance of
wood has been erected over a buffer of mattresses, and other items of
the varied programme.
Most fun was perhaps found in the shaving race, in which the palm was
awarded to the man who shaved his victim most cleanly and quickly with
the handle of a teaspoon.
_January 24th, Dawn._ It was about eight o'clock yesterday that the
first alarm was given. In the stillness of the serene night the church
bell began to toll; simultaneously the sound of whistles rent the
air. Thinking it must be the military policemen on their nocturnal
hunt for delinquents not yet in barracks, I put my head into a
neighbouring café to drop a suggestive word of warning to two unwary
sergeants lingering over their glasses of beer. It was not the military
policemen, however, for from the distance a cry of "Fire!" resounded,
and with the incredible rapidity characteristic of all rumours we
learned that the Enteric Hospital was ablaze.
Guided by the smell of smoke and the dishevelled groups at the
doorways, we found ourselves in the midst of the confusion. From the
lower windows of the building a cloud of black smoke issued. Men on
ladders, hose in hand, had smashed the windows--a fact which merely
served to add fury to the flames.
"Turn the water on!" they cried, and even above the din of the
gesticulating, gabbling crowd came the cry, "Turn the water on!" The
Frenchman to whom the appeal was repeated shrugged his shoulders. He
did not quite understand.
There is no wind; it is a divine night, as calm and clear as midsummer,
with a bright moon looking smilingly on. It can yet be saved, this
wonderful building, whence issue streams of khaki figures readjusting
the respirators they had donned in place of smoke helmets, bearing
with what care they can their precious burdens on beds and stretchers.
A voice beside me said:
"Here, you, take _that_!"
"_That_" proved to be a woman's form which the speaker was carrying
with the aid of a frail-looking little V.A.D., who, from the way she
held the patient, had obviously never been in such a position before.
I gripped the man's hand, with a "Don't strain; lie easy!" to the
patient. We got her into a neighbouring house, where already two or
three other bad cases are installed. Their beds are tilted upwards,
they are clad in their hospital garments only.
"Ah! You're there, Hope," says our burden, as we deposit her in a deep
arm-chair, to the white-faced boy whose bed occupies most of the small
room.
The coincidents of war are strange! It is supposedly from this very
patient that she has contracted the disease.
"Yes, and he's an officer now," came a nurse's reply. "Gazetted to-day.
Did you know?"
They are very cosy and cheerful, and as yet the noise without has not
penetrated the room. We pass out again. The fire is getting under way
now; clouds of black smoke issue from the windows of the first floor,
and flames lick the upper balcony.
Still they cry for more water.
They have moved the patients from the beach to the side streets now.
They lie on the roadway, already soaking in the water which, by reason
of the countless leakages in the hose, fails to arrive anywhere near
the scene of action.
In their eyes is a mute appeal, as a gust of wind hurls a shower of
sparks over their helpless forms. Then a cloud of smoke hides them from
our sight.
"Is anyone left in the building?" is the question on everyone's
lips. A reassuring murmur goes round that no patients are left, and
the firemen, looking strangely grotesque in their respirators, are
now making efforts to save a few of the valuable instruments and
records. Some of them are cut about the face by falling glass. From
the open doors smoke begins to issue, and cries of "Gangway, there!
Gangway!" The hot flames fan one's cheeks. They come in spurts now.
Great fascinating spurts! One surmises which window next, and feels a
ridiculous sensation of pride at being present, coupled with a longing
to do something.
The opportunity comes. Load after load one's hands are filled with
apparently valuable documents. "Officers' Mess," shout the men who
place them there, as one moves off to find an entrance to the building.
On returning the noise is greater than ever. The rescued are being
deposited anywhere--everywhere--wildly--_pêle-mêle_. Red blankets fall
from windows, papers flutter a moment, adding to the general danger,
and get trodden under foot in the mud.
"The left wing is doomed. Can they save the right?"
"Why don't they blow it up to safeguard the adjoining houses?"
Fragments of conversation float from all sides. Everyone has
suggestions to make, but it seems to be no one's business to carry them
out.
One's thoughts fly to those patients on the stretchers, and one wonders
why this must be added to all they have already endured. Many of them
will die of shock. It all seems so unnecessary. And all this time,
silently and with dignity, the electric lights in the right wing of the
great edifice burn on.
What are those old stone walls feeling as their invincible enemy
creeps on? They who have seen so much of the levity of peace time, so
much of the sorrow of war, have come to their end at last. They meet
their fate bravely, unflinchingly, with the fortitude of the captain of
an abandoned ship.
One thinks of all the comedies and tragedies that have been enacted
within these walls, the laughing romances of summer days, the weary
suffering. One recalls the months of valuable research work that have
been carried on in the improvised laboratories--discoveries to benefit
mankind--all may be irrevocably lost.
One thinks of all the things lying there--the little personal
things--the treasures that can never be replaced--the lover's first
gift, the parent's last letter.
* * * * *
The doomed building has been abandoned. The moon gleams red through the
veil of sparks and smoke on to the crowd that has congregated on the
beach. Watching the Ypres-like eddies of flame, one casts a thought at
the surprise of the arrivals on incoming troopships; one wonders if
folks at home, too, are watching the stupendous beacon.
It is all a matter of time now, and the watching is so full of
suspense that the end is anxiously awaited by all. A wind is springing
up with the oncoming sea, endangering the neighbouring buildings, more
especially the adjacent infectious compound composed of carefully
isolated bathing-boxes.
On the roof of each stands an orderly extinguishing the sparks as they
fall by means of buckets of sand and water handed up by the crowd below.
To the horror of fire is added the horror of risk from infection,
as the rudely awakened patients are hurried from their involuntary
isolation. As the roaring flames draw nearer, ambulances reeking of
disinfectants hurry backwards and forwards with their loads.
The flames run on; turning, twirling and twisting, they play round the
glowing beams and iron girders, revelling in their might, licking their
chops, one might almost say, as the dull, uncanny thuds of falling
masonry bring terror to the hearts of the onlookers.
Then a strange thing occurs. Of a sudden the roof falls in with a
crash, dome and eaves, and against the sky stands the flaming skeleton
of the ruin. Simultaneously a great red cross glows for a space of
time on the southern side. And, although it is only a burning window
frame, it seems to us to symbolise the invincibility of that great
universal emblem of mercy--the Red Cross.
_January 25th._ With the dawn we visit the ruins. An uncanny stillness
reigns as the waning moon gleams through the charred framework.
Distorted bedsteads hang by a thread from skeleton balconies, charred
heaps of clothing and paper litter the ground. Isolated beams and
fragments gleam, ghostlike, in the desolate upper stories, shedding
every few moments a thin shower of sparks. A slight wind fans the one
remaining corner into a bright blaze. The thin stream of water is still
being played, by way of precaution, upon the adjoining houses.
A French sentry, leaning wearily on his rifle, guards the approach
on one side, whilst on the other a British Military Policeman has
installed himself upon an empty cask to make the best of his long wait.
Through the cavernous window frames, from gaping cavity to gaping
cavity, heedless of the floors that are no more, the wind passes like
a restless, moaning spirit. All the wonder, all the excitement, all
the glory of its glorious end has passed. There remains only the
smouldering debris, the blackened, unbeauteous bricks, the after-smell
of burnt-out burning.
Later in the day many sightseers began to appear, some even walking
out from the town before their day's work began to verify the reports.
For, needless to say, many were the rumours about the fire which had
reached them, and they were with difficulty persuaded that--a few cuts
and scratches from broken glass excepted--there had not been a single
casualty.
In an existence so _choc-à-bloc_ with meetings and partings as ours,
it is only a few of the better-known faces that remain in our memory.
Yet there came into our hut this morning a man whom we shall not easily
forget! He came with a kindly-faced N.C.O., who explained that they
were "joy-riding." It was, one surmised from his shyness, the patient's
first outing, for he seemed as yet unaccustomed to his disfigurement,
which was, to say the least of it, appalling, and which, by means of
his large muffler and averted head, he made vain efforts to conceal.
Something in the appeal in the eyes of that pallid, crooked face that
may once have been handsome, something of the pathos of that limping,
bent young figure, as he stood by the counter declining the sergeant's
persuasion to take something, with a pathetic gurgle, only just
comprehensible, of, "I can't eat! You _know_ I can't eat," touched us
all particularly.
And to think that this is but one of thousands of cases for ever
haunted by their own hideousness, for ever dependent on others.
Such things as this it is that have wrought us to such a pitch of
indignation that the words are apt to escape our lips, "God strafe
Germany, the author of this devastation!"
CHAPTER XVII
February, 1916
_February 3rd._ To-day we are debating as to whether or not a genuine
spy has been within our grasp and wriggled out again. The sum of the
matter is this:
Boarding a crowded tram on its way into town, we were fain to avoid the
closeness of the over-crowded interior by standing on the conductor's
more airy platform. The conductor himself, an ill-grown little Belgian
_réformé_, seemed pleased enough of company, judging by the avidity
with which he poured forth his sorrows into our sympathetic ears.
Since the fall of Antwerp he has had no word from his young wife, nor
has he been able to get a line through to her to inform her that he
is alive. His terror lest she should wed again before his return was
pathetic.
"_Hélas!_" he kept sighing. "Has not Belgium suffered more than all
countries put together?"
We did not rejoin, as we might well have done, that valiant Belgium's
losses can only be compared with the sum of English lives expended in
maintaining, maybe for sentimental as much as strategical reasons,
that little hell round Ypres that represents all that remains of King
Albert's country; for at about this moment a dark man in some kind of
police uniform joined in the conversation.
He, too, was Belgian, he explained, and in charge of the refugees in
the neighbourhood.
"The French hardly welcome us cordially," he said, "but I do my best to
help the poor creatures whom Fate leads this way."
The conversation drifted to the recent air raid on London.
"I wonder they don't come here," said the conductor.
"On dit qu'il y a trop d'espions!" I remarked simply.
The dark man jumped, and, winking significantly, whispered in my ear:
"One can't talk here. You are in it too?"
Utterly taken aback, I was dumb for a moment. Had I by chance come upon
one of the members of that huge octopus-like system of enemy espionage?
Then, moved by some unaccountable impulse, I nodded knowingly, and
pointed out to sea.
"You know, then?" he asked, nodding in the direction in which I
pointed. "Oui! Après la guerre."
What could he mean? What was I expected to know, to be participating in?
I shall never learn; for at that moment the tram drew up, and with an
unexpectedly hearty handshake and hopes of meeting again soon, this
protector of the Belgians alighted and disappeared into the crowd.
Who could he be? "_Après la guerre_"--what did it mean? I wonder.
_February 6th._ My diary draws to a close. To-day we went for the last
time to the little church on the hill.
What a number of illusions have been dispelled since that October
morning in 1914 when we first crept in late from the hospital, indoor
uniform and all, just as we had come off duty!
The place had been packed then with warriors caked with the mud of
Flanders. How their voices had resounded! For in the hearts of all was
the cherished belief, "It is all too awful. It can't last long."
"Peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away." What a significance
the familiar words had taken on in the unfamiliar surroundings.
And to-day? For congregation a few tired nurses, an odd officer or two,
some civilians over here visiting their wounded and dying.
A service devoid of the burning enthusiasm of other days, a sermon
that did not even mention war, or spur us on to greater efforts, or
vindicate our cause, but dealing with obscure ritual and spiritual
difficulties not likely to waylay most of us.
Undoubtedly our illusions are past. We have learnt our limitations as a
nation; discovered the inherent nobility of many whose capacities had
hitherto lacked opportunity, seen how war brings out the best and the
worst of every character, and noted that at the bed-rock of all men
lies the primitive savage.
The respect we so generously accorded our enemies in the beginning is
replaced by a justifiable contempt for their barbarities. A certain
allowance is made for soldiery fighting under the influence of ration
drugs, but when we read, as we have to-day, of the death of three
hundred Serbians, forced by Germans and Bulgarians to dig their own
graves and then, having bound each other's eyes, await a horrible
massacre, we are no longer justified in our tolerance.
We are up against a foe whose devilish unscrupulousness is only
equalled by scientific cunning. And to combat his ingenuity, to rid the
world of his demoralising degeneracy, every resource of the Empire must
be brought into play.
Not merely individual but national sacrifice is needed. Conscription
of labour and wealth and land, governors whose only inducement to
govern is the joy of serving, a free Press and, above all, a sane and
scientific education to fit our children to take the highest place
among nations in the tremendous commercial war of the future.
Gone are the days of blind optimism and hope; gone the men who passed
through and found a few hours' solace within these grey walls; gone
the youth that made the impossible appear achievable. The very stones
seemed listless, the dim daylight, filtering through high windows,
weary.
An old Staff Colonel in front of me leant against the grey pillar and
wept like a child. Was he mourning one of those who passed through
earlier? Most of them have gone West by now.
In the interim of the swelling organ rose the cry of the wind in moans
and sobs round the old stones whose founder had passed away this very
morning.
Such was St. John's-on-the-Hill.
Mists lay all over the city and over the dashing sea as we wended our
way for a last visit to the camps, where we lent a helping hand.
It is as wonderful as the never-extinguished vestal fire, this work
that has no ending--these huts where no sooner is one batch of troops
sent on than another arrives, with time only for occasional spasmodic
cleanings.
A battalion of K.'s "contemptible little Army" had arrived during the
night. If, after nineteen months' fighting, this is the specimen of
manhood England can produce--well knit, in the prime of condition,
the embodiment of health and strength--all one can say is: "_Cave,
Germania!_"
And though to collect the ever-dwindling supply of mugs (beginning
with a thousand on Monday, one may safely reckon to find but 800 by
Saturday night! Where they walk to no man knows--sometimes homewards,
more often trenchwards, one surmises), although to collect the mugs it
is a literal necessity to step over figures that lie huddled against
each other in a sleep so deep, so log-like, that nothing disturbs them,
one is none the less impressed by their magnificence.
The evolution of the camp canteen is a thing to note. There is the
wooden roof and flooring in place of the close interior of a boardless,
draughty tent; there is an augmented staff, for ever cooking and
stewing, to cope with the work; and stores are conveyed regularly to
the place, obviating the necessity for those spasmodic rushes to fetch
substitutes for bread when the supply of everything gave out at the
same moment.
To be sure, the difficulties of taking the till remain the same, and
the problem of changing an English pound-note into French money at
26 francs 30 centimes--the last time we were here the rate was 25
francs--subtracting the price of a cup of tea, a packet of shag, a
pencil and a shaving stick, doling out all these articles with the
exception of the tea; immediately afterwards rendering a French three
francs into English coin, subtracting for a bar of chocolate and a
hand mirror. Continuing this process uninterruptedly and unceasingly
for an hour, during which time one is assailed by a chorus of questions
such as "What's the price of a 'am sandwich, Miss?" "What time does
the leave boat go?" "What _mayn't_ we put in a letter home?" etc., _ad
lib._; all this to the non-mathematician is bewildering in the extreme.
At the old Queen Mary Hut, where my apprenticeship had been served, the
development was even more amazing. A billiard-room, with no fewer than
four tables supplied by a benevolent speculator, has been built, and
a row of baths for men on their way home, whilst the kitchens are so
finished that they might well be envied by any efficient housewife.
But perhaps the culminating point is the cinema hall that has been
opened not far off--a cinema hall to accommodate a goodly number, and
worthy of the Metropolis itself.
There was a last committee meeting too; those committee meetings that
were landmarks on our calendar. They were a fortnightly institution,
and consisted of the lady superintendents of the different centres,
who met the camp leaders--the male portion of the staff--every
month. Their purport was to discuss the affairs of state, business
difficulties, etc.
By one who was competent to judge they were described as the "safety
valve for ladies who _must_ grouse," and certainly there _was_ a good
deal of talk about nothing. One lady would ask how many swabs and
dusters it was permissible to buy for one hut--a question which might,
or might not, duly be recorded in the minutes. The next would complain
of her indolent orderlies. Important questions in themselves, but not
of great use to those of us who found it possible to settle these
matters amongst ourselves!
The agony I had gone through during those early committee meetings
will be for ever remembered, for, being the only unmarried woman under
forty in a community bent on filling all vacancies with their personal
friends, my position was not enviable. But for a sense of humour it
would have been intolerable. Over and over again the question of age
would arise as I would sit in dumb impotence whilst one inquisitor
after another voiced their views.
"Miss B---- would be excellent in charge of X---- centre if she weren't
so young. I know officially she is only thirty, and it would not do."
"We don't approve of young women," said another. "_There_, of course,
is the exception," bowing to me.
Seeing I was many years younger than the youngest worker, my feelings
can better be imagined than explained. My own experience is that the
best workers range from twenty-five to forty, and over that age no
woman should be allowed in the war zone. There is no room in the system
of "scrap and discard" for those who are easily fatigued; and women
unaccustomed to manual work, however enthusiastic they may be, are
unable to acclimatise themselves to it as they get on in years.
For _endurance_, too, younger women are needed. As a subaltern,
invalided down with nerves after seventeen months' fighting, said to me
recently:
"It's all a matter of time--the only difference is, we younger ones can
stand it longer."
The same holds good for women's work. Spurts of energy followed by
collapse are useless. It is the power of steady endurance that is
required, and found most often in younger women.
Nor is there any room for the caprices of the dangerous age. The past
generation was not brought up with the public school _esprit de corps_
which characterises the modern girls, and which has taught them to play
for their side or institution, and not for their own ends.
But to get back to the committee meeting, and to do justice to its
evolution, I must state that after all these months, during which we
have combated for automatic rising as recognition of work for the
Reward of Service, it has adopted the broader view that not personal
acquaintances but proved workers are most deserving of responsibility,
whether old or young.
_February 10th._ My final impression of the place was a beautiful
one. An extemporary concert, with many choruses, a packed house, an
enthusiastic, cheering audience. It is like a very beautiful dream
that we had dreamed true, this place; and, now that it is sufficiently
perfect, other and fresher hands than ours must take it over--fresher,
but not more loving.
[Illustration: "THE CITY OF LITTLE WHITE CROSSES"]
Here in this little out-of-the-way corner of the globe, in a very
insignificant work, we have buried all our youth and most of our
vitality. God! but it is hard to relinquish the reaping to others!
"To renounce without bitterness!"
A last glimpse of that City of Little White Crosses, where, past pain,
past suffering, in rows of close formation--closer than they ever stood
in lifetime shoulder to shoulder--lie those who are "for ever England."
Could they but see those dear shores of home they had so longed
for with their dying breath, radiating their messages of pride and
thankfulness across the Channel, how proud they would be!
A military cemetery "Somewhere in France" is a thing one does not
forget. If, one day when peace reigns, we are once more growing
slothful and negligent of the bigger issues of life, let us pay a
yearly pilgrimage to one of these shrines of our honoured exiles.
True, the French gravediggers will no longer be shovelling the sandy
soil over the newest comers, hiding the tier upon tier of plain deal
coffins or the number-plates that are the only distinguishing marks;
true, the unwonted odour of Death will no longer haunt our nostrils;
mayhap we, too, shall be deaf to the sighing of the many souls in the
wind. Yet surely the warrior spirits will arise and strengthen us,
whispering: "Let us not have died in vain. We laid down our lives for
the Old Country. For the love of God 'carry on,' as we had hoped to do."
A last look at the faces of those friends who for many months have
formed my whole world.
Then "Cheer up, you have done your bit," they cry as we step aboard. As
if any man, woman or child of Britain has done his bit until this thing
is over, until there is some semblance of the crushing victory that
shall lay our unscrupulous enemy low!
Then on to the boat.
One parting gift that was pressed into my hands on leaving will be
treasured for all time. It is John Oxenham's little volume "All's
Well," and to us out here it seems as if he has been divinely inspired
to bear the message of hope to countless broken hearts.
_"Is the pathway dark and dreary?
God's in His heaven!
Are you broken, heart-sick, weary?
God's in His heaven!
Dreariest roads shall have an ending,
Broken hearts are for God's mending,
All's well! All's well!
All's ... well!"_
Travelling on board a troopship is not exactly the acme of comfort
for a woman at the best of times, and for anyone in bad health it is
distinctly unpleasant, for the decks are so crowded with warriors that
instinctively one makes one's way towards the ladies' saloon, only to
find, alas! that it serves as the general sleeping compartment for
officers. No sooner is the first throb of the engine felt than the
water-tight doors are closed, and one is continually running into
insurmountable walls.
If, after many efforts, one _does_ attain the ladies' saloon by means
of a cicerone to guide one across the masses of inert forms sprawled
over the decks, and down various dark passages and narrow iron ladders,
it is only to discover that the once cosy saloon has become an
excessively close compartment, from which, rather than be drowned like
a rat in a trap if a torpedo comes along, it were better to flee to the
inclemency of the upper decks.
As we boarded the boat at 10 A.M., however, on this bright February
morning, everything promised well. Already the lower decks were crammed
with life-belted Tommies. Life belts are the order of the day now, and
in many cases there is life-saving practice as well, as a safeguard
against any emergency.
All eyes were turned "Blightywards" in anticipation of home, and to
check their impatience the men began to sing. The volume of the song
swelled to such an extent that it threatened to bring the upper decks
down, for the voices were those of men who had earned their leave.
"We must be waiting for some Staff knut," said a subaltern in the
crowd, gazing sadly at the guarded gangway, off which no one might
pass once their papers had been scrutinised, towards the buffet so
temptingly near.
Fragments of conversation were borne in from all sides; some of them
savoured of pantomime, others of the pathetic humour of harlequin.
A _very_ temporary "gentleman" second lieutenant leant against the
rail twirling an imperceptible moustache. Although he addressed his
remarks to a sergeant of the Artists' Rifles on his way home to take
up a commission, they were obviously intended for the edification and
squashification of the whole audience.
"Will you--er--stick to the Service--er--après la guerre?" he inquired,
flicking his muddy boots with his swagger cane. One expected to see
him place a monocle in his eye and cap his remarks with a "What--what?"
in simulation of the theatrical swell. The sergeant's reply was
inaudible, but he was obviously a sahib.
"I--er--expect to--if--er--the Service is still possible. Now one has
to hobnob with one's--er--tailor...."
If the onlooker were seized with a desire to throttle the young
jackanapes he stifled it with the consoling thought that he, too, was
doing his bit, and might turn aside to note that the bronzed Indian
Staff Major at the entrance to the hatchway was being addressed by his
General.
"_That_ isn't mine?" he asked, pointing to a frailly packed paper
parcel of awkward dimensions held together by a frayed piece of string.
"No, sir. That's something Colonel M---- got for his son in
Paris--toys!" he added in an awestruck whisper that sounded like a sigh.
The General turned on his heels, also with a sigh, and an "I see!"
Perhaps they both thought of days when their sons, too, were safe in
the nursery.
I followed the crowd down to the saloon and fed on what there
was--coffee and ship's biscuit. Being only a civilian, and a wreck
at that, I was served with a gentle consideration that bordered on
contempt. Longingly my thoughts wandered to the buffet on the Quai.
The sun and the tide rose higher and higher, the gangway sloped upwards
to the deck instead of downwards as when we came aboard. I looked at
the well-ordered crowd and closed my eyes. In an instant the Boulogne
of eighteen months ago came back to me, the Boulogne that knew War and
the horrors of War.
I saw before me the vast consignments of goods that lay along the
quayside, destined, one realised helplessly, never to reach their
owners. Overcrowded, understaffed ambulance trains steamed into the
station--trains that once bore us to the Sunny South--disgorging their
sad burdens, who lay on stretchers in the never-ceasing rain, awaiting
the arrival of hospital ships.
Many died in the rain in those days, until that Medical Officer was
inspired to haul them into the disused sugar-shed clearing station.
Where once stood the mortuary is now the innocuous Censor's office. In
place of the cheerless barn, whose walls could tell so many tales, a
well-ordered post office.
I turned away, haunted by the cries of the dead and dying I had seen.
Not the most solid edifices of masonry can obliterate the gruesome
realities of a vivid memory.
A cheer went forth from the lower deck as two mine-sweepers, bearing
a prize intended to send us to our doom, swept majestically into the
harbour. The canteen workers, who had been allowed aboard with food
for the men, moved off, the gangway was hauled in. Another troopship,
alongside ours, partially obstructed our final view of the old town.
Convoys of ambulances stand, as they have stood for nigh on two years,
in front of the old Red Cross Headquarters. Coal carts, their owners
crying their goods in the low, monotonous wail peculiar to themselves,
still ply along the roads, side by side with cars of every description,
from Rolls-Royces to the "Rolls-Fords" (no one is ashamed to be seen in
a Ford in the war zone). Uniforms of every kind, khaki and the grey,
red-tipped nurses, predominate.
Tinkling their bells, the trams wend their way in and out of the town,
driven mostly by decrepit Belgian _réformés_ whose tales of sorrow and
wonder would fill volumes. Picturesque groups of saboted fisherwomen
cluster round a skiff as the gleaming fish are unloaded.
_Tiens!_ We are off! The watertight compartments are shut. The sun,
already sinking low, tints the pinnacles of the old church, lights up
the windows of the fishing village with fairy-like colours. One last
look at the masts that rise out of the mists, the gleaming, winding
river, the camps, the tents, all that goes to make that wonderful
elusive thing "The Base" in the war zone.
Gulls follow our course and swoop down in vain search of a meal!
In my throat is a stifled sob. So _this_ is the end. Broken in body, I
am to leave the work I love, and with it youth and vitality--and this
whilst the fighting wages hardest in the West.
One last look at the sun-bathed shore, and then the boats swing
outwards on their davits and hide it all from view.
EPILOGUE
It is an odd coincidence that the last words of this War Diary should
be penned by candlelight in a darkened northern town, to the sound of
bombs falling on an entirely defenceless city. With the truly sporting
instinct of Britons, everyone has turned out to see what they may of
the "fuss" by which our humane foe hopes to terrorise us. By the light
of flares the great marauding machines of destruction are seen to hover
apparently stationary. It is a fitting moment to add a note of apology
to this book, of apology to those whose homes have been ravished and
who might, therefore, resent the reflection that as yet our Island has
not felt the full pinch of war; of apology to those and of explanation.
For it is needless to say this diary was originally kept for purely
personal reasons, with no idea of publication, but from the desire one
day to make good to those at home the silences enforced by a rigorous
censor.
Seeing, however, that the interest manifested in our existence at the
Base seems general enough to warrant the appearance of these pages, and
seeing there is no one else to tell the tale, I send my little volume
into the world with the prayer that it may give to those who would
know, some idea of Boulogne as she now is, that it may carry one or two
momentarily away from their own sufferings.
To achieve this is all I ask.
If in some parts I have spoken too freely, I crave forgiveness on the
score that I have but recounted things as we saw them at the time. If,
on the other hand, there are many omissions, it must be noted that a
War Diary published during war time is of necessity much expurgated to
meet the demands of the censor. Nor would it be in the interests of
anyone to tell of chance meetings with well-known men and women whose
rôle in the Great Game has not yet been brought to light.
And for any dates misplaced I must plead the extenuating circumstances
of a busy, restless life that left little leisure for the keeping of a
detailed daily diary.
Of the many friends who are still carrying on the work out there I
have spoken but little, not because there is little to say, but because
my heart is too full of the great work they are doing, and the memory
of little kindnesses rendered to a derelict in the midst of so much
that is more pressing. May they in their turn, if time renders them
"scrapped" and useless, find joy in the remembrance of their work, and
peace in the hope of one day serving again.
As Kipling has it:
_"Only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame,
And no one shall work for money and no one shall work for fame,
But each for the joy of working...."_
YORKSHIRE, _May_, 1916.
PRINTED BY
CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE,
LONDON, E.C.
F.20.1016
* * * * *
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Hyphenation and spelling has been retained as in the original publication.
p153 "intermittingly" replaced with "intermittently"
p156 "Anxieties never some singly" replaced with
"Anxieties never come singly"
p253 "stanch" replaced with "staunch"
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_
Small capitals have been changed to UPPER CASE
End of Project Gutenberg's Eighteen Months in the War Zone, by Kate John Finzi