to a close, and the photographs of the wives continued to pass from hand
to hand. There was much talk of home, and much of it was longing, and
much of it was pathetic, and much of it was resigned. And always the
little, ugly wives, the stupid, ordinary wives, represented home. And
the words home and wife were interchangeable and stood for the same
thing. And the glories and heroisms of war seemed of less interest, as
a factor in life, than these stupid little wives.
Then Armand, the chief orderly, showed them all the photograph of his
wife. No one knew that he was married, but he said yes, and that he
received a letter from her every day--sometimes it was a postcard. Also
that he wrote to her every day. We all knew how nervous he used to get,
about letter time, when the _vaguemestre_ made his rounds, every
morning, distributing letters to all the wards. We all knew how
impatient he used to get, when the _vaguemestre_ laid his letter upon
the table, and there it lay, on the table, while he was forced to make
rounds with the surgeon, and could not claim it until long afterwards.
So it was from his wife, that daily letter, so anxiously, so nervously
awaited!
Simon had a wife too. Simon, the young surgeon, German-looking in
appearance, six feet of blond brute. But not blond brute really.
Whatever his appearance, there was in him something finer, something
tenderer, something nobler, to distinguish him from the brute. About
three times a week he walked into the ward with his fountain pen between
his teeth--he did not smoke, but he chewed his fountain pen--and when
the dressings were over, he would tell the nurse, shyly, accidentally,
as it were, some little news about his home. Some little incident
concerning his wife, some affectionate anecdote about his three young
children. Once when one of the staff went over to London on vacation,
Simon asked her to buy for his wife a leather coat, such as English
women wear, for motoring. Always he thought of his wife, spoke of his
wife, planned some thoughtful little surprise or gift for her.
You know, they won't let wives come to the Front. Women can come into
the War Zone, on various pretexts, but wives cannot. Wives, it appears,
are bad for the morale of the Army. They come with their troubles, to
talk of how business is failing, of how things are going to the bad at
home, because of the war; of how great the struggle, how bitter the
trials and the poverty and hardship. They establish the connecting link
between the soldier and his life at home, his life that he is compelled
to resign. Letters can be censored and all disturbing items cut out, but
if a wife is permitted to come to the War Zone, to see her husband,
there is no censoring the things she may tell him. The disquieting,
disturbing things. So she herself must be censored, not permitted to
come. So for long weary months men must remain at the Front, on active
inactivity, and their wives cannot come to see them. Only other people's
wives may come. It is not the woman but the wife that is objected to.
There is a difference. In war, it is very great.
There are many women at the Front. How do they get there, to the Zone
of the Armies? On various pretexts--to see sick relatives, in such and
such hospitals, or to see other relatives, brothers, uncles, cousins,
other people's husbands--oh, there are many reasons which make it
possible for them to come. And always there are the Belgian women, who
live in the War Zone, for at present there is a little strip of Belgium
left, and all the civilians have not been evacuated from the Army Zone.
So there are plenty of women, first and last. Better ones for the
officers, naturally, just as the officers' mess is of better quality
than that of the common soldiers. But always there are plenty of women.
Never wives, who mean responsibility, but just women, who only mean
distraction and amusement, just as food and wine. So wives are
forbidden, because lowering to the morale, but women are winked at,
because they cheer and refresh the troops. After the war, it is hoped
that all unmarried soldiers will marry, but doubtless they will not
marry these women who have served and cheered them in the War Zone.
That, again, would be depressing to the country's morale. It is rather
paradoxical, but there are those who can explain it perfectly.
No, no, I don't understand. It's because everything has two sides. You
would be surprised to pick up a franc, and find Liberty, Equality, and
Fraternity on one side, and on the other, the image of the Sower
smoothed out. A rose is a fine rose because of the manure you put at its
roots. You don't get a medal for sustained nobility. You get it for the
impetuous action of the moment, an action quite out of keeping with the
trend of one's daily life. You speak of the young aviator who was
decorated for destroying a Zeppelin single-handed, and in the next
breath you add, and he killed himself, a few days later, by attempting
to fly when he was drunk. So it goes. There is a dirty sediment at the
bottom of most souls. War, superb as it is, is not necessarily a
filtering process, by which men and nations may be purified. Well, there
are many people to write you of the noble side, the heroic side, the
exalted side of war. I must write you of what I have seen, the other
side, the backwash. They are both true. In Spain, they bang their silver
coins upon a marble slab, accepting the stamp upon both sides, and then
decide whether as a whole they ring true.
Every now and then, Armand, the orderly, goes to the village to get a
bath. He comes back with very clean hands and nails, and says that it
has greatly solaced him, the warm water. Then later, that same evening,
he gets permission to be absent from the hospital, and he goes to our
village to a girl. But he is always as eager, as nervous for his wife's
letter as ever. It is the same with Simon, the young surgeon. Only Simon
keeps himself pretty clean at all times, as he has an orderly to bring
him pitchers of hot water every morning, as many as he wants. But Simon
has a girl in the village, to whom he goes every week. Only, why does he
talk so incessantly about his wife, and show her pictures to me, to
everyone about the place? Why should we all be bored with tales of
Simon's stupid wife, when that's all she means to him? Only perhaps she
means more. I told you I did not understand.
Then the _Gestionnaire_, the little fat man in khaki, who is purveyor to
the hospital. Every night he commandeers an ambulance, and drives back
into the country, to a village twelve miles away, to sleep with a woman.
And the old doctor--he is sixty-four and has grandchildren--he goes down
to our village for a little girl of fourteen. He was decorated with the
Legion of Honour the other day. It seems incongruous.
Oh yes, of course these were decent girls at the start, at the
beginning of the war. But you know women, how they run after men,
especially when the men wear uniforms, all gilt buttons and braid. It's
not the men's fault that most of the women in the War Zone are ruined.
Have you ever watched the village girls when a regiment comes through,
or stops for a night or two, _en repos_, on its way to the Front? Have
you seen the girls make fools of themselves over the men? Well, that's
why there are so many accessible for the troops. Of course the
professional prostitutes from Paris aren't admitted to the War Zone, but
the Belgian girls made such fools of themselves, the others weren't
needed.
Across the lines, back of the German lines, in the invaded districts, it
is different. The conquering armies just ruined all the women they could
get hold of. Any one will tell you that. _Ces sales Bosches!_ For it is
inconceivable how any decent girl, even a Belgian, could give herself
up voluntarily to a Hun! They used force, those brutes! That is the
difference. It's all the difference in the world. No, the women over
there didn't make fools of themselves over those men--how could they!
No, no. Over there, in the invaded districts, the Germans forced those
girls. Here, on this side, the girls cajoled the men till they gave in.
Can't you see? You must be pro-German! Any way, they are all ruined and
not fit for any decent man to mate with, after the war.
They are pretty dangerous, too, some of these women. No, I don't mean in
that way. But they act as spies for the Germans and get a lot of
information out of the men, and send it back, somehow, into the German
lines. The Germans stop at nothing, nothing is too dastardly, too low,
for them to attempt. There were two Belgian girls once, who lived
together in a room, in a little village back of our lines. They were
natives, and had always lived there, so of course they were not turned
out, and when the village was shelled from time to time, they did not
seem to mind and altogether they made a lot of money. They only received
officers. The common soldiers were just dirt to them, and they refused
to see them. Certain women get known in a place, as those who receive
soldiers and those who receive officers. These girls were intelligent,
too, and always asked a lot of intelligent, interested questions, and
you know a man when he is excited will answer unsuspectingly any
question put to him. The Germans took advantage of that. It is easy to
be a spy. Just know what questions you must ask, and it is surprising
how much information you can get. The thing is, to know upon what
point information is wanted. These girls knew that, it seems, and so
they asked a lot of intelligent questions, and as they received only
officers, they got a good lot of valuable information, for as I say,
when a man is excited he will answer many questions. Besides, who could
have suspected at first that these two girls were spies? But they were,
as they found out finally, after several months. Their rooms were one
day searched, and a mass of incriminating papers were discovered. It
seems the Germans had taken these girls from their families--held their
families as hostages--and had sent them across into the English lines,
with threats of vile reprisals upon their families if they did not
produce information of value. Wasn't it beastly! Making these girls
prostitutes and spies, upon pain of reprisals upon their families. The
Germans knew they were so attractive that they would receive only
officers. That they would receive many clients, of high rank, of much
information, who would readily fall victims to their wiles. They are
very vile themselves, these Germans. The curious thing is, how well
they understand how to bait a trap for their enemies. In spite of having
nothing in common with them, how well they understand the nature of
those who are fighting in the name of Justice, of Liberty and
Civilization.
PARIS,
4 May, 1916.
POUR LA PATRIE
This is how it was. It is pretty much always like this in a field
hospital. Just ambulances rolling in, and dirty, dying men, and guns off
there in the distance! Very monotonous, and the same, day after day,
till one gets so tired and bored. Big things may be going on over there,
on the other side of the captive balloons that we can see from a
distance, but we are always here, on this side of them, and here, on
this side of them, it is always the same. The weariness of it--the
sameness of it! The same ambulances, and dirty men, and groans, or
silence. The same hot operating rooms, the same beds, always full, in
the wards. This is war. But it goes on and on, over and over, day after
day, till it seems like life. Life in peace time. It might be life in a
big city hospital, so alike is the routine. Only the city hospitals are
bigger, and better equipped, and the ambulances are smarter, and the
patients don't always come in ambulances--they walk in sometimes, or
come in street cars, or in limousines, and they are of both sexes, men
and women, and have ever so many things the matter with them--the
hospitals of peace time are not nearly so stupid, so monotonous, as the
hospitals of war. Bah! War's humane compared to peace! More spectacular,
I grant you, more acute,--that's what interests us,--but for the sheer
agony of life--oh, peace is way ahead!
War is so clean. Peace is so dirty. There are so many foul diseases in
peace times. They drag on over so many years, too. No, war's clean! I'd
rather see a man die in prime of life, in war time, than see him
doddering along in peace time, broken hearted, broken spirited, life
broken, and very weary, having suffered many things,--to die at last, at
a good, ripe age! How they have suffered, those who drive up to our city
hospitals in limousines, in peace time. What's been saved them, those
who die young, and clean and swiftly, here behind the guns. In the long
run it dots up just the same. Only war's spectacular, that's all.
Well, he came in like the rest, only older than most of them. A shock of
iron-grey hair, a mane of it, above heavy, black brows, and the brows
were contracted in pain. Shot, as usual, in the abdomen. He spent three
hours on the table after admission--the operating table--and when he
came over to the ward, they said, not a dog's chance for him. No more
had he. When he came out of ether, he said he didn't want to die. He
said he wanted to live. Very much. He said he wanted to see his wife
again and his children. Over and over he insisted on this, insisted on
getting well. He caught hold of the doctor's hand and said he must get
well, that the doctor must get him well. Then the doctor drew away his
slim fingers from the rough, imploring grasp, and told him to be good
and patient.
"Be good! Be patient!" said the doctor, and that was all he could say,
for he was honest. What else could he say, knowing that there were
eighteen little holes, cut by the bullet, leaking poison into that
gashed, distended abdomen? When these little holes, that the doctor
could not stop, had leaked enough poison into his system, he would die.
Not today, no, but day after tomorrow. Three days more.
So all that first day, the man talked of getting well. He was insistent
on that. He was confident. Next day, the second of the three days the
doctor gave him, very much pain laid hold of him. His black brows bent
with pain and he grew puzzled. How could one live with such pain as
that?
That afternoon, about five o'clock, came the General. The one who
decorates the men. He had no sword, just a riding whip, so he tossed the
whip on the bed, for you can't do an accolade with anything but a sword.
Just the _Médaille Militaire_. Not the other one. But the _Médaille
Militaire_ carries a pension of a hundred francs a year, so that's
something. So the General said, very briefly: "In the name of the
Republic of France, I confer upon you the _Médaille Militaire_." Then he
bent over and kissed the man on his forehead, pinned the medal to the
bedspread, and departed.
There you are! Just a brief little ceremony, and perfunctory. We all got
that impression. The General has decorated so many dying men. And this
one seemed so nearly dead. He seemed half-conscious. Yet the General
might have put a little more feeling into it, not made it quite so
perfunctory. Yet he's done this thing so many, many times before. It's
all right, he does it differently when there are people about, but this
time there was no one present--just the doctor, the dying man, and me.
And so we four knew what it meant--just a widow's pension. Therefore
there wasn't any reason for the accolade, for the sonorous, ringing
phrases of a dress parade----
We all knew what it meant. So did the man. When he got the medal, he
knew too. He knew there wasn't any hope. I held the medal before him,
after the General had gone, in its red plush case. It looked cheap,
somehow. The exchange didn't seem even. He pushed it aside with a
contemptuous hand sweep, a disgusted shrug.
"I've seen these things before!" he exclaimed. We all had seen them too.
We all knew about them, he and the doctor, and the General and I. He
knew and understood, most of all. And his tone was bitter.
After that, he knew the doctor couldn't save him, and that he should not
see his wife and children again. Whereupon he became angry with the
treatment, and protested against it. The _picqures_ hurt--they hurt very
much, and he did not want them. Moreover, they did no good, for his pain
was now very intense, and he tossed and tossed to get away from it.
So the third day dawned, and he was alive, and dying, and knew that he
was dying. Which is unusual and disconcerting. He turned over and over,
and black fluid vomited from his mouth into the white enamel basin. From
time to time, the orderly emptied the basin, but always there was more,
and always he choked and gasped and knit his brows in pain. Once his
face broke up as a child's breaks up when it cries. So he cried in pain
and loneliness and resentment.
He struggled hard to hold on. He wanted very much to live, but he could
not do it. He said: "_Je ne tiens plus._"
Which was true. He couldn't hold on. The pain was too great. He clenched
his hands and writhed, and cried out for mercy. But what mercy had we?
We gave him morphia, but it did not help. So he continued to cry to us
for mercy, he cried to us and to God. Between us, we let him suffer
eight hours more like that, us and God.
Then I called the priest. We have three priests on the ward, as
orderlies, and I got one of them to give him the Sacrament. I thought it
would quiet him. We could not help him with drugs, and he had not got it
quite in his head that he must die, and when he said, "I am dying," he
expected to be contradicted. So I asked Capolarde to give him the
Sacrament, and he said yes, and put a red screen around the bed, to
screen him from the ward. Then Capolarde turned to me and asked me to
leave. It was summer time. The window at the head of the bed was open,
the hay outside was new cut and piled into little haycocks. Over in the
distance the guns rolled. As I turned to go, I saw Capolarde holding a
tray of Holy Oils in one hand, while with the other he emptied the basin
containing black vomitus out the window.
No, it did not bring him comfort, or resignation. He fought against it.
He wanted to live, and he resented Death, very bitterly. Down at my end
of the ward--it was a silent, summer afternoon--I heard them very
clearly. I heard the low words from behind the screen.
"_Dites:_ '_Dieu je vous donne ma vie librement pour ma patrie_'" (God, I
give you my life freely for my country). The priests usually say that to
them, for death has more dignity that way. It is not in the ritual, but
it makes a soldier's death more noble. So I suppose Capolarde said it. I
could only judge by the response. I could hear the heavy, laboured
breath, the choking, wailing cry.
"_Oui! Oui!_" gasped out at intervals. "_Ah mon Dieu! Oui!_"
Again the mumbling, guiding whisper.
"_Oui--oui!_" came sobbing, gasping, in response.
So I heard the whispers, the priest's whispers, and the stertorous
choke, the feeble, wailing, rebellious wailing in response. He was being
forced into it. Forced into acceptance. Beaten into submission, beaten
into resignation.
"_Oui, oui_" came the protesting moans. "_Ah, oui!_"
It must be dawning upon him now. Capolarde is making him see.
"_Oui! Oui!_" The choking sobs reach me. "_Ah, mon Dieu, oui!_" Then
very deep, panting, crying breaths:
"_Dieu--je--vous--donne--ma--vie--librement--pour--ma--patrie!_"
"_Librement! Librement! Ah, oui! Oui!_" He was beaten at last. The
choking, dying, bewildered man had said the noble words.
"God, I give you my life freely for my country!"
After which came a volley of low toned Latin phrases, rattling in the
stillness like the popping of a _mitrailleuse_.
* * * * *
Two hours later he was still alive, restless, but no longer resentful.
"It is difficult to go," he murmured, and then: "Tonight, I shall sleep
well." A long pause followed, and he opened his eyes.
"Without doubt, the next world is more _chic_ than this," he remarked
smiling, and then:
"I was mobilized against my inclination. Now I have won the _Médaille
Militaire_. My Captain won it for me. He made me brave. He had a
revolver in his hand."
LOCOMOTOR ATAXIA
Just inside the entrance gates a big, flat-topped tent was pitched,
which bore over the low door a signboard on which was painted, _Triage
No. 1. Malades et Blessés Assis_. This meant that those _assis_, able to
travel in the ambulances as "sitters," were to be deposited here for
diagnosis and classification. Over beyond was the _Salle d'Attente_, the
hut for receiving the _grands blessés_, but a tent was sufficient for
sick men and those slightly wounded. It was an old tent, weatherbeaten,
a dull, dirty grey. Within the floor was of earth, and along each side
ran long, narrow, backless benches, on which the sick men and the
slightly wounded sat, waiting sorting. A grey twilight pervaded the
interior, and the everlasting Belgian rain beat down upon the creaking
canvas, beat down in gentle, dripping patters, or in hard, noisy gusts,
as it happened. It was always dry inside, however, and the earth floor
was dusty, except at the entrance, where a triangle of mud projected
almost to the doctor's table, in the middle.
The _Salle d'Attente_ was different. It was more comfortable. The
seriously wounded were unloaded carefully and placed upon beds covered
with rubber sheeting, and clean sacking, which protected the thin
mattresses from blood. The patients were afterwards covered with red
blankets, and stone hot water bottles were also given them, sometimes.
But in the sorting tent there were no such comforts. They were not
needed. The sick men and the slightly wounded could sit very well on the
backless benches till the _Médecin Major_ had time to come and examine
them.
Quite a company of "sitters" were assembled here one morning, helped out
of two big ambulances that drove in within ten minutes of each other.
They were a dejected lot, and they stumbled into the tent unsteadily,
groping towards the benches, upon which they tried to pose their weary,
old, fevered bodies in comfortable attitudes. And as it couldn't be
done, there was a continual shifting movement, and unrest. Heavy legs in
heavy wet boots were shoved stiffly forward, then dragged back again.
Old, thin bodies bent forward, twisted sideways, coarse, filthy hands
hung supine between spread knees, and then again the hands would change,
and support whiskered, discouraged faces. They were all uncouth,
grotesque, dejected, and they smelt abominably, these _poilus_, these
hairy, unkempt soldiers. At their feet, their sacks lay, bulging with
their few possessions. They hadn't much, but all they had lay there, at
their feet. Old brown canvas sacks, bulging, muddy, worn, worn-out, like
their owners. Tied on the outside were water cans, and extra boots, and
bayonets, and inside were socks and writing paper and photographs of
ugly wives. Therefore the ungainly sacks were precious, and they hugged
them with their tired feet, afraid that they might lose them.
Then finally the _Major_ arrived, and began the business of sorting
them. He was brisk and alert, and he called them one by one to stand
before him. They shuffled up to his little table, wavering, deprecating,
humble, and answered his brief impatient questions. And on the spot he
made snap diagnoses, such as rheumatism, bronchitis, kicked by a horse,
knocked down by despatch rider, dysentery, and so on--a paltry, stupid
lot of ailments and minor accidents, demanding a few days' treatment. It
was a dull service, this medical service, yet one had to be always on
guard against contagion, so the service was a responsible one. But the
_Major_ worked quickly, sorted them out hastily, and then one by one
they disappeared behind a hanging sheet, where the orderlies took off
their old uniforms, washed the patients a little, and then led them to
the wards. It was a stupid service! So different from that of the
_grands blessés_! There was some interest in that! But this _éclopé_
business, these minor ailments, this stream of petty sickness, petty
accidents, dirty skin diseases, and vermin--all war, if you like, but
how _banale_!
* * * * *