FROM THE BAY OF BISCAY TO EAST OF PARIS.
After having received these definite orders I got my kit again conveyed
to the _Cestrian_ transport and slept that night in my old corner of the
smoking-room. At 2.45 a.m. the surgeons detailed to join the army were
up. A hasty cup of coffee and an apology for a wash—and we were down
the ship-side, and on the way to the _gare_. The railway station at St.
Nazaire at this time looked quite picturesque in the early morning. Its
platforms were covered with straw, and rows of sleeping French soldiers
lay comfortably around, while a stolid Grenadier sentry stood propped
against the wall. There is no hurry at a French military station. The
train was timed to start at 4 a.m., but that did not matter. At 5 a.m. it
was quite ready. “C’est la guerre.”
There were five of us travelling together—all medical officers—two
Scotchmen, one Irishman, one Englishman, and one New Zealander. A very
gruff Railway Transport officer gave me a military pass for the party.
This gave us permission, we noticed, to travel to Paris viâ Le Mans.
The pass was signed by the French authorities, but we were never asked
to show it again. The khaki uniform proclaimed we were British, the
Sam Browne belt and stars showed we were officers, and the red-cross
brassards on our left arms indicated our particular line of business.
As the train moved off we wished our Railway Transport officer—an
Englishman—a good morning, but this seemed to offend him, for he glared
at us. Our Irish surgeon remarked that all Railway Transport officers
were queer fish and very unpopular. Perhaps their particular specialty
makes them so, but I have never heard an R.T.O. referred to in any
other but denunciatory terms. A sanguinary adjective is always prefixed
to the mystic trinity R.T.O. It is said that they lead unhappy lives
and generally die of long, lingering illnesses. We soon settled down
comfortably in our luxurious first-class carriage and tried to get
to know each other. No very difficult task amongst doctors, who are
generally most sociable animals. One of us was a specialist in fevers and
had passed most of his days in typhoid and scarlet fever wards. One was a
neurologist, with pronounced views on the power of suggestion in treating
cases of incipient insanity. One was a pure physician, who said that the
surgeons were not men of science but merely craftsmen, and were too fond
of using the knife.
The surgeons, as became their calling, treated all criticism with
good-humoured complaisance. We talked a lot about the duties of the
doctor in this war, and we were all very curious to know the rôle played
by a doctor when he was attached to a cavalry regiment, to a battery,
or to a field ambulance. None of us knew very much about it, but we
all were agreed that we had somehow to get alongside Mr. Thomas Atkins
when he was wounded in battle, get him to a safe place, and give him of
our best. Curiously enough, although we were all scattered later on to
various units of different divisions, I met all my fellow-travellers
again one time or another in the firing line. One of the Scotchmen I met
just as he came out from under heavy shrapnel fire, and I asked him how
he liked it. His reply is not printable. One I met in a field ambulance
later with sleeves rolled up and busy dressing the wounds of a crowd of
men just brought in from the firing line. One I met in a town in northern
France looking cold and wet and miserable, and asked him also how he
liked the war. He gave an expressive shrug. I have not met anyone yet who
liked the war, except artillery officers.
Our train travelled slowly from St. Nazaire along the Loire to the
capital city of Nantes. This charming city is situated on the banks of
the delightful river. We had a lot of khaki and French soldiers on board
the train, and as usual they fraternised well together. Tommy Atkins gets
on amazingly well with the French piou-piou, and the French grenadier
chaffs Tommy a lot and enjoys his company. When they get together they
exchange caps for a time. This is a sign of unalterable friendship.
To see a French Cuirassier wearing a khaki cap and a Highlander in kilts
wearing a Cuirassier’s casque with its flowing horsetails always excited
the merriment and loud “vives” of the French people. The kilts of our
Highlanders are also greatly admired by the French. They were consumed
with curiosity to know if the Scotchmen wore any trousers under them.
Khaki was a great novelty along the Loire valley at this time, and our
appearance roused tremendous enthusiasm and applause. At Nantes the good
people brought us baskets of apples, and little French flags which we
duly stuck on our coats or caps and wore till the train steamed out of
the station.
Crowds of people rushed down to the railway platform to see us and cheer
us on our way. Tommy’s “Are we downhearted?” and its stentorian “No!” had
a very optimistic sound, and the French liked it.
At Angers the train stopped two hours, and the officers strolled round
the town. The men were not allowed off the platform. Angers, the ancient
capital of the old Counts of Anjou, is a delightfully sleepy city. A
princess of Anjou was in the long ago a Queen of England, and a fine
statue to her memory stands in the centre of the town. It was dressed
with an intertwined Union Jack and the Tricolor when we were there.
The old castle of Angers, with its deep moat and castellated towers, has
withstood the ravages of centuries and is one of the finest examples
of mediæval military masonry. Our walk through this city excited
considerable comment and notice. It was Sunday, and a big congregation
just leaving church stopped to stare at us and possibly to wonder why
khaki was in Angers. As we passed a café crowded with loungers sipping
wine and coffee at the little tables on the street, all stood up to
look at us. We felt very embarrassed and did not much like the novel
experience, so sat round a small table ourselves, and while drinking our
wine turned round to look at the people also. A French colonel caught
our eye, and one of our party held a glass towards him, saying, “Vive
la France!” The effect was theatrical: all jumped up, and lifting their
glasses shouted, “Vive l’Angleterre!” “Vive l’entente cordiale!” Several
French officers and citizens with ladies pulled up their chairs to our
table, and we all drank wine very sociably together. One of our party of
surgeons had been educated as a youth in Belgium and was an excellent
French linguist. The people were all very anxious to hear the latest
news. We had none to give except that large British reinforcements
were coming over, and that England was now fairly on the job. In these
early days of the war, when everything in France was “electrical,” such
sentiments were always cheerfully received. We drank a good many toasts
before we left, and had our photographs taken three times. Just before
the train started crowds of gentlemen and ladies, old and young, shook
hands with us in the usual French way, with the left hand as often as
the right. One beautiful and sparkling little French lady embarrassed
one of us by a sudden warm embrace and a sisterly kiss on the cheek. The
surprise of the khaki man was only momentary, and the lady, in return,
was well and truly kissed on the lips. We were all sorry to leave
Angers, the city was charming, the wine was excellent and the people
were most entertaining.
After Angers we had a long and dreary night ride to Le Mans. One curious
incident occurred during the night. Our train was pulled into a siding
at a small station and held there for three hours. At the end of this
time a train, made up of forty-one huge locomotive engines, thundered by
at sixty miles an hour going south. We were told that these were Belgian
engines sent south to escape capture by the Germans.
In the cold shiver of a dark morning we bundled out at Le Mans, and at
once made a dash for the railway buffet and got hot coffee and rolls. I
then found my way with some difficulty in the darkness to the quarters
of the A.D.M.S., to whom I had to report our arrival. He was in bed when
I arrived, but got up and took my report. As usual he was surprised to
know we were coming, and our visit was naturally an unexpected pleasure.
He told us that we should have gone right on to Paris, as surgeons were
badly wanted with the army which was retreating on to Paris. We were
always being told that doctors were urgently required and were always
delayed. We had definite orders to get out at Le Mans and report. The
orders were in writing. No one was more anxious than we were to push
rapidly on, and we chafed at the continual delays. The A.D.M.S. could
not tell us when we would be able to get away from Le Mans as the
train service was erratic. We were advised to “hang about the railway
station” till “some train” started for the front. As this was highly
unsatisfactory, I tried to find out how matters stood myself.
The stationmaster did not know when a train would start for Paris, as the
line was blocked farther on by the military mobilisation. I found out,
however, that a supply train conveying provisions and supplies for our
men was to leave from Maroc some time during the day. Maroc was a small
siding five miles from Le Mans. Here trains were made up for the various
Army Corps. Maroc is a desert of sand and a truly desolate spot. We got
our kits and a box of medical supplies—obtained with great difficulty at
Le Mans—conveyed to this miniature Morocco, and we camped on the sand
under the doubtful shade of the only two trees the place possessed,
till 4 o’clock that afternoon. The only excitement was seeing a huge
locomotive run off the track and block shunting operations for two hours.
At last our huge supply train was ready. We all got into an empty guard’s
van and disposed our valises in the various corners. Two officers of the
Royal Flying Corps joined us here and found accommodation in a waggon
loaded with bags of wheat. We all clubbed together for mess, and laid
in a stock of sardines, bread, butter, and a dozen bottles of red wine
and cider. We learned from our flying friends that the army was retiring
every day, and was supposed to be making for Paris.
We got some definite news for the first time of our big engagements at
Mons, Landrecies, and Le Cateau, and how our army was furiously attacked
and compelled to fall back, and that although the retirement at first
was precipitate it soon became ordered and steady. We were also told that
there were over 15,000 casualties, and that the medical arrangements had
quite broken down. However, we had a sublime faith in our own countrymen,
and knew that they would come out all right, somehow, somewhere.
At daybreak our train reached Tours, and at Blois we had a welcome wash
and a decent cup of coffee. Our quarters in the guard’s van had been
most cramped and uncomfortable, and we were all anxious to leave the old
tortoise of a train. At midday we passed through Orleans, and here French
officers told us that the Germans were advancing on Paris, and in spite
of prodigious losses were hacking their way through by weight of numbers
and numberless batteries of artillery. We were told that the British army
was to form part of the garrison of Paris, that Paris was fully prepared
for a long siege, and that President Poincaré and the Government were
at Bordeaux. All these rumours gave rise to keen discussions, and they
certainly helped to while the time away in our dreary old van.
During the night we passed through Paris, and at break of day pulled up
at the railway siding of Coulommiers.
The railway siding was full of ambulance trains, British and French.
All the trains were filled with recently wounded men, and we got our
first information that we were close to the actual scene of fighting.
One French medical officer had rigged up a small dressing station on the
station platform. An upturned box held his dressings, instruments, and
antiseptics, and he had about twenty-five wounded Frenchmen all round him
patiently waiting their turn. Most of them were slight cases, for the
serious ones had already been put aboard the hospital trains.
Coulommiers at this time was the refilling point for the Army Service
Corps, and our supply train was emptied here.