THE NIGHT OF THE MARNE.
When the long day closed and darkness shrouded us all, the firing ceased
completely, and the world felt strangely silent. The batteries limbered
up and took the road down towards the river, and our ambulances followed
the same way. The only sound heard was the crunching of the waggon wheels
on the road. All else was soundless and still, a great quiet reigned
over the valley which a short time before had been so tormented by the
earthquake thunderings of battle.
We went down deeper and deeper into the valley, and in pitch darkness
entered the quaint old village of Saccy on the Marne. Saccy is an old,
world-forgotten village of narrow cobbled streets and ancient stone
houses. Situated on the south side of the bridge which spans the Marne,
the old village has ambled sleepily through the centuries disturbing
no one by its existence, and undisturbed itself by the big events of
history. During the preceding forty-eight hours the old place was
suddenly engulfed in a cyclone of movement, for a German Army Corps had
retreated rapidly through its streets and over its bridge,—too rapidly to
stay and sack the houses in the manner so loved by the German soldiers.
Their big guns had hurtled their iron messengers of death over the town
from one side of the valley to the other, and sweating, panting British
infantry, the finest warriors in the world, had pressed steadily along
the same streets and over the bridge so lately trod by the enemy. Saccy
had seen two armies pass through her, and had emerged safe and unhurt.
When our ambulances entered Saccy the narrow streets were packed and
congested with supply waggons, ammunition carts, guns, and marching
infantry. The dull lights from shuttered windows or an open door and
the occasional powerful glare from a big motor headlight lit up a scene
of cursing drivers, struggling and straining horses, heavy lumbering
waggons, and tired, thirsty, dusty marching men.
The headquarters of the 5th Division was established in a café on the
main street, and when we passed through the staff were at dinner in the
large front room opening on to the street. We saw plates of steaming
potatoes, a roast leg of mutton, bottles of pickles, and many bottles of
red wine. The headquarters’ cook was evidently a man of resource and knew
his job.
After passing through the village we turned abruptly to the right and
then we were at the bridge, a splendidly built stone affair with a
parapet and side walks. The bridge was fine and wide, but our crossing
was a slow process, owing to the mass of waggons, buses, and equipment
ahead. Some artillery and infantry had already bivouacked on the other
side of the bridge, and their camp fires with dicksies of boiling stews
and of coffee looked very cheerful. Some of the men were sitting or
standing round the fires, smoking their ever-popular Woodbine cigarettes;
others were engaged lopping off branches from the forest trees for the
fire; many had taken off their puttees, boots, and socks, and were
cooling their feet. They all looked very happy, and cheerfully exchanged
compliments and remarks with the drivers of the waggons, who still had
some miles to go before they could rest. Our ambulances were, however,
about a quarter of a mile farther on, swung up a narrow cutting into a
field, and here we found the headquarters of the 15th Field Ambulance,
with seven ambulance waggons, supply carts, water carts, horses, tent and
hospital equipment. When we joined up the unit was again complete. We had
crossed the Marne behind the 15th Infantry Brigade, but our work was not
yet done.
It was now eleven o’clock of a pitch black night with threatening rain.
Our ambulances were packed in a semi-circle in the field near an old
farmhouse. A huge log fire was blazing about 200 yards away, and round
this were sitting some of the medical officers of the ambulance and two
chaplains. I made my bow to my new comrades and introduced myself as the
latest medical recruit to the unit, and was given a box to sit on, and
a cup of hot tea, bread and marmalade. All of these officers had been
through Mons and Le Cateau, and were now veterans. One who had just come
in from the front with some stretchers, said that our cavalry had done
splendidly during the day, and had made a very fine charge, cutting off
some companies of retreating infantry. Our Lancers had ridden through
a squadron of Uhlans, turned round, and galloped through them again,
spearing and slaying on their two bloody passages.
We were in for a busy night, for all the stretcher parties from the
various ambulances were out in the field collecting the wounded, whose
arrival was expected now at any moment. An operating tent had been
pitched in the field near by, and was brilliantly lit up with a huge
acetylene lamp. The operating table was fixed in the centre of the tent
and along each side were the instruments, basins, and dressings lying on
the lids of the panniers, which made excellent side-tables. Very soon the
ambulances lumbered up with the men picked up from the fields close at
hand. The stretchers, each holding a wounded man, were taken out of the
waggons and laid on a heap of straw near the door of the operating tent.
Sixteen men were taken out and laid side by side. New stretchers were put
in the waggons, which again set out to bring in more wounded. One surgeon
stood on one side of the operating table, another stood opposite him, and
a third surgeon was ready to assist or give an anæsthetic if necessary.
Quietly and quickly one wounded man after another was lifted on to the
table, his wounds were speedily dressed, and he was again carried out
and laid on the straw with a blanket below and another above him. Those
with painful wounds were given hypodermics of morphia. All who were fit
to take nourishment had hot soup, tea, bread and jam. Stimulants were
given freely to those requiring it. The wounds were mostly from shrapnel,
and only one case required an anæsthetic. He had a bad compound fracture
of the thigh and was in terrible pain. We made some good splints and
fixed up the limb comfortably and in good position. One poor devil had
a bad abdominal wound for which we could do nothing. He was given a
good dose of morphia and slept quietly and easily till five a.m., when
he ceased to breathe. At one o’clock in the morning wounded were still
coming in, and the surgeon on duty was relieved by myself. So with coat
off, bare arms and covered with an operating apron, I did my spell of
surgical duty during that night on the banks of the Marne. Our stretcher
parties at last were finished, and had all come in with the report that
all the wounded had been brought in. They reported that there were large
numbers of British and German dead on the roadsides and in the fields.
At six o’clock our large list of wounded were sent off to railhead at
Coulommiers on returning-empty supply waggons and under the charge of a
medical officer. The operating tent was struck and all the panniers and
equipment were packed. The Field Ambulance had done its “job.” It had
followed its brigade into action, had collected all the wounded of that
brigade, had dressed their wounds and made them comfortable during the
night, and had then loaded all the wounded on waggons and sent them to
railhead to join a hospital train. Having done this the ambulance was
again ready to follow its brigade and do the same again. The long night
was over and a new day was upon us.
This was the only occasion on the march that our Field Ambulance had to
pitch an operating tent in a field. Generally a house or château was
made use of as a dressing station. The tent made an excellent first-aid
dressing station, but of course was unsuited for any major surgical
operation, and we tried to avoid as far as possible doing much in the way
of surgery. We examined every wound carefully to see that no bleeding was
taking place, and all the fractures were very carefully splintered with
firm wooden splints. The men suffered very little pain comparatively,
and were remarkably cheerful when they had been dressed and placed on
the straw. They seemed anxious to talk and review the events of the
day, and they told us great tales of the Germans running away. One man
said that he, with his company, was in a belt of trees lying down and
watching an open space in their front. Some Uhlans, not knowing the
British were so close, cantered up and halted; our men took careful aim
and emptied twenty saddles with the first fusillade, and then fired on
the panic-stricken, terrified horses who were careering off with the
remaining Germans; when the horses fell the riders surrendered at once.
The man who told me the story was slightly wounded later in the day, and
had a Uhlan helmet as a souvenir of the affray near the forest.