WE LEAVE BETHUNE.
One afternoon a German aeroplane dropped a bomb at the hospital gate, and
a second one on a house near the gate. They burst with a terrific crash,
shook the building and rattled the glass and startled us all. The same
voyaging Taube dropped another bomb in the square of the city, and an
old woman, a man, and a baby were struck. The old lady had to have her
leg amputated and died on the succeeding day; the man received a shell
wound in the back of the head and he died a few days afterwards; the
baby was injured in the stomach and also died next day. One of our Army
Service Corps men was struck by a piece of shell on the leg and received
a serious wound. A corporal of the Army Service ran upstairs to me in
the ward where I was busy dressing some cases and excitedly told me that
his back was broken and that he thought he would soon be paralysed. We
undressed him and found that a small piece of shell had made a slight
wound on the muscles of the back, but that he was otherwise all right.
He was reassured about the paralysis and the broken back. Two days
afterwards another German aeroplane—or it may have been the same beast
that had visited us before—flew over the city and dropped some more
bombs, killing some unfortunate people and injuring others.
On the following morning at three o’clock I was in one of the wards
admitting some wounded men just in from the trenches, when the
unmistakable burst of a Black Maria was heard close at hand. The shell
had burst not far from the hospital, and was followed by two more, one
near the railway station, and one near the college not far away. The
Germans had the range perfectly, and we expected a big bombardment. The
authorities decided that Bethune was no longer a safe place for our
Clearing Hospitals, and we were ordered to prepare for the evacuation
of our wounded as soon as possible. This was soon done, and all were
conveyed by ambulance motors to the hospital trains, with the exception
of seven men. These men were all dying from severe injuries to the brain,
and no good would be served by sending them down to the Base. So the
seven poor fellows were put in beds alongside each other in one ward, and
in three days they were dead, and buried in the now well-filled cemetery
at Bethune.
The two Clearing Hospitals in the city—British and Indian—were sent to
Chocques, near Lillers.
It was with a little heartache that I left Bethune and its good sisters.
We had passed through days and nights of racking work and worry, and we
had the satisfaction of feeling that we had all done our best. It is
mournful to leave a place associated with many stirring episodes and
with many warm friendships, for in times like those at Bethune firm
friendships were quickly made. In saying good-bye one seems to leave them
behind for ever—and that is always sad.
The nuns at this hospital were simply splendid all through, and I can
quite understand how the religious sisters have come to their own again
in France.
From the earliest times and up till about eight years ago all the nursing
in the French hospitals was done by sisters belonging to the various
religious orders. Then came one of the big political upheavals for which
France has been so noted in the past, and the nursing sisters gradually
disappeared from the hospitals owing to the hostility of the State to the
Church and all connected with it. The nursing sisters of these orders
were at the time of this change well-trained medical and surgical nurses.
As they were no longer able to exercise their professional skill, and no
more of the younger nuns were trained in nursing, it followed that on the
outbreak of war only the older nuns were capable of undertaking skilled
nursing in the many hospitals. The demand for nurses was a clamant one,
for from the very beginning of the war there were large casualties. It
was said that the nursing by the lay sisters who succeeded the religious
sisters was not of such a high order as in the old days owing to the
absence of the strict and rigid discipline, the very fibre of the life
of a sister in religion. I have heard this both from French surgeons and
from visiting British surgeons.
When the war broke out France was as ill prepared in her military
medical branch as we were, and she was suddenly confronted with the
problem of handling and treating many thousands of wounded.
M. Clemenceau, an ex-Premier of France and a Doctor of Medicine, is also
the editor of _L’Homme Enchaîné_. At the outbreak of war this journal
was known as _L’Homme Libre_, and Clemenceau so violently attacked the
medical disorganisation and lack of preparation that the paper was
promptly suppressed. It, however, emerged next day under its new title,
_The Man in Chains_, and under this title appears daily in Paris.
Clemenceau’s efforts, however, were continued, and France soon had
everything in good going order. It was at this critical phase that the
Franciscan sisters, and the sisters of other religious orders, quietly
took their places beside the wounded French soldiers. Just as quietly
they opened up their convents, churches, and buildings, warehouses,
châteaux, cottages, railway waiting-rooms, and turned them into hospitals
for the wounded and sick men. Working tirelessly night and day, knowing
no fatigue and shrinking from no task or danger, and glorying in their
mission, they performed marvels. The younger sisters were put to
subordinate nursing duties, and so rigorously trained by the elder ones
in the principles of nursing.
These juniors are now very competent nurses, for they learn quickly
amongst the ample material that war provides. The wounded French soldier
loves and idolises the nursing sister. He demands her presence, and
makes her his confidante. The nun is supremely happy to be back in her
old place, and pets and humours the wounded soldier, soothes his ardent
soul, and, by her skill, heals his wounds.
I do not think that any future government of France will ever dare to
oust the religious sisters from the hospitals. These quiet-voiced,
simple-robed women, carrying help and compassionate pity in the welter of
blood and slaughter, have come “to their own” again.
When writing of the religious orders one naturally thinks of the priests
of France, and one of the many interesting and instructive evolutions
taking place during this war is that of the changing relation of the
people and State towards the Catholic Church.
One has only to be a little time with the French troops in the field
to recognise and be impressed by their deep attachment to the Catholic
Church. I visited many churches in France and Belgium during the earlier
stages of the war, and at all hours, and have always found, sometimes
few, sometimes many, Belgian and French soldiers on their knees and
devoutly at prayer in the sacred buildings. Women, of course, were always
to be seen there, but that was not surprising. It was surprising to see
so many soldiers.
The French soldier takes his religion seriously in these days, and is
not ashamed, whenever the opportunity occurs, to enter a church and
pray. It was rare to see a khaki soldier praying in church; one often
saw them there on visits of curiosity gazing at the old windows and old
scroll-work of the churches. The British soldier will always attend a
church parade, and he will be most reverent during a service, and will
sing lustily and amen loudly; but a church parade is to him very often a
drill, and Tommy cheerfully attends a drill parade because it is his duty
to. In reading letters from British soldiers at the front and comparing
them with those of French soldiers one cannot help being struck by the
religious serious note pervading those of the latter, and its absence
in the former. It may be that we are less emotional than the French,
and as a nation are shy of writing of our inner selves. It was my duty
once to censor the letters written by wounded men in a Clearing Hospital
at the front. The letters were distinctly humorous at times; only two
discussed matters of faith. In one a soldier was writing to his mother,
and he said, “I pray every day as I promised you to. I pray standing up,
and always time my prayer for three o’clock in the afternoon, for that
is the time when the fellows over the way let off most of their big guns
and rifles at us.” This man was either a wag and teasing his mother,
or he really believed in the efficacy of surrounding himself with an
atmosphere of prayer when the enemy fire was hottest. The other fervent
letter was from a soldier who had received a slight shell wound of the
scalp. His was a letter written to a clergyman near London. This warrior
informed the clergyman that he prayed silently amongst his comrades, and
daily read a passage out of his Testament. The letter ended up by asking
the clergyman to send him some Woodbine cigarettes, as he, the writer,
hadn’t had a smoke for a fortnight and saw no chance of getting one. I
showed this letter to our field chaplain, who visited this Christian
soldier in the ward. The chaplain told me afterwards that the man was
absolutely destitute of any religious beliefs, and had never read a
Testament in his life; and furthermore—that he had three packets of
Woodbine cigarettes, and had also smoked a considerable number during the
past fortnight.
French officers have told me that before the war it was considered bad
form for a military officer to attend Mass, and that an officer who
attended Mass regularly need not expect promotion in the Army. Attending
Mass is not considered bad form to-day, and soldiers of all grades from
general to grenadier attend the services in the field. Was the religious
trait there all the time, and only held back by the conventional
strictness, or has the seriousness of the war compelled a little
self-analysis and a return to the faith of their fathers? My impression
is that the priests and the nursing sisters of the religious orders
have helped to stir up this present state amongst a people who have
always been, deep down, much attached to their Church and its religious
observances. Even the Reign of Terror could not stamp out the influence
of the Church in France, although it turned churches into meat marts and
blacksmiths’ forges, and plastered their walls with “Liberté, Egalité,
Fraternité.” The French priest has no official status in the State. He is
simply a citizen, and is liable, like all other citizens, to be mobilised
for military duty. Over 20,000 French priests and brothers of various
orders are serving with the French colours in this war. I have spoken to
French priests about this law that compels them to serve as soldiers.
They do not cavil at it, and, in fact, prefer to act the patriot’s part,
for the priest is every bit a good Frenchman. Be the priest a simple
soldier in the trenches, with battery, commissariat, ammunition, or
brancardiers, he is nevertheless still a priest, and is at all times
ready and eager to exercise his priestly duties. He has proved himself
time and time again to be a cool, intrepid, and reliable soldier, and he
has also proved himself in the hour of trial a comfort and spiritual help
to those about to die. One has heard of hundreds of instances in this
war when the priest, serving as soldier in the ranks, has conducted Mass
in some broken-down cottage or barn in the firing zone, buried his dead
comrades with the rites of the Church, and carried out the last offices
to the dying. One of the ablest of the French artillery officers, now in
charge of a battery, is a priest, and in times of peace is a well-known
Abbé and writer on theology. Another learned Abbé and a great preacher
was mobilised in July, and was badly wounded at Charleroi. When lying
stricken on the ground he heard a mortally wounded soldier calling him.
The Abbé painfully crawled to the dying soldier and administered the last
office, and while doing so was again wounded. He was later on conveyed by
hospital train to Paris. President Poincaré had heard the story, and met
the train on its arrival in Paris. He went into the carriage where lay
the badly wounded and apparently dying Abbé, and decorated him with the
Legion d’Honneur. I am glad to say that the Abbé, although now a cripple,
recovered from his wounds.
The Aumonier to the French Hospital at Bethune was a very fine priest. He
was not mobilised as a soldier owing to defective vision, but he acted as
priest and as a stretcher-bearer to the hospital. His lifelong friend,
another priest and lecturer on Natural History at the College at Bethune,
was fighting as a private in the Argonne. One day the Abbé told me that
he had received a letter from his friend describing his life in the
trenches, saying, “I live the life of a rabbit. I live in a hole in the
ground. At night I come out to feed.”
A few days after this the Abbé heard that his friend was killed—shot dead
through the head. When the Abbé told me of this I murmured the usual,
“Hard luck.”
“No,” said the Abbé, becoming very serious. “It is not what you call the
Hard Luck. It is the good luck. It is how a good priest would wish to
die.”
It has been asked many times during this war, “What is Christianity
doing after the past 1900 years?” and many have answered, “Crucified men
and women. Mutilated prisoners of war. Outraged women and slaughtered
children. Cities and towns in ashes. Misery, tears, and the moaning of
millions.” If this is the indictment, it is not against Christianity, but
against one people only, that of Lutheran Germany. But these hellish
deeds of “Christian” Germany have but served to bring more clearly and
brightly into view the Christian spirit of other peoples’ brotherliness,
help for the distressed, and that
“Kindness in another’s trouble,
Courage in your own.”
The Belgian and French soldiers fighting at first to defend their homes,
their women, and their children and old men, and fighting now for
vengeance to punish the bloody invaders, are examples of a good, healthy
Christianity.
The open, warm welcome of France and England to the Belgian refugees,
the colossal funds for the alleviation of distress, and helping of the
wounded and the sick, show that the “greatest of these,” Charity, is not
yet dead on the earth.
Our definition of “Christianity” depends upon the point of view. To me
the Turco and the Gurkha are very good Christians and the German nation
is infidel. Every General Order issued by the Kaiser ends not with an
appeal to the Almighty, but with an affirmation that God is fighting for
the German cause.
The Saxons and Bavarians will sack a town and inflict nameless horrors
on helpless civilians, shoot old men for sport, kill children, torture
women, commit sacrilege in the churches, smash altars and relics, destroy
historic and beautiful windows and treasures of art, bayonet priests,
violate shrieking nuns, and with hands smeared in blood they will at the
word of command praise their German God.