CHAPTER VIWhen we awoke the sun was high in the heavens, and through the train windows we could see the steep banks of the Seine as we wound along that picturesque river toward Rouen. From time to time we passed small villages, the red tile of their roofs contrasting prettily with the snow-white of the walls. Some houses were decorated with bright blue or green, and as they swept by the window in kaleidoscopic array, the scene was one of manifold variety.The French love a dash of colour; it is manifest everywhere—in their clothes, their houses and their military uniforms. In the larger cities where civilisation is over-developed, and humanity is more effete, the bright colours have given place to pale and delicate shades—an indication of that transformation of life which we call art. But in these little country villages, a thousand years or more behind the times, Dame Nature still holds sway, and the primary colours riot in their rugged strength. Centuries from now these rural hamlets, grown to greater size, losing their primitive audacity, will fade as well; and looking back will marvel at the boldness of their youth.Every quarter-mile along the track a lone sentinel, in sky-blue coat and scarlet cap, guarded our path. With fixedbaionettehe stood hour by hour, watchful and keen. He had a little thatched sentry-box into which he might retire when it rained, and through the small round windows watch on either side.As we pulled into the railway station at Rouen, we could see resourceful "Tommy" cooking his breakfast on a little charcoal stove. "Tommy" is always at home, no matter where we find him—whether it be on the battlefields of France or Belgium, or on the rock-bound shores of Gallipoli.Our men descended from their coaches, lugged out their bags of bread, their cheese and jam and "bully-beef." The sergeant-cook meted out each share, and they soon were at their morning meal.A few hours later Reggy and I were seated at luncheon in theHotel de la Poste. Thesalle a mangerwas filled with English, French and Belgian officers, and their wives or friends, and to the casual observer the place was as gay as in times of peace. But in spite of the bright colours of the uniforms, in spite of the "chic" Parisian hats and pretty faces of the ladies, one felt over all an atmosphere subdued and serious.It is true wine sparkled upon almost every table, but in France this doesn't necessarily mean gaiety. Every Frenchman drinks wine, but it is very rare indeed to see one drunk. Wine, like water at home, is used as a beverage—not as an intoxicant.Imbued with the spirit of the time and place, Reggy and I called for a bottle of oldChambertin, and under its mellowing influence, care and the war were soon forgotten.Of course we visited the Cathedral, and listened to the old sexton pouring incomprehensible data into our stupid ears for half an hour while we examined the rare stained windows and the carved oak door. When we returned to the train, the senior major and the transport officer were deep in conversation: "But where are your papers?" the R.T.O. was asking."We haven't any," the major replied. "That French conductor wouldn't hold the train until they arrived. Can't we go on without them?""Where are you going?""We presume to Boulogne—the rest of the unit is there, but we have no orders. When does the train leave, please?""There'll be one at 3 p.m., and if you wish to take that, get your men aboard."We might have been touring France—he was so nonchalant, and there was such an absence of "red-tape." Imagine in these hyper-martial days being told to "take the 3 p.m. train if we wished!" Nowadays it is not a matter of volition; units go where and when they are commanded, and a definite system has replaced haphazard. But the old way had its good points—it still let one believe he was in part his own master.Having a sense of duty and, moreover, being anxious to reach our destination—wherever that might be—we entrained once more and travelled all the balance of that day and night.Promptly at 3 p.m. Reggy fell asleep, and didn't wake once, not even to eat, until the following morning at six o'clock, when with a crash he was thrown off his couch to the floor of the train. Thus rudely startled, but not quite wide awake, he ejaculated:"Torpedoed, by Gad!"We didn't take time to wake Reggy and explain the situation, but sprang to our feet and threw open the door of the train. What had happened? We were at Boulogne; our train had collided with another in the railway yards, but fortunately only one coach was crushed and no one hurt. We descended to the tracks and found other coaches on other trains in a similar condition.It was not difficult to understand the cause. The German spy leaves nothing undone, and was very careful to attend to such details as changing the railway switches to the wrong tracks. By now the spies have been almost completely weeded out; but in those days they were very active.How thorough was their system was well illustrated when, later on, the Western Cavalry entered the trenches. A wooden horse rose instantly above the German trench, bearing this legend: "Western Cavalry, come over and get your horses!" Our boys promptly shot the offending animal full of holes. It fell; but in a moment was raised again with bandages about its neck and leg!Despite the early morning hour, in a railway car a few yards from us, several young Englishwomen were busy serving hot cocoa and rolls to the hungry soldiers. The interior of the coach had been transformed into a kitchen and travelling buffet. Every man in uniform was welcome to enter and partake free of charge. We took advantage of this practical hospitality and, much refreshed, returned to our own train.At another platform a regiment of Ghurkas were engaged loading their equipment. One came across to our engine and drawing some hot water from the boiler, washed his teeth and mouth with infinite care.The Ghurka is so like the Jap in appearance that when, later, we saw a body of these brave little chaps, with their turned-up Stetson hats, marching along the street, for a moment we actually mistook them for our Oriental allies. It was only when we observed their short broad swords (kukris) that we realised it could be none other than these famous men from India.The colonel was at the station to meet us. How glad we were to see his genial face once more!"Your billets are all arranged," he said. "The officers will stay at theLouvreand the non-commissioned officers and men at theJean d'arctheâtre."The men were lined-up and, now that the unit was once more complete, formed quite an imposing sight. In those days medical units wore the red shoulder straps; the privilege of retaining these coloured straps has been granted only to members of the First Contingent.The men marched acrossLe Pont Marguet, up the main thoroughfare, along theRue Victor Hugo, crossing the market place, and in a narrow street not far from the market found the little theâtre. It made a perfect billet, the main hall serving as a mess room, and the gallery as an excellent dormitory.The quartermaster, Reggy, and I were billeted in one large room at theLouvre. Our window overlooked the basin and across the quay we could see the fish-wives unloading the herring boats as they arrived in dozens. With their queer wooden shoes (sabots) they clack-clacked across the cobblestones; their large baskets, overflowing with fish, strapped to their backs. Among all the varied odours of that odorous city, that of fish rises supreme. It saluted our nostrils when we marched in the streets, and was wafted in at our windows when the thoughtless breeze ventured our way.We could see too, the Channel boats arriving at the dock, bringing battalion after battalion of troops. These rapidly entrained, and were whisked away in the shrill-whistling little French trains toward the battlefront.Sometimes convoys of London 'busses, now bereft of their advertisements and painted dull grey, filled with "Tommies" destined for the "big show," passed by the door and rolled away into the far beyond.The second morning of our stay at Boulogne Reggy awoke feeling that he really must have a bath. Why he should consider himself different from all the other people in France, is a matter I am not prepared to discuss. A bath, in France, is a luxury, so to speak, and is indulged in at infrequent intervals—on fête days or some other such auspicious occasion.He rang the bell to summon the maid. In a few moments a tousled blonde head-of-hair, surmounted by a scrap of old lace, was thrust inside the door."Monsieur?" it enquired.Reggy prided himself upon his French—he had taken a high place in college in this particular subject, but, as he remarked deprecatingly, his French seemed a bit too refined for the lower classes, who couldn't grasp its subtleties."Je veux un bain," he said.He was startled by the ease with which she understood. Could it be that he looked—but, no, he appeared as clean as the rest of us. At any rate, she responded at once in French:"Oui, monsieur. I'll bring it in to you." She withdrew her head and closed the door."What the deuce," cried Reggy, as he sat up quickly in bed. "She'llbring inthe bath! Does she take me for a canary?""A canary doesn't make such a dickens of a row as you do," growled the quartermaster, "looking for a bath at six a.m."I tried to console him by reminding him that it was much better to have Reggy sweet and clean than in his present state, but he said it made small difference to him as he had a cold in his head anyway. Reggy, as an interested third party, began to look upon our controversy as somewhat personal, and was about to interfere when a rap at the door cut short further argument.Two chambermaids entered the room, carrying between them a tin pan about two feet in diameter and six inches in depth. It contained about a gallon of hot water. They placed it beside his bed."Voici, monsieur!" cried she of the golden locks.Reggy leaned over the side of the bed and looked down at it."Sacré sabre de bois;" he exclaimed. "It isn't a drink I want—it's a bath—'bain'—to wash—'laver' ye know!"He made motions with his hands in excellent imitation of a gentleman performing his morning ablutions. They nodded approvingly, and laughed:"Oui, monsieur—itisthe bath.""Well, I'll be d——" But before Reggy could conclude the two maids had smilingly withdrawn.Reggy explored the room in his pyjamas and emptied our three water pitchers into the pan."Now I'll at least be able to get my feet wet," he grumbled. "Where's the soap?" he exclaimed a moment later. "There isn't a bally cake of soap in the room."It was true. This is one of the petty annoyances of French hotels. Soap is never in the room and must be purchased as an extra, always at the most inopportune moment. After half an hour's delay Reggy succeeded in buying a cake from the porter, and his bath proceeded without further mishap. He then tumbled into bed again and fell asleep.The maids shortly returned to carry out the bath, but when they saw how Reggy had exhausted all the water in the room they held up their hands in undisguised astonishment."Monsieur is extravagant," they exclaimed, "to waste so much water!" Fortunately "Monsieur" was fast asleep, so the remark passed unnoticed.Later we approached theconcierge, and asked here if there were not a proper bath-tub in the place. She laughed.Les Anglaiswere so much like ducks—they wanted to bealwaysin the water."But I will soon have it well for you," she declaimed with pride. "I am having two bath tubs placed in the cellar, and then you may play in the water all the day."At the time we looked upon this as her little joke, but when, weeks later, one early morning we noticed a tallAnglaiswalking through the hotel "lounge" in his pyjamas, with bath towel thrown across his arm, we realised that she had spoken truth. The bath tubs were really and truly in the cellar.It was ten days before we succeeded in locating the building which we wanted for our hospital. All the suitable places in Boulogne were long since commandeered. Every large building, including all the best hotels, had been turned into hospitals, so that we were forced to go far afield. Finally, twenty-two miles from the city, we found a summer hotel exactly suited to our needs. It was in a pine forest, and close to the sea shore, an ideal spot for a hospital.During these ten days the talent of our corps conceived the idea of holding a concert in theJean d'archall.At this time all theatres, music halls, and even "movies" in France were closed, and music was tabooed. France was taking the war seriously. She was mourning her dead and the loss of her lands. The sword had been thrust deeply into her bosom, and the wound was by no means healed. The streets were filled with widows, and their long black veils symbolised the depth of the nation's grief.Let those who will admire the light-heartedness of Britain—Britain wears no mourning for her heroes dead. In Britain it isbourgeoisto be despondent. We keep up an appearance of gaiety even when our hearts are heaviest. But France is too natural, too frank for such deception. What she feels, she shows upon the surface. At first our apparent indifference to our losses and hers was a source of irritation. France resented it; but now she knows us better. We are not indifferent—it is merely an attitude. The two nations now understand one another, and in that understanding lies the foundation of a firmer friendship.With success and confidence in the future, France has risen out of the "slough of despond." She has recovered a portion of her old-time light-heartedness. We thought her effervescent, artificial and unstable; we have found her steadfast, true and unshakable. She has manifested throughout this desperate struggle a grim and immutable determination that has been the marvel of her allies and the despair of her enemies.Realising the temporary distaste for amusement in France, our little concert was intended to be private and confined solely to our own unit. But a few of the new-found French friends of the boys waived their objections to entertainment, and as a special favour volunteered to come.It was a strange and moving sight to see a Canadian audience in that far-off land, gravely seated in their chairs in the little hall, waiting for the curtain to rise. Our staff of Nursing Sisters honoured the boys with their presence, and every officer and man was there. Thirty or forty of the native population, in black, a little doubtful of the propriety of their action, were scattered through the khaki-clad.The boys outdid themselves that night. How well they sang those songs of home! We were carried back thousands of miles across the deep to our dear old Canada, and many an eye was wet with tears which dare not fall.But reminiscence fled when Sergeant Honk assumed the stage. Some one had told Honk he could sing, and—subtle flatterer—he had been believed. With the first wild squeaky note we were back, pell-mell in France. The notes rose and fell—but mostly fell; stumbling over and over one another in their vain endeavour to escape from Honk. Some maintained he sang by ear. Perhaps he did—he didn't sing by mouth and chords long lost to human ken came whistling through his nose. The song was sad—but we laughed and laughed until we wept again.[image]THE SONG WAS SAD—BUT WE LAUGHED AND LAUGHED UNTIL WE WEPT AGAINAt the end of the first verse he seemed a little bewildered by the effect, but he had no advantage over us in that respect. At the end of the second verse, seeing his hearers in danger of apoplexy, he hesitated, and turning to Taylor, the pianist, muttered in an aside:"They downt understand h'English, them bloakes—this ayn't a funny song—blimed if I downt quit right 'ere, and serve 'em jolly well right too!"And under a perfect storm of applause and cries of protest, Honk departed as he had come—anglewise.Tim and his brother then had a boxing-bout; and Cameron, who acted as Tim's second, drew shrieks of joy from his French admirers, between rounds, as he filled his mouth with water and blew it like a penny shower into the perspiring breathless face of Tim."A wee drap watter refraishes ye, Tim," he declared argumentatively after one of these showers."Doze Pea-jammers tinks it's funny," Tim puffed. "Let dem have a good time—dey ain't see'd nuthin' much lately—-an' a good laff 'ull help dem digest dere 'patty de frog-grass!"CHAPTER VIIIt was my fate, or fortune, to be in charge of the advance party which was detailed to prepare for the opening of our hospital.Captain Burnham and I, with about forty N.C.O.s and men, and with two days' rations, left Boulogne one cold November afternoon, a few days after the concert. After a slow train journey of three hours' duration, we were deposited at the railway station of a fishing village on the coast.If Boulogne prides itself on its odour of dead fish, this little place must be an everlasting thorn in its side; for all the smells of that maladorous city fade into insignificance before the concentrated "incense" of the back streets of Etaples. We didn't linger unnecessarily in the village, but pushed on at the "quick-march" and, crossing the bridge, were soon on the broad paved road which runs throughLe Touquetforest.It was just dusk, and snow had fallen to the depth of about two inches; the most we saw in two winters during our stay in that part of France. It was a crisp, cold evening, and the swinging pace of our march did much to keep us warm.From time to time we passed large summer residences and artistic villas partly hidden in the woods, but all the doors were closed, and all the windows were dark. Not a human being passed us on the road, and the noise of our shoes crunching through the crusted snow was the only sound which broke the solemn stillness of the air.Our men too seemed oppressed with the weird solitude of the forest and seldom spoke above a whisper."Seems as though the world were dead," said Burnham, after we had walked nearly two miles in silence."Yes," I replied, "it gives one a creepy feeling passing through this long dark avenue of pines. The houses too look as if the inhabitants had fled and that no one had the courage to return.""I understand theBoscheswere through quite close to here," Burnham remarked, "in their first mad dash for Paris, and that some German soldiers were killed near the outskirts of this wood.""By the gruesomeness of it I can imagine they wereallkilled," I replied.By this time we had turned at right angles to our former path and entered another long avenue of trees. The white walls of an isolated mansion stood out in the distance against the black-green of the forest and the fading purple of the evening sky. The grounds about it were enclosed by a high pointed iron fence; it looked a veritable prison.After tramping another mile we emerged into an open space between the trees and the rolling sand dunes of the coast, and saw before us a large limestone building, three stories in height and almost surrounded with broad, glass-enclosed balconies. The tracks of a disused tramway ran to the gate, and the rust upon the rails spoke more forcibly than ever of desolation and desertion.We passed through the stone gateway and crossed the snow-covered lawn. Everything was as dark and dreary as the grave. Surely no one was within! We mounted the steps and rang the bell. Its peal reverberated strangely through the empty halls. After a few moments, however, a light appeared and a solitary man entered the rotunda; he turned the electric switch, flooding the room with a bright light. He came to the door, unlocked it, and rolled it back slowly upon its wheels."Gut evening, zhentlemen," he said in English, but with a peculiar Franco-German accent difficult to diagnose. "It iss fery kolt, iss it not?"We acknowledged the fact."You are vrom the Canadian Hospital?" he queried."You were evidently expecting us," I replied. "We are the advance party from that hospital."He pushed the door wide for us to enter. We didn't debate the propriety of accepting the hospitality of a German, but marched in at once."Your dinner vill be retty in a leedle vhile. I vill haf Alvred ligh'd you the grate, und you soon fery comfortable vill be.""Show me to the kitchen first," I asked him, "and let me see what arrangements you have for supper for the men. When they are made comfortable it will be plenty of time for our dinner."He piloted us into a large room with red tile floor. There was good accommodation for the men, and the kitchen ranges were close by. They had their cooks and rations with them, and as soon as we had chosen their sleeping quarters and had seen that everything was satisfactory we returned for our own dinner.In a commodious room, just off the rotunda, a roaring coal fire was blazing on the hearth. Big easy-chairs had been conveniently placed for us, and Burnham and I fell into them and stretched our tired feet toward the fender upon the rich red Turkish rug. The table was spread close by, and we noticed the fine linen, the sparkling cut glass, crested silver andLimogechina. The scent of delicious French cooking was wafted to us past the heavy silken hangings of the door. Presently our German host appeared once more:"Vat vine vill the zhentlemen have mit zehr dinner?" he enquired politely.Burnham threw himself back into his seat and laughed aloud. "Holy smoke!" he chuckled, "and we are at the war!""What wines have you?" I enquired tentatively."Anyzing you wish to name, zir," he responded with a certain show of pride.I thought I would put him to the test. "Bring us a bottle of 'Ayala,' '04 vintage," I commanded."Mit pleasure, zir." And he bowed and retired to get it.Burnham slapped his knee and burst out: "Am I awake or dreaming? We walk four miles through a stark forest on a winter night, enter a deserted hostel, are received by a German spy and fêted like the Lord Mayor. I expect to fall out of the balloon any minute and hit the earth with a nasty bump!""I'm a little dazed myself," I admitted, "but it's all a part of the soldier-game. Some other day we'll find the cards reversed, and have to play it just the same."Our host, however, was not a German, although that was his native tongue. He came from that little-known country of Luxembourg, which, sandwiched in between France and her Teutonic enemy, has still maintained a weak and unavailing neutrality. Being too small and unprotected to resist, the German army marched unmolested across it in the early days of war."Alvred," who was a French-Swiss, and spoke more languages than I can well remember, waited upon us at table. We were just finishing an excellent five-course dinner with a tiny glass ofcoin-treau, when the sound of a motor-car stopping at the door aroused us from our dream of heavenly isolation.As we stepped into the hall, the door opened, and in walked the colonel, the senior major and the quartermaster, who had followed us from Boulogne by road."Well, how do you like our new hospital?" the colonel demanded with a satisfied smile."We love it," Burnham exclaimed. "It is weird, romantic and altogethercomme il faut."I suggested that a liqueur and a cigar might not be unacceptable after their long drive. The colonel smiled appreciatively as he replied:"Wearea bit chilly after our journey; I think a little drink will do us good. What do you say, Major Baldwin?" This question was addressed to the senior major, who, with the others, had now entered our dining room.The artistic surroundings drove the major into poetry at once. He exclaimed:"'Ah! my beloved, fill the cup that clearsTo-day of past regrets and future fears.'""Splendid!" cried Burnham enthusiastically. "Now, let's have 'Gunga Din'—you do it so well! How does it go? 'You're a better drink than I am, Gordon Gin!'""No, no!" said the major deprecatingly. "You mustn't abuse Kipling—it's too early in the evening."Whether the major intended abusing that famous author at a later hour, or merely reciting from him, we didn't enquire. We talked until late, formulating our plans for the morrow and for many days to come. We made a tour of inspection about the building. The colonel unfolded his plans as we walked along the halls."This suite," he said, as we came to the end of the hall, "will make a splendid pair of operating rooms, an anæsthetic and a sterilising room. The fifth will do for a dressing room for the surgeons, and in the sixth Reggy will have full sway—that will be his eye and ear reformatory. On the left we'll install our X-ray plant, so that all surgical work may be done in this one wing.""What about the hotel furnishings," I enquired, "are they to remain in places?""Everything must go, except what is absolutely necessary to the comfort or care of patients," he replied. "It seems a pity, but we are here not only to cure patients, but to protect the Government from needless expense. In the morning set the men to work dismantling the entire building."We walked along to the opposite end of the hall."Here's a fine room," exclaimed Major Baldwin, as he peeped into the dainty boudoir which I had chosen as a bedroom. "Who sleeps in this luxurious state?""I do—for to-night," I replied."I want that room for myself," he declared. "It looks like the best in the place."How is it we always want that which the other fellow has? Its value seems enhanced by its inaccessibility."It shall be yours to-morrow night," I replied to this covetous request. It was no deprivation to give it up as there were fifty other rooms, which the Major had not seen, more richly decorated and more attractive than mine. This little room was cosy and prettily furnished in bird's-eye maple. It boasted an Axminster rug, a brass bed, and the glow from the open fire lent it a charm which had captivated Major Baldwin's eye.There were other suites of rooms, with private baths attached, and hot and cold running water. The floors were covered with costly Persian rugs, and the furniture was of hand-carved olive wood or mahogany. Private balconies overlooked the golf course and the forest. Every detail bespoke wealth and luxury combined with the most modern contrivances for comfort.The colonel was amused at us: "Pick out whatever rooms you like," he said, "and enjoy yourselves while you may, for in three days' time no one but patients will live in this building. The men will sleep in the Golf-club house, the nurses in one of these deserted villas, and we shall have another villa for ourselves."We discovered that our hospital building was owned by an English company; hence the great number of bathrooms—thirty-four in all. The halls and glass enclosed balconies were steam heated throughout, and each room had its old-fashioned open fireplace to combat the chill of winter days.At midnight the colonel and his party left us and commenced their return journey to Boulogne. Burnham and I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, our footsteps echoing loudly through the untenanted halls. We sat and chatted for an hour before the fire. I was getting very sleepy—we had dined well—and as I looked at Burnham his form seemed to dwindle to smaller and smaller proportions until he looked like a pigmy from Lilliput. I amused myself awhile watching this strange phenomenon. By and by his diminutive size provoked me to remark:"Do you know, Burnham, although an hour ago when you entered the room, I mistook you for a full-grown man, I can now see that in reality you are only about ten inches tall—yet your every feature is perfect.""Much obliged for the compliment implied in your last clause," he laughed; "you corroborate suspicions which I have long entertained that I'm a handsome dog whose beauty has remained unappreciated. It's a strange coincidence, but I am labouring under the opposite delusion, and although an hour ago you waddled into the room—just an ordinary fat man; now I view you as a Colossus."I rather approved his regarding me as a Colossus, but saw that I must at once frown upon that "waddling" idea. It's an impression I can't afford to let go abroad."Come, let's to bed," I cried, "and sleep 'will knit your ravelled sleeve of care'—I really think your wide-awake impressions are the worst!"We arose at six and under our direction the men commenced the work of disrobing the hotel. The stern necessities of war permit no sentiment. Everything had to go: The beautiful paintings, the silken hangings, the Oriental rugs, the artistic statuary, were all rapidly removed and packed away for safety. The card and dining rooms and lounges were stripped of their carpets, and before night its former guests would scarce have recognised the place. Sanitation is the first and paramount law of a Military Hospital; carpets and unnecessary furniture are a source of danger, for such a variety of diseases follow the troops that special care must be given to every possibility for infection and its prevention.By five that evening the colonel, the matron and the nursing sisters arrived, and a few hours later came the balance of our officers and men. Motor lorries and ambulances toiled through the gates, laden with our equipment. Hundreds of boxes, crates of iron beds, bales of mattresses and blankets, folding bedside tables, bags of tents and poles, were brought to the door in an apparently endless stream. As fast as the lorries arrived the men unloaded them, piling boxes and bales under the balconies for protection.Huxford and the team did their share too, bringing up loads of food from the train for the men and for prospective patients.The senior major was pale and tired; he had been up since dawn and had worked hard. Nothing had been forgotten, and the transport of men and accoutrement had been accomplished systematically and well. He was a good soldier, true to his duty, stern and unflinching, and he never asked others to work without being willing to do more than his own share. Tired as he was, he would neither rest nor eat until the last box was unloaded, and the last lorrie had left the grounds—and the men shared his deprivation.It was almost nine p.m. as Tim and Barker, staggering under the weight of a tremendous case, came across the driveway and dumped the last box to the ground. Tim sat breathless for a moment upon it, then looked wearily up at Barker, with his head on one side as was his custom when he soliloquised."Dat's a heavy load t'get offen an empty stummick," he gasped. "I can't lif annuder poun' until I gets a slab o' roas' beef under me belt. I'm dat hungry I could lick de sweat off a bake-shop window.""I smell supper cookin' now," said Barker. "Did ye see th' ranges? Some cookery, I kin tell ye—they kin roast a whole cow at one time!""An' I kin eat dat same cow jus' as fas' as dey kin roast it," Tim declared. "I'm dat weak from starvation dat a drink uv holy water 'ud make me drunk!"About nine-thirty p.m. the men fell upon their supper like a pack of hungry wolves."Gee!—Don't food taste good—when ye're hungry," drawled Wilson, with his mouth full."Dat's right," Tim replied. "Glad t' see ye're perkin' up an' takin' a little notice agin. I fought youse and Huxford wuz about all in.""Where'd you get the onion?" Wilson queried."I foun' dis in d' hotel garbage," said Tim, as he took a large bite out of a Spanish specimen, "an' I wuz jus' t'inkin' wat a diff'rence there is 'tween an onion and a cake. Hav ye noticed it yerself?""I hevn't eat cake in so long I don't s'pose I could tell 'em apart now," Wilson replied."Well, dey say ye can't eat yer cake an' hev it too; but wit an onion it's different—wen ye eat it, it's like castin' yer bread upon de troubled waters—it'll always come back t' ye."Cameron looked up as if he were about to correct this scriptural misquotation. It seemed to harass his religious sense. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was too full for utterance, and he had to content himself with a reproachful look at Tim.Ten o'clock found everybody sleepy and exhausted. The boys didn't trouble to go to their quarters, but, crawling into any available corner, threw themselves down upon bundles or empty beds, and soon were fast asleep. The sergeant-major was too tired to care, and for one night at least discipline was happily forgotten.In the morning early we were at it again, tooth and nail. If some of our friends at home, who think the trained nurse is too proud to work, could have only seen those splendid girls on their first day in the new hospital, they would still be lost in wonder. They washed woodwork and windows, helped to put up unruly beds, swept the floors and did a hundred other menial labours—menial only because in our artificial life we call them so—cheerfully and speedily.If some day, by chance, one of our nursing sisters reads these lines, and blushes at the recollection of her work that day, let her remember that by that very labour, in our eyes, she was glorified. We shall always remember with pride those brave girls who were not afraid, when duty called, to "stoop and conquer."The following evening I was despatched to Boulogne to interview the A.D.M.S. regarding our hospital. I was met at the office door by the D.A.D.M.S., who was one of that breed of cock-sure officer—nowmerci a Dieualmost extinct."Hello," he cried brusquely. "Is your hospital ready for patients?""We should prefer another day or two of preparation, sir," I replied."How long have you been out there now?" he demanded."Two days, sir.""What! At the end of two days you mean to tell me you're not ready! You're very slow."It was the first time we had been accused of sluggishness. It was undeserved, and I resented it accordingly. I replied—not too politely, I fear:"You will please remember we had to dismantle and remove the carpets and furniture of a large hotel, take stock of the fixtures and house-clean the building before commencing the setting up of our hospital equipment. We are ready for two hundred patients now—but we prefer another day or two to make everything complete.""I'll send you two hundred patients to-night," he cried. "Be prepared for them."The A.D.M.S., a typical English gentleman of the old school, interfered. He called his deputy aside and said to him:"You mustn't rush patients into a new hospital in this manner. Give them a few days' grace." He turned to me and continued: "You will receive a trainload of patients three days from now. That will give you plenty of time. Kindly inform your commanding officer to this effect."Some men brush one's fur the wrong way, and others smooth it back again. I had been so rumpled by the D.A.D.M.S. that every bristle of my not too gentle nature was standing on end—it was not only what he said, but the manner of the saying; yet the A.D.M.S., with one gentle, kindly stroke of common sense, had soothed and made me human once again. I felt my wrath slipping quietly away, and I basked for a moment in the sunshine of a genial personality. I gratefully murmured:"Thank you, sir. I shall tell him.""I trust your hospital will soon prove itself a credit to your staff and to Canada. Good night, and good luck," he said, as he shook me warmly by the hand.It was midnight of the third day after this interview. The orderly on duty in the hall was suddenly startled by the sharp ring of the telephone bell. He sprang to his feet and put the strange French receiver to his ear."Yes, this is the Canadian Hospital," he answered; and a distant voice gave this message:"A train-load of three hundred wounded will arrive at the station at two a.m. Be ready for them!"CHAPTER VIIIAt last the time for action had come. Three hundred wounded would arrive in two hours; one-fifth the number would throw the average city hospital into confusion. Nurses and officers hurried from their villas to the hospital. The cooks and orderlies were already on duty, and the hospital presented a scene of bustling but systematic activity.Our ten wards, each named after a province of our beloved Dominion, were soon ready for the reception of patients, and the deft hands of the nursing sisters added the final touch of extra preparation.The colonel's motor car throbbed in waiting at the door, and ambulance after ambulance, with its quota of stretcher-bearers, whirled away into the darkness of the forest on the road to the station. It was a clear, cold nights. The ground was hardened by the frost, and the pale quarter-moon cast a faint chill light over the trees.Reggy and I clambered into the colonel's car as it started, and in a moment we were moving swiftly through the gaunt, trembling shadows of the wood. As we approached the turning of the road we could see in the distance the flashing headlights of other motors from the English hospital, as they too sped toward the train.When we reached the station a constant stream of vehicles was pouring through the gates, and as fast as each car or ambulance arrived, it was backed into the waiting line. Every few yards carbide jets spluttered in the wind, adding their fitful glare to the strangeness of the scene.After about an hour's wait the shrill whistle of the incoming French train warned us that our vigil was nearly over. In a few minutes the coaches, each with its big red cross, came clanking slowly into the station yard. Car after car passed by: one, two, three,—ten,—twenty; it was a tremendous train. At last it stopped, the doors opened and we had our first glimpse of the brave boys who had held the line.Dozens of Scots and English battalions were represented, but there were no Canadians save ourselves as yet in France. Some of the boys could stand or walk, and they clambered slowly and painfully down the steep steps and stood in little wondering groups. God knows they looked tired, and their clothes were still covered with the dried mud from the trenches; for during a battle speed and the necessities of the moment are the important things—the refinements of civilisation must await time and opportunity. Many were smoking cigarettes; some had bandages about their head or hands or feet; some had their arms in slings; but from none was there the slightest groan or sound of complaint. They waited with soldierly but pathetic patience until we were ready to take care of them.One tall young man who was standing apart from the others and whose face was unusually pale, approached me and saluted. His right hand was thrust into the bosom of his coat, with his left he nervously drew a cigarette from his pocket."Would you mind helping me light this, sir?" he asked respectfully. "I can't protect the match from the wind."As I assisted him I enquired: "Have you had your right hand wounded? I see you keep it in your coat.""It's not exactly that, sir," he replied, with a faint smile. "I have no right hand—had it blown off this morning." He drew the bandaged stump from his breast as he spoke and held it up for inspection."But you must be suffering frightfully!" I exclaimed in pity, surprised at his coolness."It does give me 'Gip' now and again. I can bear it better when I smoke," and he pulled tremulously at his cigarette.I helped the brave fellow into one of the waiting motors and turned to see what I could do for the others. There were dozens with bandaged feet who limped slowly toward the ambulances."What has happened to you chaps?" I enquired, as I came to a group of six, all apparently suffering from the same condition, and who could scarcely walk."Trench feet, sir," they answered readily.At the time this was a new disease to me, but we soon saw all too much of it. It corresponds quite closely to what in Canada is known as "chilblain," but is much more painful, and is in some ways equivalent to "frost-bite." It is caused by prolonged immersion in ice-cold water or liquid mud. In those days too, the trenches were not as well built as they are to-day, or the ground was lower and more boggy. Men were subjected to great privations, and suffered untold hardships. "Trench foot" has now almost entirely disappeared, and conditions in the trenches are altogether better."Were you standing long in the water?" I asked them."We've been in it night and day since Sunday," they replied—-and this was Friday!"Was the water deep?" I asked."The mud was up to the waist," one answered; "an' poor Bill Goggins stepped in a 'ole in the trench an' were drowned afore we could get to 'im."Another spoke up: "A lad from my platoon got into a part of the trench that were like a quicksand, on'y 'e went down so fast—like as if there was a suction from, below. We seen 'im goin', an' 'e called fer 'elp, but w'en we got to 'im 'e were down to 'is chin, an' we couldn't pull 'im back.""Good heavens!" I exclaimed in horror. "Was he drowned too?""'E were that, sir," he replied. "It were jolly 'ard to see 'im go, an' us right there!" and there were tears in the good fellow's eyes as he spoke."Climb into the motor, boys," I said. "We'll try to make up a little for the hell you've all been through."There were others who had been severely wounded; some with broken arms or legs; some shot through the head or chest. It was wonderful to see the gentleness and kindness of our own rough lads as they lifted them tenderly from bed to stretcher, and carried them from the train to the waiting ambulances.I stepped inside the train for a moment. It was a marvel of a hospital on wheels. It had comfortable spring beds and mattresses, and soft woollen blankets. There were kitchens, a dispensary, an emergency operating room and even bathrooms. A staff of medical officers, nurses and trained orderlies did all which human power can do to make the men comfortable during a trying journey. Every man had had his supper, and his wounds had been dresseden routeas scientifically and carefully as if he had been in a "Base Hospital."The ambulances rolled slowly away from the train with their precious loads, the drivers cautiously picking their way along the smoothest parts of the road; for to the man with a broken leg or arm the slightest jolt causes pain.We saw the boys again at the entrance to the hospital, lying in rows on stretchers, or standing patiently in line, waiting until their names and numbers were duly recorded. Each one, as this procedure was completed, was given a little card on which the name of his ward and the number of his bed was written. He was then conducted or carried to his allotted place.How tired they looked as they sat wearily upon the edge of their beds, waiting for the orderlies to come and assist them to undress! But even here they were able to smile and crack their little jokes from bed to bed.As soon as they were undressed, they were given a refreshing bath, in which they revelled after their weeks of dirty work and mud. After the bath came clean, warm pyjamas, a cup of hot cocoa or soup, a slice of bread and butter, and last, but to the soldier never least, a cigarette.To him the cigarette is the panacea for all ills. I have seen men die with a cigarette between their lips—the last favour they had requested on earth. If the soldier is in pain, he smokes for comfort; if he is restless he smokes for solace; when he receives good news, he smokes for joy; if the news is bad, he smokes for consolation; if he is well—he smokes; when he is ill—he smokes. But good news or bad, sick or well, healwayssmokes.As I entered the ward a Highlander, not yet undressed, was sitting upon the side of his bed puffing contentedly at his cigarette. His tunic was still spattered with dried blood."Are you badly wounded?" I asked him."Not verra badly, sir," he returned, as he stood at attention."But you have a lot of blood on your tunic," I said, pointing to his right side and hip."It's not a' mine, sir," he replied as he grinned from ear to ear—"it's a souvenir from aBosche, but he did make a sma' hole in ma thigh wi' his bayonet.""And what happened to him?"He laughed outright this time. "He's got ma bayonet an' ma rifle too," he cried. "Oh, man, but it was a gran' ficht!""Is he dead?" I asked."Dead?" he exclaimed. "I hae his top-hat wi' me noo;" and he held up a Prussian helmet to our admiring gaze.I congratulated him and passed on; but I had little time just then for chatting. All the wounds had to be unbandaged, washed and freshly dressed, and although we worked rapidly, the nurses undoing the bandages and attending to the minor cases, while I did the more serious ones myself, it was broad daylight before we had finished. The morning sun, stealing gently over the trees, found patients and doctors alike ready for a few hours' sleep.A similar scene had been enacted in every other ward. It was nearly six a.m. as the other officers and myself, with the exception of the unfortunate orderly officer, started down the road toward the villa. Our billet was about a quarter-mile away, but our "mess" was in the hospital building. I crawled into bed at last, very, very weary, and in a few moments was lost to the world.It was Tim who finally roused me from this heavy sleep. He was standing at the foot of my bed with his head on one side in his customary bird-like attitude. His stiff black forelock hung straight over his brow. I was just conscious enough to hear him saying:"Wake up, maje!"Before strangers, or before brother officers, Tim was always respectful to us. He was a trained soldier, and, when occasion demanded, could be, and was, very regimental. But in the privacy of our home (of which he was in charge) Tim treated us like children whose pranks might be tolerated but must not be encouraged."What's the trouble, Tim?" I enquired sleepily."It's time to git up," he complained. "D'ye s'pose ye're goin' t' sleep all day, jes' because ye loss ye're beauty sleep las' night? Dis is war—dis is!""What's the hour?" I asked."It's ten o'clock," he replied, "an' dat Cap' Reggy's in de nex' room—chloroformed agin; wit his knees drawed up an' his mout' open ventilatin' his brain. Dey ain't a Pullman in de whole worl' dat's as good a sleeper as dat gent."By this time I was fully awake, as Tim intended I should be. I turned over on my side and addressed him:"Run downstairs now, Tim, and make me a good hot cup of coffee, and a slice of toast with fried mushrooms on top."Tim stared at me a moment in open-mouthed amazement. We weren't supposed to eat at the villa, but Tim was a good cook and those he favoured with his "friendship" might coax a cup of tea before rising."Fried mushrooms," he repeated, as he went toward the door, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Fried—mush—rooms! Gees, an' dey calls disactiveservice!"But in spite of this show of pessimism, he returned shortly with the breakfast as ordered.When we reached the hospital that morning everything was as neat and clean as though nothing had happened the night before. No adequate description can be given of the trained nurse at the front. She is one of the marvels of the war. Patient, industrious, cheerful, self-sacrificing and brave, she has robbed war of much of its horrors. She has made the wounded soldier feel that a sister's care, a mother's love and a clever woman's skill follow him wherever he goes. Her smile has cheered his lagging day; her gentle touch has soothed his pain and the warm sympathy of her kindly heart has made the foreign land a home. Under stress of work and nervous strain, ever forgetful of self, always thoughtful for others, no truer or nobler band of gentle women ever left the shores of Canada.The patients had had a refreshing sleep and a good breakfast and were now snugly tucked in their clean sheets and warm blankets, looking very happy and contented. Even those who were badly wounded had partly forgotten their troubles. Some had souvenirs—German rifle bullets or bits of shell which had been extracted at the Clearing Hospital farther up the line, and these they exhibited with great pride to their fellow patients. The German helmet was always an object of interest. The slanting cut in the glossy leather of one spoke better than words of a bayonet thrust which had gone home. Each little bedside table had a few priceless trinkets, bought with blood, and brought with great difficulty and care from the battlefield.It was our custom to postpone surgical operations, except urgent ones to save life, for one or two days, in order to give the tired soldiers a chance to get a much-needed rest—a simple expedient whereby many lives were saved. The patients were grateful for this little reprieve, and showed their gratitude by recovering more rapidly.But sometimes it was necessary to operate at once. That morning I found a poor chap who had been shot through the brain with a rifle bullet. The missile had entered the temple and emerged at the back of the skull, fracturing the bone both at the point of entry and exit. His heavy breathing and stupor told us the case called for immediate relief. In the operating room pieces of the skull were removed, the depressed bone lifted, and in about an hour the patient was taken back to his ward. We had little hope of his recovery.The following day, when I entered the hospital, his bed was empty. I thought: "Poor fellow! He has died in the night and no one has sent me word." I turned with a feeling of disappointment to the man in the next bed and asked:"What has become of your neighbour?""Oh," he replied, "he's just gone out to the wash room. He'll be back in a few minutes. He stole out of the ward while the nursing sister was in the other room."While we were talking he walked in, got quietly into bed and reached for a cigarette. I bade him good morning, repressing, as well as I could, my astonishment."You are feeling better this morning?" I remarked, as casually as if he had had a cold in his head."Oh, yes, I'm very well in myself, sir," he replied with a contented smile, "but I have a little headache—I'm thinkin' the bandages are a bit tight."I loosened them and gave him a warning not to get up again. He seemed disappointed, but promised not to transgress a second time.It is surprising and pleasing to know that a large percentage of men shot through the brain recover. Seven out of nine who entered the hospital one day, some months later, made a good recovery, and when they left were apparently mentally sound.A young lieutenant who arrived with one train load of wounded, walked unassisted up the steps, and smilingly addressed the Registrar:"About a week ago, a sly bullet popped over the trench and caught me in the temple. Fortunately it passed out through the opposite side. They took me down to the Field Ambulance, and, as the surgeon wasn't very busy that morning, he said he'd like to take a look inside and see the works." He laughed aloud at this gruesome witticism and continued: "So he gave me a whiff of ether, opened the skull and, just as I expected, found 'nobody home.' He closed the door, and here I am, as fit as a fiddle. What a lucky devil I am to have no brains!"A number of wounded officers had arrived with the men, and many of our private rooms were filled. We had retained the brass beds, a few practical chairs and small rugs for these rooms, and with a good fire in the grate they looked particularly cosy and attractive.The nurses, too, took special pride in supplementing the meals of the patients, both officers and men, with delicacies of their own. To the hot roast chicken was added creamed asparagus or French peas, followed by appetising salads of fresh green vegetables—which may be had in France the year round. A bottle of ale or wine and hot-house grapes or Spanish canteloupe helped to make life pleasant and hastened them along the road to health. Oh, you may well believe that nothing was omitted which made for their comfort or well-being. We felt, and justly so, that for the men who "held the line" there was nothing in this wide world half good enough. As the inspecting general remarked to the colonel a few days later:"Give the boys the best the land affords—if they want Malaga grapes, get them. If they want beer or wine, let them have it. Spare no expense that will make them happy and well—they deserve it all!"As I entered the room of a young English captain, I found him propped up in bed with a few magazines and books beside him. He was looking very bright and happy."How are you feeling this morning?" It was our stock question.He smiled pleasantly as he replied: "Splendid, sir, splendid. Your nurses are charmingly attentive and kind. The rooms and meals are delightful. I'm in great dread lest I get well too soon!"He was wounded in the foot; it had been shot through with a piece of high explosive shell. The small bones were fractured, but he appeared to be suffering little. The nurse deftly assisted me with his dressing; after we had finished he said:"I have a slip of paper here you might be interested to see. I shall always treasure it as a souvenir of a brave man."He handed me a little crumpled square on which a few lines in pencil were scrawled, and continued: "I showed that note to my commanding officer before they carried me away. It was an humiliation, but it was my duty.""What does it mean?" I asked him. "I'm sure this little bit of paper has a history."He smiled reminiscently and began: "Our company had been holding a point in the lines which, under a terrific bombardment, had become untenable. The commanding officer ordered us to withdraw to a safer trench in the rear. I called my men and we succeeded in retiring to the position indicated, in good order and with few casualties."I thought every man had left the advanced trench, but a few moments later when a small body of Germans attempted to storm it, we were astonished to see it defended by rapid rifle fire from some unknown source. The battle raged for some hours all along the line, but still this little spot was stubbornly held. Again and again the Germans assailed it; but each time with the same lack of success—each attack they lost twenty or thirty men, and those who reached the trench were apparently unable to oust its mysterious defenders. When dusk fell the fighting ceased; and shortly after, I received this little note—it speaks for itself."I spread the paper upon my knee and read:
CHAPTER VI
When we awoke the sun was high in the heavens, and through the train windows we could see the steep banks of the Seine as we wound along that picturesque river toward Rouen. From time to time we passed small villages, the red tile of their roofs contrasting prettily with the snow-white of the walls. Some houses were decorated with bright blue or green, and as they swept by the window in kaleidoscopic array, the scene was one of manifold variety.
The French love a dash of colour; it is manifest everywhere—in their clothes, their houses and their military uniforms. In the larger cities where civilisation is over-developed, and humanity is more effete, the bright colours have given place to pale and delicate shades—an indication of that transformation of life which we call art. But in these little country villages, a thousand years or more behind the times, Dame Nature still holds sway, and the primary colours riot in their rugged strength. Centuries from now these rural hamlets, grown to greater size, losing their primitive audacity, will fade as well; and looking back will marvel at the boldness of their youth.
Every quarter-mile along the track a lone sentinel, in sky-blue coat and scarlet cap, guarded our path. With fixedbaionettehe stood hour by hour, watchful and keen. He had a little thatched sentry-box into which he might retire when it rained, and through the small round windows watch on either side.
As we pulled into the railway station at Rouen, we could see resourceful "Tommy" cooking his breakfast on a little charcoal stove. "Tommy" is always at home, no matter where we find him—whether it be on the battlefields of France or Belgium, or on the rock-bound shores of Gallipoli.
Our men descended from their coaches, lugged out their bags of bread, their cheese and jam and "bully-beef." The sergeant-cook meted out each share, and they soon were at their morning meal.
A few hours later Reggy and I were seated at luncheon in theHotel de la Poste. Thesalle a mangerwas filled with English, French and Belgian officers, and their wives or friends, and to the casual observer the place was as gay as in times of peace. But in spite of the bright colours of the uniforms, in spite of the "chic" Parisian hats and pretty faces of the ladies, one felt over all an atmosphere subdued and serious.
It is true wine sparkled upon almost every table, but in France this doesn't necessarily mean gaiety. Every Frenchman drinks wine, but it is very rare indeed to see one drunk. Wine, like water at home, is used as a beverage—not as an intoxicant.
Imbued with the spirit of the time and place, Reggy and I called for a bottle of oldChambertin, and under its mellowing influence, care and the war were soon forgotten.
Of course we visited the Cathedral, and listened to the old sexton pouring incomprehensible data into our stupid ears for half an hour while we examined the rare stained windows and the carved oak door. When we returned to the train, the senior major and the transport officer were deep in conversation: "But where are your papers?" the R.T.O. was asking.
"We haven't any," the major replied. "That French conductor wouldn't hold the train until they arrived. Can't we go on without them?"
"Where are you going?"
"We presume to Boulogne—the rest of the unit is there, but we have no orders. When does the train leave, please?"
"There'll be one at 3 p.m., and if you wish to take that, get your men aboard."
We might have been touring France—he was so nonchalant, and there was such an absence of "red-tape." Imagine in these hyper-martial days being told to "take the 3 p.m. train if we wished!" Nowadays it is not a matter of volition; units go where and when they are commanded, and a definite system has replaced haphazard. But the old way had its good points—it still let one believe he was in part his own master.
Having a sense of duty and, moreover, being anxious to reach our destination—wherever that might be—we entrained once more and travelled all the balance of that day and night.
Promptly at 3 p.m. Reggy fell asleep, and didn't wake once, not even to eat, until the following morning at six o'clock, when with a crash he was thrown off his couch to the floor of the train. Thus rudely startled, but not quite wide awake, he ejaculated:
"Torpedoed, by Gad!"
We didn't take time to wake Reggy and explain the situation, but sprang to our feet and threw open the door of the train. What had happened? We were at Boulogne; our train had collided with another in the railway yards, but fortunately only one coach was crushed and no one hurt. We descended to the tracks and found other coaches on other trains in a similar condition.
It was not difficult to understand the cause. The German spy leaves nothing undone, and was very careful to attend to such details as changing the railway switches to the wrong tracks. By now the spies have been almost completely weeded out; but in those days they were very active.
How thorough was their system was well illustrated when, later on, the Western Cavalry entered the trenches. A wooden horse rose instantly above the German trench, bearing this legend: "Western Cavalry, come over and get your horses!" Our boys promptly shot the offending animal full of holes. It fell; but in a moment was raised again with bandages about its neck and leg!
Despite the early morning hour, in a railway car a few yards from us, several young Englishwomen were busy serving hot cocoa and rolls to the hungry soldiers. The interior of the coach had been transformed into a kitchen and travelling buffet. Every man in uniform was welcome to enter and partake free of charge. We took advantage of this practical hospitality and, much refreshed, returned to our own train.
At another platform a regiment of Ghurkas were engaged loading their equipment. One came across to our engine and drawing some hot water from the boiler, washed his teeth and mouth with infinite care.
The Ghurka is so like the Jap in appearance that when, later, we saw a body of these brave little chaps, with their turned-up Stetson hats, marching along the street, for a moment we actually mistook them for our Oriental allies. It was only when we observed their short broad swords (kukris) that we realised it could be none other than these famous men from India.
The colonel was at the station to meet us. How glad we were to see his genial face once more!
"Your billets are all arranged," he said. "The officers will stay at theLouvreand the non-commissioned officers and men at theJean d'arctheâtre."
The men were lined-up and, now that the unit was once more complete, formed quite an imposing sight. In those days medical units wore the red shoulder straps; the privilege of retaining these coloured straps has been granted only to members of the First Contingent.
The men marched acrossLe Pont Marguet, up the main thoroughfare, along theRue Victor Hugo, crossing the market place, and in a narrow street not far from the market found the little theâtre. It made a perfect billet, the main hall serving as a mess room, and the gallery as an excellent dormitory.
The quartermaster, Reggy, and I were billeted in one large room at theLouvre. Our window overlooked the basin and across the quay we could see the fish-wives unloading the herring boats as they arrived in dozens. With their queer wooden shoes (sabots) they clack-clacked across the cobblestones; their large baskets, overflowing with fish, strapped to their backs. Among all the varied odours of that odorous city, that of fish rises supreme. It saluted our nostrils when we marched in the streets, and was wafted in at our windows when the thoughtless breeze ventured our way.
We could see too, the Channel boats arriving at the dock, bringing battalion after battalion of troops. These rapidly entrained, and were whisked away in the shrill-whistling little French trains toward the battlefront.
Sometimes convoys of London 'busses, now bereft of their advertisements and painted dull grey, filled with "Tommies" destined for the "big show," passed by the door and rolled away into the far beyond.
The second morning of our stay at Boulogne Reggy awoke feeling that he really must have a bath. Why he should consider himself different from all the other people in France, is a matter I am not prepared to discuss. A bath, in France, is a luxury, so to speak, and is indulged in at infrequent intervals—on fête days or some other such auspicious occasion.
He rang the bell to summon the maid. In a few moments a tousled blonde head-of-hair, surmounted by a scrap of old lace, was thrust inside the door.
"Monsieur?" it enquired.
Reggy prided himself upon his French—he had taken a high place in college in this particular subject, but, as he remarked deprecatingly, his French seemed a bit too refined for the lower classes, who couldn't grasp its subtleties.
"Je veux un bain," he said.
He was startled by the ease with which she understood. Could it be that he looked—but, no, he appeared as clean as the rest of us. At any rate, she responded at once in French:
"Oui, monsieur. I'll bring it in to you." She withdrew her head and closed the door.
"What the deuce," cried Reggy, as he sat up quickly in bed. "She'llbring inthe bath! Does she take me for a canary?"
"A canary doesn't make such a dickens of a row as you do," growled the quartermaster, "looking for a bath at six a.m."
I tried to console him by reminding him that it was much better to have Reggy sweet and clean than in his present state, but he said it made small difference to him as he had a cold in his head anyway. Reggy, as an interested third party, began to look upon our controversy as somewhat personal, and was about to interfere when a rap at the door cut short further argument.
Two chambermaids entered the room, carrying between them a tin pan about two feet in diameter and six inches in depth. It contained about a gallon of hot water. They placed it beside his bed.
"Voici, monsieur!" cried she of the golden locks.
Reggy leaned over the side of the bed and looked down at it.
"Sacré sabre de bois;" he exclaimed. "It isn't a drink I want—it's a bath—'bain'—to wash—'laver' ye know!"
He made motions with his hands in excellent imitation of a gentleman performing his morning ablutions. They nodded approvingly, and laughed:
"Oui, monsieur—itisthe bath."
"Well, I'll be d——" But before Reggy could conclude the two maids had smilingly withdrawn.
Reggy explored the room in his pyjamas and emptied our three water pitchers into the pan.
"Now I'll at least be able to get my feet wet," he grumbled. "Where's the soap?" he exclaimed a moment later. "There isn't a bally cake of soap in the room."
It was true. This is one of the petty annoyances of French hotels. Soap is never in the room and must be purchased as an extra, always at the most inopportune moment. After half an hour's delay Reggy succeeded in buying a cake from the porter, and his bath proceeded without further mishap. He then tumbled into bed again and fell asleep.
The maids shortly returned to carry out the bath, but when they saw how Reggy had exhausted all the water in the room they held up their hands in undisguised astonishment.
"Monsieur is extravagant," they exclaimed, "to waste so much water!" Fortunately "Monsieur" was fast asleep, so the remark passed unnoticed.
Later we approached theconcierge, and asked here if there were not a proper bath-tub in the place. She laughed.Les Anglaiswere so much like ducks—they wanted to bealwaysin the water.
"But I will soon have it well for you," she declaimed with pride. "I am having two bath tubs placed in the cellar, and then you may play in the water all the day."
At the time we looked upon this as her little joke, but when, weeks later, one early morning we noticed a tallAnglaiswalking through the hotel "lounge" in his pyjamas, with bath towel thrown across his arm, we realised that she had spoken truth. The bath tubs were really and truly in the cellar.
It was ten days before we succeeded in locating the building which we wanted for our hospital. All the suitable places in Boulogne were long since commandeered. Every large building, including all the best hotels, had been turned into hospitals, so that we were forced to go far afield. Finally, twenty-two miles from the city, we found a summer hotel exactly suited to our needs. It was in a pine forest, and close to the sea shore, an ideal spot for a hospital.
During these ten days the talent of our corps conceived the idea of holding a concert in theJean d'archall.
At this time all theatres, music halls, and even "movies" in France were closed, and music was tabooed. France was taking the war seriously. She was mourning her dead and the loss of her lands. The sword had been thrust deeply into her bosom, and the wound was by no means healed. The streets were filled with widows, and their long black veils symbolised the depth of the nation's grief.
Let those who will admire the light-heartedness of Britain—Britain wears no mourning for her heroes dead. In Britain it isbourgeoisto be despondent. We keep up an appearance of gaiety even when our hearts are heaviest. But France is too natural, too frank for such deception. What she feels, she shows upon the surface. At first our apparent indifference to our losses and hers was a source of irritation. France resented it; but now she knows us better. We are not indifferent—it is merely an attitude. The two nations now understand one another, and in that understanding lies the foundation of a firmer friendship.
With success and confidence in the future, France has risen out of the "slough of despond." She has recovered a portion of her old-time light-heartedness. We thought her effervescent, artificial and unstable; we have found her steadfast, true and unshakable. She has manifested throughout this desperate struggle a grim and immutable determination that has been the marvel of her allies and the despair of her enemies.
Realising the temporary distaste for amusement in France, our little concert was intended to be private and confined solely to our own unit. But a few of the new-found French friends of the boys waived their objections to entertainment, and as a special favour volunteered to come.
It was a strange and moving sight to see a Canadian audience in that far-off land, gravely seated in their chairs in the little hall, waiting for the curtain to rise. Our staff of Nursing Sisters honoured the boys with their presence, and every officer and man was there. Thirty or forty of the native population, in black, a little doubtful of the propriety of their action, were scattered through the khaki-clad.
The boys outdid themselves that night. How well they sang those songs of home! We were carried back thousands of miles across the deep to our dear old Canada, and many an eye was wet with tears which dare not fall.
But reminiscence fled when Sergeant Honk assumed the stage. Some one had told Honk he could sing, and—subtle flatterer—he had been believed. With the first wild squeaky note we were back, pell-mell in France. The notes rose and fell—but mostly fell; stumbling over and over one another in their vain endeavour to escape from Honk. Some maintained he sang by ear. Perhaps he did—he didn't sing by mouth and chords long lost to human ken came whistling through his nose. The song was sad—but we laughed and laughed until we wept again.
[image]THE SONG WAS SAD—BUT WE LAUGHED AND LAUGHED UNTIL WE WEPT AGAIN
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THE SONG WAS SAD—BUT WE LAUGHED AND LAUGHED UNTIL WE WEPT AGAIN
At the end of the first verse he seemed a little bewildered by the effect, but he had no advantage over us in that respect. At the end of the second verse, seeing his hearers in danger of apoplexy, he hesitated, and turning to Taylor, the pianist, muttered in an aside:
"They downt understand h'English, them bloakes—this ayn't a funny song—blimed if I downt quit right 'ere, and serve 'em jolly well right too!"
And under a perfect storm of applause and cries of protest, Honk departed as he had come—anglewise.
Tim and his brother then had a boxing-bout; and Cameron, who acted as Tim's second, drew shrieks of joy from his French admirers, between rounds, as he filled his mouth with water and blew it like a penny shower into the perspiring breathless face of Tim.
"A wee drap watter refraishes ye, Tim," he declared argumentatively after one of these showers.
"Doze Pea-jammers tinks it's funny," Tim puffed. "Let dem have a good time—dey ain't see'd nuthin' much lately—-an' a good laff 'ull help dem digest dere 'patty de frog-grass!"
CHAPTER VII
It was my fate, or fortune, to be in charge of the advance party which was detailed to prepare for the opening of our hospital.
Captain Burnham and I, with about forty N.C.O.s and men, and with two days' rations, left Boulogne one cold November afternoon, a few days after the concert. After a slow train journey of three hours' duration, we were deposited at the railway station of a fishing village on the coast.
If Boulogne prides itself on its odour of dead fish, this little place must be an everlasting thorn in its side; for all the smells of that maladorous city fade into insignificance before the concentrated "incense" of the back streets of Etaples. We didn't linger unnecessarily in the village, but pushed on at the "quick-march" and, crossing the bridge, were soon on the broad paved road which runs throughLe Touquetforest.
It was just dusk, and snow had fallen to the depth of about two inches; the most we saw in two winters during our stay in that part of France. It was a crisp, cold evening, and the swinging pace of our march did much to keep us warm.
From time to time we passed large summer residences and artistic villas partly hidden in the woods, but all the doors were closed, and all the windows were dark. Not a human being passed us on the road, and the noise of our shoes crunching through the crusted snow was the only sound which broke the solemn stillness of the air.
Our men too seemed oppressed with the weird solitude of the forest and seldom spoke above a whisper.
"Seems as though the world were dead," said Burnham, after we had walked nearly two miles in silence.
"Yes," I replied, "it gives one a creepy feeling passing through this long dark avenue of pines. The houses too look as if the inhabitants had fled and that no one had the courage to return."
"I understand theBoscheswere through quite close to here," Burnham remarked, "in their first mad dash for Paris, and that some German soldiers were killed near the outskirts of this wood."
"By the gruesomeness of it I can imagine they wereallkilled," I replied.
By this time we had turned at right angles to our former path and entered another long avenue of trees. The white walls of an isolated mansion stood out in the distance against the black-green of the forest and the fading purple of the evening sky. The grounds about it were enclosed by a high pointed iron fence; it looked a veritable prison.
After tramping another mile we emerged into an open space between the trees and the rolling sand dunes of the coast, and saw before us a large limestone building, three stories in height and almost surrounded with broad, glass-enclosed balconies. The tracks of a disused tramway ran to the gate, and the rust upon the rails spoke more forcibly than ever of desolation and desertion.
We passed through the stone gateway and crossed the snow-covered lawn. Everything was as dark and dreary as the grave. Surely no one was within! We mounted the steps and rang the bell. Its peal reverberated strangely through the empty halls. After a few moments, however, a light appeared and a solitary man entered the rotunda; he turned the electric switch, flooding the room with a bright light. He came to the door, unlocked it, and rolled it back slowly upon its wheels.
"Gut evening, zhentlemen," he said in English, but with a peculiar Franco-German accent difficult to diagnose. "It iss fery kolt, iss it not?"
We acknowledged the fact.
"You are vrom the Canadian Hospital?" he queried.
"You were evidently expecting us," I replied. "We are the advance party from that hospital."
He pushed the door wide for us to enter. We didn't debate the propriety of accepting the hospitality of a German, but marched in at once.
"Your dinner vill be retty in a leedle vhile. I vill haf Alvred ligh'd you the grate, und you soon fery comfortable vill be."
"Show me to the kitchen first," I asked him, "and let me see what arrangements you have for supper for the men. When they are made comfortable it will be plenty of time for our dinner."
He piloted us into a large room with red tile floor. There was good accommodation for the men, and the kitchen ranges were close by. They had their cooks and rations with them, and as soon as we had chosen their sleeping quarters and had seen that everything was satisfactory we returned for our own dinner.
In a commodious room, just off the rotunda, a roaring coal fire was blazing on the hearth. Big easy-chairs had been conveniently placed for us, and Burnham and I fell into them and stretched our tired feet toward the fender upon the rich red Turkish rug. The table was spread close by, and we noticed the fine linen, the sparkling cut glass, crested silver andLimogechina. The scent of delicious French cooking was wafted to us past the heavy silken hangings of the door. Presently our German host appeared once more:
"Vat vine vill the zhentlemen have mit zehr dinner?" he enquired politely.
Burnham threw himself back into his seat and laughed aloud. "Holy smoke!" he chuckled, "and we are at the war!"
"What wines have you?" I enquired tentatively.
"Anyzing you wish to name, zir," he responded with a certain show of pride.
I thought I would put him to the test. "Bring us a bottle of 'Ayala,' '04 vintage," I commanded.
"Mit pleasure, zir." And he bowed and retired to get it.
Burnham slapped his knee and burst out: "Am I awake or dreaming? We walk four miles through a stark forest on a winter night, enter a deserted hostel, are received by a German spy and fêted like the Lord Mayor. I expect to fall out of the balloon any minute and hit the earth with a nasty bump!"
"I'm a little dazed myself," I admitted, "but it's all a part of the soldier-game. Some other day we'll find the cards reversed, and have to play it just the same."
Our host, however, was not a German, although that was his native tongue. He came from that little-known country of Luxembourg, which, sandwiched in between France and her Teutonic enemy, has still maintained a weak and unavailing neutrality. Being too small and unprotected to resist, the German army marched unmolested across it in the early days of war.
"Alvred," who was a French-Swiss, and spoke more languages than I can well remember, waited upon us at table. We were just finishing an excellent five-course dinner with a tiny glass ofcoin-treau, when the sound of a motor-car stopping at the door aroused us from our dream of heavenly isolation.
As we stepped into the hall, the door opened, and in walked the colonel, the senior major and the quartermaster, who had followed us from Boulogne by road.
"Well, how do you like our new hospital?" the colonel demanded with a satisfied smile.
"We love it," Burnham exclaimed. "It is weird, romantic and altogethercomme il faut."
I suggested that a liqueur and a cigar might not be unacceptable after their long drive. The colonel smiled appreciatively as he replied:
"Wearea bit chilly after our journey; I think a little drink will do us good. What do you say, Major Baldwin?" This question was addressed to the senior major, who, with the others, had now entered our dining room.
The artistic surroundings drove the major into poetry at once. He exclaimed:
"'Ah! my beloved, fill the cup that clearsTo-day of past regrets and future fears.'"
"'Ah! my beloved, fill the cup that clearsTo-day of past regrets and future fears.'"
"'Ah! my beloved, fill the cup that clears
To-day of past regrets and future fears.'"
"Splendid!" cried Burnham enthusiastically. "Now, let's have 'Gunga Din'—you do it so well! How does it go? 'You're a better drink than I am, Gordon Gin!'"
"No, no!" said the major deprecatingly. "You mustn't abuse Kipling—it's too early in the evening."
Whether the major intended abusing that famous author at a later hour, or merely reciting from him, we didn't enquire. We talked until late, formulating our plans for the morrow and for many days to come. We made a tour of inspection about the building. The colonel unfolded his plans as we walked along the halls.
"This suite," he said, as we came to the end of the hall, "will make a splendid pair of operating rooms, an anæsthetic and a sterilising room. The fifth will do for a dressing room for the surgeons, and in the sixth Reggy will have full sway—that will be his eye and ear reformatory. On the left we'll install our X-ray plant, so that all surgical work may be done in this one wing."
"What about the hotel furnishings," I enquired, "are they to remain in places?"
"Everything must go, except what is absolutely necessary to the comfort or care of patients," he replied. "It seems a pity, but we are here not only to cure patients, but to protect the Government from needless expense. In the morning set the men to work dismantling the entire building."
We walked along to the opposite end of the hall.
"Here's a fine room," exclaimed Major Baldwin, as he peeped into the dainty boudoir which I had chosen as a bedroom. "Who sleeps in this luxurious state?"
"I do—for to-night," I replied.
"I want that room for myself," he declared. "It looks like the best in the place."
How is it we always want that which the other fellow has? Its value seems enhanced by its inaccessibility.
"It shall be yours to-morrow night," I replied to this covetous request. It was no deprivation to give it up as there were fifty other rooms, which the Major had not seen, more richly decorated and more attractive than mine. This little room was cosy and prettily furnished in bird's-eye maple. It boasted an Axminster rug, a brass bed, and the glow from the open fire lent it a charm which had captivated Major Baldwin's eye.
There were other suites of rooms, with private baths attached, and hot and cold running water. The floors were covered with costly Persian rugs, and the furniture was of hand-carved olive wood or mahogany. Private balconies overlooked the golf course and the forest. Every detail bespoke wealth and luxury combined with the most modern contrivances for comfort.
The colonel was amused at us: "Pick out whatever rooms you like," he said, "and enjoy yourselves while you may, for in three days' time no one but patients will live in this building. The men will sleep in the Golf-club house, the nurses in one of these deserted villas, and we shall have another villa for ourselves."
We discovered that our hospital building was owned by an English company; hence the great number of bathrooms—thirty-four in all. The halls and glass enclosed balconies were steam heated throughout, and each room had its old-fashioned open fireplace to combat the chill of winter days.
At midnight the colonel and his party left us and commenced their return journey to Boulogne. Burnham and I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, our footsteps echoing loudly through the untenanted halls. We sat and chatted for an hour before the fire. I was getting very sleepy—we had dined well—and as I looked at Burnham his form seemed to dwindle to smaller and smaller proportions until he looked like a pigmy from Lilliput. I amused myself awhile watching this strange phenomenon. By and by his diminutive size provoked me to remark:
"Do you know, Burnham, although an hour ago when you entered the room, I mistook you for a full-grown man, I can now see that in reality you are only about ten inches tall—yet your every feature is perfect."
"Much obliged for the compliment implied in your last clause," he laughed; "you corroborate suspicions which I have long entertained that I'm a handsome dog whose beauty has remained unappreciated. It's a strange coincidence, but I am labouring under the opposite delusion, and although an hour ago you waddled into the room—just an ordinary fat man; now I view you as a Colossus."
I rather approved his regarding me as a Colossus, but saw that I must at once frown upon that "waddling" idea. It's an impression I can't afford to let go abroad.
"Come, let's to bed," I cried, "and sleep 'will knit your ravelled sleeve of care'—I really think your wide-awake impressions are the worst!"
We arose at six and under our direction the men commenced the work of disrobing the hotel. The stern necessities of war permit no sentiment. Everything had to go: The beautiful paintings, the silken hangings, the Oriental rugs, the artistic statuary, were all rapidly removed and packed away for safety. The card and dining rooms and lounges were stripped of their carpets, and before night its former guests would scarce have recognised the place. Sanitation is the first and paramount law of a Military Hospital; carpets and unnecessary furniture are a source of danger, for such a variety of diseases follow the troops that special care must be given to every possibility for infection and its prevention.
By five that evening the colonel, the matron and the nursing sisters arrived, and a few hours later came the balance of our officers and men. Motor lorries and ambulances toiled through the gates, laden with our equipment. Hundreds of boxes, crates of iron beds, bales of mattresses and blankets, folding bedside tables, bags of tents and poles, were brought to the door in an apparently endless stream. As fast as the lorries arrived the men unloaded them, piling boxes and bales under the balconies for protection.
Huxford and the team did their share too, bringing up loads of food from the train for the men and for prospective patients.
The senior major was pale and tired; he had been up since dawn and had worked hard. Nothing had been forgotten, and the transport of men and accoutrement had been accomplished systematically and well. He was a good soldier, true to his duty, stern and unflinching, and he never asked others to work without being willing to do more than his own share. Tired as he was, he would neither rest nor eat until the last box was unloaded, and the last lorrie had left the grounds—and the men shared his deprivation.
It was almost nine p.m. as Tim and Barker, staggering under the weight of a tremendous case, came across the driveway and dumped the last box to the ground. Tim sat breathless for a moment upon it, then looked wearily up at Barker, with his head on one side as was his custom when he soliloquised.
"Dat's a heavy load t'get offen an empty stummick," he gasped. "I can't lif annuder poun' until I gets a slab o' roas' beef under me belt. I'm dat hungry I could lick de sweat off a bake-shop window."
"I smell supper cookin' now," said Barker. "Did ye see th' ranges? Some cookery, I kin tell ye—they kin roast a whole cow at one time!"
"An' I kin eat dat same cow jus' as fas' as dey kin roast it," Tim declared. "I'm dat weak from starvation dat a drink uv holy water 'ud make me drunk!"
About nine-thirty p.m. the men fell upon their supper like a pack of hungry wolves.
"Gee!—Don't food taste good—when ye're hungry," drawled Wilson, with his mouth full.
"Dat's right," Tim replied. "Glad t' see ye're perkin' up an' takin' a little notice agin. I fought youse and Huxford wuz about all in."
"Where'd you get the onion?" Wilson queried.
"I foun' dis in d' hotel garbage," said Tim, as he took a large bite out of a Spanish specimen, "an' I wuz jus' t'inkin' wat a diff'rence there is 'tween an onion and a cake. Hav ye noticed it yerself?"
"I hevn't eat cake in so long I don't s'pose I could tell 'em apart now," Wilson replied.
"Well, dey say ye can't eat yer cake an' hev it too; but wit an onion it's different—wen ye eat it, it's like castin' yer bread upon de troubled waters—it'll always come back t' ye."
Cameron looked up as if he were about to correct this scriptural misquotation. It seemed to harass his religious sense. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was too full for utterance, and he had to content himself with a reproachful look at Tim.
Ten o'clock found everybody sleepy and exhausted. The boys didn't trouble to go to their quarters, but, crawling into any available corner, threw themselves down upon bundles or empty beds, and soon were fast asleep. The sergeant-major was too tired to care, and for one night at least discipline was happily forgotten.
In the morning early we were at it again, tooth and nail. If some of our friends at home, who think the trained nurse is too proud to work, could have only seen those splendid girls on their first day in the new hospital, they would still be lost in wonder. They washed woodwork and windows, helped to put up unruly beds, swept the floors and did a hundred other menial labours—menial only because in our artificial life we call them so—cheerfully and speedily.
If some day, by chance, one of our nursing sisters reads these lines, and blushes at the recollection of her work that day, let her remember that by that very labour, in our eyes, she was glorified. We shall always remember with pride those brave girls who were not afraid, when duty called, to "stoop and conquer."
The following evening I was despatched to Boulogne to interview the A.D.M.S. regarding our hospital. I was met at the office door by the D.A.D.M.S., who was one of that breed of cock-sure officer—nowmerci a Dieualmost extinct.
"Hello," he cried brusquely. "Is your hospital ready for patients?"
"We should prefer another day or two of preparation, sir," I replied.
"How long have you been out there now?" he demanded.
"Two days, sir."
"What! At the end of two days you mean to tell me you're not ready! You're very slow."
It was the first time we had been accused of sluggishness. It was undeserved, and I resented it accordingly. I replied—not too politely, I fear:
"You will please remember we had to dismantle and remove the carpets and furniture of a large hotel, take stock of the fixtures and house-clean the building before commencing the setting up of our hospital equipment. We are ready for two hundred patients now—but we prefer another day or two to make everything complete."
"I'll send you two hundred patients to-night," he cried. "Be prepared for them."
The A.D.M.S., a typical English gentleman of the old school, interfered. He called his deputy aside and said to him:
"You mustn't rush patients into a new hospital in this manner. Give them a few days' grace." He turned to me and continued: "You will receive a trainload of patients three days from now. That will give you plenty of time. Kindly inform your commanding officer to this effect."
Some men brush one's fur the wrong way, and others smooth it back again. I had been so rumpled by the D.A.D.M.S. that every bristle of my not too gentle nature was standing on end—it was not only what he said, but the manner of the saying; yet the A.D.M.S., with one gentle, kindly stroke of common sense, had soothed and made me human once again. I felt my wrath slipping quietly away, and I basked for a moment in the sunshine of a genial personality. I gratefully murmured:
"Thank you, sir. I shall tell him."
"I trust your hospital will soon prove itself a credit to your staff and to Canada. Good night, and good luck," he said, as he shook me warmly by the hand.
It was midnight of the third day after this interview. The orderly on duty in the hall was suddenly startled by the sharp ring of the telephone bell. He sprang to his feet and put the strange French receiver to his ear.
"Yes, this is the Canadian Hospital," he answered; and a distant voice gave this message:
"A train-load of three hundred wounded will arrive at the station at two a.m. Be ready for them!"
CHAPTER VIII
At last the time for action had come. Three hundred wounded would arrive in two hours; one-fifth the number would throw the average city hospital into confusion. Nurses and officers hurried from their villas to the hospital. The cooks and orderlies were already on duty, and the hospital presented a scene of bustling but systematic activity.
Our ten wards, each named after a province of our beloved Dominion, were soon ready for the reception of patients, and the deft hands of the nursing sisters added the final touch of extra preparation.
The colonel's motor car throbbed in waiting at the door, and ambulance after ambulance, with its quota of stretcher-bearers, whirled away into the darkness of the forest on the road to the station. It was a clear, cold nights. The ground was hardened by the frost, and the pale quarter-moon cast a faint chill light over the trees.
Reggy and I clambered into the colonel's car as it started, and in a moment we were moving swiftly through the gaunt, trembling shadows of the wood. As we approached the turning of the road we could see in the distance the flashing headlights of other motors from the English hospital, as they too sped toward the train.
When we reached the station a constant stream of vehicles was pouring through the gates, and as fast as each car or ambulance arrived, it was backed into the waiting line. Every few yards carbide jets spluttered in the wind, adding their fitful glare to the strangeness of the scene.
After about an hour's wait the shrill whistle of the incoming French train warned us that our vigil was nearly over. In a few minutes the coaches, each with its big red cross, came clanking slowly into the station yard. Car after car passed by: one, two, three,—ten,—twenty; it was a tremendous train. At last it stopped, the doors opened and we had our first glimpse of the brave boys who had held the line.
Dozens of Scots and English battalions were represented, but there were no Canadians save ourselves as yet in France. Some of the boys could stand or walk, and they clambered slowly and painfully down the steep steps and stood in little wondering groups. God knows they looked tired, and their clothes were still covered with the dried mud from the trenches; for during a battle speed and the necessities of the moment are the important things—the refinements of civilisation must await time and opportunity. Many were smoking cigarettes; some had bandages about their head or hands or feet; some had their arms in slings; but from none was there the slightest groan or sound of complaint. They waited with soldierly but pathetic patience until we were ready to take care of them.
One tall young man who was standing apart from the others and whose face was unusually pale, approached me and saluted. His right hand was thrust into the bosom of his coat, with his left he nervously drew a cigarette from his pocket.
"Would you mind helping me light this, sir?" he asked respectfully. "I can't protect the match from the wind."
As I assisted him I enquired: "Have you had your right hand wounded? I see you keep it in your coat."
"It's not exactly that, sir," he replied, with a faint smile. "I have no right hand—had it blown off this morning." He drew the bandaged stump from his breast as he spoke and held it up for inspection.
"But you must be suffering frightfully!" I exclaimed in pity, surprised at his coolness.
"It does give me 'Gip' now and again. I can bear it better when I smoke," and he pulled tremulously at his cigarette.
I helped the brave fellow into one of the waiting motors and turned to see what I could do for the others. There were dozens with bandaged feet who limped slowly toward the ambulances.
"What has happened to you chaps?" I enquired, as I came to a group of six, all apparently suffering from the same condition, and who could scarcely walk.
"Trench feet, sir," they answered readily.
At the time this was a new disease to me, but we soon saw all too much of it. It corresponds quite closely to what in Canada is known as "chilblain," but is much more painful, and is in some ways equivalent to "frost-bite." It is caused by prolonged immersion in ice-cold water or liquid mud. In those days too, the trenches were not as well built as they are to-day, or the ground was lower and more boggy. Men were subjected to great privations, and suffered untold hardships. "Trench foot" has now almost entirely disappeared, and conditions in the trenches are altogether better.
"Were you standing long in the water?" I asked them.
"We've been in it night and day since Sunday," they replied—-and this was Friday!
"Was the water deep?" I asked.
"The mud was up to the waist," one answered; "an' poor Bill Goggins stepped in a 'ole in the trench an' were drowned afore we could get to 'im."
Another spoke up: "A lad from my platoon got into a part of the trench that were like a quicksand, on'y 'e went down so fast—like as if there was a suction from, below. We seen 'im goin', an' 'e called fer 'elp, but w'en we got to 'im 'e were down to 'is chin, an' we couldn't pull 'im back."
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed in horror. "Was he drowned too?"
"'E were that, sir," he replied. "It were jolly 'ard to see 'im go, an' us right there!" and there were tears in the good fellow's eyes as he spoke.
"Climb into the motor, boys," I said. "We'll try to make up a little for the hell you've all been through."
There were others who had been severely wounded; some with broken arms or legs; some shot through the head or chest. It was wonderful to see the gentleness and kindness of our own rough lads as they lifted them tenderly from bed to stretcher, and carried them from the train to the waiting ambulances.
I stepped inside the train for a moment. It was a marvel of a hospital on wheels. It had comfortable spring beds and mattresses, and soft woollen blankets. There were kitchens, a dispensary, an emergency operating room and even bathrooms. A staff of medical officers, nurses and trained orderlies did all which human power can do to make the men comfortable during a trying journey. Every man had had his supper, and his wounds had been dresseden routeas scientifically and carefully as if he had been in a "Base Hospital."
The ambulances rolled slowly away from the train with their precious loads, the drivers cautiously picking their way along the smoothest parts of the road; for to the man with a broken leg or arm the slightest jolt causes pain.
We saw the boys again at the entrance to the hospital, lying in rows on stretchers, or standing patiently in line, waiting until their names and numbers were duly recorded. Each one, as this procedure was completed, was given a little card on which the name of his ward and the number of his bed was written. He was then conducted or carried to his allotted place.
How tired they looked as they sat wearily upon the edge of their beds, waiting for the orderlies to come and assist them to undress! But even here they were able to smile and crack their little jokes from bed to bed.
As soon as they were undressed, they were given a refreshing bath, in which they revelled after their weeks of dirty work and mud. After the bath came clean, warm pyjamas, a cup of hot cocoa or soup, a slice of bread and butter, and last, but to the soldier never least, a cigarette.
To him the cigarette is the panacea for all ills. I have seen men die with a cigarette between their lips—the last favour they had requested on earth. If the soldier is in pain, he smokes for comfort; if he is restless he smokes for solace; when he receives good news, he smokes for joy; if the news is bad, he smokes for consolation; if he is well—he smokes; when he is ill—he smokes. But good news or bad, sick or well, healwayssmokes.
As I entered the ward a Highlander, not yet undressed, was sitting upon the side of his bed puffing contentedly at his cigarette. His tunic was still spattered with dried blood.
"Are you badly wounded?" I asked him.
"Not verra badly, sir," he returned, as he stood at attention.
"But you have a lot of blood on your tunic," I said, pointing to his right side and hip.
"It's not a' mine, sir," he replied as he grinned from ear to ear—"it's a souvenir from aBosche, but he did make a sma' hole in ma thigh wi' his bayonet."
"And what happened to him?"
He laughed outright this time. "He's got ma bayonet an' ma rifle too," he cried. "Oh, man, but it was a gran' ficht!"
"Is he dead?" I asked.
"Dead?" he exclaimed. "I hae his top-hat wi' me noo;" and he held up a Prussian helmet to our admiring gaze.
I congratulated him and passed on; but I had little time just then for chatting. All the wounds had to be unbandaged, washed and freshly dressed, and although we worked rapidly, the nurses undoing the bandages and attending to the minor cases, while I did the more serious ones myself, it was broad daylight before we had finished. The morning sun, stealing gently over the trees, found patients and doctors alike ready for a few hours' sleep.
A similar scene had been enacted in every other ward. It was nearly six a.m. as the other officers and myself, with the exception of the unfortunate orderly officer, started down the road toward the villa. Our billet was about a quarter-mile away, but our "mess" was in the hospital building. I crawled into bed at last, very, very weary, and in a few moments was lost to the world.
It was Tim who finally roused me from this heavy sleep. He was standing at the foot of my bed with his head on one side in his customary bird-like attitude. His stiff black forelock hung straight over his brow. I was just conscious enough to hear him saying:
"Wake up, maje!"
Before strangers, or before brother officers, Tim was always respectful to us. He was a trained soldier, and, when occasion demanded, could be, and was, very regimental. But in the privacy of our home (of which he was in charge) Tim treated us like children whose pranks might be tolerated but must not be encouraged.
"What's the trouble, Tim?" I enquired sleepily.
"It's time to git up," he complained. "D'ye s'pose ye're goin' t' sleep all day, jes' because ye loss ye're beauty sleep las' night? Dis is war—dis is!"
"What's the hour?" I asked.
"It's ten o'clock," he replied, "an' dat Cap' Reggy's in de nex' room—chloroformed agin; wit his knees drawed up an' his mout' open ventilatin' his brain. Dey ain't a Pullman in de whole worl' dat's as good a sleeper as dat gent."
By this time I was fully awake, as Tim intended I should be. I turned over on my side and addressed him:
"Run downstairs now, Tim, and make me a good hot cup of coffee, and a slice of toast with fried mushrooms on top."
Tim stared at me a moment in open-mouthed amazement. We weren't supposed to eat at the villa, but Tim was a good cook and those he favoured with his "friendship" might coax a cup of tea before rising.
"Fried mushrooms," he repeated, as he went toward the door, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Fried—mush—rooms! Gees, an' dey calls disactiveservice!"
But in spite of this show of pessimism, he returned shortly with the breakfast as ordered.
When we reached the hospital that morning everything was as neat and clean as though nothing had happened the night before. No adequate description can be given of the trained nurse at the front. She is one of the marvels of the war. Patient, industrious, cheerful, self-sacrificing and brave, she has robbed war of much of its horrors. She has made the wounded soldier feel that a sister's care, a mother's love and a clever woman's skill follow him wherever he goes. Her smile has cheered his lagging day; her gentle touch has soothed his pain and the warm sympathy of her kindly heart has made the foreign land a home. Under stress of work and nervous strain, ever forgetful of self, always thoughtful for others, no truer or nobler band of gentle women ever left the shores of Canada.
The patients had had a refreshing sleep and a good breakfast and were now snugly tucked in their clean sheets and warm blankets, looking very happy and contented. Even those who were badly wounded had partly forgotten their troubles. Some had souvenirs—German rifle bullets or bits of shell which had been extracted at the Clearing Hospital farther up the line, and these they exhibited with great pride to their fellow patients. The German helmet was always an object of interest. The slanting cut in the glossy leather of one spoke better than words of a bayonet thrust which had gone home. Each little bedside table had a few priceless trinkets, bought with blood, and brought with great difficulty and care from the battlefield.
It was our custom to postpone surgical operations, except urgent ones to save life, for one or two days, in order to give the tired soldiers a chance to get a much-needed rest—a simple expedient whereby many lives were saved. The patients were grateful for this little reprieve, and showed their gratitude by recovering more rapidly.
But sometimes it was necessary to operate at once. That morning I found a poor chap who had been shot through the brain with a rifle bullet. The missile had entered the temple and emerged at the back of the skull, fracturing the bone both at the point of entry and exit. His heavy breathing and stupor told us the case called for immediate relief. In the operating room pieces of the skull were removed, the depressed bone lifted, and in about an hour the patient was taken back to his ward. We had little hope of his recovery.
The following day, when I entered the hospital, his bed was empty. I thought: "Poor fellow! He has died in the night and no one has sent me word." I turned with a feeling of disappointment to the man in the next bed and asked:
"What has become of your neighbour?"
"Oh," he replied, "he's just gone out to the wash room. He'll be back in a few minutes. He stole out of the ward while the nursing sister was in the other room."
While we were talking he walked in, got quietly into bed and reached for a cigarette. I bade him good morning, repressing, as well as I could, my astonishment.
"You are feeling better this morning?" I remarked, as casually as if he had had a cold in his head.
"Oh, yes, I'm very well in myself, sir," he replied with a contented smile, "but I have a little headache—I'm thinkin' the bandages are a bit tight."
I loosened them and gave him a warning not to get up again. He seemed disappointed, but promised not to transgress a second time.
It is surprising and pleasing to know that a large percentage of men shot through the brain recover. Seven out of nine who entered the hospital one day, some months later, made a good recovery, and when they left were apparently mentally sound.
A young lieutenant who arrived with one train load of wounded, walked unassisted up the steps, and smilingly addressed the Registrar:
"About a week ago, a sly bullet popped over the trench and caught me in the temple. Fortunately it passed out through the opposite side. They took me down to the Field Ambulance, and, as the surgeon wasn't very busy that morning, he said he'd like to take a look inside and see the works." He laughed aloud at this gruesome witticism and continued: "So he gave me a whiff of ether, opened the skull and, just as I expected, found 'nobody home.' He closed the door, and here I am, as fit as a fiddle. What a lucky devil I am to have no brains!"
A number of wounded officers had arrived with the men, and many of our private rooms were filled. We had retained the brass beds, a few practical chairs and small rugs for these rooms, and with a good fire in the grate they looked particularly cosy and attractive.
The nurses, too, took special pride in supplementing the meals of the patients, both officers and men, with delicacies of their own. To the hot roast chicken was added creamed asparagus or French peas, followed by appetising salads of fresh green vegetables—which may be had in France the year round. A bottle of ale or wine and hot-house grapes or Spanish canteloupe helped to make life pleasant and hastened them along the road to health. Oh, you may well believe that nothing was omitted which made for their comfort or well-being. We felt, and justly so, that for the men who "held the line" there was nothing in this wide world half good enough. As the inspecting general remarked to the colonel a few days later:
"Give the boys the best the land affords—if they want Malaga grapes, get them. If they want beer or wine, let them have it. Spare no expense that will make them happy and well—they deserve it all!"
As I entered the room of a young English captain, I found him propped up in bed with a few magazines and books beside him. He was looking very bright and happy.
"How are you feeling this morning?" It was our stock question.
He smiled pleasantly as he replied: "Splendid, sir, splendid. Your nurses are charmingly attentive and kind. The rooms and meals are delightful. I'm in great dread lest I get well too soon!"
He was wounded in the foot; it had been shot through with a piece of high explosive shell. The small bones were fractured, but he appeared to be suffering little. The nurse deftly assisted me with his dressing; after we had finished he said:
"I have a slip of paper here you might be interested to see. I shall always treasure it as a souvenir of a brave man."
He handed me a little crumpled square on which a few lines in pencil were scrawled, and continued: "I showed that note to my commanding officer before they carried me away. It was an humiliation, but it was my duty."
"What does it mean?" I asked him. "I'm sure this little bit of paper has a history."
He smiled reminiscently and began: "Our company had been holding a point in the lines which, under a terrific bombardment, had become untenable. The commanding officer ordered us to withdraw to a safer trench in the rear. I called my men and we succeeded in retiring to the position indicated, in good order and with few casualties.
"I thought every man had left the advanced trench, but a few moments later when a small body of Germans attempted to storm it, we were astonished to see it defended by rapid rifle fire from some unknown source. The battle raged for some hours all along the line, but still this little spot was stubbornly held. Again and again the Germans assailed it; but each time with the same lack of success—each attack they lost twenty or thirty men, and those who reached the trench were apparently unable to oust its mysterious defenders. When dusk fell the fighting ceased; and shortly after, I received this little note—it speaks for itself."
I spread the paper upon my knee and read: