Part 3 (2/2)
Just then we heard an extraordinary rus.h.i.+ng noise in the air, like steam being let off from a railway engine. A terrific bang ensued, and then a flare. It was an incendiary bomb and was just outside the Hospital radius. I was glad to be in the open, one felt it would be better to be killed outside than indoors. If the noise was bad before, it now became deafening. Pierre suggested the _cave_, a murky cellar by the gate, but it seemed safer to stay where we were, leaning in the shadow against the walls of Notre Dame. Very foolish, I grant you, but early in 1915 the dangers of falling shrapnel, etc., were not so well known. These events happened in a few seconds. Suddenly Pierre pointed skywards. ”He is there, up high,” he cried excitedly. I looked, but a blinding light seemed to fill all s.p.a.ce, the yard was lit up and I remember wondering if the people in the Zepp. would see us in our white overalls. The rus.h.i.+ng sound was directly over our heads; there was a crash, the very walls against which we were leaning rocked, and to show what one's mind does at those moments, I remember thinking that when the Cathedral toppled over it would just fit nicely into the Hospital square.
Instinctively I put my head down sheltering it as best I could with my arms, while bricks, mortar, and slates rained on, and all around, us.
There was a heavy thud just in front of us, and when the dust had cleared away I saw it was a coping from the Cathedral, 2 feet by 4!
Notre Dame had remained standing, but the bomb had completely smashed in the roof of the chapel, against the walls of which we were leaning! It was only due to their extreme thickness that we were saved, and also to the fact that we were under the protection of the wall. Had we been further out the coping would a.s.suredly have landed on us or else we should have been hit by the shrapnel contained in the bombs, for the wall opposite was pitted with it. The dust was suffocating, and I heard Pierre saying, ”Come away, Mademoiselle.” Though it takes so long to describe, only a few minutes had elapsed since leaving to cross the yard. The beautiful East window of the Cathedral was s.h.i.+vered to atoms, and likewise every window in the Hospital. All our watches had stopped.
Cras.h.i.+ng over broken gla.s.s to the surgical side, we pantingly asked if everyone was safe. We met Porter coming down the stairs, a stream of blood flowing from a cut on her forehead. I hastily got some dressings for it. Luckily it was only a flesh wound, and not serious. Besides the night nurses at the Hospital, the chauffeurs and housekeeper slept in the far end of the big room at the top of the building. They had not been awakened (so accustomed were they to din and noise), until the crash of the bomb on the Cathedral, and it was by the gla.s.s being blown in on to their stretcher beds that Porter had been cut; otherwise no one else was hurt.
I plunged through the debris back to the typhoids, wondering how 23 had got on, or rather got out, and, would you believe it, his delirium had gone and he was sleeping quietly like a child! The only bit of good the Boche ever did I fancy, for the shock seemed to cure him and he got well from that moment.
The others were in an awful mess, and practically every man's bed was full of broken gla.s.s. You can imagine what it meant getting this out when the patients were suffering from typhoid, and had to be moved as little as possible! One boy in Salle V had a flower pot from the window-sill above fixed on his head! Beyond being slightly dazed, and of course covered with mould, he was none the worse; and those who were well enough enjoyed his discomfiture immensely. Going into Salle III where there were shouts of laughter (the convalescents were sent to that room) I saw a funny sight. One little man, who was particularly fussy and grumpy (and very unpopular with the other men in consequence), slept near the stove, which was an old-fas.h.i.+oned coal one with a pipe leading up to the ceiling. The concussion had shaken this to such an extent that acc.u.mulations of soot had come down and covered him from head to foot, and he was as[5] black as a n.i.g.g.e.r! His expression of disgust was beyond description, and he was led through the other two wards on exhibition, where he was greeted with yells of delight. It was just as well, as it relieved the tension. It can't be pleasant to be ill in bed and covered with bits of broken gla.s.s and mortar, not to mention the uncertainty of whether the walls are going to fall in or not. ”Ah,” said the little Sergeant to me, ”I have never had fear as I had last night.” ”One is better in the trenches than in your Hospital, Miske,” chimed in another.
”At least one can defend oneself.”
One orderly--a new one whom I strongly suspected of being an _embusque_--was unearthed in our rounds from under one of the beds, and came in for a lot of sarcasm, to the great joy of the patients who had all behaved splendidly.[6] With the exception of Pierre and the porter on the surgical side, every man jack of them, including the Adjutant, had fled to the _cave_. A subsequent order came out soon after which amused us very much:--In the event of future air raids the _infirmiers_ (orderlies) were to fly to the _cave_ with the convalescents while the _tres malades_ were to be left to the care of the _Mees anglaises_![7]
It took us till exactly 7 a.m. to get those three wards in anything like order, working without stopping. ”Uncle,” who had dressed hurriedly and come up to the Hospital from his Hotel to see if he could be of any use, brought a very welcome bowl of Ivelcon about 2.30, which just made all the difference, as I had had nothing since 7 the night before. It's surprising how hungry Zeppelin raids make one!
An extract from the account which appeared in _The Daily Chronicle_ the following morning was as follows:--
”One bomb fell on Notre Dame Cathedral piercing the vault of one of the Chapels on the right transept and wreaking irreparable damage to the beautiful old gla.s.s of its gothic windows. This same bomb, which must have been of considerable size, sent debris flying into the courtyard of the Lamarcq Hospital full of Belgian wounded being tended by English Nurses.
”Altogether these Yeomanry nurses behaved admirably, for all the menfolk with the exception of the doorkeeper” (and Pierre, please), ”fled for refuge to the cellars, and the women were left. In the neighbourhood one hears nothing but praise of these courageous Englishwomen. Another bomb fell on a railway carriage in which a number of mechanics--refugees from Lille--were sleeping, as they had no homes of their own. The effect of the bomb on these unfortunate men was terrible. They were all more or less mutilated; and heads, hands, and feet were torn off. Then flames broke out on top of this carriage and in a moment the whole was one huge conflagration.
”As the Zeppelin drew off, its occupants had the sinister satisfaction of leaving behind them a great glare which reddened the sky for a full hour in contrast with the total blackness of the town.”
Chris took out ”Flossie,” and was on the scene of this last disaster as soon as she could get into her clothes after being so roughly awakened by the splinters of gla.s.s.
When the day staff arrived from the ”Shop-window,” what a sight met their eyes! The poor old place looked as if it had had a night of it, and as we sat down to breakfast in the kitchen we s.h.i.+vered in the icy blasts that blew in gusts across the room, for of course the weather had made up its mind to be decidedly wintry just to improve matters. It took weeks to get those windows repaired, as there was a run on what glaziers the town possessed. The next night our plight in typhoids was not one to be envied--Army blankets had been stretched inadequately across the windows and the beds pulled out of the way of draughts as much as possible, but do what we could the place was like an icehouse; the snow filtered softly through the flapping blankets, and how we cursed the Hun! At 3 a.m. one of the patients had a relapse and died.
CHAPTER VIII
CONCERNING BATHS, ”JOLIE ANNETTE,” ”MARIE-MARGOT” AND ”ST. INGLEVERT.”
After this event I was sent back for a time to the _blesses graves_ on the surgical side on day duty. All who had been on duty that memorable night had had a pretty considerable shock. It was like leaving one world and stepping into another, so complete was the change from typhoids.
The faithful Jefke was still there stealing jam for the patients, spending a riotous Sat.u.r.day night _au cinema_, going to Ma.s.s next morning, and then presenting himself in the Ward again looking as if b.u.t.ter would not melt in his mouth!
A new a.s.sistant orderly was there as well. A pious looking individual in specs. He worked as if manual labour pained him, and was always studying out of a musty little book. He was desperately keen to learn English and spoke it on every possible occasion; was intensely stupid as an orderly and obstinate as a mule. He was trying in the extreme. One day he told me he was intended for higher things and would soon be a priest in the Church. Sister Lampen, who was so quick and thorough herself, found him particularly tiresome, and used to refer to him as her ”cross” in life!
One day she called him to account, and, in an exasperated voice said, ”What are you supposed to be doing here, Louis, anyway? Are you an orderly or aren't you?” ”_Mees_,” he replied piously, rolling his eyes upwards, ”I am learning to be a father!” I gave a shriek of delight and hastened up to tea in the top room with the news.
We were continually having what was known as _alertes_, that the Germans were advancing on the town. We had boxes ready in all the Wards with a list on the lid indicating what particular dressings, etc., went in each. None of the _alertes_, however, materialized. We heard later it was only due to a Company of the gallant Buffs throwing themselves into the breach that the road to Calais had been saved.
There were several exciting days spent up at our Dressing Station at Hoogstadt, and one day to our delight we heard that three of the F.A.N.Y.'s, who had been in the trenches during a particularly bad bombardment, were to be presented with the Order of Leopold II. A daily paper giving an account of this dressing station headed it, in their enthusiasm, ”Ten days without a change of clothes. Brave Yeomanry Nurses!”
It was a coveted job to post the letters and then go down to the Quay to watch the packet come in from England. The letters, by the way, were posted in the guard's van of a stationary train where Belgian soldiers sorted and despatched them. I used to wonder vaguely if the train rushed off in the night delivering them.
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