Part 4 (1/2)
There was a charm and fascination about meeting that incoming boat; the rattle of chains, the clang as the gangway was fixed, the strange cries of the French sailors, the clicking of the bayonets as the cordon formed round the fussy pa.s.sport officer, and lastly the excitement of watching to see if there was a spy on board. The _Walmer Castle_ and the _Canterbury_ were the two little packets employed, and they have certainly seen life since the war began. Great was our excitement if we caught sight of Field Marshal French on his way to G.H.Q., or King Albert, his tall form stooping slightly under the cares of State, as he stepped into his waiting car to be whirled northwards to _La Panne_.
The big Englishman (accompanied by a little man disguised in very plain clothes as a private Detective) also scanned every pa.s.senger closely as he stepped on French soil, and we turned away disgustedly as each was able to furnish the necessary proof that he was on lawful business.
”Come, Struttie, we must fly,” and back we hurried over the bridge, past the lighthouse, across the Place d'Armes, up the Rue de la Riviere and so to Hospital once more.
When things became more settled, definite off times were arranged. Up to then sisters and nurses had worked practically all day and every day, so great was the rush. We experienced some difficulty in having baths, as there were none up at the ”Shop.” Dr. Cools from the Gare Centrale told us some had been fitted in a train down there, and permission was obtained for us to use them. But first we were obliged to present ourselves to the Commandant (for the Railway shed there had been turned into an _Hopital de Pa.s.sage_, where the men waited on stretchers till they were collected each morning by ambulances for the different Hospitals), and ask him to be kind enough to furnish a _Bon pour un bain_ (a bath pa.s.s)! When I first went to the Bureau at the gare and saw this Commandant in his elegant tight-fitting navy blue uniform, with pointed grey beard and general air of importance, I felt that to ask him for a ”bath ticket” was quite the last thing on earth! He saw my hesitation, and in the most natural manner in the world said with a bow, ”Mademoiselle has probably come for _un bon_?” I a.s.sented gratefully, was handed the pa.s.s and fled. It requires some courage to face four officials in order to have a bath.
Arrived at the said train, one climbed up a step-ladder in to a truck divided into four part.i.tions, and Ziske, a deaf old Flamand, carried buckets of boiling water from the engine and we added what cold we wanted ourselves. You will therefore see that when anyone asked you what you were doing in your free time that day and you said you were ”going to have a bath,” it was understood that it meant the whole afternoon would be taken up.
At first we noticed the French people seemed a little stiff in their manner and rather on the defensive. We wondered for some time what could be the reason, and chatting one day with Madame at the dug-out I mentioned the fact to her.
”See you, Mademoiselle, it is like this,” she explained, ”you others, the English, had this town many years ago, and these unlettered ones, who read never the papers and know nothing, think you will take possession of the town once again.” Needless to say in time this impression wore off and they became most friendly.
The Place d'Armes was a typical French marketplace and very picturesque.
At one corner of the square stood the town hall with a turret and a very pretty Carillon called ”Jolie Annette,” since smashed by a sh.e.l.l. I asked an old shopkeeper why the Carillon should be called by that name and he told me that in 1600 a well-to-do _commercant_ of the town had built the turret and promised a Carillon only on the condition that it should be a line from a song sung by a fair lady called ”Jolie Annette,”
performing at a music hall or Cafe Chantant in the town at that time.
The inhabitants protested, but he refused to give the Carillon unless he could have his own way, which he ultimately did. Can't you imagine the outraged feelings of the good burghers? ”_Que voulez-vous, Mademoiselle_,” the old man continued, shrugging his shoulders, ”_Jolie Annette ne chante pas mal, hein?_” and I agreed with him.
I thought it was rather a nice story, and I often wondered, when I heard that little song tinkling out, exactly what ”Jolie Annette” really looked like, and I quite made up my mind on the subject. Of course she had long side curls, a slim waist, lots of ribbons, a very full skirt, white stockings, and a pair of little black shoes, and last but not least, a very bewitching smile. It is sad to think that a sh.e.l.l has silenced her after all these years, and I hope so much that someone will restore the Carillon so that she can sing her little song once again.
In one corner of the square was a house (now turned into a furniture shop) where one of the F.A.N.Y.'s great-grandmothers had stayed when fleeing with the Huguenots to England. They had finally set off across the Channel in rowing boats. Some sportsmen!
Market days on Sat.u.r.days were great events, and little booths filled up the whole _place_, and what bargains one could make! We bought all the available flowers to make the wards as bright as possible. In the afternoons when there was not much to do except cut dressings, I often sat quietly at my table and listened to the discussions which went on in the ward. The Belgian soldier loves an argument.
One day half in French, and half in Flemish, they were discussing what course they would pursue if they found a wounded German on the battlefield. ”_Tuez-le comme un lapin_,” cried one. ”_Faut les zigouiller tous_,” cried another (almost untranslatable slang, but meaning more or less ”choke the lot”). ”_Ba, non, sauvez-le p'is qu'il est blesse_,” cried a third to which several agreed. This discussion waxed furious till finally I was called on to arbitrate. One boy was rapidly working himself into a fever over the question. He was out to kill any Boche under any conditions, and I don't blame him. This was his story:
In the little village where he came from, the Germans on entering had treated the inhabitants most brutally. He was with his old father and mother and young brother of eight--(It was August 1914 and his cla.s.s had not yet been called up). Some Germans marched into the little cottage and shaking the old woman roughly by the arm demanded something to drink. His mother was very deaf and slow in her movements and took some time to understand. ”Ha,” cried one brute, ”we will teach you to walk more quickly,” and without more ado he ran his sword through her poor old body. The old man sprang forward, too late to save her, and met with the same fate. The little brother had been hastily hidden in an empty cistern as they came in. ”Thus, Mademoiselle,” the boy ended, ”I have seen killed before my eyes my own father and mother; my little brother for all I know is also dead. I have yet to find out. I myself was taken prisoner, but luckily three days later managed to escape and join our army; do you therefore blame me, _Miske_, if I wish to kill as many of the swine as possible?” He sank back literally purple in the face with rage, and a murmur of sympathy went round the Ward. His wound was not a serious one, for which I was thankful, or he might have done some harm.
One evening I was wandering through the ”Place d'Armes” when some violins in a music shop caught my eye. I went in and thus became acquainted with the family Tetar, consisting of an old father and his two daughters. They were exceedingly friendly and allowed me to try all the violins they had. At last I chose a little ”Mirecourt” with a very nice tone, which I hired and subsequently bought.
In time Monsieur Tetar became very talkative, and even offered to play accompaniments for me. He had an organ in a large room above the shop cram full of old instruments, but in the end he seemed to think it might show a want of respect to Madame his late wife (now dead two years), so the accompanying never came off. For the same reason his daughter, who he said ”in the times” had played the violin well, had never touched her instrument since the funeral.
There was one special song we heard very often rising up from the Cafe Chantant, in the room at the dug-out. When I went round there to have supper with them we listened to it entranced. It was a priceless tune, very catching and with lots of go; I can hear it now. I was determined to try and get a copy, and went to see Monsieur Tetar about it one day.
I told him we did not know the name, but this was the tune and hummed it accordingly. A French Officer looking over some music in a corner became convulsed and hurriedly ducked his head into the pages, and I began to wonder if it was quite the thing to ask for.
Monsieur Tetar appeared to be somewhat scandalized, and exclaimed, ”I know it, Mademoiselle, that song calls itself _Marie-Margot la Cantiniere_, but it is, let me a.s.sure you, of a certainty not for the young girls!” No persuasion on my part could produce it, so our acquaintance with the fair _Marie-Margot_ went no further than the tune.
The extreme grat.i.tude of the patients was very touching. When they left for Convalescent homes, other Hospitals, or to return to the trenches, we received shoals of post cards and letters of thanks. When they came on leave they never failed to come back and look up the particular _Miske_ who had tended them, and as often as not brought a souvenir of some sort from _la bas_.
One man to whom I had sent a parcel wrote me the following letter. I might add that in Hospital he knew no English at all and had taught himself in the trenches from a dictionary. This was his letter:
”My lady” (Madame), ”The beautiful package is safely arrived. I thank you profoundly from all my heart. The shawl (m.u.f.fler) is at my neck and the good socks are at my feet as I write. Like that one has well warmth.
”We go to make some cafe also out of the package, this evening in our house in the trenches, for which I thank you again one thousand times.
”Receive, my lady, the most distinguished sentiments on the part of your devoted
”JEAN PROMPLER, ”1st Batt. Infanterie, ”12th line Regiment.”