Part 5 (1/2)
”R's for the 'Roll-call'”--a terrible f.a.g-- ”Fetching six yards of bread, done up in a bag!”
The other meals were provided by the Belgians and supplemented to a great extent by us. I am quite convinced we often ate good old horse.
One day, when prowling round the shops to get something fresh for the night staff's supper, I went into a butcher's. The good lady came forward to ask me what I wished. I told her; and she smiled agreeably, saying, ”Impossible, Mademoiselle, since long time we have only horse here for sale!” I got out of that shop with speed.
The orderlies on night duty, on the surgical side, were a lazy lot and slept the whole night through, more often than not on the floor of the kitchen. One night the incomparable ”Jefke,” who was worse than most, was fast asleep in a dark spot near the big stove, when I went to get some hot water. He was practically invisible, so I narrowly missed stepping on his head, and, as it was, collapsed over him, breaking the tea-pot. Cicely, the ever witty, quickly parodied one of the ”Ruthless Rhymes,” and said:--
”Pat who trod on Jefke's face (He was fast asleep, so let her,) Put the pieces back in place, Saying, 'Don't you think he looks _much_ better'?”
(I can't vouch for the truth of the last line.)
One day when up at the front we attended part of a concert given by the Observation Balloon Section in a barn, candles stuck in bottles the only illuminations; we were however obliged to leave early to go on to the trenches. Outside in the moonlight, which was almost as light as day, we found the men busy sharpening their bayonets.
Another day up at Bourbourg, where we had gone for a ride, on a precious afternoon off, we saw the first camouflaged field hospital run by Millicent, d.u.c.h.ess of Sutherland, for the Belgians--the tents were weird and wonderful to behold, and certainly defied detection from a distance.
Heasy and I were walking down the _Rue_ one afternoon, which was the Bond Street of this town, when the private detective aforementioned came up and asked to see our identification cards. These we were always supposed to carry about with us wherever we went. Besides the hospital stamp and several others, it contained a pa.s.sport photo and signature.
Of course we had left them in another pocket, and in spite of protestations on our part we were requested to proceed to the citadel or return to hospital to be identified. To our mortification we were followed at a few yards by the detective and a soldier! Never have I felt such an inclination to take to my heels. As luck would have it, tea was in progress in the top room, and they all came down _en ma.s.se_ to see the two ”spies.” The only comfort we got, as they all talked and laughed at our expense, was to hear one of the detectives softly murmuring to himself, ”Has anyone heard of the Suffragette movement here?”
We learnt later that Boche spies disguised in our uniform had been seen in the vicinity of the trenches. That the Boche took an interest in our Corps we knew, for, in pre-war days, we had continually received applications from German girls who wished to become members. Needless to say they were never accepted.
The first English troops began to filter into the town about this time, and important ”red hats” with bra.s.sards bearing the device ”L. of C.”
walked about the place as if indeed they had bought every stone.
Great were our surmises as to what ”L. of C.” actually stood for, one suggestion being ”Lords of Creation,” and another, ”Lords of Calais”! It was comparatively disappointing to find out it only stood for ”Lines of Communication.”
English people have a strange manner of treating their compatriots when they meet in a foreign country. You would imagine that under the circ.u.mstances they would waive ceremony and greet one another in pa.s.sing, but no, such is not the case. If they happen to pa.s.s in the same street they either look haughtily at each other, with apparently the utmost dislike, or else they gaze ahead with unseeing eyes.
We rather resented this ”invasion,” as we called it, and felt we could no longer flit freely across the Place d'Armes in caps and ap.r.o.ns as heretofore.
In June of 1915, my first leave, after six months' work, was due.
Instead of going to England I went to friends in Paris. The journey was an adventure in itself and took fourteen hours, a distance that in peace time takes four or five. We stopped at every station and very often in between. When this occurred, heads appeared at every window to find out the reason. _”Qu' est ce qu'il y'a?”_ everyone cried at once. It was invariably either that a troop train was pa.s.sing up the line and we must wait for it to go by, or else part of the engine had fallen off. In the case of the former, the train was looked for with breathless interest and handkerchiefs waved frantically, to be used later to wipe away a furtive tear for those _brave poilus_ or ”Tommees” who were going to fight for _la belle France_ and might never return.
If it was the engine that collapsed, the pa.s.sengers, with a resigned expression, returned to their seats, saying placidly: ”_C'est la guerre, que voulez-vous_,” and no one grumbled or made any other comment. With a grunt and a snort we moved on again, only to stop a little further up the line. I came to the conclusion that that rotten engine must be tied together with string. No one seemed to mind or worry. ”He will arrive” they said optimistically, and talked of other things. At every station fascinating-looking _infirmieres_ from the French Red Cross, clad in white from top to toe, stepped into the carriage jingling little white tin boxes. ”_Messieurs, Mesdames, pour les blesses, s'il vous plait_,”[8] they begged, and everyone fumbled without a murmur in their pockets. I began with 5 francs, but by the time I'd reached Paris I was giving ha' pennies.
At Amiens a dainty Parisienne stepped into the compartment. She was clad in a navy blue _tailleur_ with a very smart pair of high navy blue kid boots and small navy blue silk hat. The other occupants of the carriage consisted of a well-to-do old gentleman in mufti, who, I decided, was a _commercant de vin_, and two French officers, very spick and span, obviously going on leave. _La pet.i.te dame bien mise_, as I christened her, sat in the opposite corner to me, and the following conversation took place. I give it in English to save translation:
After a little general conversation between the officers and the old _commercant_ the latter suddenly burst out with:--”Ha, what I would like well to know is, do the Scotch soldiers wear the _pantalons_ or do they not?” Everyone became instantly alert. I could see _la pet.i.te dame bien mise_ was dying to say something. The two French officers addressed shrugged their shoulders expressive of ignorance in the matter. After further discussion, unable to contain herself any longer, _la pet.i.te dame_ leant forward and addressing herself to the _commercant_, said, ”Monsieur, I a.s.sure you that they do _not_!”
The whole carriage ”sat up and took notice,” and the old _commercant_, shaking his finger at her said:
”Madame, if you will permit me to ask, that is, if it is not indiscreet, how is it that you are in a position to know?”
The officers were enjoying themselves immensely. _La pet.i.te dame_ hastened to explain. ”Monsieur, it is that my window at Amiens she overlooks the ground where these Scotch ones play the football, and then a good little puff of wind and one sees, but of course,” she concluded virtuously, ”I have not regarded, Monsieur.”
They all roared delightedly, and the old _commercant_ said something to the effect of not believing a word. ”Be quiet, Monsieur, I pray of you,”
she entreated, ”there is an English young girl in the corner and she will of a certainty be shocked.” ”_Bah, non_,” replied the old _commercant_, ”the English never understand much of any language but their own” (I hid discreetly behind my paper).