Part 13 (2/2)
Work was slack in the Autumn owing to the fearful floods of rain, and several of the F.A.N.Y.s took up fencing and went once a week at eight o'clock to a big ”Salle d'Escrime” off the Rue Royale. A famous Belgian fencer, I forget his name, and a Frenchman, both stationed in the vicinity, instructed, and ”Squig” kindly let me take her lessons when she was on leave. Fencing is one of the best tests I know for teaching you to keep your temper. When my foil had been hit up into the air about three times in succession to the triumphant _Riposte!_ of the little Frenchman, I would determine to keep ”Quite cool.” In spite of all, however, when I lunged forward it was with rather a savage stamp, which he would copy delightedly and exclaim triumphantly--”Mademoiselle se fache!” I could have killed that Frenchman cheerfully! His quick orders ”_Pare, pare--quatre, pare--contre--Riposte!_” etc. left me completely bewildered at first. Hope was a great nut with the foils and she and the Frenchman had veritable battles, during which the little man, on his mettle and very excited, would squeal exactly like a rabbit. The big Belgian was more phlegmatic and not so easily moved.
One night I espied a pair of boxing gloves and pulled them on while waiting for my turn. ”Mademoiselle knows _la boxe_?” he asked interestedly.
”A little, a very little, Monsieur,” I replied. ”Only what my brother showed me long ago.”
”Montrez,” said he, drawing on a pair as well, and much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the others we began preliminary sparring. ”Mademoiselle knows _ze-k_-nock-oot?” he hazarded.
I did not reply, for at that moment he lifted his left arm, leaving his heart exposed. Quick as lightning I got in a topper that completely winded him and sent him reeling against the wall. When he got his breath back he laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks, and whenever I met him in the street he flew up a side alley in mock terror. I was always designated after that as _Mademoiselle qui sait la boxe--oh, la la_!
In spite of repeated efforts on the part of R.E.s. there was a spot in the roof through which the rain persistently dripped on to my face in the night. They never could find it, so the only solution was to sleep the other way up! _C'est la guerre_, and that's all there was to it.
One cold bl.u.s.tery day I had left ”Susan” at the works in Boulogne and was walking along by the fish market when I saw a young fair-haired staff officer coming along the pavement toward me. ”His face is very familiar,” I thought to myself, and then, quick as a flash--”Why, it's the Prince of Wales, of course!” He seemed to be quite alone, and except for ourselves the street was deserted. How to cope? To bob or not to bob, that was the question? Then I suddenly realized that in a stiff pair of Cording's boots and a man's sheepskin-lined mackintosh, sticking out to goodness knows where, it would be a sheer impossibility. I hastily reviewed the situation. If I salute, I thought, he may think I'm taking a liberty! I decided miserably to do neither and hoped he would think I had not recognized him at all.[13] As we came abreast I looked straight ahead, getting rather pink the while. Once past and calling myself all manner of fools, I thought ”I'm going to turn round, and stare. One doesn't meet a Prince every day, and in any case 'a cat may look at a king!'” I did so--the Prince was turning round too! He smiled delightfully, giving me a wonderful salute, which I returned and went on my way joyfully, feeling that it had been left to him to save the situation, and very proud to think I had had a salute all to myself.
Christmas came round before we knew where we were, and Boss gave the order it was to be celebrated in our own mess. Work was slack just then and Mrs. Williams gave a tea and dance in the afternoon at her canteen up at Fontinettes. It was a picturesque-looking place with red brick floor, artistic-looking tables with rough logs for legs and a large open fireplace, typically English, which must have rejoiced the hearts of men so far from Blighty.
It was a very jolly show, in spite of my partner b.u.mping his head against the beam every time we went round, and people came from far and near. It was over about five, and we hastened back to prepare for our Christmas dinner in Mess.
Fancy dress had been decided on, and as it was to be only among ourselves we were given carte blanche as to ideas. They were of course all kept secret until the last moment. Baby went as a Magpie and looked very striking, the black and white effect being obtained by draping a white towel straight down one side over the black nether garments belonging to our concert party kit.
I decided to go as a _Vie Parisienne_ cover. A study in black and daffodil--a ravis.h.i.+ng confection--and also used part of our ”FANTASTIK”
kit, but made the bodice out of crinkly yellow paper. A chrysanthemum of the same shade in my hair, which was skinned back in the latest door-k.n.o.b fas.h.i.+on, completed the get-up.
Baby and I met on our way across the camp and drifted into mess together, and as we slowly divested ourselves of our grey wolf-coats we were hailed with yells of delight.
d.i.c.ky went as Charlie's Aunt, and Winnie as the irresistible nephew. Eva was an art student from the Quartier Latin, and Bridget a charming two-year old. The others came in many and various disguises.
We all helped to clear away in order to dance afterwards, and as I ran into the cook-house with some plates I met the mechanic laden with the tray from his hut.
The momentary glimpse of the _Vie Parisienne_ was almost too much for the good Brown. I heard a startled ”Gor blimee! Miss” and saw his eyes popping out of his head as he just prevented the tray from eluding his grasp!
Soon after Christmas a grain-s.h.i.+p, while entering Boulogne harbour in a storm, got blown across and firmly fixed between the two jetties, which are not very wide apart. To make matters worse its back broke and so formed an effectual barrier to the harbour and took from a fortnight to three weeks to clear away.
Traffic was diverted to the other ports, and for the time being Boulogne became almost like a city of the dead.
One port had been used solely for hospital s.h.i.+ps up till then, and the scenes of bustle and confusion that replaced the comparative calm were almost indescribable. We saw many friends returning from Christmas leave, who for the most part had not the faintest idea where they had arrived. There were not enough military cars to transport the men to Fontinettes, so besides our barge and hospital work we were temporarily commissioned by the Local Transport Office.
I was detailed to take two officers inspecting the Archic stations north of St. Omer one wet snowy afternoon, and many were the adventures we had. It was a great thing to get up right behind our lines to places where we had never been before, and Susan ploughed through the mud like a two-year old, and never even so much as punctured. We were on our way back at a little place called Pont l'Abbesse, about 6.30, when the snow came down in blinding gusts. With only two side lamps, and a pitch dark night, the prospect of ever finding our way home seemed nil, and every road we took was bordered by a deep ca.n.a.l, with nothing in the way of a fence as protection. It was bitterly cold, and once we got completely lost; three-quarters of an hour later finding ourselves at the same cottage where we had previously asked the way!
At last we found a staff car that promised to give us a lead, and in time we reached the main St. Omer road, finally getting back to Pont-le-Beurre about 10 p.m. I 'phoned up to the Convoy to tell them I was still in the land of the living, and after a bowl of hot soup sped back to camp.
My hands were so cold I had to sit on them in turns, and as for feet, I didn't seem to have any. Still it was ”some run,” and the next day I spent a long time hosing off the thick clay which almost completely hid the good Susan from sight.
Another temporary job we had was to drive an army sister (a sort of female Military Landing Officer) to the boat every day, where she met the sisters coming back from leave and directed them to the different units and hospitals.
One of the results of the closing of Boulogne harbour was that instead of the patients being evacuated straight to England we had to drive them into Boulogne, where they were entrained for Havre! A terrible journey, poor things. Twenty to twenty-four ambulances would set off to do the thirty kilometres in convoy, led at a steady pace by the Section Leader. These journeys took place three times a week, and often the men would get bitterly cold inside the cars. If there was one puncture in the Convoy we all had to stop till a spare wheel was put on. We eagerly took the opportunity to get down and do stamping exercises and ”cabby”
arms to try and get warm. To my utmost surprise, on one of these occasions my four stretcher patients got up and danced in the road with me. Why they were ”liers” instead of ”sitters” I can't think, as there was not much wrong with them. _a propos_ I remember asking one night when an ambulance train came in in the dark, ”Are you liers or sitters in here?” and one humorist scratched his head and replied, ”I don't rightly know, Sister, I've told a few in my time!” To return to our long convoy journeys: once we had deposited our patients it was not unnaturally the desire of this ”dismounted cavalry” unit to try the speed of its respective 'buses one against the other on the return journey; to our immense disappointment this idea was completely nipped in the bud, for Boss rode on the first car.
Permission however was given to pa.s.s on hills, as it was considered a pity to overheat a car going down to second gear when it could easily have done the hill on third! That Boulogne road is one of the hilliest in France, and Susan was a nailer on hills. I remember arriving in camp second one day. ”How have _you_ got here?” asked Boss in surprise, ”I purposely put you nineteenth!”
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