Part 15 (1/2)
Mr. Bevan showed me a sh.e.l.l-hole 42 feet across, made by one single ”soixante-quinze” sh.e.l.l. Every field is pitted with holes, and where there are stretches of pale-coloured mud the round pits dotted all over it give one the impression of an immense Gruyere cheese. The streets, heaped with debris, and with houses fallen helplessly forward into their midst, were full of suns.h.i.+ne. From ruined cottages--whose insecure walls tottered--one saw here and there some Zouaves or a little French ”marin”
appear. Most of these ran out with letters in their hands for us to post. Heaven knows what they can have to write about from that grave!
Some beautiful pillars of the cathedral still stand, and the tower, full of holes, has not yet bent its head. Lieutenant Shoppe, R.N., sits up there all day, and takes observations, with the sh.e.l.ls knocking gaily against the walls. One day the tower will fall or its stones will be pierced, and then Lieutenant Shoppe, R.N., will be killed, as the Belgian ”observateur” was killed at Oostkerke the other day. He still hangs there across a beam for all the world to see. His arms are stretched out, and his body lies head downwards, and no one can go near the dead Belgian because the tower is too unsafe now. One day perhaps it will fall altogether and bury him.
Meanwhile, in the tower of the ruined cathedral at Nieuport Shoppe sits in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, with his telephone beside him and his observation instruments. His small staff are with him. They are immensely interested in the range of a gun and the accuracy of a hit. I believe they do not think of anything else. No doubt the tower shakes a great deal when a sh.e.l.l hits it, and no doubt the number of holes in its sides is daily becoming more numerous. Each morning that Shoppe leaves home to spend his day in the tower he runs an excellent chance of being killed, and in the evening he returns and eats a good dinner in rather an uncomfortable hotel.
In the cathedral, and amongst its crumbling battered aisles, a strange peace rests. The pitiful columns of the church stand here and there--the roof has long since gone. On its most sheltered side is the little graveyard, filled with crosses, where the dead lie. Here and there a sh.e.l.l has entered and torn a corpse from its resting-place, and bones lie scattered. On other graves a few simple flowers are laid.
We went to see the dim cellars which form the two ”postes au secours.”
In the inner recess of one a doctor has a bed, in the outer cave some soldiers were eating food. There is no light even during the day except from the doorway. At Nieuport the Germans put in 3,000 sh.e.l.ls in one day. Nothing is left. If there ever was anything to loot, it has been looted. One doesn't know what lies under the debris. Here one sees the inside of a piano and a few twisted strings, and there a metal umbrella-stand. I saw one wrought-iron sign hanging from the falling walls of an inn.
Mr. Bevan and I wandered about in the unearthly quiet, which persisted even when the guns began to blaze away close by us, whizzing sh.e.l.ls over our heads, and we walked down to the river, and saw the few boards which are all that remain of the bridge. Afterwards a German sh.e.l.l landed with its unpleasant noise in the middle of the street; but we had wandered up a by-way, and so escaped it by a minute or less.
In a little burned house, where only a piece of blackened wall remained, I found a little crucifix which impressed me very much--it stood out against the smoke-stained walls with a sort of grandeur of pity about it. The legs had been shot away or burned, but ”the hands were stretched out still.”
As we came away firing began all round about, and we saw the toss of smoke as the sh.e.l.ls fell.
[Page Heading: STEENKERKE]
_31 May._--We went to Steenkerke yesterday and called on Mrs. Knocker, and saw a terrible infirmary, which must be put right. It isn't fit for dogs.
At the station to-day our poor Irishman died. Ah, it was terrible! His lungs never recovered from the gas, and he breathed his last difficult breath at 5 o'clock.
In the evening a Zeppelin flew overhead on its way to England.
[Page Heading: NIGHTINGALES]
There is a nightingale in a wood near here. He seems to sing louder and more purely the heavier the fighting that is going on. When men are murdering each other he loses himself in a rapture, of song, recalling all the old joyous things which one used to know.
The poetry of life seems to be over. The war songs are forced and foolish. There is no time for reading, and no one looks at pictures, but the nightingale sings on, and the long-ago spirit of youth looks out through Time's strong bars, and speaks of evenings in old, dim woods at home, and of girlish, splendid drives home from some dance where ”he”
was, when we watched the dawn break, and saw our mother sleeping in the carriage, and wondered what it would be like not to ”thrill” all the time, and to sleep when the nightingale was singing.
Later there came the time when the song of the throbbing nightingale made one impatient, because it sang in intolerable silence, and one ached for the roar of things, and for the clash of endeavour and for the strain of purpose. Peace was at a discount then, and struggle seemed to be the eternal good. The silent woods had no word for one, the nightingale was only a mate singing a love-song, and one wanted something more than that.
And afterwards, when the struggle and the strain were given one in abundant measure, the song of the nightingale came in the lulls that occurred in one's busy life. One grew to connect it with coffee out on the lawn in some houses of surpa.s.sing comfort, where (years and years ago) one dressed for dinner, and a crinkly housemaid brought hot water to one's room. The song went on above the smug comfort of things, and the amusing conversation, and the smell of good cigars. Within, we saw some pleasant drawing-room, with lamps and a big table set with candles and cards, and we felt that the nightingale provided a very charming orchestra. We listened to it as we listened to amusing conversation, with a sense of comfortable enjoyment and rest. Why talk of the time when it sang of breaking hearts and high endeavour never satisfied, and things which no one ever knew or guessed except oneself?
It sings now above the sound of death and of tears. Sometimes I think to myself that G.o.d has sent his angel to open the prison doors when I hear that bird in the little wood close beside the tram-way line.
On Thursday, June 3rd, I drove in the ”bug” to Boulogne, and took the steamer to England. I went through a nasty time in Belgium, but now a good deal of queer affection is shown me, and I believe they all rather like me in the corps.
The following brief impression of Miss Macnaughtan's work at the soup-kitchen forms the most appropriate conclusion to her story of her experiences in Belgium. She cut it out of some paper, and sent it home to a friend in England, and we seem to learn from it--more than from any words of her own--how much she did to help our Allies in their hour of need:
”It was dark when my car stopped at the little station of Ad.i.n.kerke, where I had been invited to visit a soup-kitchen established there by a Scotchwoman. In peace she is a distinguished author; in war she is being a mother to such of the Belgian Army as are lucky enough to pa.s.s her way. I can see her now, against a background of big soup-boilers and cooking-stoves, handing out woollen gloves and m.u.f.flers to the men who were to be on sentry duty along the line that night. It was bitterly cold, and the comforts were gratefully received.
”For a long time this most versatile lady made every drop of the soup that was prepared for the men herself, and she has, so a Belgian military doctor says, saved more lives than he has with her timely cups of hot, nouris.h.i.+ng food. It is only the most seriously wounded men who are taken to the field hospital, the others are carried straight to the railway-station, and have to wait there, sometimes for many hours, till a train can take them on. Even then trains carrying the wounded have constantly to be shunted to let troop trains through. But, thanks to the enterprise and hard work of this clever little lady, there is always a plentiful supply of hot food ready for the men who, weak from loss of blood, are often besides faint with hunger.”