Eighteen months in the war zone

Yet France in war-time to anyone incapacitated is wellnigh unbearable.

Again and again unpleasant scenes come up (and when humour flags is life worth living?). The subaltern so unnerved by the sight of his batman (only slightly hit) who was drowned in the mud, that he could do nothing but reiterate, with staring eyes, "And, for all I know, he is there still." Tales of healthy bits of land where, if you ask your way to a certain reserve trench, the direction will be: "First on the left, and past the dead Frenchman on the ant-heap," half-humorous reminiscences of trench-digging where other things—no need to specify—besides caps and boots are turned up, haunt one incessantly, and Morpheus refuses to be wooed.

All day long one notes the veering wind with beating heart, conscious that the prevailing west wind is all-propitious to the German's latest invention of the Devil, the poison-gas; conscious of the long nights in which one has lain awake as the sound of the receding sea was replaced by the ghastly choking of the ward of gassed cases opposite (a sound comparable only to a roomful of panting dogs), or the cough of the man dying with a bullet through his lungs.

May 14th. At home there are strikes and rumours of strikes, instigated, no doubt, by German emissaries, but none the less shameful for that; and one and all, as the men come down from that "hell with the lid off," where, inch by inch, the Germans are regaining that for which so many lives were sacrificed, their cry is for ammunition.

"We could have held our lines but for the lack of ammunition of the right kind," they say—for it seems that ordinary shells are useless when pitted against high explosives and gas.

No one who has not heard that appeal direct from dying lips (for dying men don't lie) can know how great is the longing to tell about it at home—to let the slackers know that for each shell not forthcoming ten valuable lives are lost, ten homes needlessly bereaved. It is intolerably unjust that the man who refuses to do his duty out here is promptly shot, whilst the man who strikes at home is merely bribed with offers of higher wages.

After all, it is a war not only of men, but of arms and ammunition, and it lies in the hands of those at home as much as those out here to see the thing through.

May 16th. At a certain canteen recently a splendid, strapping fellow has been much in evidence. A fine all-round sportsman of good breeding, always ready to lend a hand where required, he made himself beloved by men and canteen-workers alike. In particular he endeared himself to the man in charge of the canteen, to whom he would talk of his wife and children and sports prowess in days gone by.

Over his fighting experiences, however, a veil was drawn; and seeing that even to hint a question about it was to bring a look of unutterable terror, of trench-haunted madness into his eyes, the subject was left in abeyance.

Being neither wounded nor sick, nor attached to the regiment at the base, it was usually assumed that he was an officer's servant, which assumption was corroborated by the amount of spare time on his hands, for he seemed always at the canteen.

One day he came to the man in charge with the request that he should find him some remunerative work. Amazed, the civilian asked, "Why? Aren't you drawing your pay?" Then the truth leaked out. Months back, during an infantry advance, in a fit of madness he had boarded a passing ambulance and found himself at the base. In plain words, he was a deserter. For weeks he had lived, evading the canny A.P.M.'s minions by the skin of his teeth, sleeping one night in a barn, the next in a railway truck, the third on the sands, and always feeding at the canteen. A dozen times he had thought the game was up. The strain was beginning to tell, and now that he was down to his last sou there was nothing left for it but to give himself up or cut and run.

Well, for the sake of the wife he was going to risk it.

He did so. But the authorities who scrutinise those little seemingly useless papers on the boat were too sharp for him, and he passed for ever out of the life of the only civilian who knew his story—to be exact, out of the lives of all his friends.

And is not slackness at home all the more reprehensible when one realises the penalties to which men O.A.S. are liable? Is it to be wondered at that we in France would gladly hear the death-sentence passed on every one of those traitor strikers?

May 17th. Far, far out, the fisher-folk, their hair and faces white with brine, are shrimping. So far out is the tide that they are mere dark specks against the red glow. Farther along the coast a number of A.V.C. officers from remount camps are enjoying a chukker of polo on the firm sands. The sound of heavy firing that had been so audible during the afternoon in the Dover-Calais direction has ceased. The friends who had come out to visit the invalids have departed by the last tram, on which a tall Sikh was busy teaching the French conductor to talk English. The result may be better pictured than described. When they set to work to do a little bartering, ransacking each other's pockets for souvenirs, exchanging two pencils for a cigarette, a penny for a halfpenny, it was interesting to note that the businesslike Frenchman—the bargainer par excellence—had met his match at last.

And to-morrow a month's sick leave in Blighty! Baths unlimited! Beef that is beef and not horse! Lamb that is lamb and not goat! Every fibre aches for civilisation.

May 23rd, London. No doubt the waitress at the terminus was rather amused by the arrival of three travel-stained creatures, one in mufti and two in uniform, whose first demand was for glasses of clear, cold water. But could she have known she would have been astonished to find that, in spite of our bad crossing, our hunger, and the subsequent good dishes she set before us, none of us remembered anything half as good as this first unboiled, unchlorinated, unsterilised draught.

It is impossible to blame anyone for failing to take war seriously at home. Here, where "business as usual" is the motto, it is literally inconceivable that anything extraordinary is going on in the world. No wonder that a certain number of women were prating recently of the forthcoming Peace Conference at The Hague. Even those who are worst hit, who have lost their nearest and dearest, are so engrossed in their little charities, their bandage-making and knitting and Red Cross lectures, that they have little leisure to mope. London is as gay or gayer than ever, not a bit purged, for every man home on leave is busy making the best of time. How different from the Frenchman, whose one idea on getting out of the trenches is to set his house in order, to instruct the women who are doing his work how to manipulate the latest agricultural implements, to help prepare for the harvest! Aldershot and its vicinity, for all the many lives that have passed out of it for ever, is the same. And here, in the big country houses one visits, people have still leisure to indulge in nerve attacks at the sight of their milliners' bills. Even the rise of that new species, the very temporary gentleman officer, is less remarkable at home. The only change one notices (bar a few dances and cricket matches that have been skipped, maybe out of respect for those who will dance and play no more) is the Continental atmosphere of the streets and theatres.

London is almost as Belgian as Boulogne is anglicised. Rotund Belgians sit knitting in the stalls, their sombre day dresses contrasting strangely with our erstwhile brilliant audiences.

"Evening dress optional but unfashionable," as one theatre announces.

A joy for ever is the element of free-and-easy good-humour brought over by our Colonials. If the last ten months have done no other good, they have at least knit together, in bonds that can never be riven, our wonderful Empire.

CHAPTER IX
June, 1915

June 11th—Cumberland. Speaking to a gathering of village folk on work in France, I invited debate. "If King George 'as got wot Kaiser Bill wants, why don't they go and fight it out themselves?" asked one man. "Wot difference would it make to us if the country is ruled by Germans or Englishmen?" said another, a lazy fellow whose fields had remained fallow for years, quite oblivious of the fact that under German regime he would have been in the firing-line months ago. The rest of the audience shivered with the helpless indecision as to what their right course should be: which shows the little faith felt in the present Government, half hoping for, half fearing the conscription of labour that seems imminent.

That there should exist men who openly confess that from their point of view the end of the war will be disastrous is almost incredible. Yet I have come across a clergyman, working in a Midland manufacturing centre, who has many instances of this indifference to recount.

Is it not useless to hope that this war will be the last? So long as men are actuated by motives of commercial profit and agrarian gain, the dream of Universal Peace must remain a chimæra; and the present upheaval, essential to the checking and wiping out of Germany's abnormal line of development, is destined to be only the first step towards the Ideal of Progress which Europe (the Central Powers included) had flattered herself to be following.

Most astounding of all is the utter obliviousness on the part of all at home to the seriousness of the shell campaign, illustrated by the ridicule hurled at those of us who uphold the Northcliffe Press.

As I settled into the corner of the railway carriage, after a delightful week-end with a dear friend in Surrey, a batch of illustrated journals and the Morning Post were pressed upon me.

No one can be a more devout devotee of the Morning Post Court Circular than my humble self, knowing full well that to miss that interesting document means a gradual drifting without the pale of one's many acquaintances. Nevertheless, I asked meekly for "The Daily Mail, please!"

"That you, with your love of literature, should read such stuff!" she groaned.

Then, confidently:

"My dear, at any other time I should have cut you dead for such a thing."

There was no time to explain, as the train steamed out, that I go to my newspaper for news and not for literature.

Yet I could not refrain from marvelling at the contumely showered on the only organ strong enough to bring the truth before the public and combat the weaknesses of a desultory Government.

The second astounding thing at home is the fact that no one seems to realise the difference between the Front and the Base.

Anywhere in France—Paris excepted—seems to be "the Front," and no one who has not been privileged to peep behind the scenes seems to realise the gap that intervenes between the fighting line and the back of the Front, as one might call the Base.

And one is introduced to a strange medley of people, all "going to the Front."

Not only veteran soldiers and raw recruits and nurses, but charming women of leisure who contemplate migrating with their retinue somewhere abroad and earning fame "at a canteen or anything that is wanted—just behind the lines!"

Now, although I can claim to have worked longer at our Base than any other British woman (with one exception), to have withstood the inclemency of its climate and its laws successfully for eight consecutive months, and might therefore pretend to be an authority as to where it really is, not a single friend have I succeeded in convincing that I am not a true heroine—risking my life daily with shells bursting all around and the Huns a few yards away. What they want are descriptions of weeping gas victims and death-bed scenes (that in reality are far better forgotten—if it is possible) and incidents such as a youthful convalescent sapper confided to me recently—of the man who, though his head was blown clean off at midday, was found to be convulsively clawing the earth with fingers that seemed yet alive at sundown!

For such yarns there seems to be a great demand, and if I told them that heroism at the Base consisted of maintaining continual cheerfulness in face of odds like bursting boilers which, for want of men, cannot be repaired; if I hinted at the dullness of buttering endless loaves, of wheedling Primus stoves into working order, of changing French money for English at a varying rate of exchange, of living amongst a strange, heterogeneous crowd of people, far away from one's own friends, and stifling longings for one's lares et penates, of the dreadful monotony and various other details of barmaiding, amateur and otherwise, I should not be believed.

Therefore, with many a wiser, I seek shelter behind a discreet silence, except when the insistence of the "Do-tell-me-all-about-it! Have-you-seen-lots-of-horrors?" girl elicits an ironical reply to the effect that most of our time is spent in champagne lunches and moonlight picnics.

June 12th. I must not omit to note the very interesting meeting with Mr. Henry James—the American author—who has so enthusiastically cast in his lot with the Allies. It was at a tea at the American Embassy. On being introduced, having heard of our work in France, he made no secret of his views.

"You young people are wonderful. You are achieving what no other generation could ever, will ever, achieve! After all, this is a young people's war!"

I went home with a heart throbbing with pride at belonging to a generation that, swept by the great driving spirit (maybe something analogous to Maeterlinck's "Spirit of the Hive") from little ruts in life into the great vortex of war, has already proved its metal.

Over and over again one is struck by the extraordinary altruism that is displayed by those taking part in what, after all, is but a tremendous life-and-death struggle.

Everywhere esprit de corps prevails amongst the men. Take the private. Maybe he reared poultry in some out-of-the-way farm in Somerset. Maybe his pathetically wizened face tells of a childhood in the slums. Whatever his life was before, he is Private Tommy Atkins now, of the Blankshires—the finest regiment, the finest company, the finest platoon in the British Army; a V.C. regiment he will announce with pride, as he sits down by the dusty roadside to enjoy the ten minutes' halt in what seems an interminable route march.

And the very Temporary Lieutenant whom one knew only a year ago as the "knut," as, in the newest check trousers à l'Américain, he lounged bemonocled in the Park, what of him? Was he not correct—very correct and always correct, as he patronised every function of the season—blasé, bored and boring, always ready to criticise every affair with an amusing cynicism?

He, too, chameleon-like, has taken on the tone of his surroundings. Behold him in khaki, a born leader of men! His boredom has become sangfroid, his cynicism has blossomed into a brisk humour that keeps the mess alive, his subservience to the law of the "correct thing" has taught him to face every undreamt-of tight corner with a nonchalance wonderful to behold.

Yes, Henry James is right. "It is a Young People's War." It may be an ironical fate that designs the younger generation to lay down their lives for the political blunders of the older—but the true tragedy is not in the youths cut down in the flower of their manhood, nor the girls broken in health by the magnitude of the task they have tackled; the true tragedy is in the derelict "dug-outs" vainly hunting for jobs, the aged women wringing their hands, with the cry, "We are too old to help!"

And when our American friend, speaking of his countrymen's work and schemes for ameliorating the lot of starving Belgium, remarked that our work will not have finished with the cessation of hostilities, for then alone will the full pinch and hardships of war be felt, the destitution shorn of the gilding of excitement and uncertainty, I knew he spoke truly.

The end of the last month all eyes were focused on Italy's rupture with Austria (we note that diplomatic relations with Germany are not broken off, no doubt for reasons commercial). To all who have travelled much in that land of sunshine it was apparent that, whichever way politics might trend, public feeling (barring that section of the proletariat under strong Papal influence) would always be with the Allies; nor was it possible to imagine any alliance between Italy and her hereditary foe, the Hun, other than an alliance of convenience. The Italian's contempt for Teuton boorishness is as ineradicable as the Italian's confidence in the brilliant future awaiting his own kingdom.

June 14th. Two days later the Coalition Ministry, which we pray fervently may remedy our shortage of war materials, was formed. Now, attention is turned towards the East, the Cameroons, the Dardanelles. Mr. Winston Churchill has raised our hopes to the tiptop of expectation with his mysterious promises of some unparalleled and crushing success in Gallipoli. So much so, that everyone speaks with confidence of the termination of the war within a few months.

Yesterday some were only restrained from hoisting flags by the desire to see the rumours confirmed. Alas! on opening the morning papers we were but greeted with the news of fresh Austrian successes.

June 20th. With the receipt of "Marching Orders" this morning, England and Home seemed suddenly very dear. Like a dream they come back, those places I have visited—the peaceful Lakes; the cheerful Felixstowe hotel, where one could revel in the soft, subdued lights and pretty frocks; Bedford, which with all its khaki seems to be playing at war more than any other city, and where one or two people are still extant who saw the Russians come through from Archangel at the beginning of operations, and even touched the snow on their caps! And the different country houses, the different friends, how little touched they seem by it all! True, in one or two once over-pretentious houses the food is less lavish, the staff less numerous, the clothes less exaggerated; which seemed a great improvement.

Only I seem changed, and all the things we once accepted as necessities of life are become luxuries, from books and baths to the once despised draught of clear cold water!

Yes, as to the sound of the soft-toned grand we sat by the fire enjoying the ever sweet smell of burning logs, whilst, with the inscrutable smile of one to whom the mysteries of Life and Death are revealed, the death mask of the woman who was found in the Seine looked down from her oak beam, and the hour-glass speeded its atoms along the road to eternity, for the first time France and work seemed anything but attractive.

June 29th. It is worth the journey to be amongst our men again, to be welcomed as they alone welcome one, with hearty handshakes and hopes that one has "come back to stay."

Things have progressed a good deal, too, in our small world. In the beginning, were one only rich enough, or endowed with a title sufficiently illustrious or notorious (it mattered not which), one might rent an hotel or a château, turn it into a French or Belgian Red Cross Hospital, and resort to a little harmless hospital work in France whenever London became boring.

True, the authorities never encouraged these little pleasure trips, but now that Boulogne has been definitely declared within the War Zone, entrance and egress are a very different matter, and it requires quite an amount of strategy for anyone not affiliated to some recognised society, and armed to the teeth with permits, to get here at all.

There seems also to have been a systematic "rounding up" of undesirables, and one by one the so-called "officers," who, in the beginning, had made the nights hideous with their champagne suppers, have disappeared.

Naturally, we too have progressed.

In place of skeleton buildings, well-planned camps lie along the shore, complete even to their Imperial red letter-boxes. Once swampy convalescent camps display smart flower gardens, whilst Thomas Atkins moves about less molested by demands for souvenirs, and somewhat solaced for his enforced absence from home by the welcome accorded to him by his Allies. If the average man's vocabulary does not run much beyond the five phrases, "Bong jour!" "Compris?" "No bon!" "Nar poo!" ("Je ne peux pas!") "Promenade ce soir?" the few exceptions have made remarkable progress.

One wonders what the residents of Brighton would say if a number of friendly French workmen erected all along the Downs a miniature village of asbestos and corrugated iron huts, interspersed with tents and planted with trim little gardens of bright flowers and evergreens; installed pillar-boxes bearing French arms, their electric power-station, their orderly-and mess-rooms, surrounded the whole by a mass of barbed wire, and having notified everywhere that this was Hospital No. ——, to which there is "No Admittance," proceeded to explain smilingly to the bewildered Brightonians that the huts are stable enough to last for seven years.

If one could fathom the conflicting feelings of Brighton under these conditions, one might have some small understanding of the astonishment with which our Allies, already hard stricken by war, contemplate the problem of this little Britain in France.

And there certainly are problems. Take, for instance, the guarding of the roads. Naturally enough, even in the British War Zone the French are loath to give up command of the road. One cannot expect them to forget completely that only one hundred years ago we were on a hostile and not on a friendly mission! And so until recently they guarded the barriers with fixed bayonets. Alas! the valiant men whose zealous watch was apt to prove irksome have now been called up to the firing-line. We shall no longer be tempted (those of us who are facetiously inclined) to play pranks.

There was a certain art in producing, instead of one's military pass, a card of membership of some long-forgotten club or any legal-looking document, providing it bore a portrait affixed, and, brandishing it in the watchful guard's face with a loud "Laissez-passer militaire," dash on to one's destination. An old Hippodrome ticket has been known to act as well. Ten chances to one, being unable to read English, the guard would let one through, and the delay would be amply repaid by the good laugh.

But as I said, the many minor barriers have disappeared, and there is no bluffing the men who guard the entrance and egress to the town.

June 30th. Since the German introduction of methods of warfare that would shame a savage—the poison gas, the sinking of the Lusitania—the whole attitude of our men towards the enemy has changed, and one can safely predict that next Christmas there will be no exchange of civilities and cigarettes with the Huns as there was last.

Even at home the sluggards seem to be rousing; and the "Frightfulness" whereby the Germans hope to scare Britain into a compromise is, on the contrary, acting as a much-needed tonic.

One is struck out here by the psychology of the youthful subalterns. The high anticipation of "getting out," the silent horror of which they say so little when they are brought face to face with the "Real Thing," and which, once conquered, leads to a resigned fatalism.

It's the same with all of them. "Che sarà, sarà, and if we are to be hit, well, the sooner it's over the better, only it would be nice to know if it's to be an arm, or sight or—the other thing. No matter, anyhow. We shall know it soon enough, and in the meantime there is that long-delayed ninety-six hours' leave in the future to dream of——"

Aye, that leave that many of them will never get!

CHAPTER X
July, 1915

July 1st. In place of the old hotel, where operations are still being carried on, our new hut has sprung up. The dimensions, let me see, are somewhere about 120 feet by 40 feet. Beside the platform at the far end lies the library, to fill which our store of books is to be greatly enlarged. Behind the counter are situated the ladies' room, the store-room, the mess-room, to beautify which I am busy all day making curtains, etc.

The kitchen is so small that it is not easy to get range and sink and boilers fitted in, but a patent coal-shed adjoining, by means of which one may shovel coal straight from the shed on to the fires through a lifting door, is a convenience. We glory in a bath for the resident secretaries, and if other sanitary accommodation is of the most primitive, we console ourselves that, being under military inspection, it is bound to be hygienic.

Our hut has the advantage of standing in its own field, which, though none too even for cricket pitches, should make an excellent football ground, to popularise which we have decided to have a formal opening ceremony, preceded by sports.

In the interim of getting things ready for the hut I am lending a hand at an Expeditionary Force canteen. The work, being in a camp where all the men have been under fire, is intensely interesting. But, of course, the social element is lacking.

Apart from the amusements and distractions offered, the men seem to appreciate the Y.M.C.A. so much, because within the shelter of its walls they can forget for the moment the stringent military discipline under which they live.

July 2nd. In my hotel are quartered the latest "Lena Ashwell Concert Party," whose good humour keeps the whole place alive. The place is so noisy that it is impossible to sleep. Said the humorist of the party, "That reminds one of the tale of the man in an hotel who was greatly disturbed by someone walking about in the room above. The second night things were no better; the third, the place shook as if he were jumping the house down. Going upstairs he tapped at the door and said, 'I say, old fellow, do you mind letting me get a little sleep? You've kept me awake three nights with your noise.'

"'Am I disturbing you?' came the rejoinder. 'I'm so sorry. You see, I'm under doctor's orders, and he's given me some medicine and told me to take it two nights running and skip the third!'"

July 3rd. It is no easy matter now to get a photograph taken, even of so harmless a thing as a grave. Nevertheless, in reply to a request from a woman whose son is buried here, we resolved to leave no stone unturned to obtain the necessary permits. And, as we waited for the signing and countersigning of the valuable documents at the Commandant's office, whilst outside the "Caterpillars" rumbled past, taking their heavy guns up to the front, we wondered whether the same stringent regulations apply to the many "neutral" seamen, whose business, on cargo steamers, brings them into the port.

July 9th. By the evening the usual septic throat had claimed me victim, and in spite of strenuous efforts to attribute it to imagination, it is necessary to bow to the verdict that quarantines one as a "Query Diphtheria" case.

Faced with the idea of being isolated in a bathing-box ward and nursed by orderlies, there is nothing left for it but to take the landladies' advice and pray. Really, their faith is wonderful. They pray for everything; and seeing old Madame has a very short memory, and is always losing things for which she proceeds to pray without making the least effort to find them, St. Antony must be getting rather tired of this house!

Blinding rain in a jerry-built summer villa is not exactly cheerful, in spite of the Madonna lilies with which it is possible to adorn one's attic.

July 15th. The finishing touches are being put to the new building. My "Query Diphtheria" throat proved to be a false alarm, and now, having toiled for nine hours, behold me taking a moment's rest on the veranda, whilst thirty men—voluntary fatigue parties, who came in response to a hint that their assistance would be appreciated—are at work on different jobs.

Ten are darkening the table legs with permanganate of potash. Some are cleaning windows and others pasting on our "Dutch" frieze, whilst a little Scotty, who has been lent us as an orderly to help over these first days, and whose dialect is so broad that even his own compatriots sometimes fail to interpret, is watering and hanging geraniums we have had out from England. Yes, there is a breath of home about our hut. Bright English pottery adorns the shelves, bright curtains relieve the Mediterranean blue of the walls, and, as I said before, our plants, straight from Covent Garden, make the veranda as unwarlike as it is possible to make it.

July 16th. Our hut certainly opened with éclat! In spite of the fact that at midday the place was still full of French painters and workmen, we managed to be superficially in order by four o'clock when the D.D.M.S. declared the building open.

No sooner had the decorators laid down their tools at midday for lunch than we bundled their ladders and paints outside and set to work to get the hall straight.

In spite of the rain and biting wind, our campaign for opening with sports in the afternoon was carried through; and after the many kindly speeches and wishes for the welfare of the work, I distributed the prizes from the platform, and we concluded with a concert.

July 18th. And now we are all suffering from a disease that might be called "Hut fever"; its symptoms, a readiness to do anything to get the place in order and (in spite of the still wet green paint that leaves anyone who is careless enough to lean against the doors a souvenir not easily eradicated) to make it into the finest centre at the Base.

The men themselves are equally enthusiastic, and one of them, the local versifier, brought us a poem penned for the occasion, which I quote as it stands:

Thus the American journalist who called on us to-day won our hearts completely by designating the hut as the "Grosvenor Square of Boulogne."

The place is kept lively by the Canadians, who are stationed close by, and who, with their music and overseas songs that carry one straight out on to the prairies of "God's Own Country," never leave us a dull moment.

Their ideas of justice, however, are rudimentary and original. To-day the French girl whom, in default of an orderly, we keep to do the rough work, was in trouble. She is an odd little creature of about twenty-six, eternally brandishing imaginary knives at an imaginary husband who ill-treats her. "The Little Savage" (thus we dubbed her because of the way in which she holds her food in her mouth and tears at it with both hands) had put her beautiful two-year-old boy out to nurse when she came to work, and, on returning to see him, discovered that he had been kidnapped by her parents-in-law.

After much ado with the police, and searching and wrangling at relatives' houses, it transpired that, owing to her own peccadilloes, the poor creature could not claim the custody of her child.

Crying like a wild thing, brandishing her helpless little fists, calling down invectives against the laws whose aid, only a few hours previously, she had been invoking, the girl returned; as I stood there, trying to bring her to her senses with soothing words and a cup of coffee, one of the Canadians came up and listened, open-mouthed, to her story.

"Give me the child's address," he exclaimed, his great solemn eyes fixed on the hysterical girl. "Law or no laws, it's hers. I'll steal it back for her and brain that rotten husband when he comes out of the trenches—and anyone else who gets in the way!"

Although there are so many tales illustrative of the Canadian lack of class distinction being told on all sides, I cannot refrain from noting down one told me by a Canadian to-day who fails utterly to see the humour of it. A certain important general came along to a Canadian camp to see his friend who was in command.

"Well, and what do you want?" asked the private on guard at the entrance.

"I want to see Colonel Birkdale," replied the General.

The private raised his voice. "Say, Birkdale," he shouted, "come right here, there's a general wants to see you!"

"What else could he do?" asked the narrator of me. "He couldn't go off and fetch the old man if he was on guard, could he?"

July 23rd. In spite of the conquest of German South-West Africa and the advance of four hundred yards in Gallipoli, the situation seems as indefinite as ever. Yet in the lull on the West is to be felt the presaging of the advance, in anticipation of which we live on the tip-top of expectation. This time there will be no shortage of ammunition, they tell us; but, as Mr. Asquith says, we must "Wait and see!" In the meantime we are less busy, and able to enjoy exhilarating walks along the hospital-lined shore; or inland, to where that ruined Jesuit monastery that has sheltered so many Indians and figured so often in the papers as the "Ruins of Ypres," to rejoice the heart of an unsuspecting public, rises an impressive pile against the sky.

Everywhere one notes the comparative opulence of our men, drawing from 1s. 2d. to 6s. per day, as compared with the French soldiers, who, less well nurtured, only receive ½ d.!

And if the tremendous wastage that went on during the early months has now ceased; if loaves and meat are no longer buried in large quantities daily, at least one could find quite a number of poverty-stricken French families able to subsist happily on the "leavings" of the camps hard by.

July 29th. I cannot help recalling how surprised everyone looked at home if I spoke of "Blighty," or a friend who was now a T.C.O. (Train Conducting Officer), and another who had been promoted to D.D.M.S. (Deputy Director Medical Supplies). I believe they thought it "swank," though they themselves had added "strafing" and "hating" (in the European-war sense) to their vocabulary.

Let us do ourselves justice! We at the Base are so accustomed to our own "jargon" that it comes as second nature to us.

We are often asked for "a cup of you and me and a wad" (tea and bit of bread and butter), or told that, although a man has spent all his "toot" (money) on "pig's ear" (beer), he would be glad of a pinch of "Lot's wife" (table salt) to eat with a sandwich, as the "shakles" (stew) was so undercooked as to be uneatable; and I defy anyone not to lose reckoning of the rights and wrongs of their own language when every other man states his wants in a terminology of his own. "Five steps to heaven" is, perhaps, the favourite term for Woodbines; "Cape of Good Hope" stands for soap; "jankers," confinement to barracks.

And is not every third office blazoned with hieroglyphics of some sort? Does not every third man wear some kind of distinctive brassard with its distinctive letters?

CHAPTER XI
August, 1915

August 3rd. Two Canadian A.M.C. orderlies were grousing that they hadn't left God's Own Country to sit twiddling their thumbs in Boulogne. "We volunteered for active service," says one. "Can't you picture it years hence," says the second. "Your children around you asking, like the little boy in the picture, 'And what did you do in the great war, Daddy?' 'Scrubbed floors, my son!'"

They did not grouse in vain. Two days later they were drafted to Gallipoli, where no doubt they will see all the active service their brave young souls demand—and a good deal more, perhaps. They must be magnificent fighters, these Colonials, whose regime allows of their initiative having full scope.

August 12th. Yesterday the mail boat came in accompanied by two destroyers.

"Royalty is coming," clamoured the French. "Royalty is expected," echoed the men. And, having received an intimation three days back that Royalty was expected, we awaited developments in our best workaday frocks.

Presentation at their Majesties' Court is a simple matter compared with the excitement of receiving a Princess in France. I do not wish to infer that the Princess was anything but her charming Royal self!

It was the long retinue that preceded and succeeded her, the curiosity of our French friends as to who was coming (curiosity that we in the know were not permitted to satisfy), the air of breathless expectancy, that made the visit and inspection a thing to be remembered. And in due course, the usual formalities being over, the presentations effected, our handiwork admired, we were left with the King's cheering message to rejoice the hearts of those of us who are already beginning to feel so tired and war worn.

"His Majesty sent an especial message to you workers in France, and desired me to tell you he considers the fine work you are carrying on so efficiently, of importance second only to that of the men in the trenches."

It was certainly a sufficient encouragement to "carry on."

August 13th. For a long time now we have hankered after some words to express all the heroism, the practical heroism, manifested around us. And when some Good Samaritan at home sent out a volume of Rupert Brooke's poems, it may be imagined how we acclaimed him forerunner of the poets who shall sing the greatest tragedy of history.

Almost simultaneously appeared the Times supplement of war poems. For a year now we have lived outside the charmed sphere of books, and these documents came as a revelation of the depths to which the cataclysm has moved our singers. We had thought them dumb by reason of its magnitude.

Kipling, we had been told, was "dead," so far as his influence over the nation went; but can the influence of the man who wrote "For all we have and are" die whilst his nation endures?

It may not be great poetry, but it is great patriotism.

And then there is the new school of poets who have arisen—new to us, that is to say—and who we are told may be heard reading their own poems every week in London in the mystical precincts of the poetry bookshops.

August 17th. We are working single-handed now. That is to say, whilst one lady is on leave a second is hors de combat with a bad leg, and, owing to the I.G.O. authorities' stringent regulations by which free lances (if there are any to be found) may not be pressed into service, there are only two of us, which makes it hard work.

And at home we hear of huts where the workers are tumbling over each other for numbers!

Perhaps one of the most interesting figures in this medley of men is a certain South African veteran, a blind V.C., the value of whose work amongst the wounded is immeasurable.

I last saw him being led down by a brother officer to the supper-room after a diplomatic Court at Buckingham Palace. Then all eyes were turned on him in pity; now one realises that the vast amount of good that this one man has been able to achieve—cheering on fellow-sufferers not yet accustomed to their affliction, showing men how it is possible to build up a new though sightless life—must have made his own suffering worth while.

The men worship him, and one word of good cheer from him is worth more than the ministration of a dozen clergymen.

On the whole the visits of the clergy are not hailed with much enthusiasm, their arrival being often looked upon as an omen of approaching death at the Base, or, in the firing-line, of a big advance.

August 23rd. A French orchestra was playing yesterday afternoon, and on the cliffs that form the lawns of No. —— Stationary Hospital were gathered together to greet the Royal guest the most fashionable crowd that the Base could produce. The whole scene, but for the white tents and blue-clad patients, might have been a smart seaside parade, for the camp commands an exquisite view of Boulogne, Wimereux and the distant coast of home. Suddenly, with a boom, a spurt of blackened debris, and a jet of water house-high, a distant boat was seen slowly to heel over and turn turtle.

Some attributed the cause to a floating mine, others to an ill-judged practice gun; but as the mail boat has neither come in nor gone out, as everyone is full of the sinking of the Arabic, we begin to believe the worst rumours—that a German submarine has at last got through into the Channel.

Later on, at an official dinner, the truth had not yet been fathomed.

That dinner is, perhaps, worthy of note, as for the first time we heard our Indian colleagues' views on the European upheaval.

Having exhausted my conversational powers with my dinner partner—a brawny Yorkshireman in a violent check suit and correspondingly odd accent, whose conversation for the most part consisted in repeatedly and dolefully asking if I knew what was the rate of exchange for the day (for the edification of posterity, be it noted, it is 27 francs 50 centimes)—I turned my attention to the native Christian Indian on my right. He was by no means lacking in topics of interest, chief amongst them being the effects of war upon India of the future. He spoke with the assurance of a man of education, being a barrister, and seemed to think that the broadening effect of their sojourn in Europe will be counteracted by the native adoption of Western vices.

An interesting fact to note is the total paralysation of all religious propagandist movements amongst the Indians. The work of the Y.M.C.A. amongst the natives at the moment is entirely non-religious. The secretaries act as interpreters, letter-writers, entertainers; they have evolved a wonderful system for keeping the men in touch with their kinsfolk—but any proselytising is strictly barred by the Army.

Not by even so much as the use of Y.M.C.A. notepaper—that might lead the natives at home to suspect their warriors of being influenced—is this verdict waived.

Nevertheless, it seems that the Indians have come to look upon the Association as "both father and mother," to use my informant's phrase, and turn to it for assistance in most peculiar matters. Said a Sikh to a local secretary to-day:

"Sahib, you go into town?"

"Yes."

"Sahib, I have one want."

"What is it?"

"Sahib, will you buy me two new teeth?"

August 30th. To counteract our little success at Hooge there is the news of the fall of Warsaw, of Ivangorod, and Brest Litovsk; while in Gallipoli a new landing at Suvla Bay and General Birdwood's advance at Anzac brings us such a list of casualties that we can only hope the venture is worth the cost.

Where, I wonder, is the crushing success Mr. Winston Churchill promised us, for which people at home were preparing to hang out their flags?

CHAPTER XII
September, 1915

September 3rd. Time has passed so quickly that it is hard to realise that beautiful autumn is already upon us. Yet as the days draw in, lights go on earlier, and our hut grows fuller and work more engrossing. Outside the laughing, gurgling wavelets, chasing each other round the rocks, are replaced by white-crested breakers that rage along the shore at high tide and cut us off from the town.

Boulogne is once more animated, as people transfer their attention during leisure hours from country pursuits to the joys of the shops, whose windows give forth an enticing glow.

Our hut being the most easily cleared and converted into a concert hall, it was decided to hold a performance there entirely for nursing sisters.

About four hundred of them turned up, and, in spite of the difficulties of getting sufficient cars to convey them backwards and forwards, it proved a great success.

The morning before we had spent in trying vainly to get the place into hospital-like order, so that even their critical eyes might have no fault to find. It is extraordinary how many obstacles stood in our way. For in France women scrubbers never go on their knees to work, their method of cleaning a floor being to flood it with water and chloride of lime, and having vaguely played about with mops on the end of a long broom, to leave it severely alone; and as, long before the place has had a chance to dry, it is being tramped on by men in muddy boots, the results are disastrous, to say the least of it.

Nor is it at all easy to get rid of the refuse of the place, which has either to be consigned to the incinerator, buried in trenches, or carted away; and although the mayor's cart sometimes condescends to call once a week, it usually takes a good deal of persuasion.

September 12th. A day off duty is best begun by a swim. To float on the warm, pellucid waves, rejoicing in the sun and breeze, is to be alive. The next item on the programme is to look up old friends. This is not altogether without disappointment, for they are all, like oneself, "war worn" and beginning to be pessimistic. Many are on the verge of a nervous breakdown, owing to the isolation of their position (it is quite a tragedy in itself to note the number of people who can't afford to have friends); others, and quite a number, have found solace in religion and have turned Catholic, being baptised in the Cathedral that has watched so many changes these last months.

From home come letters full of Zeppelin raids. Squadrons of these must have come, according to descriptions. Everyone claims to have had them "just over our street."

September 20th. We are glad to see the pest of flies and wasps abating at last. May that wonderfully efficient sanitary inspector—the bane of so many people's lives!—whose unflagging zeal has rendered this disease-ridden neighbourhood quite a passable health resort be honoured and sung as he deserves. The construction of baths and laundries are minute details compared with the difficulties of coping with drainage and flies.

Owing to the prevalence of the cesspool system here, the French authorities permit only of creolin as disinfector; and, in spite of effluvia, none of the ordinary deodorants is allowed. Then, quite recently and with no warning, to cope with the shortage of water, the contaminated water of the Odre River was let in to supplement the ordinary supply, and we were served with notices to the effect that all water used (1) for drinking, (2) for washing up cups, plates, cooking utensils, etc., (3) for cleaning teeth, must be either boiled or chlorinated, with many other regulations calculated to counteract the idiosyncrasies of contaminated water.

Revenons à nos moutons—and our flies! For was I not about to pen an anthem on all the fly traps, papers, cemeteries and fly poisons that are our daily consternation?

Each morning for months past every dish has been covered by fresh muslin covers, whilst sandwiches are stored under wire safes, and harmless-looking but efficacious baits of creolin, hidden in seemingly innocuous saucers of milk and sugar, are set nightly, oblivious of the indignant buzzing of their victims. Congested traps full of wasps meet their fate in buckets of boiling water, whilst those dangling fly-spangled creations, whose unpleasant habit it is to smite the unwary when least expected, leaving an unwanted "souvenir" of sticky, jam-like substance on his face or hair, are consigned in all their odorous glory to the fire.

Oh yes! our sanitary inspector is as much a tartar on the score of flies as he is on drainage and the boiling of milk.

Only the other day, whilst inspecting the kitchen of a neighbouring hospital, a typical incident occurred. Grunting his approval of everything, the Major was about to take his departure when his eye lighted upon a solitary fly which, having evaded all efforts at capture, was crawling upon the ceiling.

"Adjutant!" roared the Major, "what's that fly doing there?"

Completely taken aback, the Adjutant faltered in trepidation: "I don't know, sir, to be sure. But I'll ask the Sergeant-Major!"

September 25th. Now are all things explained—the massed cavalry, the convoys, the ammunition wagons we saw on a surreptitious journey we made up the line; the "Something" in the air, the expectation of the small and restless audience at a concert we had this afternoon. For the great "Push" has begun, and fifteen thousand wounded are expected down here alone, and to cope with the work every available nook and cranny has been converted into hospital accommodation.

It was about 9.30 P.M., just as we were finishing our evening repast, that there came a tap on the shutters. There stood a polite but hurried C.O. asking courteously for the loan of our building, which he has every right to commandeer.

September 26th. A dreary "gun rain" has set in, but nothing can damp the spirits of the men—for rumour has it we have advanced five miles along the whole line, with a magnificent cavalry charge; and the 3,000 prisoners brought down to-day clearly point to a crushing victory.

September 29th. A complete change has been wrought, and as I sit in the library gazing across the sea of beds where lie the weary bandaged forms, towards the counter, upon which rise the pile of surgical instruments and other paraphernalia of sickness, the old smell, so familiar a year ago, of blood-covered beings, whose clothes have been time and again drenched through and dried on them, comes to me.