November 10th. We awaken to bugle calls, we fall asleep to the sound of tramping feet. Oh, that long weary high road into the jaws of death! The sudden evacuation of Boulogne seems less imminent now than it did, though the German advance on Calais continues. Now that England has declared war on Turkey, we realise how little of the big scheme of things we see in our niche. Sometimes, between waking and sleeping, a vision of home comes back to me, of soft carpets and steaming hot baths, and everywhere clean linen and creature comforts and ease. After all, I should like to end my days as I began them—in luxury.

November 11th. No wonder Boulogne is full to overflowing. No wonder the little out-of-the-way cafés have taken on something of the glamour and éclat of Rumpelmayer or the Ritz. No wonder everyone who can afford to be is in France. One feels it in the air, it is the Real Thing; one is no longer a looker-on, but a moving factor of things who can afford to pity those at home whose activities have not yet had occasion to be called into play.

The town itself consists of the Haute Ville enclosed by massive thirteenth century ramparts flanked by round towers, whose history for years centred round Godfrey de Bouillon, and the four celebrated gates (Porte Gayole, Porte des Dunes, Porte de Calais and Porte des Degrés). Crowning all stands the Cathédrale de Notre Dame, whose dome from the distance, whether viewed from the town or the environing country, brings back faint remembrances of St. Peter's in the Holy City.

There is nothing of great artistic interest or value to be found within (unless it be the seventh century antiquities in the crypt), but the spirit of earnest devotion that characterises all Catholic places of worship, uniting every worshipper and raising the lowliest edifice to equality with the most ambitious building, is more marked here than in any church I have yet visited. The reverence of the bare-headed peasants, holding up their woollen shawls as coverings for their heads, of the shambling wounded, of the smart mondaines, is alike worthy of those Russian allies who recognise no sin greater than lack of veneration to their God.

The legend of the miraculous statue of Our Lady of Boulogne, as depicted in a picture over the altar of the chapel in the cathedral, dates back to the year 636. In that year a strange boat, radiating with light, was seen to enter the harbour, propelled by some miraculous power and devoid of sailors or pilot. When the excited population reached the shore it was to find on the bridge of the barque a beautifully carved image of the Holy Virgin carrying the infant Jesus, beside which lay a silver-bound copy of the Scriptures.

Over the spot that marked the miraculous image's first resting-place in the Haute Ville the oft-destroyed cathedral has grown, and although, after many vicissitudes, the Holy Statue was finally destroyed during the eighteenth century Reign of Terror, many are the pilgrimages still made to the solitary relic of the holy image—a hand that was cut off prior to the burning, which is preserved in a gilt heart, suspended from the new statue.

The fame of its miracles spread abroad so widely that not only did kings and princes hasten to pay homage, but some unscrupulous priests at St. Cloud attracted large numbers of pilgrims by trafficking in the public faith and maintaining that they were in possession of the miraculous statue. Hence the name of the Bois de Boulogne in Paris, and the fact that the image is known as Our Lady of Boulogne-sur-Mer.

Beyond Notre Dame runs the Calais—St. Omer road which has seen so much bloody traffic in the past and may see so much more in a few days.

Guns, ammunition convoys and ambulances rumble along it ceaselessly by day and night, pausing only to answer the challenge of the sentries posted at intervals at every cross-road of importance. The ruined Jesuit monastery lies along this road, alive with wounded Indians, who, when convalescent, are shifted into the outlying tents that form the Convalescent Depot.

Only about one mile away on the same road stands the Colonne de la Grande Armée, that huge Doric column surmounted by the figure of Napoleon, erected to commemorate the expedition against England and commenced 110 years ago, when Marshal Soult (as the inscription on the base tells us) laid the first stone in the presence of the whole army.

Walking townwards one comes across the fisher village built in tier upon tier of squalid, unsanitated streets, as odorous as the Naples of ten years ago—and as picturesque; and pinnacled by St. Pierre-des-Marins, whose lofty fourteenth century Gothic spire is one of the few architectural beauties to be found here, and whose interior, so full of votive offerings, witnesses the toll of matelot lives exacted yearly by the sea from those who would snatch their living from her.

Crowning all stands the revered Calvary to which all wise fishermen pray as they sail in and out of the harbour.

From here the panorama of the whole place is laid bare, the jetées, the coast, the Gare Maritime, the Bassin Loubet, the River Liane winding in and out of the valley and losing itself finally in the mists; and nearer, the gay flower-market and the Halle des Poissons, where the vendors, almost as soon as the nets of herrings are unladen, are rid of what fish they can get in these troublous times, when every man who is not fighting is trawling for mines.

November 12th. As I sit beside the dying embers of my office fire, in which great valleys and gorges are discernible in the glowing coal and a mountainous summit capped by a fairy castle, I wonder what happiness there is to equal the fireside that one has earned oneself.

It might almost be home (after all, all fires, like all winds and sunshine, or thunder and rain, are consolingly the same!), only instead of soft pile carpets and arm-chairs I have a packing-case for seat and an inverted saucepan on my knee for table. Instead of flowers, the trestled table is adorned with bandages and bottles of lotion and packets of dressings.

Instead of a gong to announce "dressing time," and soft décolletée frocks donned before long mirrors, and well-appointed dining-tables and the announcement that "Dinner is served," there are only the promptings of my hungry inside to tell me mealtime is due, and it would be as well to scrub up, remove the mackintosh apron, and smooth my hair under the unbecoming white cap before the dinner is gobbled up!

Yet, until one has worked five hours to earn five minutes' rest, one does not know the meaning of leisure.

Until one has felt the clinging of the helpless hand, or run to the call of a feeble voice, one does not know the greatest of all joys—the joy of service.

The rapidity with which the Gare Maritime Hospital is developing is marvellous. Instead of wallowing to our ankles in a slush of disinfectant and rain-water, the wards are well swept, with two strips of cheery red carpet on either side. Instead of boards and blankets, some 200 real beds have been installed, with sheets of coarse calico and pillows. Instead of empty crates (and those at a premium) there are chairs, whilst towels supplant the red handkerchiefs which now hang desolately from the lamps by night and day.

Just at present the casualty ward, in which an emergency operation theatre has been opened, is lying empty, so are the other wards. One wonders why? The truth is, things are looking fairly bad. The enemy is only forty-five miles from Calais and still presses on to the goal. There is a rumour that the Germans are through the lines everywhere, that we have no men to send (though the French are supposed to be reinforcing) until the 8th Division of "K's" untrained army comes out, and the evacuation of Boulogne is imminent. We are told to be prepared to leave at a minute's notice, for once through the lines the enemy can march here unmolested. Despite the violent storm, all the wounded whom it is possible to move have been sent home (an ominous fact, for their removal should betoken an advance on our part), and still the ambulance trains come back from the front empty. A pestilential battle rages at Arras; Dixmude has fallen (yes, several of the Censor's censors have been dismissed for letting us know this!) A hundred questions assail us. Will the hopeless cases have to be left behind? What will be done to the many millions' worth of stores in this spy-ridden place?

Heaven knows! We can but "wait and see."

We are lost in amazement at the lukewarmness of the masses at home who do not seem to realise the significance of this move.

But let me return to No. —— Stationary Hospital, where the staff is greatly augmented and Army nurses work side by side with those of the Red Cross.

If there is some slight friction between the two it is easily understood, for how can the newly arrived Army sisters be expected to find in a dirty, evil-smelling barn anything but the violation of all the laws of hygiene? Whereas to those Red Cross sisters, who have built it up with their life's blood, so to speak, who have watched it evolve under their weary fingers, it is a place of supreme beauty and first importance.

If there is some slight friction amongst the authorities, too, it is soon explained. For it is as much the duty of the Red Cross to cherish its own rights as it is for the Army to centralise and control, at a time like this, every existing institution to prevent the misuse of public funds.

Both are in the right.

At home no one seemed quite to realise the exact position of the Red Cross and the various Army medical services. Out here, except that a distinct antagonism between the two organisations prevails, the position is equally vague.

The British Red Cross Society and the St. John Ambulance Association were originally formed to supplement the requirements of the military and naval medical services in war time, thus obviating the expense of keeping up an exceptionally large staff in days of peace. On this understanding the War Office took nominal control of the various B.R.C.S. enterprises, supervising the First Aid examinations and keeping a register of all its members. The value of that registration of B.R.C.S. members by the War Office is not quite obvious at present, for the War Office appears to disclaim all responsibility for the Red Cross. There are even rumours that a large portion of its personnel is to be greatly reduced and eventually sent from the base. In fact, no one's work or position is clearly defined.

The work of the Royal Army Medical Corps, the Nursing Service, "Q.A.I.M.N.S.," Reserve, Indian and Territorial, was well defined enough. Field ambulances, clearing stations, stationary hospitals (so-called because they are movable!) and base hospitals were their sphere, and vaguely it was understood that the Voluntary Aid Detachments were destined for use with the Territorial Forces.

Then, when at the outbreak of hostilities there came the call for more workers, many doctors and fully-trained nurses, anxious to get to that mysterious and alluring unknown, the Front, threw up their good posts and sold their patiently built-up practices in order to join the Red Cross.

Many of them are already regretting their impetuousness. Not only the members of the Voluntary Aid Detachments, who have hitherto played at work under War Office supervision and with War Office sanction, but the much-needed trained nurses and doctors (many of them specialists of the first order) find themselves somewhat shelved, oftentimes deprived of the best surgical work by those of their juniors who had had the foresight or good luck to join the Reserve or Territorials instead of a volunteer concern whose position is, as yet, indefinite and whose scope, so far, limited. Many even find themselves on the Reserve Staff and waiting for work. A certain restlessness that prevails amongst these is easily explained, for it is not always possible to console oneself with the idea that inaction is merely a respite and preparation for the next call upon one's energies, when that call is lying all around in understaffed hospitals.

November 13th. Perhaps it was the unconquerable instinct to help lame dogs over stiles that prompted the Matron to ask after some German literature for a prisoner whose two legs had been amputated. I, as linguist and jack-of-all-trades, was deputed to forage for Hun books, and, for the first time, found my conversance with the language a matter of embarrassment rather than of pride.

As I entered the French bookseller's, and asked for what I wanted, the girl eyed me with suspicion. Then, "We are not pro-German," she said with hauteur.

Fearful to return, my mission unaccomplished, I tried shop after shop.

"You can climb on that ladder and see for yourself," said a young girl, pointing to a high ladder and daring me up it with her scornful eyes. I unearthed and returned with an old paper-backed novel for the prisoner, with a heavy heart, wondering if I was unpatriotic to have carried out my orders—but the legless man had died in the meantime.

Such is the spirit of France—vengeance on a ruthless, untrustworthy enemy.

Such the spirit of England, maybe hyper-quixotic—never to hit a man when he is down.

November 15th. Last night Lord Roberts died. The little wrinkled old man, who only a week ago was in our midst, walking round our wards, cheering on the wounded, encouraging the Indians, has finished as he began, in the sphere of action.

November 17th. This morning the mail boat is accompanied by six French destroyers. In the town all flags are flying half-mast; in the station are massed guards, French, English, Indian. The Sikhs are fine-looking specimens of humanity, and objects of great interest to the peasants who crowd round exchanging souvenirs. The smaller hillmen look as if they would be very formidable foes, though at present many of them lie curled up asleep on sacks, and covered with sacks, as peacefully as children.

Later. After the coffin of the great little man, who has, alas! lived to see his worst fears for his country realised, had been borne on board, we went to look at the armoured train that is in hospital. A strange, formidable-looking thing, too, is this vehicle of destruction, daubed with many-hued, very futuristic patches, and guarded by sentries.

A large legend announced the train's destination as "Berlin," whilst great guns, daubed with their appropriate names, "Homeless Hector" and "Weary Willie," pointed their inquiring noses innocuously at the sky.

This, we were told, was the armoured train which, under Commander Samson's guidance, played such havoc with the enemy and caused the Kaiser to put a price worth having on that gallant officer's head.

November 23rd. The baths closed most suddenly and unexpectedly last night. The owners' exorbitant demands for money—damages for towels which we have not even used, walls, ceilings, windows, etc., that are in the same good repair as when we came—have made it imperative to commandeer the place or, to avoid friction and expense, erect new ones.

After the Major and his interpreter driver (a dentist who volunteered his services) had spent nearly two hours haranguing Madame and her homme d'affaires, we cleared the place out.

Snow fell for the first time during the night, and it is freezing so hard this morning that the hot water thrown over the stones outside for cleansing purposes becomes ice at once.

Having a free day, I explored the place from Le Portel, the quaint little fishing village where fishwives, with their wide, hooped skirts, their quaint poke bonnets or characteristic snowy white headgear and clogs, predominate, to the St. Pierre quarter, cobbled like the new town itself, but built in tier after tier of terraces, characterised by an indescribable, if picturesque, squalor and dirt.

Everywhere we are followed by children begging for "souvenirs." I wonder what the state of our clothes would be had we cut off a uniform button for each one who asked!

The tide is high up over the front to-day. Ambulances and cars are held up on the Wimereux road. It is a wonderful sight, the big waves rolling over the main road, whilst venturesome drivers who run the gauntlet find their cars immovable in three feet of water and subject to the ungentle washing of the sea.

November 24th. Being on night duty with a private patient who is so restless that neither of us gets a minute's peace, I am having an excellent opportunity of observing things as they are; and, after all, there is plenty to be noted that will never be brought to light.

November 29th. In the morning when one comes off duty, full of anticipation of the exhilarating morning walk, the joy of the clear, cold sea air, there are usually plenty of odd jobs to be done. At present we are engaged in making sandbags for those hospitals which are destitute of them. In this we have the assistance of two small French Boy Scouts who, having noticed us staggering under the load of our baskets, volunteered to find a wheelbarrow and bring us up a certain quantity of sand every morning.

CHAPTER III
December, 1914

December 2nd. They say that the Germans have been finally driven back, that our men are enjoying a rest from the trenches, that many officers have gone home on forty-eight hours' leave.

Converted motor-buses with boarded windows, all of steel-grey hue, come down with loads of cheery though exhausted men on their way home.

Most of the cases in hospital are now medical, rheumatism and the newest disease, "trench feet," which was at first identified as frost-bite. Each medical officer has a different method for treating it. Most wrap the limbs in cotton-wool, but the agony the men go through whilst "thawing" is awful. Many feet are already gangrenous and have to be amputated.

They are again clearing out, which leads us to expect a big battle.

Rumour has it that Belgrade has fallen to the Austrians.

December 6th. Yesterday morning, having for some weeks back collected with great avidity all kinds of comforts for the men, I took my goods up to the convalescent camp that stands on the hill by the Calais road. We obtained a lift in an ambulance and wallowed in the indescribable mud at the camp. It had been a frightful night. Hail, wind, thunder, lightning, blinding rain—the elements let loose! Several of the tents were down, and the men shivered as they ambled about their light fatigue work. The condition of the convalescents is pitiable. They grabbed things like so many wild beasts; indeed, they had the look of weary wild beasts in their eyes.

I don't know which were the more acceptable—cigarettes or old papers. The former to soothe their racked nerves and warm them up in the tempestuous weather, the latter to divert their attention, momentarily at least, from their own sufferings. Undoubtedly the illustrated journals are most useful. The men seem unable to concentrate their attention on anything not pictorial.

We took them knitted things too—and even our own body belts and gloves were requisitioned in the vain effort to make our gifts go round, and we came home with hands stiff with cold.

December 8th. In the afternoon we were allowed a glimpse at the Indian camp, where, after seeing the wards, conspicuous for their neatness and order and the lack of nurses (all Indian hospitals are staffed, needless to say, by orderlies), we were entertained for tea in the officers' mess.

It was a picturesque sight, that tent lighted by two smoky oil-lamps, by the light of which four doctors were playing cards as we entered.

As we sat over the camp fire of glowing coals in a perforated bucket such as night watchmen warm their hands by in the raw London mornings, a sudden squall arose, threatening to bring the tent down. One felt like part of an Arctic expedition at the overhead crash, the icy blast, and could not help surmising as to the thoughts of the Indians at the caprices of the European climate as their great, wistful eyes rested on the barren fields.

The tales of their pluck, recuperative powers, and apparent imperviousness to pain are astounding. The medical officers told us that it is almost impossible to keep them in bed. No sooner are they round from an anæsthetic than they are up and smoking, quite oblivious of an amputated limb!

December 12th, 2 a.m. A dark, starless morning, and we have just arrived back from Dunkirk. The road to Calais, when we left twelve hours ago, was fairly plain sailing.

There were the barriers to pass (some fifteen between Boulogne and Dunkirk) where the "laissez-passer," describing car, occupants, destination and object of visit, etc., has to be shown; and in between we scorched along at top speed, thankful for the fact that there is no speed limit in France, and getting frozen through and through despite our furs and rugs.

After Calais things grew more interesting. For the first time entrenchments, barbed-wire defences and guns hove in sight, whilst here and there the desolate stretches of country were relieved by figures against the skyline—old women working in the fields, or a solitary picket of soldiers.

We drew into Dunkirk about four o'clock; each of us had different business to transact; the four men on Red Cross work, I on a visit to Lady S——, in charge of a Belgian hospital.

Incidentally, there were the streets and houses to visit, destroyed only yesterday by German bombs. A miserable spectacle they were, the skeleton ruins in the pouring rain; no less miserable-looking than we, covered in the thick Flanders mud that defied all efforts to keep it out of the car.

It was almost dinner-time when we found ourselves at the C—— Hotel, and, whilst the men were sipping their vermouth, we noticed a man busily engaged in what seemed to be letter- but what proved to be leader-writing. He introduced himself as C——, the Daily Mail correspondent whose articles adorn the central pages of that paper.

Truly the path of the war correspondents of to-day lies along no bed of roses! Eyed with suspicion by the authorities, forced to change their abode daily, they lead the life of veritable refugees.

The dining-room was a fine sight, as by degrees it filled up, each table resplendent with Belgian, French or British uniforms; and we were loath to leave the warm hotel for the blinding rain without. Whilst waiting for the car Mr. C—— entertained us at the piano; anything we asked for he played—rag-time, opera, comedy, classical music. And the last sound, rendered more beautiful by means of his exquisite touch, that greeted us as we passed into the night was the haunting Barcarolle from the Tales of Hoffmann.

It was at Gravelines that we lost our way, at about ten o'clock. It was pitch dark. Nowhere a light visible, only the powerful acetylene headlamps of the car. We tried to find the main road and instead found ourselves back in the town. We made another effort, but failed. We aroused the inhabitants of a house where there seemed to be a red glow behind the closed shutters.

"Tout droit," they told us.

We went "tout droit," and found ourselves back again. We fetched out the proprietor of a hopeful-looking bar.

"Tout droit," he said. This time we ran into a barrier, and only just escaped being shot by the Belgian sentry.

"Back into the town—and tout droit," were his directions. We got back. There seemed no difficulty about that. We hammered in vain at a door. Judging by the noise, we succeeded in arousing every dog in the neighbourhood, but not a human being came to our rescue. More wild spurts! Yet it was not until some two hours later that we found ourselves on a broad road, which proved to be the right one. But our troubles were not at an end even then, for the driver, by this time, was in such a state of exasperation that he vowed nothing in the world would persuade him to go farther than Calais. "It's like driving in the sea!" he grumbled, as in truth it was, for the mud was literally flowing over the floor of the car, and our condition was indescribable.

Eventually, by means of much persuasion, not untinged by bribery, he was prevailed upon to finish the journey, throughout which he maintained for the most part a surly silence, interpolated only by semi-audible remarks about the folly of English people who would travel in all weathers.

December 13th. It is now necessary for every worker in the hospitals to have a permit. It is time, too, for many are the rumours of spies who have crept in and gleaned valuable information from the wounded.

A word about the position of volunteer workers. There is no denying that in the early days, before the staff of the Army hospitals was up to the full strength required by the extraordinary demands of modern warfare, they did an immense amount of good. But a plea must be put in for the central organisation, which has been effected so wonderfully by those in charge.

One by one the hospitals run by well-meaning but little experienced women are vanishing or coming under War Office control. One by one free-lance workers brought to the scene of action by motives of patriotism or curiosity are being banished to their proper sphere or sent home.

It is very hard on them, one realises, after they have given so much, yet, hard though it may be, it is but one of the lesser evils of war.

The position of those members of the Voluntary Aid Detachments still here is precarious to the last degree.

They have been relegated to rest station and canteen work where, in the disused railway trucks they have rigged out so well as kitchens and emergency dressing-rooms, they administer to the wounded on the trains by day and night, veritable angels of mercy, as the men say. Yet none of them is allowed to do hospital work. One cannot help wondering that the authorities do not utilise them as probationers under trained nurses instead of using up the strength of the qualified workers in menial jobs. But apparently the law out here is "scrap and discard," which may be a good motto for Ford cars, but seems somewhat hard on human beings.

December 17th. The news of the bombardment of Scarborough, the wholesale slaughter of women and children, which has just come through, must be greatly gratifying to the Germans!

We wonder if it will bring the reality of war home to the people of England.

December 18th. The craving for music, for something to relieve the tension, is almost unbearable. Fortunately, the French attitude towards piano playing has slightly relaxed lately; they no longer stand agape at the idea of overwrought nurses enjoying a few simple songs, and we have been able to hire some well-worn copies of popular tunes to strum on the exceedingly out-of-tune piano. What we lack in music we are repaid for by the picturesqueness of Boulogne. Here stand a batch of khaki Tommies surrounded by an admiring group of French children. "Eengleesh soldyer," they cry gleefully, clinging to the men's arms and not to be moved until some souvenir has been obtained, a button, a hat badge, a cigarette-end. Along the front, the incessant tramp of feet by day and night, recruits, young conscripts full of life and enthusiasm, squads of more sombre men who have already received their baptism of fire, trams laden with Army and Red Cross nurses, the former in their ugly red capes so successfully devised by Florence Nightingale to hide the human form divine.

The stormy nights, too, are very beautiful, when one may watch the searchlights catching the crested waves, until the sea seems alight with a myriad lightships.

The papers tell us of the appointment of Prince Hussein Kamel Pasha as Sultan of Egypt. It seems such a wonderfully clever diplomatic coup that it drives all thoughts of our surroundings from our minds.

December 19th. Such a pretty kettle of fish! and one which nothing but a miracle can remedy. No doubt in every big enterprise there are to be found unscrupulous men who, in default of a supervising and restraining hand, will omit to administer public funds with the same thrift that they would their own. Thus, in reply to accusations of extravagance levelled at the Society, the British Red Cross in Boulogne have decided to retrench. Alas! that the originators of the scheme have no sense of humour or justice.

In spite of the fact that the nurses are the only people who are working at anything like full pressure out here, they have received a notice that calmly brushes aside the very one-sided six months' contract under which they came out (for, unlike the Army Nursing Sisters who, besides their pay, receive allowances and war gratuities after active service, sick pay if their health is impaired, and a pension if disabled, the British Red Cross nurses agreed to demand no redress if disabled on active service), to the effect that on January 1st the Joint War Committee has decided to lower their fees from £2 2s. to the unprofessional sum of £1, and those who are not agreeable to this breach of contract may consider themselves dismissed.

Thus, at the New Year, 300 fully trained women, most of whom have relinquished highly responsible positions in order to come out, are faced with the alternative of accepting barely a living wage (for £1 minus 7½ per cent. and 10 per cent. co-operating percentage and minor weekly expenses is little enough for those who have the future to consider), or returning home, only to find their posts filled.

The arguments for this breach of contract are specious though unconvincing, the reasons given being:

1. "A desire to have as much as possible available for the sick and wounded."

2. "To remove the 'injustice' from the St. John nurses, who have in the past been receiving less than one-half the salary paid to other nurses."

But then, why did the authorities draw up a contract by which the Red Cross refused voluntary workers, whilst the Order of St. John accepted gratuitous services from those who could afford to render them? Yes, both the arguments are excellent; but one cannot help asking why the small body of nurses who have spent years in training, and who are dependent on their earnings, are the only body to suffer by the new economies, whilst a number of orderlies continue to draw salaries higher than those of the qualified nurses. What, too, of the high salaried officials, of the untrained dressers, until recently earning £2 per week and gaining experience in the wards (this experience being counted in their studies)? Above all, what of the principle of this breach of contract, the signing of invalid documents?

But these, after all, are minor details, and one must survey the work of the British Red Cross Society in toto. The true tale of these mistakes will never be told, for the blunders of a few individuals will no doubt be wiped away by the memory of the great achievements of the institution in equipping hospitals, making good deficiencies in the regular supplies, and supplementing those supplies by little luxuries whose absence on a bed of pain is a real privation.

There is no denying that what the Red Cross lacks in organisation it makes up for in generosity, as many a patient could tell, many a hospital testify; and, all things considered, is it in any way less well organised than other institutions in this chaotic zone, in these chaotic times, where only the unforeseen seems to occur, and where the duplication of authority is so bewildering that it is almost an impossibility to lay one's finger on the man responsible for any particular department?

December 24th. If no one else has benefited by the war, certainly the Boulogne shopkeepers cannot complain! Never in the annals of their existence have they flourished so well. Prices have been forced up, not only in accordance with the laws of supply and demand, but for the benefit of the influx of the rich and influential foreigners, who consider it beneath their dignity to bargain. One so often hears officers complaining of how they are "rooked" out here instead of receiving the consideration of war prices. It is a pity that, in a country where bargaining is the order of the day, and successful bargaining is regarded as an art to be envied and emulated, we do not view the matter more broadmindedly, for this ignorance of racial differences is apt to lead to misunderstanding.

On another score the French have the upper hand. Why don't we have conscription? they ask. We wonder too, but the people at home don't seem to take things seriously.

I had occasion to take down some casks of oranges to the —— Barracks, a kind of auxiliary convalescent camp, where the "BX," or unfit men, live in a large concrete island swimming in the mud. The ambulance man who drove me groaned and swore vociferously at the number of whole-skinned youths "swanking" about the base.

"Why aren't they in the trenches?" he asked. "On our convoy we've nothing but men who have been refused for the Army. I've only been in Boulogne six hours (he was going on leave), and I'm disgusted with it all!"

December 26th. Christmas Day dawned the coldest, whitest Christmas anyone could wish for. The little church was packed for morning service, in spite of the fact that most of us had been to midnight mass at St. Nicholas, a service more noteworthy for the crowded congregation who surge unceasingly in their efforts to get to the fore than for any particular beauty or fervour.

All the afternoon we worked hard at concerts in the hospital and soldiers' institute, where I acted as accompanist. No doubt one day we shall grow accustomed to war, but I own that the crowded wards of the vast barn of men (whose hearty applause and cheery choruses covered the deficiencies of the performance), the uniforms, the white caps, the cheerfulness born of the determination to make the best of the abnormal circumstances, struck me as a never-to-be-forgotten thing. And in every hospital it is the same.

The men are all hung like Christmas trees with their presents, which they treasure as mementoes of this memorable year. Nor have the nurses been forgotten, and the little fur-lined cape sent to each one by H.M. Queen Alexandra is a gift that could not be bettered; for it is bitterly cold, with the damp cold that is a far greater tax upon one's powers of endurance than a crisp frost, and furs are a great luxury, as all the men glorying in their new sheepskin coats can testify.

It was not till nearly nine that our work ceased and we got any dinner at all, the midday meal having been cut out for a rehearsal.

December 29th. It was very impressive, the Seymour Hicks concert, to which some twenty of us were bidden. It took place in a large shed on the Quai du Bassin, which a pile of empty baskets and an occasional turnip prove to have been a vegetable market in other days.

The stage, built up of a stack of trestle tables, was ornamented with flags.

Looking round from our front seats at the 2,000 eager faces behind, there was a feeling of awe in our hearts as we realised how much devolved on us as representatives of our countrywomen out here.

Rain and hail beat down. The performance began. To our unaccustomed ears it was like a dream.

Of a sudden, an extra gust brought down the light wire and we were in blackness. The C.O. shouted that no men were to leave their seats, and the pianist played some of their own songs, to which they sang. Oh, how they sang, their deep voices threatening to bring the roof off!

In after years it will be interesting to note the music of 1914, the rise and wane of "Tipperary" and "Sister Susie" and a hundred other popular songs that have made life cheery for our warriors.

By the light of two carriage lamps the performance was finished, and, as we filed out, the men pressed forward to shake hands with nurses and artists indiscriminately, with a "Thank 'ee kindly——"

What a night! Hail and wind, thunder and rain, rockets and guns, the beat, beat, beat on the panes, the howling, the whistling of the wind, the clouds scurrying across the sky, the incessant noise without, the awful cold within. Above my bed the ceiling has nearly fallen in, whilst buckets act as receptacles for the rain in no fewer than three places. And dare we complain, whilst our men are in the trenches? Never!

The success of the concert makes one realise the tension at which we are living, makes one wish that something could be done to relieve it—a cinema opened, weekly concerts, etc., organised for the benefit of those who are working, as well as for the wounded, in order to make life more normal.

After all, it is as injurious to live at this highly strung pitch as it is to exist on a grey level, and "Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die" is not the spirit that makes for endurance in war or peace.

December 31st. A miracle has occurred, for the protest lodged by the Red Cross nurses has been heard, a compromise arrived at by which the original contract is to be fulfilled. Let their stand, which was not effected without much determination and hard work on the part of the leaders, be recorded as one of the first women's trade unions.

So ends 1914. God grant that the New Year may bring us Peace, or, if not Peace, the strength to play our parts in the great game worthily of our men!

BOOK II

1915

Order Out of Chaos

CHAPTER IV
January, 1915

January 8th. If Art be Selection, then surely is that of keeping a War Diary, that shall be true, unbiased and yet not dull, the hardest of all Arts!

For our eyes are so focused on the smaller things out here that we are apt to ignore the larger issues altogether.

Yet—even as, looking back at bygone years, it is the little things that count—the branch that taps against the study window, the sickly scent of lime trees, the odd pattern on the nursery cup, the wind across the fields, the broken doll, so is it by little things alone that we can draw true pictures of our own times.

The days have been too busy collecting "woollies" for those who need them, getting together a library for the "BX" men, writing letters for the wounded, to keep my diary.

There is much humour as well as pathos in the letters that are dictated, and hackneyed phrases, such as "Hoping this finds you as it leaves me" and "I take up the pen to tell you," recur frequently, often with ambiguous meanings.

"Dear Wife,—You will be glad to hear that I have lost an arm, but am still alive and hope to be home with you soon. Hoping this finds you as it leaves me, Yours Truly, A. S.," ran one I took down to-day.

One is reminded of the anecdote of the man who, when asked if he had ever been in love, replied: "In love? Of course, my dear sir, on many occasions, and each time with the same unswerving devotion," when, as is not infrequently the case, one man contrives to keep up an apparently parallel correspondence with that portion of the community whom he designates as his "Lidy friends," and, equally oblivious of amanuensis and censor, dispatches missives, identical in expressions of passionate devotion, to each of the respective recipients. Romance, too, ripens quickly out here, and each of the aforementioned five happy damsels who was "My dear Miss X" a week ago becomes "My darling sweetheart" to-day. One wonders what will happen to the remaining four when, in due course, the returning hero decides upon which of the unsuspecting maidens to bestow his comprehensive heart!

One day I went over to see some friends at Calais, where they are leading the same gendarme-hunted life as the Dunkirk journalist, in order to be near their Belgian fiancés. Every three days they have to change their quarters, and though it is only a fortnight ago that I received their invitation, it was only after inquiring at four hotels that I ran them to earth.

Calais is feeling very thrilled at her own importance, for the enemy are bombing her with a vigour that marks her as a foe worthy of attention.

The attitude of the French towards the Belgians, whose headquarters lie here, is less enthusiastic than ours; indeed, one might safely say it is one of mistrust. England opened her arms not to the true Belgians alone, that little gallant army to whose valour we owe so much, but, for their sake, indiscriminately to the hordes of German spies who came over with the first influx of refugees, to the dregs of humanity who were let loose when the cosmopolitan prison doors were thrown open.

France was wiser. Hospitality, she said, is all very well, but first of all we will sift our guests and discover which of them are deserving. And sifting them she is, allotting them freedom in their own sphere, but not freedom to circulate in the zone of other armies. Not that France for a moment belittles or undervalues the achievement of that valiant little country or its heroic King, but she realises—as do most Belgians themselves—the danger attendant upon this promiscuous harbouring of unregistered adults whose political leanings may be entirely alien.

In due course, no doubt, when our paroxysm of Belgian mania dies, we too shall come to see the wisdom of this measure.

January 9th. We are now beginning to receive Christmas packages sent out from home some six weeks back, which, owing to lack of sorters to attend to them, have been held up at Havre. Hitherto, the postal arrangements have been most primitive and as surprising as they were vague. Some letters and packages would arrive by the French post, some via the Red Cross service, and yet others by the military mail from Havre. A missive might take anything from three days to four weeks on its way from home.

But now we are less cut off from civilisation, and not only letters but papers as well arrive regularly; and perhaps the most welcome sound of the day is the newsboys' cry as they run along the quay or dart into hotels and hospitals with lightning-like rapidity, heralding their arrival with shouts of "Dailee Mai-il! Mirreure! Times!"

To-day Major X—— asked me to run a canteen for his men, whose lot, too far from the town to be able to enjoy the shops, is far from enviable. True to the principle of doing anything that is needed, I am off home to get the stores together.

January 14th. The five days' "furlough" have passed as a dream, and it was with a sigh of infinite relief that I stepped once more on to French soil.

The extraordinary "let's-muddle-along-it-can't-last-for-ever" attitude at home is distinctly depressing, and the fact that half of the people are quite content to let others do their job whilst they look on with an amused smile and reap the benefit of the shortage of men makes one long to see them well "strafed."

As I sat in the theatre beside an old friend, now an enthusiastic captain in K.'s Army, and thought how soon the brave fellow would be facing the Reality of what he enjoys now so thoroughly as a Theory, and listened to the cheap patriotism of the show, it seemed the cheaper for the lack of action.

Why, after all, should our beautiful island be left with the unfit, the loafers, the "funks" as fathers for the future generations? In every other country the army is representative, not of the pick of the land, but of the average male population. We, however, seem bent on committing race suicide.

But as the old familiar quay hove in sight my spirits rose. Here, after all, lies work that must be done. It is the Real Thing.

If my leave has been short it has been pregnant with interest. The personal side centred itself on the lost trunk, containing all my worldly possessions in the way of wearing apparel, which was sent out in November and has failed to arrive. Scotland Yard have traced it as far as Boulogne, they say. I drew their attention to the wonderful No Man's Land that reigns where all luggage is dumped on the quay.

Once off the boat the English liability ceases, and so, as the French will take no responsibility, the goods lie there until someone, usually not the rightful owner, helps himself.

Thus when a box addressed: "Captain Y——, Xth Regiment—Fur Coat—to be delivered immediately," that has lain for three weeks in the rain, disappears at last, one may be quite safe in assuming that the same fur coat will be fetching a good price on the Paris market a few days hence.

The second and more important interest is the canteen.

Just as the control of all cars and hospitals has been now taken over definitely by the War Office, surely even so small a thing as canteen work should all be under one organisation. The Y.M.C.A., it appears, have a recreation hut for the men at the convalescent camp and a big hut on the quay.

To the Y.M.C.A., then, let our energies be dedicated! For they are a coming factor in the scheme of things, and individual enterprise, gratifying and profitable though it may be to the individual, is hardly pro bono publico.

January 15th. There are hours when one would love a little solitude—the solitude that is, after all, as necessary for well-being as food and rest; hours when the time to digest and sift the manifold occurrences of the day, the presence of a congenial friend to replace the many acquaintances with whom circumstances have herded us together, and a browse over a favourite poet, would be very welcome. Yet, in truth, poetry no longer matters, art no longer matters, music no longer matters to most of us; nothing really matters save life and death and the end of this carnage. Nor will the old régime, the old art, the old literature ever again satisfy those who have seen red and faced life shorn of its trappings of superficiality and conventions. Yet in spite of the fact that all around us we see butchery and the degrading results of Germany's peculiar kultur, in spite of the fact that the spiritual side of life has been—is still—so utterly dormant as to be almost a thing of another existence, on the whole an attitude of great enthusiasm and gratitude prevails for the privilege of being able to work.

January 18th. My first glimpse at a canteen!