A Padre in France Part 10

We had an exciting time when the munic.i.p.al authorities of the town in which we lived introduced fixed prices. Madame, who is an entirely sensible woman, was frankly sceptical from the start about the possibility of regulating prices. Gendarmes paraded the market-place, where on certain days the countrywomen sat in rows, their vegetables, fowl, eggs, and b.u.t.ter exposed for sale. They declined, of course, to accept the fixed prices. Madame and her friends, though they hated being overcharged, recognised the strength of the countrywomen's position. There was a combination between the buyers and sellers.

The gendarmes were out-witted in various ways. One plan--Madame explained it to me with delight--was to drop a coin, as if by accident, into the lap of the countrywoman who was selling b.u.t.ter.

Ten minutes later the purchaser returned and bought the b.u.t.ter under the eyes of a satisfied policeman at the fixed price. The original coin represented the difference between what the b.u.t.ter woman was willing to accept and what the authorities thought she ought to get.

That experiment in munic.i.p.al control of prices lasted about a month.

Then the absurdity of the thing became too obvious. The French are much saner than the English in this. They do not go on pretending to do things once it becomes quite plain that the things cannot be done.

Food shortage--much more serious now--was beginning to be felt while I lived with Madame. There were difficulties about sugar, and Monsieur had to give up a favourite kind of white wine. But neither he nor Madame complained much; though they belonged to the _rentier_ cla.s.s and were liable to suffer more than those whose incomes were capable of expansion. No one, so far as I know, appealed to them to practise economy in a spirit of lofty patriotism. They simply did with a little less of everything with a shrug of the shoulders and a smiling reference to the good times coming _apres la guerre_. And, on occasion, economy was forgotten and we feasted.

One of the last days I spent in Madame's house was New Year's Day, 1917. I and my fellow-lodger, another padre, were solemnly invited to a dinner that night. It was a family affair. All Madame's nieces, married and single, were there, and their small children, two grand-nieces and a grand-nephew. Madame's one nephew, wounded in the defence of Verdun, was there.

Our usual table was greatly enlarged. The folding doors between the drawing-room and dining-room were flung open. We had a blaze of lamps and candles. We began eating at 6.30 p.m.; we stopped shortly after 10 p.m. But this was no brutal gorge. We ate slowly, with discrimination. We paused long between the courses. Once or twice we smoked. Once the grand-niece and grand-nephew recited for us, standing up, turn about, on their chairs, and declaiming with fluency and much gesture what were plainly school-learnt poems. One of Madame's nieces, pa.s.sing into the drawing-room, played us a pleasant tune on the piano. At each break I thought that dinner was over. I was wrong time after time. We talked, smoked, listened, applauded, and then more food was set before us.

There were customs new to me. At the appearance of the plum pudding--a very English pudding--we all rose from our seats and walked in solemn procession round the table. Each of us, as we pa.s.sed the sacred dish, basted it with a spoonful of blazing rum, and, as we basted, made our silent wish. We formed pigs out of orange skins and gave them lighted matches for tails. By means of these we discovered which of us would be married or achieve other good fortune in the year to come. We drank five different kinds of wine, a sweet champagne coming by itself, a kind of dessert wine, at the very end of dinner, accompanied by small sponge cakes.

The last thing of all was, oddly enough, tea. Like most French tea it was tasteless, but we remedied that with large quant.i.ties of sugar and we ate with it a very rich cake soaked in syrup, which would have deprived the fiercest Indian tea of any flavour.

I think Madame was supremely happy all the evening. I think every one else was happy too. I have never met more courteous people. In the midst of the most hilarious talk and laughter a niece would stop laughing suddenly and repeat very slowly for my benefit what the fun was about. Even when the soldier nephew told stories which in England would not have been told so publicly, a niece would take care that I did not miss the point.

Madame's drawing-room was very wonderful. At one time she had known a painter, a professor of painting in a school near her home. He adorned the walls of her drawing-room with five large oil-paintings, done on the plaster of the wall and reaching from the ceiling to very near the floor. Four of them represented the seasons of the year, and that artist was plainly a man who might have made a good income drawing pictures for the lids of chocolate boxes. His fur-clad lady skating (Winter) would have delighted any confectioner. The fifth picture was a farmyard scene in which a small girl appeared, feeding ducks. This was the most precious of all the pictures. The little girl was Madame's niece, since married and the mother of a little girl of her own.

The furniture was kept shrouded in holland and the jalousies were always shut except when Madame exhibited the room. I saw the furniture uncovered twice, and only twice. It was uncovered on the occasion of the New Year's feast, and Madame displayed her room in all its glory on the afternoon when I invited to tea a lady who was going to sing for the men in one of my camps.

I think that all Madame's lodgers loved her, though I doubt if any of them loved her as dearly as I did. Letters used to arrive for her from different parts of the war area conveying news of the officers who had lodged with her. She always brought them to me to translate.

I fear she was not much wiser afterwards. She never answered any of them. Nor has she ever answered me, though I should greatly like to hear how she, Monsieur, Marie, Fifi, and Turque are getting on.

Turque was a large dog, the only member of the household who was not extremely old.

CHAPTER XIII

"THE CON. CAMP"

We always spoke of it, affectionately and proudly, as "the Con.

Camp." The abbreviation was natural enough, for "convalescent" is a mouthful of a word to say, besides being very difficult to spell. I have known a beneficed clergyman of the Church of England come to grief over the consonants of the last two syllables in addressing an envelope to me; and there was a story of a very august visitor, asked to write in an alb.u.m, who inquired about a vowel and was given the wrong one by one of the staff. If those doubtful spellers had known our pleasant abbreviation they would have escaped disaster.

To us the "Con." justified itself from every point of view. I am not sure that we had an equal right to the conceited use of the definite article. There are other "Con." camps in France, many of them. We spoke of them by their numbers. Ours had a number too, but we rarely used it. We were _The_ Con. Camp. Our opinion was no doubt prejudiced; but the authorities seemed to share it. The Con. Camp was one of the show places of the British Army. Distinguished visitors were always brought there.

The Government, the War Office, or whoever it is who settles such things, encourages distinguished visitors to inspect the war. There is a special officer set apart to conduct tourists from place to place and to show them the things they ought to see. He is provided with several motor-cars, a nice chateau, and a good cook. This is sensible. If you want a visitor to form a favourable opinion of anything, war, industry, or inst.i.tution, you must make him fairly comfortable and feed him well.

Yet I think that the life of that officer was a tiresome one. There was very little variety in his programme. He showed the same things over and over again, and he heard the same remarks made over and over again about the things he showed. Sometimes, of course, a distinguished visitor with a reputation for originality made a new remark. But that was worse. It is better to have to listen to an intelligent comment a hundred times than to hear an unintelligent thing said once. Any new remark was sure to be stupid, because all the intelligent things had been said before.

To us, who lived in the Con. Camp, distinguished visitors, though common, were not very tiresome. We were not obliged to entertain them for very long at a time. They arrived at the camp about 3.30 p.m., and our C.O. showed them round. After inspecting an incinerator, a tent, a bath, a Y.M.C.A. hut, and a kitchen, they came to the mess for tea. Our C.O. was a man of immense courtesy and tact. He could answer the same question about an incinerator twice a week without showing the least sign of ever having heard it before.

I have often wondered who selected the distinguished visitors, and on what principle the choice was made. Whoever he was he cast his net widely.

Journalists of course abounded, American journalists chiefly--this was in 1916--but we had representatives of Dutch, Norwegian, Swiss, Italian, Spanish, Russian, and South American papers. Once we even had a Roumanian, a most agreeable man, but I never felt quite sure whether he was a journalist or a diplomatist. Perhaps he was both.

Authors--writers of books rather than articles--were common and sometimes were quite interesting, though given to asking too many questions. It ought to be impressed on distinguished visitors that it is their business to listen to what they are told, and not to ask questions.

Politicians often came. We once had a visit from Mr. Lloyd George, but I missed that to my grief.

Generals and staff officers from neutral countries came occasionally in very attractive uniforms.

Doctors always seemed to me more successful than other people in keeping up an appearance of intelligent interest.

Ecclesiastics were dull. They evidently considered it bad form to allude to religion in any way and they did not know much about anything else. But ecclesiastics were rare.

Royalties, I think, excited us most. We once had a visit from a king, temporarily exiled from his kingdom. He wore the most picturesque clothes I have ever seen off the stage and he was very gracious. All of our most strikingly wounded men--those who wore visible bandages--were paraded for his inspection. He walked down the line, followed by a couple of aides-de-camp, some French officers of high rank, an English general, our C.O., and then the rest of us. Our band played a tune which we hoped was his national anthem. He did not seem to recognise it, so it may not have been the right tune though we had done our best.

He stopped opposite an undersized boy in a Lancashire regiment who had a bandage round his head and a nose blue with cold. The monarch made a remark in his own language. He must have known several other languages--all kings do--but he spoke his own. Perhaps kings have to, in order to show patriotism. An aide-de-camp translated the remark into French. An interpreter retranslated it into English. Somebody repeated it to the Lancashire boy. I dare say he was gratified, but I am sure he did not in the least agree with the king. What his Majesty said was, "How splendid a thing to be wounded in this glorious war!"

It is easy to point a cheap moral to the tale. So kings find pleasure in their peculiar sport. So boys who would much rather be watching football matches at home suffer and are sad. _Delirant reges_.

_Plectuntur Achivi_.

It is all as old as the hills, and republicans may make the most of it. Yet I think that that king meant what he said, and would have felt the same if the bandage had been round his own head and he had been wearing the uniform of a private soldier. There are a few men in the world who really enjoy fighting, and that king--unless his face utterly belies him--is one of them. Nothing, I imagine, except his great age, kept him out of the battles which his subjects fought.

The Con. Camp deserved the reputation which brought us those flights of distinguished visitors. I may set this down proudly without being suspected of conceit, for I had nothing to do with making the camp what it was. Success in a camp or a battalion depends first on three men--the C.O., the adjutant, and the sergeant-major. We were singularly fortunate in all three.

The next necessity is what the Americans call "team work." The whole staff must pull together, each member of it knowing and trusting the others. It was so in that camp. The result was fine, smooth-running organisation. No emergency disturbed the working of the camp. No sudden call found the staff unprepared or helpless. So much, I think, any one visiting and inspecting the camp might have seen and appreciated. What a visitor, however intelligent, or an inspector, though very able, would not have discovered was the spirit which inspired the discipline of the camp.

Ours was a medical camp. We flew the Red Cross flag and our C.O. was an officer in the R.A.M.C. Doctors, though they belong to a profession which exists for the purpose of alleviating human suffering, are not always and at all times humane men. Like other men they sometimes fall into the mistake of regarding discipline not as a means but as an end in itself. In civil life the particular kind of discipline which seduces them is called professional etiquette. In the army they become, occasionally, the most bigoted worshippers of red-tape. When that happens a doctor becomes a fanatic more ruthless than an inquisitor of old days.

In the Con. Camp the discipline was good, as good as possible; but our C.O. was a wise man. He never forgot that the camp existed for the purpose of restoring men's bodies to health and not as an example of the way to make rules work. The spirit of the camp was most excellent. Regulations were never pressed beyond the point at which they were practically of use. Sympathy, the sympathy which man naturally feels for a suffering fellow-man, was not strangled by parasitic growths of red-tape. We had to thank the C.O. and after him the adjutant for this. I met no officers more humane than these two, or more patient with all kinds of weakness and folly in the men with whom they had to deal.

They were well supported by their staff and by the voluntary workers in the two recreation huts run by the Y.M.C.A. and the Catholic Women's League. The work of the C.W.L. ladies differed a little from that of any recreation hut I had seen before. They made little attempt to cater for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the men. They discouraged personal friendships between the workers and the men. They aimed at a certain refinement in the equipment and decoration of their hut. They provided food of a superior kind, very nicely served. I think their efforts were appreciated by many men.

On the other hand the workers in the Y.M.C.A. hut there as everywhere made constant efforts to provide entertainments of some kind. Three or four days at least out of every week there was "something on."

Sometimes it was a concert, sometimes a billiard tournament, or a ping-pong tournament, or a compet.i.tion in draughts or chess.

Occasionally, under the management of a lady who specialised in such things, we had a hat-tr.i.m.m.i.n.g compet.i.tion, an enormously popular kind of entertainment both for spectators and performers. Every suggestion of a new kind of entertainment was welcomed and great pains were taken to carry it through.

I only remember one occasion on which the leader of that hut shrank from the form of amus.e.m.e.nt proposed to him. The idea came from a Canadian soldier who said he wished we would get up a pie-eating compet.i.tion. This sounded exciting, and we asked for details. The compet.i.tors, so the Canadian said, have their hands tied behind their backs, go down on their knees and eat open jam tarts which are laid flat on the ground. He said the game was popular in the part of Canada he came from. I longed to see it tried; but the leader of the hut refused to venture on it. It would, he said, be likely to be very messy. He was probably right.

In that hut the workers aimed constantly at getting into personal touch with the men. This was far easier in the Con. Camp than at the base camp where "Woodbine" was. The numbers of men were smaller. As a rule they stayed longer with us. But at best it is only possible for a canteen worker to make friends with a few men. With most of those who enter the hut she can have no personal relations. But I am sure that the work done is of immense value, and it is probably those who need sympathy and friendship most who come seeking it, a little shyly, from the ladies who serve them.

In normal times the Con. Camp received men from the hospitals; men who were not yet fit to return to their regiments, but who had ceased to need the constant ministrations of doctors and nurses. The conditions of life were more comfortable than in base camps, much more comfortable than at the front or in billets. The men slept in large tents, warmed and well lighted. They had beds. The food was good and abundant. Great care and attention was given to the cooking.

Much trouble was taken about amus.e.m.e.nts. The camp had a ground for football and cricket. It possessed a small stage, set up in one of the dining-halls, where plays were acted, a Christmas pantomime performed, and a variety entertainment given every week. There were whist drives with attractive prizes for the winners. Duty was light.

Besides the "fatigues" necessary for keeping the camp in order there were route marches for those who could march, and an elaborate system of physical exercises under trained instructors.

The men remained in camp for varying periods. No man was kept there for more than three months. But some men pa.s.sed through the camp being marked fit almost as soon as they left hospital. That was the normal routine; but it happened once while I was there that things became very abnormal and the organisation of the camp was tested with the utmost severity.

Just before the Somme offensive began some mischievous devil put it into the heads of the authorities to close down the only other convalescent camp in the neighbourhood. Its inmates were sent to us and we had to make room for them. Our cricket ground was sacrificed.

Paths were run across the pitch. Tents were erected all over it. My church tent became the home of a harmonium, the only piece of ecclesiastical salvage from the camp that was closed. Then my church tent was taken from me, sacrificed like all luxuries to the accommodation of men. Just as we were beginning to settle down again came the Somme offensive.

Like every one else in France we had long expected the great push.

Yet when it came it came with startling suddenness. We went out one morning to find the streets of the town crowded with ambulances. They followed each other in a long, slow, apparently unending procession across the bridge which led into the town from the railway station.

They split off into small parties turning to the left and skirting the sea sh.o.r.e along the broad, glaring parade, or climbed with many hootings through the narrow streets of the old town. Staring after them as they pa.s.sed us we saw inside figures of men very still, very silent, bandaged, swathed.