Fanny Goes to War Part 9

"They work like men, these English young girls, is it not so?" said another. "_Sapristi, c'est merveilleux._"

"One would truly say from the distance that they _were_ men, but this one, when one sees her close, is not too bad!" said a third.

"Pa.s.sing remarks about _you_, they are, I should say," said McLaughlan to me as I fixed the spare wheel in place.

"You wait," I panted, "I'll pay them out."

"See you her strong boots?" they continued. "Believe you that she can understand what we say?" asked one. "Never on your life," was the answer, and the wheel in place, they watched every movement as I wiped my hands on a rag and drew on my gloves. "Eight minutes exactly,"

whispered McLaughlan triumphantly, as he seated himself beside me on the lorry preparatory to starting.

The crowd still watched expectantly, and, leaning out a little, I said sweetly, in my best Parisian accent: "_Mesdames et Messieurs, la seance est terminee_." And off we drove! Their expressions defied description; I never saw people look so astounded. McLaughlan was unfeignedly delighted. "Wot was that you 'anded out to them, Miss?" he asked. "Fair gave it 'em proper anyway, straight from the shoulder," and he chuckled with glee.

I frequently met an old A.S.C. driver at one of the hospitals where I had a long wait while the rations were unloaded. He was fat, rosy, and smiling, and we became great friends. He was at least sixty; and told me that when War broke out, and his son enlisted, he could not bear to feel he was out of it, and joined up to do his bit as well. He was a taxi owner-driver in peace times, and had three of them; the one he drove being fitted with "real silver vauses!" I heard all about the "missus,"

of whom he was very proud, and could imagine how anxiously she watched the posts for letters from her only son and her old man.

Some months later when I was driving an ambulance a message was brought to me that Stone was in hospital suffering from bronchitis. I went off to visit him.

"I'm for home this time," he said sadly, "but won't the old missus be pleased?" I looked at his smiling old face and thought indeed she would.

He asked particularly if I would drive him to the boat when he was sent to England. "It'll seem odd to be going off on a stretcher, Miss," he said sadly, "just like one of the boys, and not even so much as a scratch to boast of." I pointed out that there were many men in England half his age who had done nothing but secure cushy jobs for themselves.

"Well, Miss," he said, as I rose to leave, "it'll give me great pleasure to drive you about London for three days when the war's over, and in my best taxi, too, with the silver vauses!"

(N.B. I'm still looking for him.)

Life in the Convoy Camp was very different from Lamarck, and I missed the cheery companionship of the others most awfully. At meal times only half the drivers would be in, and for days at a time you hardly saw your friends.

There were no "10 o'clocks" either. Of course, if you happened to be in camp at that time you probably got a cup of tea in the cook-house, but it's not much of a pastime with no one else to drink it with you.

"Pleasant Sunday Evenings" were also out of the question for, with all the best intentions in the world, no one could have spent an evening in our Mess tent (even to the accompaniment of soft music) and called it "pleasant!" They were still carried on at Lamarck, however, and whenever possible we went down in force.

A BLACK DAY IN THE LIFE OF A CONVOY F.A.N.Y.

(_By kind permission of Winifred Mordaunt, From "Barrack Room Ballads of the F.A.N.Y. Corps."_)

Gentle reader, when you've seen this, Do not think, please, that I mean this As a common or garden convoy day, For the Fany, as a habit Is as jolly as a rabbit-- Or a jay.

But the're days in one's existence, When the ominous persistence Of bad luck goes thundering heavy on your track, Though you shake him off with laughter, He will leap the moment after-- On your back.

'Tis the day that when on waking, You will find that you are taking, Twenty minutes when you haven't two to spare, And the bloomin' whistle's starting, When you've hardly thought of parting-- Your front hair!

You acquire the cheerful knowledge, Ere you rush to swallow porridge, That "fatigue" has just been added to your bliss, "If the weather's no objection, There will be a car inspection-- Troop--dismiss!"

With profane e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, You will see "evacuation"

Has been altered to an earlier hour than nine, So your 'bus you start on winding, Till you hear the muscles grinding-- In your spine.

Let's pa.s.s over nasty places, Where you jolt your stretcher cases And do everything that's wrong upon the quay, Then it's time to clean the boiler, And the sweat drops from the toiler, Oh--dear me!

When you've finished rubbing eye-wash, On your engine, comes a "Kibosch."

As the Section-leader never looks at it, But a grease-cap gently twisting, She remarks that it's consisting,-- "Half of grit."

Then as seated on a trestle, With the toughest beef you wrestle, That in texture would out-rival stone or rock, You are told you must proceed, To Boulogne, with care and speed At two o'clock.

As you're whisking through Marquise (While the patients sit at ease) Comes the awful sinking sizzle of a tyre, It is usual in such cases, That your jack at all such places, Won't go higher.

A wet, cold rain starts soaking, And the old car keeps on choking, Your hands and face are frozen raw and red, Three sparking-plugs are missing, There's another tyre a-hissing, Well--! 'nuff said!

You reach camp as night's descending, To the bath with haste you're wending, A hot tub's the only thing to save a cough, Cries the F.A.N.Y. who's still in it, "Ah! poor soul, why just this minute, Water's off!"

_N.B._--It was a popular pastime of the powers that be to turn the water off at intervals, without any warning, rhyme or reason--one of the tragedies of the War.

CHAPTER XII

THE Pa.s.sING OF THE LITTLE LORRY, "OLD BILL" AND "'ERB" AT AUDRICQ

A mild sensation was caused one day by a collision on the Boulogne road when a French car skidded into one of ours (luckily empty at the time) and pushed it over into the gutter.

"Heasy" and Lowson were both requested to appear at the subsequent Court of Enquiry, and Sergeant Lawrence, R.A.M.C. (who had been on the ambulance at the time) was bursting with importance and joy at the antic.i.p.ation of the proceedings. He was one of the chief witnesses, and apart from anything else it meant an extra day's pay for him, though why it should I could never quite fathom.

As they drove off, with Boss as chaperone, a perfect salvo of old shoes was thrown after them!

They returned with colours flying, for had not Lowson saved the situation by producing a tape measure three minutes after the accident, measuring the s.p.a.ce the Frenchman swore was wide enough for his car to pa.s.s, and proving thereby it was a physical impossibility?

"How," asked the Colonel, who was conducting the Enquiry, "can you declare with so much certainty the s.p.a.ce was 3 feet 8 inches?"

"I measured it," replied Lowson promptly.

"May I ask with what?" he rasped.

"A tape-measure I had in my pocket," replied she, smiling affably the while (sensation).

The Court of Enquiry went down like a pack of cards before that tape measure. Such a thing had never been heard of before; and from then onwards the reputation of the "lady drivers" being prepared for all "immersions" was established finally and irrevocably.

It was a marvel how fit we all kept throughout those cold months. It was no common thing to wake up in the mornings and find icicles on the top blanket of the "flea bag" where one's breath had frozen, and of course one's sponge was a solid block of ice. It was duly placed in a tin basin on the top of the stove and melted by degrees. Luckily we had those round oil stoves; and with flaps securely fastened at night we achieved what was known as a "perfectly glorious fug."

Engineers began to make frequent trips to camp to choose a suitable site for the huts we were to have to replace our tents.

My jobs on the little lorry were many and varied; getting the weekly beer for the Sergeants' Mess being one of the least important. I drew rations for several hospitals as well as bringing up the petrol and tyres for the Convoy, rationing the Officers' Mess, etc.; and regularly at one o'clock just as we were sitting at Mess, Sergeant Brown would appear (though we never saw more of him than his legs) at the aperture that served as our door, and would call out diffidently in his high squeaky voice: "Isolation, when you're ready, Miss," and as regularly the whole Mess would go off into fits! This formula when translated meant that he was ready for me to take the rations to the Isolation hospital up the ca.n.a.l. Hastily grabbing some cheese I would crank up the little lorry and depart.

The little lorry did really score when an early evacuation took place, at any hour from 4 a.m. onwards, when the men had to be taken from the hospitals to the ships bound for England. How lovely to lie in bed and hear other people cranking up their cars!

Barges came regularly down the ca.n.a.ls with cases too seriously wounded to stand the jolting in ambulance trains. One day we were all having tea, and some friends had dropped in, when a voice was heard calling "Barges, Barges." Without more ado the whole Mess rose, a form was overturned, and off they scampered as fast as they could to get their cars and go off immediately. The men left sitting there gazed blankly at each other and finally turned to me for an explanation--(being a lorry, I was not required). "Barges," I said; "they all have to hurry off as quickly as possible to unload the cases." They thought it rather a humorous way of speeding the parting guest, but I a.s.sured them work always came before (or generally during) tea in our Convoy! Major S.P.

never forgot that episode, and the next time he came, heralded his arrival by calling out at the top of his voice, "Barges, Barges!" with the result that half the Convoy turned out _en ma.s.se_. He a.s.sured his friends it was the one method of getting a royal welcome.