On the right of the British line Part 20

He was attacking some Germans, who were putting up a stout resistance during the fight for Guinchy; and as he was rushing forward, a German threw a hand-grenade, which exploded in his face. His right eye was removed at St. Quentin, and he was slowly recovering the sight of the left.

In the bed next to his was another young officer of the Royal Flying Corps, a boy about eighteen, very small, and only weighing about eight stone. Mabbitt was his name, Second Lieutenant Mabbitt; and he, too, had fought many thousand feet in the air against desperate odds, fracturing his leg in the fall.

German airmen seem to make a practice of waiting until a single English aeroplane appears in sight; then they ascend in a flight of five to attack, and woe betide the English airman who happens to be soaring above in a slow machine.

Deeds of pluck are common on land and sea; but the heroic combats in the air are a new sensation, with unknown terrors realised in a single gasp; and the youth of our country defy it. Yet, who is there to tell their deeds if they fall?

Shortly after I arrived two British officers were brought in, Lieutenant Wishart of the Canadians, who had a bullet wound through his leg; and Second Lieutenant Parker, who had a hole in his leg as big as an apple, and who spent most of the day in declaring that he was as fit as a fiddle.

But the occupant of the remaining bed was one who endeared himself to the hearts of all. He was SANIEZ (p.r.o.nounced Sanyea), our orderly. But Saniez must have a chapter to himself.

CHAPTER XXV

SANIEZ

Reserve Lazarette 5, Hanover, boasted of no hospital nurses. There was no tender touch of a feminine hand to administer to the comfort and alleviate the distress of the wounded. There was no delicate and nourishing diet to strengthen the weak; neither did we expect it. We were prisoners of war, and though our sufferings were great, we were still soldiers.

But those who have pa.s.sed through Ward 43 will always look back with grat.i.tude and admiration on one whose unselfish devotion, tender care, and magnificent spirit was an example and inspiration to all of us.

His name was Saniez, the orderly in charge of the ward; a Florence Nightingale, whose unceasing attention day and night, whose tender watchfulness and devoted care and kindness made him loved and worshipped by the maimed and helpless prisoners who were placed under his charge.

Saniez was no ordinary man. No reward was his, except the heartfelt grat.i.tude of those whom he tended. The wounded who pa.s.sed through the ward left behind a debt of grat.i.tude which could never be paid, and with a spirit of fort.i.tude and courage created by his n.o.ble example.

There are compensations for all suffering; and no greater compensation could any wish for than the devotion of Saniez.

Saniez had suffered too, but would never speak of it. He had his moments of anguish and despair. He had a home, too; but his dreams he kept to himself, and his care he gave to others.

Saniez was a Frenchman, a big, burly artilleryman, with eyes bright, laughing, and sympathetic.

He had been captured nearly two years before; and suffered severely from the effects of frozen feet. Yet, painful as it must have been to get about, he seldom sat down.

All through those long days and nights weak voices would call him: it was always, "Saniez, Saniez!" and slop, slop, slop, we would hear him in his slippered feet, moving down the ward, attending to one and then another.

Saniez would be quiet and sympathetic, with a voice soft and soothing; and the next moment, cheerful and boisterous. Captivity could not subdue Saniez, or make him anything else than a loyal French soldier.

He would guard his patients against the clumsy touch of a German orderly like a tiger guarding its young. He would bribe or steal to obtain a little delicacy for his patients.

He seemed to know but a single German word, which he used on every possible occasion to express his disgust of the Germans. It was a slang word, but when Saniez used it, its single utterance was a volume of expression. It was NIX, and when Saniez said nix, I knew he was shaking his woolly head in disgust.

Saniez had a marvellous voice, and when he sang he held us spell-bound, and he knew it. I do not speak French, and could not understand his words, but his expression was wonderful; and he would fling his arms about in frantic gesticulation.

When Saniez sang he seemed to lift himself into a different atmosphere; he was back again in France; his songs all seemed about his country and his home. He seemed to rouse himself into a sudden spirit of defiance, and then his voice would grow soft and pathetic; and then slop, slop, slop, in his slippered feet, he would hurry off to a bedside to fix a bandage or administer a drink of water.

Every morning German soldiers could be heard marching past our windows, singing their national songs. We listened; Saniez would stop his work. What we wanted to say we would leave to Saniez, as broom in hand and eyes of fire he would wait until their voices died away in the distance, and then, with a fierce shake of his head he would shout: "Boche! Nix!" and, flinging his arms about his head, would sing the "Ma.r.s.eillaise."

One evening, and I remember it well, though no pen of mine can adequately describe the soul-stirring picture--we had a concert in Ward 43. Four British and four French officers--a symbol of the Entente Cordiale--lay side by side in their cots, while convalescent prisoners from other wards sat in front to cheer them with song and music.

The Allies seemed well represented: An English Tommy with a guitar sang a comic song; a Russian soldier with a three-cornered string instrument, sang a folk-song of his native land; a Belgian soldier played the violin; and Saniez sang for France.

The applause that greeted the finish of each song was of a mixed kind; for those whose arms were maimed would shout, and those who could not shout would bang a chair or clap their hands. It was a patriotic and inspiring scene, and even the German orderly, coming in to see what was going on, was tempted to stop and listen.

We felt we were no longer prisoners; the spirit of the Allies was unconquerable.

Enthusiasm reached its highest pitch when Saniez brought it to a dramatic conclusion. Saniez had just finished a soul-inspiring song of his homeland. His audience could not withhold their applause until he finished, and Saniez could not restrain his spirit until the end of the applause. He suddenly threw up his arms, and at the top of his voice burst forth into the "Ma.r.s.eillaise," and the German orderly bolted out of the door.

Then the concert party ran to their dormitories; the lights were turned out, and we sought safety in sleep.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Captain n.o.bbs after his release from the German prison.]

We used to ask Saniez about his home; and he seemed to grow quiet and confident. His home, he said, was about three miles behind the German line.

Some one suggested that it was in a dangerous place, as the British were advancing, and no house near the line could escape untouched; but Saniez was confident.

No! sh.e.l.ls could not possibly harm it. His wife and sister lived there; it was his home. He was a prisoner, but whatever happened to him, the combined fury of the nations could not touch his home.

Saniez! Saniez! May you never awaken from your dream!

CHAPTER XXVI

LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL

HOSPITAL DIET. INTERVIEWED BY A GERMAN DOCTOR. DISCHARGED FROM HOSPITAL

The diet in hospital can hardly be described as suitable for invalids.

At the same time it was substantial as compared with what is received in prison camps. For breakfast we received coffee, with two very small, crusty rolls, each about the size of a tangerine orange; each roll cut in half, and a slight suspicion of jam placed between; for dejeuner one cup of coffee, one roll, and some very strong cheese, quite unfit to eat. The dinner was usually quite good, consisting of soup, a little meat and vegetables, and stewed apples or gooseberries.

At 3 o'clock a cup of coffee and a small roll; at 6 o'clock supper, consisting of tea without milk, strong cheese, or German sausage or brawn, and a slice of bread.

For this diet we paid eighty marks per month.

An officer receives pay from the German Government on the following scale: lieutenant, sixty marks per month; captain, one hundred marks per month. The German Government recover the payments from the English Government, and it is charged against the officers' pay in England.

No food is supplied free to officers either in hospital or camp; and they cannot purchase anything beyond the regular issue.

With the exception of the dinner, I found the food of very little use to me for the first week or two, as having lost the power in my jaw, and being unable to open it more than half an inch, I couldn't tackle the rolls, and what couldn't be eaten had to be left; there was no subst.i.tute.

There was another diet, in which the coffee was replaced by hot milk, which would have been very desirable, except that the dinner consisted of some filthy substance, which was very unpalatable.

For the first week, therefore, I had practically only one meal a day, the dinner; but afterwards, by dint of changing from one diet to another I managed to get the dinner of No. 1 diet, and the milk of No.

2.

There was a canteen in the hospital where cigarettes, chocolates, biscuits, and eggs were offered for sale.