The White Road to Verdun Part 3

We slept that night at Bar-le-Duc and next morning saw the various ambulances and hospitals which the Service de Sante had particularly requested me to visit. I was impressed by the splendid organisation of the Red Cross even quite close to the firing-line.

Pa.s.sing through one tent hospital, an Algerian called out to me:

"Ohe, la blonde, viens ici! J'ai quelque chose de beau a te montrer"

("Come here, fair girl, I have something pretty to show you").

He was sitting up in bed, and, as I approached, unb.u.t.toned his bed-jacket and insisted on my examining the tag of his vest, on which was written, "Leader, London." The vest had come in a parcel of goods from the London Committee of the French Red Cross, and I only wished that the angel of goodness and tenderness who is the Presidente of the Croix Rouge, Mme. de la Panouse, and that Mr. D.H. Illingworth, Mr.

Philip Wilkins, and all her able lieutenants, could have seen the pleasure on the face of this swarthy defender of France. In the next bed was a Senegalais who endeavoured to attract my attention by keeping up a running compliment to my compatriots, my King, and myself. He must have chanted fifty times: "Vive les English, Georges, et toi!" He continued even after I had rewarded him with some cigarettes. The Senegalais and the Algerians are really great children, especially when they are wounded. I have seen convalescent Senegalais and Algerians in Paris spend hours in the Champs Elysees watching the entertainment at the open-air marionette theatre. The antics of the dolls kept them amused.

They are admitted to the enclosure free, and there is no longer any room for the children who frequented the show in happier days. These latter form a disconsolate circle on the outside, whilst the younger ones, who do not suffer from colour prejudice, scramble on to the knees of the black soldiers.

The sister in charge was a true daughter of the "Lady of the Lamp."

Provided they are really ill, she sympathises with all the grumblers, but scolds them if they have reached the convalescent stage. She carries a small book in which she enters imaginary good points to those who have the tables by their beds tidy, and she pinned an invisible medal on the chest of a convalescent who was helping to carry trays of food to his comrades. She is indeed a General, saving men for France.

Not a man escaped her attention, and as we pa.s.sed through the tents she gave to each of her "chers enfants"--black or white--a cheering smile or a kindly word. She did, however, whilst talking to us omit to salute a Senegalais. Before she pa.s.sed out of the tent he commenced to call after her, "Toi pas gentille aujourd'hui--moi battre toi" ("You are not good to me to-day--me beat you"). This, it appears, is his little joke--he will never beat anyone again, since he lost both his arms when his trench was blown up by a land mine.

It was at Triancourt that I first saw in operation the motor-cars that had been sent out fitted with bath tubs for the troops, and also a very fine car fitted up by the London Committee of the French Red Cross as a moving dental hospital.

I regret to add that a _poilu_ near by disrespectfully referred to it as "another of the horrors of war," adding that in times of peace there was some kind of personal liberty, where as now "a man could not have toothache without being forced to have it ended, and that there was no possibility of escaping a dentist who hunted you down by motor."

It was suggested that, as I had had a touch of toothache the night before, I might take my place in the chair and give an example of British pluck to the a.s.sembled _poilus_. I hastened to impress on the surgeon that I hated notoriety and would prefer to remain modestly in the background. I even pushed aside with scorn the proffered bribe of six "boche" b.u.t.tons, a.s.suring the man that "I would keep my toothache as a souvenir."

At one of the hospitals, beside the bed of a dying man, sat a little old man writing letters. They told me that before the war he had owned the most flourishing wine-shop in the village. He had fled before the approach of the German troops, but later returned to his village and installed himself in the hospital as scribe. He wrote from morning until night, and watching him stretching his lean old hands, I asked him if he suffered much pain from writer's cramp. He looked at me almost reproachfully before answering, "Mademoiselle, it is the least I can do for my country; besides my pain is so slight and that of the comrades is so great. I am proud, indeed proud, that at sixty-seven years of age I am not useless."

At one hospital I was shown a copy of the last letter dictated by a young French officer, and I asked to be allowed to copy it--it was indeed a letter of a "chic" type.

"CHERS PARRAIN ET MARRAINE,

"Je vous ecris a vous pour ne pas tuer Maman qu'un pareil coup surprendrait trop.

"J'ai ete blesse le ... devant.... J'ai deux blessures hideuses et je n'en aurai pas pour bien longtemps. Les majors ne me le cachent meme pas.

"Je pars sans regret avec la conscience d'avoir fait mon devoir.

"Prevenez donc mes parents le mieux que vous pourrez; qu'ils ne cherchent pas a venir, ils n'en auraient pas le temps.

"Adieu vous tous que j'aimais.

"VIVE LA FRANCE!"

"DEAR G.o.dFATHER AND G.o.dMOTHER.

"I am writing to you, so as not to kill mother, whom such a shock would surprise too much. I was wounded on the ... at.... I have two terrible wounds and I cannot last long. The surgeons do not even attempt to conceal this from me. I go without regret, with the consciousness of having done my duty. Kindly break the news to my parents the best way you can; they should not attempt to come because they would not have time to reach me before the end.

"Farewell to all you whom I have loved.

"LONG LIVE FRANCE!"

Whilst loving his relatives tenderly, the last thought of the dying Frenchman is for his country. Each one dies as a hero, yet not one realises it. It would be impossible to show greater simplicity; they salute the flag for the last time, and that is all.

From Triancourt we went straight to the headquarters of General Nivelle.

They had just brought him the maps rectified to mark the French advance. The advance had been made whilst we were standing on the terrace at Verdun the night before. We had seen the rockets sent up, requesting a _tir de barrage_ (curtain of fire). The '75's had replied at once and the French had been able to carry out the operation.

Good news had also come in from the Somme, and General Nivelle did not hesitate to express his admiration for the British soldiers.

He said that there was no need to praise the first troops sent by Britain to France--everyone knew their value; but it should be a great satisfaction to Britain to find that the new Army was living up to the traditions of the old Army.

He added: "We can describe the new army of Britain in two words: '_ca mord_'--it bites."

The Father of his own men, it is not surprising that General Nivelle finds a warm corner in his heart for the British Tommy, since his mother was an Englishwoman.

At lunch General Nivelle and the members of his staff asked many questions as to the work of the Scottish Women's Hospitals. I told them that what appealed to us most in our French patients was the perfect discipline and the grat.i.tude of the men. We are all women in the hospitals, and the men might take advantage of this fact to show want of discipline, but we never had to complain of lack of obedience. These soldiers of France may some of them before the war have been just rough peasants, eating, drinking, and sleeping, even having thoughts not akin to knighthood; but now, through the ordeal of blood and fire, each one of them has won his spurs and come out a chivalrous knight, and they bring their chivalry right into the hospitals with them. We had also learned to love them for their kindness to one another. When new wounded are brought in and the lights are low in the hospital wards, cautiously watching if the nurse is looking (luckily nurses have a way of not seeing everything), one of the convalescents will creep from his bed to the side of the new arrival and ask the inevitable question: "D'ou viens-tu?" ("Where do you come from?"). "I come from Toulouse,"

replies the man. "Ah!" says the inquirer, "my wife's grandmother had a cousin who lived near Toulouse." That is quite a sufficient basis for a friendship; the convalescent sits by the bedside of his new comrade, holding the man's hand whilst his wounds are being dressed, telling him he knows of the pain--that he, too, has suffered, and that soon all will be well.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Menu, 27 Juillet]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Note by General Nivelle]

Lions to fight, ever ready to answer to the call of the defence of their country, yet these men of France are tender and gentle. In one hospital through which I pa.s.sed there was a baby. It was a military hospital, and no civilian had any right there, but the medical officers who inspected the hospital were remarkably blind--none of them could ever see the baby. One of the soldiers pa.s.sing through a bombarded village saw a little body lying in the mud, and although he believed the child to be dead, he stooped down and picked it up. At the evacuating station the baby and the soldier were sent to the hospital together; the doctors operated upon the baby and took a piece of shrapnel from its back, and once well and strong it const.i.tuted itself lord and master and king of all it surveyed. When it woke in the morning it would call "Papa," and twenty fathers answered to its call. All the pent-up love of the men for their own little ones from whom they had been parted for so long they lavished on the tiny stranger, but all his affection and his whole heart belonged to the rough miner-soldier who had brought him in. As the shadows fell one saw the man walking up and down the ward with the child in his arms, crooning the Ma.r.s.eillaise until the tired little eyes closed. He had obtained permission from the authorities to adopt the child, as the parents could not be found, and remarked humorously: "Mademoiselle, it is so convenient to have a family without the trouble of being married!"

What we must remember is that the rough soldier, himself blinded with blood and mud, uncertain whether he could ever reach a point of safety, yet had time to stoop and pick that little flower of France and save it from being crushed beneath the _camion_ wheels. I told General Nivelle that the hospital staff intended to keep the child for the soldier until the end of the war, and we all hoped that he might grow up to the glory of France and to the eternal honour of the tender-hearted fighter who had rescued him.

After lunch we stood for some time watching the unending stream of _camions_ proceeding into Verdun. I believe it has been stated that on the average one pa.s.sed through the village every fifteen seconds, and that there are something like twelve thousand motor vehicles used in the defence of Verdun. The splendid condition of the roads and the absence of all confusion in the handling of this immense volume of traffic is a great tribute to the organising genius of the chiefs of the French Army.

We left General Nivelle, as General Petain predicted we should find him--smiling.

We slept that night at Epernay, in the heart of the Champagne district.

The soil of France is doing its best to keep the vines in perfect condition and to provide a good vintage to be drunk later to celebrate the victory of France and her Allies.

The keeping of the roads in good condition is necessary for the rapid carrying out of operations on the front, and a "marmite" hole is promptly filled if by a lucky shot the German batteries happen to tear up the roadway. We were proceeding casually along one road when a young officer rode up to us and told us to put on speed because we were under fire from a German battery which daily landed one or two sh.e.l.ls in that particular portion of the roadway. It is wonderful how obedient one becomes at times! We promptly proceeded to hasten!

After visiting General Debeney and obtaining from him the necessary authorisation and an officer-escort, we entered Rheims.

The cathedral is now the home of pigeons, and as they fly in and out of the blackened window-frames, small pieces of the stained gla.s.s tinkle down on to the floor. The custodian of the cathedral told us that during the night of terror the German wounded, lying in the cathedral, not realising the strength and beauty of the French character under adversity, feared, seeing the cathedral in flames, that the populace might wreak vengeance on them, and it was exceedingly difficult to get them to leave the cathedral. Many of the prisoners fled into corners and hid, and some of them even penetrated into the palace of the Archbishop, which was in flames. All the world knows and admires the bravery of the cure of the cathedral, M. Landrieux, who took upon himself the defence of the prisoners, for fear insults might be hurled at them. He knowingly risked his life; but when, next day, some of his confreres endeavoured to praise him, he replied: "My friends, I never before realised how easy it is to die."

One of the churches in the city was heavily draped in black, and I asked the sacristan if they had prepared for the funeral of a prominent citizen. He told me that they were that day bringing home the body of a young man of high birth of the neighbourhood, but that it was not for him that the church was decked in mourning. The draperies had hung there since August 1914--"Since every son of Rheims who is brought home is as n.o.ble as the one who comes to-day, and alas! nearly every day brings us one of our children."

We lunched in the hotel before the cathedral, where each sh.e.l.l-hole has an ordinary white label stuck beside it with the date. The landlord remarked: "If you sit here long enough, and have the good luck to be in some safe part of the building, you may be able to go and stick a label by a hole yourself."

After lunch we went out to the Chateau Polignac. To a stranger it would appear to be almost entirely destroyed, but when M. de Polignac visited it recently he simply remarked that it was "less spoilt than he had imagined." This was just one other example of the thousands one meets daily of the spirit of n.o.ble and peasant _de ne pas s'en faire_, but to keep only before them the one idea, Victory for France, no matter what may be the cost.

We went later to call on the "'75," _chez elle_. Madame was in a particularly comfortable home which had been prepared for her and where she was safe from the inquisitive eyes of the Taubes. The men of the battery were sitting round their guns, singing a somewhat lengthy ditty, each verse ending with a declamation and a description of the beauty of "la belle Suzanne." I asked them to whom Suzanne belonged and where the fair damsel resided. "Oh," they replied, "we have no time to think of damsels called 'Suzanne' now. This is our Suzanne," and the speaker affectionately gave an extra rub with his coat-sleeve to the barrel of the "'75."

By a wonderful system of trench work it is possible for the gunners, in case of necessity, to take refuge in the champagne-vaults in the surrounding district, and it is in the champagne-vaults that the children go daily to school, with their little gas-masks hanging in bags on their arms. It appears that at first the tiny ones were frightened of the masks, but they soon asked to be also given a sack, like their elders, and now one and all have learnt at the least alarm to put on their masks. There is no need to tell the children to hurry home. They realise that it is not wise to loiter in the streets for fear of the whistling sh.e.l.ls. They are remarkably plucky, these small men and women of France.

During one furious bombardment the children were safe in the vaults, but one small citizen began to cry bitterly. He was reproached by his comrades for cowardice, but he replied indignantly: "I fear nothing for myself--I am safe here; but there is no cellar to our house, and oh!

what will happen to the little mother?" The teacher rea.s.sured him by telling him that his mother would certainly take refuge in somebody else's cellar.