Dr. Inglis’ return to England was the signal for renewed efforts on the part of the Committees managing the S.W.H. This memoir has necessarily to follow the personality of the leader, but it must never be forgotten that her strength and all her sinews of war lay in the work of those who carried on at home, week by week. Strong committees of women, ably organised and thoroughly staffed, took over the burden of finance—a matter Dr. Inglis once amusingly said, ‘did not interest her.’ They found and selected the personnel on which success so much depended, they contracted for and supervised the sending out of immense consignments of equipment and motor transport. They dealt with the Government department, and in loyal devotion smoothed every possible obstacle out of the path of those flying squadrons, the units of the S.W.H.

It was inevitable the quick brain and tenacious energy of Dr. Inglis, far away from the base of her operations, should at times have found it hard to understand why the wheels occasionally seemed to drag, and the new effort she desired to make did not move at the pace which to her eager spirit seemed possible. Two enterprises filled her mind on her return in 1916. One, by the help of the London Committee, she put through. This was the celebration of Kossovo Day in Great Britain. The flag-day of the Serbian Patriot King was under her chairmanship prepared for in six weeks. Hundreds of lectures on the history of Serbia were arranged for and delivered throughout the country, and no one failed to do her work, however remote they might think the prospect of making the British people interested in a country and patriot so far from the ken of their island isolation.

Kossovo Day was a success, and through the rush of the work Dr. Inglis was planning the last and most arduous of all the undertakings of the S.W.H., that of the unit which was to serve with the Serbian Volunteers on the Rumanian Russian front. Dr. Inglis knew from private sources the lack of hospital arrangements in Mesopotamia, and she, with the backing of the Committees, had approached the authorities for leave to take a fully equipped unit to Basra. When the story of the Scottish Women’s Hospital is written, the correspondence between the War Office, the Foreign Office, and S.W.H. will throw a tragic light on this lamentable episode, and, read with the report of the Committees, it will prove how quick and foreseeing of trouble was her outlook. As soon as Dr. Inglis brought her units back from Serbia, she again urged the War Office to send her out. Of her treatment by the War Office, Mrs. Fawcett writes: ‘She was not only refused, but refused with contumely and insult.’

True to her instinct never to pause over a set-back, she lost no time in pressing on her last enterprise for the Serbians. M. Curcin, in The Englishwoman, says:—

‘She was already acquainted with one side of the Serbian problem—Serbia; she was told that in Russia there was the best opportunity to learn about the second half—the Serbs of Austria, the Jugoslavs. In six weeks Dr. Inglis succeeded in raising a hospital unit and transport section staffed by eighty women heroes of the Scottish Women’s Hospitals to start with her on a most adventurous undertaking, via Archangel, through Russia to Odessa and the Dobrudja. Dr. Inglis succeeded also—most difficult of all—in getting permission from the British authorities for the journey. Eye-witnesses—officers and soldiers—tell everybody to-day how those women descended, practically straight from the railway carriages, after forty days’ travelling, beside the stretchers with wounded, and helped to dress the wounds of those who had had to defend the centre and also a wing of the retreating army. For fifteen months she remained with those men, whose rÔle is not yet fully realised, but is certain to become one of the most wonderful and characteristic facts of the conflagration of nations.’

The Edinburgh Committee had already so many undertakings on behalf of the S.W.H. that they gladly allowed the Committee formed by the London Branch of the N.U.W.S.S. to undertake the whole work of organising this last adventure for the Serbian Army. It was as their Commissioner that Dr. Inglis and her unit sailed the wintry main, and to them she sent the voluminous and brilliant reports of her work. When the Russian revolution imperilled the safety of the Serbian Army on the Rumanian front, she sent home members of her unit, charged with important verbal messages to her Government. Through the last anxious month, when communications were cut off, short messages, unmistakably her own, came back to the London Committee, that they might order her to return. She would come with the Serbian Army and not without them. We at home had to rest on the assurances of the Foreign Office, always alive to the care and encouragement of the S.W.H., that Dr. Inglis and her unit were safe, and that their return would be expedited at the safest hour. In those assurances we learnt to rest, and the British Government did not fail that allied force—the Serbian Army and the Scottish women serving them. The following letters were those written to her family with notes from her graphic report to her Committees. The clear style and beautiful handwriting never changed even in those last days, when those who were with her knew that nothing but the spirit kept the wasted body at its work. ‘The Serbian Division is superb; we are proud to be attached to it.’ These were the last words in her last letter from Odessa in June 1917. That pride of service runs through all the correspondence. The spirit she inspired is noteworthy in a book which covers the greater part of these fifteen months, With the Scottish Nurses in Rumania, by Yvonne Fitzroy. In a daily diary a searchlight is allowed to fall on some of the experiences borne with such high-hearted nonchalance by the leader and her gallant disciples.

Mrs. Haverfield, who saw her work, writes:

‘It was perfectly incredible that one human being could do the work she accomplished. Her record piece of work perhaps was at Galatz, Rumania, at the end of the retreat. There were masses and masses of wounded, and she and her doctors and nurses performed operations and dressings for fifty-eight hours out of sixty-three. Dr. Scott, of the armoured cars, noted the time, and when he told her how long she had been working, she simply said, “Well, it was all due to Mrs. Milne, the cook, who kept us supplied with hot soup.” She had been very tired for a long time; undoubtedly the lack of food, the necessity of sleeping on the floor, and nursing her patients all the time told on her health. In Russia she was getting gradually more tired until she became ill. When she was the least bit better she was up again, and all the time she attended to the business of the unit.

‘Just before getting home she had a relapse, and the last two or three days on board ship, we know now, she was dying. She made all the arrangements for the unit which she brought with her, however, and interviewed every member of it. To Miss Onslow, her transport officer, she said, when she arrived at Newcastle, “I shall be up in London in a few days’ time, and we will talk the matter of a new unit over.” Miss Onslow turned away with tears in her eyes.’

‘H.M. Transport ——,
‘Sep. 6, 1916.

‘Dearest Amy,—Here we are more than half way through our voyage. We got off eventually on Wednesday night, and lay all Thursday in the river. You never in your life saw such a filthy boat as this was when we came on board. The captain had been taken off an American liner the day before. The only officer who had been on this boat before was the engineer officer. All the rest were new. The crew were drunk to a man, and, as the Transport officer said, “The only way to get this ship right, is to get her out.” So we got out. I must say we got into shape very quickly. We cleaned up, and now we are painting. They won’t know her when she gets back. She is an Austrian Lloyd captured at the beginning of the war, and she has been trooping in the Mediterranean since. She was up at Glasgow for this new start, but she struck the Glasgow Fair, and could therefore get nothing done, so she was brought down to the port we started from—as she was. We are a wonderful people! The captain seems to be an awfully good man. He is Scotch, and was on the Anchor Line to Bombay. This is quite a tiny little boat. She has all our equipment, fourteen of our cars. For passengers, there are ourselves, seventy-five people, and three Serbian officers, and the mother and sister of one of them, and thirty-two Serbian non-commissioned officers. They are going to our Division.

‘The cabins are most comfortable. On the saloon deck there are twenty-two very small, single cabins. And on this deck larger cabins with either three or four berths. I am on this deck in the most luxurious quarters. It is called The Commanding Officer’s Cabin (ahem). There is a huge cabin with one berth; off it on one side another cabin with a writing-table and sofa, and off it on the other side a bathroom and dressing-room! Of course, if we had had rough weather, and the ports had had to be closed, it would not have been so nice, especially as the glass in all the portholes is blackened, but we have had perfectly glorious weather. At night every porthole and window is closed to shut in the light, but the whole ship is very well ventilated. A good many of them sleep up in the boats, or in one of the lorries.

‘We sighted one submarine, but it took no notice of us, so we took no notice of it. We had all our boats allotted to us the very first day. We divided the unit among them, putting one responsible person in charge of each, and had boat drill several times. Then one day the captain sounded the alarm for practice, and everybody was at their station in three minutes in greatcoat and life-belt. The amusing thing was that some of them thought it was a real alarm, and were most annoyed and disappointed to find there was not a submarine really there! The unit as a whole seems very nice and capable, though there are one or two queer characters! But most of them are healthy, wholesome bricks of girls. I hope we shall get on all right. Of course a field hospital is quite a new bit of work.

‘We reach our port of disembarkation this afternoon. The voyage has been a most pleasant one in every way. As soon as sea-sickness was over the unit developed a tremendous amount of energy, and we have had games on deck, and concerts, and sports, and a fancy dress competition! All this in addition to drill every morning, which was compulsory.

‘We began the day at 8.30—breakfast, the cabins were tidied. 9.30—roll call and cabin inspection immediately after; then drill—ordinary drill, stretcher drill, and Swedish drill in sections. Lunch was at 12.30, and then there were lessons in Russian, Serbian, and French, to which they could go if they liked, and most of them took one, or even two, and lectures on motor construction, etc. Tea at 4, and dinner 6.30. You would have thought there was not much time for anything else, but the superfluous energy of a British unit manages to put a good deal more in. (The head of a British unit in Serbia once said to me that the chief duty of the head of a British unit was to use up the superfluous energy of the unit in harmless ways. He said that the only time there was no superfluous energy was when the unit was overworking. That was the time I found that particular unit playing rounders!) The sports were most amusing. I was standing next to a Serb officer during the obstacle race, and he suddenly turned to me and said, “C’est tout-À-fait nouveau pour nous, Madame.” I thought it must be, for at that moment they were getting under a sail which had been tied down to the deck—two of them hurled themselves on the sail and dived under it, you saw four legs kicking wildly, and then the sail heaved and fell, and two dishevelled creatures emerged at the other side, and tore at two life-belts which they went through, and so on. I should think it was indeed tout-À-fait nouveau. Some of the dresses at the fancy dress competition were most clever. There was Napoleon—the last phase, in the captain’s long coat and somebody’s epaulettes, and one of our grey hats, side to the front, excellent; and Tweedledum and Tweedledee, in saucepans and life-belts. One of them got herself up as a “greaser,” and went down to the engine-room to get properly dirty, with such successful result that, when she was coming up to the saloon, with her little oiling can in her hand, one of the officers stopped her with, “Now, where are you going to, my lad?”

‘We ended up with all the allied National Anthems, the Serbs leading their own.

‘I do love to see them enjoying themselves, and to hear them chattering and laughing along the passages, for they’ll have plenty of hard work later. We had service on Sunday, which I took, as the captain could not come down. Could you get us some copies of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s war prayers? We have just had our photograph taken. The captain declares he was snap-shotted six times one morning. I don’t know if the Russian Government will let us take all these cameras with us. We are flying the Union Jack for the first time to-day since we came out. It is good to know you are all thinking of us.—Ever your loving sister,

Elsie Maud Inglis.’

‘On the Train to Moscow,
‘Sep. 14, 1916.

‘Dearest Amy,—Here we are well on our way to Moscow, having got through Archangel in 2½ days—a feat, for we were told at home that it might be six weeks. They did not know that there is a party of our naval men there helping the Russians, and Archangel is magnificently organised now.

‘When one realises that the population was 5000 before the war, and is now 20,000, it is quite clear there was bound to be some disorganisation at first.

‘I never met a kinder set of people than are collected at Archangel just now. They simply did everything for us, and sent us off in a train with a berth for each person, and gave us a wonderful send off. The Russian Admiral gave us a letter which acts as a kind of magic ring whenever it is produced. The first time it was really quite startling. We were longing for Nyamdonia where we were to get dinner. We were told we should be there at four o’clock, then at five, and at six o’clock we pulled up at a place unknown, and rumours began to spread that our engine was off, and sure enough it was, and was shunting trucks. Miss Little, one of our Russian-speaking people, and I got out. We tried our united eloquence, she in fluent Russian, and I saying, Shechaz, which means “immediately” at intervals, and still they looked helpless and said, “Two hours and a half.” Then I produced my letter, and you never saw such a change. They said, “Five minutes,” and we were off in three. We tried it all along the line after that; my own belief is that we should still be at the unknown place, without that letter, shunting trucks. At one station, Miss Little heard the station-master saying, “There is a great row going on here, and there will be trouble to-morrow if this train isn’t got through.” Eventually, we reached Nyamdonia at 11.30, and found a delightful Russian officer, and an excellent dinner paid for by the Russian Government, waiting for us. We all thought the food very good, and I thought the sauce of hunger helped. The next day, profiting over our Nyamdonia experience, I said meals were to be had at regular times from our stores in the train, and we should take the restaurants as we found them, with the result that we arrived at Vorega, where dÉjeuner had been ordered just as we finished a solid lunch of ham and eggs. I said they had better go out and have two more courses, which they did with great content, and found it quite as nice as the night before.

‘This is a special train for us and the Serbian officers and non-coms. We broke a coupling after we left Nyamdonia, and they sent out another carriage from there, but it had not top berths, so they had another sleeper ready when we reached Vologda. They gave us another and stronger engine at Nyamdonia, because we asked for it, and have repaired cisterns, and given us chickens and eggs; and when we thank them, they say, “It is for our friends.” The crowd stand round three deep while we eat, and watch us all the time, quite silently in the stations. In Archangel one old man asked, “Who, on God’s earth, are you?”

‘They gave us such a send-off from Archangel! Russian soldiers were drawn up between the ship and the train, and cheered us the whole way, with a regular British cheer; our own crew turned out with a drum and a fife and various other instruments, and marched about singing. Then they made speeches, and cheered everybody, and then suddenly the Russian soldiers seized the Serbian officers and tossed them up and down, up and down, till they were stopped by a whistle. But they had got into the mood by then, and they rushed at me. You can imagine, I fled, and seized hold of the British Consul. I did think the British Empire would stand by me, but he would do nothing but laugh. And I found myself up in the air above the crowd, up and down, quite safe, hands under one and round one. They were so happy that I waved my hand to them, and they shouted and cheered. The unit is only annoyed that they had not their cameras, and that anyhow it was dark. Then they tossed Captain Bevan, who is in command there, because he was English, and the Consul for the same reason, and the captain of the transport because he had brought us out. We sang all the national anthems, and then they danced for us. It was a weird sight in the moonlight. Some of the dances were like Indian ones, and some reminded me of our Highland flings. We went on till one in the morning—all the British colony, there. I confess, I was tired—though I did enjoy it. Captain Bevan’s good-bye was the nicest and so unexpected—simply “God bless you.” Mrs. Young, the Consul’s wife, Mrs. Kerr, both Russians, simply gave up their whole time to us, took the girls about, and Mrs. Kerr had the whole unit to tea. I had lunch one day at the British Mess, and another day at the Russian Admiral’s. They all came out to dinner with us.

‘Of course a new face means a lot in an out-of-the-way place, and seventy-five new faces was a God-send. Well, as I said before, they are the kindest set of people I ever came across. They brought us our bread, and changed our money, and arranged with the bank, and got us this train with berths, and thought of every single thing for us.

‘Nearing Odessa,
‘Sep. 21, 1916.

‘Darling Eve,—We are nearing the second stage of our journey, and they say we shall be in Odessa to-night. We have all come to the conclusion that a Russian minute is about ten times as long as ours. If we get in to-night we shall have taken nine days from Archangel; with all the lines blocked with military trains, that is not bad. All the same we have had some struggles, but it has been a very comfortable journey and very pleasant. The Russian officials all along the line have been most helpful and kind. A Serbian officer on board, or rather a Montenegrin, looked after us like a father.

‘What we should have done without M. and Mme. Malinina at Moscow, I don’t know. They gave the whole afternoon up to us: took us to the Kremlin—he, the whole unit on special tramcars, and she, three of us in her motor. They are both very busy people. She has a beautiful hospital, a clearing one at the station, and he is a member of the Duma, and Commandant of all the Red Cross work in Moscow. We only had a glimpse of the Kremlin, yet enough to make one want to see more. I carried away one beautiful picture to remember—the view of Moscow in the sunset light, simply gorgeous.

‘The unit are very very well, and exceedingly cheerful. I am not sorry to have had these three weeks since we left to get the unit in hand. They are in splendid order now. When M. Malinina said it was time to leave the Kremlin, and the order was given to “Fall in,” I was quite proud of them, they did it so quickly. It is wonderful even now what they manage to do. Miss H. says they are like eels in a basket. They were told not to eat fruit without peeling it, so one of them peeled an apple with her teeth. They were told not to drink unboiled water, so they handed their water-bottles out at dead of night to Russian soldiers, to whom they could not explain, to fill for them, as of course they understood they were not to fill them from water on the train. I must say they are an awfully nice lot on the whole. We certainly shall not fail for want of energy. The Russian crowds are tremendously interested in them.—Ever your loving aunt,

‘Elsie.’

‘Reni, Sep. 29, 1916.

‘Dearest Amy,—We have left Odessa and are really off to our Division. We are going to the 1st Division. General Haditch is in command there. We were told this is the important point in the war just now—“A Second Verdun.” The great General Mackensen is in command against us. He was in command at Krushinjevatz when we were taken prisoners. Every one says how anxiously they are looking out for us, and, indeed, we shall have our work cut out for us. We are two little field hospitals for a whole Division. Think if that was the provision for our own men. They are such a magnificent body of men. We saw the 2nd Division preparing in Odessa. Only from the point of view of the war, they ought to be looked after, but when one remembers that they are men, every one of them with somebody who cares for them, it is dreadful. I wish we were each six women instead of one. I have wired home for another Base Hospital to take the place of the British Red Cross units when they move on with the 2nd Division. The Russians are splendid in taking the Serbs into their Base Hospitals, but you can imagine what the pressure is from their own huge armies. We had such a reception at Odessa. All the Russian officials, at the station, and our Consul, and a line drawn up of twenty Serbian officers. They had a motor car and forty droskies and a squad of Serbian soldiers to carry up our personal luggage, and most delightful quarters for us on the outskirts of the town in a sanatorium. We were the guests of the city while we were there. Our Consul was so good and helpful. Odessa is immensely interested in us. We were told that the form of greeting while we were there was, “Have you seen them?” The two best things were the evening at the Serbian Mess, and the gala performance at the opera. The cheering of the Serbian mess when we went in was something to remember, but I can tell you I felt quite choking when the whole house last night turned round and cheered us after we tried to sing our National Anthem to them with the orchestra.

‘Reni, Oct. 28, 1916.

‘Dearest Amy,—Just a line to say I am all right. Four weeks to-morrow since we reached Medgidia, and began our hospital. We evacuated it in three weeks, and here we are all back on the frontier. Such a time it has been, Amy dear. You cannot imagine what war is just behind the lines, and in a retreat!—our second retreat, and almost to the same day. We evacuated Kragujevatz on the 25th of October last year. We evacuated Medgidia on the 22nd this year. On the 25th this year, we were working in a Russian dressing-station at Harshova, and were moved on in the evening. We arrived at Braila to find 11,000 wounded, and seven doctors—only one of them a surgeon.

‘Boat came. Must stop. Am going back to Braila to do surgery. Have sent every trained person there.—Your loving sister,

Elsie.

‘P.S.—We have had lots of exciting things too, and amusing things, and good things.’

‘On the Danube at Tulcea,
‘Nov. 11/16.

‘Dearest Amy,—I am writing this on the boat between Tulcea and Ismail, where I am going to see our second hospital and the transport. Admiral Vesolskin has given me a special boat, and we motored over from Braila. The Étappen command had been expecting us all afternoon, and the boat was ready. They were very amused to find that “the doctor” they had been expecting was a woman!

‘Our main hospital was at Medgidia, and our field hospital at Bulbulmic, only about seven miles from the front. They gave us a very nice building, a barrack, at Medgidia for the hospital, and the personnel were in tents on the opposite hill. We arrived on the day of the offensive, and were ready for patients within forty-eight hours. We were there less than three weeks, and during that time we unpacked the equipment and repacked it. We made really a rather nice hospital at Medgidia, and the field hospital. We pitched and struck the camp—we were nursing and operating the whole time, and evacuating rapidly too, and our cars were on the road practically always.

‘The first notice we got of the retreat was our field hospital being brought back five versts. Then the transport. Then we were told to send the equipment to Galatz, but to keep essential things and the personnel. Then came orders to go ourselves. I never saw such a retreat. Serbia was nothing to it. The whole country was covered with groups of soldiers who had lost their regiments. Russians, Serbs, and Rumanians. The Rumanian guns were simply being rushed back, through the crowds of refugees. The whole country was moving: in some places the panic was awful. One part of our scattered unit came in for it. You would have thought the Bulgars were at the heels of the people. One man threw away a baby right in front of the cars. They were throwing everything off the carts to lighten them, and our people, being of a calmer disposition, picked up what they wanted in the way of vegetables, etc. Men, with their rifles and bayonets, climbed on to the Red Cross cars to save a few minutes. We simply went head over heels out of the country. I want to collect all the different stories of our groups. My special lot slept the first night on straw in Caromacat; the next night on the roadside round a lovely fire; the next (much reduced in numbers, for I had cleared the majority off in barges for Galatz), we slept in an empty room at Hershova, and spent the next day dressing at the wharf. And by the next night we were in Braila, involved in the avalanche of wounded that descended on that place, and there we have been ever since.

‘We found some of our transport, and, while we were having tea, an officer came in and asked us to go round and help in a hospital. There, we were told, there were 11,000 wounded (I believe the official figures are 7000). They had been working thirty-six hours without stopping when we arrived.

‘The wounded had overflowed into empty houses, and were lying about in their uniforms, and their wounds not dressed for four or five days. You can imagine the conditions.

‘So we just turned up our sleeves and went in. I got back all the trained Sisters from Galatz, and now the pressure is over. One thing I am going up to Ismail for, is to get into touch with the Serbian H. 2, and find out what they want us to do next. The Serb wounded were evacuated straight to Odessa.

‘The unit as a whole has behaved splendidly, plucky and cheery through everything, and game for any amount of work.

‘And we are prouder of our Serbs than ever. I do hope the papers at home have realised what the 1st Division did, and how they suffered in the fight in the middle of September. General Genlikoffsky said to me, “C’Était magnifique, magnifique! Ils sont les hÉros”;—and another Russian: “We did not quite believe in these Austrian Serbs, but no one will ever doubt them again.”

‘Personally, I have been awfully well, and prouder than ever of British women. I wish you could have seen trained Sisters scrubbing floors at Medgidia, and those strapping transport girls lifting the stretchers out of the ambulances so steadily and gently. I have told in the Report how Miss Borrowman and Miss Brown brought the equipments through to Galatz. We lost only one Ludgate boiler and one box of radiators. We lost two cars, but that was really the fault of a rather stupid Serbian officer. It is a comfort to feel you are all thinking of us.—Your loving sister,

‘E.I.’

‘In an Ambulance Train between
‘Reni and Odessa, Jan. 24, 1917.

‘Darling Eve,—Now we have got a hospital at Reni again, for badly wounded, working in connection with the evacuation station. We have got the dearest little house to live in ourselves, but, as we are getting far more people out from Odessa, we shall have to overflow into the Expedition houses. Reni itself is quite a small village. I remember thinking Reni a most uninteresting place—crowds of shipping and the wharf all crammed with sacks. It was just a big junction like Crewe!

‘The hospital at Reni is a real building, but it is not finished. One unfinished bit is the windows, which have one layer of glass each, though they have double sashes. When this was pointed out, I thought it was a mere continental foible. When the cold came I realised that there is some sense in this foible after all! We cannot get the wards warm, notwithstanding extra stoves and roaring fires. The poor Russians do mind cold so much. But they don’t want to leave the hospital. One man whom I told he must have an operation later on in another hospital, said he would rather wait for it in ours. The first time we had to evacuate, we simply could not get the men to go. Nice, isn’t it?

‘We have got a Russian Secretary now, because we are using Russian Red Cross money, and he told us he had been told in Petrograd that the S.W.H. were beautifully organised, and the only drawback was the language. Quite true. I wish we were polyglots. We have got a certain number of Austrian prisoners as orderlies, and most of them curiously can speak Russian, so we get on better. Did you know I could speak German? I did not until I had to! This is a most comfortable way of travelling, and the quickest. We have 500 wounded on board, twenty-three of them ours. I am going to Odessa to find out why we cannot get Serb patients. There are still thousands of them in Odessa, and yet Dr. Chesney gets nothing but Russians. The Serbs we meet seem to think it is somehow our fault! I tell them I have written and telegraphed, and planned and made two journeys to Ismail, to try and get a real Serbian Hospital going, and yet it doesn’t go.

‘What did happen over the change of Government? I do hope we have got the right lot now, to put things straight at home, and carry through things abroad. Remember it all depends on you people at home. The whole thing depends on us. I know we lose the perspective in this gloomy corner, but there is one thing quite clear, and that is that they are all trusting to our sticking powers. They know we’ll hold on—of course—I only wish we would realise that it would be as well to use our intellects too, and have them clear of alcohol.’

‘In an Ambulance Train,
‘near Odessa, Jan. 25, 1917.

‘You don’t know what a comfort it is on this tumultuous front, to know that all you people at home have just settled down to it, and that you’ll put things right in the long run. It is curious to feel how everybody is trusting to that. The day we left Braila, a Rumanian said to me in the hall, “It is England we are trusting to. She has got hold now like a strong dog!” But it is a bigger job than any of you imagine, I think. But there is not the slightest doubt we shall pull it off. I am glad to think the country has discovered that it is possible to have an alternative Government. If it does not do, we must find yet another.

To her little Niece, Amy M‘Laren

‘On an Ambulance Train,
‘near Odessa, Jan. 25, 1917.

‘Darling Amy,—How are you all? We have been very busy since we came out here: first a hospital for the Serbs at Medgidia, then in a Rumanian hospital at Braila, and then for the Russians at Galatz and Reni. In the very middle, by some funny mistake, we were sent flying right on to the front line. However we nipped out again just in time, and the station was burnt to the ground just half an hour after we left. I’ll tell you the name of the place when the war is over, and show it to you on the map. We saw the petrol tanks on fire as we came away, and the ricks of grain too.

‘Our hospital at Galatz was in a school. I don’t think the children in these parts are doing many lessons during the war, and that will be a great handicap for their countries afterwards. Perhaps, however, they are learning other lessons. When we left the Dobrudja we saw the crowds of refugees on their carts, with the things they had been able to save, and all the little children packed in among the furniture and pots and pans and pigs.

‘In one cart I saw two fascinating babies about three years old, sitting in a kind of little nest made of pillows and rugs. They were little girls, one fair and one dark, and they sat there, as good as gold, watching everything with such interest. There were streams of carts along the roads, and all the villages deserted. That is what the war means out here. It is not quite so bad in our safe Scotland, is it?—thanks to the fleet. And that is why it seems to me we have got to help these people, because they are having the worst of it. I wonder if you can knit socks yet, for I can use any number, and bandages. Do you know how to roll bandages? Blessings on you, precious little girl.—Your loving aunt,

Elsie.’

‘I have had my meals with the Staff. Unfortunately, most of them speak only Russian, but one man speaks French, and another German. One of the Sisters speaks English. The man who speaks German is having English lessons from her. His despair over the pronunciation is comic. He picked up Punch and showed me YOU. So, I said “you.” He repeated it quite nicely, and then found another OU. “Though,” and when I said “though,” he flung up his hands, and said, “Why a practical nation like the English should do things like this!”’

‘S.W.H.,
Reni, March 5, 1917.

‘Darling Mary,—We have been having such icy weather here, such snowstorms sweeping across the plain. You should see the snowdrifts. One day I really thought the house would be cut off from the hospital. The unit going over to Roll was quite a sight, with the indiarubber boots, and peaked Russian caps, with the ends twisted round their throats. We should have thoroughly enjoyed it if it had not been for the shortage of fuel. However, we were never absolutely without wood, and now have plenty, as a Cossack regiment sent a squad of men across the Danube to cut for us, and we brought it back in our carts. The Danube is frozen right across—such a curious sight. The first time in seven years, they say—so nice of it to do it just when we are here! I would not have missed it for anything. The hospital has only had about forty patients for some time, as there has been no fighting, and it was just as well when we were so short of wood. We collected them all into one ward, and let the other fires out.

‘The chief of the medical department held an inspection. That was an inspection! The old gentleman poked into every corner. Took off the men’s shirts and looked for lice, turned up the sheets, and beat the mattresses to look for dust, tasted the men’s food, and in the end stated we were ochin chestÉ (very clean), and that the patients were well cared for medically and well nursed. All of which was very satisfactory, but he added that the condition of the orderlies was disgraceful, and so it was. I hadn’t realised they were my job. However, I told him next time he came he should not find one single louse. He was very amused and pleased.

‘Dr. Laird and I have a nice snug little room together. That is one blessing here, we have plenty of sun. Very soon it will begin to get quite hot. I woke up on the 1st of March and thought of getting home last year that day, and two days after waking up in Eve’s dear little room, with the roses on the roof. Bless all you dear people.—Ever your loving aunt,

‘Elsie.’

‘March 23, 1917.

‘We have been awfully excited and interested in the news from Petrograd. We heard of it, probably long after you people at home knew all about it! It is most interesting to see how everybody is on the side of the change, from Russian officers, who come to tea and beam at us, and say, “Heresho” (good) to the men in the wards. In any case they say we shall find the difference all over the war area. One Russian officer, who was here before the news came, was talking about the Revolution in England two hundred years ago, and said it was the most interesting period of European history. “They say all these ideas began with the French Revolution, but they didn’t—they began long before in England,” he thought. He spoke English beautifully, and had had an English nurse. He had read Milton’s political pamphlets, and we wondered all the time whether he was thinking of changes in Russia after the war, but now I wonder if he knew the changes were coming sooner.

‘Do you know we have all been given the St. George Medal? Prince Dolgourokoff, who is in command on this front, arrived quite unexpectedly, just after roll call. The telegram saying he was coming arrived a quarter of an hour after he left! General Kropensky, the head of the Red Cross, rushed up, and the Prince arrived about two minutes after him. He went all over the hospital, and a member of his gilded staff told matron he was very pleased with everything. He decorated two men in the wards with St. George’s Medal, and then said he wanted to see us together, and shook hands with everybody and said, “Thank you,” and gave each of us a medal too; Dr. Laird’s was for service, as she had not been under fire. St. George’s Medal is a silver one with “For Bravery” on its back. Our patients were awfully pleased, and inpressed on us that it carried with it a pension of a rouble a month for life. We gave them all cigarettes to commemorate the occasion.

‘It was rather satisfactory to see how the hospital looked in its ordinary, and even I was fairly satisfied. I tell the unit that they must remember that they have an old maid as commandant, and must live up to it! I cannot stand dirt, and crooked charts and crumpled sheets. One Sister, I hear, put it delightfully in a letter home: “Our C.M.O. is an idealist!” I thought that was rather sweet; I believe she added, “but she does appreciate good work.” Certainly, I appreciate hers. She is in charge of the room for dressings, and it is one of the thoroughly satisfactory points in the hospital.

‘The Greek priest came yesterday to bless the hospital. We put up “Icons” in each of the four wards. The Russians are a very religious people, and it seems to appeal to some mystic sense in them. The priest just put on a stole, green and gold, and came in his long grey cloak. The two wards open out of one another, so he held the service in one, the men all saying the responses and crossing themselves. The four icons lay on the table before him, with three lighted candles at the inner comers, and he blessed water and sprinkled them, and then he sprinkled everybody in the room. The icons were fixed up in the corner of the wards, and I bought little lamps to burn in front of them, as they always have them. We are going to have the evening hymn sung every evening at six o’clock. I heard that first in Serbia from those poor Russian prisoners, who sang it regularly every evening.

‘The mud has been literally awful. The night nurses come up from the village literally wet through, having dragged one another out of mud holes all the way. Now, a cart goes down to fetch them each evening. We have twenty horses and nine carts belonging to us. I have made Vera Holme master of the horse.

‘I have heard two delightful stories from the Sisters who have returned from Odessa. There is a great rivalry between the Armoured Car men and the British Red Cross men, about the capabilities of their Sisters. (We, it appears, are the Armoured Car Sisters!) A B.R.C. man said their Sisters were so smart they got a man on to the operating-table five minutes after the other one went off. Said an Armoured Car man: “But that’s nothing. The Scottish Sisters get the second one on before the first one is off.” The other story runs that there was some idea of the men waiting all night on a quay, and the men said, “But you don’t think we are Scottish Sisters, sir, do you?” I have no doubt that refers to Galatz, where we made them work all night.’

‘Reni, Easter Day, 1917.

‘We, all the patients, sick and wounded, belonging to the Army and Navy, and coming from different parts of the great, free Russia, who are at present in your hospital, are filled with feelings of the truest respect for you. We think it our duty as citizens on this beautiful day of Holy Easter to express to you, highly respected and much beloved Doctor, as well as to your whole Unit, our best thanks for all the care and attention you have bestowed upon us. We bow low and very respectfully before the constant and useful work which we have seen daily, and which we know to be for the well-being of our allied countries.

‘We are quite sure that, thanks to the complete unity of action of all the allied countries, the hour of gladness and the triumph of the Allied arms in the cause of humanity and the honour of nations is near.

‘Vive l’Angleterre!

‘Russian Soldiers, Citizens, and the Russian Sister,

’Vera V. de Kolesnikoff.’

‘Reni, March 2, 1917.

‘Darling Eve,—Very many thanks for the war prayers. They are a great help on Sundays. The Archbishop’s prayers that I wanted are the original ones at the beginning of the war. Just at present we are very lucky as regards the singing, as there are three or four capital voices in the unit. We have the service at 1.30 on Sunday. That lets all the morning work be finished. I do wonder what has become of Miss Henderson and the new orderlies! And the equipment! We want them all so badly, not to speak of my cool uniform. That will be needed very soon I think. It is so delicious to feel warm again. We are having glorious weather, so sunny and warm. All the snow has gone, and the mud is appalling. I thought I knew the worst mud could do in Serbia, but it was nothing to this. We have made little tiled paths all about our domain, and keep comparatively clean there. I wish we could take over the lot of buildings. The other day I thought I had made a great score, and bought two thousand poud of wood at a very small price. It was thirty-five versts out. We got the Cossacks to lend us transport. But the transport stuck in the mud, and came back the next day, having had to haul the empty carts out of mud holes by harnessing four horses first to one cart and then to another. It was no wonder I got the wood so cheap. One of our great difficulties has been fuel.

‘April 18, 1918.

‘I am writing this sitting out in my little tent, with a glorious view over the Danube. We have pitched some of the tents to relieve the crowding in the house. They are no longer beautiful and white, as they were at Medgidia. We have had to stain them a dirty grey colour, so as to hide them from aeroplanes. Yesterday, we had an awful gale, and a downpour of rain, and the tents stood splendidly, and not a drop of water came through. Miss Pleister and the Austrian orderly who helped her to pitch them are triumphant. Do get our spy-incident, from the office. My dear, they thought we were spies. We had an awful two days, but it is quite a joke to look back on. The unit were most thoroughly and Britishly angry. Quite rightly. But I very soon saw the other side, and managed to get them in hand once more. General Kropensky, our chief, was a perfect brick. The armoured car section sent a special despatch rider over to Galatz to fetch him, and he came off at once. He talks perfect English, and he has since written me a charming letter saying our sang-froid and our savoir-faire saved the situation. I am afraid there was not much sang-froid among us, but some of us managed to keep hold of our common sense. As I told the girls, in common fairness they must look at the other side—spy fever raging, a foreign hospital right on the front, and a Revolution in progress. I told them, even if they did not care about Russia, I supposed they cared about the war and England, and I wondered what effect it would have on all these Russian soldiers if we went away with the thing not cleared up, and still under suspicion. After all, the ordinary Russian soldier knows nothing about England, except in the very concrete form of us. We should have played right into the devil’s hands if we had gone away. Of course, they saw it at once, and we stuck to our guns for England’s sake. The 6th Army, I think, understands that England, as represented by this small unit, is keen on the war, and does not spy! We have had a telegram from the General in command, apologising, and our patients have been perfectly angelic. And the men from all regiments round come up to the out-patients’ department, and are most grateful and punctiliously polite. So all is well that ends well.

‘We had a very interesting Easter. You know the Russian greeting on Easter morning, “Christ is risen,” and the answer, “He is risen indeed.” We learnt them both, and made our greetings in Russian fashion. On Easter Eve we went to the church in the village. The service is at midnight. The church was crowded with soldiers—very few women there. They were most reverent and absorbed outside in the courtyards. It was a very curious scene; little groups of people with lighted candles waiting to get in. Here, we had a very nice Easter service. My “choir” had three lovely Easter hymns, and we even sang the Magnificat. One of the armoured car men, on his way from Galatz to Belgrade, stayed for the service, and it was nice to have a man’s voice in the singing. We gave our patients Easter eggs and cigarettes. Except that we are very idle, we are very happy here. Our patients are delightful, the hospital in good order. The Steppe is a fascinating place to wander over, the little valleys, and the villages hidden away in them, and the flowers! We have been riding our transport horses—rather rough, but quite nice and gentle. We all ride astride of course.

‘On Active Service.

‘To Mrs. Flinders Petrie,
Hon. Sec., Scottish Women’s Hospitals.

‘Reni, May 8, 1917.

‘Dear Mrs. Petrie,—How perfectly splendid about the Egyptologists. Miss Henderson brought me your message, saying how splendidly they are subscribing. That is of course all due to you, you wonderful woman. It was such a tantalising thing to hear that you had actually thought of coming out as an Administrator, and that you found you could not. I cannot tell you how splendid it would have been if you could have come.... I want “a woman of the world” ... and I want an adaptable person, who will talk to the innumerable officers who swarm about this place, and ride with the girls, and manage the officials!

‘I do wish you could see our hospital now. It really is quite nice. Such a nice story:—Matron was in Reni the other day, seeing the Commandant of the town about some things for the hospital, and when she came out she found a crowd of Russian soldiers standing round her house. They asked her if she had got what she wanted, and she said the Commandant was going to see about it. Whereupon the men said, “The Commandant must be told that the Scottish Hospital (Schottlandsche bolnitza) is the best hospital on this front, and must have whatever it wants. That is the opinion of the Russian Soldier.” Do you recognise the echo of the big reverberation that has shaken Russia. We get on awfully well with the Russian soldier. Two of our patients were overheard talking the other day, and they said, “The Russian Sisters are pretty but not good, and the English Sisters are good and not pretty.” The story was brought up to the mess-room by quite a nice-looking girl who had overheard it. But we thought we’d let the judgment stand and be like Kingsley’s “maid”—though we don’t undertake to endorse the Russian part of it!

‘We have got some of the personnel tents pitched now, and it is delightful. It was rather close quarters in the little house. I am writing in my tent now, looking out over the Danube. Such a lovely place, Reni is—and the Steppe is fascinating with its wide plains and little unexpected valleys full of flowers. We have some glorious rides over it. The other night our camp was the centre of a fight. Only a sham one! They are drilling recruits here, and suddenly the other night we found ourselves being defended by one party while another attacked from the Steppe. The battle raged all night, and the camp was finally carried at four o’clock in the morning amid shouts and cheers and barking of dogs. It was even too much for me, and I have slept through bombardments.

‘It has been so nice hearing about you all from Miss Henderson. How splendidly the money is coming in. Only one thing, dear Mrs. Petrie, do make them send the reliefs more quickly. I know all about boats, but, as you knew the orderlies had to leave on the 15th of January, the reliefs ought to have been off by the 1st.

‘I wish you could hear the men singing their evening hymn in hospital. They have just sung it. I am so glad we thought of putting up the icons for them.

‘Good-bye for the present, dear Mrs. Petrie. My kindest regards to Professor Flinders Petrie.—Ever yours affectionately,

Elsie Maud Inglis.’

‘May 11, 1917.

‘It was delightful seeing Miss Henderson, and getting news of all you dear people. She took two months over the journey. But she did arrive with all her equipment. The equipment I wired for in October, and which was sent out by itself, arrived in Petrograd, got through to Jassy, and has there stuck. We have not got a single thing, and the Consuls have done their best.

‘Mr. French, one of the chaplains in Petrograd, came here. He said he would have some services here. We pitched a tent, and we had the Communion. It was a joy. I have sent down a notice to the armoured car yacht, and I hope some of the men will come up. We and they are the only English people here.

‘The Serbs have sent me a message saying we may have to rejoin our Division soon. I don’t put too much weight on this, because I know my dearly beloved Serbs, and their habit of saying the thing they think you would like, but still we are preparing. I shall be very sorry to leave our dear little hospital here, and the Russians. They are a fascinating people, especially the common soldier. I hope that as we have done this work for the Russians and therefore have some little claim on them, it will help us to get things more easily for the Serbs. We have one little laddie in, about ten years old, the most amusing brat. He was wounded by an aeroplane bomb in a village seven versts out, and was sent into Reni to a hospital. But, when he got there he found the hospital was for sick only (a very inferior place!), so he proceeded on to us. He wanders about with a Russian soldier’s cap on his head and wrapped round with a blanket, and we hear his pretty little voice singing to himself all over the place.

‘Nicolai, the man who came in when the hospital was first opened, and has been so very ill, is really getting better. He had his dressing left for two days for the first time the other day, and his excitement and joy were quite pathetic. “Ochin heroshe doktorutza, ochin herosho” (Very good, dear doctor, very good), he kept saying, and then he added, “Now, I know I am not going to die!” Poor boy, he has nearly died several times, and would have died if he had not had English Sisters to nurse him. He has been awfully naughty—the wretch. He bit one of the Sisters one day when she tried to give him his medicine. Now, he kisses my hand to make up. The other day I ordered massage for his leg, and he made the most awful row, howled and whined, and declared it would hurt (really, he has had enough pain to destroy anybody’s nerve), and then suddenly pointed to a Sister who had come in, and said what she had done for him was the right thing. I asked what she had done for him; “Massaged his leg,” she said. I got that promptly translated into Russian, and the whole room roared with laughter. Poor Nicolai—after a minute, he joined in. His home is in Serbia, “a very nice home with a beautiful garden.” His mother is evidently the important person there. His father is a smith, and he had meant to be a smith too, but now he has got the St. George’s Cross, which carries with it a pension of six roubles a month, and he does not think he will do any work at all. He is the eldest of the family, twenty-four years old, and has three sisters, and a little brother of five. Can’t you imagine how he was spoilt! and how proud they are of him now, only twenty-four, and a sous-officier, and been awarded the St. George’s Cross which is better than the medal; and been wounded, four months in hospital, and had three operations! He has been so ill I am afraid the spoiling continued in the Scottish Women’s Hospital. Dr. Laird says she would not be his future wife for anything.

‘We admitted such a nice-looking boy to-day, with thick, curly, yellow hair, which I had ruthlessly cropped, against his strong opposition. I doubt if I should have had the heart, if I had known how ill he was. He will need a very serious operation. I found him this evening with tears running silently over his cheeks, a Cossack, a great big man. His nerve is quite gone. He may have to go on to Odessa, as a severe operation and bombs and a nervous breakdown don’t go together. We will see how he settles down.

‘We have made friends with lots of the officers; there is one, also a Cossack, who spends a great part of his time here. His regiment is at the front, and he has been left for some special work, and he seems rather lonely. He is a nice boy, and brings nice horses for us to ride. We have been having quite a lot of riding, on our own transport horses too. It is heavenly riding here across the great plain. We all ride astride, and at first we found the Cossacks’ saddles most awfully uncomfortable, but now we are quite used to them. Our days fly past here, and in a sense are monotonous, but I don’t think we are any of us the worse for a little monotony as an interlude! Alas! quite fairly often there is a party at one of the regiments here! The girls enjoy them, and matron and I chaperone them alternately and reluctantly. It was quite a rest during Lent when there were no parties.

‘The spy incident has quite ended, and we have won. Matron was in Reni the other day asking the Commandant about something, and when she came out she found a little crowd of Russian soldiers round her house. They asked her if she had got what she wanted, and she said the Commandant had said he would see about it. They answered, “The Commandant must be told that the S.W.H. is the best hospital on this front, and that it must have everything it wants.” That is the opinion of the Russian soldier! If you were here you would recognise the new tone of the Russian soldier in these days,—but I am glad he approves of our hospital.’

‘Odessa, June 24, 1917.

‘I wish you could realise how the little nations, Serbs and Rumanians and Poles, count on us. What a comfort it is to them to think we are “the most tenacious” nation in Europe. In their eyes it all hangs on us. It is all terrible and awful. I don’t believe we can disentangle it all in our minds just now. The only thing is just to go on doing one’s bit. Because, one thing is quite clear, Europe won’t be a habitable place if Germany wins—for anybody.

‘I think there are going to be a lot of changes here.’

‘July 15, 1917.

‘I have had German measles! The Consul asked me what I meant by that at my time of life! The majority of people say how unpatriotic and Hunnish of you! Well, a few days off did not do me any harm. I had a very luxurious time lying in my tent. The last lot of orderlies brought it out.’

‘Odessa, Aug. 15, 1917.

‘The work at Reni is coming to an end, and we are to go to the front with the Serbian Division. I cannot write about it owing to censors and people. But I am going to risk this: the Serbs ought to be most awfully proud. The Russian General on the front is going to insist on having them “to stiffen up his Russian troops.” I think you people at home ought to know what magnificent fighting men these Serbs are, and so splendidly disciplined, simply worth their weight in gold. There are only two divisions of them after all. We have about thirty-five of them in hospital just now as sanitaries, and they are such a comfort; their quickness and their devotion is wonderful. The hospital was full and overflowing when I left—still Russians. Most of the cases were slight; a great many left hands, if you know what that means. I don’t think the British Army does know!

‘We had a Red Cross inspecting officer down from Petrograd. He was very pleased with everything, and kissed my hand on departing, and said we were doing great things for the Alliance. I wanted to say many things, but thought I had better leave it alone.

‘We are operating at 5 A.M. now, because the afternoons are so hot. The other day we began at 5, and had to go till 4 P.M. after all.

‘Matron and I had a delightful ride the other evening. Just as we had turned for home, an aeroplane appeared, and the first shot from the anti-aircraft guns close beside us was too much for our horses, who promptly bolted. However, there was nothing but the clear Steppe before us, so we just sat tight and went. After a little they recovered themselves, and really behaved very well.’

‘Aug. 28.

‘You dear, dear people, how sweet of you to send me a telegram for my birthday. You don’t know how nice it was to get it and to feel you were thinking of me. It made me happy for days. Miss G. brought it me with a very puzzled face, and said, “I cannot quite make out this telegram.” It was written in Russian characters. She evidently was not used to people doing such mad things as telegraphing the “Many happy returns of the day” half across the world. I understood it at once, and it nearly made me cry. It was good to get it, though I think the Food Controller or somebody ought to come down on you for wasting money in the middle of a war.

‘I am finishing this letter in Reni. We closed the hospital yesterday, and joined our Division somewhere on Friday. The rush that had begun before I got to Odessa got much worse. They had an awfully busy time, a faint reminiscence of Galatz, though, as they were operating twelve hours on end, I don’t know it was so very faint. We had no more left hands, but all the bad cases. Everybody worked magnificently, but they always do in a push. The time a British unit goes to pieces is when there is nothing to do!

‘So this bit of work ends, eight months. I am quite sorry to leave it, but quite quite glad to get back to our Division.

‘Well, Amy dearest, good-bye for the present. I wonder what will happen next! Love to all you dear people.’

‘S.W.H.,
‘Hadji Abdul, Oct. 17, 1917.

‘I wonder if this is my last letter from Russia! We hope to be off in a very few days now. We have had a very pleasant time in this place with its Turkish name. It shows how far north Turkey once came. We are with the Division, and were given this perfectly beautiful camping-ground, with trees, and a slope towards the east. The question was whether we were going to Rumania or elsewhere. It is nice being back with these nice people. They have been most kind and friendly, and we have picnics and rides and dances, and dinners, and till this turmoil of the move began we had an afternoon reception every day under the walnut trees! Now, we are packed up and ready to go, and I mean to walk in on you one morning. It does not stand thinking of!

‘We shall have about two months to refit, but one of those is my due as a holiday, which I am going to take. I’ll see you all soon.—Your loving aunt,

‘Elsie.’

To Mrs. Simson

‘Archangel, Nov. 18, 1917.

‘On our way home. Have not been very well; nothing to worry about. Shall report in London, then come straight to you. Longing to see you all.

‘Inglis.’