December 2nd. They say that the Germans have been finally driven back, that our men are enjoying a rest from the trenches, that many officers have gone home on forty-eight hours' leave.

Converted motor-buses with boarded windows, all of steel-grey hue, come down with loads of cheery though exhausted men on their way home.

Most of the cases in hospital are now medical, rheumatism and the newest disease, "trench feet," which was at first identified as frost-bite. Each medical officer has a different method for treating it. Most wrap the limbs in cotton-wool, but the agony the men go through whilst "thawing" is awful. Many feet are already gangrenous and have to be amputated.

They are again clearing out, which leads us to expect a big battle.

Rumour has it that Belgrade has fallen to the Austrians.

December 6th. Yesterday morning, having for some weeks back collected with great avidity all kinds of comforts for the men, I took my goods up to the convalescent camp that stands on the hill by the Calais road. We obtained a lift in an ambulance and wallowed in the indescribable mud at the camp. It had been a frightful night. Hail, wind, thunder, lightning, blinding rain—the elements let loose! Several of the tents were down, and the men shivered as they ambled about their light fatigue work. The condition of the convalescents is pitiable. They grabbed things like so many wild beasts; indeed, they had the look of weary wild beasts in their eyes.

I don't know which were the more acceptable—cigarettes or old papers. The former to soothe their racked nerves and warm them up in the tempestuous weather, the latter to divert their attention, momentarily at least, from their own sufferings. Undoubtedly the illustrated journals are most useful. The men seem unable to concentrate their attention on anything not pictorial.

We took them knitted things too—and even our own body belts and gloves were requisitioned in the vain effort to make our gifts go round, and we came home with hands stiff with cold.

December 8th. In the afternoon we were allowed a glimpse at the Indian camp, where, after seeing the wards, conspicuous for their neatness and order and the lack of nurses (all Indian hospitals are staffed, needless to say, by orderlies), we were entertained for tea in the officers' mess.

It was a picturesque sight, that tent lighted by two smoky oil-lamps, by the light of which four doctors were playing cards as we entered.

As we sat over the camp fire of glowing coals in a perforated bucket such as night watchmen warm their hands by in the raw London mornings, a sudden squall arose, threatening to bring the tent down. One felt like part of an Arctic expedition at the overhead crash, the icy blast, and could not help surmising as to the thoughts of the Indians at the caprices of the European climate as their great, wistful eyes rested on the barren fields.

The tales of their pluck, recuperative powers, and apparent imperviousness to pain are astounding. The medical officers told us that it is almost impossible to keep them in bed. No sooner are they round from an anÆsthetic than they are up and smoking, quite oblivious of an amputated limb!

December 12th, 2 a.m. A dark, starless morning, and we have just arrived back from Dunkirk. The road to Calais, when we left twelve hours ago, was fairly plain sailing.

There were the barriers to pass (some fifteen between Boulogne and Dunkirk) where the "laissez-passer," describing car, occupants, destination and object of visit, etc., has to be shown; and in between we scorched along at top speed, thankful for the fact that there is no speed limit in France, and getting frozen through and through despite our furs and rugs.

After Calais things grew more interesting. For the first time entrenchments, barbed-wire defences and guns hove in sight, whilst here and there the desolate stretches of country were relieved by figures against the skyline—old women working in the fields, or a solitary picket of soldiers.

We drew into Dunkirk about four o'clock; each of us had different business to transact; the four men on Red Cross work, I on a visit to Lady S——, in charge of a Belgian hospital.

Incidentally, there were the streets and houses to visit, destroyed only yesterday by German bombs. A miserable spectacle they were, the skeleton ruins in the pouring rain; no less miserable-looking than we, covered in the thick Flanders mud that defied all efforts to keep it out of the car.

It was almost dinner-time when we found ourselves at the C—— Hotel, and, whilst the men were sipping their vermouth, we noticed a man busily engaged in what seemed to be letter- but what proved to be leader-writing. He introduced himself as C——, the Daily Mail correspondent whose articles adorn the central pages of that paper.

Truly the path of the war correspondents of to-day lies along no bed of roses! Eyed with suspicion by the authorities, forced to change their abode daily, they lead the life of veritable refugees.

The dining-room was a fine sight, as by degrees it filled up, each table resplendent with Belgian, French or British uniforms; and we were loath to leave the warm hotel for the blinding rain without. Whilst waiting for the car Mr. C—— entertained us at the piano; anything we asked for he played—rag-time, opera, comedy, classical music. And the last sound, rendered more beautiful by means of his exquisite touch, that greeted us as we passed into the night was the haunting Barcarolle from the Tales of Hoffmann.

It was at Gravelines that we lost our way, at about ten o'clock. It was pitch dark. Nowhere a light visible, only the powerful acetylene headlamps of the car. We tried to find the main road and instead found ourselves back in the town. We made another effort, but failed. We aroused the inhabitants of a house where there seemed to be a red glow behind the closed shutters.

"Tout droit," they told us.

We went "tout droit," and found ourselves back again. We fetched out the proprietor of a hopeful-looking bar.

"Tout droit," he said. This time we ran into a barrier, and only just escaped being shot by the Belgian sentry.

"Back into the town—and tout droit," were his directions. We got back. There seemed no difficulty about that. We hammered in vain at a door. Judging by the noise, we succeeded in arousing every dog in the neighbourhood, but not a human being came to our rescue. More wild spurts! Yet it was not until some two hours later that we found ourselves on a broad road, which proved to be the right one. But our troubles were not at an end even then, for the driver, by this time, was in such a state of exasperation that he vowed nothing in the world would persuade him to go farther than Calais. "It's like driving in the sea!" he grumbled, as in truth it was, for the mud was literally flowing over the floor of the car, and our condition was indescribable.

Eventually, by means of much persuasion, not untinged by bribery, he was prevailed upon to finish the journey, throughout which he maintained for the most part a surly silence, interpolated only by semi-audible remarks about the folly of English people who would travel in all weathers.

December 13th. It is now necessary for every worker in the hospitals to have a permit. It is time, too, for many are the rumours of spies who have crept in and gleaned valuable information from the wounded.

A word about the position of volunteer workers. There is no denying that in the early days, before the staff of the Army hospitals was up to the full strength required by the extraordinary demands of modern warfare, they did an immense amount of good. But a plea must be put in for the central organisation, which has been effected so wonderfully by those in charge.

One by one the hospitals run by well-meaning but little experienced women are vanishing or coming under War Office control. One by one free-lance workers brought to the scene of action by motives of patriotism or curiosity are being banished to their proper sphere or sent home.

It is very hard on them, one realises, after they have given so much, yet, hard though it may be, it is but one of the lesser evils of war.

The position of those members of the Voluntary Aid Detachments still here is precarious to the last degree.

They have been relegated to rest station and canteen work where, in the disused railway trucks they have rigged out so well as kitchens and emergency dressing-rooms, they administer to the wounded on the trains by day and night, veritable angels of mercy, as the men say. Yet none of them is allowed to do hospital work. One cannot help wondering that the authorities do not utilise them as probationers under trained nurses instead of using up the strength of the qualified workers in menial jobs. But apparently the law out here is "scrap and discard," which may be a good motto for Ford cars, but seems somewhat hard on human beings.

December 17th. The news of the bombardment of Scarborough, the wholesale slaughter of women and children, which has just come through, must be greatly gratifying to the Germans!

We wonder if it will bring the reality of war home to the people of England.

December 18th. The craving for music, for something to relieve the tension, is almost unbearable. Fortunately, the French attitude towards piano playing has slightly relaxed lately; they no longer stand agape at the idea of overwrought nurses enjoying a few simple songs, and we have been able to hire some well-worn copies of popular tunes to strum on the exceedingly out-of-tune piano. What we lack in music we are repaid for by the picturesqueness of Boulogne. Here stand a batch of khaki Tommies surrounded by an admiring group of French children. "Eengleesh soldyer," they cry gleefully, clinging to the men's arms and not to be moved until some souvenir has been obtained, a button, a hat badge, a cigarette-end. Along the front, the incessant tramp of feet by day and night, recruits, young conscripts full of life and enthusiasm, squads of more sombre men who have already received their baptism of fire, trams laden with Army and Red Cross nurses, the former in their ugly red capes so successfully devised by Florence Nightingale to hide the human form divine.

The stormy nights, too, are very beautiful, when one may watch the searchlights catching the crested waves, until the sea seems alight with a myriad lightships.

The papers tell us of the appointment of Prince Hussein Kamel Pasha as Sultan of Egypt. It seems such a wonderfully clever diplomatic coup that it drives all thoughts of our surroundings from our minds.

December 19th. Such a pretty kettle of fish! and one which nothing but a miracle can remedy. No doubt in every big enterprise there are to be found unscrupulous men who, in default of a supervising and restraining hand, will omit to administer public funds with the same thrift that they would their own. Thus, in reply to accusations of extravagance levelled at the Society, the British Red Cross in Boulogne have decided to retrench. Alas! that the originators of the scheme have no sense of humour or justice.

In spite of the fact that the nurses are the only people who are working at anything like full pressure out here, they have received a notice that calmly brushes aside the very one-sided six months' contract under which they came out (for, unlike the Army Nursing Sisters who, besides their pay, receive allowances and war gratuities after active service, sick pay if their health is impaired, and a pension if disabled, the British Red Cross nurses agreed to demand no redress if disabled on active service), to the effect that on January 1st the Joint War Committee has decided to lower their fees from £2 2s. to the unprofessional sum of £1, and those who are not agreeable to this breach of contract may consider themselves dismissed.

Thus, at the New Year, 300 fully trained women, most of whom have relinquished highly responsible positions in order to come out, are faced with the alternative of accepting barely a living wage (for £1 minus 7½ per cent. and 10 per cent. co-operating percentage and minor weekly expenses is little enough for those who have the future to consider), or returning home, only to find their posts filled.

The arguments for this breach of contract are specious though unconvincing, the reasons given being:

1. "A desire to have as much as possible available for the sick and wounded."

2. "To remove the 'injustice' from the St. John nurses, who have in the past been receiving less than one-half the salary paid to other nurses."

But then, why did the authorities draw up a contract by which the Red Cross refused voluntary workers, whilst the Order of St. John accepted gratuitous services from those who could afford to render them? Yes, both the arguments are excellent; but one cannot help asking why the small body of nurses who have spent years in training, and who are dependent on their earnings, are the only body to suffer by the new economies, whilst a number of orderlies continue to draw salaries higher than those of the qualified nurses. What, too, of the high salaried officials, of the untrained dressers, until recently earning £2 per week and gaining experience in the wards (this experience being counted in their studies)? Above all, what of the principle of this breach of contract, the signing of invalid documents?

But these, after all, are minor details, and one must survey the work of the British Red Cross Society in toto. The true tale of these mistakes will never be told, for the blunders of a few individuals will no doubt be wiped away by the memory of the great achievements of the institution in equipping hospitals, making good deficiencies in the regular supplies, and supplementing those supplies by little luxuries whose absence on a bed of pain is a real privation.

There is no denying that what the Red Cross lacks in organisation it makes up for in generosity, as many a patient could tell, many a hospital testify; and, all things considered, is it in any way less well organised than other institutions in this chaotic zone, in these chaotic times, where only the unforeseen seems to occur, and where the duplication of authority is so bewildering that it is almost an impossibility to lay one's finger on the man responsible for any particular department?

December 24th. If no one else has benefited by the war, certainly the Boulogne shopkeepers cannot complain! Never in the annals of their existence have they flourished so well. Prices have been forced up, not only in accordance with the laws of supply and demand, but for the benefit of the influx of the rich and influential foreigners, who consider it beneath their dignity to bargain.[Pg 121]
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[Pg 123] One so often hears officers complaining of how they are "rooked" out here instead of receiving the consideration of war prices. It is a pity that, in a country where bargaining is the order of the day, and successful bargaining is regarded as an art to be envied and emulated, we do not view the matter more broadmindedly, for this ignorance of racial differences is apt to lead to misunderstanding.

On another score the French have the upper hand. Why don't we have conscription? they ask. We wonder too, but the people at home don't seem to take things seriously.

I had occasion to take down some casks of oranges to the —— Barracks, a kind of auxiliary convalescent camp, where the "BX," or unfit men, live in a large concrete island swimming in the mud. The ambulance man who drove me groaned and swore vociferously at the number of whole-skinned youths "swanking" about the base.

"Why aren't they in the trenches?" he asked. "On our convoy we've nothing but men who have been refused for the Army. I've only been in Boulogne six hours (he was going on leave), and I'm disgusted with it all!"

December 26th. Christmas Day dawned the coldest, whitest Christmas anyone could wish for. The little church was packed for morning service, in spite of the fact that most of us had been to midnight mass at St. Nicholas, a service more noteworthy for the crowded congregation who surge unceasingly in their efforts to get to the fore than for any particular beauty or fervour.

All the afternoon we worked hard at concerts in the hospital and soldiers' institute, where I acted as accompanist. No doubt one day we shall grow accustomed to war, but I own that the crowded wards of the vast barn of men (whose hearty applause and cheery choruses covered the deficiencies of the performance), the uniforms, the white caps, the cheerfulness born of the determination to make the best of the abnormal circumstances, struck me as a never-to-be-forgotten thing. And in every hospital it is the same.

The men are all hung like Christmas trees with their presents, which they treasure as mementoes of this memorable year. Nor have the nurses been forgotten, and the little fur-lined cape sent to each one by H.M. Queen Alexandra is a gift that could not be bettered; for it is bitterly cold, with the damp cold that is a far greater tax upon one's powers of endurance than a crisp frost, and furs are a great luxury, as all the men glorying in their new sheepskin coats can testify.

It was not till nearly nine that our work ceased and we got any dinner at all, the midday meal having been cut out for a rehearsal.

December 29th. It was very impressive, the Seymour Hicks concert, to which some twenty of us were bidden. It took place in a large shed on the Quai du Bassin, which a pile of empty baskets and an occasional turnip prove to have been a vegetable market in other days.

The stage, built up of a stack of trestle tables, was ornamented with flags.

Looking round from our front seats at the 2,000 eager faces behind, there was a feeling of awe in our hearts as we realised how much devolved on us as representatives of our countrywomen out here.

Rain and hail beat down. The performance began. To our unaccustomed ears it was like a dream.

Of a sudden, an extra gust brought down the light wire and we were in blackness. The C.O. shouted that no men were to leave their seats, and the pianist played some of their own songs, to which they sang. Oh, how they sang, their deep voices threatening to bring the roof off!

In after years it will be interesting to note the music of 1914, the rise and wane of "Tipperary" and "Sister Susie" and a hundred other popular songs that have made life cheery for our warriors.

By the light of two carriage lamps the performance was finished, and, as we filed out, the men pressed forward to shake hands with nurses and artists indiscriminately, with a "Thank 'ee kindly——"

What a night! Hail and wind, thunder and rain, rockets and guns, the beat, beat, beat on the panes, the howling, the whistling of the wind, the clouds scurrying across the sky, the incessant noise without, the awful cold within. Above my bed the ceiling has nearly fallen in, whilst buckets act as receptacles for the rain in no fewer than three places. And dare we complain, whilst our men are in the trenches? Never!

The success of the concert makes one realise the tension at which we are living, makes one wish that something could be done to relieve it—a cinema opened, weekly concerts, etc., organised for the benefit of those who are working, as well as for the wounded, in order to make life more normal.

After all, it is as injurious to live at this highly strung pitch as it is to exist on a grey level, and "Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die" is not the spirit that makes for endurance in war or peace.

December 31st. A miracle has occurred, for the protest lodged by the Red Cross nurses has been heard, a compromise arrived at by which the original contract is to be fulfilled. Let their stand, which was not effected without much determination and hard work on the part of the leaders, be recorded as one of the first women's trade unions.

So ends 1914. God grant that the New Year may bring us Peace, or, if not Peace, the strength to play our parts in the great game worthily of our men!

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