February 3rd. To-day we are debating as to whether or not a genuine spy has been within our grasp and wriggled out again. The sum of the matter is this:

Boarding a crowded tram on its way into town, we were fain to avoid the closeness of the over-crowded interior by standing on the conductor's more airy platform. The conductor himself, an ill-grown little Belgian rÉformÉ, seemed pleased enough of company, judging by the avidity with which he poured forth his sorrows into our sympathetic ears.

Since the fall of Antwerp he has had no word from his young wife, nor has he been able to get a line through to her to inform her that he is alive. His terror lest she should wed again before his return was pathetic.

"HÉlas!" he kept sighing. "Has not Belgium suffered more than all countries put together?"

We did not rejoin, as we might well have done, that valiant Belgium's losses can only be compared with the sum of English lives expended in maintaining, maybe for sentimental as much as strategical reasons, that little hell round Ypres that represents all that remains of King Albert's country; for at about this moment a dark man in some kind of police uniform joined in the conversation.

He, too, was Belgian, he explained, and in charge of the refugees in the neighbourhood.

"The French hardly welcome us cordially," he said, "but I do my best to help the poor creatures whom Fate leads this way."

The conversation drifted to the recent air raid on London.

"I wonder they don't come here," said the conductor.

"On dit qu'il y a trop d'espions!" I remarked simply.

The dark man jumped, and, winking significantly, whispered in my ear:

"One can't talk here. You are in it too?"

Utterly taken aback, I was dumb for a moment. Had I by chance come upon one of the members of that huge octopus-like system of enemy espionage?

Then, moved by some unaccountable impulse, I nodded knowingly, and pointed out to sea.

"You know, then?" he asked, nodding in the direction in which I pointed. "Oui! AprÈs la guerre."

What could he mean? What was I expected to know, to be participating in?

I shall never learn; for at that moment the tram drew up, and with an unexpectedly hearty handshake and hopes of meeting again soon, this protector of the Belgians alighted and disappeared into the crowd.

Who could he be? "AprÈs la guerre"—what did it mean? I wonder.

February 6th. My diary draws to a close. To-day we went for the last time to the little church on the hill.

What a number of illusions have been dispelled since that October morning in 1914 when we first crept in late from the hospital, indoor uniform and all, just as we had come off duty!

The place had been packed then with warriors caked with the mud of Flanders. How their voices had resounded! For in the hearts of all was the cherished belief, "It is all too awful. It can't last long."

"Peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away." What a significance the familiar words had taken on in the unfamiliar surroundings.

And to-day? For congregation a few tired nurses, an odd officer or two, some civilians over here visiting their wounded and dying.

A service devoid of the burning enthusiasm of other days, a sermon that did not even mention war, or spur us on to greater efforts, or vindicate our cause, but dealing with obscure ritual and spiritual difficulties not likely to waylay most of us.

Undoubtedly our illusions are past. We have learnt our limitations as a nation; discovered the inherent nobility of many whose capacities had hitherto lacked opportunity, seen how war brings out the best and the worst of every character, and noted that at the bed-rock of all men lies the primitive savage.

The respect we so generously accorded our enemies in the beginning is replaced by a justifiable contempt for their barbarities. A certain allowance is made for soldiery fighting under the influence of ration drugs, but when we read, as we have to-day, of the death of three hundred Serbians, forced by Germans and Bulgarians to dig their own graves and then, having bound each other's eyes, await a horrible massacre, we are no longer justified in our tolerance.

We are up against a foe whose devilish unscrupulousness is only equalled by scientific cunning. And to combat his ingenuity, to rid the world of his demoralising degeneracy, every resource of the Empire must be brought into play.

Not merely individual but national sacrifice is needed. Conscription of labour and wealth and land, governors whose only inducement to govern is the joy of serving, a free Press and, above all, a sane and scientific education to fit our children to take the highest place among nations in the tremendous commercial war of the future.

Gone are the days of blind optimism and hope; gone the men who passed through and found a few hours' solace within these grey walls; gone the youth that made the impossible appear achievable. The very stones seemed listless, the dim daylight, filtering through high windows, weary.

An old Staff Colonel in front of me leant against the grey pillar and wept like a child. Was he mourning one of those who passed through earlier? Most of them have gone West by now.

In the interim of the swelling organ rose the cry of the wind in moans and sobs round the old stones whose founder had passed away this very morning.

Such was St. John's-on-the-Hill.

Mists lay all over the city and over the dashing sea as we wended our way for a last visit to the camps, where we lent a helping hand.

It is as wonderful as the never-extinguished vestal fire, this work that has no ending—these huts where no sooner is one batch of troops sent on than another arrives, with time only for occasional spasmodic cleanings.

A battalion of K.'s "contemptible little Army" had arrived during the night. If, after nineteen months' fighting, this is the specimen of manhood England can produce—well knit, in the prime of condition, the embodiment of health and strength—all one can say is: "Cave, Germania!"

And though to collect the ever-dwindling supply of mugs (beginning with a thousand on Monday, one may safely reckon to find but 800 by Saturday night! Where they walk to no man knows—sometimes homewards, more often trenchwards, one surmises), although to collect the mugs it is a literal necessity to step over figures that lie huddled against each other in a sleep so deep, so log-like, that nothing disturbs them, one is none the less impressed by their magnificence.

The evolution of the camp canteen is a thing to note. There is the wooden roof and flooring in place of the close interior of a boardless, draughty tent; there is an augmented staff, for ever cooking and stewing, to cope with the work; and stores are conveyed regularly to the place, obviating the necessity for those spasmodic rushes to fetch substitutes for bread when the supply of everything gave out at the same moment.

To be sure, the difficulties of taking the till remain the same, and the problem of changing an English pound-note into French money at 26 francs 30 centimes—the last time we were here the rate was 25 francs—subtracting the price of a cup of tea, a packet of shag, a pencil and a shaving stick, doling out all these articles with the exception of the tea; immediately afterwards rendering a French three francs into English coin, subtracting for a bar of chocolate and a hand mirror. Continuing this process uninterruptedly and unceasingly for an hour, during which time one is assailed by a chorus of questions such as "What's the price of a 'am sandwich, Miss?" "What time does the leave boat go?" "What mayn't we put in a letter home?" etc., ad lib.; all this to the non-mathematician is bewildering in the extreme.

At the old Queen Mary Hut, where my apprenticeship had been served, the development was even more amazing. A billiard-room, with no fewer than four tables supplied by a benevolent speculator, has been built, and a row of baths for men on their way home, whilst the kitchens are so finished that they might well be envied by any efficient housewife.

But perhaps the culminating point is the cinema hall that has been opened not far off—a cinema hall to accommodate a goodly number, and worthy of the Metropolis itself.

There was a last committee meeting too; those committee meetings that were landmarks on our calendar. They were a fortnightly institution, and consisted of the lady superintendents of the different centres, who met the camp leaders—the male portion of the staff—every month. Their purport was to discuss the affairs of state, business difficulties, etc.

By one who was competent to judge they were described as the "safety valve for ladies who must grouse," and certainly there was a good deal of talk about nothing. One lady would ask how many swabs and dusters it was permissible to buy for one hut—a question which might, or might not, duly be recorded in the minutes. The next would complain of her indolent orderlies. Important questions in themselves, but not of great use to those of us who found it possible to settle these matters amongst ourselves!

The agony I had gone through during those early committee meetings will be for ever remembered, for, being the only unmarried woman under forty in a community bent on filling all vacancies with their personal friends, my position was not enviable. But for a sense of humour it would have been intolerable. Over and over again the question of age would arise as I would sit in dumb impotence whilst one inquisitor after another voiced their views.

"Miss B—— would be excellent in charge of X—— centre if she weren't so young. I know officially she is only thirty, and it would not do."

"We don't approve of young women," said another. "There, of course, is the exception," bowing to me.

Seeing I was many years younger than the youngest worker, my feelings can better be imagined than explained. My own experience is that the best workers range from twenty-five to forty, and over that age no woman should be allowed in the war zone. There is no room in the system of "scrap and discard" for those who are easily fatigued; and women unaccustomed to manual work, however enthusiastic they may be, are unable to acclimatise themselves to it as they get on in years.

For endurance, too, younger women are needed. As a subaltern, invalided down with nerves after seventeen months' fighting, said to me recently:

"It's all a matter of time—the only difference is, we younger ones can stand it longer."

The same holds good for women's work. Spurts of energy followed by collapse are useless. It is the power of steady endurance that is required, and found most often in younger women.

Nor is there any room for the caprices of the dangerous age. The past generation was not brought up with the public school esprit de corps which characterises the modern girls, and which has taught them to play for their side or institution, and not for their own ends.

But to get back to the committee meeting, and to do justice to its evolution, I must state that after all these months, during which we have combated for automatic rising as recognition of work for the Reward of Service, it has adopted the broader view that not personal acquaintances but proved workers are most deserving of responsibility, whether old or young.

February 10th. My final impression of the place was a beautiful one. An extemporary concert, with many choruses, a packed house, an enthusiastic, cheering audience. It is like a very beautiful dream that we had dreamed true, this place; and, now that it is sufficiently perfect, other and fresher hands than ours must take it over—fresher, but not more loving.

Here in this little out-of-the-way corner of the globe, in a very insignificant work, we have buried all our youth and most of our vitality. God! but[Pg 305]
[Pg 306]
[Pg 307] it is hard to relinquish the reaping to others! "To renounce without bitterness!"

A last glimpse of that City of Little White Crosses, where, past pain, past suffering, in rows of close formation—closer than they ever stood in lifetime shoulder to shoulder—lie those who are "for ever England."

Could they but see those dear shores of home they had so longed for with their dying breath, radiating their messages of pride and thankfulness across the Channel, how proud they would be!

A military cemetery "Somewhere in France" is a thing one does not forget. If, one day when peace reigns, we are once more growing slothful and negligent of the bigger issues of life, let us pay a yearly pilgrimage to one of these shrines of our honoured exiles.

True, the French gravediggers will no longer be shovelling the sandy soil over the newest comers, hiding the tier upon tier of plain deal coffins or the number-plates that are the only distinguishing marks; true, the unwonted odour of Death will no longer haunt our nostrils; mayhap we, too, shall be deaf to the sighing of the many souls in the wind. Yet surely the warrior spirits will arise and strengthen us, whispering: "Let us not have died in vain. We laid down our lives for the Old Country. For the love of God 'carry on,' as we had hoped to do."

A last look at the faces of those friends who for many months have formed my whole world.

Then "Cheer up, you have done your bit," they cry as we step aboard. As if any man, woman or child of Britain has done his bit until this thing is over, until there is some semblance of the crushing victory that shall lay our unscrupulous enemy low!

Then on to the boat.

One parting gift that was pressed into my hands on leaving will be treasured for all time. It is John Oxenham's little volume "All's Well," and to us out here it seems as if he has been divinely inspired to bear the message of hope to countless broken hearts.