B00D2VJZ4G EBOK

by Jon E. Lewis

  To add to the horrors of the retreat, there fell upon the mountains in that December one of the worst snowstorms for decades, and then was the pathway indeed bordered by death. We were crossing the higher passes, and only a 2-foot track wound upwards. On the right were snow-covered cliffs, on the left a sheer drop to the river 1,000 feet below. Two mules could not pass each other on that path, deep in snow or slippery with ice, and when a pack mule fell and died (brave little faithful beasts of burden) there they froze and the trail passed over them. The worst night of the storm we sheltered in an Albanian hut. The fire smouldered in the middle of the mud floor, the smoke escaping through a hole in the roof – and round the fire squatted the family – unto the third and fourth generation! Around them again, the refugees, soldiers, and nurses, and the livestock of the little farm. (My neighbour on one side was a warm and comfortable calf!) Everything that could be sheltered was sheltered; those that had no shelter remained out on the mountain and died. In the morning, the pack-mules, which were under the lee of the hut, were frozen stiff; and again the blankets and gear were reduced. At the last, when the mountains were crossed, and the weary, muddy miles to the sea lay before us, nothing remained to most of us but what we carried ourselves. But we had our lives, and many had left theirs on those cruel heights. But for those exiles, literally bereft of everything that made life worth living – family, home, country – what use, after all, seemed even that?

  Those last days, towards the sea and the ultimate hope of rest, were even more dreadful than the rest. For now it was not the snow which covered death and corruption, but mud. It seemed as though there never had been and never again could be anything else than rain, rain, rain. And in all the world there is surely nothing more depressing than rain which falls soddenly on mud, and mud which receives all sullenly the rain.

  Then, as the uttermost depths seemed reached, the skies of the nearly-last night cleared. It was late, nearly midnight, but the little fishing village on the Adriatic coast had somehow to be reached by morning – for a ship was to be there to take us off. (It was torpedoed, and we sat on the shore, as it happened, for three more days.) And suddenly, out of the welter of misery, the road burst out on to the sea – lying dark and shining under stars; and perhaps the most vivid memory of all those weeks of adventure is the sight of her – sudden, beautiful, clean. ‘Who hath desired the sea, the immense and contemptuous surges’; after all, what was starvation and death?

  The Italian ship which was to meet us at San Giovanni di Medua was, as I said, torpedoed, along with every food-ship which was being sent by the Italian Government to meet the refugees. The little harbour was full of the sprouting masts and funnels of unhappy ships which had been sunk, a pitiful sight at the ebb of the tide. And the surrounding hills were quivering at night with the little fires of innumerable soldiers, who had survived starvation on the mountains only to meet it again on the shore. While overhead the Austrian aeroplanes circled, and dropped their bombs.

  Then, after three days, a ship got through. Little as she was, she was able to take off all the Red Cross units. The soldiers had to set off again on that everlasting trek, down to Alassio and the further ports. No man of military age was allowed on board, but many refugees who were quite hopelessly smashed, and women of the coast as well, filled the little ship literally to overflowing. There was not room for all to lie down. Twice she was attacked, and tacking, swerving, zigzagging across the Adriatic, we came at last at dawn to Brindisi. And as the light grew, to port and starboard of the little ship, loomed in the mist first one and then another protecting form. And hearts at last believed in safety, for they were British gunboats. We landed at Brindisi, and had our first real meal for over two months.

  Miss M. I. Tatham served (1915) with Stobart Field Hospital (Serbian Relief Unit), Kraguyevatz, Serbia. 1916–1917, Corsica, S.R.F. Unit. 1918, Scottish Women’s Hospital, Royaumont and Villers-Côterets, France, until the Armistice.

  THE STORY OF A W.A.A.C.

  A. B. Baker

  This is a girl’s contribution. It has few thrills.

  First, as to why I went: at home, my father was too old to go. Also, he had the farm. My sister and I have no brother. Many relatives lived near us. All had men-folk who could go to fight – and did. Uncles, cousins, and cousins ‘sweethearts were all in the trenches or in training for the trenches. Three or four times a week an aunt or a cousin would bring in her letter from the Front, and read it proudly. They were anxious of course. One cousin was killed. One uncle was wounded. But they were proud, above all. They said that Father and Mother were lucky, to have no one about whom they need be anxious. Yet even my young sister could see that they pitied us, too.

  I do not know what Mother felt. I quickly discovered that Father did not count himself lucky. Their pity hurt his pride. With him, it was not only pride. The farm had been the family’s for two hundred years. The country meant more to Father than flags waved and glib patriotic cant uttered. The old sorrow that he had no sons had become, I guessed, a new bitterness.

  To be brief, there you have the reason why I joined the W.A.A.C.s. I joined first and told my home-folks afterwards. (I had to call myself twenty-one. They would allow no girl under twenty-one to go to France. I meant to go to France. But I was not nineteen.) Mother was upset. Father said little. Yet I knew that he was glad.

  I was sent to camp near Oswestry. My humdrum training days are of no interest to Everyman. Here are two impressions which remain. How good it was to wear (unofficial) riding breeches! How queer in the small villages of the Glynceiriog Valley to feel myself the foreigner that I was! I had not left Britain: yet I was a stranger in a strange land, with strange speech in my ears.

  We went to France, via Folkestone. Our billet was a big hotel by the sea. I liked its luxury. It had not occurred to me before that riches have their good side. I seemed to grow taller in those lofty rooms. The many bright lights and the soft, thick carpets made me feel quietly content. I think that I must have had the feeling which our cat has when it purrs on the rug before the fire at home.

  Our draft was posted. The end of Folkestone was excitement and inoculation and leave.

  That last English leave of mine was rather wonderful. Mother cried. Daddy took me down to the pig-sties and talked. He told me that he was proud of me. He knew, he said, that I should be good. He wanted me to be kind as well as good. The Tommies were heroes, but they were men, too. I had only to respect myself, and they would respect me, also.

  I did not understand all this at the time. I did later.

  Daddy scratched Dolly the sow’s back while he talked. The old sow grunted. Months afterwards, those grunts came back to me. A Tommy who wasn’t a hero, and not much of a man, tried to make love to me. He was the exception to Daddy’s rule: I had respected myself, and this man wanted not to respect me. I got away from him, and ran. He ran after me. I could run better than he. Soon, he was grunting much like the old sow. No other Tommy behaved like this one. They did as Daddy said they would do.

  The Channel brought my first real war thrill. Like the other girls, I was, I think, both sad and exalted at the thought of England behind, and of France in front. The zigzag course we kept was because of German submarines: with these our destroyer escorts were there to deal. Foolishly, I wished that the submarines might be there with which to be dealt. I had my wish. A torpedo missed us by a few feet. In a flash, I discovered that I did not want to die. Especially, I did not want to die in that horrible green water that was under and on every side of us.

  The excitement died away. Our course grew less erratic. Our escorts became sedate once more. I had never heard bells more cheerful than those which rang below-deck as we entered harbour at last!

  I had got to France, but I had not got to the War. I was never very near the line. The devilish guns rumbled day and night. By day, the click-clacking of my typewriter keys drowned the rumbling of the guns. In that, I see now, lay a parable. I saw only unheroic monotony, then. By night, the r
umbling grew louder and seemed nearer. Wakeful, I would make impossible plans to get hold of a Tommy’s uniform, in it to break camp and to make my way to the line.

  There I was to be a second Lady of the Lamp, or something equally ridiculous. It was all very schoolgirlish and absurd, I have no doubt. But, then, I was absurd, and I had been a schoolgirl not so very long before.

  I did not get to the War. But twice the War got to me. On each occasion it was at Étaples in 1918. Let me tell of one of the two.

  The bridge at Étaples meant much to the Allies: in consequence, the enemy made incessant attacks upon it from the air. Near it, in the sunlight of a spring day, I saw half a company of men blown to pieces by bombs. Some of the latter fell into the adjoining cemetery. Coffins and dead men were blown from their graves. Into those graves limbs of living men and fragments of shattered dead men were flung.

  Our N.C.O. shouted: ‘Quick, girls, quick! The dug-outs.’ In the shelter and comparative safety of one of them, I found myself laughing hysterically, and crying: ‘The quick and the dead; the quick and the dead.’

  I remember that I was very sick, I said my prayers; I thought of Mother. I wished that I were home.

  A few days later I had a letter from our curate. In it he talked about war as noble discipline. He said it purged men of selfishness, and by its pity and terror brought men nearer to God. I felt sick for a second time. He put with his letter a printed Prayer for Victory, and told me to say it every night. I remembered that my prayer in the dug-out had been just this, said over and over again: ‘O God, stop this war; stop it, and let me go home.’ At home the curate had been rather a hero of mine. He wasn’t my hero any more.

  Soon after this my chum and I thought that we would go to the cinema. In the town we came upon a queue of Tommies. One of them was shouting out: ‘This way for the one-an’-thruppennies.’ We tacked ourselves to the end of the queue. The Tommies tittered. For some reason we seemed to amuse them very much. Then one rather nice boy came to us, and said: ‘Missies, this performance is for men only.’ He blushed as he said it. We did not understand, but we went away.

  Afterwards, when we did understand, I wondered what the curate would have said about that queue.

  In the ‘office’ I had, as part of my work, to translate into English letters written in French. (It was my knowledge of colloquial French, rather than my white lies as to my age, which had got me to France.) A number of these were from the parents of French girls who were with child. At first, this seemed very terrible to me. It shocked me most that my superiors should be shocked so little. ‘Another Mamzelle like it,’ one would say. ‘Damned little fool!’ a second would answer. That was all. They looked upon it as natural and normal, a necessary nuisance of war. They called it a ‘beastly bother’ when I was about. They used stronger terms when they thought I was out of hearing. Never once did I hear an expression of pity or sorrow or indignation.

  Sometimes, one of these girls would come to the office, alone or with her parents. One was Hélène. She came alone, at midday, when I was in sole charge. She was frantic. She said that her father would kill her: she said that she would kill herself. She implored me to help her find the man. She would kill him when she had found him, if he would not marry her. Suddenly her rage left her. She sobbed like a child. She refused to tell me anything but her Christian name, and went away. For weeks the sound of her sobbing haunted me. I never knew what became of her.

  There was, too, the old grandmother of another girl. Her back was bent, but not her spirit. She cursed me; she cursed the Colonel; she cursed the British Army; she cursed England and all the English. She went away, cursing. I sat shivering and ashamed.

  In the beginning I condemned these girls and their men in my heart. Later, I learned not to judge. I myself became very friendly with a young sergeant named John. He had been in France for over three years and had been several times wounded. Gas and shrapnel had left him fit only for a job at the Base. When the big German advance began in March, 1918, however, he was put on draft for the trenches. He had to report at ten o’clock. At seven o’clock he asked me to go for a walk with him, as I had done several times before. We went into the woods. The stars were clear. The night was very beautiful. There were rustlings at our feet, and twitterings over our heads. The guns rumbled in the north, and the ground shook slightly beneath us as he talked of his Surrey home and the woods near it, which he loved. He said that he was afraid – more afraid than he had ever been in his life. He was sure that this time he was going to ‘collect something worse than a packet.’ He wanted to know what I believed about death. I forget what I told him. He made me promise to write to his mother if anything happened to him. When I promised he said that I was a ‘dear kid.’ I was very near to crying. He asked me if he could kiss me. I said, ‘Yes.’ He kissed me many times, and held me very tight. He held me so tight that he hurt me and frightened me. His whole body was shaking. I felt for him as I had never felt for any man before. I know now that it wasn’t love. It was just the need to comfort him a little. I am an emotional girl. I might have forgotten what Daddy had told me by the pigsties, if John had not been so decent. Before he need have done, he took me back into the town, saying: ‘This won’t do. You shouldn’t get so sorry for a chap. It’s risky for you. You’re only a kid.’

  It was not till later that I realized how decent John had been. Yet Daddy, I know, would have called him ‘common’ and ‘not my sort.’ He was killed before March was out.

  It was in April that my own great grief came to me. A telegram was sent, telling me that my Mother was very ill. They gave me leave, and I went home. When I got there, Mother had been dead six hours. Influenza had killed her in three days, as it had killed many thousands more. The sun shone when they buried her. The cherry trees were white. ‘It is God’s will; His will be done; for He is good,’ the Vicar said. I thought of the men blown into pieces at Étaples, and of the corpses blown from their graves. I thought of John, dead near Arras, and of Mother dead in our quiet churchyard. I thought of Daddy, who had cried because Mother was dead, and of Hélène, who had cried because her unborn child was alive. It set me wondering whether the Vicar knew any more of God than the Curate did of war.

  My leave ended, and I went back to France. One of the first letters I received was from a boy friend of mine. He was a Quaker, and he had written his letter from prison. He had been put in prison because he had shown in times of war that he had meant what he had said in times of peace. Till then I had abominated his opinions. At least, I thought I had. Yet – his letter was a queerly happy letter. He said that, thinking of France and the Tommies there, he had been miserable until they had put him in prison. He said that he wasn’t miserable any more. He was sure that he was doing his bit for England.

  I read that letter, written on blue prison paper, many times. I had begun to doubt whether there was any God, or, if there was a God, whether He was good. In some way and for some reason that letter made me doubt my doubts. I wondered what Sergeant John would have thought of it.

  The spring and the summer went on. The Germans began to go back. The Allies began to go forward and to take prisoners. Part of my work had to do with prisoners quartered in a camp near to our own. Those Germans were friendly men. They were clever with their hands, and would give me little carvings which they had made. One of them had a look of Father about him. He talked a little like Father, too. He said that he was sure that I was as good as I was kind. (A few packets of cigarettes quickly made one a paragon of kindness in the eyes of prisoners of war.) I found it strange that he should seem so genuinely concerned for me.

  These German prisoners would sing in the evenings. They would often sing hymns. Many of these hymns were the old, familiar hymns which, or the tunes of which, I had sung in church at home. They had rich voices. They put much feeling into their singing.

  It must have been at about this time that I found I could say my prayers again. Or, rather, not my prayers, but this one prayer: O G
od, stop this war; stop it and set all us poor prisoners free.’ That seemed to cover the Tommies and me, the German prisoners and my friend in prison in England.

  The day of Armistice came, and the War stopped. I remember that I drank four glasses of champagne, and afterwards had a very bad headache. Later I felt ashamed.

  Demobbed, I went home. There they wanted to treat me as a sort of heroine. Their talk hurt me, even Daddy’s. They praised me for all the wrong things. When I tried to tell them what the War had taught me; they were hurt in their turn. When I went to visit my friend, not yet released from prison, they were angry. When he and I – but that is another story.

  The War Office sent me two medals after many months.

  Mrs. A. B. Baker joined the W.A.A.C. in mid-1917; trained at Kimmel Park, Oswestry, etc.; went to France late 1917, Étaples, Rouen, Dieppe; demobilized 1919.

  WAR AT SEA

  J. Willey

  When war threatened in 1914 I was stationed in the East Indies on board H.M.S. Fox. She was an old cruiser and due for the scrap-heap. We were to return to England in August, 1914, but on July 27th, being on that date in Muscat taking in coal, orders were received that caused us to leave that afternoon for an unknown destination.

  We began to prepare for war immediately we got our orders for sea. We were taking in coal on one side of the ship, and changing our colour from white to grey on the other. Once we were at sea, we took down all awnings and rolled them up, placing them – along with our bedding – around the most vulnerable parts of the ship. Splinter nets were rigged over each battery of guns, and rails cleared away, and rigging ‘snaked’ down. We kept station at our guns, torpedo tubes and searchlights at night. We had almost settled down to war routine before war began – at least we thought we had.