Woman's Experiences in the Great War — Chapters 48-50
So I am in France now.
But War-Correspondents are not wanted here.
They are driven out wherever discovered.
I shall not stay long.
All my time is taken up in running about getting papers; my bag is getting out of shape; it bulges with the Laisser Passers, and Sauf Conduits that one has to fight so hard to get.
However, to be among French-speaking people again is a great joy.
And to-day in Dunkirk it has refreshed and consoled me greatly to see Madame Piers cooking.
The old Frenchwoman moved about her tiny kitchen,--her infinitesimally tiny kitchen,--and I watched her from my point of observation, seated on a tiny chair, at a tiny table, squeezed up into a tiny corner.
It really was the smallest kitchen I'd ever seen, No, you couldn't have swung a cat in it--you really couldn't. And no one but a thrifty French housewife could have contrived to get that wee round table and little chair into that tiny angle.
Yet I felt very cosy and comfortable there, and the old grey-haired French mother, preparing supper for her household, and for any soldier who might be passing by, seemed perfectly satisfied with her cramped surroundings, and kept begging me graciously to remain where I was, drinking the hot tea she had just made for me, while my boots (that were always wet out there) dried under her big charcoal stove.
And always she smiled away; and I smiled too.
Who could help it?
She and her kitchen were the most charming study imaginable.
Every now and then her fine, old, brown, thin, wrinkled hand would reach over my head for a pot, or a brush, or a pan, from the wall behind, or the shelf above me, while the other hand would stir or shake something over the wee gas-ring or the charcoal stove.
For so small was the kitchen that by stretching she could reach at the same time to the wall on either side.
Then she began to pick over a pile of rough-looking green stuff, very much like that we in England should contemptuously call weeds.
Pick, pick, pick!
A diamond merchant with his jewels could not have been more careful, more delicate, more, watchful.
And as I thought that, it suddenly came over me that to this old, careful, thrifty Frenchwoman those weedy greens were not weeds at all, but were really as precious as diamonds, for she was a Frenchwoman, clever and disciplined in the art of thrift, and they represented the most important thing in all the world to-day--food.
Food means life.
Food means victory.
Food means the end of the War, and PEACE.
You could read all that in her black, intelligent eyes.
Then I began to sit up and watch her more closely still.
When she had picked off all those little hard leaves, she cracked up the bare, harsh stalks into pieces an inch long, and flung them all, leaves and stalks, into a saucepan of boiling water, which she presently pushed aside to let simmer away gently for ten minutes or so.
Meanwhile she is carefully peeling a hard-boiled egg, taking the shell off in two pieces, and shredding up the white on a little white saucer, never losing a crumb of it even.
An egg!
Why waste an egg like that?
But indeed, she is not going to waste it.
She is using the yolk to make mayonnaise sauce, and the white is for decoration later on.
With all her thrift she must have things pretty.
Her cheap dishes must have an air of finish, an artistic touch;
and she knows, and acts up to the fact, that the yellow and white egg is not wasted, but returns a hundred per cent.
, because it is going to make her supper look a hundred times more important than it really is.
Now she takes the greens from the saucepan, drains them, and puts them into a little frying-pan on the big stove; and she peppers and salts them, and turns them about, and leaves them with a little smile.
She always has that little smile for everything, and I think that goes into the flavour somehow!
And now she pours the water the greens were boiled in, into that big soup-pot on the big stove, and gives the soup a friendly stir just to shew that she hasn't forgotten it.
She opens the cupboard, and brings out every little or big bit of bread left over from lunch and breakfast, and she shapes them a little with her sharp old knife, and she hurries them all into the big pot, putting the lid down quickly so that even the steam doesn't get out and get wasted!
Now she takes the greens off the fire, and puts them into a dear little round white china dish, and leaves them to get cold.
She opens her cupboard again and brings out a piece of cold veal cutlet and a piece of cold steak left over from luncheon yesterday, and to-day also.
What is she going to do with these?
She is going to make them our special dish for supper.
She begins to shred them up with her old sharp blade--shreds them up finely, not mincing, not chopping, but shredding the particles apart--and into them she shreds a little cold ham and onion, and then she flavours it well with salt and pepper.
Then she piles this all on a dish and covers it with golden mayonnaise, and criss-crosses it with long red wires of beetroot.
The greens are cold now, and she dresses them.
She oils them, and vinegars them, and pats and arranges them, and decorates them with the white of the chopped egg and thin little slices of tomato.
"Voilà!
The salad!"
she says, with her flash of a smile.
Salad for five people--a beautiful, tasty, green, melting, delicious salad that might have been made of young asparagus tips!
And what did it cost?
One farthing, plus the labour and care and affection and time that the old woman put into the making of it--plus, in other words, her thrift!
Now she must empty my tea-pot.
Does she turn it upside down over a bucket of rubbish as they do in England, leaving the tea-leaves to go to the dustman when he calls on Friday?
She would think that an absolutely wicked thing to do if she had ever heard of such proceedings, but she has not.
She drains every drop of tea into a jug, puts a lid on it, and places it away in her safe; then she empties the tea-leaves into a yellow earthenware basin, and puts a plate over them, and puts them up on a shelf.
I begin to say to myself, with quite an excited feeling, "Shall I ever see her throw anything away?"
Potatoes next.
Ah!
Now there'll be peelings, and those she'll have to throw away.
Not a bit of it!
There are only the very thinnest, filmiest scrapings of dark down off this old dear's potatoes.
And suddenly I think of poor dear England, where our potato skins are so thick that a tradition has grown from them, and the maids throw them over their shoulders and see what letter they make on the floor, and that will be the first letter of _his_ name!
Laughing, I tell of this tradition to my old Frenchwoman.
And what do you think she answers?
"The skin must be very thick not to break," she says solemnly.
"But then you English are all so rich!"
Are we?
Or are we simply--what?
Is it that, bluntly put, we are lazy?
After the fall of Antwerp, when a million people had fled into Holland, I saw ladies in furs and jewels holding up beseeching, imploring hands to the kindly but bewildered Dutch folk asking for bread--just bread!
It was a terrible sight!
But shall we, too, be begging for bread some day?
Shall we, too, be longing for the pieces we threw away?
Who knows?
Finally we sat down to an exquisite supper.
First, there was croûte au pot--the nicest soup in the world, said a King of France, and full of nourishment.
Then there was a small slice each of tender, juicy boiled beef out of the big soup-pot, never betraying for a minute that that beautiful soup had been made from it.
With that beef went the potatoes sautée in butter, and sprinkled with chopped green.
After that came the chicken mayonnaise and salad of asparagus tips (otherwise cold scraps and weeds).
There are five of us to supper in that little room behind the milliner's shop--an invalided Belgian officer; a little woman from Malines looking after her wounded husband in hospital here; Mdlle.
Alice, the daughter, who keeps the millinery shop in the front room; the old mother, a high lace collar on now, and her grey hair curled and coiffured; and myself.
The mother waits on us, slipping in and out like a cat, and we eat till there is nothing left to want, and nothing left to eat.
And then we have coffee--such coffee!
Which reminds me that I quite forgot to say I caught the old lady putting the shells of the hard-boiled egg into the coffee-pot!
And that is French cooking in War time!
[Illustration: Permit du Dunkirque.
] CHAPTER XLIX THE FIGHT IN THE AIR
Next morning, Sunday, about half-past ten, I was walking joyfully on that long, beautiful beach at Dunkirk, with all the winds in the world in my face, and a golden sun shining dazzlingly over the blue skies into the deep blue sea-fields beneath.
The rain had ceased.
The peace of God was drifting down like a dove's wing over the tortured world.
From the city of Dunkirk a mile beyond the Plage the chimes of Sabbath bells stole out soothingly, and little black-robed Frenchwomen passed with prayer books and eyes down bent.
It was Sunday morning, and for the first time in this new year religion and spring were met in the golden beauty of a day that was windswept and sunlit simultaneously, and that swept away like magic the sad depression of endless grey monotonous days of rain and mud.
And then, all suddenly, a change came sweeping over the golden beach and the turquoise skies overhead and all the fair glory of the glittering morning turned with a crash into tragedy.
Crash!
Crash!
Bewildered, not understanding, I heard one deafening intonation after another fling itself fiercely from the cannons that guard the port and city of Dunkirk.
Then followed the shouts of fishermen, soldiers, nurses and the motley handful of people who happened to be on the beach just then.
Everybody began shouting and everybody began running and pointing towards the sky; and then I saw the commencement of the most extraordinary sight this war has witnessed.
An English aeroplane was chasing a German Taube that had suddenly appeared above the coast-line.
The German was doing his best to make a rush for Dunkirk, and the Englishman was doing his best to stop him.
As I watched I held my breath.
The English aeroplane came on fiercely and mounted with a swift rush till it gained a place in the bright blue skies above the little insect-like Taube.
It seemed that the English aviator must now get the better of his foe;
but suddenly, with an incredible swiftness, the German doubled and, giving up his attempt to get across the city, fled eastwards like a mad thing, with the Englishman after him.
But now one saw that the German machine responded more quickly and had far the better of it as regards pace, leaving the pursuing Englishman soon far behind it, and rushing away across the skies at a really incredible rate.
But while this little thrilling byplay was engaging the attention of everyone far greater things were getting in train.
Another Taube was sneaking, unobserved, among the clouds, and was rapidly gaining a place high up above Dunkirk.
And now it lets fall a bomb, that drops down, down, into the town beneath.
Immediately, with a sound like the splitting of a million worlds, everything and everyone opens fire, French, English, Belgians, and all.
The whole earth seems to have gone mad.
Up into the sky they are all firing, up into the brilliant golden sunlight at that little black, swiftly-moving creature, that spits out venomously every two or three minutes black bombs that go slitting through the air with a faint screech till they touch the earth and shed death and destruction all around.
And now--what's this?
All along the shore, slipping and sailing along across the sky comes into sight an endless succession of Taubes.
They glitter like silver in the sunlight, defying all the efforts of the French artillery; they sail along with a calm insouciance that nearly drives me mad.
Crash!
crash!
crash!
Bang!
bang!
bang!
The cannon and the rifles are at them now with a fury that defies all words.
The firing comes from all directions.
They are firing inland and they are firing out to sea.
At last I run into a house with some French soldiers who are clenching their hands with rage at that Taube's behaviour.
One!
two!
three!
four!
five!
six!
seven!
eight!
nine!
ten!
Everyone is counting.
Eleven!
twelve!
thirteen!
fourteen!
fifteen!
sixteen!
"Voilà un autre!"
cry the French soldiers every minute.
They utter groans of rage and disgust.
The glittering cavalcade sails serenely onward, until the whole sky-line from right to left above the beach is dotted with those sparkling creatures, now outlined against the deep plentiful blue of the sky, and now gliding and hiding beneath some vast soft drift of feathery grey-white cloud.
It is a sight never to be forgotten.
Its beauty is so vivid, so thrilling, that it is difficult to realise that this lovely spectacle of a race across the sky is no game, no race, no exhibition, but represents the ultimate end of all the races and prizes and exhibitions and attempts to fly.
Here is the whole art of flying in a tabloid as it were, with all its significance at last in evidence.
The silver aeroplanes over the sea keep guard all the time, moving along very, very slowly, and very high up, until the Taube has dropped its last bomb over the city.
Then they glide away across the sea in the direction of England.
I walked back to the city.
What a change since I came through it an hour or so before!
I looked at the Hotel de Ville and shuddered.
All the windows were smashed; and just at the side, in a tiny green square, was the great hole that showed where the bomb had fallen harmlessly.
All the afternoon the audacious Taube remained rushing about high above Dunkirk.
But later that afternoon, as I was in a train en route for Fumes, fate threw in my way the chance to see a glorious vindication!
The train was brought suddenly to a standstill.
We all jumped up and looked out.
It was getting dusk, but against the red in the sky two black things were visible.
One dropped a bomb, intended for the railway station a little further on.
By that we knew it was German, but we had little time to think.
The other aeroplane rushed onwards; firing was heard, and down came the German, followed by the Frenchman.
They alighted almost side by side.
We could see quite plainly men getting out and rushing towards each other.
A few minutes later some peasants came rushing to tell us that the two Germans from the Taube both lay dead on the edge of that sandy field to westward.
Then our train went on.
CHAPTER L THE WAR BRIDE
The train went on.
It was dark, quite dark, when I got out of it ac last, and looked about me blinking.
This was right at the Front in Flanders, and a long cavalcade of French soldiers were alighting also.
Two handsome elderly Turcos with splendid eyes, black beards, and strange, hard, warrior-like faces, passed, looking immensely distinguished as they mounted their arab horses, and rode off into the night, swathed in their white head-dresses, with their flowing picturesque cloaks spread out over their horses' tails, their swords clanking at their sides, and their blazing eyes full of queer, bold pride.
Then, to my great surprise, I see coming out of the station two ladies wrapped in furs, a young lady and an old one.
"Delightful," I think to myself.
As I come up with them I hear them enquiring of a sentinel the way to the Hotel de Noble Rose, and with the swift friendliness of War time I stop and ask if I may walk along with them.
"Je suis Anglais!"
I add.
"Avec beaucoup de plaisir!"
they cry simultaneously.
"We are just arrived from Folkestone," the younger one explains in pretty broken English, as we grope our way along the pitch-black cobbled road.
"Ah!
But what a journey!"
But her voice bubbles as she speaks, and, though I cannot see her face, I suddenly become aware that for some reason or other this girl is filled with quite extraordinary happiness.
Picking our way along the road in the dark, with the cannons growling away fiercely some six miles off, she tells me her "petite histoire."
She is a little Brussels bride, in search of her soldier bridegroom, and she has, by dint of persistent, never-ceasing coaxing, persuaded her old mother to set out from Brussels, all this long, long way, through Antwerp, to Holland, then to Flushing, then to Folkestone, then to Calais, then to Dunkirk, and finally here, to the Front, where her soldier bridegroom will be found.
He is here.
He has been wounded.
He is better.
He has always said, "No!
no!
you must not come."
And now at last he had said, "Come," and here she is!
She is so pretty, so simple, so girlish, and sweet, and the mother is such a perfect old duck of a mother, that I fall in love with them both.
Presently we find ourselves in the quaint old Flemish Inn with oil lamps and dark beams.
The stout, grey-moustached landlord hastens forward.
"Have you a message for Madame Louis."
The bride gasps out her question.
"Oui, Oui, Madame!"
the landlord answers heartily.
"There is a message for you.
You are to wait here.
That is the message!"
"Bien!"
Her eyes flame with joy.
So we order coffee and sit at a little table, chattering away.
But I confess that all I want is to watch that young girl's pale, dark face.
Rays of light keep illuminating it, making it almost divinely beautiful, and it seems to me I have never come so close before to another human being's joy.
And then a soldier walks in.
He comes towards her.
She springs to her feet.
He utters a word.
He is telling her her husband is out in the passage.
Very wonderful is the way that girl gets across the big, smoky, Flemish café.
I declare she scarcely touches the ground.
It is as near flying as anyone human could come.
Then she is through the door, and we see no more.
Ah, but we can imagine it, we two, the old mother and I!
And we look at each other, and her eyes are wet, and so are mine, and we smile, but very mistily, very shakily, at the thought of those two in the little narrow passage outside, clasped in each others' arms.
* * * * * They come in presently.
They sit with us now, the dear things, sit hand in hand, and their young faces are almost too sacred to look at, so dazzling is the joy written in both his and hers.
They are bathed in smiles that keep breaking over their lips and eyes like sun-kissed breakers on a summer strand, and everything they say ends in a broken laugh.
And then we go into dinner, and they make me dine with them, and they order red wine, and make me have some, and I cease to be a stranger, I become an old friend, intermingling with that glorious happiness which seems to be mine as well as theirs because they are lovers and love all the world.
The old mother whispers to me softly when she got a chance: "He will be so pleased when he knows!
There's a little one coming."
"Oh, wonderful little one!"
I whisper back.
She understands and nods between tears and smiles again, while the two divine ones sit gazing at the paradise in each other's eyes.
And through it all, all the time, goes on the hungry growl of cannons, and just a few miles out continue, all the time, those wild and passionate struggles for life and death between the Allies and Germans, which soon--God in His mercy forbid--may fling this smiling, fair-headed boy out into the sad dark glory of death on the battle-field, leaving his little one fatherless.
Ah, but with what a heritage!
And then, all suddenly, I think to myself, who would not be glad and proud to come to life under such Epic Happenings.
Such glorious heroic beginnings, with all that is commonplace and worldly left out, and all that is stirring and deep and vital put in.
* * * * * Never in the history of the world have there been as many marriages as now.
Everywhere girls and men are marrying.
No longer do they hesitate and ponder, and hang back.
Instead they rush towards each other, eagerly, confidentially, right into each others' arms, into each others' lives.
"Till Death us do part!"
say those thousands of brave young voices.
Indeed it seems to me that never in the history of this old, old world was love as wonderful as now.
Each bride is a heroine, and oh, the hero that every bridegroom is!
They snatch at happiness.
They discover now, in one swift instant, what philosophers have spent years in teaching;--that "life is fleeting," and they are afraid to lose one of the golden moments which may so soon come to an end for ever.
But that is not all.
There is something else behind it all--something no less beautiful, though less personal.
There is the intention of the race to survive.
Consciously, sometimes,--but more often unconsciously--our men and our women are mating for the sake of the generation that will follow, the children who will rise up and call them blessed, the brave, strong, wonderful children, begotten of brave, sweet women who joyously took all risks, and splendid, heroic men with hearts soft with love and pity for the women they left behind, but with iron determination steeling their souls to fight to the death for their country.
How superb will be the coming generation, begotten under such glorious circumstances, with nothing missing from their magnificent heritage, Love, Patriotism, Courage, Devotion, Sacrifice, Death, and Glory!
* * * * * A week after that meeting at the Front I was in Dunkirk when I ran into the old duck of a mother waiting outside the big grey church, towards dusk.
But now she is sorrowful, poor dear, a cloud has come over her bright, generous face, with its affectionate black eyes, and tender lips.
"He has been ordered to the trenches near Ypres!"
she whispers sadly.
"And your daughter," I gasp out.
"Hush!
Here she comes.
My angel, with the heart of a lion.
She has been in the church to pray for him!
She would go alone."
Of our three faces it is still the girl wife's that is the brightest.
She has changed, of course.
She is no longer staring with dazzled eyes into her own bliss.
But the illumination of great love is there still, made doubly beautiful now by the knowledge that her beloved is out across those flat sand dunes, under shell-fire, and the time has come for her to be noble as a soldier's bride must be, for the sake of her husband's honour, and his little one unborn.
"Though he fall on the battle-field," she says to me softly, with that sweet, brave smile on her quivering lips, "he leaves me with a child to live after him,--his child!"
And of the three of us, it is she, the youngest and most sorely tried, who looks to have the greatest hold on life present and eternal.
CHAPTER LI
