“L’AIlemagne est la premiere nation du monde.”

The next French visitor merely added: 

“Yes, ‘Allemagne is the first country of the world’ if we take them in alphabetical order.”

To The Glory Of The Women Of France

I left the war zone with an increased respect, if this were possible, for the men of France.  They have altered their uniforms, but the spirit is unchanged.  They are no longer in the red and blue of the old days, but in shades of green, grey and blue, colours blending to form one mighty ocean—­wave on wave of patriotism—­beating against and wearing down the rocks of military preparedness of forty years, and as no man has yet been able to say to the Ocean stop, so no man shall cry “Halt” to the Armies of France.

I have spoken much of the men of France, but the women have also earned our respect—­those splendid peasant women, who even in times of peace worked, and now carry a double burden on their shoulders—­the middle-class women, endeavouring to keep together the little business built up by the man with years of toil, stinting themselves to save five francs to send a parcel to the man at the Front that he may not suspect that there is not still every comfort in the little homestead—­the noble women of France, who in past years could not be seen before noon, since my lady was at her toilette, and who can be seen now, their hands scratched and bleeding, kneeling on the floors of the hospitals scrubbing, proud and happy to take their part in national service.  The men owe much of their courage to the attitude of the women who stand behind them, turning their tears to smiles to urge their men to even greater deeds of heroism.

In one of our hospitals was a young lad of seventeen who had managed to enlist as an “engage volontaire” by lying as to his age.  His old Mother came to visit him, and she told me he was the last of her three sons; the two elder ones had died the first week of the war at Pont Mousson, and her little home had been burned to the ground.  The boy had spent his time inventing new and terrible methods of dealing with the enemy, but with his Mother he became a child again and tenderly patted the old face.  Seeing the lad in his Mother’s arms, and forgetting for one moment the spirit of the French nation, I asked her if she would not be glad if her boy was so wounded that she might take him home.  She was only an old peasant woman, but her eyes flashed, her cheeks flushed with anger and turning to me she said, “Mademoiselle, how dare you say such a thing to me?  If all the Mothers, Wives and Sweethearts thought as you, what would happen to the country?  Gustave has only one thing to do, get well quickly and fight for Mother France.”