“The men who were working at the station were
English Quakers. They were splendid men.
I have never known more heroic work than they did,
and the cure was a splendid fellow. There was
nothing too menial for him to do. He was everywhere.”
* * * *
*
This is the story she told me that night, in her own
words. I have not revised it. Better than
anything I know it tells of conditions as they actually
existed during the hard fighting of the first autumn
of the war, and as in the very nature of things they
must exist again whenever either side undertakes an
offensive.
It becomes a little wearying, sometimes, this constant
cry of horrors, the ever-recurring demands on America’s
pocketbook for supplies, for dressings, for money
to buy the thousands of things that are needed.
Read Lady Decies’ account again, and try to
place your own son on that stone floor on the station
platform. Think of that wounded boy, sitting
for hours in a train, and choking to death with diphtheria.
This is the thing we call war.
RUNNING THE BLOCKADE
From my journal written during an attack of influenza
at the Gare Maritime in Calais:
Last night I left England on the first boat to cross
the Channel after the blockade. I left London
at midnight, with the usual formality of being searched
by Scotland Yard detectives. The train was empty
and very cold.
“At half-past two in the morning we reached
Folkestone. I was quite alone, and as I stood
shivering on the quay waiting to have my papers examined
a cold wind from the harbour and a thin spray of rain
made the situation wretched. At last I confronted
the inspector, and was told that under the new regulations
I should have had my Red Cross card viseed in Paris.
It was given back to me with a shrug, but my passport
was stamped.
“There were four men round the table. My
papers and I were inspected by each of the four in
turn. At last I was through. But to my disgust
I found I was not to be allowed on the Calais boat.
There was one going to Boulogne and carrying passengers,
but Calais was closed up tight, except to troops and
officers.
“I looked at the Boulogne boat. It was
well lighted and cheerful. Those few people who
had come down from London on the train were already
settling themselves for the crossing. They were
on their way to Paris and peace.
“I did not want Paris and certainly I did not
want peace. I had telegraphed to Dunkirk and
expected a military car to meet me at Calais.
Once across, I knew I could neither telegraph nor telephone
to Dunkirk, all lines of communication being closed
to the public. I felt that I might be going to
be ill. I would not be ill in Boulogne.
“At the end of the quay, dark and sinister,
loomed the Calais boat. I had one moment of indecision.
Then I picked up my suitcase and started toward it
in the rain. Luckily the gangway was out.
I boarded the boat with as much assurance as I could
muster, and was at once accosted by the chief officer.
