Complete Text (Part 7)

his eyes looking straight at me full of inno- cence. "And you are happy here?" "Oh, very happy, very. I had grand luck to catch diphtheria and come here. I don't really like to ask the Sister to find me a pic- ture-book, she's so busy, I can see that quite well; but we talk about the war all the time with the comrades. They are very nice. They give me some of the chocolate they have, and play with me. When I can get up perhaps they'll let me drill." This last word was uttered with quite a 104 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL thrill in his voice : it meant his greatest wish and hope. How relative a thing is happiness I This poor child, sick in a hospital, a waif among a lot of soldiers, deserted even by his mother, only a tragic problem for his future, counts himself one of the happy ones of this earth, and from now on belongs to them. For an instant I remained mute, heart-broken by this tale of unutterable misery told in this cheerful voice, while the small boy's eyes, ever restless, roamed furtively round the great room. Suddenly, pointing with his finger at the crucifix hanging on the wall, he asked me: "Who is that there?' Poor little Frenchman of Catholic France! Could he have been led hither to St. Dominic's in the tragic whirlpool of events only to find him- self opposite this cross, and ask that ques- tion? Man proposes: God disposes. One might say in these days, the world proposes. — I talk to my little refugee of his Father in Heaven and of Him who on earth loved IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL IO5 to surround Himself with children pure in heart. He literally drank in my words. One is very seldom listened to like this in ordinary catechism lessons. Truly, one would say that a mysterious and puissant hand works in these days of travail on the newest hearts, hearts that might otherwise have escaped the clutch of circumstance. "Now, just think," concluded this child, with his amazingly mannish airs, "they've never talked to me about these things you've just told me. And yet I'm seven years old, and since I was two — anyway — I've under- stood things very well. When I was seven years— two years — at five they could have explained everything to me. It's all the same. I might never have known! You'll come back, won't you, madame?" Yes, surely, I will come back. Others, too, will look out for him, and soon I hope this little refugee, brought thus to us by the designs of Providence, will have just reason to call himself a happy child. 106 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL A MODEST LITTLE SOLDIER Here is the letter of a father to his son, a silent, modest little soldier in one of our temporary hospitals, whose name his com- rades read with surprise in the papers as mentioned in the order of the day of our army. Then only was he willing to tell his story, the heroic story of a soldier of France and one that we can never forget. Livrot was ordered to deliver an impor- tant order and, although he was severely wounded while on the way, he did not feel that he had the right to go to the rear. He disregarded a terrible wound which needed immediate care and faced death which he felt close and threatening. "I went on just the same," he said simply and shyly at this point in the story, "but when at last I reached my Captain, I was all in; I fainted at his feet." He apologised for this unexpected weak- IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL IO7 ness and was half ashamed of his own cour- age, but at my request he was quite willing to show me — with permission to use as I chose — a letter from his father of which one of the other men had told me. This letter is so full of sober courage, so sincere and vibrant with the noblest affec- tion that can exist between father and son, that I should lessen its beauty if I did not transcribe it exactly, just as it was written by that fine and simple soul. Montargis, Nov. 11, 1914. Dear Son: We were not at all surprised to see your name in the Gatinais paper, which said that Livrot was mentioned in the order of the day. We felt great joy. It is an honour. We thank you and we hope that your wound will heal as rapidly as possible. If you have the happiness to recover, we will go together and balance our account with the Boches. That is what I would like to do. In spite of what you have said, am I not right? Those who are fighting suffer — I agree so far — but those who are not fighting also suffer in knowing all that is be- ing done in Germany to conquer us. You know me; together we could strike a good blow. They io8 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL talk much about you in Montargis. We are proud of it. Many of your comrades come to see us and congratulate you, they even say that you have not had all the reward that you deserve. We thank you for your sense of your duty. Our health is good and I hope yours is the same. Your mother and your father and many of the neigh- bours send you good wishes and honour you for your courage. LiVROT, Highway Inspector. This is what the Head Surgeon of the military hospital wrote to this father when he read his letter: Dear Sir: We are proud and happy to have among our wounded a soldier who is so courageous and at the same time so modest. This morning, on learn- ing that your son was mentioned for his gallant conduct in the order of the day of our army, I allowed myself to replace you and embraced him warmly. As soon as his health is re-established I intend to present him to his comrades and, in spite of his modesty, commend his devotion to duty and his brave heart. You may be proud of your son, my dear sir, for you have given him the best of yourself and of the noble thoughts which I feel IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL IO9 are in you. Your son showed me your letter, which moved me deeply. If you are proud of having such a son, we also are proud of having fathers capable of such sentiments. Our young patient's wound is doing as well as possible. . . . OFFICERS AND MEN I TOLD you a few days ago with what en- thusiasm a certain infantryman spoke of his young officer, M. X , who was promoted to captain only eleven months ago, and who is to-day, because of his courage and mili- tary ability, Major and Chevalier of the Legion of Honour. Here are the words in which Major X himself sends back from the front his thanks for all the well- earned congratulations on his honours: "You may truly say that I owe everything to the heroism of my men ; the splendid and disinterested courage of these men who work modestly at gigantic tasks, in the accom- plishment of which we, the officers, are no more than spectators. It is they that you no IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL reward through us, and to them that your congratulations should go." France knows well what heroic makers of victory she possesses in these officers who so modestly declare themselves the spectators of their men, and one of the things which stirs us most is the mutual admiration of the soldier for the officer and of the officer for his men. It is a feeling which will bear fruit, a promise of success for France, and it must increase in both that capacity for en- durance and that devotion to duty that this strange and terrible struggle demands. It must relieve also that anguish of soul which comes to men far from home, by making a veritable family out of a regiment. And where in family life could one find greater devotion than that of the Captain of the General Staff who, without a thought of his shoulder straps, picked up on the battlefield one of his men who was badly hurt and car- ried him two miles on his back to the hos- pital. It was one of Sister Gabrielle's pa- IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL 111 tients who was saved in this way and he said as he told his story: "A thing like that will never happen to a Boche." A few months ago it was rare and un- usual for a man to owe his life to another. Now it is part of our everyday life. I knew of two brothers who fought side by side, and when one of them, who had risked his life to save one of our 75's, fell badly wounded, the other threw himself out of the trench — without even thinking, as he said afterwards, of the terrible danger which threatened him on every side — gathered up his brother under a hail of bullets, making himself a target for the German fire, and carried him to a stretcher. He was wounded in the eye by a bit of shell and covered with blood, but still he slipped off his overcoat in the rain of a Northern night to cover the shivering body of his younger brother. Such are the families of to-day. No more selfish- ness, even for the preservation of one's own 112 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL life; all affection growing closer and finer. Never perhaps in France have people loved each other as they do in 1914, because never have they sacrificed so much to duty. Who wrote the verse: "There is no great love, except in the shadow of a great dream." SISTER GABRIELLE'S OFFICE In the middle of the ward, behind the long row of cots on the right, a low door opens into the Sister's office. This office is a sort of hall, long and narrow with no window but a skylight, looking out only on heaven like Sister Gabrielle's own life. On a wooden table the big registry book lies open with lists of all the wounded received and discharged. A crucifix hangs on the white wall, and a shelf with a few books carefully re-covered with black cloth. The clothes hanger shows the only thought of herself which has place in Sister Gabrielle's IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL II3 mind, a spotless white blouse which she slips hastily over her blue Sister of Charity uni- form for the operating room. Far at the end of the room stands a chest with drawers marked — "supply of chocolate biscuits for the sick," "stockings and underclothes to give out" — and on the floor, almost everywhere, cavalry pouches, red trousers, tunics to be mended, and men's heavy shoes smelling strongly of leather. In the midst of all these things Sister Gabrielle's young face — ^be- tween the wings of her white headdress — is like an angelic vision, ready to return again to heaven. It is in this room that she stops to take breath, at the foot of her crucifix, when the days are too hard, and there I found her weeping after the death of her brother. But from this room she goes back to her sick more serene than ever, and more tenderly maternal. 114 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL THE COMPANY OF THE AUDACIOUS I HAVE just seen again at St. Dominic the little soldier who told me such touching stories about his "comrades," He begged for permission to return to the front — "as soon as possible" — and he is now back from that second and terrible journey with a new wound. He is very gay and full of spirit — delighted with the hospital, the nurses, the wounded, and everything else. I have a fancy, however, that this particular little in- fantryman has never lacked spoiling and petting at home. To the circle that gathers around his bed he protests eagerly and with justice against the shade of contempt with which people speak of his corps, the Fif- teenth. Certain mistakes in the beginning, promptly and cruelly expiated, have been a hundred times atoned for. The Fifteenth corps now inspires the most chivalrous devo- IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL II5 tion. I know one young officer, twice wounded, who, because of his knowledge of English, was offered a place on the staff of General Castelnau. He refused it, saying that he was not willing, during hostilities, to exchange his post as lieutenant in active service in a corps slightly in disrepute, for a position of less danger and apparently of more honour. To-day my little infantry- man, in a voice quivering with emotion, was telling what he had seen, and I stopped to listen to one of his stories as I passed. At the front, down there, he had made friends with a recruit sixteen years old whose father had been killed at the beginning of the war, and who had enlisted, as he said, simply "because I know how hard it is to lose one's father, and I want to serve in the place of some father of a family." He seems to have been a curious little sol- dier; always with a great pipe in the corner of his mouth and always on the lookout for anything that touched his proteges, the fa- Il6 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL thers of families. He watched over them and in every possible way guarded them from danger. Every time that one of them was told off for perilous service, the little orphan, who could not bear to see them die, would offer or even force himself in to go in their place. But — as he knew the regi- ment well — if a young man was called on he never stirred but muttered between his teeth : "I value my skin as much as you do yours," and kept on peacefully smoking his pipe. He was a child who had risen to this power of absolute self-sacrifice because he had been able to feel truly and profoundly one great grief. "In our regiment in the Fifteenth corps," said the young infantryman, "a company has been formed called 'the Company of the Audacious.' It is commanded by a gallant captain and made up of volunteers who agree to undertake the most dangerous tasks. One night the company was given orders to cut the wires which formed the outer barrier IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL llj of a German trench. One by one they crawled through the grass and bushes to the terrible neighbourhood in which they had to work. Suddenly a quantity of bombs thrown by the enemy, revealed as clearly as if by daylight the company at their adven- turous work, and well-aimed bullets rained on them from all sides. The Captain, lying on the ground among his men, said to them: " 'My children, they have our range; whether we go back or forward, death is certain. It will be better to stay and finish our work and die as brave men, and as we cannot hide any longer, if you want to, we will sing the "Marseillaise." ' "Immediately the national hymn rose around him mingled with the groans of the dying. The regiment behind heard the song, and the sound of the fusillade, and under- stood. The splendid contagion of that rap- ture— that enthusiasm for death — seized them; that thing which *the greatest of Il8 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL philosophers will never be able to explain or understand.' Nothing could hold the men, and for an hour the whole regiment was part of the Company of the Audacious. "The next day the official notice con- tained this line : " 'At X we took a German trench.' " MEMORIES I HAVE just heard some very touching stories from one of the many French women who were able in a day to reach a height of devotion and courage attainable by them only because beneath their everyday life of women of the world, they have al- ways kept the same high standard of duty. This one of whom I speak, who had been a frequent visitor to our hospitals, was sent at the time of mobilisation with several others to open a hospital in S , a city now occupied by the enemy. I asked her what she remembered of that long and ter- IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL IIQ rible struggle and will try to repeat her story. "To my great regret," she said, "I had to let the other nurses go on two days ahead, and I shall never forget the journey that I took to reach S in the midst of the effer- vescence of the mobilisation. The only woman travelling, I felt that I, myself, was also a soldier going to his post, a feeling which was both exciting and steadying. In passing through Rheims I saw a regiment of Alsatians packed in cattle cars. The men who composed it had come by many routes and through many dangers to fight with their French brothers. Most of them did not even know the beloved language of their fathers. A French officer gave them orders in Ger- man. They had already cheered their col- ours and the harsh accents of the enemy's tongue around our flag expressed so well the double tragedy of Alsace, that of forty-four years ago, and that of to-day, which will be a glorious contrast. In the corridor of my 120 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL carriage some anti-militarists were talking openly of their opinions,