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previous: Chapter 2 This webpage reproduces a chapter of Captured by Bessy Myers published by D. Appleton Century Company, New York and London, 1942 the text of which is in the public domain. This text has been carefully proofread and I believe it to be free of errors. If you find a mistake though, please let me know! next: Chapter 4

 p44  3
L'Hôpital Militaire, Soissons

The French officer with concussion and the French ambulance driver are told to follow an officer. Darby, Mademoiselle, and I are led down the street by another and told we are to spend to‑night at any rate in the German barracks. Darby and I are frightfully upset, as apparently we have lost the Flying Dutchman and Co. It seems there is no room for any more prisoners here; the rest will probably be sent to Laon or various prison camps in France. Laon, they tell us, is the clearing station for prisoners of war, and from there they are generally sent on to Germany. At the barracks we are interviewed by two Kommandants. Mademoiselle produces her international laissez-passer, and we our passports and our certificates from the Consulat-Général de France de Londres.

The Kommandants don't seem to be very interested in our papers, and ask how we got here — and if we've had anything to eat. They order some food for us, in a little dining-room which is apparently the officers' mess, and, as neither of the Kommandants speaks much French, they have a French poilu to act as interpreter. We are told there are several French prisoners in the barracks, and we shall be waited on at table by a French girl who did not leave Soissons, but we are not permitted to talk to any one and there are no cigarettes in Soissons for me to buy. We are given some very good soup,  p45 bread and butter, and coffee, and are led back to the inquiry-cum‑reception room, as the Hoch Kommandant of Soissons wants to see us.

He doesn't seem very interested in our papers either: says he has no idea where we will be sent. But he gives me a packet of twenty Camels, which seems to annoy the Kommandant of the barracks. I call him the Nasty One: he has an extremely disagreeable face and manner. The Nasty One takes us upstairs. Mademoiselle is put in a bedroom at the far end of the corridor: Darby and I share one just opposite the stairs.

Our room is very pleasant, with a large double bed and clean sheets. Although it is only nine o'clock and not nearly dark, Darby and I are extremely sleepy, and decide to go to bed. Our room has three doors; two of them are locked. The third, which leads into the corridor, has no key. We push a chair under the handle, as we notice a large dormitory for soldiers opposite our room.

While we are undressing we hear a lot of giggling and scuffling going on outside our room. I think that probably the soldiers don't know this room is now occupied: Darby's comment is that they know it only too well. I am too tired to worry over anything and don't think the soldiers will get as far as forcing our doors open. Tell Darby I am going to sleep, and, vaguely remembering about some trick supposed to be known to all glamourous spies, policewomen, and, I believe, advanced girl guides, I add that we had better keep our shoes and our torch at hand. Am just off to sleep when Darby says, "Myers, look at the door handle." It is quite uncanny to watch: silently it turns, and drops off into the chair. Before either of us has time to speak the double doors opposite us  p46 start bulging ominously. Darby and I jump out of bed, and just as we reach the double doors they are forced open.

We face a crowd of young soldiers — we yell at them and slam the doors in their faces. Unfortunately now the lock is broken and the doors won't shut properly. We decide to dress, find the Nasty One, and complain to him. On the landing we meet Mademoiselle, who says the soldiers have been trying to get into her room too. When we say we are going to complain she, for some reason or other, goes back to her room.

We have a bit of difficulty getting down the stairs — the electricity (and the water) has been cut off, and it must be past eleven o'clock, for we can hardly see a thing. I fall down the last three stairs. Candles in the hall show the shadowy form of soldiers, apparently on guard, and at last we make them understand we want to see the Kommandant. Finally the Nasty One appears. He listens to our tale of woe and broken doors with considerable annoyance, and comes upstairs with us to verify the facts for himself. After going over to the men's dormitory he tells us he has given orders to the soldiers not to leave their dormitory. Tell Darby I only hope the German Army is as well disciplined as we are led to believe. . . . We get into bed once more — just off to sleep when we hear banging on the door which leads on to the landing. The Nasty One yells that we are to get dressed immediately. Swearing, we do so. We meet Mademoiselle on the landing: the Nasty One with a torch leads the three of us downstairs to the hall.

The Hoch Kommandant appears and says he has been told that we have been annoyed by the soldiers. We couldn't be sorrier than he is: we must realize they are only young lads, and it is unusual for them to have women sleeping opposite them. He has ordered them to leave their dormitory, and they  p47 are all to sleep in the corridor on the next landing; he will give us a guard to see that none of them come up the stairs. He shakes us by the hands and says good night. The Nasty One leads us upstairs again, and we go to bed once more. We hear the tramping and the cursing of the soldiers as they are marched down to the next landing and send up a maiden's prayer that we shall be moved on to some other place to‑morrow, as we imagine we are pretty unpopular now with the soldiers.

We don't wake up till ten o'clock. The girl who served us at dinner last night brings us some water at 10:30, so we get up and dress, and are taken down to the little officers' mess for breakfast — coffee, eggs, sardines, and bread and butter. Then we are taken back to our room and told to stay there. We push open the double doors to see where they lead. The next room is obviously the linen and mending room of what was a large boys' school. We each pinch two pairs of boys' flannel pajamas and several pairs of boys' long woollen socks: I take a lovely eiderdown, and Darby a woollen blanket. With some string which we find we tie our spoils up in the blanket from the ambulance.

We get awfully bored sitting in the bedroom, and are thankful when we are taken down to lunch (soup, bread, and coffee, also some kind of sweet). Once more we are sitting bored to sobs in the bedroom, when the Nasty One tells us to follow him, as the Hoch Kommandant has invited us to have coffee with him. He leads us to the Hochkommandantur — which was the archbishop's palace. The Hoch Kommandant gives us coffee and offers us cigarettes; he is very intrigued to know why none of us is married. Mademoiselle bursts into tears: her fiancé, she says, has just been killed. The Hoch Kommandant  p48 is rather embarrassed, and suggests we spend the afternoon in the garden and tells us we can pick all the fruit we like.

It is a pretty garden — Darby and I get down to the strawberries. A German soldier comes along and tells us in excellent English that he is the Hoch Kommandant's batman. He was for two years a prisoner of war in England during the last war. I ask him if he was well treated, if he had enough to eat, and if people were kind to him. He says he was well treated and was given plenty to eat, but naturally he didn't much like being a prisoner of war and would much rather have been in Germany fighting. We tell him we don't like being prisoners of war either. . . . He gives us a large bottle of Evian water each, and goes off to ask the Hoch Kommandant if he can give us a box of matches and some packets of cigarettes: he comes back with them. Mademoiselle goes in to talk with the Hoch Kommandant, and comes back to tell us she will be sent to work in a French hospital here. We ask if anything was said about us; she says we were not mentioned. The Nasty One leads us all back to the barracks. Soissons has not been nearly so badly shelled as Château-Thierry, and there are no signs of looting: the shops and houses are shut, but no entry has been forced. There is no sign of any civilians. We lie on the bed and get bored again. Mademoiselle comes in to say good‑by; she is leaving at once. We are quite indifferent to her departure. The Nasty One comes in apparently to see what we are doing. We ask him if we can have a guard for to‑night. He says certainly not; he can not waste any soldiers ("Wars are not won by guarding women"), and he suggests we put on our pajamas. If the soldiers come in we can scream. We explain that we had our pajamas on last night, but that didn't deter the soldiers from trying to get into our room.  p49 The Nasty One shrugs his shoulders and tells us if they try again to‑night we can scream — some one will probably hear us. Our opinion of him, which was very low, drops to zero.

More bangings on the door. The Nasty One comes in again and says we are to get up at once and wash ourselves. The Hoch Kommandant has invited us to dinner.

We tell him of course we should wash — had we any water. He shouts to a soldier, who brings us some, and stands in the doorway while we are washing, saying "Hurry, hurry." When we start doing our faces he tells us he does not approve of women using make‑up, and we are to "Hurry, hurry, hurry." Darby and I don't take the slightest notice and take as long as we can. The Nasty One gets almost beside himself with rage: I imagine he has never been kept waiting before in his life. We tell him it always takes us a long time to make up our faces and if he is in such a hurry he should have told us sooner that we were invited out to dinner.

We walk to the Hochkommandantur in silence. The Hoch Kommandant greets us in the hall. With him are three other officers to whom we are introduced. They click their heels and bow. Double doors are thrown open; the Hoch Kommandant tells us to lead the way.

The dining-room is attractively lit with candles in cut‑glass chandeliers: the archbishop's silver and cut‑glass gleam; cold meats of various kinds are spread on the embroidered white tablecloth, and a large dish of butter is placed before each person. We are waited on by the batman and another soldier. Darby and I sit either side of the Hoch Kommandant — it would be my luck to have the Nasty One on my left. The Hoch Kommandant passes around a large decanter filled with rum, and we observe the thing to do is to pour it into our  p50 tea. I have never drunk rum that way before, but I like it. The conversation is general — and I hope the topic of war will not crop up. The Hoch Kommandant and the officers seems to be of the same opinion — the atmosphere is genial and friendly. We all speak French except one officer, who chips into the conversation in German, the Hoch Kommandant acting as interpreter.

As I have no idea how to address the Hoch Kommandant, I call him "Mein Herr," and ask if that is correct. He smiles and says it will do, but adds that it is a form of address which is now less frequently used. I tell him that mein Herr, like monsieur, covers a multitude of palaver, and unfortunately in our language we have not the equivalent of either.

I also say how I appreciate German music and poetry, especially Die Lorelei and the music it was set to. The Hoch Kommandant replies that as it was written by a Jew it is no longer allowed to be sung in Germany. I tell him I think it fortunate for the Germans that Wagner was not a Jew, otherwise they would be deprived of some of the most beautiful music in the world. . . . They have already lost the poetry of Heine. They all seem surprised that I appreciate Wagner — even more so when I talk of Frida Leider, Melchior, and Furtwängler, and they ask me if I have been to Bayreuth. I tell them unfortunately I have not been there, but have learned to appreciate Wagner at Covent Garden.

From poetry and music we get on to the subject of culture. It is agreed that we all appreciate it. I say that although I love it, I don't know exactly what it is: I have spent a month in Russia and heard the word used more frequently there than in any other country I have been to, but I never saw a sign of what I should call culture. I have come to the conclusion  p51 that culture must be the refinement of feeling expressed in thought. The Hoch Kommandant says that does not cover the whole field of culture; I have left out knowledge. But knowledge by itself, I say, does not necessarily mean culture. There is a general argument, and we decide that culture is knowledge, love of learning, and refinement of thought. I say I do not find culture compatible with war. The Hoch Kommandant replies that he enjoys culture, but believes in force. I must have been looking at him in astonishment, for he adds, "Yes, I believe in force — but I regret it." I flatly contradict him. "You say you believe in force, mein Herr. Mademoiselle Darby and I are your prisoners of war, yet we are guests at your dinner-table; you surely must believe in evolution, because not so many hundreds of years ago we would have been thrown to your soldiers before we were sacrificed to your gods. Instead, here we are enjoying your hospitality." This momentarily stumps the Hoch Kommandant, but after a moment's reflection he tells me that it is only the outward form of force which has changed. The fact remains, and if anything is to be done in this world, force is necessary. He regrets it, but it is so. Curiously enough, this seems to be an opening to ask him if we could have a guard for to‑night. He promptly says, "Yes," gives an order to the soldier waiting at table, and apologizes for any inconvenience which we might have had last night. The Nasty One looks furious and says he does not believe we are ambulance drivers at all. Munitions drivers he thinks is nearer the mark. Darby and I hotly dispute with him.

We ask what has happened to the French officer with concussion. The Nasty One says he does not think he has concussion; he thinks he is just shamming. I explain to the Hoch Kommandant that just where the officer had a large dent in  p52 his tin helmet he also had a bump twice as large on his forehead. Has the Hoch Kommandant seen him himself? He says he has, and that he will be sent to hospital. That is an opening to inquire what will become of us. The Hoch Kommandant shrugs his shoulders and says he doesn't know: our case will be dealt with by authorities elsewhere. He thinks it quite probable we shall be sent to Laon. Darby and I exclaim with horror, "Not Laon!" We tell him we have heard that prisoners from there are sent into Germany. The Hoch Kommandant smiles and tells us if we are sent to Germany it will not be so bad. I hastily explain that I can understand that he loves Germany, but naturally we should prefer to be sent to England or remain in France. Why can't we work in a hospital like Mademoiselle? Although we have no nursing experience we can help in small ways. The Hoch Kommandant thinks it's a pity that he can not use us as drivers, but explains that all the driving for the German Army is done by men. We ask him if we shall be released by the International Red Cross or exchanged for other prisoners of war. He tells us that in this war no prisoners are being exchanged. He thinks and hopes it possible that through the International Red Cross we may be sent to a neutral country. However, he says he can tell us very little, as the final decision of what is to become of us does not rest with him. I hope nevertheless he'll put in a good word for us. He says he will. He thinks the war will be over within a month, so in any case we shan't have long to wait before we reach home. He tells us in civil life he is a farmer; and he thinks that after the war the whole of Europe will be very poor indeed.

Bristol, he says, and many other of our ports have been extremely heavily bombed. I say I do not think England will  p53 capitulate or that the war will be a short one. The Hoch Kommandant is about to launch upon a long argument when I realize the futility of discussing the war and prevent it by hastily apologizing for having mentioned the subject.

The archbishop's brandy is served as a liqueur. I offer my cigarettes round the table. The Hoch Kommandant advises me not to be so generous with them, as they are impossible to buy in Soissons. I say that nevertheless I should like to offer them — they are his anyway. The brandy is old and mellow; I ask how one says "A votre santé" in German. They say that the literal translation is "Auf Ihr Wohl," but that generally one says "Prosit."

I comment on how glad I am that I have not seen any starving dogs in Soissons. The Hoch Kommandant tells me I shall see no starving dogs or cats; he has given orders to have them all shot — he can not bear to see them starving. I positively glow toward him.

The party breaks up at twelve — we arrived at 7:30, and the hours have slipped pleasantly by. We are escorted back to the barracks by the three officers. It is a brilliant moonlight night which shows up the beauty of the old cathedral. Except for ourselves, the streets are entirely deserted. The officers take us up to our bedroom; there is much clicking of heels and bowing and "Gute Nacht." A soldier with a candle stuck in a bottle stands to attention at the top of the stairs; he is our guard for the night. We have enjoyed the evening, and Darby and I come to the conclusion that nothing would ever surprise us any more. But I am certain that the farther away we get from the German Army the less of glamour girls we shall be. I can quite see that as the only two English women we are of great interest to them, but as a couple of prisoners of war in some  p54 concentration camp in the heart of Germany we shall be one of a very motley crowd. Darby wonders what on earth will become of us. I say it is no use thinking about it at all; one just doesn't and can't know.

Tuesday, June 18th

I ask a German soldier on the stairs for some water to wash with; after an argument he brings me some. I have a shot at washing my hair in the bottle of Evian, but Darby says I am making a frightful mess of my hair and wasting the water. The Nasty One dashes into our room to tell us we must leave the barracks immediately. We must pack up all our belongings and have breakfast within the next ten minutes. We ask where we are going, but all he can say is "Hurry! Hurry!"

We get our things together as quickly as possible, and go downstairs to the officers' mess, where breakfast is waiting for us: two hard-boiled eggs each, sardines, bread and butter, and coffee. We only have time to grab an egg each; the Nasty One keeps saying, "Hurry! Hurry!" I gulp down some coffee, Darby Grabs a couple of eggs and puts them in her knapsack, and we are rushed out of the barracks into a waiting car. Getting tired of being bundled into cars and not having the slightest idea where we are off to. Five minutes in the car, and we arrive at a large imposing building. We are told to get out and wait. While we are sitting on the grass we watch the coming and going of ambulances and see nurses and doctors standing in groups talking in German, and come to the conclusion it is a hospital. In half an hour a German doctor comes and tells us to follow him. He orders a French poilu to carry our belongings for us. We follow the doctor through three large courtyards; it is a huge, rambling building built in  p55 squares, with a courtyard and garden in the center of each. After passing three courtyards the German doctor tells us we are now in the French side of the hospital. He tells the poilu to fetch the Médecin Chef, and when he arrives tells him we are to stay here. This, at any rate, is cheering news; for the moment we are in a French hospital and very glad to be there. Germany seems far away. Mademoiselle passes us in the corridor — I have never seen anybody look less pleased to see us; her face drops several inches.

She tells us she is not a prisoner of war, but that we are. We discover that she has a very nice bedroom on the second floor. There is an empty one opposite hers with two beds in it, a wardrobe, table, and wash-basin. However, she says we are not to have that room, and refuses to give us a reason. The Médecin Chef tells us it is quite all right for us to sleep there. Jean, an infirmier, produces mattresses and sheets, complete with pillows and pillow-slips. We are very pleased with our room. Jean shows us the dining-room. There are eight French doctors; one, I discover, is called Dr. Jacques, 64th Division, and he has the Military Cross. He tells me he was up in the front line with two divisions — they had only one gun. Another doctor says, "France has always lived too well — only forty hours' work per week and practically every workman has his car. Not," he adds, "that that is wrong, but no one in France understands the meaning of work or unity." We have only bread and cheese for lunch and some appalling liquid which is neither tea nor coffee — it is brownish in color, highly sweetened, and I'm told it is the famous German acorn tea. The doctors tell us that tomorrow we must work in the surgery and the ward. They have all been captured, and are prisoners too.

 p56  After lunch there does not seem to be anything to do, so Darby and I sit in the garden and go to sleep. A German corporal comes along, and I arrange to buy some cigarettes through him. Apparently there is a canteen in the German side of the hospital, and he can get them for me there. The water and electricity are cut off, so the inside lavatories are unusable. We have noticed that the men had large pits dug for them. At dinner I ask the Médecin Chef what sort of toilet accommodation he will arrange for us. He shrugs his shoulders and says he doesn't know — "C'est la guerre." After dinner Darby and I go for a stroll in the garden and meet the German corporal. We explain to him that there simply are no sanitary arrangements here for us; he agrees, and says he will fix something up for us by tomorrow. We thank him, fetch a little water from the practically empty bath where it is kept, and go to bed.

Wednesday, June 19th

We get up at eight o'clock. There is some water in the pail, so wash my hair (filthy). Darby rinses it for me, and says I'm using up too much of the water. Tell her I can wash my legs and feet in it, and she ought to do the same.

The Médecin Chef tells us to work in the surgery, which we find at last. It's a little room with a tiled floor and masses of windows. A large operating table in the center takes up most of the space. I am told to wash the scissors and instruments, and am given two little dishes exactly like those used for developing films. Each is half-filled with water, and one has a few drops of eau oxygénée​1 poured in it. I am also given decrepit  p57 nail-brush and told to brush scissors in one dish and rinse them in the other, which has the eau oxygénée in it.

A lot of semi-blessé cases come in, and the doctors get busy. I am soon surrounded by scissors. The water in both dishes gets simply disgusting with blood and pus — it makes me feel quite sick. Say I must have more water, and am told I must manage with what I've got. Have nothing to wipe the scissors with, so ask for a towel and am told to find one. After much wandering round innumerable rooms find fairly clean pillow-slip in a cupboard, take it back to the surgery, and find the doctors screaming for their scissors. Wipe a few dry on the pillow-slip. Realize that the doctors are using the scissors for prodding about in the wounds for shrapnel. From one enormous wound they cut a lot of blackish-greenish flesh, and then fling the scissors at me. The wound was obviously gangrenous, and yet I'm expected to wash those scissors with the others in this filthy water. Do not believe that a few drops of eau oxygénée can have any effect whatever. Shouldn't think the pillow-slip can help matters much. Can not understand the whole thing; it seems utterly chaotic.

A nice French captain tells me he will talk to the German corporal about my cigarettes; give him 100 francs to give the corporal. Later tell the corporal what I've done. He goes into long explanations about not being allowed to buy cigarettes for us; how he'd be punished if he were found out, and that he's doing it on the Q. T. He is a tall, fair, well-built chap, and speaks English quite fluently. He also is of the opinion that the war will be over within a month, and is thoroughly German in his feeling that the Germans are a super race. He has had no leave for eighteen months and is longing to return home. He can not understand the English for prolonging the  p58 war. He has arranged our toilette as far from the hospital as he can.

A doctor tells me to find out if all the men who want their wounds dressed have been to the surgery. Personally think it just as well if they don't have their wounds dressed. One of the semi-blessés is a most interesting-looking man, with the blackest of black beards. He says his home is in Morocco, that he is fed up with the French Government, and that France has always had to put up with the world's worst Government. I say, "Isn't it a fact that nations generally get the Government they deserve?" He more or less agrees, and adds that if France does not have a better Government when he is freed he will go in for politics himself.

Notice the best-looking man I've seen for years, who actually has a well-trimmed beard. Ask him if he is badly wounded. He says, "Only in my heart, mademoiselle, because France has been so betrayed." Tiens, so he has wit as well as looks. He tells me his name is Lucien. He also is fed up with the French Government, and says that they and the Army had no organization or plans at all. His division was told to retire at 11 A.M., but the majority didn't get the order till 7 P.M.! Most were captured. He escaped in his tank, but was captured days later, when he ran out of petrol.

Think it about time I wash the grands blessés, so find out where their ward is, and have five shocks — the ward itself, the sight of the inmates, the priest, the man with the sore eyes, and the man without a face. But before that Mademoiselle gives me quite a shock. I ask her what I am to wash the men with. She tells a poilu to get me a basin and some soap, and the same for Darby, but after half an hour's waiting we start rummaging about ourselves. We have just found two basins when Mademoiselle  p59 comes tripping along and asks (sweetly) if we have finished washing the grands blessés. Darby lashes out most effectually, and Mademoiselle condescends to find us some towels and soap. We arrange to meet her in the bathroom. The bath is now only quarter full of water. Innumerable infirmiers come in and out, emptying bedpans into the sink, which smells. Darby and I decide to wait for Mademoiselle in the corridor, and after a quarter of an hour resolve to use two of our own pieces of soap. We fetch them, and have just torn up some pillow-slips for towels when Mademoiselle at last comes along and informs us she can find no towels or soap. I ask her what we are to wash the grands blessés with, as I refuse to use my face-flannel. She takes us to the surgery, gives us some cotton wool, and says we must make one basin of water do for three men. My imagination will not take this in, so say, "How can it be possible to wash three men in one stupid little basin of water like this?" She points to the bath.

Darby and I go to the ward and decide we shall each take one side. Then I have the shock about the ward. It's a long room with rows of windows on each side; one row looks on to the garden, the other on to a corridor. It is indescribably filthy — dust, dirt, discarded dressings, bedpans, and flies everywhere. The grands blessés are no better off; they are lying in their uniforms without sheets on straw mattresses with only a blanket for covering. Tackle the first one nearest the wall, a mere boy who can't possibly be more than nineteen. He is dead white, and looks very surprised to see me. Explain I have come to wash him, and have only a basin of water to do him and two others. He looks very pleased and says, "Merci bien." Do his face and the faces of two next to him, and return to him for his hands, which are coated with coagulated blood and  p60 filth. Ask him how long he has been here and if he has been washed. He says he can't remember exactly how long he's been here, but over a month, and no one has ever washed him. Can not take this fact entirely in, but realize it accounts for the condition of his hands. Rub them with cotton wool, which gets very soggy after it's been wet for a bit.

Am absorbed in the effort when I am suddenly addressed in fluent French by a German officer with a lot of mauve on his uniform. He asks me if I will go immediately to the operating theater, as a nurse is urgently required. Explain I would willingly, but as I know nothing about nursing or operations I'm afraid I should be more trouble than I was worth. He looks surprised, and asks me why I'm here; explain I'm an English prisoner of war, and that I was an ambulance driver. He flashes at me one of the world's sweetest smiles, and says, "Alors, mademoiselle, then you too have done a great service for the wounded." Am completely flabbergasted, and as he does out of the ward rush after him: "Pardon, monsieur, who are you?"

"Mademoiselle, I am a priest." Feel completely flattened, and wish all Germans were priests.

Continue attempting to clean the Mere Boy's hands, and empty the water down the sink in bathroom and collect another basinful. Tackle the next three — the third is the Man with the Sore Eyes. They are completely bunged up with matter, and I do not know how badly or where he is wounded, as he is covered up with a blanket and lies quite still, saying nothing. So I try to get some of the matter off his eyes with a fresh piece of cotton wool. An awful lot of matter comes away, and quite suddenly one very deep blue eye opens and stares at me. Don't know why, but this gives me quite a shock.  p61 Ask him if he would like me to do the other eye; he nods, so I do it. Don't know what to do with all the dirty bits of cotton wool I'm collecting, so throw them in the bedpans, which are lying about unpleasantly full.

All goes more or less well, till I come to the Man Without a Face at the end of my side of the ward. To begin with, I don't know what is on the bed, as it's chiefly flies. However, I flick my pillow-slips about, and discover the poor devil has only the contour of his face left and one eye, which, although bunged up, seems to see a bit, because he obviously realizes I'm near him. He has dirty bandages so loosely wound around his face that there are big gaps between all the folds. Just manage not to retch when I see his jersey. He has obviously never had it taken off since his arrival and it is covered with layers of mucus which have dripped from what should have been his mouth — he hasn't even been given a tube. Since I can do nothing about his face, tell him I shall wash his hands. Try to cope with them. When I've finished I hear quite distinctly from that mess of a face, "Merci bien, mademoiselle. Feel annihilated. Go to our bedroom and thank God I've a few cigarettes left. Would willingly give two years of my life for a whisky and soda, four years for three.

Darby comes in — neither of us feels like discussing the grands blessés, and things are not improved by an appalling lunch — just uncooked, undrinkable rice soup. We sleep in the garden till the German corporal wakes us up and says we must work. Go to the surgery; same procedure as morning. One man has his arms unbandaged, and before the doctors can prod about an entire bullet drops out on to the floor. He asks me to pick it up, as he would like it as a souvenir.

The doctors ask us if we will take supper to the semi-blessés.

 p62  It consists of one piece of French bread with paste on it for a man. Jean, who seems to be the brightest of the infirmiers, piles the pieces of bread into a basket. Darby and I give each man a piece. As there are several pieces over, we tell the men to toss for them, which they do. Return empty basket to Jean. Lucien comes over, furious, as he says we've left out a room full of wounded. Darby and I most concerned, but Jean suddenly says he has a few pieces of bread left (obviously had them up his sleeve the whole time). We put them in the basket and return to the room with Lucien. Thank goodness, they go around, and there are two pieces left over, which we tell Lucien he'd better eat or share with his copains.2

Neither Darby nor I like giving out the supper, as all the men say they are hungry, and one piece of bread for each man can't possibly be enough.

Have our own supper with les médecins, which is exactly the same as the wounded's, except for some warm liquid in a pail which might be either tea or coffee, or for that matter — anything on earth.

See the nice French officer, who says that as he speaks fluent German, he will go over to the Kommandant at the hospital to‑morrow and tell him that we are ambulance drivers, not munitions drivers. Apparently the Germans think we are munitions drivers (that, I suppose, is due to the Nasty One, who at dinner at the Hochkommandantur would insist that we were). The officer says the French Army has not capitulated, and that they are still fighting on the Loire.

Play bridge with les médecins; none of them have the slightest idea of the game, except Dr. Jacques. They talk about  p63 killing rats to eat. Darby spends the evening with Lucien. As I go to bed still hear a kitten mewing in the surgery cupboard. Suppose there is not enough water to drown it in, don't think it will ever find its mother.

Thursday, June 20th

The German corporal barges into our room and tells us we must get up and work. Do so in surgery. Hopeless dirt, washing instruments. The man with the gangrenous wound is screaming his head off. Doctor gives him a morphine injection, and tells me he will die in a few days. Man still screaming — why didn't the doctor give him an overdose?? Kitten still mewing in cupboard — some one should strangle it. I would if I could. All these noises are appalling.

Chat on the stairs with a frightfully cheery poilu with a gorgeous golden beard. He says that in civil life he is a baker. The nice French captain tells me that the German corporal says the franc is now worthless. . . . See Lucien — he, of course, has managed to find some water and looks very clean.

Wash the wounded. The Man without a Face still says "Thank you." Am told Germans will eventually operate on him — they do all the operations in their section — but that is no reason whatever for just leaving this poor devil as he is; it's an utter disgrace.

Run into another wounded French captain who has just been taken prisoner — usual story.

Lunch — bean soup, with a lot of bacon fat floating about in it. Every one very hungry. As for breakfast, we only had the warmish liquid and bread.

Again ask to see the Kommandant of the hospital, but the German corporal says no. He has kept my 100 francs and  p64 only given me one packet of twenty Chesterfields. Tant pis.

After taking around the supper am told to distribute some cigarettes which the Germans have sent over. There are two for each man. Darby and I feel like Ladies Bountiful.

We have cheese with the bread for supper. While playing bridge with the doctors the baker brings me some strawberries which he has pinched from the garden. The doctors say that two men with gangrene have just died.

Darby has spent evening with Lucien. Tell her that she should suggest to him that he should wash our shirts. She says nothing doing, as she has had quite a time explaining to him that she has no urge to be slobbered over. I say that I can quite understand any man as good-looking as Lucien being most surprised to find any woman not panting at the leash for some of his amour, but I do think she might get him to the point where he would wash our shirts. Darby says she is quite capable of managing her own affairs. I say quite, but she will probably do so in a filthy shirt.

Friday, June 21st

Get up 7:45 before German corporal barges into our room. Cut my thumb with knife while scraping the mud off my shoes, so don't like washing instruments.

Discover that the infirmiers have used our ward towels and basins for washing up our dinner plates. Am furious; find Darby and tell her we must keep the towels and basins in our bedroom. Man with Sore Eyes much better; he has very little matter on them now.

Our toilette will be quite spoilt, as they are digging another big pit for the men next to it. The men's pits are just pits with planks over them — nothing more and nothing less. Darby and  p65 I think it's the limit that they should put another pit so close to ours.

The baker scrounges some hot tea for us, but the glass into which he is pouring it breaks in my hand and cuts it quite deeply between thumb and forefinger. Refuse to let the doctors dress it, and when they have left the surgery Darby bandages it up for me after using some disinfectant on it. The baker says there has been a row about pinching fruit, and that they have been definitely forbidden to go to the garden. Personally think the Germans very optimistic if they imagine they can keep hundreds of hungry men from picking fruit which is growing under their noses.

Meet a Polish woman in the corridor. She says she is married to a Frenchman, and has been brought here by the Germans for the night. She evacuated her farm, as all the cattle were being shot down for sport. She says the young airmen are the worst — and worse than the devil. One of her dairymaids was shot at and killed while milking a cow in the fields. She took a cart, the three women left on the farm, and five children; they had no rest, as the Germans were catching up with them all the time. They came to a village, the Germans caught up, and mowed down the line of refugees with tanks, as they wanted to get at French soldiers in a wood near‑by.

She was sitting in the cart at the time, holding one of the children (which happened to be her own). She managed to fling herself and the child down in a ditch. She escaped with her child, who was badly wounded in the head by shrapnel. She lost her way and ran into the Germans again, who sent her and the child to hospital after hospital. The little boy died, but she said the German nurses had been very kind to him. She suddenly broke down and sobbed, "Mon petit gosse ! Mon  p66 pauvre petit gosse !" I could think of nothing to say . . . so I asked her where her husband was. "Il est prisonnier. . . ." She can not think what her husband will say when she tells him their child is dead; he absolutely adored le petit. She doesn't know what happened to the other women and children in the cart. She has never seen or heard of them since. When her child died she was sent here. To‑morrow she will be sent to her home, and does not know in what condition she will find it. She thinks the Germans want civilians to return to their homes, and several have returned to Soissons. She had just come from Laon, where there are eight hundred French wounded in the hospital, no water, and twenty nurses. I tell her I am a prisoner of war, and we wish each other "au revoir et bonne chance."

Wash grands blessés. Bully beef on bread for supper with coffee. Sit on terrace with the doctors. Mademoiselle says she can not imagine what she will do for shoes, as her heel is coming off. The German corporal, who has joined us, offers to show us where we can do a lot of scrounging. He takes us to a small cottage built into the hospital which obviously belonged to the matron-cum‑linenkeeper. There are cupboards full of clean linen! The cottage has been evacuated in a very great hurry; clothes of all descriptions lie all over the place. Darby and I do ourselves proud and take armfuls of sheets and pillow-cases, etc, which we give to the infirmiers and tell them they must put them on the beds of the grands blessés the first thing to‑morrow.

On the terrace again the corporal produces a bottle of wine and offers me a cigarette. He tells me he learned his English in England, where he was a prisoner of war for two years. Ask him my three usual questions: "Were you well treated?"  p67 "Did you have good food?" "Were people kind to you?" He answers yes to all of them. He says he is fed up. He has lost a stripe because without orders he beat a Jew to death in Poland. Evidently all forms of German sport must be organized.

Darby and I say we are tired and going to bed. Darby says the man from Morocco has told her that peace was signed at eleven o'clock last night in a railway carriage — the same as the armistice in the last war. Tell her my little bit of news (from the nice French officer) — that peace was signed to‑day at Versailles, same as 1871. We both think neither version is true, and that the French Army is still fighting on the Loire. Wish we knew the truth. Darby says she has spent most of the evening talking to Lucien, who is furious with the doctors and the lack of organization in the hospital. I have not formed any definite opinion of the doctors yet; at the moment they are just curious phenomena.

Talking about unpleasant characters, I think the German corporal ought to be given a certain amount of rank. We both think that had he been brought up under a different régime he would probably have been better. The Nazi régime must bring out all the cruelty that one has.

The baker is in a mess because he has given up his bed to a semi-blessé and has no idea where he can sleep. He can't find a mattress or any straw. He has told the doctors, but they say it is entirely his own concern.

Announce I've smoked my last cigarette. Darby says I'll have to give up smoking. I don't think so; have hopes that the baker can scrounge some for me, and tell her he is going to wash both my shirts to‑morrow. She says, "Do ask him to do  p68 one of mine." Tell her I doubt if he will have enough water, but as I have a beautiful nature I will ask him.

Darby hangs all her grands blessés' towels out of window, as she doesn't think it can be too healthy having them lying about the room. Talking of linen, I ask Darby if she has wondered why it is that the doctors, Mademoiselle, ourselves, for that matter, and quite probably the infirmiers all have two sheets on our beds, when the grands blessés have none. She says it's beyond her — I think this hospital beyond any one.

Saturday, June 22nd

Wake up with eye bunged up. Think of the Man with Sore Eyes and hope it's just a mosquito bite. Darby says it looks a bit odd. With my hand I simply refuse to work in the surgery. Now that there are a few civilians back discuss the possibilities of escape. Darby thinks the chances are almost nil. I don't agree.

Wash blessés — difficult with one eye and one hand! Soliloquize on bath three-quarters full of water for two hundred and fifty people. . . . There is so much water in the world — it's falling all over the world. . . . There are the Niagara Falls, the Victoria Falls, innumerable falls — yet all the people watching these falls or near these falls have no conception of just how precious water can be. There are people all over the world at this moment lying in a bath full of water, who probably lie in a bath full of water twice a day, and as they let that water run down the sink they do not realize for one second its importance. . . . I think every one should be taught to realize the value of the necessities of life. . . . Far, far too much is taken for granted. . . .

Leave off soliloquizing and find Darby, as it is lunchtime.  p69 Lunch — pea soup and four little plums. Still hungry. We go to our bedroom, and I eat my last two biscuits and wonder why I'm so hungry. Darby says it's probably worms; I think it's because I've not smoked since last night. (Haven't seen the baker yet.) Hope that giving up smoking hasn't made me perpetually hungry — Darby says she isn't.

Go down to grands blessés, as I promised to give Mere Boy something to cover his head with (found some linen in a trunk in one of the rooms and have made it into squares). The men say the flies crawling over their faces are driving them mad. Mere Boy very pleased with chiffon; I give each man one. Man with Sore Eyes suddenly worse. Man without a Face better; he has just been operated on and has really clean bandages, but otherwise is in an awful mess, as he has now been given a tube but no basin, so the tube leaks mucus on to his jersey.

See a German doctor are walking along the corridor — he looks so clean. Of course, the Germans came on here more or less at their ease in lorries with all their equipment, while the French doctors were taken prisoners, made to walk miles and miles, and have nothing at all. But if some of them could shave yesterday why can't some of them shave to‑day? There is still some water in the bath.

Agonizing having no cigarettes — still feel hungry. Hope it isn't worms; but should think one could catch anything here. Eye much better; obviously only a mosquito. Hand still painful; thank heaven it's my left one.

Discover the infirmiers in the bathroom washing up our dinner plates with our soap which we use for washing the grands blessés. Depart for surgery and find a cake of soap in a cupboard, give half to Darby, and tell her in future we must  p70 keep everything in our bedroom. On returning to bathroom see the infirmiers washing up in our ward-room basins. At the same time, and in the same sink, another infirmier is washing a bedpan. For one moment think that my stomach will not take it — however it does.

There are a Polish and a French woman in the surgery. They have been told to return to Soissons, as they live here. Both have children with fractured arms. The Germans have told them that neither France nor Poland nor any other country wanted war, except England, and it won't take them long to mop England up. Neither of the women believes this. Not realizing I am English, one of them says, "But that is not true, mademoiselle, for England did not want war. . . ."

Think this perpetual hungry feeling must be the urge for cigarettes. Sitting on terrace in the sun when a man comes along who says he is the official interpreter between the German and French sides of the hospital. Asks me if I should like cigarettes!!! He is rather charming; go with him to the German side and get twenty Chesterfields for twenty francs. Interpreter says most of the Germans here are Austrians. A few like the régime, but most are forced. He also says the Germans are going gently with the French, but that they won't with the English. I explain our circumstances to him, and in the evening he suggests to the Médecin Chef that he writesº a letter to the Kommandant of the hospital explaining how it is that we are here and that we are ambulance drivers. The Médecin Chef says he will write the letter to‑morrow.

Find Darby to tell her about letter. We go to the surgery for her to dress my hand — it's quite a nasty cut — and find the kitten dead in a cupboard. Tell Darby I refuse to work in the surgery even when my hand is better — to me it's the end.  p71 Watching the bandages which have stuck to the wounds being wrenched off without the help of even eau oxygénée.

The baker gives me our shirts, and, all things considered, he has washed them very well. I talk about escaping; he is most kind and helpful and says we must have a car. He is pretty sure that –––––––––, who lives at ––––––––– near‑by, has a car, and thinks he can get in touch with him. But before we fout' le camp he thinks it would be better to wait till more civilians. He will say I am his wife, who has come to fetch him.

Remark how clean the German nurses look. He says they have plenty of hot water and their wounded have everything essential, and quite a lot of things which aren't. We are joined by two German Protestant priests: one is short and rather amusing, the other is a tall, solemn thing. The little one says that in the last war he was a prisoner in Egypt for over a year; then he was sent to England for the duration. Answers "Yes" to usual questions. He says he likes English officers, and will never forget roll-call every morning. "Gentlemen, roll-call, please." "Thank you, gentlemen — thank you." Up till the outbreak of the present war he still corresponded with English friends in Egypt and England, and he thinks the whole world ought to be friends. Say this is quite an international gathering — German, French, and English. Baker says, "And God for all." The short one gives me his address and asks me to write him after the war. I say I will. We shake hands and say good‑by. The Solemn Thing gives me the Nazi salute. Very surprised, but manage to bow.

Find Darby in bed. Tell her about escape with baker, and that she must get a dress and coat from the cottage and we will try to make Paris. Darby thinks all the English banks will be closed. Agree, but say we must get out of this at all costs. She  p72 says if we do get to Paris she can't see the end. Neither can I, but if we don't get to Paris I can't see the beginning.

The man underneath us with gangrene groans and groans. Tell Darby I heard the doctors arguing about who should give a man with his leg just amputated a morphine injection. It was the Cherub — one of the nicest of them — who did not argue, but said he would. Darby says she thinks the mosquitoes are getting as bad as the flies. Cats screaming outside, and shots ring out. I say I think they are shooting at the rats. Darby says, "Don't be a damn' fool." More shots and more screams. (Too sleepy to argue with Darby.)

Sunday, June 23rd

Little more water in bath than usual, so decide to tackle the grands blessés' feet. Some seem quite shocked at the idea, but am quite adamant. Realize that nothing can be done without a scrubbing-brush, so down tools and say I'll search the hospital until I find one. See two scrubbing-brushes in one of the doctor's bedrooms and take one of them. There is nothing to be done with the feet except scrub and scrub and scrub. Quite a comedy, as some of the men say they are ticklish.

Decide to start the battle of the shirt. Man without a Face is much better; the flesh looks as though it is healing quite well, and his one eye looks less swollen. But his jersey is now the end; the smell which emanates from it is also the end. Start battle by going into surgery and taking away a pair of scissors. (Doctors ask me why I want them. Pretend not to have heard and very rapidly decamp with scissors.) Cut man's jersey and vest down the back, pull the lot off from the front, and throw it into a bedpan. Wash the man's chest, which is covered with mucus, and cover him up in his blanket.  p73 Find Mademoiselle and explain that the man may at any moment die of pneumonia and that he must have a shirt. (Will give her one point and one only — she is concerned, up to her capabilities, about the grands blessés.) She says there is not such a thing in the hospital. Think I may find something in the cottage, and rummage around in the linen cupboard. Find some extraordinary-looking garments which I think must be some kind of women's long cotton bedjackets. They will do. Hear footsteps and see two German soldiers approaching. Remember the German corporal said there would be a row if any one was found pillaging in the cottage. Have world's greatest brainwave. As there is no time to hide, seize some article of intimate use lying on a shelf and wave them at the soldiers when they enter. They seem taken completely off their guard and depart without a murmur. Continue rummaging around, find an entire packet of the things and also a jar of sugar. Depart with the whole lot, give sugar to Jean, and put the extraordinary-looking garment on Man without a Face; it does quite well as a shirt. Get two safety-pins (out of Darby's knapsack) and pin a bib round his neck. Give Jean four and tell him he must change them at least every three hours.

The official interpreter comes into the ward with the German corporal. The corporal says England forced France into war. The grands blessés just laugh.

Mass is said by a French priest in the ward and also in the chapel.

Sit on terrace in the sun. The baker joins me and tells me he has two girl friends whom he walks out with (one is a coiffeuse, the other works in a restaurant), and also a petite amie. He says he will not marry till has found "le grand amour."​a  p74 He is very intrigued to know if I'm engaged or not. Have a certain amount of fun pulling his leg, but, as he is only a Big Baby with no brains and a big heart do so very mildly.

Mademoiselle comes along and says two new semi-blessés have arrived from Douai who have seen two jeunes filles there dressed similarly to us. From the description we think they must be Otto and Lloyd Bennet.

Lunch — meat. It is awful, but nevertheless it is meat. Also have fruit in jars and some red wine. Darby and I go up to our room to sleep; I say she must get some civilian clothes from the cottage; it's of no importance whether they fit or not — in fact, if they don't all the better; they will look more refugee‑ish.

We discuss why the doctors (with few exceptions) seem to be so utterly uninterested in us. We both think it's possibly sour grapes because England has not capitulated; also possibly they are too wrapped up in their own troubles. Tell Darby she really ought to shake hands with them at breakfast. She says she sees no reason whatever why any one should be expected to shake hands every morning, especially when the hands happen to be particularly dirty — and at breakfast! I say quite — but it simply is one of the customs of France, and she probably annoys them no end by not doing so. When in Rome, etc. She says she will make an effort in future.

The baker has found two bottles of vin ordinaire in the cellars. We go into a room, drink wine, and smoke cigarettes. Afterwards I get some fruit from the garden (no German soldiers about) and give this to the baker. After dinner sit on terrace (it's a heavenly evening). Comedy of German soldiers trying to find the vin ordinaire in the cellars! Darby strolls off with Lucien. The baker discourses on la jeunesse. We go and  p75 sit on a bench in the garden. I have come to the conclusion that I am unshockable, for was only amused when he brought out of his pocket six contraceptives and showed them to me with great pride, saying, "Ils sont encore tout à fait en ordre." He told me he was taken prisoner while swimming a river with three copains. They were half‑way across when the Germans yelled at them to swim back or they would shoot. The baker turned, but his copains continued to swim on. They were shot at and were drowned. They were his best copains.

Go to bed quite late. Darby says Lucien is resigned and is quite sweet about her lack of enthusiasm for his amour.

The man beneath our room groans and groans all night. Don't think he can live much longer.

Monday, June 14th.

No tea or coffee at breakfast. Mere Boy suddenly got fever (hope it's not the beginning of gangrene). Sore Eyes same as usual. No Face better. After the battle of the shirt it's quite simple getting him clean sheets, as Jean helps, but he has not changed the bib; tell him he must every three hours.

Lunch — weak tea and cabbage water. The doctors at last get tired of saying "Tant pis" and send a poilu over to German side to ask for more. After long time he returns with large tub containing floating rice. Go to bedroom to sleep, as feel starving hungry. The baker comes in and gives me two large tins of bully beef, six cigarettes, small bottle of vin ordinaire. Unfortunately, mademoiselle comes in, so have to share. Ask her to leave a little for Darby. Afterwards the baker tells me he gave Mademoiselle and the doctors two large tins of bully beef at lunchtime, which they have obviously kept to themselves.

 p76 Go German side with Mademoiselle and the baker. We meet the official interpreter, and get some stores from a narrow, long room stocked like an ironmonger's, and with a German corporal in charge. Mademoiselle asks for bedpans, twenty knives and forks, spoons, etc. They are all put in a wooden box which the baker carries.

As we leave the room the interpreter whisks off one of the tables a packet of cigarettes. He does it so quickly and neatly that should think en civil he must have been a pickpocket. He divides them (behind Mademoiselle's back) between the baker, himself, and me.

Mademoiselle asks if there is anywhere where she can get some eau oxygénée. The interpreter takes us to the drug-room, in charge of a rather nice-looking officer. The room is packed with all kinds of disinfectants, and there are rows of shelves with jars of ether among other things. The officer says Mademoiselle can have some eau oxygénée, but he has no jar in which to put it. Mademoiselle says "cette jeune fille" can fetch the empty jar in the French surgery. She says "jeune fille" in such a way that it might have meant anything from a street-walker to a bitch. The officer looks round to see to whom she is referring, and I explain she means me, whereupon he says something in German to a soldier and explains to Mademoiselle he has told the soldier to fetch the jar. I was entirely indifferent who fetched the jar, but watched with intense amusement Mademoiselle going all flustered.

Return to French side and soliloquize on the doctors: if Mademoiselle can go and get disinfectants and, apparently, whatever stores she wants from the German side, why can't the doctors? I do not believe that they have made any attempt to do so. If this is true — then, Messieurs les Médecins, may the  p77 sufferings of your wounded, your dead, and your dying, be your share of Hades — if there is a just God of this world, may it be so.

Play bridge on terrace with Jacques and Co. Ask the Médecin Chef if he has written to letter to Kommandant of hospital. He says he has had no time to‑day, but will write to‑morrow! As an excuse to get away, say I must fetch grands blessés' towels, which are drying. The doctors say I am charming to have washed them! Sit on the garden bench with the baker, on the German side, and about eleven o'clock we are joined by the official interpreter, who asks me to call him Henri — do so. Baker tells him his idea about car to Paris; he thinks it is a good one, and will fout' le camp with us. As most Germans have only slight knowledge of French, Henri thinks they would take me for French. He has a flat in Paris and thinks he could arrange to get the necessary papers for me to live there. Explain I have no urge to stay in Paris — my Mecca is England. He thinks England out of the question pour le moment, and after Paris — qui sait ?

I say Darby may want to come with us — Henri says she must make up her mind, as we may have to fout' le camp suddenly — one never knows. Have we any civilian clothes? Thinks it would be better for us to be dressed as infirmières; would Mademoiselle lend us anything? Explain that not only would she never lend us anything, but if we asked her and she had any idea we were going to escape she would be quite capable of informing the Germans.

Go to bed late, and tell Darby she must make up her mind. She says it is doubtful if Huffer is in Paris; she can not see how we can make England without money or papers, and she doesn't think we've a hope in hell from any banks. Tell her,  p78 as far as I can see, we can definitely get to Paris, and Henri says he will probably be able to get me papers. Personally wouldn't know if he really can or can not — people are apt to talk a lot of blah; but I have no doubt in my mind that the baker and Henri will get us to Paris — after that imagine it would be a question of sauve qui peut. But, in any case, have definitely made up my mind to fout' le camp — and that's that. Darby says she will think it over and let me know. Tell her what with the baker and Henri thrown in life is becoming un peu compliqué; Darby says that's entirely my own fault. Tell her I'm not discussing faults, but merely that a vie compliquée can become difficult — at times.

Man underneath is silent — should think he's dead.

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The Author's Notes:

1 Eau oxygénée: peroxide of hydrogen.

2 Copain: pal.

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Thayer's Note:

a See p301. . . .

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