Safely arrived in Dinard, she immediately signed on "for the war," and became one of the most valuable and beloved nurses. She was so gentle and gracious, but still so firm and competent, she soon was given charge of a whole floor (65 men of all kinds and descriptions). I looked at her often in amazement. How that slender young woman could make those rough men obey her! She never raised her voice or lost her temper in all the eighteen months she was in Dinard. I never saw her peeved, or snappy, or cross.
At that time I used to go every morning, from 9 to 12, to make a little "extra food" or canteen for the more dangerously wounded, I had invited a friend, the Marquise de T——— (also a Belgian), to help me. We had a little rolling table piled high with jam, bread and butter, soup, and a rum punch I made from Mellin's food, milk and eggs and rum, which we took to the different wounded. The men were very fond of this punch, but only those who were "bed cases" could have it, and then only a glass apiece.
Amongst others, there was a huge Senegalais, an interne for some months, who had had a number of small operations and who, just as he was getting better, would always go out and get drunk and then was laid up again, a perpetual blesse. One day, apparently, the Marquise and I were innocently distributing our little dejeuner, when this huge creature hobbled up, demanding some "Ponche." We told him it was strictly forbidden that day. He gave a wild bellow and rushed at us. I shall never forget that great animal, his face as black as ink, with flashing, angry eyes, his great red mouth open and yelling incomprehensible gibberish at us, flinging himself along on crutches, with terrific speed, he seemed the personification of Darkest Africa.
We fled down the corridor pursued by the negro, our little table rattling along, cups, saucers and tartines bounding out as we ran, the precious rum punch slopping over at every step, and that great bellowing Senegalais pounding along behind, flinging everything that came to hand at us, even to his slippers, which he finally whipped off as he saw us dash around the corner. Suddenly a door opened and Yolande appeared. What she said to the monster or how she appeased him I don't know, but after a while he went grumbling and growling back to his room. The other soldiers said, "Vous l'avez échappé belle c'est un mauvais caractère." (You got off easily, he has a nasty character.)
For over two years, Yolande staid on, reaping golden opinions on all sides; her constant devotion to the wounded all day and many nights, easing their suffering, comforting, cheering, even in the last sad hours staying with them through the Valley of the Shadow, and going to the funeral and the grave! I often wondered how she stood the strain, the long tedious hours, the poor food, the cold and discomfort, the anxiety of the operations, and then, added to all these, the uncertainty of the future, the loneliness of exile, and the then black outlook for Belgium!
A year ago happier times came for the dear girl. For a number of years she had been engaged to a distinguished officer in the Belgian diplomatic service, and last December he was able to obtain leave for three months, and came to carry his bride off to a far-away, sunny country.
I like to think of her, happily married to the man she has loved so long, in a charming house of her own amidst palms, hibiscus and tropical foliage, far-away from all the gloom and tragedy of her war-stricken country. May all happiness and wealth and peace be hers in this new life! She deserves them all.
December, 1917.