Most popular, too, was ‘The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond.’ And the ‘Marseillaise’ united everybody in one great roar.
A natural comedian among the patients, called Ginger by his comrades on account of the colour of his hair, mounted the platform readily to give his song: ‘With my little wiggle waggle in my hand.’ He received so many encores that he felt encouraged to make a speech. He began by saying how much he enjoyed the appreciation of the audience because he knew how well he deserved it; and then he wandered off into praise of his feats with the Army, ending up with kindly comments on the comfort of the hospital.
From the neighbouring church of S. Philippe du Roule came l’Abbé Charles Ablin to care for the Roman Catholics. M. l’Abbé was as tenderhearted and sympathetic as St. Francis himself. His spiritual face radiated gentleness and piety. His heart ached for the wounded and the dying. To go round a screen with him and see him raise his hands and murmur, ‘Ah! nos braves, nos braves!’ called up a vision of suffering, bleeding France. In every delirious or dying infantryman he saw his country, and he poured out his love and pity on each one. He lamented that he could not speak to the English, but he visited them all the same: ‘At least I can bless them,’ he said.
And day by day he passed among them, raising his hand and murmuring gentle words: so that they learned to love him, and missed him if he did not come. He had his own anxieties too: for a niece who lived with him had gone to a Belgian convent for a holiday in August, and he had had no news of her since the war broke out. In January he heard that she had reached England, and in a tremor of joy and relief he set out for London to bring her home.
Mr. Chester Fentress, the well-known tenor, was at that time living in Paris. When the work on which he was engaged at the American Embassy came to an end, he found that the American hospital had more workers than it needed, and fortunately he was able to attach himself to ‘Claridge’s.’ He came every day, ready to do anything, until he was regarded as an orderly of the Corps, and helping in the wards he suffered some things at the hands of the Sisters and patients.
‘There is a lamp there,’ one Sister was heard to say to him. ‘I cannot get it to burn. Would you have the sense now to put it right?’
Nor was his genius always recognised! An irritable patient, hearing him sing as he performed some menial task, exclaimed:
‘God help him, if he had to earn his living by his voice!’
Mr. Fentress’s knowledge of Paris and of the shops was of great use. He was an expert shopper and guide, and very kind about undertaking commissions. Later in the autumn he brought his friend, Mr. Hubert Henry Davies, the playwright, to the hospital, and made him so interested that when work pressed and helpers were few he also would don a white coat and enter the wards. It appealed to his sense of fun to fetch and carry for the Sisters, and the men were a constant interest and pleasure to him. He was dearly loved by everybody for his sensitive nature, his refinement, his humour and the way in which he threw himself into the hospital life.
Amongst the nurses was one elderly lady who had once nursed for Mrs. Garrett Anderson and who never failed to impress the fact on any doctor who ventured to comment on disorder or want of management in her ward. If reminded that the men should breakfast at 8 A.M. and not 9 A.M., she would reply: