There were children, too—bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked little ones in blue smocks and sabots. They clung to her skirt, and the older ones asked her questions about America—especially about New York, which they had heard much of.
Louis, or Alphonse, or Henri had been to New York before the war and had told them unbelievable things. They were now in the trenches, having returned from their work in New York to fight for la patrie. Was it true that there were buildings in New York higher than the Eiffel Tower?
Then the train rolled on again. It drew on toward night. Once they slowly passed a long train sanitaire. The chorused, if low, groans from the wounded was a wail as from souls imprisoned in purgatory.
Belinda steeled herself against displaying the feelings of horror these sounds called up. She talked cheerfully with the returning poilus. Another nurse—one with experience in the field hospitals—joined her and this girl's chatter was very helpful to the recruit.
"Of course, there really are no field hospitals in this war. Where those big guns throw their iron fourteen, sometimes sixteen, kilometres, a hospital in the field would have small chance of escaping bombardment, to say nothing of attack from tauben that have little respect for the Red Cross flag," she said bitterly.
"The first dressing of wounds—if the victim cannot walk—is done right in the trenches by the first-aid men. Rude enough the dressing is sometimes; but many lives are saved by the work. In the hospital you will go to, you'll be within sound of the guns all right. Don't worry about that. And it'll be very different from the hospitals you've been used to, no matter how much experience you've had at home. My faith, yes!
"They have settled on the huts as the best of all for this work—a nurse to a hut and from twenty-four to three dozen patients for her to attend. Work? I believe you!"
It was midnight when the Red Cross recruit arrived at the end of her railway journey. She was to report here to an official who would tell her how to reach her assignment. But the morning must do for that.
Belinda got a room above a wineshop on the main street of the town, and was made comfortable by the shopkeeper's wife. It seemed strange to her to be going about so absolutely alone and unattended. Yet she felt no fear. These people—everybody she met—were so kindly disposed that one could not feel otherwise than confident of perfect safety.
At least, no anxiety kept Belinda Melnotte awake after her tiring journey from Paris. The clatter of wagons and the braying of mules awoke her with the rising sun. A baggage train was going through the central street of the town, and there was no sleep for the nurse after that.