I left my tables, chairs, trays, etc., for the hospital at the station, and returned early the next day, for numbers of wounded were still coming in. I wanted slippers for everyone, but my Belgian helpers had given a hundred pairs of mine away in my absence. They were overworked a little, I think, so I overlooked the fact that they lost their tempers rather badly. Besides, I will not quarrel. In a small kitchen it would be too ridiculous. The three little people fight among themselves, but I don't fancy I was made for that sort of thing.
There was nothing but work for some time. My "éclopés" had been entirely neglected, and no one had even bothered to buy vegetables for the men.
On Sunday, May 2nd, I went to see Dr. de Page's hospital. I saw a baby three weeks old with both his feet wounded. His mother came in one mass of wounds, and died on the operating table—a young mother, and a pretty one. A young man with tears in his eyes looked at the baby, and then said, "A jolly good shot at fifteen miles."
They can't help making jokes.
There were two Scots lying in a little room—both gunners, who had been hit at Nieuport. One, Ochterlony from Arbroath, had an eye shot away, and some other wounds; the other, McDonald, had seven bad injuries. Ochterlony talked a good deal about his eyes, till McDonald rolled his head round on the pillow, and remarked briefly, "I'd swop my stomach for your eyes."
Sunday wasn't such a nasty day as I usually have—in fact, Sunday never is. But that station, with its glaring hot platform, its hotter kitchen, and its smells, takes a bit of sticking. I have discovered one thing about Belgium. Everything smells exactly alike. To-day there have been presented to my nose four different things purporting to have different odours, drains, some cheese, tobacco, and a bunch of lilac. There was no difference at all in the smells!
WAR WEARINESS
I am much struck by the feeling of sheer weariness and disgust at the war which prevails at present. People are "soul sick" of it. A man told me last night that he longed to be wounded so that he might go home honourably. Amongst all the volunteer corps I notice the same thing. "Fed up" is the expression they all use, fed up with the suffering they see, fed up even with red crosses and khaki.
When one thinks of primrose woods at home, and birds singing, and apple-blossom against blue sky, and the park with its flower-beds newly planted, and the fresh-watered streets, and women in pretty dresses—but one mustn't!
6 May.—Mrs. Guest arrived here to stay yesterday, and her chauffeur, Mr. Wood, dined here. It is nice to be no longer quite alone. Last night we were talking about how horrible war is. Mrs. Guest told me of a sight she had herself seen. Some men, horribly wounded, were being sent away by rail in a covered waggon ("fourgon"). One man had only his mouth left in his face. He was raving mad, and raged up and down the van, trampling on other men's wounded and broken limbs.