At the Military Hospital of Rosendael, with the exception of the intrepid surgeon and the almoner, it is the women who hold the position. Originally the city hospital, it was taken over by the army at the beginning of the war. An immense building with modern equipment and a capacity for 700 patients, it has been necessary of late to evacuate many of the sections because of the increasing frequency of the bombardments. The hospital has been struck many times and one ward completely destroyed. As it happened there were no soldiers in that section, it being used as a maternity hospital for the city. Several women and little children were killed and also the sister in charge, Sister St. Etienne, so dear to her co-workers that she is never spoken of without tears. She had just finished her rounds for the night when the alarm came. Her one thought was to save her ward from panic. A bomb crashing through the roof hurled a beam across the sister, killing her instantly and wrecking the entire wing.
"FOR ALL AMERICAN WOMEN"
In spite of this tragedy and of recurring attacks, the other sisters and the head nurse, Mlle. Guyot, have held their posts with quiet heroism and have never lost an hour's duty. The patients now are mostly convalescent, because fresh cases are no longer brought there.
The supplies of shirts, pajamas, and bandages sent from America were gratefully commented upon by Mlle. Guyot, and I was touched by similar expressions from the men. One poor aviator, terribly burned, but recovering, put up a bandaged hand and saluted me "for all American women." Another poilu wove for me a table mat of red, white, and blue cord. All were fervent in their good wishes.
Everywhere warmth and order prevailed, from the wards where the bandaged soldiers sat about with their pipes and their knitting to the big bakery where the fragrant brown bread is baked and to the kitchens with their caldrons of broth and crisp roasts of meat.
Dry, well ventilated "abris" or bomb shelters have been built in connection with each section of the hospital. The surgeon, who sleeps in a cellar near the centre, is the first to assist his patients to shelter in case of an alarm. There, underground, long games of cards are played on the brink of the unknown. This is not callousness, but is done with deliberate intent by the clever surgeon, (a refugee from Lille,) knowing that by this means his men may be saved a nervous strain which might prove fatal.
Mlle. Guyot, who has been at the hospital since the beginning of the war, knows as well as any one what the city has endured. It was she who said to me:
"I shall never forget that Dunkirk has borne the weight of the war from the first day; that she has seen the exodus of the Belgian population, to whom she has given refuge as well as to the people of the Department du Nord; that she has known the passing of innumerable armies going and coming from the Yser; that in October, 1914, she began to be bombarded, having at the same time to fulfill the immense duty of bringing in and caring for the wounded from that immortal battlefield; and through it all I have seen Dunkirk living and working and saving with a smile!"
The military position of Dunkirk is sometimes confusing because it has been alternately on the French and English fronts. The English are now retiring, but sentinels of three nationalities still guard the city gates; English Tommy and French poilu stand with their arms across each other's shoulders, the Belgian stands apart.
On the sands of Malo, which is but a prolongation of Dunkirk, with a sweeping beach toward the North Sea, strange men from Tonquin were digging trenches—dark men branded by the sun and the mark of the East, with warm dabs of color on their high cheekbones, and small opaque eyes under rising brows. The uniform of the French Colonial is often a medley. He looks as though he had begun "dressing up" like children in the attic, and as though his mind had fallen short of his expectations. Out on those bleak sands his touches of rich blue, crimson, and green had almost the fervor of stained glass set against the dark and sinister sea. To the north the Belgian coast cut the background with a livid streak of sand.