The Penguin Book of First World War Stories

by None

  And I was happy. It seemed to me that the crazy crowded bright hot shelter was a beautiful place. I thought, ‘This is the second battlefield. The battle now is going on over the helpless bodies of these men. It is we who are doing the fighting now, with their real enemies.’ And I thought of the chief surgeon, the wizard working like lightning through the night, and all the others wielding their flashing knives against the invisible enemy. The wounded had begun to arrive at noon. It was now past midnight, and the door kept opening and shutting to let in the stretcher-bearers, and the ambulances kept lurching in at the gate. Lanterns were moving through the windy dark from shed to shed. The nurses were out there in the scattered huts, putting the men to bed when they came over the dark ground, asleep, from the operating rooms. They would wake up in clean warm beds – those who did wake up.

  ‘We will send you the dying, the desperate, the moribund,’ the Inspector-General had said. ‘You must expect a thirty percent mortality.’ So we had got ready for it; we had organized to dispute that figure.

  We had built brick ovens, four of them, down the centre of the hut, and on top of these, galvanized iron cauldrons of boiling water were steaming. We had driven nails all the way down the wooden posts that held up the roof and festooned the posts with red rubber hot-water bottles. In the corner near to my kitchen we had partitioned off a cubicle, where we built a light bed, a rough wooden frame lined with electric light bulbs, where a man could be cooked back to life again. My own kitchen was an arrangement of shelves for saucepans and syringes and needles of different sizes, and cardboard boxes full of ampoules of camphor oil and strychnine and caffeine and morphine, and large ampoules of sterilized salt and water, and dozens of beautiful sharp shining needles were always on the boil.

  It wasn’t much to look at, this reception hut. It was about as attractive as a goods yard in a railway station, but we were very proud of it, my old ones and I. We had got it ready, and it was good enough for us. We could revive the cold dead there; snatch back the men who were slipping over the edge; hoist them out of the dark abyss into life again. And because our mortality at the end of three months was only nineteen per cent, not thirty, well, it was the most beautiful place in the world to me and my old grizzled Pêpêres, Gaston and Pierre and Leroux and the others were to me like shining archangels. But I didn’t think about this. I think of it now. I only knew it then, and was happy. Yes, I was happy there.

  Looking back, I do not understand that woman – myself – standing in that confused goods yard filled with bundles of broken human flesh. The place by one o’clock in the morning was a shambles. The air was thick with steaming sweat, with the effluvia of mud, dirt, blood. The men lay in their stiff uniforms that were caked with mud and dried blood, their great boots on their feet; stained bandages showing where a trouser leg or a sleeve had been cut away. Their faces gleamed faintly, with a faint phosphorescence. Some who could not breathe lying down were propped up on their stretchers against the wall, but most were prone on their backs, staring at the steep iron roof.

  The old orderlies moved from one stretcher to another, carefully, among the piles of clothing, boots and blood-soaked bandages – careful not to step on a hand or a sprawling twisted foot. They carried zinc pails of hot water and slabs of yellow soap and scrubbing brushes. They gathered up the heaps of clothing, and made little bundles of the small things out of pockets, or knelt humbly, washing the big yellow stinking feet that protruded from under the brown blankets. It was the business of these old ones to undress the wounded, wash them, wrap them in blankets, and put hot-water bottles at their feet and sides. It was a difficult business peeling the stiff uniform from a man whose hip or shoulder was fractured, but the old ones were careful. Their big peasant hands were gentle – very, very gentle and careful. They handled the wounded men as if they were children. Now, looking back, I see their rough powerful visages, their shaggy eye-brows, their big clumsy, gentle hands. I see them go down on their stiff knees; I hear their shuffling feet and their soft gruff voices answering the voices of the wounded, who are calling to them for drinks, or to God for mercy.

  The old ones had orders from the commandant not to cut the good cloth of the uniforms if they could help it, but they had orders from me not to hurt the men, and they obeyed me. They slit up the heavy trousers and slashed across the stiff tunics with long scissors, and pulled very slowly, very carefully at the heavy boots, and the wounded men did not groan or cry out very much. They were mostly very quiet. When they did cry out they usually apologized for the annoyance of their agony. Only now and then a wind of pain would sweep over the floor, tossing the legs and arms, then subside again.

  I think that woman, myself, must have been in a trance, or under some horrid spell. Her feet are lumps of fire, her face is clammy, her apron is splashed with blood; but she moves ceaselessly about with bright burning eyes and handles the dreadful wreckage of men as if in a dream. She does not seem to notice the wounds or the blood. Her eyes seem to be watching something that comes and goes and darts in and out among the prone bodies. Her eyes and her hands and her ears are alert, intent on the unseen thing that scurries and hides and jumps out of the corner on to the face of a man when she’s not looking. But quick, something makes her turn. Quick, she is over there, on her knees fighting the thing off, driving it away, and now it’s got another victim. It’s like a dreadful game of hide and seek among the wounded. All her faculties are intent on it. The other things that are going on, she deals with automatically.

  There is a constant coming and going. Medical students run in and out.

  ‘What have you got ready?’

  ‘I’ve got three knees, two spines, five abdomens, twelve heads. Here’s a lung case – hæmorrhage. He can’t wait.’ She is binding the man’s chest; she doesn’t look up.

  ‘Send him along.’

  ‘Pierre! Gaston! Call the stretcher-bearers to take the lung to Monsieur D—.’ She fastens the tight bandage, tucks the blanket quickly round the thin shoulders. The old men lift him. She hurries back to her saucepans to get a new needle.

  A surgeon appears.

  ‘Where’s that knee of mine? I left it in the saucepan on the window ledge. I had boiled it up for an experiment.’

  ‘One of the orderlies must have taken it,’ she says, putting her old needle on to boil.

  ‘Good God! Did he mistake it?’

  ‘Jean, did you take a saucepan you found on the windowsill?’

  ‘Yes, sister, I took it. I thought it was for the casse croûte;1 it looked like a ragoût of mouton. I have it here.’

  ‘Well, it was lucky he didn’t eat it. It was a knee I had cut out, you know.’

  It is time for the old ones’ ‘casse croûte’. It is after one o’clock. At one o’clock the orderlies have cups of coffee and chunks of bread and meat. They eat their supper gathered round the stoves where the iron cauldrons are boiling. The surgeons and the sisters attached to the operating rooms are drinking coffee too in the sterilizing rooms. I do not want any supper. I am not hungry. I am not tired. I am busy. My eyes are busy and my fingers. I am conscious of nothing about myself but my eyes, hands and feet. My feet are a nuisance, they are swollen, hurting lumps, but my fingers are perfectly satisfactory. They are expert in the handling of frail glass ampoules and syringes and needles. I go from one man to another jabbing the sharp needles into their sides, rubbing their skins with iodine, and each time I pick my way back across their bodies to fetch a fresh needle I scan the surface of the floor where the men are spread like a carpet, for signs, for my special secret signals of death.

  ‘Aha! I’ll catch you out again.’ Quick, to that one. That jerking! That sudden livid hue spreading over his form. ‘Quick, Emile! Pierre!’ I have lifted the blanket. The blood is pouring out on the floor under the stretcher. ‘Get the tourniquet. Hold his leg up. Now then, tight – tighter. Now call the stretcher-bearers.’

  Someone near is having a fit. Is it epilepsy? I don’t know. His mouth is fro
thy. His eyes are rolling. He tries to fling himself on the floor. He falls with a thud across his neighbour, who does not notice. The man just beyond propped up against the wall, watches as if from a great distance. He has a gentle patient face; this spectacle does not concern him.

  The door keeps opening and shutting to let in the stretcher-bearers. The wounded are carried in at the end door and are carried out to the operating rooms at either side. The sergeant is counting the treasures out of a dead man’s pockets. He is tying his little things, his letters and briquet,2 etc., up in a handkerchief. Some of the old ones are munching their bread and meat in the centre of the hut under the electric light. The others are busy with their pails and scissors. They shuffle about, kneeling, scrubbing, filling hot-water bottles. I see it all through a mist. It is misty but eternal. It is a scene in eternity, in some strange dream-hell where I am glad to be employed, where I belong, where I am happy. How crowded together we are here. How close we are in this nightmare. The wounded are packed into this place like sardines, and we are so close to them, my old ones and I. I’ve never been so close before to human beings. We are locked together, the old ones and I, and the wounded men; we are bound together. We all feel it. We all know it. The same thing is throbbing in us, the single thing, the one life. We are one body, suffering and bleeding. It is a kind of bliss to me to feel this. I am a little delirious, but my head is cool enough, it seems to me.

  ‘No, not that one. He can wait. Take the next one to Monsieur D—, and this one to Monsieur Guy, and this one to Monsieur Robert. We will put this one on the electric light bed; he has no pulse. More hot-water bottles here, Gaston.

  ‘Do you feel cold, mon vieux?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, but pray do not trouble.’

  I go with him into the little cubicle, turn on the light bulbs, leave him to cook there; and as I come out again to face the strange heaving dream, I suddenly hear a voice calling me, a new far-away hollow voice.

  ‘Sister! My sister! Where are you?’

  I am startled. It sounds so far away, so hollow and so sweet. It sounds like a bell high up in the mountains. I do not know where it comes from. I look down over the rows of men lying on their backs, one close to the other, packed together on the floor, and I cannot tell where the voice comes from. Then I hear it again.

  ‘Sister! Oh, my sister, where are you?’

  A lost voice. The voice of a lost man, wandering in the mountains, in the night. It is the blind man calling. I had forgotten him. I had forgotten that he was there. He could wait. The others could not wait. So I had left him and forgotten him.

  Something in his voice made me run, made my heart miss a beat. I ran down the centre alleyway, round and up again, between the two rows, quickly, carefully stepping across to him over the stretchers that separated us. He was in the second row. I could just squeeze through to him.

  ‘I am coming,’ I called to him. ‘I am coming.’

  I knelt beside him. ‘I am here,’ I said; but he lay quite still on his back; he didn’t move at all; he hadn’t heard me. So I took his hand and put my mouth close to his bandaged head and called to him with desperate entreaty.

  ‘I am here. What is it? What is the matter?’

  He didn’t move even then, but he gave a long shuddering sigh of relief.

  ‘I thought I had been abandoned here, all alone,’ he said softly in his far-away voice.

  I seemed to awake then. I looked round me and began to tremble, as one would tremble if one awoke with one’s head over the edge of a precipice. I saw the wounded packed round us, hemming us in. I saw his comrades, thick round him, and the old ones shuffling about, working and munching their hunks of bread, and the door opening to let in the stretcher-bearers. The light poured down on the rows of faces. They gleamed faintly. Four hundred faces were staring up at the roof, side by side. The blind man didn’t know. He thought he was alone, out in the dark. That was the precipice, that reality.

  ‘You are not alone,’ I lied. ‘There are many of your comrades here, and I am here, and there are doctors and nurses. You are with friends here, not alone.’

  ‘I thought,’ he murmured in that far-away voice, ‘that you had gone away and forgotten me, and that I was abandoned here alone.’

  My body rattled and jerked like a machine out of order. I was awake now, and I seemed to be breaking to pieces.

  ‘No,’ I managed to lie again. ‘I had not forgotten you, nor left you alone.’ And I looked down again at the visible half of his face and saw that his lips were smiling.

  At that I fled from him. I ran down the long, dreadful hut and hid behind my screen and cowered, sobbing, in a corner, hiding my face.

  The old ones were very troubled. They didn’t know what to do. Presently I heard them whispering:

  ‘She is tired,’ one said.

  ‘Yes, she is tired.’

  ‘She should go off to bed,’ another said.

  ‘We will manage somehow without her,’ they said.

  Then one of them timidly stuck a grizzled head round the corner of the screen. He held his tin cup in his hands. It was full of hot coffee. He held it out, offering it to me. He didn’t know of anything else that he could do for me.

  KATHERINE MANSFIELD

  AN INDISCREET JOURNEY

  She is like St Anne. Yes, the concierge is the image of St Anne, with that black cloth over her head, the wisps of grey hair hanging, and the tiny smoking lamp in her hand. Really very beautiful, I thought, smiling at St Anne, who said severely: ‘Six o’clock. You have only just got time. There is a bowl of milk on the writing-table.’ I jumped out of my pyjamas and into a basin of cold water like any English lady in any French novel. The concierge, persuaded that I was on my way to prison cells and death by bayonets, opened the shutters and the cold clear light came through. A little steamer hooted on the river; a cart with two horses at a gallop flung past. The rapid swirling water; the tall black trees on the far side, grouped together like Negroes conversing. Sinister, very, I thought, as I buttoned on my age-old Burberry. (That Burberry was very significant. It did not belong to me. I had borrowed it from a friend. My eye lighted upon it hanging in her little dark hall. The very thing! The perfect and adequate disguise – an old Burberry. Lions have been faced in a Burberry. Ladies have been rescued from open boats in mountainous seas wrapped in nothing else. An old Burberry seems to me the sign and the token of the undisputed venerable traveller, I decided, leaving my purple peg-top with the real seal collar and cuffs in exchange.)

  ‘You will never get there,’ said the concierge, watching me turn up the collar. ‘Never! Never!’ I ran down the echoing stairs – strange they sounded, like a piano flicked by a sleepy housemaid – and on to the Quai. ‘Why so fast, ma mignonne?’1 said a lovely little boy in coloured socks, dancing in front of the electric lotus buds that curve over the entrance to the Mêtro. Alas! there was not even time to blow him a kiss. When I arrived at the big station I had only four minutes to spare, and the platform entrance was crowded and packed with soldiers, their yellow papers in one hand and big untidy bundles. The Commissaire of Police stood on one side, a Nameless Official on the other. Will he let me pass? Will he? He was an old man with a fat swollen face covered with big warts. Horn-rimmed spectacles squatted on his nose. Trembling, I made an effort. I conjured up my sweetest early-morning smile and handed it with the papers. But the delicate thing fluttered against the horn spectacles and fell. Nevertheless, he let me pass, and I ran, ran in and out among the soldiers and up the high steps into the yellow-painted carriage.

  ‘Does one go direct to X?’ I asked the collector who dug at my ticket with a pair of forceps and handed it back again. ‘No, Mademoiselle, you must change at X.Y.Z.’

  ‘At –?’

  ‘X.Y.Z.’

  Again I had not heard. ‘At what time do we arrive there, if you please?’

  ‘One o’clock.’ But that was no good to me. I hadn’t a watch. Oh, well – later.

  Ah! the train h
ad begun to move. The train was on my side. It swung out of the station, and soon we were passing the vegetable gardens, passing the tall, blind houses to let, passing the servants beating carpets. Up already and walking in the fields, rosy from the rivers and the red-fringed pools, the sun lighted upon the swinging train and stroked my muff and told me to take off that Burberry. I was not alone in the carriage. An old woman sat opposite, her skirt turned back over her knees, a bonnet of black lace on her head. In her fat hands, adorned with a wedding and two mourning rings, she held a letter. Slowly, slowly she sipped a sentence, and then looked up and out of the window, her lips trembling a little, and then another sentence, and again the old face turned to the light, tasting it… Two soldiers leaned out of the window, their heads nearly touching – one of them was whistling, the other had his coat fastened with some rusty safety-pins. And now there were soldiers everywhere working on the railway line, leaning against trucks or standing hands on hips, eyes fixed on the train as though they expected at least one camera at every window. And now we were passing big wooden sheds like rigged-up dancing halls or seaside pavilions, each flying a flag. In and out of them walked the Red Cross men; the wounded sat against the walls sunning themselves. At all the bridges, the crossings, the stations, a petit soldat, all boots and bayonet. Forlorn and desolate he looked, like a little comic picture waiting for the joke to be written underneath. Is there really such a thing as war? Are all these laughing voices really going to the war? These dark woods lighted so mysteriously by the white stems of the birch and the ash – these watery fields with the big birds flying over – these rivers green and blue in the light – have battles been fought in places like these?

  What beautiful cemeteries we are passing! They flash gay in the sun. They seem to be full of cornflowers and poppies and daisies. How can there be so many flowers at this time of the year? But they are not flowers at all. They are bunches of ribbons tied on to the soldiers’ graves.