We always spoke of it, affectionately and proudly, as “the Con.  Camp.”  The abbreviation was natural enough, for “convalescent” is a mouthful of a word to say, besides being very difficult to spell.  I have known a beneficed clergyman of the Church of England come to grief over the consonants of the last two syllables in addressing an envelope to me; and there was a story of a very august visitor, asked to write in an album, who inquired about a vowel and was given the wrong one by one of the staff.  If those doubtful spellers had known our pleasant abbreviation they would have escaped disaster.

To us the “Con.” justified itself from every point of view.  I am not sure that we had an equal right to the conceited use of the definite article.  There are other “Con.” camps in France, many of them.  We spoke of them by their numbers.  Ours had a number too, but we rarely used it.  We were The Con.  Camp.  Our opinion was no doubt prejudiced; but the authorities seemed to share it.  The Con.  Camp was one of the show places of the British Army.  Distinguished visitors were always brought there.

The Government, the War Office, or whoever it is who settles such things, encourages distinguished visitors to inspect the war.  There is a special officer set apart to conduct tourists from place to place and to show them the things they ought to see.  He is provided with several motor-cars, a nice chateau, and a good cook.  This is sensible.  If you want a visitor to form a favourable opinion of anything, war, industry, or institution, you must make him fairly comfortable and feed him well.

Yet I think that the life of that officer was a tiresome one.  There was very little variety in his programme.  He showed the same things over and over again, and he heard the same remarks made over and over again about the things he showed.  Sometimes, of course, a distinguished visitor with a reputation for originality made a new remark.  But that was worse.  It is better to have to listen to an intelligent comment a hundred times than to hear an unintelligent thing said once.  Any new remark was sure to be stupid, because all the intelligent things had been said before.

To us, who lived in the Con.  Camp, distinguished visitors, though common, were not very tiresome.  We were not obliged to entertain them for very long at a time.  They arrived at the camp about 3.30 p.m., and our C.O. showed them round.  After inspecting an incinerator, a tent, a bath, a Y.M.C.A. hut, and a kitchen, they came to the mess for tea.  Our C.O. was a man of immense courtesy and tact.  He could answer the same question about an incinerator twice a week without showing the least sign of ever having heard it before.

I have often wondered who selected the distinguished visitors, and on what principle the choice was made.  Whoever he was he cast his net widely.

Journalists of course abounded, American journalists chiefly ­this was in 1916 ­but we had representatives of Dutch, Norwegian, Swiss, Italian, Spanish, Russian, and South American papers.  Once we even had a Roumanian, a most agreeable man, but I never felt quite sure whether he was a journalist or a diplomatist.  Perhaps he was both.

Authors ­writers of books rather than articles ­were common and sometimes were quite interesting, though given to asking too many questions.  It ought to be impressed on distinguished visitors that it is their business to listen to what they are told, and not to ask questions.

Politicians often came.  We once had a visit from Mr. Lloyd George, but I missed that to my grief.

Generals and staff officers from neutral countries came occasionally in very attractive uniforms.

Doctors always seemed to me more successful than other people in keeping up an appearance of intelligent interest.

Ecclesiastics were dull.  They evidently considered it bad form to allude to religion in any way and they did not know much about anything else.  But ecclesiastics were rare.

Royalties, I think, excited us most.  We once had a visit from a king, temporarily exiled from his kingdom.  He wore the most picturesque clothes I have ever seen off the stage and he was very gracious.  All of our most strikingly wounded men ­those who wore visible bandages ­were paraded for his inspection.  He walked down the line, followed by a couple of aides-de-camp, some French officers of high rank, an English general, our C.O., and then the rest of us.  Our band played a tune which we hoped was his national anthem.  He did not seem to recognise it, so it may not have been the right tune though we had done our best.

He stopped opposite an undersized boy in a Lancashire regiment who had a bandage round his head and a nose blue with cold.  The monarch made a remark in his own language.  He must have known several other languages ­all kings do ­but he spoke his own.  Perhaps kings have to, in order to show patriotism.  An aide-de-camp translated the remark into French.  An interpreter retranslated it into English.  Somebody repeated it to the Lancashire boy.  I dare say he was gratified, but I am sure he did not in the least agree with the king.  What his Majesty said was, “How splendid a thing to be wounded in this glorious war!”

It is easy to point a cheap moral to the tale.  So kings find pleasure in their peculiar sport.  So boys who would much rather be watching football matches at home suffer and are sad. Delirant reges. Plectuntur Achivi.

It is all as old as the hills, and republicans may make the most of it.  Yet I think that that king meant what he said, and would have felt the same if the bandage had been round his own head and he had been wearing the uniform of a private soldier.  There are a few men in the world who really enjoy fighting, and that king ­unless his face utterly belies him ­is one of them.  Nothing, I imagine, except his great age, kept him out of the battles which his subjects fought.

The Con.  Camp deserved the reputation which brought us those flights of distinguished visitors.  I may set this down proudly without being suspected of conceit, for I had nothing to do with making the camp what it was.  Success in a camp or a battalion depends first on three men ­the C.O., the adjutant, and the sergeant-major.  We were singularly fortunate in all three.

The next necessity is what the Americans call “team work.”  The whole staff must pull together, each member of it knowing and trusting the others.  It was so in that camp.  The result was fine, smooth-running organisation.  No emergency disturbed the working of the camp.  No sudden call found the staff unprepared or helpless.  So much, I think, any one visiting and inspecting the camp might have seen and appreciated.  What a visitor, however intelligent, or an inspector, though very able, would not have discovered was the spirit which inspired the discipline of the camp.

Ours was a medical camp.  We flew the Red Cross flag and our C.O. was an officer in the R.A.M.C.  Doctors, though they belong to a profession which exists for the purpose of alleviating human suffering, are not always and at all times humane men.  Like other men they sometimes fall into the mistake of regarding discipline not as a means but as an end in itself.  In civil life the particular kind of discipline which seduces them is called professional etiquette.  In the army they become, occasionally, the most bigoted worshippers of red-tape.  When that happens a doctor becomes a fanatic more ruthless than an inquisitor of old days.

In the Con.  Camp the discipline was good, as good as possible; but our C.O. was a wise man.  He never forgot that the camp existed for the purpose of restoring men’s bodies to health and not as an example of the way to make rules work.  The spirit of the camp was most excellent.  Regulations were never pressed beyond the point at which they were practically of use.  Sympathy, the sympathy which man naturally feels for a suffering fellow-man, was not strangled by parasitic growths of red-tape.  We had to thank the C.O. and after him the adjutant for this.  I met no officers more humane than these two, or more patient with all kinds of weakness and folly in the men with whom they had to deal.

They were well supported by their staff and by the voluntary workers in the two recreation huts run by the Y.M.C.A. and the Catholic Women’s League.  The work of the C.W.L. ladies differed a little from that of any recreation hut I had seen before.  They made little attempt to cater for the amusement of the men.  They discouraged personal friendships between the workers and the men.  They aimed at a certain refinement in the equipment and decoration of their hut.  They provided food of a superior kind, very nicely served.  I think their efforts were appreciated by many men.

On the other hand the workers in the Y.M.C.A. hut there as everywhere made constant efforts to provide entertainments of some kind.  Three or four days at least out of every week there was “something on.”  Sometimes it was a concert, sometimes a billiard tournament, or a ping-pong tournament, or a competition in draughts or chess.  Occasionally, under the management of a lady who specialised in such things, we had a hat-trimming competition, an enormously popular kind of entertainment both for spectators and performers.  Every suggestion of a new kind of entertainment was welcomed and great pains were taken to carry it through.

I only remember one occasion on which the leader of that hut shrank from the form of amusement proposed to him.  The idea came from a Canadian soldier who said he wished we would get up a pie-eating competition.  This sounded exciting, and we asked for details.  The competitors, so the Canadian said, have their hands tied behind their backs, go down on their knees and eat open jam tarts which are laid flat on the ground.  He said the game was popular in the part of Canada he came from.  I longed to see it tried; but the leader of the hut refused to venture on it.  It would, he said, be likely to be very messy.  He was probably right.

In that hut the workers aimed constantly at getting into personal touch with the men.  This was far easier in the Con.  Camp than at the base camp where “Woodbine” was.  The numbers of men were smaller.  As a rule they stayed longer with us.  But at best it is only possible for a canteen worker to make friends with a few men.  With most of those who enter the hut she can have no personal relations.  But I am sure that the work done is of immense value, and it is probably those who need sympathy and friendship most who come seeking it, a little shyly, from the ladies who serve them.

In normal times the Con.  Camp received men from the hospitals; men who were not yet fit to return to their regiments, but who had ceased to need the constant ministrations of doctors and nurses.  The conditions of life were more comfortable than in base camps, much more comfortable than at the front or in billets.  The men slept in large tents, warmed and well lighted.  They had beds.  The food was good and abundant.  Great care and attention was given to the cooking.

Much trouble was taken about amusements.  The camp had a ground for football and cricket.  It possessed a small stage, set up in one of the dining-halls, where plays were acted, a Christmas pantomime performed, and a variety entertainment given every week.  There were whist drives with attractive prizes for the winners.  Duty was light.  Besides the “fatigues” necessary for keeping the camp in order there were route marches for those who could march, and an elaborate system of physical exercises under trained instructors.

The men remained in camp for varying periods.  No man was kept there for more than three months.  But some men passed through the camp being marked fit almost as soon as they left hospital.  That was the normal routine; but it happened once while I was there that things became very abnormal and the organisation of the camp was tested with the utmost severity.

Just before the Somme offensive began some mischievous devil put it into the heads of the authorities to close down the only other convalescent camp in the neighbourhood.  Its inmates were sent to us and we had to make room for them.  Our cricket ground was sacrificed.  Paths were run across the pitch.  Tents were erected all over it.  My church tent became the home of a harmonium, the only piece of ecclesiastical salvage from the camp that was closed.  Then my church tent was taken from me, sacrificed like all luxuries to the accommodation of men.  Just as we were beginning to settle down again came the Somme offensive.

Like every one else in France we had long expected the great push.  Yet when it came it came with startling suddenness.  We went out one morning to find the streets of the town crowded with ambulances.  They followed each other in a long, slow, apparently unending procession across the bridge which led into the town from the railway station.  They split off into small parties turning to the left and skirting the sea shore along the broad, glaring parade, or climbed with many hootings through the narrow streets of the old town.  Staring after them as they passed us we saw inside figures of men very still, very silent, bandaged, swathed.

All the morning, hour after hour, the long procession went on.  The ambulances, cleared of their burdens at the various hospitals, turned at once and drove furiously back to the station.  The hospitals were filled and overfilled and overflowing.  Men who could stand more travelling were hurried to the hospital ships.  Stretcher-bearers toiled and sweated.  The steamers, laden to their utmost capacity, slipped from the quay side and crept out into the Channel.  One hospital was filled and cleared three times in twenty-four hours.  The strain on doctors and nurses must have been terrific.

For one day we in the Con.  Camp remained untouched by the rushing torrent.  Then our turn came.  The number of lightly wounded men was very great.  Many of them could walk and take care of themselves.  A hospital bed and hospital treatment were not absolutely necessary for them.  They were sent to us.  They arrived in char-a-bancs, thirty at a time.  We possessed a tiny hospital, meant for the accommodation of cases of sudden illness in the camp.  It was turned into a dressing-station.

The wounded men sat or lay on the grass outside waiting for their turns to go in.  They wore the tattered, mud-caked clothes of the battlefield.  The bandages of the casualty clearing-station were round their limbs and heads.  Some were utterly exhausted.  They lay down.  They pillowed their heads on their arms and sank into heavy slumber.  Some, half hysterical with excitement, sat bolt upright and talked, talked incessantly, whether any one listened to them or not.  They laughed too, but it was a horrible kind of laughter.  Some seemed stupefied; they neither slept nor talked.  They sat where they were put, and stared in front of them with eyes which never seemed to blink.

Most of the men were calm, quiet, and very patient.  I think their patience was the most wonderful thing I ever saw.  They suffered, had suffered, and much suffering was before them.  Yet no word of complaint came from them.  They neither cursed God nor the enemy nor their fate.  I have seen dumb animals, dogs and cattle, with this same look of trustful patience in their faces.  But these were men who could think, reason, feel, and express themselves as animals cannot.  Their patience and their quiet trustfulness moved me so that it was hard not to weep.

By twos and threes the men were called from the group outside and passed through the door of the dressing-station.  The doctors waited for them in the surgery.  The label on each man was read, his wound examined.  A note was swiftly written ordering certain dressings and treatment.  The man passed into what had been the ward of the hospital.  Here the R.A.M.C. orderlies worked and with them two nurses spared for our need from a neighbouring hospital.  Wounds were stripped, dressed, rebandaged.  Sometimes fragments of shrapnel were picked out.

The work went on almost silently hour after hour from early in the morning till long after noon.  Yet there was no hurry, no fuss, and I do not think there was a moment’s failure in gentleness.  Some hard things have been said about R.A.M.C. orderlies and about nurses too.  Perhaps they have been deserved occasionally.  I saw their work at close quarters and for many days in that one place, nowhere else and not again there; but what I saw was good.

With wounds dressed and bandaged, the men went out again.  They were led across the camp to the quartermaster’s stores and given clean underclothes in place of shirts and drawers sweat soaked, muddy, caked hard with blood.  With these in their arms they went to the bath-house, to hot water, soap, and physical cleanness.  Then they were fed, and for the moment all we could do for them was done.

These were all lightly wounded men, but, even remembering that, their power of recuperation seemed astonishing.  Some went after dinner to their tents, lay down on their beds and slept.  Even of them few stayed asleep for very long.  They got up, talked to each other, joined groups which formed outside the tents, wandered through the camp, eagerly curious about their new surroundings.  They found their way into the recreation huts and canteens.  They shouted and cheered the performers at concerts or grouped themselves round the piano and sang their own songs.  Those who had money bought food at the counter.

But many had no money and no prospect of getting any.  They might have gone, not hungry, but what is almost worse, yearning for dainties and tobacco, if it were not for the generosity of their comrades.  I have seen men with twopence and no more, men who were longing for a dozen things themselves, share what the twopence bought with comrades who had not even a penny.  I passed two young soldiers near the door of a canteen.  One of them stopped me and very shyly asked me if I would give him a penny for an English stamp.  He fished it out from the pocket of his pay-book.  It was dirty, crumpled, most of the gum gone, but unused and not defaced.  I gave him the penny.  “Come on, Sam,” he said, “we’ll get a packet of fags.”

They say a lawyer sees the worst side of human nature.  A parson probably sees the best of it; but though I have been a parson for many years and seen many good men and fine deeds, I have seen nothing more splendid, I cannot imagine anything more splendid, than the comradeship, the brotherly love of our soldiers.

The very first day of the rush of the lightly wounded into our camp brought us men of the Ulster Division.  I heard from the mouths of the boys I talked to the Ulster speech, dear to me from all the associations and memories of my childhood.  I do not suppose that those men fought better than any other men, or bore pain more patiently, but there was in them a kind of fierce resentment.  They had not achieved the conquest they hoped.  They had been driven back, had been desperately cut up.  They had emerged from their great battle a mere skeleton of their division.

But I never saw men who looked less like beaten men.  Those Belfast citizens, who sign Covenants and form volunteer armies at home, have in them the fixed belief that no one in the world is equal to them or can subdue them.  It seems an absurd and arrogant faith.  But there is this to be said.  They remained just as convinced of their own strength after their appalling experience north of the Somme as they were when they shouted for Sir Edward Carson in the streets of Belfast.  Men who believe in their invincibility the day after they have been driven back, with their wounds fresh and their bones aching with weariness, are men whom it will be very difficult to conquer.

Nothing was more interesting than to note the different moods of these wounded men.  One morning, crossing the camp at about 7 o’clock, I met a Canadian, a tall, gaunt man.  I saw at once that he had just arrived from the front.  The left sleeve of his tunic was cut away.  The bandage round his forearm was soiled and stained.  His face was unshaven and very dirty.  His trousers were extraordinarily tattered and caked with yellow mud.  He had somehow managed to lose one boot and walked unevenly in consequence.  I had heard the night before something about the great and victorious fight in which this man had been.  I congratulated him.  He looked at me with a slow, humorous smile.  “Well,” he drawled, “they certainly did run some.”

A Lancashire boy, undersized, anæmic-looking, his clothes hanging round him in strips, got hold of me one morning outside the dressing-station and told me in a high-pitched voice a most amazing story.  It was the best battle story I ever heard from the lips of a soldier, and the boy who told it to me was hysterical.  He had been buried twice, he and his officer and his Lewis gun, in the course of an advance.  He had met the Prussian Guard in the open, he and his comrades, and the famous crack corps had “certainly run some.”  That was not the boy’s phrase.  When he reached the climax of his tale his language was a rich mixture of blasphemy and obscenity.

There was a Munster Fusilier, an elderly, grizzled man who had been sent back with some German prisoners.  He had, by his own account, quite a flock of them when he started.  He found himself, owing to shrapnel and other troubles, with only one left when he drew near his destination.

But he was a provident man.  He had collected all available loot from the men who had fallen on the way down, and the unfortunate survivor was so laden that he collapsed, sank into the mud under an immense load of helmets, caps, belts, everything that could have been taken from the dead.  The Munster Fusilier stood over him with his rifle.  “You misfortunate b ­,” he said.  “And them words,” he said to me confidentially, “got a move on him, though it was myself had to carry the load for him the rest of the way.”