I look back with great pleasure on my connection with the Emergency Stretcher-bearers’ Camp.  It was one of three camps in which I worked when I went to B. I liked all three camps and every one in them, but I cherish a feeling of particular tenderness for the Stretcher-bearers.

Yet my first experience there was far from encouraging.  The day after I took over from my predecessor I ventured into the men’s recreation room.  I was received with silence, frosty and most discouraging.  I made a few remarks about the weather.  I commented on the stagnant condition of the war at the moment.  The things I said were banal and foolish no doubt, yet I meant well and scarcely deserved the reply which came at last.  A man who was playing billiards dropped the butt of his cue on the ground with a bang, surveyed me with a hostile stare and said: 

“We don’t want no ­ parsons here.”

Somebody in a far corner of the room protested mildly.

“Language, language,” he said.

I did not really object much to the language.  I had heard the British soldiers’ favourite word too often to be shocked by it.  What did hurt and embarrass me was the fact that I was not welcome; and no one made any attempt to reassure me on that point.

Indeed when the same unpleasant fact that I really was not welcome was conveyed to me without obscenity in the next camp and with careful politeness in the third I found it even more disagreeable than it was when the stretcher-bearer called me a ­ parson.  The officers in the convalescent camp, the centre camp in my charge, were all kindness in their welcome, but the sergeant-major .  We became fast friends afterwards, but the day we first met he looked me over and decided that I was an inefficient simpleton.  Without speaking a word he made his opinion plain to me.  He was appallingly efficient himself and I do not think he ever altered his perfectly just opinion of me.  But in the end, and long before the end, he did all he could to help me.

The worst of all the snubs waited me in Marlborough Camp, and came from a lady worker, afterwards the dearest and most valued of the many friends I made in France.  I shall not soon forget the day I first entered her canteen.  She and her fellow-worker, also a valued friend now, did not call me a “ ­ parson”; but they left me under the impression that I was not wanted there.  Her snub, delivered as a lady delivers such things, was the worst of the three.

For my reception in the Stretcher-bearers’ Camp I was prepared.

“You’ll find those fellows a pretty tough crowd,” so some one warned me.

“Those old boys are bad lots,” said some one else.  “You’ll not do any good with them.”

I agree with the “tough.”  I totally disagree with the “bad.”  Even if, after eight months, I had been bidden farewell in the same phrase with which I was greeted, I should still refuse to say “bad lot” about those men.  I hope that in such a case I should have the grace to recognise the failure as my fault, not theirs, and to take the “bad lot” as a description of myself.

The Emergency Stretcher-bearers when I first knew them were no man’s children.  The Red Cross flag flew over the entrance of their camp, but the Red Cross people accepted no responsibility for them.  Their recreation room, which was not a room at all, but one end of their gaunt dining-room, was ill supplied with books and games, and had no papers.  There were no lady workers in or near the camp, and only those who have seen the work which our ladies do in canteens in France can realise how great the loss was.  There was no kind of unity in the camp.

It was a small place.  There were not more than three hundred men altogether.  But they were men from all sorts of regiments.  I think that when I knew the camp first, nearly every one in it belonged to the old army.  They were gathered there, the salvage of the Mons retreat, of the Marne, of the glorious first battle of Ypres, broken men every one of them, debris tossed by the swirling currents of war into this backwater.

Their work was heavy, thankless, and uninspiring.  They were camped on a hill.  Day after day they marched down through the streets of the town to the railway station or the quay.  They carried the wounded on stretchers from the hospital trains to the Red Cross ambulances; or afterwards from the ambulance cars up steep gangways to the decks and cabins of hospital ships.  They were summoned by telephone at all hours.  They toiled in the grey light of early dawn.  They sweated at noonday.  Soaked and dripping they bent their backs to their burdens in storm and rain.  They went long hours without food.  They lived under conditions of great discomfort.  It was everybody’s business to curse and “strafe” them.  I do not remember that any one ever gave them a word of praise.

It was the camp, of all that I was ever in, which seemed to offer the richest yield to the gleaner of war stories.  I have always wanted to know what that retreat from Mons felt like to the men who went through it.  We are assured, and I do not doubt it, that our men never thought of themselves as beaten.  What did they think when day after day they retreated at top speed?  Of what they suffered we know something.  How they took their suffering we only guess.  I hoped when I made friends with those men to hear all this and many strange tales of personal adventures.

But the British soldier, even of the new army, is strangely inarticulate.  The men of the old army, so far as concerns their fighting, are almost dumb.  They would talk about anything rather than their battles.  There was a man in the Life Guards who had received three wounds in one of the early cavalry skirmishes.  He wanted to talk about cricket, and told me stories about a church choir in which he sang when he was a boy.

There was a Coldstream Guardsman.  I never succeeded in finding out whether he was in the famous Landrecies fight or not.  The most he would do in the way of military talk was to complain, privately, to me of the lax discipline in the camp, and to compare the going of his comrades from the camp to the quay with the marching of the Coldstreamers on their way to relieve guard at Buckingham Palace.  There was an old sergeant from County Down who was more interested in growing vegetables ­we had a garden ­than anything else, and a Munster Fusilier who came from Derry, of all places, and exulted in the fact that his sons had taken his place in the regiment.

At first this curious reticence was a disappointment to me.  It is still a wonder.  I am sure that if I had been one of the “Old Contemptibles” I should talk of nothing else all my life.  But I came to see afterwards that if I had heard battle stories I should never have known the men.  The centre of interest of their lives was at home.  They, even those professional soldiers, were men of peace rather than war.  The soldiers’ trade was no delight to them.

I dare say the Germans, who took pains to learn so much about us beforehand, knew this, and drew, as Germans so often do, a wrong inference from facts patiently gathered.  They thought that men who do not like fighting fight badly.  It may be so sometimes.  It was certainly not so with our old army.  We know now that it is not so with the men of our new army either.

After a while the stretcher-bearers and I began to know each other.  The first sign of friendliness was a request that I should umpire at a cricket match on a Sunday afternoon.  I am not sure that the invitation was not also a test.  Some parsons, the “ ­” kind, who are not wanted, object to cricket on Sundays.  My own conscience is more accommodating.  I would gladly have umpired at Monte Carlo on Good Friday, Easter, Advent Sunday, and Christmas, all rolled into one, if those men had asked me.

Later on, after many cricket matches, we agreed that it was desirable to get up entertainments in the camp.  There was no local talent, or none available at first, but I had the good luck to meet one day a very amiable lady who undertook to run a whole entertainment herself.  She also promised not to turn round and walk away when she saw the piano.

We stirred ourselves, determined to rise to the occasion.  We made a platform at the end of the dining-room.  I took care not to ask, and I do not know, where the wood for that platform came from.  We discovered among us a man who said he had been a theatrical scene painter before he joined the R.E.  He can never, I fancy, have had much chance of rising to the top of his old profession, but he painted a back scene for our stage.  It represented a country cottage standing in a field, and approached by an immensely long, winding, brown path.  The perspective of that path was wonderful.  He also painted and set up two wings on the stage which were easily recognisable as leafy trees.  For many Sundays afterwards I stood in front of that cottage with a green tree on each side of me during morning service.

Another artist volunteered to do our programmes.  His work lay in the orderly-room and he had at command various coloured inks, black, violet, blue, and red.  He produced a programme like a rainbow on which he described our lady visitor as the “Famous Favourite of the Music Hall Stage.”  She had, in fact, delighted theatre goers before her marriage, but not on the music hall stage.  I showed her the programme nervously, but I need not have been nervous.  She entered into the spirit of the thing.

A thoughtful sergeant, without consulting me, prepared for her a dressing-room at the back of the stage.  A modest man himself, he insisted upon my leading her to it.  We found there a shelf, covered with newspaper.  On it was a shaving mirror, a large galvanised-iron tub half full of cold water, a cake of brown soap, a tattered towel, and a comb.  Also there was a tumbler, a siphon of soda water, and a bottle of port.

“The dears,” she said.  “But I can’t change my frock; I’ve nothing but what I stand up in.  What shall I do?”

I glanced at the bottle of port; but she shrank from that.

“I must do something,” she said.  “I’ll powder my nose.”  The shaving mirror, at least, was some use.

The entertainment began stiffly.  We were not accustomed to entertainments and felt that we ought to behave with propriety.  We clapped at the end of each song, but we displayed no enthusiasm.  I began to fear for our success.  But our lady ­she did the whole thing herself ­conquered us.  We were laughing and cheering in half an hour.  In the end we rocked in our seats and howled tumultuously when the sergeant-major, a portly man of great dignity, was dragged over the footlights.  Our lady pirouetted across the stage and back again, her arm round the sergeant-major’s waist, her cheek on his shoulder, singing, “If I were the only girl in the world and you were the only boy.”

We believed in doing what we could for those who came to entertain us.  When we secured the services of a “Lena Ashwell” Concert Party we painted a large sign and hung it up in front of the stage:  “Welcome to the Concert Party.”  We forgot the second “e” in Welcome and it had to be crammed in at the last moment above the “m” with a “^” underneath it.

We made two dressing-rooms, one for ladies and one for gentlemen.  The fittings were the same ­brown soap, cold water, shaving mirror, tumbler and siphon.  But in the gentlemen’s room we put whisky, in the ladies’ port.  The whole party had tea afterwards in the sergeants’ mess ­strong tea and tinned tongue.  A corporal stood at the door as we left holding a tray covered with cigarettes.

I learned to play cribbage while I was in that camp.  I was pitted, by common consent, against an expert, a man who had been wounded at Le Cateau and had his teeth knocked out as he lay on the ground by a passing German, who used the butt of his rifle.  Round me were a dozen men, who gave me advice and explained in whispers the finesse of the game.  It was hot work, for the men sat close and we all smoked.

I also learned that the British soldier, when he gives his mind to it, plays a masterly game of draughts.  There was a man ­in civil life he sailed a Thames barge ­who insulted me deeply over draughts.  He used to allow me to win one game in three, and he managed so well that it was weeks before I found out what he was doing.

We had whist drives, and once a billiard tournament, run on what I believe is a novel principle.  We had only one table, half sized and very dilapidated.  We had about thirty entries.  We gave each player five minutes and let him score as much as he could in the time, no opponent interfering with him.  The highest score took the prize.

But all entertainments and games in that camp were liable to untimely interruption.  Messages used to come through from some remote authority demanding stretcher-bearers.  Then, though it were in the midst of a game of whist, every man present had to get up and go away.

There was one occasion on which such a summons arrived just as the men had assembled to welcome a concert party.  The dining-room was empty in five minutes.  We who remained were faced with the prospect of a concert without an audience.  But our sergeant-major met the emergency.  He hurried to a neighbouring camp and somehow managed to borrow two hundred men.  The concert party was greatly pleased, but said that the Emergency Stretcher-bearers did not look as old and dilapidated as they had been led to expect.

There came a time when the camp changed and many old friends disappeared.  At the beginning of the Somme battle there was a sudden demand for stretcher-bearers to serve at the advanced dressing-stations.  Almost every day we were bidden to send men.  Little parties assembled on the parade ground and marched off to entrain for the front.  I used to see them lined up on the parade ground, war-battered men, who looked old though they were young, with their kits spread out for inspection.  The least unfit went first; but indeed there was little choice among them.  Not a man of them but had been wounded grievously or mourned a constitution broken by hardship.  Yet they went cheerfully, patient in their dumb devotion to duty, hopeful that the final victory for which they had striven in vain was near at hand at last.

“We’ll have peace before Christmas.”  So they said to me as they went.

That “Peace before Christmas”!  It has fluttered, a delusive vision, before our men since the start.  “Is it true that the cavalry are through?” I suppose that was another delusion, that riding down of a flying foe by horsemen.  But it was not only the stretcher-bearers who clung to it.

We saw our friends no more after they disappeared into the smoking furnace of the front.  They were scattered here and there among the dressing-stations in the fighting area.  Many of them, I suppose, stayed there, struck down at last, ending their days in France as they began them, with the sound of the guns in their ears.  Others, perhaps, drifted back to England more hopelessly broken than ever.  They must be walking our streets now with silver badges on the lapels of their coats, and we, who are much meaner men, should take our hats off to them.  A few may be toiling still, where the fighting is thickest, the last remnants of the “Old Contemptibles.”

Their places in the camp and their work on the quays were taken by others, men disabled or broken in the later fights when the new armies won their glory.  The character of the camp changed.  We became more respectable than we were in the old days.  No one any longer spoke of us as a “bad lot,” or called us “a tough crowd.”  Perhaps we were not so tough.  Certainly we cannot have been tougher than the men who made good in those first terrific days, who continued to make good long after they could fight no more, staggering through the Somme mud with laden stretchers.  They grumbled and groused.  They blasphemed constantly.  They drank when they could.  They wanted no “ ­ parson” among them.  But they were men, unconquered and unconquerable.