Grace was entitled to be content with the amazing progress and changes she and the FANY had brought about to the shocking state of the so-called hospital they had been allocated at. Lamarck. There is no doubt she was, but resting on her laurels was not her way.
The daily chore of finding billets for her girls may have been over, but she was still saddled with almost daily trips to the Quay to organize the unloading, checking , paperwork, and dispatch of FANY supplies arriving from England. As the only French-speaking FANY Officer available, this, too, was her responsibility.
But in the midst of all this, she never lost sight of one of her main aims, the expansion of new outlets for the Corps. During October she had managed to find time to renew her contacts with the Belgian Medical Services, and at their request agreed to take over the running of an advanced dressing station, a Regimental Aid Post (RAP) at a town called Oostkeerke, not far from Calais.
Now, in addition to the hectic daily - and nightly – round of work at Lamarck Hospital, the FANY provided two girls to staff a Regimental Aid Post (RAP) less than a mile behind the Front Line. This was part of the Medical Team of the 3rd Chasseurs, a crack Cavalry Regiment belonging to the 5th Belgian Infantry Division holding that part of the line. The FANYs would forge close links with them during the 3 months they were there. Grace happily referred to the RAP as the "Poste de Secours".
Life there was dank, dirty and dangerous, - and Grace loved it! For her it epitomised her reasons for joining the 'Yeomanry', for a life of adventure, risks, a chance to push back the parameters of her own life, at the same time helping others. She revelled in the freedom she experienced from the constrictions of life at home. Serving alongside an elite fighting regiment was an added bonus.
Describing the routine of life at the RAP in Nursing Adventures, Grace writes: "Every morning between 8 and 9 a large number of men came in from the trenches half a mile away, to report sick, or get slight wounds dressed. Dr Hannsens examined them, and we stood by ready to put a fresh dressing on, or administer a dose of medicine". Through those and following passages in her book we can sense her excitement at being part of this, to her, great adventure.
A better description of her Postes de Secours might have been Post of Discomfort, of which Grace was only too aware, making it her business to experience things in person. Here the FANYs slept on straw mattresses on the floor, often short of rations, specially basics such as bread and butter. Frequently, if they had the one, they didn't have the other. Their staple diet was potatoes and black coffee, - milk was seldom available.
Grace remembers, - probably with a shudder – their main 'meat' course, - plaitre - a sort of Bully Beef in tins, that "we stewed, fried and boiled, and mashed up with potatoes, And once, from the troop kitchen, we got five packets of 'Little Mary Custard Powder', and as milk was an unheard of luxury, we made custard with water, and it tasted better than the best custard ever made at home!" Such were the conditions they cheerfully endured.
Because of the cramped situation of the RAP, normal conventions were set aside and ignored, in this world of men. The building only had two rooms, The FANYs slept in one, while up to 40 Belgian soldiers were crowded into the other. According to Grace in her memoirs, "Chivalry was the outstanding characteristic of the men, and up there alone in the midst of the Belgian Army, we were as safe as in a London drawing room".
Close to the Front Line as it was, the rolling thunder of war was ever present, shellfire daily churning up the earth around, which the heavy November rain quickly turned to mud. Indeed, mud was the dominating feature of the RAP. It was a dreary, exciting, and often dangerous round of dressing wounds of men straight from the trenches.
Grace recalls one dreadful night she experienced in November, when a heavy localised attack on the Belgian line resulted in a sudden surge of casualties pouring into the RAP. The conditions were appalling. A massive storm brewing, an ice cold, bitter wind sweeping across the desolate landscape of war.
Inside the crowded dressing station doctors worked frantically treating the men. Many were dying, too badly injured to even try to save, when so many who could be saved were waiting. Preceding the attack, the heavy artillery bombardment had taken its toll, doctors probing and searching desperately for fragments of shrapnel in the shattered bodies.
The room was turning into a temporary hospital, unable to keep up with the influx of pain-wracked patients pouring in. Making matters worse, the RAP ran out of anaesthetics, men were screaming in agony.
"Each time the door opened I groaned inwardly." wrote Grace. "Would this procession of suffering never stop? The cold wind would bite through us all; the candles would flicker and splutter; big muddy men would tramp in with thick muddy boots, dump down their burdens on the cold stone floor, and go out, banging the door loudly to make it shut……….and it would all happen again."
This stark account of that one dreadful night was typical of so many others stretching on and on, week after week, month after month, Throughout it all, the morale of these young ladies of the FANY remained high. They never faltered in giving aid and hope and cheer to these terribly injured men. Their cheerfulness – though perhaps forced at times – remained constant.
There were certain compensations, however. Almost all the FANYs had an adventurous streak in them, and longed to get up to the Front Line. From this forward RAP, once morning sick parade was over, they got the chance, being so close, and forming friendships with the officers of the units holding that part of the Line. Grace was one of the first to seize the opportunity. She tells of her first trip, escorted by the CO of one of the Belgian battalions.
It was a rather better day than so far this cold and wet November, the sun actually shining. They were quite close to the Lines, when a hare suddenly leaped up and raced across the ploughed field they were skirting. Two soldiers jumped after it with sticks, pursuing it across the field to shouts of laughter and encouragement from the troops watching. She wrote later "How well I remember it all, even now…….the fields with the trenches thrown up, and the happy faces looking over – for the Belgian soldier is as gay as he is brave, and here and there in the earth just above the trenches, and very close to the edge, little wooden crosses caught the eye."
This idyllic scene was brought abruptly to an end by the German guns, the high-pitched whining scream of the shrapnel shell – whizzzzz-booommm - drowning out the cheerful Belgian voices, the men chased back to their trenches by the officers.
Just a brief, happy, fun-filled episode lighting up for her, a moment in the darkness of war. This extraordinary Scotswoman experienced so much, soaked up so much into her consciousness, images that stayed with her always, about which she thought and felt deeply. Passing through a small devastated village she remembered "One or two scattered and shattered buildings to complete the picture – church towers that pointed to the Heaven we all profess to worship – the Heaven that heard the prayers of Allies and enemies, and ordered all things as it thought best."
What went through the mind of this young woman whose early childhood had been so governed by a strictly religious father, whom she loved dearly, and whose goodness and generosity to those in need only came to light after his death?
She paints a very different picture of an occasion not long afterwards. She and Sayer, one of the girls on duty at the RAP at the time, set off for the trenches with a Medical Officer. From previous experience they were loaded down with bundles of clean new shirts, gloves, mittens, cigarettes, and, in particular, woollen socks. All items greatly valued by the troops. These came as a result of hard work of the FANYs back in England fundraising contributions.
"It was raining, - hard, steady rain; the railway lines were broken up by shellfire and the fields were swampy. We scrambled along zigzag communication trenches. My field boots buried themselves in the mud and my skirt was tucked up to my knees, and my buckskin breeches were soaked through at the knees with slimy, greasy mud."
Looking about, little could be seen in this dreary landscape, until a drenched and sodden officer suddenly appeared apparently from nowhere, and greeted them with broad smiles. He clapped his hands, and all around camouflaged grass-sod roofs and doorways were cautiously raised, and unexpectedly dozens of smiling faces appeared, "like rats in a hole" wrote Grace.
She draws a picture of the extraordinary lives those Belgian soldiers were forced to live, and also the extraordinary experience the FANYs shared with them in those early days, through the bitter winter of 1914/15. Getting the gifts to the men was a wearisome and sometimes exhausting ordeal, gladly undertaken by the girls of the FANY, not just through a sense of adventure, but for them to see the looks of joy and delight in the faces of the men.
That made it all worthwhile. Handed a clean shirt the man's face would light up, his happy, heartfelt "Merci beaucoup, Mam'selle" would ring out, a dirty shirt would be tossed to the floor, a clean, new one hastily pulled on. The girls were always amazed at the cheerfulness of the troops, and their apparent utter unconcern for the squalor and danger they lived with daily.
Trudging back through the mud to the RAP with empty packs and bags they came across some French cavalry troops in stables, and a Senegalese soldier acting as cook. Hunting through their packs and pockets, Grace and Sayer found a packet of cigarettes between them, and gave them to the Senegalese. It was obvious he was deeply touched, almost overcome with emotion. He fumbled in the neck of his tunic, and after a lot of fiddling and pulling, eventually produced a German ear from a necklace.
This he handed to Grace with much solemnity, and a low bow. It was their tradition to cut the ears off all they killed and string them round their necks as souvenirs and symbols of their prowess!
Grace accepted it with quiet glee, but at the same time assuring him it was an honour to receive such a gift from him. This was indeed something to show to her brothers.