After the hectic Christmas and New Year festivities in Calais , Grace and the others faced the future with confidence. The grumblings and rumblings of the British Administration in Calais didn't really disturb Grace at all. Locking horns with the Establishment was something she enjoyed; apart from that there was the thrill and excitement of her recent engagement to Ronald McDougall Above all was her intense satisfaction at the way her FANYs had faced all their many problems in their first major test of efficiency, dedication and courage, and come out admired – if not fully approved in some quarters – by all, especially those sick and wounded to whom they gave all the care and attention they could.
Now Grace was back in France, generally overseeing the operation in Calais, but never losing sight of her principal aim, raising the profile of the Corps by getting them more work, and in the end, working for the British Army. It was not going to be easy. The Belgians were doing all they could to involve the FANY. From the early days, when Grace was the lone representative of the Corps in Antwerp and Ghent, to the setting up and running of Lamarck Hospital, and other services, they had recognized and appreciated the huge contribution the FANY was making to their Army. Had it not been for the support of the Belgians it is more than likely the Corps would have ceased to exist.
The British and French authorities were fiercely opposed to employing women in any capacity other than traditional nursing. The British objections went much deeper than that; they could not bring themselves to acknowledge such an independent group, who made their own rules and went their own way, especially as they were women. It went against every tenet of male domination those at the top clung to.
As we know, Grace was not one to give up. She made constant and frequent approaches to both the British War Office and the French, offering them various services, changing tack from time to time to keep open the lines of communication.
But, as we also know, Grace was a woman who sought adventure, loved risk-taking, always liked to be where the action was. She made time to go out with one or other of the Ambulances that daily roamed the areas behind the Front Lines seeking wounded wherever they could be found; at Forward Aid Posts, (FAPs) , RAPs even the trenches. Army units holding the lines got to know them very quickly, and were delighted at the service they gave.
These forays by the FANY Ambulances were, of course, primarily aimed at bringing in wounded soldiers, but all too often became involved with pitiful civilians from the very young to the very old, who had got caught up and left behind in the maelstrom of war. And here the FANY could step in and help, where the more hidebound - or regulation bound – military services could not.
And sometimes, if fortune smiled on them, they would find themselves unexpected, but honoured, guests in officers' Messes tucked away in a hidden bunker near the Front; or perhaps a small, abandoned cottage, as yet untouched by bomb or shell, further back. For a short while there would be laughter and joking and some sort of food, perhaps a glass of wine. Then back again to the Ambulance, with smiles and handshakes from these young men in uniforms of Belgium, they might never see again. How Grace longed for the time those uniforms would be British khaki. 'One day', she thought, 'one day'
She often wrote about these trips. Of one, north of Calais, she set out with her driver and great friend, Chris Nicholson. Recounting the trip in her book: "It was a perfect day, a cold wind blowing, but a blue sky overheard. The road between Calais and Dunkirk flew past; the walls of Gravelines and its narrow streets were left behind. Dunkirk itself was gay with Zuaves [French Colonial Troops] in their baggy red trousers. Along the canal we raced past ponderous convoys toiling up with their loads."
They motored through Fismes, - no longer a busy town, but now desolate and almost empty, its main square pitted with shell holes. Then on to Pervyse where they heard again the old familiar booming of the guns nearer the Front.
Revisiting the old 'Poste de Secours' of the 3rd Chasseurs they knew so well, they were welcomed with delight by the strangers from a new regiment now in occupation. For sake of old times they left them packets of cigarettes , scarves and socks to pass on to the patients there. As they were about to leave, a shell hurtled down out of the sky and exploded nearby, 'hastening their departure' with this reminder that war could catch up with them at any time, any place.
Passing through Lampernisse, their next stop, which they knew well, they saw just how badly the old church had been smashed. Grace remembered with sadness: "its friendly tower, - the throng of soldiers that had surrounded it, the gay faces of the little blue Belgians that had met us cheerily on every side."
It was here they were approached by the local Cure asking if they could take one of his last remaining parishioners to safety. He led them to a small, battered cottage, where inside they found a little frail old woman on a mattress. Laying her gently on a stretcher, they carried her to the Ambulance, and drove her to a Convent which, the Cure told them would take her in.
Unfortunately the Mother Superior refused adamantly, she was full up, no more, no more. At times like these Grace and indeed all the girls, felt almost a sense of despair, They drove on many miles, to a place run by an Englishwoman for refugees like the old lady. They got there to find no trace of the Englishwoman, but left their patient in the care of some of the refugees. So many suffering in this way, so little to be done for them.
On this particular day they had been invited for lunch to the Belgian Divisional HQ, but were much too late after rescuing the old lady, .However, they got there in time for tea, were greeted warmly, and looked after by the Belgian officers, happy to be entertaining two attractive young ladies. Feeling not only physically but mentally refreshed, and in a happier frame of mind, Grace and Chris made their farewells and departed.
On another occasion, in the war zone north of Calais, they encountered yet another small scene of misery and fear so often suffered by the innocents caught up in this disaster. Driving through a small, shattered village they were waved down by an officer commanding the troops stationed there. He asked if they could evacuate a young family still managing to exist there among the ruins. He was afraid for their safety, - four little boys and a young mother expecting her fifth child, and absolutely terrified.
Grace and Chris agreed immediately. Wrapping the woman and her children in scarves and balaclavas to keep them warm, they drove them to the same refugee centre to which they had taken the old lady from Lampernisse a few days before, and settled them in. As they drove off, they were happy to see the four little boys waving from the doorway of the centre.
It was getting late by now, and, with no more wounded to collect, they headed to Ramscapelle for a previously arranged informal dinner at a Belgian artillery Mess.
Arrived at the cottage where the Officers' Mess was located, Grace recalled that; "the whizzing and whistling overhead denoted 'activity at the front'." She went on: "In fact we ran at top speed up that garden path and hammered on the doors. Friendly faces greeted us and we were soon inside." There they were again given a warm welcome, and enjoyed good food specially prepared to impress 'les petits FANYs', pleasant cheerful company, good wine, as well as some lively music. In the safety of this warm and cheerful Mess, windows heavily shuttered, they were able to relax, be themselves, be entertained. That would have been ample for them, but more was in store. 'Afterwards' Grace recorded, " [we] …went up to the trenches. The rockets and flares were fascinating. Viewed from afar they are strangely remote, but very friendly here, when crouched down among all these gallant men."
It was time to go. Before they went, they made sure from the Medical Officers that there were no wounded waiting transport. It had been a long and strangely satisfying day helping lost and helpless civilian women and children on the one hand, and then finding themselves crouched in dark, front line trenches, illuminated from time to time by flares and rockets and the occasional bursting shells. It was an amazing and exciting experience, one that would live with them for ever, but right now they were glad to be heading back to Calais, and a night in bed.