A misty rain was falling. In a bright spot of light through a window one
by one the wounded were being lifted up on to a seat, if they were not
too badly hit, and on to an operating-table if their condition were
serious. A doctor and a sturdy Frenchwoman of about thirty, in
spotless white, were in charge. Another woman undid the first-aid
bandage and still another applied a spray. No time was lost; there
were too many wounded to care for. The thing must be done as
rapidly as possible before another train-load came in. If these
attendants were tired, they did not know it any more than the
wounded had realized their fatigue in the passion of battle. The
improvized arrangement to meet an emergency had an appeal which
more elaborate arrangements of organization which I had seen
lacked. It made war a little more red; humanity a little more human
and kind and helpless under the scourge which it had brought on
itself.

Though Calais was not prepared for wounded, when they came the
women of energy and courage turned to the work without jealousy,
without regard to red tape, without fastidiousness. I have in mind half
a dozen other women about the streets that day in uniforms of short
skirts and helmets, who belonged to a volunteer organization which
had taken some care as to its regimentals. They were types not
characteristic of the whole, of whom one practical English doctor said:
"We don't mind as long as they do not get in the way." Their criticisms
of Calais and the arrangements were outspoken; nothing was
adequate; conditions were filthy; it was shameful. They were going to
write to the English newspapers about it and appeal for money. When
they had organized a proper hospital, one should see how the thing
ought to be done. Meantime, these volunteer Frenchwomen were