I was Chairman of our town Belgian
Relief Committee. I was a member of our County Territorial
Association and took over a good deal of special work connected
with one of our battalions that was covering itself with glory and
little mounds topped with white crosses at the front. If you think
I lived a Tom-tabby, tea-party sort of life, you are quite
mistaken, if the War Office could have its way, it would have
lashed me in red tape, gagged me with Regulations, and sealing-
waxed me up in my bed-room. And there are thousands of us who have
shaken our fists under the nose of the War Office and shouted,
"All your blighting, Man-with-the-Mudrake officialdom shan't
prevent us from serving our country." And it hasn't! The very
Government itself, in spite of its monumental efforts, has not
been able to shackle us into inertia or drug us into apathy. Such
non-combatant francs-tireurs in England have done a power of good
work.
And then, of course, there was the hospital which, in one way or
another, took up a good deal of my time.
I was reposing in the front garden one late afternoon in mid-June,
after a well-filled day, when a car pulled up at the gate, in
which were Betty (at the wheel) and a wounded soldier, in khaki,
his cap perched on top of a bandaged head.
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