Chapter 25

SANIEZ

Reserve Lazarette 5, Hanover, boasted of no hospital nurses. There was no tender touch of a feminine hand to administer to the comfort and alleviate the distress of the wounded. There was no delicate and nourishing diet to strengthen the weak; neither did we expect it. We were prisoners of war, and though our sufferings were great, we were still soldiers.

But those who have passed through Ward 43 will always look back with gratitude and admiration on one whose unselfish devotion, tender care, and magnificent spirit was an example and inspiration to all of us.

His name was Saniez, the orderly in charge of the ward; a Florence Nightingale, whose unceasing attention day and night, whose tender watchfulness and devoted care and kindness made him loved and worshipped by the maimed and helpless prisoners who were placed under his charge.

Saniez was no ordinary man. No reward was his, except the heartfelt gratitude of those whom he tended. The wounded who passed through the ward left behind a debt of gratitude which could never be paid, and with a spirit of fortitude and courage created by his noble example.

There are compensations for all suffering; and no greater compensation could any wish for than the devotion of Saniez.

Saniez had suffered too, but would never speak of it. He had his moments of anguish and despair. He had a home, too; but his dreams he kept to himself, and his care he gave to others.

Saniez was a Frenchman, a big, burly artilleryman, with eyes bright, laughing, and sympathetic.

He had been captured nearly two years before; and suffered severely from the effects of frozen feet. Yet, painful as it must have been to get about, he seldom sat down.

All through those long days and nights weak voices would call him: it was always, "Saniez, Saniez!" and slop, slop, slop, we would hear him in his slippered feet, moving down the ward, attending to one and then another.

Saniez would be quiet and sympathetic, with a voice soft and soothing; and the next moment, cheerful and boisterous. Captivity could not subdue Saniez, or make him anything else than a loyal French soldier.

He would guard his patients against the clumsy touch of a German orderly like a tiger guarding its young. He would bribe or steal to obtain a little delicacy for his patients.

He seemed to know but a single German word, which he used on every possible occasion to express his disgust of the Germans. It was a slang word, but when Saniez used it, its single utterance was a volume of expression. It was NIX, and when Saniez said nix, I knew he was shaking his woolly head in disgust.

Saniez had a marvellous voice, and when he sang he held us spell-bound, and he knew it. I do not speak French, and could not understand his words, but his expression was wonderful; and he would fling his arms about in frantic gesticulation.

When Saniez sang he seemed to lift himself into a different atmosphere; he was back again in France; his songs all seemed about his country and his home. He seemed to rouse himself into a sudden spirit of defiance, and then his voice would grow soft and pathetic; and then slop, slop, slop, in his slippered feet, he would hurry off to a bedside to fix a bandage or administer a drink of water.

Every morning German soldiers could be heard marching past our windows, singing their national songs. We listened; Saniez would stop his work. What we wanted to say we would leave to Saniez, as broom in hand and eyes of fire he would wait until their voices died away in the distance, and then, with a fierce shake of his head he would shout: "Boche! Nix!" and, flinging his arms about his head, would sing the "Marseillaise."

One evening, and I remember it well, though no pen of mine can adequately describe the soul-stirring picture--we had a concert in Ward 43. Four British and four French officers--a symbol of the Entente Cordiale--lay side by side in their cots, while convalescent prisoners from other wards sat in front to cheer them with song and music.

The Allies seemed well represented: An English Tommy with a guitar sang a comic song; a Russian soldier with a three-cornered string instrument, sang a folk-song of his native land; a Belgian soldier played the violin; and Saniez sang for France.

The applause that greeted the finish of each song was of a mixed kind; for those whose arms were maimed would shout, and those who could not shout would bang a chair or clap their hands. It was a patriotic and inspiring scene, and even the German orderly, coming in to see what was going on, was tempted to stop and listen.

We felt we were no longer prisoners; the spirit of the Allies was unconquerable.

Enthusiasm reached its highest pitch when Saniez brought it to a dramatic conclusion. Saniez had just finished a soul-inspiring song of his homeland. His audience could not withhold their applause until he finished, and Saniez could not restrain his spirit until the end of the applause. He suddenly threw up his arms, and at the top of his voice burst forth into the "Marseillaise," and the German orderly bolted out of the door.

Then the concert party ran to their dormitories; the lights were turned out, and we sought safety in sleep.

We used to ask Saniez about his home; and he seemed to grow quiet and confident. His home, he said, was about three miles behind the German line.

Some one suggested that it was in a dangerous place, as the British were advancing, and no house near the line could escape untouched; but Saniez was confident.

No! shells could not possibly harm it. His wife and sister lived there; it was his home. He was a prisoner, but whatever happened to him, the combined fury of the nations could not touch his home.

Saniez! Saniez! May you never awaken from your dream!