Autumn 1915
'This letter was written to an invalid friend by one of our 3rd L.G.H. staff shortly after enlistment, and, of course, before the arrival of the 'orderlettes.'
3rd London General Hospital, Wandsworth, S.W., August, 1915
My Dear Dick, - Yes, it's rather a change from one's ordinary life, but you're wrong in surmising that I find my new career sad and painful. I wouldn't minimise the suffering which the mere existence of this hospital implies; the fact remains that I have enjoyed more jokes in the few weeks since I became a Nursing Orderly than in many a long month of peacetime civilianism.
You ask what I do all day long. When I came here to enlist I put the same question to a fellow who paused to chat with me. He said, "Well, sometimes I cut bread and butter, and sometimes I cut patients' toenails." It was an incomplete statement. He might have added that, engaged on either task or both, he cut his own fingers. At any rate, most of them seemed to have been treated with iodine ... But cutting bread and butter (and other things) is hardly the whole of a Nursing Orderly's raison d'être; he is not only parlour-maid and waitress, he is charwoman and messenger boy, bath-chairman, barber, bootblack, window cleaner, bath attendant, gardener, valet, washer-up, and odd man all rolled into one. Here is my day:
I rise at 5.15 (perhaps), and bath and shave, returning to my hut in time to roll up my bedding, placing it, together with my boots and other possessions, on top of my bedstead so that our 'hut keeper' sweeping the floor, may the more easily push his broom below. At 6 o'clock I am on parade with my 200 comrades, mostly in a somewhat yawnsome and shivery state. The orders for the day are read, and our Sergeant-Major, if in the mood, indulges in some entertainingly sarcastic reproaches on one or other of his favourite themes. Those members of his audience who have clear consciences enjoy his jests; the culprits remain glum. Presently we are dismissed to our duties; some to the clerical departments of the hospital, some to the stores, kitchens, dispensary and laboratory, some to dustbins and pails, some to the never-ending labour of keeping the gardens in trim, some to make ready the operating theatres, and some - I am one - to their wards.
My ward, when I enter it, is in déshabillé. The night nurse and the night orderly are cleaning up, making beds, washing patients; the more active patients are out of bed, dressing, or already dressed, shaving themselves, or tidying generally. In a ward with twenty patients it is a busy scene, but - except for a moment's pause for "Good morning" greetings - I have no minutes to waste. I must needs hasten to the kitchen (there is a small kitchen attached to each ward), inspect our stock of bread or eggs or what not, and then rush off to the steward's store for the first of the day's provisions - milk, butter, and bread. (No light weight, by the by, ten loaves and a big can of milk; I'm not sorry when I can commandeer one of my patients to help me.) Back at the ward I cut bread and butter, lay the table, put out trays for patients in bed, boil eggs, and go to the central kitchen to procure a huge canful of tea. By the time the meal is served, and all my family are happily munching, I am ready to flee to the orderlies' canteen for my own breakfast, at 7.45. This must be snatched, for at 8.30 we have another parade, previous to which I must clean my buttons, polish my boots, straighten up my portion of the hut, and - on Saturday, that day of anxious hustle - put on puttees and belt for inspection by our C.O.
Immediately after parade I race back to the ward and proceed to tackle the problem of the sheets, towels, etc., for the laundry. Not having been born an expert in differentiating teacloths from dusters and fomentation-wringers, I must needs keep my wits about me; but I assure you I am becoming quite a connoisseur in the matter of in the matter of distinguishing between pillow and bolster cases and a shirt with a pleat at the back of the neck as compared with one lacking the same. Behold me then, staggering beneath a tumid white bundle, and shortly returning with the clean duplicate articles received in exchange. Then off for additional stores - eggs, more milk, soda water, jam, sugar, and on Mondays (from the 'Dry Store') floor polish, metal polish, cleaning rags, matches, blacklead, soap, and soda. Then to the dispensary for lint, bandages, carbolic lotion, methylated spirit, or what not. Then to the knife-cleaner with knives. And in between each errand, a score of odd jobs in the ward itself, ending perhaps, with excursions to the operating theatre.
[Such a long day - this will be continued in part two!]
3rd London General Hospital, Wandsworth, S.W., August, 1915
My Dear Dick, - Yes, it's rather a change from one's ordinary life, but you're wrong in surmising that I find my new career sad and painful. I wouldn't minimise the suffering which the mere existence of this hospital implies; the fact remains that I have enjoyed more jokes in the few weeks since I became a Nursing Orderly than in many a long month of peacetime civilianism.
You ask what I do all day long. When I came here to enlist I put the same question to a fellow who paused to chat with me. He said, "Well, sometimes I cut bread and butter, and sometimes I cut patients' toenails." It was an incomplete statement. He might have added that, engaged on either task or both, he cut his own fingers. At any rate, most of them seemed to have been treated with iodine ... But cutting bread and butter (and other things) is hardly the whole of a Nursing Orderly's raison d'être; he is not only parlour-maid and waitress, he is charwoman and messenger boy, bath-chairman, barber, bootblack, window cleaner, bath attendant, gardener, valet, washer-up, and odd man all rolled into one. Here is my day:
I rise at 5.15 (perhaps), and bath and shave, returning to my hut in time to roll up my bedding, placing it, together with my boots and other possessions, on top of my bedstead so that our 'hut keeper' sweeping the floor, may the more easily push his broom below. At 6 o'clock I am on parade with my 200 comrades, mostly in a somewhat yawnsome and shivery state. The orders for the day are read, and our Sergeant-Major, if in the mood, indulges in some entertainingly sarcastic reproaches on one or other of his favourite themes. Those members of his audience who have clear consciences enjoy his jests; the culprits remain glum. Presently we are dismissed to our duties; some to the clerical departments of the hospital, some to the stores, kitchens, dispensary and laboratory, some to dustbins and pails, some to the never-ending labour of keeping the gardens in trim, some to make ready the operating theatres, and some - I am one - to their wards.
My ward, when I enter it, is in déshabillé. The night nurse and the night orderly are cleaning up, making beds, washing patients; the more active patients are out of bed, dressing, or already dressed, shaving themselves, or tidying generally. In a ward with twenty patients it is a busy scene, but - except for a moment's pause for "Good morning" greetings - I have no minutes to waste. I must needs hasten to the kitchen (there is a small kitchen attached to each ward), inspect our stock of bread or eggs or what not, and then rush off to the steward's store for the first of the day's provisions - milk, butter, and bread. (No light weight, by the by, ten loaves and a big can of milk; I'm not sorry when I can commandeer one of my patients to help me.) Back at the ward I cut bread and butter, lay the table, put out trays for patients in bed, boil eggs, and go to the central kitchen to procure a huge canful of tea. By the time the meal is served, and all my family are happily munching, I am ready to flee to the orderlies' canteen for my own breakfast, at 7.45. This must be snatched, for at 8.30 we have another parade, previous to which I must clean my buttons, polish my boots, straighten up my portion of the hut, and - on Saturday, that day of anxious hustle - put on puttees and belt for inspection by our C.O.
Immediately after parade I race back to the ward and proceed to tackle the problem of the sheets, towels, etc., for the laundry. Not having been born an expert in differentiating teacloths from dusters and fomentation-wringers, I must needs keep my wits about me; but I assure you I am becoming quite a connoisseur in the matter of in the matter of distinguishing between pillow and bolster cases and a shirt with a pleat at the back of the neck as compared with one lacking the same. Behold me then, staggering beneath a tumid white bundle, and shortly returning with the clean duplicate articles received in exchange. Then off for additional stores - eggs, more milk, soda water, jam, sugar, and on Mondays (from the 'Dry Store') floor polish, metal polish, cleaning rags, matches, blacklead, soap, and soda. Then to the dispensary for lint, bandages, carbolic lotion, methylated spirit, or what not. Then to the knife-cleaner with knives. And in between each errand, a score of odd jobs in the ward itself, ending perhaps, with excursions to the operating theatre.
[Such a long day - this will be continued in part two!]
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