The Happy Hospital

My One Eye and I - by a Patient in D2

2011-09-11T16:03:00.003+01:00

December 1916

This title sounds rather egotistical, with so much of the first person singular contained in it, doesn’t it, dear reader? Well, as a matter of fact, it is dualistic, as it concerns my eye as much as myself; and if he did not exist I should not be able to write this at all.

I must inform you that I am the possessor of a lonely eye. It isn’t my fault entirely. You see, I am blessed with a slight dint upon my countenance, and before the dint was graciously bestowed upon me a twinkling (not wicked) eye adorned the spot where the aforesaid dint now is. Ergo, I have one eye left, all on his own; but he is nevertheless a good and faithful optic. He is deeply attached to me (I don’t mean physiologically only); and I to him. We often have little talks together, though we have to call in a mirror to help us so that we can see each other. Sometimes he betrays that my temper is out of joint by blazing truculently. Now and again he shows that my emotions are affected, by allowing a few drops of salt moisture to make their way past him. Very often, however, I catch him indulging in this sloppy practice himself, and on enquiring the reason he says that he is grieving for his lost brother, and he has a horrible feeling that his poor brother has been captured as a souvenir, and that he is at present bumping up and down in a German’s haversack. My lonely eye teaches me many things.

Last night, about eight o’clock (I was not in an amiable mood, as the doctor had seen me that afternoon, and this particular doctor possesses some extra long forceps), I remembered that I had a message to give to a chum in the main building. So, reinforcing my trousers with an extra safety-pin, and girding my eyeshade about my noble napper, I ventured bravely forth. As a start I nearly fell down the balcony steps. That did not improve my temper. Then I nearly broke my leg on a confounded dustbin. That did less to soothe my irascible frame of mind. I went on a little further. One of my slippers disengaged itself from my foot, and I only noticed it when I trod upon something which possessed the disagreeable quality of being sharp.* I am afraid I muttered something that sounded German, but is nevertheless an expression in plain English. Suddenly I crashed into a tree with tremendous force – and learnt that it isn’t only love that makes the world go round. I felt like breaking out with a torrent of forcible solecisms, but then my lonely eye asserted himself.

“Now,” he said, “what’s the use of showing your temper? Keep that vile temper of yours under better control, or you’ll be losing me also. You nearly ran me into a branch, and you make me blaze so that it is a wonder I am not burnt up.”

My lonely eye and myself once had a talk on the wonderful things that surgical skill has done. Then I mentioned to him that it would be very advantageous to me if he were removed from his present quarters and affixed into the centre of my forehead. “Or,” I went on, “if you were placed at the end of one of my fingers it would be extremely profitable. I should be able to stick my finger over the fence and see the football match for nothing.” My lonely eye shed a tear or two, and begged not to be moved from his old home; he preferred to remain in the old rut alongside the one that his brother used to occupy.

I could tell you much more about my lonely eye and myself, but there is not room. I might tell you that my lonely eye and I have seen a lot in our time, and have been in some tight corners, but when we leave the hospital we intend to settle down in a nice little home with another pair of eyes to look after us – a pair of hazel eyes. If you suspect that this pair of eyes does not belong to such a strong sex as my lonely eye and myself, you are not far wrong.
*Note by the Censor: Why were you out without your boots on?

PTE. LABAN COWLING (Lincolnshire Regiment)

All My Eye

2011-09-11T16:02:00.002+01:00

A Shakespeare Play

2011-08-31T12:31:00.002+01:00

The Uniform Habit

2011-08-31T12:09:00.002+01:00

December 1916

It strikes one forcibly at times how many little privileges are attached to uniform - markedly so when travelling. In V.A.D. uniform a girl may quite comfortably sleep off the effects of a heavy day or late night in train, tram, or 'bus, and draw forth only compassionate glances and sympathetic murmurs from her fellow-travellers. It once drew forth eau de Cologne and milk chocolate, but that is another story.
Imagine her, with dark-rimmed eyes and pathetically drooping mouth, under the ugly regulation hat, and her fellow-travellers say "Poor thing, nursing is such trying work," and they give her the corner seat and generally fuss around. But should the same girl, after the same heavy day or late night, travel in mufti, the atmosphere is inclined to be hostile, and the glances savour of the virtuous serves-you-right-if-you-will-stay-out-late spirit, which is particularly irksome, especially if it was a late night - the moral for which is, of course, always travel in uniform on the morning after the night before!
One does things in uniform that at times rather horrify one's pre-war self, as when on a Sunday night one comes in suffering from that 'Art thou weary, ditto languid' feeling, and the sight of one's laundry bag draws forth an emphatic "No, I think not." It follows, of course, that one takes it down oneself - blatantly and obviously washing - either in the busiest part of Monday morning or at calling time on Monday afternoon, quite unblushingly and oblivious to the curiosity of the passers-by, serene in the shelter of one's uniform.

In the days before the mess room, if an orderlette did happen to awake peevish and 'Mondayish' at 6 a.m., she smothered the alarm and slept till 6.30, when she rose and dressed, feeling much better for the extra thirty minutes, seized a piece of toast and a sausage (it has been done with an egg), and went on her way rejoicing, to arrive in the ward at 6.55, refreshed and strengthened by an al fresco street breakfast. This was done by V.A.D.'s - not once, but often - who would have been horrified at the mere suggestion of such a thing a short eighteen months before! And the query is, will those rather stodgy days ever come back - the days when one elevated one's nose and passed by on the other side, as it were, if a stranger dared to speak, thereby missing many a pathetic confidence that is now imparted to V.A.D.'s - chiefly, perhaps, because of the uniform - by these queer folk, who must 'tell somebody.' Let us hope that we always keep the wider sympathy of our discarded uniform, and be able to answer the troubled S.O.S. of these lonely ships that pass in the night, and perhaps, well, Mrs. Grundy may never survive the shocks of these days - après la guerre.

A GIRL ORDERLY

The Dental Room

2011-07-21T15:02:00.002+01:00

December 1916

If no convoy of wounded is coming in, and you pass through the big Receiving Hall, by the rows of grey-blanketed beds waiting for their burdens, and then to the right-hand corner, to a door in the wainscot - the left one, please - and then walk on two or three steps, you may see on the left hand a little wooden stairway putting its feet on to the passage. It is better to wait and listen here: there may be a patient or someone with a pail coming down, and the way is dark and difficult and narrow; and waiting, you may wonder if all back staircases in Franco-Scottish halls (in which style this building is said to be) were really like this, or whether 'tis another example of the days of sham Gothic architecture, of dimly lit stone stairways, with cold iron railings, for little girls on chill dark November days; the days of the invention of the word utilitarian, perambulator, lati__ . But the person has come down with some clatter, and you pass up to the landing, where patients, men in blue, sit and lie on the floor in the little space awaiting their turns. (There are having a comfortable waiting-room now). At last we have arrived.

It is Sunday morning - a busy day. Sunlight comes through the iron-sashed window, lighting up the dental surgeons and a lean elderly corporal, their henchman.
"No. 5," last of the simple extractions, is called: he jibbed last week. "I can stand it all right today, sir." The gums are chilled, and three teeth are out in eight seconds. Never a murmur. He gets a pat on the back, and passing out whispers, "I'm only ten days out of the trench, Corp."
Next are cases for gas. The anaesthetist arrives just in time; the first man is in the chair, the gag between his teeth, hands clasped, neckcloth loosened, a rubber apron over the chest. He takes it quietly. "Hope I didn't swear, sir."
The next is for four big stumps, and, taking the gas, is a kicker. The corporal sits on his knees. The forty-five seconds are up and the work done. The patient comes round with a wild look, shouting, "Who are you? What are you? Who the hell are you?" The eyes calm quickly, and he adds quietly, "I thought I was in heaven."
No. 8 roars like a bull, and thought he was at the concert.
No. 9 had cleared; the roaring was a bit too much.

An hour finished this part. Then comes the most interesting work of the dental surgeons; the building up of fractured jaws, work asking for the nicest skill and knowledge of possibilities. The consulting dental surgeon will show you in a moment the great difference between civilian and war practice. The simple fractures, bound and held together at once with the Hammond wire splint, will probably join and heal.
In No. 14, the front part of the lower jaw, shot right through, left the two sides working independently. A splint now holds the whole jaw firmly together; the chin is built up and looks almost normal.
No. 20. A large part of the lower jaw was shot away. The surgeons have made up the external wound, which was the size of a hen egg. The remains of the jaw fell away to the man's right; the dental surgeons coaxed and brought it into position, and have built up and preserved the bite, spite of the loss of bone.

A case now being treated had the whole upper jaw and left eye carried away, leaving only one thing human-looking, on a strange front to a man's head, an eye - an eye that, through the pain, the operations, stayed bright. Now a palate has been introduced, a nose made up, the cheek built by plastic operation by the surgeon in charge, and there will be a presentable face. The clear eye - the very expression of patience and cheeriness - twinkles, as the dental surgeon says, he will be made a good-looking chap yet, and a queer voice comes out:
"It'll be all right. I never was a Don Juan."

How to be Loved

2011-07-14T13:11:00.002+01:00

Some further words of advice from Cpl. G. H. Varley.
At the Admission and Discharge Office ('Sergeant-Major's Office', so called because the Sergeant-Major is in the Staff Clerks' Office).

1. When going about a Case Sheet, never know any particulars. Just ask for Jones's or Smiths's Case Sheet. Sherlock Holmes, the Staff Sergeant, loves unravelling mysteries, and it helps to fill up his time.

2. Always take old Diet Sheets to this office, and always ask, when you enter, if it is the Board Room. The old Diet Sheets really go to the Matron's Kitchen, but the Discharge Office men like to see you - they are very lonely there.

3. Smoking is not allowed in the corridors, so drop in to the Discharge Office. Cigarettes and lounges are specially provided.

4. If you want a window mended, call and ask to see the Quartermaster. He isn't there, but Barker will sympathise with you. (N.B. - If possible, leave the window there - and the door open - you can then call back later and have some more sympathy.)

5. Always buy your stamps here instead of at the Post Office. (The men get 1d. in 1s. on all they sell.) If you don't want any yourself, buy some for your friends.

6. If you want to know the time (of a train) call in when the staff are extra busy. They revel in looking up trains for other people to go away in. Tell them all about the lovely holiday you are going to have.

7. If some men in your ward have to report here at, say, ten o'clock, don't let them go till later. L/Cpl. Christian will run down and fetch them; he is in training for the next Marathon Race, and wants practice.

8. All letters of patients who have left should be taken to this office. The staff here will send them to the Post Office for you with pleasure the next time a motor lorry is going that way. (Any self-respecting, properly managed hospital would have a post office conveniently situated, not miles away.)

9. "Have you got our list?" - the war-cry of the Stores. Go in and chant this as often as possible. They are all musical in this office, and the more you chant it the more they'll love you.

10. But if you want to be really adored, 'phone up and ask them if they are the switchboard or have they a taxi.

In short, if you want to be loved at this office, treat it as a railway station, a lost property office, a tram terminus, a post office, a lounge, an information bureau; treat the staff as guides, philosophers, and friends, but never mention admissions or discharges.

Before the Storm

2011-07-12T15:15:00.002+01:00

Some Reminiscences by the Matron

2011-07-04T18:25:00.002+01:00

December 1916

Our Editor said to me the other day, "Matron, I remember when I was a ward orderly, one day you came through the ward. It seemed to me that you flashed through. Very soon afterwards Sister got a message from you to send the two bed-tables with the broken legs that were being used up to the office to be mended." He then asked me how I apparently went through a ward, not taking much notice, but in reality taking everything in practically at a glance.

This takes me back to my first probationer days in hospital. I started on a Sunday morning in a large ward for women. All were so busy they had no time for the new probationer, so I took shelter in the kitchen with a very superior ward-maid, who gave me to understand that I was only a pro., and had better not make a mess in her kitchen. She was busy washing up dishes, and suggested to me that if I had nothing to do I might help her. So I began. I wasn't left in peace very long, though. Sister came out and wanted to know "What I was doing in the kitchen when there was an emergency operation just going down to theatre." I inwardly wondered what that was, but was too frightened to ask, so meekly went into the ward again and waited till a staff nurse (whom I got to love very dearly afterwards) saw me, and said, "Well, is there anything you can do? Can you wash the baby?" I said I could try (with my heart in my mouth). Wash a baby indeed - when I had never even seen one, close to, before! However, I tried, and, after undoing numerous garments - it seemed to me - I managed to get that infant into a bath. I never was so frightened in my life, and I almost prayed its head would not roll off before I got it out. It was a dreadful experience, but I lived through it, and afterwards, when I had charge of that same ward, and walked about during the best part of the night with a roaring infant under my arm, I often thought of that first baby I bathed and did not kill.

I don't remember much else about that first day in hospital, but I gradually found my way round, and soon got into the work of the ward. I often think what a hopeless idiot I was and of the many stupid things I did, and wonder how my staff nurse had the patience to go on teaching me. She used to talk to me while we were rushing round in the morning making beds (and only those who have trained know what that means). It was the only time we had for talking to each other. One day she said to me, "Never go out of the ward empty-handed, there is always something to take out with you. Tidy up your ward as you go along." I never forgot that, and I think this was the beginning of my taking an interest in my work and cultivating my powers of observation. Often during those dreadful first days in hospital I should have gone back home - I was so utterly tired out and crushed by everything - if it had not been for my pride. I wanted to do something, like so many other girls, and I worried my family to such an extent that at last my father said, "Very well, let her go, she will be back in a week." It it hadn't been for that remark I certainly should have been back in less than a week. But I made up my mind to stay over the week, so that my father could not say, "I told you so." And at the end of that time I didn't want to go back. The work was far too interesting, and, in spite of aching feet and tired body, the work never lost its interest.

Today when I open a ward door I see at a glance which of the nursing Sisters 'tidy up as they go along.' The work in a large military hospital like this is enormous, where we bet sometimes as many as twenty new patients, mostly stretcher cases, into a ward at one convoy. We never even dreamed of it before the war. If we got two or three new patients into a ward in one day we were very busy indeed. But now we take in by hundreds, and still we work on, and, in spite of being tired out sometimes, we love it, and cannot do enough for the men who are doing such a lot for us.

The other night I was watching the men go out of the concert - a happy, cheerful crowd. Nearly at the end of the procession I could see the D corridor men lining up, the blind ones carefully being put in between those who had one eye left, single file, with their hands on each other's shoulders. At a given order from the front they began to march, and when they got opposite to me they all roared, "Good night, Matron." Evidently the blind ones had been told where I was, and had agreed all to say "Good night" to me together. When things like that happen it makes one feel one can't bear it, but when I heard them marching out of the room singing and keeping in step with the music, one thanks God that we are able to do something for them, and whatever private grievances we may have, and however badly we consider we are treated at times, we all know our patients are happy.

EDITH HOLDEN

Our Afternoon Excursion

2011-06-30T13:27:00.001+01:00

On Becoming a Successful Orderly

2011-06-24T15:18:00.002+01:00

November 1916

When we orderlettes came here, we were, taking us on the whole, a beautiful verdant green. Surely nothing so soft and green had ever been thrust ruthlessly through the gates of a military hospital before - not even the patient who enquired whether the sisters' capes might be used as pen-wipers! But we soon started to get knocked into shape - literally in some cases - by our kind R.A.M.C. sergeants and their willing helpers; we don't bear them any ill-will - on the contrary, we wish to congratulate them on the thorough and energetic manner in which they carried out this painful duty.

Now, after a twelve months' struggle, the green is beginning to wear off in patches, and the black underneath is showing through; some day we hope to be quite black all over like the men orderlies. To be successful, we found that we must imitate our colleagues the men orderlies, and we gradually discovered that the reason for their being able to live such happy butterfly existences was because they were all past-masters in the art of the misrepresentation of facts - they often take enormous risks, certainly, but the means justify the end as a rule. Of course, we had to set ourselves to acquire this art as soon as possible, and very difficult we found it at first. We realised that the little white lies that had served us so well in the past, such as "I didn't know where it was," or "I thought so-an-so was doing it," etc., were of no use to us here - what is more, they did us harm, for they exhausted the patience of the sisters (and the sisters' patiences are like clinical thermometers - there is a very limited supply in stock and none in reserve). It is often better to be silent and take the blame for someone else's crimes than to offer a common or garden excuse.

There are many different kinds of excuses, for after all 'excuse' is a nicer term, isn't it? There is the thoughtless excuse, given on the spur of the moment (which is usually sheer waste of breath); for instance, when the sister fixes you with her eagle eye and enquires as to the whereabouts of two missing teacloths (not being a conjuror by profession and having no idea where they are), in the excitement of the moment you may say, "They must have blown out of the bundle on the way down," or "I expect B2 borrowed them in the night." This kind of excuse is worse than useless, and usually brings its own reward, but if you quietly think for a moment or two and concoct something which needs thrashing out, it very often has the desired effect. For instance, if you put on an expression of thoughtful concern, and say, "Well sister, the day before yesterday I know there were four teacloths in the bundle, and when the man orderly brought the linen back I was over at the Dispensary, and I have only seen two since," and while the hue and cry is being raised for the elusive man orderly you can go off quietly and have a good look for the missing articles yourself.

Nothing succeeds like success in hospital life, and the more worldly-wise and keen-witted a person is, the more woolly and lamblike he becomes in appearance; always beware of a member of the staff who gazes up into your face with pure, clear eyes - fly from them as you would fly from the Stewards' Stores with an unsterile milk can! And always remember this, that 'a lie that is half the truth is a harder matter to fight'; therefore, when you think you see a patient smoking in bed during the prohibited hours and you hurry up and ask him what he is doing, and with an innocent smile he informs you, "Just lying in bed, nurse," you will know that he is telling a perfectly true lie!

AN ORDERLETTE

A Picturesque Department

2011-06-16T09:21:00.002+01:00

The Massage Department

2011-06-16T09:20:00.000+01:00

BY AN OFFICER PATIENT

Throughout Wandsworth Hospital, during the morning, the busiest portion of the day, there is no place busier or more animated than the massage rooms. Here, good-natured banter, laughter, cheerfulness, and strenuous activity intermingle to form an atmosphere exclusively its own; and from here one emerges with both a mental and physical tonic - feeling that a most pleasant break has been made in the more or less monotony of routine hospital life, as viewed from the aspect of a patient.
Your first impression is rather apt to be a staggering one, and you certainly feel inclined to retire precipitately when your eye meets all the boxes of tricks around, the apparent instruments of torture and weird contrivances. But escape is impossible when a most businesslike person in an undraped surplice, whom you afterwards learn to be called a masseuse, comes up and says, "Yes, over on this bed, please!"
Safely ensconced, one begins to individualise and to realise what is being done. Here an arm is massaged, there a leg being moved like a pump handle (a delightful treatment, this, dignified by the name of 'passive movement'), while other patients are indulging in a radiant heat bath (really appreciated by the writer, this weather especially), or submitting unkindly to the tender mercies of the electric buzzer ('nuff said).
In one corner the latest theatre is an absorbing topic; in another, 'How we should win the war' - while someone emphatically remarks that he wishes the Cabinet could have what he is getting. Then a female voice is heard demanding emancipation and votes for women, at which the conversation becomes general, ending in absurd suggestions and laughter. Through it all the work never ceases; patients come and go continually, and then the masseuses disappear to various wards to give treatment to those physically unable to visit the massage room.
Even a layman can see that there is nothing haphazard, nothing indefinite, for each patient has his own special course of treatment, calculated to produce the best effect for his particular ailment or disability. And of the many hundreds who have passed through, rarely, if ever, has one been heard to say he has not benefited. The department is recognised as indispensable to the hospital - so much so that it is understood that the authorities shortly intend to provide increased space, and install even larger and more complete apparatus.

W.R.H.

The Medical Board

2011-06-08T13:54:00.000+01:00

November 1916

The War Office 'Forms' are a wonder to see,
The questions are many and wide as can be;
And the full information which they must afford
Just puzzles the heads of the Medical Board.
Were you wounded in France, the place you must name.

"Don't know it?" Well, France - it will work out the same.
Was it shrapnel or shell, or bayonet or sword?
They are all represented by some cunning word.
Then 'Shell Shock's' a wound, or at least so will rank;
'Neurasthenia' you call it - that is, if you're frank.
Some sixty odd numbers for wounds they have got,
And you must use the right one or else you'll be shot.

P'raps Fibula Fracture will be on the way -
Compound, comminuted, or simple, pray say;
Is the wound incised, lacerated, or flap?
Infected by poison, organic, or what?
Dislocation perhaps is complete or compound,
Still, simple or partial, it ranks as a wound;
Inorganic, perhaps, or septic infected -
Incomplete, indirect, or perhaps it's impacted.

Were you poisoned by Gas, then a wound you have got,
Although you perhaps were not hit by a shot.
Still, by War Office orders, six papers you get
Which the Board in its wisdom must classify yet.
So the three on the Board hold a long consultation,
Because Army Forms they fill up for the nation;
And to send in the wrong one would rank as a crime -
So they have to consider it many a time.

A Pensioner, p'raps, must be Boarded one day,
So the three take a taxi the whole of the way;
But they're told at the house, when they knock at the door,
That the man whom they seek 'died a twelve-month before.'
We may be at war, but it matters no jot -
Army forms must be filled up, according to rote;
So the three that are chosen agree in accord
That they have a hard time on the Medical Board.

P. R. CRAFT, SGT., R.A.M.C.(T.) (BOARD ROOM)

Cats

2011-06-04T14:54:00.002+01:00

November 1916

By a Girl Orderly

To the outsider and the uninitiated, the 3rd L.G.H. is all that its title implies, but to some at least of the dwellers within its gates it is nothing more nor less than a home for cats of every persuasion – cats with four legs, cats with two, striped cats, plain cats, the domestic cat, and the undomesticated cat – but it is of the first mentioned we would write; the second class is apt to be viewed with a jaundiced eye (we have suffered at their hands!), and so on to the third and fourth generation as it were.

Now if any cat of the feline tribe requires a home, it simply leaps the railings, and rejoices in fruitful searchings in pig-buckets by day and in mouse hunts by night, varied by slumbers long and deep in sequestrated spots, preferably under a hut, thus being immune from the activities of the playful R.A.M.C. Should any cat be wearied of this world, but wishful to enter its Nirvana minus the sin of self-destruction, it merely has to get under the feet of any dispenser on any dark night when he is roused from his slumbers to work, and, by the light of the electric torch that he invariably carries (for dispensers are men of infinite resource and sagacity), it is thenceforward a marked cat, and may be safely posted “Missing, believed killed,” on the day following.

Naturally, there are one or two outstanding characters in this happy fellowship, the most noted being the Guard Cat – a tabby of slightly sandy hue, who mounts guard at the main gate. Of course, there is an R.A.M.C. guard as ornament and to open the gate. Tabby does all the rest, meeting one well outside the precincts with tail erect and martial bearing, and woe betide the prospective visitor who has no satisfactory answer to its challenging “Per-er-ow-w.?” On leaving, the same watchful query detains one – “Miow-ou?” “All serene; pass, friend.”

Dogs, of course, are barred by this most active sentry, which is another point on which it scores off the R.A.M.C., who have been known to encourage visitors of this description. The Brown Residential Dog is tolerated, but allowed no liberties in the shape of visitors, leave, etc. With our own eyes we beheld a canine friend utterly routed with one well-directed blow between the eyes from Tabby (“a fair knock aht,” in the vernacular), and the B.R.D. was hustled home, possibly to the guard room, and all in the twinkling of an eye. An R.P. band and red cap are surely the lowest reward of such vigilance?

Who does not know the Mad Cat of the Corridors? Which of the Girl Orderlies has not been scared stiff in the long black corridors on night duty by the sound of the heavy padded feet and a stealthy Presence that springs from nowhere to just beyond the lonely traveller, and lies in wait, with gleaming eyes and twitching tail, to follow one in a zigzag fashion and with a low growlish noise that raises the hair and lends wings to one’s feet, till one reaches the Wardmaster’s room in an hysterical, semi-petrified state, to burble incoherently of the tiger that has escaped from heaven knows where, and is waiting round the corner to devour the unfortunate girl, and on turning has beheld the Mad Cat, a lean, dark creature, with the evil eye and tiger stripes and tail of stupendous length!

There are others of equal note, but the Editor looms in the distance, and, fortunately perhaps, “space does not permit – “ etc., etc!

The Saturday Cinema-goers

2011-06-04T14:48:00.001+01:00

Observations on an Outing

2011-05-29T14:15:00.003+01:00

Ward Muir, the editor of the 'Gazette,' was a writer and journalist by profession, and in 1917, while working as an orderly at the 3rd London General Hospital he published his 'Observations of an Orderly.' This little book is both humorous and informative and these days easily found on the internet for free download. So although not published in the 'Gazette of the 3rd London General Hospital' I thought it worth including a small part here, which never fails to make me laugh. To avoid a long introduction, this starts with one, Corporal Smith, vowing never again to take a party of blind men from 'D' block on an outing to the theatre:

*****

Out of his party, four were totally blind, two could recognise dimly the difference between light and darkness, and one had a single good eye. Queen's Hall was reached, by bus, without mishap. After the performance there was tea at an A.B.C. shop. Here Jock, one of the totally blind men - a Scotchman, and all Scots are "Jocks" in the army — distinguished himself by facetiæ (audible throughout the whole shop) on the English pronunciation of the word 'scone,' and intimated his desire to treat the company to a ballad. This project was suppressed, but "a silly fool in a top hat threatened to report me for having given my men drink," said Corporal Smith. "Jock gave him the bird, not 'arf. But I thought it about time to be going home."

So the party prepared to go home. The bus was voted dull. Somebody suggested the tube. Corporal Smith consented.

He had forgotten that at Oxford Circus station the lifts have been abolished in favour of sliding staircases. Confronted by the escalator, Corporal Smith halted his party and informed them that they must walk down by the ordinary stair. The escalator was not safe for blind men. Unfortunately, Jock had sniffed a lark; the one-eyed man backed him up; the party — elated perhaps by their tea — would not hear of anything so humdrum as a descent by the ordinary stair. They were going on the sliding stair. They insisted. Corporal Smith argued in vain. In vain he exerted his (purely nominal) authority. His charges mocked him. The one-eyed man leading, with Jock in his wake, they launched themselves at the sliding stair. In sheer desperation Corporal Smith brought up the rear, supporting two of the more timid venturers as best he might. None of the group except Corporal Smith himself, as it turned out, had ever travelled on an escalator before. But they had heard a comic song about a sliding stair, and they wished — Jock especially — to sample this metropolitan invention.

By dodging forward to place each blind man's hand upon the banister, Corporal Smith managed to send off his patients without a stumble. But as the stair inexorably lowered them into the bowels of the earth he realised, only too vividly, what might happen at the foot of the descent. The evening rush of suburb-bound passengers had begun and the staircase was rather crowded. Nobody seemed to realise that the khaki-overcoated men who stood so still upon the steps were not the usual hospital convalescents out on leave and able to look after themselves. Corporal Smith, delayed by one man who had hesitated at the top before taking the plunge, beheld his charges below him, hopelessly dotted, at intervals, amongst the general public. It was impossible for him to struggle down ahead, to the bottom of the staircase, to guide the men off as they arrived. This task, he hoped, would be adequately performed by the one-eyed man.

It might have been. The one-eyed man was game for anything. But Jock, arriving in the highest good humour at the bottom of the staircase, was tilted sideways by the curve, and promptly sat down on the landing-place. Instead of rising, he proclaimed aloud that this was funnier even than England's pronunciation of the word 'scone.' Whereupon various hurrying passengers, including an old lady, tripped over his prone form. The sensation of being kicked and sat upon appealed to Jock's sense of humour. The more people avalanched across him the more comic he thought it. And in a moment there was quite a pile of wriggling bodies on top of him. For though the public managed on the whole to leap over, or circumvent, the obstacle presented by Jock's extremely large body, none of his blind comrades did so.

"Every single one of them fell flop," said Corporal Smith; "I give you my word."

But were they downhearted? No! They regarded this mysterious hurly-burly of arms and legs as a capital jest. So far from being alarmed or annoyed, they shouted with glee. The old lady, who had gathered herself together and was directing a stream of voluble reproof at Corporal Smith for his "callousness and cruelty to these unhappy blind heroes," retired discomfited. Jock's comments routed her more effectively than the Corporal's assurance that the episode was none of his choosing.

The party at last sorted itself out and was placed upon its feet once more. It was excessively pleased with its exploit. Hilarity reigned. Corporal Smith, relieved, made ready to conduct his squad to the platform.
Alas, a bright idea occurred to Jock. Why not go up the other sliding stair and down again?
Agreed, nem. con. At least, Corporal Smith's con. was too futile to be worth counting.

"I had to go with the blighters," said he. "There was no end of a crowd by this time. And Jock and some of the others fell over at the top again. And there was a row with the ticket-collector. And people kept saying they'd report me. Me! And when I'd got my party down to the bottom for the second time, and some of the tube officials had come and said they couldn't allow it and we must buzz off home, I lined the fellows up to march 'em to the train, and dash me if two weren't missing. They'd given me the slip."

The two truants, it may be added, could not be found. Corporal Smith had to return without them. At a late hour of the evening they appeared, not an atom repentant, at the hospital, having persuaded someone to put them into the correct bus. One of them, Jock, explained that, being from the North, he had desired to seize this opportunity of seeing the sights of London. Jock, I may remind you, is totally blind. Jock's guide, the man who had volunteered to show him the sights and who had only once been in London before, could see very faintly the difference between light and dark.... Thus this pair of irresponsibles had fared forth into the dusk of Regent Street.

It sounds a very horrible fate to be blinded. But somehow the blind men themselves seldom seem to be overwhelmed by its horribleness. If you want to hear the merriest banter in a war hospital, visit the blind men's wards. The pathos of them lies less in the sadness of the victims than in the triumphant, wonderful fact that they are not sad. I wish we others all inhabited the same mysteriously jocund spiritual realm as Jock and his comrades, who come tramp-tramping to the concert-room down the corridor from the D wards.

How to be Loved though an Orderly

2011-05-26T18:21:00.001+01:00

November 1916

By Cpl. G. H. Varley
At the Steward's Stores and Kitchens.

1. Stroll in, read the notice on door in 3in. letters, 'STEWARD'S STORES,' say "Is this the Steward's Stores?" and, when one of the staff suggests, politely, a visit to Captain Cruise, threaten to 'run him' to the Colonel. It is so helpful.

2. If you don't get what you want at the Kitchen, blame the Staff-sergeant. He will refer you to the Stores. Go there and blame the Corporal; that's what he is there for. Don't go to your ward and see if it's ordered. It might not be. Then the Sister would blame you.

3. When going for Specials, always enter at the wrong door. It's much quicker than waiting your turn in the queue, and the Kitchen staff like you better.

4. When given four portions of fish, say the Sister ordered six. Always do this; it is most important. The staff get miserable if you take things without question or argument.

5. If a box is provided for empties, don't put any in it; drape them round it. 'Fweddie' loves picking them up afterwards. Besides, if you did put them in, the shock might kill someone.

6. Never clean out milk cans, it wears them out so quickly. Besides, the dirt turns the milk sour, and the staff will always give you more. They love doing it.

7. When the V.A.D.s in the Store tell you that the Diet Summary is wrong, don't believe them. Ask for the Sergeant or the Corporal; it pleases the ladies so.

8. 'These Stores are closed between __ and __.' Make a note of the times and go there between the hours specified. If you don't want anything, it doesn't matter; the Sergeant enjoys his meals better if the bell is ringing, and he likes getting up to thank you for calling.

9. When addressing the N.C.O.s in charge, always call them 'Orderly.' If you can shout it at them, so much the better; it makes them happy. If they don't seem happy enough, say, "You ought to be at the Front." This sends them into an ecstasy of delight. (N.B. - Soliders always arrange where they should be stationed. The War Office has nothing to do with it.)

Lord French

2011-05-20T19:57:00.004+01:00

And just to prove that the events in the last post were not entirely fabricated ....

Hope Deferred

2011-05-20T19:36:00.003+01:00

November 1916

Announcement by Trooper Dinkum, from an imaginary paragraph of the morning paper (as his habit is):
"Lord French will today visit No.3 London General. He will interview the heroes of the 'Big Push.' You will be shook by the 'and with tears in your eyes, and gratefully accept the thanks of your country. A9 Ward will clear for action, and stand to for an unpleasant afternoon."

Ominous signs of the coming visit became visible directly after dinner. The parrot was banished, the gramophone was taboo, and smoking was cut out for the afternoon. Sister spent an energetic hour with her willing staff and unwilling patients tidying, cleaning, applying those touches of spick-and-spanness that are absolutely necessary for the atmosphere that wounds are healed in. Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, she surveyed the result. It was good. We knew it was good, for had not we undergone three months' solid training in such matters at Tel-el-Kebir? - Getting tents in a line, packs in a line, guns in a line. Finally, a word of warning, in case Sister made a mistake.
"Remember, if I do happen to take the General to the wrong man, you must say you were wounded in August in the 'Big Push.'"
O Sister, disingenuous Sister!
At 3.30 Dick bustled in with the news that a party of staff officers were already in A2. Dick is our Intelligence Department. He is also our orderly. We lay back and waited, as immovable, motionless, beneath our smooth coverlets, as Egyptian mummies. Sister, restless in unwonted idleness, hovered between the door of the ward and the corridor. Dick went out again to reconnoitre. Another tense wait. At last hurried footsteps and Dick's voice.
"Lord French has turned down B and D blocks. He will NOT visit this ward today!"
Tableau.

L.-CPL. MCLEOD, A.I.F.

No Complaints

2011-05-16T13:14:00.001+01:00

3rd London General Jottings

2011-05-07T11:52:00.002+01:00

November 1916

A very hearty welcome will be extended to a little volume that has just been published by John Murray at 1s. net, and the author of which is a well-known member of the 3rd L.G.H. staff - Capt. Somerville Hastings. It is called 'First Aid for the Trenches,' and fully bears out its sub-title, 'Some Simple Instructions for Saving Live that Every Soldier should Know.'
'First Aid for the Trenches' is admirably illustrated with photographs, under Capt. Somerville Hastings' personal supervision, and most, if not all, of them taken in the grounds of the 3rd London. They clearly illustrate the carrying of wounded, first aid, etc., and we think we recognise not a few of the figures who appear in them. An extraordinary amount of practical information has been crammed into this little book - it is of pocket size - and a noteworthy merit is its readableness. It is written in plain conversational language, and covers a great variety of possibilities. An excellent feature is its index. No soldier going to the Front should omit to study 'First Aid for the Trenches.'

*****

It was with real regret that we recently bade farewell to Sister Northover, who left to take up the post of Matron of the 30th General Stationary Hospital at Salonika. Great sympathy will be felt at the news that soon after arriving she was taken seriously ill. After being removed to Malta, Sister Northover was sent back to England, and is now in hospital in London.

*****

The 3rd London recently housed four patients, simultaneously, who had gained the V.C. The newspapers deal so fully with these distinctions that we generally regard them as outside the purview of The Gazette; but 'four-at-once' seems to be an event in itself worth chronicling.

*****

We have a blind patient in D1 - he is in our hospital for the third time - who recently won the sculling championship of St. Dunstan's. Trooper E. C. Matheson, for that is his name, was wounded in Gallipoli, having had no less than three machine gun bullets in the head. But he seems more interested in two subjects which, before he lost his sight, were unknown to him - sculling and basket-making - than in his adventures on the Peninsula.

*****

A picturesque event in hospital last month was the billiard match between Miss Ruby Roberts, lady champion of the world, and Dr. Moore. The game, which attracted a large audience of wounded, was played in the new recreation room. Miss Roberts won. Dr. Moore may be congratulated on having put up a very fine fight.

*****

Friends of The Gazette will be interested to hear that its sale outside the hospital is increasing mightily. There is now a large and valuable list of postal subscribers. We are especially indebted to the London County and Westminster Bank, Wandsworth, which has obtained for The Gazette over two hundred new subscribers since August.

*****

A Sister writes: "There was one dressing, a rather bad fractured tibia, which I had always done myself. One day, wheeling up the dressing trolley, I proceeded as usual, watched with great interest by the patient. Suddenly he looked up, with a radiant smile on his face, and said, 'Ain't our leg getting on a treat, Sister!' I will leave you to imagine how the remark was received by those who heard it in the ward."

*****

Our Growing Departments

2011-04-30T15:19:00.002+01:00

November 1916

By the Matron

With our ever-increasing beds, all the departments in the hospital increase accordingly. In the early days we had R.A.M.C.T. men entirely in the offices, stores, post office, etc. Now nearly all - or at least the greater proportion - of the men have disappeared. Some have gone abroad with the R.A.M.C., others have transferred to fighting units, and many are on hospital ships. Then the problem was, who was to replace them? I remember, a very long time ago, one of the heads of the Red Cross Society coming down and discussing with us how women could be employed. Gradually a scheme evolved, and the first military hospital to try it was the 3rd London. The lady orderlies came, were approved of, and proved the greatest help to us; and, gradually, lady clerks, typists, postwomen, enquiry department, linen storekeepers, steward store assistants, telephone operators, cooks and charladies became installed; and today the ever green picture, "Can Women do our Work?' is answered, I think, by everyone concerned - Yes.

From a Matron's point of view I looked on this influx of women with a sinking heart. I already had over 300 women for whom I was responsible; and when the War Office decided that all women employed in a military hospital should come directly under the Matron I nearly wept - and felt certainly that it was more than one could bear. Now when I look back over all those changes I still marvel how it was done. But the fact remains today that we have somewhere about 500 women employed in the different departments of the hospital; and - apart from this making my office work very heavy - I do not feel the responsibility any greater. This in itself, I think, speaks volumes for the loyal help we get.

The different departments all run smoothly. The Quartermaster's office has two lady clerks, the C.O. has one, the Matron one, the Registrar's office has many. I shall never forget poor Captain Gosse's face when he first heard that ladies were going to be admitted into his office. He looked hopeless. And until the day he went away he always referred to them as 'the little bits of fluff in my office.' Two ladies are responsible for the card index where, within a few minutes, you can look up any patients who has ever been in the hospital. Another does typing, another helps with the discharges. Three ladies answer all enquiries in the front hall, and seem to me to spend half their time directing people to the D corridor. I often hear, "Yes, left, right, left, right, then you had better enquire again"; and I wonder whether the visitor ever finds his way to D at all. We have two ladies on the telephone and four in the post office. The postal arrangements are to my mind perfect, and hardly ever is there a complaint of letters going astray or being misdirected, which is wonderful considering the thousands of letter and parcels that pass through this office. Then in the pay office we have a lady clerk. Next along the passage is the massage room. I see that a very excellent article has already been sent about this department, so there is no need for me to say anything. I hope, however, it won't be long before Miss Layton and her helpers will get their new room.

Then we come to the stores. All clean linen is given out by ladies, who work under the supervision of the Quartermaster. In the steward's stores, in charge of the Quartermaster, much of the work is now done by ladies, who all come under what we call the General Duty Section. The kitchens, too, now have many women replacing men. In the general kitchen we still have the staff-sergeant cook, who is responsible, but in the sick officers' kitchen there is a V.A.D. cook, and also in the orderlie's kitchen. The scrubbers are also a great feature - and it is astonishing how easily they lose themselves in this huge place and what a lot of finding they require sometimes!

I feel that this article sounds rather like an essay on 'Women's Rights.' I am not a suffragette, and no one will welcome men back to their old jobs more than I shall, but I do feel that women have shown how much they can help, in this war, as well as men. And I know they will continue as long as they are needed. When we are not needed, then we shall just let the men have their own back again, and look after us as they used to - and it will be very pleasant to be looked after again, I think!

EDITH HOLDEN

Swinging the Lead

2011-04-29T15:10:00.002+01:00

The Pay Office

2011-04-29T15:05:00.003+01:00

Summer 1916

Odds and Ends from my Ward

2011-04-22T14:48:00.002+01:00

October 1916

Notes by a 3rd London General Sister

The bayonet is not at all a funny thing, I imagine, yet I can never forget the naive remark of one of my patients:
"Bayonet fighting isn't what you think it is Sister. You see, he grabbed my rifle, and I grabbed his. And there we stood. I couldn't think of what else to do ... so I spat in his eye."

Celebrating St. Patrick
Of another patient, whom I shall call Gavan, I gathered that, while soldiering in India, his chief distinction was a chronic thirst. Gavan drank his second pair of boots and as much of his kit as he could turn into cash. On the shelf above his bed he displayed what appeared to be a beautifully kept kit. Closer inspection proved it to consist of:
a. an overcoat
b. newspapers cunningly disposed as padding, and
c. the soles of a pair of boots to which there were no uppers.
Furthermore, Gavan had a glass eye, which he pawned on occasion. One St. Patrick's Day he wanted to go on the spree with some of the boys, but owing to the circumstance that his eye was in pawn Gavan was not able to get out. So the party hied them to the wheelwright's and made an eye of wood. And in honour of the day they painted it green.
Everybody satisfied.

A Compliment
There are compliments which I treasure, some of them rather touching. The other day one of them reached me in a letter from a former patient. Clancy had come home from Gallipoli desperately wounded, and for a long time 'twas thought that he'd not recover. But eventually, after being for many months in my ward, he became convalescent. In due course he rejoined his regiment, and I now hear that he has just been sent to France. Says Clancy, writing to tell me this news:
"Reserve Bed 5 for me, please, Sister."

A Slight Misunderstanding
Mrs. Jones came from Lancashire to see her husband, who was a patient in this hospital. When the train neared London, she enquired how to get to Wandsworth.
"Take a 'bus," a Cockney advised her.
"I want no Bass," she answered, "a cup of tea will do me."
Relating the incident to her husband in the ward she cried, "Do I look like a boozer, Bill?"

Of Course!
When a new patient was asked what his name was, he replied, "Smith, H."
"And what does the H stand for?"
"'Enry."

Concerning Correspondence
Sometimes one is asked to write a letter for a man who cannot manage this himself ... but nearly always can he summon sufficient strength to make the crosses at the bottom of the page - the kisses, which are a language understood all the world over. One patient who had never learnt to write, always left to me the details of what should be said in the regular letter to his wife. Only once, when I read over to him what I had written, he suggested a postscript. "Please, Sister, write that I don't smoke a pipe now; I like cigarettes best."
The cigarettes duly arrived.
This same man, when he had put a row of crosses at the foot of the letter, would place it at once in the envelope, in order that I shouldn't 'read the kisses.' Similarly, when a reply came from his wife, and was read to him, I had to refrain from 'reading' her kisses.

The Significant Adjective
It's a little trying to receive a letter from some patient's sweetheart or wife thanking me for my 'motherly care' of him. They all use the word 'motherly' - and it sounds a trifle pointed ... one isn't so very ancient after all.

E.

Observations of an Orderlette

2011-04-11T12:04:00.001+01:00

October 1916

Exactly one year ago on the 6th of this month, at 6.45 a.m. precisely, six V.A.D.'s presented themselves in fear and trembling to Night Sister, for they were the first of the girl orderlies, and though 'Pioneering' may be good work, it is distinctly terrifying! They were scattered down the B corridor - itself in the throes of creation - into a world entirely new and almost chaotic, a world which very quickly dispelled any illusions as to the 'picturesqueness' of V.A.D.-ing. Nobody loved us, and apparently nobody wanted us; neither did they know what to do with us. Our raison d'etre being to relieve the male orderlies, we were handed over to them to be initiated into the mysteries of laundrying, dispensary-ing, storing, and the hundred and one jobs that belong to the orderly - including 'funk holes' and 'sprucing spots,' which were introduced with explicit directions as to when and how they should be used! We have heard of an orderly who besought his lady successor (who'd been to the Dispensary and back in 10 minutes) to 'Play the game and not hustle too much, or __,' but perhaps that's telling tales out of school!

Reinforcements arrived almost daily, and we soon felt ourselves a real part of the hospital. Of course, we made mistakes, and bad ones sometimes, and, of course, we got hopelessly lost - starting off gaily from a given point in a given direction, and arriving, breathless and panting, at the same spot. Or starting out with, say, a breakage form for the dispensary - to be told that it was nothing to do with them but must go to the Lieutenant Quartermaster's office, and from there being sent to the Engineer, who refused even to look at it without a written permit from the Lieutenant Quartermaster, who, when you arrived at his office, had just gone over to the Store; and having run him to earth there you would probably be told that it went direct to the Geyser man behind the incinerator! Verily, the Army believeth in not letting its right hand know what its left hand doeth!

There have been times when N.C.O.'s in charge of stores have wished devoutly that we were male orderlies to be 'told off' in the Army vernacular - when Quartermasters have torn their hair, and Sisters have become almost feline in their despair over us. But we've stuck to it and really tried to succeed, and we have to thank everybody from the 'Chiefs of Staff' downwards for a deal of patience and a thoroughly sporting chance to 'make god,' and especially to the N.C.O.'s and 'orderlims' are we very grateful. For the spirit of splendid camaraderie in which they have worked with us has made a very difficult task relatively easy.

One of the things that puzzled us rather was the prevalence among some of our colleagues of the idea that Orderlettes were a quite inferior brand of V.A.D., and the tone in which they called us 'Awderly' made us almost wonder if we were some new species of insect after all - and then, fortunately, the humour of it struck us. Whereupon we were sorry for them, for we at any rate had the satisfaction of knowing we had actually helped release a man; which comfort, by the way, has dragged us from many a Slough of Despond and pushed many a disagreeable job through - a sort of very present help in trouble.

By the time this appears the Orderlettes will be almost non est - for through trial and tribulation have they attained to another sphere. Good luck to them, and the best of luck to our successors the 'Junior Pros.,' and may they be richly blessed with the saving sense of humour, without which this life is insupportable - almost impossible.

A GIRL ORDERLY

Back in Blighty

2011-03-31T10:36:00.002+01:00

Or 'The scenes on page 5' referred to in the poem below

A Philosopher in Blue

2011-03-31T10:21:00.003+01:00

(A propos of the scenes on page 5)

A pawn in the game;
That's what some fellow said I am (or was,
Before I got knocked out, and put on Blues).
All my life lame -
(I, who was champion sprinter!) just because
Some folk enjoy a game of chess
With living chess-men. I'm one. Yes.
They moved me to a square called Loos,
And that was where it ended ...
I've come here to be mended.

Here on the lawn
Out in the sun I listen to the band
And rest and smoke and watch the trains go by ...
Was I 'a pawn'?
Well, anyhow, I think I understand
The game I played in. I obeyed,
And willingly - proud to be played
From square to square - 'pawn' but still 'I';
(My game's by no means ended -
They've nearly got me mended!)

These moralists may sadly prate
Of 'pawns' ... But don't forget one thing:
When there's a chance of check-mate
The pawns may save the King!

CONSCIENTIOUS CONSENTER

The Mother

2011-03-21T17:51:00.001Z

October 1916

It was ten years since he had gone out, a lithe, dark-haired lad, to whom the cramped life of an office had proved an abomination not to be endured. To many of us it had come to seem a very long time ago, and he a very long way away. Then one morning his Mother told us, with that half-proud, half-frightened smile, which so many mothers wore just then,
"Donald is coming with the Australians."
And suddenly the two-fold gulf of years and distance was bridged, and it needed but to set his name beneath his brother's on the Roll of Honour to make him one of that little circle to whom our thoughts would henceforth turn at the words of intercession, "For all who are serving this nation, and especially for those gone forth from this Church and congregation."
In that dim sanctuary, where they had once sat beside her, she tried to realise this new and world-shattering thing, that the sons she had borne and nurtured should be soldiers, that at the call this strange replying Thing should have wakened to life in them, making them seem almost strangers to her. How many mothers looked on their sons in those first ardent days and felt that they had never really known them until then? Was it otherwise even with the French women, whose lifelong creed had taught them, 'A man shall love his Country first and after that his Mother?' She gave us news of Donald from time to time; he was in training; he had moved to another camp; finally he had sailed. Then came the first great disappointment; he had been landed at Egypt - he was not coming to England after all. Still he seemed a little nearer than in Australia, and he sent her long, rather bored letters and picture post-cards of the Sphinx and the Pyramids. At any rate, he was seeing the world.

He survived in the landing, and for long months she knew that he was on the Peninsula. Well for her, and for countless other Mothers, that there was so much she could not know, that her eyes were holden, and even her imagination incapable of picturing that Gehenna, where once our race endured to the uttermost, and where the flower of the army lies in sepulchre. He went down at last, shattered by a Turkish shell, and the Sister wrote from Cairo that his condition was very serious. But the Mother could only wait; for her there could be no hurried journey, no arrival at hospital, no keeping watch beside him.
"Ah," we said, "if he dies now, before she has seen him again, it will be too hard!"
Surely the last words of human desolation finds voice in that childish thought before the Calvary - 'Where Thy very Mother could do nought for Thee."

They cabled at last that his case was hopeless and she must prepare for the worst. In France his brother was facing death in some of the most desperate fighting of the year. But we knew that the strength of a world other than this upheld her in that hour of unutterable suspense, and that her prayers knocked ceaselessly upon the gates of Heaven for them both - knocked, and at length prevailed. As by a miracle, Donald rallied. Step by step he fought his way back to life. Doctor and nurse stood amazed as before one all but risen from the dead. They sent her a photograph of him at last, scarcely recognisable in its extreme emaciation and premature age. But it showed him out of bed, and they wrote that he was learning to walk again, with the slow and faltering steps of the child she had steadied so many years before. Later he wrote himself, but his letters were few and far between, and after a time there came a longer interval than before.

And then one midday she came to us, a telegram in her hand. He was in England - in hospital some twenty miles away. I am supposed to be an authority on hospitals, and she came to ask whether I thought they would let her in if she went then and there without waiting for a pass.
"If it were our hospital I am quite sure they would," I told her with conviction, "and I can't imagine there is any hospital where they'd keep you out if you told them you hadn't seen him for ten years."
"Then I shall go now!" she said.
One of us found a timetable, and we looked her out a train, and watched her set out with an excitement akin to her own. Often and often I helped to send such a telegram from the Hospital post office. Today for the first time I was, so to speak, at the other end of the wire, and could see what happened when it reached its destination.

Late that night I was going back to the Hospital, and on the way I called to ask how she had fared. It had been a longer and more tiresome journey than we had expected, but she had reached the hospital safely and asked for her son. Motherlike, it had never occurred to her that there could be two of his name, and, after prolonged search in the grounds, they had presented her triumphantly with the wrong man!
"But they were all very kind," she said, "and after that they took me to a ward. It was getting rather late, but I was explaining to the Sister when suddenly I saw him. And, oh, my dear, weren't we pleased to see one another!"

We sat silent in the quiet lamplit room, but how often since have those simple, but all expressive, words come back to me as I have caught a glimpse of such reunions in this Hospital. One likes to think that in another Homeland those other sons, who did not come back from Gallipoli, are waiting for the mothers whom Death, no more than time or distance, can keep from them at last.
"Well, there is one redeeming feature about this beastly war," I reflected, stepping out into the darkness, through which the dark pile of the Hospital loomed up against a palid sky - "it does bring the Colonials home as nothing else could, and gives the mothers a chance to see their boys again. It isn't quite all sad."

H. M. NIGHTINGALE

Anxious Moments ...

2011-03-21T10:22:00.001Z

The Post Office

2011-03-11T16:58:00.001Z

October 1916

The following description of the working of the hospital post office (one of our most valuable departments) has been penned by Mr. A. Pitts, who, for eighteen months, voluntarily attended to the by no means light task of re-addressing the letters of patients who had left us. Our Censor appends this note -
"The Censor would like to add a word of encouragement and approbation on the excellent work done in our post office. Week in and week out these post-ladies continue their toil. The room they now occupy is far too small for the ever-increasing host of parcels and letters; but I hope in the near future to help them and perhaps add even more useful work to their already splendid efficiency."

The work of the post office is by no means the least important of the various duties that pertain to a large military hospital. When one remembers the different parts that a letter plays in the economy of a soldier's life, it is easy to see that accuracy, intelligence, and promptitude are essential factors in the routine of distributing, despatching, letters, parcels and telegrams. In the early days of the hospital, before the extension of the A, B, C, and D blocks, the post office was carried on in a sort of glorified cupboard about 4ft. wide, adjoining the C.O.'s room. This place was so small that only one person could enter at a time. There was no window, so the door was always open. A few plain boards lined one side, with the letters of the wards marked on them. The mail was delivered about 8 a.m., parcels later, 9.30, and at intervals during the day. The work of the office was carried on by two orderlies, and was much coveted, as it gave relief from the requisitions of the Sergeant-Major, and also permitted egress from the grounds at any time under the plea of taking telegrams, etc.

It was in March, 1915, that I joined this limited staff in order to re-address letters to men who had left. Pte. E. (now Sgt.), who had with various assistants run it from the commencement, complained to the Colonel that the work was getting on his nerves. Could he have some assistance? So, happily, I dropped in for this job. Picture to yourself that little box, with a table and chair - three men struggling with parcels which the postman had just shot out of two or three bags, nurses and men enquiring for letters, an orderly from the staff office with an urgent telegram to be taken at once, two or three people wanting stamps, enquiries as to whether the C.O. was in his room, and so on. There seemed to be some justification to poor E.'s complaint of nerves. Oftentimes when both orderlies were out I had to fall back on a convalescent soldier to take round the letters. On one occasion the S.M. brought Jimmy, the Irish boy, immortalised by Mr. Harold Begbie in his article 'Keep Smiling,' who assisted in this work with his imperturbable good humour. When it was done to his and our satisfaction he would come in and say in that rich brogue of his, "Sorr, isn't that worth a drink?"

In the early days of the war parcels were very badly packed. Eggs were broken and streamed out of the corners, a yellow sticky mess, in juxtaposition with a light drapery parcel for a nurse; soft fruit completely smashed; and flowers, alas! that could only be thrown away. Once a plum cake arrived with no address. It was so heavy it fell to the ground like a cannon ball, but nevertheless was enjoyed by the mess in No.6. One morning as I entered I noticed a very disagreeable smell. Our chief said, "Yes, I've noticed it for some days; it's the drains. It's very bad this morning, I shall go in and ask the Colonel to have a sniff." I suggested we should investigate more closely first, and, sniffing around, I came upon a parcel, not very large, but obviously the cause. It had been sent to France from Canada, wandered around for some time, and finally found its way to its owner in the 3rd L.G.H. I took it down to Ward E at arm's length, where it was promptly suspended out of the window till the owner came. I think it was a special brand of tobacco, very high. Needless to say, the drains were quite innocent.

And so the post office went on, with a few changes of personnel. Pte. H., the champion chess and tennis player, and Pte. M., the poet, succeeded Cpl. E., who was promoted to the staff office, until the work increased so immensely (with the opening of the new wards) that it was imperative to find us larger accommodation. The work began at 7 a.m. and ended at 10 p.m. My own assistance was only for a few hours each morning. In May, 1915, we moved into the present quarters, and soon after, by arrangement with the V.A.D., four ladies took possession of the postal work. Then the work began to be organised; order and efficiency took the place of the hurried scramble. The system in use up to now had been this: as men came in their names were entered in a book; this book we had to borrow to find the men's wards. As the receiving Sergeant was always wanting his book, a lot of time was wasted. The same with discharges; we had to pick out the names from several pages. Our V.A.D. ladies immediately saw the weakness of this, especially as the number of entries grew to thousands, so entirely at their own expense they provided a series of card indices for officers, men, and discharged, thus simplifying the work enormously. In addition, they provided letter and parcel scales, baskets, trays, and other office etcetera. A new trolley was provided for parcels. The custom had been for our men orderlies to borrow one from the kitchen, accompanied by much language. Once, being unable to get one, they commandeered a stretcher. Meeting the C.O. they got a wigging, but a new trolley followed.

The ladies have proved a tremendous success. Since the advent of our Colonists, there has been a great increase in the work. Foreign telegrams involving technicalities of rates perfectly bewildering to the ordinary mind, changing foreign money, selling stamps, weighing parcels, answering endless questions, entering-in new names, distributing letters and parcels to about seventy wards, are all done with the utmost exactitude and amiability. To have seen them at their best was at Christmas time, when a second room was improvised for the occasion. Parcels in hundreds, letters in thousands, sacks of delayed letters from Malta and the Dardanelles, poured in. Nevertheless every inmate got his letter or parcel before the day was over. I must not close without a word about Cpl. P., who is the official taker of telegrams and parcels and executor of multitudinous commissions. He is one of the picturesque sights of Wandsworth, with his beloved donkey; always polite and reliable, he is worth a mine of gold.

The Voyage of 'The 40th General'

2011-03-05T11:28:00.002Z

October 1916

A Letter from the C.O.

The mobilisation of the 40th General Hospital was (from the point of view of the C.O.) a very different picture from that of the 3rd London.
At Aldershot the stores were collected from the various places and in two days after my arrival at the Depot the stores were ready to be taken over. When the amount of material is considered, this is quick work. To give a list of the equipment would fill a Gazette, but an idea of its quantity may be gathered when I tell you that two trains, each of thirty-six wagons, were needed to carry the equipment - nothing was left to chance, or to be supplied out East, everything from portable tables to 1,040 bedsteads, with spring mattresses and mosquito nets, being taken.

On Wednesday 19th, and Thursday 20th, the stores were loaded on trucks and sent to the port from which they go East. On the 21st we marched off the parade ground for the Government siding, where we entrained for Southampton and sailed the same evening. The various working parties about the docks gave us a good send-off, and Captain Humphris with Col. Cattell came down from London to wish us 'God speed.' The passage was very fine in the Mediterranean and not too hot till the Canal and the Red Sea. The men are comfortable housed and the junior officers are bedded in an Officers' ward. The War news came by wireless each morning till Port Said, and was pinned up in the smoking room; so, except for personal and family news, we were not cut off from the world till we left Port Said.
The N.C.O.'s and men are from various training Depots. Some have been in France, and Gallipoli, and the Cameroons, thus bringing experience of active service; and, as at the 3rd London, everyone did and does his best to keep at a high level of efficiency, and I am sure I shall have the new units' help to make the 40th General a success.

A voyage cannot be described nowadays when regard must be paid to the Censor's pencil, but a couple of points are worthy of The Gazette. When we got into the Mediterranean the Boom was put out for the Deep Sea sounding. One of the men, on his first voyage, enquired from Sergeant-Major Pinfold (who has been a 1st Class Petty Officer in the Royal Navy, and consequently is the authority in the Unit on things nautical) what the pole was for? He said for taking in the mails during the night. Next morning about thirty trusting men called on the Sergeant-Major to enquire for letters. When off Algiers an absent-minded Irish Cleric was gazing at the coast and enquired from Captain Cope, "Is that the West Coast of Africa or South Africa?" This I should think a good 1st for absent-minded enquiries.

There is much musical talent amongst the men on board. Concerts are held every night unless some other entertainment is provided, such as boxing, cock-fighting or pillow-fighting. The voyage would probably be even more pleasant but for the vaccinations and inoculations which must be done. Going into a country of evil repute it is as well to take every possible step to protect young soldiers. The heat in the Red Sea is unpleasant, but on a ship fitted for hospital use anyone who wrote that his experiences were trying would know but little of what discomfort can be on an ordinary trooper. I have seen much along the route which would be of interest but the regulations are strict. I often think of the 3rd London and its cool green lawns, and no doubt before I return will think of them a good deal more.

This is but a short note which may be of interest to my friends in the Hospital. The Concerts on the ship carry me back each time to the Recreation Room, and the men's voices, blending as they do, have an especially strong power of recalling to me the room which can have nothing but the pleasantest memories for the inmates of the 3rd London. I am sure all friends of the past two years will continue their kindness to the Hospital and its inmates. The good behaviour of the patients and the loyalty of the Staff were reward in themselves for any work I did during those two years, and if the workers of No.3 will send me from time to time an account of the doings of their departments I shall be very grateful, and though I may only send a brief acknowledgment it won't be for lack of appreciation, but for lack of time.

I intended posting this note at Aden but we did not call there, going out direct into the monsoon. Those who sing in Concert Rooms, from a steady platform, 'A life on the ocean wave and a home on the rolling deep,' had better try the monsoon in the Indian Ocean in August when it is described by ship's officers as a very strong monsoon, and I think four days' continuous rolling deep will stop their making a song about it. There is an odd feeling in being - as we shall have been by the time we arrive in Bombay - about ten days without a word as to what is happening on the various fronts, or how much the War has progressed.

H.E. BRUCE PORTER

Sister and her boys

2011-02-26T13:43:00.002Z

Back in Blighty

2011-02-26T13:43:00.001Z

An Appreciation

2011-02-22T19:15:00.001Z

October 1916

A Word of Encouragement from the Principal Matron

May I take this opportunity of the first issue of Volume II of The Gazette to thank it and its perpetrators for very many delightful hours during the last year. My little dog has often looked up in surprise to hear a burst of laughter when we seemed alone, but by degrees he is getting to understand the cause of this strange behaviour, and to recognise the cover of The Gazette, even though it occasionally changes it colour. Whenever I feel in the blues I long to find time to go to the 3rd London, and when I encounter any specially depressed friends would like to order them the same prescription.

Where is the spell? Partly, I think, the secret lies in the fact that our C.O., nobly seconded in all his work by Miss Holden, not only had great powers of organisation, but also possessed the gift - owing, in a large degree, to his own vivid, sympathetic and original personality - of collecting round himself and drawing into his work so many interesting and clever people, and inspiring them to devote, each in his own line, not only their brains but also their hearts, to help those who in this great Armageddon have found their way to the 3rd London; and though for a time he has been called to foreign fields of action, this same influence permeates every corner of the place.

This helps one to realise the various touches of genius which confront one at every turn of the hospital, and one is not surprised to see the notice boards in the corridors ornamented with sparkling little artistic gems by way of announcements of the various entertainments, and to find the men's recreation room hung with drawings by well-known artists, and to discover that these artists, whose pictures have adorned the Academy, are the khaki-clad R.A.M.C., who in their different ranks are devoting their energies to the cause of the patients. Whether their ward work is up to Academy pitch only the 'Sisters' could say! But the results are very excellent.

Then again, on entering the Splint Department, we are prepared to find it presided over by a celebrated sculptor, who not only directs the moulding of the most scientifically useful and comfortable of splints, but also has brought his genius to bear in building up the features of the patients, so that many who seemed to have been hopelessly disfigured in defence of their country are turned out from this department even handsomer than before they entered the battle at all.

On the musical side also the 3rd London contains its undefeated sportsmen. It is rumoured that one afternoon, a concert party failing to turn up, rather than disappoint the audience, the matron went to the piano and, as if by wireless telegraphy, the word went round, and one of the best and most enjoyable concerts of the season was carried out without a moment's hesitation. If I began to write about the wards I should never end. The results speak for themselves. Among many of the good jokes that are always going round the hospital none give me as much pleasure as that of the patient who, returning to visit his old ward, told the Sister, as the highest form of appreciation and gratitude, that she was 'well known in all the public houses.'

E.C. BARTON

Some 'Don'ts' for Patients - by One in C8.

2011-02-13T13:23:00.003Z

September 1916

DON'T put 'Tonight's the Night' on the gramophone when Nurse is cross. (Her evening off has probably been postponed till Friday.)

DON'T ask Sister for cigarette cards if she looks worried. (She is most likely having an interview with Matron tomorrow morning.)

DON'T develop new symptoms when the M.O. is snappy. (You will get scant sympathy if he was three tricks down on his 'no trumps redoubled' last night.)

If the M.O. prescribes No.9's, DON'T argue. (He might change his mind and make it Castor Oil.)

If you are an Infantryman, DON'T talk about the little girl in the Estaminet at B__, who was so keen on you. (We have ALL met her.)

If you belong to the A.S.C., DON'T tell Nurse anything about the saphead you held at Wipers - or whatever other name you think of. (Some rotten Infantryman is sure to ask his neighbour the difference between 'saphead' and 'softhead.')

If you belong to the A.O.C., DON'T forget to wear your spurs as you walk down the ward saying 'Goodbye' the day you are discharged from hospital. (It impresses the Orderlette.)

If the fellow in the next bed snores, DON'T forget to accuse the night Nurse of it. (It will make you popular with her.)

If there is a sergeant in your ward, DON'T forget to laugh at his jokes. (Sergeants have been known to get boxes of 'Abdullas' sent them occasionally.)
(Note to Editor.- Please alter brand in above paragraph if you can get another firm to pay me more for the advertisement. - AUTHOR.)

If you must relate funny stories, for Heaven's sake DON'T tell the one about the girl and the soldier. (You never know when Sister will come in.)

Even if you are fond of music, DON'T put 'Salut d'Amour' on the gramophone more than four times in succession. If you do, some other silly idiot, whose brain does not soar above ragtime, will develop a headache and Sister will ban the gramophone for the rest of the day. ('I' got a headache once, so I know.)

If your egg should happen to be a little.. er.. so-so, DON'T take it lying down. Go to the O.C. Chicken Run and lay a complaint.
(Note to Editor.- This paragraph is NOT intended as a reflection on the Wandsworth hens, but 'eggs is eggs,' as Omar - or was it George Robey - once said.- AUTHOR.)

DON'T go into hospital with influenza or such-like simple complaints. (The Officers and Sisters will like you much better if yours is an interesting case.

C.B. (18th Royal Fusiliers).

Efficiency

2011-02-11T14:37:00.002Z

A Retrospect

2011-02-11T14:35:00.001Z

Main Hall Sketches

2011-02-02T13:52:00.002Z

September 1916

In the old coaching days the lot of a turnpike keeper must have been quite an amusing one. Human beings on all manner of journeys of business and pleasure would pass him by - from the romantic young couple on their way to Gretna Green to the sleepy waggoner, in the early hours of the morning, on his way to London Town with his market produce. Something of the same variety of passers-by helps very efficiently to 'kill time' for the clerical V.A.D. in the Hospital Main Hall. All sorts and conditions from the mud-stained, tattered hero straight from France to the small girl with a paper bag of eggs and a bunch of flowers for the soldiers who wants 'to see the Mytron.'

In a rather detached way one gleans much of the daily history of the whole hospital. A telephone message from one of the distant huts to the Wardmaster to find Captain This or Dr. That, and presently an orderlette, at something between a flutter and 'the double' in an agitated quest for oxygen or brandy, means that some poor boy is having a pretty hard struggle with the enemy. Sheafs of telegrams are left in the hall for despatch by one of the many coming and going messenger boys, from which one can often patch a little story from a few words.
"To Miss Priscilla Maidenaunt. So sorry; not feeling quite up to visitors today. - from NEPHEW JACK."
"To Miss Blanche Blossom. So glad you are in town. Call for you in taxi 7. Dine at Regent Palace. Wherever you like, to follow. Feeling very fit. - JACK."
Both are signed at the back by Second Lieutenant Blank, X Ward, 3rd L.G.H. !
Patients waiting for the arrival of friends will often entertain us with light conversation. A wounded warrior was waiting for his wife, who was coming up from the country to see him.
"My wife, she doesn't half like the idea of coming to see me at a hospital. She's a nervous sort of body; can't bear the sight of blood or anything. As for me - well, that sort o' thing doesn't bother me a bit. You see I was a barber as well as a tobacconist by trade before the war."

Many and varied are the 'emergency' calls for the Wardmaster from various quarters of the Hospital. Not the least so was a call from the Matron one day - the Wardmaster was not long gone, and when he returned he was carrying a hat box from which came the strangest sounds. Behold, a family of kittens - for whose nursery, Pussy, with excellent taste, had chosen Matron's best hat! Many dear old ladies arrive on kindly errands at our Enquiry Office. One wished to see a certain Australian.
"I don't know his name, but you will know the one I mean; he has a swollen leg and foot, not wounded, but swollen."
We looked rather blank, so to make the matter quite clear she continued:
"Last Sunday week he was sitting on a chair in the drive just outside the door for the first time!"
She thought us strangely unobservant and inefficient, and I am sure, even when we explained that there were over 1,400 patients in hospital at the time, and that we had no method of recording them either by the state of their legs or by their first outings in the hospital grounds. Another dear old lady not easily forgotten is one in a beady bonnet and 'mantle,' who came to take four patients for an afternoon's outing - I forget whether it was the Zoo or the 'Trenches' in Knightsbridge where they were going. This was to be followed by tea, and "What time shall I bring them back?" said the little old lady. "When do they go to bed?"

My last picture is of a 'Clerical' trying to soothe an agitated specialist waiting for a taxi - which will not arrive - and very conscious of an already overdue appointment on the other side of London. And as this attempt almost proved the finish of a busy day, I will make it my finis also.

MISS J. C. RYLE

Round The Hospital

2011-01-24T19:12:00.003Z

September 1916

By Mr. Quossip

Newly back from Strafland, Cpl. Cheeribloke met me while I was taking my promenade down A. corridor. The Corporal, attired in natty blue (blue is the wear, you know!), was propelling his own landaulet - the latest craze in conveyances. "I'm teaching it to waltz" was his little jest as he butted backwards into a competitive vehicle which had rashly attempted to pass him at the tricky bit of road between Kitchen Corner and The Ramp.

Sister Summery, all smiles as usual, has confided in me that her present guests at the Lads. When I add that 'the Lads' unanimously testify that Sister Summery is It, you will grasp the full significance of this Pointed Par.

Anna Maria Twentystun (of course, it is the Dowager I am alluding to) whose residence in Garratt Lane is the scene of many a social success, has left D27.The good wishes of all go with her, and the younger of our Blades in Blue may well envy the lucky suitor who is leading so ponderous a parti to the altar.

The sweet likeness of little Dolly Dimpledean (late of Daly's) has come to hand today. Dolly, it seems, is toiling like a galley slave for the wounded - or will be when our hard-hearted Matron can be persuaded to give her a berth. Meanwhile, in spite of rebuffs which would have damped the zeal of one less courageous, the Adored of the Stalls has been tiring her poor wee self to tatters by being photo'ed in her Red Cross Uniform.

At supper in the Orderlies' Canteen last night I found myself next to Pte. Long-i'-t'hair, whose ancestral home, Hut 6, is so beautifully situated at the edge of the valley of the Ellbeesceear. His was work he told me is keeping him very busy; several times this year he has had to deny his usual weekend. However (as he himself added, with his usual cheery smile), "War is Hell."

Mrs. Quossip informs me that 'Tumbler Teas' are now much in vogue in V.A.D. circles - owing no doubt to the best china being stowed away in the cellar, safe from the marauding Zepp. The correct procedure at these affairs is to invite your guests, mentioning at the same time that you've nothing to offer for tea(if wise, they'll bring their own), and then raid your neighbours' rooms for crockery.
At the particular party mentioned by Mrs. Quossip the net result of these surprising manoeuvres was two cups, two toothbrush jars, and a tooth glass. A good dentifrice is a real necessity, it appears, as a cheaper one spoils instead of adds to the flavour of the tea. The time-honoured toothbrush and penholder deputised for spoons, and the chocolate biscuits, so dear to the feminine heart, were served in the soap-dish. quite a recherché affair, it seems.

Poet's Corner

2011-01-17T19:31:00.002Z

MY OFFICERS

Who is it think I'm strung on wire,
With arms and feet that never tire,
Expect me, with a smiling face,
From dewy morn till eve to race
And never use their heads to save
My legs from running to the grave?
My officers.

Who is it that, when old or grand,
My limitations understand,
As majors or as colonels scan
Their orderly as fellow man,
But, as subalterns often seem
To think, he's just a dud machine?
My officers.

But there must come an end to strife,
And we go back to private life;
When I once more can take my ease,
And do as little as I please.
Who, in their turn - their war work done -
Ah, blessed hope, may have to run?
My officers!

H.M.N.

***

CYNICAL SONG OF A SISTER

Tell me not in accents tender
That an army nurse's life if fine;
It has joys beyond recall -
Listening to the Tommies' whine.

First it's socks, and then it's hankies,
Kit shirts and vests, the morning long;
The afternoon - sheets and pyjama trousers;
In the evening the same old song.

It is good to smooth their pillows,
Cheer them all upon their way,
Regulars, Terriers, Canadians and Anzacs,
Grumbling or growling the livelong day.

Oh, the Tommies oft remind us,
As we work from morn till night,
That the saying is a true one,
'The more you work, the more you might.'

But let us all, then, grin and bear it,
Grumbling only makes us worse;
When they're marked up for disposal
They always want to take their nurse.

F.M. FULLER, R.A.M.C.(T.)

Women's Work?

2011-01-13T14:14:00.004Z

'This is not a scene at the summer sales, but merely Orderlettes eager to realise on the I.O.U.s of the Clean Linen Store'

Experiences in a Nurse's Life

2011-01-09T13:00:00.002Z

September 1916

It is impossible for any woman to go through three years in a General Hospital without having a variety of experiences which would hardly fall to her lot in any other position. Thus repetition might sound rather curious or amusing to the outside world, but no trained nurse would regard them as anything unusual.

Whilst I was in my probationer days I was at work in a very busy ward where the Sister was rather an ogress. On the occasion in question there had been a rush of new patients, a new house physician, and stocktaking all on the same day, and the junior members of the nursing staff had survived a most agitating morning. A day labourer, who in time of convalescence had nothing else to do but lie in bed and see the working of the ward pass before his eyes, being one of the philanthropists of this world, called me to his side at the first propitious moment, and, raising himself on his elbow to give emphasis to his utterance, said;
"You didn't ought to stop at this, my girl; I'll find you a much better job behind a bar when I get out of 'ere." I did not avail myself of his kindly services, though I certainly thanked him for them.

The following story is told of the Matron of a Nursing Home in the East of England, whose responsibilities extended over a very large area, and who had, as one branch of her work, to superintend the district nursing in the outskirts of and the town of Ipswich. She went with two of her nurses on one occasion to see a destitute old woman who was living alone in a very neglected condition, and completely dependent on any services the neighbours would do for her. It was a busy morning's work to put the invalid on a water bed, give her an elaborate toilet, and clean up the cottage. But when it had been accomplished to everyone's satisfaction, the old granny turned to the Matron with a little sigh of regret, and said:
"Ah! my dear, you'd 'ardly credit 'ow I'm come down in the world. I used to be a cook in a grand house in Grosvenor Square, with six of the likes of you under me."
No one has enjoyed the story quite as much as the Matron herself, who, since the occurring of this incident, it may be interesting to know, has received the Royal Red Cross of the First Class for valuable work rendered on foreign service.

MARGT. NEWTON.

Looking Backwards - a Note by the Matron

2011-01-03T14:09:00.002Z

September 1916

As we go to press we have well entered the third year of the war. When one looks back it seems hardly possible that this can be so, although I suppose we have all crowded into the last two years more than we have ever done before. Looking round the wards which have been built all around us, and seem to have grown up with us, we wonder when it will stop growing.

We started the 3rd London General with 520 beds crammed together in those first days in every available room and corner of the buildings. Then by degrees, after days and nights of ceaseless hammering, the first long corridor appeared - which is now called the Old Huts - and the surplus beds were drafted into it. Then we thought we had a big hospital. Now we have 1,637 beds equipped and the majority of them occupied, and we are contemplating extending up to 1,800. With the second extension was added another 520 beds; this meant extra kitchen accommodation and stores. These all seemed to spring up like mushrooms, and as soon as they were finished the equipment was put in, and in a very short time we had A, B, C, and D corridors in the New Extension occupied, and working well.

Looking back over the work of two years, it has been hard and unceasing, but I think we all feel that, in spite of this, it has not been altogether unhappy. The wonderful cheerfulness of the men when they must be suffering, the brightness of the wards, and the general air of contentment through the Hospital, makes one feel that the years have been well spent. Many changes have occurred, and faces that were very familiar have gone - some for a time, some for ever. Convoy after convoy arrive night and day, and the well-known characters about the place disappear one by one. Still we go on with 'the daily round, the common task,' living from day to day and hoping - sometimes almost against hope - that one day there may be a silver lining to the cloud.

One of my special friends has just had his hospital birthday, and he is as cheerful today as he always has been, and I think sets us all an example. Our Gazette, too, has just had its first birthday, and I look forward to it with real pleasure each month and wish it every success in its second year. Many of the Staff have been here all the time. The Nursing Staff, in common with others, have taken the rough with the smooth all the way through. Many have been the dark days when wards had to be moved, surgeons changed, and staff nurses put on night duty, but in spite of all these hardships there is a bright side, although we don't always see it.
In the beginning of the third year of the Hospital, we all, I think, feel more hopeful, and who knows, before long we may be able to
'Pack up our troubles in our old kit bags and
Smile, smile, smile.'

I wonder!

EDITH HOLDEN

In a London Hospital

2010-12-26T18:21:00.002Z

August 1916

Impressions of a Canadian

I arrived in England at the end of March, and after a short period in camp I succeeded in obtaining leave for five days in order to visit London. I had intended to stay with friends, but I found myself a guest of the 3rd London in Ward 7.

I am not quite clear as to what happened during the early part of my visit, except that I think the Sister feared that I should not be warm enough - anyhow, they frequently warmed me up some, with hot stuff applied to my chest, and although I begged them to be less good-natured in their attentions they absolutely refused to desist. One other thing I remember is the visit from a Colonel, who used to practise Morse Code on my ribs, and insisted on my repeating 99 in various tones of voice. I repeated this so often that when I was asked my age I automatically answered 99, greatly to the astonishment ofthe tall lady who came round collecting information.

After this business had gone on for some time, I was quite delighted when the Colonel suggested a visit to the theatre. I did not know whether it was pictures or Grand Opera, but I jumped at the chance to go. I was taken to the theatre next day, but I must confess that I lost interest in the performance - in fact I went to sleep before the show commenced, and when I awoke I was back in bed in Ward A4. Later in the day I was taken to reside on the balcony, where I am still staying. From this point of vantage I see many interesting things, such as the Wild Horse of Tartary trying to kick the groom, varied by attempts to kick the donkey, and the donkey doing her best to kick any male person trying for a ride. Then again there is the farm - how dull and uninteresting would be the day were it not for the visits of the Matron and the Colonel officially inspecting the chicken run! Doubtless the hens thoroughly appreciate the honour, and do their best to show it by getting busy with the hen fruit. My sympathy goes out to the lonely goose (or is it a gander?). He or she endeavours to be pally with the hens, but there is "'nothin' doing'".

Altogether I have had a fine time, and although disappointed that a chance of a dig at the Germans is denied me, I shall always look back on the splendid work of the Sisters and surgeons of the 3rd London with the deepest appreciation and gratitude, and feel more than compensated. I would also like to avail myself of the opportunity of expressing my grateful thanks to the Canadian Red Cross Society, from whose visitors I have received the greatest kindness.

ARTHUR PROBERT (Sgt.)
53rd Battalion, Canadian Expeditionary Force
'Northern Saskatchewan Timber Wolves'

Time, please!

2010-12-26T17:39:00.002Z

Billiards

2010-12-26T17:37:00.001Z

'Sister'

2010-12-19T14:25:00.002Z

August 1916

We wash our hands of all responsibility for this series of contributions. The writer seems to us to become every month more outrageous. We are not surprised that he continues to preserve a strict anonymity.

SISTER

It was a corridorderlim whom we encountered at the entrance to X103, and, in the discharge of our high function, we ventured to detain him.
"Where," we enquired, "shall we find Sister?"
He regarded us with something of a truculent air. "Search me," he replied briefly. "I haven't got her."
His air of marked hostility was explained by his further remarks.
"Ticking me off," he exclaimed indignantly, "because she happened to find two of my white mice in the Dressings Box ... I wish to Hades it was winter!"
"... Winter?" we queried, slightly puzzled.
"I'd stop her coke," he said with simple malevolence. "Not a scuttleful should she see - not if it snowed icicles; not a ruddy clinker. As it is, I shall have to think of some other way to slip it across her. Leave it to me; I bet my spectacles I'll make her spit blood before the week's out. Look to it, my Bird of Paradise, look to it!" And the indignant youth departed.

Just inside the ward we perceived an orderlette mopping furtively at her eyes with her handkerchief. Our duty to our journal compelled us to make some enquiry as to the cause.
"It's the Diet Sheets again," she explained wearily. "Sister never can understand the difference between today's Diet and tomorrow's Extras. It makes Sergeant Peacemaker so cross, and I get told off at each end. You'll find her in there, making them out now.

It was with some trepidation that we found ourselves in the presence of Sister herself. A noble figure of a woman, planned on a generous scale, she seemed born to command - and be obeyed. On her table were spread a number of printed sheets, a dictionary, and a Lightning Calculator.
"I'm very busy," she said doubtfully when we stated our errand. "This Diet Sheet has to be in by 10.30, and I'm not half-way through with it yet. I never can get the bl..., the blinking thing right, somehow."
She regarded the result of her labours with a puzzled frown. "I know there's a mistake somewhere - seven and eight are fourteen ... How many 'g's' are there in 'egg'?
We hazard a guess, and quietly lead her back to the subject of our visit. "Tell us something," we begged, "of the personnel of the Ward. Firstly, as to the staff ... ?
"I should hardly call it a staff," Sister corrected us; "a gang of impudent, incompetent ... Well, what would you think if you found your Staff Nurse in the kitchen boiling eggs in the steriliser while the V.A.D. stood smoking a gasper and making glad eyes out of the window at the corporal of the Linen Store?"
With a brief expression of pained astonishment we turned to a subject calculated, as we imagined, to awaken more pleasing thoughts. "Your patients," we suggested, "what of the Boys in Blue - the lads of Loos and Suvla? Surely there you find your recompense?"
A hypercritical observer might have detected a grudging inflection in Sister's reply.
"I've nothing particular to complain of," she admitted. "They run much alike, I suppose, all over the hospital. There was one man," she added indignantly, "a one-legged man with a mouth-organ; I caught him playing it after hours - and he was saucy about it into the bargain. I got him sent to D Ward over that."
"For long?"
Sister's austere countenance assumed a still more grievous aspect. "He refused to come back!" she almost shrieked. "He said it was like a peaceful dream after my ward; said it reminded him of a little home he had in the country where he used to keep chickens. Wait till he does come back! Will I not tick him off ... !

We were distinctly conscious of a feeling of embarrassment, and it was with something like a sigh of relief that we greeted the entrance of the Mainorlawdly.
"Matron wants to see you Sister, at once," he announced with a cheerful grin. I shouldn't keep her, Sister; she's waiting for you now in her office, with her tongue hanging out. I think it's about that dose of Perchloride of Mercury you gave Robinson by mistake instead of the 2oz. Mist. Alb."

The corridor was unaccountably lined by a double row of expectant faces. On each was reflected the same gleam of pleasurable anticipation. Unconsciously the sentence which was formulating in our brain rose to our lips; "Who, I wonder, is going to get ticked off now?"
And, like the distant murmur of the surf where it breaks upon a sun-kissed shore, the answer floated back; "Sister."

Night Duty

2010-12-13T14:00:00.002Z

August 1916

Impressions of a V.A.D.

It was on a day during the latter end of March that the Sister appeared at dinner-time with the fateful list, and we each awaited with throbbing hearts to hear our names called, and the awful sentence, "Will those nurses whose names have been called go to bed at two o'clock ready for duty tonight?" Our fate was sealed for the next nine weeks! We all went to our rooms and to bed - some to sleep, others to a restless wondering as to which ward would they be sent, which Sister would they be under, and what sort of patients would they have.

At last the hour of 7.30 p.m. arrived, and we assembled for breakfast! At eight o'clock another fateful list was read appointing each nurse to a ward. Having secured our 'stores' we wended our way along the dark corridors, our arms nearly breaking with the weight of our night equipment, and into the darkened wards. Happy were the nurses who were sent to wards where they had been working on day duty, for then they knew their patients, and also the ins and outs of the ward; but, alas for those who were sent to strange wards and strange patients. It was a long night that first night - wild and stormy without, trembling and fearful within; but nothing very dreadful happened, and at last dawn appeared. The dawn and the sunrises one can see while on night duty help to make up for the long, dark hours of watching. When we all met the following morning many were the questions asked and varied the experiences we had to relate.

Then came a night when the telephones started ringing, and the message sped quickly from ward to ward: 'All lights out; Zepps are expected.' Then for several hours we were in the dark save for a small storm lamp, which was lit in case of emergency, but so covered up as to shed none of its light around. There each nurse sat, faithful to her post, in utter darkness and absolute silence, save for the deep breathings and occasional groans from the patients. Never before did we realise what company even the sounds of trains whistling, rumbling along could be, and the striking of clocks. But all these things were silenced, until at last the welcome message came that lights could be turned on, and a feeling of thankfulness came over us that once more our hospital and all its patients had been saved from the hand of the enemy.

There are many things a nurse has to contend with in a ward on night duty, and not least of these is the presence of mice. She goes timidly into the ward kitchen, perhaps at the witching hour of midnight, to have her meal, and she pauses in the doorway to listen. On turning up the light she sees only a little grey mouse running across the floor, or even on the dresser top. She makes a noise in order to hurry it to its home and then, with some amount of heart-beating, she prepares her meal and tries to make herself think she is hungry and ready to enjoy it. With one ear listening for any sound from the patients in the ward, with the other intent on listening for any movement on the part of the mouse (which she knows is watching her from the corner), the nurse takes her frugal repast, and then returns to the 'dug-out' in the ward with a feeling of relief that nothing more dreadful has happened. Perhaps later on she hears another faint scratching. She listens, and all is silent, but a faint odour comes her way. She quickly makes for the bed whence it comes, but lo! the patient appears to be sweetly sleeping until she flashes her torch light in his face, and there she sees a wicked look. "You are smoking!" "No, nurse," comes the naughty answer. Then there is a search for his hands, and behold the cigarette hidden away. She tries to confiscate the offending thing, but the pleading voice, "Just two draws, nurse, and then I will go to sleep" sometimes wins.

Then there are the welcome visits of the Night Sister, with her bright face and cheery word, and her quick glance round to see if the patients are comfortable and asleep, but woe betide the nurse who has made herself too comfortable and is caught napping! There is a certain fascination about night duty. You feel you are doing something which everybody is not doing, and only those who know can realise what a comfort a night nurse can be to a restless patients in helping to lessen his pain and soothe him to sleep. But the weeks slip by, and we find ourselves in sight of the end of our night duty, and most of us (there are exceptions) look forward with eager anticipation to the time when we shall once more take up the routine of day duty. But a true V.A.D. is willing at all times to do the duty set before her, whether it be pleasant or otherwise.

All my heart contains ...

2010-12-10T15:44:00.001Z

'Dont's'

2010-12-04T14:57:00.002Z

August 1916

By Pte. Vernon Lorimer (5th Field Ambulance, A.I.F.)

1. Don't smoke after 9 a.m. unless the Sister's back is turned. You will make her envious.

2. Don't forget to stand to your bed when the doctor comes into the ward, or he might think you are a patients.

3. Don't lie on the bed in the daytime if you are not feeling too good; remember, the floor's more comfortable.

4. Don't play the gramophone after 8 p.m. The Night Sister has to get some sleep.

5. Don't shave more than twice a week. Your visitors are more likely to believe your sob-stories if you look the part.

6. Don't throw your cigarette ash or dead matches round the stove. Remember, the pot plants are in the ward for that purpose.

7. Don't get up when you are told. The Night Nurse will enjoy tipping you out.

8. Don't fail to enjoy your dinner. Remember, you will get the same tomorrow.

9. Don't tell your visitors the tale within the Sister's hearing. She has read your case-sheet.

10. Don't wear your boots in the ward. Keeping your slippers on will occupy your mind.

11. Don't keep your locker tidy, or you will do the Matron out of her job.

12. Don't slang-wang the Registrar if you fail to get a pass. Remember, he will know you the next time.

13. Don't swear at the Sister. It's not necessary. She has heard you talk in your sleep.

14. Don't close the windows if you feel it draughty. A cold is a fine opportunity to swing the lead.

15. Don't fail to make the kitchen untidy. The charwoman has never been known to lose her temper.

16. Don't worry about having more than two visitors. The Sister will entertain your overflow meeting in the corridor.

3rd London General Jottings

2010-11-27T14:38:00.002Z

August 1916

The Medical Officer enquiring about patients in the wards said to one man:
"Well, what are you, T.B.?"
"No Sir," was the reply, "A.I.F."

A member of the 3rd L.G.H. staff has brought two stories straight from France.
Some of our Tommies, badly gassed, were being taken back from the trenches, and at a canteen where they halted a lady helper offered refreshment and endeavoured to cheer them.
"Oh, we'll soon be better, lady," one responded. "We're going to eat apples."
"But are apples a cure for gassing?" she enquired with interest.
And it was only after bewildered explanations that she realised her faux pas. The party were going to Etaples.

This same canteen had two divisions, one for British, one for French. At the former all new arrivals were given tea, and at the latter they received coffee.
A British Tommy who entered took his place in the compartment prepared for his Gallic comrades, and our lady friend went across and warned him that he would only get French coffee there, not English tea.
"That's all right, miss" quoth he. "No tea, thank you. Since we came over here I'm quite enfranchised."

Which naturally leads on to the true tale of the scrublady in a certain ward of the 3rd L.G.H. She had informed a member of our staff that she had a son in France.
"Which part of France?" he asked.
"Well sir, I don't rightly know what part; but the name of the place is Dug-Out."

Here is a contribution from a 3rd L.G.H. patient who hails from the North of England.
Two Lancashire lads went to the recruiting office together, and one received a card marked 'A,' while the other's card was marked 'B.' They consulted together as to the difference, and one said at last:
"Ah sees wot it is, Bill. 'A' stands for artillery, and they're putting me with t' guns."
"Aye," replied the second, "but wot does 'B' mean?"
His pal was puzzled for a moment, and then an idea struck him. "Why, it means bayonet work, of course."
No.2's face fell. "Here," he said, "give it me back quick. Ah'm tekkin' it back and gettin' it swopped for a 'C.' Happen they'll put me in th' canteens then.

Here is a story from one of our Gallipoli Anzacs:
"One lad was mortally wounded, and he signed for a pencil to write with. It was given him. We supposed that he wished to make his will or send some message home. But he simply wrote, 'Are we downhearted?' Then he feebly shook his head, smiled, and closed his eyes for the last time.

He was in a position none too well protected, and the Germans had got the range of the trench with considerable exactitude. Several casualties had occurred close by, but Tommy, in the middle of it all, was snatching time to start his pipe - under difficulties. He struck a light, then waited, sniffing, for the sulphur to finish fizzing.
"These 'ere French matches," he groused, " 'll be the death of me!"

Valedictory

2010-11-22T12:47:00.002Z

A WORD TO THE HOSPITAL FROM OUR C.O.

By the time this number is in print the second year of the war will have ended; and many changes have taken place since the last issue. Two years ago I took over the Building of the Royal Patriotic Schools, and, with the help of a loyal staff and good friends, this hospital has earned a world-wide reputation for being a place where patients are not only cared for as to their health, but are made happy in their minds. As a result of the success of this hospital, I have been honoured by being asked to take out to the East a 1,040-bed hospital officered by Territorial Medical Officers. I have been allowed to take with me thirty to forty N.C.O.'s and men, and amongst these are some who have been here from the earliest days, and who have helped me to make the 3rd London a success. I know I can count on their help in our new task. Sir Alfred Pearce Gould has been appointed to command during my absence, as I hope one day to return to the hospital which has been - and always will be - of greatest interest to me.

I could not say Au Revoir to my comrades of the 3rd as I should have liked, but I do thank them one and all for their devoted work, and ask with confidence that the loyalty given me may be given to Sir Alfred. I shall often think of the 3rd London, and no doubt envy those who are working there amidst such pleasant surroundings. My comrades amongst the patients I wish good luck, and if by chance those who return to the Front should come my way, I hope they will make themselves known to me. The good behaviour of the patients has lightened my task during the two years gone by, and has made me proud to have been still young enough, when Armageddon came, to serve the Army in which I was born, and to minister in some degree the comfort of some of its sons.

H.E.B.P.

AN APPRECIATION
By the Matron

Saturday, July 8th, was a very sad day for our hospital. The Unit formed from the 3rd for the East left on their way to Aldershot. Headed by Captain Hope Gosse, the men marched past the front of the hospital looking so smart and well turned out in their new helmets. They called for cheers for us, and we - with big lumps in our throats - tried to cheer them.
We have only lent them to the East, which needs them evidently more than we do, and we hope with all our hearts that it won't be very long before we can welcome them back again to rejoin the hospital - which is a very sad place without them. In the meanwhile, we who are left behind will, I know, carry on as we have always done, and we gladly welcome Sir Alfred Pearce Gould, who is dear to all, as our Chief. And I know that I am voicing the opinion of the whole hospital when I say he shall have our loyal help and support while he is in charge of our hospital.

EDITH HOLDEN

A Selection of Drawings

2010-11-18T15:04:00.005Z

As I seem to have a bit of a back-log of images, here are a few assorted drawings/cartoons from the Gazette (various dates)

A Poem

2010-11-16T19:22:00.002Z

July 1916

A Poem
(Printed as received)

I always wished to see the world, I ad no chanst before,
Nor I dont suppose I should ave if there adnt been no war.
I used to read the tourist books, the shippin news also,
And I ad the chance of goin so I couldnt elp but go.

We ad a spell in Egypt first before we moved along
Acrost the way to Suvla were we got it ot and strong,
We ad no drink when we was dry no rest when we was tired,
But I-ve seen the perramids an Spink which I had oft desired.

I-ve what-'ll last me all my life to talk about and think
I-ve sampled various things to eat an various more to drink -
I-ve strolled amoung them dark bazaars which makes the pay to fly,
And I ad my fortune told as well but that was all my-eye.

I-ve seen them little islands too I couldent say there names,
An towns as white as washin day and mountains spoutin flames -
Ive seen the sun come lonely up on miles an miles o sea,
Why, folks ave paid a undred pound an seen no more than me.

I always wished to see the world, Im fond o life an change -
But a bullet got me in the leg an this is passin strange
That when you see old Englands shore all wrapped in mist an rain
Why, its worth the bloomin bundle to be comming home again.

PADDY - or MICHAEL JOSEPH EZEKIEL (1ST NEWFOUNDLAND REGIMENT)

Going Sick

2010-11-14T11:53:00.002Z

July 1916

I began by having the shivers; I had then when I walked down corridors. I had them equally when I sat in the safe seclusion of the post office. I decided gloomily that they were certainly 'ushering in' something - were, in short, as the 'Home Nursing Manual' would express it, the 'invasion of the symptoms.' The only point was, the symptoms of what?
As soon as I got home I took my temperature with the instrument supplied to me at the Home Nursing Class. It comes down if the hand holding it is banged smartly against one's knee, and takes about a quarter of an hour to register. It cost me sevenpence. On this occasion it struggled up to 100.2. I announced this result to the family. Those who had not read the 'Manual' were suitable impressed; those who had, remarked that was only a slight fever. As a matter of fact, when it attained the altitude of 101 the 'Manual continued to maintain that it was still slight. Personally I did not feel that there was anything slight about it, and I wished the doctor summoned. The symptoms were now developing along the correct lines for influenza, but the 'Manual' suggested this cheerful thought: 'In its early stages the symptoms of smallpox are singularly like those of influenza - pains in the back and limbs, headache, etc.

The doctor said it was 'flu,' but as to when I should return to the post office he was less explicit. He suggested that I might require a medical certificate, and produced a book of little forms, one of which he tore out and filled up. I received this document with awe, never having had such a thing before. It made me feel what a very solemn thing it is to be in regular employment. The additional excitement of applying for Sickness Benefit under the Insurance Act was denied me, as after much controversy and a voluminous correspondence, I had obtained exemption. In this I scored greatly over a young friend whom we will call Clarence. Long before the Act was though of he claimed and obtained a lodger's vote on the ground that he paid his father 10s. a week for his room - this 10s., as a matter of fact, his obliging parent promptly returned. Upon the passing of the Act Clarence claimed exemption on the ground that he was dependent upon his father for his board and lodging. The Insurance Commissioners asked various personal questions, and retorted curtly, 'Amount of earnings incompatible with a state of dependence,' which was a polite way of saying that if Clarence was not self-supporting - well, he ought to be. What was even more incompatible were the two statements of Clarence, since one cannot be both a lodger and dependent for lodging. Hence it followed that he dared no longer vote, neither did he escape insurance. I, who have no vote, felt no regrets at so well-deserved disenfranchisement.

Clarence, by the way, once told me the following little story:
One evening he dined in town with a friend, who at the conclusion of the repast suggested that they should repair to a music hall. Clarence demurred, saying that it was now too late; but the friend, who we will call Tompkins, offered to be that they would obtain good seats at any music hall of repute, and they repaired to the Valhalla.
"Seats telephoned for in the name of Smith - advance booking," Tompkins announced to the attendant, and three minutes later they were seated in the stalls.
"It is quite a safe dodge," Tompkins remarked complacently, when he had paid. "You will always find some Smith has 'phoned for seats at any decent-sized house."
"But," gasped the astounded Clarence, "have you never encountered the real Smiths?"
"The real Smiths - what are they? A voice crying on the telephone! Once I was told they had arrived ten minutes before. I said 'But you had no business to give them my seats.'"

However, this story, though it may perhaps furnish an inspiring example of cool courage, has nothing to do with my illness, the outstanding feature of which continued to be a deplorable lack of harmony between it and the Manual - I felt so much worse than the latter said I was. I tumbled and tossed, tried on the left side, on the right side, on my back; had a lot of pillows, had no pillows; accumulated bed-clothes and bottles, and then threw them away again. I did not want to read, nor to write (even for the Gazette), nor to sew anything; neither was I in the least sleepy. I remembered that a night nurse had once told me how men would ask her the time, and how sorry she was to have to tell them it was perhaps only eleven, when she knew how wearily the hours were dragging by to them.
"Heavens," I thought, "if I make all this fuss, and am bored nearly stiff, by a potty little illness like this, what should I do if I were like some of the men in the Pat.!" And I remembered how Florence Nightingale had spoken of that 'long and silent fortitude,' that 'unalterable patience, simplicity, and good strength - the voiceless strength to suffer and be still,' which are as wonderful in our own wounded today as they were in those who filled her monstrous hospital with its four miles of beds.

My convalescence was thrilled by the excitement of the revolt in Ireland, an excitement which took on a personal tinge when we heard that a member of the family had had the misfortune to stop a rebel bullet with his face. We discussed in hushed tones whether the injury to his physiognomy was likely to be of a nature to necessitate his removal to the 3rd, and the ministrations of Derwent Wood. However, we learned shortly that he had had the proverbial miraculous escape, the bullet passing in under his ear and being dug out of his cheek. The injury resulting appeared to be best summed up in the victim's own remark "Hell to eat!" We also discussed whether he would have a special medal for the Irish campaign, or merely a Battle of Dublin bar added to the Great War medal.

At last I was on my feet again, and the date of my return to work fixed. "Now," I said, "we will collect all my medicine bottles, and take them round to Mr. Wood's bottle depot in Barmouth Road, and in due course the donkey transport will fetch them from there and convey them to the hospital."
"But why cannot you take them straight to the hospital yourself?" the family argued.
"No," I said, firmly. "In the Army everything is done decently and in order, and goes through a series of properly marked-out departments. It is now my duty to uphold these glorious traditions, and I will do my bit by sending the bottles via Mr. Wood and donkey transport."

H. M. NIGHTINGALE

Miss Emily Northover

2010-11-07T14:13:00.002Z

Sir James Kingston Fowler

2010-11-07T14:12:00.002Z

News Notes

2010-11-07T13:47:00.002Z

It is with very great pleasure that we welcome the announcement of the new honours conferred on members of the nursing staff.
Miss Barton (Principal Matron) and Miss Northover (Assistant Matron) receive the Royal Red Cross (1st Class), Sister W. White and Nurses Frankeiss, Girardet, and Cockran receive the Royal Red Cross (2nd Class). We may mention that a photograph of Miss Barton appeared in our February number, and one of Miss Northover in May.

Six members of the staff have recently left for service elsewhere:
Lt.-Col. Sir James Kingston Fowler, K.C.V.O.(who has gone to France), Capts. Preston and Clarke (to field ambulance work), Capts. Lloyd and Bensted Smith (to Casualty Clearing Station), and Capt. Hardcastle (to a division for regimental duty). All will join in regretting their departure, and in wishing them the very best of good fortune in their new spheres of activity.

On June 6th a noteworthy incident took place at the hospital. Lady Babtie (wife of Surgeon-General Babtie, V.C.) came down to the hospital on a mission to present the D.C.M. conferred by H.M. The King on one of our patients - Pte. James Dear of the 2nd Dorsets. Pte. Dear gained this coveted honour in Mesopotamia by an act of remarkable gallantry. At Kut-el-Amara he twice went back under heavy shell fire to bring up ammunition. He was wounded, and has now been invalided out of the service.

The Organ Fund, on behalf of which we published an appeal in our last number, is growing at a very satisfactory pace. Its object is to provide an organ for the hospital chapel, not only to enhance the beauty of the present services for patients and members of the staff, but also to be left in position as an appropriate thank-offering when the building is returned to its former occupants - the orphan daughters of soldiers, sailors and marines. Subscriptions to the Organ Fund should be addressed to the Rev. J. Thompson Phipps (Senior Chaplain).

The Recreation Room Trio

2010-11-01T14:09:00.002Z

Awards

2010-11-01T13:47:00.002Z

July 1916

Miss Nellie Frankeiss has been awarded to the R.R.C. (2nd Class). She has been here almost since mobilisation, and has worked splendidly in the wards as a Staff Nurse. More than once I have seen her mothering the officer patients and sewing on their buttons for them. Miss Frankeiss was trained at St. Mary's Islington Infirmary, and has been doing sanatorium work since her training.
Miss Fanny Girardet and Miss Agnes Cockran have also been awarded the R.R.C. (2nd Class). Miss Girardet has been here as a Staff Nurse since October, 1914. She is one of the most capable nurses we have, and is generally loved by all of us for her kindness and goodness to those around her. She was trained at Westminster Hospital and has been District Nursing since.
Miss Agnes Cockran has also been here since the early days. I once scolded her, not in the usual way, but for coming on duty too early in the morning and worrying herself to death over her patients. She wouldn't leave them. Miss Cockran was trained at Hackney Infirmary, and has been doing Private Nursing since.
Sister Winifred White has also been awarded the R.R.C. (2nd Class). Sister White has only now been given her promotion. When we were asked to send Staff Nurses' names forward, she was one of those selected; then, by Sister Ralph resigning her post, Nurse White was promoted. Sister White was trained at the Birmingham General Hospital, and has since been doing private nursing.

It is a very difficult task to pick out a list of nurses when the majority work so well and loyally for the hospital. I said once before that I would willingly share my R.R.C. (precious as it is), if I could, with the whole Nursing Staff. This, however, is impossible. There can only be a few lucky ones, and I trust this is only the beginning of more honours for our hospital. I should like to thank all our Sisters and Nurses for the loyal help they have given to us while they have been here. When we go round the wards it is very easy to see which Nurses take a personal interest in their wards and patients, whether 'Sister' is on duty or not. Whether our work is officially recognised or not, we, at any rate, have the satisfaction of knowing we are doing our 'bit' at a time when we are fighting for our very existence. Whatever hardships or trials we are going through count very little when one takes into consideration what is being done for us by those whom we are privileged to nurse and look after, when they can no longer look after themselves and fight for us.

EDITH HOLDEN

The Deathless Spirit

2010-10-28T11:30:00.002+01:00

By Malcolm Savage Treacher (Sergt. H.A.C.)

July 1916

I have witnessed many impressive services. Have seen God praised in tinsel and glitter; amid priceless Rembrandts and wondrous statues of gold and silverwork. Under Norman fabrics; beneath lofty Gothic pillars; in abbeys and cathedrals; and in ancient historic piles, the very names of which spell reverence, into whose old stones the essence of our history has permeated. But no service has impressed me as did that in the Chapel of the 3rd London Hospital. Yet it was not the service itself; that was too swift in its action. One endeavoured to cram too many spoken prayers; too much quantity, if I may say so, and not enough quality. For our prayers to God cannot be hurried; they must be spoken with awe - in lowly reverence. No; it was not the service itself that impressed me. Rather it was the men. Those men in rough blue suits; those men who the breath of war had singed; those men whom God had taught how to pray.

I came early. I was almost the first man present. Others followed - halt and lame, torn and bleeding in their country's service. Then a detachment of the hospital staff in khaki, clanking awkwardly with iron-shod boots into their seats, marshalled by a stout N.C.O., whose ribbons showed long and honourable duty. Then groups of sweet-faced nurses. Then more of the men in blue. If you would have a sight to wring your very heart strings come and see these men. Battered by shell fire, maimed with bullets, white and pale with fever and sickness are these. Some carry limp, helpless arms in slings; some hobble on sticks and crutches; some - God have mercy upon them - are led. Their eyes no longer see the light of the sun, the beauty of women's faces, the loveliness of the flowers, and the heavens themselves. They are blind. There are others even more woefully pathetic - their very features they have sacrificed. Yet they all smile. Outwardly they are all cheerful and happy. For a time they are through with the ordeal. They have come to praise their Maker - they are through with their lives.

We all sing a hymn. I do not remember what it was. A few prayers were chanted, and, the organ droning, we all rose from our knees. Two late comers are wheeled into the church. They are on stretchers. We are singing by this time. It is 'O come, let us sing unto the Lord.' Our voices are shy at first; then they grow louder. Those men who sing are earnest. They are here for no vulgar show of ostentation in dress. They are here to praise God. Yet their voices are still thin. One seems, as it were, waiting for something - some culmination - some apotheosis. We sit down again. Some sacred words are read from St. John as the lesson. Then the Benedictus is chanted. Yet in its place would I rather have seen the Te Deum - that anthem of praise which the Spaniards sung kneeling before battle at the time of the great Philip. There are more prayers; and a fine touch of genius then chose a hymn which rolled back the years for us all, which to more than one of that congregation brought the time vividly to the moments when he lisped the hymn on his mother's knee.

Is it manly for surreptitious tears to roll down one's cheek? One might as well ask if it is human to experience human emotion. It was thrilling to see all those battle-scarred men thrown back their heads. It touched one's heart to hear their deep voices uniting in that children's hymn.
'There is a green hill far away' they sang in full throated chorus, each man probably struggling to hide his own emotion. Touching indeed was the effect of all this. But still we all waited for something - for some culmination. It was not the prayers that followed, nor the next hymn - a bloodless, uninspired piece of work telling of intense joy in celestial spheres where 'no toil and care are there,' for the modern adventurous spirit demands no milk and honey setting when God gives even the ant and the bee greater tasks than men achieve on earth. Nor had this moment come when the Priest stood before the Cross, before the candles on the Altar - when he blesses us all in words as old as our civilisation. We pray swiftly and earnestly. The organ is droning meanwhile a tune at first scarcely recognisable. Its volume swells. Each man feels the zest of ripe enthusiasm surging in him. Some mighty wave of emotion sweeps through us all.

The great moment has arrived. Alert, each man rises hurriedly to his feet, standing stiff and upright, his hands at 'Attention' by his side. This is the climax. In that second the spirit of our race is abroad. Those on crutches have scrambled afoot; blind men lift their faces aloft; even does one chalk-faced soldier, lying flat on his stretcher a moment before, crane himself upright on his elbows. All men's voices are uniting together in one great song. Its words are doggerel; its tune blatant and unsympathetic; but this anthem of England's King stands for Victory and Triumph.
'Send him victorious, happy and glorious' we cry aloud in one mighty voice. The spirit of our race is abroad, I say, at that moment.
You who look on wipe away another tear with your coat sleeve. It is over. The priests have walked softly towards the vestry. The men in khaki whisper among themselves. The stretchers and bath chairs are being wheeled away. Divine service in the Chapel is over.

Outside the birds are singing. A golden sun is blazing through the trees in full splendour. None of us think of our comrades scarce a day's journey away, lying in muddy burrows, exposed to danger and peril during every hour of their lives; of our own chances to rejoin them. For at that moment the 'Peace of God which passeth understanding' is in our souls.

Points of View

2010-10-23T10:05:00.003+01:00

An Urgent Appeal

2010-10-17T11:00:00.002+01:00

July 1916

This magazine now enjoys a considerable circulation amongst the general public; we make no apology, therefore, for venturing to print an appeal - quite frankly - for money. The money is required not for The Gazette - which fortunately is self-supporting (and this without, we are glad to say, the aid of advertisements) - but for a fund whose maintenance closely touches the comfort of the gallant fellows to whom everyone in this country is indebted: the hospital's wounded. These men are practically all smokers, and we have yet to meet the anti-tobacco fanatic who carries his views so far as to grudge our soldiers the solace of a cigarette or pipe. But by King's regulations the patients in a military hospital are not, for the time being, allowed to have money in their possession.

Admirable associations have sprung up which supply tobacco, and of these the chief is the Soldiers' and Sailors' Smokes Society,. The 3rd London General Hospital has, however, hitherto refrained from appealing to this Society for help - or at any rate has only done so once, when a sudden shortage occurred. We have preferred to supply our tobacco by means of privately collected subscriptions as long as possible. Nevertheless, the drain on our Cigarette Fund (as it is called) is severe. The 3rd London has 1,600 beds; and when 1,000 are occupied by British troops and 500 by Colonial, an issue of four cigarettes per day per man (or the equivalent in tobacco for pipe smokers) costs about £14 a week.

It should be explained that through the Soldiers' and Sailors' Smokes Society we obtain our stock extremely economically, for though we do not depend, as has been shown, on this society, we buy duty free by its aid. Furthermore, it must be understood that the Australian and Newfoundland patients have a generous allowance of smokes automatically provided for them by the patriotism of their own Homelands. No such arrangement obtains in the case of our good friend Tommy Atkins of Great Britain. During twenty-two months we have managed, in the 3rd L.G.H., to supply cigarettes and tobacco daily to British patients by means of the kindness of our own friends. We ask now that other friends will come forward to carry on this record. Our regular contributors, through either Mr. Berney's fund or the fund collected by Mrs. Bruce Porter, are not numerous; and if any reader would like to assist by regular subscriptions, however small, or a donation, we shall be very grateful - and so, we may add, will our patients.

Cheques or postal orders may be sent either to the Soldiers' and Sailors' Smokes Society (Buckingham Gate, S.W.), marked for credit of the 3rd London General Hospital, or to Mrs. Bruce Porter, 6 Grosvenor Street, W.

The Crimea - and Now

2010-10-10T07:53:00.004+01:00

July 1916

The C.O. describes some further striking contrasts in War Hospital efficiency

While Miss Florence Nightingale was short of female nurses, think what she had as male.
The ambulance men all died of D.T.s or cholera. The orderlies were raw corporals and untrained men, over-worked, ill-fed, and underpaid; in fact a rabble. The rations were drawn 'uncooked' for each patient, so that by the time the food was drawn it was too late often to cook it, and so it was kept all night in the wards. It remained for this wonderful woman to suggest that diets should be issued in bulk. Her suggestions were practically embodied into the Royal Warrant for the Medical Staff Corps of 1855; and, while she condemned the medical officers severely for failure as administrators, it is a satisfaction that she bore willing testimony to their skill and devotion as doctors. The Records of the hospitals were scanty to a degree, and the only note kept was that a man died on a certain day. In the base hospital at Scutari they died at the rate of a hundred a day. Compare that with the present war. In many thousands of cases which have passed through our hospital and sections since the outbreak of the war we have had an average of deaths from all causes of 1 in 150, though many of the patients admitted were almost dead when they arrived.

The mental distress to a woman like Florence Nightingale, seeing brave men die for want of proper food and nursing, must have been awful. The thousand and one things she did show how she valued the personal touch in dealing with the sick and wounded. This, after all, now as then, is the most valuable faculty that can be possessed by a doctor or a nurse - to let each patient realise he has a personality and is not merely a number. It is, as we all know, the dominant note of the 3rd London, and has done more to make it successful from the patients' point of view than anything else. The bright wards, the flowers, and the skill of the surgeons all count; but, in my opinion, they rank after the 'personal interest' of the staff for the patients. A few cheery words from the Medical Officer, which shows he knows the patient's name and regiment, will give more stimulus to the patient and help him more towards recovery than any amount of physic.

Florence Nightingale took the trouble, amid all her business, to send a line now and then to the relatives of the patients, often conveying their last message. I know many of our nurses here do the same, for I have heard outside of such; but if any of the staff who read this article have spare time, let them use it by sending a line now and then to the near relatives of their serious cases; it will be appreciated more than many realise. This is especially the case when the patient is far from his home. Under Florence Nightingale's influence the class of orderly improved, and we find a tribute from her to her orderlies that they carried out duties which would never have been done for the sake of discipline, and 'there was never a word or look which a gentleman would not have used.'

In the spring of 1855 the mortality had fallen from 42% to 2.2% at Scutari, and so Miss Nightingale went to the Crimea to inspect the hospitals there. Worry and overwork had undermined her health, and she had a severe attack of fever. When convalescent she refused to go to England, but went back to work. The joy of England at her recovery manifested itself in a fund to be hers, and she wished it used for the training of nurses and their sustenance. The amount of drunkenness was awful, and men actually died of drink; and, till Miss Nightingale took the matter in hand, no one appeared to mind. It had been the custom; why interfere or bother? She interfered, and set to improve the men's conditions by giving counter attractions, especially to give them means of being educated, as the soldier of those days was very often unable to read or write. But, in spite of their want of education, when in the reading huts their manner was quiet and well-bred. Their good manners made a lasting impression on Miss Florence Nightingale.

Time has brought a very different class of men to the Colours, and in the present war men of all standards and education are in the ranks; but it is as well for those who may think that their presence in the ranks is adding lustre to the Army that they should remember the soldier of all times has been a gentleman, and, if he possessed vices of the period, they were those met with in gentlemen of the period. I have seen many thousands of men through this hospital, and when a man has forgotten to behave as a gentleman it has been in spite of his uniform and position as a soldier. In civil life, away from the good example of other soldiers, the same man would have been worse. The so-called common soldiers, taken as a class, are always gentlemen in manners and feelings.

Florence Nightingale's task in breaking down vested interests was colossal, and it was only by irregular methods that she succeeded in getting things done. She had to soothe over the medical profession owing to an over-zealous admirer making an attack on the medical officers which was not fair, and in many ways she had to smooth the religious jealousies of the nurses. Her persistence was rewarded, and she did was she set out to do, i.e., she made the experiment of female nursing in military hospitals successful, reduced the death rate, and saved thousands of lives.

Diary of a Zepp. Night

2010-10-07T16:57:00.002+01:00

June 1916

By a Girl Orderly
(Passed by the Censor)

9.15. - Night Sister blows in rather hurriedly. "All lights out, and just run round to the other wards." Start off on my travels, beginning by badly barking my shins on radiator. Make a frantic dive for the door and land with a resounding crash into a screen. Start once more, and eventually arrive - falling over every possible object en route. Dash upstairs and drop metal matchbox down well of staircase with a noise like several bombs. Await result in palpitating silence. Nothing happens, so 'carry on.'

9.45. - Suffering from shock and ready for anything. See figure silhouetted against window. Ask what it's doing out of bed, and find it's the statue of ___ that adorns the ward. Retire crushed.

10 p.m. - Frenzied search for respirators and solution by match-light. Wake most of the patients with the striking, and singe hair and eyebrows - but success attends my efforts. All is prepared. Do your worst, O Hun!

10.15. - Obtain electric torch, and, shrouding it in kit handkerchiefs, go forth in search of adventure and, incidentally, of Night Sister. Am asked by a gentleman if I can direct him to L. Offer him the services of my glow-worm, and put him on the broad road that leadeth to L. The same old tale again, I suppose: Cherchez la femme.

10.30. - Fire in side ward insists on blazing. Damp its ardour, but it bursts forth afresh every few minutes. On ordinary occasions to look at it is to put it out. Tonight it needs a pint or so of water every half-hour (more or less) - illustrating the cussedness of things as they are.

11. - Toast feet on radiator and search the heavens for the foe. Nothing doing.

11.30. - Still nothing doing.

12 midnight. - Suspense is wearying. Decide to have supper. Cook something - bacon by the smell thereof - make coffee, and pour three parts down the sink in the endeavour to strain it. Eat and drink in solid darkness; but all is tasteless, dust and ashes as it were. Queer what a difference sight makes to flavour.

12.15. - A tiny light comes down the ward, swaying and dancing through the blackness. Is it a fallen star or a Will o' the Wisp on his nightly travels? Neither - but our 'Lady of the Lamp' on her midnight round. And the news she brings: "Raid in the ___ district; nothing definite." Cheering. Will they blow us up en masse or a ward at a time? Take a gloomy survey of my past, and speculate on the chances of arriving 'there' whole or in portions.

12.45. - Patrol the ward, pitying the unsuspecting patients slumbering regardless of peril!

1 to 3. - A not very lucid interval.

3.15. - Another visit from the Lady of the Lamp. No tidings either way. Why, oh why, did I leave my happy home and come on night duty?

4 a.m. - Dawn begins to lighten our darkness, and the order 'Lights out' coincides with the running of the first train to be released. It dashes through with a whoop of triumph and defiance, and I pull myself together and decide that it's not such a bad life after all.

The Pack Store

2010-10-05T16:49:00.005+01:00

Scanning doesn't do justice to this image, but worth it to get a glimpse of a department that's often mentioned, but whose inner workings are rarely seen.

Members of the Unit who have left for Service Elsewhere

2010-10-03T10:25:00.002+01:00

May 1916

December 31st, 1915: Pte. T. H. Paget left to take up commissioned rank in R.N.V.R.

February 15th, 1916: Pte. R. A. Scannall transferred to 3rd London Mounted Brigade Field Ambulance, Chelsea.

February 18th: Ptes. de la Bere ('Fatigue') and J. A. Grant transferred to Artists Rifles O.T.C.

March 4th: Cpl. W. Melhuish transferred to Army Service Corps, Winchester.

March 6th: Pte. B. Chapman discharged to re-enlist in Royal Flying Corps, Farnborough.

March 18th: Sgt. F. Derwent Wood promoted Lieutenant in H.M. Regular Forces.

March 18th: Cpl. F. C. Mulock left to take up commissioned rank in R.N.V.R.

March 31st: Pte. P. E. Smith transferred to 58th London Casualty Clearing Station, Ipswich.

April 7th: L-Cpl. M. A. French joined H.M.H.S. Panama, now sailing between Southampton and Havre.

April 14th: Cpl. M. B. Evergood left to take up commissioned rank in the Commonwealth Military Force.

April 14th: Pte. H. R. Harrild joined H.M.H.S. Panama.

April 14th: Pte. F. Wilcoxson left to join Cadet Training Corps with a view to obtaining commissioned rank in R.F.A.

A Message from the Principal Matron

2010-09-30T15:37:00.002+01:00

May 1916

I thought it might be of interest to many of our staff who are too busy to read the nursing papers, to know that a great effort is at present being made to organise the nursing profession. The need has for long been recognised that something should be done, and it was felt in different quarters that a definite scheme should be brought forward before the war is over, as many problems will then arise in connection with the position and status, etc., of trained nurses. For many years a widely supported agitation has been on foot to obtain State registration for trained nurses, and a Bill for this purpose is now before Parliament.

In the last few months the Hon. Arthur Stanley, with the support of several matrons of the principal training schools, has brought forward a scheme for a College of Nursing. He claims that it will be something in the nature of the Royal Colleges of Physicians and Surgeons, that it should be governed by the nursing profession, and lead up to registration or recognition by the State. Conferences are being held on the subject, and a great effort is being made to bring into line the views of matrons and superintendents who, up till now, have held divergent views. I know that many matrons agree with me in rejoicing that the historic conferences which have lately been taking place - in which representatives from practically all the nurse training schools and organisations of nurses have been present - have resulted in the incorporation of the College of Nursing, which should be not only a very useful but also an interesting departure in the nursing profession. We also hope that before long, as a special war measure, the Bill for the State registration of trained nurses, which will assure them legal status, will be passed through Parliament.

I was glad to invite those of the nursing staff of the 3rd L.G.H., who are interested, to a meeting at Chelsea Infirmary, when speakers who understand the questions explained the different details. It is the duty of every nurse to take a personal interest and pride in her profession. We in the 3rd L.G.H. have been very fortunate; we have had the advantage of the services of some of the most highly-trained members of the nursing profession, not only from our own country but also from our Colonies. We owe a special debt of gratitude to Australia, which has sent us of her best. We also recognise and appreciate the excellent work of the V.A.D.'s, and wonder how we should have been able to carry on without their able assistance.

ELEANOR C. BARTON

Some Helpers of the Hospital (2)

2010-09-28T15:07:00.002+01:00

May 1916

Lady Arthur has been very kind to us, and brought many things which have added to the comfort of the patients. Her husband, Sir George Arthur, is very busy as private secretary to Lord Kitchener, but when he can get down he comes to see men of his old regiment, the Blues, and to show his interest in the hospital as a whole.

To Mrs. Brandon, of Eastergate (a friend of Lady Arthur), we are indebted for many things of use, such as dressing-gowns and pyjamas.

Eggs are sent by Mrs. George Beaton, Wimbledon Park Road, from time to time. I have never yet met soldiers who did not enjoy fresh eggs.

The Gympic Patriotic Fund sends papers every day, and John Bull is sent by Messrs. Odhams every week.

Mrs. McCorquodale, of Dunstable, has helped by sending wearing apparel on many occasions.

Mr. Tatham and the boys of King's College School, Wandsworth, have collected money and presented a number of wheeled chairs which have been much appreciated by the patients who have injuries to the lower limbs.

Mr. and Mrs. de Paiva, of Nightingale Lane, have sent many pyjamas and shirts and a number of very comfortable crutches and splints.

Mr. and Mrs. Daniels, of Warlingham, Surrey, have given many things to the hospital, but a gift which is most valuable has been the services of two of their daughters. The Misses Daniels have since the earliest days of the hospital worked in connection with the X-ray Departments. So far from being in the limelight, they have toiled in the dark-room, and practically the whole of the thousands of X-ray plates used in this hospital have been developed by them.

Miss Thomas and the girls of the County Secondary School, Broom Road, Clapham, come every week with offerings for the wounded. Their gifts are of various sorts, and the men appreciate the kind thought of the young girls who send their tribute week by week.

Every Saturday, Mr. Pike, of Balham Park Road, has sent or brought fruit for the patients, and, with a hospital of this size, every contribution of fruit is valuable.

Miss Hutton, of Putney Park, has been extremely kind in sending her motor car three days a week for the use of the patients. This is a valuable contribution to the hospital at a time when one notices the reduction of cars on the road, due to the difficulty of getting tyres and petrol.

A printer's error last month spoke of Dion Cane, instead of Dion Lane, reciting 'The Hell Gate of Soissons.' The recitation as given by Mr. Dion Lane is, to my mind, one of the finest things I have ever heard.

H.E.B.P.

Some Little Known Departments ...

2010-09-26T16:34:00.003+01:00

...of the 3rd L.G.H.

To a V.A.D. from a V.A.D.

2010-09-23T18:36:00.002+01:00

May 1916

When you start by oversleeping, and the bath is bagged three deep,
When you stagger to the window 'neath the blind to take a peep,
When you find the snow is snowing, and it's murky overhead,
When your room-mate has a day off, and lies snugly tucked in bed,
When your cap falls in the coal-box and you lose your collar stud,
When it's time to start, and then you find your shoes are thick in mud,
When you scramble in to breakfast, just too late to drink your tea -
Don't grouse, my dear; remember your a 'Wartime V.A.D.'

When you start to scrub the lockers and the bowl falls on the floor,
When you finish them and then you find that they were done before,
When you haven't got a hanky and you want to blow your nose,
When the patients shriek with laughter 'cos a bed drops on your toes,
When you use the last Sapolio and can't get any more,
When you've lost the key belonging to the Linen Cupboard door,
When your head is fairly splitting, and you're feeling up a tree -
Don't grouse, my dear; remember you're a 'Wartime V.A.D.'

When the Doctor comes into the ward, and each stands to his bed,
When he asks you for a probe and you hand him gauze instead,
When the Sister 'strafes' you soundly 'cos Brown's kit is incomplete,
When you take a man some dinner, and upset it on the sheet,
When you make the beds and sweep the ward and rush with all your might,
When you stagger off duty and the wretched fire won't light,
When you think of those at home and long for luxury and ease -
Don't grouse, my dears; remember you're the 'Wartime V.A.D.s'

When your name's read out for night shift and they leave you on your own,
When you're suddenly in darkness and you hear the telephone,
When you crash into a coke-bin as you rush to take the call,
When they tell you there are Zepps, and that you mayn't have lights at all,
When you go into the kitchen and a rat runs through the door,
When it chases you into a chair, and both fall on the floor,
When you try to eat your food, mistaking paraffin for tea -
Don't grouse, my dear; remember you're a 'Wartime V.A.D.'

LESLIE M. GODDARD

First Steps in Nursing

2010-09-20T15:22:00.002+01:00

May 1916

When one is young and at school one has no option in the matter - one has to do exams. The only escape is to be ill, and then one's fond mother can send an excuse. If one does exams when one is grown up and quite old it is entirely one's own fault, and one only has oneself to thank. These were the reflections which occurred to me, somewhat late in the day I confess, as I sat waiting for my home nursing exams. We sat round an outer room, and a clerk called our numbers at intervals, and we passed through a door to encounter the doctor. One of my fellow sufferers aptly remarked that it reminded her of the dungeon scene in 'The Sign of the Cross.'

In preparation for this fatal day, my own doctor had taken me to the museum at St. Timothy's.
"I am taking my own students," she had said, "and you can come too, if you are sure you can see things."
I informed her that I had beheld without swooning that choice collection of waxworks of which Guy's is so inordinately proud, and she accordingly allowed me to join the excursion. Carefully labelled items of the human body stood in pickle jars behind glass doors, and a curator took down various gems and explained them to us. I endeavoured now to recall his words of wisdom, but the only exhibit I could clearly remember was a veritable cushion of hair which someone had collected in her inside by tidily swallowing her combings each morning.

The clerk called my name and I rose. Moritura te saluto!
"If you have to make a poultice, remember not to make it too wet," was nurse's parting injunction.
The doctor greeted me without emotion, and, pointing to a small boy, told me to imagine that he had burnt all his fingers, and to do them up accordingly. Now if there was one bandage in the world which I hated more than the others it was fingers, especially when they were the thickness of lead pencils, and the tape slipped off the tips the instant I relaxed my grasp. I remembered that the book said begin with the little finger, but I disobediently ignored this, and started with the thumb. I felt there was slightly more to get hold of in that, and I wanted to show that I knew how to do a spica. Also the longer I was over the thumb, the less time I should have for tips, as I felt sure the patience of the doctor would never hold out while I did them all. In the middle of the operation the tape slipped from my unsteady hold, and, undoing itself, rolled merrily away cross the floor. I retrieved it hastily and wound it up, hoping the doctor had not seen. He came, as I expected, while I was struggling with the middle finger, and told me to leave off.
"Now make me a linseed poultice," he said, and I departed to a table on which the horrid ingredients were set forth. Remembering Nurses' parting warning, I did not make it too wet, instead I achieved a solid slab of brick-like appearance and stability. It did not look right even to me, so having laid it out on brown paper I continued to pat it in the hope of improving it, while the doctor hovered around.
"Is that ready for inspection?" he enquired at last.
It wasn't, but I saw no probability that it ever would be. I moved aside, and he picked it up and bent the paper smartly backwards. The poultice instantly shot off and landed with a thud in a pail under the table.
"Rather too dry!" he remarked pleasantly. "Come and sit down."
He arranged four of us in a row, and, standing in front, began to ask us questions in turn. It was like some ghastly game. One half expected him to count, "One, two, three!"
"What is the average pulse rate of an adult?"
"Seventy-two," said my right-hand neighbour.
"And of an infant?"
"One hundred to one hundred and twenty," I gasped.
"Average temperature?"
"98.4," replied my other neighbour.
"And of an infant?"
"One hundred and one," said my sister, promptly walking into the trap.
"What do you think?" asked the doctor of No.1, who replied, firmly, "98.4."
"What a horrid catch!" exclaimed my sister.
"Sorry," purred the doctor - he really was rather a sport.
He asked me various riddles as to what I should do if this or that catastrophe happened, and here another injunction of Nurse's really provided help in time of trouble.
"If the examiner is a man," she had instructed us, "always begin your answer, 'I should send for the doctor!' If it is a woman - well, you needn't be so careful to put it in."
Finally, he gave me a glass to do a sort of proportion sum in; it was something about 1 in 50, and finally reduced me to a state of collapse.

"You could be a nurse," a palmist said to me some time later, looking at my hand.
"So I thought once," I admitted candidly, "before I did that exam. Now I think that nursing is like marriage - there is a lot more in both than meets the eye, and to make a success of either one needs to be very clever - and very good.

H. M. NIGHTINGALE

If the Hospital were a Musical Play

2010-09-18T19:13:00.003+01:00

1. 'Ronuk!' A duet by Sister and Scrubber Lady
2. Love song by Surgeon
3. Clog dance by Orderlette
4. Guard on Main Gate gives imitation of Charlie Chaplin
5. The Audience listens to a No.9 pill joke
6. The Sergeant-Majors as back-chat comedians
7. Ragtime turn by Kitchen staff
8. Grand stretcher parade

The Hospital by Moonlight

2010-09-18T18:59:00.002+01:00

Saving Stationery

2010-09-15T19:16:00.002+01:00

May 1916

An Actual Correspondence

From: Officer in Charge, Territorial Force Record Office
To: Officer Commanding, 500th London General Hospital.
1st April 1916
Kindly inform me when No.21674 Private Bumbleby was transferred from your unit to the 10th Mudshire Field Ambulance.

From: Officer Commanding, 500th London General Hospital
To: Officer in Charge, Territorial Force Record Office
2nd April 1916
Our records show no trace of this man having joined our this unit.

From: Officer in Charge, Territorial Force Record Office
To: Officer Commanding, 500th London General Hospital.
8th April 1916
Please note that Private Bumbleby was transferred to your unit on the 4th December, 1914. Kindly inform me of his present whereabouts and when he was transferred from your unit.

From: Officer Commanding, 500th London General Hospital
To: Officer in Charge, Territorial Force Record Office
9th April 1916
Can you please inform me from what unit this man was transferred here? At present I am unable to trace him by his name or number, and no men have ever been transferred from this unit to the 10th Mudshire Field Ambulance.

From: Officer in Charge, Territorial Force Record Office
To: Officer Commanding, 500th London General Hospital
13th April 1916
Private Bumbleby was transferred to your unit from the 10th Mudshire Field Ambulance on the 4th December 1914, and must have been transferred back to the Ambulance before the 15th March 1915, as he then proceeded overseas with the 10th Mudshire Field Ambulance.

From: Officer Commanding, 500th London General Hospital
To: Officer in Charge, Territorial Force Record Office
14th April 1916
Can you please forward me for my perusal the transfer papers respecting this man's transfer to this unit? At present I am totally unable to trace this man being either transferred to this unit or away from it. Transfer papers will be immediately returned.

From: Officer in Charge, Territorial Force Record Office
To: Officer Commanding, 500th London General Hospital
17th April 1916
I enclose Part 2 Orders of the 10th Mudshire Field Ambulance detailing the transfer of Private Bumbleby for your perusal. His number in your unit was 21674. Please return Part 2 Orders at your convenience.

From: Officer Commanding, 500th London General Hospital
To: Officer in Charge, Territorial Force Record Office
19th April1916
Part 2 Orders are returned herewith. This man was not transferred to this unit from the 10th Mudshire Field Ambulance, but I find that a man giving identical particulars was admitted to this Hospital on the 4th December 1914, as a patient suffering from ingrowing toe nail. I suggest that an error has been made in Part 2 Orders by the 10th Mudshire Field Ambulance ...
...

Problems in the Pay Office

2010-09-11T13:06:00.002+01:00

May 1916

By the Staff Sergeant in Charge

The method of arriving at the figure for the monthly distribution of allowances has been a difficult problem to the greater number of the 300 sisters and nurses attached to this hospital. I do not intend to explain the details in this article, because I think that all who participate are perfectly satisfied, provided they receive their pay and allowances regularly. I take this opportunity of thanking those sisters and nurses who have made the pay work easier by signing their monthly forms with the familiar words, 'Certified Correct,' and leaving the rest to me.

There was a certain period, however, when things were not quite so rosy. I allude to the three months (which passed like six) when sisters and nurses did not get any allowances, and they naturally wanted to know the reason. In case there are still some nurses who have not had the matter explained to them, I may say that allowances due to a nurse are deducted for the first three months' service to provide furniture for her house, and to provide the necessary sum to meet the accruing rent, rates, lighting, etc. When the nurse leaves the hospital, the value of the furniture (less depreciation) is returned to her. During those three months I learned how best to escape the dreaded question, "When am I going to receive my allowances?" Here are a few 'don'ts' which I memorised at that period:

1. Do not pass the matron's office between the hours of 8.30 and 9.30 a.m. If forced to do so, proceed at the double.
2. When taking cheques to the matron to sign, place same in a file labelled 'Queries.' It is then quite safe to pass a sister or nurse at a walking pace.
3. Never give a definite date when allowances are to be paid. Nurses have excellent memories, and paymasters are liable to lose claim forms.

The last week of the three months was too much for one poor nurse, so I received the following anonymous effort:

There once was a Sergeant named Tanner,
Possessed of grandiloquent manner.
He promised the nurses
To fill up their purses,
Philanthropic Paymaster Tanner!
For weeks they confidingly waited,
Signing blue Army Forms (ante-dated).
Some signatures, what!
That's as far as he got;
But those purses are still not inflated.

Two words of advice to those about to occupy the perilous post of paymasters to the 'weaker (?) sex.' If a T.F. sister is talking to a T.F. nurse and a probationer is standing near and talking to an orderlette, and you are asked by one of them, "How much am I to receive this month for allowances?" be brave, and answer, "I do not know."
Even woman has been known to be jealous.

C. S. TANNER

The Old Corridor

2010-09-11T13:03:00.002+01:00

Our Visit to Buckingham Palace

2010-09-06T15:25:00.002+01:00

The Matron gives an Account of a Memorable Afternoon

One morning a registered parcel came for the C.O. It contained 130 invitations to a tea party to be given by His Majesty to his soldiers in hospital. There was also an invitation for the Matron and one Sister. We decided to draw lots for the Sister, and Sister Barrett was the lucky one. Then came a busy time collecting the names of the men. We tried to send those who had been longest in the hospital, and regretted that everyone could not go, but I am sure those who were not fortunate enough to get an invitation did not begrudge the pleasure to those who did.

The great day arrived (March 22nd), and with the dawn the men were up, cleaning their shoes, polishing their buttons, and making themselves look nice. New blue suits were issued to all, and never a smarter crowd turned out than those of the 3rd London. The 'buses to convey us to the Palace arrived at 1 p.m., and long before the time appointed to start the men were all in their places - all except one, who was lost. There was great consternation over the lost one, and the only thing to do was to find another. In less time than it takes to tell, a Sister dashed back to her ward in C corridor to get a man ready; one nurse cleaned his boots while another polished his buttons, yet another found a clean kit, and long before the 'bus started he was seated calmly with the others, and I am sure His Majesty did not know that he had not taken all the morning to dress, like the other 129. At last we were ready, and the 'buses moved off amid great cheers and hand waving from those left behind. Her Majesty Queen Amèlie went with us as our probationer, and Sister Barrett and I had the honour of going with her in her car at the end of the procession.

After a long drive we reached the Palace. The 'buses all went in at the entrance for the Mews, but the men at the gate, seeing Queen Amèlie in the car, wanted the chauffeur to drive round to the Palace entrance. However, Her Majesty eventually persuaded them to let us in, after repeatedly calling out, "I want to go with the men; I am a visitor and a probationer, and I want to go with my patients," and we reached the courtyard to find the men being helped down by the members of the Red Cross, and very splendidly they did it. We were taken into what appeared to be a very large marquee, but was really an awning fixed to a covered way. This was all divided off into blocks; we were A, so had not far to go. In this marquee long tables were laid, laden with good things and decorated with beautiful flowers. It really was a good tea - bread and butter, jam, sandwiches, cakes and buns of all descriptions. By this time most of the guests had arrived, and the word was given to start tea. I looked round my flock to see they were all right, and, judging from appearances, they were distinctly so.

The Band of the Scots Guards was playing outside when the Royal part arrived. The King (in naval uniform) and the Queen came in together. As we were block A, we got Their Majesties' first attention. They went about the men, speaking to many and smiling on all, passing along the different blocks until they were lost to sight. Her Majesty spoke specially to two of our men who had been very badly wounded, and she remembered one of them being slung up in sheets on the occasion of Their Majesties' last visit to us. There were numbers of other Royal ladies, who all went about talking to the men. Princess Mary came in with Prince Albert. The Prince was in naval uniform, and made himself very useful in pouring out tea and handing cakes. Queen Alexandra came, and with her were the Princess Royal and Princess Maud. Princess Louise, Duchess of Argyll, Princess Christian, Princess Henry of Batterberg, Princess Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein, Princess Arthur of Connaught (who looked very businesslike in an apron), and the Duchess of Albany were amongst those who came. Many ladies were pouring out tea and seeing that the men were looked after. General Sir Francis Lloyd, Sir Alfred Keogh, Colonel Fludyer, Captain Godfrey-Faussett, Lady Linlithgow, Lady Chesterfield, and Mr. and Mrs. Fisher were among the many there who are visitors to the hospital.

When tea was finished the men began to file out, and were taken to the Riding School, which was turned into a concert room. I saw many of our men who could quite well walk being most carefully wheeled out by members of the Red Cross, and every one on crutches being most carefully looked after. At length we were all seated in our different blocks again, our block being right at the front. There was a large stage at the end of the School, with a most beautiful curtain. It was black, with festoons of flowers; long ropes of flowers fell from the top and against the black curtain, the effect being gorgeous. Banks of flowers were on either side, and two wonderful attendants in white livery put up the number of the turn as each came along.

Then the curtain was raised, and on the stage was a very large choir, men and boys. The conductor, Dr. Walford Davies, stepped forward and said he wanted the men to practise the choruses before Their Majesties arrived. We all practised the National Anthem, 'Here's a Health unto His Majesty,' 'The Maple Leaf for Ever,' 'Australia will be there,' and 'Upidee' until the signal was given that the Royal party was arriving. Then we all stood to attention, and while the Royal party came down the centre of the room we sang 'God Save the King,' and, I am sure, meant every word we sang. His Majesty came first with Queen Alexandra, then Queen Mary with Queen Amèlie, followed by all the other members of the Royal party. when everyone was seated the choir sang all the things we had practised and several other solos, including a very good orderlies' song. Then the curtain dropped, and an excellent variety entertainment began. The following were the performers: Manny and Roberts, Grock and Partner, George Robey (as the Mayor of Mudcumdyke), Miss Evie Greene (who sang 'When Irish Eyes are Smiling' and 'Till the Boys Come Home' - and we all roared out the chorus and felt quite at home), the Two Bobs, Will Evans and his wonderful horse that will not be harnessed (which caused peals of laughter), Miss Ethel Retford (who impersonated Ethel Levey), G. P. Huntley and Co., Harry Weldon, Joe Coyne, and the Empire Chorus (consisting of some very attractive girls in sailor costumes) who seemed to please the men as much as anything, judging from the reception they got as they came up the School when we were waiting. This ended the programme, and we all stood and sang again 'God Save the King,' after which the Royal party came up the room, speaking to many of the men on their way out.

Numbers of the men got their programmes signed by Queen Alexandra and others. We had to wait until last in going out. The arrangements were excellent. The men were taken out in blocks, and that block sent away before the next one started. While we were waiting Queen Amèlie joined us again, and as soon as the men saw her they were round her like a swarm of bees asking for her signature. She signed hundreds, and the men absolutely refused to go when the block was called until the programme was signed. When I had time to look round I saw, to my horror, that our men had raided the stage, and were wearing great bouquets of flowers in their hats and buttonholes, and many of them had captured the 'reserved tickets' put on special seats. I felt that we should at least be sent to the Tower for such behaviour, and was quite thankful to get out without being asked any questions. However, no one seemed to mind. The 'buses were filled with happy singing men, and we brought up the rear again with Her Majesty. We could hear the men singing and cheering all the way home, and we reached Wandsworth about 6.30 having had a most enjoyable afternoon.

A very touching sequel to the day was that a man in the Rifle Brigade unfortunately lost his programme, which had been signed for him. He was greatly upset, and searched everywhere for it. Colonel Fludyer, Scots Guards, was dragged into the search, but to no avail. However, a few days afterwards Colonel Fludyer came down to the hospital with a new programme that he had procured from somewhere, and he and I searched the hospital until we found the man. His joy on having a programme after all was a real reward to Colonel Fludyer for all the trouble he had taken in getting another and the long journey out here to bring it.

EDITH HOLDEN

More Labour-Saving Devices

2010-09-06T14:20:00.003+01:00

Sculptor and Surgeon

2010-09-02T15:36:00.002+01:00

How they Collaborate at the 3rd L.G.H. - a Note by the C.O.

A new department has been formed at the 3rd L.G.H., which for the first time brings the sculptor's art to the assistance of the surgeon. For years artificial limbs have been provided by the Government for men who need them, and now, thanks to the experiment carried out here with such successful results, the Director-General, sir Alfred Keogh, has given orders that men who have suffered such injuries to their faces as to cause deformity, are to be transferred to our new department under Derwent Wood, to fit them with masks to cover the injured part.

The custom of the hospital to use men for the work in which they are most skilled placed Sgt. Derwent Wood in charge of our splint moulding department, and while at that work he felt he could help out men whose faces had been injured. Two very striking cases in hospital at the time were Tpr. E. and Sgt. F. Tpr. E. had a severe injury to his face, which resulted in the loss of his nose and the opening up of the nasal cavity from the side. After the surgeons had done their best for him by plastic operation the patient was still in such a condition that it was not possible for him to follow his former occupation of a cab driver. Derwent Wood has fitted him with an artificial nose and moustache so successfully that he has resumed his old job, and at a very short distance it is impossible to notice the injury. Sgt. F. had a more extensive injury, resulting in the loss of one eye and cheek. The process of repair has been more complicated in this case, and called for the sculptor's art in building up in plasticine the side of the face so as to get the plate to match the other side of the face. An artificial eye is carried in the mask, and this man will be able to walk about the world without calling for comment. The technical process is described in the Royal Army Medical Journal, and, for those interested, photographs are published in the article.

In time no doubt a big department will grow up for dealing with these cases, just as Roehampton now deals with the limbs. When the cases were brought to his notice, the Director-General at once gave orders for this department (which had been financed by the Benevolent Fund) to be put on the proper basis. Derwent Wood has been commissioned and attached here for duty, and the expenses of the department will be borne by the Government. The soldier is by nature independent, and the men who had the pluck to throw up their jobs and go to the help of the country are not the men who will wish to exist on pensions granted by the Government; they will prefer to resume their former tasks when possible. The formation of this new department will, I am sure, make this possible for many. In addition to the practical side is the aesthetic side, and a properly modelled portion of face carrying an artificial eye to match the remaining eye will be a great advance on the old-fashioned vulcanite shield.

In due course there will be developments of this scheme, which will be more fittingly described in professional journals, but the history of the beginning of the department will interest those who live in, and have been in, the 3rd L.G.H.

Guardsman Fashion

2010-08-26T11:27:00.001+01:00

Some Helpers of the Hospital

2010-08-22T17:45:00.002+01:00

April 1916

For a whole year my friend Mr. Willie Walters, of Liverpool, sent me 10,000 cigarettes a week for the use of the wounded. Mr. Walters is providing another hospital, a battleship, and two regiments with tobacco, and so, having had his generous help for a whole year, we could not trespass on his generosity further. Mr. Berney, of Wimbledon, has a fund which has been more than useful in supplementing our supply. Our numbers here are so large that to provide five cigarettes a day for each patient means, with 1,500 beds, 7,500 a day. The Australian Associations and Newfoundlanders now supply their own men. Mrs. Bruce-Porter collects for a fund for the British regiments and others not already provided for.

Drives have been a great joy to the patients, and many chars-a-bancs were sent by Lady Turing, who collected a fund for this purpose at the kind suggestion of H.R.H. Princess Louise Duchess of Argyll. I hope with the longer days this fund may be revised. The Australian War Contingent have done much for the Australian patients, and the chars-a-bancs sent by the Association have been a great help to all the patients, for the chars-a-bancs sent by British friends have been shared by the Australians, and the Australian and Newfoundland chars-a-bancs have given pleasure to many Britishers. In this way the patients go out with their new friends, and the Empire spirit and character of the hospital are thus maintained.

Miss Margaret Boulton has done many things for the hospital. She has sent gramophones for the use of the patients, and also flowers, plants, vegetables, and fruit. This lady was one of the first to start a free buffet for soldiers going north. She personally worked and financed one at Euston for a long time. These buffets are now taken over by various organisations, but to Miss Boulton belongs the honour of being one of the earliest workers in this popular movement.

Mr. Guy Chetwynd has helped with bagatelle tables, having started the fund in Sporting Life, and to this paper's patrons we are indebted for many tables.

Mr. Ellis has brought papers every Sunday since the hospital opened.

Mr. and Mrs. Percy Chubb are American friends showing genuine and practical sympathy with England at the moment by doing many things to help the wounded, one of these being the setting aside of a wing of their house at Wimbledon for six officers, who may continue their treatment there, within motoring distance of the hospital.

Mr. Guthrie-Smith has been a helper to us in many ways, and his and Mrs. Guthrie-Smith's assistance in providing drives for the patients is but one instance of their kindnesses. The most important thing is his duty as hon. gardener; in this post he has taken charge of our extensive grounds, and the paths and flower-beds are his especial care. He must have had many causes for amusement, and on one occasion he was warned, quite seriously, by a newly arrived N.C.O. as to his need for more care in the way he did his work. He has renewed his acquaintance with many New Zealanders, and made friends with all about the place. He has been helped very much by Messrs. Neal and Sons, the well-known gardeners of this neighbourhood, who have been most considerate to us.

H. E. BRUCE-PORTER

The Ambulance Driver

2010-08-21T14:38:00.002+01:00

C.R.W. NEVINSON

Stock-taking, Spring, 1916

2010-08-20T15:01:00.002+01:00

April 1916

"Today," said the Sister, "we will count our Quartermaster's stock."
"Right," said the Staff. And then it began.
The Junior Staff went gaily collecting: "Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty- ..." when a howl went up from the patients.
"We want our towels."
It was, of course, inevitable that they should all want to wash at that precise moment. Then a rumour started with the Staff Nurse. "I know there ought to be fifty-nine counterpanes, so where are the other seven?" And the rumour spread and spread, and with it consternation and dismay. Everybody cross-examined everybody else - the Junior Staff searched each bed wildly - the Senior Staff frenziedly turned out cupboards, pantries, and lockers. And the patients ... made hay while the sun shone, as it were. To this chaotic upheaval entered the Orderly, who, on being informed of the tragedy, produced with a serene and unruffled air an aged I.O.U. for - thirteen counterpanes.

Peace, perfect peace - disturbed by a plaintive wail from the Sister: "One sheet short, and I counted them myself only yesterday!"
The search began again, commencing with the Orderly. Nothing doing. Then each sheet was counted by each member of the staff, individually and collectively; neighbouring linen-cupboards were 'investigated' but in vain, as everyone else was stock-taking too. Anxious enquiries were made of the M.O.'s (who thought it a huge joke), of the Fumigator (who knew 'nothin' abaht it'), of the gentlemen of the Dirty Linen Department (who said, 'Madam, we are 101 short ourselves and therefore can do nothing'), and of the Laundry Ladies (who condoled - but were not to be cajoled). And a cloud of depression and gloom descended on that ward. The patients were restless and scowled furtively at one another, and the staff, alas, was snappish, almost peevish; and temperatures rose, all on account of our sheet that had strayed from the fold. And not even an otherwise complete (and even plus!) stock could atone for the erring one.

And as the fatal hour of 8 p.m. drew night, a last combined hunt was instituted, and each bed was again feverishly unmade before the worry-worn patient was allowed to enter it ... when suddenly a cry of joy arose from the Sister.
"Rejoice with me for I have found my sheet which was lost - being used as a counterpane on the end bed but one!"
And the ward rejoiced with exceeding great joy, and the staff gave a tea-fight to celebrate it.

AN ONLOOKER

An Intake of Wounded

2010-08-12T14:40:00.003+01:00

April 1916

The facade of the hospital is like a dark cliff rising into the blackness of the sky. At the base of the cliff, faintly illuminated by some stray beam of light from a partly-curtained window, stand a double line of figures in khaki - orderlies. They chat and joke in subdued voices. Some puff the surreptitious cigarette. Suddenly there is a stir. Someone has caught sight of the lamps of the first ambulance, creeping at a snail's pace along the road on the far side of the railway line. Before they have disappeared round the turn by the hospital gates two more lamps are seen, slowly - ever so slowly! - moving across the vista; then another pair ... and another. Each pair of lamps represents a motor ambulance, driven with that patient skill which is demanded by slowness rather than speed; for the precious freight must not be shaken in transit.

The orderlies ranks stiffen; the chat ceases; cigarettes are thrown away. The first ambulance has passed through the gates and is gliding up the drive. Simultaneously the main entrance door of the hospital is thrown open, the electric light above it is switched on, and the Matron and a group of sergeants issue forth on to the flight of steps to superintend the intake. The ambulance gently comes to a standstill. Four orderlies step from the ranks. One opens the back cover that has hidden from passers-by the vision which, perhaps, it would have been better for all to see - and ponder. His fellows are smartly unfastening the straps that hold each stretcher on its shelf. Four pairs of muddy boot soles, projecting from beneath blankets, indicate that the ambulance is full. Who are the owners of those passive, oddly pathetic feet - who are these latest victims of war's chance? It is not (for the moment) the orderlies' business to enquire. The only problem is to move these helpless pieces of human wreckage, as rapidly and comfortably as may be, to the place where they will in due course be repaired. The great machine which has employed them knows their names and whereabouts; it may be that even already, in some remote office, clerks are diligently entering them ('religion,' 'age,' 'length of service,' 'married or unmarried') in countless dossiers.

The stretcher-handles click into place; each is grasped by an orderly. 'Haul!' - the stretcher, with its immobile burden, slides out. 'Lift!' - strong arms raise it, lest it bump as it emerges. 'All clear, lower!' - the four bearers back away, with their stretcher, and mount the steps into the hospital.

The receiving-hall is brightly lit. On the table at the far end stands a great tank of steaming cocoa and an array of cups. Orderlies are bringing in piles of bundles of 'blues'; others are ready with string and labels and vast volumes in which the newcomers' belongings may be listed before they are taken to the pack-store. As our stretcher enters, borne by its quartette of orderlies, it is stopped at the door. A doctor bends over the patient. "What's your trouble, eh?" Two weary eyes unclose, and the pale lips whisper, "Shrapnel wound in left thigh" ... "Enteric" ... "Frost-bite" ... "Rheumatism" - the possible answers are, alas, innumerable. Promptly the doctor decides the ward to which the patient must be entrusted; a metal ticket, bearing the name of the ward and the number of the vacant bed, is placed on the stretcher, and it moves forward to make room for another.

An Orderlim's Day 2

2010-08-09T15:02:00.002+01:00

An Orderlim's Day 1

2010-08-09T14:57:00.003+01:00

An 'Orderlim' is a male orderly, not to be confused with his female counterpart, the 'Orderlette.'

The First Zeppelin Raid

2010-08-04T13:44:00.002+01:00

April 1916

As seen by some of the Nursing Staff

We had been warned so often that to me it was almost a cry of 'Wolf!' Wolf!' I was just going to bed, when I heard a noise which sounded like far-off knocking. I listened, and it was repeated at very short intervals. Then I heard a voice from below say, "There they are!" I thought to myself "Zeppelins," so, picking up the pup (as my most valuable possession)*, I flew downstairs, and joined Cpl. Hunwick on the front step.

It was very dark - a darkness that could be felt. When I got accustomed to it, I saw an oblong object, surrounded by light, travelling very quickly away from us. The guns by this time were very loud, and we could see the firing quite distinctly. After a short time I saw a second Zep., not as distinctly as the first. Then all sorts of rumours began to spread. Victoria Station being destroyed was the principal one, I think. The Nursing Staff in one house were very disturbed. One Sister, who was in bed, jumped out, crying "They are bombing us!" dressed at lightning speed (even to putting on her cuffs), and was heard to mutter, as she disappeared in the darkness, "Let me die with the men." Some time later I saw the same lady, quite collected, going back to her rooms, and on enquiring what she was doing in hospital at that time of night was told that if she had to die she would much rather die in her ward with 'her men' than escape being hurt if they were in danger. Another poor thing in the same house was left to turn out all the lights, which was such a lengthy proceeding that the Zeppelins were almost back in their own country when she got outside to see them.

Another Sister, after making elaborate preparations in the cellar (and spoiling numerous garments with candle grease in doing so), went to bed and slept soundly. On hearing the news next morning she was furious, and could not think why she had not been wakened to go to the cellar! Since then we have repeatedly been "warned." I shall never forget the feeling it gave one to see all the men engrossed in their concert, singing at the top of their voices, and listening afterwards to Mr. Dion Cane recite 'The Hell-gate of Soissons,' while a few of us who were 'in the know' listened with the other ear and half expected - well, things we do not even dare think of.

EDITH HOLDEN

*[Edith Holden, the Matron, was accompanied in her work from the early days of the war by her Pekingese dog]

Daily Routine of a Soldier's Life

2010-08-03T15:56:00.002+01:00

April 1916

Culled from "The Ration," the magazine of the Reading War Hospitals

DAILY ROUTINE OF A SOLDIER'S LIFE
Told by a few well-known hymns.

6.30 a.m. Reveille. Christians Awake

6.45 a.m. Rouse Parade. Art thou weary, art thou languid.

7.00 a.m. Breakfast. Meekly wait and murmur not.

8.15 a.m. Company Parade. When he cometh.

8.45 a.m. Manoeuvres. Fight the good fight.

11.15 a.m. Swedish Drill. Here we suffer grief and pain.

1.00 p.m. Dinner. Come, ye thankful people, come.

2.15 p.m. Rifle Drill. Go, labour on.

3.15 p.m. Lecture by Officers. Abide with me.

4.30 p.m. Dismiss. Praise God from Whom all blessings flow.

5.00 p.m. Tea. What means this eager anxious throng.

6.00 p.m. Free for the Night. O Lord, how happy we shall be.

6.30 p.m. Out of Bounds. We may not know, we cannot tell.

10.00 p.m. Last Post. All are safely gathered in.

10.30 p.m. Lights Out. Peace, perfect peace.

10.45 p.m. Inspection of Guards. Sleep on, Beloved.

PTE. G. W. T. RICHARDS

A Patient's Point of View

2010-08-02T14:16:00.003+01:00

The image which gave rise to the heading for this blog:

'Our Wounded' from the Front

2010-07-29T12:50:00.003+01:00

March 1916

We look to find a Hospital a restful, quiet place,
With wards all hushed and silent - but that is not quite the case
In those which fling wide open doors for men who've borne the brunt,
And welcome them with outstretched arms; 'Our Wounded' from the Front.

You see a boy - he's little more - whose life has but begun,
Skylarking with an older man, whose years are nearly run.
The one mayhap has lost an arm, the other p'raps a leg;
'Are they downhearted?' No, not they, nor for your pity beg.

Some other man, with bandaged head, perhaps is passing by;
They chaff him, and he chaffs them back, and swift the words will fly.
The worst of wounds can't bring a groan, tho' teeth may be clenched tight;
'Our wounded' are the boys who at the Front put up a fight.

And those who cannot walk will each just sit him in a chair,
And race along the corridors to see who'll first be there.
You talk of gloom - not they - although they've freely risked their lives
That you and I may be in peace, with sisters, mothers, wives.

They're boys we're might proud of, but can scarce restrain a tear,
For oh! the wreck war's made of them, and many we hold dear.
They don't like to be pitied now they've done their valiant stunt,
For each and all are heroes, are 'our wounded' from the Front.

P. R. CRAFT, Cpl., R.A.M.C.(T.)

Labour Saving Devices

2010-07-27T17:38:00.004+01:00

March 1916

3rd L.G.H. Labour Saving Devices for the Reception of Wounded

Hospital Notice Board

2010-07-24T12:39:00.002+01:00

March 1916

CABLING TO AUSTRALIA - Members of the Australian Force desirous of sending cablegrams to their relatives and friends in Australia may do so at special cheap rates, which may be ascertained from the memorandum issued by the Australian War Contingent Association, 72, Victoria Street, S.W.

NEW ZEALANDERS will find information with regard to cabling, correspondence, accommodation in London, newspapers, pay, etc., in the N.Z. War Contingent Association's memorandum, which is exhibited in the Recreation Room.

THE ANZAC BUFFET - At the Australian Military Offices, 130, Horseferry Road, Westminster, S.W., there is an excellent little set of rooms known as the Anzac Buffet, where all 'Anzacs' are accorded a hearty welcome and may rest, read, write, and obtain refreshment. The Buffet is conducted by an energetic staff of Australian ladies.

AUSTRALIANS ON FURLOUGH who would like to spend their time, or a portion of their time, in country houses in England are asked to communicate with the Secretary of the Australian War Contingent Association, (72, Victoria Street, S.W.), as many offers of hospitality have been received.

SOUTH AFRICANS - All 3rd L.G.H. patients from South Africa are requested to send their names to the Hon. Treasurer, South African Contingent Comfort Fund, Bath House, Piccadilly, London, W., or to Sergt. Sumner, R.A.M.C. (T.) (a member of the staff of this hospital).

*****

Our Contributors

2010-07-21T18:20:00.004+01:00

March 1916

So many friends outside the hospital now subscribe to The Gazette that we make no apology for printing a few paragraphs concerning our contributors. The majority of these are known throughout the 3rd L.G.H., but the general public is naturally curious to learn who they are and what position they hold in our community at Wandsworth.

Major Humphris (author of the 'Sparks' causerie) is well-known as an X-ray expert. He is temporarily absent from the 3rd L.G.H., his services having been required for the founding of X-ray departments in the Eastern Mediterranean. Capt. Harrison, whose alarming 'Labour-saving Devices' are continued this month, is in charge of our Pathological Laboratory, an article describing the work of which has been written by Pte. H. J. Gilby, one of his assistants.

From our first number onwards an ever-increasing chorus of praise has been showered on the very funny drawings by Pte. de la Bere. This month's series, 'An Orderlim's Day' (an orderlim is a male orderly, as distinguished from an orderlette), will sustain his reputation for a satire the full delicacy of which must sometimes, we are afraid, be missed by those unacquainted with the hospital's actual working. Pte. de la Bere, who was for five months in charge of D Ward (the Detention and Observation ward), and afterwards worked as an orderly in the Receiving Ward - the hall where newcomers and out-patients are attended to - has transferred to the Artists' Rifles. With him has gone Pte. J. A. Grant (illustrator of our Christmas shocker 'The Phantom Bride') but both have promised to continue to contribute.

Amongst other members of the R.A.M.C. (T.) unit who have sent illustrations are L-Cpl. George J. Coates, of the Recreation Room staff; Pte. Paul Kirk, a 'corridorderly'; Cpl. Fullwood of the Officers' Pack Store; Pte. Evans, dentist's orderly; and Pte. Ware, who made the drawing of the Royal Red Cross recently awarded to the Matron.

Aurelio Spaccatrosi, of whom L-Cpl. Coates has done a remarkable likeness, is certainly one of the most interesting patients passed through the 3rd L.G.H. Italian by birth (but long since naturalised), and a chef by profession, Pte. Spaccatrosi has seen many adventures. He was through the S.A. War, when he cooked for Lord Kitchener, Lord Roberts, and General Buller. In this war he has been at the Front in France; he then went to Lemnos, Suvla Bay, Salonika, and Egypt. On the Gallipoli Peninsula he carried on his art under conditions of the greatest danger and difficulty - but contrived to invent twenty different dishes made from bully beef. Pte. Spaccatrosi, who has had the honour of being presented to King George and Queen Mary, has four sons serving in the British Army. One of them, Albert, was in the retreat from Mons.

The bust of the C.O., which is on view in the new Recreation Room, and of which we publish a photograph, is universally pronounced to be a very fine likeness as well as a remarkable work of art. It was done by a member of our own staff, Sgt. Derwent Wood, who is head of the hospital's plaster splint-making department. Sgt. Derwent Wood is a sculptor of international celebrity, and the 3rd L.G.H. claims a unique advantage over the other war hospitals in possessing his services. The measure of his powers can be gauged by an examination of the bust to which we allude above (and we doubt whether the C.O. of any other hospital could find a member of his staff capable of thus immortalising him); but the splint room contains many very different specimens of a craftsmanship which, in a sense, are a still more significant tribute to Sgt. Derwent Wood.

Maj. H. C. Taylor Young, the author of the Kangaroo Story, is an Australian surgeon on the staff of the 3rd L.G.H., and his illustrator, Pte. Vernon Lorimer is also the author of many pictures and headings. Pte. G. F. G. Fisher who drew the exquisitely humorous operating-theatre fantasy which appears as a tailpiece on page 158, was a B.4 patient, but recently left the hospital for a convalescent home at Weybridge.

Two lady members of the hospital's staff send drawings this month - Miss Marjory Collins and Miss V. Down. Both are ward orderlies.

*****

Ready for the Concert

2010-07-19T15:35:00.003+01:00

Spring 1916

Doings in the Path. Lab.

2010-07-17T14:06:00.002+01:00

Spring 1916

By Pte. H. J. Gilby

It may be of interest to some of the Gazette readers to know a little of what goes on in that mysterious low building near the chapel. This quaint-looking place, known to some as the Pathological Laboratory, to others as the Wizard's Den, and to the vulgar as the Abode of Bugs - bug being the familiar misnomer for bacteria - is indeed a hive of industry. During the last eleven months 3,485 specimens have been examined here for pathogenic organisms. One may marvel how so much work can be crowded into such a small place, but from 6.30 a.m. until 8, 9 or 10 p.m. passers-by can see the B's (the buggists) busy in their hive. It is most interesting to notice how various people enter our abode. One fair orderlette brought a specimen in, dropped it on the table, and rushed out. Another took a good look round before entering, expecting, doubtless, to see bacilli crawling up the walls, or dropping from the ceiling upon intruders. (Don't be alarmed, readers; all our 'bugs' are properly trained, and not one dares to come out uninvited). Then we have the people who 'know something' about the work; they are the very curious and always expect to see streptococci - an old favourite - to order. Mr. Editor, many a poor harmless 'bug' has been designated 'strep' to suit the requirements of the knowing ones.

Let me give you an insight into the method adopted during a day's work. At 6.30 the attendants appear, and make all presentable before the officers arrive. After breakfast specimens begin to arrive; twenty-five typhoid and twenty dysentery patients have probably been warned overnight to report at the Lab. at 9 a.m. They arrive in fear and trepidation, bringing with them their own specimens. "This way please," says a cheery voice, and in rotation they present themselves before human vampires (No! not descendants of Dracula), who take a specimen of blood from each. A saline emulsion is made from the specimen, and plated by spreading three or four drops by means of sterile glass rods upon specially prepared media contained in large glass double plates. These are then incubated for twenty-four hours, at a temperature equivalent to that of the human body. Numerous red and grey spots can then be seen on the surface of the media. The spots are in reality colonies of bacilli, containing millions of micro-organisms, for it must be borne in mind that the rate of reproduction of bacteria is enormous. Under favourable circumstances - e.g., with a suitable food supply, temperature, etc. - certain bacteria divide (their method of reproduction) on an average about once in twenty or thirty minutes, so that, if there were no factors to delay or prevent such a multiplication, a single organism would give rise, in the course of some ten hours, to a progeny of a couple of millions. (Try and work this out for yourselves).

To continue, suspicious-looking colonies are taken from the plates by means of sterile platinum wire and smeared upon agar medium in test tubes. This medium contains Lemco, and is therefore greatly appreciated by the bugs, which rapidly grow. Litmus sugar peptones are then inoculated from the agar cultures, and according to results obtained a report is given. It is evident that at least three days must elapse before a definite report can be made, so my impatient typhoid and dysentery convalescents please note. Again each patient must have four negative reports [vide Army Council Instruction No.48, January 1916], and as there are at present many convalescents from those diseases in the hospital it is obvious that workers in the Lab. will not be idle for some time to come, and weekend passes will be considerably below par.

To resume, specimens of sputum are stained on glass slides and examined microscopically for tuberculosis bacilli. A single sputum takes at least a quarter of an hour to stain, etc. Pus is cultivated by inoculating four different media; in two tubes, known as aerobes, the bugs grow in contact with the air; in two others, nominated anaerobes, the medium is specially closed from the air by pouring melted vaseline upon it (this is to satisfy the requirements of fastidious 'bugs'). The bacteria thus so carefully nurtured are stained and examined microscopically. There will probably be a mixed lot of bugs, and the next stage is to isolate those required. This involves replating and resubbing until at length a pure culture is obtained. The latter is scraped into a saline solution and sterilised for an hour. Its sterility is tested, and the emulsion standardised and used as a vaccine. Thus the disease becomes father to the remedy, strange irony of fate! It may be interesting to know that the mixed vaccine with which willing (?) individuals are now inoculated contains 2,000,000,000 bacilli per cubic centimetre, and he or she receives 1,000,000,000 in the first dose and 2,000,000,000 in the second dose. (Any more applicants please?)

Of course, such huge families require suitable nourishment, and another branch of our work consists of making appetising viands for them. It is with great suspicion we are welcomed at the Steward's Stores when we go for four eggs and a tin of Lemco. I believe they imagine the Lab. department faring off soup and poached eggs occasionally, but I can regretfully assure them that such is not the case. At the time of writing, we have over 1,6000 test tubes in use containing media. Each week approximately five hundred sugar peptones are 'tubed up.' One may wonder whatever becomes of the enormous multitude of 'bugs' which we appear to cultivate so assiduously; ultimately they ignominiously perish, by being placed for over an hour in superheated steam at a temperature of 115 degrees Centigrade.
I have only dealt with a part of our work, but am afraid I have encroached on too much space, so will leave other items for consideration in the future. This article will suffice if it shows that, although not in the limelight, valuable work is being performed in that strange place, the Path. Lab.

Ode to a Lady Awdly

2010-07-14T13:22:00.002+01:00

(After Shelley's "Sky Lark")

Hail to thee Sweet Maiden!
Man thou never wert -
That on getting porridge,
Puttest all thy heart
At breakfast time, and makest toast with simple, girlish art.

Heavier still and heavier
Are the loads thou carriest
(Oh! thrice happy feller
Whom some day thou marriest!)
And carrying still doth smile, and smiling ever carriest.

In the golden bright'ning
Of the rising sun,
To the stores, like lightning,
Thou dost quickly run -
Fighting for the porridge isn't half bad fun.

The male nursin' awdlies
Faint around thy flight:
The grim Quartermaster
Melts at thy very sight -
To our own Third General thou bringest life and light.

What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
Truly here we know not
Any V.A.D.
Who doth surpass thy value, thy strength and energy!

Teach us half the gladness
That thy feet must know -
Through the huts and building
Trudging to and fro -
Our lips would smile as thou art smiling now!

A V.A.D.

The Ladies' Committee of the 3rd L.G.H.

2010-07-13T17:01:00.003+01:00

Spring 1916

When the Territorial Force Nursing Service was first started the following ladies served on the committee:
Miss Barton (Principal Matron), the Right Honourable the Countess of Denbigh, Lady Maud Hoare, Lady Hermione Blackwood, Miss Amy Hughes, Miss Sherratt, Miss Alsop, Miss Cockrell. These ladies formed the Standing Committee. On mobilisation a committee of ladies was formed to help with the various matters in connection with the hospital (in addition to the Standing Committee): Miss Barton (Principal Matron), the Right Honourable the Viscountess Gladstone, the Right Honourable Lady Plunket, Lady Pearse Gould, Lady Bradford, Lady Broadbent, Mrs. Bruce Porter, Mrs. Howard Williams, Mrs. Wilfred Harris, Hon. Winifred Douglas-Pennant (Hon. Sec.).

An Army in Training - 2

2010-07-11T16:01:00.001+01:00