Muster of the Station Party

Muster of the Station Party: 1 a.m., Pte. W. R. S. Stott

The Ambulance Column

The Organisation which brings each Patient from the Train to the War Hospital: A Note by our C.O.

The general run of patients have but little knowledge of the organisation that is responsible for their transport from the station to the hospital. It is a purely voluntary one, started by Mr. and Mrs. Lancelot Dent in the early days of the war, and it has grown under their care with the increasing demands that have been made upon them. The ladies who help are largely those who before this have had their time entirely at their own disposal. Now night and day they are at the call of their country. There is no band playing when in the small hours they meet the trains which bring home the maimed of the war. The stretcher bearers are men, who, for various reasons, must stay at home, and they at a moment's notice leave their offices and work at the unloading.

There are a couple of things I still wait for, and am confident I shall never see, when a train of sick and wounded is being detrained - one is a howl of pain from the wounded man, and the other is a suspicion of impatience on the part of the ambulance column. The same gentleness is present today as was noticeable a year ago. Often the members of the column have had but little rest, and less prospect of any, yet the patients would not suspect it, and each patient is handled on his stretcher as if he were the one person for whom they had come. There are, to my mind, no words of praise too great for this column, and their record will take a good deal of beating. They have moved 45,715 cases in a year, and of these 13,452 were so severely injured that they were stretcher cases, and this has been done without a single death occurring en route.

One of the little acts which are symptomatic of the whole work was this - when the exchanged wounded came home each man had a rose handed to him by Mrs. Dent as he was brought to the column. Many of the men were too touched to speak.

H.E.B.P.

Editorial Notes - Tthe Season's Word

[With apologies for Christmas arriving in May]

Winter 1915-1916

It is considered correct, for a well-behaved magazine, whenever the month of December comes round, to produce a Christmas number. We have a suspicion that the average Christmas number is apt to be just a shade too Christmassy. Yuletide has the bloom rubbed off it by being too feverishly rubbed in, and to turn the exuberant pages of some of the publications which adorn our bookstalls is to grow tired of a sentiment which, long before the 25th, has lost its spontaneity. Perhaps those who love Christmas best feel most deeply this resentment against the over-stressing of the date's traditional jocosities. And this year, when to many sorrowful souls there is a bitter irony in the season's chosen text, we think the danger of an artificial insistence on the Christmas note is enormously increased. The beautiful old phrase, "On earth peace, goodwill towards men," still holds its meaning for the faithful, but might with terrible facility lend itself in this tragic era of strife to the sceptic's derision.

It will be found, therefore, that though this little magazine of ours presents some Christmas features, as is only right and proper, it makes no very strained attempt to depart from the normal in the major portion of its contents. There are elaborate preparations afoot to give the hospital a very merry Christmas; much hard work is being expended on that laudable task, which means that not a few of our staff are sacrificing their precious spare time for their fellows' benefit. So, though The Gazette is not very liberally besprinkled with orthodox holly and mistletoe, Christmas itself, when it arrives, will be duly celebrated throughout our community.

A strange Christmas it will be, indeed, to many of us. Some are far from home, some are in bodily pain, some are fresh from scenes of the utmost horror, some are preparing to face the world with the cruel hardship of the cripple, some are still in danger of loss of life itself. Yet we venture to prophesy that nowhere will there be more truly a happy Christmas than at the 3rd L.G.H. For it is a singular paradox - a paradox of which every Briton has a right to be proud - that this, and our other war hospitals, are famed for their high spirits. Our wounded are indomitably gay. They decline to be solemn. It is a blessed kink in the national character, and augurs well for our ultimate triumph not only over a foe notorious for his lack of humour, but also over the burden of anxiety and grief which might overwhelm a less spirited people. If we have been perpetually in the mood for jests throughout the year, it is safe to say that we shall not need to fear a flat Christmas. There is no call to make up our minds to force the gaiety; the season will go with a swing, of its own accord. The wounded - God bless them! - would see to that, even without the help of the staff or of our good friends from outside.

If there is peace and goodwill anywhere this year it will be amongst precisely those who have suffered most from the motto's denial - the inmates of our war hospitals.

Our Unfortunate Alphabet

[For the uninitiated, the wards in the hospital were identified by both letters and numbers]

Winter 1915-1916

During a recent take-in of wounded, a car containing three officers arrived at the main entrance. The Matron, standing at the door with the list of vacant beds in officers' wards, was asked what was to be done with the trio of newcomers.
"Take them to L," she replied.
There was a shriek of laughter from inside the car - and Matron wonders why.

England at Last, by an Australian Patient

Winter 1915-1916

When the medical officer came round one day in our ward at the Floriana Hospital, Malta, and wrote on our diet-sheets "For England," an immediate change was noticeable on the faces of the favoured ones. Those not so lucky cast envious glances in our direction. We were to see old England at last! I think every Australian has an ambition to see the old Mother Country at some time in the distant future when he has made his pile, but few of us dreamt a year or so ago that we should see it so soon - and under such circumstances too. Some of us, indeed, had hardly hoped ever to see it.

It wasn't long before we got notice that we were to embark on a hospital ship and soon found ourselves on board the Dunluce Castle in Dockyard Creek, and we steamed out of the Grand Harbour just as the retreat gun was being fired at the saluting battery. On the morning of the fourth day our from Malta we arrived at Gibraltar and anchored under the fortress for a day, which gave us a good opportunity of seeing from a distance, for the first time, that sentinel of the Empire. It was here that some of us began to know what it means to spend three or four years in the Tropics without experiencing a winter. One man I know hasn't seen winter for nine years. The Bay of Biscay, quite contrary to expectations, behaved itself, and our ship only pitched slightly. Early on the fourth day from Gibraltar we caught sight of "the sceptred isle set in a silver sea," only it wasn't set in a silver sea when we saw it, but in a very grey one. It was a cold and cloudy day with a mist hanging over the water, which only permitted us to catch an occasional glimpse of what we were told was the coast of Cornwall. As our port was Southampton, we travelled along the south coast all the rest of the day, and in the evening, in the twilight, we were going round the Isle of Wight, so close to shore that we could plainly see the fields and the cottages nestling high up among the hills. I shall never forget that evening. Although I felt the cold intensely, I managed to stay on deck well swathed in woollens and my overcoat. I have never seen the sea look the same dull grey. To one accustomed to the sunny Pacific its sober grandeur made a strong appeal. And as the light began to fail we could see the ever-watchful searchlights playing on the sea and sky in quest of any invisible enemies. I don't think we slept very soundly that night. I know we didn't.

In the morning we were alongside the wharf in Southampton. Southampton made no other impression on me that that it was cold, damp, and smoky. We were a motley crew as we disembarked - Australians, New Zealanders, and Tommies from almost every unit, some on crutches, some on stretchers, men with empty sleeves, and others - walking cases - showing the ravages of dysentery and fever on their thin faces and wasted frames. After various delays, waiting for the men to be sorted out to their different destinations, we were at last put on a very comfortable hospital train and made a start on our two hours' journey to Clapham Junction. Being now a walking case I was able to secure a seat near a window, hoping to get a glimpse of the country now and again. I was richly rewarded. One often hears about England's unrivalled rural beauty, but one never gets a true conception of it. One cannot, of course, see the best from a fast-travelling train, but what I saw eclipsed my ideal. Now that the autumn leaves were falling and all the crops were gathered in, one was seeing it perhaps at a disadvantage. But what a sight for sore eyes to see green grass again; and such a green, too!

The journey was soon over, and we caught sight, for the first time for many months, of men in uniform other than khaki, namely, the men of the British Red Cross Society, who looked very spick and span in their dark blue uniforms. It was not long before we were run up here in the motor ambulances and had a good hot drink of cocoa (real cocoa made with milk), and were allotted to our wards. After having a hot bath and getting dressed in our hospital blues, we waited beside our ward stove for some tea before going to bed.
Square Dinkum, it was cold!
With all the warm things available, with my dressing-gown on and my feet resting on the top of the stove, I still felt cold. It was not till after being put in a warm bed with a hot-water bottle at my feet for a few hours that I at last felt warm again. I am still here, but hope soon to be well again. It won't be the fault of the kind treatment received from the hands of all here (particularly the sisters and nurses) if I am not.

For rest and comfort who would not be
In London General No. 3;
From there the sick and wounded in pain
Are soon set forth, happy, well again,
And for the nurses our prayers rise,
For they are all angels in disguise.
Please accept these humble words of praise
From a soldier who means what he says.

TROOPER A. B. WALKER, 6th A.L.H.

Originality in Unformity

Miss Barton's New Book

Autumn 1915

Our Principal Matron has written a wise and timely little book. In turning its pages we are reminded, again and again, of the phrase of a famous divine, who spoke of the quality of 'sanctified common-sense.' Commonsense of a delightfully human and gentle sort breathes from every chapter; in some mysterious manner the authoress, even when treating in the most businesslike fashion of some technical point of nursing, infuses a tenderness into her words, and appears rather as a helper than an instructor of her readers. To quote from a work of this nature is always unsatisfactory as an indication of its scope, but we can at any rate give some suggestion of the pleasantly conversational style, alluded to above, by offering a selection of the authoress's aphorisms, taken more or less at random from passages full of her characteristic quiet kindliness.

"Beware of false sentimentality. Sentiment is very different from sympathy. The sentimental person is usually one whose thoughts and ideals are largely centred on self."

"In counselling our V.A.D. members as to how they should best approach this work we would advocate a spirit of earnestness, coupled, if possible, with that most saving grace - a sense of humour."

"Each V.A.D. member has probably had many lessons and practical demonstrations in the art of making beds, but this has been usually without anyone in them, or else with healthy little messenger boys, who were docketed for the occasion with labels describing different complaints. This is a very different matter from assisting in making a bed for someone who is seriously injured... The V.A.D. member will be well advised if, instead of trying to show off her knowledge, she will watch and assist as helpfully as she possibly can, and learn the methods in use in whatever ward she is sent to, never either quoting her own special handbook or what she has seen done in other wards."

"Many patients have dreaded the advent of the nurse who, with the best and most conscientious intentions, comes to the bedside with puckered, anxious brow and 'Duty' with a large D imprinted on every feature, and proceeds grimly to carry out such nursing duties as have been indicated above, and then passes on silently and mysteriously to the next victim. The patient feels relieved that that unpleasant business is over, but it leaves him depressed and uneasy, and thinking perhaps that he may be worse than he really is."

"I would earnestly warn all V.A.D. members against gossiping and 'talking shop' when out and off duty. It is horribly bad form, when on the tops of omnibuses, or in trains or teashops, to discuss the hospital, the patients, or the daily work in the wards."

"It is a good plan to make it a practice to take an interest in the outside world - the war, everything that is going on, if possible to see pictures, hear music, read interesting books, and where possible carry on some hobby. This, though it may entail more exertion, will counteract the tendency to gossip and will keep the mind healthy and vigorous."

Miss Barton's book is one that says a great many things which, at the present moment, badly needed saying; simple things, yet essential ones. Many of her readers will feel, when laying it down, that they have gained not only a revered adviser but also an affectionate friend.

Hints to V.A.D. Members in Hospitals by E. C. Barton (Matron of Chelsea Infirmary and Principal Matron of the 3rd London General Hospital, Wandsworth). With a Foreword by Queen Amelie of Portugal and a Preface by James Cantlie, M.B., F.R.C.S., Member of the Council of the British Red Cross Society. Published by The Nursing Times, St. Martin's Street, W.C., price 6d. nett.