Nevinson's Huts

This image is un-named in the Gazette, but shows Christopher Nevinson's view of the interlocking huts that formed the wards behind the main building of the hospital.

The Joys of Convalescence

Winter 1915-1916

By Malcolm Savage Treacher, Sergt., H.A.C.

I was in bed when the summons came.
"What's up?" asked I, sleepily. "You're to get up, get your pack, and get off to Esher. They're waiting for you at the front gate."
Thereupon the orderly disappeared. Frankly, I didn't want to go. I was very comfortable with my chums of C.6. We were well treated; with plenty of good sound food; with plenty of amusement in the shape of concerts. I said 'Good-bye' to them all with a heavy heart. I knew when I was well off. At the front gate a rakish Rolls-Royce awaited me. It was in charge of a charming little lady, whom I knew later as the 'Matron.' She wrapped me in rugs, she seated me on a soft cushion, she saw me propped up luxuriously, spoke me fair, and off we went. Through narrow streets; on to broad highways; into wide expanses of heath and moorland; beneath sleepy oaks and sweet-smelling pines; along winding lanes; skirting banks of an historic river; through old-world villages; on to Esher itself.

What were my first impressions when we arrived? That our English women were wondrous. For nothing was too good, no trouble too much for my well-being. I recollect a dear bustling woman, whom we called 'Sister,' who assured me I should soon be on my feet again, who contrived to impart some of her own magic vitality to me in some way. Then there was a tall, beautiful woman, who had graced the last Drawing Room, to swathe me in blankets for the doctor's inspection. And a merry little creature with sparkling black eyes to bring me my dinner. I remember that dinner even now. It was the best meal I had seen for a year. There was meat pie of wondrous delicacy of crust; there were three vegetables on my plate; to be followed by sultana pudding and spiced sauce. And here vital questions delving into the essence of life are touched upon. for do not human joys find their apotheosis with one's legs under the dining table?

Epicticus commences his day at Esher somewhere around 6 o'clock, when a cup of tea is brought to his bedside. At 7 o'clock he bows his head gratefully to a knife and fork breakfast. 10 o'clock sees milk and bread and butter; at 12.30 o'clock is dinner; at 4 o'clock tea, with either cake or fruit. For supper at 7 o'clock the Olympian finds bread and cheese, milk pudding and cocoa awaiting him. But is this the sum total of one's fare? No, this is not; for at 8 o'clock there is another glass of hot milk to be attacked. Frankly and honestly, I had never before lived life in such joyous culinary phase. And both business and a wanton taste towards extravagance have led me to most of the world-famous caravanserai of the Continent. Take away the glitter and the pomp and circumstance of all these hotels, come down to rock-bottom solid comfort, to splendidly cooked food, and the little Red Cross hospital at Esher beats the rest of them to a frazzle.

But, in spite of this carnival of good fare, one thinks least of all on that in leaving the hospital. for are there not one's hosts to consider? Indeed, Esher without the many great-hearted ladies ministering to one's every comfort would be but a Paradise of tinsel, a Paradise of ephemeral and not eternal memory. What can I say of these women, of these splendid V.A.D.'s, of the kindly sisters, of the gracious, sympathetic Matron? Probably it were wiser to leave you who follow me thither to form your own verdict. And if your stay at Esher does not garner some of the happiest recollections of your whole life, you may 'slang' me with the richest barrack-room epithets in your vocabulary in perfect safety to yourself.

The Missing Banana Skin (2)

The Missing Banana Skin (1)

The spirit of economy reigns through every department of the hospital ...

The Receiving Ward

My Day

Winter 1915-1916

The Matron, in the article which we print below, gives an account - a far from exhaustive one, by the by - of some of the multitudinous cares which claim her attention in her daily routine at the hospital.

I am usually wakened very early in the morning by the sound of the lift going up and down, and I think to myself, '6.30: day has begun for the General Duty Section.' But if they are very kind in the amount of noise they make - or refrain from making - I sometimes have another sleep. Then comes my tea, and I hear the bath being turned on and my maid saying, 'It is a quarter to eight, Matron.' With many groans from me (and growls from the pup) my day begins; and, after having breakfast, I am in the office by 9 a.m.

First come the Night Sisters - three of them - each with her tale of the night's adventures. Sometimes it is a tale of woe - this man or that man has had a big haemorrhage and been taken to the theatre - someone has fallen over a stretcher carelessly left in the corridor (or down a drain left uncovered in the awful darkness which we have to live in nowadays; the Germans have many things to answer for!). After the Night Sisters have gone, the Sisters, Nurses, and V.A.D.'s sometimes stream in, one after the other; some have matters of importance to report, others want 'long days'; many and varied stories I listen to until 10 a.m. The Home Sister and Assistant Matron then come with their reports, one of the houses and sick nurses, the other with the menu for the day and usually many other matters. After seeing Captain Dodson about the sick nurses, if necessary, I go to the Colonel's office, and take my night reports and the list of the empty beds for the morning.

Now comes the 'daily round.' Sometimes we go round the main buildings, another day the huts, and finally the kitchen, to see the dinners go out. It always does me good to see the steaming hot dinners in the tins waiting to be fetched by the general duty gang, and the orderlies waiting their turns to draw the 'extras' - and I think with regret that my own lunch is not until 1.30. Often I turn into the Assistant Matron's store and see the extra clothes, generously given by many friends, being got ready for distribution to the wards. Then a peep into the theatre to see Sister very busy with her instruments, and nurses, orderlies, and many masked and gowned figures hurrying here and there in the discharge of their duties - one patients on his way to the theatre, while another is being brought out; the one going in is always cheerful, and says, 'Good morning, Matron,' as if nothing mattered. Back again to my office, where usually many telephone messages and enquiries wait for me.

Lunch comes at 1.30, and I always enjoy talking over events with the Sisters; there is invariably a joke to repeat or an amusing anecdote told by someone. Two o'clock finds me back in my office, and I deal with any matter that has arisen since my morning office hour. After a cup of tea I dictate the letters of the day, and then generally there are visitors to see the hospital, and I go round once more - sometimes more than once - and never tire of showing the hospital which I, at any rate, love. It has gradually grown up round us here, and I feel as if, when the time does come for me to say good-bye to it and hand it over to others, that it will be a very, very sad day - in spite of the worry and trouble and many anxieties which must occur in a big institution.

Three or four afternoons a week there is a concert, and my office is turned into the tea room for the concert party. Tea at 4 and concert at 4.30 is the rule of the 3rd London. It is very interesting talking to the different artistes and their friends, and they one and all agree in the opinion that Tommy Atkins makes a splendid audience, and all want to come again. After tea we go to the Recreation Room, which by this time is packed with patients, some on ordinary chairs, other on wheel chairs or stretchers; and very soon we are all singing 'What About It?' or 'Till the Boys Come Home.' Sometimes this is the only part of the day during which I have leisure to sit down and think - and one does think even if the roof stands in danger of being lifted with applause, as is not infrequently the case. The concert ends a a rule about 6.30, and, after seeing that no one is left on a stretcher and forgotten, I go back to my office, where my letters are waiting to be signed and posted. This brings me nearly to eight o'clock, and I hear the Night Nurses going on duty and the Day Nurses coming off.

Practically every day, at some hour, we 'take in.' The War Office notifies us of a train coming to Clapham Junction at a certain time. Orderlies are sent to the station to help the unloading, the C.O. goes down with an officer to superintend, Captain Gosse takes charge of the Receiving Hall, and I sign all the cards as the cars and ambulances come up to the door. The orderlies line up outside the front door, and help with the men into the Receiving Hall, where hot drinks are waiting for them, and they are given tickets for the different wards and taken out to the baths. It is a very busy scene while we are unloading, but, under the able direction of Sergeant-Major Smith, everything is done quickly and quietly, and soon the Receiving Hall is cleared again and ready for the next convoy.

Supper is at 8.15, and when the nurses and probationers have gone off to the houses the Sisters and I usually sit round the supper table and talk over the happenings of the day, and I look forward to having my fortune read when the 'witches' are at supper. At nine I see the Night Sisters after their first round of the hospital, and hear how the bad cases and operations of the day are going on. The post comes about 9.30, and, after seeing the evening letters, I generally go up to my room - and find that morning comes round again only too soon.

EDITH HOLDEN, Matron

Anzac Slang

Winter 1915-1916

Our reference, in last month's Gazette, to the Australian fondness for the phrase 'Square Dinkum!' lends interest to the following communication from 'Transport Officer' in Gallipoli:

"A conversation I caught the other day might prove mystifying to the uninitiated.
'Hullo, chum! I've just heard some bonza news.'
'What! Another furfie?' 'No, dinkum oil this time; the boys have imshied the Turks on the right, and got fifty prisoners, who say they have had mafeesh tucker for two days.'
Half of it is Egyptian Arabic, picked up in Cairo, like the Gippy children's reiterated 'Give it baksheesh,' which the men are very fond of using.
'Bonza' corresponds with out 'ripping' or 'top-hole.' A 'furfie' is a rumour, and 'dinkum' means 'genuine,' and 'dinkum oil' means 'authenticated news.' 'Imshi' is Gippy for 'clear out' or 'get away,' and 'mafeesh,' which is borrowed from the same tongue, means 'nothing.' 'Tucker', of course, has the same meaning as our 'grub.'

When an Australian wishes to acquire something he 'shakes it,' whereas the British Tommy either 'makes it' or 'scrounges it,' in the same way as on a larger scale Government 'annex' things. Tommy's slang is largely derived from Hindustani, and includes such words as 'chipperow' for 'shut up,' 'put some jildi into it,' meaning 'hurry up,' and 'let's have a dekko,' when he wants to have a look at something.

'Pozzy' is jam; 'cherb' beer; 'rooty' bread; 'dough' money; 'jippo' gravy; 'muckim' butter; 'char' tea. 'Swinging the lead' is pretending or deceiving, while 'chucking his weight about' is self-explanatory, and denotes an aggressive or bullying manner. When an article is 'spare' it means that it is not wanted, or, more usually, if a man says he 'found it lying about spare,' it is a euphemistic way of saying that the owner did not happen to be looking after it at that moment."