A Volunteer Nurse on the Western Front (6 page)

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One night the hospital orderlies had, by way of relaxation, a fancy-dress ball. It was held in the Y.M.C.A. hut – what should we out here do without these huts? – and lasted from seven o’clock till ten. We sisters went and looked on at the proceedings after dinner, got on the platform, judged the competition waltzing, and awarded the prize, fifty ‘luxury smokes,’ for the best costume.

The whole business was great fun. The boys had determined to lend an air of reality to the ball, and almost half had dressed as girls – or should I say as females? – so that when the couples danced together
the sight wasn’t very incongruous. What did look incongruous was to see every one smoking, the ‘flappers’ and the ‘Duchess of Devon-shires,’ the ‘pierrettes’ and the ‘Army sisters,’ not to mention the ‘matrons.’

Our theatre orderly came as a matron, his get-up being a great success – cap well over the brow, with only two little wisps of fringe showing, trim little black suede shoes and smart stockings, and the usual regulation uniform. He acted the part, too; came and sat with us on the platform, thereby deceiving many of the other orderlies, and was full of jibes. When one of us remarked that he had changed his dress very quickly, for he had been on duty until eight o’clock, he agreed, adding: ‘Much quicker than the ordinary matron. But then I’m no ordinary woman.’ The great lead-paper star he had on in the place of the usual medal (‘The Star, don’t you know, much more exclusive than the R.R.C.’) came unstuck, so he borrowed a safety-pin from an adjacent V.A.D., saying: ‘Thanks, so much, I’ll remember you in my next list.’

An Australian unit adjoins ours, so, of course, there were lots of ‘Bushmen.’ And gee! how they could dance! The two best dancers, to whom we unanimously gave the prize, were Australians. One ‘Tassie,’ gowned in a
kimono lent by a kindly V.A.D., was a fruit-grower, or something of that sort, from Tasmania, evidently much of a dog in civil life, and also no mean cosmopolitan. Certainly he never learnt to boston as he did on a Tasmanian fruit farm. He and his partner bostoned and rag-waltzed until my very toes itched again. They had itched already many days before with chilblains and trench-feet symptoms, but this was a pleasing, irritating, alluring, tantalising itch, that made me long to defy the inviolable Army rule that sisters must not dance on active service.

On Christmas Eve some of the sisters went carol-singing round the wards. I was coming late to the quarters, for I had been ‘specialing’ a case. It was a perfect night, very mild, raining moonlight, with the valleys great pools of sombre silence, and the air beautifully still, so still that one could hear when a car had its speed changed on a fairly distant hill. The carols sounded inexpressibly sweet, and one sensed, probably for the first time, the holy character of the Christmas festival.

Arrived at the mess I found that some patients who, apparently, had nothing wrong with their lungs, were acting as waits and were singing to those sisters who were at dinner (the latter consisting of busy-time
rations of bully beef, potatoes, macaroni cheese, and a cup of coffee).

They made such a pretty Christmas-card sort of picture, – the glass doors of the mess thrown open, the warm light streaming out and catching the dark outlines of sundry tall poplars, the boy-blues grouped round singing, one holding a lighted lantern, the square collapsible sort that has the old-world, ‘langthorne’ look about it.

Christmas Day we sisters again gave entirely to the boys. We bought them sausages for breakfast, and that, with the hospital’s ration of bacon, ‘did them proud,’ so they said. They had some nice roast beef and the orthodox pudding for dinner, and then we sisters provided their tea. Our boys chose tinned salmon!! (no, thank heaven for our conscience’s sake, we are
not
in medical wards), potted meat sandwiches, scones, rice cake, sultana cake, Christmas cake, assorted buns, jellies and fruits, while they received sundry gifts of sweets, chocolates, and nuts through philanthropic channels. This, with crackers and two-penny worth of primrose crinkled paper and a franc’s-worth of yellow daisies, made a great show.

Supper was the same menu, for we had provided so as to ‘be on the safe side,’ but, horrors upon horrors!
what were our agonised feelings on walking into one marquee to find that the men there had saved their dinner bottle of stout until supper, and were consuming it to the foregoing culinary accompaniment! We thought of handing round immediately four grains of calomel or a ‘number nine’ to every sturdy person present, and then, we considered, a benignant deity looks after people’s tummies at Christmas time, so we stilled our many qualms, and next morning no one was a whit the worse.

On Christmas Day the Australian unit near us presented some religious tableaux, a manger scene, the Three Shepherds, the arrival of the Wise Men, and so on. The tableaux were most beautifully staged, especially considering we are on active service, but Australia in play is just as Australia is in work, very thorough, very effective, and, – despite the almost always negative state of conditions, – she always ‘gets there.’

Christmas-boxes? Lots of the boys hung up their stockings, and we put in something for each patient in our ward, even if it were only a khaki handkerchief or a piece of fancy soap, with, of course, always a packet or tin of cigarettes. All our bunks for two or three days before Christmas were sights to behold,
– scarcely fighting room for the inhabitant herself, what with bundles of mittens, notebooks, pencils, comforters, scarves, packets of sweets, smokes, etc., etc. Visitors got no farther than the door for the best of reasons. By the way, one patient hung up his – well, as a matter of fact – his pants, and wrote a letter to Santa Claus, asking for Blighty tickets as his Christmas-box, but next morning – ‘Narpoo, no bon’ – the chimney wasn’t wide enough and Santa Claus had presumably passed by. Later on, however, round came the major, felt the man’s toes, asked him if his feet felt numb, etc., etc. Then ‘C sitting, sister, please’ – and the man had got his Christmas-box, and, what is more, was on his way Blighty-wards within two hours.

We ourselves were not so fortunate with Christmas-boxes. For the sake of war economy a Christmas parcel from home was all we allowed ourselves, and great fun we had warming up large plum-puddings over small spirit-stoves, and Blighty mince-pies over biscuit-tin lids held over the aforesaid stoves. Primitive sort of réchauffé, but excellent good they all were, which is typical of the perverse, contrary way cooking has.

Chapter IX
Housekeeping on Active Service

THIS EXTRAORDINARY WAR
is in many ways surprisingly ordinary. Men who have dreamed of the panoply of mediaeval war, of the clash and clang of strife, of galloping chargers and uplifted steel find themselves standing in a sodden trench where, for days and days, they never have an opportunity of seeing a German. Or, worse still, they are miles behind the line installing telephones and electric lights. Women who have felt themselves uplifted by the deeds of those pioneers in the Crimean War are called on to housekeep! And yet, of course, electric lights are required, and nursing staffs must be fed, and the practice of putting each man and woman to their trade will in no way mar the efficiency of things.

The nursing quarters of most of the camp hospitals
in France consist of a wooden hut for the mess-and-sitting-room – by the way, it is almost solely the one and very rarely the other, – a shed of some kind for the cook’s kitchen, and bell tents, marquees, Alwyn huts, Armstrong huts, and wooden huts for the housing of the staff.

In the early days, some of our nursing sisters had improvised bedrooms from the loose boxes which were near us, in virtue of our being on a race-course. Later, when tents and huts materialised at a quicker rate, these were left for the accommodation of the batmen. Bell tents and marquees were always very popular, being absolutely delightful in summer and very cosy in winter with the aid of stoves. Some nurses who had thoroughly enjoyed life in a marquee during the winter of 1915–1916 were in a rebellious mood at having to go into a hut for some weeks during the winter of 1916–1917.

It was wonderful how pretty and comfortable bunks and bell tents could be made. All the furniture was of the packing-box variety; indeed, once installed, and a few other bunks inspected, we all felt competent to give authoritative advice on how to furnish a bed-boudoir-morning-smoke-drawing-room on a franc and a half. Chest of ‘drawers,’ whose characteristic
was that they did not draw, were built from small boxes on the cumulative principle and by the system of dovetailing. Then a chintz curtain was hung in front. Another chintz curtain served as a wardrobe. Indeed, chintz like charity covered a multitude of sins, the greatest of these being untidiness.

Most ambitious dressing-tables and writing-tables were evolved by standing a sugar-box on end, knocking out the lower side, and nailing on top at the back a small narrow box. These made a brave show stained with permanganate of potash, or, later, when this got rare, with solignum. A camp-bed, too, is easily convertible into a ‘Chesterfield,’ flanked at either end with one’s pillows pushed into pretty cushion-covers. An admirable ‘Saxon stool,’ too, most of us possessed, fashioned from three sides of a box and stained. In post-war days house furnishers must look to their businesses, for the land will abound with men skilled in the art of dug-out furniture, and maidens nimble at throwing together O.A.S. furniture.

Camp housekeeping was decidedly reminiscent of a picnic. One had the same makeshifts, the same
multum in parvo
with respect to cutlery and dishes, both as regards cooking and serving, the same triumphant adaptation of commonplace articles to
superior purposes, the same feeling of everything turning out well in the end. Then, too, one had an additional satisfaction, that of being on active service.

A ‘BAIRNSFATHER’ BUNK

Three of us – all V.A.D.s – ran the home and mess, which at the time consisted of between sixty and seventy nurses. We were helped by batmen, all P.B. men, who cleaned the huts and tents, swept and washed floors, attended to our supply of drinking, cooking and washing water, – taps and sinks were unknown luxuries, – mended fires, washed dishes, cleaned and cooked vegetables, cut up and cooked meats, and generally did the heavier work. We planned the menus, laid the tables, carved, served out the different meals, cooked certain dishes, did the shopping, dusted, had the management of the home quarters, e.g. preparing rooms for newcomers, tending indisposed sisters, and were generally responsible for the hundred and one little trifles necessary to the smooth running of affairs.

Man in pursuance of the domestic arts has often been suggested more or less facetiously as a solution of the domestic servant problem. The soldier man in this particular rôle proved himself a curious creature. Some of his virtues he owed to the fact of his being a soldier, and some of his idiosyncrasies to his sex.

Thus his soldierly dispatch and obedience were
most refreshing to any woman subjected to a succession of pert maids who say ‘Yes, miss,’ and then execute the order at their leisure. Positively at first it was disconcerting to have such instant obedience, to have the batman rise in the midst of washing the floor to go and perform some duty casually mentioned. The Army rule, ‘The last order obeyed first,’ however, soon sinks into one’s mind.

As workmen our batmen constituted the customary problem a man presents, – they always made a big fuss about having the correct tools. Whereas a woman will drive in a nail with a boot, a hair-brush, or a flatiron, a man must have his tool-bag by him ere he will undertake a little carpentry.

Possessed of this, however, he will work the proverbial wonders. Our mess furniture was a triumph for our men. The sideboard began life as a huge packing-case for medical stores, so did our glass cupboard, our linen chest, our ‘wine-cellar,’ and our dwarf bookcase, all bravely stained brown and duly polished. Our best plant-stand did much praiseworthy duty, its packing-case pedestal draped in thin green bastiste, and the plant admirably enshrined in a marmite.

Camp housekeeping in France quickly proved itself to be quite an arithmetical affair. Thus if one decided
on making scones, immediately there was a little mental arithmetic to be done in ratios and substitutions, with the home quantity as a basis. For example, if half a pound of flour makes sixteen scones, how many are required for sixty people, – with camp appetites, – a quantity which must then be calculated in demi-kilos, those being the weights we had in the kitchen. Then the quantity of butter, sugar, cream of tartar, etc., must be calculated. Similar arithmetical tussles were necessary before making, say, a custard, and sending for the milk, which, by the way, the batman always spoke of as so many ‘leekers.’

Over our makeshifts we used to make merry or grow conceited. Biscuit tins were our great refuge for storage, for converting into buckets, and at times for cooking. Coffee tasted delicious from a biscuit tin, especially on a cold morning with several degrees of frost, and at an hour still unusually early.

Bully beef made excellent curry, good shepherd’s pie and most appetising rissoles, particularly when served with tomato sauce made active-service style from a tin of tomatoes, heated, sieved, and thickened with a little flour.

BOOK: A Volunteer Nurse on the Western Front
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