by Olive Dent
‘DEAR SISTER – Just these few lines to let you know that I arrived all right, but we had it very rough, and a lot of the boys was ill but we got over it all-right. I am in a very good hospital, but I wish your hospital was over here. ‘From your loving patient,
‘——’
The adjective preceding ‘patient’ may be taken as a matter of form.
‘DEAR SISTER – Just a few lines hoping this will find you in the best of health, and all the boys in D 4. In regards myself, we had a pleasant voyage, and then we was sent to X——. Well we were treated very nicely and it is a beautiful hospital with plenty of nice food. It is in a building, more swanky than yours but not so jolly, the sisters is very nice but they dont laugh as much as you do and dont cheer a chap up so much. Well Sister, it is a long way from London’ (his native place) ‘but we must be thankful to be hear, and you might remember me to Sister F—— and Sister H—— also all D2 and D5 and D4 boys. Hoping they all get Blighty and thanking you for your kindness wishing you the best of health and roll on the end of the war from your obedient patient No –.
‘Pte. Joshua,
‘1st East Mudshires,
‘No. 2 Hut General Hospital,
‘X——’
It is very nice to have one’s smiles appreciated, and very good to know that the boys never realise how much it costs sometimes to remain cheery.
‘DEAR SISTER – Just a little note to let you know I havent forgotten C lines and the sisters in that little part of France, hoping to find you all in the best of health as this leaves me here at present. Since I wrote last I have been in the Trenches again among the frozen snow but I only lasted a week and then I had to come out swinging the lead with trench feet and got sent down to hospital again but I never had the good for tune to get to C lines No——. Never mind better luck next time.
‘We’re for it again to-morrow so I shall have to look out for another Blighty complaint.
‘Well I think this is all this time so I will have to close this from
‘Yours sincerely,
‘Australia.’
‘DEAR SISTER – A few lines in answer to your ever welcome letter and was pleased to hear that things were going on well with you all and thank you very much for the parcel of chocolate that you were so kind to send. It arrived in good condition and at a good time too, for we were going in. Pleased to hear little M’s arm got on all-right and he got his tickets. He was such a nice fellow.
‘Did it take you very long with the spring cleaning I wish I had been there to help you because I know you would have a lot to do.
‘I will now close wishing you the very best of luck, from
‘Yours sincerely,
‘Australia.’
The above deathless epistle had been read, signed and censored by ‘Australia’s’ officer who, no doubt, was highly edified by his desire to be back helping with the spring cleaning.
‘DEAR SISTER – Having regained the use of my right arm I thought I would endeavour to scribble you a few lines to thank you for your kind attention and tender care while I was sick in that little bit of France known to the C lines boys as a corner of heaven. Well I have much pleasure in letting you see I am in England. When I left C lines I went to the Convalescent Camp and then back to the Fritzes and there I stopped one with my name and number written on it. I stopped it with my right arm which got a compound fracture in the right humerus in two places, and I am quite happy and contented with my suvenoir presented to me on the 1st of July. I got hit about 8-45 ak emma while making an advance from the first German line to the second, and fortunately was able to crawl into a nice, large, comfortable shell hole and lay there till dark and then successfully crawled back to my own little dug out reaching it by 1 ak emma. By 5.30 ak emma I was miles from the trenches lying in a cosy cot detailing my experiences to a very nice sister from Bolton. I was under the painful influence that I had lost the use of the arm altogether, but I was X-rayed twice and now my arm is so much better that I am able to under difficulties scribble you these few lines. I hope you will return this scrawl if you are unable to read it. We are doing famous here, have been here a week and have been to two garden parties and a lovely motor drive 65 miles. Well I think I have completed my little portion of self-concerning news and so will now inquire of you. I trust you are quite well and not overworked by endless convoys. I would very much like to know how Sister H—— and Sister B—— are should you have the opportunity to state the same when you answer this awfull piece of correspondance. Well, sister, I have had a little piece of luck when at one of the garden parties. I won a wist drive and made my winning number of tricks when diamonds were trumps on the second to the last table I played at. I got a beautifully marked cigarette case, also a box of 100 cigs. Well I am afraid I must close it has taken me nearly an hour to niggle this terrible piece of work into this state, so now dear Sister I will wish you further success, a jolly time, a hasty conclusion to the dreadful war so that you may return home, also trusting to hear from you as soon as convenient to you and I do hope you write, kindly remember me to the other sisters and except the very kindest regards yourself and allow me to remain
‘Your faithful patient,
‘——’
‘P.S. It’s grand weather here in Blighty we have less than two hours ago given 3 cheers for Tommies and Sisters in France, it was at the conclusion of a small concert in our Hall and it’s a wonder you didn’t hear us, best of luck to you all.’
The malapropisms are easily translatable. ‘Ak emma’ originates in the signalling system. P, E, D, V, and several other letters sound so similar from a distance that they are made Pip, Emma, Don, Vic, and so on. Thus a.m. becomes ak emma, p.m. becomes pip emma, an observation post, O.P., becomes O pip, V.A.D. would be vic ak don, and so on. The guileless manner in which the boy takes it for granted that I shall be interested in the exact circumstance of his winning the ‘wist drive’ is typically naïve and unaffected and a good index of the friendliness which exists between the sisters and the boys.
‘DEAR SISTER – Just a few lines to let you know I am very near my home. I am at G——. It is a very large hospital and I am sending you a few picture postcards to let you have an idea of the place. I only regret I was unable to stay in your ‘hotel’ for a longer period, for altho I was only a lodger for a day and two nights, yet I had quite settled down and feel sure I should have been perfectly happy. Kindly remember me to the Captain. Both your kindness I shall never forget wherever I may be, I remain,
‘One of your grateful patients,
‘G—— E——’
G—— E—— was in many ways a very interesting man. He was aged about forty, looked about fifty, had the dignity and courtliness of a man of sixty, and the heart of a boy of eighteen. He had lived in Paris for about twenty years, spoke and wrote French better than his own language, had all the jargon and slang of Paris on the tip of his tongue, – yes, he kept it there – and had the most wonderful collection of photographs of poiluchums that surely exists in the British Army. The following letter was written by a Public School and Oxford man with the distinguished rank of lance-corporal, and the most charming disposition imaginable.
‘DEAR MISS—— – You see I did not have the good fortune to get to London after all’ – (London was his home) – ‘This was supremely bad luck, – and of a sort that one could not possibly fight against. You see our hospital ship made intimate acquaintance with a German torpedo and we had to take to the boats with much celerity and dispatch, – a very painful process to me as I had to walk up two companion ladders and climb over taffrails etc. unaided and on my groggy leg, – and after a somewhat harassing time to board a Destroyer that turned up most opportunely, and thence to X—— many hours late.
‘So all arrangements for our disposal had to be altered, and I landed up here. Strafe it! However no lives were lost and they towed the hospital ship into port, and last, but not least, I am told our Destroyer sunk the submarine. So all’s w
ell that ends well. Meanwhile I am quite comfortably fixed up here, my leg is getting well much quicker than it needs to!! and my people are coming to see me to-morrow. So I have really nothing at which to grumble.
‘I want to thank you most awfully for the really good time you gave me in C 4. It is a long time since I have so enjoyed a few days. I never knew before how kind sisters are to the boys: you certainly taught me a lesson all of you.
‘With very kind regards to yourself and all my other friends in the ward I am,
‘Yours sincerely,
‘——’
The following letter was written by a Canadian boy, the fur-trapper who had not slept between sheets for four years.
‘DEAR SISTER – I must make an attempt – or is it attack? – to write to you. I’m afraid as usual it will prove a failure.
‘Firstly, you can’t imagine how sorry I was to leave your hospital. It was almost as bad as leaving home when I went to Canada. I was perfectly miserable all the way across and, finally, was horribly seedy but am improving a little now and have practically no pain.’
(Then follows a remark about sisters, which modesty forbids me reproduce.)
‘Don’t forget about the Jack London book. I should love to read it with you, and talk about it. It is very simple but the descriptions are extremely good. The first story is rather far-fetched. I cannot imagine any man going way back without plenty of ammunition and I simply can’t imagine a man deserting his partner. For one thing, they are usually too badly scared by loneliness.
‘The third yarn is real good. The writer must have had some, otherwise he would not know the habits of dogs, water holes and trails …’
(Then follows a description of the habits of dogs and the use of a balancing pole, etc.)
‘But there, all this will hardly interest you, even if it is readable.’ (As a matter of fact I was deeply interested.)
‘I am so sorry this is such a flat kind of letter, so different from what I would like it to be. Just before the stretcher-bearers came for me I wrote in your album. I don’t know whether you knew I had done so or whether you saw it, but I wrote “There’s gladness in remembrance.” It is a very hackneyed phrase but, sister, I do mean it.’
‘Thanking you for your great kindness which I will never forget – Oh I guess I’ll ring off. I can’t write letters for peanuts. Goodbye.
‘Yours very sincerely,
‘——’
The following extract from a Public School boy’s letter gives a typically twentieth century account of the field of glory and honour, and of our noble warriors’ way of regarding things.
‘Had a short strafe yesterday and chucked quite a bit of stuff at the Boche, hope it wiped out some of the swine. I love bang, bang, banging away and am looking forward to a great shove one day. Sorry I missed the Somme, even though it was – well, what it was.
‘The Boche dropped stuff pretty near my part one day and, discretion being the better part of valour, I did a temporary evacuation. They also at various times have snipped three bits out of my tunic, – dirty dogs, when they know I’m so far from Saville Row!!
‘We came out last night and did about thirteen miles back from the line. We’re now in a nice, quiet bit of country where we don’t expect a 5.9 through the billet, or to awake in the middle of the night at the sound of the gas gong to fix helmets.
‘We are quartered at a farm where I’ve already inspected all live stock and made love to a ripping old thing in the doggy line. The hairies are in the open. They are the worst off as usual and they need all the attention we can give them to carry us through.
‘By the way, they’re letting me put up a pip, so that spells L-E-A-V-E.’
April, 1916.
‘DEAR LITTLE MOTHER – I suppose you got my letter written in Southampton Water and haven’t had time to answer it. I hung on to P—— all the way across, good chap, but proper old country boy when travelling. We had a beautiful journey across the ditch and thoroughly enjoyed our breakfast even though it consisted of Easter eggs, dyed purple.
‘We had a very nice train journey here and then discovered we were going to a brand new hospital at which we were the first patients. There were crowds waiting at the station with lovely cars, and the cheering and handwagging was something awful. However they finally got us to hospital without running over too many kind people.
‘We have a very good time here, motor drives, cinemas, concerts, etc. but three times this week I have been to a dentist. On Monday he pulled, pushed and otherwise induced seven of my teeth out. On Friday he put in a mine, I think, and blew out some more. Then he dynamited again yesterday so my mouth feels like a crater. Oh I am enjoying life.
‘I am jolly glad the gramophone repairs are still holding out. I hope you are going strong, Little Mother, and have nice boys in the ward and that they are taking care of you.’ (The boys taking care of me, forsooth!)
‘I think I’ll shove in the clutch and foot brake now and switch off.
‘My very kindest regards,
‘Yours very sincerely
‘——’
‘DEAR LITTLE MOTHER – Just a few lines from the East to tell you I am in harness once more, in a different part of the world this time. I sent you a card but doubt very much if you get it, being a picture card, and they seem to be taboo. My address is … and I should be very pleased and grateful if you would write. I mustn’t tell you where we are now. You might tell the enemy!!!!
‘Coming out I chummed with a boy from your town. He is very comic and we are such close chums that people call us Pontius and Pilate. Not very nice names, are they? I’m sure you would have found us better ones.
‘Well, Little Mother, I don’t want to bore you too much so with my very best wishes,
‘I remain,
‘——’
Chapter XXIV
Ugh!
February, 1917.
BEING IN THE middle of my second year in France I thought I had sampled active service under every climatic condition, but this past fortnight has introduced me to a new phase, – active service during a black, hard frost, thirty and even more degrees of it.
We awake to find our camp wash-basin sheeted with ice, our whilom hot water bottle crackling with ice, our toothbrush a solid mass, our sponge hard, our tooth paste frozen in its tube, our boots stiff as boards, our chilblains insistent and persistent, – especially those on the heels, – and our bootlaces flagellant to those on the fingers.
A WINDY NIGHT – BUT THE PRECIOUS THERMOMETERS ARE SAVED
In the wards (tents, of course) everything that will freeze has frozen. The thermometers, customarily standing in a small jar of carbolic solution, are found embedded in a little, icy mass. This thawed, and a few temperatures taken, one tries to chart the same. Then the fountain pen refuses to fount. The ward ink? Frozen, also.
One begins to get ready the dressing trays and lotions. Most of the lotions are frozen. Hence, round the ward fire in the early morning is a somewhat crowded collection. First and foremost all the fire buckets, then numerous big and little lotion bottles, their corks removed, and a piece of gauze over the mouth of the bottle. Then sundry medicine bottles.
Giving the medicines in a ‘line’ consisting, say, of eight marquees is quite a lengthy business. The medicines are primarily all to thaw. Some indeed, the ferri. and amm. cit. for example, are a solid mass, and on more than one occasion the mass has broken the bottle.
Castor oil one finds to be a kind of emulsion, which must also go through a thawing (a slow one, unfortunately), process. The medicine towel is frozen, and one must melt some ice to obtain a little water to wash the glasses.
On trying to make an egg-flip, the eggs are discovered to be frozen, and on going to procure a drink of milk and soda, the milk is found to be solid, and a debris of broken glass, and a straggling little sheet of ice give testimony to what has happened to the soda water bottles.
Then a message comes that the water supply has failed
owing to the frost, and that only half a pailful of water per dual marquee is available until the water carts come in three hours’ time.
‘The water for dressings only,’ one reminds the men. That means none for shaving, for washing patients – ‘Faith! It’s too cold to wash,’ says Pat, in true boyish relief – for washing breakfast dishes, for scrubbing, – though truth to tell, the water has sometimes frozen on one end of the table while the other end was being scrubbed, – or any for hot water bottles.
Fortunately, all the hot water bottles are filled with water either in cold liquid, or more frequently in solid form, and they are hung round the stove for the contents to melt before being re-heated.
This morning I encountered one bag which had been knocked out of bed, and the contents were as hard as a brick. The bed patients we keep deliciously warm with lots of blankets, large bed-socks (as many pairs as desired) and woollen clothes from head to heel, ‘cholera belts,’ nightingales, gloves, balaclavas, anything warm and woolly they care to have.
The up-patients congregate round the stoves, and with the tents laced up and blankets hung over the openings, it is quite an easy matter to keep cosy.
We occasionally laugh at the men dressed cap-à-pie in bed, but we nursing sisters are only a degree or two less thorough. Indeed, preparation for bed is a great event.
We all set going our various types of oil-stoves and Tommy’s cookers with water for hot bottles, washing and hot drinks. The bunk is a regular Moab, for we do all our ‘big washes’ at night lacking the courage to do so in the morning. Some mornings we had no wash-water brought us at all, for our supply had frozen, and the choice rested between using that out of our hot water bottles, or waiving the edict of the powers that be forbidding the use of powder, and just indulging in the advice of beauty-specialists, and giving oneself a good ‘dry-clean.’
