May 1st 1941
One hundred and sixty sisters arrived at Fairhaven for lunch – back from Greece. Mostly they are from New South Wales, Queensland and Tasmania but I am told there are none from Victoria. They escaped with a hand case and what they stood up in. They say they have been machine gunned and dive-bombed all the way and had to leave their stretcher cases behind, but the Greek doctors promised to look after them. An awful thing to have to do – I dread the thought of anything like that.
Last night Cecil Duncan (RAF Ismailia) came up and collected Mona and took her off to dinner and the cinema. He had another RAF lad with him and I was asked to go too but was, fortunately, on duty. I have promised to make up a foursome on Friday night – but I really don’t want to go – can’t be bothered being polite and sociable to stray pilots who come up for a few days. Still, ‘malesh’. Eric Darwoon has been very badly smashed up it seems and was on the DIL but is now getting better. I must write to him if I can find out what hospital he is in.
We have a Yugoslav general in Hut 10 W. He is Chief-in-Charge of the Air Force and has compound fractures of his tibia and fractures of both radiuses. Dozens of gilt-braided Ruritanian-looking gentlemen come to see him by day and by night. His aide de camp is in the same room and his doctor is always within call. It is all highly diverting and everyone is in a pronounced FLAP about it, or was: the colonel and DDMS and, of course, Matron. He badly wants to be fed by one of the sisters but the colonel has decided that one of the orderlies must feed the gentleman. He has already told me that I am like the Yugoslav women, who are very ‘beoooootiful’, and asked the doctor to tell me that if he were a captain or a younger man he would … The rest was somewhat obscure and certainly purposely mistranslated by the doctor. All very interesting if embarrassing. The aide de camp had pentothal this morning to have his shoulder pain reduced and, on coming round, suggested that I should sit on his bed and hold his hand and what he told the doctor to tell me still remains unknown – fortunately, I think. But that too was interesting, I feel. They don’t waste time on formalities, these Yugoslavian gentlemen.
We heard today that a destroyer with a complement of 1,000 crew and troops coming back from Greece was sunk and only four men were rescued. Seven ships with 1,000 troops on board at least, have also been sunk. But the papers report that we have only 3,000 casualties against 60,000 German ones so it could be worse, of course. There is a convoy of wounded coming in now. A lovely warm afternoon and everything looks entirely peaceful but one wonders for how long.
May 7th 1941
Night duty
This came as a complete shock, Matron sending us amok the previous evening. We knew it was coming soon, but I fondly imagined I would escape, as I am still supposed to be on call for my ship. Mona is in A Ground and I am in Hut 7 – Officers’ Medical. We are full and even had to open Hut 8 for two naval men off a convoy from Tobruk last night. I have an excellent orderly with me for a change, a Yorkshire boy, really reliable and sound, which is more than a comfort. I asked him his name the first night and he said Ealey. I thought it sounded a bit odd, but imagined that he ought to know and thereafter called him Ealey in good faith. I found later from someone else that his name is Healey, so now I pronounce the H, but still feel he likes the other way the best. Selk is night superintendent and who could be better? Bedwell is on and Mullins, a very amusing Yorkshire girl whom I like more and more, and Rippling, a recent naval acquisition. The rest are fairly colourless at the moment.
May 13th 1941
Night off
I am sitting at 7 o’clock of a cool and pleasant evening, on my balcony, with all night in bed before me, breakfast in bed in the morn, as I wish, and a new and just possibly a comfortable pair of shoes to put on when I go on duty again tomorrow night. What more can a girl want after all? I feel so much at peace with the entire world that I could almost write a sonnet. I would call it, let’s see … On first sighting a pair of white, probably comfortable shoes. It would be good if I had enough energy to woo the muse – alas, dead these many days. For if ever a poet felt strongly about her subject this one would be hers. It would come straight from the heart, and deftly handled, it would be enough to make even the strong weep …
The seas still roll in, waters from the entire world, in endless motion. Ships on the skyline, merchantmen and fishing boats with sails of pure poetry. Ali leans over the balcony near me and insists on gabbling to me in Arabic of which I understand three words, ‘suchac, quais, mucquais’, from which I gather – rather brilliantly, I modestly think, that the heat was bad but the heat is now ‘mafish’ and the night cool, which is good. Ali is right and Ali is a poet, a philosopher in his own land. The donkey carts go by, bells all a-jingle, the peasant vendor ambles serenely along, and the last rays of the sun catch the glass jar on his capable head. Now he is one with yesterday’s 7,000 years. There are some sailor boys in white shorts and jackets pedalling past on bicycles; now an air force AC with his Greek girl, now a Tommy with his girl. Now an ambulance, now a despatch rider in a hurry, now a taxi with a QA correctly attired in her beautiful tricolene and with a suitable escort. Now three Egyptians, complete with tarbushes, in a sidecar and a family going home from the beach in an opulent limousine. Now some transport driven by b-topee’d Tommies avec tin hats. The door banging below is one of the safragi admitting one of the girls coming off duty … endless activity, and as varied and colourful as life itself.
I am enjoying my ward – I’m not busy at all, although there is always a mad scramble to get beds made o’morning. I have Hut 8 Isolation to supervise as well where there are only two, both convalescent, nice boys. One is writing a book and hopes to publish it in America – I hope he does. As one has chicken pox and the other scarlet fever, they can’t foregather so each sits on his little garden wall in the cool or heat of the evenings and converses with the other across the ten yards of sand. So, one feels, governments should sit, in the cool of the day unhurried and in philosophic mood, with ten yards of this good earth between them and a kindly word of ‘goodnight’ before turning in over their respective garden walls. But men are stupid in the mass – and never will learn. Individually, I love them all, at least at some times and in some moods.
The men in Hut 8 greet me affectionately I always feel, although I don’t see much of them. Curtis, RAMS, watches over or so I hope. Just now by night – Hut 7 is my spiritual home – the men are mostly navy these days as the RAF and army are evacuated very often to other parts, just as they are nicely settled in. They are mostly young or youngish and a nicer collection of men you couldn’t wish to have. I like the ward to myself at night and I feel they are all happy to be there, which is a good feeling. There are some things which are more satisfying to me than medals and good reports and being popular with Matron and having the equipment correct or having the ward perfect on the colonel’s round. Little things that I can’t write down here or tell anyone about, because they would seem unimportant and in a sense conceited – although of course that doesn’t come into it at all – things that the men say to me from time to time, when I do simple little things for them to make them comfortable, real gratitude often clumsily expressed – golden words that send me on winged feet on my way and give me satisfaction in this ghastly business. There was a Danish captain on the DIL – he was moved to the Anglo-Swiss because our place was too noisy in the daytime and there wasn’t a room to give him – who patted me on the hand before he went and said with a sweet sad smile, ‘Your name should be Miss Nightingale’. He’s probably dead now. And a midshipman who sent me a note on the back of a section of the daily orders early this morning – presumably because he didn’t like to tell me himself – ‘Sister, you were awfully sweet to me, early this morning. Thanks a lot.’ This because I merely went and stayed with him for a minute or two during the air raid. I know how they unnerve him; he was on the Southampton when she went down and then on the Huntley when she went down.
There are so many things I should like
to have remembered, but they don’t really matter, only the remembrance that at some times one has helped. These are the things that no one can ever talk about, the trivial things, which surprisingly enough become permanent and add considerable sweetness to the days. If by some chance I should become a war victim too, and who can tell who may or may not be – I should hate to think my name was inscribed on a brass roll of honour – as though I were some heroine – which emphatically I am not, and should be perfectly happy knowing I had done my job according to my own standards – although they may be a little odd at times.
We had lunch with three Australians today, nice men: one from Queensland, one from Sydney and one from Donald in Victoria. They drove us back to the flats. They are flying to Cairo today and return here tomorrow – then back to Mersa Matruh and the dust and the sand storms. How they remain so cheerful these days, I can’t think.
May 22nd 1941
HMHS Karapara27
The second phase has begun.
When we were dressing to go on duty last Monday, a note was sent up to Mona and me telling us to pack at once and be ready to leave forthwith on a hospital ship. We dashed up to the mess and were told that we would be required to go on duty until midnight. The ship was HMHS Karapara and Miss Scot-White was to be the theatre sister. The rest of the staff were being transferred except for the Indian girls who were in our mess pro tem. We felt rather numb about it all, especially Mona, I expect, as she didn’t even know that she was destined to come along too. I was distinctly annoyed, for various reasons which I shan’t be able to remember when I read this after many days so they’d be better left unmentioned. I hated the thought of leaving the men in Hut 7: Westacolt, Symmers, Stewart, Arnold, Haynes, Sarnham, Rigby, Hogg, Lautar, Browne, Downing, Sang and the rest. And in Hut 8 Piggott, Hooper, Johnstone, Davies and so on. In Isolation are Cornish and Cope and, more recently, my old friend General Merkovitch and his Capitaine. Sad indeed.
And the men were so sweet about it. I felt they really were sorry that I was going. I never felt a happier atmosphere in any ward I’ve worked in, no one could have been nicer to me – I loved them all. I left at midnight after having made a round of unofficial farewells. We had supper then and walked down the road in the Egyptian night, to the flats – for the last time for goodness knows how long. I wrote one or two letters and then went to bed, too weak to attempt any packing until morning. Then I was up fairly early trying to restore some order among many hundreds of trunks and cases and we had coffee on Mona’s bed, Beatrice being in commission for the last time. I left her behind avec saucepan. Then some of the night staff came up to say au revoir, including Teddy, Bedwell and Jockey, and we left by taxi for town about 10.30am, visiting Khan Khibil for some money and doing some last-minute shopping. A taxi back to the flats and then we went up to Fairhaven for lunch or rather in order to see as many girls as possible who would be there for first and second lunches at that time.
I’d only been there about three minutes when I was told that Rochester wanted to speak to me on the phone. She asked me to go over to the ward for a few minutes as the men had something to give me and wanted to say goodbye. I was quite shaken about it as, of course, one never dreams of farewell presentations, on leaving a ward in wartime. But I had to go, very hot and bothered, and feeling totally undeserving and extremely minute. Pigalt was on his break when I arrived and they gave me the packet, which I opened. I was never so surprised in all my life to find a travelling clock of brown leather with my initials on the front of it: luminous, alarmed and eight day. A perfectly lovely clock – something I never dreamed I should possess. I could have wept, not so much for the gift itself and its worth, but for the thought that had produced it. Pigalt told me that he had gone round first with the thought of a modest box of chocolates, but they gave so liberally and willingly it grew to this. He was so sweet and told me in all sincerity, ‘You have no idea the esteem in which you have been held, Sister’. So I went around again, in my boootiful tricolene, blushing furiously and shaking hands and muttering some sort of thanks to all and sundry.
This is something that goes much deeper than having a mere present given to me. I know now, and I knew before that really, I had the real affection of every single man in those wards, although I was there only two weeks and could do very little for them at night time. And I knew, alas, that I’d rather have had just that than any RRC or OBE or empty glories of that nature. Well – it’s all behind me now with promises to look them up if ever we are anywhere near HMS Ajax, Formidable, and East … and all the rest, and promises to write. We probably shan’t – still it’s nice to feel that way about it at the time. We hated leaving Teddy, Bill and Lynnette and oh so many others we’ve been with for so long but thus it was and so at 3pm we scurried off for the taxi to catch the train at 3.45.
It was a long tiring last journey to Port Said. Miss Baldwin was with us – the ex-matron of this ship – and Hood, a New Zealand girl, who had only been on her for two months and was now posted to Helmieh and had to go back to the Ralapala to recall her baggage. We didn’t arrive in Port Said until 1.20am and then we were taken to the Eastern Exchange for the night. Next morning up betimes we presented ourselves to the RTO at 9am and then to the ship by launch. There she was well at the mouth of the canal, white and green with large red crosses on her – our future home for the ensuing six months, I suppose. We were taken to meet the CO and then on a tour of inspection around the wards and theatres. Quite nice really.
We have our own sitting room and the officers can come over the threshold if asked! We will dine together but at our own tables. The IMS girls join the ship tomorrow probably. We are waiting here patiently until we can get through the canal, until it is demined and the ships preceding us have gone their ways. It seems that six have moved through today, which means we may go through with the next batch unless Jerry decides to come and lay some more mines tonight. It is the sort of game that he plays – as soon as the coast is clear or almost clear and the ship all ready to move off, over he comes again to hold up the works. It appears that we may take 200 or more convalescent patients at Suez; anyway we are bound for Bombay where on arrival we shall lie in the dock for perhaps two months, for repairs to damage done in Tobruk this last trip. The ship was dive-bombed and had direct hits and has large holes through several decks and shrapnel holes through many of its walls. They had 500 patients on board, all of whom have had a really frightful time but got back to Alexandria on one engine, which will take us, we hope, to Bombay.
Mona, Scotty and I have quite nice cabins and there is an iron and ironing board and altogether we are extremely comfortable. Everyone has been most kind and helpful and I feel we shall be very happy here if the monsoons don’t lay us too low. The commanding officer and second-in-command, Major Duncan, are British IMS but the rest of the medical personnel are entirely Indian – Hindus and very charming men. The crew and all the orderlies are Indian, with the exception of two British orderlies, and the officers and the captain are British. Whilst in port we have to go to bed by candlelight and, of course, we are completely blacked out, so hurry on ‘orders’ so that we can sail all in a glitter of lights. What a day, or night rather, that will be! So now we have to think in rupees and annas, heaven preserve us, and it’s only a few months since we got used to piastres and milliemes.
Germany has been landing troops in Crete by parachutes from gliders, over 3,000 of them. Most of them, it seems, are out of action for some reason or another, but Churchill doesn’t belittle the business at all and says we must hold on to it at all costs. Perhaps they’ll turn us round and sail us for Crete. Who knows? How we shall miss letters – beyond everything.
Matron, Miss Tyndall, came up on deck about 11pm and seems very nice […]28 She is Irish and has an excellent sense of humour, which will help considerably. We went ashore in the afternoon and had lunch at the Casino place opposite.
May 23rd 1941
The IMS girl plus Wright and Goodrich came aboard las
t night. And here we are at 3pm sailing up the canal, having left about 10.30pm and lying up for an hour further back. We shall probably tie up near Lake Timsah, Ismailia. Shades of our last leave. We actually saw the ship that we are now on at anchor when we were there and we even met Matron – Miss Baldwin – in a shop there. And we had our grey blouses on, which she said she admired very much!
It’s getting hotter. We have to have a typhoid inoculation tonight as it’s rather overdue.
May 24th 1941
Anchored in the Bitter Lake last night and we had to get up for an hour and a half for an air raid warning. We were very annoyed having our sleep disturbed last night and today is very hot. We passed Khartoum yesterday and I had hoped I’d see Jean or Enid among the bevy of beauties bathing on the beach. But didn’t. I gave them all a wave however, for the sake of old times. Yesterday, also, I was dressing for dinner when I heard from some desolate spot on the shore as we went by, ‘Spot any Aussies on board?’ I nearly leant out of the porthole and shouted ‘yes’ but hadn’t the energy. Such a barren and parched-looking shore on either side with outposts the whole length of the canal to watch for the parachutes that tell where the mines fall. The canal is 87 miles from Suez to Port Said and we have 27 miles to finish, today, I suppose.
May 27th 1941
Anchored in Suez now because we didn’t get away on Sunday as we had thought. After bringing the pilot on board and taking him off half a dozen times, we actually got underway. There were two danger zones where we went dead slow so as not to disturb the acoustic mines which it was thought were dropped here during the air raid two nights ago. I certainly heard a plane go over the ship that night. Once onto the canal we were safe enough and it was an amazing sight to see the wreckage of odd ships sticking out of the water. No wonder there is a muddle with the shipping: one unlocated mine in the canal holds up all the ships and sometimes for weeks. No-one could have any idea about such things unless they had actually been through and seen it for themselves.
Joyce's War Page 8
