Apart from gingerly handling gas casualties and dressing shell wounds, nurses also tended to men suffering from epidemic illnesses (pneumonia, dysentery, and trench fever), many which were spread through contact with decaying flesh, vermin, and filth in the trenches. Such cases occupied a certain percentage of beds in any war hospital: the “ill, not wounded.” Nurses near the front came in contact with their share of decaying flesh, swarming rats, lice, and filth, too, and they struggled to keep their areas, aprons, and starched cuffs clean. Special precautions, such as rubber gloves, kerosene shampoos, and meticulous grooming were essential to prevent septic fingers and infections. Cold, wet winters added to the burden, as long-term exposure to the elements left many soldiers (and occasionally nurses) with crippling rheumatism or frostbite.
Some ailments, despite their prevalence among the soldiers, are mentioned only rarely in contemporary accounts. One was nerve strain (alternately, “nerve paralysis” or “shell shock”), a condition that included disorientation, localized paralysis, mutism, or muscle tics brought on by psychological reactions to horrific experiences at the front. Early in the war medical personnel tended to consider it temporary insanity or emotional collapse — something that would melt away in a restorative setting such as Divonne-les-Bains. But the rising number of disabling cases represented a serious threat to manpower and prompted military authorities to become serious about getting victims back in fighting condition as soon as possible. The typical prescription — segregation and therapy at the hands of an exacting medical team — was not calibrated to be sympathetic, but to “re-educate the will” through exposure to demanding situations, discipline, and sometimes electric shock applied to uncooperative parts of the body. Whether the shocks were intended to be strictly therapeutic, partly motivational, or largely punitive is not clear, and may have depended on the administrator. It is evident from Warner’s letters that the hospital in Divonne-les-Bains offered electrical treatment. Though she only identifies its recipients as “paralyzed,” rather than “nerve paralyzed” or “insane,” the fact that so many of them reportedly regained their mobility under treatment suggests they may have suffered from shell shock.
The other hushed condition was venereal disease, sufferers of which typically were removed to separate hospitals or treated by male orderlies rather than by female nurses.
As 1915 gave way to a new year of fighting, the bombardments grew so severe that the numbers and condition of the wounded pouring into Mrs. Turner’s ambulance at times overwhelmed the staff. The wards were so full that when a wounded General Lerous arrived, nurses struggled to find the mandatory space to segregate him from the rank-and-file wounded, and furthermore to accommodate his wife and the Belgian royalty who came to visit him. (Royal visits to hospitals were relatively common events during the war; besides cheering the soldiers, they served to buoy the spirits of the staff and boost their visibility with war authorities and sponsors — Warner’s hospital was no exception.)
Unfortunately for Warner, the frantic pace that spring meant she had to postpone the rest trip to Divonne she had planned for March. When she finally was able to leave the roar of the front in May, her first sleep was as long as it was restful. But just like the soldiers she used to receive at the Divonne hospital, the next night she found it too quiet to sleep.
Presumably, as a requisite to service in the F.F.N.C., Warner was proficient in French, thanks in part to her Victorian education and the time she spent in Montreal. Proficiency would have been critical for managing good relationships with doctors, orderlies, and patients alike, and Sister Warner seems to have been singularly successful (or fortunate) in forging harmony with all three. Her letters are free of the exasperation shown in other nurses’ accounts toward the untrained help, possibly because her orderlies (and also the “nurses,” or “infirmiers” as she tended to refer to them, notwithstanding that they were amateur) were motivated French citizens rather than the P.O.W.s or “inept soldier” orderlies of British and Canadian military hospitals, who required close, prodding supervision. It is also likely that she commanded respect through her leadership abilities and attracted local affection with her relief work beyond the hospital. The humility in her letters certainly suggests that, after taking charge as matron in 1916, Warner led her colleagues by earnest example. In contrast with the matrons of larger military hospitals whose chief duties were oversight and discipline, she obviously participated fully as a ward nurse alongside her close-knit staff. It is noteworthy that, in so many of her sentences composed in Belgium, the subject is “we.”
Faced with mind-numbing toil and pain, nurses did whatever they could to lighten things up for themselves and the men. They planned and hosted entertainments, usually located on site so patients could participate. They lavishly summoned Christmas in the wards with festoons, songs, and treats — clearly a lot of work but unquestionably worth the trouble. No one viewed decorations as frivolous in a wartime hospital; rather, colourful ribbons, flowers, and blankets were an integral part of the restorative therapy nurses designed for patients — part of that tidy, heavenly atmosphere soldiers ascribed to the nurses’ sovereignty in the wards. Even a poorly heated barrack ward was nothing less than a palace next to the shivering, swarming miseries of grey trench life.
In truth, nurses embroidered their world as much for their own sake as for their patients’. An endless visual diet of grey walls, white sheets, brown mud, and red wounds had the effect of super-sensitizing the retina to colour and beauty, causing nurses to linger in doorways, enchanted by sunrises over the Belgian countryside, and to hover over flower arrangements picked by recovering patients eager to show their gratitude. We know that Warner had a zeal for plants from an early age, and it finds expression in her My Beloved Poilus letters. But in those surroundings, it becomes more spiritual than academic — like many nurses who sprinkle their accounts with glimpses of beauty, she interprets that beauty as Hope.
Personal joy might have been rare in the frenzied nights and days, but it would not have taken much to liberate a laugh from a human spirit craving mirth. A kitten’s brazen antics, a friendly message dropped by an air force pilot, or a patient’s quip could easily coax a smile from a nurse, and everyone was eager to earn one. If we are to believe the claim of Warner and other nurses that their soldier-patients were nothing if not perfect gentlemen — or, rather, “boys” — then it seems to have been relatively uncomplicated for nurses to maintain an easy, familial rapport. As long as men viewed nurses as religious or domestic “Sisters” and nurses considered themselves stand-in mothers to grateful children, all could enjoy a respectfully affectionate relationship in which nurses showed warmth without compromising professionalism. More likely, there were occasional lapses of patience or decorum on the part of both parties in an atmosphere of disgust, desire, madness, pain, and long-term deprivation. But reports of unseemly behaviour rarely made it across the Atlantic. On the contrary, nurses praised the manners and restraint of the soldiers and even indulged in national comparisons of their pluck:
At one hospital where nearly all the patients were French, several Canadians were brought in, among them a brawny chap named McDonald. The Poilus were very curious to see how this Canadian would behave, and as he had a bad dressing to be done Miss Warner was anxious that he should be as brave as the French. However, she saw his face getting red, and she said to him, ‘Well, if it will make you feel better, say it.’ And the Canadian opened his mouth and ejaculated, ‘Boys!’ The Colonel of his regiment, who came to the hospital later, told Sister Warner that McDonald could do better than that, as he was a foreman of the railway construction line and had quite a command of the language.
Another good reason to behave oneself in front of the nurse was the discretion she wielded. A good word from her to the medical officer might prolong a soldier’s convalescence period and keep him off the “fit for duty” list awhile longer — possibly even send him home.
What Sister Warner’s eager New Brun
swick readership got in My Beloved Poilus was a series of snapshots — both visual and narrative — of her adopted world. Amid the unrelenting rhythms of work and care, she highlights her own experience of uncertainty, discomfort, joy, and revulsion. We get to know how strongly she feels about senseless devastation and how heavily she relies on support from home. We see how keeping busy sustains her mentally and how the poilus’ gratitude restores her emotionally. In the letters are glimpses of her inner struggle to sort out her feelings on the war’s lethal perplexities — wondering how to reconcile her fear and her pride when nephew Bayard signs up as a soldier or rethinking her position on nursing the enemy when German soldiers first arrive in her hospital in May 1916. And despite a momentary vow to give up nursing altogether after the war, we see her taking every opportunity to augment her professional knowledge of surgical advancements and methods of hospital administration by touring other facilities. Through the letters, we move ever closer to the front lines with a dedicated woman who takes one difficult day at a time.
As she was writing the last letter that would be bound into My Beloved Poilus, neither Warner nor her readers could have contemplated that her ordeal at the front was scarcely more than half over.
Agnes Warner. My Beloved Poilus
Solidago flexicaulis, collected by Agnes L. Warner. NBM VP-02816
Mike Bechthold
Canadian Victory Bonds poster using the example of French women to encourage Canadians. McGill University WP1.B12.F2
Mike Bechthold
Cover of My Beloved Poilus.
British gas mask known as a Small Box Respirator. CWM 19720102-061
C.A.M.C. nurse at a hospital reads the news from home to Canadian convalescents. CWM 19920085-529
Chapter Four
My Beloved Poilus
Preface
When Florence Nightingale began her great work in the hospital wards at Scutari in 1854,1 she little realised how far-reaching would be the effect of her noble self-sacrificing efforts. Could she today visit the war-stricken countries of Europe she would be astonished at the great developments of the work of caring for the wounded soldiers which she inaugurated so long ago. Her fine example is being emulated today by hundreds of thousands of brave women who are devoting themselves to the wounded, the sick, and the dying in countless hospital wards.
All too little is known of what these devoted nurses have done and are doing. Some day the whole story will be given to the world; and the hearts of all will be thrilled by stirring deeds of love and bravery. In the meantime it is pleasing and comforting to catch fleeting glimpses of a portion of the work as depicted in this sheaf of letters, now issued under the title of My Beloved Poilus, written from the front by a brave Canadian nurse.
Two outstanding features give special merit to these letters. They were not written for publication, but for an intimate circle of relatives and friends. And because of this they are not artificial, but are free and graceful, with homely touches here and there which add so much to their value. Amidst the incessant roar of mighty guns; surrounded by the wounded and the dying; shivering at times with cold, and wearied almost to the point of exhaustion, these letters were hurriedly penned. No time had she for finely turned phrases. Neither were they necessary. The simple statements appeal more to the heart than most eloquent words.
These letters will bring great comfort to many who have loved ones at the front. They will tell them something of the careful sympathetic treatment the wounded receive. The glimpses given here and there, of the efforts made by surgeons and nurses alike to administer relief, and as far as possible to assuage the suffering of the wounded, should prove most comforting. What efforts are made to cheer the patients, and to brighten their lot, and what personal interest is taken in their welfare, are incidentally revealed in these letters. For instance, “The men had a wonderful Christmas Day (1916). They were like a happy lot of children. We decorated the ward with flags, holly, and mistletoe, and paper flowers that the men made, and a tree in each ward.”
How these letters bring home to us the terrible tragedy that is going on far across the ocean. And yet mingled with the feeling of sadness is the spirit of inspiration which comes from the thought of those brave men who are offering themselves to maintain the right, and the devoted women who are ministering to their needs. Our heads bow with reverence, and our hearts thrill with pride, when we think of them. But we must do more than think and feel; we must do our part in supporting them and upholding their hands. They have given their all. They can do no more, and dare we do less?
Rev. H.A. Cody
Saint John, N.B.
February 19, 1917
Introduction
The writer of these letters, a graduate of McGill College, and the Presbyterian Hospital, New York, left New York in the spring of 1914 with a patient for the continent finally locating at Divonne-les-Bains, France, near the Swiss border, where they were on August 1, when war broke out. She immediately began giving her assistance in Red Cross work, continuing same until the latter part of November, when she returned with her patient to New York — made a hurried visit to her home in Saint John, and after Christmas returned to again take up the work which these letters describe.
My Beloved Poilus
August 2, 1914
Divonne-les-Bains, France
Dear Mother:
The awful war we have all been dreading is upon us — France Is Mobilizing. At five o’clock yesterday morning the tocsin sounded from the Marie (village hall) and men, women, and children all flocked to hear the proclamation which the Mayor of the village read. It called upon all of military age — between twenty years and fifty years — to march at once, and inside of twenty-four hours five hundred men had gone, they knew not where. The bravery of these villagers — men and women — is remarkable, and not to be forgotten. No murmuring, no complaining — just, ma patrie, tying up the little bundle — so little — and going; none left but old men, women, and children.
We have started teaching the women and girls to make bandages, sponges, etc., for the hospital which will be needed here.
August 23, 1914
Divonne-les-Bains, France
Your letter came yesterday — twenty days on the way — but I was fortunate to get it at all; so many of these poor people, whose nearest and dearest have gone to fight for their country, have had no word from them since they marched away, and they do not know where they are.
From this little village five hundred men left the first day of mobilization; there is not a family who has not some one gone, and from some both fathers and sons have gone, as the age limit is from twenty to fifty years.
I am filled with admiration and respect for these people. The courage of both the men and women is remarkable. There is no hesitation, and no grumbling, and everyone tries to do whatever he or she can to help the cause.
I do not know if I told you, in my last letter, of the poor lady who walked all night through the dark and storm to see her son who was leaving the next morning. All the horses and motors had been taken by the government for the army, so she started at eleven o’clock at night, all by her self, and got here about five in the morning — her son left at seven, so she had two hours with him. While there are such mothers in France she cannot fall. There are many such stories I might tell you, but I have not the time.
The Red Cross has started a branch hospital here, and I have been helping them to get it in order. It is just about ready now, and we may get soldiers any day.
I have classes every morning and find many of the women very quick to learn the rudiments of nursing. Every one in the place is making supplies and our sitting room is a sort of depot where they come for work.
If my patient is as well in October as she is now I am going to stay and give my services to the Red Cross. If I have to go home with her I will come back — I would be a coward and deserter if I did not do all I could for these poor brave people.
October 25, 1914
Another Sunday — but this is cold and rainy — the days slip by so quickly I cannot keep track of them. We have only two soldiers left at the hospital — they tell us every day that others are coming. The country all about is perfectly beautiful with the autumn coloring. We do not see any of the horrors of the war here. If it were not for the tales that come to us from outside, and for the poor broken men who come back, we would not know it was going on. There are very enthusiastic accounts of the Canadians in all the English papers.
About February 15, 1915
Paris
Back safely in Paris after taking my patient to New York and a short visit home, which now seems like a dream.
I have been spending a lot of time at the American Ambulance this week, but have not gone out to stay as yet, as I still have to see some other small hospitals and had to go to the clearing house to make arrangements for sending supplies, which I brought from home and New York, to different places.
I have seen quite a number of operations, and as X-ray pictures are taken of all the cases there is no time wasted in hunting for a bullet; they get the bullet out in about two minutes. They are using Dr. Criles’ anaesthetic — nitrous oxide gas and oxygen — it has no bad effects whatever. The patients come out of it at once as soon as the mask is taken off, and there is no nausea or illness at all; and most of them go off laughing, for they cannot believe that it is all over — they feel so well; but oh, mother, it is awful to see the sad things that have happened. In some cases there are only pieces of men left. One young chap, twenty-one years old, has lost both legs. At first he did not want to live, but now he is beginning to take an interest in things and is being fitted for wooden legs.
Agnes Warner and the Nursing Sisters of the Great War Page 5
