Diary of a Nursing Sister

by Katherine. E. Luard

  The ambulance trains are collecting the Ypres casualties straight from the convoys at Poperinghe, as we did at Ypres in October and November, and not through the Clearing Hospitals, which I believe have had to move farther back.

  Wednesday, April 28th.—Here everything is as it has been for the last few days (except the weather, which is suddenly hot as summer), rather more casualties, but no rush, and the same crescendo of heavy guns. Some shells were dropped in a field just outside the town at 8.30 yesterday evening but did no damage.

  Thursday, April 29th, 4 p.m.—The weather and the evenings are indescribably incongruous. Tea in the garden at home, deck-chairs, and Sweep under the walnut-tree come into one's mind, and before one's eyes and ears are motor ambulances and stretchers and dressings, and the everlasting noise of marching feet, clattering hoofs, lorries, and guns, and sometimes the skirl of the pipes. One day there was a real band, and every one glowed and thrilled with the sound of it.

  I strayed into a concert at 5.30 this evening, given by the Glasgow Highlanders to a packed houseful of men and officers. I took good care to be shown into a solitary box next the stage, as I was alone and guessed that some of the items would not be intended for polite female ears. The level of the talent was a high one, some good part songs, and two real singers, and some quite funny and clever comic; but one or two things made me glad of the shelter of my box. The choruses were fine. The last thing was a brilliant effort of the four part singers dressed as comic sailors, which simply made the house rock. Then suddenly, while they were still yelling, the first chords of the "King" were played, and all the hundreds stood to attention in a pin-drop silence while it was played—not sung—much more impressive than the singing of it, I thought.

  We have had some bad cases in today, and the boy with the lung is not doing so well.

  My second inoculation passed off very quickly, and I have not been off duty for it.

  * * *

  X.

  With No.— Field Ambulance (2)

  FESTUBERT, May 9 and May 16

  May 6, 1915, to May 26, 1915

  "We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing;

  We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.

  War knows no power. Safe shall be my going,

  Secretly armed against all death's endeavour.

  Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;

  And if these poor limbs die, safest of all."

  —Rupert Brooke.

  * * *

  With No.— Field Ambulance (2).

  FESTUBERT, May 9 and May 16.

  May 6, 1915, to May 26, 1915.

  The noise of war—Preparation—Sunday, May 9—The barge—The officers' dressing station—Charge of the Black Watch, May 9—Festubert, May 16—The French Hospital—A bad night—Shelled out—Back at a Clearing Hospital—"For duty at a Base Hospital."

  Thursday, May 6th, 3 a.m.—It was a very noisy day, and I didn't sleep after 2 p.m. There is a good lot of firing going on tonight.

  A very muddy officer of 6 ft. 4 was brought in early yesterday morning with a broken leg, and it is a hard job to get him comfortable in these short beds.

  Yesterday at 4 a.m. I couldn't resist invading the garden opposite which is the R.A. Headquarters. It is full of lovely trees and flowers and birds. I found a blackbird's nest with one egg in. From the upper windows of this place it makes a perfect picture, with the peculiarly beautiful tower of the Cathedral as a background.

  Friday, May 7th, 1 a.m.—The noise is worse than anywhere in London, even the King's Road. The din that a column of horse-drawn, bolt-rattling waggons make over cobbles is literally deafening; you can't hear each other speak. And the big motor-lorries taking the "munitions of war" up are almost as bad. These processions alternate with marching troops, clattering horses, and French engines all day, and very often all night, and in the middle of it all there are the guns. Tonight the rifle firing is crackling.

  Sir John French and Sir Douglas Haig have been up here today, and every one is telling every one else when the great Attack is going to begin.

  There are three field ambulances up here, and only work for two ( —th and —th), so the —th is established in a huge school for 500 boys, where it runs a great laundry and bathing establishment. A thousand men a day come in for bath, disinfection, and clean clothes; 100 French women do the laundry work in huge tubs, and there are big disinfectors and drying and ironing rooms. The men of the F.A. do the sorting and all the work except the washing and ironing. And the beautifully-cared-for English cart-horses that belong to the F.A., and the waggons and the motor ambulances and the equipment, are all kept ready to move at a moment's notice.

  Colonel —— showed me all over it this evening. It is done at a cost to the Government of 7d. per man, washed and clothed.

  My blackbird has laid another egg.

  Friday, May 7th, 10 p.m.—A pitch-dark night, raining a little, and only one topic—the Attack tomorrow morning.

  The first R.A.M.C. barge has come up, and is lying in the canal ready to take on the cases of wounds of lung and abdomen, to save the jolting of road and railway; it is to have two Sisters, but I haven't seen them yet: shall go in the morning: went round this morning to see, but the barge hadn't arrived.

  There are a few sick officers downstairs who are finding it hard to stick in their beds, with their regiments in this job close by. There is a house close by which I saw this morning with a dirty little red flag with a black cross on it, where the C.-in-C. and thirty commanders of the 1st Army met yesterday.

  The news today of Hill 60 and the gases is another spur to the grim resolve to break through here, that can be felt and seen and heard in every detail of every arm. "Grandmother" is lovingly talked about.

  The town, the roads, and the canal banks this morning were so packed with men, waggons, horses, bales, and lorries, that you could barely pick your way between them.

  Since writing this an aeroplane has been circling over us with a loud buzz. The sergeant called up to me to put the lights out. We saw her light. There is much speculation as to who and what she was; she was not big enough for our big "'Bus," as she is called, who belongs to this place. No one seems ever to have seen one here at night before.

  We are making flannel masks for the C.O. for our men.

  Our fat little Gabrielle makes the most priceless soup out of the ration beef (which none of us are any good at) and carrots. She mothers us each individually, and cleans the house and keeps her wee kitchen spotless.

  4 a.m.—The 9.2's are just beginning to talk.

  Here is a true story. One of our trenches at Givenchy was being pounded by German shells at the time of N. Ch. A man saw his brother killed on one side of him and another man on the other. He went on shooting over the parapet; then the parapet got knocked about, and still he wasn't hit. He seized his brother's body and the other man's and built them up into the parapet with sandbags, and went on shooting.

  When the stress was over and he could leave off, he looked round and saw what he was leaning against. "Who did that?" he said. And they told him.

  They get awfully sick at the big-print headlines in some of the papers—"The Hill 60 Thrill"!

  "Thrill, indeed! There's nothing thrilling about ploughing over parapets into a machine-gun, with high explosives bursting round you,—it's merely beastly," said a boy this evening, who is all over shrapnel splinters.

  Saturday, May 8th, 9 a.m.—This is Der Tag. Could anybody go to bed and undress?

  I have been cutting dressings all night. One of the most stabbing things in this war is seeing the lines of empty motor ambulances going up to bring down the wrecks who at this moment are sound and fit, and all absolutely ready to be turned into wrecks.

  10.30 p.m.—Der Tag was a wash-out, but it is to begin at 1.15 tonight. (It didn't!)

  The tension is more up than ever. A boy who has just come in with a poisoned heel (broken-hearted because he is out of it, while his batt
alion moves up) says, "You'll be having them in in cartloads over this."

  Sunday, May 9th, 1.30 a.m.—The Lions are roaring in full blast and lighting up the sky.

  Have been busy tonight with an operation case who is needing a lot of special nursing, and some admissions—one in at 11 p.m., who was only wounded at 9 o'clock. I hope these magnificent roars and rumblings are making a mess of the barbed wire and German trenches. There seems to be a pretty general opinion that they will retaliate by dropping them into this place if they have time, and pulverising it like Ypres.

  5.25 a.m.—It has begun. It is awful—continuous and earthquaking.

  9.30 a.m.—In bed. The last ten minutes of "Rapid" did its damnedest and then began again, and we are still thundering hell into the German lines.

  It began before 5 with a fearful pounding from the French on our right, and hasn't left off since.

  Had a busy night with my operation case and the others (he is doing fine), and in every spare second getting ready for the rush. The M.O.'s were astir very early; the A.D.M.S. came to count empty beds. It is tonight they'll be coming in.

  Must try and sleep. But who could yesterday and today?

  Monday, May 10th, 9.30 a.m.—We have had a night of it. Every Field Ambulance, barge, Clearing Hospital, and train are blocked with them. The M.O.'s neither eat nor sleep. I got up early yesterday and went down to the barge to see if they wanted any extra help (as the other two were coping with the wounded officers), and had a grim afternoon and evening there. One M.O., no Sisters, four trained orderlies, and some other men were there. It was packed with all the worst cases—dying and bleeding and groaning. After five hours we had three-fourths of them out of their blood-soaked clothes, dressed, fed, hæmorrhage stopped, hands and faces washed, and some asleep. Two died, and more were dying. They all worked like bricks. The M.O., and another from the other barge which hadn't filled up, sent up to the O.D.S., when my hour for night duty there came, to ask if I could stay, and got leave. At 11 p.m. four Sisters arrived (I don't know how—they'd been wired for), two for each barge; so I handed over to them and went to the O.D.S. to relieve the other two there for night duty. The place was unrecognisable: every corner of every floor filled with wounded officers—some sitting up and some all over wounds, and three dying and others critical; and they still kept coming in. They were all awfully good strewing about the floor—some soaked to the skin from wet shell holes—on their stretchers, waiting to be put to bed.

  One had had "such a jolly Sunday afternoon" lying in a shell hole with six inches of water in it and a dead man, digging himself in deeper with his trench tool whenever the shells burst near him. He was hit in the stomach.

  One officer saw the enemy through a periscope sniping at our wounded.

  4 p.m.—In bed. It seems quiet today; there are so few guns to be heard, and not so many ambulances coming. All except the hopeless cases will have been evacuated by now from all the Field Hospitals. There was a block last night, and none could be sent on. The Clearing Hospitals were full, and no trains in.

  Those four Sisters from the base had a weird arrival at the barge last night in a car at 11 p.m. It was a black dark night, big guns going, and a sudden descent down a ladder into that Nelson's cockpit. They were awfully bucked when we said, "Oh, I am glad you have come." They buckled to and set to work right off. The cook, who had been helping magnificently in the ward, was running after me with hot cocoa (breakfast was my last meal, except a cup of tea), and promised to give them some. One wounded of the Munsters there said he didn't mind nothink now,—he'd seen so many dead Germans as he never thought on. As always, they have lost thousands, but they come on like ants.

  They have only had about seven new cases today at the O.D.S., but two of last night's have died. A Padre was with them.

  They had no market this morning, for fear of bombs from aeroplanes. There's been no shelling into the town.

  Tuesday, May 11th, 6.30 p.m.—In bed. I went to bed pretty tired this morning after an awful night (only a few of the less seriously wounded had been evacuated yesterday, and all the worst ones, of course, left), and slept like a top from 10.30 to 5, and feel as fit as anything after it.

  The fighting seems to have stopped now, and no more have come in today. Last night a stiff muddy figure, all bandages and straw, on the stretcher was brought in. I asked the boy how many wounds? "Oh, only five," he said cheerfully. "Nice clean wounds,—machine-gun,—all in and out again!"

  The Padre came at 7.30 and had a Celebration in each ward, but I was too busy to take any notice of it.

  One of these officers was hit by a German shell on Sunday morning early, soon after our bombardment began. He crawled about till he was hit again twice by other shells, and then lay there all that day and all that night, with one drink from another wounded's water-bottle; every one else was either dead or wounded round him. Next morning his servant found him and got stretcher-bearers, and he got here.

  I don't know how they live through that.

  Wednesday, May 12th, 6.30 p.m.—Slept very well. I hear from Gabrielle that they have had a hard day at the O.D.S.; no new cases, but all the bad ones very ill.

  My little room is crammed with enormous lilac, white and purple, from our wee garden, which I am going to take to our graves tomorrow in jam tins.

  Thursday, May 13th, 11 a.m.—Can't face the graves today; have had an awful night; three died during the night. I found the boy who brought his officer in from between the German line and ours, on Sunday night, crying this morning over the still figure under a brown blanket on a stretcher.

  Of the other two, brought straight in from the other dressing station, one only lived long enough to be put to bed, and the other died on his stretcher in the hall.

  The O.C. said last night, "Now this War has come we've got to tackle it with our gloves off," but it takes some tackling. It seems so much nearer, and more murderous somehow in this Field Ambulance atmosphere even than it did on the train with all the successive hundreds.

  We can see Notre Dame de Lorette from here; the Chapel and Fort stand high up in that flat maze of slag-heaps, mine-heads, and sugar-factories just behind the line on the right.

  9 p.m., O.D.S.—Everything very quiet here.

  A gunner just admitted says there will probably be another big bombardment tomorrow morning, and after that another attack, and after that I suppose some more for us.

  Another says that the charge of the Black Watch on Sunday was a marvellous thing. They went into it playing the pipes! The Major who led it handed somebody his stick, as he "probably shouldn't want it again."

  It is very wet tonight, but they go up to the trenches singing Ragtime, some song about "We are always—respected—wherever we go." And another about "Sing a song—a song with me. Come along—along with me."

  11 p.m.—Just heard a shell burst, first the whistling scream, and then the bang—wonder where? There was another about an hour ago, but I didn't hear the whistle of that—only the bang. I shouldn't have known what the whistle was if I hadn't heard it at Braisne. It goes in a curve. All the men on the top floor have been sent down to sleep in the cellar; another shell has busted.

  12.15.—Just had another, right overhead; all the patients are asleep, luckily.

  1.30 p.m.—There was one more, near enough to make you jump, and a few more too far off to hear the whistling. A sleepy major has just waked up and said, "Did you hear the shells? Blackguards, aren't they?"

  The sky on the battle line tonight is the weirdest sight; our guns are very busy, and they are making yellow flashes like huge sheets of summer lightning. Then the star-shells rise, burst, and light up a large area, while a big searchlight plays slowly on the clouds. It is all very beautiful when you don't think what it means.

  Two more—the last very loud and close. It is somehow much more alarming than Braisne, perhaps because it is among buildings, and because one knows so much more what they mean.

  Another—the other side of th
e building.

  An ambulance has been called out, so some one must have been hit; I've lost count of how many they've dropped, but they could hardly fail to do some damage.

  5 a.m.—Daylight—soaking wet, and no more shells since 2 a.m. We have admitted seven officers tonight; the last—just in—says there have been five people wounded in the town by this peppering—one killed. I don't know if civilians or soldiers.

  That bombardment on Sunday morning was the biggest any one has ever heard,—more guns on smaller space, and more shells per minute.

  Nine officers have "died of wounds" here since Sunday, and the tenth will not live to see daylight. There is an attack on tonight. This has been a ghastly week, and now it is beginning again.

  The other two Sisters had quite a nasty time last night lying in bed, waiting for the shells to burst in their rooms. They do sound exactly as if they are coming your way and nowhere else!

  I rather think they are dropping some in again tonight, but they are not close enough to hear the whistle, only the bangs.

  There is an officer in tonight with a wound in the hand and shoulder from a shell which killed eleven of his men, and another who went to see four of his platoon in a house at the exact moment when a percussion shell went on the same errand; the whole house sat down, and the five were wounded—none killed.

  Saturday, May 15th, 10 p.m.—Tension up again like last Saturday. Another TAG is happening tomorrow. Every one except three sick downstairs has been evacuated, and they have made accommodation for 1000 at the French Hospital, which is the 4th F.A. main dressing station, and headquarters. All officers, whether seriously or slightly wounded, are to be taken there to be dressed by the M.O.'s in the specially-arranged dressing-rooms, and then sent on to us to be put to bed and coped with.