In a Military Hospital
When there is war a military hospital is a microcosm of its miseries,
but the heroism of our soldiers greatly mitigates them. On the field of
battle soldiers show the courage that dares, and when they are brought
into hospital it is found that they have also the courage that bears.
"It's a treat," wrote a R.A.M.C. man, "to see the 'Tommies' when their
wounds are being dressed. You may ask them twenty times if they are
feeling pain, and they will say 'No,' or 'Only a trifle,' until at last
they collapse."
The self-forgetfulness of some of the wounded is sublime. Writing of
patients who had passed through No. 14 Clearing Hospital 5th Division,
in France, Dr. Ludwig Tasker said: "We had one poor fellow whose tongue
was actually on his neck, as the result of having had his left jaw
blown off. Of course, he could not speak, and when, at a sign from him,
I gave him a sheet of paper, all he wrote on it was that his captain
was worthy of the Victoria Cross."
When Private H.S. Funnell, of the 2nd Sussex Regiment, died in a French
Military Hospital, a nurse wrote this to his wife: "Your husband was
apparently thinking about the battle a good deal, for quite at the last
he called out: 'Come on, boys, at 'em again. I don't mind if they are
six or a hundred to one. Last fight. I'm done. Good-bye, lads. The good
old Sussex."
A medical man serving with the R.A.M.C. at the front, in a letter to a
friend, said: "Our Tommy is a grand fellow. There was one--a Notts and
Derby man--brought in last night. He was peppered all over, and I said
to him as he lay on the table, 'What happened to you?' and he said, 'I
got three damned coal-boxes'--the name we give to the big Black Maria
German Shells. I said to him, 'Why did you try to stop three?' and he
said, 'I couldn't get out of the way.' We dressed him in the head, the
back, the right shoulder and the buttock, mostly nasty wounds. Then I
said, 'Are you hit anywhere else?' and he said, 'Well, I think there
are two or three on my right leg, but they don't matter. Will you give
me a cigarette?' I gave him one, and he said, 'I'm used to this. I'm
a collier, and I've been twice in pit accidents, but I'd sooner go
through those than run up against another coal-box.'"
To have been wounded in eleven places is the remarkable record of
Private E. Johnson, of the Yorkshire Light Infantry, now in the Duchess
of Westminster's Hospital at La Toquet. He tells his wife in a letter
that he has pains in the head that nearly make him mad; but forgetting
himself and thinking of his children he continues: "It nearly breaks
my heart to think I cannot send little Violet and Bessie and Lillie
something for Christmas; but never mind, let us hope we shall live for
another Christmas."
A Highlander who had been maimed for life was asked afterwards in
Hospital if he regretted becoming a soldier. He replied, "No, because
I've had a good home and a man with a good home should fight for it."
An English artilleryman, who before the war was a professional
footballer in the North of England, died in hospital. He had previously
undergone amputation of both legs. Up to the end he chatted with two
visitors who had come to solace his last moments. The dying man, who
in his time had been a great centre forward, told them he did not
fancy living with his two legs off while all the other "boys" were out
playing, but declared he would not have missed the excitement of the
last battle for anything. Refusing grapes and chocolate, he took a
cigarette and said: "Have you any newspapers with you? I should like to
glance over the football news before I pass out."
There is an irrepressible Welsh Fusilier at the Stanley Hospital,
Liverpool, who is known as "the Joker of the Regiment." He has three
bad bullet wounds, and yet he is as cheerful as a lion comique, and
keeps his fellows as cheerful as children at a circus.
After telling his mother in a letter that he was "in dock for repairs,"
a soldier continued: "This leaves me with a smile on my face, only I'll
say good-bye, lest we should never meet again."
Rifleman P. King, 2nd Battalion King's Royal Rifles, wrote from
Portsmouth Hospital: "Since I have been home I have had a leg amputated
4 inches below the knee, so now one tin of blacking will last twice as
long, as I shall only have one boot to clean!"
So it is that the brave spirit of our soldiers enables them to joke
even at serious wounds. A hand of a Royal Irish Rifleman was shot off
at the battle of Mons. For some time after being admitted to hospital
he was very despondent about his future. How could he earn his living?
One day, however, he broke out with a laugh. "If all else fails. I'll
get a job as a shorthand writer."
Another Highlander, with arm terribly shattered by a shell, said: "I
will be first-rate for opening taxi doors in the Strand; lucky it was
my left arm."
A soldier told a reporter this about a wounded Highlander. When brought
to hospital he began to swear, and those who had picked him up at
great risk told him that this was a strange sort of gratitude to men
who had most likely saved his life. "Maybe you have, and maybe you
haven't saved my life," he said in his dogged, dour way. "A'm no saying
onnything aboot that; but what A want to hear is what did ye dae wi' me
wee cap. It's loast, it is, an' A'll hae tee pay for anither oot o' me
ain pocket."
At all times a good soldier dislikes to go to hospital; but especially
so on active service. He wants to do all he can for his country and he
dreads to be suspected of "skrimshanking." The reluctance of Colonel
Loring, who commanded the second Battalion of the Royal Warwickshires,
to go to hospital caused his death, which was a great loss to the
Army. Wounded in a foot by a shrapnel bullet he refused to go to
hospital, had his foot bound up in a puttee when unable to wear a boot
and led his men on horseback. This made him a conspicuous mark for
sharpshooters, and after two chargers had been killed under him he was
himself shot dead.
Great courage is shown by orderlies and ambulance men connected with a
military hospital. There is the danger of catching infectious diseases
and the danger of collecting the wounded during and after a battle.
For ambulance men there is no excitement, or the stimulus of "hitting
back;" yet they often get hit themselves.