It is wonderful to talk to men affectionately without exciting or
implying love. The Utopian dreams of sixteen seem almost to be realized!
When I sew splints they come and talk to me. Scutts will sometimes talk
for an hour. At first I was so proud that I dared hardly stir a finger
for fear that I should frighten him away; now I am more sure of him. He
never says "What?" to me, nor any longer jumps when I speak to him as
though my every word must carry some command. When I sew splints and
listen to Scutts or the old Scotch grocer or Monk--that squinting child
of whom Pinker said, "Monk got a girl! He don' know what a girl is!"--I
think, "We cannot all be efficient, but ... this serves some end."
For they are complaining that I am not efficient. At first it hurt my
pride; but it depends upon the point of view. Does one go into a ward
primarily to help the patients or to help the Sister? It is not always
the same thing, but one must not question discipline....
To-day nine of the patients "went convalescent." They departed, hobbling
and on stretchers, at two o'clock, with bursts of song, plastered hair,
bright buttons, and not a regret. "You'll be able to hear a pin fall
to-night, nurse," said one of them.
"I know we shall. And a tear too," I added.
But they won't listen to any such nonsense. They are going off to the
little convalescent hospitals, they are going away to be treated like
men; and I must laugh and shake hands and not dream of adding, "Perhaps
we shall see you back again."
"No more route-marching...!" was the last cry I heard from the Nine.
How they hate route-marching--especially the City men, most especially
Pinker! "March down the silly road," he grumbles, "sit on the silly
grass and get heat-bumps."
Sometimes I think that sewing splints will be my undoing. If I listen
much longer I shall see crooked.
To-day they had some small bottles of stout to help us say good-bye to
the Nine.
Happiness is cheap. Last night at dinner a man said as he refilled his
glass with champagne, "It makes me sad to think how much happiness there
is in a bottle...."
The attack has begun.
"At 3.15 this morning ... on a front of two miles...."
So that is why the ward is so empty and the ambulances have been
hurrying out of the yard all day. We shall get that convoy for which I
longed.
When the ward is empty and there is, as now, so little work to do, how
we, the women, watch each other over the heads of the men! And because
we do not care to watch, nor are much satisfied with what we see, we
want more work. At what a price we shall get it....
Scutts and Monk talk to me while I sew, but what about the Monks,
Scutts, Gayners, whose wounds will never need a dressing or a tube--who
lie along a front of two miles, one on his face, another on his back?
Since 3.15 this morning a lot of men have died. Thank God one cannot go
on realizing death.
But one need not think of it. This is a ward; here are lucky ones. Even
when I look at Rees, even when I look at the grocer, even when I look at
the T.B. ward, I know that anything, _anything_ is better than death.
But I have known a man here and there who did not think so--and these
men, close on death it is true, were like strangers in the ward.
For one can be close on death and remain familiar, friendly,
comprehensible.
I used to think, "It is awful to die." But who knows what compliance the
years will bring? What is awful is to die _young_.
A new V.A.D. came into the ward yesterday--a girl straight from home,
who has never been in a hospital before.