WARD 43, RESERVE LAZARETTE 5, HANOVER
OCCUPANTS OF THE WARD. CHIVALRY OF THE AIR
Before the war Reserve Lazarette 5 at Hanover was a military school.
It is now used for wounded military prisoners, and for German soldiers
suffering from venereal disease.
The same operating-room is used for all patients; the wounded
prisoners receiving treatment in the morning, and the Germans in the
afternoon.
There is a fair-sized garden, not unattractive, and the wounded are
permitted to take the fresh air, and to walk about freely, if they are
able to do so. So are the German patients, and so are their visitors,
on Tuesdays and Saturdays, from 2 till 4 in the afternoon. There is no
separation of the two classes of patients, and honour must share the
company of disgrace in her captivity.
Ward 43 was a billiard-room in the old days, and the small-sized
billiard-table is pushed against the wall and used as a table. There
were nine beds in the ward; and four British and four French officers
lay side by side in captivity.
The friendship of the two great nations was reflected in the maimed
and pain-ridden bodies of these soldiers lying side by side, helpless,
uncomplaining, but still champions of Anglo-French unity. Their cause
is the same; their pain is the same; and side by side they lay, as
side by side they had fallen.
Of the French officers I got to know but little, for they could speak
no English, and the English could speak no French.
On my left was an officer of the Royal Flying Corps, Lieutenant
Donelly. He had been brought to earth after a fight thirteen thousand
feet in the air, against five German planes. With his left arm
disabled and three fingers shot off his right hand, and his engine out
of action, he nose-dived to the ground. A German aeroplane nose-dived
after him, all the while firing as it dropped.
With only a finger and thumb to manipulate his machine, he managed to
effect a landing. The moment earth was struck the firing ceased, and
the Germans landing from their machines approached him and treated him
courteously.
There is a spirit of chivalry among those who fight in the air, as
both sides can testify. The air alone is their arena, and neither side
will continue a combat on terra firma.
On my right was Lieutenant Rogan of the Royal Irish Regiment, a sturdy
fellow, who had been in the Guards.
He was attacking some Germans, who were putting up a stout resistance
during the fight for Guinchy; and as he was rushing forward, a German
threw a hand-grenade, which exploded in his face. His right eye was
removed at St. Quentin, and he was slowly recovering the sight of the
left.
In the bed next to his was another young officer of the Royal Flying
Corps, a boy about eighteen, very small, and only weighing about eight
stone. Mabbitt was his name, Second Lieutenant Mabbitt; and he, too,
had fought many thousand feet in the air against desperate odds,
fracturing his leg in the fall.
German airmen seem to make a practice of waiting until a single
English aeroplane appears in sight; then they ascend in a flight of
five to attack, and woe betide the English airman who happens to be
soaring above in a slow machine.
Deeds of pluck are common on land and sea; but the heroic combats in
the air are a new sensation, with unknown terrors realised in a single
gasp; and the youth of our country defy it. Yet, who is there to tell
their deeds if they fall?
Shortly after I arrived two British officers were brought in,
Lieutenant Wishart of the Canadians, who had a bullet wound through
his leg; and Second Lieutenant Parker, who had a hole in his leg as
big as an apple, and who spent most of the day in declaring that he
was as fit as a fiddle.
But the occupant of the remaining bed was one who endeared himself to
the hearts of all. He was SANIEZ (pronounced Sanyea), our orderly. But
Saniez must have a chapter to himself.