AT THE SIGN OF THE RED CROSS
Regimental Aid Posts--What Night Fighting is Like--The Young
Doctor--Making the Grave Bigger--Field Dressing
Stations--Where Caution is Required--Where Pluck is
Shown--When Does the Doctor Sleep?--Nothing but Tragedy--Those
Grand Tommies--Winning a V.C. Clasp--A Dreadful Scene--A
Kitchener's Train--Devoted Nurses--The Healthiest
War--Preventive Measures--Hospital Ships.
So complete is the organisation of the Red Cross at the front that it
is possible to indicate its work in four terms--Regimental Aid Posts,
Field Dressing Stations, Clearing Hospitals, Base Hospitals. Add to
these the Home Hospitals, to which the men are finally transferred,
and you have the work of the Army Medical Organisation at a glance.
During this war the cryptic letters R.A.M.C. and M.S.C. have
interpreted themselves into actual glorious service which the British
public will ever delight to honour, and it will be borne in mind that
most of the Christian ministers who have enlisted during this war,
have enlisted into this branch of the service. They bear no arms, but
theirs is the highest of all service, that of ministering to the
wounded and dying. Such work as this requires heroism of the highest
order.
Let us glance at each branch of the work, that the service of the Red
Cross may live before us.
1. _Regimental Aid Posts._--Just a little behind the firing line, as
near to it as possible, often exposed to shell and rifle fire, is the
Regimental Aid Post. It may be in a cottage, possibly in a cow-shed,
perhaps only under the partial shelter of a hill, with a doctor and a
few men of the R.A.M.C. in charge. To it are brought as quickly as
possible the men wounded in the firing line. During recent months,
however, it has been impossible to bring the wounded even this short
distance during the day. It has only been at night that the men in the
trenches could remove their wounded hither, or the stretcher-bearers
could go out to seek for them. The fire has been so terrible that no
one could venture into the open. The men have had to lie where they
fell, often in agony, waiting until they could be carried to the aid
post to receive first aid from the doctor waiting for them. But the
doctor does not always wait; he goes where he is needed most, right
into the trenches, risking his life at every step, and there ministers
to those who cannot wait to be brought to him.
The Rev. E.L. Watson (Baptist chaplain) vividly describes one such
outpost as I have indicated.
"In the vicinity of the trenches star bombs were constantly being
thrown up, causing whole lines of trenches to be under the weird
flare. German search-lights swept the whole of the surrounding
country, bringing to light every movement of the troops not under
cover.
"For one brief moment the shaft of light rested on me as I stood
watching the scene of battle. The experience is equal to an unexpected
cold douche. Night fighting under modern science is, I should
imagine, hell let loose, and the surprise to me is that so many should
survive the inferno.
"From 8 P.M. to 8 A.M. the rush was terrific. In one of the field
hospitals no less than seventy odd wounded were treated, about twenty
of these requiring chloroform.
"Be it remembered that each case is hastily but carefully dressed by
the regimental doctor at the Regimental Aid Post before coming in to
the field hospital for more thorough treatment, then one realises the
enormous amount of work that often falls to the men occupying these
positions of grave risk and tough work.
"These gentlemen are night and day at the call of the man in the
trenches, and gladly make any and every sacrifice to render needed
medical and surgical assistance. Each trip they make to the line of
fire means that they carry their lives in their hands; for there is
more danger getting into the trenches than actually exists in the
trenches, because most of the fire passes over our trenches and sweeps
the approaches night and day.
"Some few days ago, I had occasion to spend some time with a young
regimental doctor in his lonely outpost. We were drawn together by
common interests and promised ourselves a smoke night together. The
first case that met my gaze in the field hospital was my friend the
young regimental doctor, fatally wounded whilst going in the rush of
work to render help to the wounded.
"Perfectly conscious, he said as he took my hand, 'You see, Padre,
they have claimed me at last. I always felt it would come.'
"Calmly he dictated a brief message to his young wife and child, then
bravely waited for the end. He knew exactly the nature of his wound
and was quite prepared for the surrender of his soul to God. He
accepted his end as nobly as he had striven to do his God-inspired
work. The real tragedy of this is in the house yonder in England made
desolate by this cruel war."
So does the Regimental Aid Post doctor give his life for his country.
The Rev. Owen Spencer Watkins (Wesleyan) gives us another picture of a
Regimental Aid Post.
"Near the trenches in a deserted farm by the roadside is the
Regimental Aid Post which last I visited. Two regimental doctors have
made it their headquarters--Captain Brown and Lieutenant Eccles--and
thither are gathered the sick and wounded belonging to the Manchester
Regiment and the East Surreys. I had been sent for to bury the dead.
As usual on such occasions, I went out with the bearers and ambulance
waggons after dark, and when I arrived I found three men waiting
burial. Two as they stood side by side had been killed by the same
bullet, the other had been shot whilst issuing rations to his comrades
in the trenches.
"'You've timed your visit well, Padre,' said Captain Brown. 'There's
been a bit of an attack on. Enemy evidently got the wind up badly, and
have been loosing off wildly in the air. Bullets have been falling
around the house like hail; half an hour ago you couldn't have got to
us. One comfort is that if the bullets were falling here, they must
have been going high over the heads of our fellows.'
"'Yes, we're ready for you as soon as ever the waggons are loaded, but
Eccles has a man of the East Surreys; perhaps the grave had better be
made bigger, and then you can make one job of it.'
"A few minutes later we were passing through the farm-yard at the back
of the house, mud over our boot tops, into a field, in the corner of
which a little cemetery had sprung up. 'Twenty officers and men, most
of them Manchesters,' Brown said in an undertone. 'Winnifrith buried
three here last night, and two the night before. No, you need not be
afraid to use a light to-night. The weather is too thick for it to be
seen by the enemy, and in any case they're busy, for our fellows are
attacking. Listen.' Again the angry voice of the machine-gun, the
noise of rifle fire, so heavy that it sounded like the bubbling of
water boiling in some gigantic cauldron."
2. We pass now to the _Field Dressing Stations_. It appears to be only
when the fighting is severe that these are needed in addition to the
Regimental Aid Posts. Sometimes the wounded are taken direct to the
clearing hospital from the Regimental Aid Posts; but when the wounded
crowd in upon the latter, they can only receive rough first aid
treatment there, and are passed back as quickly as possible to the
Dressing Station.
This is carefully explained in a letter by Staff-Sergeant Barlow,
R.A.M.C., to the Vicar of Prestwich. "Perhaps it would be well to
explain where our work as a field ambulance comes in. We are not in
the sense of the word a hospital. In the first place a regiment is in
the trenches, and in close proximity to the trenches, the regimental
bearers carry their wounded to some place of cover or comparative
safety, such as a barn or farm-house, or in the case of a town being
shelled, cellars are used. These are called Regimental Aid Posts.
"As a Field Ambulance we follow from one to two miles in the rear of
the firing line and form dressing stations, using schools or barns for
the purpose. Our ambulance waggons and stretcher-bearers go out under
cover of darkness to collect from the Aid Posts the wounded soldiers,
the waggons halting perhaps half a mile away, while the bearers cross
fields and roads to the Aid Posts where the wounded soldiers are.
"This is very dangerous and requires much caution; lights are
prohibited, as even the flare of a cigarette becomes a good mark for
the enemy's snipers, of whom they appear to have many.
"Each regiment forms its own Aid Post. One ambulance unit attends a
brigade. After the wounded are brought to the dressing station, the
wounds are redressed, and the soldiers are as soon as possible
despatched to the clearing hospitals at the base."
Staff-Sergeant Barlow proceeds to describe his first impressions of
this awful work:
"What were my first impressions? you may ask. They were such as I can
never forget. We were halted near a farm-house, the tenants of which
had cleared out, leaving fowls and pigs unattended. The pigs could not
have been fed for several days, as they were shrieking for food; we
called it crying. The pigs were fed with food from the lofts. Dinner
was served to the men (army biscuits and jam), in the midst of which
an order came for an ambulance waggon for a wounded man.
"We were all astir, and it was the first casualty we had had to deal
with. The waggon went out, and later several stretcher squads and
other waggons. The remainder had to fall back about half a mile to a
small village to prepare a school and church for the receipt of the
wounded.
"My first thoughts were: What is it like; shall I be able to stand the
sight of it? In the evening our waggons began to return, bringing many
wounded. The medical officers rolled their sleeves up and set to work.
My duty fell to assisting by taking off the dressings from the wounds,
the first one being that of a soldier with part of his elbow blown
away. It looked awful, but I got over it very well. Why? Because we
had not time to think of it. There were others to attend to, most
patiently waiting--and I think it is in such circumstances as these
that one can see the true pluck and courage of the British
soldier,--with here and there one pleading for attention.
"Everyone worked hard; the hours passed as minutes, and when all were
attended and we looked in solemn silence around, I turned to a comrade
and asked the time. He answered it was after 4 A.M. I thought it was
midnight. We had dealt with 134 wounded, among whom were several
Germans. Under a shed in the school-yard lay five men who had died
after being brought in; they were reverently buried in the local
cemetery. Since this we have had worse and much of a similar nature,
but they have become a conglomeration of events. It is the first night
with the wounded that lives, and through it all a voice within me
continually saying: 'And this is war.'"
3. Away behind the firing line, in some quiet spot unreached by shell
or rifle fire, is the _Clearing Hospital_. To this spot come the
ambulance waggons bearing their ghastly freight of broken bodies
gathered from Regimental Aid Posts and Dressing Stations.
The doctors are busily at work. Night is their busiest time. We wonder
when the doctor at the front sleeps. We wonder with how little sleep
it is possible to support life. These men seem tireless. Hour after
hour through the night they toil on, probing here, amputating there.
This is where we see in all its horror the meaning of that new word
"frightfulness." I cannot describe the scenes that may be witnessed. I
have before me, as I write, copies of _Guy's Hospital Gazette_ from
the beginning of the war, kindly supplied me by the Editor. It is
necessary that descriptions of the horrors should be written for
professional eyes, but I will not harrow the feelings of my readers. I
turn away from their perusal echoing the words of Staff-Sergeant
Barlow--"And this is war."
[Illustration: A RESCUE PARTY.
Systematic search is made for the wounded, who often crawl away
in the hope of reaching their own lines.
_Drawn by Sydney Adamson._]
I will rather let the Rev. E.L. Watson (Baptist chaplain) describe to
us, as he saw it, the work at such a Clearing Hospital.
"In the same ward were many wounded upon the floor stretchers, lying
still in their soaked and muddy clothes just as they had fallen, with
bloody bandages showing up in dreadful contrast against their poor
soiled bodies. Some delirious, others lying in profound silence, but
noble fortitude. In a ward like this one sees nothing but tragedy.
"In the receiving room the R.A.M.C. officers were working at highest
pressure to save life and limb, by steady hand and cheery manner
imparting confidence and hope to every patient in turn.
"I could not help expressing admiration for the way in which each
piece of work was carried out, but the officer commanding simply
said, 'You know, Padre, we cannot sacrifice enough for the man who is
standing up to this hail of hell for us.'
"I was surprised to see such a large percentage of officers among the
wounded. No wonder our men are proud of their leaders; where risks
must be taken, the officer claims this as his privilege and thus shows
the way in every undertaking. One brave major leading his men into the
German trenches, when hit, simply shouted "Go on!" as he fell wounded
in the head. He is being buried to-day, as every brave soldier
desires, in his uniform and blanket."
It will be perhaps as well to look at a similar scene through a
doctor's eyes, and I therefore quote a letter from a medical officer
at a receiving base in France published in the _Scotsman_.
"We get the wounded here at practically first-hand. They are brought
in with all possible speed, dealt with at once, and sent out to other
hospitals as soon as we can send them, to make room for the others who
may (and who invariably do) come. They're wonderful chaps, those
Tommies. Great stuff; too good to lose! They are brought to us at all
hours. Exhausted, covered with mud, hastily but well bandaged on
common-sense principles; and aye the quiet, plucky grin, or the
patient, enduring set of the jaw.
"'What price this little lot, doctor? '--and the querist indicates
where the bullet entered his thigh. 'And me futball leg, too!' growled
another one, brought in dripping one night. 'And who will do the
schorin' fur the ould tame now? All the same, sir, I schored ag'in'
the man that did this, or wan av his side.' Man, they're wonderful!
They tell us, under the nervous stress in which we usually find them,
some things that have made me wish to lay my eye to the sights of a
rifle, despite my bay windows. They tell them in such a
matter-of-course fashion, too, that they simply sink in.
"'When did you get this?' I asked a man wounded in both thighs.
"'Yesterday morning, at eight, sir; chargin'. Dropped between their
trenches an' ours. Half a dozen of others there too, all wounded, lay
there all day. Those snipers poured lead into anything that showed
signs of life. Chap next to me was badly hit, and inclined to move. I
warned him twice to lie flat an' not squirm, as the Germans were
watchin' for every move, an' would plug him, wounded or not. He stuck
it steady for four hours. Then he tried to roll over, an' showed a
shoulder. Got it. Soon's the snipers couldn't see me after dark, I
started to drag myself back, an' met some of the boys out to look for
us. It was more than seven to one against us that day.' And so it goes
on.
"It's a great experience this. As a surgeon, I know its value. But I
wish it was over. It's awful. The stream of wounded seems unceasing,
and sometimes I ask myself, when I've time to realise it at all, how
long I will be able to meet this strain. We must do our work, however,
and I'm proud to do it for those grand men the Tommies."
It is, of course, difficult to single out for mention the names of
doctors who are doing this heroic work at Regimental Aid Posts and
Dressing Stations. Where all are heroic particular mention would be
invidious. There is, however, one outstanding name--Lieutenant Arthur
Martin Leake, R.A.M.C. I mention him because he has been the
recipient of a unique distinction. He served through the South African
War and there won the V.C. for conspicuous bravery. Having won the
V.C. it could not be given to him again, and so a clasp has been added
to the Cross.
The brief official record is as follows:
"Lieutenant Arthur Martin Leake, Royal Army Medical Corps, who was
awarded the Victoria Cross on May 13, 1902, is granted a clasp for
conspicuous bravery in the present campaign.
"For most conspicuous bravery and devotion to duty throughout the
campaign, especially during the period October 29 to November 8, 1914,
near Zonnebeke, in rescuing while exposed to constant fire a large
number of the wounded who were lying close to the enemy's trenches."
So far as I know this honour is unique. Probably Lieutenant Leake
would say that he is no braver than scores of other doctors who are
nobly doing their work at the front, but he has had his opportunity
and he has used it, and by so doing has brought honour upon the whole
medical profession. Great is the man who fearlessly "takes occasion by
the hand" in the cause of humanity.
When all that can be done for the men at the clearing hospitals is
accomplished, they are despatched to the rear. Those who, in the
opinion of the medical staff, can bear the journey to this country are
despatched thither direct via hospital train and hospital ship. The
majority, however, are taken to the base hospitals, where they lie
until they are well enough to be sent home, or death eases them of
their pain.
In the early days of the war this transit to the base was difficult in
the extreme, and the wounded arrived there in a shocking condition.
It is as well, perhaps, that we should know what really happened, so I
copy a paragraph from _Guy's Hospital Gazette_ of November 7, 1914. It
is from a letter signed "G.H.F.G."
"The train has just arrived and even now some few wounded are being
removed from the waggons, the gravest of all being given treatment in
an improvised hospital by the sidings, others less serious, though bad
enough in all conscience, are carried on stretchers to the central
goods shed, where the commandant, aided by a large staff of excitable,
bearded assistants, directs to what hospital they are to be sent.
"For some minutes we watch the unloading of these waggons. Preceded by
orderlies the officer passes from door to door, entering some, and
questioning briefly the men lying full length or sitting in what
comfort they can upon the straw-covered boards. As the panel slides
back a fetid odour of pus reaches the nostrils; startled by the
unexpected brightness a couple of horses tethered at one end of the
truck stamp and whinney. Carrying an acetylene flare, which makes
weird effects of chiaroscuro on the bare walls and floor, an orderly
comes in and collects the histories of the men. One man, wounded in
the head, persists in taking him for a German, the others laugh and
point to their foreheads. A little further on, in second and
third-class carriages, men with arms in slings, and less serious body
wounds, crowd in the corridors and clamour for food and drink."
What wonder after this that we are told that most of the wounds
received in those early days were septic on their arrival at the base
hospital?
How different it all is at the present time! Now well-appointed
hospital trains move backwards and forwards from the clearing
hospitals to the base. For the first time we enter the nurse's sphere.
Everything changes when the nurse appears upon the scene. She loves
order. Cleanliness is her life. She is trained in all the little arts
of nursing which bring comfort and peace. She can do what no man can
do. The doctor is splendid at his own special work, the
stretcher-bearer, the ambulance man, and the hospital orderly at his.
But it remains for women to do what man can never do, and with her
light touch, and tender sympathy, to soothe and comfort and bless.
When pain and anguish wring the brow
A ministering angel thou.
The hospital trains are called "Kitchener's trains"--another tribute
to the great man who, from his room at the War Office, seems to
overlook everything and forget nothing.
Miss Beardshaw, writing to her old hospital--Guy's--gives a
description of one of these hospital trains well worth reproduction
here.
"Ours is known as the 'Khaki Train '--a Kitchener's Train; it is half
Great Eastern and half L.N.W. There are 220 beds, stretcher ones, two
layers. In between each carriage is a little department, a place for
plates, mugs, dressings, &c. The officers' and sisters' part is at one
end with their kitchen. Dispensary in the middle. Patients' kitchen
and orderlies' quarters at the other end. There are three medical
officers, one army sister in charge of wards A and B and the general
run of all our work. I have C, D, and E wards, and Miss Wilson has F,
G, H; a 'London' nurse has the three others. The army sister is an
old Guy's, so I think we shall be very happy together. There are
forty-five orderlies. The paint of the train white, bed frames dark
red, curtains green, and blankets dark brown, so the general effect is
very pretty. It is kept most beautifully clean, and the orderlies are
very proud of their train--the best on the line, they say. We go up
and down to the clearing station, so I am greatly looking forward to
seeing Sisters Kiddle and Ames. I do hope they will not be moved
before we get there. We often take convalescent patients about, often
to Havre. Have been between Havre and Rouen twice these last few
days."
What a picture this gives us of organisation at its best! "Beautifully
clean!" Surely this is just what is needed, and we cannot wonder that
over sixty per cent. of the wounded are able ere long to return to the
firing line.
4. And then after the journey in the hospital train _de luxe_, there
is the _Base Hospital_, with everything in perfect order, and all that
can be done for the wounded men. I have written about the work in the
base hospitals in the chapter on "Work at the Fighting Base." It is
not necessary, therefore, that I should linger here. I will, however,
add a tribute which the Rev. R. Hall (Wesleyan) pays to the nursing
sisters. Says Mr. Hall:
"I must say a word about the nursing sisters. No braver and truer
women ever lived, kind and gentle and brave in the face of disease and
death. By day and night they watch and care for our comrades; many a
lad's dying hours are made more comfortable by the gentle touch and
loving word of these devoted women.
"I heard one day that in another hospital seven miles away one of our
own men was dying. I went over and found that he was isolated; he was
dying of an infectious disease. He was in great agony. A sister stood
beside him, and was trying to comfort him and ease his pain, at the
same time the tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
"I have been profoundly impressed by the work of this branch of the
Service. We forget sometimes that it is easier to face the shell and
the bullet in the excitement of battle than it is to watch hour by
hour and tend to those who are suffering from some deadly infectious
disease, or from some ghastly wound received in battle."
Mr. Hall's tribute is surely well earned. In this war woman has been
as brave as man or braver. She has given of her best and dearest, she
has worked and prayed and endured. And away out there among our
wounded and dying, far from the excitement of battle, by day and by
night she has given herself--all she is and all she has--to the
service of her country. And in doing so she has earned the undying
gratitude of those to whom she has ministered, and of the land she
loves so well.
* * * * *
I turn now to consider another branch of Red Cross work at the
front--the treatment and prevention of disease.
This has been the "healthiest" war ever undertaken by the British
Army. The great problem of all armies is how to keep out infectious
disease, and never before has the problem been solved. If still not
completely solved, it is certainly in the fair way to solution.
In the campaigns of the forty years previous to this war the
proportion of sick to wounded was twenty-five to one, and of deaths
through disease to death by shot, shell, or bayonet, five to one. In
the South African War the proportion of sick to wounded was over four
to one. We all remember the terrible share that enteric had in the
wastage of that campaign. How the soldiers dreaded it. "Better," they
used to say, "three wounds then one enteric."
Now enteric has almost entirely disappeared. Speaking in February 1915
the Under Secretary of State for War said that so far during the
campaign there had been only six hundred and twenty-five cases in the
British Expeditionary Force and of these only forty-nine had died--a
percentage of deaths less than half as great as that among the victims
of typhoid in the forces still in this country.
Of typhus and cholera there had not been a single case. Strange to
say, one hundred and seventy-five of the men had had measles, and
among these there had been two deaths. One hundred and ninety-six men
had had scarlet-fever and there had been four deaths. How far the
healthiness of the climate affects these figures it is difficult to
say, but it must be remembered that it has been a terribly wet winter.
How far inoculation against typhoid has prevented the disease is also
an interesting question. The doctors have a note of victory in all
their statements on this subject, and the figures seem to justify
their satisfaction.
Certainly preventive measures have counted for much. Early in the war
the medical officers of the various ambulances acted, so far as time
permitted, as sanitary officers, and in later days a well-organised
Sanitary Section has accomplished great things. The cleansing of
camps, the appointments of sanitary offices, the provision of baths,
and, generally, every possible attention to hygiene, have kept our men
exceptionally free from sickness, and no praise can be too high for
the men who have accomplished so much for the British soldier.
[Illustration: ON THE MARNE.
The pet dog of a French regiment finds wounded soldiers and
brings the stretcher-bearers to them. This dog has learnt to
dig himself a hole when firing is going on.
_Drawn by E. Matania._]
On the other hand, of frost-bite there have been over nine thousand
cases. It is questionable, however, if the vast majority of these
cases are really cases of frost-bite. Medical opinion inclines to the
view that most of these are a new disease known as trench foot, caused
by standing in the trenches with putties too tight and boots too
small.
_Guy's Hospital Gazette_ publishes some remarkable figures. "On one
occasion a rifle brigade after marching fifteen miles went at once
into the trenches, and within forty-eight hours, over four hundred
were incapacitated through the foot trouble described in this report.
One hundred and eighty men of the Cameron Highlanders were in the
trenches without being relieved for eight days and only three suffered
from slight frost-bite. None of them wore anything upon their legs and
feet, except boots, which may explain the sparsity of cases."
If this be so, then frost-bite of this description is also largely
preventable, and the recommendation of the doctors as to large, easy
fitting, and water-tight boots, less tightly bound putties, &c., will
prevent most of this trouble in future.
On the whole, the country can congratulate itself very heartily on the
noble and successful work of the various Red Cross departments. The
doctors who have sacrificed their lives will not be forgotten, and
will be regarded as heroic as any officers who have led a charge from
the trenches. The nurses have earned a debt of gratitude we can never
repay. Nursing efficiency has gone far since "Our Lady of the Lamp"
moved with such tender dignity up and down the wards in the hospital
at Scutari. We would pay our tribute of admiration to the work of our
nurses in this war, and say, "Many daughters have done virtuously, but
thou--thou modern lady of the lamp--excellest them all."
I must not close this chapter without a word about the well-appointed
hospital ships which ply backwards and forwards between the French and
British coasts, each with its doctors, nurses, and chaplains on board,
bearing a freight of suffering humanity, such as our coasts have never
seen before. Everything in order, everything in the way of comfort and
ease provided. It was a dastardly act to aim a German torpedo against
the _Asturias_. Fortunately the attempt failed, but what profit would
it have been if this life-giving ship had been sunk? Enough surely has
been done to take life. The object of such ships as these--ships which
cannot be mistaken for any others--is to woo back to life, until their
suffering humanity can be tenderly placed in the care of loving hands
and hearts at home. Here we are waiting for them, and here we have a
right to expect them, that, nursed back to health in the hospitals of
our land, they may, by and by, greet wife, and mother, and child, and
sweetheart in their own homes once more.
But oh the cruel work of war! The legacy of broken bodies and broken
hearts! We look on, and look up to the City of God even now coming
down from God out of heaven. _Sursum corda!_ The hour of redemption
draweth nigh.