reach C 13, he has not had to go up or down any stairs. This is one of
the beauties of the hut system. It consumes a big area, but it is all
on one level--the ground level. The patient on crutches can go anywhere
without fear of tripping, the patient in a wheeled chair can propel
himself anywhere, the orderlies can push wheeled stretchers or
dinner-wagons anywhere. Our visitor for C 13, having escaped from the
back of the Scottish baronial building, emerges into a vista of covered
corridors, wooden-floored, galvanised-iron roofed. It is a heartbreaking
vista to the poor woman who has had no bus-fare and is burdened by a
baby in arms. It is a vista which seems to have no end. Corridor
branches out of corridor--A Corridor, B Corridor, C Corridor, D
Corridor, each with its perspective of doors opening into wards; and
shorter corridors leading to store-rooms and the like. But the patient
or orderly who has dwelt in a hospital where, though distances are
shorter, staircases are involved--or where every trifling
coming-and-going of goods or stretchers necessitates the manipulation of
a lift--blesses those level, smooth corridors, with their facile access
to any ward, to operating theatres, kitchens, stores, X-ray room,
massage department, etc., and their stepless exit into the open air.
Looked at from outside, a hut-ward is--to the æsthetic eye--a hideous
structure. Knowing what it stands for, the science, the tenderness and
the fundamental civilisation which it represents, we may descry, behind
its stark geometrical outlines, a real nobility and beauty. Entering a
typical hut-ward you behold thirty beds, fifteen on each side of the
room. Between each pair of beds is a locker in which the patient stows
his belongings. (Woe betide him if his locker is not kept neat!) In the
central aisle of the room are the Sister's writing-table, certain other
tables, chairs, and two coke stoves for heating purposes in winter. The
floor is carpetless, and maintained in a meticulous state of high gloss
by means of daily polishings. At a height of a few feet from the floor,
the asbestos-lined walls cease and become windows. There is no gap in
the continuous line of windows all down each side of the ward--a special
type of window which, even when open, declines to allow rain to enter.
In consequence of these windows the ward is not only very well lit, but
also airy and odourless. When all the windows are open (which is the
case throughout the entire summer and generally the case in winter also)
the patient has the advantages of indoor comfort plus an outdoor
atmosphere. At the end of the ward a covered verandah is spacious enough
to take an extra couple of beds for those requiring completely open-air
treatment.
The ward proper has certain additions: a kitchen with gas-stove and
geyser; a sink-room with geyser and cleansing apparatus of special
pattern; a bathroom with geyser; lavatories; a small room for the
isolation of a patient on the danger-list; a linen-room; and cupboards.
All these are packed neatly under that one rectangular corrugated roof
which looked so ugly and so unpromising from outside.
Do not pity the wounded soldier because he is quartered in a "hut." The
word sounds unattractive. But if it is the right kind of hut, he is in
the soundest and most sanitary type of temporary hospital that the mind
of man has yet devised. The rain-drops may rattle a shade noisily on the
roof, the asbestos lining may be devoid of ornamentation, but as he
lies in bed and contemplates that unadorned ceiling he is a deal better
off than if he were gazing at the elaborate (and dust-harbouring)
cornices of the So-and-So Club's grandiose smoking-lounge in Pall Mall.
V
FROM THE "D" BLOCK WARDS
If you walk up the corridor at half-past four on certain afternoons of
the week you will meet a mob of patients trooping from their wards to
the concert-room. Being built of wood and corrugated iron, the corridor
is an echoing cave of noises. It echoes the tramp of feet--and
army-pattern boots were not soled for silence. It echoes the thud-thud
of crutches. It echoes the slurred rumble of wheeled chairs and
stretcher-trollies. But, above all, at half-past four on concert days it
echoes happy talk and chaff and boisterous laughter.
As often as not, the loudest talk, the cheeriest chaff, the most
spontaneous laughter, emanate from the blue-clad stalwarts who have
mustered from the "D" Block wards.
"D" Block contains the wards for eye-wound cases.
Here they come, a string of them, mostly with bandages round their
heads. The leading man owns one good eye--a twinkling eye--an eye of
mischief--an eye (you would guess at once) for the girls. (But the eye's
owner probably calls them the "pushers." Such is our language now.)
Behind him, in single file, and in step with him, march a gang of
patients each with his hand on the shoulder of the man in front. Tramp,
tramp! Their tread is purposely thunderous on the bare boards of the
corridor. They sing as they advance. It is a ragtime chorus whose most
memorable line runs, "You never seem to kiss me in the same place
twice." A jaunty lilt, to be sure, both in tune and in rhythm. Tramp,
tramp! The one-eyed leader swerves round a corner, roaring the refrain.
His followers swerve too. Suddenly the Matron is encountered, emerging
from her room. "Fine afternoon, Matron!" The leader interrupts his chant
to utter this hearty greeting. And, with one voice, "Fine afternoon,
Matron!" exclaim his followers. But they do not turn their heads. Each
with his hand resting on the shoulder of the man in front they go
steadily on, towards the concert-room, with an odd intentness, glancing
neither to one side nor the other. For though, at their leader's cue,
they have hailed the Matron, they have not seen her. They are blind.
The spectacle of men--particularly young men--who have given their sight
for their country is, to most observers, a moving one. Melancholy are
the reflections of the visitor who meets, for the first time, a
promenading party of our blind patients. It is the plain truth,
nevertheless, that the blind men themselves are far from melancholy. One
of the rowdiest characters we ever had in the hospital was totally
blind. The blind men's wards are notoriously amongst the least sedate. I
offer no explanation. I simply state the fact. I will fortify it by an
anecdote.
It came to pass that eight complimentary tickets for a Queen's Hall
matinée were received by the Matron, who in due course allotted them to
seven "D" Block patients. An orderly, detailed to take them to the
hall, completed the octette. Corporal Smith, the orderly in question,
recounted his adventures afterwards. "Never again," quoth he, "shall I
jump at a matinée job if there are blind chaps in the party. They're the
deuce."
You must understand that we hospital orderlies regard the task of
shepherding patients to an entertainment in town as an agreeable form of
holiday. I have had some very pleasant outings of that sort myself. But
not--I am thankful to recall, in the light of Corporal Smith's
narrative--with blind men. One-legged men are often a sufficient care,
in manoeuvring on and off omnibuses. Apparently helpless cripples have
a marvellous gift for losing themselves, entering wrong trains, and
generally escaping--as the hour for return draws nigh--from one's
custody. And the city seems to be full of lunatics ready to supply
alcohol or indigestible refreshments to the most delicate war-hospital
inmates. Even with ordinary patients the orderly's afternoon excursion
is sometimes not unfraught with anxiety. But blind patients, as Corporal
Smith said, are the deuce.
Out of his party, four were totally blind, two could recognise dimly
the difference between light and darkness, and one had a single good
eye.
Queen's Hall was reached, by bus, without mishap. After the performance
there was tea at an A.B.C. shop. Here Jock, one of the totally blind
men, a Scotchman--all Scots are "Jocks" in the army--distinguished
himself by facetiæ (audible throughout the whole shop) on the English
pronunciation of the word 'scone,' and intimated his desire to treat the
company to a ballad. This project was suppressed, but "a silly fool in a
top hat threatened to report me for having given my men drink," said
Corporal Smith. "Jock gave _him_ the bird, not 'arf. But I thought it
about time to be going home."
So the party prepared to go home.
The bus was voted dull. Somebody suggested the tube. Corporal Smith
consented.
He had forgotten that at Oxford Circus station the lifts have been
abolished in favour of sliding staircases. Confronted by the escalator,
Corporal Smith halted his party and informed them that they must walk
down by the ordinary stair. The escalator was not safe for blind men.
Unfortunately, Jock had sniffed a lark; the one-eyed man backed him up;
the party--elated perhaps by their tea--would not hear of anything so
humdrum as a descent by the ordinary stair. They were going on the
sliding stair. They insisted. Corporal Smith argued in vain. In vain he
exerted his (purely nominal) authority. His charges mocked him. The
one-eyed man leading, with Jock in his wake, they launched themselves at
the sliding stair. In sheer desperation Corporal Smith brought up the
rear, supporting two of the more timid venturers as best he might. None
of the group except Corporal Smith himself, as it turned out, had ever
travelled on an escalator before. But they had heard a comic song about
a sliding stair, and they wished--Jock especially--to sample this
metropolitan invention.
By dodging forward to place each blind man's hand upon the banister,
Corporal Smith managed to send off his patients without a stumble. But
as the stair inexorably lowered them into the bowels of the earth he
realised, only too vividly, what might happen at the foot of the
descent. The evening rush of suburb-bound passengers had begun and the
staircase was rather crowded. Nobody seemed to realise that the
khaki-overcoated men who stood so still upon the steps were not the
usual hospital convalescents out on leave and able to look after
themselves. Corporal Smith, delayed by one man who had hesitated at the
top before taking the plunge, beheld his charges below him, hopelessly
dotted, at intervals, amongst the general public. It was impossible for
him to struggle down ahead, to the bottom of the staircase, to guide the
men off as they arrived. This task, he hoped, would be adequately
performed by the one-eyed man.
It might have been. The one-eyed man was game for anything. But Jock,
arriving in the highest good humour at the bottom of the staircase, was
tilted sideways by the curve, and promptly sat down on the
landing-place. Instead of rising, he proclaimed aloud that this was
funnier even than England's pronunciation of the word 'scone.'
Whereupon various hurrying passengers, including an old lady, tripped
over his prone form. The sensation of being kicked and sat upon appealed
to Jock's sense of humour. The more people avalanched across him the
more comic he thought it. And in a moment there was quite a pile of
wriggling bodies on top of him. For though the public managed on the
whole to leap over, or circumvent, the obstacle presented by Jock's
extremely large body, none of his blind comrades did so.
"Every single one of them fell flop," said Corporal Smith; "I give you
my word."
But were they downhearted? No! They regarded this mysterious hurly-burly
of arms and legs as a capital jest. So far from being alarmed or
annoyed, they shouted with glee. The old lady, who had gathered herself
together and was directing a stream of voluble reproof at Corporal Smith
for his "callousness and cruelty to these unhappy blind heroes," retired
discomfited. Jock's comments routed her more effectively than the
Corporal's assurance that the episode was none of his choosing.
The party at last sorted itself out and was placed upon its feet once
more. It was excessively pleased with its exploit. Hilarity reigned.
Corporal Smith, relieved, made ready to conduct his squad to the
platform.
Alas, a bright idea occurred to Jock. Why not go up the other sliding
stair and down again?
Agreed, _nem. con._ At least, Corporal Smith's _con._ was too futile to
be worth counting.
"I had to go with the blighters," said he. "There was no end of a crowd
by this time. And Jock and some of the others fell over at the top
again. And there was a row with the ticket-collector. And people kept
saying they'd report me. _Me!_ And when I'd got my party down to the
bottom for the second time, and some of the tube officials had come and
said they couldn't allow it and we must buzz off home, I lined the
fellows up to march 'em to the train, and dash me if two weren't
missing. They'd given me the slip."
The two truants, it may be added, could not be found. Corporal Smith
had to return without them. At a late hour of the evening they appeared,
not an atom repentant, at the hospital, having persuaded someone to put
them into the correct bus. One of them, Jock, explained that, being from
the North, he had desired to seize this opportunity of seeing the sights
of London. Jock, I may remind you, is totally blind. Jock's guide, the
man who had volunteered to show him the sights and who had only once
been in London before, could see very faintly the difference between
light and dark.... Thus this pair of irresponsibles had fared forth into
the dusk of Regent Street.
* * * * *
It sounds a very horrible fate to be blinded. But somehow the blind men
themselves seldom seem to be overwhelmed by its horribleness. If you
want to hear the merriest banter in a war hospital, visit the blind
men's wards. The pathos of them lies less in the sadness of the victims
than in the triumphant, wonderful fact that they are _not_ sad. I wish
we others all inhabited the same mysteriously jocund spiritual realm as
Jock and his comrades, who come tramp-tramping to the concert-room down
the corridor from the D wards.
VI
WHEN THE WOUNDED ARRIVE
The receiving hall of the hospital is its clearing house of patients. It
is a huge room, with a lofty and echoing roof, a little in the style of
a church. Before the war, when the building was a school, this rather
grandiose apartment no doubt witnessed speechifyings and prize
distributions. May the time be not far distant when it will once again
be used for those observances! Meanwhile its vast floor is occupied by
ranks of beds.
Those beds are generally untenanted. Visitors who, like the lady in the
play, have taken the wrong turning, are apt to find themselves in the
receiving hall, and, gazing at its array of vacant beds, have been known
to conclude that the hospital was empty. (As if any war-hospital, in
these times, could be empty!) But our patients have only a short
acquaintanceship with the receiving-hall beds: these beds are momentary
resting-places on their journey healthwards: they are not meant to lie
in but to lie _on_. The three-score wards for which the receiving hall
is the clearing house are the real destination of the patients; down
long corridors, in wards far cosier because less ornate than this, the
patient will find "his" bed ready for him, the bed which he is not to
lie on but _in_.
We orderlies meet each convoy at the front door of the hospital. The
walking-cases are the first to arrive--men who are either not ill
enough, or not badly enough wounded, to need to be put on stretchers in
ambulances. They come from the station in motor-cars supplied by that
indefatigable body, the London Ambulance Column. The walking-case
alights from his car, is conducted into the receiving hall, and ten
minutes later is in the bathroom. For the ritual of the bath must on no
account be omitted--although now not so obviously imperative as in the
early period of the war. Few patients reach us who have not first
sojourned, either for a day or two or for weeks, in hospitals in France.
They are therefore merely travel-stained, as you or I might be
travel-stained after coming over from Dublin to Euston. The bath is thus
a pleasure more than a necessity. Whereas there _was_ an era, when our
guests came straight from only too populous trenches....
"O.C. Baths," as the bathroom orderly was nicknamed, had to be
circumspect in the performance of his job.
The few minutes which the walking-case spends in the receiving hall are
occupied (1) in drinking a cup of cocoa, and (2) in "having his
particulars taken."
Poor soul!--he is weary of giving his "particulars." He has had to give
them half-a-dozen times at least, perhaps more, since he left the front.
At the field dressing-station they wanted his particulars, at the
clearing-station, on the train, at the base hospital, on another train,
on the steamer, on the next train, and now in this English hospital. As
he sits and comforts himself with cocoa, a "V.A.D." hovers at his
elbow, intent on a printed sheet, the details of which she is rapidly
filling-in with a pencil. For this is a card-index war, a colossal
business of files and classifications and ledgers and statistics and
registrations, an undertaking on a scale beside which Harrod's and
Whiteley's and Selfridge's and Wanamaker's and the Magazin du Louvre,
all rolled into one, would be a fleabite of simplicity. Ere the morrow
shall have dawned, our patient's military biography will be recounted,
by various clerks, in I don't know how many different entries. If you
are curious, refer to one of our volumes of the _Admission and Discharge
Book: Field Service Army Book 27a_. Open it at any of its
closely-written pages and see the host of ruled columns which the
orderly in charge of it must inscroll with reference to each of the many
thousands of patients who pass through our hospital per annum. The
columns ask for his Regiment; Squadron, Battery or Company; Number;
Rank; Surname; Christian Name; Age; Length of Service; Completed Months
with Field Force; Diseases (wounds and injuries are expressed by a
number indicating their nature and whereabouts); Date of Admission; Date
of Discharge or Transfer; Number of Days under Treatment; Number of
Ward; Religion; and "Observations"--a space usually occupied by the name
of the hospital ship upon which our friend crossed the Channel, and the
name of the convalescent home to which he went on bidding us adieu.
Having furnished the preliminary statements which lay the foundation of
this compendious memoir, the walking-case thankfully finishes his cocoa,
picks up the package of "blues" which has been put at his side, and
departs, with his fellows, to the bathroom. Here he is tackled by the
Pack Store orderlies, who take from him, and enter in their books, his
khaki clothes. These he must leave in exchange for the blue slop uniform
which, _pro tem._, is to be his only wear. When he emerges from the
bathroom he is attired in what is now England's most honourable
livery--the royal blue of the war-hospital patient. And (though perhaps
the matter is not mentioned to him in so many words) his own suit is
already ticketed with an identification label and on its way to the
fumigator. This is no reflection on the owner of the suit ... but there
are some things we don't talk about. Mr. Fumigator-Wallah is not the
least busy of the more retiring members of a war-hospital staff. He is
not in the limelight; but you might come to be very sad and sorry if he
took it into his head to neglect his unapplauded part off-stage.
The walking-cases are still splashing and dressing in the bathroom when
the ambulances with the cot-cases begin to appear. Now is the orderlies'
busy time. Each stretcher must be quickly but gently removed from the
ambulance and carried into the receiving hall.
Four orderlies haul the stretcher from its shelf in the ambulance; two
orderlies then take its handles and carry it indoors. At the entrance to
the receiving hall they halt. The Medical Officer bends over the
patient, glances at the label which is attached to him, and assigns him
to a ward. (Certain types of cases go to certain groups of wards.) The
attendant sergeant promptly picks a metal ticket from a rack and lays
it on the stretcher. The ticket has, punched on it, the number of the
patient's ward and the number of the patient's bed in that ward. This
ceremony completed, the orderlies proceed, with their burden, up the
aisle between the beds in the receiving hall.
Arrived at the bed, they lower their stretcher until it is at such a
level that the patient, if he is active enough, can move off it on to
the bed; if he is too weak to help himself he is lifted on to the bed by
orderlies under the direction of the receiving-hall Sister. The
stretcher is promptly removed and restored to its ambulance. If the
patient is in an exceptionally suffering condition he is not placed on
the receiving-hall bed; instead--the Medical Officer having given his
permission--his stretcher is put on a wheeled trolley and he is taken
straight away to his ward, so that he will only undergo one shift of
position between the ambulance and his destination. The majority of
stretcher-cases, however, reach us in a by no means desperate state,
for, as I say, they seldom come to England without having been treated
previously at a base abroad (except during the periods of heavy
fighting). And it is remarkable how often the patient refuses help in
getting off the stretcher on to the bed. He may be a cocoon of bandages,
but he will courageously heave himself overboard, from stretcher to bed,
with a gay _wallop_ which would be deemed rash even in a person in
perfect health. Our receiving hall, at a big intake of wounded, when
every bed bears its poor victim of the war, presents a spectacle which
might give the philosopher food for thought; but I suspect that, if he
regarded its actualities rather than his own preconceptions, what would
impress him more than the sadness would be on the one hand the
kindliness, brisk but not officious, of the staff, and on the other the
spontaneous geniality of the battered occupants of the beds. The
orderlies can spare little time for talk, but the few chats which they
are able to have with patients whom they are helping to change their
clothes, or to whom they are proffering the inevitable cocoa (which is
a cocktail, as it were, prior to the meal which will be served in the
men's own ward), are punctuated by jokes and laughter rather than the
long-visaged "sympathy" which the outsider might--quite wrongly!--have
pictured as appropriate to such an assemblage.
The stretcher-case, before he is taken to his ward, must also "give his
particulars," must also be interviewed by the Pack Store officials, and
must also have assigned to him his blue uniform (wherewith are a shirt,
a cravat, slippers and socks) in anticipation of the time when he shall
be able to use his feet again and promenade our corridors and grounds.
He receives the customary packet of cigarettes (probably the second, for
he often gets one at the railway station too), and then, on another
stretcher, mounted on a trolley, is wheeled off to his ward. Here,
bestowed in bed at last, we leave him to his blanket-bath, his meal, his
temperature-taking and chart filling-in by the Sister, his visit from
the doctor, and all the rest of it. For the moment we see no more of
him; we must race back to the receiving hall, and, if there are no more
patients to take away, return the trolley to its proper nook, put
straight the blankets and pillows on the beds, sweep the floor, and tidy
up generally, in readiness for the next convoy's advent.