A LITTLE NONSENSE
It was hard work visiting the wounded, listening time after time to
each one as he described the nature and history of his wounds, which
in many cases were so similar. Often on leaving one hut only to enter
another, I have paused to look longingly out to the estuary of the
Canche, where the sun would be sinking slowly, and breathe the strong,
aromatic air coming from the sea and the marshes that grew from the
river mud; then in again to great wards of poor broken lads and the
antiseptic odors of the hospital.
Although the spirits of the lads, on the whole, were bright and merry,
and those who nursed them brought sunshine to their work, still one
would scarcely think of entering any one ward with the intention of
being entertained. Yet frequently I have gone into a certain ward of
No. 7, Canadian General, with no other intention than that of being
amused. For in this ward were the malingerers, that is, the men who
were trying to “put one over” on the doctors. The soldiers called
them “lead swingers.” The ingenuity of some of these men was really
extraordinary. I have seen a case come through three or four different
posts, diagnosed as measles, until finally the doctor in the stationary
hospital saw that the man had used a preparation of some oil to bring
out the rash, and had raised his temperature with cordite.
The first day I went into Wd. --, I was somewhat puzzled. I had not
known that this was the ward of malingerers, and so was surprised to
find so many healthy looking men in hospital. The nurse in charge
looked a little surprised when I entered and said smilingly: “Well,
Padre, what are you doing here? Nobody ever dies in this ward.”
“Well, Sister,” I said, “as far as I can see now, every one has the
appearance of being quite spruce.” Then she said quietly: “P. U. O.,”
nodding her head a little after pronouncing each letter. Then she went
into her cubicle to continue her work.
That evening at dinner I asked the doctor who sat nearest me what was
meant by “P. U. O.” He smiled, then said: “It means, Padre, ‘Praxis of
Unknown Origin’,” and kept smiling as he continued: “We sometimes meet
a case which really puzzles us, but nearly always, when you see ‘P. U.
O.’ on a medical history sheet you can count on its being a case of
malingering.” He did not say very much till we had nearly finished our
meal, then he said: “Wait, Padre, after dinner and we’ll see ‘Boots’.”
This was a nickname for the doctor in charge of Ward --, one of the
jolliest M. O.’s in the mess. We found him in the ante-room, three
or four others grouped around him; but instead of the customary
broad smile on his good-natured fat face, there was a look of real
indignation. He was explaining to his smiling listeners something
about a few cases that had been sent to him; and as we drew near I
caught these words: “Dey had da hitch,”--the doctor was a French
Canadian--“and dey were sent to my ward--height of dem! Sent to me, and
dem wit da hitch!” Every one was laughing and trying unsuccessfully to
suppress it.
Then a young doctor interposed: “And what did you do, Boots?”
“Do?” echoed the other. “What did I do? I just took dare papers and
sent dem up to the skin disease hospital. Dere’s no room for men wit da
hitch in my ward.”
The mere thought of the indignity seemed almost too much for the good
doctor, so he paused for a little and his face grew red as he looked
around on his smiling audience. Then he said: “Da idea of sending men
wit da hitch to me!” He had closed his lips tightly and was nodding to
himself at the insult that had been offered his ward by having men with
the itch sent to it, when the doctor who had spoken previously spoke
again: “Yes, ‘Boots,’ the idea of sending sick men to your ward!”
“Boots” looked at him quickly, and suddenly the dark clouds were
dispersed and the light of his broad, sunny smile spread over his
good-natured face. “Dat’s hit,” he said. “What do dey want to send
sick people to me for?”
The others laughed and moved on, and presently I found myself making
arrangements with Captain “Boots” to visit his ward when his “patients”
would be undergoing treatment the following morning. The only condition
the good doctor imposed was that I would not laugh. This I promised.
The following day, as I walked down the aisle of No. --, I realized
how hard it would be to fulfill the condition the doctor had made for
my visit. The men were undergoing “treatment”; some held the handles
of a galvanic battery in their hands, while their bodies squirmed and
twisted, but never for one instant did they drop the handles; others
had their feet on steel discs in tubs of water, while others underwent
electrical treatment in different ways. The doctor moved from bed
to bed, inquiring with simulated solicitude as to the state of each
patient, offering a word of encouragement to some poor fellow who
writhed under the current that passed through hands and feet.
“Dat’s right, my lad,” the doctor would say encouragingly, “just keep
your feet on de disc.” Perhaps it did not occur to the good doctor
that the man was powerless to take his feet off the disc! To another
he would say: “Dere, now, my lad, we’ll soon have you in perfec health
again”--and I would wonder how the strong, rosy-cheeked lad would look
when in perfect health.
I was not surprised to hear two or three lads inform the doctor that
they thought they felt well enough to go back to their battalions
again. The doctor would always agree with them. One fellow said, within
my hearing: “He might as well give us the chair at once!”
I remember coming out of the ward that first day, and when I was out of
view, I stood in the lane and laughed and laughed. The fat doctor had
been so funny, and also the poor fellows, squirming and twisting under
treatment that was not at all necessary for them.
I made many subsequent visits to No. --. Whenever I would feel tired
out from the more serious work of visiting the wounded, I would step
down the lane and listen for awhile to Doctor “Boots” passing up and
down the aisle giving his electrical treatment.