A SURGEON IN KHAKI
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR OUTSIDE AMBULANCE HEADQUARTERS AT OUDERDOM.]
A
SURGEON IN KHAKI
BY
ARTHUR ANDERSON MARTIN
M.D., CH.B., F.R.C.S.ED.
SENIOR SURGEON, PALMERSTON NORTH HOSPITAL, NEW ZEALAND
LATE FIELD AMBULANCE, 5TH DIVISION, 2ND ARMY
LATE SURGICAL SPECIALIST, NO. 6 GENERAL HOSPITAL, ROUEN, FRANCE
BRITISH EXPEDITIONARY FORCE
LATE CIVIL SURGEON, SOUTH AFRICAN FIELD FORCE, 1901
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
NEW YORK:
LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.
LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD
1915
[_All rights reserved_]
_Printed in Great Britain_
PREFACE.
In the following pages an attempt is made to record, however imperfectly,
some of the scenes, and the impressions formed, during those great days
of 1914 when our army was fighting so stubbornly and against such odds in
France and Flanders.
The notes in many instances are disconnected, but the things seen
presented themselves in a disconnected way, and if they are not all
beautifully dovetailed one into another, they are at least given forth
somewhat in the way in which I viewed and received them myself.
During the actual progress of this war, and when the war is happily
over, much literature bearing on the great struggle will be produced,
but I venture to think that of the personal narrative and the personal
impression one cannot have too much.
The narrative includes my experiences at Le Havre, Harfleur, and the
battle of the Marne, the march to the Aisne, the wait on the Aisne, the
move across France to the new lines behind La Bassée, and the final move
to Flanders not far from Ypres.
ARTHUR A. MARTIN.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. FROM PEACE TO WAR 1
II. LE HAVRE AND HARFLEUR 15
III. FROM LE HAVRE TO THE BAY OF BISCAY 25
IV. FROM THE BAY OF BISCAY TO EAST OF PARIS 35
V. THE ADVANCE TO THE MARNE 44
VI. WHAT I SAW OF THE BATTLE OF THE MARNE 53
VII. THE NIGHT OF THE MARNE 59
VIII. FROM THE MARNE TO THE AISNE 65
IX. THE AISNE AND THE TRAGEDY OF THE SUNKEN ROAD 84
X. MISSY ON THE AISNE 90
XI. ON THE AISNE AT MONT DE SOISSONS 103
XII. FIELD AMBULANCES AND MILITARY HOSPITALS 124
XIII. GOOD-BYE TO THE AISNE 141
XIV. THE LA BASSÉE ROAD AT CHÂTEAU GORRE 164
XV. BETHUNE 171
XVI. SOME MEDICAL ODDS AND ENDS 202
XVII. WE LEAVE BETHUNE 221
XVIII. OVER THE BELGIAN FRONTIER 231
XIX. WE LEAVE BELGIUM 265
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE AUTHOR OUTSIDE AMBULANCE HEADQUARTERS AT OUDERDOM _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
A ROAD OBSTRUCTION NEAR HARFLEUR 18
HARFLEUR—OUR SLEEPING QUARTERS 18
TRANSPORT _CESTRIAN_ IN THE BAY OF BISCAY 32
THE _CESTRIAN_ AT ST. NAZAIRE 32
AMBULANCES AT THE MARNE 54
HALT AT SERCHES 84
GUN TEAMS AT THE MARNE 88
THE WAY TO THE SUNKEN ROAD 88
MONT DE SOISSONS, SHOWING THE OLD TEMPLARS’ HALL AND CHURCH 104
LOADING WOUNDED AT SOISSONS. THE FIRST MOTOR AMBULANCE ON THE AISNE 122
THE LEAN-TO AT SOISSONS. UNLOADING WOUNDED 122
CHÂTEAU OF LONGPONT 142
VILLAGE OF LONGPONT 142
ON THE ROAD TO COMPIÈGNE 148
COMPIÈGNE, SHOWING THE BROKEN BRIDGE 156
AMBULANCE CROSSING THE OISE ON A PONTOON BRIDGE 156
LOW FLAT GROUND NEAR THE CANAL, WITH A TRENCH 168
TOWARDS LA BASSÉE 168
SLIGHTLY WOUNDED AND SICK AT BETHUNE 176
ÉCOLE JULES FERRY AT BETHUNE 176
TRENCHES IN FLANDERS 198
MONSIGNOR DISTRIBUTING MEDALS TO BELGIAN SOLDIERS AT THE ROADSIDE 252
GOING TOWARDS THE TRENCHES AT YPRES 268
FRENCH SOLDIERS GOING TO THE TRENCHES 268
A SURGEON IN KHAKI.
CHAPTER I.
FROM PEACE TO WAR.
EARLY 1914.
In April 1914 I left my practice in New Zealand for a short tour through
the American, British, and Continental surgical clinics.
After having visited all the important clinics in the United States—the
famous Mayos of Rochester, Murphy’s at Chicago, Cushing’s at Boston, and
others at Cleveland, Baltimore, and Philadelphia, I finally arrived at
New York.
When visiting the clinic at the German hospital at Philadelphia, I, with
other visiting surgeons, principally Americans or German-Americans, was
invited to tea and cake, or cake and beer, in the reception-room of the
hospital.
As the day was very hot we all drank iced German lager beer, and, when
leaving the room, were presented with a gilt “wish-bones” holding ribbons
of the German national colours.
All of the American and German-American doctors wore the ribbons on
their coats, but I put mine in my pocket as a curio. I did not wish to be
thought to have German sympathies, although I had drunk their lager beer.
In New Zealand the Germans have never been appreciated as they have been
in England. Perhaps the air of the Pacific gives one a truer perspective
of some things as they are.
At New York I delayed sailing two days, in order to avoid a German boat,
and reached England by the Holland-American boat _Rotterdam_ in July.
We had on board the _Rotterdam_ a very large number of Germans, and as
usual they were chiefly noticeable for their great prowess at meals, and
for their noisy method of eating. They drank much “good German beer” and
filled the rooms with German smoke and German gutturals. They are not
attractive fellow-travellers.
On arriving in England I proceeded to Aberdeen, where the annual meeting
of the British Medical Association was being held, and to which I was a
delegate.
At Aberdeen we had a very large number of foreign representative surgeons
and physicians and men from nearly every part of the world. As usual
there were many Germans and a few Austrians.
We were struck by a very curious incident towards the end of the
meeting—last day of July. The president of the Association, Sir Alexander
Ogston, gave a reception to all the delegates from the British kindred
and affiliated associations, and to the foreign representatives. Although
the German and Austrian delegates had been about in the morning, not one
was present at the evening reception. They had all departed silently, and
had said good-bye to no one.
Germany and Austria had sent out their messages, and the medicals
returned with all speed.
We were then on the eve of war, but none of us at Aberdeen thought that
we would be in it, or that we were then rushing swiftly to great events.
The Austrian note to Serbia was being discussed. Germany’s action was
doubtful. Russia plainly said that she would not stand by and tamely see
Serbian Slavs humiliated by their powerful neighbours. In spite of the
cloudiness of the political atmosphere and the slight oppressiveness none
really expected lightning and thunder, or that any spirit would
In these confines with a monarch’s voice
Cry Havoc! and let slip the dogs of war.
On the 3rd August Sir Edward Grey, in the House of Commons, in a serious
speech, reviewed the European situation. With convincing eloquence he
showed how anxiously he had striven to maintain peace, and exactly
defined England’s attitude in certain possible contingencies.
The excitement all over the country was tremendous. The air was
electrical with coming events, a spark would set the firmament ablaze.
One could almost see the peoples of Russia, Germany, Austria, France,
Belgium and Serbia gaze questioningly, anxiously, across the Channel
at the Island Kingdom, and wondering in that tense moment, What would
England do?
Then flaring headlines in the press told that Liége, the great eastern
fortress and arsenal of Belgium, had been furiously bombarded by the
German artillery, and that Bethmann-Hollweg, the German Chancellor, had
declared that a solemn treaty guaranteeing the neutrality of Belgium was
of no more value than a scrap of paper.
Then England declared war against Germany, and on the 4th of August we
knew that England was to take her place in the titanic world-war and step
into the all-engulfing struggle.
So here it was at last. War with Germany! The restrained hostility of
years was now no longer concealed, the long-pent-up passions were now let
loose. Men seemed to breathe easier, and an air of relief pervaded the
country.
England was like a sick man after a consultation with the surgeons. He
looks eagerly and anxiously at the surgeons, hoping that no operation may
be necessary, but dreading and expecting that it may. Once told by them
that an operation is necessary in order that he may live, his doubts and
hesitation disappear, and he agrees to submit and to undergo the drastic
measures and emerge a strong and whole man. There is a relief that he has
decided and the mind becomes tranquil.
The gravity of the issue was realised in England in those early August
days. Those entitled to speak with authority pronounced that the war
would be a big war—the greatest since the beginning of time—and that the
men and women of our day and generation would have to pass through sorrow
and tribulation and wade through dark and troubled waters before the end
would be finally achieved.
The justness of England’s quarrel was everywhere acknowledged, except in
the land of the enemy, and the exposure of the tortuous and insidious
German diplomacy stirred up the English sense of straight dealing and
fairplay.
On 6th August I motored down from the Highlands to Edinburgh, through the
Pass of Killiecrankie and some of the loveliest scenery in Scotland.
Everywhere were signs of mobilisation. Khaki soldiers and “mufti”
recruits at every dépôt and around recruiting sergeants. The price of
petrol had suddenly risen—why, nobody quite knew, but somebody was making
money out of it, we were sure. At one town I paid ten shillings for a
two-gallon tin.
In the evening I reached Queensferry, but was not allowed to cross at
that hour. As the ferry would not be going again till next morning I
motored back to Dunfermline, and having stopped the night there, returned
early in the morning to the Ferry. This time I got across with my car.
The Firth of Forth presented a very busy scene that morning. Torpedo
boats and naval craft of all sorts and sizes were dashing about, and in
the distance were the large dark outlines of big ships of war.
From Queensferry a rapid run brought me to Edinburgh, where the whole
talk in hotel smoking-rooms, at table, and on the street, was of war.
The kilted soldier was looked at with more interest as he walked the
streets, and appeals were placarded on every prominent place for new
recruits.
The morning papers announced that the House of Commons had passed a war
vote of one hundred million pounds, and that Kitchener had asked for five
hundred thousand men to join the army.
The Cabinet, like a good physician, was giving the nation its medicine
in small doses during these early days. Doctors will tell you that small
doses frequently repeated are so much better than a big dose taken at
one wry mouthful, for a big heroic dose taken at one gulp often causes
nausea. The hundred million pounds and the five hundred thousand men made
the first teaspoonful of the national physic which was to help get rid of
the fatty degeneration and change our sleeping, sluggish strength into
the crouch and spring and hit of the prize fighter.
Next day I took train for London in order to offer my medical service
to the War Office. There was an urgent demand for surgeons to volunteer
for active service, and at this particular juncture good surgeons who
were free to go were not very plentiful. As I was on a tour of surgical
clinics at this time I decided to do my bit for the country and the men
in the field. Having nothing to do when I reached London that evening,
I strolled into a music hall and heard “God Save the King,” “Rule,
Britannia,” the “Marseillaise,” the Russian, Belgian, and Serbian
national hymns—all blared out to cheering and shouting crowds, who
seemed to thoroughly enjoy “being at war.” It was reminiscent of the days
of the Boer War in 1899:
“‘ALEA JACTA EST’—THE DIE IS CAST.”
Early next day I visited the Medical Department of the War Office at
Whitehall, and volunteered as a surgeon with the Expeditionary Army to
France. Two days afterwards the War Office sent me a note requesting me
to call at the office and be examined to see if I was physically fit. So
I did. The physical examination was carried out with amazing celerity,
and I was handed on as “fit.” The genial old army doctor appointed for
this duty of examining his younger colleagues made his diagnosis on sight
almost, and toyed easily with his stethoscope while he inquired about the
state of the teeth and the digestion.
I was then ushered into another office and was duly appointed a Temporary
Lieutenant in the Royal Army Medical Corps.
All the civilian surgeons accepted for service with the army—with the
exception of a few consulting surgeons—were given the rank of Temporary
Lieutenant. Seniority or special skill or previous war experience
mattered nothing. I had already served as a Civil Surgeon, attached
to the Royal Army Medical Corps during the South African War, and had
a medal and four clasps from that campaign, and since that period had
been surgeon to an important hospital in New Zealand, and was a retired
Captain in the New Zealand Medical Corps. That, however, did not entitle
me to hold any higher rank than the young medical man who had completed
his medical training only a week ago. Many able medical men all over the
country had voluntarily left lucrative practices and important surgical
and medical staff appointments in big London and provincial hospitals
and were enrolled as Lieutenants in the Royal Army Medical Corps, on the
same footing as junior medical men who had perhaps been their pupils but
a few weeks before. We all ranked below the regular officers of the Royal
Army Medical Corps. Volunteers for combatant commissions who had had
previous experience were given rank accordingly. Some discrimination was
made in the combatant arm, and rightly so. No discrimination was made in
the medical service, and undoubtedly that was a mistake. The same lack
of organised control was exhibited at every turn in the medical service.
Men with imperfect professional skill and experience were given duties
which should have been entrusted only to men fully possessed of those
qualifications. This criticism is not merely a destructive one. Criticism
is absolutely necessary at certain times, and there are some mistakes in
policy which should be freely ventilated. This same policy was pursued
by the Army Medical Department during the South African War, and was
very openly discussed. This led to drastic changes in the organisation
of the Royal Army Medical Corps, following on the Commission of Inquiry
set up by Mr. Brodrick (now Lord Midleton). In this war, I regret to say,
the old leaven has again appeared, and its re-appearance has aroused
considerable comment and been a cause of inefficiency.
After having been given my commission I was told to procure a uniform—Sam
Browne belt, a revolver, blankets, and other campaigning kit—and to be
prepared to move in forty-eight hours. With great difficulty I managed
to get some sort of equipment together. The military tailors were
working at high pressure, and when asked to make a coat or breeches in
a certain time simply said, “It can’t be done.” By skilful diplomacy I
got a coat in one place, a pair of riding breeches in another, puttees
at another, leggings elsewhere, and so on. One could not then obtain
khaki shirts or ties in London. I did not get a revolver, although this
was on the list of things necessary. Neither did I purchase a sword. Why
a medical officer should be asked to carry a sword and a revolver, and
at the same time wear a Red Cross brassard on the left arm, I am at a
loss to understand. I have asked many senior medical officers of what
use a revolver and sword were to a doctor on active service, and the
only reply I could get was that they were useful to defend the wounded.
It would have been much more sensible for the War Office to tell each
medical officer to get several pairs of rubber gloves for dressings and
operations. I sometimes wondered if the War Office expected the surgeons
to perform amputations with a sword. However, I did not get a revolver,
and I did not get a sword. Later on, in France, I have seen mild-looking
young surgeons arrive at the front armed to the teeth, with swords,
revolvers and ammunition, clanking spurs, map cases, field-glasses and
compasses strung all round them, and on their left arm the brassard with
the Red Cross. We called them “Christmas trees.”
At last my equipment was complete, and I received orders to go to
Aldershot and report to the Assistant Director of Medical Services for
duty.
I was now a “Surgeon in Khaki” and part of that great military hammer—the
British Expeditionary Force.
* * * * *
When I arrived at Aldershot the town seemed deserted. The majority of the
big barracks were empty. We were told that the British Army had just left
for the Continent, and that the Aldershot command, under General Haig,
had gone to a man. Aldershot was rapidly preparing to receive and train
recruits, mobilise reinforcements, and keep up a steady flow of men to
replace casualties. This was great news. When we left London we did not
know that the British Expeditionary Army had gone.
The A.D.M.S. (Assistant Director of Medical Services) put me on duty at
the Cambridge Military Hospital at Aldershot, while awaiting orders for
the front. Several surgeons awaiting orders were already here, and we
all billeted at the Victoria Hotel. We were soon at work examining and
passing recruits, inoculating troops against typhoid, and vaccinating all
who had no conscientious objections. Some had “conscientious” objections
to inoculation. Soldiers should not be allowed liberty of conscience in
these matters. They should be made immune against typhoid and smallpox at
“the word of command” in spite of the screechings of fanatics suffering
from distorted cerebration.
Our duty at the recruiting dépôts was a very amusing one. We here came in
contact with the first hopefuls of Kitchener’s new army. The first call
to arms generally brings in a very motley crowd. The best of the recruits
do not turn up during the first few days, as these have generally some
domestic or business matters to arrange. It was the “First Footers” we
got in these days at Aldershot.
Another medical officer and myself took over one dépôt. We arrived at
8.30 a.m. Standing in a straggling two-deep line before the dépôt door
were about three hundred men of the most variegated texture—some lean,
some fat, some smart, some unkempt, but all looking very cheerful and
hopeful. A smart R.A.M.C. sergeant is waiting at the door with a list of
their names. It is our duty to examine physically this first batch of
three hundred, to see if they are fit enough to train to fight Germans.
Ten men are marched into the dépôt. Each doctor takes five at a time.
At the word of command they strip and the doctor begins. He casts a
professional eye rapidly over the nude recruit. A general look like this
to a trained eye conveys a lot. The chest is examined, tongue, mouth,
and teeth looked at. The usual sites for rupture are examined. About
three questions are asked: “Any previous illness?” “Age?” “Previous
occupation?” A mark is placed against the name, the nude Briton is told
to clothe himself, and the examination is over. It is done at express
speed, and although the examination is not very thorough it is sufficient
to enable an experienced man to detect most physical defects. If a man
passed, he was put down for foreign service. Some had slight defects and
were put down for home defence. Some had glaring defects and were turned
down altogether. We had all sorts of derelicts turn up. One weary-looking
veteran, unwashed and with straw sticking in his hair, indicative of
a bed in a haystack the previous night, was blind in one eye and very
lame. A draper’s assistant from a London shop had a twisted spine, an
old soldier had syphilitic ulcers on the legs, some had bad hearts from
excessive smoking, some bad kidneys from excessive drinking, some young
men were really sexagenarians from hard living, and so on. They were old
men before their time. The occupations of our recruits were as diverse
as their shapes and constitutions—a runaway sailor, a Cockney coster, a
draper’s assistant, a sea cook, a medical student, a broken-down parson,
an obvious gaolbird, and a Sunday-school teacher.
“Cook’s son, duke’s son, son of a belted earl,
Son of a Lambeth publican, they’re all the same to-day.”
Before the doctor the son of a prize fighter makes a better showing than
the son of a consumptive bishop. We had orders not to be too strict with
our physical examination. We were not to turn a man down if he could be
usefully employed in any State service during the war. For instance,
many of the “weeds” amongst the young men, the cigarette victims, the
pasty-faced, flat-chested youths, those who had lived down dark alleys
and in unhygienic surroundings all their lives, were all capable of
being made into better men. Regular meals, plain food, good quarters,
baths, cleanliness and hard work, marching, drilling and gymnastics, made
these slouching, dull-eyed youths into active, smart men. They then held
their heads up, breathed the free air, lost their sullenness, and became
cheerful. Some of the recruits were not fit to be made into soldiers, and
work could always be found for them. There are so many openings for the
willing man at this time, be it cook’s assistant, mess servant, officer’s
servant, orderly, or bootmaker’s help.
It was always an interesting sight to see the sergeant and corporal
drill these clumsy recruits, and show them how to walk, and where to
place their feet. The army drill sergeant has a very caustic wit and a
wonderful fund of cutting comments. He knows his audience well, and with
a few crisp epithets can galvanise a sluggish recruit or a slouching
company into something instinct with alertness.
On 21st August, six surgeons, including myself, were ordered to hold
ourselves in readiness for service abroad. We were told to overhaul our
kits thoroughly, think out all necessary things, and not to have any
excessive baggage. None of us had. The Wolseley valise held our little
all.
The last good-byes were said, and at 4 p.m. we entrained at Aldershot
for our journey to “somewhere in France.” We were all very glad to be
off. We were all very curious to see and take part in the romance and
adventures of the great battles that we knew would be sure to take place.
Romance! Adventure! Very soon we were up against cold facts, and there
was no romance or pomp and circumstance then.