persists in the "kitchen." The first field dressing-station is nothing
but "sick bay" to the R.N.D. man. They "go adrift" when they are missing
from parade, and they ask to "go ashore" when they want leave.
VI. A NAVAL SCHOOL
From one of several institutions, every six months Britain turns out
2,200 boys who have mastered the elementary rudiments of seamanship and
are ready to take their places as ordinary seamen aboard warships. They
will not tell you how many of these schools there are in Great Britain
alone, but you may learn that no undue activity has been brought about
in these places because John Bull is at war. After having waded through
the curriculum of these boys, one comes to the conclusion that they are
not so far from being able seamen by the time they emerge from this
place on the East Coast.
It is especially striking how speedily the youthful mind snatches up the
mysteries of signalling and of wireless telegraphy; and one is filled
with interest in following the boys from the time they first enter the
school to the day they leave.
In a room where they are "kitting up" are twenty or thirty boys who have
just arrived. And, as they say in America, there is "no monkey
business" about the instructors: either the boys are those who are
wanted or they are not. The youngsters receive their first seafaring
garb in a large, well-ventilated room. They have been in the bath, and
their hair is as close as the clippers can make it. One of them said he
was the son of a lawyer; another that his father was in the Royal Navy;
a third came of a parson's family; a husky young chap had been a
blacksmith's assistant; and another had coo-ed milk in London streets.
"An'," declared a petty officer, "they all comes here believin' they'll
be able to get a pot shot at the Kaiser. Seems to me that they imagine
that William is always standing on guard on the rocks of Heligoland,
just waiting for them to come along--what?"
In another section of the school the boys are grounded in discipline by
a petty officer, and by the time they get through with him they are
accustomed to saluting. Follows then a whirl of wonders to them. There
is a model of the forepart of a ship, which they can steer, and so learn
port from starboard; there is the ingenious manner of dropping a
lifeboat into the lap of the sea; and then the interesting work of tying
knots, in which the petty officer instructor takes considerable pride.
One of the most interesting rooms of sub-schools is the one where the
youthful "salts" are initiated into the mysteries of signalling, where,
besides the numerous flags for sea conversation, there is a dummy
wireless station, by which they can become proficient operators. They
have models of ships, so that they can tell which are British and which
are German. Then there are gunnery schools, and it speaks well for the
young Briton that 90 per cent. of the pupils have such keen minds that
they yearn to learn more of the mysteries of the study of sea fighting;
they have the ambition to be really good seamen, engine-room men,
wireless operators, or signalmen.
On a section of the school grounds there is a mast on which is hoisted
the White Ensign of the British Navy. This spot is known as the
quarter-deck, and every time one of the youngsters passes where he can
see that mast he salutes reverently. Beyond that there is the recreation
ground, where every Saturday afternoon in winter there are half a dozen
games of football. The officers help them to enjoy that, too, for, like
Americans, they delight in exercise.
It is remarkable what a change a boy undergoes after a few months at
the institution. I was told of would-be sailors who were sloppy and
dirty when they entered the school being transformed into neat, fine
physical specimens.
"A hair-cut, a wash, a change of underwear and other garments makes all
the difference in the world," said one of the instructors. "And when you
add to this lessons in sea-neatness, a good deal of interesting
headwork, manual labour, good food and plenty of recreation, it's no
wonder that the mill makes a new boy of one of the seafaring aspirants."
The boys have one great mess-room; and, although they never have been to
sea, they are taught to treat the school as if it were a war vessel.
They ate with vigour when I saw them, and I was told that the money
given to them by the Government is spent for extras in the eating
line--principally candies. Each table constitutes a mess, and there are
prizes for the cleanest and best-arranged mess; so they arrange their
knives, forks, and spoons in a design calculated to catch the
prize-awarder's eye. And, incidentally, this idea of giving prizes for
the best-kept mess is followed throughout the service.
Each day is started with prayer on the quarter-deck, and an impressive
ceremony it is. Honour and glory is what they will tell you they hope
to get out of the Navy, and not money. And the idea of honour, as it is
known in the Navy, is drummed into them from the moment they enter the
school.
To see these youngsters at any meal is to believe that it was the first
time they had eaten for a week. They are ravenously hungry, and the food
is of such excellence that it makes a visitor feel as if he would like
to sit down too. There is little waste here, for I observed that each
plate was polished clean; and, when eating was over, the boys bounded
out for an hour's recreation on the spacious grounds. On their way many
of them paid a visit to the candy-store, and while they were playing
they munched candy.
The port where this school is located is a healthful spot, and in war
time no person is permitted to board a ferry to the school without a
special pass. When you first land you are decidedly struck by the great
figure-heads of old war vessels, which are set up on the "quarter-deck"
and in front of some of the buildings. There is one of the old Ganges
there--a mammoth wooden head of a very black negro. The size of it is
startling.
The officers have a charmingly comfortable ward-room and mess-room. In
the bay is the second Ganges, now a sort of mother-ship for
mine-sweepers and trawlers, and one of the busiest places one can
imagine. The King not long ago dined aboard this ship, and is said to
have expressed great interest in the work carried on from the Ganges.
VII. "GENTLEMEN, 'THE KING'"
There are many traditions to which the Royal Navy still clings, and
there are messes afloat and ashore where it is manifest that time has
not withered impressive and picturesque features of the days of the
wooden warships. For instance, no layman can help being struck by the
British naval officers' toast to the King. And the other toasts are
offered with such splendid solemnity and grace that it makes one wish
that something of the sort could be done at even the minor affairs where
civilians are gathered. Of course, the Londoner and the man from
Manchester offers his toast at a great banquet, as they do in New York
and other American cities to the President of the United States. But
although it takes no longer at a naval mess, there is a something about
it which places the civilian in the shade. With the Navy it is a mess,
and not a dinner where there are many strangers, and every officer has
been doing this since he was a boy.
John Bull's naval officers are men who admit the faults of their
country. They have travelled, and have seen a good many other countries
and peoples. From Osborne and Britannia days sincerity seems to have
been inculcated into them. The discipline is inflexible, but kindly. The
captain of a "Dreadnought" will take pains to ask a young midshipman to
dine with him, and there exists a wonderful thoughtfulness on the part
of the officers for the men. British naval officers are lovers of
sports, and, having believed the Germans good sports before August,
1914, they cannot condone attacks on non-belligerents or the shooting of
nurses. His Majesty's naval officers do great things without talking
about them, and at dinner one of the star heroes of the war may be in
the next chair to you, but you certainly will not hear it from him.
Opposite me sat a man who had faced death with Scott on the Polar
expedition. It was after I had left the mess that I learned this from
one of his friends. But at a mess you may hear stories of men who are
absent. It was at dinner aboard one of the great, grey sea-fighters that
we laughed at the yarn of a young middy, in charge of one of the cutters
off Gallipoli when the Turks were sending shells like rain. This
midshipman ordered his men to take cover. His men included bearded
fellows twice his size and age. They obeyed, as they always obey. Then
the youthful fearnought, to show his contempt for danger, stood on one
of the cutter's cross-seats, pulled out a cigarette-case almost as large
as himself, and puffed rings of smoke skywards.
"I made a jolly fine set of rings that time," he told one of the men.
Another of this tribe was in Cairo on leave when he received word that
his ship was to leave sooner than expected. She was in Alexandria. Not
having sufficient money to pay his train fare, he requisitioned a
motor-bicycle and sped on to Alexandria. From his youthful eyes there
welled tears when he was informed that his ship was weighing anchor.
Nothing daunted, however, he commandeered a fast motor-boat, and swept
out after the warship, which he caught on the go. This is the man who in
later years you are apt to meet at the officers' messes--a man full of
information and wonderfully versatile. He may have ploughed the seas for
many years, and dwelt in his steel home in the baking heat of tropical
suns, and waited for the enemy for many a day. Hence conversation never
lags at these dinners. The meals are comparatively plain in these days;
but most of the officers stick to the delight of a cocktail before
dinner, and after the _piece de resistance_ they have their glass of
port.
Just before the dessert the port is poured into glistening glasses, and
the table is cleared.
"Table cleared, sir," announces the steward to the president of the
mess; and a second later one hears: "Wine passed, sir."
"Thank God," is the brief grace of the chaplain; or, if one is not
present, the head of the mess says it. This is followed with a rap on
the table, and from the president of the mess:--
"Mr. Vice, 'The King.'"
"Gentlemen, 'The King,'" speaks out the vice-president of the mess, who
is seated at the other end of the table opposite to the head of the
mess.
Conversation, which a second before had been filling the place, is
silenced by the grace, and the stranger may be somewhat startled by the
suddenness of the proceedings. It is the privilege of these officers to
drink the King's health seated. This is an old custom, which came about
through the sovereign realising that ships are not the steadiest places
always, and the fact that the ward-rooms are sometimes not constructed
so that a tall man can always stand erect.
Immediately "Gentlemen, 'The King,'" is uttered by the mess's
vice-president each officer repeats in an undertone: "The King." The
glasses after being held aloft come to the table as one, and the
conversation is resumed. Garbed in their immaculate monkey-jackets, with
the glistening gold braid on the cuffs, the men at the carefully set and
beflowered table make a scene long to be remembered.
Incidentally, there is a marine officers' mess at a certain port which
naval officers are always ready to talk about. In that place they are
proud of a wonderful mahogany table which has been polished for many
years until it is now like a black mirror. The band of this mess is one
of the best in England; and it is the privilege of the bandmaster to
play at concerts and in theatres, the proceeds being divided among
charities, the bandmaster and his men. Hence the leader of this band
probably had an income of $7,500 a year.
Here, before the toast to the King is offered, servants come along each
side of the great table and, at a given word, whisk the tablecloth from
the shiny mahogany. The bandmaster is invited to have a glass of port by
the president of the mess. The band leader seats himself, and sips his
wine. Follows then the toast to the King.
At the mess of the largest Royal Naval Air Station in England they have,
by good fortune, obtained the services of a chef who formerly was of the
Ritz Hotel in London; and especial attention is given to this mess. No
matter how hard may have been the day's work or how many men have been
forced to leave for other billets, the dinners there are a sight for the
gods. More than 150 expert seaplane pilots from all over the world sit
down.
It is like a bit of history of olden days to hear: "Gentlemen, 'The
King,'" with its charm and ceremony.
VIII. THE ROYAL NAVAL AMBULANCE TRAIN
Ready to speed to any accessible port on telegraphic or telephonic
orders from the Admiralty Medical Transport Department are Royal Naval
Ambulance trains. They are always on the move, picking up wounded or
sick officers and bluejackets at Scotch and English ports, bearing them
to stations where there are great hospitals, to relieve the coast
institutions likely to receive wounded in the event of a North Sea Fleet
engagement. These grey-painted trains, with the Red Cross and the "R.N."
on each coach, are the outcome of a great deal of study, and they are
now run with remarkable efficiency. No millionaire could receive better
care when wounded or ill than do John Bull's naval officers and seamen.
Sir James Porter, the head of this service, whose pen sends a train to
all parts of England and Scotland, has a loyal staff, which devotes
remarkable zeal to their share of the work. They take pride in making a
time-record in disembarkation and entraining of patients. Naval surgeons
at each railroad station watch the work of the stretcher-bearers to be
sure that every cot has the gentlest possible handling when being
carried from the train to the ambulance which is to take the patient to
the local hospital.
The "stepping" of the stretcher-bearers seems a trifling thing, but it
is surprising to note the attention given to this point in the first
days of the war. Dr. A. V. Elder, staff surgeon of the Royal Naval
Volunteer Reserve and the right bower of Sir James Porter, practised for
weeks the carrying of patients, getting into cots to ascertain the most
comfortable step for the wounded. Prizes were even given to the men who
carried a pail of water on a cot and reached a fixed point with the most
liquid in the receptacle. By this means the best method of "stepping off"
was evolved. There are hundreds of these stretcher-bearers--volunteers
without compensation--who now perform the task so well that it attracts
even the attention of the casual observer. The cot-bearers are doing
their "bit"; they get to the railroad stations at all times to meet the
ambulance trains, and often have to wait hours and give up their usual
business.
It may also be interesting to some that in those August days the Naval
Ambulance trains were not much more than a series of box-cars. The
present cot--an ingenious arrangement by naval surgeons--was used in the
naval hospitals and aboard the warships. But the fixtures on the train
for carrying this cot were far from perfection. The patient was tossed
about by the movement of the train, and it was realised that in the
event of hundreds of patients being carried something would have to be
discovered to steady the beds. Dr. Elder invented a clip-spring to be
attached to the cot and the side of the coach. It held the bed, and had
sufficient "give" to make it steady. In lieu of the box-cars, there are
now coaches of the American type, with windows and great sliding doors
which permit of easy ingress or egress.
The railroad officials have listened to the bidding of the Medical
Transport Officer of the Admiralty and have attached some of the best
locomotives to these trains, usually of twelve coaches. Even when there
has not been an action, and the trains are bearing mostly medical cases,
all passenger and freight traffic gives way to the ambulance trains. If
the surgeon in charge of the train decides that he has a case which
should be hastened to a hospital he wires ahead, so that when he reaches
that point the surgeon or the agent there is on hand with an ambulance
to rush the patient to a local hospital.
Where it is possible, red tape has been eliminated. The cots in which
the patients are carried are sent with the patient from a hospital or
ship, and the patient is only taken out when he arrives at the hospital
of his destination. For the cot bearing the patient, the train surgeon
receives in exchange a clean cot. This cot has been laundered and
fumigated, and is kept on the train so that when only patients are
entrained the surgeon gives a cot for each case taken aboard. Hence the
surgeon always has the same number of cots on his train, and through
this means paper and pencil work is avoided. The patient's clothes are
packed in a bag, and all the valuables of one batch of patients are
sealed up in one envelope, which is receipted for by the surgeon of the
hospital to which the patients are sent.
No patient is transferred from a hospital in a critical condition if it
can be avoided. But sometimes this is necessary, as it was following the
Jutland Battle. Then the most serious cases were held in the hospitals;
while, where it was possible, hundreds of cases were despatched to
institutions at other ports.
The route of these ambulance trains may differ every round trip. One
ambulance train may go to the North of Scotland, while the next one will
only go to Glasgow or Edinburgh if there is no call further north. The
wonderful organisation not only undertakes to relieve hospitals, but
also to ship the patients to institutions unlikely to be suddenly
burdened with many cases; and consideration is also given as to where
the patient can receive the best attention, such as in southern
hospitals.
Fleet-Surgeon A. Stanley Nance is the Medical Transport Officer for
Scotland. He is ever on the alert for what is going on in the hospitals
in his territory. In the event of a great sea conflict, he receives
orders from Sir James Porter and information concerning all the trains
which are by that time racing to the ports nearest to the scene of the
engagement.
In London, the Medical Transport Officer can place his finger on a
railroad map at any time and tell within a mile or so where his trains
are. If by any possible chance they are delayed he receives word from
the train surgeons.
Knowing the probability of further engagements in the North Sea, quite
a number of wealthy private individuals have interested themselves in
the hospitals on the East Coast from north to south. And these persons
take especial interest in the trains, many of them making it a point to
be at the railroad station whenever a Royal Naval Ambulance train pulls
in. What with sick men and accidents, the trains now and again may have
a full quota of patients without there having been a fleet engagement.
In war time no man who is not physically fit is kept aboard ship, for he
may not take up another man's place without being able to perform his
work.
Exigencies of war have caused the speedy transformation of buildings in
many parts of England into hospitals. There also are institutions
constructed in temporary form, architecturally not works of art, but
wonderfully useful. The surgeons at these latter places have wrought
marvels in obtaining good light in the wards and operating-rooms, and
creating a comfortable atmosphere in the exteriorly dingy places.
The starting-point or headquarters of the ambulance trains is in the
South, and when they plough their way North they carry no patients. The
complement of these trains is from forty to fifty hands, and they all
look upon the train as a ship, and use sailors' terms. It is the "Sick
Bay Express."
IX. A RUN IN A ROYAL NAVAL AMBULANCE TRAIN
I obtained permission to make a "voyage" in an ambulance train.
On a grey, drizzling morning one of the Royal Naval trains glided into a
siding at Queensferry--a dozen miles from Edinburgh. In less than ten
minutes six hefty stretcher-bearers steadily and silently bore the first
cot patient from a waiting ambulance to the war-coloured train. Cot then
followed cot with precision, only two of the patients being in the open
at a time; and as quickly as mortals could accomplish it these cots were
set swinging in the "eyes" set for the lanyards.
Being about half-past eight o'clock, nobody had much to say. The faces
of the sick and wounded bluejackets told you nothing as they lazily
gazed around them while being hoisted into the hospital train. They
looked like men sewed into white sailcloth sacks. Surgeons, with two and
three gold stripes, between which runs the red--blood red, some
say--denoting their department in the Navy, glanced occasionally at the
patients.
"Carry on, there," then came from the R.N.V.R. lieutenant in charge of
the stretcher-bearers, when one of the coaches had received its quota of
sick and wounded. Then the sliding doors of the next coach yawned for
its measure of sick men, who presented an interesting rather than a
pathetic picture, for every bluejacket wore his cap, looking like a
sailor who had gone to bed with his clothes on. That cap travels with
him like his papers. The bluejacket has many important things which he
conceals in it, and the most important of all is his package of
"gaspers," as he terms his particular brand of cigarettes. The cap is
placed firmly on his head, and occasionally a flannelled arm protruded
from the cot. No moan or groan escaped from these plucky patients, for
the sailor always lives up to the traditions of the Royal Navy.
From one of the cots there showed a head covered in bandages with only
two small openings for the patient's eyes. His cap was on his bed. As
this sailor was being hoisted into the train a deep voice came from the
bed:--
"Mind yer eye, Bill, or yer'll get yer feet wet."
Bill was a "sitting case." He had come up on the same ambulance as his
pal. He had been in the same fo'castle and had been hurt in the same
accident. And now they were going aboard the same train to the same
port. Bill paid little heed at that moment to his chum as he picked his
way through the water and mud. His right arm was in a sling and the
comforting cigarette between his teeth. Standing on the last rung of the
little ladder before going into the car, I heard him say to another
sailor:--
"She's over yonder. Bye-bye for the present."
His cap came off as he looked in the direction of the great deep water
where lay the hazy forms of ships. Others looked, but said nothing about
the sailor doffing his cap to his grey-steel sweetheart who had
weathered the fight against odds.
"That makes 110," said the train surgeon. "Six, four, seventy-three,
twenty-seven--what?"
The first two numerals denote officers, sitting and cot cases, and the
latter two those of the men.
"Right-o," quoth the officer of the stretcher-bearers.
Soon the grey train steamed out, with orders to make a stop for a couple
of cot cases in Edinburgh. In the Waverley Station a few minutes later
the train took aboard the patients, and then sped on south.
Before "she" had been under way very long, the surgeon in charge and his
assistant walked through the coaches, observing the cases on board and
noting whether any of them needed any special attention.
At noon the cooks and stewards were hustling, giving food to men who, I
supposed, would only require toast and beef-tea. But it takes a lot to
make a bluejacket lose his hunger.
"They're all 'Oliver Twists,'" declared the train surgeon.
Now, there is nothing that a sailor of His Majesty's Navy likes so much
to look at as a pretty girl. Hence it was not surprising when I heard a
voice from one of the cots, after the train had stopped at Newcastle, in
enthusiastic tones blurt out:--
"From 'ere I can see the purtiest gal I ever laid eyes on."
Business, then, of a movement in every cot. Eyes were all front, gazing
in the direction of a golden-haired beauty, who blushed a deep pink when
she realised how many pairs of eyes from the train were focussed on her.
Soon horny hands were being kissed in her direction. Shyly, she sent a
kiss or two back, and then retired to the shadows.