A VISIT TO BRAISNE, AND AN INSPECTION
Good supplies of clothing and hospital comforts found their way to
‘Claridge’s’ from the many work-parties which had been started in
England. Socks and gloves came in sacks from Oban, Edinburgh and
Aberdeen; pillow-cases and shirts from Annan; belts and bandages from
Stoke; parcels were sent from Cardiff and Bristol; and hot-water
bottles, bed socks and many other welcome gifts arrived from other
places. The Corps had plenty of socks and shirts to send to the
outlying stations through which troops passed, or to the places where
collections of wounded were known to be lying. French soldiers, too,
learned that there were socks to be had, and many of them came to the
Hôtel to ask for a pair. They emphasised their need by drawing rubbed
and bruised feet, bound in rags, from their army boots, lamenting that
the smallness of their pay would not run to socks. With a nice pair,
knitted by some one in Scotland, and a little box of ointment they
went out beaming.
Two Paris friends, Mlle Block and Miss Grey, gave the hospital very
real assistance by providing two ambulances and placing them at the
disposal of the medical staff. They were both of them splendid drivers,
and they did many a hard day’s work, and thought no pains too great, no
journey too long, that gave some wounded man a chance of recovery.
When the R.A.M.C. officer at Braisne telephoned to ask for ‘shirts
and anything else you can send,’ a car with all sorts of necessary
articles was got ready. A bundle of shirts, a sack of socks, a case
of invalid foods and a large bag of dressings were piled in. All the
English papers which could be collected and a supply of Woodbines and
some books were added, for distribution to the British troops who were
always found on the roads or resting in the villages; and the whole
was despatched in the care of the Chief Surgeon early one morning in
September.
The country was beautiful in the autumn sunlight. It looked peaceful
too, as her car followed the long straight roads. But there were
shallow trenches by the roadside and barricades, with sentries at
intervals, which spoke of war. English soldiers were met, who
cheerfully relieved her of the papers and books, and appreciated the
Woodbines and the matches; or asked for news from home, and gave
her letters to post in Paris. At every village the _permis_ and the
contents of the car were examined, and when Paris was left behind,
troops were seen moving in large numbers. Wherever the car stopped,
villagers crowded round it, eager to tell ‘l’Anglaise’ how the ‘Uhlans’
had come so far: how they had fired the houses and emptied the cellars,
and how they had been driven out, and how terrible war was. The smoke
of the German guns firing on Soissons was visible as the driver turned
off towards Braisne.
The little town, which looked destitute and untidy, lay in a hollow
with bare hills all round it, and Dr. Garrett Anderson, as she drove
down the main street, could tell by the stench in which buildings the
wounded lay. She was met by the R.A.M.C. officer, who asked her to come
to headquarters, and took her to a dilapidated little house in which
the officers had their mess. She followed her guide through the house
into a small backyard where three officers were sitting round a wooden
table eating bread and cheese. The colonel said he had not much time,
but he would like her to sit down and talk to him while he ate. And
a wooden stool was found for her. The air of the place was close and
fetid, the flies buzzed over the food, and the men looked careworn and
lined. The squalor and discomfort were oppressive, and she was glad
when the meal was finished and she could go out into the street with
the R.A.M.C. officer, who stayed closely by her. The car was unloaded,
and when he saw what she had brought his voice shook as he thanked
her. He was young, and the strain of his present life and the contact
with so much suffering which he had little power to allay was becoming
almost more than he could bear. It was obvious that he felt it a great
relief to turn to the doctor from Claridge’s for sympathy and comfort.
‘Come and see the men,’ he said.
They walked together to the church. The west door was open. The smell
of sepsis and foul wounds met them as they entered the graveyard. Near
the door some R.A.M.C. orderlies were tending a cooker, and on a bench
a cheese stood among some long loaves and a few tins of Maconochie’s
ration. Packets of lint and cotton-wool were scattered on the ground,
and some mugs and ration tins were piled in the porch. The floor of
the church was covered with wounded men in ragged khaki. They lay
upon straw close together. Some of them were moaning quietly; others
muttered in their delirium. Some were dying as the doctors stood near,
and more than one had entered into rest. The smell, the dirt and the
misery of it all was overwhelming. It was heartrending, too, to think
of the women to whom these men belonged. In the midst of such squalor
and wretchedness, an Army Sister, radiant in scarlet and white,
presented a strange contrast.
When ambulances could be spared, they came down in the evening
and carried as many wounded as they could to a station--where the
men waited sometimes for days for a train. In this way they were
transported long distances, even to St. Nazaire on their way to
England. Such suffering! Such loss of life! And yet within sixty miles
lay Paris with thirty thousand empty beds, but with no organised
transport.
Dr. Garrett Anderson had two places in her car, and she offered to
take back with her two wounded men who could sit up. Out of the medley
the orderlies produced two. They sat them on a bench and washed their
faces with a piece of lint wrung out of the copper. They put their caps
on their heads, gave them a drink of tea and intimated that they were
ready. Dr. Anderson looked at them, and it seemed to her that one of
them was too ill for the long drive in an open car; but when he saw
that she was hesitating, the tears came into his eyes, and he caught
her arm, pleading:
‘Do take me, lady. Don’t leave me behind.’
So he had to be taken. She fortified them both with a dose of morphia
and some brandy diluted with water from the copper; then they were
helped into the car and driven away.
The memory of the men she had left in that putrid atmosphere and under
such comfortless conditions was never to be forgotten.
* * * * *
No doubt some report of circumstances like these reached the
authorities in England. Towards the end of September, the War Office
sent over a representative to examine into existing conditions, and
to inspect and report on the auxiliary hospitals, of which Claridge’s
Hôtel was one. The ‘Milord’ selected for this mission made a handsome,
martial figure as he strode through the streets of Paris. He was
resplendent in khaki and brass hat, and a beautiful order hung round
his neck. Rumour said he was the Duke of Connaught or Lord French
or Sir Frederick Treves or Mr. Bottomley! But whoever he was, his
appearance commanded great respect. He was saluted on all sides, and
men stepped from the pavement to let him take his noble way.
The first hospital which he visited was Claridge’s. He was an imposing
figure as he entered the central hall. His spurs rang on the pavement
and his steps re-echoed in its vastness. He fixed a suspicious blue eye
on the senior medical officers who went to meet him, and interrogated
them sternly:
‘Who is in charge of this place?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘What have you got behind there?’ pointing at the glass partition
rendered opaque by white paper.
‘A French hospital! How can it be a French hospital? You’re British.’
‘All women! No proper surgeons?’
‘Have you British soldiers here? Any officers?’
‘What are you doing with them?’
‘Where do they go when they leave you?’
‘Versailles! Who told you to send them to Versailles?’
‘Colonel Smith! How do you know about Colonel Smith?’
Curt, sharp questions that met with curt, sharp answers.
At this moment Madame Pérouse, who had been notified of his visit,
arrived. He greeted her with the most delightful courtesy, and
withdrawing with her to a little distance, asked if these women were
really practical surgeons and if it were possible that the soldiers
tolerated such an arrangement.
The poor old lady was rather flustered, but she declared that this was
her ‘meilleure installation’ and that the organisation was ‘parfaite.’
He was only half-convinced by the assurances which she gave him, but
his manner became more ordinary, and turning to Dr. Flora Murray and
Dr. Garrett Anderson, he announced his intention of going through the
wards. He was accompanied by a doctor, a civilian, whom he introduced
as being ‘unconverted to women doctors.’ These pleasing preliminaries
being concluded, he was conducted into the hospital.
It was the rest hour, when many of the patients were asleep, and an air
of peace and comfort was over everything. Sisters moved softly whilst
tending the more seriously ill, and those who were awake lay quietly
reading and smoking. The handsome wards with their flowers and coloured
blankets looked charming: for they were in perfect order, and there
were no visitors so early in the day. The men when questioned spoke of
their ‘good home’ with grateful appreciation. The officers expressed
their satisfaction in cordial terms; and as ‘Milord’ went from ward
to ward, he became silent and thoughtful. He finished his inspection
without relaxing the severity of his aspect and took a graceful
farewell of Madame Pérouse, leaving her much mystified as to the reason
of his visit and his apparent displeasure.
‘Qu’est-ce qu’il avait?’ she inquired. ‘Il me semblait mécontent.’
Two days later the ‘unconverted doctor’ called again, bland and eager
for conversation. He explained that he and his companion had been
sent over by the War Office, and he talked of the intentions of ‘K’
with regard to the hospitals. He said they wanted to know whether the
Women’s Hospital Corps could increase its beds, and whether it could
move its hospital forward if needed. The astonished organisers were
given to understand that if any auxiliary hospitals were moved forward,
Claridge’s would be the first to be invited to move, and that the
British Army would not hesitate to make use of it, supposing that the
matter could be arranged with the French Red Cross. The ‘unconverted
one’ still seemed, however, to be tormented with uncertainty as to
the attitude of men when called upon to accept treatment from women
doctors. In order to reassure him, he was pressed to visit the
officers’ ward by himself. He went, and, to the amusement of all
concerned, returned an agreeable and equable convert.
* * * * *
Early in October ‘Milord’ was in Paris and came to Claridge’s again,
bringing with him Professor Alexis Thomson, of surgical fame and of
Edinburgh University. He greeted the staff in the friendliest manner,
and introducing the Professor to them, he explained that he had brought
him because he believed that he would be as much impressed as he
himself had been. He turned to the Professor and said:
‘It’s a curious thing, Thomson. They are all lady doctors here. Have
you ever come across any?’
‘Yes, we begin with them at Edinburgh,’ the Professor replied. By which
it was understood that, as a junior member of the Infirmary staff, it
had been his duty to teach the women students.
In the wards he was shown two trephined patients who were doing well,
and several compound fractures of thigh. He was interested to see that
Dr. Anderson was using Steinman’s pins, and discussed that method of
treatment with her. But what pleased him most, perhaps, was the reply
of a Scotsman to his inquiries:
‘Aw, A’m fine. A tak’ ma meat an’ A get ma parritch in the morning. A’m
fine.’
On many future occasions ‘Milord’ visited the hospitals of the Women’s
Hospital Corps, always as a welcome and honoured guest, distinguished
by his courtesy and his kindness.
* * * * *
The medical staff of Claridge’s had taken a good deal of trouble to
find out the correct way of evacuating convalescent officers and men.
There was no organisation in Paris at that time dealing with the
transport to hospital or the discharge of British wounded, and it was
only by chance that the Corps got into touch with the officer-in-charge
of the Military Hospital, Versailles, and arranged to evacuate its
patients through him. No proper instructions had been sent round to the
auxiliary hospitals; and in many cases patients had been discharged
from hospital and allowed to proceed direct to England. The War
Office termed this ‘leakage,’ and took ‘the gravest view’ of such an
irregular proceeding. Subsequently, an R.A.M.C. colonel was established
in a neighbouring hotel to act as a central authority. The R.A.M.C.
authorities always treated the Hôtel Claridge as though it were a
British auxiliary; whereas, in reality, it was affiliated to the French
Military Hospital St. Martin. Troops of both nations used the hospital
as long as it was open, and there was no difficulty in serving both
masters. Inspection by highly placed officials of both Armies was
constant; and these visits were often a source of amusement to the
medical staff.
Senior officers of the British Army seldom came to Paris without
including the Women’s Hospital in their round of inspection. Especial
care was taken to receive these gentlemen with ceremony. The
_Médecin-en-Chef_ always took them round herself, and whenever possible
the Chief Surgeon assisted too. Under such an escort they could not
fail to see everything that it was desired they should see; and often
they saw it rose-coloured through the spectacles of the doctors
themselves! By the end of the tour they were full of admiration for ‘a
model hospital,’ as they used to phrase it, and almost always asked:
‘But why are you a French hospital? You ought to be working with us.’
‘The War Office would never look at women doctors,’ was the reply.
‘Oh, but that’s absurd!’ they exclaimed. ‘Look at the work you are
doing. We must tell them about it.’
The hostesses passed the conversational ball from one to the other
with skilful tact, intent on educating the officer in question in the
work of medical women. They told him stories of the men and of their
contentment, of surgical results, of the approval of high officials and
of the work which other women doctors were doing during the war, until
lifelong opinions began to give way.
‘There are men who are extraordinarily prejudiced about women,’ he
would say. ‘You may not have met them. But for myself I think it is a
pity the R.A.M.C. should be so pig-headed.’
* * * * *
‘Has Sloggett been to see you?’ asked one Brass-hat, referring to the
Director of Medical Services for the British Armies in France.
‘No, he has not been here.’
‘I wonder at that. Great man with the ladies, Sloggett.’
‘I expect we are not his kind of ladies,’ rejoined the doctor drily, to
the great appreciation of her hearer.
* * * * *
‘That’s a silly sort of badge you are wearing,’ observed one
lieutenant-colonel; for both the senior doctors were suffragists and
wore the purple, white and green badge of their union. As their motto
was ‘Deeds not Words,’ they never attempted propaganda even with their
colleagues, and it was rare indeed for an officer to raise the subject
with them.
‘Oh! are you not in favour of Woman’s Suffrage?’ she asked.
‘No, I am not,’ he replied stoutly: ‘Horrid women!’
‘Somehow, I thought _you_ would be.’
‘What made you think I would be?’ he asked, falling into the trap.
‘Well, you are not a stupid man, and you have been about the world a
lot. You seemed to me to be unusually open-minded.’
‘Well, I won’t go so far as to say I am against it, you know,’ he
conceded.
And then the argument started, amplified by facts and reasons which
would have opened any mind, and which finally sent him off ‘almost
persuaded.’
* * * * *
An R.A.M.C. general in a responsible position called one day when the
senior medical officers were out. He was received by another member
of the medical staff, and assuming the semi-jocular, semi-familiar
attitude which professional women dislike so much in their colleagues,
permitted himself to say:
‘I don’t know anything about lady doctors. Do you bite?’
It was almost the only time that this sort of thing was encountered.
As a rule, there was no want of courtesy; and the doctors met with the
kindest consideration on all sides.
A more trying type of visitor was a celebrated neurologist who, as he
went round the wards, looked over the patients as though they were
goods on a counter, and said in front of them:
‘I want to see some good head cases. Have you got anything shot through
the brain? Any paralysis? No fractures of skull! Nothing good. You
don’t seem to have much in. Deaf and dumb! Hm--yes, that’s not bad. But
I only want to see head cases.’
To women who kept the human side very much to the front this attitude
was unsympathetic. They much preferred the stout old chief from the
Hôpital St. Martin, who hated to see the French soldiers without their
_képis_ on, even when in bed, and who puffed himself out and frowned
and said that the hospital was ‘curieux,’ but sent cases in all the
same.
Each day seemed to bring fresh visitors. Amongst them were the American
Ambassador and his predecessor, French _députés_, English Members of
Parliament, Miss Jane Harrison, Mrs. Pankhurst, Lord Robert Cecil,
Lord Lytton, French ladies and gentlemen, English and American people
resident in or passing through Paris and representatives of the Press
of all the allied nations.
The minds of the French journalists were severely exercised on the
subject of operations; for they could not believe that women were equal
to such work. It was one thing to ‘soigner les blessés’ and another to
operate. It was conceivable that women might succeed as nurses; but as
surgeons! never! These gentlemen would go admiringly over the hospital,
listening to what the doctors told them and talking to the French
patients, and then, before leaving, they would beg for permission to
ask one more question. It was always the same question:
‘Who is it really who operates?’
One editor, to whom the surgeons were indicated in person, contemplated
with serious attention Dr. Cuthbert, who was young and pleasing, and
then said to her:
‘Et vous, mademoiselle, vouz coupez aussi?’
‘Oui, je coupe,’ she replied slowly; for her facility with the knife
was greater than with the French tongue.
‘Incroyable!’ he gasped.
For the most part, ‘épatant’ was the word they used, and the older
journalists would listen silently and shake their heads incredulously.
The editor and assistant editor of _Le Matin_ were so difficult to
convince, that the _Médecin-en-Chef_ offered to let them see the
interior of the operating theatre, where work was going on. The
assistant editor eagerly accepted the offer, and gazed spellbound
through the screen which divided the anæsthetist’s room from the
theatre. He became so absorbed that it was difficult to get him to come
away before the surgeon discovered and resented his presence. Once
outside, he flung his arms round his chief and in an ecstasy of delight
cried:
‘Je l’ai vue--je l’ai vue--le couteau à la main!’
The reporters from the English papers wrote charming articles and
paragraphs about the hospital, which were fruitful in rousing interest
at home, and which brought subscriptions and many parcels to further
the work.