Women as army surgeons

by Flora Murray

M. Casanova had found splendid turkeys and sausages, and plum puddings had been sent from England. Mr. Davies had procured beer and there was port wine for the King’s health. Long tables were set for those who were up, and the beds of those who were not up were collected in the large ward. Only one officer, Lieut. Vogel, was in the hospital that day, and he gave the French toasts, and joined in all the fun with great delight. The procession of puddings was hailed with acclamation. The toasts were drunk and the crackers pulled with energy and much noise. Every one feasted and made merry. Later there was an entertainment in the big hall, to which many guests had been invited, including all the Belgians from the seventh story.

The concert began, with a sergeant in the chair, and was going well, when Colonel S—— and his quartermaster and several sergeants arrived to distribute Princess Mary’s gifts to the men. Some weeks before, a nominal roll of men who would be in hospital had been required, and the hospital was hardly to blame if the roll had altered since that date. At the last moment two new rolls had to be made, one for smokers and one for non-smokers, and this task had been much complicated by a desire on the part of many recipients to change over from one roll to the other. The colonel arrived without warning, and was embarrassed to find himself on a platform, facing a large crowd of people. In consequence, he lost his place on the roll and made mistakes about the names, and confused the smokers and non-smokers; but in the end he got through the distribution, and merry-making was resumed.

The chef-d’œuvre was the Pantomime, arranged by the staff. Mr. Davies was consulted about an abridged version of ‘Red Riding Hood,’ and was so horrified by the amateurish suggestions that he refused to write it. He said his reputation would never survive it; so, if it was written at all, Baroness Geysa de Braunecker and Dr. Cuthbert wrote it, or threw it together; for the construction left much to be desired. The actors (having no reputations) were not at all nervous, and they appointed Mr. Davies stage manager and instructed him to take one cue and pass a cow’s head through the screen. Divided between laughter and nervousness, he forgot his cue about Maud, the cow; and the performer called so frequently for Maud that the room took it up and shouted for Maud, until, with a shaking hand, a large pasteboard cow’s head was pushed through. The hall became uproarious over the flight of the grandmother pursued by the wolf, and many hands were stretched out to catch the wolf and give the old lady a chance. The day ended, as it had begun, with laughter and cheers. And as night fell there was a quiet hour, smoking in the wards and talking it over. The men said that they had never known such a Christmas: it was something to tell in the trenches, something to write home—a memory treasured by patients and staff alike.

The Pantomime had inspired the men to give dramatic entertainments on their own account, and almost every evening the staff enjoyed seeing a play arranged and rehearsed by the patients, which was often full of humour and of pathos. One, entitled ‘The Murder of Mr. Smith,’ in which a judge was represented who wore a cotton-wool wig and who constantly roared out ‘Silence in Court!’; and another, ‘The Deserter,’ stand out in the memory of those who saw them. The latter was a pathetic little drama. The officers at the Court Martial were faithfully portrayed: the bullying sergeant-major, the bouncing lieutenant, the courageous accused, were all recognisable types. And the death sentence, carried out on the stage, moved one strangely. The acting was simple and intelligent, and the theme a very living one to those men in those days. After the play there would be music and songs, with the Baroness at the piano and Mrs. Henley leading and conducting from the steps.

‘My! this is a place!’ a sergeant from a neighbouring hospital said to Mrs. Henley. He had come with a message from Colonel S—— and had found his way into the hall one evening. ‘This is a place! You would be pleased if you heard how they are all talking about you.’

The patients, too, appreciated the place and wrote glowing accounts of its grandeur and its pleasures to friends at home.

‘I’d be happy,’ wrote a wife, ‘if you was stopping there till the war was over.’

And many messages of thanks reached the Sisters from mothers in England. Photographs of babies and little boys in velveteen suits arrived by post, so that the doctors might see what fine children they had. And the Poilus were always proud if opportunity allowed them to introduce Madame. One of the older men, who was confined to bed with rheumatism, consulted the doctor as to the best way of sending a registered parcel to his wife.

‘It will be vallyble furs,’ he said.

And the doctor thought he must have been looting, until it transpired that he wished to send her the goat-skin coat which had been issued for his own use.