I was still in the hospital when the awful “Gretna Green” disaster happened. Perhaps you remember it. A regiment of the Royal Scots was on its way to the front. Their train collided with another at Gretna Green near the Carlisle Junction, resulting in the loss of more than one hundred lives. Some of those that required medical attention were sent to Craigleith, and among the few that found themselves in our ward was a very broad-spoken Scot. He was on seven days’ leave, but being “full of happiness,” somehow or another got mixed in at Edinburgh station with the lads of the wreck. He spied an empty cot which he immediately made for and fell asleep upon it. Soon afterward, Colonel Sir Joseph Farrer, Commandant of the hospital, came along to see the Gretna lads. When he came to this cot he slowly uncovered the face of the presumed patient and asked: “How are you?” The Scot, so rudely aroused, sat up, exclaiming: “Fine, mon; hoo’s yersel’?” The colonel was nonplussed for the moment, but hastily recovered himself however, and shook the extended hand of the erstwhile patient, much to the amusement of the rest of us.
Among the “padres” to visit the hospital was a Major Chaplain of the Church of England. He seemed particularly interested in our ward (G ward) and made as many as three visits a week.
Thursdays, after tea, was prayer meeting for us, as well as for a few of the other wards. Of course, it was impossible for all the wards to have the meeting on the same evening, owing to the large number of them and the scarcity of clergymen, so many of whom were with the boys in France. On one Thursday evening in particular, the Church of England chaplain I have just mentioned was about to commence the service when the absence of the organ (which was a little portable one, such as is used by the Salvation Army) was discovered.
A couple of men who could walk volunteered to go in search of the organ, but they couldn’t find it. Then Sister Brian, a most accommodating nurse, whose Cockney accent was an unmistakable mark of her early upbringing, went out to locate the missing organ. After a few minutes she returned and startled the ward by announcing, from the doorway: “You men ’ad hall better go to ‘Hell’ (meaning L ward). Th’ horgan’s in ‘Hell,’ an’ th’ services habout to begin.”
There was a general roar of laughter and the reverend gentleman strenuously refused the invitation.
When the patients were well on the road to recovery, they would be sent to one of the many mansions opened by the owners as homes for convalescents. Here they would remain for a few weeks, perhaps a month, before being sent to their homes. This stay will be among the pleasantest memories of those who experienced it. The beautifully-laid-out and spacious grounds and the auto rides! How it all helped to hasten recovery!
I cannot conclude without trying to express the praise which most certainly belongs to the medical officers of “Craigleith.” At the outbreak of the war, Colonel Cottrill had been retired ten years, but he was found ready when the first note of the nation’s rally sounded, and there he remained when I left, serving his king and country in relieving, by his expert skill, the sufferings of those who come under his care. He was over seventy years of age, but he most truly was seventy years young.
Of the nurses and sisters I could not say enough. Sister Lauder, for instance; I have seen her do thirty-six hours’ duty at one stretch, without the slightest rest, at a time when streams of wounded were pouring in day and night. Once she collapsed in the middle of the ward. Such devotion, such wonderful spirit these women exhibited!
I was discharged on August 5th, 1915, being “no longer physically fit for war service.” (Para. 392, XVI, K.R.)