A Surgeon in Arms

by R. J. Manion

There is a legitimate nervousness, named "shell shock." The real cases of this condition, when they are extreme, are sad to see. An officer or Tommy, who has previously been an excellent soldier, suddenly develops "nerves" to such an extent as to be uncontrollable. He trembles violently, his heart may be disorderly in rhythm, he has a terrified air, the slightest noise makes him jump and even occasionally run at top speed to a supposed place of safety. He is the personification of terror, at times crying out or weeping like a child. He is unfit for duty, and will require rest for an extended time. Some cases are not so extreme as this and may simply display sufficient nervousness to prevent their going on.

Shell shock is brought about by the effects of severe shelling; by being buried by an explosion of shell or mine; or by the killing beside the sufferer of a companion. In short, these cases are due to the subjection of the nervous system to a strain which it is unable to withstand, making it collapse instead of resiliency rebounding. The extreme cases are pitiable to observe, and are just as ill as if they were suffering from insanity, or delirium tremens. It is doubtful if the man who has suffered from a severe attack of this malady is ever again fit to serve in the firing line. Only time can tell whether or not any permanent weakness will be left in the nervous system as its result. These are not cases of cowardice, though to a superficial observer they might appear so. Some of them six months later, after that full period of rest and care, still show marked tremor, a fast or irregular heart, are "jumpy" on the slightest sharp sound, and are generally unfit for service.

It is interesting to study the psychology of the coward, but it is more interesting and infinitely more inspiring to study that of the brave man. Brave men and courageous women are so common, as this war has amply proven, that we may find plenty of material for this study. The women—God bless them, and sustain them—have to show more courage than the men; for they have to endure in patience the life-sapping tedium of staying at home, while their loved ones go into danger—and perhaps to death. They have not, as their men have, the variety of change, the interest of novelty, or the excitement of battle to sustain them and occupy their minds. Their duty is to wait, wait, wait—praying and hoping that a good and merciful God will spare their loved ones. Oh, you wives, and mothers, and sweethearts, who wait, the world owes to you much more of honor and thanks than it owes to the men at the front! You, in your sublime unselfishness, prefer to see your beloved men-folks get the honors and praise, while you are content and happy to accept the reflected glory!

Every country in the world believes that it has the fairest women and the bravest men, and, to make an Irishism, each is right in believing it. It is only natural that each country should have a national pride in the deeds of its heroes, and this war will give to most countries enough acts of bravery and of chivalry to inspire their youth for a few generations.

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Capt. Gammil was a handsome, dashing chap whose love of fine clothes, bright colors, silk pajamas—which he wore even in the lines, while the rest of us slept in our uniforms, according to orders—and immaculate cleanliness, gained for him the sobriquet, Beau Brummel. His farcical gayety was continuous, and rarely did he appear serious, even though a serious mien would have been more appropriate. His extremes of style made him a daily cause of humorous remarks on the part of his comrades; and yet his courage was unquestioned. I have seen him coolly walking along, daintily smoking his special brand of cigarette, apparently as much at ease as if he were in his own smoking room, with the shells at the same time bursting all about him. Good stories were told of his careless fearlessness at the Somme and elsewhere, as he carried out his duties in tight corners with the sang-froid of a veteran. Here was a fellow one would take to be the lightest of the light, a poseur, a farceur, a dandy of the ladies, who could be as gay and light in danger as in London. He is the type of chap who was, no doubt, "a sissy" in the opinion of his fellow-schoolboys, but is in reality of the stuff that men are made.

Major Billbower, an English bank-clerk who had lived some years in Canada, was rather the reverse of the above. He took life more seriously, and hardly a day went by that he did not put into the orderly room a complaint, great or small, until he got the name, "the grouser." Usually his complaints were on behalf of his men whom he seemed to think were always getting discriminated against by someone. Because he was of the rather extreme, unmixable, aristocratic type his men respected him rather than loved him (though he was a very likable chap to those who really knew him) but they would unhesitatingly follow him through hell-fire, for in danger his handsomely-chiseled features wore a scornful smile as he strode along, gayly swinging his cane, with the same air that he had worn in more peaceful days in Hyde Park. He had been decorated for conspicuous bravery, and well deserved it. On one occasion a large caliber dud shell struck in the doorway of a superficial dugout in which he was writing, and rolled to his feet. Without more than a glance at it, he coolly pushed it to one side with his foot, and continued writing.

Corporal Pare, a red-headed Irish boy, was for a long time my sanitary corporal in the lines and out. He had been serving in the lines for sixteen months at the time of which I write, and was tired of it. He frankly said he was afraid to do certain things, but when ordered to do them, he carried them out cheerfully and smilingly. At the Somme he won great praise as a runner for carrying messages through heavy barrages, always appearing terrified at the prospect, but always getting through. Many a time inspecting the trenches with me he would say, respectfully: "Those pineapples are dropping in just ahead of us, sir. Hadn't we better turn back?" Perhaps to tease him, I would go on, telling him to "come along." "Very good, sir," he would say with a cheerful smile on his red face, and he would trudge along like a faithful dog. He was "homely" in looks, red-headed, not clever, and said he was afraid, but no more faithful or more dependable soldier ever went to the front than Corporal Pare.

Sergeant Gascrain was a small, shriveled, sharp-tongued, five-foot-high, French Canadian who assisted me for some time. He was cynical as to the illnesses of the men, and treated them usually like so many cattle, believing them all to be malingerers, till one day I reminded him that a man may often malinger, but that did not prevent him from occasionally getting sick. He apparently did not believe it, though he often cursed the rheumatism that afflicted his own joints. He said they all had "frigidity of the feet, with a big F." He was at times addicted to alcohol and every few months he lost his stripes because of intoxication. Then he would labor incessantly till, by his good work, he won them back again. And when he did regain them he was as proud as if he had won his marshal's baton, until the next occasion when the great god Bacchus put him back to the ranks with one fell swoop. With all his faults he had an absolute disregard of danger. I sincerely believe that he thought that if a shell should strike him—well, so much the worse for the shell. At the Somme his cool, courageous work under heavy shell fire won for him, at the recommendation of a British colonel who had observed it, the military medal. But one deed he performed which I think deserved more praise than any other. While working on the field a Lieutenant Colonel was brought to him on a stretcher. The Lieutenant Colonel's wound was so slight as to cause a sneer to hover about the sergeant's lips as he dressed it. A stretcher squad carried the colonel to the rear, and another squad, under the sergeant's direction, carried a badly-wounded Tommy. An ambulance came for them. The sergeant had the soldier put in first and then the colonel. But the colonel angrily protested against the Tommy being allowed to go in the same ambulance with him.

"Tres bien, monsieur," replied the sergeant in his quick, sharp tones, and turning to a stretcher squad, said, "Remove the officer." It was quickly done, the colonel staring in angry astonishment, the sergeant coolly continuing his work while the officer awaited the coming of another ambulance. In my opinion this act of an N.C.O. was worthy of a V.C.