It is over a year ago since an Irish private, known to his pals by the above rather obvious contortion of the proper name of Donohue, was brought into hospital. He came with a convoy of British who, nearly all, were suffering from gas poisoning as well as wounds. Those being the early days of ‘the gaz,’ as Do’-no-who called it, arrangements for its defeat were not yet altogether successful. After all, who could then have foreseen such a devilish invention of war? However, the poor, panting, choking, indeed in some cases retching, men who came to us had been given some kind of protection. Each one clung still to his particular mask, limp, blackened, flimsy affair that it was.
Poor old Do’-no-who’s condition was pretty desperate. You could hear him breathing fifty yards away. He was sustained from first to last by the most indomitable fighting spirit I ever came across. During a struggle of several days’ duration there was only one order which he utterly declined to obey. Nothing would, nobody could keep him from talking—even in his sleep. I am bound to say it chiefly took the form of endless ejaculation. As, for instance, when with intense difficulty he managed at first to gulp down a little champagne, it was like this—‘Isn’t that fine now?’ ‘Grand!’ or ‘That’s killin’ the divil’s own gaz’—a word at a time between every sip.
Soon realising that every known resource was being tried to relieve his sufferings, old Do’-no-who did his level best to respond to it and to cheer us on. ‘Och, I’m finely now,’ or ‘It’s only the gaz that’s hindering ye’s all,’ he would say, with a sorry attempt to smile. But sometimes there would be anxious moments, when he would lie back only partially conscious. Then it seemed as though he was engaged in some most exciting and exhausting struggle. Little exclamations of despair or joy in turn would escape him.
‘Sure this gaz’ll defate me!’ ‘Deed it will that!’
Then, after renewed panting, the perspiration would pour down his cheeks, and ‘I have it!’ ‘Isn’t it weighty now?’ and the puff! puff! puff! greater than ever made one wonder what huge burden he thought he was lifting.
‘I’m afraid he’s a little delirious,’ said the doctor, as he put his finger again on the patient’s pulse. Old Do’-no-who seemed to hear this. He would open his eyes and say in a tone of triumph: ‘Sure! Won’t I be comminded for conspicuous gallantry!’ So, whilst some doubted, others could only see conviction in his clear steady blue eye as he again thankfully attempted to inhale more oxygen. His hands were continually seeking and fingering a little string of beads that lay beside him: ‘It was me rosary brought me t’rough,’ he said, as he relapsed into a painful sleep.
Once he overheard some remark that rather pleased him, and he cut in rather unexpectedly: ‘Yes, prayer is the foundation of all graces.’
In spite of the constant and hideous strain of the breathing, we were amazed at the way his constitution bore him along. Also he had certain intervals of marked improvement and we almost dared to hope. So did Do’-no-who. ‘Sure we’ll niver die!’ he said, and his eyes shone with such confidence and joy that we began to think he was right.
Even in his worst agony he had always managed to fling an occasional word of wit or chaff towards his companions. Now it was impossible to suppress him. Carried outside in his bed in the glorious sun, he and several of the patients quite revived under the influence of that soft May air.
It was a pathetic little row of beds; some of the men’s faces so deadly white, others still of that dark uncanny colour which tells its own story of asphyxiation. Yet few there were, indeed hardly one of those men within earshot of Do’-no-who, that did not shake with weak giggling if he so much as opened his lips or looked across at them. There indeed was the medicine of the merry heart.