And that is just the spirit of the hospitals—the joy of comfort and rest overbalances the pain and the operation. To think that there are still people who imagine that hospitals are of necessity sad and depressing! Why, even the children's wards of the London Hospital are not that, for, as you look down the rows of beds, you see surprise and happiness on the poor little pinched faces—surprise that everything is clean and white, and that they are lying between proper sheets; happiness that they are treated kindly, and that there are no harsh words. As for a military hospital, while war lays waste the world, there is no place where there is more peace and contentment.
Hospital, for example, is the happiest place to spend Christmas. About a week before the day there are mysterious whispers in the corners, and furtive writing in a notebook, and the clinking of coppers. Then, next day, a cart comes to the door and deposits a load of ivy and holly and mistletoe. The men have all subscribed to buy decorations for their temporary home, and they set about their work like children—for where will you find children who are younger than the "Tommies"? Even the wards where there are only "cot cases" are decorated, and the men lie in bed and watch the invaders from other wards who come in and smother the place with evergreens. There is one ward where a man lies dying of cancer—here, too, they come, making clumsy attempts to walk on tip-toe, and smiling encouragement as they hang the mistletoe from the electric light over his bed.
And at last the great day comes. There are presents for everyone, and a bran pie from which, one by one, they extract mysterious parcels wrapped up in brown paper. And the joy as they undo them! There are table games and packets of tobacco, writing pads and boxes of cigarettes, cheap fountain pens which will nearly turn the Matron's hair grey, and bags of chocolates. They collect in their wards and turn their presents over, their eyes damp with joy; they pack up their games or their chocolate to send home to their wives who are spending Christmas in lonely cottage kitchens; they write letters to imaginary people just for the joy of using their writing blocks; they admire each others' treasures, and, sometimes, make exchanges, for the man who does not smoke has drawn a pipe, and the man in the corner over there, who has lost both legs, has drawn a pair of felt slippers!
Before they know where they are, the lunch is ready, and, children again, they eat far more than is good for them, until the nurses have to forbid them to have any more. "No, Jones," they say, "you can't have a third helping of pudding; you're supposed to be on a milk diet."
Oh, the happiness of it all! All day they sing and eat and talk, until you forget that there is war and misery in the world; when the evening comes they go, flushed and happy, back to their beds to dream that great black Germans are sitting on them, eating Christmas puddings by the dozen, and growing heavier with each one.
But upstairs in the little ward the mother sits with her son, and she tries with all her force to keep back the tears. They have had the door open all day to hear the laughter and fun, and on the table by the bed lie his presents and the choicest fruit and sweets. Until quite late at night she stays there, holding her son's hand, and telling of Christmases when he was a little boy. Then, when she gets up to go, the man in bed turns his head towards the poor little pile of presents. "You'd better take those, mother," he says. "They won't be much use to me. But it's the happiest Christmas I've ever had." And all the poor woman's courage leaves her, and she stoops forward under the mistletoe and kisses him, kisses him, with tears streaming down her face.
Most stirring of all are the clearing hospitals near the firing line. They are crowded, and all night long fresh wounded stumble in, the mud caked on their uniforms, and their bandages soiled by dark stains. In one corner a man groans unceasingly: "Oh, my head ... God! Oh, my poor head!" and you hear the mutterings and laughter of the delirious.
But if the pain here is at its height, the relief is keenest. For months they have lived in hell, these men, and now they have been brought out of it all. A man who has been rescued from suffocation in a coal mine does not grumble if he has the toothache; a man who has come from the trenches and death does not complain of the agony of his wound—he smiles because he is in comfortable surroundings for once.
Besides, there is a great feeling of expectation and hope, for there is to be a convoy in the morning and they are all to be sent down to the base—all except the men who are too ill to be moved and the two men who have died in the night, whose beds are shut off by red screens. The "cot cases" are lifted carefully on to stretchers, their belongings are packed under their pillows, and they are carried down to the ambulances, while the walking cases wander about the wards, waiting for their turn to come. They look into their packs for the fiftieth time to make sure they have left nothing; they lean out of the windows to watch the ambulance roll away to the station; they stop every orderly who comes along to ask if they have not been forgotten, or if there will be room for them on the train; they make new acquaintances, or discover old ones. One man meets a long-lost friend with a huge white bandage round his neck. "Hullo, you poor devil," he says, "how did you get it in the neck like that? was it a bullet or a bit of a shell?" The other swears, and confesses that he has not been hit at all, but is suffering from boils.