First Impressions

“We want to go to London,” shouted those of us in the ambulance train capable of vocal exertion: others less fortunate, among which I include myself, were content to express mute disapproval according to our several physical disabilities. “We want to go to London,” reiterated the malcontents, thereupon expressing a pleasing ignorance of that city’s boundaries by adding, “and Clapham Junction ain’t London.”

Anyhow, we all had to quit; I borne by two Red Cross stretcher bearers boasting legs of equal attenuation to my own, comparable only to pea-sticks; others struggling on crutches, walking, or, like myself, flattened on litters. Now I object to such places as Brixton and Clapham with genuine prejudice. Yet it was a lucky shuffle of Dame Fortune’s cards that guided my footsteps to Clapham, for thereby I made early acquaintance with the 3rd London General Hospital.

Thither I was transported in a remarkably easy-going motor ambulance; and here would I express my utmost satisfaction and approval of the powers that be in ordaining low speed for the car and consequent high comfort for the patient. In Egypt, whence I had come, a frenzy of hurry and bustle seems to pervade the transport staff of the hospitals at Cairo and Alexandria, greatly to the detriment of their charges.

What were my first impressions of the Hospital? They were favourable in the highest and most emphatic definition of the word. Organisation here seemed tuned to high perfection, studied as an art, brought to an exact science. An N.C.O. demanded the nature of my injuries. Six men thereupon laid me gently from stretcher to bed. Mark you, my masters, six men for a stomach case (me) means gentle handling indeed!

Then somebody brought me steaming cocoa boiled with milk, while more N.C.O.’s gathered like vultures around my bed to fill fat-bellied books concerning me. Others, this time orderlies, examined my kit, brought me clothes to wear in hospital, patted my pillows. Meanwhile, I discovered I was laid to rest in a large, well-aired hall, boasting stained glass windows and as severe in its scheme of decoration as a Nonconformist chapel.

I closed my eyes blissfully. I was at peace with the world. For some time at least both my travels and my troubles were at an end. I dreamed day-dreams; I saw visions. I was in England again, that rich land of my birth, the land of orchards and ripe fruits, of yellow cornfields and full granaries. I repeat, I was at peace with the whole world. But the rude awakening was to come. Scarcely had I made myself full-comfortable when somebody touched my elbow.

“Don’t go to sleep, Sergeant,” said the orderly who had taken my name.

“Why not, pray?” demanded I with asperity.

“You’re off to your Ward,” replied he. “You’re only in the Receiving Ward now.”

Thereupon they hoisted me into a stretcher – and bore me off. Through miles of corridor we seemed to go; along passages that seemed without end; around corners; up inclines; down steep gradients. Finally two doors opened, two nurses bore me tenderly to Bed 22, two hands dropped, two eyes closed again. But joyful was their opening a few minutes later, epicurean their glance, glad their expression. For the good sisters of C6 had prepared already for the wanderers a meal of eggs and toast, of steaming tea, of wafer-like bread and butter. It was all like some dream, when temporarily one lived again in the piping old days of peace.

Some plump little body with merry eyes and a happy boyish laugh bore down upon me. Her rank as Ward sister gave her two stripes on the sleeve.

“Are you comfortable, laddie?” she asked in a motherly tone.

“Very,” I responded, “but I’m pretty cold. I’ve only three blankets on, and a quilt.”

Then we both laughed, for by the calendar in England it was August, and by the temperature nigh on Michaelmas.

A sweet-faced sister wearing pince-nez brought me another blanket; then a hot water bottle; and even suggested another blanket, at which we both laughed. The air cushion for my back was the next item for my comfort. And when I hinted that my very thin backbone would puncture the cushion we both laughed again. I was sure we were a very happy family in the Hospital. Such are my first impressions of the Hospital, but one day I am devoting a whole article to that sister of the sweet face, for she throughout will be the real and lasting impression.

Malcolm Savage Treacher

(A. Batty., H.A.C.)