This might be the last entry for a while. There's plenty more available, but it takes a lot of time, and sometimes I feel just a tad depressed at how few times it gets read In fact, looking back, there are many blogs which are totally devoid of text, but even they manage to get scores of views. I think perhaps this is time that I could be spending more profitably [but not in the financial sense!].

Sue

The Post Office

The work of the post office is by no means the least important of the various duties that pertain to a large military hospital. When one remembers the different parts that a letter plays in the economy of a soldier’s life, it is easy to see that accuracy, intelligence, and promptitude are essential factors in the routine of distributing, despatching letters, parcels and telegrams.

In the early days of the hospital, before the extension of the A, B, C, and D blocks, the post office was carried on in a sort of glorified cupboard about 4ft. wide, adjoining the C.O.’s room. This place was so small that only one person could enter at a time. There was no window, so the door was always open. A few plain boards lined on side, with the letters of the wards marked on them. The mail was delivered about 8a.m., parcels later, 9.30, and at intervals during the day. The work of the office was carried on by two orderlies, and was much coveted, as it gave relief from the requisitions of the Sergeant-Major, and also at any time under the plea of taking telegrams, etc.

It was in March, 1915, that I joined this limited staff in order to re-address letters to men who had left. Pte. E. (now Sgt.), who had with various assistants run it from the commencement, complained to the Colonel that the work was getting on his nerves. Could he have some assistance? So, happily, I dropped in for this job. Picture to yourself that little box, with a table and chair – three men struggling with parcels which the postman had just shot out of two or three bags, nurses and men enquiring for letters, an orderly from the staff office with an urgent telegram to be taken at once, two or three people wanting stamps, enquiries as to whether the C.O. was in his room, and so on. There seemed to be some justification for poor E.’s complaint of nerves.

Oftentimes when both orderlies were out I had to fall back on a convalescent soldier to take round the letters. On one occasion the S.M. brought Jimmy, the Irish boy – immortalised by Mr. Harold Begbie in his article “Keep Smiling” – who assisted in this work with his imperturbable good humour. When it was done to his and our satisfaction he would come in and say in that rich brogue of his: “Sorr, isn’t that worth a drink?”

In the early days of the war parcels were very badly packed. Eggs were broken, and streamed out of the corners, a yellow sticky mess, in juxtaposition with a light drapery parcel for a nurse; soft fruit completely smashed; and flowers, alas! that could only be thrown away. Once a plum cake arrived with no address. It was so heavy it fell to the ground like a cannon ball, but nevertheless was enjoyed by the mess in No.6.

One morning as I entered I noticed a very disagreeable smell. Our chief said: “Yes, I’ve noticed it for some days; it’s the drains. It’s very bad this morning; I shall go in and ask the Colonel to have a sniff.” I suggested we should investigate more closely first, and, sniffing around, I came upon a parcel, not very large, but obviously the cause. It had been sent to France from Canada, wandered around for some time, and finally found its way to its owner in the 3rd L.G.H. I took it down to Ward E at arm’s length, where it was promptly suspended out of the window till the owner came. I think it was a special brand of tobacco, very high. Needless to say, the drains were quite innocent.

And so the post office went on, with a few changes of personnel. Pte. H., the champion chess and tennis player, and Pte. M., the poet, succeeded to Cpl. E., who was promoted to the staff office, until the work increased so immensely (with the opening of the new wards) that it was imperative to find us larger accommodation. The work began about 7 a.m. and ended at 10 p.m. My own assistance was only for a few hours each morning.

In May, 1915, we moved into the present quarters, and soon after, by arrangement with the V.A.D., four ladies took possession of the postal work. Then the work began to look organised; order and efficiency took the place of the hurried scramble. The system in use up to now had been this: As men came in their names were entered in a book; this book we had to borrow to find the men’s wards. As the receiving Sergeant was always wanting his book, a lot of time was wasted. The same with discharges; we had to pick out the names from several pages.

Our V.A.D. ladies immediately saw the weakness of this, especially as the number of entries grew to thousands, so entirely at their own expense they provided a series of card indices for officers, men and discharged, thus simplifying the work enormously. In addition, they provided letter and parcel scales, baskets, trays, and other office etcetera. A new trolley was provided for the parcels. The custom had been for our men orderlies to borrow one from the kitchen, accompanied by much language. Once, being unable to get one, they commandeered a stretcher. Meeting the C.O., they got a wigging, but the new trolley followed.

The ladies have proved a tremendous success. Since the advent of our Colonists, there has been a great increase in the work. Foreign telegrams involving technicalities of rates perfectly bewildering to the ordinary mind, changing foreign money, selling stamps, weighing parcels, answering endless questions, entering-in new names, distributing letters and parcels to about seventy wards, are all done with the utmost exactitude and amiability. To have seen them at their best was at Christmas time, when a second room was improvised for the occasion. Parcels in hundreds, letters in thousands, sacks of delayed letters from Malta and the Dardanelles, poured in. Nevertheless every inmate got his letter or parcel before the day was over.

I must not close without a word about Cpl. P., who is the official taker of telegrams and parcels and executor of multitudinous commissions. He is one of the picturesque sights of Wandsworth, with his beloved donkey; always polite and reliable, he is worth a mine of gold.

A. Pitts