A Volunteer Nurse on the Western Front by Olive Dent Read Free Book Online

‘flappers’ and the ‘Duchess of Devon-shires,’ the ‘pierrettes’ and the ‘Army sisters,’ not to mention the ‘matrons.’
    Our theatre orderly came as a matron, his get-up being a great success – cap well over the brow, with only two little wisps of fringe showing, trim little black suede shoes and smart stockings, and the usual regulation uniform. He acted the part, too; came and sat with us on the platform, thereby deceiving many of the other orderlies, and was full of jibes. When one of us remarked that he had changed his dress very quickly, for he had been on duty until eight o’clock, he agreed, adding: ‘Much quicker than the ordinary matron. But then I’m no ordinary woman.’ The great lead-paper star he had on in the place of the usual medal (‘The Star, don’t you know, much more exclusive than the R.R.C.’) came unstuck, so he borrowed a safety-pin from an adjacent V.A.D., saying: ‘Thanks, so much, I’ll remember you in my next list.’
    An Australian unit adjoins ours, so, of course, there were lots of ‘Bushmen.’ And gee! how they could dance! The two best dancers, to whom we unanimously gave the prize, were Australians. One ‘Tassie,’ gowned in akimono lent by a kindly V.A.D., was a fruit-grower, or something of that sort, from Tasmania, evidently much of a dog in civil life, and also no mean cosmopolitan. Certainly he never learnt to boston as he did on a Tasmanian fruit farm. He and his partner bostoned and rag-waltzed until my very toes itched again. They had itched already many days before with chilblains and trench-feet symptoms, but this was a pleasing, irritating, alluring, tantalising itch, that made me long to defy the inviolable Army rule that sisters must not dance on active service.
    On Christmas Eve some of the sisters went carol-singing round the wards. I was coming late to the quarters, for I had been ‘specialing’ a case. It was a perfect night, very mild, raining moonlight, with the valleys great pools of sombre silence, and the air beautifully still, so still that one could hear when a car had its speed changed on a fairly distant hill. The carols sounded inexpressibly sweet, and one sensed, probably for the first time, the holy character of the Christmas festival.
    Arrived at the mess I found that some patients who, apparently, had nothing wrong with their lungs, were acting as waits and were singing to those sisters who were at dinner (the latter consisting of busy-timerations of bully beef, potatoes, macaroni cheese, and a cup of coffee).
    They made such a pretty Christmas-card sort of picture, – the glass doors of the mess thrown open, the warm light streaming out and catching the dark outlines of sundry tall poplars, the boy-blues grouped round singing, one holding a lighted lantern, the square collapsible sort that has the old-world, ‘langthorne’ look about it.
    Christmas Day we sisters again gave entirely to the boys. We bought them sausages for breakfast, and that, with the hospital’s ration of bacon, ‘did them proud,’ so they said. They had some nice roast beef and the orthodox pudding for dinner, and then we sisters provided their tea. Our boys chose tinned salmon!! (no, thank heaven for our conscience’s sake, we are
not
in medical wards), potted meat sandwiches, scones, rice cake, sultana cake, Christmas cake, assorted buns, jellies and fruits, while they received sundry gifts of sweets, chocolates, and nuts through philanthropic channels. This, with crackers and two-penny worth of primrose crinkled paper and a franc’s-worth of yellow daisies, made a great show.
    Supper was the same menu, for we had provided so as to ‘be on the safe side,’ but, horrors upon horrors!what were our agonised feelings on walking into one marquee to find that the men there had saved their dinner bottle of stout until supper, and were consuming it to the foregoing culinary accompaniment! We thought of handing round immediately four grains of calomel or a