June 10th, 1916
Today my hour of rest and recuperation was much appreciated. There are not many injured men in the ward that I work in today, but nonetheless they all must use the bathroom at some point, and many of them must use bedpans. This morning, after the foggy walk to the hospital that precedes every exhausting day, Nurse Claire announced that I would be in charge of the sluice room today. I understand that it must be done, but whenever she has the chance, she decides that I need a good reminder of my place as a VAD. Once I finish writing this entry, I must get back to cleaning surgical instruments and washing out the bedpans. It is not quite so horrible as one might think, but you can speak to no one but the other nurses who come in occasionally, and by now we know almost everything about each other. I thoroughly enjoy the soldiers, for when they can speak they are often quite eloquent, and sometimes pleased to talk to someone about a topic other than the affairs of war. I believe that I would be tired of the fighting too. However there are soldiers who cannot speak, whether they are too shocked by what they have seen, or have bandages that cover their faces so that their speech is muddled at best.
Working in a ward in a field hospital is difficult, more difficult, I think, than working in a hospital back in Britain would be. Here we are plagued by the noise, especially from the artillery batteries. There must be a terrible cacophony when the guns are only feet away. We also do not return to familiar beds or people every night. There are some in neighboring villages that are generous enough to take us in, and so that is where I sleep every night. The house that I stay in is small, and comforting. I share a room with two other nurses, and it is rather cramped, but better than conditions faced by nurses who sleep nearer the hospital. At least our food is plentiful and hot when we get back late every evening. The woman that lives in the house is short, of a good-natured disposition, and a widow. She is rather old, and her children have long ago grown up, so I think she enjoys taking care of someone (Or three someones) for a little while. It must be some strain on her, as we get back very late and leave very early. She stubbornly insists that she must wake up with us and cook us a meal before we go back to the hospital. Mary, Dorothy and I have tried to convince her many times that this is unnecessary, but still she continues. She is named Margot.
I will be leaving her soon however, as Claire gleefully told me just the other day. As I mentioned a few days ago, the British are planning some action somewhere else in France, and so they want a few more nurses. I don’t suppose that they asked for recommendations first, for I know that if that were the case, I would not be going at all. I am good at what I do, but Claire has some spite for me that I do not understand. Perhaps it is because I get along with the soldiers so much, and her so little. Perhaps if she tried to be a little less ill-tempered sometimes, then they would enjoy her company more. She is clever though, and very good at nursing, even if she is crotchety.
Today I met a very charismatic soldier who had trench foot. It’s a condition that I had never seen before the war. It is quite horrible. The skin of the person’s foot begins to rot away and turn strange colors. The odor is not pleasant either, but to look at it almost causes one pain. He acts as if it does not hurt him, but I know that I can not imagine how it feels. He is young. I believe that he may have lied about his age so that he could join the military. I also believe that he had no idea what war would be like. He is stronger than most people I know, and I hope that he lives through this horrible mess. He has suffered through so much, and yet he has not uttered a word of complaint. Not only does he have an infection in his feet, but when he arrived at our hospital he was full of punctures and places where bullets had scraped and hit him. A few of the worse bullet holes are infected, full of pus and strange smells. Nurse Stella and I have tried our best to take care of him (Stella is one of the sweeter trained nurses who does not mind the VADs), but his infections are very persistent, and his leg is broken. His name is Theodore. Earlier today when I was giving him his sponge bath, I asked him about his home, and his family. He began to describe them to me, and I learned that he is from a small village in northern Britain, far from where I live, but we share a native country, and therefore we know what the other is missing. When he began to describe his family members to me in more detail (As I had asked him to do to distract him from the sting of the alcohol that I was rubbing on his wounds), he began to cry. He tried to hide it at first, wiping his eyes now and then and looking up at the ceiling, but soon he could not help it, and he wept, silently, with tears running persistently to his chin. I nearly began to cry myself, so tangible was his grief. But I stroked his hair and whispered to him until he calmed down. He pressed his face into my apron as I knelt at the head of his bed. I could see that he was embarrassed, though I do not know why, he is not the only one. Perhaps he thought that the other soldiers would suspect his age if they saw him cry, but I do not think that they would think badly of him, I am sure that many of them have had days when they have cried as well. It is, in my mind, no sign of weakness. I will care for Theodore until I leave (Or God forbid he should ‘leave’ first), but now I must use the remainder of my hour to write a letter to Frederick.
Today my hour of rest and recuperation was much appreciated. There are not many injured men in the ward that I work in today, but nonetheless they all must use the bathroom at some point, and many of them must use bedpans. This morning, after the foggy walk to the hospital that precedes every exhausting day, Nurse Claire announced that I would be in charge of the sluice room today. I understand that it must be done, but whenever she has the chance, she decides that I need a good reminder of my place as a VAD. Once I finish writing this entry, I must get back to cleaning surgical instruments and washing out the bedpans. It is not quite so horrible as one might think, but you can speak to no one but the other nurses who come in occasionally, and by now we know almost everything about each other. I thoroughly enjoy the soldiers, for when they can speak they are often quite eloquent, and sometimes pleased to talk to someone about a topic other than the affairs of war. I believe that I would be tired of the fighting too. However there are soldiers who cannot speak, whether they are too shocked by what they have seen, or have bandages that cover their faces so that their speech is muddled at best.
Working in a ward in a field hospital is difficult, more difficult, I think, than working in a hospital back in Britain would be. Here we are plagued by the noise, especially from the artillery batteries. There must be a terrible cacophony when the guns are only feet away. We also do not return to familiar beds or people every night. There are some in neighboring villages that are generous enough to take us in, and so that is where I sleep every night. The house that I stay in is small, and comforting. I share a room with two other nurses, and it is rather cramped, but better than conditions faced by nurses who sleep nearer the hospital. At least our food is plentiful and hot when we get back late every evening. The woman that lives in the house is short, of a good-natured disposition, and a widow. She is rather old, and her children have long ago grown up, so I think she enjoys taking care of someone (Or three someones) for a little while. It must be some strain on her, as we get back very late and leave very early. She stubbornly insists that she must wake up with us and cook us a meal before we go back to the hospital. Mary, Dorothy and I have tried to convince her many times that this is unnecessary, but still she continues. She is named Margot.
I will be leaving her soon however, as Claire gleefully told me just the other day. As I mentioned a few days ago, the British are planning some action somewhere else in France, and so they want a few more nurses. I don’t suppose that they asked for recommendations first, for I know that if that were the case, I would not be going at all. I am good at what I do, but Claire has some spite for me that I do not understand. Perhaps it is because I get along with the soldiers so much, and her so little. Perhaps if she tried to be a little less ill-tempered sometimes, then they would enjoy her company more. She is clever though, and very good at nursing, even if she is crotchety.
Today I met a very charismatic soldier who had trench foot. It’s a condition that I had never seen before the war. It is quite horrible. The skin of the person’s foot begins to rot away and turn strange colors. The odor is not pleasant either, but to look at it almost causes one pain. He acts as if it does not hurt him, but I know that I can not imagine how it feels. He is young. I believe that he may have lied about his age so that he could join the military. I also believe that he had no idea what war would be like. He is stronger than most people I know, and I hope that he lives through this horrible mess. He has suffered through so much, and yet he has not uttered a word of complaint. Not only does he have an infection in his feet, but when he arrived at our hospital he was full of punctures and places where bullets had scraped and hit him. A few of the worse bullet holes are infected, full of pus and strange smells. Nurse Stella and I have tried our best to take care of him (Stella is one of the sweeter trained nurses who does not mind the VADs), but his infections are very persistent, and his leg is broken. His name is Theodore. Earlier today when I was giving him his sponge bath, I asked him about his home, and his family. He began to describe them to me, and I learned that he is from a small village in northern Britain, far from where I live, but we share a native country, and therefore we know what the other is missing. When he began to describe his family members to me in more detail (As I had asked him to do to distract him from the sting of the alcohol that I was rubbing on his wounds), he began to cry. He tried to hide it at first, wiping his eyes now and then and looking up at the ceiling, but soon he could not help it, and he wept, silently, with tears running persistently to his chin. I nearly began to cry myself, so tangible was his grief. But I stroked his hair and whispered to him until he calmed down. He pressed his face into my apron as I knelt at the head of his bed. I could see that he was embarrassed, though I do not know why, he is not the only one. Perhaps he thought that the other soldiers would suspect his age if they saw him cry, but I do not think that they would think badly of him, I am sure that many of them have had days when they have cried as well. It is, in my mind, no sign of weakness. I will care for Theodore until I leave (Or God forbid he should ‘leave’ first), but now I must use the remainder of my hour to write a letter to Frederick.
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