Chapter XXI: In a Military Hospital

When there is war a military hospital is a microcosm of its miseries, but the heroism of our soldiers greatly mitigates them. On the field of battle soldiers show the courage that dares, and when they are brought into hospital it is found that they have also the courage that bears.

"It's a treat," wrote a R.A.M.C. man, "to see the 'Tommies' when their wounds are being dressed. You may ask them twenty times if they are feeling pain, and they will say 'No,' or 'Only a trifle,' until at last they collapse."

The self-forgetfulness of some of the wounded is sublime. Writing of patients who had passed through No. 14 Clearing Hospital 5th Division, in France, Dr. Ludwig Tasker said: "We had one poor fellow whose tongue was actually on his neck, as the result of having had his left jaw blown off. Of course, he could not speak, and when, at a sign from him, I gave him a sheet of paper, all he wrote on it was that his captain was worthy of the Victoria Cross."

When Private H.S. Funnell, of the 2nd Sussex Regiment, died in a French Military Hospital, a nurse wrote this to his wife: "Your husband was apparently thinking about the battle a good deal, for quite at the last he called out: 'Come on, boys, at 'em again. I don't mind if they are six or a hundred to one. Last fight. I'm done. Good-bye, lads. The good old Sussex."

A medical man serving with the R.A.M.C. at the front, in a letter to a friend, said: "Our Tommy is a grand fellow. There was one--a Notts and Derby man--brought in last night. He was peppered all over, and I said to him as he lay on the table, 'What happened to you?' and he said, 'I got three damned coal-boxes'--the name we give to the big Black Maria German Shells. I said to him, 'Why did you try to stop three?' and he said, 'I couldn't get out of the way.' We dressed him in the head, the back, the right shoulder and the buttock, mostly nasty wounds. Then I said, 'Are you hit anywhere else?' and he said, 'Well, I think there are two or three on my right leg, but they don't matter. Will you give me a cigarette?' I gave him one, and he said, 'I'm used to this. I'm a collier, and I've been twice in pit accidents, but I'd sooner go through those than run up against another coal-box.'"

To have been wounded in eleven places is the remarkable record of Private E. Johnson, of the Yorkshire Light Infantry, now in the Duchess of Westminster's Hospital at La Toquet. He tells his wife in a letter that he has pains in the head that nearly make him mad; but forgetting himself and thinking of his children he continues: "It nearly breaks my heart to think I cannot send little Violet and Bessie and Lillie something for Christmas; but never mind, let us hope we shall live for another Christmas."

A Highlander who had been maimed for life was asked afterwards in Hospital if he regretted becoming a soldier. He replied, "No, because I've had a good home and a man with a good home should fight for it."

An English artilleryman, who before the war was a professional footballer in the North of England, died in hospital. He had previously undergone amputation of both legs. Up to the end he chatted with two visitors who had come to solace his last moments. The dying man, who in his time had been a great centre forward, told them he did not fancy living with his two legs off while all the other "boys" were out playing, but declared he would not have missed the excitement of the last battle for anything. Refusing grapes and chocolate, he took a cigarette and said: "Have you any newspapers with you? I should like to glance over the football news before I pass out."

There is an irrepressible Welsh Fusilier at the Stanley Hospital, Liverpool, who is known as "the Joker of the Regiment." He has three bad bullet wounds, and yet he is as cheerful as a lion comique, and keeps his fellows as cheerful as children at a circus.

After telling his mother in a letter that he was "in dock for repairs," a soldier continued: "This leaves me with a smile on my face, only I'll say good-bye, lest we should never meet again."

Rifleman P. King, 2nd Battalion King's Royal Rifles, wrote from Portsmouth Hospital: "Since I have been home I have had a leg amputated 4 inches below the knee, so now one tin of blacking will last twice as long, as I shall only have one boot to clean!"

So it is that the brave spirit of our soldiers enables them to joke even at serious wounds. A hand of a Royal Irish Rifleman was shot off at the battle of Mons. For some time after being admitted to hospital he was very despondent about his future. How could he earn his living? One day, however, he broke out with a laugh. "If all else fails. I'll get a job as a shorthand writer."

Another Highlander, with arm terribly shattered by a shell, said: "I will be first-rate for opening taxi doors in the Strand; lucky it was my left arm."

A soldier told a reporter this about a wounded Highlander. When brought to hospital he began to swear, and those who had picked him up at great risk told him that this was a strange sort of gratitude to men who had most likely saved his life. "Maybe you have, and maybe you haven't saved my life," he said in his dogged, dour way. "A'm no saying onnything aboot that; but what A want to hear is what did ye dae wi' me wee cap. It's loast, it is, an' A'll hae tee pay for anither oot o' me ain pocket."

At all times a good soldier dislikes to go to hospital; but especially so on active service. He wants to do all he can for his country and he dreads to be suspected of "skrimshanking." The reluctance of Colonel Loring, who commanded the second Battalion of the Royal Warwickshires, to go to hospital caused his death, which was a great loss to the Army. Wounded in a foot by a shrapnel bullet he refused to go to hospital, had his foot bound up in a puttee when unable to wear a boot and led his men on horseback. This made him a conspicuous mark for sharpshooters, and after two chargers had been killed under him he was himself shot dead.

Great courage is shown by orderlies and ambulance men connected with a military hospital. There is the danger of catching infectious diseases and the danger of collecting the wounded during and after a battle. For ambulance men there is no excitement, or the stimulus of "hitting back;" yet they often get hit themselves.