Fragrant Memory

When General Erich von Ludendorf launched his long-expected German Offensive on the Somme in March 1918, every British and Allied medical unit along the lines of communication, from battle area to base, hastily examined its capacity potential, with special attention to the possibility of pushing patients further along the line to make room for the large influx of new wounded which the first thrust of such an offensive was certain to produce.

Inevitably, then, the Duchess of Westminster’s Hospital at Etaples, being an important base hospital, received special attention in this regard, and a hurried survey resulted in a decision to send as many patients as possible across the Channel to England.
Prior to the Great Offensive, Alan Clarke and I had been thinking in terms of two or three weeks at the base and then back to our units, but, now, everything pointed to the possibility of our inclusion in the draft for England.

Nor did we have long to wait for confirmation. Events moved swiftly.
Thursday, the 21st day of March, was the opening day of the Offensive.
The following day saw much activity at the hospital in preparation for the arrival of a large batch of wounded officers.

The first of these was brought in on the Saturday morning, and it was reported that there were many more to follow.

At midnight on that same Saturday, we were awakened by our Night Sister and told to get ready at once for Blighty.

We were then placed on stretchers and put out on the stone floor of the entrance hall, where we remained for over an hour, awaiting the ambulance that eventually took us to the hospital train.

The next day, Sunday, found us still in the hospital train on the way to Calais.
We reached the port at noon, and one is happy in retrospect to know that the hospital ship was the “Princess Elizabeth”.

At Dover, we were immediately transferred to yet another hospital train – this time our destination London.

I readily confess a strong feeling of nostalgia as I read from the diary the brief description of the trip from Dover to London.
“Very pretty country – Orchards – Currants – Hops – Plums –

Green fields – Sheep – Lambs – Some trees just starting to sprout.”
This, after so much earlier travel in France and Belgium, through a country completely devastated by war.

It was close to midnight when we drew in at Liverpool Street Station.
Then began our trip by motor ambulance to the No. 3 London General Hospital at Wandsworth.

It was during this trip to the hospital that the incident took place, which gave this little story its title and has remained a fragrant memory ever since.
“Dear old London”, in the grip of war, was a drab and dreary spectacle, to say the least.

At that time – after midnight – the streets had the appearance of a deserted city. Street lights were, of course, at a bare minimum, and these heavily shrouded. This, against a gloomy back- ground of buildings all completely “blacked out”.

I was peering out through the open back of the ambulance, contemplating the dismal scene, when, suddenly, there came to my ears the pitter-patter of fast-running feet on the roadway nearby.

They were unmistakably those of a young woman wearing traditional-type street shoes, which made the footsteps so audible.

As I lay there wondering, the footsteps drew nearer, and then the sweetest voice called, loud and clear, “Good luck, soldier!”
At that moment something fell on my blanket. I reached out to examine the object, and discovered – a bunch of violets.

I have never inhaled such perfume. It was as though those humble flowers had brought to me, in the blackness of that night, the very breath of an English garden.

It was a soul-stirring moment.

But what of that gallant young woman with the golden voice? She had gone, and there was no opportunity to express appreciation – not even to say “Thank you”.

The diary tells of our safe arrival at Wandsworth, and that, after some toast and egg, we were put to bed.