Florence Nightingale 1918

Following a tour of duty in the line on the Messines-Wychaete ridge in Belgium, a bout of trench fever and bronchitis sent me on a long and tedious stretcher journey by motor ambulance from one Casualty Clearing Station to another, at each of which I was merely examined and my papers marked “Evacuate” – no treatment whatsoever and little nourishment.

Eventually, after three days, I reached Bailleul and changed over to a hospital train en route for Boulogne.

The journey by rail, monotonous and trying, occupied all day, and we did not draw in to the siding at Boulogne until after midnight.

But it was then my good fortune to be sent to The Duchess Of Westminster’s British Red Cross Hospital at Etaples.

This wonderful place could be suitably described, perhaps, by the entry in my diary at the time, reading “truly the most palatial abode I have ever seen”.

Actually, it was “The Casino”, with all the fabulous trimmings of a place of that kind. For instance, the ward in which I found myself at last ensconced was, in other days, an enormous gaming room, where the tide of fortune ebbed and flowed with the spin of a wheel or the toss of a dice.

The walls of this great room were decorated with paintings of exquisite beauty – each being a work of art that could take its place, I should think, in any art gallery in the world.

The Duchess, whose sponsorship maintained the hospital, was no mere figurehead, but took an active part in the daily routine.

Dressed in spotless white uniform closely resembling that of the matron, she paid periodical visits to the wards, chatting freely to the patients as she moved around. Her cheerfulness was a tonic greatly appreciated by all.

There were only two Australians in the hospital at this time – a young lieutenant of one of the Fourth Division battalions – Alan Clarke, from Victoria – and myself.

Clarkie, as I called him, had received from friends in Australia a rabbit skin fur, which he kept on his pillow as a head rest. This amused the Duchess immensely, and usually, when paying us a visit, after her bright greeting, “How are my two Aussie boys?” she would laughingly demand the production of the rabbit fur. We enjoyed the fun

There was also another diversion much appreciated.

It so happened that one of the nursing sisters possessed a rich soprano voice, with which she entertained the ward at least once every day.

Her routine was to walk quietly to the centre of the ward and, without any announcement, break into song.

One of her songs has been a pleasant memory over the years since.

“Let The Great Big World Keep Turning” was a firm favourite with all who were associated with the First World War, and whenever I have whistled that first line, “If I knew that someone cared for me I should let the world go by”, my memory has immediately flashed back a picture of the ward at Etaples and the lovely Singing Sister.

But I remember that it was the Night Sister who held pride of place in our hearts.

We learned that she was married, and that her husband, an officer in the British Army, was serving in France in a front line unit.

Her job at night was extremely arduous and difficult, the more so following the arrival of a large quota of officers seriously wounded in the Great German Push on the Somme which had just begun.

It was during a heavy enemy air-raid one night that we witness- ed something of the valour and the meritorious service which this gallant lady was giving. Long before the bombing planes could be heard the whole countryside was completely blacked out.

Quickly our Night Sister had lit her old-style hurricane lamp and proceeded to move around the ward giving comfort and assurance to those patients who were very low and to whom the air-raid was a terrifying affair.

It was not long before we could hear the heavy drone of the bombers, and, as they came nearer and nearer, the atmosphere became tense.

When they seemed to be right over the hospital it was easy to imagine a couple of bombs coming through the roof into the ward at any moment.

This, of course, was quite the wrong thing to do, and no doubt it was to help us forget it, that Clarkie and I kept up a facade of continuous conversation, and apparently succeeded in giving the impression that we were unperturbed. Accordingly, our Night Sister, on completion of her round of the ward, came across to us and warmed our hearts considerably with the request “May I sit with you two boys?”

At that stage the tension was high, the planes were very close, and several large explosions had taken place already in a nearby area.

This had seriously upset some of the patients, and a hideous scream from one of them in delirium took Sister hurriedly away to his bedside.

The bombing still continued, and all the indications pointed to a very heavy raid, but, eventually, quiet was restored in the ward and Sister returned to her chair in our corner.

As she approached she unwittingly enacted an historic tableau of appropriate significance.

It so happened that the light from the hurricane lantern which she carried at her side shone in streaks through the top of the glass, dimly illuminating Sister’s face and the red cape of her uniform.

It appeared to us like a vision – a portrayal of the past – and the surrounding darkness intensified the effect.

Quickly our minds responded to the thought: Here, in the dramatic setting of the air-raid, came our very own “Lady With The Lamp”.