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Field Hospital and Flying Column Being the Journal of an English Nursing Sister in Belgium & Russia By: Violetta Thurstan (1879-1978) |
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Being the Journal of an English Nursing Sister in Belgium & Russia by VIOLETTA THURSTAN London and New York
G. P. Putnam's Sons
1915
First Impression April 1915
M. R.
Allons! After the great Companions, and to belong to them.
They too are on the road.
They are the swift and majestic men, they are the greatest women.
They know the universe itself as a road, as many roads,
As roads for travelling souls.
Camerados, I will give you my hand,
I give you my love more precious than money.
Will you give me yourselves, will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?
Contents CHAPTER PAGE I. THE BEGINNING OF IT ALL 1 II. CHARLEROI AND ROUND ABOUT 16 III. OUR HOSPITAL AND PATIENTS 37 IV. THE RETURN TO BRUSSELS 53 V. A MEMORABLE JOURNEY 76 VI. A PEACEFUL INTERLUDE 92 VII. OUR WORK IN WARSAW 113 VIII. THE BOMBARDMENT OF LODZ 128 IX. MORE DOINGS OF THE FLYING COLUMN 144 X. BY THE TRENCHES AT RADZIVILOW 161 INDEX 179
I THE BEGINNING OF IT ALL
War, war, war. For me the beginning of the war was a torchlight tattoo
on Salisbury Plain. It was held on one of those breathless evenings in
July when the peace of Europe was trembling in the balance, and when
most of us had a heartache in case in case England, at this time of
internal crisis, did not rise to the supreme sacrifice. It was just the night for a tattoo dark and warm and still. Away across
the plain a sea of mist was rolling, cutting us off from the outside
world, and only a few pale stars lighted our stage from above. The field was hung round with Chinese lanterns throwing weird lights and
shadows over the mysterious forms of men and beasts that moved therein.
It was fascinating to watch the stately entrance into the field,
Lancers, Irish Rifles, Welsh Fusiliers, Grenadiers and many another
gallant regiment, each marching into the field in turn to the swing of
their own particular regimental tune until they were all drawn up in
order. There followed a very fine exhibition of riding and the usual torchlight
tricks, and then the supreme moment came. The massed bands had thundered
out the first verse of the Evening Hymn, the refrain was taken up by a
single silver trumpet far away a sweet thin almost unearthly note more
to be felt than heard and then the bands gathered up the whole melody
and everybody sang the last verse together. The Last Post followed, and then I think somehow we all knew. A week later I had a telegram from the Red Cross summoning me to London. London was a hive of ceaseless activity. Territorials were returning
from their unfinished training, every South Coast train was crowded with
Naval Reserve men who had been called up, every one was buying kits,
getting medical comforts, and living at the Army and Navy Stores. Nurses
trained and untrained were besieging the War Office demanding to be
sent to the front, Voluntary Aid Detachment members were feverishly
practising their bandaging, working parties and ambulance classes were
being organized, crowds without beginning and without end were surging
up and down the pavements between Westminster and Charing Cross, wearing
little flags, buying every half hour edition of the papers and watching
the stream of recruits at St. Martin's. All was excitement no one knew
what was going to happen. Then the bad news began to come through from
Belgium, and every one steadied down and settled themselves to their
task of waiting or working, whichever it might happen to be. I was helping at the Red Cross Centre in Vincent Square, and all day
long there came an endless procession of women wanting to help, some
trained nurses, many far too many half trained women; and a great many
raw recruits, some anxious for adventure and clamouring "to go to the
front at once," others willing and anxious to do the humblest service
that would be of use in this time of crisis... Continue reading book >>
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