Women as army surgeons

Good supplies of clothing and hospital comforts found their way to ‘Claridge’s’ from the many work-parties which had been started in England. Socks and gloves came in sacks from Oban, Edinburgh and Aberdeen; pillow-cases and shirts from Annan; belts and bandages from Stoke; parcels were sent from Cardiff and Bristol; and hot-water bottles, bed socks and many other welcome gifts arrived from other places. The Corps had plenty of socks and shirts to send to the outlying stations through which troops passed, or to the places where collections of wounded were known to be lying. French soldiers, too, learned that there were socks to be had, and many of them came to the Hôtel to ask for a pair. They emphasised their need by drawing rubbed and bruised feet, bound in rags, from their army boots, lamenting that the smallness of their pay would not run to socks. With a nice pair, knitted by some one in Scotland, and a little box of ointment they went out beaming.

Two Paris friends, Mlle Block and Miss Grey, gave the hospital very real assistance by providing two ambulances and placing them at the disposal of the medical staff. They were both of them splendid drivers, and they did many a hard day’s work, and thought no pains too great, no journey too long, that gave some wounded man a chance of recovery.

When the R.A.M.C. officer at Braisne telephoned to ask for ‘shirts and anything else you can send,’ a car with all sorts of necessary articles was got ready. A bundle of shirts, a sack of socks, a case of invalid foods and a large bag of dressings were piled in. All the English papers which could be collected and a supply of Woodbines and some books were added, for distribution to the British troops who were always found on the roads or resting in the villages; and the whole was despatched in the care of the Chief Surgeon early one morning in September.

The country was beautiful in the autumn sunlight. It looked peaceful too, as her car followed the long straight roads. But there were shallow trenches by the roadside and barricades, with sentries at intervals, which spoke of war. English soldiers were met, who cheerfully relieved her of the papers and books, and appreciated the Woodbines and the matches; or asked for news from home, and gave her letters to post in Paris. At every village the permis and the contents of the car were examined, and when Paris was left behind, troops were seen moving in large numbers. Wherever the car stopped, villagers crowded round it, eager to tell ‘l’Anglaise’ how the ‘Uhlans’ had come so far: how they had fired the houses and emptied the cellars, and how they had been driven out, and how terrible war was. The smoke of the German guns firing on Soissons was visible as the driver turned off towards Braisne.

The little town, which looked destitute and untidy, lay in a hollow with bare hills all round it, and Dr. Garrett Anderson, as she drove down the main street, could tell by the stench in which buildings the wounded lay. She was met by the R.A.M.C. officer, who asked her to come to headquarters, and took her to a dilapidated little house in which the officers had their mess. She followed her guide through the house into a small backyard where three officers were sitting round a wooden table eating bread and cheese. The colonel said he had not much time, but he would like her to sit down and talk to him while he ate. And a wooden stool was found for her. The air of the place was close and fetid, the flies buzzed over the food, and the men looked careworn and lined. The squalor and discomfort were oppressive, and she was glad when the meal was finished and she could go out into the street with the R.A.M.C. officer, who stayed closely by her. The car was unloaded, and when he saw what she had brought his voice shook as he thanked her. He was young, and the strain of his present life and the contact with so much suffering which he had little power to allay was becoming almost more than he could bear. It was obvious that he felt it a great relief to turn to the doctor from Claridge’s for sympathy and comfort.

‘Come and see the men,’ he said.

They walked together to the church. The west door was open. The smell of sepsis and foul wounds met them as they entered the graveyard. Near the door some R.A.M.C. orderlies were tending a cooker, and on a bench a cheese stood among some long loaves and a few tins of Maconochie’s ration. Packets of lint and cotton-wool were scattered on the ground, and some mugs and ration tins were piled in the porch. The floor of the church was covered with wounded men in ragged khaki. They lay upon straw close together. Some of them were moaning quietly; others muttered in their delirium. Some were dying as the doctors stood near, and more than one had entered into rest. The smell, the dirt and the misery of it all was overwhelming. It was heartrending, too, to think of the women to whom these men belonged. In the midst of such squalor and wretchedness, an Army Sister, radiant in scarlet and white, presented a strange contrast.

When ambulances could be spared, they came down in the evening and carried as many wounded as they could to a station—where the men waited sometimes for days for a train. In this way they were transported long distances, even to St. Nazaire on their way to England. Such suffering! Such loss of life! And yet within sixty miles lay Paris with thirty thousand empty beds, but with no organised transport.

Dr. Garrett Anderson had two places in her car, and she offered to take back with her two wounded men who could sit up. Out of the medley the orderlies produced two. They sat them on a bench and washed their faces with a piece of lint wrung out of the copper. They put their caps on their heads, gave them a drink of tea and intimated that they were ready. Dr. Anderson looked at them, and it seemed to her that one of them was too ill for the long drive in an open car; but when he saw that she was hesitating, the tears came into his eyes, and he caught her arm, pleading:

‘Do take me, lady. Don’t leave me behind.’

So he had to be taken. She fortified them both with a dose of morphia and some brandy diluted with water from the copper; then they were helped into the car and driven away.

The memory of the men she had left in that putrid atmosphere and under such comfortless conditions was never to be forgotten.

No doubt some report of circumstances like these reached the authorities in England. Towards the end of September, the War Office sent over a representative to examine into existing conditions, and to inspect and report on the auxiliary hospitals, of which Claridge’s Hôtel was one. The ‘Milord’ selected for this mission made a handsome, martial figure as he strode through the streets of Paris. He was resplendent in khaki and brass hat, and a beautiful order hung round his neck. Rumour said he was the Duke of Connaught or Lord French or Sir Frederick Treves or Mr. Bottomley! But whoever he was, his appearance commanded great respect. He was saluted on all sides, and men stepped from the pavement to let him take his noble way.

The first hospital which he visited was Claridge’s. He was an imposing figure as he entered the central hall. His spurs rang on the pavement and his steps re-echoed in its vastness. He fixed a suspicious blue eye on the senior medical officers who went to meet him, and interrogated them sternly:

‘Who is in charge of this place?’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘What have you got behind there?’ pointing at the glass partition rendered opaque by white paper.

‘A French hospital! How can it be a French hospital? You’re British.’

‘All women! No proper surgeons?’

‘Have you British soldiers here? Any officers?’

‘What are you doing with them?’

‘Where do they go when they leave you?’

‘Versailles! Who told you to send them to Versailles?’

‘Colonel Smith! How do you know about Colonel Smith?’

Curt, sharp questions that met with curt, sharp answers.

At this moment Madame Pérouse, who had been notified of his visit, arrived. He greeted her with the most delightful courtesy, and withdrawing with her to a little distance, asked if these women were really practical surgeons and if it were possible that the soldiers tolerated such an arrangement.

The poor old lady was rather flustered, but she declared that this was her ‘meilleure installation’ and that the organisation was ‘parfaite.’ He was only half-convinced by the assurances which she gave him, but his manner became more ordinary, and turning to Dr. Flora Murray and Dr. Garrett Anderson, he announced his intention of going through the wards. He was accompanied by a doctor, a civilian, whom he introduced as being ‘unconverted to women doctors.’ These pleasing preliminaries being concluded, he was conducted into the hospital.

It was the rest hour, when many of the patients were asleep, and an air of peace and comfort was over everything. Sisters moved softly whilst tending the more seriously ill, and those who were awake lay quietly reading and smoking. The handsome wards with their flowers and coloured blankets looked charming: for they were in perfect order, and there were no visitors so early in the day. The men when questioned spoke of their ‘good home’ with grateful appreciation. The officers expressed their satisfaction in cordial terms; and as ‘Milord’ went from ward to ward, he became silent and thoughtful. He finished his inspection without relaxing the severity of his aspect and took a graceful farewell of Madame Pérouse, leaving her much mystified as to the reason of his visit and his apparent displeasure.

‘Qu’est-ce qu’il avait?’ she inquired. ‘Il me semblait mécontent.’

Two days later the ‘unconverted doctor’ called again, bland and eager for conversation. He explained that he and his companion had been sent over by the War Office, and he talked of the intentions of ‘K’ with regard to the hospitals. He said they wanted to know whether the Women’s Hospital Corps could increase its beds, and whether it could move its hospital forward if needed. The astonished organisers were given to understand that if any auxiliary hospitals were moved forward, Claridge’s would be the first to be invited to move, and that the British Army would not hesitate to make use of it, supposing that the matter could be arranged with the French Red Cross. The ‘unconverted one’ still seemed, however, to be tormented with uncertainty as to the attitude of men when called upon to accept treatment from women doctors. In order to reassure him, he was pressed to visit the officers’ ward by himself. He went, and, to the amusement of all concerned, returned an agreeable and equable convert.

Early in October ‘Milord’ was in Paris and came to Claridge’s again, bringing with him Professor Alexis Thomson, of surgical fame and of Edinburgh University. He greeted the staff in the friendliest manner, and introducing the Professor to them, he explained that he had brought him because he believed that he would be as much impressed as he himself had been. He turned to the Professor and said:

‘It’s a curious thing, Thomson. They are all lady doctors here. Have you ever come across any?’

‘Yes, we begin with them at Edinburgh,’ the Professor replied. By which it was understood that, as a junior member of the Infirmary staff, it had been his duty to teach the women students.

In the wards he was shown two trephined patients who were doing well, and several compound fractures of thigh. He was interested to see that Dr. Anderson was using Steinman’s pins, and discussed that method of treatment with her. But what pleased him most, perhaps, was the reply of a Scotsman to his inquiries:

‘Aw, A’m fine. A tak’ ma meat an’ A get ma parritch in the morning. A’m fine.’

On many future occasions ‘Milord’ visited the hospitals of the Women’s Hospital Corps, always as a welcome and honoured guest, distinguished by his courtesy and his kindness.

The medical staff of Claridge’s had taken a good deal of trouble to find out the correct way of evacuating convalescent officers and men. There was no organisation in Paris at that time dealing with the transport to hospital or the discharge of British wounded, and it was only by chance that the Corps got into touch with the officer-in-charge of the Military Hospital, Versailles, and arranged to evacuate its patients through him. No proper instructions had been sent round to the auxiliary hospitals; and in many cases patients had been discharged from hospital and allowed to proceed direct to England. The War Office termed this ‘leakage,’ and took ‘the gravest view’ of such an irregular proceeding. Subsequently, an R.A.M.C. colonel was established in a neighbouring hotel to act as a central authority. The R.A.M.C. authorities always treated the Hôtel Claridge as though it were a British auxiliary; whereas, in reality, it was affiliated to the French Military Hospital St. Martin. Troops of both nations used the hospital as long as it was open, and there was no difficulty in serving both masters. Inspection by highly placed officials of both Armies was constant; and these visits were often a source of amusement to the medical staff.

Senior officers of the British Army seldom came to Paris without including the Women’s Hospital in their round of inspection. Especial care was taken to receive these gentlemen with ceremony. The Médecin-en-Chef always took them round herself, and whenever possible the Chief Surgeon assisted too. Under such an escort they could not fail to see everything that it was desired they should see; and often they saw it rose-coloured through the spectacles of the doctors themselves! By the end of the tour they were full of admiration for ‘a model hospital,’ as they used to phrase it, and almost always asked:

‘But why are you a French hospital? You ought to be working with us.’

‘The War Office would never look at women doctors,’ was the reply.

‘Oh, but that’s absurd!’ they exclaimed. ‘Look at the work you are doing. We must tell them about it.’

The hostesses passed the conversational ball from one to the other with skilful tact, intent on educating the officer in question in the work of medical women. They told him stories of the men and of their contentment, of surgical results, of the approval of high officials and of the work which other women doctors were doing during the war, until lifelong opinions began to give way.

‘There are men who are extraordinarily prejudiced about women,’ he would say. ‘You may not have met them. But for myself I think it is a pity the R.A.M.C. should be so pig-headed.’

‘Has Sloggett been to see you?’ asked one Brass-hat, referring to the Director of Medical Services for the British Armies in France.

‘No, he has not been here.’

‘I wonder at that. Great man with the ladies, Sloggett.’

‘I expect we are not his kind of ladies,’ rejoined the doctor drily, to the great appreciation of her hearer.

‘That’s a silly sort of badge you are wearing,’ observed one lieutenant-colonel; for both the senior doctors were suffragists and wore the purple, white and green badge of their union. As their motto was ‘Deeds not Words,’ they never attempted propaganda even with their colleagues, and it was rare indeed for an officer to raise the subject with them.

‘Oh! are you not in favour of Woman’s Suffrage?’ she asked.

‘No, I am not,’ he replied stoutly: ‘Horrid women!’

‘Somehow, I thought you would be.’

‘What made you think I would be?’ he asked, falling into the trap.

‘Well, you are not a stupid man, and you have been about the world a lot. You seemed to me to be unusually open-minded.’

‘Well, I won’t go so far as to say I am against it, you know,’ he conceded.

And then the argument started, amplified by facts and reasons which would have opened any mind, and which finally sent him off ‘almost persuaded.’

An R.A.M.C. general in a responsible position called one day when the senior medical officers were out. He was received by another member of the medical staff, and assuming the semi-jocular, semi-familiar attitude which professional women dislike so much in their colleagues, permitted himself to say:

‘I don’t know anything about lady doctors. Do you bite?’

It was almost the only time that this sort of thing was encountered. As a rule, there was no want of courtesy; and the doctors met with the kindest consideration on all sides.

A more trying type of visitor was a celebrated neurologist who, as he went round the wards, looked over the patients as though they were goods on a counter, and said in front of them:

‘I want to see some good head cases. Have you got anything shot through the brain? Any paralysis? No fractures of skull! Nothing good. You don’t seem to have much in. Deaf and dumb! Hm—yes, that’s not bad. But I only want to see head cases.’

To women who kept the human side very much to the front this attitude was unsympathetic. They much preferred the stout old chief from the Hôpital St. Martin, who hated to see the French soldiers without their képis on, even when in bed, and who puffed himself out and frowned and said that the hospital was ‘curieux,’ but sent cases in all the same.

Each day seemed to bring fresh visitors. Amongst them were the American Ambassador and his predecessor, French députés, English Members of Parliament, Miss Jane Harrison, Mrs. Pankhurst, Lord Robert Cecil, Lord Lytton, French ladies and gentlemen, English and American people resident in or passing through Paris and representatives of the Press of all the allied nations.

The minds of the French journalists were severely exercised on the subject of operations; for they could not believe that women were equal to such work. It was one thing to ‘soigner les blessés’ and another to operate. It was conceivable that women might succeed as nurses; but as surgeons! never! These gentlemen would go admiringly over the hospital, listening to what the doctors told them and talking to the French patients, and then, before leaving, they would beg for permission to ask one more question. It was always the same question:

‘Who is it really who operates?’

One editor, to whom the surgeons were indicated in person, contemplated with serious attention Dr. Cuthbert, who was young and pleasing, and then said to her:

‘Et vous, mademoiselle, vouz coupez aussi?’

‘Oui, je coupe,’ she replied slowly; for her facility with the knife was greater than with the French tongue.

‘Incroyable!’ he gasped.

For the most part, ‘épatant’ was the word they used, and the older journalists would listen silently and shake their heads incredulously.

The editor and assistant editor of Le Matin were so difficult to convince, that the Médecin-en-Chef offered to let them see the interior of the operating theatre, where work was going on. The assistant editor eagerly accepted the offer, and gazed spellbound through the screen which divided the anæsthetist’s room from the theatre. He became so absorbed that it was difficult to get him to come away before the surgeon discovered and resented his presence. Once outside, he flung his arms round his chief and in an ecstasy of delight cried:

‘Je l’ai vue—je l’ai vue—le couteau à la main!’

The reporters from the English papers wrote charming articles and paragraphs about the hospital, which were fruitful in rousing interest at home, and which brought subscriptions and many parcels to further the work.