Women as army surgeons

Early in December trains of British sick and wounded were brought into Paris and the hospital on the Champs Élysées was filled to overflowing. In order to make additional accommodation, the large central hall had been closed in and furnished as a ward, and extra beds had been placed in the side wards.

The main problem, which became more pressing as the winter advanced, was how to procure enough coal to heat the huge building. The heating system was an extravagant one, for it was impossible to heat the hotel in sections, and if heat were raised for the ground floor, the whole of the seven stories had to participate, while the five great furnace boilers ate up the fuel with marvellous rapidity. It became necessary to introduce brazzeros into the wards. By this means the patients were kept fairly comfortable, although there were many objections to their use. A continual effort was required to secure enough fuel for cooking and for keeping the water hot, and neither M. Casanova nor M. Aubry nor M. Falcouz was successful in maintaining the supply.

Christmas found the hospital very full, and preparations for decorating the wards began unusually early. The British soldier had preconceived ideas with regard to paper chains, and thought that a blanket decorated with crude mottoes in cotton-wool and holly berries was the last word in mural decoration. The Poilu watched his operations in silence till his artistic soul rose within him, and snatching the chalk, with an impatient ‘Tiens,’ he too went down on the floor and sketched amazing pictures, directing with the voice of the master the colouring and embellishment of his designs.

In the end the walls were hung with aeroplanes, long guns, rising suns, statues to Liberty and Victory, mixed with British mottoes: ‘Good Luck to the Women’s Hospital Corps,’ ‘God Bless Mr. Davies,’ and ‘A Happy New Year to the Doctors’; while, overhead, paper chains of many hues were draped and the flags of all nations were prominently and abundantly displayed. In one ward every bedstead had the four Allied flags bound to each post, and in another a large dark coloured blanket displayed three battleships and a Union Jack, under which was traced ‘The Flag of Freedom,’ in letters of cotton-wool.

‘Freedom!’ said the Médecin-en-Chef to the Sister, with the treatment of militant women suffragists still fresh in her memory. ‘Freedom! There is no freedom for women under that flag.’

The men were a little disappointed, for this was their great effort, and that it should fail to please, when all the rest of the decorations were commended, puzzled them. For some days before Christmas the wards were open to visitors, and crowds of people came to admire them. A sergeant taking a lady round paused before this masterpiece, and she too made the same comment.

‘That’s just what the doctor says, and we can’t think what she means,’ he exclaimed.

That night, when the doctor made her round, the word ‘Freedom’ had become ‘England,’ and as she looked at it with a comprehending smile growing on her face, a voice from the group round the brazzero said:

‘We’re all for Votes for Women, Doctor.’

‘Yes,’ said another, ‘even the Frenchies is for it.’

On Christmas Eve Mr. Bennett brought the choir boys from the Church to sing carols in the wards, and it was touching to see them grouped between the wards, wearing their white surplices and carrying coloured lanterns, which gleamed in the darkness. While the old melodies echoed through the hospital, the night nurses slipped from bed to bed, hanging socks on each one, and the final preparations for the next day’s festivities were hastily completed behind the scenes.

At five o’clock on the festive morning the whole place awoke to the sound of laughter. Tin trumpets and jews’ harps, tumbling pigs and false noses, evoked shouts of joy, reminiscent of nursery life. The spirit of Christmas descended on the hospital and pain and care were forgotten.

M. Casanova had found splendid turkeys and sausages, and plum puddings had been sent from England. Mr. Davies had procured beer and there was port wine for the King’s health. Long tables were set for those who were up, and the beds of those who were not up were collected in the large ward. Only one officer, Lieut. Vogel, was in the hospital that day, and he gave the French toasts, and joined in all the fun with great delight. The procession of puddings was hailed with acclamation. The toasts were drunk and the crackers pulled with energy and much noise. Every one feasted and made merry. Later there was an entertainment in the big hall, to which many guests had been invited, including all the Belgians from the seventh story.

The concert began, with a sergeant in the chair, and was going well, when Colonel S—— and his quartermaster and several sergeants arrived to distribute Princess Mary’s gifts to the men. Some weeks before, a nominal roll of men who would be in hospital had been required, and the hospital was hardly to blame if the roll had altered since that date. At the last moment two new rolls had to be made, one for smokers and one for non-smokers, and this task had been much complicated by a desire on the part of many recipients to change over from one roll to the other. The colonel arrived without warning, and was embarrassed to find himself on a platform, facing a large crowd of people. In consequence, he lost his place on the roll and made mistakes about the names, and confused the smokers and non-smokers; but in the end he got through the distribution, and merry-making was resumed.

The chef-d’œuvre was the Pantomime, arranged by the staff. Mr. Davies was consulted about an abridged version of ‘Red Riding Hood,’ and was so horrified by the amateurish suggestions that he refused to write it. He said his reputation would never survive it; so, if it was written at all, Baroness Geysa de Braunecker and Dr. Cuthbert wrote it, or threw it together; for the construction left much to be desired. The actors (having no reputations) were not at all nervous, and they appointed Mr. Davies stage manager and instructed him to take one cue and pass a cow’s head through the screen. Divided between laughter and nervousness, he forgot his cue about Maud, the cow; and the performer called so frequently for Maud that the room took it up and shouted for Maud, until, with a shaking hand, a large pasteboard cow’s head was pushed through. The hall became uproarious over the flight of the grandmother pursued by the wolf, and many hands were stretched out to catch the wolf and give the old lady a chance. The day ended, as it had begun, with laughter and cheers. And as night fell there was a quiet hour, smoking in the wards and talking it over. The men said that they had never known such a Christmas: it was something to tell in the trenches, something to write home—a memory treasured by patients and staff alike.

The Pantomime had inspired the men to give dramatic entertainments on their own account, and almost every evening the staff enjoyed seeing a play arranged and rehearsed by the patients, which was often full of humour and of pathos. One, entitled ‘The Murder of Mr. Smith,’ in which a judge was represented who wore a cotton-wool wig and who constantly roared out ‘Silence in Court!’; and another, ‘The Deserter,’ stand out in the memory of those who saw them. The latter was a pathetic little drama. The officers at the Court Martial were faithfully portrayed: the bullying sergeant-major, the bouncing lieutenant, the courageous accused, were all recognisable types. And the death sentence, carried out on the stage, moved one strangely. The acting was simple and intelligent, and the theme a very living one to those men in those days. After the play there would be music and songs, with the Baroness at the piano and Mrs. Henley leading and conducting from the steps.

‘My! this is a place!’ a sergeant from a neighbouring hospital said to Mrs. Henley. He had come with a message from Colonel S—— and had found his way into the hall one evening. ‘This is a place! You would be pleased if you heard how they are all talking about you.’

The patients, too, appreciated the place and wrote glowing accounts of its grandeur and its pleasures to friends at home.

‘I’d be happy,’ wrote a wife, ‘if you was stopping there till the war was over.’

And many messages of thanks reached the Sisters from mothers in England. Photographs of babies and little boys in velveteen suits arrived by post, so that the doctors might see what fine children they had. And the Poilus were always proud if opportunity allowed them to introduce Madame. One of the older men, who was confined to bed with rheumatism, consulted the doctor as to the best way of sending a registered parcel to his wife.

‘It will be vallyble furs,’ he said.

And the doctor thought he must have been looting, until it transpired that he wished to send her the goat-skin coat which had been issued for his own use.

‘I don’t seem to fancy it for myself,’ he said, ‘but the Missus would look proper in it.’

‘They pay you the compliment of not wishing to leave,’ said a general after his round of inspection. And indeed it was with very mixed feelings that men ready for evacuation left the hospital, even though evacuation meant going straight to England. There were many handshakings, promises ‘not to forget you,’ grateful thanks and not uncommonly tears in the eyes of the men as they drove away, making the Champs Élysées resound to the strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’

As the weather grew colder, all M. Casanova’s efforts to procure coal were unavailing, and very often there was not enough to maintain the supply of hot water. This was the case on one occasion when notice was received that eighty patients were arriving, and no hot baths were available; and much time and labour was spent in preparing gallons of hot water for toilet purposes over the gas rings. When the wards were very cold, the men were kept in bed with hot bottles and blankets; but obviously this plan could not be continued indefinitely, and as no help was forthcoming from ‘l’intendance militaire,’ the question of closing the hospital had to be considered. The French Red Cross had other hospitals in Paris, and many of these had not yet been opened. They were unwilling to close ‘Claridge’s,’ which had been very useful to both French and British troops; but they were helpless over the matter of fuel, and during the winter months the pressure of work was not very great. They regarded the hospital as their ‘meilleure installation.’ It had been a great interest and a great revelation not only to the officials of the Red Cross but to many people outside it, and they were reluctant to part with it. In addition, they began to have some difficulty with M. Casanova, and it was understood that he had offered the building without the authority of his Board of Directors, and that the presence of the hospital in the Hôtel was embarrassing to him.

British officials were equally unwilling to lose the hospital. One wrote: ‘You have set a standard which is quite unknown even among auxiliary hospitals.’ And another said: ‘It would be a misfortune if you were to leave. You are such a good example of what a hospital ought to be.’

Nevertheless, it was decided in conference between M. Pérouse, M. Falcouz and Dr. Flora Murray that, in view of the circumstances, the hospital should be closed. The decision was reached after much consideration, and with deep regret the staff turned to the task of evacuation and packing.

The hospital closed on the 18th of January 1915. The doctors and nurses proceeded to Wimereux to join forces with the rest of the Corps, bearing with them the good wishes and kind farewells of their many friends in Paris.

The hospital in the Hôtel Claridge was the first effort of the Women’s Hospital Corps. It brought help to the wounded at a time when such help was greatly needed. It gave women doctors an opportunity of showing their capacity for surgery under war conditions. It was one of the outstanding pieces of work done by women in those first months of war, and it was a great success.