FIGHTING FOR OUR LIVES.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LIII, Issue 16372, 28 October 1916, Page 1 (Supplement)

FIGHTING FOR OUR LIVES.

A TRIBUTE TO THE NURSES. NY c. o. Nicor.. The fight began many years ago in a quaint, little, old-fashioned village in Derbyshire, which overlooks the beautiful Matlock Valley. There exists nothing to attract attention to this village. It has its narrow winding street, its homely inn and more homely innkeeper, its oaks and elms, and beeches, and chestnuts, its ancient church, its broad Derbyshire 'dialect, its manor house, and its squire. It has everything that a self-respecting English village should have, and its people live a simple, rustic life—dull to tho majority of people, but doubtless quito happy. 1 saw it first in April, and because it was April, I suppose, fell in love with it. Who could see any part of England in April and not rejoice? I saw it again later when wild flowers, particularly the purple wood hyacinth, carpeted the woods. So beautiful, so peaceful, so utterly foreign to war was the whole scene, that no one could imagine for an instant any fight in such a setting. But tho tight which there began was not one of destruction, but one of reconstruction—that of repairing in | some measure the ravages of war— j for there was born Florence Nightingale. There in the quiet, sheltered life of a country maiden, in a time when maidens were negative rather than positive in their activities, a great compassionate soul, a big brave heart, and an infinite tenderness for those stricken in their country's service, grew and developed, to reach fruition in later years when that noble lady did tho unheard-of thing, and went to the Crimea. There the great British military nursing sisterhood had its fountain-head, the sisterhood which has stood by the fighters of Britain ever since, waging a war of its own, without hope or expectation of recompense, or reward, or glory, or honour save a service ribbon, and often at the cost of valuable live, and against the forces of death. The Sister at Work. The trained sister in a military hospital occupies a position very similar to that occupied in a regiment by tho sergeantmajor, who has to know as much as his superiors and is responsible— in a great measure—for the discipline and smoothrunning of tho regimental machine. All soldiers, and particularly senior officers, know the importance of a sergeant-major who knows his job, and all soldiers who have included a sojourn in hospital as a part of their military career, know the, far-reaching importance, even, at times, to the issue between life and death, of a sister who knows her job, and few sisters cannot be included in that category. It is not to be implied that a hospital sister is the super-woman — whatever that mav mean — which is sometimes talked of. Least of all would she herself wish to bo thought so, though, of course, lher% is a period in many a man's hospital life, when, man-like he is inclined to think that the woman who nurses him and gives the magic touch to the chafing bandage, is the only angel out of heaven. But this is just a phase out of which he grows, aided, unknown to himself, and not too harshly or suddenly, by the tactful sister herself, who knows the complaint of old. and makes provision for the safe passing of the crisis. There are exceptions, of course, and these exceptions provide much excited conversation for the sisters' mess, and help the jewellery business. No! The sister is not an angel, but a human being— very human often—who is imbued with a deep sense of duty, who knows quite a lot about laughter and tears, who gets tired and worn out and then scolds us, whether we deserve it or not. Sometimes she is a martinet, impressed with the. idea of discipline, who scolds whether she is tired or not. Rarely is she an 'automaton devoid of feeling, and the charms, weaknesses, and jealousies of her sex.. But in any case it is her professional qualities that really concern the soldier, and no soldier ever questions the capabilities of the nursing sisterhood. A Tender-hearted Nurse. The first sister I was under was a buxom Australian gill with tho bloom of youth on her face, and the lines of fatigue around her eyes. She and an able and big-hearted surgeon of the Indian Army, with the indifferent aid of a couple of orderlies, had a large ward in a hospital ship carrying cargoes of pain from Anzac to Malta, in the heat of summer, 'the ward was deep down in tho ship, where tho atmosphere was hot, thick, and heavy. The wounded arrived in the state they were in when wounded, plus tho grime and tilth gathered on stretchers, which did not make for sweetness, and multiplied the sister's work. Yet what this sister accomplished was a revelation. With sleeves rolled high and perspiration streaming down her face constantly, she kept her head, no matter how quickly cases arrived, and by method and speed accomplished what seemed an incredible task. Here, of all places, her feminine traits should have been lost, but this was far from being the case. It was the surgeon who told me about her. He had told her that certain cases in the ward had no possible chance of recovery, yet she strove to give these men more than their share of time, changing bandages often, and continuing the right for their lives to the last. "it is a good quality," said the surgeon, "but she is too tenderhearted." All the men in question died before the boat reached Malta. I think. so all her efforts were for nothing, but if the friends of those hoys knew how she fought for their lives, and made their last hours a little less awful, they would bless that Wy who was ''too tender-hearted." Varied Hospital Experiences,

The next sister in my experience was in I a Malta hospital. She came from Man- ' chester, and had a sense of humour. One | man arrived in the ward from the boat, dressed in the most flaring pyjamas ever i seen, heavy boots, and a bandana handkerchief for head-gear. He was tired and full of self-pity, and was looking for sympathy. Tint, on seeim; him', the sister burst into convulsive laughter, and the soldier, not having the power of seeing himself as others saw him, felt desperately i ill-used, and hated that sister. Tint he I lived to thank a fate which had placed i him in her cave, and the arrival of a very | young and very nervous doctor let us see her capabilities. Then there was tho I matron who wasn't the proverbial matron j at all. She could deliver an effective reprimand to patient- or sister without | affecting her popularity, and when no re- i primand was needed, talked the cheerful j nothings which do a patient more good | than medicine. She always talked of wounds j as honourable t bines, and not as misfor- I tunes, a point hospital visitors should bear | in mind. Thus arc pessimists salvaged. ! One could write for hours about the I sisters who have come within one's own experience. Personally 1 have met English. Scotch. Irish, and Welsh sisters. Australian and New Zealand sisters, Canadian and South African sisters— a Belgian sister. Allied with the sisterhood is the "'V.A.D." (Voluntary Aid Division!. Among these untrained women is some of the best blood of England. These cirls do a groat deal of drudgery, and with a. zest, too. One daughter of a proud Scottish titled family had to polish a great deal of brass work in our hospital, but the matron was pleased neither with the brass nor the nurse's cuffs when she was through, so she wrote forthwith to the. butler of the family mansion, askling for advice on both matters. Lineage counts for little in. Britain ja these, days.