FIGHTING FOR LIVES.

Sun (Christchurch), Volume III, Issue 858, 9 November 1916, Page 11

FIGHTING FOR LIVES.

WORK OF THE NURSES. THE WORLD'S FINEST WOMEN, j The light began many years ago in] a quaint, little, old-fashioned village in Derbyshire, which overlooks the beautiful Matlock Valley (says Mr C.j ('.. Nicol, writing in a northern journal i. 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 the majority of people, but doubtless quite happy. 1 saw it first in April, and because it was April, 1 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 the fight which there began was not one of destruction, but one of reconstruction—that of repairing in some measure the ravages of war —for there was born Florence Nightingale. There in the quiet, sheltered I life of a country maiden, in a lime when maidens were negative rather than positive in their activities, a I great compassionate soul, a big brave j heart, and an infinite tenderness for those stricken in their country's serIvice, grew and developed, to reach I fruition in later years when that (noble lady did the unheard-of thing, and went to the Crimea.

There the great British military uirsing sisterhood had its fountainlead, 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 nt the cost of valuable lives 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 the sergeant-major, who lias to know as much as his superiors and is responsible—in a great measure—for the discipline and smooth-run-ning of the 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-reach-ing importance, even, at limes, 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 may mean—which is sometimes talked of. Least of all would she herself wish to be thought so, though, of course, there 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 thenursing sisterhood. A Tender-Hearted Nurse.

The first sister I whs under was a buxom Australian girl with the I I bloom of youth on her face, and the: I lines of fatigue around her eyes. She ; and an able and big-hearted surgeon i of the Indian Army, with the indif- { ferent aid of a couple of orderlies, ' had a large ward in a hospital ship j carrying cargoes of pain from Anzac I to Malta, in the heat of summer. The j I ward was deep down in the ship,; j where the atmosphere was hot, thick, j 1 and heavy. The wounded arrived in I the stale they were in when woundj ed, plus the grime and filth gathered on stretchers, which did not make for sweetness, and multiplied the sister's work. Yet what tins sister ! accomplished was a revelation. With j sleeves rolled high and perspiration i streaming down her face constantly. she kept her head, no matter how quickly cases arrived, and by method and speed accomplished j 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.: j lli- had told her that certain cases in| (he ward had no possible chance of : recovery, yel she strove to give these' ! men more than their share of time.! I changing bandages often, and con-' tinning the fight for their lives to the .last. "It is a good quality," said the surgeon, "but she is too tender-heart- ; i ed." All the nun in question died' | before the boat reached Malta. 1 I think, so all her efforts were for nothing, but if the friends of those 'boys knew how she fought for their lives, and made their last hours a !

that lad\ who was "too lender-heart-ed." Varied Hospital Experiences. The next sister in my experience was in a Malta hospital. She came from Manchester, and had a sense of humour. One man arrived in the ward from the boat, dressed in the most Haling pyjamas ever seen, heavy lx>ots. ami a bandana handkerchief for head-gear. He was tired and lull of self-pity, and was looking for sympathy. Hut on seeing him, the sister hurst into convulsive laughter, and the soldier, not having the power of seeing himself as others saw him, felt desperately illused, and hated that sister. But he lived to thank a fate which had placed him in her care, and the arrival of a very young and very nervous doctor let us see her capabilities. Then there was the matron who wasn't the proverbial matron at all. She could deliver an effective reprimand to patient or sister without affecting her popularity, and when no reprimand was needed, talked the cheerful nothings which do a patient more good than medicine. She always talked of wounds "* as honourable things, and not as misfortunes, a point hospital visitors should bear in mind. Thus are pessimists salvaged. One could write for hours about the sisters who have come within one's own experience. Personally, I have met English. Scotch, Irish, and Welsh sisters, Australian and New Zealand sisters, Canadian and South African sisters—even a Belgian sister. Allied with the sisterhood is the "Y.A.D." (Voluntary Aid Division). Among these untrained women is some of the best blood of England. These gills do a great 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 j 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, ; asking for advice on both matters. i Lineage counts for little in Britair in these davs.