THREE PINTS OF BLOOD.

Waipawa Mail, Volume XXXVII, Issue 8178, 3 May 1919, Page 4 (Supplement)

THREE PINTS OF BLOOD.

SOLDIER’S STORY OF TRANSFUSION. SCENE AT A CLEARING STATION. WATCHING THE PUMP HANDLE. As the soldier bared his arm he displayed a long, straight wound stretching down the muscle to the hinge of the elbow. It was too straight and too clean to have been made by shrapnel, bullet, bayonet or sword thrust. It was the clean cut of a lance made by a dexterous surgeon, who knew to a fraction of an inch* where he would be able to pick up the mam artery he was after.

That wound, which the soldier will carry to his grave, was got honorably, for at that particular point the doctors tapped his blood and a steady stream ran out of him into the arteries of another man, who was bleeding to death. It was the morning of September 24, 1917. A crumpled-up mass had been Irought to the clearing station after one of the battles in France, in which the Australians had distinguished themselves. The man had lost so much blood that the doctors despaired of saving him. “We’ll have to get some blood from somewhere,'’ said one. “I'll try if I can pick up a man outside.” He went off in search of blood. At that moment Corporal M. Slater, of the Nth Battalion, had come down to the clearing station to get a wound dressed. “Will any of you boys give a little of your blood to save a mate’s life?” asked the doctor, breaking in on a little knot of the waiting men. “SOME OF MINE.” “If it will do any good he can have some of mine,” said Corporal Slater. “ Does he want much ? I’ve lost a good bit (myself.” He won't want more than three pints. You can spare it,” said Itihe doctor cheerfully, as he led the volunteer into the presence of the man whose life was rapidly ebbing away. Corporal Slater glanced at the man. who was white-faced and still, and he was told Ithat he belonged to the glorious 13th Battalion, and was a Sydney man. “Three pints, that's all,” said the doctor, as though talking to himself, “There’s no danger.” “Take it,” said the soldier, “but leave me enough to get back to the firing line with.” “It’s Blighty for you after this,* said the doctor with a laugh. “Merry England and s'tout and chicken.” “ How much do you want to get me champagne and turkey,” asked Corpora Slater, falling m. with the doctor's good humour. In the meantime he was being prepared for the transfusion of blood, one of tho first, jf not the first, of such experiments that had been tried during the war. Up to a certain point Corporal Slater can describe everything that transpired. WORKING THE PUMP. “In no time the keen edge of a lance cut deep into the flesh of my right arm, and through the opening the doctor gripped the main artery, cut it across, and inserted a tube,” he remarked. “1 saw the blood flowing into a glass jar beside me. In the meantime my arm was worked like the handle of a pump and with every movement the blood flowed quicker. “ I looked over to see where the whitefaced man of the 13th was lying. The doctors had made an insertion in his left arm, and had inserted a tube there. 1 watched to see what effect my blood would have upon him. “He didn’t move. There was just a tremor of his breath.

“The pump handle motion began to get monotonous. The blood in the glass jar was mounting up. 1 kept wondering what a quart and a half efi my own blood would look like.

“Then I began to get drowsy. I just saw dim fgures round me. 1 heard 1 strange sound like the sea rippling along the shore at Ansae Cove on a .still night. “ I remembered 110 more. “When 1 came to I iound myself lying on a stretcher reedy to be taken aboard a train. “How’s the chap with my blood getting on ?” 1 asked. “ 1 don’t think they left me much to go on with.” - “ Hush ! You’re all right!’ said someone. “I hushed, I couldn’t do anything else. I had 110 inclination, to talk or to move. The train took me to Lc Treport, where 1 was in hospital lor three days unable t,o move. T was feeling very weak and drowsy. STOUT AND CHICKEN. “Then I was taken to England .and went into hospital) at Davenport. I couldn't lft my arm. It was right what the doctor had said. Ihe medicine was just exactly as he had prescribed it—stout and chicken. “First of all they fed me. At the end of three weeks 1 was able to sit up and take some more stout and ciiicken on my own occount. “Ten weeks passed and I think. 1 must have eaten all the chickens m Davenport; and the supply of stout must have been running low. “I began to long for bully beef, and the sound of guns. BLOOD BROTHERS. “ I made inquiries as to how the man with a quart and a hall of my blood was getting on. No one could tell me “ At last I felt so fit that I gave hints that I wanted to get out of the hospial, and one day they brought me my last chicken, and my hist bottle of stout and I went out and reported for duty. “It was not until'l got back to Svdney a few weeks ago that I heard any more about the man 1 got a letter from Private Azzone, of Newtown. He -said he wanted to see me. "1 guess we ought to be like brothers after the exchange of blood. “No, the wound ir, my arm does not hurt me, though the doctors say the loss of blood will come back on me in later years.” Corporal Slater, in civil life, is a shunter, employee! by the Railway Depar tmeni, and his home is at Bocilaroo.