North Russia 1918-19

This is a further extract from the book 'Reminiscent Sketches,' a series of first-hand accounts written by members of Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service and published in 1922. The events that took British troops to North Russia just as the Armistice was approaching are relatively unknown, but this descriptive account by Matron Helena Hartigan gives a real flavour of life in Archangel at the time, and in places puts a rather attractive slant on what was surely a difficult and unpleasant experience for the soldiers. Helena Hartigan, born in 1878, trained as a nurse at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London, before joining QAIMNS in 1905. Prior to leaving for North Russia she had spent four years on the Western Front in charge of British General Hospitals.


NORTH RUSSIA by H. HARTIGAN

During 1917 and 1918 the Hospital ship “Kalyan” – P. and O. intermediate – ran between England, Egypt and Salonika. She had accommodation for about nine hundred patients. In October, 1918, the “Kalyan” was detailed for duty in North Russia. A ship equipped for the near East run does not easily adapt itself to an arctic winter. Extensive alterations were necessary. Inner wooden walls about three inches from the ship's side were built, the intervening space being filled with sawdust; glass roofs were covered with asbestos mats; radiators were installed, the midships was roofed in and the water pipes wrapped in asbestos.

The ship was still in the hands of the painters when the nursing staff, a total of fourteen, joined the ship at Cardiff. All were delighted at the prospect of this new adventure. Neither the ship's officers nor the medical officers were equally sanguine. The blue Mediterranean was to them more alluring than the cold north. When the Lascars had been replaced by a white crew and the ship provisioned, we were ready to start. The Marchioness of Bute visited the ship just before sailing, and was most interested in the hospital wards, operating theatre and X-ray room. The wards were extremely well equipped, and, thanks to the courtesy of the captain of the ship, the bullion room was lined with shelves and made a Red Cross store, which defied rats. A special arctic kit was issued to troops bound for North Russia, and, with the exception of the boots, the sisters' kit was similar to that of the men. Leather jerkins, windproof linen coats lined with sheepskin, cloth caps with fur peaks and earpieces, and serge gloves. The boots supplied later to the sisters were high felt boots to the knee, like those worn by the Russian peasants; they looked extremely clumsy, but were beautifully warm and quite proof against frost bite, even with a temperature 35° below zero.

The voyage to Archangel took about twelve days, and as we went North, each day grew shorter. After passing the North Cape a whale was sighted and about the same time we had our first view of the “Northern Lights.” That moving celestial curtain, varying from deep purple to pink, yellow, or green, was a beautiful sight. As the ship approached Archangel I was struck by the flatness of the Russian coastline. On either side of the narrow channel which leads to the port, were many sawmills bearing the name of British firms. The town appeared to have numerous churches, easily distinguishable by their domes – of which each Greek church has five – and the Cathedral with its gilded spire was a landmark. The “Kalyan” was moored to the quay where she was to remain for eight months, under the protecting guns of the French cruiser which was anchored in the middle of the Dwina. My first impression of Archangel was chiefly one of fur-clothed Russians and ill-smelling streets, wonderful churches with still more wonderful choirs.

A British Stationary hospital was fully occupied ashore when we arrived and a new Russian building was being adapted for a General hospital, while a casualty clearing station was busy on the other side of the river Dwina. There were several medical units up the line on both the river front and the railway front. It was not considered advisable that British sisters should work in the hospitals ashore, so a certain number of ladies of the Russian Red Cross were employed at each of these units. Some of these ladies, a large number of whom spoke French, (at a later date) were most kind in showing us round the fur stores, etc., in the town. Sick and wounded were brought to the “Kalyan” by barge. After weeks in billets and blockhouses the sick found the ship luxurious. Hot water, electric light and clean linen was a joy after the evil-smelling and dark billets with no mails, no literature, and no cigarettes. It was a hard campaign for the men. Old newspapers dated the day the “Kalyan” left England were eagerly read. Beside British officers and men of the Navy and Army we had Americans, French, Italians, Chinese and a few Russians. The small cots on board were not ideal for surgical cases, there was not sufficient room for the splints, etc. A surgeon specialist from the Stationary hospital ashore carried out the operations.

Archangel was a couple of hundred miles from the fighting line. Transport difficulties were many, particularly the transport of sick, the different seasons requiring different methods of transport. With the severe frost the whole scene changed; the Dwina became frozen in a night. Snow fell; very fine dry snow; and the whole country wore its winter mantle of of white; it was a charming sight. The silver birches along the river banks – which like the ground were covered with snow – made a wonderful picture. Within a week trains and railway lines were laid on the now solid river, and sleighs drawn by shaggy ponies brought the merchandise across the river, where previously the boats had been busy. Patients arrived by sleigh in what they themselves called “coffins.” Many hundred versts had often to be traversed by the sick and wounded before reaching the base. Wrapped in fur-lined sleeping bags, and halting for food and change of horses at medical aid posts, the men found the open sleigh, well padded with hay, fairly comfortable. A certain number of orderlies from the sore hospitals came on board in relays for practical instruction in nursing. This was found more satisfactory than theoretical instruction given by the sisters from the ship at the hospitals weekly. Ventilation of wards on board was a great difficulty. With hot water circulating in pipes, should a port hole be opened only for even a few minutes it meant a burst radiator, and dire distress of the chief engineer. With the thermometer outside registering anything between freezing point and 35° below – on two occasions even lower still if I remember rightly – the wards were often exhaustingly warm, the cabins still worse. Some of the medical cases found the heat very trying, but in spite of this discomfort they did well.

No fresh fruit or vegetables were procurable; germinated peas and beans were served to all on board each alternate day. A further precaution against scurvy was the daily issue of 2oz. of lime juice per head. The roubles being valueless, the purchasing power of money was practically nil. A limited number of eggs were obtained for patients in exchange for rice, etc. “Rahchick,” a small Russian bird, and ptarmigan were procured in a like manner. Although scurvy was prevalent among the Russian peasants and troops, there were but few cases among our troops, and those cases quickly responded to treatment in hospital. The cases of frost-bite were chiefly due to negligence on the part of the men themselves. Ears were most easily touched if the fur ear-pieces of the caps were not always worn down. Some very bad cases of frost-bite were among the French. A party lost themselves in a wood after a Bolshevik attack; the snow got above their boots, with the result in many cases of amputation of both feet. During the dark winter months – only a few hours' daylight – it was difficult for convalescent patients and the staff to take exercise. Decks were too slippery to walk on and were of course covered in. Skis were supplied, but the flatness of the country make ski-ing impossible. Walking either on or by the river was popular and skating was favoured by some. Unfortunately the one rink within easy distance was small and reserved on two or three days a week for hockey. The local market with its fish frozen into grotesque shapes was always interesting. Bridge, sewing and knitting filled up our spare time; there was also a library. A sewing machine, thoughtfully procured from the Red Cross by the Matron-in-Chief was invaluable for personal and hospital use.

In addition to the Commodore and General Officer Commanding, the ship had many distinguished visitors of various nationalities, including the French Ambassador, the Russian General Officer Commanding and the late Sir Ernest Shackleton. The arrival of a mail was a great event – were were sometimes six weeks without one – the mail came by dog sleigh across the White Sea, and wireless gave us what news we had, including the news of the Armistice. As our troops were still fighting and saw no hope of cessation, there was little enthusiasm on the news of the Armistice reaching us. Archangel was icebound and would remain so until May or June. The French were particularly restive; what wonder when some had had no news from their homes since 1914! The shops in Archangel were interesting to look at. On the outside walls were painted the goods on sale within; probably for the benefit of the many unable to read. The reindeer, as they trotted along the river four abreast, drawing tiny sleighs driven by fur-clothed Laplanders, were most picturesque.

About March the days commenced to lengthen – unfortunately I have no diary to which I can refer – and by May there was practically no night; the skies were beautiful just then and the snow reflected the same wonderful colouring. By degrees perpetual sun melted the snow and very quickly forced the silver birches into full leaf. Unfortunately it also liberated the odours which the snow had mercifully corked! Icebreakers cut a way through the ice for the troopships bringing reliefs to enter Archangel. Within a week, part of the original North Russian “Elope” Force sailed for England. The “Kalyan” well laden returned at the same time and arrived at Leith early in June, 1919.

Gallipoli 1915 - Part Two

Suvla, August 1915.

Every day that passes shows more plainly that the great attack has failed. The Australians, I gather, had a success on the 2^nd, at Tasmania Post, but their losses were very heavy. Those on the spot appear to know rather less than more of the real issues. Everything seems in a terrible muddle, but the scattered utterances I hear are very dispiriting.

“We got there,” Colonel ‘A’ told me; and his voice was unutterably weary when he added: “and then we had to come back.”

It seems that the Gurkhas and some of the Irish struggled up to the heights of Sari Bair under murderous fire, and there waited for the rest of the detachment, greatly exulting if suffering severely; the others lost themselves and never reached their comrades in front, who had to retire exposed to fire from the same guns. I never listened to a sadder story.
We rise at 6 a.m., and are seldom in bed before midnight. Upon the arrival of the “Gloucester Castle,” surgical operations commenced and were continued for thirty-six hours without a pause, and it is fortunate that the weather kept fine. The poor maimed suffering boys – for the majority of the wounded are nothing more than boys in years – like in rows on the deck outside the operating theatre, just as they are taken from the lighter, awaiting their turn. After being operated upon they are carried to the wards, thus saving them unnecessary moving and handling. How wonderfully brave and uncomplaining they are.

“Just let me have a look at that,” said one lad. “It’s only my mother,” he added, with a shy little smile. Poor boys! Poor mothers! So far apart. They are worse off than those in France.

The mental strain weighing on the officers runs through their delirious mutterings. One Captain must have been hit just after he had sent an important despatch, for he is continually muttering, “That fellow ought to be back.” “He got through all right.” “I watched him all the way down, it is time he was back.” “I cannot think why he does not come.” Only death ends his anxiety. Another shot through both lungs, keeps starting up and saying he must get back, he is wanted. “I’d be fit enough if you would only give me something strong to pull me together. Can’t you give me anything?” On trying to drink he falls back gasping, only to start all over again until unconsciousness comes to his relief. Another patients is suffering from almost complete paralysis; he was knocked down and covered by rock and debris; he is quite award of the gravity of his case, but very rarely does he give way. (I am glad to say that reports show he was making a good recovery in England.)

The transport of the seriously wounded down the rough mountain tracks was both painful and slow. A major of the Royal Irish, who had been shot through the lung, said how dreadfully he had suffered from the jolting of the stretcher; he was almost unconscious at the time but can just remember someone leaning over him and saying, “He’s done for, poor chap.” The less seriously wounded were full of fun; one staff officer, from whose leg a bullet has been extracted at his own request without chloroform, insists on hopping round on his good leg to talk to the others. He does his comrades so much good that the nurses pretend not to see him disobeying orders right under their eyes. He knows Captain “D” who is dying unconscious with a fractured base, and promises to write to Captain “D’s” people. There are a large number of medical officers and chaplains among the patients; one Roman Catholic padre being seriously wounded.

There is no cover of any sort on shore, and at the dressing station fragments of bursting shell splash into the basins, so that the staff have to seize their patients and scamper with them along the beach.. On the ship, accommodation has been provided for an extra four hundred patients by putting mattresses and hammocks along the decks. As they lie there huddled together as close as possible, they have to be sorted out and dressed; then entered on the nominal roll. Oh, that nominal roll! The Commanding Officer is heard to talk of it every night in his sleep. One unregistered officer was discovered on deck, raving and delirious; another, lying among some lightly wounded, was so faint that he could not call; his face was disfigured with ugly sores, his uniform in rags, and his badges missing. Whenever an orderly cannot be found near his duties, he is generally found talking to a young Australian who is lying in a hammock, and who has lost both of his legs and his eyesight, while one arm is fractured; yet he lives and jokes and sings. He is known as “Tipperary.” (He reached Alexandria, but after that I lost sight of him.)

Three miles out from Suvla the ship slackens speed and the dead are committed to the deep. Ships carrying sick proceed to Lemnos, where orders are received either to transfer th epatients to a home-bound ship, or take them to one of the Mediterranean bases. In spite of the rush and scramble, anti-tetanic serum is being given with great regularity and with good results. There are some very bad cases of gas-gangrene; one young New Zealander, who was lying out for twenty-four hours with a compound fracture, lost first his leg and then his life from this condition. Even slight shell and shrapnel wounds are complicated by much bruising of the surrounding tissues and need to be treated with great judgement. Cases of dysentery, gastro-enteritis and colitis are very numerous; there is also a good deal of paratyphoid, but inoculation has done much to diminish cases of enteric. The “Gloucester Castle” has twice the number of patients it is supposed to accommodate, and on an average a fresh lot are received every week, consequently the supply of hospital suits on board is not sufficient to meet this demand, and as the patients come on board covered with dirt and blood, and it being impossible to deal with the patients’ own clothing, the Red Cross clothing is found invaluable.
August 1915 will not soon be forgotten by any who spent it in the Dardanelles.

Malta, December 1915

It is always pleasant to get to Malta, the patients feel that they are half-way home. Lemnos now is terribly bleak, and although Mudros harbour appears sheltered, it can blow furiously there and show as cold and dreary an aspect as any spot on earth.
December has been the saddest month of the saddest year! At the end of November (27) one of the most furious storms broke over the much tried troops at Suvla and Anzac. Those who lived through it say it seemed as if the Powers of Darkness had broken loose. The wind howled and shrieked, wrecking buildings and tearing up every shelter. Provisions and clothing were carried away and destroyed by flooded torrents that burst from the hills. To sleep or prepare any food was impossible.
One officer came across some men reeling drunk with spirits they had taken from a wrecked store; they were staggering unsteadily along, bearing a stretcher with a wounded man, yet the officer said that at the time it did not surprise him, it just seemed part of the pandemonium that reigned everywhere. The storm and floods lasted three whole days and were followed by a severe frost. This cold weather had not been expected so soon and very few possessed any warm footgear, consequently hundreds of frostbitten cases were received on board. The Gurkhas suffered badly and I am afraid some of them will lose their feet. After this it was a relief to hear that Suvla and Anzac were to be evacuated, and although the evacuation was a severe blow to one’s pride, there was considerable satisfaction when, a few days before Christmas, the evacuation order was successfully carried out.
The Australian troops felt the leaving very bitterly; they had struck deep roots at Anzac, but they entered into it with zest and even got some fun out of it. Groups of half a dozen remained behind to run up and down the gullies showing lights so as to give the impression that the usual number were there. Already their hearts are set on France: it is there that they wished to go. A very interesting picture of a group who had been in the first landing, eight months previous, was taken on the last hospital ship from Anzac. A staff group, photographed on the deck of the “Aragon,” had a narrow escape. A Taube dropped a bomb on the spot where the group had been standing, a few minutes after they had dispersed.

One of the hardships of the Gallipoli campaign was its remoteness for sick and wounded. Those invalided home from France could see their people almost immediately, but what patient cared about getting to Malta or Alexandria? And how deeply they loathed Lemnos; mails, too, were scanty and irregular. A particular case I have in mind is of an officer who was suffering from a very serious head wound, and how, on his partially regaining consciousness, his eyes would rove about so wistfully, seeking for some familiar face. I used to think that his groping senses might have cleared could they but have settled on someone he knew. It was pathetic to hear this officer ask over and over again, “Where? Where?” Colonel Balance spent considerable time on board in consultation over this particular case; his sympathy and kindness to the patient made a great impression on me. (I had the pleasure of being shown round the beautifully equipped hospital at Ligne by Colonel Balance. My patient eventually died in that hospital.)
What should we do in these times without some of the lighter interludes? A major who was suffering from a contused wound of the head caused roars of laughter by his account of how he was hit by a tin of biscuits. His dug-out was protected by a barricade of stores consisting chiefly of tins of biscuits; a shell went right through them, alighting in the last case but one, but without exploding, the last tin being thrown with some violence on to his head. It was a wonderful escape and the major boasts that he is the only man in the British Army who knows exactly through how many tins of biscuits that particular kind of shell will penetrate.

Gallipoli 1915

Here is a further account taken from 'Reminiscent Sketches 1914 to 1919' written by members of Queen Alexandra's Imperial Nursing Service and the Reserve. This one is taken from diary entries written by Mary E. Webster while she was working on board the hospital ship 'Gloucester Castle.' Split into two parts, it gives a flavour both of the landscape, and of life on a hospital ship over several weeks.

NOTES ON THE GALLIPOLI CAMPAIGN
By M. E. Webster

H.M.H.S. “Gloucester Castle,” Lemnos, July 1915.

If it were not for the dark war-clouds, nothing could have been more delightful than this trip through the summer seas, with the blue, sunlit waters and purple islands whose names are poems in themselves. Milo! Paros! Naxos! Samos! Chios! How these conjure up visions of gleaming marbles, rose-wreathed cups, gods and goddesses! Surely no youthful Greek hero ever displayed a finer shape, or more noble poise, than the Australian soldiers who could be seen bating from a transport moored near the “Gloucester Castle” in Mudros harbour. The physical beauty of the Australian soldier was startling, their vitality wonderful. They are at Gallipoli, not driven by fear of invasion (the remoteness of their country saves them from that), but they are here from sheer love of adventure and loyalty to the mother country. Willing even to die if need be.

Lemnos is about sixty miles from the fighting – roughly six hours’ steaming. It is an island of green hills, with bare, stony summits and quaint windmills. In the spring the country is deliciously green, and the grass starred with asphodel lilies and every kind of wild flower. Even now there is just one lovely hour before sunset, when purple shadows lie on the slopes and hollows, and the dull hues of sand and dry grass turn to orange and gold. The glories of the sky and fascinating outlines of mast and hull are reflected in the quiet water; but the midday heat is brazen, for there are no trees. I have heard that this is due to the reckless destruction of timber by the Turks. In the old Greek days the island was well wooded and watered, and a favourite country resort for visitors from the mainland. Now it is a wilderness of drought and flies. Clouds of dust hang over the camps and hospital tents, entirely enveloping any moving van or car. Existence on shores is poisoned by dust and flies, making sleep impossible, contaminating food and drink, and infecting wounds.

Over a hundred vessels lie in this crescent-shaped harbour; battle-ships of many kinds, transports, cargo boats, mine-sweepers, hospital ships, and Greek fishing boats side by side. Our Headquarters Staff is located on the R.M.S.S. “Aragon,” and it is there we report for orders. In the elaborately glazed deck spaces and saloons, red-tabbed officers innumerable “live and move and have their being.” A visitor on board the “Aragon” once remarked that “he had never seen such a __ __ conservatory full of scarlet geraniums in his life!

Anzac, first week in August, 1915.

The “Gloucester Castle” lies about a mile from the shore at Gaba Lepe – now known as the Anzac beach in honour of the Australians and New Zealand Army Corps. It is only a narrow strip of beach, backed by bold red-coloured bluffs, deeply scarred and furrowed in their formation, and reaching to a height of nearly 1,000 feet. There are occasional tracks like those of a mountain goat, with here and there little terraced spaces. The face of the cliffs is covered here and there with patches of dull green prickly undergrowth, chiefly consisting of a shrub resembling holly, but bearing acorns; these, however, scarcely relieve the red-hot glare of the midday. In the distance on the right is Achi-Baba, and on the left, beyond the New Zealand lines, the land falls away into a tree-dotted plain, while beyond that again are the Salt Lake and Chocolate Hill. In the early morning and at sundown this strange, forbidding coast assumes a beauty all of its own; the gullies are deeply blue, and the sea and sky glow with wonderful tints; then, as the darkness falls, lights spring out up and down the hillside, like busy fireflies.

The insistent tapping of machine-guns and the sharp reports of the snipers who are no longer afraid of betraying their hiding place destroy the silence of the night. Sometimes stray bullets are found embedded in the woodwork on board. One of the best Australian snipers is of partly Chinese origin. The costume of a Turkish sniper was brought on board. It was of a dull green colour like the foliage, with coverings for face, hands and feet. Some snipers prefer to paint their faces. The Turks who know the country have found and provisioned posts in most of the larger trees, where they stay for a week or more. In the day time, shelling goes on for hours at a time. The white smoke of the bursting shells can be seen against the blue hills. “Beechy Bill” is responsible for many casualties, and “Tucker Time Liz” always chooses the meal hours; there is really no good cover either on sea or shore.

We have been interested in watching a mine-sweeper dodging about for three days trying to land a cargo of hand-grenades. At last she was hit and stopped alongside the “Gloucester Castle” for a few minutes to leave one of the crew whose arm had bee literally torn off. (I am glad to say he is getting well.) We hear few particulars on board, but can gather that this is to be a great and decisive week. Many senior officers have come on board to rest before their turn comes; they say that a bath and a well-served meal make new men of them, but that the sheets and soft beds keep them awake. Bathing on the beach is very dangerous and strictly forbidden. There is an Australian patient named McRodgers, who won the V.C. and a commission in South Africa, and is now of the Australian Army Service Corps. He is over 40 years of age, and has a fractured skull and arm, but does not consider himself permanently incapacitated to say the least. The “Gloucester Castle” leaves Anzac on August 6, with all the sick and wounded who unfit to take part in the decisive action of the following days. High hopes are held by all who are left behind.

(to be continued)