Part 20 (2/2)

There was one W.A.A.C.--Smith we will call her--who could easily have made her fortune on the stage, she was so clever at imitations. She would ”take you off” to your face and make you laugh in spite of yourself. She was an East-ender and witty in the extreme, warm of heart but exceedingly quick-tempered. I liked her tremendously, she was so utterly alive and genuine.

One night I was awakened from a doze by a tremendous hubbub going on in the ward. Raising myself on an elbow I saw Smith shaking one of the W.A.A.C.s, who was hanging on to a bed for support, as a terrier might a rat.

”You would, would you?” I heard her exclaim. ”Sy it againe, yer white-ficed son of a gun yer!” and she shook her till her teeth chattered. I never found out what the ”white-ficed” one had said, but she showed no signs of repeating the offence. I felt as if I was in the gallery at Drury Lane and wanted to shout, ”Go on, 'it 'er,” but just restrained myself in time!

A girl orderly was despatched in haste for one of the head doctors, and I awaited her arrival with interest, wondering just how she would deal with the situation.

However, the ”Colonel” apparently thought discretion the better part of valour, and sent the Sergeant-Major--the only man on the staff--to cope with the delinquent. I was fearfully disappointed. Smith checkmated him splendidly by retiring into the bath where she sat soaking for two hours. What was the poor man to do? It was getting late, and for all he knew she might elect to stay there all night. He knew of no precedent and ran in and out of the ward, flapping his arms in a helpless manner.

I felt Smith had decidedly won the day. Imagine an ordinary private behaving thus!

There were sudden periodical evacuations of the ward, and one day I was told my bed would be required for a more urgent case--a large convoy was expected from France and so many beds had to be vacated. Three weeks after my operation I left the hospital and arranged to stay with friends in the country. As it was a long railway journey and I was hardly accustomed to crutches again, I wanted to stay the night in town.

However, one comes up against some extraordinary types of people. For example, the hotel where my aunt was staying refused to take me in, even for one night, on the score that ”_they_ didn't want any invalids!” I could not help wondering a little bitterly where these same people would have been but for the many who were now permanent invalids and for those others, as Kipling reminds us, ”whose death has set us free.” I could not help noticing that at home one either came up against extreme sympathy and kindness or else utter callousness--there seemed to be no half-measures.

In March I again hoped to go to Roehampton, but my luck was dead out. I could still bear no pressure on the wretched nerve, and another operation was performed almost immediately.

The W.A.A.C.s' ward was all very well as an experience, but the noise and shaking, not to mention the thought of the broom catching my bed regularly every morning, was too much to face again. The surgeon who was operating tried to get me into his hospital for officers where there were several single rooms vacant at the time.

Vain hope. Again the familiar phrase rang out, and once more I apologised for being a female, and was obliged to make arrangements to return to the private nursing home where I had been in August. The year was up, and here I was still having operations. I was disgusted in the extreme.

When I was at last fit to go to Roehampton the question of accommodation again arose. I never felt so sick in all my life I wasn't a man--committees and matrons sat and pondered the question. Obviously I was a terrible nuisance and no one wanted to take any responsibility.

The mother superior of the Sacred Heart Convent at Roehampton heard of it and asked me to stay there. Though I was not of their faith they welcomed me as no one else had done since my return, and I was exceedingly happy with them. It was a change to be really wanted somewhere.

In time I got fairly hardened to the stares from pa.s.sers-by, and it was no uncommon thing for an absolute stranger to come up and ask, ”Have you lost your leg?” The fact seemed fairly obvious, but still some people like verbal confirmation of everything. One day in Harrod's, just after the 1918 push, one florid but obviously sympathetic lady exclaimed, ”Dear me, poor girl, did you lose your leg in the recent push?” It was then the month of June (some good going to be up on crutches in that time!) Several staff officers were buying things at the same counter and turned at her question to hear my reply. ”No, not in this _last_ push,”

I said, ”but the one just before,” and moved on. They appeared to be considerably amused.

How I loathed crutches! One nightmare in which I often indulged was that I found, in spite of having lost my leg, I could really walk in some mysterious way quite well without them. I would set off joyfully, and then to my horror suddenly discover my plight and fall smack. I woke to find the nerve had been at its old trick again. Sometimes I was seized with a panic that when I did get my leg I should not be able to use it, and worse still, never ride again. That did not bear thinking of.

I went to the hospital every day for fittings and at last the day arrived when I walked along holding on to handrails on each side and watching my ”style” in a gla.s.s at the end of the room for the purpose.

My excitement knew no bounds! It was a tedious business at first getting it to fit absolutely without paining and took some time. I could hear the men practising walking in the adjoining room to the refrain of the ”Broken Doll,” the words being:

”I only lost my leg a year ago.

I've got a 'Rowley,' now, I'd have you know.

I soon learnt what pain was, I thought I knew, But now my poor old leg is black, and red, white and blue!

The fitter said, 'You're walking very well,'

I told him he could take his leg to ----, But they tell me that some day I'll walk right away, By George! and with my Rowley too!”

It was at least comforting to know that in time one would!

Half an hour's fitting was enough to make the leg too tender for anything more that day, and I discovered to my joy that I was quite well able to drive a small car with one foot. I was lent a sporting Morgan tri-car which did more to keep up my spirits than anything else.

The side brake was broken and somehow never got repaired, so the one foot had quite an exciting time. It was anything but safe, but it did not matter. One day, driving down the Portsmouth Road with a fellow-sufferer, a policeman waved his arms frantically in front of us.

”What's happened,” I asked my friend, ”are we supposed to stop?” ”I'm afraid so,” he replied, ”I should think we've been caught in a trap.”

(One gets into bad habits in France!)

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