Bright Armour : Memories of Four Years of War

Excerpts:

Chapter I

 

 The last days of a very brilliant London season were already under a shadow—a shadow in which it was difficult really to believe. Everyone behaved as usual; one could not go to meet disaster even in the realms of thought: so people behaved as usual, only with different faces.

I went to a party, as planned, at almost the most lovely of England's great houses. The massive beauty of the house, the serenity of the huge park, the fern, the deer, the whole picture of steadfast England gave out a feeling of security. The stables full of wonderful hunters were a real delight; we went out riding in large cavalcades, and might have been riding into the heart of an early tapestry.

The news was grim, but the Bank Holiday horse show was still held in the park, the best horses in the west country were paraded, and hunting friends turned up from many quarters. On August 4th, 1914 (my twenty-first birthday), came the awful certainty: and then we had to face the reality.

The Kaiser had stayed in that house; we all went solemnly to watch our hostess turn his photograph to the wall.

Travelling home to Taplow the next day, the trains were quite disorganized. General mobilization was in progress, and they were full of recruits, and of soldiers joining their units.

Amongst other companions for part of the way was Hubert Hartigan—who then possessed perhaps the best hunters in England. We began to speculate on whether our horses would be taken by the Government and on what methods they would adopt in order to collect the necessary number of horses for the army. We grieved in advance over certain horses which, if taken, would be quite useless for the required purpose. Hubert Hartigan said he could guarantee one of his horses to get into the middle of the Germans in three fly-jumps.

Rumours were already adrift—the British Navy was engaged at that moment off Dover—a French air ace (Pegoud or Garros) had given his life by diving on to a German machine to destroy it.
 

At home everyone was intent on working and organizing and trying to do the most useful thing possible at the moment. I concentrated on becoming a nurse.

We had all had the most happy childhood, spent at our much loved home at Taplow, and made perfect for us by our parents.

We were a large family and very devoted to each other. To make subsequent mention of the members of my family clear, I will say here that my parents are Lord and Lady Desborough—and the family name is Grenfell. My name was then Monica Grenfell, and the rest of the family consisted of Julian and Billy, my two elder brothers, of Ivo who was younger, and of my sister Imogen, the youngest of us. I had been grown up for four years when the war broke out. We had none of us wasted those happy, care-free days. We had shared all the happiness as a band of close friends, united by affection and laughter, and we rushed to meet all the fun. My brothers and their friends were clever and remarkable, and they added brilliance to an already happy throng.

The whole gamut of the year was enjoyed to the full, as well as the summers in London, with the dazzling parties. Many of the famous houses were lived in then, and there are memories of glittering balls given in them, and each one had a dignity and an atmosphere of its own. Many of us spent the early autumn in Scotland, and hunting played an enthralling part for those who loved it during the winter months: it was a great meeting ground and founded many friendships. There were also visits to shooting parties, and large house-parties were given for the winter balls, and hunt balls, in the country.

The girls then were supposed to lead very much chaperoned and sheltered lives. Some books and plays were vetoed, and many subjects were not discussed when any girls were within ear-shot. The lines on which chaperonage was carried out were very strict, they were clearly defined and applied to all concerned.

An outstanding remembrance during the last summer before the war was a specially brilliant meeting at Ascot. The Russian Ballet was being acclaimed with enthusiasm that season, and it enlisted many devotees. As well as enjoying the evening parties, we played a lot of tennis that summer, in London and at Ken Wood and Roehampton, and I often rode in Richmond Park, with Rosemary Leveson Gower. Saturday to Monday was always spent out of London—generally there was a party at some lovely country house. There were many parties at Taplow; where sometimes a little responsibility fell to my share. My mother was Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen and occasionally she could not get down to Taplow on Saturday, and I had to take her place and sit between older and distinguished people at dinner, and then help my father to arrange the bridge tables and organize the round games afterwards.

Amongst the last dances to be given that summer was the one given by the First Life Guards in Hyde Park Barracks, and a large ball given by the Duchess of Devonshire. Many of us danced at this last one until well after the sun was up, and then we played a set of tennis, in the garden of Devonshire House. This had only just been made possible for the women, by a change of fashion, up till then all our full gowns had had long trains.

The first expedition to London in search of a hospital wanting "green" nurses was fruitless. It was a lovely day; but no one seemed to be aware of the beauty of the weather; everyone seemed bent upon some purpose. I called at two hospitals . . .

 

 

 

Chapter X

 

The chance was offered to me of going to a British hospital in France, so I chose this, and Elsie filled my place in the hospital at Arc-en-Barrois.

The days of rest at home were delicious. I tried to learn more about cooking, and had one hunt with the Garth, on a horse that was lent me.

We crossed to France in the grey twilight of a December afternoon, and both my parents came out to instal me that first time. Except for one or two nurses on the boat the rest were soldiers returning from leave. I met two people I knew. We heard there were to be steeplechases or a gymkhana held at the back of the line the next day, got up by the Royals and the 10th. We were told many stories of the peril of railway travel in France, and of train smashes and close shaves. There was also a nice story about the Indian troops on their journey over.

 

In mid-ocean they were puzzled as to how the Captain could find his way. Then they looked at the wash in the wake of the ship, pointed to it and said: "Of course, he follows the path."

It was creepy, stealing along with no lights showing; one could but think of submarines, which had been active, and of floating mines. As we got near to the French coast, it was surprising to be able to see the lights of the little villages along the coast to Boulogne, for we had been keeping lights so strictly hidden in London. (These rules were tightened up even more later on, and London became a very dark city.)

I went straight to the hospital at Wimereux, and my parents stayed for two days in a small pension in the village.

It was a Red Cross hospital, very well organized, one of the voluntary hospitals which so splendidly filled the gap until all the necessary military hospitals were organized. They were of the utmost use during the first year of the war, and came in for appalling rushes of work, after the first gigantic task of creating them out of nothing had been achieved. This one was organized, subsidized, and presided over by Sir Henry and Lady Norman. There were two exccllent doctors, Colonel Lister and Colonel Gray, who had had experience of war conditions in South Africa, and some younger men from Aberdeen. All the nurses were fully qualified. They had trained at the various big hospitals in England, and had joined the Red Cross since the outbreak of the War. The cooks, orderlies, etc., were all paid volunteers, who had enrolled in the Red Cross. I was the only semi-trained nurse in the place; the unpaid V.A.D.'s had to be twenty-three years old, and in any case there were none sent out to France till months later. Friends at the War Office had somehow got me out there; I think some mention of "kitchen" work was put on my passport.

The hospital was rigged up in a small hotel, which had been open only in the summer months. Two big rooms on the ground floor were converted into two wards for soldiers, and the operating theatre was on that floor. There were four big bedrooms on the first floor holding several beds each, and this made the third ward (a ramp was made from the kitchen garden for the stretcher cases), and then on that same floor there were five or seven beds for officers. We slept and had our meals on the third and fourth floors of the building. There was a small hotel quite close by, where the medical staff and the orderlies had their quarters, and in another part of it an excellent X-ray apparatus was fitted up by Dr. Lake-Hope.

The building was desperately cold in the winter; it was a gimcrack summer residence. When the door was shut, the walls seemed to flap as they do on the stage. The heating arrangements were very meagre, and I can only remember stoves in the centre of the rooms on the ground floor. The electric light was doubtful, and the supply was constantly failing. This applied to the whole area, and meant groping about and lighting candles; but lamps were always kept ready in the theatre. I so well remember a candle, standing in its own grease, on the top of the second flight of stairs, the only light for that part of the staircase and for the passage to our dining-room and bedrooms.

The hospital had been desperately busy when it opened, a month or so before I got there, but the wards were comparatively empty during my first days. The nurses did not need extra help, and there was a definite antagonism to me—I was the only one of my kind, semi-trained and unpaid, and it was made clear that they were not inclined to like me. I wonder now at my quick decision to go to a British hospital amongst total strangers, instead of going off to nurse the French (which after all was in the same cause) with a companion whom I loved very much, and who had proved a pillar of strength in all emergencies. One still had the hope that the War would soon be over. One longed to help one's own countrymen, and there was the probability that it would always lead on to further work with the British. Anyhow, the choice was made without any hesitation.

When I called at Matron's room to get my orders the Night Sister was there giving her report. She was a tall very good-looking Australian nurse, and she wore an all-white uniform. She looked handsome and calm, and untired. Both the Australians were very competent nurses, and less of a type, less conventional, than our nurses. They were the first to make friends with me, but I made other great friends later on.

The weather was like the worst type of English winter. High winds and quantities of rain turned the whole place into mud and mush. We went through the routine day, sweeping and dusting the ward. The ash-trays needed a lot of cleaning up . . .