A Surgeon in Belgium | Page 5

which I think we largely owe
the fact that none of the staff was ever ill. Soldiers are not the only
people who fight on their stomachs.
The management of the hospital centred in the office, and it was so
typical of Belgium as to be really worth a few words of description. It
was quite a small room, and it was always crowded. Four of us had
seats round a table in the centre, and at another table in the window sat
our Belgian secretary, Monsieur Herman, and his two clerks. But that
was only the beginning of it. All day long there was a constant stream
of men, women, and children pouring into that room, bringing letters,

asking questions, always talking volubly to us and amongst themselves.
At first we thought that this extraordinary turmoil was due to our want
of space, but we soon found that it was one of the institutions of the
country. In England an official's room is the very home of silence, and
is by no means easy of access. If he is a high official, a series of
ante-rooms is interposed between his sacred person and an inquisitive
world. But in Belgium everyone walks straight in without removing his
cigar. The great man sits at his desk surrounded by a perfect Babel, but
he is always polite, always ready to hear what you have to say and to
do what he can to help. He appears to be able to deal with half a dozen
different problems at the same time without ever being ruffled or
confused. There is an immense amount of talking and shaking of hands,
and at first the brain of a mere Englishman is apt to whirl; but the
business is done rapidly and completely. Belgium is above all things
democratic, and our office was a good introduction to it.
The common room was large and airy, overlooking the courtyard, and a
few rugs and armchairs made it a very comfortable place when the
work of the day was done. Anyone who has worked in a hospital will
know what a difference such a room makes to the work--work that
must be carried on at all hours of the day or night; nor will he need to
be told of the constant supply of tea and coffee that will be found there.
We go about telling our patients of the evils of excessive tea- drinking,
and we set them an example they would find it hard to follow. We do
not mention how often tea and a hot bath have been our substitute for a
night's sleep.' A good common room and an unlimited supply of tea
will do much to oil the wheels of hospital life.
But to myself the all-important room was the operating theatre, for
upon its resources depended entirely our opportunities for surgical
work. It was in every way admirable, and I know plenty of hospitals in
London whose theatres would not bear comparison with ours. Three
long windows faced the courtyard; there was a great bunch of electric
lights in the ceiling, and there was a constant supply of boiling water.
What more could the heart of surgeon desire? There were two operating
tables and an equipment of instruments to vie with any in a London
hospital. Somebody must have been very extravagant over those

instruments, I thought as I looked at them; but he was right and I was
wrong, for there were very few of those instruments for which I was
not grateful before long. The surgery of war is a very different thing
from the surgery of home.
The wards were full when we arrived, and I had a wonderful
opportunity of studying the effects of rifle and shell fire. Most of the
wounds were fortunately slight, but some of them were terrible, and,
indeed, in some cases it seemed little short of miraculous that the men
had survived. But on every side one saw nothing but cheerful faces, and
one would never have dreamt what some of those men had gone
through. They were all smoking cigarettes, laughing, and chatting, as
cheery a set of fellows as one could meet. You would never have
suspected that a few days before those same men had been carried into
the hospital in most cases at their last gasp from loss of blood and
exposure, for none but serious cases were admitted. The cheeriest man
in the place was called Rasquinet, a wounded officer who had been
christened "Ragtime" for short, and for affection. A week before he had
been struck by a shell in the left side, and a large piece of the shell had
gone clean through, wounding the kidney behind and the bowel in front.
That man crawled across several fields,