Nurses on the frontline Remembering them with pride

The immense bravery shown by members of the nursing profession from Northern Ireland during the First World War is recorded in a new book. Here, in exclusive extracts, we present some of their remarkable stories

Mollie Best was born on January 11, 1886, in Jerrettspass, Co Down. She trained in the RVH from 1909 to 1913, leaving there to train as a district nurse in Dublin. Her superintendent’s report describes her “as a willing, cheerful and obedient worker”. Mollie applied to join the QAIMNSR at the outbreak of war when she was working as a district nurse in Omagh and died in 1960.

She wrote articles in 1953 for the journal of the RVH League of Nurses, describing her civilian and military First World War nursing experiences.

An abridged version of these articles is reproduced here, beginning when she was working as a district nurse in Omagh.

MOLLIE BEST WRITES:

“As radio had not yet been invented to keep us posted on the world affairs, and I hardly ever looked at a newspaper, the declaration of war on August 4, 1914, burst upon me as an enormous surprise.

Omagh, being the headquarters of the Inniskilling Fusiliers, men in khaki suddenly appeared everywhere about the streets, and detachments constantly marched through the streets, followed by cheering crowds, and headed by the regimental band playing rousing quick-steps.

As I had always been attracted by the notion of army nursing, these martial signs and sounds were too much for me. I applied at once to join the QAs (Queen Alexandra’s) and in a few weeks was instructed to hold myself in readiness to be called up at any moment; but it was not until early in November that I got orders to report at the Cork Military Hospital as soon as possible.

It was not a thrilling assignment, but I hoped, not in vain, for better things to come and I reached Cork next day, leaving most of my belongings in

Omagh to be recovered eight months later when I got my first leave.

Cork was so out of the way that few wounded were sent there. The hospital had only one operating theatre, and we rarely saw anything done in it more exciting than hernias, appendices, varicose veins or an occasional fracture; but we had to assist in operations — work which was new to me, as at the RVH it was restricted to (medical) pupils. I was glad of this experience, for I got plenty more of it to do before my army career was over.

One small incident remains in my memory of my last days in Cork. I had nursed a corporal through an attack of shingles, and one Sunday morning

I met him taking a party of men to Church Parade.

As we were about to pass, I heard him calling in his best sergeant-major voice: “EYES LEFT!” Then I suddenly realised that for the first and only time in my life I was having the honour of being saluted by the British Army. Three weeks later I was in France.

On an October evening in 1915, I as one of a party of QAs deposited at Boulogne was posted with two other Irish sisters to the 14th Stationary Hospital, formerly the Grand Hotel at Wimereux, an imposing edifice on the seafront. Typhoids and paratyphoids were housed in the main building, while isolation cases were accommodated in the compound at its side in huts of various sizes, down to bathing cabins.

Practically all my time there (except for a few weeks in the cerebro-spinal meningitis hut) was spent in nursing typhoid cases — a new experience for me which I found extremely interesting.

I was most fortunate in having, as medical officer, Captain Marris, who was very keen on his job, endowed with a strong sense of humour, and equally kind to patients and staff.

He was bent on keeping abreast of his profession, but when he tried a new procedure he always warned the men that it was a new experiment and ordered them a bottle of stout when it was over.

A depressing memory of that period is the steady stream of ambulances that passed our gates, day and night, for weeks during the battle of the Somme, bearing wounded men to local hospitals and en route for the hospital ships and England. When I heard that volunteers were wanted for hospital ships I put down my name for the new experience although I was quite happy at 14th General.

At the end of 1916, I was appointed to HMHS St David, which, before the war, had been on the passenger service between Rosslare and Fishguard, but was then running between Boulogne and Dover, Boulogne and Southampton, and sometimes Rouen and Southampton. She carried four MOs and four nursing staff — in addition, of course, to orderlies.

There was a very rough sea on our first crossing, and as soon as we got outside the breakwater my wardmaster told me that all Sisters went to their cabins in such weather and I’d better do the same. I refused haughtily, but it wasn’t long before I had to lower my flag and signal to him to carry on while I beat a hasty retreat. My only comfort was to find my three companions down before me.

In a month or so I got the upper hand of sea-sickness and was able to stick at my post in any weather for seven months until all Sisters were taken off hospital ships as the Germans were sinking them wholesale.

During that time I had crossed the Channel more than 120 times, and had many occasions to admire the courage and cheerfulness of terribly wounded men.

I can recollect a lad of about 19 or 20, laughing and joking as he was carried down on a stretcher, although when I went to do his dressings I found that his wounds were appalling.

Those, also, who had been blinded faced their disaster with an incredible display of happy schoolboyishness. The rankand-file Tommy of 1914-1918 was a grand fellow, and I was proud to have the privilege of doing something to help him.”

I recall a lad of 19 or 20 joking as he was carried down ... he had appalling wounds