CHAPTER XXXIII
A LITTLE NONSENSE
It was hard work visiting the wounded, listening time after time to each one as he described the nature and history of his wounds, which in many cases were so similar. Often on leaving one hut only to enter another, I have paused to look longingly out to the estuary of the Canche, where the sun would be sinking slowly, and breathe the strong, aromatic air coming from the sea and the marshes that grew from the river mud; then in again to great wards of poor broken lads and the antiseptic odors of the hospital.
Although the spirits of the lads, on the whole, were bright and merry, and those who nursed them brought sunshine to their work, still one would scarcely think of entering any one ward with the intention of being entertained. Yet frequently I have gone into a certain ward of No. 7, Canadian General, with no other intention than that of being amused. For in this ward were the malingerers, that is, the men who were trying to “put one over” on the doctors. The soldiers called them “lead swingers.” The ingenuity of some of these men was really extraordinary. I have seen a case come through three or four different posts, diagnosed as measles, until finally the doctor in the stationary hospital saw that the man had used a preparation of some oil to bring out the rash, and had raised his temperature with cordite.
The first day I went into Wd. —, I was somewhat puzzled. I had not known that this was the ward of malingerers, and so was surprised to find so many healthy looking men in hospital. The nurse in charge looked a little surprised when I entered and said smilingly: “Well, Padre, what are you doing here? Nobody ever dies in this ward.”
“Well, Sister,” I said, “as far as I can see now, every one has the appearance of being quite spruce.” Then she said quietly: “P. U. O.,” nodding her head a little after pronouncing each letter. Then she went into her cubicle to continue her work.
That evening at dinner I asked the doctor who sat nearest me what was meant by “P. U. O.” He smiled, then said: “It means, Padre, ‘Praxis of Unknown Origin’,” and kept smiling as he continued: “We sometimes meet a case which really puzzles us, but nearly always, when you see ‘P. U. O.’ on a medical history sheet you can count on its being a case of malingering.” He did not say very much till we had nearly finished our meal, then he said: “Wait, Padre, after dinner and we’ll see ‘Boots’.”
This was a nickname for the doctor in charge of Ward —, one of the jolliest M. O.’s in the mess. We found him in the ante-room, three or four others grouped around him; but instead of the customary broad smile on his good-natured fat face, there was a look of real indignation. He was explaining to his smiling listeners something about a few cases that had been sent to him; and as we drew near I caught these words: “Dey had da hitch,”—the doctor was a French Canadian—“and dey were sent to my ward—height of dem! Sent to me, and dem wit da hitch!” Every one was laughing and trying unsuccessfully to suppress it.
Then a young doctor interposed: “And what did you do, Boots?”
“Do?” echoed the other. “What did I do? I just took dare papers and sent dem up to the skin disease hospital. Dere’s no room for men wit da hitch in my ward.”
The mere thought of the indignity seemed almost too much for the good doctor, so he paused for a little and his face grew red as he looked around on his smiling audience. Then he said: “Da idea of sending men wit da hitch to me!” He had closed his lips tightly and was nodding to himself at the insult that had been offered his ward by having men with the itch sent to it, when the doctor who had spoken previously spoke again: “Yes, ‘Boots,’ the idea of sending sick men to your ward!”
“Boots” looked at him quickly, and suddenly the dark clouds were dispersed and the light of his broad, sunny smile spread over his good-natured face. “Dat’s hit,” he said. “What do dey want to send sick people to me for?”
The others laughed and moved on, and presently I found myself making arrangements with Captain “Boots” to visit his ward when his “patients” would be undergoing treatment the following morning. The only condition the good doctor imposed was that I would not laugh. This I promised.
The following day, as I walked down the aisle of No. —, I realized how hard it would be to fulfill the condition the doctor had made for my visit. The men were undergoing “treatment”; some held the handles of a galvanic battery in their hands, while their bodies squirmed and twisted, but never for one instant did they drop the handles; others had their feet on steel discs in tubs of water, while others underwent electrical treatment in different ways. The doctor moved from bed to bed, inquiring with simulated solicitude as to the state of each patient, offering a word of encouragement to some poor fellow who writhed under the current that passed through hands and feet.
“Dat’s right, my lad,” the doctor would say encouragingly, “just keep your feet on de disc.” Perhaps it did not occur to the good doctor that the man was powerless to take his feet off the disc! To another he would say: “Dere, now, my lad, we’ll soon have you in perfec health again”—and I would wonder how the strong, rosy-cheeked lad would look when in perfect health.
I was not surprised to hear two or three lads inform the doctor that they thought they felt well enough to go back to their battalions again. The doctor would always agree with them. One fellow said, within my hearing: “He might as well give us the chair at once!”
I remember coming out of the ward that first day, and when I was out of view, I stood in the lane and laughed and laughed. The fat doctor had been so funny, and also the poor fellows, squirming and twisting under treatment that was not at all necessary for them.
I made many subsequent visits to No. —. Whenever I would feel tired out from the more serious work of visiting the wounded, I would step down the lane and listen for awhile to Doctor “Boots” passing up and down the aisle giving his electrical treatment.