Field Hospital and Flying Column
Being the Journal of an English Nursing Sister
in Belgium & Russia
By
Violetta Thurstan
THE BEGINNING OF IT ALL
War,
war, war. For me the beginning of the war was a torchlight tattoo on Salisbury
Plain. It was held on one of those breathless evenings in July when the peace
of Europe was trembling in the balance, and when most of us had a heartache in
case—in case England, at this time of internal crisis, did not rise
to the supreme sacrifice.
It
was just the night for a tattoo—dark and warm and still. Away across the plain
a sea of mist was rolling, cutting us off from the outside world, and only a
few pale stars lighted our stage from above.
The
field was hung round with Chinese lanterns throwing weird lights and shadows
over the mysterious forms of men and beasts that moved therein. It was
fascinating to watch the stately entrance into the field, Lancers, Irish
Rifles, Welsh Fusiliers, Grenadiers
and many another gallant regiment, each marching into the field in turn to the
swing of their own particular regimental tune until they were all drawn up in
order.
There
followed a very fine exhibition of riding and the usual torchlight tricks, and
then the supreme moment came. The massed bands had thundered out the first
verse of the Evening Hymn, the refrain was taken up by a single silver trumpet
far away—a sweet thin almost unearthly note more to be felt than heard—and then
the bands gathered up the whole melody and everybody sang the last verse
together.
The
Last Post followed, and then I think somehow we all knew.
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