The receiving nurse was, it seemed baffled by my documentation since much of it was in French. She evidently referred it to the ward sister who came to sort it out. A very imposing figure she was too, she might have posed for the original "Dragon of the Ward" who figures in many Punch cartoons and a few other humorous drawings. She was very large, and by that I do not mean fat. She dominated any gathering without having to say a word. I never heard her having to call for silence and we were a large and noisy ward. Her voice was that of someone educated at a very high – grade school and it varied from being extremely gentle to totally commanding. Her other great asset was a sense of humour. It was the sort of humour that is based on wit. It only rarely appeared on the ward, but when it did the patients, me included, went on telling each other about it for weeks.
She stood by my bed and gazed at me in silence. Finally she referred to the handful of documents she was holding "Well" she said, "You have had an eventful few years according to all this. The first thing to be settled is what do I call you? The French say you are an honorary sous-lieutenant, (her French accent was perfect) which seems clear enough, but I see that your N.C.O. shortens it to Lieutenant (pronounced the English way) and that is how you will be addressed while you are on my ward." She went on to say that the consultant would come to see me later in the evening and after he had gone she would tell me what was going to happen.
Those first few hours on the orthopaedic ward set the tone for the next four or five months. I was soon Lieutenant to the staff but 'Woody' to the patients, if not ruder versions of my name. The consultant was of the old school of senior doctors. He never addressed a word to me, all communication was via the senior nurse present.
"Tell the patient to turn over sister"
" Ask him if he can feel anything there"
"I shall operate on the early list tomorrow"
"make sure he eats nothing from now on, and get an x-ray done."
The examination stirred up a lot of aches and pains that had been lying dormant. I was uncomfortable and apprehensive while sister and the consultant retired to her room.
When she finally came to my bedside again she showed her understanding of a patient's priorities by saying immediately that they would get me walking again – but it would take some time. There would be rather a lot of operations under general anaesthetic because there was a lot to clear up but the theatre people were rather good at that. I felt that praise for the theatre staff was rather grudging and wrung from her. I later learnt that there was no love lost between the ward and theatre.
The other thing that was going to happen was traction. Did I know what that meant? Of course I did not and a man at the other end of the ward was pointed out. He looked most uncomfortable with one foot up in the air, held there by cords passing over pulleys all fixed to a wooden framework which wobbled about as he struggled to reach his bedside locker. The purpose of the contraption is to keep the damaged leg at the right length. Without the weights and cords the muscles would draw the two pieces of leg together and make the damaged leg much shorter. If it could be held at the right length while the knitting process was going on there should be no limping when the patient was finally released and taught to walk again. That stage seemed to be getting further and further away, but tomorrow it would all start.
Sister quickly noticed that I had had enough and I was soon tucked down. When I surfaced again I was on a trolley on the way to theatre.
Events then followed very much as Sister had predicted. The operations got shorter, the last three or four being done by the houseman who was much more communicative than the consultant. He even came to see me afterwards to say whether he was pleased with progress, which he usually was.
By this time I was very much part of the community on the ward. I was supplied with plenty of books (of a sort!). The traction was the worst thing but I did achieve the distinction of being the only patient in the whole of Sister's career to fall out of bed when in traction.
It occurred during one of the frequent nights when we were sharing night staff with the ward next door. I knew nothing about it until I woke up lying on the floor surrounded by the weights and wooden bits and pieces of traction apparatus scattered around. Clearly I had not lost my ability to sleep through most things! I had been discovered on the floor during the change over between day and night staff so there were a lot of faces peering down at me. They were all explaining that it was not their fault. I felt they ought to be getting me back to bed, but then a silence at the far end of the ward presaged the arrival of Sister. She was soon the only face peering down and she gazed for some time before saying,
"Well Lieutenant I knew the French were famed for the things they can do in bed. I suppose this is one of them."
That pronouncement was interpreted by those present to mean that Sister was not going to be cross with anyone, and an enormous, but silent, sigh of relief passed over the assembled staff. Then they began to giggle as the meaning of Sister's words were taken in. It was then that she made the statement about it never having happened before in her experience.
"Now come on, get the man back in bed, we don't want him with pneumonia on top of all his other problems."