The Sun Came Out

On the morning of December 13th, 1916, I woke up in the Third London General Hospital in Wandsworth, with the screens around my bed. "Well," I thought, "I'm in for it at last, but at least I am apparently going to die in comfort, instead of in the mud of the Somme," from which I had just come.

When the nurses discovered that I was awake, they brought a doctor around to explain to me what the trouble was. Apparently the Hospital ship, Glenart Castle, on which I had come over from France the night before, and which incidentally was torpedoed and sunk on the way back, had been found to have amongst the patients a case of C.S.M., Cerebral Spinal Meningitis, an extremely contagious and deadly disease, particularly prevalent at that time amongst the Canadians down at Shorncliffe camp. They were dying in droves. I understand that since then a cure has been found and/or a preventative anti-toxin. At that time there was no known cure. You had three options: (1) die quickly and horribly - head going back and back until your neck broke and at the same time, ankles going back, back, back until they broke; (2) survive, and be maimed for life with such disabilities as deafness, blindness and a wonky heart; (3) in some rare and unexplainable cases, the germ didn't develop and you merely became what is known as a carrier. It took 21 days for the germ to develop, giving you ample time to ponder on your three chances.

All this, the doctor told me, and more. In the meantime, they were going to move me to a private room and conduct tests to see if I had the germ; and if I had I would immediately be transferred to the isolation hospital, Fulham Military Hospital in Hammersmith, where such cases were handled.

To cut a long story short, later in the day I found myself in an ambulance on the way to Fulham - I had the germ.

She was standing in the doorway of the entrance to the ward. She would knock your eyes out. Talk about your welcoming committee. You forgot all about the 21 days ahead of you. All you wanted was for the war to be over and to come back and marry somebody like Calligan. I did.

There were ten of us on the ward, English, Scots, Canadians and Australians. Part of our duty was to help the Orderlies downstairs with the dying cases and transfer the casualties to the morgue. Calligan's duty was to keep us smiling and she certainly did. Invariably, it seemed to rain every day that winter. One morning when Calligan came in, it was pouring.

My Australian friend greeted her, "Hi, there Call Again, the sun just came out." "Yes, I know," said Calligan, "I just came in."

Eventually, I got rid of the germ, was released, and went back to France.

The following year, when I was on ten days leave from France, I went down to Fulham to see Calligan. The matron met me and took me into her sitting room. I explained the reason for my visit.

"I'm sorry, Sir," she said, "Nurse Calligan contracted the disease shortly after you left and died."

There is a rather amazing sequel to this story. Last year, I spent some time in the Grace Hospital, following an operation and Congestive Heart Failure. One of the nurses who tended me was Greening. She was the living, spitting image of Calligan, with the same kind of smile.

One morning, when it was pouring rain, I greeted her, "Hi there Greening, the sun just came out."

Greening didn't bat an eyelash.

"Yes," she said, "I know, I just came in."

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