Wards in the Sky E-Book

Mary Mackie

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fachliteratur
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 764

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

This is the eventful story of the nurses who since 1918 have worn the grey-blue uniform of the RAF, from the Great War to D-Day; through the Falklands, in Bosnia and on to Afghanistan. These brave professionals dealt with snakes, malaria, desert dust and Arctic ice. Their main field of expertise is their skill for in-flight nursing, caring for very sick patients while flying back to hospitals in the UK. Over time, the caring, white-veiled 'angels' of fond memory have transformed into multi-skilled technicians, female and male, whose work has helped to advance medical knowledge and practice for all of humankind. Wards in the Sky traces their history and brings to life the drama, romance, hardship and, often, the hilarity, as told in the words of the nurses themselves.

Leseprobe

For all the women and men who have so faithfully served, in war and in peace, as members of the Princess Mary’s Royal Air Force Nursing Service.

Contents

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Part I

1 Hurricane Hattie

2 Introducing the PMs

3 After the Great War

Part II The Wide Blue Yonder

4 ‘Mespot’

5 The New RAF Hospital Halton

Part III The Sternest Days

6 Preparing for War

7 Air Raids

8 Faraway Places

9 A New Theatre of Care

10 Towards a Second Front

11 Dressing Down

12 Empire’s End

Part IV The Best of Times?

13 Peaceful Days

14 Aeromeds Increase

15 On a Jet Plane

16 Nurse-training, 1950s and 1960s

Part V End of an Era

17 The Male Element

18 The Defence Medical Service

19 Bosnia

Part VI New Challenges in a New Millennium

20 New Centre for Defence Medicine, Birmingham

21 Preparing for War – BATUS, Canada

22 Back in the UK

Valete

PS: On the Subject of . . .

Appendix A Significant Dates for the PMRAFNS

Appendix B Hospitals and Other Medical Units of the RAF: Britain

Appendix C Hospitals and Other Medical Units of the RAF: Overseas

Appendix D Royal Patrons and Matrons-in-Chief

Appendix E List of PMRAFNS Contributors

Appendix F Key to Acronyms

Select Bibliography

Plates

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Twelve years after publication of the original version of this book I was delighted to have the opportunity to update the text. My thanks to everyone who co-operated in the preparation of three new chapters and updating of details and lists, including current DNS Gp Capt Phil Spragg, who kindly checked the new material; also Wg Cdr Mike Priestley, CO of Tactical Medical Wing, for correcting some errors concerning his unit. Special gratitude goes to WO Debbie Meikle, who arranged for me to interview a variety of RAF nurses, senior and junior, female and male, at MDHU Peterborough (and kept me supplied with coffee and moral support), with the help and permission of the unit’s then CO, Wg Cdr K C Mackie (now Rtd), who also acted as initial editor. Thanks, too, to the current PMs who generously spared me their time and shared their experience. It was a privilege and honour to meet you all.

Finally, to Chris, my long-suffering husband and unpaid assistant, for help too varied to detail, for being a strong shoulder when the going got tough and a supportive cook and bottle washer over many months when my computer screen saw more of me than he did!

Thank you, all.

Acknowledgements to first edition, 2001

This book could not have been written without the contributions of many people. My gratitude and appreciation extend to all of them: in particular to Air Cdre Robert H Williams (Rtd), who as Director of Defence Nursing Services and first male MiC of the PMRAFNS determined to have a history of his Service brought to print, for allowing me the privilege of being the one to write it and for his unfailing support and assistance.

To Wg Cdr Annie Reid OBE ARRC (Rtd); to my tireless ally Wg Cdr (Rtd) Angela Scofield; to Air Cdre (Rtd) Valerie Hand, for her own stories and her eagle eye for factual and grammatical accuracy; and, not least, to Mrs Marion Donaldson (PMRAFNS Rtd) for her personal support and encouragement and, in her role as editor of the PMs’ Magazine, source of invaluable information and assistance.

To all members of the PMRAFNS, past and present, who allowed us into their homes where they recounted their own amazing stories. Special thanks to Gp Capt (Rtd) Liz Sandison, RRC, for being such a wonderful hostess over two days when a squadron of PMs gathered at her home to share their experiences with us.

To the many, many other PMs, their husbands and families, to RAF doctors, patients, WAAFs and medics who responded to my appeals for information and bombarded me with photos, cartoons, maps, menus and wonderful stories that made me laugh out loud or brought a lump to my throat. Sometimes both. Lack of space has forced me to leave out much that I had hoped to include. However, all the material has been added to the official archive.

To all at the RAF Museum at Hendon; to Jean Buckberry, College Librarian at RAF Cranwell; Sandy Gilbert-Wykes, CRO at RAF Coningsby; Mr Stankus at the Royal Signals Museum, Blandford; to all at Air Historical Branch, London, and Personnel Records, Innsworth; and to the staff of the Imperial War Museum and the Public Record Office (PRO). My work at the latter was immensely aided by a list of relevant files compiled by Enid Zaig, and Jean Holmes generously shared her research into the youngest VC, RAF Sergeant John Hannah.

Introduction

A history of the Princess Mary’s Royal Air Force Nursing Service (PMRAFNS, or the PMs) was first envisioned in 1930, when the first matron-in-chief began to gather anecdotal material. Her rough jottings, and letters with stories from early sisters, waited in the archive like diamonds for me to bring to light. Other researchers, over the years, had gathered bits and pieces of material, which I inherited and gratefully incorporated in this book. Meanwhile, time has been galloping on and every year has added yet more stories to be told.

As I discovered to my dismay and disbelief, even in books which purport to cover the whole RAF, little or no mention is made of the PMRAFNS. Huge and busy hospitals fail to merit so much as a footnote in tomes giving minute details of airfields and squadrons, and even the History of the RAF Medical Service for World War Two, in three huge volumes, spared the PMs only ten pages. One history of RAF Halton, whose hospital is regarded as the wellspring of both the Medical Service and the PMRAFNS, adds insult to injury by mentioning the hospital in passing but getting its name wrong: Queen Mary’s RAF Hospital instead of Princess Mary’s – an entirely different lady!

I was, therefore, delighted to be asked to set matters right and produce a book telling the story of the RAF’S own nursing service, not as a dry and dusty record of facts and figures but as a human tale with plenty of personal anecdotes. I confess that when I accepted the task I was not fully aware of the mountain I had to climb; despite the hard work and moments of hair tearing, however, it has been a journey of discovery, full of interest, excitement and fascination. It has also made me aware of the courage of the thousands of women and, latterly, men who, for nearly a century, have been proud to call themselves ‘PMs’. I hope that the result will please all members – retired, serving or prospective – and perhaps provide ‘a good read’ for anyone interested in nursing, or in the air force, or simply in a true story of human beings with all their virtues, faults and foibles – and a wonderful sense of humour.

Writing for a wide audience, I have tried to avoid nursing or service jargon. A ‘fainting fit’, for instance, is understood by all, whereas ‘vasovagal attack’ would send most people rushing for a dictionary. In most cases I’ve settled for plain English.

Contributors other than PMs are fully identified within the text: ‘Jimmy Brown, RAF Sgt’ or ‘Corporal WAAF Polly Perkins’ or ‘patient Mrs Johnson’ speak for themselves. Any name without such explanation is, or has been, a serving member of the PMRAFNS. To avoid complications caused by changes of rank and, in the case of the ladies, by maiden and married names, I’ve settled for the simple approach, referring to nearly every lady by her maiden surname, adding her married name, as appropriate, in brackets. So someone identified as ‘Joan Smith (Mrs Bloggs)’ will mostly remain Joan Smith, or simply Joan, during the rest of that segment. If we meet her again in a later chapter she will be re-identified as ‘Joan Smith (Mrs Bloggs)’ for clarity. The men, too, you’ll generally find as ‘Sam Jones’ or simply ‘Sam’, whether they were Aircraftman or Group Captain. Occasionally, for variety and flavour, I’ve slipped in a ‘Sister Joan Smith’ or ‘PM Sally Spigot’ or ‘Flight Lieutenant Sam Jones’. For anyone interested in discovering more about these contributors – when they served, what rank they held and where I gleaned their stories – an Appendix list details all PMs actually quoted in the text. I have not included awards and honours against these names, there being no time to check every single one; rather than risk making a mistake and causing offence, I’ve compromised by leaving them out. In fact, very many PMs have been awarded honours such as the Royal Red Cross or the Order of St John of Jerusalem, as is made clear in the main text.

Another problem in a book of this kind is the preponderance of acronyms, which can make a page unreadable to the layman. Everyone knows what RAF stands for but other terms such as NBC or MDHU are less familiar and may have different meanings in different contexts. I’ve endeavoured to keep them to a minimum or, where necessary, to write the words in full; if anyone gets really lost, an alphabetical list of acronyms appears in the Appendix section.

Among the Appendices you will find the main dates and details of all RAF Hospitals, one list for the UK, the other for overseas – I am particularly pleased with these as they appear to be the first-ever such lists on record. In one or two instances exact opening and closing dates of these units have eluded me, which is regrettable, but some records no longer exist.

Spellings of foreign place-names provide another area for error – where there’s an anomaly unsolvable by recourse to atlases and libraries, I’ve settled for the most widely used spelling.

Writing a book of this kind, there is a minefield of possible misinformation and opportunities for error. I have done my best to check my facts and members of the PMRAFNS have provided invaluable technical and editorial help, but no doubt some mistakes remain. For these I take full responsibility. In spite of them, I hope you will enjoy reading this celebration of Princess Mary’s Royal Air Force Nursing Service.

Mary Mackie,

Heacham,

Norfolk

1

Hurricane Hattie

It’s 1961. Yuri Gagarin rides through space. A dance called ‘the Twist’ arrives in Britain. The Beatles are still unknowns and Coronation Street has been on British screens for just a year. In the Soviet Union, Nikita Khruschev holds the reins of power, while over in Washington, DC, the charismatic young president, John F. Kennedy, is newly settled in the White House. Political tensions keep armed forces alert, ready to respond at the first sign of aggression.

Britain’s Royal Air Force patrols the skies from airfields across Europe, the Middle East and the Far East. And, equally far flung, members of Princess Mary’s Royal Air Force Nursing Service (PMRAFNS) carry out their daily duties: in the Mediterranean, Flight Officer Joy Harris is enjoying ‘trooping’ aboard HMS Devonshire, and Flight Officer Jane Stott is in Singapore, at RAF Hospital Changi. Not so very long ago, Changi endured horrors during Japanese occupation: now, when a Royal Navy vessel passes, merry midwives wave nappies in greeting from louvered windows. At home, at RAF Hospital Cosford, Shropshire, Flying Officer Eileen Smith is beginning a romance with Flying Officer David Dodds. The same unit welcomes young Bob Williams, a boy entrant to the Medical Branch, to begin eighteen months’ training as a nursing attendant; he will emerge, in due time, as Warrant Officer Boy Entrant and Head Boy of the School, ready for the next stage in his air force career.

On 30 October of that same year, the latest Soviet atomic bomb test, a massive 60 megatons, provokes worldwide protest.

On the following day, Flight Officer Dorothy ‘Hutch’ Hutchins was in a cinema enjoying a film when a message flashed up on the screen summoning her immediately back to her unit. A stir of curiosity rippled through the cinema as she hurried out. Arriving at RAF Hospital Wroughton, she found that she and her colleague Flying Officer Iris Rawlings, both on call for aeromedical evacuation duties, were ordered to RAF Lyneham. They and the rest of the aeromed team were to gather their equipment and fly to the Caribbean, where Hurricane Hattie had devastated British Honduras, flattening its capital, Belize. Iris Rawlings (Mrs Kerse) takes up the story:

Within a couple of hours we were at RAF Lyneham meeting the rest of the team and being issued with what was to be our uniform for the next two weeks – men’s khaki drill shirts and trousers. The rest of the team consisted of a medical officer, about a dozen technicians, and an adjutant, Flight Lieutenant ‘Pinkie’ Pinks, whose home was in Belize and who was to prove invaluable to us.

The team boarded a Britannia and flew 6,000 miles across the Atlantic, to find the town of Belize wrecked and the airfield flooded. Their landing was tricky, on an airstrip marked out by lamps. Iris explains:

HMS Trowbridge, a RN vessel, had been first on the scene. We were met at the airport by some of her crew and guided, through knee-high water, to the town library, which they had made their Mess. They gave us a meal and afterwards, since we had brought stretchers and blankets, we were invited to choose our bed space. We elected to sleep beneath a sign saying ‘Unusual Hobbies’.

Next morning, borrowing wellington boots from the navy, Iris and Hutch went out to survey the damage:

The shore was only about a foot above sea level and the tidal waves had removed the roofs from all the houses and completely wrecked the less substantial ones (the majority). The church, one of the few brick buildings, had been used as a refuge and its subsequent collapse had resulted in the highest death toll, running into hundreds.

It was decided that we should rehouse and tend the patients from the local hospital, which had been totally demolished. We commandeered the remains of the house of a local dignitary. This was the largest house in the area and, having been two-storeyed, still had one floor with a ceiling …

Once the patients were comfortably installed (two to a bed!), we had to prepare the upper floor for our occupation. The technicians fitted a tarpaulin roof, we unpacked the stretchers and blankets, and there was our ‘home’.

Dorothy Hutchins recalls:

Sanitary arrangements consisted of a bucket which, for lack of other means of disposal, had to be emptied into the sea. There was a nightly curfew because of escaped prisoners and looting, a fire watch duty because of hurricane lamps … and the US Air Force dropped emergency food packs of tinned goods, including tinned bread, tinned butter, even tinned Smarties.

Unexpected horrors imprinted themselves on Iris Rawlings’ memory:

Next to the hospital there was a water storage tank, where people would queue with their receptacles. Hutch and I would sometimes go out on what remained of the veranda and watch. One day we were told that a body had risen to the top of the tank.

One of our patients died and an army truck came round to collect the body. I talked to one of the soldiers, who couldn’t have been more than 18 years old. It seemed their daily task was to go round collecting bodies and taking them for cremation on pyres by the sea shore. The ground was too flooded for burial – sheer volume of bodies apart – and the bodies could not be kept. I asked the young soldier how they coped and he said they were given a bottle of whisky each day to see them through. I imagine the memory must haunt him for life – it does me, and I only heard about it.

Eventually it was decided that we had done all we could and it was time to leave. We were to spend a day or two in Jamaica, as guests of the QAs [Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps]. Imagine our joy when we were met at the aircraft by their Matron and told she had made hairdressing appointments for us that afternoon. Only a woman would think of that! We were also told that no female help was being allowed into Belize – we had rather jumped the gun. How glad I am that we did because it was an adventure I wouldn’t have missed for anything.

As a result of this ‘adventure’, Dorothy Hutchins was awarded the ARRC and Iris Rawlings received an AOC-in-C’s Commendation, for ‘meritorious service’. Just two of the many awards earned by members of the PMRAFNS.

2

Introducing the PMs

Once, long ago, arrow, sword and shot sufficed to despatch an enemy. The twentieth century has added the sophisticated niceties of mustard gas, the fighter plane, the doodlebug, the nuclear bomb, napalm, the ‘smart’ bomb, chemical and biological weapons … All of these enable us to wage more impersonal war, with human targets obscured by distance and technology. Fortunately, our capacity for inflicting pain and death has obliged us also to learn better ways of soothing and healing not only the wounds caused by our warfare but also illnesses which have plagued humankind for generations. Many of these medical advances have been pioneered and perfected with the help of the Royal Air Force Medical Service (RAFMS) and its twin, the Princess Mary’s Royal Air Force Nursing Service (PMRAFNS). Members of this latter Service refer to themselves affectionately as ‘PMs’.

The story of this elite and specialised group mirrors the political, military and medical story of the twentieth century. Born out of the horrors of the Great War, 1914–18, in the following two decades the Service spread to aerodromes across Britain and put down roots in the turbulent Middle East. As another World War shattered yet more bodies and minds, the service’s supportive tendrils reached across three continents, from Iceland to Japan. It held steady as Korea erupted, as Cyprus revolted, and as hurricanes howled. Through the Falklands Conflict, in the Balkans, through Iraq and on to Afghanistan, and during thousand upon thousand of individual dramas in between, PMs have answered the call for nursing aid.

Their main claim to uniqueness lies in their mobility. Wherever an emergency arises, even halfway across the world, specially trained aeromedical teams can fly to the scene within hours, using the most up-to-date planes and carrying the latest equipment. Their expertise in in-flight nursing has been honed and perfected over ten eventful decades.

Those years have seen many changes in the Service. Nurses are no longer simply ministering angels, offering little beyond soap and water, tender smiles and the touch of a soft feminine hand. PMs enter the third millennium as highly qualified, multi-skilled professionals, male and female, officers, warrant officers, NCOs and students. They work closely alongside naval and army nurses, as part of the Defence Medical Services. But they proudly continue to proclaim and defend their identity as members of the PMRAFNS.

The legacy of Florence Nightingale

The history of nursing, both civil and military, has been chronicled in detail elsewhere. Suffice it here to say that until comparatively recent times nursing was the province of amateurs and/or ill-paid incompetents. In warfare, while steel and shot killed a good many fighting men, far more died of wounds gone rotten through well-meaning ignorance and lack of hygiene. Not until the mid-nineteenth century did nursing become first a respectable occupation and eventually a fully trained profession, thanks largely to the post-Crimea efforts of Florence Nightingale.

By the time Miss Nightingale died, in 1910, she had established the basis of a system of nurse-training that was to be adopted throughout the world. Its military ethos spawned all those terrifying Sergeant-Major-style matrons who have been parodied down the years. But out of those schools came the women who were to form the nursing services of Britain, the various civilian branches as well as those of the Royal Navy, the British Army and, as the early years of the twentieth century drew half the world into war, the Royal Air Force.

Genesis

In 1900 powered flight was in its infancy. Few people imagined that those first flimsy aircraft and the daredevils who piloted them would ever prove as effective in war as a cavalry charge or the bombardment from a battleship. But some visionaries thought the possibilities worth exploring. An air battalion of the Royal Engineers came into being on 1 April 1911. It comprised two companies, one working with balloons and airships, the other with aircraft. In May 1912 this Battalion became the Royal Flying Corps (RFC), divided into a military wing and a naval wing later to be titled the Royal Naval Air Service (RNAS). With the arrival of 1914, intrepid young pilots swiftly improvised new techniques for waging aerial war.

In those early days, medical and nursing care for members of the RFC and RNAS came from whatever source lay closest. Sick or injured flyers, treated initially by unit medical officers and orderlies of the Royal Army Medical Corps, were passed on, as necessary, to the nearest military or naval hospital and the care of doctors and nurses of the army or navy. However, this state of affairs rapidly proved impracticable, mainly because flying stations (as they were then called) had to be situated on level uplands, with ample room for take-off and landing. Most of the airfields which sprang up during the Great War lay deep in the countryside, well away from large concentrations of population and established hospitals, whether army, navy or civilian. Clearly, special medical arrangements had to be made to serve the needs of flying stations.

A sick bay for flyers of airplanes, airships and balloons was opened at the RNAS training station at Cranwell, Lincolnshire, in 1916. Around the same time, a fund was launched to establish a hospital for officers of the Royal Flying Corps; the unit opened that same year at Bryanston Square, London, with twenty available beds. Shortly afterwards, thanks to the generosity of voluntary contributors, the fund was sufficient to open a larger unit, at Eaton Square. A third RFC hospital, at Mount Vernon, appointed its first medical specialist, a bacteriologist, on 11 October 1917, and soon a convalescent home was established in a large hotel with 200 acres of grounds, at Shirley Park, Croydon. These facilities were staffed by nurses ‘borrowed’ from either the army or the navy – Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service (QAIMNS), as it was then called, or Queen Alexandra’s Royal Naval Nursing Service (QARNNS). As yet, the embryo flying services had no separate medical or nursing branch of their own.

On 1 April 1918, under the command of Major General Sir (later Lord) Hugh Montague Trenchard, the two wings of the RFC merged, assuming their new and enduring title of the Royal Air Force. Just three weeks later the new service won its first famous victory when one of its pilots shot down and killed the top-scoring German fighter ace, Rittmeister Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen, the ‘Red Baron’.

On 1 June that same year, the fledgling RAF acquired its own (temporary) nursing service. Qualified civilian nurses might apply, and army and naval nurses could elect to leave QAIMNS or QARNNS and become members of the Royal Air Force Nursing Service (RAFNS), at least for the duration of the war.

Four women

Looking back at those days of early 1918, we find a world in turmoil. At the front, young men were still fighting and dying, knee-deep in mud, while at sea U-boats menaced great iron-clad warships and, in the skies, the new, fragile flying machines augmented the senior forces. Meanwhile, in the background, millions of people toiled in support. They included many women, who turned their soft hands to painting and doping, to carting artillery shells, butchering meat rations or, in the more traditional way of women through the ages, tending the hurts of those who returned from the front.

Among those carers were four particular women – Margaret, Kate, Marion and Mary. Differences of age and rank separated them, not to mention geography, but each of the four was involved, in her own way, in the war effort and in nursing. Three were well-experienced nurses: Margaret was based in India, Kate in London, Marion close to the front in France. Mary, the youngest of the four at only twenty, had for some time been deeply involved with volunteer war work in England. None of them had met any of the others as yet, nor did they suspect the roles that awaited them. Their only connection, in early 1918, was the vocation that had called them.

Margaret: Joanna Margaret Cruickshank, known to her family as Margaret, was born on 28 November 1875, the second child of William Cruickshank. Her father, a Scotsman from Aberdeen, ventured out as a young man first to try life in Australia and later to settle in India. His five children were all born in India and grew up as part of the Raj, in an era when the British Empire was still a powerful force in the world.

It is thought that Miss Cruickshank’s interest in nursing began in India, perhaps through working with Lady Minto’s Indian Nursing Association (INA). She eventually returned to the UK to take professional qualifications, starting as a probationer nurse at Guy’s Hospital in 1907, at the somewhat advanced age of 31. After completing a general nursing course she gained extra diplomas in massage and midwifery and, around 1912, travelled back to the east to rejoin her family and become a sister with Lady Minto’s INA.

In 1917 she joined Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service. The Great War was at its height. In the mountains and deserts of the north-west frontier and the Middle East, Indian soldiers fought beside their British comrades. Margaret Cruickshank was one of the army nurses who cared for them amid the heat and the dust – and the mosquitoes. In common with many of her patients, she contracted a malignant form of malaria. Stricken by recurring fevers which depleted her strength and left her unable to work, she sought relief in the Punjabi hills, whose cooler air might restore her health. But sadly, in March 1918, she was invalided home to the more temperate climate of Britain.

The journey proved an eventful one, especially for a sick woman of forty-two. She recalled her voyage from India as being fraught with:

delay, difficulties and dangers. The culminating point was when the ship was torpedoed in the Mediterranean. We had, of course, been aware of the danger, but none of us realised just what it would feel like. Even now … that moment when the ship was struck is as vivid in my memory as when it happened. We had to take to the open boats and after a few hours at sea we were picked up by a Q-boat and sent home overland through Spain. We expected at any time to be detained as prisoners of war.

Fortunately, she arrived home safely.

Kate: During July 1918 the Air Ministry launched its nursing service by advertising in the nursing press for a matron-in-chief and four matrons, plus forty sisters and staff nurses. This first quota was filled mainly by army and navy nurses, but some civilian nurses also applied. When the first Director of Medical Services (DMS) for the RAF, Lieutenant-General (later Sir) Matthew Fell, asked the authorities at Guy’s Hospital, London, to recommend suitable candidates for his new service, among the names put forward was that of Kate New.

Kate had started her general nurse and midwifery training at Guy’s Hospital in 1908 at the age of twenty-five. Once qualified, she stayed on at the same hospital. As soon as war was declared she volunteered to join the forces, but was persuaded that her talents were more urgently needed at Guy’s. However, in October 1918, when the air force nursing service offered her a post, she readily accepted.

Marion: Another early recruit to the new service was Marion Welch, who celebrated her thirtieth birthday in January 1918. Trained at Huddersfield, where she won a Gold Medal, she too became a qualified midwife, with an extra diploma, in dispensing, from Apothecaries Hall. She worked at hospitals in England and later served in France with the British Red Cross Society, in a tented hospital not far from the battlefield. In the year before she applied to join the RAFNS, she had been nursing at the War Hospital in Chichester.

Mary: As for young Mary, on her twenty-first birthday, 25 April 1918, her parents agreed to allow her to apply to one of the London hospitals to become a probationer nurse. Persuading them to grant her this dearest wish can have been no easy task. Girls of her station did not, as a rule, take up a profession of any kind. But the war had changed many things. When Victoria Alexandra Alice Mary Saxe-Coburg Gotha became a trainee at the Hospital for Sick Children in Great Ormond Street, the matron was advised that her new recruit was to be ‘treated as one of the nurses under all circumstances’. The order came from Buckingham Palace. The new probationer was the only daughter of King George V.

First members

If His Majesty had no objections to his daughter’s working as a nurse, he did have reservations about allowing her to be named as Royal Patron of the newest nursing service. The Air Ministry considered her the perfect candidate, young and fresh, modern and caring, the very personification of the RAFNS. But when her father was approached, as early as October 1918, with requests that his daughter’s name might be linked with the new service, he chose to withhold his consent until the RAFNS was fully established – probably a wise decision, as it turned out.

Even in this first inchoate ‘temporary’ incarnation, the new service took time to organise. To begin with, an ‘Acting Principal Matron’ had to be appointed. The successful applicant was Miss L.E. Jolley, another product of Guy’s Hospital. She had lately been a matron at the Royal Southern Hospital in Liverpool and then a sister/acting matron in the QAIMNS Reserve. Being forty-eight at the time of her appointment to the air force nursing service, she was already well over the upper age limit for military nurses – owing to the urgent needs of 1914–18 this had been raised to forty-five – but the matter of age was waived in her case. Her officially stated role was to act as adviser in the formation of the new service, with a salary of £300 per annum but with ‘no guarantee of permanence in the post’. In common with all other members of the early RAFNS, Miss Jolley was appointed for the duration of the war only. On those terms, she began work at the Air Ministry in July 1918.

Later that month, the Assistant Medical Administrator (AMA), Lieutenant-Colonel Heald, asked her to draft a document setting out conditions of service for the RAFNS. He added that ‘this will be very simple as it is merely a question of putting down the pay and conditions of service of the QAIMNS’.

On 4 September Miss Jolley rather testily memoed (on economical brown Air Ministry paper, in a flourishing script and flamboyant blue-green ink!), ‘Can I be informed, please, as to what units are likely to be opened and when, also of any vacancies to be filled by nurses, as I want to give applicants some idea when their services will be required.’ The answer came that ‘Matlock may be ready within 2 or 3 weeks – an asst matron, two sisters and three nurses, with one masseuse, will be required.’ Another two weeks later, the AMA advised Miss Jolley not to engage more nurses than they were likely to need, but ‘the three nurses for whom you have no immediate billets … can be absorbed on to the Matlock establishment’.

As summer turned to autumn, air force sisters and staff nurses replaced army and navy nurses at the small hospital units in London and at Cranwell; others went to Women’s Royal Air Force depots at Glasgow, Birmingham and Sheffield; to the convalescent centres at Matlock in Derbyshire, and at Hastings; and to station sick quarters at the recruit training camps around Salisbury Plain. With them went members of the equally new RAF Medical Service, whose personnel included male and female doctors and dentists, with male nurses and medical orderlies. Women of the Voluntary Aid Detachment (VADs, trained in first aid and home nursing) acted as ward orderlies, cooks and general assistants. Later, in October 1918 and January 1919, air force personnel replaced army staff at existing hospitals in Blandford and Hampstead. From 1919 these places begin to appear in the records as RAF Hospitals.

The black ‘Dick’

One aspect of uniform (one that holds memories for every nursing officer who ever wore it) made its debut very early on. For some it was the bane of their lives, for others a dear friend, but to all it became a close companion. This item was, and still is, the formal black highwayman-style headgear worn by female nursing officers with their blue-grey outdoor uniform, and fondly referred to as a ‘Dick’ (as in Turpin). Its distinctive quatrecorne shape came into being in September 1918.

An early proposal that the new service should adopt a black tricorne head-dress caused consternation in the Women’s Royal Naval Service (WRNS), whose Deputy Director Miss Crowdy wrote to protest that ‘since officers of the WRNS have already adopted such hats, the (D)WRNS deprecates this shape being used by another service’. In a memo, Medical Administrator (RAF) Major-General R.C. Munday noted, ‘It is considered desirable to avoid any ill-feeling with the WRNS and I therefore propose adopting a four-cornered hat for the RAF Nursing Service … The Matron in Chief is in favour of the four-cornered hat.’

All subsequent PMs who had problems with that darned hat now know who to blame! Still, it was to be some time before the exact shape and style were agreed, and the hat continued to evolve over the years – sometimes officially, by order of matron-in-chief, sometimes by individual and less orthodox methods, as we shall discover.

While outdoor uniform was, as yet, a type of military motley, for members of the RAFNS indoor ward dress was simple: light blue ankle-length cotton dresses, white caps and long white aprons, with black shoes and stockings. In winter, as one sister remembers, some added Burberrys and gumboots. Conditions which demanded such practical clothing were to arrive, along with the killer flu, later that first year.

First hospitals

Some postings led those early RAF nursing sisters to comfortable billets in picturesque areas. Others, as Marion Welch observed, ‘worked under greater hardship and difficulties than many on active service during war’.

One of the more desirable postings was Matlock, the spa resort in the Derbyshire hills of central England, which became the site of the RAF’s No 1 Health Centre. Before 1914 the building, set on a steep hillside with terraced gardens, had been the luxurious Rockside Health Hydro, and it would become so again once the war ended. But now it was turned into a convalescent hospital for air force officers. Its matron, Miss W. Charlesworth, left a report which paints a happy picture:

Most of the Hydro furniture was removed and stored in a building at the bottom of the hill and was replaced by barrack and hospital equipment. The patients admitted were all walking cases and usually required treatment such as massage and medicated baths. The Hydro contained a small swimming pool where the patients used to take a cold plunge before breakfast. There were also most types of medicated baths. A PT instructor used to give exercises and games to the patients in the ballroom. There was a tennis court attached to the Hydro and the golf links were quite handy.

The Hydro had one of the best ballrooms in Matlock and many a gay evening was spent there by the patients as they were allowed to hold a dance there about once a fortnight. The civilians had a hospital at the Royal Scotch Matlock Bath and the civilian Sisters were always invited to the patients’ dances at Rockside. In those days the RAF Nursing Staff were not allowed to dance with the patients so they had to be onlookers.

The Rockside Cafe adjacent was a popular rendezvous for the patients as delicious home-made cakes were served there.

There was quite a lot of talent among the patients and one or two very successful concerts were given … We were asked to give this concert and play at the civilian hospital (which contained quite a lot of Tommies) a few days later and Sister Rees and I had a very nice box of chocolates each, presented to us by one of the Tommies.

In Hastings, on the south coast, however, things were not quite so rosy. One of the early sisters, recalling her experiences, wrote to her matron-in-chief:

We arrived at Hastings on a cold winter afternoon, and went straight to the hospital, the Hermitage. We were met by a very worried CO: ‘So sorry, Sister, no accommodation for you. Hospital not opened yet, or equipped. No room for you at all.’

But, having received a wire that afternoon announcing our impending arrival, he had gone over the road to a YWCA Hostel, and they would put us up. Like shop-girls we shared cubicles in a large dormitory; but for the Matron, Miss Nicholson, we managed to get a tiny room, so small that when she pulled her trunk from under the bed the door wouldn’t open! It was bitterly cold … Most days we spent there were meatless.

This same Sister (whose name, alas, is not recorded, though her writing tells vivid tales) soon moved along the south coast from Hastings to Blandford Camp in Dorset:

Then I was posted to Blandford … colder than ever … camp about four miles from the town. When we took over the hospital from the Army, conditions were really awful … where we slept at night, by day became the operating theatre. They got us billets in Blandford, and about 7 a.m. daily we were taken for the day to the camp by ambulance or lorry (most of them on their last legs – or wheels!). We always took with us a huge churn of milk, and where the road was very rough it would splash over us in spite of the lid … We had to balance it most carefully when we went in one old ambulance that was so decrepit that we all had to sit on one side or it would have collapsed. The churn seemed to take up all the room.

Night duty in those days was eventful – it always seemed pitchy dark and we had to walk endless distances to our hutted wards, over rough tracks and duckboards (mostly missing) – and mud – with rats running everywhere … Sisters going round two- or four-hourly to do their treatments by the light of hurricane lamps. And the gales! One night I was hopelessly lost – lamp blown out – and suddenly out of the black darkness a voice: ‘Halt! Who goes there!’

Knowing there was a bayonet not far away, I gasped, ‘Sister!’

‘Pass, Sister!’ and the sentry relighted my lamp for me.

Then the disused railway cutting! If one missed it and slipped over, one could get a nasty fall.

Blandford Camp, Dorset

Blandford Down, outside the town of Blandford Forum, plays a brief but interesting role in the history of air force nurses. Located on open uplands rising out of pleasant green woods, the area had been used by the military for some 200 years.

The first winter of the Great War saw a vast hutted camp of the Royal Naval Division spread across the downs, its wooden billets, ablutions huts and stores all linked with duckboard walkways to save the boots of thousands of recruits from miring in the mud. Other huts held a YMCA, a Methodist mission, a Church of England church, a post office with telegraph facility, canteens for the men, wardrooms for petty officers and messes for officers. The camp also boasted a Divisional medical area, with a hutted hospital unit not far away – a hospital that was soon to become very familiar to members of the RAFNS. From this sprawling base on the wind-swept South Downs, men went out to the trenches of Belgium and the carnage of Gallipoli. Among them was the young Sub-Lieutenant Rupert Brooke, soon to become famous as one of the best of the Great War’s poets.

By 1916 Blandford Camp had expanded further with the opening of two separate detention centres for German prisoners of war (PoWs). These men might be employed on duties within the camp or hired out to local farmers. They were not allowed to sit idle.

As the war ground on, the huge training camp was adapted for use by the Royal Flying Corps, which in April 1918 metamorphosed into the RAF. That summer, Blandford Camp became an RAF Recruits Wing. A 3-mile extension of the railway link with Blandford Forum boasted a platform 200 yards long. In September the RAF Record Office came to the camp, followed in November by WRAF Records. Blandford developed into a huge hutted city, where recruits and other personnel of both the RAF and the WRAF rubbed shoulders with German PoWs going about their chores. The hospital was busy, army nurses soon giving place to new arrivals from the air force. They coped with the usual crop of illnesses and accidents, plus a bad bout of summer flu which no one realised was a mere foretaste of things to come.

Members of the WRAF at Blandford turned their hands to whatever work arose. A WRAF butcher, who had been a milliner in civilian life, handled huge carcasses which supplied meat rations to the troops. WRAF electricians worked two shifts in the power house, which supplied all the power for the great camp and brought light to the busy, hutted hospital. Going to and from work on wintry nights, nurses of the RAFNS and members of the WRAF trekked across the downs through wind, hail and snow, with wet skirts swishing about their ankles and hurricane lamps swinging.

That November, when peace was finally declared, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, Blandford became a repatriation camp. Personnel from overseas came there to be demobilised, many of them shattered both mentally and physically. A line from one of Marion Welch’s letters strikes a chill down the spine: ‘That suicide wood at the back of the hospital lines was a grim reality and not a piece of newspaper fiction exploited by “John Bull”.’

As winter set in, with rain and freezing winds, hospital staff had their hands full. Reporting to matron-in-chief ten years after the events, Marion Welch recalls:

The winter was a severe one … Much of the camp was under canvas and the war huts set aside for the hospital wards were far from weatherproof, and a considerable distance apart. So limited was the accommodation available for sisters’ quarters that several had to sleep in the operating theatre at night, and day [staff] and night staff had to use the same quarters. After the first couple of months, billets were found in the old market town of Blandford, some five miles from the camp. A great debt of gratitude is owing to some six or eight residents for their unfailing care and kindness to those Sisters of the RAF who were privileged to live in their homes.

[But] the really interesting tales could never be published in the press. Who would credit the fact that we had to nurse men on stretchers in empty huts without any hospital equipment? The weather was so appallingly wet that even though we kept in gumboots and Burberry coats we were drenched going from hut to hut and constantly held up by armed sentries when on night duty.

On occasion, these night-duty excursions had hilarious consequences. The unnamed sister tells how:

When the ambulance deposited us at the camp we had quite a walk along the disused railway line to our night quarters and tiny duty room – which we often saw little of on busy nights. There were three or four of us walking along the line one night, and I was carrying the PUDDING – Matron had an idea we didn’t need any food at night (we often used to buy food for ourselves) but as a concession we had been allowed to make the rice pudding! In the dark I caught my foot on a railway sleeper, and down I came! Away went the pudding, but so solid was it, it just hopped out of its dish whole! By the light of a lamp we found it. It had lost nothing, but gained a good quantity of coal- (and other) dust. We put it back carefully in its enamel pie dish. Cook (we had a good cook for the patients) washed it – it made three puddings! But it was the last time I was allowed to carry the pudding.

A little later, she adds, ‘Then came the awful pneumonia and flu …’

First uniforms

Inevitably, in those first few months the various branches of the new air force comprised a merry mix of army and navy flyers and ancillary personnel, plus a few former civilians. A month after the air force had formed, authorities decreed that khaki should be worn as service dress during the war; when peace came a new light blue uniform would be introduced as standard. However, while war lasted, this new light blue could be worn as mess dress if desired. Most air force personnel continued to wear versions of their old army and navy uniforms, but a few invested in the new light blue. A letter in the archive, from Mary Edwards (Mrs Sellors), recalls, ‘those officers who had been in the Army wore their khaki uniform until they got the pale blue uniform of the RAF. This uniform had gold rank markings. I only saw one Sqn Ldr wearing this uniform, and I thought it most unserviceable and rather theatrical.’ This ‘theatrical’ pale blue was, presumably, the same as the ‘light blue colour adopted for the RAF’ which is specified in an order for ‘3,000 yards of blue whipcord’ to make uniforms for the RAFNS in October 1918. Little hard evidence remains of this early colour, but later files mention a ‘new’ air force blue which was introduced around October 1919, so one may guess that the pale blue was swiftly superseded by the more practical and now familiar blue-grey. Thousands of RAF personnel down the years must have been grateful for the change of mind!

Spanish flu, 1918–19

In June and July, that summer of 1918, a brief outbreak of flu had claimed the lives of two young RAF recruits at Blandford. Now, as autumn became winter, a great flu pandemic swept across the world.

At the time, viruses were beginning to be recognised as such, but nothing could counter the strain of Spanish flu which struck in the winter of 1918–19. In particular it attacked healthy young people, such as the thousands of recruits and repatriates who crowded the camp at Blandford. Victims died within two or three days, with haemorrhage and fluid on their lungs. Unable to breathe, they drowned in their own bodily fluids. Some sources suggest that this particular virus came from birds, transmitted direct from avian to human. Worldwide, it claimed even more lives than had the recently ended war.

From the Air Ministry, Medical Administrator R.C. Munday reported in October to the Secretary of State:

In order to cope with the urgent needs at Blandford, rendered still more serious by reason of the recent influenza outbreak, the immediate taking-over of the Workhouse has been effected … and the cleaning and equipment of five huts as an hospital extension. A statistical report on the epidemic is in course of preparation.

Kate New, recently recruited to the RAFNS, was appointed matron of the 200-bedded auxiliary hospital in the old workhouse at Blandford. Pausing only to collect her uniform from an outfitters in Westminster, Kate caught a train to Blandford Camp. She found the old workhouse under-staffed, ill-equipped and filthy. She and her assistants – a handful of male nursing orderlies and general-duty chaps – had only ten days in which to turn the place into a hospital. They set to and started scrubbing the place out, exterminating weevils from the walls and evicting mice from every nook and cranny. The mice were especially well-settled in the old cheese store, which was to be Kate’s office and bedroom.

Just as the first patients arrived, reinforcements appeared in the shape of three trained nurses; then five more arrived. Soon there were fourteen members of the RAFNS working at Blandford’s old workhouse. They were badly needed. In this second flu outbreak, between September and December 1918, twenty-four RAF men died, mostly youngsters from the Recruits Wing, along with six German prisoners of war. The anonymous sister adds:

many of the patients died after but a few days’ illness. The old workhouse in Blandford had been taken over, but its accommodation – or lack of it – was even worse. [We were] understaffed – patients pouring in, lying on the floor on mattresses and stretchers – not enough of anything with which to cope. Fifty SI [seriously ill] or even DI [dangerously ill] patients to one Sister, and one orderly between two Sisters. When I took over from a Night Sister, she pointed to the [duty] bed and said, ‘I found those sheets left by the last Sister, ’fraid you’ll have to use them, there aren’t any more.’ Any that could possibly be used had to go to the patients. We were short of hypodermics, utensils, everything.

Amid the grimness, however, lighter moments did occur. As matron at the auxiliary hospital, Kate New was responsible for the catering for her nurses. The RAF cook objected to being told how to do his job by a ‘mere nurse’ and refused to speak to her for ten days after she suggested he might bake the sausages rather than serve up what she describes as ‘nasty grey things boiled in water’. Another airman cook had learned his trade ‘by watching my wife, miss’.

Rations of bread and meat were doled out by the RAF – ‘you took what you were given and were grateful for it,’ said Kate New – but other items of food had to be bought by matron, with a daily cash allowance of 2s 6d [12.5p] for each nurse. Even in 1919 this called for frugal and ingenious shopping.

Blandford has one final claim to fame in the annals of RAF history – its personnel formed one of the early RAF bands. Kate New well remembered hearing, over and over again, the new march that was to develop into the famous, stirring, tingle-down-the-spine theme known to all as the Royal Air Force March Past. The unnamed sister adds:

Those early days are hard to describe, now. All was so terrible and difficult. But when I left Blandford some months later, it was with sadness. There were many happy times, and as things improved we were able to look after the patients better. Transport back to billets often there was none, but it was a lovely walk if the weather was good.

The emergency auxiliary hospital at Blandford closed in 1919 and Kate New went as matron to the hospital at RAF Old Sarum (Salisbury). Slowly the whole huge camp on the Dorset Downs wound down, soon to be demolished and revert to downland and arable, until needed again for military purposes in 1939. Blandford is now the home of the Royal Corps of Signals.

Last to leave in early 1920 were four members of the WRAF. The main hospital had closed. The recruits had all gone home. RAF Records had moved on. Auditors had drawn a final line under WRAF records – indeed, the entire Women’s Royal Air Force had been found surplus to requirements and was ordered to disband; the Service officially ended on 1 April 1920, having been in existence for just two years. (Like Blandford Camp itself, the women’s branch of the air force was to rise again in 1939, renamed as the wartime WAAF.)

But back in 1920, in the rationalisation of affairs after the Great War, the future of the Royal Air Force itself was in question. What hope of continuation had the temporary, wartime-only Royal Air Force Nursing Service?

3

After the Great War

From 1919, British military planning worked on the premise that there could not possibly be another major war for at least ten years. Britain’s most powerful enemies had been silenced and the few remaining problems in the Middle East and Bengal were, by comparison, merely minor skirmishes. What was more, the struggle against Germany had left the country in turmoil and in debt. British people, weary of war, wished only for life to return to normal.

A regime of steady demobilisation returned men and women of the reserves to their thankful families. Men gladly rejoined factories and mines; most women turned with relief to hearth and home. They were happy to believe that the recent conflict had indeed been ‘the war to end all wars’. That being so, what purpose could be served by maintaining a separate air force? Better to save money by reabsorbing the flyers and their equipment into the two long-established services. This idea pleased both the navy and the army.

The Admiralty urged the immediate return of its flying wing: it was planning to build more ships capable of carrying and launching aeroplanes; naturally it wanted the whole operation under its sole control. For its part, the War Office knew itself perfectly capable of organising its own air battalions; they were, after all, only glamorous and rather showy extras, playing a supportive role to real fighting men – thus reasoned the army chiefs of the day.

Taking the opposing view, Sir Hugh Trenchard, who had once led the RFC and was now Chief of the Air Staff (CAS), strongly argued air power as the key to future military greatness. The air force must be nurtured as an independent entity and allowed to develop its full potential, with the highest standards demanded of all its personnel: Per Ardua ad Astra (‘through adversity, to the stars’) was, is and always will be the axiom of every branch of the RAF. Trenchard’s belief in the effectiveness of air power was soon confirmed by events.

In 1920, a single squadron of DH9s quelled uprisings in Somaliland, largely by swooping over the heads of the so-called Mad Mullah’s riders and carrying out bombing raids on pre-warned and therefore empty villages. Later, on the north-west frontier of India and in Mesopotamia (modern Iraq), the RAF flew effective sorties in support of army operations. These successful ‘side-shows’ proved far less costly, in terms of both money and casualties, than long, arduous ground campaigns. The voices raised against the air force grew fewer. Trenchard was vindicated. He held his appointment as CAS for ten years, during which time the RAF flew many more successful campaigns. And, despite his professed dislike of the tag, he is still best remembered as ‘Father of the Royal Air Force’.

But, if the RAF itself had established its right to exist, in Whitehall the question of its maintaining separate medical and nursing services continued to create controversy.

Arguments for a separate medical service

During the war, medical problems peculiar to the flying service had revealed themselves. Aerial activity posed new problems for the human body and mind: improved artillery defences forced planes to fly higher, where lack of oxygen caused what was then called ‘mountain sickness’; higher speeds brought increased stresses on bone and muscle and nerve; and spending hours alone in a cockpit could do strange things to a man’s mind. A report from the Medical Administrator to the Secretary of State, dated November 1918, notes that seaplane pilots require especially strong nerves: ‘the long, lonely patrols over the sea are not to be entrusted safely to a man with an imagination’. Aircrew selection committees, and medical officers responsible for the health of airmen, were obliged to develop new methods to cope with these new challenges. They would obviously require the support of a specialist medical and nursing service. As an Air Ministry memo sharply observed:

It appears to be quite illogical that the air force should have no medical service of its own while not only the Navy and Army but the Indian Army, the Prison Service, the Police Service, the Post Office, the Home Office, the Local Government Board, the Board of Education and every other Government Department each has its own medical service.

Memos flew back and forth between the War Office, the Air Ministry and the Secretary of State for War and Air (a certain Winston S. Churchill). The Army Council, foreshadowing events of eighty years in the future, took the view that an effort should be made to ‘initiate an Imperial Medical Service providing jointly for the needs of the Navy, Army and Air Services’. The Director General of Army Medical Services asserted that ‘We can supply all that is required … As regards nurses, QAIMNS can be used in the Hospitals where Air Service Officers and men are admitted …’ His Quartermaster-General added waspishly, ‘in war … when the Air Force comes down out of the sky, [it] must clearly have its territorial requirements provided for by the Army’.

In response, the Chief of the Air Staff observed that the War Office seemed to assume that the air force existed solely to co-operate with the army. His lengthy and impassioned memo sums up by saying:

I strongly deprecate the continuous efforts … of the War Office to say what services ought to run for the benefit of the Air … the Army Medical Service know nothing about the diseases of the Air, or the peculiarities of the Air from a Medical point of view … If this goes on, I cannot see why we should not state that it would be better and more convenient for the Air Service to run the Army Tanks.

Miss Cruickshank joins the fray

The original acting principal matron of the RAFNS, Miss Jolley, resigned after only six months in office. She had, after all, been appointed in an advisory capacity, for the duration of the war only, and she was no longer a young woman. Given the contentious atmosphere that swirled about Whitehall in the wake of the war, she may have been glad to retreat. The RAFNS appeared in danger of being swallowed whole by the much larger and older army nursing service. If it were to survive, it obviously required a Head Nurse of strong mettle and feisty character. Fortunately, just such a woman waited not far away.