Agnes Warner and the Nursing Sisters of the Great War (17 page)

The hospital is in tents; we have three tents with twenty-four beds in each, so it keeps me going.

We were the first nursing unit to cross the Hindenburg line as far as I know, at least the first French one.

I have been on night duty for three weeks and have one more week to go.

I have had many interruptions while writing this letter, and now must put it away to begin my morning work, as it is 5 a.m.

We do not know how Warner and the others of Ambulance 16/21 observed the Armistice. If they were privy to the war news, they would have known by the beginning of November that the end was imminent, and any elation they might have felt about the formalities of November 11 must have been swallowed by immediate realities demanding the same full-on effort as they'd given the day before, and the days before that. For Warner, the Armistice ushered in “perhaps the saddest sights of the whole war”: civilian prisoners formerly kept in concentrated labour camps, now released in shocking condition, vermin-infested, exhausted, emaciated, “stagger[ing] to the thresholds of their own homes.” As far west as Givet, Warner's unit cared for these former prisoners as their final act of mercy in a four-and-a-half-year mission. Then the cosmopolitan little group disbanded and each prepared to go home.

They returned exhausted but triumphant. They also returned decorated. Warner herself had been twice mentioned in despatches and wore three important French military awards, including the
Médaille d'Honneur
in Bronze, awarded March 29, 1917, by the French minister of war to the
Infirmière Major
of Mobile No. 1 “for her zeal and devotion. In order to perpetuate in her family, and in the midst of her fellow citizens the memory of her honourable conduct.” On December 1, 1917, Warner was given the special honour reserved for courageous life-saving actions: the
Médaille des Épidémies
—
L'Insigne Spécial en Or
, for the assiduous care and devotion she lavished on sick and wounded soldiers throughout the war.

On December 1, 1918, the entire unit of Ambulance 16/21 received a special letter of commendation and praise from General Nollet, commander of the 36th Corps, for its superb efficiency and effort in providing military and civilian care at Givet during the final weeks of the war. Another prestigious honour came just prior to Warner's fourth Christmas on the continent. The
British Journal of Nursing
presented a full account of the event in its January 4, 1919, issue:

On December 20st, the General of the 36ème Corps d'Armée sent an order to say that he wished to come and decorate the Sisters of the Ambulance 16/21.

On December 21st, the Inspector of the
Service de Santé
of the 36ème Corps sent an order to have all the orderlies and stretcher-bearers lined up for inspection, previous to the decoration of the
Infirmières Anglaises
, and that all was to be in readiness by 2 p.m. that day.

It was not easy to find a suitable spot, as the ambulance is “en repos” in a remote little straggling village; but finally it was decided to fix on a field opposite the Sisters' “messroom,” and there the men were lined up. At 2 p.m. the Inspector arrived and reviewed the men, and at 2:30 the General arrived. The Sisters had been told where to stand. After the review of the men they were called up to stand facing the General, and with them was one of the Aumoniers of the corps. The General read out the citations and pinned on the
Croix de Guerre
, after each citation he told each Sister what pleasure he had in presenting her with the decoration which she had so well-earned.

Before he pinned the medal to Warner's uniform, the general read the following citation in French: “Miss Warner (Agnes Louise). Infirmière Major, Ambulance 16/21, has been in the ‘formations sanitaires' of the French Armies for four years, where she is well-known as a model of enduring energy, of disinterestedness and of devotion. Spent day and night attending to gassed and severely wounded cases, regardless of fatigue and bombardments. Has commanded the admiration of all.”

Besides Agnes Warner, Sisters Annie Mildred Hanning, Helen McMurrich, and Mabel Constance Jones received the
Croix de Guerre
on this day for their acts of heroism and courage. It was a meaningful award for these sisters who had seen their adored
poilus
thus decorated on several occasions. Few women received this award in the First World War and even fewer foreign women, but several of those who did were F.F.N.C. nurses.

With Canadian Sister Helen McMurrich, Agnes Warner had worked, rested, and travelled since they first met in 1916, and now they shared the
journey home together on the
Rochambeau
out of Le Havre. The liner docked in New York on February 28, 1919, and that week the Saint John papers heralded Warner's imminent return to the city. But she would not reappear in Saint John for fully a month. The reason, according to her closest friends, was that the physical demands of her final tour through the wasteland beyond the Hindenburg Line took more from an exhausted Warner than she could spare. Her strength gave way to an unspecified illness — perhaps something tenacious she had been exposed to in the sick wards of France. The setback compelled her to stay on Long Island with her former clients and steady supporters, the Eldridges, until “somewhat renewed” in health, and while there she probably sought treatment at the Presbyterian Hospital. Warner was not a young woman. She had joined the F.F.N.C. pushing the upper limit of its eligible age range and by the end of the war she was in her mid-forties.

Warner's stayover in New York gave the Saint John devotees time to prepare an ambitious welcome home. Her sisters and brother John, along with enthusiastic members of the I.O.D.E. (De Monts Chapter) met her at the train on March 29 and whisked her into a whirl of receptions, teas, and tributes at which she was not only the guest of honour but the keynote speaker as well.

First, the Royal Standard Chapter of the I.O.D.E. had its turn, presiding over a studio festooned with flags, bunting, and flower arrangements in red, white, and blue. One lady had the vision to place a flag of France “most artistically so that it seemed to mount guard over Miss Warner and to appreciate its privilege of caring for one who had done so much for La Belle France.” It must have struck a grand emotion to hear the orchestra play
God Save the King
,
The Star Spangled Banner
,
Rule Britannia
,
O Canada
, and “with most impressive effect, the glorious music of the
Marseillaise
.” Soloist Miss McKnight moved the audience with the touching First World War ode to nurses, “The Rose of No Man's Land,” and other contemporary hymns to peace and victory. On account of her Belgian heritage, Mrs. D. Mullin was selected to present the address:

After four years of heroic self sacrifice, untold hardships and unswerving devotion to the noble cause of humanity, you the daughter of that distinguished general . . . have returned to the land of your childhood — this Canada of ours — to enjoy a well merited rest from your arduous labors. Yes, after four years of patient, gratuitous toil among your beloved poilus, to whom you were as a ministering angel alleviating the sufferings of their sick and wounded, regardless of the attendant discomforts ever surrounding you, you have come back to us decorated with every distinction that France could bestow. Yet were the Recording Angel to ask concerning your works of mercy that which you desired he should set down in his “Book of Gold,” notwithstanding the distinguished honors conferred upon you, we feel you would adapt the words of Abou Ben Adhem, who said: “Write me as one who loved his fellow men.”

Not surprisingly, Warner's reply deftly shifted the accolades where she felt they were more appropriately due.

[She] thanked the chapter for the occasion and the gift saying that she had done no more than many other nurses and had felt it a great privilege to be able to do her part. She said that she had often heard that men cannot bear suffering as can women but she could never agree to this since she had seen her wounded Poilus suffer such unbelievable things with courage, fortitude, endurance and resignation in order that freedom and liberty might prevail.

How she must have struggled to describe these unknown soldiers with their unseen wounds to friends who could never fully visualize endless mud-caked, blistered, bleeding bodies. How her audience must have struggled to understand what it was like to internalize that dreadful responsibility for
so many lives. But, by implicit contract, both parties expressed themselves in glorious superlatives rather than gritty realities, leaving most of the “unbelievable things” locked in the minds of Agnes and others like her who could never forget them.

When Warner did relate her experience, it was in rolling narrative, with the air of an adventure story. On April 7, she spoke to a group of one hundred and fifty members of the Women's Canadian Club gathered for another lavish reception in her honour. Several other Saint John nursing sisters were present (most of them C.A.M.C.), although club president Mrs. Kuhring regretted that it had not been possible to invite
all
of the area nursing sisters, only those who had received decorations. She stood to thank the nurses who had “given these examples of great womanhood and gone where others could not go to care for in the most minute way those precious bodies which meant so much to those at home.” Then she introduced the guest of honour. In its report on the occasion, the Saint John
Standard
noted: “On rising to speak, Nursing Sister Warner, who was greeted with prolonged applause, said that she thanked all present for the honor but that she had only done what the other sisters did.” Then Warner went on to give highlights of her movements through Divonne and later Belgium.

At one hospital where Miss Warner was they took the badly wounded cases who could not go any farther, but who would have died without the care the nurses were able to give them. The speaker here paid a high tribute to the work of the French surgeons and French priests. . . . They were at first inclined to be suspicious of the sisters, asking what these foreign women who were not “religious” were doing there, but a Franciscan monk who had been nine years in Montreal said, “Wait and see,” and soon they were the best of friends and worked together caring for the men.

There was a Church of England clergyman, an ambulance driver, who sometimes could hold a service
but at other times the sisters went to the Roman Catholic services held in a little chapel made of wood just big enough for the priest, while the people remained in the road. . . .

The winter of 1917 was the coldest one, and there was no fuel to be had, everybody was cold except the patients, and the sisters would often go out and gather up sticks. A Belgian sentry used to give them a few bags of coal and these were repaid by smokes and comforts. Near this place was a Canadian Engineers' camp, and Miss Warner told of Capt. Morrison's ruse to meet with the sisters and share their tea. Once while the sisters were having tea a general came to the hospital and asked for Mrs. Turner. Miss Warner talked with this visitor and he seemed so disappointed at not finding Mrs. Turner, and knowing there would be no tea nearer than Dunkirk she invited him to stay. Introducing the nurses, Miss Warner realized that she did not know the guest's name, but knew from his ribbons that his distinctions were many, and on inquiring he answered “Prince Alexander of Teck.” Miss Warner said she got weak in the knees, but he was very nice and came to see them several times. He was the British representative in the Belgian Government.

The report in the
Standard
continued:

Speaking of the air raids of which many occurred Miss Warner said she did not hold with the theory that when hospitals were bombed it was accidental. The planes came near enough to see the black crosses on them so it was clear the Germans could see the red crosses on the hospitals. Once a nurse had half her foot taken off and several times patients were injured while in their beds. The raids were frightful.

Many and pathetic were the stories told of the men. One big Scotchman came in shell shocked and very violent. On being given a hot cup of Washington coffee, and spoken to in English he came to himself. “You are among friends and quite safe,” Miss Warner told him, and asked what he wanted. “My mither,” he said. “That was always the cry,” Sister Warner went on to say, “English, French or Canadian, and it was our privilege to take the mother's place as far as we could.” The Washington coffee made with a fire of solidified alcohol had saved many lives and the stream of it had never ceased.

At one hospital the Americans were met with and their general feeling seemed to be of resentment that they had not been allowed to come sooner. “We got here a bit late but we've got to do our damndest,” one westerner said.

Supplying their hospital from the trenches abandoned by the Germans, a stove which they were just going to light was found to be full of hand grenades, and Miss Warner said it made her blind with rage to see the wanton destruction everywhere. The cruel treatment of the children in the conquered areas was another description which made her hearers feel the horrors of the Huns and the state of the prisoners who reached the French hospital was indescribably pathetic.

The report concluded:

Speaking of the soldiers, Miss Warner told of the care they took of the sisters who were all alone on the French front but went everywhere with perfect safety and without any fear. “Make all excuses for the men,” she said. “We have seen them at their best, patient, uncomplaining, thinking only of others. No one, except those who were there can realize what the men did. They were wonderful. Don't
spoil them, give them work but count nothing too much to do for them. Wash off the mud, and you'll find the pure gold. We sisters can never be grateful enough for being allowed to help.”