Have I Told You About WWI? Stretcher Bearers.
Stretcher bearers had an especially terrible lot in a time when most soldiers had a terrible lot. Many stretcher bearers were conscientious objectors, unwilling to carry or use a weapon in battle. Those who weren’t had to really believe in the good they were serving, because it was a horrific assignment.
Bearers were exposed to the same dangers and hardships as other soldiers on the front: the mud, the cold, the constant shelling, the exposure to enemy fire. But they were entirely helpless because they carried no weapons. Instead, they followed their comrades out onto active battlefields, in open, featureless landscapes where they were in danger of enemy fire, capture, or simply getting lost or falling into a shell hole. There were never enough bearers on hand, as they were constantly falling prey to these dangers and their numbers continually needed to be replenished. They carried only basic medical supplies: some bandages and maybe a few morphine tablets, and their stretcher.
You could tell a stretcher bearer immediately by his hands. The stretchers most often had wooden handles which very quickly splintered and rotted, and when grasped were slick with rain, mud, and sweat, and were very difficult to hold. Bearers had scarred, torn, and blistered hands, often wrapped in bandages or cloth to try to keep a better grip on the handle.
Despite the hardships they faced, many bearers tried to be a comfort to soldiers they found and transported. To a wounded soldier, there was no more welcome sight than that of a team of stretcher bearers. Soldiers trusted their bearers to get them to safety and care. The experience of transport by a stretcher team is captured beautifully in this poem by Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy, a chaplain in the British Army. For those unfamiliar with the slang: “MO” is a medical officer; “Blighty” refers to England, or home, and a Blighty wound was one that was severe enough to get you sent there; “Jerries” are German soldiers.
Easy does it — a bit o’ trench ‘ere,
Mind that blinkin’ bit o’ wire,
There’s a shell ‘ole on your left there,
Lift ‘im up a little ‘igher.
Stick it, lad, ye’ll soon be there now,
Want to rest ‘ere for a while?
Let ‘im dahn then — gently — gently,
There ye are, lad. That’s the style.
Want a drink, mate? ‘Ere’s my bottle,
Lift ‘is ‘ead up for ‘im, Jack,
Put my tunic underneath ‘im
‘Ow’s that, chummy? That’s the tack!
Guess we’d better make a start now,
Ready for another spell?
Best be goin’, we won’t ‘urt ye,
But ‘e might just start to shell.
Are ye right, mate? Off we goes then.
That’s well over on the right,
Gawd Almighty, that’s a near un!
‘Old your end up good and tight.
Never mind, lad, you’re for Blighty,
Mind this rotten bit o’ board.
We’ll soon ‘ave ye tucked in bed, lad
‘Opes ye gets to my old ward.
No more war for you, my ‘earty,
This’ll get ye well away.
Twelve good months in dear old Blighty,
Twelve good months if you’re a day,
MO’s got a bit o’ something
What’ll stop that blarsted pain.
‘Ere’s a rotten bit o’ ground, mate,
Lift up ‘igher — up again,
Wish ‘e’d stop ‘is blarsted shellin’
Makes it rotten for the lad.
When a feller’s been and got it,
It affec’s ‘im twice as bad.
‘Ow’s it goin’ now then, sonny?
‘Ere’s that narrow bit o’ trench,
Careful, mate, there’s some dead Jerries,
Lawd Almighty, what a stench!
‘Ere we are now, stretcher-case, boys,
Bring him aht a cup o’ tea!
Inasmuch as ye have done it
Ye have done it unto Me.
