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  2. BBC - WW2 People's War - Recollections of a Nurse during WW2
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  4. Diary of a War Nurse

The early entries are mundane and trite, but as her experience grows, so does the emotional impact of her simple entries. The strength of the book is just that-simple expression and few words that convey exactly what she's feeling. On the other hand, that is also the weakness of the book.

I think it's junior- to senior-high level reading, and I wanted more to dig my teeth into. I could not put this book down.

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It was believable and characters were fully fleshed out. I wanted it to continue because I was quite taken with the young diarist, Kitty. It was really good and it taught you so much about the war and what the conditions were like back then. Go to Amazon. Back to top.

Get to Know Us. Length: pages. Word Wise: Enabled. Enhanced Typesetting: Enabled. But I wonder, now and then, if they ever really see us as individuals? I doubt it.

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One feels so safe. Once in a while, of course…. The spring offensive is on the way. The boys have all been recalled and there is an unpleasant tension in the air. John left today. He waited ages, down at the Lac, and then appeared in the doorway of the ward with an appropriately forlorn expression.

He stayed about an hour, and we finally parted with all the necessary drama. He is the first of the crowd at the school to go. The thought of it makes me sick. The crowd at the school will all be killed. They always are. Maybe we are. We ought to be. And yet, after saying goodbye to John, both of us feeling miserable and tragic, I went off duty and went out to dinner with Kit and Jerry and Jardine and Len Van Stone and had the time of my life.

As far as the eye could see they were coming. Just black beetles, crawling, scarcely a yard between them, and not a light anywhere.

BBC - WW2 People's War - Recollections of a Nurse during WW2

It was about an hour after supper, and there was an air-raid on. Not a very bad one, but our shells were coming over so low that our hair stood on end with every screech. Ruth and I were standing outside the mess watching the air-raid, when, through the sound of whistling shells, we heard a low purring note that had nothing to do with the jerky growl of Gothas. Just as we reached the Administration Hut the first ambulance stopped in front of us, the others close behind, and we had to wait until the boys were taken out. Nearly every one should have been a stretcher case.

Ragged and dirty; tin hats still on; wounds patched together anyway, some not even covered. Some of them were not more than sixteen or seventeen. And they stood, ghastly in the pale light, waiting to be told where to go. There were great husky men crying with the pain of gaping wounds and dreadfully swollen, discolored trench feet, who sank down exhausted the moment they stopped.

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Everyone had a cigarette in his mouth and another behind his ear, if he were so fortunate as to have an ear. And they grinned at us. I got a Blighty one this time! Ruth and I stood beside the road with tears rolling down our cheeks, trying to grin back. Matron sent us to the D lines, which are reserved for the walking wounded.

She said there were only five hundred in the convoy, but that there were stretcher cases coming. If she sent Topsey Allen with us, did we think the three of us could clean up the five hundred walkers? We thought we could. In the D lines we made a frantic effort to systematize our work.

Diary of a War Nurse

Then there were two smoky lanterns and an enfeebled primus stove. Ruth, armed with a pair of scissors, stood in the doorway of the dressing-tent and beckoned the boys in two or three at a time. Because there was so much to do, it was impossible to take the dried and stiffened bandages off carefully. The only way was to snatch them off with one desperate yank.

Poor Ruth! Her tender heart nearly broke. The orderly scribbled the order on a bit of paper and gave it to the lad, who moved on to Topsey and me.

They came much too fast for us, and within fifteen minutes were standing twenty deep around the dressing-table. As the hours went by we ceased to think. My Australian Story Black Sunday. Pimp The Story of My Life. Description Product Details Click on the cover image above to read some pages of this book!

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