Edith Moor joined Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service in April 1916, having undertaken nursing work in Britain for much of the previous year as one of many thousands of women keen to ‘do their bit’ for Britain as the war dragged on. Originally formed in 1902 as a direct result of the Boer War, the QAIMNS were to experience a great leap of development with the outbreak of the First World War. The main form of this expansion would be through the QAIMNS Reserve; in August 1914 the Service consisted of 463 trained nurses, yet by the end of the year no less than 2,223 had been enrolled in the Reserve, of whom 1,803 were marked for overseas service. The promise of travel abroad and direct involvement in the war, however unromantic the reality would no doubt prove, must have encouraged many young women to enrol and it is perhaps for this reason that Edith Moor joined their number.
Wednesday, 19 October 1916 saw Edith ‘all packed up, and quite ready to start’ on her journey overseas. While the majority of QAIMNS personnel could be expected to work in France and Belgium where the casualty rates were highest, especially as a result of the major offensive on the Somme which was then in full flow, it would actually be the Salonika front in northern Greece where Edith would first put her nursing skills to use for the military. Arriving in Southampton, she and her fellow nurses must have been somewhat apprehensive about the long voyage to what no doubt seemed like a very distant theatre of war. The ship in which she was due to embark was HMHS Britannic, sister ship of the ill-fated RMS Titanic and, with accommodation for over 3,300 patients, one of the largest hospital ships in service.
The “Britannic” is just splendid. A lovely swimming bath, gym, etc. She does 25 knots an hour and touched 30 [at] night in the English Channel, owing to a submarine being about. We simply raced along with the engines thumping.
Setting sail on Friday, the voyage took a total of 11 days as the ship anchored at Naples to take on coal before arriving at Mudros, where Edith changed to HMHS Grantully Castle for the final leg of her journey. The morning of Monday, 24 October saw their ship just outside the port of Salonika.
The main point of arrival in northern Greece for the vast majority of British servicemen and women, the strategic significance of the port of Salonika lay in its direct rail link with Belgrade, which made it an ideal entry point for the Allies to intervene in the Balkans. In September 1915 Bulgaria had opted to join Germany and Austria-Hungary as one of the Central Powers, and began to mobilise its army for an attack upon Serbia. The Allies perceived this Bulgarian mobilisation as a threat not only to Serbia, but also to Greece which, although technically a neutral country, had favoured Allied interests. Greek neutrality therefore needed to be defended and an Anglo-French force arrived in Salonika on 5 October 1915 whose purpose was to meet the Bulgarian invasion of Serbia that would open the following day. Unfortunately, by the time that a substantial Allied force had arrived in Greece, they were too late to prevent a major Serbian retreat into Albania.
Despite occasional offensive actions and retaliatory exchanges of fire, it became increasingly clear that the Bulgars were not overly anxious to advance further and a stalemate set in. It was deemed politically unacceptable for the British Salonika Force to withdraw in light of the French involvement, and a system of entrenched defensive works were therefore constructed around Salonika which became known as ‘The Birdcage’. The campaign had become a ‘sideshow’ in the same manner as Gallipoli, yet instead of a mass evacuation, the area around Salonika had developed into what the Germans dubbed ‘the greatest Allied internment camp in Europe’.
From her ship anchored in the harbour, the port of Salonika presented a striking sight to Edith Moor.
We shall reach the harbour quite soon… Such a wild, rough place it looks. A large steamer is lying wrecked on the shore, and gives a rather desolate air to the place… Salonika, from what you can see of it, looks quite a large town. Hotels and large tobacco factories stand out well. Of course the rain prevents one from getting a proper view. Mountains lie at the back of the town, and are covered with clouds. The fighting is just up the valley. There was a good deal of interest taken at first in the sound of the guns… Tonight all lights will be out on account of enemy aircraft, which are continually coming over from the German lines, and drop bombs on the ships in the harbour.
Remaining onboard the Grantully Castle in the harbour for a number of days, Edith was informed on Saturday, 31 October that she and a number of other nurses were to be sent to the 43rd General Hospital.
A tug came out of Salonika for us, and we left the ship about 6.15… The ship’s band played us off with “Auld Lang Syne” and cheers were raised for us. It was a splendid send off. The tug crept along without lights through great battleships [and] transports lying in the harbour and drew up alongside the quay. There the officer in charge called out our names, six at a time, and we slowly marched down off the tug and followed each other along some distance to the motor ambulances, dozens of which were waiting to take us to our various destinations. I was lucky and got a seat beside the driver, who pointed out all the items of interest during our six miles drive.
On arrival at the 43rd General, Edith was rather disappointed at the conditions greeting her: ‘The rooms are rather small and when we first saw them had nothing at all in them except a mosquito net. A nice welcome to tired women.’ However, once bags were unpacked and photographs up on the walls, the place looked more homely and her enthusiasm for her new surroundings resurfaced.
I will try and give now an idea of what the hospital is like. Rows and rows of wooden huts, and a good number of tents. I hear there are about 2,000 beds here. We are some 80 miles from the front. The military air station is quite near, and the aircraft are flying overhead all the time. One can only have a bath once a week. You put your name down, and wait your turn, sort of thing. The weather is grand, and the sun beautifully hot… The sunsets are lovely here. Such colouring, nothing ever like it in England. You can drink nothing but boiled water, and have to be awfully careful what you eat… The country is quite past my powers of description, wonderful blue mountains and hills, and the beautiful blue sea. So far I love it all. It has a charm of its own this Greek town.
Once settled in her new quarters, Edith’s nursing duties were to begin. The vast majority of the patients she treated were suffering from malaria, the most endemic medical problem in Salonika and one from which almost every serviceman and woman suffered at some point during their stay. The disease was spread through the bite of the mosquito, and the swampy land north of Salonika, especially in the Struma valley, served as an ideal breeding ground.
Poor fellows, they are only skeletons, and suffer ever so much. Constant sickness and high temps of 105 or 106. Many die, poor souls.
…A great deal of Malaria is coming down from the line. I cannot think what they will do about it, as every man who had it last year will of course have it again, and all fresh troops will have it also.
…We all
wear gowns and have to be most awfully careful. Continually scrubbing up and disinfecting our hands. Of course, the nursing is most awfully
interesting and quite well worth the risk one runs.
It was not long before Edith had her first sight of the enemy. Reconnaissance and bombing raids by German aircraft were a common feature of wartime life in Salonika, and for those who happened to witness aerial activity of this kind, the initial novelty often reverted to a resigned acceptance of the possible threat.
Great excitement today, 4.30 to be exact, by a German flying man coming right over the hospital. He was spotted at once, and several guns opened fire on him. He was some thousands of feet up and didn’t seem to mind in the very least, just sailed on as though the British didn’t exist. He is the first note in an air raid. Zepps will follow him in a day or two and bombard Salonika probably. I personally thought our firing very weak, and I watched the whole thing through a doctor’s glasses. Could see the enemy quite plainly at times. Several of our flying men went up after him, but could not get above him, so were quite useless.
…Nothing seems safe. The Bulgars have sent us a message giving all these hospitals 24 hours notice to clear out, as they are bombing the place at 6 o’clock this evening. I quite expect they will, as this is no idle threat. Of course, it’s an utter impossibility to remove the patients, and so we must just all take our chance, I suppose.
Although in this instance the promised raid did not occur, the bombing of hospitals was all too common and, as Edith clearly realised, the 43rd General Hospital was an obvious target: ‘There is an enormous munition dump close by, and two flying grounds – one on each side of us. Surely all these should prove an attraction.’
Last week [Edith wrote on
8 March 1917], 17 German machines came over in the morning and dropped a
large quantity of bombs. They tried no
doubt to get at the ordnance, and I believe did manage to damage it a little,
but most of the bombs fell on the 29th General, killed 9 patients and injured
about 17. They are going to move the
hospital up here, next to ours, and have started putting up the huts already.
Some two
days later another air raid was made on the Flying Corps at Janes. We had six men in, all more or less
seriously hurt. Four went straight to
the theatre. They gave an awful account
of the raid. 20 Taubes came over and
hung about, passing round in a circle in pairs and smashing up everything. A good number were killed outright and many
badly injured. Men who came up to see
these boys in the Ward said that the morning following the raid was spent in
getting down fragments of bodies from the telegraph wires. There was absolutely no shelter for anyone,
no dugout, nothing. So they did all
they could do, lay down on the ground and trust to luck. Their mascot, a donkey, was blown all to
pieces.
…I see that in the Mess Room new orders have been put up as to what we are to do in case of enemy air raids. No two people are to remain in one place. If two are in a room or tent, one must clear out, and take cover outside in a ditch. Very nice too. Hope it won’t be a pouring wet night. Personally I mean to make for the beach. Those on duty will of course remain at their posts in the wards.
… All hospitals about here are fixing up great red crosses on account of expected air raids. The “X” is made of red tiles… It is 100 ft and should show up well from above. Personally, I don’t see why we should expect the Germans to respect it but still…
Its closeness to two airfields meant that the staff
of the 43rd General were in a good location to observe regular flights of
aircraft, and sometimes the tragic result of flying accidents.
An awful smash up of an aeroplane at 3.30 [on 20 November 1916]. I wasn’t up at the time, but walked down afterwards to see the place where it happened. It appears a French pilot [Captain Martinie] took a friend, a Major of the Indian Hospital just going home on leave, for a little joy trip. They started up and when only just over our football ground, the petrol tank leaked and exploded. A football match was on at the time the machine came down, and when about 400 feet from the ground, the Major made a jump for it. He landed on his feet and was fearfully smashed up... Almost every bone gone, poor fellow. He made the usual deep hole in the hard ground, and bounced several yards away. The other man, the pilot, was strapped in. He landed under the machine which had caught fire and the poor wretch was burnt to death before the eyes of the crowd who couldn’t get anywhere near him. An awful sight indeed. It was a perfectly new plane, a double engine, worth £1,000. Altogether a shocking thing. The Frenchman’s brother came up on a motor (a flying man also) and cried like a child to see his brother so dreadfully burnt. Just his skeleton. The Indian’s servant came up also and went nearly mad. Threw himself upon his dead master, and had to be dragged off and taken away. Quite a dreadful accident… They were both of them quite young. An awful pity.
Time off duty invariably meant a visit into the city
of Salonika which, while ‘a dreadfully dirty place’ in Edith’s opinion, was
much frequented by the British who were ‘very well received and made welcome by
the Greeks’.
The Army Service Corps men are
awfully good and always give us a lift, either in or out of the town. It’s about ½ hour’s walk to the trams, but
of course the ambulances are much nicer and decidedly quicker also.
Sunday is the
day to go and shop. People of all
nations are there in great numbers… We went and got various things, at least
the others did, mats, basins, chairs etc. and spent no end of cash. We changed ours at the English Post Office
first of all – the money is fairly easy to understand when you get used to it,
but of course puzzling at first, then we had tea…little tables practically all
over the street. You drink coffee
mostly. The jam was dreadful, quite
nasty, and I have not felt well since tea.
The usual routine of treating soldiers with fever was disrupted on 25 April 1917, when the 43rd General was suddenly faced by a major influx of wounded. An attempt to take the Rupel Pass at the head of the Struma Valley as part of the French commander General Sarrail’s spring offensive had brought few gains and resulted in heavy British casualties.
About 1,000 men were
practically cut up last night. They say
it’s quite the worst defeat we have had yet.
Such a pity. 500 wounded arrive
tomorrow down the line and we are going to try and take 200 of them. The Lord only knows where they will go… I
feel sick tonight of the War, and all that it means. I scarcely know what to write, I feel so sick at heart.
… Last
night it was hell in this hospital. In
the morning the men were coming down from the line in lorries, packed 30 in
each, poor wounded creatures, all jumbled together …We came on duty to find the
place awful. 275 and mostly stretcher
cases. I commenced in two wards, F3 and
G3, went round with the doctor and sister and carried out the treatment
ordered. Dressings, foments, etc…There
have been 14 operations … another boy shot in the lung has the bullet still in
him. They took him up to the theatre
today, but his breathing was so bad they daren’t do anything to him. Some of the wounds are awful. I could not have imagined such suffering had
I not seen it.
…Oh, it
makes one creep to hear the tales they tell of the lads who die up there. Out of 500, sometimes they have only about
95 men – all the rest are down here with malaria. What a country to send troops to. When will the War end?
For Edith Moor, the war in Salonika would end in November 1917 when she embarked in HMHS Heroic and set sail for Italy, where she had been posted to the 38th Stationary Hospital. Edith survived the war to be demobilised in March 1920, and during the following years worked as a sick bay nurse in Cunard liners sailing between Liverpool and New York. She retired to Jersey just before the beginning of the Second World War. Edith’s daily journal remains an important record of the experiences of a young nurse whose enthusiasm for her job and excitement at service overseas were tempered somewhat by the harsh realities of war.
Her papers are now preserved by the Department of Documents at the Imperial War Museum in London.