The girls were up at 8 a.m. to prepare for the journey to 56 Indian General Hospital (combined), which was dedicated to nursing both British and Indian troops. After breakfast all the VADs’ luggage was taken away for delivery to the hospital, and later in the day the nurses were called forward and climbed aboard army transport. In the pouring rain, they huddled in the back of the lorries for what became the bumpiest ride they’d ever experienced. At 3.30 p.m. on 20 September 1944 the small convoy finally arrived in the grounds of the Governor General’s former residence in the town of Chittagong. Once the nurses had reassembled, a roll call was made, separating those for 56 IGH and other hospitals in the area.
The nurses were greeted and made very welcome with refreshments before being shown to sleeping quarters in the main house. Madge, Vera and Phyl retrieved their luggage, had a quick wash and, as it was getting dark, went into the dining area for supper. They were so tired they decided on a light meal and then an early night.
Their long journey was finally over.
11
56 Indian General Hospital
The following morning the view from the veranda of the Governor General’s one-time residence reminded Madge of a beautiful old painting she had seen in a book as a child in one of Miss Radford’s history classes at school in Dover. The girls had just finished a delicious breakfast, but they were all keen to get out and explore. The lush green lawn was at its finest after weeks of rain as the monsoon season drew to a close and a multitude of bright red roses added grace and colour. To the left cows grazed happily in the morning sun. To the right a very bumpy pathway led down to a cluster of huts with thatched roofs.
Sister Blossom, home sister of the nurses’ mess, had arrived to take them on a tour of the grounds. ‘Come on, girls, let’s get cracking. There’s lots to see!’
The big house had been converted into the hospital’s HQ, with offices, sleeping quarters for senior staff, a lounge and dining facilities for all. The area around the house seemed to contain lots of small bamboo huts and the girls struggled to take it all in at first as they walked slowly down a pathway still wet from the morning dew.
Vera pointed out the pretty thatched roofs of the huts. ‘How nice it must be for the servants who live there.’
‘They are indeed very lovely huts but they are not the servants’ quarters. This is where you will be living.’ The girls looked at one another and raised their eyebrows. That’s not what they had been expecting.
‘How lovely,’ Vera whispered to Madge, who smiled in agreement.
They made their way over to the huts, which were called bashas. The term, the nurses were told, was used by the British military to describe virtually any sort of living quarters. There were eight bashas split either side of a wide pathway. The bamboo walls supported a thatched roof, but there were no glass windows. Instead there were shutters which could be opened and closed by pulling on a rope.
‘Don’t forget to put towels on the floor below the shutters when it rains,’ Sister Blossom smiled. ‘And shake your shoes upside down every morning in case there’s some nasty creepy crawly hiding in them!’
Madge shuddered.
Sister Blossom showed each of the girls to their own basha. After so many months of being cooped up together, Madge was secretly quite relieved to see that she would have a narrow hut all to herself. The bashas were surprisingly long with a little chest of drawers alongside the single bed as well as a chair and a narrow wardrobe near the door. Madge noted with amusement that the bed wasn’t exactly made with Sister Crowley’s ‘hospital corners’ but it at least had a heavy-duty army mosquito net. She was particularly grateful for the netting because the previous night the mosquitos had made such a noise as they buzzed and bounced off the curtains that they had actually woken her up. Madge looked around with a feeling of contentment. I think I’m going to be happy here, she decided.
Once they’d been shown their living quarters, the little group walked away from the bashas and further down the hill to the hospital, which had been built entirely of bamboo with a roof of interwoven palm leaves. Madge turned to look back and was surprised to see that a group of fully-armed Gurkha soldiers had appeared from nowhere. The first thing she noticed was that their khaki bush hats were held in place by a strap under the chin. Their black boots gleamed in the morning sunshine and their khaki shirts and knee-length trousers were ideal for the country’s cloying humidity. Over their right shoulders each carried a rifle, but it was their kukris that really caught the eye. Each curved Nepalese knife was almost eighteen inches long, enclosed in a sheath, and attached to the waist belt.
Noticing her expression, Sister Blossom explained, ‘They guard the compound and British soldiers guard the hospital. The Gurkhas are the ones who will be guarding you in your bashas at night.’ Madge turned to look again, but they had vanished as quickly as they had appeared.
Sister Blossom gave the trio a short summary of what had happened to the war-weary little town of Chittagong over the past two years. She explained that both the port and the area had suffered heavy bombing raids by the Japanese in April and December 1942, and that many people had fled to the surrounding towns, including Comilla, which was about a hundred miles to the north. Due to its position on the Bay of Bengal, Chittagong was still strategically vital both as a deepwater port and a railway terminus and it had become an increasingly important air base from which supplies
