Field Hospital and Flying Column Being the Journal of an English Nursing Sister in Belgium & Russia — Edition Insights

Diction of Displacement and Arrival

Thurstan's vocabulary often emphasizes movement and transition. She writes of 'speeding along towards Stockholm,' of lights that 'gradually disappear' and 'gradually emerge.' The journey itself becomes a structuring device, with place names—Karungi, Haparanda, Lapptrask, Torneo—described as 'honey to the lips.' This attention to the sound and texture of foreign words reflects a narrator alert to the strangeness of her surroundings.

Yet her diction also conveys the friction of travel. In Sweden, the reception is 'distinctly a chilly one,' and the concierge's suspicion is noted without elaboration. She does not moralize; she records. The contrast between the warmth of Danish hospitality and the coldness of Swedish officialdom is presented through action—the customs examination 'not very severe' because of the Red Cross markings—rather than commentary. This restraint gives her observations weight.

Voice and the Collective 'We'

Thurstan's first-person plural—'we felt quite happy about our enterprise,' 'we had no desire to be caught a second time'—establishes her as part of a team, not a solitary heroine. The 'we' includes fellow nurses, Red Cross officials, and the unnamed companions who share inoculations, passport queues, and the 'wealth of kindness' from Danish hosts. This collective voice is consistent: she reports decisions ('it was decided to my great joy') and logistics (the route via Lapland) without foregrounding her own agency.

When she does use 'I,' it is often to register emotion: 'The thought of the places we had to go through thrilled me to the core.' The thrill is personal, but it is immediately tethered to the group's itinerary. This balance between individual feeling and shared experience gives the narrative a documentary quality, as if the journal is less a memoir than a record of a mission.

Structure: The Journal as Itinerary

The journal's structure follows the logic of travel: departure, arrival, delay, and departure again. Chapters are titled by location—'Charleroi and Round About,' 'Our Hospital and Patients,' 'The Bombardment of Lodz'—and the narrative moves chronologically from Salisbury Plain to Copenhagen, then to Sweden and onward. Thurstan does not pause for reflection; she describes the ferry crossing, the customs examination, the 'funny little horse tram,' and the hotel concierge in sequence, as if ticking off items on a list.

This itinerary-like structure mirrors the uncertainty of wartime travel. Plans change: the Baltic route is abandoned due to mines; inoculations and visas create delays. Thurstan records these shifts without drama, simply noting that 'we could not start for Russia for another ten days.' The effect is cumulative: the reader experiences the same patient, step-by-step progress that the nurses themselves endured.

Recurring Details: Hospitality and Its Limits

Throughout the excerpts, Thurstan returns to the theme of hospitality—its warmth, its political implications, and its fragility. In Denmark, invitations are 'showered on us': lunches at legations, a dinner with Prince Gustav, a stay at Vidbek with 'beautiful woods' in 'full glory of autumnal colouring.' She notes that Denmark, 'officially, absolutely neutral,' cannot forget 'ties of blood and friendship.' The kindness is genuine, but it is also framed as a debt she hopes to repay.

In Sweden, the contrast is sharp. The concierge's suspicion, the 'chilly' reception, the customs examination that is 'not very severe' only because of the Red Cross—these details suggest a landscape of variable welcome. Thurstan does not explain or judge; she simply juxtaposes. The result is a nuanced portrait of wartime Europe, where a nurse's uniform can open doors or close them, depending on the country.

Thurstan's journal is best read as a document of process rather than reflection. She does not analyze the war or her own motives; she records what she sees, hears, and experiences. Readers should attend to the small details—the horse tram, the suspicious concierge, the 'sweet thin almost unearthly note' of the trumpet—because these are the building blocks of her narrative. The journal's value lies not in its conclusions but in its accumulation of precise, unadorned observations.

Her journal stayed with me—not for the chaos, but for those quiet pauses where she noticed a nurse’s steady hands or a soldier’s shy gratitude. It made me think of another voice from that era, one that lingers similarly: The 28th: A Record of War Service in the Australian Imperial Force, 1915-19, Vol. I Egypt, Gallipoli, Lemnos Island, Sinai Peninsula — Context and Discussion. Both felt like holding someone’s private memory, not history’s loud echo.