The V.A.D. Brigade by Angel Davis

I thought I knew each regiment, battalion and brigade

Until I got Bristol, by Red Cross train conveyed,

And saw upon the platform a company in blue,

Of goodly wives and daughters, a little flappers too.

I whispered to a comrade, “Pray tell me who are these

With smiles upon their faces?” He answered, “V.A.D,s

They’re called the ‘Pillow-smoothers’, they have another name.

The ‘Very Artful Darlings’, and well they play the game.”

I am but a shy young ANZAC, not used to women much,

I’ve always dreaded nurses, and hospitals, and such;

How was I going to stick it, until my wounds were well?

A crown of them all fussing - far worse than short or shell.

I lay upon a stretcher, a little girl tripped up.

My cigarette she lighted, and held my coffee cup,

And “Could she write a postcard to send to any friends?”

Or, “Would I like a pillow?” She bucked me up no end.

I had no friends in Blighty, and when the pain got worse,

I never could have stood it, without that little nurse;

A father, mother, sister, and sweeheart all in one.

If I had not adored, I must have been a hun.

But what if I should lose her? I know, I’ll put a ring

Upon her wedding finger, to claim my little thing;

And when the war is over, if I should lucky be

That ‘very Artful Darling’ perhaps may cross the sea.

From Co-ee, The journal of Bishops Knoll Hospital, Bristol Vol 1 No 4 (February, 1917)