Rehabilitation for ‘shell shock’

An article from ‘The Yorkshire Observer’, on the treatment of shell shock at Bradford Handicrafts Club, 28 May, 1918, (Catalogue ref: RAIL 491/854)

Transcript

The Yorkshire Observer,

Tuesday, May 28, 1918.

The Treatment of Shell-Shock

Work of the Bradford Handicrafts Club.

If you walk down the south side of Forster Square you will pass under a quaint signboard. Painted, as the mediaeval artists have it, “in proper colours,” the chains by which it hangs are still bright, and the drab pall of soot and dust has not yet descended upon its bright surface. So it swings bravely over a little door, upon which are painted the words “Khaki Handicrafts Club.” Turn in and ascend two flights of stairs, and you will find you have climbed back through as many centuries of social history. The Industrial Revolution has been passed midway on the journey; Arkwright and Stephenson have yet to be born; you are back in the age when craftsmanship was the honoured sister of art. About you, however, are relics, or, rather, wrecks of the very latest phase of civilisation – soldiers in hospital blue. Some are making purses, using a leather thong instead of waxed thread; others are making string bags, either with a netting needle and mesh or by macramé knots; others, again, are making raffia-work baskets, and a few are weaving borders for shopping bags, or embroidering cushion covers with gay-coloured silks.

The reason for their uniform is not immediately apparent. Watch this man by the pillar netting a bag. He passes his needle full of string through the loop in his last row of work, and round the mesh to form a new loop. His thumb then descends upon the mesh to hold the string from slipping while he makes his knot and pulls all tight. No Yarmouth of Galway fisherman could work more neatly. But look closer; look particularly at his hands, and you will see his thumb, broad and strong as it is, tremble ere it closes on the mesh; you will see his needle-point waver uncertainly ere it finds the loop. The mischief is out. These men are suffering from shell-shock, and shell-shock being a diablerie peculiar to twentieth-century warfare, their presence in this secluded corner of mediaeval industry points an ironic comment on our vaunted progress.

HANDICRAFTS FOR SHELL SHOCK

The value of handicrafts in the treatment of shell-shock, albeit generally admitted, is in no danger of being overrated. Work at some craft is made part of the treatment at most military hospitals, but, owing to lack of proper accommodation, proper facilities for instruction, and the absence of all that arouses enthusiasm in the men, it falls oft-times into a position of secondary importance, or is crowded out altogether. A band of public-spirited ladies in Bradford, keen craftswomen, realised how unsatisfactory was this state of affairs. They decided to attempt an improvement, and, guided only by natural sympathy and unbounded faith in the virtue of handicrafts, they yet tackled the business more scientifically than the hospitals had done.

First, the malady being nervous, they insisted on cheerful environment. The room in Forster Square, large, well-ventilated, open to the light on three sides, was the best home for the club that could be found in the city. The men work at long trestle tables; cupboards are provided to story their pieces and the models they copy; and, for the rest, blue curtains against the yellow walls and a bowl or two of flowers make the room a delightful workshop.

Second, to give the men some incentive to work, all articles (except a man’s first piece, which he is allowed to keep) are sold, and the maker is paid the difference between the selling price and the cost of materials.

Third, to give the public some incentive to buy, a certain standard of work must be maintained. At first this would seem to have little bearing on the treatment of shell-shock, but it is of vital importance to the life and work of the club. If no standard were set, the men, in moments of impatience of apathy, might become slipshod; the work would deteriorate in quality; it would lost its interest, and the men would finally throw it over in disgust. The teachers set a high standard at the beginning, and by long and earnest consultations on the relative values of knot and splice, of eight-plait and macramé cord, and by ceaseless experiment they have raised it considerably. The result is that there has been a demand for the work, and most of the men are now executing definite orders. The articles made by the club cost more than those sold in a shop, but as they show some marked improvement – a better finish or greater durability – they are worth the price put upon them. A string bag bought at a shop, for instance, is usually a subject of shame to the average shopper. Empty, she folds it up into the smallest possible compass and secretes it; full, she hastens home with it through little-frequented streets, her eyes downcast, hoping she will not be seen. A bag made at the club, however, with its fringes and tassels, its elegant shape and cunningly-wrought handles, may be carried proudly in the light of day before all men. It is an ornament!

THE CHOICE OF WORK

Fourth, and most important of all, to interest the men in the work for its own sake, discretion must be shown in the choice of handicrafts. Robinson Crusoe, that most resourceful craftsman, explained the secret of his success thus: “As reason is the substance and original of mathematics, so by stating and squaring everything by reason, and by making the most rational judgement of things, every man may be in time master of every mechanical art.” And there is joy in thus exercising the reason and judgment; and there is satisfaction in contemplating the finished work, the labour of hand and brain. Herein lies all the charm and the virtue of handicrafts. There are certain mechanical arts, however, which yield the last satisfaction without the joy of exercising reasons or judgment. Knitting is a good example, as Dickens showed in “A Tale of Two Cities,” and it is obvious that a work in which the mind is free to count heads rolling into a sawdust basket is not suitable for a man suffering from a nervous complaint like shell-shock.

The teachers have striven to avoid these crafts and to discover those which occupy without puzzling the mind, and provide the greatest variety of interest. Adam Smith and his theory about division of labour are ignored. The advantages he urges in favour of his system – increased dexterity and saving of time – count for nothing. What is time to these men with the awful leisure of convalescents, deprived of books and unable to visit the theatre? Of what use is dexterity to those who cannot keep their limbs still? The one drawback to the system – that it makes work monotonous and mechanical – rules division of labour out finally. So a man nets his bag and makes macramé fringes and tassels as well. Truly we are back in the middle ages.

Under this care and though the club has prospered. The room on the floor above has been acquired; four weaving looms, two supplied by the Bradford Technical College and two by the Shipley education authorities, have been installed, and lessons are given twice a week. The doctors at the Abram Peel military hospital, sensible of the value of the club, have modified the rule that no man shall be allowed out in the morning and grant early passes to all craftsmen. So the membership has grown, until now the register contains the names of nearly 200 men. They came to the club nervous wrecks, some hardly able to walk; they were put to work, netting, or weaving, or stitching, and the charm fell upon them. The brightness of the room, the atmosphere of busy contentment cheered them; the ordered methodical work soothed them; they became interested in the pattern growing daily under their hands, anxious to keep it perfect. The cure had begun.

Some of the men are still at the club, improving rapidly, others have been discharged from hospital and have left the club. For a brief space this peaceful haven of old-world industry was theirs; then out again into the turmoil and complexity of the twentieth century. Sic volvere Parcas.  […s]oldier, however, has learnt better than the [-]lman how to meet the Fates, be their decrees tender or cruel. He leaves his work without a sigh, without a boast to very his regret, and goes out to face them, smiling, unafraid.

 

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