PENSIONERS AND “BLACK JACKS.”
AT CHELSEA HOSPITAL.
By DESMOND YOUNG.
TO the average Londoner, Chelsea Hospital is merely a home for military “veterans battered in their country’s wars.” Rightly considered, it is more. It is, by means of its inmates, a bridge—the only accessible bridge—between the Army life of the past and of the present, between the battles of yesterday and those fought in the valleys of Abyssinia, on the burning plains of India, and in other parts of the world where the arts of peace have long held sway. For no man is eligible for its benefits under the age of fifty-five unless disabled by severe wounds or loss of limbs, and, as a consequence, its inmates, numbering about 570 all told, represent the pick of the oldest of our warriors.
Worn-out fighting material are they, as is evidenced by the pathetic fact that, though some men have rested in the haven for a quarter of a century, the average duration of life there is only about five years. As the last abiding place of the very cream of our superannuated fighters, then, Chelsea Hospital is, and ever will be, the link connecting deeds of military glory separated by long intervals.