Arthur Anderson Martin, a New Zealand surgeon serving with the British Expeditionary Force, published A Surgeon in Khaki in 1915, while the war was still raging. The book is not a polished history but a collection of “disconnected” notes, as Martin himself admits in the preface, reflecting the fragmented nature of his experience. The catalog subjects list World War I medical care and campaigns in France and Belgium, but the excerpts reveal a work more concerned with the texture of military life—the long marches, the rumors, the rats—than with clinical procedure. Martin’s voice is wry and observant, noting how a false report of the Kaiser’s death “cheered the men up wonderfully” and how the Crown Prince was repeatedly “buried” in rumor. This editorial note examines how the book’s catalog categories align with, and sometimes obscure, the actual content of Martin’s narrative.

Medical Care vs. Military Movement

The catalog subject “World War, 1914-1918 -- Medical care” suggests a focus on surgery, hospitals, and triage. Yet the excerpts show Martin spending far more words on the logistics of moving troops and equipment than on treating wounds. He describes a “hard gruelling march of fifteen to eighteen miles through the night” and the chaos of “crossing a line of communication” at Corcy, where French reinforcements and his brigade converged. Medical care appears obliquely: he mentions being a “Surgical Specialist” at No. 6 General Hospital in Rouen, but the narrative dwells on the journey to that posting. The disconnect between catalog and content is striking—Martin’s memoir is less a clinical record than a soldier’s travelogue, with the surgeon’s perspective providing a unique but not dominant lens.

Rumor as a Feature of Front-Line Life

One of the most vivid elements in the excerpts is Martin’s treatment of rumor. He recounts how a false message—“The Kaiser is dead”—spread down a column at night, generating “distant cheering” that traveled “quickly down to us.” Martin and his comrades initially laughed and did not pass it on, but pressure from ahead forced compliance. He also details the “harrowing story of the Prince with the velvet mask,” a Dumas-like tale of a wounded officer concealed behind a mask, which circulated widely and was “believed by many.” These anecdotes reveal a social history of the front, where information was scarce and soldiers created their own narratives. The catalog does not capture this dimension, yet it is central to the book’s texture.

The Disconnected Structure as a Method

Martin’s preface explicitly states that his notes are “disconnected” because “the things seen presented themselves in a disconnected way.” This structural choice is not a flaw but a deliberate reflection of wartime perception. The excerpts jump from a march through a forest “in Cimmerian darkness” to a rumor about the Crown Prince, then to a description of a “lean-to” at Soissons. The book’s 23 text sections and 19 chapters mirror this fragmentation, covering locations from Le Havre to Ypres without a continuous plot. The catalog’s subject “Personal narratives, New Zealand” fits, but the work’s form—a series of impressions rather than a linear story—challenges the expectation of a straightforward memoir. Readers should approach it as a mosaic, not a narrative.

Martin’s A Surgeon in Khaki is best read as a primary source for the everyday experience of a medical officer in 1914, rather than a systematic account of military medicine. Its value lies in the details: the rats named “Von Hindenberg,” the “grey dawn” after a night march, the way a false rumor could lift spirits. The catalog subjects point to the war’s official categories, but the book itself resists them, offering a personal, fragmented view that is both specific and elusive.