Evie's War (26 page)

Matron breezed through, asking in passing whether I felt I might be able to manage Post-operative. Sister says it is at least better than Resuscitation (which is a euphemism, being the Moribund ward) and also that she will be sorry to lose me, which I take as high praise.

Saw Sister Duncan briefly yesterday. She looks dreadful, her eyes quite sunken and bloodshot, skin blotched and grey. The Theatres work non-stop and there are simply not enough teams, even with the extras brought in to assist through the Push. They appear hardly ever to rest.

Some fight hard to live while others just seem to give up — perhaps on learning the extent of their injuries? There was one poor boy who had had both legs, right arm and left hand off. He did not linger long. Another told me he had been a champion sportsman. Despite my best efforts, there is sometimes little comfort I can give. It makes me admire Charles all the more for the way he picked up and carried on. With the press of work I had not thought of him in over a week.

The last New Zealand boy remaining went this morning. I was with him at the end. Sister has asked if I might like to add a note to her letter to his mother. He was very brave, clinging on, but never stable enough to move to a Stationary Hospital. He was wounded on the 12th attempting Passchendaele, which is now taken by the Canadians, and at as great a cost.

The newspapers announce the battle is ‘going well for Our Brave Lads', though that proves hard to believe when one is busy mopping up. Also, that Russia has completely withdrawn from the War, which will free a great many German troops to join their fellows on the Western Front.

The Great Battle is won, and all of Passchendaele Ridge lies in British hands. And meanwhile we will continue in our tasks as if nothing has changed.

Gunner brought in with both legs badly crushed, his injury caused when he slipped beneath the wheel of a limber. One forgets that ordinary accidents still occur.

Two letters: Winifred and Aunt Marjorie. The latter sets out by proclaiming me an extremely thoughtless and selfish girl to have caused such worry to my parents, works around to reporting them all relieved to hear that
I am situated in a Hospital, and ends with the note that they are, of course, proud of my efforts. I wrote at once to thank my aunt for her heartening letter — no doubt the irony will be lost on her. Winifred reports having experienced ‘a change of heart'; she has signed on with the Women's Royal Naval Service and is now working in London, driving a ‘distinguished Colonel, very enjoyable'.

Matron has given several of us three days' leave, after which I am to be transferred.

Emma, Fraser and I went by train to Hazebrouck, where Fraser believed her cousin to be, but not being able to locate him we travelled on to Saint-Omer. It is a pleasure to be away from the guns and to view a landscape not turned to mud with sticks for trees and all recognisable features obliterated. Shortly after we arrived Emma saw a group of Officers she knew. After some debate they managed the loan of a car and we drove to a small estaminet west of the town for a very pleasant lunch. One was an exceedingly earnest young man, much concerned by the impact of the revolution in Russia and the views of their new leader. I asked whether he thought this Mr Lenin would find bread for Russia's many hungry mouths, which drew a great groan from the others, who said I ‘must not encourage him'. And thereafter we talked only of the silliest things. It proved a little hard to shake them off, but having finally done so we toured the Cathedral, which is splendid, and the ancient ruined Abbey.

This morning came on quite cold, with snow overnight that sits like a dusting of sugar on the cobbles. We walked briefly but are mainly happy to sit with our toes to the small fire in our room and do very little. Two of yesterday's Officers called to invite us to supper.

18 November, Remy

A postcard from Edmund awaited my return. He is ‘not far from where we last met though south of where he had been'. Which rather dashed my hopes that he would be safely out of it. I wrote at once, describing our visit to Saint-Omer and its beautiful Cathedral, and warned against his visiting until I was able to confirm my new posting, likely to a CCS which is to be converted to a Convalescent Hospital, where I am sent with a very good reference from Matron.

Plans were revised at the last and I find myself on the coast with mountainous dunes lying between me and the Channel and that lovely tang of brine in the air. Apparently on a clear day (if ever we are to be offered such a thing!) it is possible to see England. The buildings served as a Sanatorium before the War, and are large enough for one to become thoroughly lost. But a great improvement over draughty huts and leaky tents; also better equipped. And baths! I had one as soon as possible (and got in trouble for it, as it was apparently not an ‘approved time'). Matron is a distant being, and Sister in Charge quite unimpressed with my credentials. So I shall have to win her over.

A train delivers casualties from Ypres and its surrounding CCSs right up to the Hospital doors. There are a great many medical cases, including an entire ward of pneumonias, and another of scabies and impetigo. Sister is scathing of all ideas and experience beyond her own.

The noise of shelling is constant; we hear them whizzing over our heads on their way to Dunkirk, which seems to be under almost constant attack. One of the VADs says
things have been very rough, though I doubt they could be rougher than where I have come from.

Sister is an absolute martinet; I should not care were she to be squashed flat by a German shell!

Air raids, as well as shells going over and the awful thuds as poor old Dunkirk gets it again. Whenever we hear the distinctive growl of the Taubes we get the men under cover; impossible to get them all to the basements, so under the beds must do, which they at least prefer to just lying there.

Three bombs scored a direct hit on the Hospital; eight orderlies were killed outright and one nurse and a dozen patients wounded. Some are in a great flap. There is nothing to be done but carry on.

Chapel Service crowded; no doubt the effect of the bombs.

A package reached me from Deans Park; it has had quite a journey getting here, having gone via Remy and thus having a letter from Emma and a forwarded one from Mr Lindsay tucked beneath its string. Within lay a scarf and mittens from Millie (most welcome) and a cake with a distinctly
pumpkin-ish flavour, from Eugenie. Mother says in her note that they hold the gravest of fears for Edmund (I am glad they know nothing of bombs hitting Hospitals!), then goes on to talk of William and the Church fête and gossip from around about — it feels like a country quite foreign! And was apparently posted before news of my having seen Edmund reached them. I shall write back shortly and describe my new surroundings; I suspect this Grand Edifice will better suit Mother's notion of nursing than would tents and huts and mud. Within the parcel were also forwarded letters from Ada and Lettie and another from Mr Lindsay, posted before he was aware I had crossed the Channel.

Ada and her mother are engaged in supporting the troops at Trentham Military Camp, organising farewell lunches before each Regiment embarks, and entertaining on leave those Officers who are without friends and family nearby. Her brothers Ernest and Walter were both in the Camp when she wrote, but she says Ernest is unlikely to be sent abroad due to having a weak chest.

Lettie has abandoned farm work in favour of a munitions factory and says she has gone quite yellow! She is engaged again, but of that says, ‘he is due to go to the Front in a month, so there is little point really, but he did so want me to say yes'.

Mr Lindsay's first letter, sent on from Deans Park, includes several amusing anecdotes from Oxford. His second, which is written after he had news from Lady B of my abrupt departure to the Continent, expresses concern for my safety and asks after my ‘peace of mind'. I have written to reassure him on both matters.

Emma reports herself well but claims there is ‘far less cheer' without me. She includes a card from one of the Officers we met in Saint-Omer, who wishes us ‘all the very best for the coming festive season' and trusts we are safe. I confess I am not sure which of the young men he was.

Braved hideously cold weather to tromp across the dunes to the sea, which offered a depressingly bleak outlook: grey waves under a grey sky. But worth it to get fresh air into my lungs. There is something austere and almost depressing about the Sanatorium — perhaps it is only that its oppressive red brick and cold corridors remind me of a prison or workhouse from one of Mr Dickens' novels. There is a kind of wild heather growing on the dunes, very hardy. I snipped a few sprigs, which now sit in a jar by my bed. This little touch makes me rather homesick — though I cannot say quite where ‘home' now lies.

Charles's birthday in two days. He would have been twenty-seven. Sent a card to Mr and Mrs Miller, who will be feeling it quite as much as I.

Nieuwpoort last night suffered a bad gas attack. I responded with alacrity to Matron's call for volunteers (no more Sister B!), citing my previous experience with mustard gas. Poor lambs are suffering badly; all blinded and in great pain. Ambulances kept coming all night; there are over 500 admitted.

Rushed off our feet and twelve-hour shifts — much individual attention required. We have lost a few, due to lungs. Though we do our best, there will be more.

The burns seem to worsen for several days post-exposure. Several orderlies have burnt hands from handling the uniforms (gloves issued too late). Blisters form wherever skin has been exposed to the gas, including inside the lungs — rather horrible to contemplate. The worst affected cannot bear to be touched, so we tent the bedclothes over them (seen from the end, the ward resembles a model of the Alps). There is much moaning and crying out for relief. One knows it is bad when the men cannot retain their usual stoicism.

Worst of the respiratories moved to Moribund. Matron believes it will have a positive effect on the remainder if they are not faced with the daily deaths of their fellows.

Eyes and throat beginning to act up. We are encouraged to walk outdoors after our shifts, sea air being ‘good for the lungs'. It is quite the coldest I have ever been and the wind only makes one's eyes smart and water more freely. But I cannot complain when my poor boys are so much worse. I have lost a good number; a blessing for them by the end.

Hard frost; still on the ground at midday. Feels as if it never quite gets light before it is again getting dark. Cough quite bad this evening.

Mr Lindsay has sent a card wishing me ‘a festive Christmas and safe New Year from your sincere friend, Arthur Gordon Lindsay'. Sister ordered me to bed. Doctor to visit later. I do wish they wouldn't fuss.

Ordered three days' rest and no more Gas. Dread the thought of going back under Sister B.

Slept the better part of two days. Now sitting up so that I might help do Christmas parcels.

Moved to Minor Wounds: no Sister B and mainly dressings to do, as well as help men with writing letters and similar. Very tired. Sent off Christmas cards; too late to arrive in time. I do hope Edmund is safe and warm — but suppose that is expecting too much.

Ward looked a treat done up with paper streamers and branches of heather from the dunes. Christmas dinner of turkey and plum pudding — men in high good humour, aided by brandy all round. Felt quite light-headed all afternoon.

On Boxing Day I woke bleary-eyed and head pounding. Supposing it caused by an excess of Christmas spirit,
Sister showed little sympathy — whereupon I promptly fainted. Came round to find the men giving her a thorough ticking off: ‘Any fool can see she's not well!' Sister put her wrist on my brow and sent me back to bed. I feel heartily embarrassed. MO has just come along and ordered me transferred to a sickbed. Head feels like a watermelon with goblins pummelling away from the inside.

Assured Matron I was perfectly well despite the persistent tightness in my chest. My head is at least back to normal size. Had a lovely ‘welcome back' from the men, to which I replied that I was jolly glad to see them. It is a total bore being ill.

Some of the nurses drank a toast to the New Year but I did not join in. A year ago tonight Charles kissed me beneath the mistletoe in his parents' home.

1918

My brother William's third birthday. I try to imagine them celebrating with a cake and gifts but it is as if a fog rises up and covers the scene. Found myself longing for Charles.

Winifred writes with ‘wonderful news' — she is to be married to her distinguished Colonel, of whom Lady B approves. She asks if I might get leave to attend; it is not until May. I wonder if Mr Lindsay knows.

Abysmally cold; it is as if the wind comes straight from the Arctic (which perhaps it does). I shudder to think of our boys in the trenches and CCS tents and huts.

Edmund injured; he is in a Hospital at Hazebrouck. I have asked Matron for leave.

I cannot imagine a slower journey! At present it would be faster to walk.

Edmund has shrapnel wounds in his arm, shoulder and chest. I sat by his bed for the better part of a day but he barely came around.

Night Sister kindly let me bed down in her room, and promised to fetch me when my brother woke, which he did early this morning. He is quite groggy and dispirited.

Present when Edmund's dressings were changed. The chest wound is high, missing the lung, and should heal cleanly; the arm is peppered but nothing too bad and no sign of gas gangrene; he was apparently got in very swiftly. The shoulder is the most problematic: two entry wounds, one right through with considerable damage, the other having left several pieces of shrapnel, one awkwardly lodged. The MO, Major White, thinks it better not to attempt it as it is too near the spine. Edmund is painfully thin. I told him he must eat to build his strength, to only the slightest response. Telegram sent to Deans Park telling them Edmund is injured but recovering and that I am with him.

Edmund sat up and took a little soup. He has a tremor and did not wish me to see it, but equally did not wish me to feed him. I told him that was nonsense and that I had seen
far worse. That earned a grim look. ‘You have, and you shouldn't have. It is not right.'

I agreed it was not and fed him his soup.

A drain has been installed in Edmund's shoulder. I have begun making myself useful while he sleeps. He is running a slight temperature this evening.

E to be transferred to Étaples, and will likely be sent on from there once the MO is satisfied he is stable. Major White concedes that removing the shrapnel may be feasible under better conditions.

Edmund slightly brighter. I wrote letters for him this morning, then did the same for several others while he rested. It was an absolute wrench leaving him.

Back in Admissions and told off for being distracted. How can I not be? All my thoughts are with my brother.

Shells again flying overhead and an unfamiliar ‘boom', repeated over and over, which I am told is the Naval Ships' guns. We are all grateful they are pointed elsewhere, though Dunkirk and Nieuwpoort are getting it badly, which will mean a rush coming our way.

Note from the Sister in Edmund's ward to let me know he is today being sent on to Étaples. Visited the Chapel for the first time in some while.

I have been like a cat on eggshells all day. I simply cannot concentrate.

Went to see Matron, who expressed sympathy but advised that I must ‘think beyond my own concerns to all the other Suffering Men'. She has offered a further week's leave, which obliges me to come back, but I have taken it on the understanding that I may still resign if I believe Edmund has need of me. Catching the first train tomorrow.

Edmund's colour is still off and temperature up. They intend to operate in the morning.

Slept not a wink, and will not till I hear.

Awake but groggy. Signs encouraging.

Exchanged half a dozen words with my brother. He stands a chance, I think.

Overcome by exhaustion. Staggered back to my Hotel and slept for several hours, waking confused and jumpy. Hurried back to the Hospital to be told it was meal-time and no visitors, but Sister took pity and let me in. Edmund gave a feeble smile, and I was at least able to relieve the nurse of some small portion of her responsibilities.

Walked about Étaples in a daze; I remember little beyond it being busy and cold, though not so bitter as Zuydcoote. Edmund is improving; all else increasingly surreal.

Very hard to leave my brother, though clear he is in good hands. He will remain in Étaples until able to be evacuated, thence to one of the New Zealand Hospitals in England. To think, had things been different, we might both have found ourselves at Hornchurch.

Letters awaiting from Mother (all a-flap), Father (more measured and wishing ‘every detail you can muster'), and Winifred (filled with news of her fiancé). I barely glanced at them last night before falling into bed; slept solidly but feel no less tired today. It is as if the relief has unwound something that perhaps needed release but was also holding me together. Very weepy. And in the rush of it all, I forgot it was my birthday on Saturday. I am twenty-two and feel ninety.

Note from the Sister in Edmund's ward to say he will be transferred in a few days. So now I need only worry about U-boats!

Assigned to General Medical. Steady numbers coming in, commonly suffering from no single condition but several: often chests, either pleurisy or pneumonia, almost always trench foot, often chilblains, trench fever common, and a great many twitching and stammering, all terrified whenever the aeroplanes come over too low or the shelling is bad. What they are subjected to is inhuman. And on top of it they are expected to live in the open, freezing cold and plagued by rats and lice, then go out and kill other men.

Word from Deans Park to say Edmund is safely arrived in England, and a note from Mr Lindsay. I must have let some of my negativity seep into my last letter: he advises that I should consider taking leave before matters ‘get me down to such an extent that it is difficult to get back up'.

This winter seems only to grow colder. My cough is returned together with a tedious tightness of breath.

Sister says I look peaky; sent me off early. Very tired.

Surprise visit from Emma! Lovely to see her. She has four days' leave and is come to see a cousin who is in Fractures (left femur); I said I would have visited him had I known, but she has apparently only just learned of his whereabouts. He was injured when out with a wiring party near Polderhoek Chateau.

Sister gave me the morning off and Emma and I went for a walk, bundled to the eyes. She was alarmed by my breathing, which did become rather laboured; I have grown accustomed to it being bad.

Father writes that Edmund is at Hornchurch and recovering well.

Woke feeling quite feverish; obliged to report sick.

Weak and weepy; terrible few days. Was at one point certain Charles was standing at my side.

Diagnosed a ‘touch of pneumonia'. Matron says a month's rest at a Convalescent Hospital or ‘with your people'. Feel too abysmal to care.

One of my orderlies popped in, saying he'd heard I'd ‘copped a Blighty'. Much embarrassment when I became tearful, but I just feel so
useless
.

Matron came to see me off — ‘by the long way round, I'm afraid, given the state of Channel crossings'. Says my first priority is to get well as I am no use to anyone otherwise.

Dreadful train journey — felt as though the rocking and rattling would never end. Poor, over-worked nurses running hither and yon; wished I might help but quite hopeless. Knees like water, head back to watermelon proportions. Feel such a nuisance when they have a trainload of wounded men to care for. Finally arrived and mercifully motionless, though not for long.

Cough much worse. My breath rattles in my lungs like one of my poor men.

Delays due to weather. Tomorrow, I think. Hoping for a decent crossing and no U-boats.

Ghastly crossing; horribly sick all the way. Off the boat and onto a train, thence an ambulance. Tried to tell the driver I
had driven a GMC ambulance in Flanders but he appeared to think me delirious. Staff very calm and brisk — odd to be on the receiving end. Barely settled when Winifred arrived. I must have looked a fright (and probably smelt one too). She had been anxious about the ship being delayed, fearing us sunk. I was not up to much but she prattled happily about her Colonel — of which I remember scarcely one word. Sister shooed her along so I could sleep.

Winifred visited mid-morning; Colonel Mallory once again the topic. Eventually we reached a pause, after which she said I looked ‘beastly pale' and, ‘they tell me pneumonia, but …?' I confessed I had caught a little gas. She is under strict instructions to report to Deans Park on my well-being; I advised telling them ‘pneumonia and recovering'. And shortly after fell asleep. When I woke Sister told me my friend had left but promised to return next weekend. Perhaps by then I might feel up to it.

What luxury to do nothing but sleep! The boys think us marvellous when we get them tucked up, even when they are frightfully knocked about. And now I know why.

The Home is a converted residence, newly opened and rather grand. There are seven in my ward, which must have been the dining room — lovely ceiling, pressed zinc, and burr walnut sideboards built-in either side of the door with carved arches above. Weather is beastly; gales lash the windows, while I sink deeper beneath my blankets.

Doctor Talbot says my chest is a little clearer. Cough not improved. I am to get up tomorrow.

Mother and Father came to visit, my breathlessness and coughing disturbing them a good deal. Mother began to insist I come home, till Sister bustled along and dealt with that.

Father returned yesterday evening to tell me — much clearing of throat — that not all Edmund's wounds are healing as might be hoped and that there may be some permanent impairment. He seemed worried this would shock me — I wonder what they think I have been doing for the past three years! Mother is apparently ‘taking it all rather badly'; hence asked Father to ‘break the news'. I reminded him gently that I had seen Edmund's wounds soon after they occurred.

Endeavoured to walk the length of the ward: shockingly weak.

Winifred breezed in mid-afternoon (alone, thankfully — I am not yet ready to face her Colonel) and has agreed to visit Edmund to gather ‘first-hand intelligence'. It is his birthday on Tuesday. I have given her a letter to deliver.

Managed a circuit of the ground floor; stairs still beyond me.

Edmund's twenty-fourth birthday. Sister has me sitting in the conservatory from where I can look out to sea. If the weather were not so dreadful I should be able to see France. I am rather glad I cannot.

Coughing horribly. So much for sea air.

Onslaught of guns, like continuous rumbling thunder. My heart weeps for the boys who must even now be in the thick of it.

Letters from all three of my cousins. Very sweet. Eugenie has included a sketch of William which is rather good.

Visit from the Ladies' Support of Brighton aiming to ‘cheer our patients'. Finding myself quite uncheered I pretended to fall asleep. Nurse E, in the bed next to mine, knew perfectly well I was awake and later said she thought it funny. She has pleurisy.

Newspapers increasingly jingoistic while the real truth is in the casualty lists. Somewhat cheered by a letter from Mr Lindsay. He is enjoying his studies, though he claims to feel ‘ancient and decrepit' beside the younger students. I am surprised there are any left — though I suppose they may not have passed the Medical Board.

I have made enquiries regarding my fellow patients. Three have pneumonia, two neurasthenia (one exhibiting as swellings on face and arms), one a blood disorder. There is also a TB ward. Four in my ward have served abroad; three in France and one in Egypt.