Suffragette Girl (27 page)

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Ernst had put up his hands as if in surrender, but he was not about to give in. ‘You must understand, Sister, how cleanliness is so important to prevent the
spread of infection. We’re getting all sorts of diseases coming in, not just gunshot and shrapnel wounds. Bronchitis, pneumonia and,’ he paused deliberately for dramatic effect,
‘tuberculosis.’

Rosemary Blackstock gaped at him. ‘I’m sorry – I had no idea,’ she said at once.

‘I saw two cases at Camiers. We’re almost bound to encounter it here sooner or later. Anyone who has a susceptibility to it is bound to develop it in the terrible conditions
they’re living in.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, it’s not pleasant for the wounded to be put into a bed to lie on another man’s blood and pus – and worse.’

‘No – no, you’re right. I see you are. But how are we to cope?’

Florrie had seen Ernst’s winning smile, his irresistible charm, turned fully on Rosemary. ‘Ah, Sister, you will find a way, I’m sure.’

And so the laundry was done by anyone who could be spared – even the ‘walking wounded’ were coerced into standing at the white sink with their arms deep in soapsuds.

‘Beats goin’ over the top’ was the opinion of men who’d likely never had to do any ‘women’s work’ in the whole of their lives.

Dr Johnson greeted her as Florrie drew the ambulance to a halt outside the line of tents at Base Camp two weeks after their arrival here. She’d been driving the patients
from the Chateau each morning, sometimes needing two or three journeys, but today there was something different about the original camp site.

‘Oh,’ she exclaimed as she jumped down from behind the wheel and shaded her eyes against the sun. ‘You’ve got more tents. Lots more.’

‘And more nurses and two doctors have arrived,’ the big man beamed at her. ‘They’ve begun to realize that the army medical officers in the field can’t cope with the
volume of casualties, not since this hellish battle began, and Hartmann’s theories are proving effective. So we’ve been sent more help and, I think and hope, there’s more to come.
So, my dear girl,’ he put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it warmly, ‘today you can take back Sister Carey and two nurses to help at the Chateau. And even,’ he puffed out
his chest, ‘another doctor.’

‘Oh, Dr Johnson . . .’ Quite forgetting her place, Florrie flung her arms around him, stood on tiptoe and kissed him soundly on the cheek. Then, appalled at her temerity, she stood
back. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

But Dr Johnson’s booming laugh echoed through the camp. ‘Don’t mention it, my dear.’ He winked at her. ‘But I shall expect that greeting every morning from now
on.’

‘Nurse Maltby,’ Ernst Hartmann said when the last patient was carried away at the end of another gruelling day and there were just the two of them left in the
operating room. ‘You and I – we deserve a little holiday.’

Already it was the beginning of June and the worst of the fighting around the town of Ypres seemed to be over. Though the gunfire and shelling would never quite cease, they were less frequent.
There would always be casualties, though thankfully not so many now. That dreadful, overwhelming tide of wounded and dying had ebbed a little.

Busy with the instruments, Florrie glanced up at him in surprise. ‘A holiday?’ Then she chuckled. ‘I’ve almost forgotten what that is.’

‘Then tomorrow we shall revive your memory. We shall take a little trip away from here to where it is safe. Just for a day we will have no more death and disease and the shedding of
blood.’

Florrie bit her lip as her heart raced a little faster. ‘But how?’

He smiled. ‘I have it all worked out. When you drive your patients back to Base Camp tomorrow morning, I will come with you. There is an extremely sick patient who needs an operation that
we cannot perform here. They have better equipment at the camp now, and Dr Johnson will be able to do a much better job. The soldier has a severe wound in his stomach and intestines and he will
need care on the journey. It is the perfect excuse for me to come with you. And we need more equipment and supplies here. We can bring them back.’

Florrie laughed. ‘It doesn’t sound much of a holiday.’

He grimaced. ‘Well, maybe only half a day and part of the evening. But we shall make a little detour. I have heard of a nice little cafe not too far away beyond Base Camp. It’s in a
small village that has not yet been affected by the shelling. And don’t forget your identity certificate. We’ll be going across the border.’

‘But – but won’t anyone guess? Sister Blackstock? And the others?’

‘No, no, they will suspect nothing – if we are careful.’

Despite her excitement at the thought of the outing, and even more at the thought of being alone with him for a few precious hours, Florrie slept soundly, waking automatically at five thirty. By
six o’clock, she was washed and dressed.

As they carefully loaded the injured man into the back of the ambulance, Florrie marvelled that he was still alive. She doubted he would withstand even the short journey or the operation ahead.
The other three were ‘walking wounded’. One climbed into the passenger’s seat beside Florrie, whilst the other two sat in the back with the stretcher case and Dr Hartmann.

‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’ Sister Blackstock teased as they were about to leave. ‘Having the handsome Dr Hartmann all to yourself on the journey back. But just you be
careful, my girl. He’s a devil with the women, you know.’

‘Really?’ Florrie laughed.

‘Yes, really.’ Now Rosemary Blackstock’s tone was more serious. ‘And being out with him alone – well, you’ve your reputation to think of.’

‘My reputation? That was shot to pieces in Holloway – at least according to my father.’

Sister Blackstock pulled a face. ‘Oh, don’t tell me about fathers.’

‘Strict, is he?’

Sister Blackstock smiled. ‘Aren’t they all?’ She sighed. ‘He was dead set against my making a career for myself in nursing. Said it would be a waste. I’d only get
married. But, as you can see, I’m no beauty.’ The statement was made in a matter-of-fact manner. She was not seeking compliments. She smiled impishly. ‘Unlike you.’

Florrie opened her mouth to protest. In the cold and the mud and the horror she felt anything but ‘beautiful’, but Rosemary held up her hand. ‘Don’t deny it, my girl. I
don’t like false modesty.’

Quite truthfully Florrie said, ‘Well, I don’t feel it out here.’

‘No,’ Rosemary said soberly. ‘I don’t suppose you do, but your loveliness brings great comfort to the dying, my dear.’

Florrie stared at her and her lip trembled. ‘But I don’t want to be an ornament. I want to be
useful.
’

‘Oh, you are, Florrie, you are. Never doubt that.’ She chuckled. ‘Believe me, pretty face or not, you wouldn’t still be here alongside Dr Hartmann if you weren’t
useful and very capable. He always puts his work first. But he’s a very charming man when he wants to be and that’s why—’

What more the sister might have said, Florrie was never to know, for at that moment Ernst Hartmann came striding towards them.

‘Ah, there you are. Everyone ready? Then let’s be off.’ Without even a glance at Florrie, the doctor climbed into the back of the canvas-covered lorry to sit beside his
patient.

Rosemary Blackstock watched them go, her eyes clouded with anxiety. She sincerely hoped the young girl’s head would not be turned by the attentions of the handsome, dark-eyed doctor.

Florrie drove slowly, mindful of the terribly injured man in the back of the vehicle. The constant thud of the guns grew a little fainter and the soldier sitting in the
passenger seat beside her began to relax.

‘D’you reckon mine’s a Blighty wound, miss?’ he asked. It was the thought uppermost in every wounded soldier’s mind. And if she’d a pound for every time
she’d been asked that same question since coming here, Florrie thought, she’d be a wealthy woman. This soldier’s arm, the bone smashed by flying shrapnel, was bandaged and in a
sling. At the house they’d been able to clean the wound, but he too needed a more complicated operation than Ernst Hartmann could perform with the limited facilities in the cellars.

‘Dr Johnson’s marvellous with bones,’ Florrie reassured him. ‘But your arm will take a while to mend, so,’ she grinned at him, ‘you never know your
luck.’ She didn’t add that she thought the arm would never mend properly and it was very likely he’d be invalided out of the army. It wasn’t her place to guess the decision
of the medical officers.

Despite the terrible pain he must be in, the soldier grinned back at her. ‘Well, me luck’s held out this far, miss. Not like a lot of me pals.’ His face clouded again.
‘At least I’m still alive.’

It wasn’t long before they reached the camp. It was a very different place now from when they’d first arrived. There were more tents and hastily erected wooden huts, with duckboards
between to act as walkways. It was more like a real field hospital. Yet more doctors and nurses had arrived. Dr Hartmann had been proved right. Immediate treatment saved many a wound from becoming
infected and consequently saved lives too. Most of the patients were still taken by train back to the larger hospitals on the coast, but many minor injuries were treated successfully and the
soldiers returned more swiftly to their units. Whether the men themselves were happy about this was questionable. Perhaps they felt cheated of a longer trip away from the Front, even if it was only
to the coast of France and not back home.

But the doctors were fair. They never sent a man back until he was fully fit. And if he showed signs of shell shock, they found a way to keep him a little longer or send him to the coast.

‘If I send the poor bugger back in this state,’ Florrie had once heard Dr Johnson mutter over a patient who was shaking and disorientated, even though the minor wound on his leg had
healed, ‘they’ll have him shot at dawn for cowardice.’

Florrie climbed down from the driving seat and hurried round to the back to help the patients. The broad figure of Dr Johnson appeared from the largest tent, which was now an operating theatre.
Blood spattered his white coat and his face was drawn with weariness. But he strode across the grass, his hand outstretched to greet his colleague.

‘What brings you here, Hartmann?’

Swiftly, Ernst explained about the badly injured man and the need for further supplies. ‘Sergeant Granger’s been very good, but even he can’t make the trains run on time.
I’m hoping you might have what we need.’

‘Some of our stocks are running low too. But we’ll see what we can do.’ Dr Johnson clapped him on the back. Two orderlies rushed forward to carry the stretcher case straight
into the theatre tent. ‘Come, I want more details about this patient.’

Ernst glanced at Florrie. ‘Perhaps you’d see Sister Warren about the list of items.’ He turned back to the other doctor. ‘We can’t stay long. We must get back,
Johnson, as soon as we can. You understand?’

Florrie felt her heart sink. Perhaps Ernst had changed his mind about their outing. She sighed and went in search of Sister Warren.

The supplies were loaded and Florrie stood beside the vehicle waiting for Ernst. It seemed an age before he appeared from the tent with Dr Johnson, shook his hand and strode
towards her.

‘Right, Nurse Maltby,’ he said, climbing into the passenger’s seat without even glancing at her.

Florrie turned the lorry and headed back the way they’d come.

‘When you get over the hill out of sight of the camp, turn left. We’ll double-back.’

Florrie said nothing, but she smiled. Ernst had not changed his mind.

They drove through deserted countryside, but, further away from the Front, there were signs of life. Cattle grazed in the fields and farmers were scything the long grass and raking it up into
mounds. On one farm they saw soldiers helping with the hay-making.

‘Are they prisoners of war? Germans?’

‘No, no, they’re allies at rest.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Do you remember Sergeant Granger telling us how our soldiers do so many days in the trenches and then so many in rear-line billets, but usually they remain where the supplies are, often
acting as carriers?’

Florrie nodded. ‘And he also said they come into the countryside when they’ve a few days off. How long do they get?’

‘Oh, I’ve no idea. You’d have to ask an army chap. Varies probably, according to what’s happening at the Front. But more than likely it’s not long enough for them
to go to Paris or the coast, so they just come as far as here to get away from the guns for a while.’

‘Mm. But you can still hear them in the distance, can’t you?’ She glanced again at the young men, some stripped to the waist, working in the sunshine. Still they could all hear
the thunder of guns and the explosions of bursting shells; they could never get right away from the constant reminders of the war. Several glanced up and saw the vehicle with its Red Cross emblem.
One or two waved, but others looked away quickly as if it reminded them painfully of the war and all its horrors.

Florrie drove on and they came to a little village – no more than a hamlet – where children were still playing in the street.

Florrie gasped. ‘I hadn’t realized. It – it looks so normal. All those refugees we saw. I thought – I thought—’

Ernst smiled. ‘You thought everyone had gone. Only from where the fighting is actually taking place.’ He shrugged. ‘But one day perhaps these poor folk will be forced to flee
too, if our armies are driven back. It was the Kaiser’s intention to march through Belgium and approach Paris from the west. Only he hasn’t managed it.’ Ominously, he added,
‘Yet.’ Trying to lighten their mood, Ernst went on, ‘Now, let us see if Monsieur Gaston still has his little cafe open. Pull over to the right.’

The meal was surprisingly good. They dined leisurely, enjoying the luxury of being able to take their time and savour the wine. Across the table they touched hands briefly and
gazed into each other’s eyes. But they didn’t talk much, they were just happy to be together.

‘We are lucky,’ the host told them in broken English, waiting on them himself. ‘We still have local supplies.’ He lifted his shoulders and spread his hands in a helpless
gesture. ‘But for how long?’