Evie's War (14 page)

Note from Edmund to say he goes before the Board again next week.

Bitter wind, though Millie assures me the weather is quite mild for February. I do hope it proves thus in France, and that the men will thereby suffer less mud!

It seems I am not alone in my feelings regarding Sister's attitude towards the men, and ourselves. Something must be done!

Telegram from Edmund: he is reassessed B1 rather than C1 and will thus be able to return to the Front, though I suspect he will be alone in seeing this as good news. He says he may visit next week.

Glorious surprise! Winifred burst into the ward (and was quite dressed down by Sister). Faced with Fiery Wrath she withdrew, but promised to return for me at six — she is speaking tonight in Cambridge. Meanwhile, I am in the doghouse for being the Cause of Disruption. I closed my ears to Sister's harping and carried on with my work. One of my patients winked in sympathy — showing they are not all so ‘gone' as Sister thinks!

Winifred was incensed to hear of Sister's attitude towards the men and insists I must speak to Matron at once.

Her talk was most stirring — she does it so well, and looked extremely striking in a military-styled suit which she had made up in Edinburgh. Her talks were very well attended in Scotland, apparently, perhaps due to a greater awareness of the Scottish Women's Hospitals. Cambridge offered up a full house (largely female) and her presentation was received with enthusiasm; I am sure she will raise a significant sum. Supper was provided by the Women's Friendly Society. I ate far more than my share, being famished from missing tea. Winifred has proposed I travel down with her and Lady B.

Sister kept me back for an extra half hour, for no reason other than that she knew I had an appointment to keep.
She is an unmentionable! But on this occasion earned her comeuppance, as Lady B herself sallied forth to fetch me, which quite took the wind out of Sister's sails. Though I don't doubt I shall be paying for it next week.

Without further delay I was bundled beneath a mountain of rugs on the back seat and we hurtled along the roads, Lady B talking while Winifred drove. I was quite breathless on arrival. It is a relief to be home — which is down to Sister C. Winifred is right: I must Do Something About It.

Uncle Aubrey has arranged for Edmund to be transferred to the War Office. Mother ecstatic.

The French are in the midst of a Mighty Battle at Verdun. After losing the Fort and nearly being over-run by the Hun, reinforcements were rushed to the Front under a new Commander, General Pétain, whom my uncle believes most competent. Unfortunately, it seems the spring thaw has come early, and I know well what that means: mud!

Gathering my courage, I requested an appointment with Matron; she agreed to see me before breakfast tomorrow.

In response to my request to be transferred, either to my old ward or to another, Matron rather sternly informed me that I must provide a legitimate reason. I had not intended to stoop to telling tales, but found myself positively babbling about Sister's lack of kindness towards the men. I pulled myself up, but Matron only pursed her lips and said she would take my comments under consideration.
She then asked me how I found the men, and we discussed several cases. I have since been tiptoeing about the ward in trepidation. Private Owen, who must surely be quite unrecognisable even to his own mother, just now gave me the loveliest smile — though it is a little odd, given he has no lower jaw and not much left of his nose.

A sudden cold snap has taken us by surprise; six inches of snow, and not all the tent wards up to the challenge. Mad scramble to get all the patients re-housed; doubly difficult in such freezing temperatures with the men dressed solely in cotton pyjamas. Sister did not approve of them wearing blankets about their shoulders for fear we should ‘look like a poorhouse rather than a Hospital'. I do wish Matron had been on hand to witness them shivering.

Re-located within the Trinity cloisters. Beautiful old stonework! Almost enough to take my mind off my poor men's added trials. It is very cold. Chilblains an added discomfort for the men, who have already suffered so much. Why they must suffer Sister, too, I do not know. I have not enough scarves and mittens and woollen tights to keep out the wintry bite and, of course, Sister would make it worse by insisting any item that is not regulation may not be worn. So much for the lovely gloves Millie knitted me for Christmas!

I have been working at 1st Eastern an entire year.

Relief to get back to Deans Park and a hot bath. Bliss! Soaked till I was wrinkled as a prune.

Uncle Aubrey is home for a few days. Apparently Edmund declined to accept his proposal. I refuse to be drawn.

Matron has removed Sister from Heads! I feel like dancing my relief and I did skip a little about the ward, to the men's delight. Our new Sister is an elderly Nun with a kind face and gentle manner. The mood is happier already.

Re-organisation of patients, physical injuries to be separated from mental cases. I am to go with the physicals, who are being moved in with respiratories.

Altogether happier in the new ward, though I do miss my Officers. Captain Miller writes that he is very grateful for my last letter and that he has now ‘found gainful employment' in the War Office. Also he wonders whether he might escort me ‘should I be in the vicinity'. Clearly I am a jolly game for the Captain, who must know how unlikely it is that I will visit London, especially with the intention of being escorted by an eligible young Captain. Mother would be scandalised at such a proposition!

Winifred is back at the Front. She left a letter saying how sorry she was not to have seen me again before she left, but that ‘an opportunity arose that was not to be missed'. Also that I should think about coming out, and that she will let me know her new address once she is settled.

Edmund was expected this weekend but sent a telegram at the last to say he could not get away. I suspect he has no stomach for facing our parents. Uncle Aubrey describes his decision to return to the Front as a credit to him and to his commitment to his men. No comment from our parents!

Influenza going about and nurses falling like skittles. Sister has asked if I am willing to work evenings to make up the shortfall. Of course I agreed.

Respiratory cases struggle even more at night. Some are obliged to sleep sitting up lest their lungs clog with fluid. Between nightmares and breathing difficulties, there is not a lot of sleep to be had. Fell into bed well after midnight and quite cursed my alarm at five.

If many more nurses fall ill we shall have to start closing wards.

Edmund arrived hoping to take me to tea but it was, of course, quite impossible. Night Sister allowed he might sit in the ward for half an hour once dinners had been completed, though we had little chance to talk with me up and down to my patients. I asked whether he had been to Deans Park, but he said not. He has gone off to find a room in town in the hope of seeing me tomorrow.

Sister took pity and sent me off for two hours. Thoroughly bundled against the cold we walked along the Backs, but were caught by rain. Took shelter in Kings Chapel — its soaring ceiling quite breath-stealing no matter how often one visits — making a dash for a tea shop as soon as it slackened. The fug inside was rather satisfying.

I had felt sure there was something E wanted to discuss, and so it came out: he is hoping to gain permission to transfer to the New Zealand Division, formed at the beginning of this month under Major-General Russell. He says it would mean a great deal to be fighting alongside men from home, and wonders if I might enquire of our uncle whether such an application would be favourably received; he seems convinced the question will come better from me. I have agreed to raise it at the next opportunity. I walked with Edmund to the Station but there was no time to stay and see him off. How our relationship is changed since we first arrived in England! It is his birthday on Sunday.

What a week: I feel as if I could sleep for days on end. Matron says I am to go home (what a lot of places that single small word encompasses) and put the Hospital completely out of my mind — which instruction I shall willingly obey!

Our uncle has promised to look into Edmund's situation. So that is that. We then discussed my work, he expressing concern that we should be so short-staffed. In passing I asked whether he knew of Captain Miller. He does, and said he held out hopes for him (whatever that may mean),
then quizzed me as to how I knew him. I admitted only that I had nursed him, and that he had recently let us know that he was thoroughly rehabilitated and able to take up a position. Uncle Aubrey looked thoughtful and I scurried away.

Simply splendid to sleep in two mornings in a row: no rattling alarm, no breakfasts to blearily distribute, no running from job to job for fourteen hours a day, dealing with endless requests of ‘Nurse, could you just —'.

I have my feet up on the fireguard as I write and my toes are for once completely warm. Mother has arranged for buttered toast and tea and Millie and Eugenie have requested cribbage — bliss!

Matron says we have Turned The Corner and will soon be back to full strength, and expressed thanks to those who have stayed on their feet. The news comes as a relief (most especially for our poor feet!).

Double shifts still the norm, though I am sent off a little earlier, at eleven.

All Fools' Day. I am not sure whether I would have suffered worse pranks on the ward than at Eugenie's hands; the alarm clock she set for 5 a.m. and placed beneath my bed was altogether too much.

Uncle Aubrey says there is some hope for Edmund's application, which I trust is not a late prank. I shall pen my brother a note shortly.

Declined Matron's offer of leave; staff and patients still under the weather.

Letters: Corporal Lindsay says there are poppies everywhere that light the fields and heart, though not near the Front where all is mud (as I well know).

Captain Miller describes London as grubby and dour, and expresses surprise that I have never thought to mention my uncle, who it seems has mentioned me. I do hope they do not make a habit of discussing me.

Sometimes I think the Postal Service holds things back on purpose so that it might then provide a veritable deluge. Waiting at Deans Park were two more letters, from Ada, who sounds perfectly miserable, and Lettie. Ada writes that Tom's Sacrifice will never be forgotten, and that their poor Mother is inconsolable. Also that there is scarcely a family anywhere untouched by the War, and endless fundraising marches and picnics, the most ambitious being the fête organised by the Municipal Ladies' Welcoming Committee for The Wounded, which did not, in the event, prove quite the success envisaged. In a postscript she notes that Mr Steinbeck, our languages teacher at School, has been arrested as a spy (which I cannot credit), and that
Mrs Invers has had both her Dachshunds put down for fear she will be considered a German sympathiser.

Lettie, from whom I have not heard in an age, writes that she is engaged! And hopes to be married this month before her intended is sent abroad — which I gather means that Oxford is no longer included in her plans.

Back to normal on the wards with all staff recovered, and just in time. A convoy is expected tonight.

One of the new intake told me he had spent four days on trains and lying on the platforms of railway stations before even reaching the coast, where they waited again for a ship. I cannot comprehend such inefficiency. He says the staff were very good, especially the nurses on the trains, who he thinks have an awfully difficult job with men stacked in stretchers two or three layers high, and that the Doctor who saw him in Amiens, though not a cheery fellow, seemed to know his work. He is also full of praise for his comrades, who came out into No Man's Land to find him, and for the women who spare a thought for the poor soldiers waiting for trains and supply them with soup and coffee or hot chocolate. If all the wounded experience a similar journey, it should be no surprise they arrive as thin as rags and too exhausted to eat. They are so grateful for our help it is pitiful.

My talkative Private says the food he gets here is quite the best he has ever eaten. I could not claim the same!

Three of my new intake have passed away and another two are likely to follow. Sister believes that sometimes all they are waiting for is to know they are home in England, and to hear a familiar voice and perhaps see their mothers, before they are ready to go to God. For those mothers who cannot arrive in time, she says we must stand in.

I sat with one fellow, an older man, who whispered the names of his children over and over until his voice was stilled. Sister has asked if I might this evening sit with another, Private Jones, who is unable to speak, having lost his larynx, and whose breath whistles in and out through a hole in his throat. It is impossible to say no. They deserve so much more.

Private J was still clinging on when I left. Sister has promised to be with him when his time comes, which will surely not be long.