Authors: Mary Hooper
‘These are men with dangerous head wounds, those liable to haemorrhages and convulsions, or those who may need emergency treatment at any moment,’ said the army officer. ‘They must only be moved by a doctor. Some of these boys have come straight from the field and are in a very bad way.’
‘How do we know who to take first?’ someone asked.
‘Take whoever you come to,’ came the reply. ‘Some of these young men shouldn’t have travelled at all, but there was no more room in France. Just let’s get these boys off!’
The Netley VADs were shown into what had once been, in the heady days before the war, the luxury cruise ship’s dining salon. Crystal chandeliers still swung overhead and the turquoise walls were painted with a lavish underwater scene, but where there had once been line
n-
clad tables, silver cutlery and sparkling glasses, now there was nothing but rows and rows of makeshift beds, each containing an injured man.
Dreadfully
injured, Poppy thought, looking about her and seeing blood and dirt, torn uniforms, stained bandages, gaping wounds and caked-on mud. In the rush to get them away, some of the men had come straight from battlefield to ship, and had not had even the most rudimentary of clean-ups or any dressing of their wounds.
Poppy stood in the midst of this horror, her heart aching, hardly able to believe what she was seeing. So many men; such ghastly injuries . . .
‘All these men must be taken off the ship before the tide turns,’ said the army officer. ‘The doctors at the foot of the gangplank will read their labels, make a decision about where to send them and list their names so we know where to find them again. If the patient is unconscious or doesn’t seem to know who he is, then look for his tag to give his name to whoever is taking details.’
‘What if he can’t speak and his tag’s gone?’ someone asked.
The officer spread his hands as if to say he had no idea. ‘Just try and find some distinguishing mark. Look at his cap badge for his regiment perhaps.’ He indicated the salon. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your patients are waiting.’
Poppy took a deep breath, forced a smile and went in.
By five o’clock, most of the casualties had been taken off the ship. Private George Williams hadn’t been left until last deliberately, but his wounds were so terrible and – as much to spare his own feelings as anything else – his stretcher had been placed behind a pillar. Private Williams had taken a grenade hit and one of his arms was no longer there, but it was his face that had come off the worst. Someone had pulled what remained of his khaki jacket collar up as high as possible, but the mess that had once been his face was still clearly visible.
Coming across him suddenly, Poppy didn’t have time to compose herself or make his face a little out of focus, and couldn’t help but give a small gasp of shock. ‘Oh, I didn’t know anyone was behind this pillar!’ was all she could say to cover herself.
There came a strange, choked reply, for Private Williams couldn’t speak: most of his mouth and a good deal of the right side of his jaw were missing. The hole where it had been was now plugged with muslin, but this must have been done some time ago, for the material was dark and dried, and smelled like rotten meat.
Fighting down a wave of nausea, Poppy bent over and looked at his label. She must keep talking, she thought – talking and smiling.
‘Hello, Private Williams. You’ve a smashed arm? We have lots of men with limbs missing on my ward – that is, Hut 59.’ She stretched her mouth upward in what she hoped looked like a smile and not a grimace. ‘Maybe you’ll be coming to us. Sister Kay is
very
nice. You’re assured of a warm welcome from her and Nurse Gallagher.’
As she straightened up, the man’s eyes followed her.
‘Will you be able to walk off the ship with my help?’ She smiled again. Too much smiling, she thought, but it was either that or scream. ‘Would you prefer a stretcher or a wheelchair? Maybe a stretcher would be better, in case your legs are wobbly.’ She smiled again – smiled until her face began to ache. She was asking all these questions, but how was he going to answer her?
He tapped the pocket of his torn, blood-stained jacket. Poppy felt inside, then drew out a pencil and small notepad.
‘Ah! Of course,’she said.
She held the notepad on his chest, placed the pencil in his hand and he laboriously printed the words
On stretcher. Please cover face
.
There was a long moment during which she re-read his words several times and struggled to find the right reply. ‘I understand what you mean,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll go and get an orderly, a stretcher and a covering.’ She blinked back a sudden rush of tears. ‘I’m so sorry, you must excuse me. I’ve seen so many men today . . .’
Please cover face
.
Sometimes she felt she couldn’t bear another moment of this war.
As fate would have it, Private George Williams was indeed one of the eight ‘new boys’ assigned to Hut 59. Poppy felt that she’d half-known this was going to happen: that her ward would get him. Somehow a higher power had placed him there so that she could try and make up for her reaction on the troop train.
Tragically, two of Hut 59’s new boys were so badly injured that they died within twenty-four hours, and the ward became unusually solemn as two Union-Jack-draped coffins were carried out to the mortuary. The six other Tommies – Private Williams amongst them – lived on.
Talking about the deaths with Moffat in the ward kitchen one morning, Poppy wondered if Private Williams might want to die, too.
‘Because what in the world will he do with himself now?’ she said, her voice taut with anguish. ‘How will he manage with only half a face? He can’t eat or talk to anyone, he can’t go for a stroll around the grounds. All he does is sit in bed all day hidden behind a newspaper.’
‘His face can be reconstructed, though, and we’re helping with his eating,’ Moffat said, for a device had been made for those patients whose injuries prevented them from taking food or drink in the normal way: a jug and rubber tube affair which sent milk or soup directly down their throats. It took an age to feed a patient in this way, and they hated it, gagging and coughing throughout, but it was either that or they would starve to death.
There was one piece of good news in the hectic and difficult days following the arrival of the Red Cross ship: a message arrived from Private Taylor’s ward to say that since his mother had moved to a guest house nearby, he’d begun to eat again, and his prospects seemed brighter.
Billy’s leg injury was, as Doctor Archer had predicted, relatively straightforward and the fracture seemed to be healing well in its plaster cast. Two weeks after his operation, Poppy received a note from him saying he was going to be moved to a different hospital and the guards were allowing her to come and see him.
In pelting rain, going across the grass to Hut 600, Poppy could not help feeling relief that Billy was being transferred elsewhere. She’d only visited him two or three times, but had found the visits utterly depressing. He didn’t seem to feel guilty about letting down his mates nor particularly grateful for Doctor Archer’s attempts to help him. His attitude was all wrong, Poppy thought.
There was a new inmate in Hut 600 by then, a young man who, Billy told Poppy, had thrown himself on the mud and pretended to be dead when given the command to run with his bayonet towards the German line.
‘I told him I didn’t blame him one bit,’ Billy added.
‘Hush,’ Poppy said, looking around for the guards. ‘You mustn’t say things like that – there could be repercussions. It’s as if you’re encouraging him not to fight.’
‘That’s just what I am doing.’
‘But it’s not patriotic.’
‘Nor is getting your stomach sliced open by Fritz.’
There were changes in him, though. Poppy noticed that Billy had a twitch above his left eyelid. And his hands, resting on top of the bed, were constantly scratching at the blanket.
‘Billy, I can’t stay long,’ she said. ‘Tell me about where you’re going.’
‘Bloody Scotland,’ Billy said.
‘Scotland?’ Poppy echoed, surprised.
‘Your doctor mate came round and told me. I’m going to an asylum for boys who’re off their heads.’
Poppy frowned. ‘I’m sure he didn’t say that. It must be a hospital for nervous diseases.’
‘Same thing.’
His nails were chewed right down, Poppy noticed. He hadn’t bitten them since he was five!
‘It’s for those who are suffering from their nerves,’ she said. ‘Men who’ve been under fire and who are over-anxious and distressed.’
‘You know what everyone calls the place? Dottyville.’
‘Better to be in Dottyville than to be dead!’ said Poppy, exasperated. ‘You don’t seem to realise what you’ve done, Billy – how you’ve let everyone down.’
‘I’ve heard they give you electric shock treatment there and dunk you in cold water.’
‘Stop it!’ Poppy said. ‘Whatever they do, at least you’ll be alive. You’re not being shot at dawn, are you?’
‘No.’ For a brief moment Billy looked scared and younger than his years. ‘A loony bin, though! It strikes me that you’re all bloody lunatics and I’m the only sane one.’
‘Oh, hush! Look, have you written to Ma yet?’
Billy shook his head.
‘Well, you must. Tell her you’re going to Scotland. You needn’t say exactly where, just tell her it’s to convalesce or something. And, Billy . . .’ she glanced around to make sure no guards were close enough to overhear, ‘when you get to this special hospital, don’t forget that it’s for soldiers affected by their nerves.
Shell shock
, they call it.’
‘Yeah. Shell shock,’ Billy repeated.
‘Try and act a bit vacant and a bit strange, because if they think there’s nothing wrong with you, they might still charge you with cowardice under fire.’
Billy shrugged, looking as if he didn’t care one way or the other. ‘Bloody war . . .’
Two more days went by and Poppy, adding them up, made it fifteen days since she’d written to Freddie. Fifteen days! He’d either decided not to reply to her, or he’d been injured and lost the use of his hands. She wouldn’t contemplate the other option.
Coming home late from work on the sixteenth day, however, there was a letter from him waiting for her. Immediately seized with all manner of hopes and fears, she carried it off into the bathroom to be alone with it.
Duke of Greystock’s Rgt.
27th November 1915
Dearest Poppy,
Please don’t apologise for the swift end to our evening – of course you had to go and see your brother. I am glad to hear that his injuries were not serious and hope that he will be able to return to duty soon.
The sailing over here was quite calm; I believe we were lucky. When we arrived in Boulogne the Red Cross had provided tents for the men, showers and a makeshift canteen, and we made full use of all these until our troop train turned up. Of course, I am not allowed to divulge exactly where we are now, but it’s not far from the action.
At the moment my unit is in a dugout. We will be moving towards the front if and when we get the command to do so. We are just sitting around waiting, writing letters, reading, carving whistles from wood or playing cards. There are even men who are knitting their own socks. These pastimes may make our life sound rather relaxing, but take my word that it is anything but. There is spasmodic shelling from above, the continual boom of bombs and the ever-present fear of snipers’ bullets. To add to this, it has not ceased raining since we arrived and everything we see, touch or do is sodden and muddy.
Poppy, our last meeting was so rushed . . . but I really do want to explain about Miss Cardew. My mother and her very dear friend, Mrs Edna Cardew, have long held the wish that Philippa and I should marry – it was one of those things that were decided when we were in our cradles. I must admit, I was content to go along with things until, as it says in the song, I was smitten by your charms. Since my brother died, Mother has become more insistent that this marriage should take place, and in view of our family tragedy, I have not wanted to upset her. I’m sure you will understand this. However, I have three days’ leave in the new year and I intend to speak to my mother very plainly then and tell her that I have no intention of marrying Miss Cardew.
I hope this reassures you. My dear girl, I think of you often and believe we will have our time soon. After I have seen my family, I will be going back to see action via Southampton and hope we can meet up again. Would you be able to take a day’s leave and we can spend longer in each other’s company?
With fondest regards,
Freddie
The next morning, Poppy read to Matthews the piece about Freddie’s mother and her long-held wishes.
‘What do you think?’ Poppy asked anxiously. ‘It’s obvious that no one knows he’s seeing me.’
Matthews pulled a face. ‘Well . . .’
‘It’s good that he considers his mother’s feelings, of course.’