The Witch’s Daughter (35 page)

For a moment Sister Radcliffe said nothing and I wondered if she was about to make a comment on the ineffectual nature of Kitty’s nursing skills. Instead, she said simply, ‘I am sorry to hear that. Kindly do not address me as ‘Ma’am.’ You will be stationed in the Evacuation Tent.’ She turned her attention to me. ‘And you are…?’

‘Nurse Elise Hawksmith, Sister.’

‘A professional nurse, I see.’ She took off her glasses and looked me full in the face, daring me to drop my gaze. ‘And which do you consider to be your particular skills, Nurse?’

‘I have been assisting in the surgical ward and in theater at Saint Thomas’s hospital in Manchester for over two years now. I do enjoy the work very much, Sister. But of course I shall be happy to do whatever is asked of me.’

‘Indeed.’ She replaced her glasses, made two swift marks in the register, and then put it away. ‘Let’s start you off in the resuscitation tent. See how “happy” you are there, shall we? Nurse Strappington, show them to their quarters.’

Morning came quickly. Kitty and I found the refectory and queued up for breakfast. We were given weak tea and gray porridge. I looked for Strap, but there was no sign of her. I wondered how long her shift could be. She had been working when we arrived and must surely be in need of food and rest by now. Looking around at the taut, pale faces near me, I could see grim determination written over sad resignation. Kitty saw it too and was looking glummer than ever. I finished my food, gave Kitty a few words of encouragement, and made my way to the resuscitation tent. It did not take me many minutes inside it to understand that Sister Radcliffe had sought to test me. The pre-op and operating tents would offer action, treatment, and hope. The ward tent allowed those still too weak to travel to heal a little before their journey or to receive further treatment. The evacuation tent prepared patients for the longed-for trip home or return to the front. The resuscitation tent was a limbo. A purgatory. Here it was that men too weak to withstand surgery, however much they needed it, must cling to life and wait for an improvement in their conditions that frequently did not come. Here those horribly burned and too frail to withstand the bustle of the ward tent would writhe behind screens and undergo all manner of painful and often ineffectual treatments. Here those half-dead from languishing in the muddy stretches of No Man’s Land for fear-filled days, suffering their wounds alone and unaided, would be placed in heated beds in a desperate attempt to bring warmth back to their failing hearts and rotting flesh. I soon learned that more men died here than in any other part of the CCS. And they died here slowly and in pain.

‘Nurse Hawksmith!’ Sister Radcliffe’s voice jolted me from my daze, ‘I am not familiar with the way the wards are run at Saint Thomas’s, but here there is no time to stand idle.’

‘I’m sorry, Sister.’

‘Corporal Davies needs his dressings changed.’ She indicated the bed nearest me with a curt nod before stepping past me. ‘When you have finished there, you will see to Private Spencer and Corporal Baines. There is a list of daily dressings and treatments pinned up at the nurses’ station by the entrance to the tent. Kindly read it the minute you start your shift. I do not expect to have to remind you of your duties again.’

‘Yes, Sister.’ I fetched fresh dressings from the cupboard in the center of the room and hurried to do as I had been instructed.

Corporal Davies was a short, ruddy-faced young man with a shock of black hair and twinkling blue eyes dulled by pain and fatigue.

‘Don’t let Sister put the wind up you, Nurse,’ he said in a soft Welsh lilt. ‘She’s our secret weapon, see? When they’ve run out of men at the Front, we’re going to send her over the top. Those Germans won’t stand a chance.’ He tried to laugh, but this caused him to cough horribly, his whole body going into painful spasms. The effort of it left him further weakened and quiet. I glanced at his notes. He had been felled by shrapnel during a bombardment while out on nighttime operations. Unable to move, he had lain in a water-filled shell hole for three days and nights before stretcher-bearers had been able to reach him. While most of his wounds were not serious in themselves, the sheer number of them was incredible. His face had mostly escaped harm, and his tin hat had no doubt saved his life, but his chest and abdomen were riddled with cuts and holes, many still containing sharp pieces of metal, since he was too weak to face surgery. Most of his ribs had been broken in the blast, and a larger piece of shell casing had smashed his left knee joint and tibia and fibula. His right foot had been almost severed at the ankle. He claimed it was the coldness of the muddy water that had saved him from going mad with the pain, and the angle at which his right leg had been stuck up that had stopped him from bleeding to death. Indeed, he had even managed to cake the wound in his ankle with mud to staunch the flow. But that same slime and cold that had kept him alive were now responsible for what would, without hope or doubt, kill him. The filth of the mud had worked together with the hot metal in his wounds to render them septic, turning the flesh around each painful tear and cut purple and swollen. The only thing that might now stop the poison in his blood from killing him was the pneumonia his watery mantrap had given him. The two deadly conditions were engaged in a macabre race to claim the poor man’s life. I began the slow task of redressing his wounds. Despite the agony he must have been experiencing, he did not offer one word of complaint or even moan as I peeled lint from his wet and festering skin. Not for the first time I marveled at the human capacity for bravery; at the strength of spirit some possess. And at the ability of man to inflict such merciless suffering on his brothers.

I worked my way through the list of patients who needed dressings changed. Each soldier seemed to present a more ghastly set of injuries than the last; some sightless and terrified, some burned beyond recognition, others limbless and helpless. And each bore his suffering with a calm fortitude that humbled me. At first, I wondered if they were so quiet because they were too weak to complain or because they had simply given up the struggle and were waiting to die. But I quickly came to see this was not the case, at least not for most of them. Each man was locked in his own personal torment, and the heavens only knew what terrors they relived in the darkest moments of the night, but still they were able to find the strength to fight on. Was that what it meant to be a true soldier, I wondered. Not only to be able to fight on the battlefield, but to be able to conquer one’s own personal demons, again and again, over and over, in any way that was asked of them? There were very few in the resuscitation tent who wished to die, and those who did could hardly be blamed for it.

At the end of my first shift, some twelve hours after I had unraveled the first bandage, pausing only for a half-hour lunch of watery soup, I returned once again to Corporal Davies. He was sleeping fitfully, his breathing shallow and ragged. All at once, a fierce bout of coughing woke him. He struggled to raise himself and I hurried to help him. He leaned forward, hawking up blood, fighting to drag air back into his failing lungs. When at last he slumped backward onto his pillow, a hideous gurgling noise accompanied each feeble breath. He gazed up at me, his eyes full of panic, and clutched at my hand.

‘Don’t…!’ he spluttered.

‘Shh, no need to try and talk.’

‘Don’t…’ He tried again, each word wrenched from his body with Herculean effort. ‘
Don’t leave me to drown!’

I let him cling to me and forced myself to hold his gaze. He knew what lay ahead. Hours, perhaps days, of battling for every breath, of choking and retching and suffocating and ultimately drowning on his own blood. I slowly placed his hand on his chest and drew the covers tight around him. I searched for some words of comfort, of hope, of reassurance that I might offer him, but none came. For there was no hope. And he and I both knew it.

I left his bedside and flung myself through the door of the tent. It was already dark outside and the air felt blissfully clean and cool. I walked, head down, not knowing where I was going, wanting only to put some distance between myself and the suffering in the resuscitation tent. I rounded a corner and walked straight into Strap.

‘I say!’ She caught me as I reeled sideways. ‘Steady on, old girl. Can’t have you joining the casualties now, can we?’ She examined me more closely. ‘You look all in. Come along, time for a sit down and a couple of gaspers.’ She steered me behind the nurses’ hut and onto the step of the seldom-used back door. We sat down, not caring that the wet wood and mud would soil our uniforms, not caring about anything except the need to stop. She pulled a packet of cigarettes from her pocket and offered me one. Seeing me hesitate, she said, ‘You might as well. It’s the one thing we can all do out here.’ She struck a match and I leaned forward. We sat and smoked in silence for a while. I rubbed my temples, wondering how she managed to stay so cheerful in the face of what challenges she must rise to day after day. My weariness had not gone unnoticed.

‘No need to ask what you thought of resuss,’ she said. ‘Miserable post. Was in there myself for a couple of months. Blessed relief to be given pre-op, don’t mind telling you.’

‘Some of them are so very young.’

‘Babes. Mere babes.’

‘And we can do so little.’

‘Better at blowing people to pieces than sticking them back together, that’s the sad truth of it, I’m afraid.’ She leaned back against the doorframe. ‘’Twas ever thus, I suppose.’

‘At least in pre-op they have a chance,’ I said, feeling slightly sick after my third lungful of cigarette smoke. ‘In resuss, well, most of them won’t even make it to the operating theater. Some of them would be better off…’

‘Don’t say it!’ Strap was suddenly furious. ‘Say anything else you must, but never, ever,
ever
say what you were about to say. We are here to heal, to help these men recover.’

‘And you really believe that’s best for all of them? That we patch them up and send them home no matter what state they’re in, no matter how terrible their … existences would be?’

‘Of course I do. I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point?’ Her voice dropped again. ‘What the bloody hell’s the point?’

I looked at her strong, open features and wondered at her clarity of thought. At her sense of purpose. At her resolution. I thought of the burned shadow of the boy in the corner bed, and of the pointless suffering of Corporal Davies, and I couldn’t agree with her. Life at any cost? I wished I shared her passion, but I did not. Was it because I considered some suffering to be intolerable, or was it because I had, at times, come to see life as a curse? I, who had shuffled about on this planet for centuries observing the ceaseless fighting and battling and struggling that people endured. Could death be such a terrible thing? Were there not times when it was the right thing? Or did I wonder that because it had been denied me? I could not be certain.

Strap stood up, grinding out her cigarette stub with her heel.

‘Come on,’ she said brightly. ‘Better get some supper down our necks. Brace yourself—the horrors of resuss are as nothing when compared to what’s served up as stew around here.’

As we entered the refectory, the smell of the food hit us. It was so vile I wondered how anyone could sit in the room, let alone actually eat the glutinous mess of rancid meat and salty gravy that slopped about in our bowls.

‘I’d like to tell you one gets used to it,’ Strap said, pushing up her sleeves, ‘but it would be cruel to give you false hope. Just pray for a speedy delivery of parcels from home and for pity’s sake write to anyone you’ve ever met who might be talked into sending us Bovril and biscuits.’

An hour later, my stomach struggling to hold onto the revolting supper I had inflicted upon it, I washed quickly in cold water, took off my uniform, and crawled into bed in my underwear. I hadn’t the energy to dig out my pajamas and had no wish to waste what precious time for sleep there might be. This proved to be a wise decision. My eyes could not have been shut for more than an hour when I was roughly shaken awake by Kitty.

‘Wake up, Elise! Sister says everyone’s to be on duty in five minutes. Get a move on, do!’

‘What’s happening?’ I asked blearily. Strap finished lacing her boots and stood up.

‘Failed attack. There’s a convoy of ambulances heading our way. It’s all hands on deck, I’m afraid.’

I flung on my uniform and raced after her. Sister Radcliffe was outside the nurses’ hut issuing orders.

‘Nurse Strappington, Nurse Hawksmith, reception marquee. Quickly please.’

Strap glanced at me. ‘Oh Lord,’ she muttered, ‘you really are getting thrown in at the deep end, aren’t you, old girl? Never mind. Hold your nerve and don’t expect to work miracles. You’ll need these.’ She shoved a packet of cigarettes into my hand.

‘Surely there won’t be time to take a break…?’

‘They’re not for you, you goose, they’re for the men. Half the time it’s all they want. Most of the time it’s all you can do for them anyway.’

I was about to follow her when I sensed I was being watched. Of course I have spent my life glancing over my shoulder, listening for unfamiliar footsteps, and generally staying alert to the possibility that I have been found. It is no more than any other creature that has become prey would do. But by the time I found myself in Flanders, it had been many years since I had felt his presence. Gideon’s presence. I had put this down largely to the fact that I had taken to moving even more frequently. And to my not having used my magic. Whatever the reasons, I believed I had not come close to being in his company for decades. And even now, at the moment when I halted in my stride because of the overwhelming feeling of someone’s eyes being focused on me, I was certain that still this was not him. This spirit was powerful but utterly benign. I moved my head minutely and scanned the bustle of people pressing about me. I soon found him. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young soldier. An officer, his uniform suggested. He wore his mustache fuller than most, and his eyes were gentle. He leaned on a stick but looked otherwise fit and strong. He stood quite still, looking directly at me. In the midst of all that chaos and fear, he was a small point of calm. Of peace. I stared at him and experienced an unexpected and confusing longing for my childhood home in Wessex. Puzzled, I continued to watch him, that is, to watch myself being watched by him. In the darkness and at a distance of twenty yards or so it was hard to see his face clearly. Indeed, I did not feel that I
saw
him at all, rather that I connected with him. We both stood motionless, locked in this strange meeting, until I heard Sister shout my name and was galvanized into movement. I stumbled through the crowd of scurrying orderlies and nurses toward reception. When I looked back, the soldier was gone.