Evie's War (11 page)

Glorious sleep! Missed the late train to Littlebury, and jolly glad, as it means no one to insist I get up for Church. No doubt God will turn a blind eye.

Two of Monday's intake died overnight. I know I should not feel responsible but it is difficult not to wonder whether there was not more one could have done.

Sister says it is nothing more than indulgence to blame oneself. I suppose she is right.

Winifred has taken possession of the new car. It is frightfully swish but has yet to be made over, with proper slots in the back for stretchers and so forth (Lady B naturally has it in hand). We are to motor down tomorrow.

Monty quite miserable about returning to School. Uncle Aubrey says it will be the making of him, which I well know to be of little comfort when one is suffering from homesickness.

Relieved to be back in Cambridge, and a respite from tears. Aunt Marjorie's behaviour was worse than Monty's when it came to it. Mother was quite sharp with her. I rather doubt the comparison with Sending One's Son To War did much to help.

Surprise party for W: decorated the dining hall with streamers and little flags and carried her around the room in a suitably decked-out chair, some of the young ladies making motor ambulance noises! Much laughter and more than a few damp eyes. Winifred has such a knack for jollying things along; we will miss her.

Farewells at first light. Winifred gave me a divine cashmere scarf and looked very pleased with my gift of driving gloves (which cost rather a lot!). I do hope all goes well. At the last I remembered to ask whether she had let Corporal Lindsay know that she was going to the Front. She said she had, and Edmund too. She is a Dark Horse!

Fell into something of a slump after W's departure. Sister briskly advised that work is the answer. A postcard came from Harry: he has been transferred to an Auxiliary Hospital to recuperate; he says it is wonderful — ‘right out of my league' — and that his leg is coming along well, ending with the wish that I will ‘remember him kindly'. Of course I shall.

Telegram from Deans Park to say Edmund is home. With luck I shall be able to make the six o'clock train.

My brother's wounds are not particularly alarming — one bullet clean through the thigh, mercifully missing the bone, and another, quite shallow, across the back of the calf — both healing well; he will soon get about with a single stick. But he has the old, bleak eyes that I see so often. Mother says, with no small measure of relief, that he has ‘done his bit', which only causes my brother's hackles to rise, and rise further as she strokes his hair. Does she not realise he is no longer a child? Though perhaps a son is ever a mother's child.

Mother believes Edmund to be ‘not quite his old self'. I do not say ‘How could he be?' for she thinks I know little about War and its effects, despite all these months of service. Whatever does she think I do all week?

I have been given permission to attend the Doctor's rounds, with the proviso that I am at all times both silent and invisible, and do not in any way cause Sister to regret her decision (which I shall certainly endeavour not to do!). Rounds begin at ten, with Sister standing at the Doctor's side as he makes his assessment and delivers instruction on such matters as treatment of wounds, diet, exercise and medication. He speaks to Sister rather than to the patients, and moves swiftly from one to the next. I felt his comments at times lacked tact, for example when he announced that only one of the blinded boys I admitted last week is likely to recover his sight, but such insensitivity may be put down to pressure of work. (I returned to Privates Barker and Frankel as soon as I was able; both were thoroughly dispirited — as if losing limbs is not enough.) Sister gave me a nod of approval as Dr Kittow moved on, at which I let out a silent sigh of relief!

Spent my half day off wandering through narrow alleys and curved cobbled streets — Cambridge is such a pretty town, though at present rather bursting at the seams. Bought a stick of rock for Eugenie, miniature book of quotations for Millie and sweets for Monty; also a letter-writing set for Edmund, which he might use when he returns to France. After dithering for some time I bought a second set for Harry.

Matron sent me off to catch an early train, advising that with Edmund recuperating at home I should spend as much time there as possible. How she contrives, alongside all else, to know the private circumstances of the many young women in her charge I know not! To that end I am allowed a late start on Monday so that I might stay an extra night, and will make up the hours on the following evenings. Oh! The train has jolted out of the Station and my writing is quite blotched! I shall stop.

Edmund looks a little rested though his leg pains him. He has scandalised Mother by announcing he will not attend Church in the morning, ‘sleep being of more worth'. Rather than leave it she insisted on having it out, and for her trouble got ‘God forgot us when this Damned War began'. And a slammed door.

At Father's intervention Edmund agreed — under sufferance — to join us at Church, the fragile peace almost shattered when the Vicar picked him out for special mention (‘One Of Our Brave Boys Newly Returned To Us', or some such tosh). Had Edmund not the bother of sticks, I suspect he would have sprung up and left. But as it was, he sat it out, though all might have heard the grinding of his teeth!

My brother accompanied me to the Station then took me completely by surprise by joining me on the train! He had left a note, he said, having decided last night that
he should like to see where I work. ‘Or get away from Mother's fussing,' I suggested, to which he responded with a grim smile.

I was unsure whether or not he wished to talk, so prattled on in just the way I do when I am taking my Officers for a turn about the grounds. We had almost reached Cambridge when Edmund interrupted to say, ‘I can see why Matron thinks you a tonic.' Of course I demanded an explanation, but got only, ‘You are an antidote to everything out there.' He is taking me for tea tomorrow so I shall ask again.

Edmund informed me that he may go to London to visit friends, so I should not expect to find him at Deans Park when I come down on Friday. Taking my courage in both hands I launched forth: ‘They can't understand, you know. It's not that they don't want to.' He looked at me in silence for a moment before patting my hand, as if he was my father rather than my brother. ‘I'm glad that you do.'

In no time at all it was time for his train. I do wish we had talked properly.

The only way forward is to throw oneself into work.

Mother being quite astonishingly unreasonable. I vented my spleen to Winifred — what she will make of my letter, I know not! On arriving home last night, tired and a little despondent and with no one to meet me at the Station so a long cold trudge in the rain, I found Mother in a state, demanding to know ‘what I had said to Edmund'.
Apparently it is my fault he has gone to London. On enquiring how his decisions could possibly be laid at my door, my Dearest Mother announced that Edmund had been in fine spirits (!) until he went to Cambridge, therefore it must be something I said that upset him. At this point Father determined it wise to intervene, but I could hear Mother railing on for another half an hour. I understand that she is upset by Edmund's departure, but wish she would sometimes consider my feelings as well.

Somewhat calmer atmosphere today but I shall take an early train. Millie sweetly endeavours to distract from any lingering tension, while William, alert to the moods of the house, is abnormally fractious.

Arrived back in time to attend a cinematographic show with Olive Wilson and several other girls. Olive has been at 1st Eastern from the outset and is a thoroughly decent sort. The film,
Enoch Arden
, proved rather saccharine, and led (inevitably) to debate over which actor we each preferred. As having ‘no particular preference' was disallowed, I chose Alfred Paget. Olive picked Wallace Reid, while another of the local VADs, Hillary Morton, claimed neither was good enough for Lillian Gish. It was all very silly and just what I needed to distract from the weekend's tensions. As for the Newsreel, it was not unremarked that it presented a view of the trenches somewhat out of keeping with the stories the men provide, as do the latest newspapers, which report British troops in the Middle East as having a ‘Splendid Triumph over the Turks' while those in France are ‘Engaged in a Thrilling Battle at Loos'. Had Winifred been here, she would no
doubt have said that we would likely see something of the results through our doors over the coming weeks. On that, I suspect Olive's thoughts, at least, are in line with my own.

Father writes to request that I excuse Mother's behaviour, which he claims to be due to stress. Of course I shall.

Mail — hurrah! — from both Winifred and Corporal Lindsay. And, thank Heavens, not bad news. Winifred is ‘working like a Trojan' and ‘fit to burst with all the sights and sounds'. She ends by saying she could do with a sensible companion — from which I deduce she is as lonely as her absence leaves me. I wrote at once, for good measure seeking her opinion on the Paget/Reid debate.

Corporal Lindsay is back at the Front, ‘bearing up well', and asks if there is any possibility I might be able to assist with spare socks, the weather having grown ‘more than a little dismal'. I shall ask Lady B whether she might add him to her list for parcels, and mention him as well to Millie, who has proven very resourceful in gathering donations for the Girls' Society distributions.

Another setback on the Eastern Front — when will they end? Germany has invaded Serbia.

Also a letter from Harry; he says his leg continues to improve and they now have him playing bowls! The Hospital grounds are beautiful, he says, but could do with a few lads to keep them in trim. All the ‘lads' are off in France,
of course. I must ask what work he did before the War. He thanks me for the writing set, which he uses for his letter.

Deans Park is once again calm, with both my uncle and brother home. Edmund reports to his Regiment next week but I think it unlikely he will be judged fit to return to France, his leg giving him more trouble than he cares to admit. Mother proposes accompanying him to London to ensure he has all he needs to see him through the winter.

Eugenie's birthday! I had forgotten, and am thoroughly cross that no one thought to remind me. I shall buy a gift this week and take it down next weekend.

A note from Major D awaited my return; he says he is well and has regained some feeling in his feet. I sent a card to say how delighted I was to hear it.

Bracing weather, and the wards are positively arctic. Four of my latest cases were wounded at Loos, amongst them Colonel A, who calls out in the night for his men. Sister has proposed removing him from the ward to avoid disturbing the others, but Matron says we should wait to see if he settles; I am doing my best to engage him in conversation. He is invariably polite.

There seems no end to the depths to which the Enemy will sink: Nurse Edith Cavell was yesterday executed by German firing squad. The justification given for this atrocity is that she was a spy, whereas the entire British Nation knows her for a woman and nurse guilty of nothing more than providing succour to British and other soldiers in Belgium. Matron came to speak to us after tea; tears were shed.

A young man came in this afternoon with the most appalling infection. He has already lost both feet and is now likely to lose his legs to the knee. He went straightaway to Theatre.

Serbia is in trouble, with Germans advancing from the North and now Bulgarians from the East. I do hope the staff of the Scottish Women's Hospital are safe; I am more than a little grateful that Winifred decided against joining them.

Really, the men are very good. No matter how much pain they suffer they seldom complain.

Major B today told me that I remind him of his youngest daughter. I am glad his mind is diverted, even momentarily. The young man whose legs were yesterday amputated nods politely when spoken to but rarely replies. In addition to the amputations he has an open wound on his back and must lie on his side. Sister says his torment may soon come to an end.

No time to get into town, so bought Eugenie an embroidery of a vegetable garden done by one of the men, which I found on sale in the craft workshop (such work is considered useful for cases where dexterity has been lost, as well as occupying the men's time). I suspect she will think it rather a poor effort, but the theme at least may be of interest.

Aunt Marjorie and Millie both suffering with sniffles and inflamed throats. Father, Eugenie and I went for a long, damp walk around Deans Farm and Three Acre Bottom to escape the atmosphere indoors. Father is concerned about my uncle's estates. There is simply not the manpower to get all the work done.

Our young man is lingering, but there is little hope. His mother arrived today and sits weeping by his bed. It is not good for morale; Sister plans to move him to a smaller ward.