Evie's War (12 page)

Colonel A also rather downhearted. I asked if it would help were he to tell me about his nightmares. Eventually he answered: ‘They're good men. Brave men. There was no hope of success, of course, but they wouldn't let that stop them. I ordered them over the top and they went. Good lads. Good, brave lads.' He then pinned me with a rather frightening stare. ‘I ordered them and they went. Do you understand?'

Rather untruthfully, I said that I did. He slumped back in his chair as if all the stuffing had gone out of him. ‘Suspect you do. Can't tell my wife. She wouldn't, do you see?'

It clouded over soon after and I wheeled him inside. He is making quite good progress, aside from the nightmares.

Our leg case passed away this morning. His mother was with him at the end.

Home to a sickhouse, Mother and Eugenie having joined the bedridden. Spent all yesterday running about after them — as if I haven't enough of that during the week! Spoke with Uncle Aubrey this morning about Colonel A. His Brigade was badly shot up, apparently. Few survivors; none unscathed — no wonder the poor man feels bad. But what could one say, even had one known?

New intake while I was down at Littlebury; most of my men have been moved on — Sister says Colonel A is in ward 14, but the rest are transferred.

Full moon, very bright — hardly need a light to write by.

Amongst the new patients is a subaltern who reminds me quite startlingly of Ada's eldest brother — each time he speaks I am surprised by his accent, which is so broad I can hardly make out what he is saying. There are a number of Scots in the ward; apparently they have been much in the Action.

Called on Colonel A during my lunch break but he was off having therapy. Head a bit thick tonight, and rather tired.

Horribly sore throat and that awful sunken-in feeling around the eyes. Sister took one look and ordered me off sick; to my protestations saying I'll only pass it around the men. Matron has just been in and is arranging to have me driven to the Station. Head feels as though it is filled with water, with a terrible thundering going on inside.

Millie is quite the sweetest girl; in and out looking after me. Sitting up today for the first time since my arrival. Thank Heavens Matron got a message to Father; I should never have managed the walk from the Station.

Aunt Marjorie is fully recovered; I have surrendered to her care. A team of workmen arrived yesterday afternoon: Uncle Aubrey is having a telephone installed.

I realised today that I am behaving just like the men, tetchiness often being a sign that they are on the improve. I confess I have been rather vile to Mother and snapped at Eugenie for dropping a book, though she hardly did it on purpose. But really I am considerably better. There is far too much work to be done to remain sick.

I have been crying all afternoon, which has set my head back several days. Millie has instructed me to lie down so she might put compresses on my eyes. I have promised I will as
soon as I have recorded these fateful words: Ada's brother Tom is killed, and both the Cameron boys, and Harriet's brother is wounded and they have had no word since August. Mother says that, had she known what Ada's letter contained, she would not have let me read it, and is pleased at having held it back till I was ‘over the worst'.

Mother was rather short with me when I said I didn't feel up to Church. Mercifully, my aunt took my part and I am sent back to bed while Father telephones Matron to report me still unwell. I feel something of a malingerer.

Eugenie executed a raid on my uncle's office in search of New Zealand newspapers and brought up two dated August and one October. The casualty lists are a horror.

Hideous scene when I announced I would return to Cambridge tomorrow. I fail to understand why Mother assumes that at the slightest distress or hindrance I will abandon my work. When I shook the casualty lists under her nose she simply flapped her hands as if she might make the War and all its ‘inconveniences' vanish.

Matron inspected me on my return and pronounced me ‘peaky'; I am not to start until tomorrow. Instead I shall start on my Christmas letters, which may yet reach New Zealand on time. I do so feel for Ada's family.

Ward busy with new cases. Colonel A is gone, and my Seaforth Highlanders, and all of the last intake I settled in. Sister heard me coughing and threatened to order me off sick, but I assured her it was the tail end. And thereafter held my breath whenever she passed!

Told Matron I was perfectly up to working the weekend but she would not have it, lest I set myself back. I do feel slightly under the weather, but there is really nothing for it but to get on.

The Vicar has come down with the wretched cold that is doing the rounds so the Service was taken by a Curate (who had not the presence to carry it off). Eugenie and I went for a dull and damp trudge around the lower fields; it is all rather dismal.

Sister passed me a note left by Colonel A; she had forgotten it last week. He says he will always remember my kindness and understanding and hopes that this ‘interminable War will not depress that youthful spirit which proved so cheering'.

One of the men gave me a model of a soldier's cap that he had fashioned from a shell case. I shall send it to Monty in the hope that it will be of interest to him and his fellows. Judging by his letters, he remains rather homesick.

A long letter has come from Harry, though it is three letters really. He says the more he wrote, the less certain he was about whether he should send the letter, ‘which must only make me seem ill-educated to someone such as you'. But also that he found the writing therapeutic (which makes me think my next gift might be a journal — I must discover the date of his birthday). The top page of his letter, which is the most recently written, concludes with the hope that I might see fit to continue our correspondence, while subsequent pages describe the Convalescent Hospital and its grounds together with his treatment regimen and daily routine. The place itself sounds rather grand. Of the décor he writes ‘some rooms are decorated in a style not to my taste but that probably just displays my ignorance and you may very well like them'. He says also that he walks in the grounds every day, which will certainly be good for his leg. He does not seem ill-educated, having quite a good turn of phrase, but is forever apologising for himself. The final page of his letter gets rather to the crux of things. It transpires Grandfather's views were shared by his mother's relatives, and young Harry was seen as ‘a taint on the family' — as if such social stigma could ever be the fault of the child!

Though I cannot quite feel him a brother, I shall certainly continue our correspondence. Of course, if his leg has truly healed as well as he says, he may by now be returned to Active Service.

Olive and I went to a lantern slide lecture on the topic of Robert Falcon Scott's Antarctic Expedition, which she says was a good deal more interesting than the last she attended, which was on poultry-keeping. The lecture
proved popular with the men, I suspect in part due to the room's two fireplaces! We have had a rush of admissions this week; I shall be quite glad to get home.

Sleety and cold, which proved just what the doctor ordered. I have spent the weekend playing cribbage and spillikins (Eugenie's request) and generally lolling in front of the fire. Only poor Father has been obliged to venture out. Which reminds me that I have yet to write to Harry; I had quite forgot. I shall do it now.

Rushed to the Post Office as soon as I was off-shift: not only Harry but Winifred and Edmund and Corporal Lindsay shall all profit by my lazy weekend. I feel extremely virtuous as a consequence.

Sister has slipped on a patch of ice outside ward 16 and is laid up. Touching concern from the men.

Snow. Cannot feel excited as I did last year, and wonder how the men in the trenches are coping. It is bad enough to see them huddled in blankets and greatcoats around the braziers that have newly been installed between the wards. Why we cannot have heating inside, I do not know!

Edmund writes that it is most fearfully cold in Berkshire, but that he is now walking without a stick and hopes to return to the Front before Christmas. He goes before the Medical Board on 10 December.

Service for the Fallen. Not a dry eye in the congregation.

Letters awaited my return: Winifred, very down to earth, says the work is positively gruelling, her Commander a martinet (‘though some of the girls use an altogether less polite word more correctly applied to female dogs'), and apologises profusely for not writing more often, saying there is simply not time. She adds in a postscript that there is talk of her coming home for a month in the New Year to assist Lady B in a recruiting drive, at which I am sure she will excel.

Corporal Lindsay writes of the small (unnamed) village where he is stationed and the old woman from whom he purchases fresh eggs and sometimes milk. He makes no mention of the War. I shall send him Winifred's address, in case there is any chance she is nearby.

Found Hillary throwing up this morning. I told her she should report sick, but she would not hear of it. She thinks it something she ate, so at least it is not contagious.

Harry is signed Fit for Active Service; he is to be transferred to a training depot, and says I should hereafter write care of his Regiment. I am determined to speak to Father: it would be a great shame were he not to see his eldest son before he is returned to France.

Matron has established a new intake procedure (additional assessment); some to receive training next week — I do hope I may be amongst them.

Had rather an awkward conversation with Father which has left us no further forward. Rather more success with Millie, who required advice regarding an outfit to wear to a party next weekend. I do believe she is growing up! I had quite forgotten about parties and all that palaver.

Olive and I are both selected — Hurrah! Then on my first day under the new regime, we lost two men to haemorrhages that simply could not be stopped and on top of that come the agonies of dressings. Sister says that the worst cases would be better off in the Bath ward, but that there is simply not the space.

Came upon Hillary in the bathroom looking very red-eyed. I assume bad news, as my enquiry was not well received. Spoke with Olive about it, but she is none the wiser.

Chilblains on my hands are quite bad. Sister has prescribed a cream, to be applied morning and night.

I need not have disturbed Father's equilibrium: Harry is to embark next week, and intends spending his final leave ‘with chums' — which I take to mean getting thoroughly drunk! I am no longer so naïve as my dear parents might suppose!

Rather bitter telegram from Edmund: he has been turned down by the Board and is back on ‘light duties'. Our parents will be relieved, as am I, but that is not what Edmund needs to hear.

Mother distressed by my hands. I told her I was rather better off than most of the men. Reaction predictable.

Uncle Aubrey is confident that Sir Douglas Haig's promotion to Commander-in-Chief is a positive step. I do hope he is right.

Interminable rain. No end of leaks in the wards and the canvas makes a frightful racket in the wind; it is a wonder any of the men sleep at all. They remain stoic, of course.

Hillary still suffering. I asked Olive whether we should insist she reports sick and another of the VADs laughed, saying, ‘What she's got will take another seven months to cure.' It was only on reflection that I realised what she meant (and only thanks to Mother's experience). As it is, I do not know what to believe. It is too shocking for words.

Postcard from Harry, his handwriting somewhat difficult to decipher, being very tightly crammed. He is to go up the line tomorrow (which means he will be there now, the card being dated the 11th). He asks whether I might write about New Zealand, ‘for the contrast to everything here'. With which I will happily comply, and will also suggest he write to Father.

Whispered conversations abound; poor Hillary appears thoroughly miserable. I sat with her at tea, pretending as hard as I might that nothing was amiss. Impossible to tell whether it helped, though I believe it kept some of the less kind comments at bay.

Off early, thanks to extra evening shifts through the week. Father was waiting for my train as it is dark by four and the lane rather boggy. Aunt Marjorie says it will snow overnight. Very cold!

It is astonishing how a dusting of white transforms the landscape, the miserable mud replaced by a vista most lovely (when viewed from the warmth of one's room, with one's hands spread to the fire!). Even the trees, which yesterday reminded me of naked bones, today look starkly beautiful set against the sparkling white.