Evie's War (30 page)

Blood red moon last night. Hope it signifies only good.

Card from Edmund; somewhat fatalistic. I suspect he must be in amongst it again.

Sister says that after New Zealanders she prefers Canadians, who are invariably softly spoken and polite. We have quite a few coming in, and also Australians, who, on hearing my New Zealand accent, greet me as if I was their own sister!

Letters from Deans Park: Mother agitated over rationing; Father and Eugenie content that the summer is proving so much better than last for their agricultural endeavours; Monty home from School and making the most of it.

I am due two days' leave but have asked whether I might save it until I have word of Edmund; I should hate to miss the chance of seeing him were he to get leave.

Heard there were a great many New Zealanders arrived at No. 3 Australian General so went in search. Found one face I knew (Ada's youngest brother, Walter, in with influenza), and then a friend of Edmund's from home, Robert Cornthwaite, in with trench fever and an infected cut on his left hand. He told me that he and Edmund are in the same Unit but that he has not seen my brother in a fortnight. I was then startled to recognise one of the Sisters; I could not recall her name (it is Ingham) but remembered her from the Hospital in Romford when I was a patient. What a time ago it seems! She told me that she and another Sister had signed up but that her friend had not lasted and had transferred to a Home Establishment. She was surprised to hear that I had been nursing for more than three years, then after some thought added that she perceived at the time (1914) that I ‘had a certain sang-froid'!

After all that sunshine we have had quite a downpour. Towering grey clouds suggest more to come.

Half a dozen New Zealanders have just been brought in, Wellingtons and Aucklands, with fractures of femurs and similar. I asked if any of them knew Edmund but none did. They have come from Bapaume.

One of my boys, three limbs up on pulleys, complains constantly of itches ‘everywhere he cannot reach'. I do my best. He is twenty-two and has been out here almost a year.
When I told him we were the same age he refused to believe it: he did not make clear whether because I look younger or older; or perhaps it was that he did not believe ‘a young lady' should be here at all. I do not feel young; rather, an almost-widow of many years more than I own.

Half day off. Should have finished reading the novel Kate lent me but instead slept for two hours (and could easily have slept for more) before finding a lift to No.3 to visit Walter. They now have over a thousand cases of influenza; symptoms quite severe — headaches, throats, v. high temperatures. One in five develops bronchial pneumonia or septicaemic blood poisoning; chances of recovery considerably reduced thereafter. Walter is not amongst the worst; I have promised to write to reassure his family (he became tearful speaking of Tom). I am sure it will be a help to them to know he is being well looked after and has someone to visit. Had just enough time to call in on Robert (recovering well, though the hand is proving problematic) before meeting Kate for a meal. She finishes her training in a week, after which it will be back to a CCS.

AL's birthday. I quite forgot until today; have asked one of the orderlies to post a card when he goes into town, along with a letter to Ada.

Further restructuring — there are now five wards of bronco-pneumonia and eight of influenza. Sister and I remain in Fractures with some Heads. Matron has vetoed Medical
due to my recent lung trouble, which she feels may make me vulnerable to infection. Mary-Lee says she would far rather Medical than Heads, but I do not mind them.

Two of my worst fractures, sweet young Canadian boys, have taken a turn for the worse.

Father writes that Uncle Aubrey is ‘increasingly optimistic', Germans ‘losing their taste for it', though he thinks the end still a long way off.

A poor man was brought in today with his right scapula shattered; impossible for him to be made comfortable. He has five children, he told me, and has been in from the first.

Kate's final day, though she has yet to be notified re next posting; she has proposed a meal in town to celebrate.

Matron has approved an overnight in town as long as I am back no later than 10 a.m. tomorrow.

Sister has found me this notebook until such time as I am reunited with my belongings. So much has happened in
such a short space. But I shall start at the beginning.

On completion of my shift on Saturday I cadged a ride to town with one of the drivers, Corporal Stanley. We had gone about four miles, chatting amiably, when the road seemed to buck up in front of us; Stanley swerved and we slewed half off the road. I felt as if all the breath had been sucked from my body and I had not the wherewithal to put it back in, plus my cheek was stinging fiercely. Eventually my dazed mind allowed that it must have been an aerial attack. I leaned sideways from the cab and looked up to find the culprit — long gone, of course — before turning to Stanley, only to find him choking in blood; he had been hit in the face by shrapnel. We were by now closer to Abbeville than No. 2 so there seemed nothing for it but to go on. I did my best to patch him up then jumped out and ran around to the driver's side, at which moment another bomb fell and I found myself cowering in the road with my arms over my head. I had heard neither aeroplane nor falling bomb, being still deafened by the first blast, though I did not realise that at the time. Next was to get the engine started, which was no small difficulty. Stanley, meanwhile, had slumped into a stupor and fallen sideways, so that I had to lift him again. Judging the nearest Hospital to be No. 5, I set off.

Only on reaching the outskirts did it dawn that I might better have reversed direction, the town undoubtedly being the target of the raid. But one's wits are not altogether at one's disposal in such circumstances, and the decision was soon taken from my hands. Near the Station I turned into a street that had taken a stick of bombs, buildings split open and spilling their innards onto the road, which was a mess of pot-holes and debris. As I contemplated the merits of a gruelling U-turn, a woman staggered up from the rubble (I have since learned she had been blown from an upper storey) and set up such a cacophony that even my
abused ears registered it. There was nothing to be done but help. Stanley was bleeding less freely and in my opinion could stand the wait, so I drove as near as I was able and left the engine running. Several compound fractures were immediately discernable, but Madame would not get into the ambulance without her children — nothing for it but to look for them. Abandoning hope of interpreting her near-hysterical instructions, I worked my way cautiously through the rubble until, at the very back of the house, I found two children, girls of no more than five or six, trapped as much by their own terror as by a large beam fallen across the doorway. I could not get past it but my schoolgirl French stood up to the occasion (Mr Steinbeck would have been proud) and they were convinced to crawl to where I could reach them. The subsequent reunion was spirited. By this time various others had appeared in diverse states of repair. I got the worst cases loaded into the ambulance and set off for No. 5.

And there it is. Stanley and my wounded civilians were unloaded; an orderly led me inside with the announcement that I was ‘bleeding something frightful' (the burning across my cheek apparently being a cut). And I no sooner reached the ward than my ‘courage' abandoned me (the MO, Major Bryant, has told me this is not at all uncommon and should not be seen as in any way diminishing my ‘heroics'). In short, I passed out. And woke to crisp white sheets with a Sister to check my pulse and a nurse to plump my pillows. At which point, if I was truly brave, I should have leapt up and carried on, but did not. Nor did concern for Stanley or my French
blessés
interrupt: I simply closed my eyes and slept.

When I woke my head was pounding, my cheek a-fire, and I found myself partially deaf. Orders from Sister are to remain in bed. I do hope Matron has been alerted; it all seems rather too much fuss over a cut.

Major B firmly insists on a few days' rest, after which I shall be ‘returned to Matron'. Still feeling rather dim; shock I am told.

Greeted as if I had walked back from the dead. It seems the tale has been rather embroidered and I am deemed a ‘hero'. What tosh, I say! And roll up my sleeves and get on.

Still no sign of my overnight bag. Kate is gone, posted to ‘somewhere near Cambrai'.

Fainted during a round of dressings. I am to take tomorrow off.

Called at No. 5 to see how my French family had fared; all were gone, apparently to relatives in the South. Stanley has been shipped to Blighty; he may lose his eye.

Summoned to Matron's office. She has been ‘keeping an eye' and thinks I should take a week ‘somewhere well away from things' as I am ‘less use than I should be if I am not properly recovered'. I argued for a stay of execution and my sentence has been reduced to four days' leave (Mary-Lee to accompany me to Paris), after which ‘we will reassess'.
Also that I have been Mentioned in Dispatches. I believe such things fall to Uncle Aubrey's department. Won't he get a surprise!

Exhausting journey but what a marvellous city! Walked until our feet ached. Now have them up on the railing of our tiny balcony in a most unladylike fashion.

Woke late to discover that Mary-Lee had been out and brought bread and cheese and fruit; she confessed she is under instruction from Matron to ensure I do nothing but eat and sleep and rest. We compromised on regular sustenance and rests at cafés while seeing as many sights as possible. Among these: Notre Dame and the Seine with its many lovely bridges, the Tuileries Garden, Napolean's Tomb, the Madeleine Chapel and the grand vista of the Champs-Élysées. Paris is a dignified and charming city — I shall have to come back when I am not quite so tired.

Positively refreshing to be away from it all; feel almost normal. When I think back to my expectations, four years ago, of visiting this city (and also Vienna, which I very much doubt I shall now see), it is quite impossible to make sense of it.

The pages of this book have begun to come loose. I do wish I had not lost my diary. It is the only item I truly regret
(though the loss of the silk knickers Winifred gave me is also a blow).

Matron has signed me fit for work; I am in Heads.

Further influx, largely bronco-pneumonias. Down to five wards of wounded, all the rest medical.

Several Sisters down with influenza. War news promising; Germans in retreat.

Air raid. I did not distinguish myself; I have not the stomach for it I had before.

Miss Willets sent for me; the worst news. Edmund has been admitted to No. 3: influenza. She says it may be bad.

Temperature 103 and delirious. I have cabled Deans Park.

Sat at my brother's side throughout the night. Sister says there is a new treatment worth trying; we are now giving oxygen.

Edmund holding his own.

Edmund knew me for the first time since his admission. He is very weak. The treatment was developed by a New Zealand nurse, apparently; similar to treatment for gas.

Some quite bad cases are beginning to be pulled through. Cautious optimism regarding Edmund.

Loveliest letter from Arthur; he is ‘much concerned for my well-being' — I had written of the raid, though played down my part.

Sister says those influenza cases who have turned the corner are to be evacuated. I have made an appointment with Matron. My mind is made up: nursing Edmund back to health must be my priority.

Although she can ‘sympathise with my position', Matron advises that a hasty decision ‘could prove difficult to undo', and suggests instead that I apply for a transfer to a Home Establishment. She has approved ten days' leave so that I can see Edmund home to England.

Awaiting embarkation. I wish we were safely over.

Both Uncle Aubrey and Arthur were waiting to meet us. I was not sure where to look and embarrassed myself completely by dissolving into tears. Uncle Aubrey took charge (thankfully) and I am now in a comfortable Hotel room with the perfect luxury of a bathtub and oodles of hot water while he is gone off to see Edmund is settled and to send telegrams. I am very glad it is all done; I suddenly find myself absolutely exhausted.

Edmund is to remain at 5th Southern until judged fit for transfer, when he will go to either Brockenhurst or Hornchurch. Uncle Aubrey must return to London but says he will ‘keep tabs'. He was rather doubtful about Arthur and I being ‘unchaperoned', until reminded that ‘the young man in question' was known to my parents, having travelled with us on the
Remuera
, and had also been approved by no less a personage than Lady Braybrooke. After my uncle's departure Arthur and I walked along the shore. The sky was dull and the shingle beach rather uninviting. I am grateful for his company, and told him so; he has been a good friend throughout this beastly War.