Angel of the Somme: The Great War, Book 1 (6 page)

Chapter Eight

Lily grabbed a muffin and settled down on the long wooden bench at the crowded kitchen table. She struggled to keep her eyelids open. When she lifted the muffin to her mouth, her arm ached. Between the spending half the night unloading wounded from train cars and trying to help the new VADs, she felt physically and emotionally spent.

Sorting out the injured at the train station had been the worst of it. Triage was Lily’s most hated duty and though she tried to block the thoughts from her mind, they persisted in sneaking across the border. When Lily scribbled a triage number on a card, it meant the difference between life and death to her patient. With so many men in desperate need of attention and limited ability to tend to all of them, it was up to her split-second analysis to determine who would be seen first. A heartbreaking task.

She’d joined the war to save lives, not to play at God. Humans weren’t meant for such a cruel occupation.

She glanced up from her breakfast to see a deflated Rose grab a muffin and make her way toward the table. Lily was disappointed but not surprised to find that the shadows beneath the girl’s eyes were even deeper. Lily scooted over to create a space for her roommate.

Rose settled in beside her and took a tiny nibble of her muffin. A wilted English rose at best. The poor girl was getting a baptism by fire now, for certain. Though Rose’s general ability on the ward had improved, yesterday she’d flown apart when faced with some particularly nasty injuries. Upon seeing her first septic leg, the girl vomited all over Sister Newell’s shoes.

“Chin up, Rose.” Lily reached out and squeezed the girl’s hand.

Rose gave her a weak smile. “At this rate, they’ll never trust me with train duty.”

“Give it time,” Lily said. “Besides, word is we won’t be receiving any more trains for some time. We need a few days to clear the wards to Blighty.”

“Oh good,” Rose said. “It’ll be nice to have you around New Bedlam today. I know I’m not the only one who’s missed you these past few days.”

Lily laughed. “Please. You can’t mean Gordy Robbins.”

“I don’t mean him at all.” Rose smiled, and the motion seemed to take some of the shadows from beneath her eyes. “I mean Captain Dwight.”

“Why, that’s just…silly.” Lily swallowed. The muffin stuck in her throat. “But I have to ask, why would you think that?”

Rose’s smile didn’t fade. “Because despite how much he appears to look forward to his mail, he declines to have anyone but you read it to him.”

“Oh, that.” Lily could feel heat rising in her cheeks. “Perhaps he just likes the way I read.”

Rose laughed. “Oh yes, Lily. That’s it entirely. Your reading skills, and only your reading skills, have ensnared him.”

Lily stood and dusted the crumbs from her skirt. “We should go before the matron comes in and accuses us of lounging about.”

Rose reached out to squeeze Lily’s hand. “He seems like a wonderful sort, you know. I’d rather be thrilled if a dashing captain held out for my mail reading abilities.”

They made their way to the rear of the room just as the breakfast carts were being loaded up. After such frantic days at the station, doing something as mundane as serving a breakfast seemed like a gift.

Lily grabbed a cart and wheeled it next to the serving table. Before she began loading it, however, Matron Marshall clumped into the room and headed directly toward her.

“Miss Curtis,” the matron said, “you’re to let the less experienced girls handle meals. Dr. Raye has specifically requested your assistance on rounds.” Her voice was thick with disapproval. “Wait outside his office, if you please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lily walked through the back hall toward the surgical rooms. Though she was slightly disappointed to be called away from breakfast duty, it was always a pleasure to work with Dr. Raye. He was unique in being the one person at New Bedlam who viewed Lily as an actual nurse, much to the matron’s discomfort.

Even better, at least to Lily’s point-of-view, the doctor had a very educated approach regarding medical practices. He even agreed with Lily regarding the more modern practice of blood typing, even though he was English. Lily had discovered that American and Canadian medical staff disagreed with the French and English most profoundly when it came to blood transfusions. Her European counterparts looked at transfusions as a course of last resort, whereas the North Americans embraced newer techniques. Since Lily was working in an English-run hospital, however, her opinions on such matters were thoroughly ignored by all except the very forward thinking Dr. Raye.

Lily reached the doctor’s office and knocked on the door.

“Please come in,” Dr. Raye said.

She entered his small and extremely cluttered office to find the doctor sorting through a jumble of files. He was a big man with a wide, sun-tanned face. He reminded her of the loggers back home, more fit for a life in the wild than inside a surgical ward. Perhaps that was why she felt such fondness for him—she and he were both square pegs trying to fit into round holes.

“Good morning, sir,” she said.

“Miss Curtis. Thank you for joining me.” Though usually quick to smile, the doctor looked more somber than usual, and extremely weary. His salt and pepper hair was especially unruly and he was badly in need of a shave. He cleared his throat, a nervous habit of his. “It’s been a rough couple of days. How’re you holding up?”

“I’m fine, sir. Hard work is what I came here for.”

Dr. Raye nodded at her. “That’s the spirit.” He wrote a few quick notes, then collected his stack of papers and attached them to his clipboard. “I should expect things will settle down any time now. A few days of this and neither side will have the temerity to push for much longer.”

He stood and left the office, with Lily following behind.

By the time they arrived in the officers’ ward, the VADs were just beginning their breakfast rounds. Though the ward was never as boisterous as the enlisted wards, it felt especially quiet this morning, like a fidgety child holding still for a church sermon. The regulars were attuned to the cycles of New Bedlam and tended to settle into a more silent mode when the freshly wounded joined their ranks.

The doctor stopped by the beds of the newer patients first. Most of them had amputated limbs, likely performed in haste at a casualty clearing station. Many suffered the additional injury of the recent gas attacks at Deville Wood. Though most had been hit with mustard gas, a few were suffering from the effects of phosgene, an especially cruel invention. Between seeping eyes, lung injuries and the terrible skin blisters, examination took much longer than for the more established patients. The new arrivals were so doped from morphine, they were scarcely aware of the doctor’s presence, or their own.

Lily trailed behind Dr. Raye, gripping a clipboard and taking notes regarding alterations to treatment or medication. On most of the charts, she noted “Cleared for England.” As soon as a bed was available, the man would be loaded on a hospital ship to finish recovering at a hospital back home. Not that any of them would ever fully recover. She’d seen thousands missing limbs or horribly disfigured, but the visible injuries were only the more obvious wounds. After years of living in ditches, watching so many of their comrades fall, how could a man remain unscarred?

She shook her head to clear her mind. She’d have time for contemplation later. For now, she focused on the new patients as she followed Dr. Raye through the ward.

When they made their way toward the rear of the ward and their regulars, Gordy greeted them with a grin.

“Lovely to see you!” Gordy wrestled with his cast and managed to sit up in bed, giving Lily a very enthusiastic wave. Likely in deference to the doctor’s presence, he’d left off calling her “Bluebird,” which was a relief.

“Good morning,” Lily replied.

“Still staying off your foot, Lieutenant Robbins?”

“As ordered, sir,” Gordy said with a saucy salute.

The doctor chuckled. Gordy had an inappropriate charm that captured everyone. Well, everyone but the impenetrable matron. Lily’s smile faded at the thought of her.

“The captain’s the one who can’t stay where he’s supposed to. Had another seizure yesterday. Did you hear?”

Lily swallowed. Her throat felt as if a stone sat in the center of it. Not the Captain. After seeing such a tidal wave of misery the past few days, she’d missed the Farmer-Captain and his quiet charm. She cast a quick glance at him. Though he was deeply asleep, his face looked haggard and pinched, his color far too pale.

Dr. Raye cleared his throat and grabbed the captain’s chart. He studied it with interest, making a little humming noise as he scanned the page. He looked at Gordy. “It was more prolonged than the last one. Has he woken since the incident, Lieutenant?”

“Not a peep from him, sir.”

“I see.” The doctor reached down to check the captain’s pulse. “Were you nearby when it occurred?”

“I was. Happened in a flash. As soon as they wheeled him into the back garden, he was out of his chair and laying in the dirt—his whole body jerking.”

Dr. Raye frowned and looked back to the chart. “It’s noted here that it lasted for three minutes. Would you say that’s about right?”

“Maybe. Though it seemed an awfully lot longer when you were watching it.” Gordy thought for a moment, then looked up to the doctor again. “The French ladies did a right proper job of trying to take care of him though. One of them put a scarf under his head so he wouldn’t hurt himself and another fetched Sister Newell.”

“Good to hear, Lieutenant.” After the doctor wrote a few notes on the chart, he cleared his throat again. “How is his temperature, Miss Curtis?”

A fever was one of the first signs of meningitis, always a risk when the brain was injured or following a seizure. The fragile tissues surrounding the brain would swell and once symptoms began to show, they usually lost the patient. New Bedlam had recorded the vast majority of their head injuries to meningitis.

She slipped a thermometer into his mouth and carefully maneuvered it beneath his tongue, but he didn’t wake. After waiting a few moments, she removed it.

“Ninety-eight point seven, Doctor.”

She unbuttoned the top of his hospital blues to check for splotching. Though still well muscled, he was a lot leaner than he’d been the night he’d been brought in to the hospital. His wide chest was covered with a sprinkling of black hair, but bore no signs of the red or bruised marks.

“He seems to be in the clear,” she said as she rebuttoned his top.

“Are you very familiar with this patient, Miss Curtis?” The doctor continued to scribble down notes. “Would you say he seems mentally fit?”

“Yes, Dr. Raye. Positive and quite responsive.”

“His propensity to seize is alarming.” Dr. Raye said. “For now, I’d like to keep the captain away from anything that could possibly trigger another incident. Is he on the SI list?”

Lily nodded her confirmation.

“Please note on his chart that he’s to be kept away from sunlight, loud noises—anything that has been known to induce seizure behavior. Undue stress is another cause and he needs to avoid it as well—as much as possible in wartime.”

“Certainly, Doctor. Perhaps if you could…” Lily trailed off awkwardly.

“Speak to the matron myself?” The doctor gave her a kind smile.

Lily nodded. There was no point hiding it. “The matron is a big proponent of keeping the patients up and active—as you know.”

“I’ll have a word with her. In the meantime, keep a special eye to this one, Miss Curtis. If he’s not alert and speaking by tomorrow morning, please let me know.”

“Of course.” Lily felt a wave of relief wash over her. It was followed quickly by a much smaller wave of guilt for having such a response. Captain Dwight was a patient, just like any other. And she refused to feel anything other than…

“Miss Curtis?” Dr. Raye’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Sorry, sir. You were saying?”

“I asked if you’d make a note to increase the Captain’s Phenobarbital to thrice daily.”

“Certainly.” She scribbled a notation on his chart, but not before noticing the slight smirk that played around Gordy’s lips.

Dr. Raye moved across the aisle. Lily hung the Captain’s chart at the foot of his bed before she followed.

After they finished the room, they started working through the remaining wards. The enlisted wards were each a little larger than the officers’ ward. Three doctors on staff meant that each doctor would see about three hundred patients on their rounds, though since Dr. MacGuire was off duty, Lily and Dr. Raye would see close to four hundred. Most doctors had no choice but to rush through their patients, but Dr. Raye always took his time.

When rounds were nearly finished, the doctor discovered a private with a gangrenous foot.

“It’s best to operate now,” he told the scared soldier. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to leave you to finish the rounds on your own, Miss Curtis.”

Lily blinked at him. He couldn’t be serious. Dr. Raye trusted her with rounds? Only nursing sisters ever did rounds by themselves, and that was under extreme circumstances.

“There’s only half a dozen patients left. You’ll do fine. I’ve been watching you. Just take your usual detailed notes and leave them on my desk.”

Dr. Raye motioned for an orderly and they loaded the soldier into a wheelchair, headed to one of the operating rooms.

Lily swallowed and, hoping she looked more competent than she felt, continued along the row of wounded men. She only hoped she could finish rounds before the matron came into the room. If she saw Lily engaged in such a task, it might just kill the poor woman.

Chapter Nine

When Sam woke, his head was in a hurricane of pain. It sang and whistled around him furiously. He dared a peek, just a sliver, but the light sliced into him, and he closed his eyes.

After a few moments, he gathered himself enough to attempt to sit up. His legs were uncooperative and jellylike. His arms too felt strangely detached and trembled when he tried to move them.

He’d last been where? The garden. The French girl in the red dress had been wheeling him into the back yard. He’d been joking with Gordy and had just looked up into the sky when something had happened—the seizure, or vision, or whatever the damned thing was. It had picked him up and thrown him into a shell hole in No Man’s Land—more than two dozen miles away.

He moved his protesting arm to rub his forehead with shaking fingers, a lame attempt to banish the screaming pain inside his mind. If he had a few moments to collect himself, to think, apart from this damned headache, he might be able to sort out this peculiar business.

He hadn’t actually gone to a trench. He couldn’t have. And yet, it felt so real. Realer than his existence trapped in the hospital bed. But that was impossible. It went against all sense.

This time, his vision had been more solid, less dreamlike. And this time, the soldier hadn’t been alone. Another man had conversed with him. If only there was a way to find the two men from in the trench. To confirm that they’d seen Sam as clearly as Sam had seen the pair of them.

He flexed his hand, remembering that moment of frisson, of pure white healing light, when he’d touched the wounded man’s fingers. The memory of healing the soldier burned around the edges of Sam’s headache. Such a powerful thing
had
to be real. No matter if it didn’t make sense, no matter if Sam could find witnesses to the deed. Dreams didn’t feel like that.

And if what he thought was happening was really happening, it would mean, well, everything. It would mean he had a chance to make a real difference in the middle of this never-ending war. That he could save lives.

He had to smile at the thought. That he, Sam Dwight, farmer and sometimes captain, had been transformed from bedridden base rat into some kind of healing angel. It was ridiculous. Impossible. Why would he of all people be given such a power?

And yet, what other explanation was there?

If only he could somehow confirm his otherworldly trench visits. If only he had some way to find the men he’d helped to save. He hadn’t thought to ask either soldier for a name and only had the vaguest idea of where he’d been in that vast, tangled wasteland.

It became evident to him in an instant. He’d have to test it again. It would be the only way to know for sure. Set up another seizure, this time retaining the name of the men in the trench. In the meantime, he couldn’t dare tell anyone. They’d think him mad. Hell, he nearly thought himself mad. But the only way he’d know for certain was to venture another trip to the trenches, even if the thought of enduring another seizure filled him with dread.

When he opened his eyes this time, he moved cautiously. As he squinted a glance around the room, his headache clawed against his skull in protest.

Several of the VADs were busy in the ward—reading letters to men, rebandaging wounds. Heavy losses at the front echoed down the line to mean longer waits for the hospital ship back to Blighty.

Lily Curtis sat beside a patient several aisles over, reading a letter to one of the new arrivals. Though he could only see her in profile, her weariness was evident. There were dark shadows beneath her green eyes that he hadn’t noticed before. When she glanced his way, she held his gaze for a long moment. A small worry line appeared between her eyes and he forced a smile in an effort to ease her. She tucked a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear and continued with the letter.

Seeing her face, even pinched and worried, was a terrific balm to him. He closed his eyes, relieved, and rested for a few moments. When footsteps approached his bed, he knew they belonged to Lily. He opened his eyes to see her standing at his bedside.

“How are you feeling?” Though a typical question, she asked it with refreshing genuineness.

“Headache.” His voice was a harsh croak.

“That’s to be expected. Is this the first time you’ve woken since your seizure?”

“Yes.”

She stepped back to the medicine cabinet for a few moments and returned with a small metal cup. The clear liquid inside smelled slightly sulphuric, but he swallowed it without complaint.

“That should take the edge off your pain very quickly. Tell me, how do your joints feel? Dr. Raye said they might hurt as well.”

“They do, as a matter of fact,” he replied. He lifted his arm and it trembled rather violently. “How long have I been asleep?”

She glanced up at the wall clock. “Almost twenty-four hours. This seizure lasted longer than the other one, so it’s to be expected that your recovery time will take a bit as well.”

Of course it had taken longer. The first time, he’d found a soldier to heal right away. This time he’d had a conversation and crawled around for a while before he could heal the boy. Crawled through the mud. His hospital blues had been streaked with muck.

He pulled back his covers to check his shirt. Bright blue and clean. Of course. They’d have changed him before putting him back to bed. If he had any dirt on his hospital blues, they’d have attributed to his fall in the garden.

The bitter liquid she’d given him appeared to be kicking in. The howling pain in his head quieted down a bit, just as his vision began to blur slightly. His face felt strangely rubbery and he reached up touch the tip of his nose.

“The morphine is beginning to work, I see,” she said.

He grinned at her stupidly.

“Since you haven’t eaten since yesterday, I’ll scare something up for you in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.” She turned to leave.

“Wonderful,” he replied, as the opiates flooded his head, comfortably filling up the place where all that pain had dwelt.

When she returned, she bore a tray with bread and some cold chicken. “We’re between meals, so it’s not much.”

Truth be told, the sight of the cold white meat made his stomach flop, but he couldn’t let her efforts go to waste. Fighting nausea, he lifted his hand to take the bread. His fingers trembled so violently he gave it up for a lost cause. She placed the bread to his lips and he took a bite.

Left to his own devices, he’d be forced to put his face in his plate and dine in the fashion of his sister’s pig. It was disheartening to have gotten so much better only to find himself back in this weakened condition.

“The Phenobarbital should make a big difference in your seizures. It just takes a while to take effect.”

Since he had a mouth full of bread, he could only nod a response. His headache sloshed a weak warning.

“We also need help from you. These seizures are putting your brain in distress and we’ll need you to limit your activities quite severely until you’re stabilized.”

Not having a seizure might make perfect medical sense, but it was the last thing Sam wanted. “What sort of limits?” he asked quickly before she gave him a forkful of chicken.

“Since you seem to be triggered by optical stress, you’ll need to limit pretty much anything to do with your eyes. Going outside, reading—that sort of thing.”

“I see,” he said. Well, if his eyes were the trigger, a seizure should be an easy enough thing to induce.

“Once you’re stabilized, sunlight and reading won’t be a problem.” She lifted another forkful to his lips.

He chewed carefully. The medication made his tongue feel strangely thick and he had to concentrate on not chewing it along with the chicken.

Though his appetite hadn’t picked up, the dose of morphine had packed his headache into a box and put it on the back shelf.

After he’d forced himself to finish the meal, she pushed the tray aside. “Is there anything else you need? Perhaps I could read some of your mail to you.”

“Yes, thank you. But before you get to that, I’ve a question.”

She tilted her head toward him. “Yes?”

“I was wondering about recent admissions, actually. I was looking for a friend of mine. A victim of the recent gas attack.”

“I can check if you like. What’s his name?”

“I don’t believe, that is to say…” He floundered about like an idiot. “I’m afraid I don’t know. He’s Cornish, if that helps.”

She gave her nurse smile. He liked her other smile, her Lily-smile, so much better. “Don’t worry. It’s to be expected with a head injury. You’ll come around in time.”

“Phosgene,” he said. “I think it was phosgene gas.”

She gave him a curious glance, opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. “We’ve had dozens of gas attack victims, but very few phosgene patients. I’ll check the registry if you like. See if we have anyone from a regiment from Cornwall.” She reached toward his mail basket. “Now, how about we get on with reading your mail?”

“That would be lovely, Lily.”

She blushed prettily. “You really shouldn’t call me that.”

“Lovely Lily.” Sam bit his bottom lip, but he knew it was a bit late for that. “I hadn’t intended to say it aloud, if that makes any difference.”

She pursed her lips as she sorted through his few letters, but he could see the hint of a smile trying to escape. It struck him that the pair of them could be any couple, anywhere in the world. Just a man striking up a conversation with a pretty, blushing girl. No head injury, no war, no death and dying all around them. No otherworldly visits to the trenches. Just Lily reading to Sam, trying to hide her secret smile.

“There’s a letter from Baden Dwight at the top. Shall we start with that?” she asked, flickering a quick glance to him with her impossibly green eyes.

“They’re quite remarkable,” he said.

“What is?” She blinked at him.

“Your eyes. I’ve been deciding on the precise color and I’ve finally come up with it. They are the exact shade of barley sprouts in the Spring.” Perfect. Compare her loveliness to things on his farm. Next thing he knew, he’d be telling her that her hair was softer than Molly the sheepdog.

She bit her bottom lip and looked away. “You’re quite unlike yourself, Captain. Perhaps the morphine is loosening your tongue today.”

“Truly? I thought it was my farmer’s charm and not the morphine at all. I’m far more comfortable pitching hay than pitching woo and I…” He stopped mid-sentence and looked to her, feeling a fool. “That was aloud as well, wasn’t it?”

The pretty blush she already wore darkened by a shade and she exhaled in a shaky whoosh. “How about I get to reading your mail?” She tore open Bad’s letter and pulled out a sheet of paper. It was filled with his brother’s familiar, sloppy script. Before she got much beyond his salutation—which had been, unfortunately, “Dear Old Man”—a stress-filled female voice called to her from a few beds away.

“Miss Curtis? If you could take a look, please?” A nameless VAD had been in the middle of rebandaging a leg wound and was currently standing awkwardly in the aisle, her skin a distinctly green hue.

“I need to help Miss Frederick. So sorry, Captain. Mail will have to wait, I’m afraid.” Lily tucked the letter back in the basket and picked up his lunch tray. “Don’t forget—no stress and stay out of the sunlight. We want you well as soon as possible.”

He tried to salute her and accidently poked himself in the eye. Damned uncooperative hands. “Yes, Major Lily.”

She gave him a
shhh
look and he was rewarded with another lovely blush before she scurried off to help her compatriot.

Dear God but the morphine had loosened his tongue to a shocking degree. Perhaps, with a little luck, he’d not remember it. And with a whole lot of luck, she’d forget as well. It wouldn’t be too much to hope that one of the properties of morphine was forgetfulness. As he drifted off to sleep on an opiate cloud, he wondered idly if the drug might even have the power to transport him back to the trenches.