Evie's War (10 page)

Received a dressing-down from Matron for our escapade last night, but it was not too bad as we were all in it together. It is, however, Not To Be Repeated.

Success in Africa and disasters in Russia. I no longer entirely trust the newspapers, which present every battle as a victory, no matter the cost paid by our men. Of the real situation, the boys coming into the Hospital say little, but all are desperately grateful to be safe and clean and cared for.

Mr Lindsay, whom I must learn to call Corporal Lindsay, is ‘across the Channel' — which is all the censors allowed — and writes that his Greek is of less use than his Latin. Also, that his feet and back vie for ‘the honour of greatest weariness'. Perhaps Winifred is right in her supposition, or perhaps he has written to us both: I will ask when I see her tomorrow; she is on duty tonight.

The weekend flew by with a most splendid surprise: Edmund was at the Station to meet me! He is home for four days. To Mother's effusive outpourings, he says little. He is not quite the insouciant brother who went off to War. As well he is plagued by a cough. When we had a quiet moment I enquired whether it was gas, to which he shrugged.

Aunt Marjorie proposed a picnic on Saturday, Father arranging a cart to transport us and our hampers to the river. Edmund lay down on the grass and slept, for those moments looking almost relaxed, until Eugenie contrived to
be stung by a bee and let out such a yell that he startled awake, wild-eyed and rigid. I have seen the look before and gave him a reassuring smile, whereat he held my gaze. There are things that Mother and Aunt Marjorie will never know about this War, but that cannot now be unknown between Edmund and I.

I forgot yesterday to write that Winifred on Monday received a note from Mr Lindsay, dated the same day as mine but somehow delayed. So we are even!

Edmund will by now be back in France. I wish more than ever that it were over, and can only trust that Uncle Aubrey is right when he says it will be so before Christmas. One can't help but remember the same being said last year.

Lady B has come up with a splendid scheme, being the formation of a local branch of the Girls' Friendly Society — patroness, one Lady Braybrooke — with Millie and Eugenie amongst the founding members. Aunt Marjorie is quite puffed up. Mother, somewhat less enraptured by Lady B, wonders rather loudly ‘whether we are all to become so swept up in the War that we risk forgetting where our Home and Duty lies'. Aggravating that one should be constantly admonished to Support The War Effort, but that, on doing so, one is accused of Neglecting One's Duty At Home. Clearly Mother's first duty is to ensure Father's comfort and attend to William, while Aunt Marjorie's lies with her children and household. Those duties attended, surely my time may be freely contributed to the War Effort? At the very least I should think I might be allowed to decide for myself where my Duty is spent.

At Millie's request I attended the founding meeting of the GFS, held in the Church Hall immediately following Morning Service. There are seven girls, aged from eleven to fifteen, and their first project is to produce surgical dressings and bandages, of which I heartily approve. Lady B caught me off guard with a proposal that I should speak about my work. As changing men into pyjamas after washing mud and blood and worse from their limbs is not a topic for girls so young, I simply said that I assisted with each new intake of wounded and attended their needs while they remained in Hospital — for which I received a strapping round of applause and blushed like a beet! Millie looked proud as could be. For good measure I assured them how useful additional medical supplies will be.

Another exhausting week, with an endless stream of ambulances unloading their sorry cargoes. I was walking along the Backs this morning as they poured by one after another, after another — they do make a fearful racket. An Auxiliary Hospital is being opened in town to take some of our medical cases, as we simply cannot keep up.

A note from Major D: he is keeping well and often thinks of the care given him at 1st Eastern, without which he says he would have remained in decline.

The War has lasted a year. All agree it cannot go on much longer.

Matron sent for me and bid me sit, which I took to be a bad sign. It was, though not as dreadful as I first feared. A soldier admitted to the Hospital has asked for me by name and Matron wished to check that I knew him. It is my half-brother Harry, from whom I have heard nothing since our meeting of four months ago. When I explained that he was a relative whom I had newly met, she told me his ward and allowed I should visit.

Harry appeared pleased to see me. He has suffered a compound fracture of the femur and is in considerable pain. I sat with him for half an hour, during which he asked about my work in the Hospital, and I told him quite honestly that I had previously had no notion of undertaking such a job, but at least now felt useful, and that, though it is hard, I would be loath to give it up. He next asked whether I would take up nursing as a career. I could not answer that for I do not know, and said only that I thought it impossible for any who daily deal with the human tragedy of War to think beyond it. Harry replied, rather sadly, ‘You are very young to deal in tragedy.' Several of my Officers have commented in a similar vein — yet I am no younger than many of the men who pass through these wards, though they often seem older than their years. Perhaps that is a natural consequence of having seen War face to face.

When I stood to go Harry asked, slightly desperately, whether I might visit again. Of course I shall, though it feels more like sitting with one of my Officers than with a brother. Sister told me he will be transferred to a Physical Therapy Unit once he is stabilised — about ten days, she thought — after which he will have leave. I have sent a telegram to Father. It would be rather splendid were we to invite Harry to recuperate at Deans Park, but unless Father is willing to lay the matter before Mother, it cannot happen.

Father arrived this afternoon — Sister directed him to the garden where I had wheeled Major J and several of my Lieutenants, all of whom greeted him with great politeness. He rather diffidently thanked me for my communiqué and I relayed Sister's assurances that Harry would likely make an excellent recovery. Father hummed and cleared his throat before managing to say that it was not his intention to in any way embarrass or distress any member of his family. Mother, I deduced, was not to be told of Harry's plight. On the train down to Littlebury we were both rather tonguetied, so I do not know how Father's visit went, and my proposal for Harry's recuperation remains unspoken.

On tenterhooks all weekend but nothing was said. I went to visit Harry as soon as I reached Cambridge; as a consequence I was past curfew returning to Selwyn and now have a Black Mark against my name.

On receiving my explanation Matron expunged the Black Mark, but warned that in future I should pay my visits during regular hours.

Played two games of draughts with Harry this afternoon, consequently missing tea. Winifred saved me bread and jam and a slice of cake.

Harry proves the owner of a rather ribald sense of humour, and — unlike the rest of my family — is unconstrained by a need to always Say The Right Thing. Generally our chats are about nothing in particular, but today he asked, rather diffidently, what our Father is like. It was only as I described Father as a sheep farmer and businessman that I realised how little I really know of his various commercial interests! I once went with him to the Port, and have several times visited the woolstores in which he holds a part-share, but of his other interests I am largely ignorant. Not considering any of this pertinent to Harry's question, I shared my memories of a game Father played while dandling us on his knee, and, when I was very small, of his lifting me atop his great Clydesdale stallion, Silver Prince, as it stood in the winners' enclosure at the Agricultural and Pastoral Show, I think to demonstrate to the crowd how very quiet it was. Mother was horrified, and that was the end of that. But I still recall the weight of the winner's medal, as big as my small hand, and the smell of warm horse and leather, and the feel of Father lifting me up. In the face of my reminiscing Harry became rather quiet, so perhaps I should have said less, his own childhood likely being less idyllic. However he is not one to be downhearted and the shadow quickly passed. He is being transferred tomorrow; I shall be sorry to see him go.

When I updated Father on Harry's recovery, he thanked me but requested I not mention ‘the matter' in front of Mother. Really, I think he overestimates her reaction. Harry, however, is perfectly real, making Father's obligations as a parent clear.

Winifred says I am a naïve romantic, and that she is not in the slightest surprised that Mother should want nothing to do with Father's B____. I assured her with some asperity that Harry is not a B (the word did not pass my lips, though it did hers). She said that if the marriage was annulled he most certainly is, and that it is better, thus, for Edmund. I declined to discuss it further, but now cannot shake the whole hateful conversation from my head.

Sister told me off — quite reasonably — for clumsiness, which I put down to sleeping rather poorly. I am in no mood to try to raise anyone's spirits!

Corporal Lindsay writes that he received a slight wound at the end of July, from which he has been recuperating in a ‘swish' French Hospital. He says the food is jolly good compared to what he is accustomed to in the trenches, and that War is not at all as he expected, the noise being the worst part. I wrote back immediately, though I am not sure whether the letter will reach him while he is not with his Regiment. Ignoring a brief and unworthy temptation to keep his letter to myself, I passed it on to Winifred.

A Captain who arrived with us two days ago has described an astonishing development, being the Battle for the Skies. He says both Hot Air Balloons and Bi-planes are employed to spy out the Enemy lines, the Hun endeavouring to shoot the machines down while the fearless pilots also shoot at
one another in the air. I am glad Edmund did not hear of it before he signed up or he would doubtless have seen himself engaging in just such thrilling battles. He is safer on the ground.

Winifred just now rushed in to tell me she has at last received a reply from the Red Cross, and it is positive. She plans to discuss it with Lady B tomorrow.

Also, a card came from Harry, thanking me for troubling to visit. I could not have done otherwise. Scribbled a quick note in reply; I do wish him well.

Uncle Aubrey has been ordered to take a week's rest; he does not look at all well, being rather grey of complexion. He and Father toured the estate and returned deep in conversation about a new device that will combine the work of threshing and binding. I am sure it did my uncle good to focus on something other than the War. According to the newspapers, the last few weeks have seen a renewed offensive in the Dardanelles, with additional British troops committed, while the NZEF and AEF — jointly called, rather splendidly, ANZACs — continue to fight gallantly. They have their base at a large cove situated at the toe of the Gallipoli Peninsula, from where they endeavour to scale the rugged heights. I wonder how many of the young men on Ada's list might be amongst them.

Lady B has agreed, in light of Winifred ‘already having proven herself', to back her proposal, which will enable
Winifred to supply her own ambulance, expediting her departure. Though I am happy for her, she will be missed. She intends handing her notice to Matron tomorrow.

Edmund is wounded. Maddeningly, he provides no details other than that he is being shipped home. I have sent a note to Uncle Aubrey in case he may be able to discover more.

Rather distracted all day; no further word as yet.

Matron has agreed to accept Winifred's resignation, but advises her to wait until all is prepared, as ‘these things can take time to organise'. Not if Winifred (or Lady B!) has anything to do with it, I think.

Mother in great distress, demanding I attend her at once.

As suspected, Mother is in a flap over my brother. If he had only thought to include details of his injury! I told her that if Edmund is able to write, his injury cannot be too bad, which comment she judged both unsisterly and unfeeling.

Edmund is in Portsmouth; by some miracle he managed to telephone to the Post Office and they sent the message up. It is not yet clear whether he will be transferred on.

Mother and Father departed for Portsmouth, I for Cambridge. Suffered a pang at the Station as they boarded their train, though by his own account Edmund is well cared for and recovering and I therefore have no grounds for worry. Even so, I feel rather low. Edmund injured, Harry and Mr Lindsay both injured, Winifred off to Belgium: the War has taken a rather personal turn.

Felt very sorry for myself last night, which Just Won't Do. How I shall cope when I haven't Winifred to tell me to ‘Buck Up', I cannot imagine.

Telegram from Father: Edmond recovering well. It is a leg wound.

Double shifts from today as there is a rush expected; I can hear the ambulances starting to arrive. No escape for W until this one is over.