Evie's War (13 page)

My uncle and aunt have gone to meet Monty's train. He is home for three weeks and will be thoroughly delighted.

Slept through the early Service in favour of Eventide Carols, accompanied by Eugenie and Millie (Monty says he has had enough of ‘all that' at school, and my aunt is inclined to indulge him at present).

Hillary is gone; we are told she has returned home for reasons of health. How easy and cheap it is to snigger.

As we were singing carols, unbeknownst to us, the Gallipoli Peninsula was being evacuated. Not a man was lost: truly a Christmas Miracle.

Sister asked whether I have volunteered to work on Christmas Day, but with Edmund home on leave I plan to go down as usual on Friday so that we may be together as a family. We have been wrapping gifts for the men all week and have them hidden away in readiness, while one of the
drivers has offered to gather holly and mistletoe, which he will bring in on Friday morning.

Another service postcard from Harry — I think perhaps he did not take his writing set with him. He says he will try to write every week as letters help to make it tolerable (inducing guilt, as I have yet to reply to his last). He is due to go out with a wiring party, of which he says ‘there's other parties I'd rather go to', and ends by sending his best wishes of the season to ‘all the family'. I shall make time to write at length over the weekend.

The wards look splendid. There are parcels for all the men: our small contributions, which include donations from Millie's Girls' Society, as well as something for each man from Queen Alexandra herself.

Impossible not to remember other Christmases, and to wish for Peace. It is as if the War is a large and unwanted guest who sits glowering at our table. Of us all Monty is most cheerful, followed by Mother, content with Edmund on one hand and William (who is too young to know what all the fuss is about but enjoys the attention, nonetheless) on the other. Cook pulled out the stops and we are positively stuffed (how Mother would blanch if she heard me use such a term, irrespective of how well it reflects the situation!). Uncle Aubrey looks exhausted. I had planned to ask about some of the battles my poor men have suffered through, but have decided against, for fear it spoil his Christmas.

Went for a long walk with Edmund. His leg is much improved though he says it aches in the cold. He plans to apply to the Medical Board again next month.

Horrible, shocking news. Harry has been killed, on Christmas Eve. Word reached us today. It seems so unjust, when he was so newly recovered and freshly returned. I cannot believe it. His letters and cards were so alive. The worst is to realise the unspeakable waste of it all.

Endeavoured to talk to Father. Discussing Harry has always been fraught and now proves no different, however, he appeared quite moved when I showed him Harry's last postcard.

I cannot wait for this year to end, and hope and pray that God has nobler things planned for the next.

1916

William's birthday. I gave him a teething rattle purchased from the men's woodwork exhibition at 1st Eastern, but could not get into the spirit, my thoughts continually drifting to my half-brother. I must keep telling myself there is no doubt he is gone, but it is as if the news of his death is something I dreamt, and will soon wake to find not so.

Though it remains undiscussed, Harry's death has cast a pall. Edmund returned to London early. Father visibly upset: one son's death must surely make one feel the departure of another more keenly.

A letter awaited my return to Cambridge. It is from a Captain Elliott, Harry's Commanding Officer. Included are my letters and various personal effects — it seems Harry asked that these come to me in the event of his death. The Captain writes that Harry and four others were killed by
a shell while on wiring patrol, that it would have been instantaneous and that they would not have suffered. I am shaken to realise he was killed only hours after writing, and to learn that he had spoken of ‘the great kindness I had shown him'. Captain Elliott concludes, ‘Private Clark was a good soldier and a fine man. He died bravely in the service of his Country, and will be welcomed by God.'

I wonder how many such letters the Captain has been obliged to write? It left me feeling rather cast down, though I am aware that was not his intent.

I cannot credit how little care seems to be taken of the men before they reach us. Half are still covered in mud, and their dressings — if they have any — are shocking. Men tell me they have lain for days in the mud before being carried in, then waited hours or even days at a Dressing Station before being seen. Some have spent as long again on railway sidings before being sent on to the Channel Ports. Can this really be the best we can do?

Today I admitted a soldier who looked so young I could scarcely believe he had been allowed to the Front. At first he claimed he was nineteen then, faced with my scepticism, confessed he was ‘nearly seventeen'. He said many lied about their age, adding that if they'd known what they were in for, they likely wouldn't have.

I had hoped for a moment alone with Father in which I might show him Captain Elliott's letter, but the opportunity
is yet to arise. Mother tells me Winifred is home. I am surprised she did not write to let me know she was coming.

The newspapers report that President Wilson of the United States of America is arranging a Peace Conference, which is perhaps why the German U-boats have decided against sinking more of his ships, leaving them free to concentrate more fully on ours.

Father thanked me for showing him the Captain's letter. As to why it had been sent to me, no questions were asked. It seems he has no desire to discuss the matter further, while I should like to complain bitterly about the injustice of it all.

Sent up a prayer for Harry. Captain Elliott's letter has been much in my mind: would he relay it, I wonder, should one of his men's deaths not be ‘instantaneous and without suffering'? At the Hospital we are advised to couch such letters in the most idealised terms. For Harry's sake, I pray the Captain's words were sincere. I should have liked to discuss it with Winifred, but Mother says I cannot visit without first sending a note, and was Not Amused by my proposal that I might save time and effort by delivering the note myself.

There seems no end to the men who stream through our doors. At least the majority depart all the better for our care.

Who should bound into the common room this evening but Winifred! Looking thin and rather shadowed around the eyes, but quite as energetic as ever. We had hardly a moment to talk as all were eager to have her news, but she has promised to meet me for lunch tomorrow. I shall only have half an hour so she will have to talk quickly!

Winifred reports the Red Cross well run, the Commander ‘not worth a single one of the drivers, nor even their shadows', the War ‘ghastly beyond measure' and the women she works with ‘mostly good sports'. She says it is usually clear from the outset who will manage. I suspect I should not. Her stories of her fellow drivers left me rather shocked, even as they made me laugh. (Suffice to say, smuggled alcohol seems to feature rather often, and poor Hillary's predicament would perhaps come as no surprise.)

When I told her the dreadful news about Harry she laid her hand on my arm, saying ‘at least it was not Edmund'. My heart and stomach clenched at that terrible thought. W saw at once how her words had distressed me, and took my hands in hers. ‘It will not happen, Dearest. He is altogether too good.' I did not say that Harry was no less good or deserving, though I might have.

Winifred's Lecture Tour begins next week and will be impossibly exhausting, especially as she finds, on being home, that all she wants to do is sleep. After which we had run out of time. At the last minute I asked whether she had seen Corporal Lindsay, but she said not, and that no one knows where anyone is, as it is all ‘hush hush' in case a German spy should discover information of use.

A Major Caldwell joined us today, quite the bravest man I have met, having been wounded three times previously. When I commented to that effect he replied that being wounded so often might suggest him stupid rather than brave, or perhaps just extremely unlucky. ‘Lucky, rather,' I told him, ‘for it could each time have been so much worse.' Growing very sombre he replied that having seen his men mown down by machine-gun fire as if they were wheat being scythed, hundreds falling at a time, he is somewhat uncertain where luck stands in the matter.

That will teach me for not thinking before I speak! Though he seemed sad rather than cross. I do not expect he will be going back to try for a fifth injury as he seems unlikely to walk again, due to the fourth.

What a tonic Winifred is! Lady B gave her permission to collect me in the motor, and W insisted I take a turn behind the wheel. Having not driven for more than a year I proved rather rusty, but we arrived with both ourselves and the motor intact. Over luncheon Lady B outlined the schedule of their Tour. Winifred looked a little wan as her aunt enthused, and when Lady B departed it was as if someone had let out her stays. She is completely exhausted. I warned that if she is not careful she will fall ill; her reply was that if she cannot bear the Tour she may very well choose to do just that! I do miss her sense of humour.

Great Britain's Prime Minister, Mr Asquith, has placed a Bill before Parliament that will allow for Conscription. Thankfully for Uncle Aubrey it will not apply to men with
families. I think he would not be eligible anyway, as he is almost certainly in a Reserved Occupation — as is Father, but he is anyway too old.

Major C is not in favour of Conscription and says, to Matron's stern-faced disapproval, that we have ‘killed quite enough of our young men and should endeavour to desist'. I do agree — but how are we to beat the Kaiser if we do not offer up more of our men?

Much to my surprise, Captain Miller appeared yesterday just as I was finishing my shift. We had not seen or heard from him since he was transferred to a Hospital near Warrington last April, but I could hardly have forgot that rakish grin. He remains incorrigible, announcing as if it were perfectly natural that he had come to take me to tea. Of course I said it was impossible as I was due to catch a train for Littlebury. His reply: that he should catch the train with me so that he might take me to tea on arrival! Having half an hour to spare I said that he might buy me tea at the Station, but that he was certainly not to take the train. He made me laugh a good deal and I subsequently found myself — on threat of his throwing himself beneath my carriage wheels should I refuse — agreeing to tea next week, and this time a ‘proper tea, not some horrible railway sludge'. He has a rather jaunty swing to his step, which is a little uneven, but such that it is not immediately obvious he is missing a leg.

Millie asked if I might attend her GFS meeting, on the way confiding that she is determined to do something worthwhile with her life and citing as models Winifred and me! I assured her there are women far more admirable, including those female Doctors who are contributing quite as much as their male counterparts. Her interest was engaged; I shall give her some of Winifred's pamphlets, with the proviso that she not mention it to either of our mothers!

Olive returned from her weekend with news of Hillary: apparently she is engaged to be married. Her fiancé is in the Navy.

Captain Miller sent a note proposing he call for me on Thursday at 4.30. I wish I had Winifred to consult: it is just a little improper — though Olive says she can see no reason not to accept.

I need not have worried: Captain Miller had visited Matron to ask permission before he wrote, her consent being granted so long as I am returned before six.

Received a card from Mother and Father wishing me a happy birthday — I had quite forgotten!

Captain M is exhausting! As well as encouraging me to eat far too many cakes, he caused me to laugh quite
immoderately: I am sure we were the talk of the Hotel. But I did enjoy myself; he is altogether too accomplished at being entertaining.

A few envious eyes were cast in my direction as he delivered me back (with a flourish, at three minutes before six!) but I have told him he must not make a habit of visiting Cambridge on my account, for I am far too busy to see him. Undeterred, he has undertaken to write. I cannot guess why he would trouble himself as I am sure there are a great many young ladies who would be pleased to enjoy his attention.

Very busy. Intake as mud-encrusted and ill-cared for as ever. Surely there is
someone
in France who knows how to properly clean and bandage a wound!

Slept in for hours, ate breakfast in bed, then spent the day doing nothing at all — which caused Mother to suggest I am growing lazy! Only because she wanted my help with making-over a dress, and I preferred to sleep.

Matron has transferred me to Heads, which includes men who have lost noses, ears, jaws (the latter problematic in feeding), and those who have suffered injury to the brain. With these there are a great many different symptoms, every case seeming unique. I have one man who gets up thirty times a day, marches around the ward in his pyjamas then puts himself back to bed beneath his cot. There is another who cannot stop twisting his head to the right and whose arms jump about quite beyond his control. Most cannot
converse in the normal manner and a few are little more advanced than my small brother William.

Bedpans form a rather tedious part of my day. Sister in Charge does not believe in one's spending more than the minimum time with each patient. ‘Moving on, Nurse, moving on. Have we nothing better to do than sit about?'

Charming note from Captain M.

I have donated two dresses to my cousins. Eugenie is such a hoyden she would do as well with Father's cast-offs.

Sister C does not like me in the least. Nothing I do can please her.

One of my patients weeps constantly. Sister exhorts him to ‘pull himself together', which has not the slightest effect. When I proposed reading to him, as a distraction, she replied that ‘If I was a proper nurse I would know there are more important matters to attend to'. The men's happiness does not to me seem entirely unimportant.

My back aches. I am looking forward to going down to Deans Park for the weekend.

Weather too damp for a walk so Eugenie, Millie and I played cribbage. Father enquired whether I was quite well. I had not been aware that I looked out of sorts; I told him only that I had been transferred to a new ward and was finding it a little hard to settle in.

Sister reduced one of the girls to tears for spilling a little tincture of opium she was administering to a patient. As the poor man cannot swallow, it is not surprising some spilled.

Captain M writes that he is wounded by my long silence. I shall reply that I have not the time to write at length, having been transferred to a Tartar's Lair.

Postcard from Winifred, whose Tour is proving a great success. How I wish she were here! I am quite fed up. Sister C takes great pleasure in bullying both patients and nurses.