Evie's War (25 page)

Yesterday saw more heavy shelling around 10 a.m. and the first casualties shortly after eleven, mainly sitting cases, predominantly wounds to the head and upper limbs, with stretcher cases (legs and chests) following. Very busy thereafter. It had begun to rain quite early and all men coming in were soaked and cold; my task to get them warm and dry, give drink and food if they could manage it, and ensure urgent cases were brought to Sister's attention. There is no time for changing them. Instead we assess them, sending urgent cases for surgery while the rest go to Stationary Hospitals further back, except those too ill to be moved further. Increasing numbers of the latter came in through the evening; they are a frightful sight.

The word is that the New Zealanders have taken Gravenstafel Ridge, held by the Boche for two years, with two ANZAC Corps fighting side by side. Perhaps it is a turning point.

On till six, half an hour off then on again till ten. Five hours sleep and back on. My eyes felt gummed together, but the state of the men proved enough to stiffen one's resolve. Higher proportion of stretcher cases today, all wounded on the first morning. Many New Zealanders amongst them; I look with trepidation to see whether there is a face I know. One ambulance brought in six stretcher bearers, wounded when their relay post was blown up. One died and two are likely to, I should think. Charles much in my thoughts.

Continual rain and cold wind. The men come in so coated with mud it is hard at first to determine their injuries or read the field cards tied to stretchers or jackets. My first task is to clean the mud from their eyes and ears and mouths, for which small attention they are abjectly grateful.

Torrential rain and bitterly cold. The duckboards between No. 17 and our hut are underwater at two points, and it is only the beginning of autumn. Everything is continually damp, even one's bed, though for the men it is clearly an improvement. Once tucked up in a blanket with a hot-water bottle — and especially if we have managed to get them to take a little stout or brandy — they can become quite voluble, unless badly wounded. They are filled with
pride in their comrades and the success of the Mission. All the New Zealanders comment on my accent and are delighted to hear a voice from home.

I had a story from one of the sitting cases, that a Padre had been killed at a Forward Dressing Station (which had been hastily set up in a captured German bunker) while he was outside burying a German who had died of wounds. Half a dozen others were also killed, all men awaiting treatment, including a second wounded German prisoner.

Our long hours are taking a toll on my poor feet, which are so swollen I have doubts of the wisdom of removing my boots for fear I shall never get them back on. Sister in Charge seems never to sleep; I do wonder how she can manage. At last there has come a break in the rain, though the wind remains bitter. Going between hut and mess and ward it is impossible not to get soaked — from the ground up or the sky down, it makes little difference. At least with the pace of work one does not stay cold for long.

Wounded streaming in — 780 cases in the morning and there will be more this afternoon. Yesterday's attack at Poelcapelle seems to have been a failure. The wounds are much the same either way, but the men's spirits are so much lower when it has all come to naught.

Men wounded on the 9th still coming in; they are in a frightful state after lying out in the rain and mud for two days. New wards being opened to cope with the influx.

At 3 a.m. there came a great stream of ambulances. I was due to go off, but simply not possible. Most came from the 49th, West Riding, and had been out for days. Had apparently been impossible to get to them previously, till our New Zealand boys arrived and went out to bring them in. Wounds already turned septic, the smell appalling, some crawling with maggots.

On my feet for twenty hours with only two short breaks. Sister ordered me off at 5 a.m. Shelling throughout the night; I have grown almost used to it. Just asleep when a barrage woke me, patchier than the last few.

Back on at ten and run off our feet all day. Another Push; this time our New Zealand boys. They are badly shot up. Canterburys and Otagos.

Attack a dismal failure. The men come in coated to the armpits, carrying their own bodyweight in mud. Walking wounded so exhausted they have to be carried, they cannot even be led, they are so far past it. Shrapnel and machine-gun wounds in equal numbers; also shell shock. One boy told me it was our own guns that got him but he does not blame the Gunners as the problem is the condition of the ground; they have not got a solid base to fire from. He described the attack as a scene from a nightmare, except there was no waking up. He saw all his friends fall around him, some ‘just disappeared' in the blast prior to the one that got him. Of his Unit he thinks he is likely the only one left. He is riddled with shrapnel wounds and has a great gash across his head.

An Officer carried in was unable to hold in his distress as I tended him (picric solution and Eusol dressings). He was fairly peppered, requiring stitching for several wounds, but was not amongst the most urgent so must wait for several hours. He told me that in the rain and smoke of the battle he thought he was advancing through a field of pumpkins, then realised the mounds were the packs of his fallen men.

So tired I sometimes lose a sense of where I am; it is as if my hands belong to someone else. Sister ordered me off to sleep but each time I close my eyes I see the pitiful creatures who must be tended.

Wounded from the 12th still coming in. All in a terrible state, stone cold and barely a pulse. Once warmed, they rouse a little. Most are so grateful for brandy or tea it is pathetic. Some quite frightful mutilations and gas gangrene very bad; it is inevitable in those left out so long. Their only hope is amputation. The Theatres work around the clock. Quite a number die soon after coming in; it is almost as if they are only waiting for a kind word and gentle touch.

No one I recognise as yet. I do not know where Edmund is, but must not let myself think of it.

A dozen bearers from the New Zealand Medical Corps just in, all exhausted beyond speech. Haggard, bloodshot eyes, feet so swollen we must cut off their boots, trench foot in evidence, and several with fearful chafing wounds on necks and shoulders where the stretcher slings rub. One told me it takes a relay of six men up to seven hours to bring in a
single stretcher case, slogging through mud in places thigh deep, and all the while under shell and machine-gun fire. I shall never again complain of an ache in my back or feet.

Half a day off, and at last a break in the interminable rain. Slept for nine hours straight, despite the shelling, and now sitting with feet up before I go back on. Peters brought me a newspaper from the mess, which trumpets the outstanding courage of the ANZACs while saying nothing of the carnage. I suppose that is why mothers keep sending their sons, and why young men keep coming. Charles is at least spared witnessing this. I wonder was his War as bad, and he never spoke of it?

Letter from Winifred: her ankle is recovering. Also she recommends I write to my parents, who are ‘fairly agitating' for news. I am moved from Admissions to Gas; Fritz having devised yet another fiendish weapon, we must find another way to deal with it. The damage with this new gas is to both skin and lungs. For the latter, oxygen must be given by way of Novita sets, five times in the hour, and between times the poor men are convinced they will die of asphyxia. The external effect is also bad: by the time they reach us their eyes are gummed up and weeping, lids swollen, faces and all exposed skin burnt dark plum. Sister demonstrated the treatment for eyes, which must be bathed in a solution of bicarbonate of soda and then cocaine solution inserted to reduce the agony. The eyes must also be kept bandaged, the afflicted men having an aversion to light. It is not yet clear whether a full recovery can be made.

I asked our MO why the new gas is called ‘mustard gas'; apparently it is because the shells carrying it are marked with a mustard yellow cross. It is far worse than chlorine and phosgene, he says.

Emma sought me out. We are all highly relieved to have the worst of it done and a slightly easier time — though it may also mean that Matron has less need of me. I should hate to be sent home now. Emma thinks it enough that I have shown myself thoroughly able in performing my duties, but the conversation has left me with a feeling of disquiet.

A nurse came running to fetch me. Edmund is here! Inevitably I assumed the worst, but no, he is just visiting. He says that on receipt of my last letter he determined to seek me out at the first opportunity and now, having leave, came at once to find me. He looks gaunt and far older than his twenty-three years. When I said so he only laughed and advised me to look in a mirror — I had not felt in the slightest self-conscious until then! As I feared, he has been in the thick of things and is lucky to have got through. He said little on the topic but, knowing him so well, I can see he is cut up over the losses they have suffered. I warned I could not talk for long but Sister took pity and sent me off early. Having a car, Edmund drove us to Pops where we had supper of soup and omelette in a dowdy little estaminet. There was quite a fug inside and plenty of cheer, helped along by plonk. I had two glasses and became slightly tipsy, while Edmund drank quite steadily to little effect. Mid-evening he saw some fellows he knows and we
might have had quite a night but, as I was on again at 5 a.m., I elected the path of restraint and he drove me back. He has promised to visit again as soon as he is able. I felt quite sick bidding him farewell and told him he must, at all costs, keep himself safe. His half-smile and shrug was not in the least reassuring.

Very flat this morning. Seeing Edmund was a boon but I am left with nebulous worry. He was both himself and not. Sister commented on how alike we look. I am not sure how to take it given I thought Edmund looked terrible! I have picked up a cough and my eyes ache. I had to assure Sister I was not weeping, but that it was only my eyes running with an incipient cold.

Matron has moved me from Gas. Apparently my cough and weeping eyes are symptoms of gas poisoning, contracted from breathing the fumes coming off the men. I was dreading that she might say she no longer had need of me, but instead I have a half day and strict instructions to bathe my eyes, and am to report tomorrow to Chests. Constant shelling again; I hope it does not signal another attack, but fear it must.

Having heard I was gone off sick EC popped in yesterday. Once certain that a full recovery was expected she made great fun of my eye mask. She says the drivers are working around the clock to clear the wards, which can mean only one thing. I felt quite despondent last night, but was cheered
this morning to have word from Edmund: his Battalion is being moved south. Although it means I will not see him, the news brought me much relief. The Lieutenant who delivered my brother's message was perfectly charming and showed signs of wishing to linger. Both Sister and I gave him short shrift!

Sister has me draining wounds and changing dressings. She is thoroughly no-nonsense, prepared to give credit, and says she would rather I ask than do something wrong and be obliged to start over. I believe we will get along well. Some of the men get the wind up with the constant noise of the guns but there is little we can do. To say one gets used to it would not be the truth.

One Captain, quite cut up with various wounds, told me that he received each on a different day, but kept going as long as he could. He is a medical man.

Shelling particularly bad last night. Staff and patients alike beginning to look rather ragged. They have been at it for days, going hard for half an hour before stopping, then, just when you breathe a sigh of relief, starting up once more. One bright note: a long letter from Winifred, who is ‘up on her pins' and says she will soon be out to join me. I think perhaps she has not yet received my last. Of my parents, there was indeed ‘all hell to pay', but my uncle and Lady B were apparently ‘helpful in calming them'. She says I must write home forthwith to confirm I am ‘safe as houses'. I have taken her advice, reiterating that I am working in a Hospital, which I believe they will prefer over driving, and passing on first-hand news of Edmund.

Particularly heavy barrage at 5.40 a.m — one honestly felt one might go mad. We could do little for the poor men until it died down; some, with shattered nerves, I found cowering beneath their beds. The signs are that we shall soon find ourselves busy; Matron has just been through and sent me off for three hours, after which I am to report to Admissions.

No let-up all day yesterday. Four hours sleep about 3 a.m. then the same today. Constant shelling and
rain
. Torrential. Men caked with mud like nothing I have seen. Canadians getting it this time.

One of my men said it has been hand-to-hand combat with bayonets all through the night. He has a wound in his side, and stands a chance, having been got in before gas gangrene set in. Too busy for niceties, it is just blankets and drinks, clean and dress wounds, then on to the next. Upwards of 700 admitted yesterday, and just a handful of us to deal with them. The orderlies are wonderful, dead on their feet; they have all the heavier jobs.

Sister sent me off for eight hours from midnight; slept (to the sound of shell blasts, as if a mighty symphony — the Hell Chorus — was playing just over the horizon) until 5.50 a.m. when the barrage started up in absolute earnest. Rain so dense it is hard to see a yard ahead — I was soaked after running from our hut to the mess. Saw Emma briefly;
she said their tent leaks and she is so tired her eyes feel out on stalks. Quite grateful to be in a ward rather than driving, the roads must be a trial. Cannot imagine what the men must be suffering. One boy told me he had seen two of his comrades drown in the mud and could do nothing to help them.