Evie's War (28 page)

Edmund is to come up this weekend — Winifred and her Colonel will pick him up on Friday. I shall be thoroughly glad to see him.

Eugenie had me helping in the garden today, about which Aunt M scolded ‘lest I spoil my hands' — truly they have no idea of the work I have been doing.

Edmund is looking in the pink, his colour excellent and shoulder much improved, the massage and electric therapy at Hornchurch having proven extremely helpful. He goes before the Medical Board in a fortnight; I do not think it likely that he will be passed for Active Service.

Winifred ‘sought refuge'; she says she cannot bear the fuss and bother, and would as happily marry her Colonel in a Registry Office. I soothed her as best I could, all the while pushing aside thoughts of Charles.

A glorious day; England at her finest. And all this would be gone were we to lose the Channel Ports. None save my brother and I understand what these pretty fields and hedgerows would come to resemble in that eventuality. At least it reminds one of the necessity of this apparently endless War.

Edmund plans to return to London immediately after the wedding, despite having another week of leave. He confessed he no longer feels at home at Deans Park, though says my company ‘improves it'.

Mr Lindsay writes that he has taken up bicycling and is ‘wobbling his way into the countryside and finally able to enjoy beauty again'. He also speculates on the Germans' lack of aggression over the past fortnight — ‘one would like to think we have finally stopped them, or else that they have worn themselves out, though I suspect they may yet have a
few tricks planned'. It is a relief to be able to discuss such things openly. Mother is quite allergic to any mention of the War — as if that will somehow improve things.

Winifred approves my dress, though complains I am too thin. Regarding arrangements for Saturday, she said that if they had only appointed Lady B as Chief of Staff, the whole War would have been organised with precision and polished off within a month.

I feel churlish to begrudge a single moment of her happiness, but cannot fail to think of Charles and what would have been.

It is done, and they will by now be departed. Rose petals tossed and the Bride and Groom's health being drunk, I asked Edmund to escort me home that I might shed my tears in private. I do wish her well.

A further farewell, this time to my brother. I wished him luck for the Board; I think it likely he'll get B2 rather than B1.

Feeling rather bleak all week. It is not an anniversary I can speak of. Mother has been unusually solicitous. I think perhaps William's arrival placed her under more strain than I had realised; this morning she called me her ‘dearest girl' and patted my cheek. Received a kind note from Mr Miller, which crossed with my own.

Millie took me to inspect progress on a project initiated by the GFS and latterly taken up with gusto by Aunt Marjorie, being the support of War Orphans. Between them they have gathered clothing, toys, blankets and other necessities, which are distributed as need dictates, first to local children then to those in towns and cities which have been bombed, and also to War Refugees. I am impressed by her zeal, and said so.

Uncle Aubrey yesterday enquired of my plans once my convalescent leave ends, rather putting the matter on the table. I had no answer, but know that I can no longer sit about doing nothing while our boys continue to suffer.

Reading between the lines of the newspaper reports, it would seem the Germans are again on the advance.

Winifred has confirmed a heavy bombardment at Chemin des Dames and ten miles lost; they are eighty miles from Paris. Mother ‘could not see the point of writing with such news'.

Note from Edmund to say he is graded B2, with orders to report to Codford. I am relieved, though I know it will be a disappointment to him. Newspapers report that the Germans have reached the Marne.

Headlines trumpet a great victory won by the Americans on their first engagement. Let us hope it is enough.

A short sermon and much prayer.

Surprise visit from Uncle Aubrey. On hearing that I am due to report to HQ on Thursday he proposed we travel down to London together. He believes the Germans exhausted and overstretched. With my assessment that we are in a similar state he agreed, adding only ‘but the Americans are not'.

Spoke with Mother; she is in a state but ‘must bow to the inevitable, her feelings on the matter apparently being irrelevant'.

Uncle Aubrey had booked me into an Hotel very near Devonshire House so that I might report first thing, but I am apparently lacking the relevant paperwork (medical clearance), so now have to wait to be assessed. There seemed also an interminable amount of form-filling (partly due to the ‘irregular nature' of my initial posting to Flanders — upon which matter I judged it best to say nothing whatsoever).

Medical assessment went well; signed off A1 (not wishing to spend more time kicking my heels at Deans Park, I did not mention the breathlessness which still bothers me; really, I am better put to use).

Dinner with Winifred and Colonel Mallory. She looks rather like the cat that got the cream. The Colonel (who says I must call him Lionel) reported a successful counterattack against the German Advance.

Message from reception to say I had a visitor, a ‘young man in uniform' — and was slightly relieved to find my brother waiting in the foyer! He has been successful in having his status upgraded to B1 and will be posted in a fortnight.

Edmund, Uncle Aubrey and I travelled up together. The atmosphere is rather thick, Edmund having shared his news.

My papers have arrived: I am to report to Devonshire House next Monday, with notification of my posting to follow. Told Mother I would leave for London on Thursday, staying with Winifred, to attend to matters such as my uniform: she was a little wobbly, but not so opposed as I had expected.

Telegram from Mr Lindsay; he says he will be in London this weekend and wonders whether he might call on me.
Of course I have said yes — I have not seen him in an age — but proposed meeting at the Boat House in Hyde Park (thereby avoiding any awkwardness with Winifred) on Sunday afternoon. I do hope the weather is fine!

Chez Mallory is a four-storey white stucco townhouse (a momentary wobble as I recalled the house Charles had secured for us; I do hope a young couple has taken it). The Colonel has lived here for years so it feels very much his — the guest room done out in Chinese lacquer — but Winifred is slowly arranging things to her liking; ‘putting her stamp' as Lionel says. While she was giving me the tour I asked about Lionel's first marriage. She says he never speaks of it, other than to say he had once made ‘a great mistake' which caused him to become rather gun-shy. ‘Till you came along,' said I, and she smiled in a very satisfied manner.

My uniform is now sorted and packed in Winifred's old trunk (which she said I should keep, and indeed I have grown quite fond of it) together with ‘a few luxuries' she insisted on buying me in Fortnum's. As a consequence I have finest Ceylon tea, Evelyn rose soaps, a Dundee cake sealed in its tin and two new sets of silk underwear (over which we giggled like schoolgirls); all items highly overpriced thanks to the blockade and rationing. I confess I am a little nervous to know where I shall be sent.

Splendid afternoon with Mr Lindsay. He was at our designated meeting place before me (despite my early arrival) and
we were soon at ease, our conversation initially taken up by calculations of how long it had been since we last met (we settled on eighteen months) and all that has happened in that time. I talked a good deal about Flanders and Edmund and Deans Park, and not at all of Charles or Winifred. I did, finally, tell him I was staying with her. Of course he knew she had married (she had written) and seems perfectly sanguine. Still, I do not think I shall invite him to call for me chez Mallory. He spoke about Oxford and his studies, and I eventually gathered courage to ask about his health. He has regained ‘tolerably good' sight in his left eye and, truly, his face does not look as bad as one might have supposed, the scarring having improved a good deal. He has been offered corrective surgery but is at present content to ‘leave things as they are', with which I concur. He looked at me sideways (he has acquired a habit of ensuring he is on one's right, so that the damaged side of his face is averted) and asked whether I did not find him rather monstrous. I replied vehemently that I did not. He said nothing more on the topic but was, I suspect, relieved.

After tea (fish paste sandwiches: not my favourite but the choice was rather limited) he proposed hiring bicycles. I had not ridden for years and was a little unsteady at first but, once I had the trick of it, it proved rather fun. I had forgotten how much I enjoy his company. As well, it was a relief to be able to speak openly about my experiences in Flanders — at Deans Park I feel as if I must be ever on my guard against saying too much. When I told him what a lifeline his letters had been, he replied that I had provided the same service during ‘the odd rough patch'. We have arranged to meet tomorrow after my appointment at Devonshire House.

I am officially approved and am to be sent to France. When asked whether I was ready to go at short notice I answered with an emphatic ‘Yes!' and said my time felt wasted at home now my health had returned, earning me a wintry smile. I am to expect my papers within a few days. On enquiring whether I should remain at readiness in London I received a curt ‘that would be best'. So I am to go soon.

Mr Lindsay proposes, in light of the length of our friendship, that I might consider calling him Arthur, to which I agreed. (He says he has thought of me as ‘Evie' since his friendship with Winifred, she always referring to me thus.) We had tea in town and went to the cinema — a Charlie Chaplin movie, rather silly but good to have one's mind distracted from more serious matters — after which I caught a trolleybus back to the Mallorys'.

Uncle Aubrey rang to say that Edmund was to re-join his Regiment on Thursday. He is taking us both to dinner tomorrow. Winifred and I spent the day rearranging furniture. I am quite exhausted!

I felt rather torn bidding farewell to my brother. He suspects he will be going to the Somme, and reported a general clearing out at Sling Camp and Codford; all possible men being scraped up and sent to the Front.

I am to sail on Saturday with a group of twelve nurses. All being in readiness, I will go to Deans Park for the night.

I know it is difficult for Mother to have me leaving so soon after Edmund, but honestly! I do not believe her ‘quite deserted'. Rather, it is clear she is worried for us both. Father patted her hand, quietly adding that my brother and I would be constantly in their thoughts and prayers.

We sail at dusk. Prayers offered up by all. Quite a large convoy — I wonder whether Edmund is aboard one of the troopships.

Moonless night, which one might think would make the threat of U-boats less worrying. Not so! But we are safely arrived, and are to remain here until individual orders are issued. Two of our group have been assigned to an Ambulance Train. Rather glad I am not with them; I am quite sure I should suffer motion sickness.

Ran into Lieutenant Ledingham, last seen in Saint-Omer — what an arena for coincidences this War provides! He passed on the rather sad news that of the four young men with whom we had lunch, two are now dead and one — who I recall as extremely serious — sent home in a bad way. Lieutenant L is currently attending a training camp. He invited me for a meal, which I declined on grounds of having a previous engagement, though it was not quite true.

Today I saw several of the tanks which have proven such an asset. They are rather squat and ugly; it is hard to imagine them being of great use in battle — though I don't doubt that if they were bearing down upon one, they would be daunting indeed. The town is positively bursting with soldiers. For the locals it is ‘business as usual', while we kick our heels or go sight-seeing. But all are eager to get on.

Postings at last: all remaining are to go to Abbeville.

Arrived early afternoon. The Railway Station is charming, red brick with the sweetest little clock tower. At one end of the platform a VAD Rest Station has been established, canvas and batten walls, around thirty by fifty feet, where comfort in the form of hot drinks and basic care is offered to men (and nurses, for whom they also run library and laundry services) passing through on Ambulance Trains. They have been required to rely heavily upon improvisation and ‘acquisitions'; Miss Conway told us that all difficulties tend to be met by those in (French) authority with a Gallic shrug and
‘C'est la Guerre'.
But that having taken to saying it themselves, they have found that it somehow seems to work. They have been subject to air raids fairly continuously. The AT Depot opposite was hit and set on fire in May.

Two trucks arrived to take us to No. 2 SH. There are any number of SHs and CCSs dotted about, all quite extensive. We are a little out of town, good road, with very tidy arrangements of marquees and huts. Quite established. Four of us are posted here, the others going to No. 38 CCS and the Canadian SH at Doullens.