Evie's War (7 page)

I was altogether too tired to write last night. Winifred collected me in the motorcar and we attended a stirring public meeting in Saffron Walden, where a speaker recently returned from Serbia reported on the appalling conditions of the medical services of that country. Hearty debate followed and a proposal was made that the local branch of the WSPU should commit its support to the Eastern Front. Not all agreed and the discussion raged back and forth until ultimately it was decided that, where we are already committed, we must remain loyal, but that a separate fundraising effort will be set up to generate funds for the Scottish Women's Hospitals in Serbia.

As a consequence of our late night I overslept and missed Father's early return. He has said little of his excursion but Mother has that tight-about-the-eyes look that does not bode well. I do hope she will have recovered her good humour by Friday, when we are to visit Audley End. As Aunt Marjorie is fond of reminding us, it is a Great Compliment to be invited and we must be On Our Best Behaviour — she seems to forget I have been before!

It is Winifred's birthday! Lady Braybrooke announced, over a rather sumptuous afternoon tea, that she felt it inappropriate to ‘make a fuss' when so many were Suffering The Chill Effects Of War. Still, I wish I had known! I might at least have taken a spray of wintersweet from my aunt's garden. Mother was thoroughly overawed by Lady Braybrooke's home, which I am sure is quite the grandest she has seen, but did not immediately acquiesce to The Grand Plan, saying she would need to speak to both Father and Uncle Aubrey before making a decision.

Father is not immediately in favour of my volunteering at a Hospital, as he thinks the work and travel may prove altogether too tiring. He concedes that my desire to do something for the War Effort is to be applauded.

Today's Church Service was dedicated to those young men of the Parish who have given their lives at the Somme and Ypres. The growing list of names read out was sobering.

Aunt Marjorie has determined that it is time for Monty to receive proper tutoring, his sisters' governess proving quite unable to keep him engaged. No doubt the poor woman will be much relieved. My aunt intends speaking to Uncle Aubrey about it this weekend.

The newspapers carry favourable accounts of the renewed French offensive, supported by Britain and her Allies, and report that we will soon have the Hun on the run. Perhaps Edmund was right and he will, after all, miss the War. I know he will be disappointed, but it will at least mean an end to the Suffering.

Of the French offensive, Uncle Aubrey says only that it is ‘early days yet'. His greater concern lies with Germany's most recent assault on the Christian Moral Code, being the declaration that British waters are a ‘Zone of War' and thereby signalling its intent to attack all shipping rather than Naval vessels alone. Uncle Aubrey says the U-boats are formidable, and defence against an unseen aggressor all but impossible. There is no answer but for our Navy to sink the U-boats.

Monty is to be sent away to School. With my uncle so little at home, and thus unable to offer a Guiding Hand, it is perhaps the wisest course — and one confirmed when, on being given the news, my young cousin flew into a rage, first throwing himself on his mother's lap then proceeding to kick his father's shins. In the face of all this both Aunt Marjorie and Millicent became a little tearful. Eugenie, however, did not look remotely perturbed.

Lady Braybrooke plans a visit to 1st Eastern General Hospital to inspect its facilities and has offered to take
Winifred and I, and Mother as well, should she wish it. Mother says it is quite impossible but Aunt Marjorie is enthused and has agreed to take her sister's place. I feel I am being managed, but it is all in a Good Cause.

The Hospital proved rather daunting. It is vast, with the majority of its wards housed in long huts that stand in soldier-straight rows, sixty beds apiece. All were rather cold, the southern walls of each building being canvas so that they may be drawn back to allow sunlight and fresh air (rather much of the latter and too little of the former) to fill the wards. Matron, very brisk but polite, showed us around, and conceded a great need for volunteers, adding — with a sideways glance at Winifred and myself — that she is obliged to exhibit prudence as not all young women are suitable. She then assured Lady B that whoever came with her recommendation was sure to be Up To The Task. Winifred was silent throughout, from which I gather she is not in favour. Despite that, we are both to begin a week's trial on Monday, for the duration of which we will stay with a friend of Lady B's.

I have never done so much scrubbing in all my life: floors, bedframes, enamel beakers and dishes and trays, and — worst of all — bedpans. My knees and wrists ache, the skin of my hands is quite boiled and I long for a quiet hour rolling bandages. Nursing is not about caring for the men, as I had imagined, but cleaning up after them. Sister N is a tyrant of the worst sort!

Matron came to see how we were progressing and was quite unimpressed by the state of Winifred's hands, which are blistered and raw, worse than mine by half. Quarter of an hour later we were sent to the Officers' ward (housed in a beautiful old building and considerably warmer than the huts) where the Sister asked us to wheel half a dozen cases out into the garden, where we might then sit and talk or promenade them, as they preferred. How wonderful! we thought. And it was, compared to skivvying for Sister N. But, oh, the pity of it! My little group included a Major with no legs, a Captain who has one hand and one leg gone, and another whose face has been shattered beyond recognition. How these men are to return to their previous lives I do not know and, clearly, neither do they.

Worse was to come: Sister assigned me to read letters to four men who have been blinded (each also having other injuries). The authors of these letters had apparently given no thought at all to the impact of their words. One very young Lieutenant, who has lost the use of his legs as well as his eyes, was unable to restrain his emotions and wept as I read a letter from his fiancée. He has asked me to write on his behalf to release her from her promise, believing it unfair to keep her bound to an invalid ‘of no use to anyone'. I have agreed to do so tomorrow, though I hope he will by then have considered my suggestion that he allow her to make her own decision once they are reunited. Any honourable woman would stand by him, though he seems determined not to allow it.

Winifred and I stood like recalcitrant schoolgirls outside Matron's office awaiting our review, however we needn't
have worried: she is ‘satisfied with our performance'. I am herewith assigned to the Officers' ward under Sister S while Winifred, at her request, will be trialled with the Ambulance Service, ferrying patients from the Railway Station. The distance is not far but Matron emphasised the unpredictable nature of the work and that Winifred must be prepared to work at any hour of day or night. Also that we must be domiciled in the VAD Nurses' Home while on shift. I said I would need to discuss it with my parents.

Mother put up less resistance than I expected, perhaps because a letter from Edmund had arrived saying he will be home for a fortnight in four days' time. I shall miss his arrival, but will see him next weekend. Uncle Aubrey is not able to leave London at present but appears to have convinced Father that Hospital work is an acceptable option for young ladies ‘for the duration'.

The Nurses' Home, which is in Selwyn College, reminds me of School: behind its imposing red brick façade lie corridors of box-like rooms, each with a bed (uncomfortable), a dresser (small and dingy) and a mirror (thoroughly foxed). There is a common room with a mismatched collection of furniture and some rather tired books and board games, never much in use as we are far too fatigued. Meals, if tonight's is any indication, are uninspiring. I shall look forward to my weekends at home for the food alone. Next week I will ask Aunt M if I might bring up a tuck box.

My young Lieutenant has died. Shocking enough, and worse to learn there was no specific cause beyond his simply giving up. Sister found me weeping outside the ward and told me that it was perhaps for the best. I cannot believe that to be true.

I have received a pep talk from Matron: ‘The first death is the hardest, but it is important to understand that we cannot save them all.' Does that mean we shouldn't care when we fail? Apparently it does. ‘If we become emotionally invested in each patient, we are spread too thin and cannot perform the greater task, which is the care of all.'

I have been given the afternoon off to consider whether I am made of stern enough stuff for the role I have been offered. Tomorrow I shall prove that I am, but I do not believe I will ever be able to perform my allotted tasks without caring whether each of my patients lives or dies.

Sister says that of course she is sad each time we lose a patient, but that sometimes it is our task to ease a man's journey to God. Also that she is quite sure I made Lieutenant Wintern's last days more enjoyable. Still I wonder whether I might have said something that would have better enabled him to see value in the life that remained to him, and thus to fight for that life a little more strongly.

Sister says that I must set my sorrow and doubt aside, as to cling to it is only railing against God's wishes. I wonder that God should wish such a terrible toll as this War is taking.

Mother had sent a note confirming that Edmund was arrived, but still it was a surprise to see him waiting at the Station. He is changed, being thinner and somehow less frivolous. He tells our parents only the heartiest stories of his training, but has confided to me that the NCOs are terrible bullies and the slightest hint of weakness is sniffed out and vigorously punished. When I asked whether it was like School he answered, rather bleakly, ‘Worse.' In the face of that I could hardly complain about Sister N, though I did tell him about Lieutenant Wintern. His response was much the same as Sister S's. I have made him promise to be especially careful and, if he does happen to be injured, to request that he be transferred to 1st Eastern so that I may ensure he gets the very best of care. But far better he is not injured at all.

I have not kept up with the papers all week, but took the opportunity to do so this morning after Church, and was heartened to read of our great success at Neuve Chapelle, where we have broken through the German lines. Edmund is determined to get across the Channel as soon as he can, so that he may play a part in bringing this dreadful War to a close. As he will be gone before his birthday on Friday, Mother arranged a special tea to mark his attaining his majority — of course this also means she can have no complaint about his decision to join up, though I doubt she sees it that way!

I grew a little tearful bidding farewell to my brother. I do hope he has his wish and arrives in time to join the battle, but also that he remains safe, God willing.

Winifred was up all night, the price of our Great Victory now arriving at our doors.

I realise now how little I knew before: a tidily bandaged wound, even something so bad as an amputated limb, is quite a different matter to a wound that is untreated and suppurating. The men arrive with the most primitive of dressings, blood-soaked and festering, themselves unwashed and reeking of mud and decay. And they are exhausted. Most sleep even when they are being treated — which is perhaps for the best, given all that must be done.

We were so overwhelmed by the numbers arriving that Matron assigned me to assisting with new patients, mainly washing and changing them into pyjamas and settling them into bed. Their eyes are horrifying: huge and shadowed and desperate. I see them in my sleep.

Matron refused my offer to work through the weekend, saying we all need time to recoup our strength and giving me an encouraging nod, as if I had turned in a particularly satisfactory Latin translation. I do not know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

Uncle Aubrey says the Great Advance has stalled, but that it was worthwhile in that it showed we will not give up. I wonder will they?

Millicent and Eugenie, sweet girls, took me to see the first bluebells. The wood was truly lovely; I had not realised how tattered my spirits had become.

Rush unabated. I wonder how long we can keep it up.

Sister has gone on leave. Her brother has been killed in France.

Letters awaited on arrival at Deans Park: from Mr Lindsay, Ada and Lieutenant Wintern's father, to whom I had written to express my deepest sympathy and to report how brave and honourable a man their son had shown himself. I am touched that Colonel Wintern troubled to reply, and shall certainly undertake to write again in such circumstances if it may bring some small comfort to families who have lost one so dear.

Ada writes that she has seen a Newsreel of our Expeditionary Force arriving in Egypt and looking jolly smart in their uniforms and broad-brimmed hats, which protect them from the scorching heat of that Continent. She says they look most fearsome as they train for the next stage of their adventure and everyone is sure they will acquit themselves well. Also that she is much occupied with a fundraising committee. She had not yet had my letter; I wonder whether she will be very surprised when she reads that I am working in a Hospital. Mr Lindsay is not, as I had already written to him of Lady B's Plan. He
has recently returned from a week in London, where he says the mood was rather frenetic.