Regret to Inform You... (32 page)

‘What a terrible loss,' replied Racer, ‘such a good man.' He paused for a moment, obviously deeply upset; his mind returning to the occasion they had met over three years previously. ‘So why do you think you were asked up to the manor?'

‘Well, the major said that as he was too old to join up, at least he would do what he could. Apparently he had invited Jack Atkins when he was recovering from injury, so perhaps you'll get an invitation, too. And something else: last week I popped in to the reading room, how good it looks, but best of
all,
Miss Small was in there with some of the oldest children from the school. It was lovely to see her again. Anyway, she allowed me to talk with some of the children and said I could call in at the school anytime. Maybe we could go in together, Racer?'

‘That would be wonderful.' Racer turned and looked at the clock over the bar. ‘Well, I must go; otherwise mother will never forgive me for being late for lunch. I'm sure she's overfeeding me, so it's just as well I'm not racing at the moment. How long before you think you'll be going back?'

‘I expect I'll hear something in about a week. Let's see if we can meet up again tomorrow. Maybe a walk over Bramrose Hill?'

‘That sounds a great idea. Let's do that.'

They shook hands, clasped each other and went their own way. The same old Racer, Albert thought, but Racer reflected on a nervousness he had seen in Boney and how his hands had shaken when holding his drink. His deeply-etched face added years to his twenty-year-old cousin and lifelong friend.

F
ORTY

March 1916

With the sun making a weak attempt to break through the grey cloud cover, the pony and trap with Sparky Carey and Reverend Arthur Windle passed through the open wrought-iron gates leading to Richford House. Just past two-thirty; Sparky had been as punctual as ever. As he had said to Eliza, ‘It's time I started doing something to help. James would expect that from me.' Eliza had nodded to her husband in numbed agreement. She had heard that time was a healer, but felt the loss was becoming greater. As the two had set out on the five-mile drive to Richford House, Sparky asked Arthur Windle about the great house: ‘I know they've made the place into a hospital for troops, but why are you going there, sir?'

‘Well, to be honest Sparky, I don't know much about it myself. I do know it's the home of Lord and Lady Davison, but converted in to a war hospital. A few days ago I received a letter from the bishop asking me if I would visit.'

Arthur realised that Sparky would have given anything to be visiting his son, however badly wounded; and, in truth, Arthur had mixed feelings about making this visit. He wondered how the men would regard a visitor, but if it did help then he was glad to go. Eleanor had offered to come with
him,
but he had declined as he thought this was hardly the activity for a woman.

A final left-hand curve in the drive and there stood a magnificent country house, beautiful in its light-coloured stonework: built to entertain royalty. There was a variety of activity in front of the house: three ambulance wagons were parked, two carts from which large crates were being unloaded and three soldiers, one on crutches, were making their way towards the side of the house. As Sparky pulled up he said he would tether the pony and go for a little walk.

An uncertain Arthur clambered out of the trap and walked up the impressive stone steps leading to the massive wooden doors, one of which was slightly ajar. He pushed open the right-hand one, entered and stepped into the magnificent entrance hall. He was immediately aware of a smartly-dressed nurse sitting at a table. She looked up, generously smiled: ‘Can I help you sir?'

‘My name is Windle, the Reverend Arthur Windle, and I have received a letter confirming that I could visit this afternoon.'

Nurse Blendle, her breast badge bore her name, consulted a list. ‘Welcome, sir. I will call for Sister.' She picked up a small, brass bell and gave it a sharp ring. The sound resonated round the large hall and within two minutes a severe looking lady with a bright blue cape over her white under-uniform, quickly approached.

‘Good afternoon, sir. You must be the Reverend Windle. Thank you for coming. I'm Sister Carmichael. We have over 300 men here, all with bad injuries, some very severe indeed. Sadly, this war is causing injuries the like of which we have never seen before. Dr Howard, the senior doctor here, believes the men can be helped by people visiting; for them to realise they haven't been forgotten and, that however terrible their disfigurements may be, visitors will share time with them. Thank you for coming, but be warned; what you will see may shock you.'

She
led him up the marble staircase, still embellished by exotic ferns once set in place by Lady Davison. As they approached the door to what Arthur imagined had been a hall for large parties, they were greeted by a smell: not unpleasant, but strong. There was a steady sound of activity: murmurs, cries of pain and the sound of trolleys being moved across the wooden floor. Entering the room decorated with lavish ceiling paintings and walls marked with light panels where Arthur realised paintings had once hung, he saw four lines of beds, perhaps sixty in total. Nurses busied themselves attending to the men's needs.

‘I'll stay with you, but please stop and talk to any of the men. As you may feel able to come again, I think it's best to look around generally and become acquainted with the overall situation.' Arthur nodded; he felt unable to suggest any alternative.

‘In this part, the patients have a variety of injuries, most are severe, but some are being repaired and are on the way to recovery. Further on you will see the really acute cases, where sadly some will never recover.' This forty-year-old woman gave a half smile and Arthur could feel her exuding compassion and obvious competence. He could only hope the men would not see him as a curious spectator.

As he approached the first bed, he could see little more than a swathe of bandages with a slight gap allowing the patient to see with one eye and to feed. Arthur quietly sat on a wicker chair squeezed in between beds. He realised the man was looking at him, but whether with welcome, suspicion or fear the bandages disguised. Struggling to know what to say, he introduced himself and asked the soldier's name.

‘Private Arthur Whelby, sir,' a croaking Scottish voice spoke with difficulty.

‘Ah, my name, too, is Arthur. But you sound as if you come from much further north than I do. How long have you been here, Arthur?'

‘
Since October.' The man spoke with great difficulty and being unable to move his lips made words hard to understand. Arthur asked about the man's home and finding he came from Glasgow, they exchanged a few words about the Scottish city; Arthur doing virtually all the speaking, the patient weakly nodding. As the one-sided conversation continued, the man's single word answers began to fade and Arthur felt it time to move on.

‘I can't imagine my visit helped him,' Arthur volunteered to Sister Carmichael as they moved away. ‘What is wrong with him?'

‘You might be surprised, but he will have been pleased to see you. His face has suffered much disfigurement. The gun he was loading exploded, greatly damaging the upper part of his body. The left side of his face has been blown away, he lost one eye and a section of his jaw is missing. The pain from the burning must have been terrible. The hospital is very fortunate in that Dr Gillies, who has visited many times, is wonderful within the new field of reconstructive surgery and is building up one side of Private Whelby's face. His face must be kept covered for fear of infection. His wife came to see him last week which did him much good. For a long time, he begged us not to allow her to visit as he didn't want to be seen by a loved one, but in the end he was persuaded.'

Arthur moved on to another heavily-bandaged man wearing a pair of goggles. ‘So,' asked Arthur, ‘please tell me about that man?'

‘This is Corporal Peter Adams, a Londoner. He's making quite a good recovery although I'm afraid the damage to his lungs will be permanent. He came here some four months ago having been gassed. The gas shell caused severe burning of the skin, particularly his face and his hands. He not only suffered severe burning, but had breathed in some gas. The goggles seem to reduce the distress to his eyes which are so inflamed.'

Arthur walked over to the goggled man, smiled and briefly
introduced
himself, grateful that he knew the soldier's name. He was greeted by an attempted smile, sat down, reached out and held the man's hand. Their limited conversation was made through the massive wheezing and breathing difficulty of Corporal Adams. He came from Romford, an area slightly known by Arthur and the conversation was about that part of London. As Arthur made to move on, the patient spoke his most words: ‘Sir, thank you for coming. Will you please say a prayer for me?' Arthur, surprised, leant nearer, closed his eyes and spoke the Lord's Prayer. The occasional gasp told Arthur that the gassed man was joining in.

The next bed that Arthur stopped at, although he would liked to have stopped at more, was of a man with pipes running from his arm, a leg and his lower stomach. A conversation ensued, but was brief due to the man's restlessness and obvious pain; after a few minutes Arthur felt the sister touch his arm to lead him on.

‘I'm afraid that Private Bellamy will not survive; I don't know how he has hung on for so long.'

‘So what is wrong with the poor man,' returned Arthur.

‘He is suffering a terrible infection. Apparently, he was badly wounded and left lying in the open, half covered by the earth blown from a shell explosion. We know now that so static is the war area that the soil has become terribly contaminated. As you can see we are trying to drain off the infection, but this is only a temporary respite. He is such a lovely man.' Arthur realised that one of the many smells in the ward was rotting flesh.

From the far corner, came the sound of continuous shouting. ‘It's fucking hell; just fucking hell.' The words were then lost in a miscellany of cries and unclear words that Arthur thought were probably other expletives. He went over to the youthful man who looked angrily at him: ‘Fuck you mate; it's all right for you.'

Arthur was at a loss to know what to do or say. ‘Tell me what the matter is if you want to.'

‘
I didn't know what they were doing, but they had cut off my fucking leg. It was all right before, but then they just fucking took it and I used to be a footballer.'

Arthur had no idea what to say or do; any words might further antagonise the poor man. Ashamed afterwards for his poor response, Arthur simply muttered, ‘God bless you,' and moved back towards the sister.

‘I didn't know what to say,' he confessed.

‘None of us does. Poor Private Bland is suffering so much, mentally even more than physically and we understand his feelings. He came to us with advanced gangrene, but strangely not much pain and we wondered if his leg had lost all feeling. He would have died within days, so an amputation was the only hope, but we just don't know how to help his rage. In fact, the amputation went as well as one might hope and he may make a good recovery and with a prosthetic limb may walk again. What will happen to his injured mind I just don't know. Reverend, are you all right to go on?' Arthur felt uncertain, but nodded in a way that he hoped looked confident.

‘We'll go into the next ward which is isolated from the rest. As you will realise, the twelve men have only just come to us. Their condition is grim, but when we have cleaned things up, they will all be a little better.' Sister Carmichael opened a door and led the way down a short, but well-lit corridor. As she opened the next door, leading to the old dining room, the smell hit Arthur.

‘This,' said the sister, ‘will at first seem as close to hell as you will ever get and we won't stay long. The men have a variety of injuries, some are almost certainly not life threatening and may soon move on to another hospital, rather more like a nursing home.'

Arthur had been surprised at the orderliness and air of tranquillity which he had seen, but this ward was totally different: most of the men totally unkempt, bandages were filthy. Nurses were at several beds washing the men regardless
of
screams and shouts of abuse. It took four nurses to hold one man down whilst a fifth did the best she could to wash him. Arthur's eye went to two men at the far end who looked altogether different; washing them had already occurred.

‘They arrived by boat at Harwich early today and were driven here. They were filthy, their heads and bodies crawling with lice and goodness knows what else. As you can see it's hard for the nurses to get any vestige of order, but they will. For the moment we have an open mind about what's best for them.' She gently took Arthur's arm and led him back to the corridor. From there they walked across a room full of crates of many sizes. ‘Our most recent stores, which have just been delivered.' Arthur recalled the vehicle he had seen at the front of the house.

‘So, Your Reverend, I think you've seen enough for one visit. I hope it hasn't proved too shocking for you?'

Arthur pondered for a moment as to how to reply. ‘It is indeed shocking; shocking that men should suffer so much and shocking that you and all the medical staff have to deal with man's inhumanity to man. I've heard enough about the war, seen the terrible casualty figures, but understood so little. Sister, what you are doing is truly wonderful, God's work indeed.' He saw a slightly quizzical look on her face.

After leaving the hospital and clambering into the trap, he gave Sparky a brief account of what he had seen, his final words to Sister Carmichael coming back to him. “God's work,” he had said. He wondered at these words; if God was able to work through the nurses to heal and comfort, why did the same God allow the men to be injured and maimed in the first place? Did his words make sense; to him, never mind to Sister Carmichael? It was a troubled man who returned to Rusfield; troubled by what he had seen at the hospital, but much more by the relationship between God and suffering. How could they coexist in the same world?