Somewhere in France: A Novel of the Great War (3 page)

Chapter 4

“C
aptain Fraser?”

“Yes, Corporal?”

“You’ve some letters from home, sir. I popped them on top of the other papers on your desk.”

Another stack of post, God help him. He’d only been here six weeks and the letters from home had been unceasing. All well meaning, all blissfully ignorant of what was really happening in France and Belgium, and he’d had to force himself to reply.

After a while he’d begun writing essentially the same letter over and over. Thank you for your good wishes. Yes, I am busy, but the hospital in which I work is a fine one and handsomely equipped. No, there is nothing I require by way of personal items or supplies for the hospital. Thank you again for thinking of me, yours faithfully, and so on and so forth.

He’d known it would be bad when he signed up, having read enough about the commission of recent wars to expect the worst. The problem lay in his expectations and the way in which they’d been flattened by the reality that faced him in the wards each day.

As a surgeon, he knew how to right what was wrong, repair what was injured, and find a way to create something whole out of something broken, even if the damage at first appeared irreparable. But how could he fight against an enemy that was invisible?

Some called it gas gangrene. Some called it enteric fever. No matter the name, it was his enemy, and it was killing his patients, one after another, no matter how long and carefully he labored to repair their wounds.

A day, a week, a fortnight after surgery, often for the most minor of injuries, the fever set in. Then came the infection, feral and relentless, poisoning its victim inch by agonizing inch.

They’d tried everything to eradicate it, scrubbing the wards from top to bottom every day, burning the uniforms the men arrived in, washing their skin with carbolic solution before surgery; they’d even set up special isolation wards for men who showed signs of fever. All to no avail.

He sat at his desk and took up the bundle of letters. One from his mother, two from colleagues at the London, and the fourth . . . he didn’t recognize the handwriting. Feminine, almost calligraphic. He turned over the envelope and saw the address embossed on the back: Ashford House, Belgrave Square, London.

Now, this was something entirely unexpected. A letter from Lilly.

He tore it open and read it through, too quickly. Why had she written to him? Was it out of a sense of duty or Edward having asked her to do so? Or had she taken it upon herself to write, to establish some kind of contact with him?

He read it again. No mention of the fiancé.

No matter the reason. She had written, she seemed to be sincere, and so he might as well reply.

No. 4 General Hospital

Somewhere in France

16 October 1914

Dear Lady Elizabeth,

Thank you for your letter. You do find me well, and not especially tired, although I’m at a low ebb because of some difficulties we are encountering in the postsurgical treatment of soldiers at our hospital.

I’ve been in France for a little more than a month, having been sent here via Le Havre after three weeks of officer training. Drill, endless rules and regulations to memorize, and, worst of all, target practice, at which I took great pride in my poor showing. When I left for France I packed my service pistol into my locker and I earnestly hope it remains there for the duration.

In our spare moments we performed medical inspections on recruits, with only the finest physical specimens accepted for duty in France. His Majesty’s Army is choosy now, but the day will come when it will gladly accept any man between sixteen and sixty, no matter his height, health, or accomplishments. Mark my words.

The hospital where I work is located in a hotel that’s been taken over by HM Forces for the duration. It’s by far the grandest building in which I’ve ever lived or worked, not the equal, of course, to your father’s houses but at least a thousand times nicer than my little flat in Whitechapel or the aging wards of the London. Certainly the supply of hot water to the bathrooms is far more reliable.

All the furniture and artwork was removed before we set up here, but the building itself is beautiful, with high ceilings and immense windows (well taped in case of stray enemy munitions) and gardens that stretch nearly as far as the eye can see.

As quarters, I have a smallish room, set on a high floor, with a fine view that I do not admire as often as I should. I share it with one other surgeon, a decent fellow, but he talks in his sleep and has a snore that would wake the dead. Fortunately most nights I’m tired enough that I have no difficulty falling asleep.

The food here is good—cooked, alas, by RAMC canteen workers and not the kitchen’s original French staff—but there is plenty to eat and they always have something available when we work into the wee hours.

With that I’ll say good-bye for now. We have another lot of wounded coming in and I should probably take care of some paperwork before I go into theater again.

As I said, I am delighted that you wrote and I look forward to our correspondence.

Yours faithfully,

R. Fraser

31, Belgrave Square

London SW1

27 October 1914

Dear Captain Fraser,

I was delighted to receive your letter, all the more because we are just now returned from Portsmouth, where we bid farewell to Edward yesterday. We were only able to visit with him for a few minutes, it was so busy at the port, but I was glad of the chance to see his face and hear his voice before he embarked for France. He told us his battalion was likely to be attached to one of the Indian brigades, as several have recently been recalled to Europe, but beyond that he had little notion of where he was to be sent next. Simply “somewhere in France,” as the saying goes.

It was pretty hard to see him go, though as Edward deplores tears or any kind of fuss, I was careful not to allow myself to become overset. But knowing what he faces in the coming months, the kind of danger he will encounter, the horrors he will see—all of that weighed upon me quite dreadfully as I said good-bye.

Of course my troubles are as nothing compared to your present worries. You mentioned some difficulties regarding the care of patients. Do you have all the equipment and supplies that you need? Are there enough doctors and nurses to care for the wounded? I so wish there were something I might do, some way in which I might help. Even if it is only to listen, and in some way bear witness to the hardships you are suffering.

I do have some welcome news, for yesterday I received a letter from Miss Brown, my former governess and my dear friend for many years. She became a part-time nurse with the VAD before the war, in the spring, when the call first went out for volunteers, but recently decided she ought to be doing more. So she gave her notice to Miss Rathbone (a city councillor in Liverpool for whom she has worked since leaving me) and, with that lady’s blessing, has been accepted as a nurse trainee at the Great Northern Central Hospital on the Holloway Road. It is rather a leap of faith for Charlotte, leaving a secure (and paid) position to work for nothing as a volunteer nurse, but she hopes to be offered a paid position once she has qualified.

I don’t believe you have ever met Miss Brown, but I’m certain you would like her immensely. She’s of an age with you and Edward, I believe, and terribly well read and knowledgeable about so many things. But it hasn’t made her tiresome or pedantic at all; quite the contrary, for she has such a warm way about her and is endlessly curious about the people she meets. No matter where she goes she is always making new friends—a person need only sit next to her on the omnibus and within five minutes she has learned their entire life story. I imagine this will serve her in good stead as a nurse.

My own contributions to the war effort remain embarrassingly modest. Mama and Papa will not allow me to join any of the relief agencies, although both my sisters hold positions in the VAD. Once a week I’m allowed to attend a gathering of worthies as we pack parcels for the BEF, roll bandages, or unravel old jumpers to scavenge yarn for knitting. I’ve nearly finished knitting my third scarf—anything more complicated, such as socks or mittens, is sadly beyond my limited talents.

I thought of sending you a scarf but presumably your mother keeps you well supplied with such things. In lieu of that, I enclose a jar of damson plum jam. I helped (a very little) when Cook made it last week and I do hope you enjoy it. The plums were from the weekly hamper of produce sent from Cumbermere Hall, and were sweet enough to eat out of hand.

And now I shall say au revoir. Please let me know if there is anything else I might send that would aid in your comfort or that of your colleagues and patients.

Yours faithfully,

Lilly

(as I do hope I can encourage you to address me from now on)

No. 4 Gen. Hosp.

Somewhere in France

2 Nov. 1914

Dear Lilly,

It’s nearly midnight as I write this, having discovered your letter waiting for me when I finished rounds just now. As I will be up with the larks tomorrow, I thought it best to reply straightaway.

Thank you very much for the plum jam. I am tempted to open it now, just to sample it, but on second thought will keep it for breakfast.

Today was endlessly long and utterly disheartening. In answer to your question about the difficulties to which I alluded in my last letter: no, unfortunately, there is nothing you can send or do that can help. Though I thank you for asking.

The difficulties are being caused by what some here are terming an epidemic of enteric fever, although I don’t believe it can be so easily classified. No matter its name, it is a terrible thing, this fever and infection that kills men who ought to live, men whose injuries simply are not severe enough to be fatal—but still they die.

I believe (as do most others; I am no visionary) that this disease originates in exceedingly small organisms, bacilli, which live in the soil. When men are injured and their wounds are contaminated with this soil, the bacilli take over and render ineffective whatever other care we may offer. It is, I fear, as simple as that. We have no vaccine, no drug, no course of treatment that can halt the disease once it has set in.

Today I saw a man at eleven o’clock in the morning; to all appearances he was recovering well from surgery two days earlier. By one o’clock he had begun showing symptoms of infection. By midnight he was dead.

The frustration I am experiencing is quite terrible, Lilly, and I am very sorry to burden you with the knowledge of it. I hope you will write to me again; if you do so, I promise to answer with prettier words.

Let us talk instead of the work you are doing. You said your mother won’t let you become a full-fledged member of any of the services, which is unfortunate, but perhaps you might consider less formal channels? Once Miss Brown is established in London, for example, you might ask her if there’s a need for volunteers to read to the wounded, or help them write home to their families. The days pass slowly for men in the convalescent wards, particularly those whose families live far away and are unable to visit.

As I have scarcely set foot outside the hospital for some weeks now, I have no souvenirs to offer you. But I thought you might like this sprig of leaves from one of the linden trees that grow in the hotel garden. Not in bloom at this time of year, so there isn’t any scent to speak of, but the trees themselves are lovely.

Yours faithfully,

Robbie

(no more “Captain Fraser,” I beg you)

Chapter 5

North London

November 1914

L
illy surveyed the remains of her and Charlotte’s afternoon tea. Only crumbs were left where, minutes before, there’d been a tower of ham and tongue sandwiches and, on a second plate, a small mountain of Dundee cake. But there was still plenty of tea left in the pot.

Charlotte looked very well, though as usual her clothes were at least a year out-of-date, and much plainer than anything Lilly herself would have chosen. Her simple white shirtwaist with middy collar was unadorned, as was her slim-fitting, ankle-length skirt. But her felted wool hat was pretty enough, its wide upturned brim faced in navy corduroy, and her overcoat was of a smart military cut.

It was the first time the women had seen each other since Charlotte’s arrival in London a fortnight earlier. At first her weekly half days off had been occupied in finding lodgings and getting settled, but once that was accomplished, she had written to Lilly and asked if they might meet at the A.B.C. tea shop, just down the Holloway Road from the hospital, on Wednesday next.

Lilly’s mother made only a token protest at the notion of her traveling all the way to north London for tea, although she did insist that Lilly take along one of the maids. After recovering from the excitement of the taxi ride, Sarah Jane had settled herself at a nearby table and had happily accepted Lilly’s offer of a pot of tea and a slice of seedcake.

“Do you want anything else, Charlotte? Would you like a cream bun?”

“No, I mustn’t. Otherwise Matron will find me sleeping in the linen closet before the end of the afternoon. Never mind that I had the entire morning off.”

“Is she very fierce?”

“Not at all. Crusty on the outside, of course, otherwise she’d never keep all of us in line. One has to respect her for that. She’s very fair, I think, especially to those girls who work hard.”

“I can’t imagine how one could be a nurse and
not
work hard.”

“There are some who try, but they don’t last long. They take one look at a really nasty wound, or at some of the messes they’re expected to mop up, and they either faint dead away or scurry for the exit.”

“I expect you’re better off without them.”

“I expect so, too,” Charlotte agreed, pouring them both another cup of tea.

“How far is it to your lodgings?”

“Not far. I found a room in a little house in Camden Town, just two miles down the road. Clean and not too dear, and the landlady is a character. One of those busybodies who means well. You know the sort.”

“Have you heard from your parents?”

“Like clockwork. I write every few days, mainly to reassure them I haven’t been corrupted by my new profession, nor have I fallen victim to some rogue contagion. It’s the least I can do, given that they’re supporting me. So embarrassing to be accepting money from my parents at my age, but it is for a greater good.”

“And it’s only for a short time, you said. Just until you’re qualified, and then you can hope for a proper position.”

“Yes. Though there are no guarantees.”

“I’m very proud of you. To have left everything behind, your work and friends, all to come here and work so terribly hard.”

“Thank you, but it’s nothing more than tens of thousands of other women are doing.” She fixed Lilly with a penetrating look that was intensified by her dark brown eyes and the lenses of her spectacles. “Which brings us to the question of what
you
plan to do. You’ve talked and talked about war work, told me again and again that you want to do your part to help, but you haven’t done one single thing toward that end. At least, not so far as I know.”

“I want to, I do, but—”

“But?”

“Mama won’t hear of it. If I so much as say two words on the subject, she cuts me to shreds. And I’ve no qualifications, no actual skills to offer. What could I really do? I could never become a nurse like you. I know they would never take me.”

“How do you know? Have you ever asked?”

“Well, no,” Lilly began, feeling rather beleaguered.

“Then do it. I’m not saying this to make you feel badly, or to shame you in any way. I know very well how obstructive your mother can be. But if you want this, truly want this, then you have to
act
.”

“You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

Charlotte took several sips of tea before speaking again. “What does Captain Fraser say?”

“He’s offered some suggestions. He thought I might read to the wounded, or help them write letters.”

“An excellent idea. Though you’ll need to start by joining the VAD.”

“Mama is quite opposed to that. I don’t understand why, since both my sisters belong.”

“They’re married, and presumably answer to their husbands. So she wasn’t able to forbid them.”

“I suppose.”

“Perhaps you should just find yourself a husband. That’s the easy solution. And your mother would be so pleased.”

“
Charlotte
. You, of all people—”

“What do you mean, ‘of all people’? I’ve never said I don’t wish to marry.”

“But I thought . . .”

“You and everyone else. My parents included. I’ve nothing against marriage, I’ll have you know. The problem is that I’ve never met anyone I wanted to marry.”

“Never?”

Charlotte looked away, out the window to the busy road beyond. “Not anyone I
could
marry. Which is different, I know.”

“I could marry Captain Fraser,” Lilly burst out. “I mean, that is, if I ever were to marry, he is the sort of man I would like. Not that he’s interested in me, for I’m fairly certain he’s not. But if he were . . .”

Charlotte abandoned her contemplation of the traffic on the Holloway Road. “In all those letters, he’s said nothing? Intimated nothing?”

“We truly are nothing more than friends. I ought not to have said that just now. It was silly of me.”

“Not at all. And it seems to me, though I’ve never met him, that he is exactly the sort of man who would suit you. If you were ever to decide to marry.”

“He’s so different from other men I’ve met. My parents think him common, because of his family, but he’s nothing of the sort. He’s brave, and terribly intelligent . . . and he hasn’t let anything hold him back.”

“Exactly. Just as you should be doing.”

“You know, he said something to me, the night of Edward and Helena’s engagement ball. He said it was the twentieth century and that women could and ought to do anything they wished to do. I’ve never forgotten it.”

“But you did forget. That’s why you’re still under your mother’s thumb, and why you’re still sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself instead of doing what you know is right.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am. So what shall you do?”

“I . . . I’m not certain.”

Charlotte peered at Lilly over the top of her spectacles, fixing her with a steady, disbelieving stare. It was the same look she had often employed when they were still governess and pupil and Lilly had offered an unconvincing or ill-thought-out reply to a question.

“But I will think on it, I promise. Perhaps the VAD or the FANY to start.”

“Excellent. And if their response is disappointing?”

“Then I shall think of something else.”