The Last Lady from Hell (29 page)

When they were alone Sister Kathleen spun around and pointed an accusing finger. “Doctor, I have every intention of reporting you to your superiors regarding that disgusting speech you just delivered.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Churchill said.

“You know very well what I’m talking about,” the sister snapped.

Churchill’s face went uncustomarily hard and his voice became low and stern. “As chief of medicine here, I don’t take well to being reprimanded or threatened by a nurse, especially one with a filthy mind.”

She gasped. “I have nothing of the kind.”

“Quiet!” he barked. ”You will report to my office at 0800 hours tomorrow at which time I will have your transfer papers ready.”

Sister Kathleen was momentarily stunned by the doctor’s harsh response. Her tone completely changed. “Doctor, surely, you can’t mean what you are saying. I am the head nurse, we are short staffed, and we are about to be swamped with a massive number of casualties.”

Churchill’s steely stare was unchanged. “Rest assured,” he said evenly, “this decision has been a long time in coming and is final.”

With that, Churchill turned and walked away leaving the dumbfounded nurse standing alone in the room.

In the adjoining room the nursing staff sat as quietly as they could, all straining to eavesdrop on the confrontation. They were all equally stunned at this remarkable turn of events. Sheila was awash with mixed emotions. Part of her was almost giddy at the prospect of Sister Kathleen’s departure, and another part felt sorry for her, not wanting to wish ill on anyone. She somberly left the room leaving the nattering staff behind.

Two days later, standing with her friend, Sheila quietly excused herself and walked down the hallway alone. There was still plenty of time before her scheduled rounds, so she went to tend to her project, Bully, the comatose patient. He continued persistently in his semi-vegetative state and, although, his weight and overall health was good, his stubborn condition caused Sheila to begin to doubt whether he would ever recover.

She changed the linen on his bed, gave him a sponge bath and then began his physical therapy, which consisted of her moving his arms, legs, and neck in a full range of motion. She spoke to him softly as she tried to counter the tightening of his tendons.

“Your favorite fan has left the hospital–that’s right Sister Kathleen. I know you’re disappointed. It’s brave of you to hold back your feelings, but you can feel free to let it out, it’s just the two of us here.”

As she moved his shoulders from side to side he let out with an uncustomary groan. She stopped and looked at his face for a sign. Nothing.

“Well, I had mixed feelings too,” she continued. This was really therapy for both of them. Sheila would speak to Bully of things that she would share with no one else, he would silently listen, no judgments or objections. There was a strange one-sided bond that was forming. Perhaps it was her maternal instinct. After all, he was helpless and without her attention, he would not survive. He needed her and she needed him. Doctor Churchill had seen this strange relationship develop before and had gently warned her to be cautious of the possibility of personal involvement, but she dismissed the notion. She now reflected on his advice and realized he may have been right.

This emotional turmoil was dampening her normally upbeat demeanor so she decided it was time to give Bully some fresh air and time for her to play her pipes. She wheeled his bed out into the courtyard and retrieved her pipes. Entertaining the men always lift
ed her spirits and, of course, the men loved it. She tuned her pipes in less than a minute as the men began to gather around always eager for entertainment. A beautiful Scottish lullaby was her first choice followed by a snappy rendition of “The Black Bear.”

The men cheered her on as she slid into a spirited jig and then a measured strathspey. Sheila knew that to perform the bagpipes for an audience was like serving a rich dessert after a meal. Smaller portions are easier to digest and are more satisfying. So, she concluded her musical session with the old Queen’s University fight song and then snapped her pipes under her arm the way her old instructor Victor Matthews had taught her.

As she walked away from the clapping men toward Bully’s bed and the cheering subsided she heard the faint singing of the Queen’s fight song.

“Ka Ya, Ka Ya, Ka Ya” was softly being sung over and over. She looked around to see who knew the Queens song, but no one was near. Her heart suddenly pounded as she realized that the soft singing was coming from Bully. Sheila almost dropped her pipes as she raced the remaining steps to his side. Could it be possible? Could he be singing? Could he be conscious? As she leaned in close and watched his mouth, his eyes remained closed, but his mouth was moving and he was singing “The Oil Thigh,” the nickname of Queen’s fight song. A flood of emotion came over her as her eyes welled up and she began to happily sob at the realization that she had finally reached him.

OUR HOME ON THE SOMME, THE 36TH ULSTER

[Transcribed from Ian MacDonald’s recording]

O
ur billets for the 36th Ulster were spread throughout a small village just five miles from the Front. The artillery assault was, we were told, started three days earlier and had been continuing night and day. The noise was constant but after a while we all became used to it. The division occupied every available house, hotel, barn and church for its lodging. I must say that the people were remarkably hospitable about our intrusion. I doubt I would have been as gracious.

Sean, Bill and I stayed with five other young Irishmen in a small, well-built brick barn on the east side of the village. The barn was relatively comfortable and was one of the cleanest barns I had ever seen. The smell of animals was faint, far less than one would expect. It was, however, enough to bring back some warm memories of my family’s farm on Wolfe Island.

I marveled at the old man and his wife–Dobsavage was their last name–who ran this small farm. Here they were so close to the Front and the bombing, being intruded upon by a foreign army, and they stubbornly remained on their farm carrying out their chores as if nothing were out of the ordinary. The small weathered looking
farmer who had several teeth missing and his even smaller craggy wife, who had an abundance of facial hair, were so kind as to feed us eggs, toast and the best coffee we had ever tasted every morning. I do believe that we were eating far better than our officers who were put up at the towns Hotel. In turn, for their kindness, we all would help the old couple moving heavy rocks, rebuilding fences and mending weak portions of their small farmhouse roof.

The couple was especially interested in the bagpipes when Sean, Bill, and I would practice. The first time we played, they stopped their routine chores and shuffled over, curious as to the unusual noise. They both sat down on the nearest available object and lit up cigarettes giving us their full attention.

The farmer would lean over and pat his wife’s knee, point to one of us and chatter in French. She would nod and smile. It seemed as if they were enjoying our concert because they always put down their cigarettes and clapped enthusiastically at the end of a set. When we practiced, thereafter, we would tune inside their house because of the interference of the constant artillery noise outside. The drones are quieter than the chanter and it was almost impossible to tune with the racket blasting outdoors.

“We’re five miles from the front and it’s hard to hear. Can you imagine how loud it is at the Front?” Sean asked.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Bill said.

Two cows, one old horse, five or six Muscovy ducks and several chickens were the other occupants of our billet. The ducks and chickens were constantly under foot, in fact, several of the ducks seemed peculiarly fond of our boots. These birds also had a bad habit of laying their eggs in the most random places, so a careful check of our straw beds before lying down was prudent.

Bill learned this the hard way one evening when, exhausted from a hard day of helping on the farm, he dropped onto his bed, then jumped back up when he heard the cracks and felt the wetness of several broken eggs. We all had a good laugh over the event–all except Bill that is. He erupted into an uncustomary volley of profan
ity that sent us into fits of coughing laughter. Because of the freestyle egg laying habits of these birds, our first chore of the day was an egg hunt. We used straw baskets just like an Easter egg hunt to collect these treasures. The upside of this daily chore was that Madame Dobsavage, our hostess, would make us omelets along with Bully Beef that tasted surprisingly good. I marveled at how only the French could take something as plain as canned beef and transform it into something delicious, a proverbial silk purse from a sow’s ear.

Lieutenant Owen McDonnell joined us one morning and was so impressed with breakfast that he became a regular morning visitor. Sean asked the Lieutenant if we could expect to have the rest of the officers joining us for breakfast tomorrow.

“Not on your life!” McDonnell said smiling. “We’ll just keep this our little secret.”

The waiting is the most difficult part for a soldier prior to battle. Fortunately for us, we were kept busy around the Dobsavage farm so we had little time to become stressed over the impending fight.

A small group of fellows who apparently had been separated from their unit joined us one night. They were old salts, hardcore killers who were on their way to re-up with their regiment “The London Scottish.”

These men had been on the Western Front for over a year and were truly hardened veterans of the trenches. At night, after supper, we coaxed them into telling us stories of their experiences. One by the name of Pinkerton, had been in the Battle Lille and recounted the tragic losses sustained by the Blackwatch, which was, of course, my grandfather’s regiment.

The London Scottish was among the regiments waiting in the trenches for the word to advance, but those in command were having mixed thoughts about when to start the charge. “We were in the second wave, ready to go; the delay was driving us all mad. After
hours of standing ready in the muck of the front trenches and just minutes before we were supposed to charge, we received the order to stand down.”

We were all riveted to what Pinkerton was saying as he paused to take a drink of some rum that we had commandeered.

“The word didn’t get to the forward trenches in time. The Black-watch Regiment was to be the first over the top. They were prepared, ready, and able. When the time came to finally start the attack, they charged up and over, unaware of the order to stand down. Into the fire of the deadly barking maxim 08 machine guns they ran, and we could only watch in horror,” Pinkerton recalled.

“One hundred yards of No Man’s Land to cross before they reached the German trenches. One hundred yards, without a walking artillery blanket being laid down as cover. We in the Scottish were screaming for them to return, but the battle noises drowned out our pleas. They charged ahead into the onslaught. At the fifty yard point they had lost half of the five hundred men in the regiment. But they continued, never looking back, and as they made it to the German’s 1st trench there were only about a hundred men remaining.