by Jana Petken
Kevin had to ask, “And do you think you’re better than those women in the factory?”
“No! Of course I don’t. I did feel pity, but that doesn’t mean I was looking down my nose at them.” She then told him about her interview at the Woolwich factory. “I could see just by the way those women were dressed that they didn’t have tuppence to rub together. They were being treated like cheap labourers! I’m sure I can do better. I know for a fact that the men working there get paid almost double the wages. And that manager deserved a good slapping. He insulted me – called me a Fenian! Sure, I felt like picking up one of those shells and shoving it into his filthy mouth.”
Pausing, she stared at Kevin properly for the first time. “Do you not agree that munitions factories are hazardous places for women to work in – all turning yellow and such?”
She was deeply upset and was being earnest, yet Kevin felt the urge to smile. Jenny, who had never worked a day in her life, was already complaining about women’s wages and the workplace. God help London if she ever joined the suffragette movement, he thought.
“I’m sure the government doesn’t want women making shells and working with heavy machinery any more than their husbands, fathers, or brothers do, but the War Office’s compulsory conscription is sending our men to France, and they need weapons. It is a distasteful situation but a necessary evil, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t patronise me! I know all that. I’m not an eejit. Will you just answer the question? Is it not a hazardous place for women to work?”
“It is,” he agreed. “I treated a woman from a munitions factory only this week. I couldn’t save her, and it broke my heart. She died in terrible pain. The back of her throat was completely burned away by gunpowder.”
“How terrible. You see, I was right,” Jenny said. “That poor woman was a casualty of war and men’s manipulation of the weaker sex.”
Kevin disagreed. The newspapers and people in the street touted that the women working with munitions were devout in their patriotic duty for king and country, but he suspected that while that might be the case for some, just as many were working there because they were desperate for money. Jenny’s refusal to consider that sort of work had not surprised him, but eventually she would have to accept that money was no longer going to fall into her lap from the hands of an overly extravagant father.
“No one is forcing the women of Britain to work. Their reasons for joining the workforce are quite obvious. The government asked for help, and the female population answered the call. They are also earning a wage, which is a new concept for most of them. You said yourself that the war seemed nearby, and you’re right. We’re being hit by bombs from the air, and battles at sea are washing dead bodies up on our shores. On a still day, we can hear the heavy artillery bombardments on the battlefields of France. Many of those shells are being made here. London is at war, Jenny, and the women of this city are on the front lines.”
“Kevin, stop. You’re scaring me.”
“Forgive me. Let’s not talk any more about the war.”
After ordering drinks and shepherd’s pie for both of them, he asked, “So … what do you see yourself doing with your time?”
“I’m not sure. What skills do I have? I realise that I will have to seek employment somewhere. If I don’t, Minnie and Mam will find something awful for me and force me into it. I never imagined myself being in this position. I’m ashamed to say that I have never crossed a busy road by myself or walked into a bakery to ask for a loaf of bread. It seems that my life has been a useless waste of time.”
At that moment, Kevin saw the real Jenny, a scared, vulnerable, and lost little girl. He almost hated Susan and Robert Carmody for giving her such an appalling upbringing.
“Would you be interested in working at the Charing Cross Hospital?” he asked.
“No! I hate the sight of blood.”
Disappointed, Kevin poured water from a jug into her glass. “You know you can count on me for anything? I’ll look out for you. You must never feel alone or upset that your brothers are not with you. ”
“Thank you. I appreciate your taking an interest in my well-being. Would you do something for me?”
“Of course, if I can.”
“Well, you see, I don’t know if Patrick told you, but Mam has forbidden me to write to my John – she wants me to teach him a lesson. I heard her saying to Minnie the other day that she’s not sure I should marry him. Anyway, she received a letter from Danny, and I read it when she wasn’t looking. In it, he told Mam that John was well and that he’d written to me numerous times, but I think Mam has hidden the letters or ripped them up.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Yes, and she denied ever receiving them.”
“Perhaps your mother has good reasons for not wanting you to marry John,” Kevin said.
Jenny stared out of the window, retreating from the conversation. Kevin wanted to take back what he’d just said. He needed to be subtle and supportive if he stood any chance of winning her from John, not taking sides with Susan against him.
He was desperate to tell Jenny the truth. The army suspected John and his father of procuring weapons. According to their criminal files, the Grants’ bank records had uncovered the transfer of large sums of money to an anonymous recipient in Switzerland in 1914. At that time, thousands of rifles had landed at Larne, near Belfast, and the weapons had been on display at the Ulster Volunteer Force parade shortly after. Again, in the same year, another batch of small arms had arrived at Kilcoole, County Wicklow, where the Grants had been visiting for the summer. The evidence against the affluent family had been circumstantial, the report in the files stated. There were no witnesses willing to testify against them, and with insufficient proof, they had not been considered rebel hierarchy. They would get caught eventually, Kevin thought. At some point, they’d be released from Frongoch, resume their activities, and make a mistake.
“So, Jenny, what can I do for you?” he asked.
Her face brightened. Taking an envelope from her purse, she smoothed the corners and handed it over to him. “That’s the correct address of the prison camp. I checked. Will you put a stamp on this and post it for me? And is there any way you can find out how long John might be incarcerated? I don’t care what my mam says – I’m going to wait for him. And when he gets out of there, I’ll marry him just as we planned. Would you do this for me? Will you try?”
Thankful for the arrival of their shepherd’s pie with peas and slices of bread, Kevin gave himself a moment to think before he spoke. Thanking the waiter, he waited until Jenny had picked up her fork before he started to eat.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he finally told her, whilst silently vowing not to do a damn thing about her request.
Chapter Sixteen
Patrick walked through Admiralty Arch towards the War Office in Whitehall with nervy anticipation gnawing at his insides. Since donning the uniform, he had continually questioned his right to wear a sub lieutenant’s insignia. He had never stepped foot on a battleship, and he’d not even started his basic training, yet sailors called him sir and saluted him as they passed him in the grounds of the War Office.
His commission, with rank of sub lieutenant, had been given to him by royal command. Doctors sent to France were constantly being killed whist trying to treat and evacuate the wounded on the battlefield, and ships at sea were even more understaffed than the trenches and dressing stations. Britain was desperate for men with medical skills.
The college’s commanding officer, Rear Admiral William G. E. Ruck, had written the following memo:
Were Britain not at war, we at the Royal Navy College Dartmouth would be continuing our fine traditions of lengthy training, lasting months and years, in all aspects of navy procedures and purposes. This not being the case, however, we can only endeavour to give our new officers the most comprehensive training programme within the limits of time and resources at our disposal.
> With only a basic knowledge of navy life, its command structures, and responsibilities, which he had gleaned from newspapers and books, Patrick admitted that serving on board a warship was a daunting prospect. He reflected now that his hasty decision to go to sea had been, in part, due to a chance meeting with an old friend of his father’s and reports of a recent sea battle.
The German High Seas Fleet and British Grand Fleet had met at Jutland, off the coast of Denmark, on 31 May, and the encounter, which involved 250 ships, had resulted in devastating losses. Fourteen British and eleven German vessels were sunk, with over six thousand British sailors losing their lives. After that battle, Admiral Sir John Jellicoe, the British Grand Fleet’s commander, had claimed victory. Even as a somewhat ignorant civilian, Patrick could not agree with that assessment. The British lost more ships and twice as many sailors; moreover, the British press had criticised the Grand Fleet’s failure to force a decisive outcome. There had been no victor, only a continuing stalemate and a hefty cost of lives.
After hearing about Jutland, Patrick discovered a medical journal article published the previous year. It claimed that in 1914, the British Royal Navy was by far the most powerful navy in the world. Its basic responsibilities had included policing colonies and trade routes, defending coastlines, and imposing blockades on hostile powers. According to the article’s author, the British government took the view that to do all this, the Royal Navy had to possess a battle fleet that was larger than the world’s two next largest navies put together. And in order to operate to its full potential, every battleship, cruiser, hospital ship, and naval base should have a decent-sized contingent of sickbay stewards, warrant officers, and doctors.
He had also received some required reading documents supplied to him by a tutor at King’s College. The writings had impressed him greatly. The detailed and lengthy reports, penned by Fleet Surgeon Alexander MacLean and Surgeon Horace E. R. Stephens, both of HMS Lion, described their experiences during the Jutland battle. The officers had stated that they hoped the accounts might prove interesting to others since the conditions under which naval medical officers had to work in action differed so widely from any that they may have encountered in other practices.
Treating wounded sailors on the decks of a damaged ship under fire was, in Patrick’s opinion, an extremely difficult and intense form of medical trauma care. Ships had no stretcher-bearers or transport wagons to spirit wounded men away to dressing stations miles from the front lines. The injured could not be handed over to other units in more sheltered or better-equipped stations. A ship was like an isolated country, with no safe zone apart from the best-protected areas on board, and what they had at hand was all they had to work with.
Patrick had also chosen the sea over the land because at the beginning of the war, many Royal Navy medical reservists had signed up for active duty, leaving their civilian practices to retired aging men. Doctors were being replaced as quickly as possible, leaving more and more towns and cities without any practitioners under the age of sixty. The article warned of not only a shortage of doctors countrywide but also the dangers of not having nearly enough practicing surgeons to treat the population after the war ended.
After waiting only ten minutes, Patrick was ushered into the Admiralty offices. The first Lord of the Admiralty, Sir Edward Carson, rarely spoke directly to fledgling officers, such as Patrick, but he’d been one of Robert Carmody’s closest friends, and Patrick had met him many times; the latest encounter being at the end of May, when the admiral had visited King’s College looking for medical recruits.
“I was so sorry to hear about your father’s passing, Patrick,” Sir Edward said, shaking Patrick’s hand. “The entire medical profession is talking about his murder and how much he’ll be missed. The rebellion shocked us all.”
“That it did, sir,” Patrick said.
“To rise up during one of Britain’s darkest moments in history is despicable. The army was right to shoot the leaders, don’t you think?”
Patrick, instead of agreeing, found himself unwilling to commit his opinion. “History will judge those who took the decision to execute them, I suppose,” he said.
“I heard you were with your dad when he died,” the admiral continued, allowing Patrick’s non-committal answer to pass.
Patrick answered, “Yes, I was, sir.”
“The last time I saw him, we spoke about his research. It was a superb study. I do hope it’s not lost.”
“No, it’s intact. It now belongs to the College of Surgeons in Dublin. They funded my dad. I presume they will continue to pursue his findings.”
“They funded a large part of it, but not all. Your father used a substantial amount of his own money.”
Patrick was struck dumb. For a moment, he had no idea how to respond. Thoughts and questions were racing through him.
“You didn’t know, did you?” the admiral said.
“No, and neither did my mother. What does this mean?”
“I’m not a lawyer, but I have to presume that your father’s surviving family are entitled to quite a large sum of money from the college in Dublin or, at the very least, a say in what happens to the research. In the medical field, financial deals go on all the time between hospitals, universities, and copyright owners. There are fortunes to be made. You’ll find that out for yourself when your medical circles widen. If I were you, I would quietly pursue a claim of part ownership of the research. But I’d advise you to keep your dealings private. I wouldn’t want you to get your mother’s hopes up and then become entangled in a legal battle with the college board. I find it worrying that they have not been forthcoming about this, especially since it’s known that your father gave his life for those damn papers.”
“Well, I can assure you, Admiral, that I will do everything in my power to make sure my mother gets what she deserves.” My God, what wonderful news, Patrick thought. His father was not the irresponsible philanderer that Minnie had labelled him, and his family might not be as poor as they had originally thought. If only he had the luxury of time to dedicate to the matter.
“Sit please, Patrick.” The admiral opened a thick manila envelope and proceeded to look over the documents inside it. “We’re grateful to have you. Your King’s College professors speak very highly of you. Your tutor, Professor Mitchell, thinks you may be as talented as your father further down the line.”
“Patrick smiled. “It will be years before I even consider myself qualified to walk down the same path as my dad, but thank you for passing on that encouragement.”
“Are you ready to go to war?”
Patrick thought about the question. Was anybody ever prepared for war? “I am as prepared as I can be. I’m ready to serve my country, sir, although I find the prospect intimidating, considering that my only experience at sea has been on the crossings from Dublin to the mainland.”
Chuckling, the admiral handed Patrick a dossier. “Your orders – I took the liberty of approving your posting myself. You’ll leave for Devon immediately for an intensive course at the College of Dartmouth.”
“For how long, sir?”
“A few weeks at most. We have no time to stand on ceremony. We need our doctors at sea. I recommended to our operations division that after basic training, you serve aboard HMHS Britannic. She’s one of our hospital ships, only two years old, and the largest member of the White Star Line.”
“She’s the sister ship of RMS Olympic and RMS Titanic, is she not?” Patrick recalled the excitement in Belfast when the Britannic was launched as a transatlantic passenger liner just before the start of the war.
“That’s the one. She was laid up at her builders’ in Belfast for months until the War Office seconded her. She’s been at sea for about a year now.”
Patrick was delighted. He had hoped for a hospital ship rather than a battleship or cruiser. Specified for the sole purpose of transporting and treating wounded soldiers, he would gain a wealth of experience treating emergency cases and p
erforming operations on board.
“Thank you, sir. The Britannic would have been my first choice. I hope I can do my rank justice. I’m still concerned that I won’t be ready to board a ship and lead men within the space of a few weeks.”
The admiral pensively tapped his fingers on his desk, rose, and then crossed the room to a bookshelf sitting on the opposite wall. Sitting back down, he fingered the pages of a thin book, running his fingers down it until they reached halfway.
“Let me put your mind at rest, to a certain degree. Hospital ships are run by the navy, who get them from point A to point B. But as a doctor, your orders are to look after the wounded souls on board. We are not asking you to fight or make decisions about the ship’s operational procedures, only to heal the sick. You are more than qualified to do that, are you not?”
“I believe so.”
He then read him the following from Article 4 of the Hague Convention:
An outline of restrictions for a hospital ship: The ship should give medical assistance to wounded personnel of all nationalities. The ship must not be used for any military purpose. Ships must not interfere or hamper enemy combatant vessels. Belligerents as designated by the Hague Convention can search any hospital ship to investigate violations of the above restrictions. If any of the restrictions are violated, the ship can be determined as an enemy combatant and be sunk. Investigators from neutral countries such as Spain are allowed to inspect hospital ships to confirm that Article 4 is not being violated.
Looking fondly at Patrick, the admiral said, “Patrick, the Hague Convention was set in place to protect ships not involved in combat. Having said that, errors are made.”
“I understand,” Patrick said solemnly.
“I only wish the Germans did.” Pointing angrily at the book, he added, “They have already committed infractions. There is not an act of war more despicable than targeting a ship full of wounded, unarmed men, yet hospital ships continue to be harassed.”
