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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2021 by Tracey Enerson Wood
Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Sandra Chiu
Cover images © Magdalena Russocka/Trevillion Images, Sergiu Cozorici/Getty Images, Kathrin Schlott/Getty Images, Diane Labombarbe/Getty Images, Marisa Lia/Getty Images, Beautiful Landscape/Shutterstock
Internal design by Ashley Holstrom/Sourcebooks
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Enerson Wood, Tracey, author.
Title: The war nurse : a novel / Tracey Enerson Wood.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2021]
Identifiers: LCCN 2020051811 (print) | LCCN 2020051812 (ebook) |
(hardcover) | (epub)
Classification: LCC PS3623.O6455 W37 2021 (print) | LCC PS3623.O6455
(ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020051811
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020051812
CONTENTS
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Author’s Note
Excerpt from The Engineer’s Wife
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To the heroes, both long gone and with us today, who fought for freedom and safety in our world, and to those who cared for them in their hour of need.
CHAPTER 1
April 1917
St. Louis, Missouri
Perhaps God made a mistake, and meant for me to be born a man. Certainly he gave me a man’s height, a jaw like an anvil, and shoulders fit to carry the world’s burdens. But I am, through and through, a woman, with all the sensibilities and, I daresay, strengths that includes. And I needed all of them, every ounce of courage, every fiber of muscle, every memorized detail of my profession.
On occasion, I shamelessly used my impressive stature when it suited my goals. In fact, that fateful morning, when the bespectacled Dr. Valentine barged into my office, ranting about the actions of one of my nurses in training, I rose from my desk chair and stood next to him, the top of his balding head even with my chin. Somehow, this seemed to even the playing field between the chief of medicine and chief of nursing.
My office was a handsome space, and I was proud to have earned it. A huge walnut desk the size of a dining table imposed its bulk in the center, and bookshelves lined all four walls. There was something empowering about it, and watching Dr. Valentine’s eyes flick around the room, taking it in, pleased me.
He waggled his pointer finger at me. “Miss Harriman is the most obtuse nurse I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with. You make sure she doesn’t come with us.”
“Come with you? Where are you going?”
His eyes widened behind his thick eyeglasses and his mouth gaped, as if he had just witnessed a ghost. “Oh, no, not my place to say. Better it comes from the powers that be.” He looked up at the ceiling, as if angels were the higher power. “Well, ta-ta, then.” He backed away, creeping out of my office like a guilty schoolboy.
I quickly forgot about his strange comment and unreasonable complaint about the nurse and returned to my huge workload. After three years in St. Louis at Barnes Hospital, organizing then leading the medical-social work unit, I had been promoted to superintendent of nurses and head of nursing training at the affiliated Washington University. As superintendent, I was responsible for every aspect of nursing at the university hospital, from recruitment and training to policies and procedures. I frequently coordinated with the heads of other departments and worked feverishly to stay up to date on new treatments and practices.
At the same time, I was handling all the duties of a dean for the nurse training program. Without the title, of course, as nursing wasn’t considered an academic major but more of an on-the-job training program.
I had nearly two years as superintendent, and it was a most rewarding experience. With the possible exception of Dr. Valentine, Washington University had the finest doctors and was on the front edge, especially for dealing with cardiac and facial surgery.
Despite all that, Dr. Valentine’s strange remark reminded me that it was probably time for me to move on. There was change in the air, something I sensed the way the rustle of the leaves and birds taking flight told me of an oncoming storm. Even before the huge proposition that was about to land in my lap, I knew I would be leaving my beloved St. Louis.
* * *
I was teetering on a rolling ladder, adding new textbooks of medical-surgical nursing to the top shelf, when tall, muscular Dr. Fred Murphy, the chief of surgery, dropped by my office.
“Good gracious, Miss Stimson, get down. We have people to do that.” He brushed back the locks of light-brown hair that continually fell upon his forehead, which along with his oversize eyeglasses gave him a boyish look. But he had been a star football player at Harvard and seemed to fill the room with an aura of power and authority.
I’d had a bit of a crush on him since we both had arrived in St. Louis back in 1911. I had to be careful, because gossip was the fuel that fed too many of the doctors, nurses, and other staff. At nearly thirty-six years old, I was considered a spinster, so any eligible bachelor was eyed as my potential suitor, despite my many denials, claiming the truth, that I simply didn’t have the time for one. So I had to steal a glance at Dr. Murphy w
hen no one was looking, happy to have this opportunity alone in my office with him.
Not only was he tall and strongly built, he was bright and amusing, yet totally unassuming. He was charming in a most sincere way, opening a door for me in a gentlemanly fashion or offering his umbrella in the rain. But he was never condescending to women or dismissive of them as so many men were.
Dr. Murphy held the ladder while I climbed down. From the chest pocket of his crisp white lab coat, he produced a yellow paper.
“Is that a telegram? For me?” I held out my hand, but he wasn’t offering.
“Do you have time for a chat?”
Hearing those seven words, I had a premonition that my world and the position that I had worked so hard for were about to be upended. I sucked in my stomach and braced myself. Dr. Valentine’s slipped words came back to me. Clearly, upheaval was in the works.
“What is it?” Again, I held out my hand for the telegram.
“You might want to sit down.”
In a small act of defiance, I sat on my desktop. “Is my position here in danger? I know I’ve upset the applecart a few times, but the changes I’ve made are justified.”
“In a way, yes.” He cleared his throat and used his fingers to rake back his hair. “As you may recall, our School of Medicine was identified by the Red Cross as a base hospital, to be activated in the event of an emergency.”
“Yes. An honor, to be sure.” My mind reeled. I had been placed on some Red Cross committee, but the meetings were rather an old boys’ club affair, with much drinking of whiskey and smoking of cigars. At some point, someone would read a short update from the Red Cross, then they would adjourn to play golf or meet their wives for dinner. Minus me, of course. “Has there been a fire? A tornado?”
“No. But seems the emergency they were really preparing us for has arrived.” Dr. Murphy took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “War. This is from the surgeon general in Washington, DC.” He read from the wire. “‘Can your unit go to Europe and how soon?’”
My hand clapped to my mouth as I gasped. “Will you go?” Of course, I knew him well enough to know the answer to that question.
He nodded. “The unit is the entire medical staff of the university, plus supporting personnel.”
“What about the ‘how soon’ part? We don’t even have troops over there yet. Surely we have some months to prepare while they are still getting trained.”
“I’ve been told the Red Cross’s answer to the surgeon general was that we would be ready in six weeks’ time.” He took his pipe out of his pocket and rubbed his thumb across the carving on the bowl.
“Six weeks! What will that mean for the hospital? How will it run without the medical school staff?” I felt my list of options diminishing by the second. “It’s going to shut down, isn’t it? Is this my termination announcement?” With my recent wanderlust, I had been toying with the idea of returning to my native New York. But still, I didn’t want my hand forced.
“Not at all. The hospital will hire medical staff from elsewhere and will continue on.”
“But you will be leaving.” His words hardly comforted me. I had grown quite fond of him. “I will miss you.”
His voice softened. “You don’t have to miss me.” He sat next to me on the giant desk. “You see, the idea of a base hospital unit is that they take a well-functioning group who have trained together, know one another’s quirks and strengths, are bonded in a way that fosters good communication and dedication to one another, as well as for their mission.
“Central to all this are the nurses. We can’t run a hospital without them.” He turned and looked straight into my eyes, no doubt wanting to judge my reaction.
My mind was still spinning with the obstacles we would face with a complete change in medical staff. I was already forming a transition plan in my head. “Don’t worry. We will carry on.”
He scratched his temple. “I’m not sure you understand. We want to take you and your nurses with us to Europe, or wherever we may be sent.”
My mind continued to whirl, even as part of me had already accepted the challenge. Dr. Murphy chattered on, with numbers, deadlines, and names. One of the names was Dr. Valentine. I began to sort out nurses and other support staff to consider taking with us. Dr. Valentine needn’t have worried about Nurse Harriman. Although I disagreed with his assessment, she lacked the years of experience we would need in every nurse we took.
Dr. Murphy patted my shoulder as he rose. “So lots to think about. Let me know what you decide.” He headed out, then stopped, silhouetted in my office doorway. “We’ll need to find sixty-five nurses willing and able, with no return date in sight.” He gave a knock on the doorframe, then stepped away before I could voice the hundreds of questions in my brain.
* * *
Before moving to St. Louis, I had spent nearly my entire adult life in and around New York City, which tended to see itself as the center of the universe. Moving out west in 1911 had seemed an act of courage, but once I was there and met the lovely people, I realized how foolish a thought that was. I had lived there as a child, and I felt welcome and accepted as if I had never left.
I had landed my dream job, training women to be professional nurses, right next to the medical school. We had the finest equipment and knowledgeable and dedicated staff. I had set up a challenging curriculum, too challenging according to some, and my nurses, both in training and my instructors, continually impressed me. Envisioning a steady progress from untrained help maids to vital members of a health care team, I thought the future of nursing was in my very own grasp.
But the forefront was still in New York, and I was beginning to think it time to go back, to leave the comfort of St. Louis and find new challenges to conquer. I had pursued the field of nursing after my family wouldn’t support my dream of becoming a physician. Now, with a decade of experience, I had already reached the pinnacle of my profession. I was about to complete a master’s degree, and with it, I could return to New York and push the boundaries of what nurses could achieve. And maybe a small part of me had wanted to return to rub my father’s and uncle’s noses in my success.
But it no longer seemed the right time to return to New York. The thought of Dr. Murphy leaving without me caused a surprising pang. Perhaps the war, not New York, was the best next step for me. It felt like I was hurtling forward on a train, and the track had suddenly switched directions.
* * *
Europe was in the midst of the Great War. After much heated debate and valiant efforts by President Woodrow Wilson to avoid U.S. involvement, we were heading into the conflict. I had followed the news with trepidation, fearing my younger brother, Philip, would be conscripted. My oldest brother was already serving in the army, and Phil had asked to join units in New York and St. Louis. Never had I ever envisioned being part of the war effort myself, except perhaps to nurse the returning wounded.
When I was a student at Vassar College, I spent a summer volunteering at a camp in Montauk, at the very eastern tip of Long Island, which was being set up for soldiers returning from the Spanish-American War. It was an eye-opening experience for me, just as I was trying to imagine my own place in the world. I still had a copy of a letter I had written to my sister:
October 1898
My dear Elsie,
How I wish you could have come with me to Montauk. My classmates and I are assisting the men building all manner of huts and encampments for the soldiers returning from Cuba. Rumor has it we will house close to thirty thousand in this sandy, soggy place. We have set up a chow hall for the workers and serve them porridge for breakfast and a chipped beef gruel for nearly every dinner. They don’t complain, and neither do we when we see the ragged, sickly troops pouring out of the ship transports.
Some are suffering from typhoid or yellow fever; others seem healthy but must be screened before returning home. Can you imag
ine that? Victoriously fighting a war on foreign soil, only to be held almost like a prisoner for fear of contaminating our citizens. They keep us students well away from the soldiers, but one can’t help but see their forlorn faces, begging for a kind word, a thank-you for bearing the weight of our nation’s battles. I give a wave from the distance, but it pains my heart not to do more.
Your loving sister,
Julia
Although my experience there was limited by the need for isolation from infectious diseases, it taught me the tremendous sacrifices made by those who care for the most heroic of all, those who fight our wars. Indeed, Reubena Walworth, the nurse who had recruited us from Vassar, lost her own life to the typhoid she acquired there.
The memory of losing Reubena both pained and frightened me. Rationally, I knew that as a nurse, I was more exposed to deadly contagious diseases, but we took measures to protect ourselves, and it was an unavoidable part of the job. But perhaps irrationally, my instinct was to flee to safer ground. I admitted only to myself that my drive toward a leadership role was partly an effort to distance myself from contagion.
Yet I knew I would go with the unit. I had no husband nor children to miss me, and although my rather privileged background wouldn’t hint of it, I was raised to have a purpose, to serve with whatever gifts and grace God had given me. I was strong, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. There was a reason I was given these gifts and entrusted with this responsibility. But how would I find sixty-four additional nurses? How could I ask them to leave their families, risk their own safety?
One thing I felt sure of was that all the nurses we recruited must be fully aware of the risks and of the open-ended commitment. I grabbed my plan book. First task: identify prospects, both to help me recruit and to join the unit. Second: plan the necessary training. Third: order the necessary uniforms, equipment. Raise funds? Surely that wasn’t my task as well. I started a list of questions to ask Dr. Murphy.
* * *
The quest was on. We invited most of our qualified staff, but that wouldn’t be enough. Newspaper advertisements and posters were placed all over the city. Pleas were made in ladies’ magazines. We concentrated on the St. Louis area but put out some announcements nationally as well. A flyer placed in markets and post offices proclaimed: “We need Nurses! Qualified Trained Nurses needed for the War Effort. Full room and board, uniforms, and competitive pay.”
The War Nurse Page 1
