The War Nurse

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  For days, I alternated between worry that we would never find enough qualified nurses willing to give up their lives and embark on an unknowable journey, and fretting about recruiting such women and offering them the hope of a new, exciting life, only to crush them with overwork and dangerous conditions.

  Each day, I awaited the mail carrier with both anticipation and anxiety. And each day, I was met with a few invoices and a shrug. “Sorry, Miss Stimson,” the mailman would say. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  Perhaps we faced an impossible task. How far would our recruitment efforts need to go to find so many qualified and willing nurses? They would have to be risk takers, as so much was unknown, as well as dedicated to a cause that still seemed rather vague. Indeed, President Wilson, as well as the rest of the country, had been very hesitant to enter the conflict that seemed to have so little to do with us.

  Fretting didn’t get the work done, and I proceeded, ordering supplies and arranging for transportation and uniforms for those I could only hope would come.

  Another obstacle to recruiting we faced was that we didn’t know if, when, or where our unit, now known as American Red Cross Base Hospital 21, would be sent. It was possible we would remain in St. Louis and become a treatment and recuperation center for returning veterans. How could I ensure the nurses were informed of the risks if no one knew what they were? I would need to earn their trust, and I would need to be worthy of it. This was the mantra I wrapped myself in, the rod of steel that became my backbone.

  * * *

  Whenever I needed uninterrupted thinking time, I walked through Forest Park. It reminded me of my cherished Central Park back in New York City, and seeing the trees and ponds and birds always brought me a sense of energy and renewal.

  I pinned on my hat and wool cape, there still being a chill in the early spring air. The park was just across the street from my office, and I grabbed my sack lunch to enjoy there.

  Once inside the park, I waved to a gentleman whom I had seen many times, sitting on his usual bench, pigeons circled about his feet. I walked briskly down a gravel path, hoping my favorite park resident was up and about. Up a slight hill and beyond some cherry trees just beginning to burst with pink buds, there she was, Miss Jim, the park zoo’s recently arrived elephant.

  As I grew closer, I saw she had benches strapped to her back. They looked large enough for six adult riders, and this saddened me. The benches were empty, and she trotted around, bobbing her head and raising her trunk, not seeming to mind at all. A handler came around from behind her, and she trumpeted her approval as he hosed her down.

  I found an empty bench and tucked into my lunch. Miss Jim was an Asian elephant and former circus performer. She was as out of place as my nurses would be in a European war. She was captive, not free, and had been so her entire life. I struggled with that, enjoying seeing the animals so but at the same time wishing they were freely roaming in their natural habitats.

  But Miss Jim seemed quite content. She never had to struggle to find food. She feared no attacks from tigers, and she had shelter if she wanted it. Indeed, an entire elephant building was being constructed just for her. She had traded, or rather had been given, safety and security in exchange for her freedom. She also had a purpose to her life, giving rides to her enthusiastic fans. Thousands of schoolchildren had collected pennies to purchase her, and she ran up to see the little ones when they visited. Surely an elephant was intelligent enough to know she was loved and able to resist if she didn’t want to perform?

  My nurses would have more of a choice. I would be as forthcoming as possible as to the risks they were taking, the possible austere conditions, and the difficult work. But like the captive elephant, they wouldn’t be free to roam around as they wished. Their daily lives would be working long hours, with limited opportunity, perhaps none, to explore wherever we were sent. Of course, when I recruited them, I would also share with them the tremendous contribution they would be making to our country and its allies. Whether I could recruit one or one hundred nurses, they would know as much as I did about the possibilities.

  Next, I headed over to the aviary cage, which was always alive with birds from around the world. Their squawking, trills, and chirps could be heard from a hundred yards away. What advice do you have for me, my dear feathered friends? Some ducks waddled up to me from inside the cage. They cocked their heads, as if asking me what I wanted. Or more likely, wondering if I would feed them something. Other birds flew at the cage and hung on to its webbing, peering at the sky above. Peacocks strutted, searching for grubs or seeds, or flapped their wings to warn others away from their special find.

  Birds were going to be birds. Soldiers would be soldiers. Nurses would be nurses. There wasn’t much one could do to alter the nature of animals, human or otherwise. One could provide opportunity for growth, challenges to meet, and the freedom to choose another path. Like Miss Jim, the birds seemed to be telling me to drive on with my task at hand. To trust individuals to know their own limits, and give fully of myself.

  It was time to get back.

  * * *

  I stepped quickly down the polished hallway, my boots clicking on the tile floor. I had much to do, so I was chagrined to see a delivery boy with a cart stacked with overflowing crates outside my office.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  He was no more than nineteen years of age, with short blond hair and terrible teeth. “I’m looking for J. Stimson.”

  “You have found her.” I took a packet he offered and regarded the remaining boxes. “But I’m not sure she wants to be found.”

  “Uh, yes, ma’am. Where should I put these?”

  “You must be new. The supply room in the basement. Come along. I’ll show you, Mr…?”

  We had been ordering supplies and madly tucking them away like a community of squirrels. Everything from bandages and medication to tinned meals and shoelaces was to accompany the hospital unit wherever it was to be sent.

  “You can call me Ned. But these aren’t supplies. It’s interoffice mail, all addressed to you.”

  My heart sank to that special place below the rib cage. “Surely this all can’t be for me.” I unwound the red string securing a large envelope. It contained applications, ten of them. All seeking nursing positions for Base Hospital 21. I opened another envelope, and another. Each contained ten or so applications. I did a quick calculation. There had to be more than a thousand applications on that cart.

  My sunken heart rose again, my spirits lifting as if the sun had come out on the dreariest of days. I startled poor Ned with a loud squeal and a hug, then helped him push the cart into my office.

  * * *

  After several days of plowing through the reams of applications, with more arriving it seemed by the hour, I realized I needed an assistant if I was to get through them in any reasonable amount of time. I was loath to ask any of my nursing staff; they were already working long hours. So when Ned appeared with yet another load, I asked if he had any extra time.

  “For you, ma’am, absolutely. I’ve got nothing until the four o’clock delivery.”

  Ned and I sorted the applications, first separating out the clearly unqualified, too young or too old (the age requirement being twenty-five to thirty-five), then arranging the remaining ones by availability and training. Soon, we had about two hundred hopeful prospects.

  The application form asked for a short essay on why the person wanted the job. The answers were both heartwarming and distressing. I quickly realized I had been looking at the challenge through the rosy lens of a privileged upbringing. These women—the applicants were overwhelmingly female—were by and large not seeking a great adventure nor driven by a need to do their part for the country. They had other motivations.

  For example, a Rebecca V. wrote:

  I take in ironing and mending, which I tend to after my twelve-hour shift at the hospital. I h
ave to straighten my right hand out with my left before I can dress myself for bed.

  Nora W. said:

  I was orphaned in London and sent to Canada to work on a farm at age seven. After eight years of hard labor and vile punishment if my chores weren’t done, I escaped to Ohio and worked my way through nursing school. I don’t want to say how.

  Not all were seeking an escape from a life of drudgery, or worse. In fact, one reminded me a bit of myself:

  I have a good life. My parents are good to me. I have a nice beau. But I am capable of so much more. They thought I was crazy to go through nursing school and act like it was a silly phase. Now they want me to chair the social committee of the art museum. I would rather die.

  It occurred to me that the Great War would be throwing together people from different backgrounds and cultures like never before, and my nurses were no exception. It was a grand experiment of human nature. I hoped and prayed that the finer side of our humanity would show through, and in the end, the horrible, horrible war could have something positive come out of it.

  CHAPTER 2

  May 1917

  After a flurry of correspondence, checking of credentials, and interviews, both in person and on the telephone to candidates with access to one, we had recruited all the nurses we needed, plus a few backups. Next came the grueling training.

  Since many of the nurses already worked at Barnes and the doctors were all local, it naturally became the center for training. But our war assignment (the precise location was still unknown to us) was unlikely to have the modern equipment and facilities we were accustomed to. So I requisitioned an unused dormitory that lacked modern heating and full electricity to simulate our future working space.

  It was dark and dank, perfect for my purpose. There was a coal stove for heating water and one electrical outlet. There were eight cots, separated by muslin curtains, in which we cycled volunteers. A combination of medical school students and off-duty interns, clerks, and orderlies, they were happy to help the nurses out of patriotic duty.

  Of course, the nurses didn’t need training on basic care. But they needed training for injuries they would have had less experience with, such as severe burns and amputations and shell shock.

  I stocked the area with some supplies, being careful to leave out some commonly used items and adding some substitutes. Then I gave my volunteer “patients” descriptions of their injuries and symptoms.

  The exercise was going along swimmingly, with the nurses making excellent substitutions (a roller bandage for a sling, a glass syringe for all sorts of things, like cleaning wounds or splinting a finger), when Dr. Murphy stopped by for a visit.

  He stood in a corner, arms folded across his chest, silently observing my nurses in action.

  I gave him a briefing on the various imaginary situations the nurses were coping with, from shrapnel wounds to concussions. “Each case has a list of doctor’s orders, but how they carry them out is up to them.”

  I tried to gauge his response, but his face gave nothing away.

  “They’re doing quite well, don’t you think?” I said.

  “Do you mind if I throw them a few challenges of my own?” He pulled some index cards out of his pocket and was already jotting notes on them before I could answer.

  “Certainly you may. The more realistic the better.”

  He filled out eight cards, and I held out my hand to review them.

  “Not so fast, Miss Stimson. I’ll assign them directly.”

  If I didn’t know him or trust him so much, I would have been incensed. But he had his ways, and this was new territory to chart. But still, a line of responsibility had been crossed, and a twinge of irritation fluttered within me.

  “Ladies, if I could have your attention.” He waved the cards in the air. “For those who don’t know me, I’m Dr. Fred Murphy, and I’ll be heading up the medical side of our intrepid little group.”

  The nurses stopped their tasks and grouped around him. The volunteer patients joined as well.

  “I thank you all for putting your own lives aside to join us on this mission. I truly believe it will be the experience of a lifetime for all of us. But it will not come without unimaginable challenges. You will see things no one should see, face uncomfortable conditions with little time for rest and recreation. But you will be giving a most precious gift to those who bear the brunt of the hardship of war. You will be seen as angels, even as you perform painful treatments. You will be the last face many will ever see and the first voice some will hear after a terrible battle.

  “I know of what I speak. I spent some time with a French unit in theater. So if you have questions, I’m happy to answer. The responsibility is great; the challenge, real. But we will try to prepare you the best we can.”

  The nurses, now in a semicircle around him, clapped politely. He was a natural at this sort of leadership. I imagined him cheering on his football team at Harvard or waxing eloquent in lectures to his surgical residents.

  These were skills I needed to further develop. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to slip an inspiring talk like this into a training session. So I studied how he varied the pitch and volume in his speech and used his facial expressions, hand movements, and posture to enhance his message. I watched him focus on each person in turn, holding their attention, because none would want to be caught looking away. And I made a mental note to write and rehearse encouraging words, so they would come as naturally as they did to Dr. Murphy.

  He waved the note cards again. “Here I have written a scenario for each of you. You are to imagine you are the first person to come upon the particular situation, so there are not yet doctor’s orders to carry out. Just you, your training and judgment, and the materials you have at hand.”

  The nurses murmured among themselves as the doctor handed out the cards. Only some of the discussion was on their assigned tasks. I noticed one nurse elbow another and say, “You know why he came, don’t you?”

  The other nurse responded by glancing at the doctor, then me, and tapping her index and middle fingers together.

  Clearly, despite my efforts of hiding any indication of my affections, gossip had made its way to this new unit. It wasn’t that I minded being fodder for their entertainment, but I didn’t want to damage my or Dr. Murphy’s professional reputation. In any case, it was better to ignore the innuendo.

  I was dying to get a peek at what Dr. Murphy had written on his cards but had to be satisfied with the looks on the nurses’ faces. Some stared at the cards wide-eyed; others, like my hard-edged Nora, the one who had escaped servitude on a Canadian farm, just nodded. She favored black dresses, matching her straight black hair, which was parted down the middle and pulled tightly into a bun. A natural leader, she was as tough as her difficult upbringing might suggest. I had heard the younger nurses refer to her as a “battle-ax,” even as they soaked up all the wisdom she offered.

  Meanwhile, Charlotte Cox, a petite young nurse with wavy blond hair, scratched her head and showed her card to the nurse next to her. If Nora was a battle-ax, Charlotte was a butterfly. Pretty and slight and undemanding, no one would ask her to lift a patient, but she’d be the first one to go to if you needed a sympathetic ear.

  While the nurses reviewed their cards, Dr. Murphy was chatting with the volunteer patients, apparently giving each an assignment of their own. I heard him say things like “you’re unconscious” and “you’re a terrible flirt.” To another, he said, “You have to pee real bad.” They nodded, and some of them chuckled in response.

  “Now choose a patient and share the card with him,” Dr. Murphy said to the nurses. “Do what you need to do, and report back to me in ten minutes’ time.”

  I ground the ball of my booted foot on the floor. This wasn’t sitting well with me, but there didn’t seem to be much choice. One of my biggest fears was losing good nurses before we ever set sail, but my o
ther fear was sending them into situations without the best training and preparation we could give them. While part of me was insisting I needed to have firm control of every aspect of training, my more reasonable side knew that allowing the input of trusted others was beneficial. I took a big breath and bit my lips as I watched my nurses scurrying around their patients and the supply cabinets.

  Ten minutes later, Dr. Murphy announced, “Time’s up.” He waved the nurses over. “Report.”

  Nora piped in first. “My patient had debris in his eyes from a mortar explosion. I carefully washed his face, then rinsed his eyelids with saline. I held his eyes open, rinsed with more saline, and looked for imbedded foreign objects to report. Finding none, I taped his eyes closed to prevent further scratching of the corneas.”

  “Very good,” Dr. Murphy said. “And what would you have done if you saw a foreign object imbedded?”

  “Instructed the patient not to touch his eyes and reported it at the first opportunity.”

  “Excellent. Next?”

  Charlotte stepped forward. In her soft West Virginia drawl, she said, “My patient is a double leg amputee who is complaining that his feet hurt, and he kept trying to get up to urinate. I check his bandages for bleeding, reposition him and elevate his stumps. Then, I reassure him that he is having phantom pains. They are to be expected and will fade with time. I would also check to see if he was due for his morphine, but, uh…first I gave him a urinal.”

  Everyone laughed as Charlotte colored with embarrassment.

  The next nurse reported an arm injury with pulsing blood loss, an arterial bleed. She said she applied direct pressure, but that wasn’t enough and no help was on the way, so she used rubber tubing or something similar as a tourniquet above the injury. “I talked to him the whole time, even though he couldn’t talk back.”