The War Nurse

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  “Ah, then I suppose either will do.”

  “Then let’s go to the boulangerie. The nurses say the dark bread the British served was once used as the struts on a carriage wheel.”

  * * *

  The baker, after Benjamin’s introduction and my flailing attempts at speaking French, insisted on kissing both of us on each cheek, a thorough handshake, and for me a lingering, teary hug. Knowing flour was strictly rationed, I kept my order to the minimum, so that each of my nurses and orderlies would get one half of a croissant and a nice slice of bread.

  But the baker wouldn’t hear of it, filling a box with twice as much, then heading into the back room for what I presumed was his special stash.

  Benjamin shared my description of the British dark bread, and they both had a good laugh. Then the baker wrote down what appeared to be days of the week and the hospital location—Champs de Courses.

  “What is he saying?” I nodded toward the notepaper.

  “He will begin deliveries next week.”

  My eyes widened. This was sure to set the dietitian in a tizzy. But she now reported to me. It might mean less budget for tinned meat, but I was willing to make that sacrifice. I took a bite of a croissant, which melted in my mouth like a cloud in heaven, the buttery flakes no doubt coating my lips. When I could manage to speak again, all I could say was “Lovely.”

  CHAPTER 8

  August 1917

  The nurses had water pitchers, basins, and buckets in their huts for washing up. But the only hot water came from an oil stove in the mess tent. We would fill hot water bottles for our beds on cool nights, then use the water from the bottles for washing up in the morning.

  But for convenience and time saving, I kept a towel and bar of medicinal soap in a supply tent near the mess tent. As it was near the oil stove, it was warmer than my bedroom, so I did my tidying up there.

  Just in case someone had time for the luxury, at the end of the supply tent was a cast iron bathtub, its white enamel chipped and one foot missing. It looked rather like an old, listing ship, and one of the Brits had dubbed it the HMS Old Sorry.

  Sometimes, if the line at the men’s bath hut grew too long, we would give a patient a bath in it, filled pitcher by pitcher from the mess tent tank. This created a moment of slightly panicked confusion when a patient heard he was going to Old Sorry.

  I avoided special treatment due to my position but made an exception for my stowed towel and special soap. I hung a board with my name on the door for privacy when I was using the hut for a quick wash up.

  One evening, undressed and wrapped in a blanket, I arrived at the supply hut only to find my soap was missing. I fumed and uttered a few expletives probably heard in half the camp.

  Afterward, I announced at evening report that the soap needed to be returned in the blink of the eye of a newt, or that was what they would be having for dinner.

  What the nurses didn’t know and I hadn’t the nerve to tell them was that I needed the soap for medicinal purposes, as I feared a relapse of ulcers on the skin of my legs. The condition that caused me to be hospitalized when I met Annie Goodrich was always a threat and worse during conditions of stress. I had to maintain strict antiseptic procedure if I wanted to keep on my feet.

  * * *

  The following day, the cake of strong-smelling soap had returned, only slightly the worse for wear. Along with it, my name board had been replaced with the one for HMS Old Sorry. I laughed it off, but it made me think. It was a challenge, in this leadership position, especially in this far from home and difficult environment, to know how much of myself to share with my nurses. Too much, and they might lose a certain mystery and respect for a superior. Too little, and it could breed an emotional distance that hindered a good working relationship.

  I decided to keep my old, scarred legs to myself and let them think I was just a bit batty, if not mysterious.

  * * *

  Captain Ernst rushed up to me during dinner, a letter flapping in his hand. I had started to take my meals in the officers’ mess under the grandstand rather than with my nurses. More to give them some privacy from me than any need of mine.

  “She’s coming!”

  “Who?” I wiped my hands on a serviette before accepting the letter.

  “Miss Curie. Oh, isn’t it wonderful? She taught the classes in Paris. Just a young girl, really, but whip smart. You will love her.”

  “I think someone here already does.” I winked.

  I thought I saw just a hint of color warm the normally stoic man’s cheeks.

  “She’s half my age. Tease all you want, but she’s coming, let’s see…” He pulled at the paper in my hand and pretended to look for something. “Ah yes, the eighth of August.”

  “Well, how lovely.” I glanced at the letter. “She wants to ‘review the mobile X-ray techniques and is most interested in the captain’s ideas of shielding workers.’ Hmm, isn’t that interesting?”

  He snapped the letter out of my hand. “Well now, we’ll explain how that all came about when she’s here, of course.”

  “No need. How are the new walls coming along?” We had carpenters build a new wall around the X-ray room, with a space between the front and back of them. I was collecting extracted bullets and shell casing fragments from the operating theater, cleaning them up, and giving them to the captain. He then used them to supplement the pieces of lead shielding he could get from supply to pour into the wall space.

  “Filling up nicely, I should say. I can’t wait to show her. And your idea of keeping new arrivals on their own stretchers was brilliant. Much more comfortable for them and sped up our process considerably.”

  “I’m so glad.” Mentally, I put a check mark on my side of the favors column.

  As promised, Irène Curie arrived early on the morning of the eighth. We had been alerted by wireless and rushed out to greet her. A rather large truck pulled into our compound. It was a panel truck, with the words “Service de Voiture Radiologue” painted on it, along with the Red Cross symbol. A young woman popped out of the driver’s seat, wearing a white dress with a white cap, rather like a nun’s.

  “That’s her!” Captain Ernst hurried over to the truck.

  They double kissed in the European fashion and expressed a string of rapid French I had no hope in understanding, although it was clear they were happy to see each other. While they went on, another woman appeared, having apparently come around the truck from the passenger’s side.

  Miss Curie took the arm of the older woman. “Captain, look who I have brought along. Meme, meet Captain Ernst, and—” Miss Curie finally noticed me.

  I gasped, recognizing the older woman from photographs. The wiry, unruly, graying blond hair, the deep, closely set gray eyes that seemed to hide the world’s secrets. It was Madame Curie herself.

  I lost all sense of decorum and rushed over to the trio. “I am Julia Stimson, the chief matron here. Welcome. Oh, thank you for coming. Can we help you with your things? How was your trip? I’m sorry my French is not worthy to speak.” I couldn’t seem to stop gushing.

  “No need. We speak perfect English,” Madame Curie said with a distinct Eastern European accent.

  “Or Polish, German, Russian—” Irène added.

  “Hush, child. We do not speak Russian. You—” She pointed a chapped finger at the captain. “Get the box from the back. Be careful. It is heavy.”

  This was going to be interesting. Madame Curie had a reputation for being cold; indeed Einstein was quoted as saying she had the emotions of a herring. But Irène was warm and pleasant, chattering on as she took the captain around to the back of the truck.

  I traipsed behind when Captain Ernst led the Curies to his X-ray lab.

  He took on a formal tone as he demonstrated his moveable X-ray tube. “With my foot, I can press the lever and move the equipment precisely ten cen
timeters. In this way, we can triangulate the object, determining its exact location in the body. Of course, not as sophisticated as the moving pictures you perfected, Irène, but this works well for our purposes and saves on photographic plates. We do a double exposure, so one plate per object.”

  “Before this, the surgeons were causing more injury with their explorations,” I said.

  Madame Curie gave me a withering look and a bit of an eye roll. Of course, she would have been well aware of this, having brought X-rays to the battlefield. I must be more careful of what I say to her, I chastised myself.

  Then, the captain showed the ladies the additional shielding we had put into place for the machine operator, the patient, and anyone else nearby. To my surprise, Madame Curie dismissed it all with a wave of her hand.

  “If you do your job quickly and efficiently, there should be no need for all this. Why, my Irène has performed thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of these types of procedures. Burns from radioactivity are evident within fifteen days. And see for yourself, she is perfectly fine.”

  “But, Meme, this will not be so with the new radon gas cylinder. The half-life—” Irène said.

  “Yes. This is so. Perhaps the doctor is a man in front of his time.” Madame Curie nodded toward the wooden box that the captain had set on a chair.

  He had looked silly as he staggered under the weight, despite it being smaller than a bread box. “That must weigh eighty pounds. Lead lined, I presume,” said the captain.

  “Indeed. We have brought you a most precious gift. Radon gas,” Madame Curie said. “I have captured this with great care over time from naturally radioactive rocks. It will replace the air in the cylinders. We have found this obtains much clearer pictures, with far less exposure time.” To me, she added, “I hope this will put your concerns to rest.”

  I glanced at Captain Ernst. It seemed he communicated more than he had let on.

  * * *

  Soon, Madame Curie tired of the lesson and requested a quiet place to rest.

  “Of course. Sorry for not offering this sooner, after your long journey.” I led her to my room, it being the quietest and most private available.

  I pulled out a chair for her, but Madame Curie promptly stretched out on my bed, adjusted the pillow to her liking, and covered her eyes with her arm. I was a bit taken aback by this but soon recovered. This was a Nobel Prize–winning scientist after all. She could lie wherever she wanted. I was just about to step out of the room so she could rest when she spoke.

  “Miss Stimson, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Madame. But you may call me Julia.”

  “Miss Stimson, why are you here when you could be riding horses in Arizona?”

  “I do not ride horses, Madame. I am a nurse. From New York.”

  “I thought you came from St. Louis.”

  So she knew. Was this some kind of game? As if in answer, she removed her arm from her eyes and laughed a rueful laugh.

  “Ah, I love my adopted country more than my life. And we are grateful for the Americans coming to save us from the Boche. But somewhere, deep in the pit of our stomachs, is the fear of what we must pay in return.” She turned toward me. “Is France to become an American colony, like India to Great Britain?”

  “No, Madame. Americans are not the British. We do not take unwilling territory as colonies. We fought two wars against them for this very reason.” Now my hackles were up. I could feel my arms prickling. “And the British are fighting for their own country, on your ground. I think your fears can be put aside.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Now I’d like a rest.”

  Dismissed from my own room, I wandered out, hoping I hadn’t stepped on international relations or insulted a national treasure.

  I did a quick round of the wards and checked in with Miss Taylor and my team leaders.

  Miss Taylor fussed at me, scooting me out of the office like a misbehaving child. “Really, Matron. All is well here. Get yourself back to Madame Curie.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that our important guest was presently napping.

  A quick look at my timepiece told me that Fred should be off duty. He had wanted to meet Madame Curie but had been in surgery all morning. I hurried over to his hut and knocked on the thin door.

  “How did you know I was thinking about you?” He greeted me with a warm smile.

  “Because you think of everyone, all the time. But I come with news.”

  “Good, I hope.”

  “It is. We now have radon gas for our X-ray machine. It is supposed to give us clearer pictures. I’m sure that will be of benefit to you for surgical cases.”

  “Interesting. And from where did this magic appear? It’s not something we can order up from London on a whim.”

  “That’s the best part. It was brought here by the Curies—Marie and her daughter.”

  “They came already? Why wasn’t I informed?” His grin faded to a scowl.

  “You were in surgery, but you haven’t missed them. In fact, Madame is napping upon my bed at this moment.”

  “What? Is she unwell? Take me to her.”

  * * *

  When Fred and I arrived back at my rooms, Madame Curie was up and helping herself to some biscuits from a tin sent to me from home. How excited my sister would be when she learned who had enjoyed her baking.

  Madame Curie had apparently combed and repinned her curly hair into its bun. The nap seemed to have boosted her energy, as she flitted around like a little sprite. I introduced her to Fred.

  “I’m most honored to meet you. And I hear you have brought a most wonderful gift of radon gas,” he said.

  “The pleasure is mine, dear sir. I only ask for a report of its usefulness every so often.” She bit into the biscuit and nodded approvingly.

  “Of course,” Fred said.

  “Yes, of course,” I echoed him, then we looked at each other awkwardly. We both seemed to be rather awed by this little firecracker of a woman.

  “So the two of you run this hospital now? I came when the Brits were still here. They built a fine reputation.”

  The way she narrowed her eyes at us, it seemed like we weren’t quite measuring up. My feisty inner being couldn’t resist a protest. “Major Murphy and Colonel Fife are in charge. And I assure you, that fine reputation will continue. In fact, we’ve made many improvements. For example, we’re sending medical teams out to the CCSs…”

  I was immediately sorry I had brought that up, having still not been allowed to go to a CCS.

  Fred seemed to understand without me mentioning the sore point. “Soon, Julia will go herself,” he said more to me than to Madame Curie.

  “Of course, my dears.” She looked from me to Fred and then me again, seeming to calculate something. “So tell me, how long have you known each other?”

  Fred jumped in. “Oh, we go way back, Madame.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ve known Julia for what—six years now?”

  Uncomfortable with his hand on my shoulder in her presence, I shrugged away.

  “Hmm. I see.” Madame Curie started packing her few belongings. “I’ll be on my way. No need to see me out.”

  We bid her farewell, as she seemed in a sudden hurry to leave.

  “She’s a little odd, wouldn’t you say?” I asked Fred after she was off.

  “She has every right to be as odd as she desires. Most brilliant scientists tend to be.”

  But odd wasn’t quite the right word. Something about her visit left a lump of lead in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t quite figure out why.

  * * *

  Our sweet and now official driver, Benjamin, had eyes for Charlotte. Somehow, this didn’t sit right with me. I felt as if they were my much younger brother and sister. He and Ned, who had recently arrived in the country, had also become fast friends and were
always eager to set off on errands together.

  They both appeared in my door after a trip to the rail station to pick up mail and supplies. Ned, the American, in his olive drab uniform, and Benjamin in the British green khaki.

  “A letter and a telegram, Matron,” Benjamin said.

  I opened the telegram first, a dispatch from London.

  DOCTOR PHIL STIMSON CONSCRIPTED US ARMY

  My younger brother. He had followed me to St. Louis and now to the army and, inevitably, to war. I had encouraged the first but not the latter.

  I hurried over to the office to see what else I could learn. I was able to use the telephone to gather a few pieces of information. It would take several months, but Phil would be joining the fight.

  But things were further along than Phil had let on. The next morning, a “shave and a haircut” knock awoke me.

  “Just a moment.” I scurried to put a robe over my pajamas, run a brush through my hair, and scrub my teeth. Then I answered the knock. “Two bits.”

  Fred ducked his head through the door. “Sorry so early, but I thought you would want to see this straightaway.” He waved a telegram ahead of himself.

  “Do come in. I’m halfway decent.”

  “Good enough.” He slipped through the door and into my sitting room, which was really just a sectioned-off part of my room with two upholstered chairs.

  I lit the kerosene burner under my coffeepot. “Who is it from?”

  “Dr. Philip Stimson. Your brother, I believe?”

  “Phil! Yes, my younger brother.” I rushed over to grab the telegram and ripped it out of the yellow envelope. “Oh God, don’t tell me something terrible has happened at home.”

  I felt a warm hand rest on my shoulder.

  J STOP ARRIVED LIVERPOOL STOP ON WAY TO FRANCE STOP EXACT LOC UNK STOP P

  “He’s coming! Oh, I hope he will be close. Of course I wish he were staying safe at home. He’s a children’s doctor, so he must have volunteered.”

  “A family trait?” Fred turned toward the door. “Well, I’m glad he finally found a way.”

  “What do you mean?”