* * *
A quick look at the overloaded receiving area and I could see Dr. Valentine’s point. There were patients lying on stretchers on the cold ground outside where the ambulances left them when they had to move on. There were patients sitting on the rough wooden floor, some sitting back-to-back to support each other.
But I could readily see a solution. There were connecting tents that led from the receiving area to the operating tents. We could line the floors with blankets to keep out some of the cold and dampness, then file stretchers along the floor on either side. We could tag each position so we could readily find the patient when he was next for surgery. Excited to have a clear idea, I went to explain it to Dr. Valentine, but he had already departed. Just as well. Now I could implement the idea without hearing his objections.
The next day, Miss Taylor and I were running up and down the lines of stretchers, checking the identities and conditions of each of the men, when Dr. Valentine marched up, his face reddened, and the worst sign, a vein on his forehead bulging.
He reached Miss Taylor first. “Who did this?”
“Good morning, Dr. Valentine,” she said pleasantly. I needed to learn how to keep him from getting under my skin like she did.
She attempted to show him her clipboard. “All is in order, as you can see—”
But he was having none of it. He looked squarely at me. “Miss Stimson, why are our patients strewn about like pieces of litter?”
“You would rather have them outside in the elements? Or sent to the hospital for German prisoners? Because those are our alternatives.”
“Oh indeed.” He bent down to check the tag on a nearby soldier, who was somehow sleeping through this. “And who has given approval?”
“Let’s see. Major Murphy, London, and oh, I just got this dispatch from Red Cross headquarters in Paris—”
My evil twin was once again in evidence. The Red Cross dispatch was received before we had started the new system, and they were actually requesting ideas to help with the crowding problem, not approving it. But I knew Dr. Valentine, who had had many trips to Paris for meetings, would be swayed by anything they said.
I had offered to represent the hospital myself at those meetings, not only because I wanted to go myself, but to save him the time, but my offer was always declined. It was control that he didn’t want to give up. Plus, well, it was Paris. No one passed up a trip to the City of Lights.
“Well, fine. But don’t make a habit of this, young lady.” He stormed off, ignoring Miss Taylor’s leap in the tight space to get out of his way.
* * *
I finally had a chance to go to Paris when the American Red Cross arranged a meeting for all the chief nurses in France. Not only would I be able to spend a few days in a city I had only dreamed about but I would be meeting my colleagues, most of them for the first time.
After several days of drilling Miss Taylor on all she would need to do in my absence, with notes left everywhere and frequent drop-ins to her office and room, she was probably only too happy to see the day of my departure come.
I was hoping to go by boat, as the Seine, of course, would take me all the way to Paris. Alas, that was a rather circuitous route, and the train was much faster. We all arrived on the same day and met at the hotel. There were a dozen other chief nurses there. About half of us had been with the British, while the newer six had come over with the American soldiers.
We BEF-experienced nurses had to suppress our amusement when our newly arrived nurses exclaimed how busy they were becoming, with over a hundred patients! We were having double that number just in admissions each night. In the tents with the less critical patients, we had only one nurse and one orderly for up to one hundred patients.
We met in small groups and large, over tea and at breakfast. The new chiefs had so many questions, and we more experienced chiefs were only too happy to share all we had learned.
A curious topic, which I thought to be not at all pressing, took up an inordinate amount of thought and discussion. That was the policies regarding the nurses dancing and going out socially with the doctors or other men. The British nurses were not allowed to drink alcohol nor dance, and many of the American chief nurses had followed suit. I had left it up to my nurses, who had decided yes to dances and no to drinking in public. But as I related my policy to the new chiefs, there was clearly disagreement. Miss Dunlop from Philadelphia thought the nurses drinking in public in France was no problem at all. She even waggled her flask of her favorite whiskey while winking at me. Apparently, my shipboard hospitality had been more successful than I had thought.
Mrs. Christy, the matron from New York Presbyterian, was less enthusiastic. “Not all women can hold their liquor like Miss Dunlop. It would only take one incident to shed a bad light on us all.”
“And what is wrong with dancing?” I asked.
They all mumbled and demurred. It seemed half of the group believed that since we were in France on the invitation of the Brits, we should follow their policy. The others, including me, thought each unit should make their own decision.
I thought we were spending too much time discussing it and tried to bring us to some sort of agreement. “Both issues seem to be a question of control rather than questions on social expectations or international relations. Certainly, the French had no qualms regarding drinking in public. But of course as guests in the country, we can’t risk any behavior that would seem unruly,” I said. “I let my nurses decide. I presented both sides of the issue. But they have given up so much, I don’t want to be one to take away the little fun they have. But they decided on their own: dancing is allowed, but no drinking in public.”
I was proud of my nurses’ decision. Yet I had a moment of doubt when Miss Dunlop said, “It’s fine for them to choose as individuals, but you must not let the nurses set policy. It hampers your ability to lead.”
We finally agreed to disagree and to table the discussion until our next meeting. Another topic of concern was uniforms. We had all arrived with nicely made uniforms, but some of their attributes didn’t match well to our situation, like the tall, peaked white caps that Nora and Dorothy had complained about and the lack of a light jacket or cape.
“We find the gray uniform to be superior to the white for its ability to hide all manner of stains,” Miss Dunlop offered.
“I have to disagree,” I said. “The point of the white is to identify us as nurses, important to patients who may not see well or who are confused. Furthermore, we should not be hiding stains. We should be cleaning them. Perhaps if we had a gray apron to wear over our whites, which could be changed during the shift as needed?”
This led to a cacophony of discussion, and I just sat back and enjoyed the fireworks.
The final decision was to make a list of requests to send to the American Red Cross headquarters in Washington.
I leaned over Mrs. Christy, who was scribbling in the chiefs’ requests. “Can we ask for a lighter, shorter cape? The long blue ones are wonderful for cuddling in during the cold months, but I need something cooler that leaves my hands free. And how about red? Wouldn’t that be stunning?”
All agreed, and a request for a short, red cape was added to the list, right up there with more roller bandages and sharper scissors. Nurses were obsessed with scissors.
“And how about a lower, softer cap? One that doesn’t get knocked off every time a nurse enters a tent,” I said.
There was a collective gasp. One does not lightly consider changing a cap.
“But it’s our cap!”
“The one thing that ties us together…”
“It’s how they know we’re not British…”
“Write it down,” I told Mrs. Christy. “Let’s just see what they come up with.”
We discussed much more than dancing and uniforms, of course. We shared all manner of tips for dealing with thin
gs as physically perplexing as caring for quadruple amputees to emotional challenges such as writing to families of the fallen. I think we all felt a sense of relief to be able to share these things with others in the same situation.
After a meeting to update us on all the wonderful things the American Red Cross was doing both stateside and in theater, we had a lovely reception at the Lyceum Club. The club had been started in London a few years back as a space for women of the arts and literature to gather and support one another, similar to the men’s clubs they were excluded from. The Lyceum Clubs had caught on, and now there were several worldwide.
They fed us all manner of delightful treats, even lobster and thin, delicate little pancakes they called crepes. But I found myself longing for the simple rations of Base Hospital 21, which was now more home than was anywhere else. I missed my nurses and the constant swirl of activity, so after three days, I was eager to leave Paris.
The Paris train station was a huge affair, with long rows of metal and glass roof to let in the sunshine. Pigeons swooped and cooed at us and strutted around, picking up all manner of crumbs, a self-appointed cleanup team. I was lulled to sleep on the train ride, dreaming of a land of beautiful cathedrals and crepes and peaceful flowing rivers, with not a bomb or hospital tent in sight.
* * *
The British staff had warned us of the deep, bone-chilling cold that would descend upon us as winter fell over Rouen. Back in sultry June, it hardly seemed a pressing matter, but I did order plenty of wool blankets, sleeping bags, and some woolen underwear for my nurses. They were terribly scratchy at first, but we found with several washings with castile soap, they softened enough to be bearable.
When mid-October arrived and the nurses were already wearing their woolies night and day and still complained of cold, I knew we had a problem. Our wood-framed canvas tents did not hold in much heat. There had been plans for the engineers to make them into more proper wooden huts, but the construction was postponed several times. In the meantime, the deluge of rain that Rouen was known for began.
At first, it was pleasant, a nice steady rain that kept down the dust. The nurses ran out in it and collected rainwater to wash their hair. They said it made it softer and prevented lice. But after three days of steady storms, the enchantment had worn off. The soil in our area was fairly sandy, so at least we were spared the terrible thick mud that we heard swallowed entire farm tractors and trapped ambulances and soldiers alike.
But our lovely grassy areas were soon riddled with rivulets, and one could not venture outside without a heavy raincoat, rubber hat, and boots. Even so, we would still be entirely soaked down to our undergarments after a few minutes outside.
It was during this time that I started to have problems with my legs. Whether it was the rubbing of the woolies, the constant dampness, my lack of time and access to hot water to thoroughly cleanse them each night, or a combination of these, I wasn’t sure. But ulcers opened up, first around my ankles, then climbing ominously up my lower legs. I knew before long they could get infected, so I cleaned and dressed them carefully and took my temperature each night.
I vacillated on whether I should consult one of the doctors. At home, I could be hospitalized, and they would clear up with attentive care. But here, the sores would be judged a liability. I simply had to take care of them the best I could.
I thought of Benjamin and his pig bladders. Could that possibly work for me?
I summoned him to my office and shut the door.
“I’m about to show you something quite disturbing, but you must not tell a soul. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Matron.”
I brought a lamp closer. He might as well see exactly what we were dealing with. “This is not something new. It is what we call a chronic condition. It has happened periodically my whole life. But here, it presents a few more challenges.”
He stood firm, arms across his chest. There wasn’t much that shocked him anymore, I supposed. I raised the hem of my dress over one leg, the worst one. Then I peeled back the wooly, exposing roller bandage covering my entire lower leg. I removed the little metal clasp that held the end of the strip in place and slowly and painfully unwound the gauze.
I heard him gasp as the angry red skin and yellowing craters appeared.
“Good God, Matron. Why are you showing that to me? Have the doctors looked at it?”
“Remember you are sworn to secrecy. Trust me, I know more about the condition than do the doctors here, even though that isn’t much. And I know how to treat it.”
He stared at my legs with wrinkled brow, then at me, a questioning look in his eyes.
“They would simply send me home, you see. And I wouldn’t go willingly.” I started to wrap the bandage around my leg again. “I was thinking about the pig bladders you used for your trench foot. Seemed it was not only protective but perhaps therapeutic. I know if I can just get something between my skin and…”
“Say no more. I’ll get you some.”
* * *
In early November, the weather turned blustery. The last wisps of fall color were stripped from the trees, and they stood naked and vulnerable to the nightly frosts.
The moss-covered bell tents were slowly being replaced with wooden huts, but even they were little protection from the wind and cold. The small oil heaters barely kept temperatures inside above freezing. I fretted about what would happen when winter arrived.
I ordered more and better heaters and bargained for workers to install some sort of insulation, at least in the patient tents. Still, one early morning, Charlotte appeared at my door, her hands red and raw.
“I don’t mean to complain, Matron, but I’m having difficulty. I need to introduce an intravenous needle, but find I have no feeling in my fingertips.”
I took her hands in mine; they were two blocks of ice. “Charlotte, are you not wearing the fingerless gloves that have been knitted for us?”
“When I can. But that’s not possible first thing.”
“Why not?” I continued to inspect her hands. They were not just chapped. The swelling, red blotches, and blisters indicated chilblains.
“Because I have to thaw the IV bottles and water for the patients. I put them in water from the oil heater. My gloves would get all wet.”
I closed my eyes and sighed. “I’ll see about getting thick rubber gloves and more heat in the storage room. And I’m afraid I’ll have to take you off ward duty until your hands heal.”
“No, please, Matron. We’re shorthanded as it is. I can’t do that to my sisters or patients. I’ll be more careful, I promise.”
“You’re a brick. But those blisters put you at risk for infection, and that wouldn’t be good for you or your patients.”
It soon became clear that even the woolen vests under our uniforms, woolen socks up to our knees, and fingerless gloves would not be enough to warm the nurses sufficiently.
I decided to go on a mission into town to search for more heaters.
I took Dorothy with me, as a good chance not only to catch up with how she was doing but to get reliable information about the rest of the nurses as well. They rarely complained, the dears, so I always wanted to head off trouble if I could.
She met me outside the grandstand at 9:00 a.m., the appointed time. Nearly as tall as I, she seemed to have the same problem with too-short sleeves. But hers had long white cuffs added to bring them to her wrists. She was rolling them up to fit under her coat.
“Night shift is the best shift for working,” she said. “You have some quiet time, when you can actually get to know the patients. The docs aren’t around so much, mucking things up.”
I laughed. “That’s true.”
“But the worst part is adapting to the nonvampire world. Like Dracula and Miss Lucy, we have no power in daylight.” She was quite the comical sight, with a broad-brimmed hat to protect h
er face from sunlight, her eyes appearing smaller behind her thick spectacles.
We had matching boots. Men’s boots. When Dorothy bent to retie a bootlace, I commented, “Aren’t we lucky to have feet big enough to wear these?”
“Gosh yes. Far sturdier than anything that can be found for women. The poor things with daintier feet wear out their soles in a week.”
I had also taken to wearing puttees over my stockings. As if I didn’t already resemble a man with my stature, wrapping my lower legs in these long narrow strips of cloth from my boots up to my knees didn’t help the image. But they protected and supported my vulnerable legs, and I simply didn’t care what others thought. It seemed Dorothy hadn’t yet taken up the use of them, but she was sure eyeing mine.
Benjamin was waiting, along with Charlotte, who had asked for the day off. I had granted it, not knowing the reason why. This became quite apparent, as the two were very chummy with each other, exchanging glances when they thought no one was looking. The Ford was warmed up and ticking. Once the two others who were also doing errands in town arrived, we set off.
I always enjoyed the drive. We followed streetcar tracks up to the downtown. Along the way were many homes and shops, all built with a pleasant combination of stone and bricks. Sometimes the gray stone walls were accented with red brick, and sometimes it was the other way around. The windows were neat rectangles, sometimes with an eyebrow arch. The roofs were nearly all slate shingles. The structures seemed so stately and permanent, much unlike our own tent city. Perhaps that was a very good thing.
The small farms and houses soon gave way to narrower streets, filled with shops and cafes, as we entered the city center. Soon, we arrived at the quai, the flat area that ran along each side of the river. It was a busy area, with trucks loading and unloading the riverboats, fishmongers selling the day’s catch, and people milling about, strolling along the river. The truck let us out here, and we dispersed to our separate duties. Dorothy wanted to buy a sewing machine for the nurses. “For sewing patches and alterations and such.” She tugged on her sleeve cuff, which I could now see had been hand-stitched on.
The War Nurse Page 12
