The light circled around again. I breathed in deeply of the night air as I imagined being under the light’s protective watch. “Thank you, Nora.”
* * *
On Christmas morning, we had about eight hundred patients, and the nurses delivered each of them a stocking. They were filled with candies, nuts, tobacco, and a little gift such as a small book. A group of ladies from a church back in the States had made bookmarks with Bible verses on them. They were colorful and sweet, and the men treasured them.
Later in the morning, we got word that two trainloads of patients were arriving. The nurses who were off duty got busy making and loading up some more stockings.
We had a special dinner for them. I had requested turkey or chicken, but with all the other special things we wanted for them, pork was what met the budget. They didn’t complain a bit.
Garlands of pine and fresh holly decorated the nurses’ mess tent, and we had a wonderful dinner, joined by the doctors. Then I gathered my choir, now fifty strong, for a last rehearsal. We bundled up, and each carrying a candle or a lantern, we made a procession outside to the last line of tents. I played a note on my violin to tune them up, then we went through our repertoire.
We sang familiar hymns: “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” “Silent Night,” “It Came Upon the Midnight Clear.” Soon, officers and patients joined us, and our crowd grew as we moved up each line of tents and sang a few songs at each stop. There was some laughing and jostling, as the British patients had different lyrics and tunes for some of the hymns. Patients who couldn’t come out were wheeled or walked to the tent openings, and they too joined in song.
The singing took on an ethereal sense. I felt warmed inside and joyful to be a part of it.
After warming up with some hot cocoa and cookies, we settled back into the mess hall, where the tables had been moved aside and a simple stage set up. We had a small actors’ troupe, and they performed skits they had seen in London or made up themselves.
My big part was to read a poem written by two of my nurses as they acted it out. I had not had time to read it beforehand, so I was laughing and tearing up, even as I read it out loud.
It was titled “The Army Alphabet,” and there was a line or two for each letter. One of my favorites was “U is us, as we used to be.” My nurses strutted across the stage in wildly colorful civilian clothes, with outrageous hats and feathers everywhere. It garnered quite a laugh from the audience.
That was followed by a much more somber Y:
Y’s for the years and years before we’re done,
When we’ve healed every Tommie and killed every Hun,
Then old and decrepit and wrinkled and gray,
To America’s shores, we’ll wend our way.
How proud I was of my nurses. Just when I thought they could no longer surprise me, their creativeness and spirit once again overwhelmed me.
* * *
The next day, I set out with Fred and Dr. Valentine to deliver gifts for charities in Rouen.
First, we visited a boys’ home. It was a pretty dreary place, with sparse furnishings and not enough light. But the boys were clean, had adequate if shabby clothing, and were oh so happy to see us. The nurses had taken up a collection and had purchased toys, candy, socks, hats, and mittens for them. The boys accepted the presents with yelps of glee, and I was hugged again and again. As I bent to kiss each one on the top of his head, I felt I wanted to bring them all home with me.
I spotted Dr. Valentine sitting in a chair across the room, looking like St. Nicholas with a child on his lap. Fred had a circle of boys around him as he played a game of catch. Again, I had a moment of doubt: Was it fair to come visit just this once, then disappear forever? For I doubted we could find the time to come back.
Fred must have been thinking along similar lines, as on the ride back, he said, “We need to do this again. What do you think?”
To which I answered, “Absolutely. And next time, maybe have one or two of my nurses come as well.”
“You’re right. Probably best to cycle the nurses instead. I haven’t a hope of getting away with any sort of regularity. And it’s a selfish venture for me.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Being with the children fills my heart. Sometimes I imagine playing catch or opening presents with my own. Having a good influence and raising a child right are some of the most important things one can do, don’t you think?”
“Of course” is what I said. But what I was thinking was But it probably won’t happen for me.
CHAPTER 14
January 1918
With the extra coal heaters I had ordered, bartered for, or otherwise managed to obtain, piles of woolen blankets, and donated knitted items, it seemed we might get through the winter. A lovely women’s group in St. Louis had knitted woolen mittens for all my nurses, and I encouraged them to wear them whenever possible instead of gloves. “Your fingers keep each other warmer when they’re together,” I explained, once again feeling like a mother hen.
At first there were protests that they didn’t look professional, but by and by, even my staunchest nurses, Nora and Dorothy, were spotted wearing them, at least when they weren’t directly caring for patients.
* * *
The cases of influenza, or “flu” as the British called it, increased with the colder weather. Dr. Valentine and I had reached a good agreement on reserving both the space and equipment we needed to care for them as well as we could. Which was not very well, I regretted. It was a perplexing disease, and we had no medication that helped. We had to be very careful when giving cough syrup to the poor souls who were racked day and night with coughing spasms, lest it made them too sleepy to fight off the disease.
* * *
My nurses earned fifteen days of leave every six months, and I was determined to see they got them. It took five separate forms to organize everything, and if I didn’t get everything just right, a nurse could be stranded at the port without proper authorization, or worse, misdirected to the wrong area. I was in my office, carefully filling out these forms, when I heard the tick-ticking of Sam’s paws coming down the wood plank hallway. This raised my spirits, especially since he was usually in the company of Fred.
But it was not Fred but Dr. Valentine walking Sam.
“Miss Stimson, if you have a minute?”
“Of course. Come in.”
“I won’t be but a moment, but I have an idea to discuss.”
Now, this was new. It seemed our shared loss of Ned had softened him toward me.
“As you know, tuberculosis, pneumonia, and now what seems to be a virulent influenza are filling up beds that we sorely need for the wounded.”
“I’m not aware of a bed shortage. Our patient census is under a thousand, and we’ve got a full tent dedicated to respiratory conditions, and it isn’t nearly full.”
“Yes, but what happens after the next big battle? Things won’t stay quiet for long.”
“Indeed. What is your idea?”
“I’m thinking that we work on a protocol here. Put a physician in charge. Then, we seek approval to open a dedicated hospital, somewhere farther from the front. In Paris, perhaps.”
“Seems reasonable.” My defenses were up. “You certainly don’t need my approval, but you would have it, of course. What do you need from me?”
He looked at his wristwatch. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. We thought it best to include you in the discussion, out of respect. Major Murphy is on board.”
“For heaven’s sake, what are you talking about? Am I to be transferred to this new project?” I had a sinking feeling he was trying to get rid of me, like a stone in his shoe.
He looked toward the door, but whomever he was waiting for had not appeared. “Why, I hadn’t even thought of that. Might be a jolly good idea.” He gave a wry smile. “But no, it’s about the
physician to be in charge.”
Just then, my brother Phil appeared in my doorway, grinning ear to ear. “Sorry to be late, but I’ve just received a wonderful phone call.” He nodded toward Dr. Valentine.
Dr. Valentine got up to shake Phil’s hand. “Then it’s settled. Miss Stimson, meet the new head of infectious diseases, Dr. Philip Stimson.”
So much for wanting my input. “Congratulations, Brother. Does this mean you will be leaving this cozy place for the big city?”
The two men looked at each other and laughed.
“Why no. I’ll be right here to keep an eye on you.”
“Dr. Stimson is still under treatment here. But we see no reason we can’t use his brain while his body further recovers.” Dr. Valentine was as jovial as I had ever seen him. A smile looked rather unnatural on his face.
They walked out, clapping their arms on each other’s shoulders. I was happy for Phil, but this murky position between patient and staff at my hospital worried me. And I was wary of this newly minted alliance.
* * *
My next visitor was Fred. Of course, he was already aware of Phil’s new position.
“So I hope we’ve made up for not accepting Dr. Stimson for the unit back in St. Louis.” He ran his hand through his hair, something he tended to do when he was quite pleased with himself.
“Hmph.” I hadn’t quite made up my mind on how I felt about this plan. Of course, it really wasn’t my decision to make, and Dr. Valentine had made a small effort to inform me, but it seemed there was some other reason I wasn’t part of the discussion. “Why do you suppose Philip never mentioned this to me?”
“Oh, I forgot. You hate surprises, don’t you?”
* * *
In late January, I received a letter from the chief nurse in Étretat. I didn’t know her well, even though she was perhaps the closest to me geographically, outside Rouen.
Dear Miss Stimson,
I regret to inform you that we have lost one of our nurses, Amabel Roberts. We believe she is the first American woman to lose her life in this conflict. She contracted a severe infection during her work with the wounded, and nothing could be done to save her.
I recall from our meeting that you were a graduate of Vassar College, as was Nurse Roberts. I am very sorry…
So we nurses had lost one of our own. I did not know Miss Roberts, but still, it was a punch in the gut. It was inevitable, of course. One couldn’t place so many women in hazardous conditions and not expect casualties. I thought of my own dear nurses. I recruited them, trained them, convinced them to come. Of course, most didn’t take much convincing, but still, they had entrusted me with their lives.
I thought of each of their young, innocent faces. They always put themselves last. The thought of losing even one of them tore me apart. And what if our hospital became a target, like the ones farther north? I put my head down on my desk and allowed myself a few tears. Not the slobbery, howling wails I wanted, but a slow drip of sorrow and a hug from my own arms to hold myself together.
CHAPTER 15
February 1918
Spring came slowly to the wet river valley. In early February, we had some unseasonably warm days, giving us a hint that winter was finally loosening its grip. The breakup of river ice started upriver, then the chunks flowed steadily downstream. By the time they hit Rouen, the chunks had amassed into craggy hills on the banks, with open water appearing in the middle.
In my teen years, I had seen a painting by Monet of this very scene. I remember thinking how cold and desolate it looked, the gray-blue ice reaching up to the blue-smoke mountain, with the dull sky above. Seeing this place in person (or very near it anyway), I found the artist had captured not only the colors but the mood of the place—of waiting. Now we were waiting for spring to come, for life to burst forth, for an end to the biting cold and the drab weariness, not only of winter but of an awful, exhausting war.
It was at this time of breakup in 1918 that I traveled to the village of Amiens with Fred, Benjamin, and two of my nurses—Charlotte and her roommate, Rebecca. The trains transporting our patients from the CCSs to Rouen had been compromised. We weren’t told exactly what or where, but rumors held that there was so much unexploded ordnance between Cambrai and Amiens that the trains were at risk.
I saw this as an opportunity; I hadn’t left Rouen in several months and was itching to relieve the feeling of being cooped up. We took three ambulances, as there was a particularly large number of sick and wounded to transport back to Base Hospital 21.
The ride out was ordinary enough, giving me time to chat with our driver, Benjamin, as the miles of brown fields passed by, some with a hint of green in the plowed rows. We crossed the still mostly frozen River Somme at Amiens, then continued east. I had hoped to have a brief stop in the town, but sadly, there wasn’t time. There was a thirteenth-century Gothic cathedral there, much like ours in Rouen, that I would have liked to see, but it would have to remain a picture in my mind.
“I hear you’ve taken quite a shine to one of my nurses,” I teased Benjamin.
He squirmed in his too-large overcoat. “Ah now, I’ve got a shine on all the Yank nurses, Matron. I’m hoping one will stuff me in her suitcase when it’s time to go home.”
“Not any one in particular? Perhaps our little Charlotte, who blushes and rushes to the loo whenever you pop in?”
“Does she now? Well, that’s bloody well good to know.”
“Always volunteering for extra duty, that one. Especially when it involves a ride in the truck.”
“She must like trucks.”
I smiled to myself. It was refreshing to see young love bloom.
“Sorry about the cathedral, Matron. But there’s something up ahead that’s quite amusing. And I’m afraid it’s the only place around to offer a bit of privacy, should you need the loo.”
“Who could resist that combination?” I assumed “the loo” was the clump of trees ahead, but it would have to do.
Benjamin pulled over next to what appeared to be an abandoned encampment. Spent shells and dented canteens littered the well-worn ground. It may have been my imagination, but I swore the smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air.
After following the helpful sign to la toilette, which was a hole inside a dugout inside a trench, and after witnessing the unhelpful rats that seemed unperturbed by our presence, the other ladies and I took to the clump of trees instead.
The other attraction turned out to be a depot for spent items. In no apparent order lay a shot-up tank surrounded by spent machine gun ammunition belts, rotted out boots, and other paraphernalia. I was quite unimpressed until Benjamin took me around to the least battered side of the French tank.
Written on it, in chalk, were messages in German, then French, then German, then French again, and finally one in English. Each message had a date. As I tried to translate it all, Benjamin helped, pointing at each message in turn. Captured by Germans, 1 July ’16; Captured by French, 8 July; Captured by Germans, 15 July; Captured by French, August; and, finally, Assigned to BEF, September ’16.
My fellow passengers all thought it was quite amusing, as did I. But I couldn’t resist rubbing my finger on the lettering. How could the messages possibly have survived the weather, not to mention all those battles, when the tank itself was in ruins? It turned out the chalk did not rub off very easily, somehow having become one with the tank’s coating.
Back on the road, signs soon appeared that we were approaching the railhead—a cluster of worn, shanty-like buildings next to two sets of tracks emerging from the forest. Soon, we pulled up to the rally point, with the other ambulances not far behind. We were just in time, as I heard the whistle of the approaching train.
We could hold eight stretchers in each ambulance, stacked four on each side, plus a few ambulatory patients sitting in chairs down the middle. It wasn’t the best s
etup, but it was the quickest way to get them to base hospital in reasonable comfort. As the train pulled up, I counted the railroad cars. There were the usual supply cars, a coal car, and four for passengers. Unless ambulances were coming from another hospital, it appeared there might be too many patients for us to carry.
We had a well-rehearsed system, getting a report from a caregiver on each car, then ensuring each stretcher patient was tagged with identification and the nature of his injury.
As soon as the train stopped, I hopped on my assigned car. Upon seeing the groaning, doubled-over patients holding handkerchiefs to their faces and hearing the violent coughing and labored breathing, a wave of dread passed through me. They appeared to be victims of a gas attack. Yet I had not heard of one in recent months, both sides seeming to have come to the conclusion that they were ineffectual weapons, that using them injured as many on their own side as the enemy’s.
They were mostly Tommies, but there were a number of Americans mixed in. Our troops were starting to arrive, and many were assigned to British units until there were enough in number to form their own commands. I found the caregiver, an American corporal. He was so young, I doubted if he even had to shave, his smooth face untouched by time.
“Seventeen,” he responded to my question about the number of his charges. “Respiratory distress,” was his equally laconic response to my next question.
“All of them?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Was there an attack of poison gas?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.”
I blinked. This was a most unusual answer. “Corporal, it is essential for us to know the nature of the injuries to properly treat them.”
“I understand, ma’am. Respiratory distress of undisclosed nature is all I can say.”
Charlotte appeared in the doorway. “We’re ready to unload, Matron.”
The War Nurse Page 18
