The War Nurse

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  It felt so good to be held by him. But after years of deprivation, would it feel good to be held by just about anyone? I closed my eyes and imagined it was a movie star. No. Dr. Valentine. God no.

  He leaned close and whispered in my ear. “Is this telling you what you need to know? Because it’s definitely telling me something.” He kissed my cheek, and I turned and met his lips with mine. A warm feeling spread throughout my body, and I longed to disappear into him. Longed to leave everything behind and just fade away into this moment as he pulled me impossibly closer, and my doubts floated away like wispy clouds of spring.

  “Fred?”

  “Mm?” He moved on to nibble my ear.

  “I didn’t get to ask my question.”

  “The answer is yes.”

  “Well, the question is, if these were normal times and you had your pick of the hundred prettiest ladies in St. Louis, all who were just dying to become Mrs. Dr. Murphy, would you still think I was attractive?”

  There. I had said it. It was hard, and I didn’t even really mean to ask it, but now it was out there, like a naked man at a funeral. I pulled back to read his face. It would tell me everything.

  But he laughed. Not a little nervous ha-ha, but a rippling laugh, a gut-holding bender. I wanted to cower in a corner. No, to run. Run fast, faster than all the boys, who could never catch me. Run and then hide like the hideous freak of a woman I was. But I stood there, hurt and confused and pretending not to be.

  Finally, he got a hold of himself. He grabbed both my arms and squeezed. “What, you think I’m that shallow? I’m crushed.” More laughter.

  “Fred, I’m serious.”

  “Jules, they could parade the world’s most beautiful women naked in front of me, and I would only want one of them. I would want the tallest, the brightest, the most challenging and, yes, attractive woman I have ever laid eyes upon.” He adjusted my blouse back into a presentable position. “It is not a war that has kept me away from a world of marriageable women. It’s a war that has brought me to the only one I want.”

  CHAPTER 26

  April 1918

  Phil had been taking trips back and forth to Paris, ever since he had been selected for his new position, but it wasn’t clear when exactly he would be moved. It had been hard to say goodbye when we didn’t know which trip would be the last. But then, in typical army fashion, he received official orders to leave in two days’ time.

  The night before his departure, we had a little send-off party, with a cake and paper streamers and a big farewell banner signed by all the staff and many patients as well.

  Phil had become a brother to all, reading to the soldiers with bandaged eyes, pushing ones with no legs in their wheelchairs or stretchers. As he always had a fondness for children, he had arranged for some from a local school to come sing for the soldiers. They came back to sing for Phil on his last night as a surprise for him.

  And Phil had a surprise for me as well. He presented me with a small brown box. Upon opening it, I found a beautiful glass pendant. Inside the teardrop-shaped glass was a tiny red cross.

  As he looped the chain around my neck, he said just above a whisper, “They want you to come to Paris.”

  “Who does?”

  “The army. They want you to come and be the director of all the Red Cross nurses in Europe.”

  I clapped my hand to my mouth. I had written the letter to the headquarters some time ago, offering my services should they be needed there. But I never presumed such a vast leap. “Are you pulling my leg, Brother?”

  “Much as that is my job, not this time. Think about it.”

  Someone started playing a tune on the piano, and Phil was pulled away by his fans. We didn’t get to speak about it again that evening.

  * * *

  The next morning, as I walked with Phil out to the truck that was to take him to the train station, he clapped me on the back. “Will you be all right then, Big Sis? How much should I worry over you?”

  “None at all. You can see I’m hale and hearty as always.”

  “Ah, but it’s not your physical stamina that concerns me. And while you’re probably the strongest woman I know, the pressure you’ve been under would reduce the best of us to a blubbering pile of goo.”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. I draw great strength from making a difference.”

  “Have you considered what my contact in Paris said? You only have to nod your considerable head, and they will put an offer in writing.”

  “My head isn’t that big.”

  “Pretty big. And you could probably still out arm-wrestle me.” He held up a twiggy arm as proof.

  “To answer your question, if you think they’re serious, yes. You can tell them I’d be honored to head up all the nurses.” As I said the words, it just about knocked the wind out of me. My hand went to my chest, where the glass pendant hung. When I had sent my regrets to Vassar, I didn’t know why exactly I was turning down such a prestigious posting. But it seemed there was a good reason after all.

  The problem, of course, was how to present this possibility to Fred. Just as we were sorting out our feelings for each other, we had this complication. A complication I foresaw the entire time, of course, but that didn’t make my predicament any easier.

  I wrestled with whether I should even mention my possible promotion, which would require a move to Paris, before it was even a written offer. What if I brought it up, with all the ensuing heartache and questions with no answers, and then it didn’t come about?

  But perhaps even worse would be to have the offer in hand and have him ask, as he certainly would, how long this had been in the works. I could already see the look of having been deceived in his eyes. I had seen that before. Even if it had been unfounded, I didn’t want to see it again.

  After checking the surgical schedule and seeing he would be off rotation, I wrote a note to him to slip into his pocket during rounds.

  Meet me in the officers’ mess for a private dinner. 7:00. Bring your best apron.

  If Fred was going to be mad at me, we might as well have a nice dinner together. After our cooking class with Alice, we had met several times at the smaller officers’ mess and made simple meals for ourselves. Maybe it was a bit of a dress rehearsal for domestic life, or maybe it was just an escape to some sense of normalcy, a trial to see how we might function in a noncombat environment.

  He arrived at the appointed time, and I was already there, helping to clean up the last of the dishes from the staff’s dinner and setting out the ingredients for ours. I had gotten permission from Alice to gather some fresh vegetables, and I had some gorgeous red radishes, thin green asparagus, mushrooms, and nice firm carrots.

  He gave me a peck on the cheek and plucked a carrot from my pile.

  “Aren’t the colors pleasing?” I was so proud of my freshly picked and scrubbed vegetables.

  “Sure.” He chomped on the carrot. “What’s for dinner, love?”

  He had recently started referring to me as love. I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with it. Sounded rather forward…and British.

  “Well, there’s these, and some bread, and maybe we can cook up some beans?”

  He was already on the hunt for something else. “They will take too long, an hour or so. Ah.” He pulled down a wire basket from the shelf. “Eggs.”

  We settled into a nice routine, with me chopping vegetables and him scrambling eggs and sautéing the vegetables as they were ready.

  “I have something I need to tell you.” As soon as the words were out and he twitched, I knew my phrasing was all wrong. I winced. “Sorry. Forget I said that.”

  Too late of course, his slow glance at me told me he knew something unpleasant was coming.

  “Well, out with it, Jules. What arrows are you going to sling at my heart this time?”

  “Now,
don’t go jump in the trenches yet. You know how you keep saying you support my career and us?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “What if my career required me to move, not far away, but somewhere where we couldn’t see each other every day?”

  “We don’t see each other every day.” He dropped the last of the vegetables, the asparagus, into the hot pan, which smoked and sizzled. It smelled heavenly.

  “Six out of seven.”

  “How far are you talking about? And what do you mean by ‘if’? Is this a hypothetical situation or what?” He scraped the fluffy yellow eggs onto plates.

  “Nothing’s official yet. But Phil seems to think it’s a good possibility I might be promoted and sent to Paris.” The thought lifted my spirits. Or maybe it was the smell of the fresh vegetables he was piling on top of the eggs. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Phil? What does he have to do with this?”

  “I think the proper answer is, ‘How wonderful for you. Congratulations.’”

  “Sorry. I’m happy for you, of course. You deserve it. But I feel rather left out in the rain.”

  I dug into the hot eggs but didn’t taste them. “It only came up last night. He told me at the party.”

  “Oh, it came up, just like that. Out of the blue.”

  “I don’t understand. You seem displeased.” Of course he sensed something else had to have happened to initiate the move, and I’m sure he suspected it was me. But his reaction chafed at me, my inclination to push away renewed. “You speak of supporting my choices, of understanding that I have chosen an unusual path for a woman. And yet here you are, not happy that my hard work might be recognized and rewarded but hurt that you weren’t involved.”

  He put down his fork, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and let out a big sigh. “I’m not sure you’re 100 percent on board with this relationship. Distance doesn’t matter. How tall you are or how successful isn’t the point. The point is the sharing. It’s an emotional bond that ties two people together, forever. I’m not the one jumping in the trench, Julia.”

  * * *

  I might chalk that dinner up in the failure column. But as it happened, I considered it a timely warning. It seemed I wasn’t ready for the type of relationship that Fred wanted, even as much as I longed for one, longed for a sense that I wouldn’t be alone until the end of my days. I could still imagine us together. There was so much we had in common, and we really enjoyed each other’s company. But still, I knew my mind could not make the transition necessary to be as fully committed to him as he deserved.

  An invitation to come to Paris for an interview appeared. Awkwardly, it was Fred himself who delivered it. There was no mistaking what it was, with Director, American Red Cross Nursing emblazoned on the return address. He tossed it onto my desk and eased himself into the guest chair without saying a word.

  I picked up the envelope and tapped it against my hand rather than ripping it open in front of him.

  “Go ahead.” He nodded toward me. “See what it says, although we both know.”

  “I could just toss it away,” I said, more to see his reaction than with any real intention of doing so.

  “You could.”

  I ripped it open. “It’s not an offer. They want me to come for an interview. On Tuesday.” I glanced at the calendar on my wall. “Good gracious, that’s in three days.”

  “I’ll go with you.” He got up and headed for the door.

  “That’s not necessary.” When I saw his frown, I added, “But of course, I would be honored to have you along.”

  The next week, Fred and I set out by train to Paris. It was early April, and the trees were beginning to bud with that light, almost glowing green. The rains had stopped, and the sharp winds of winter had given way to softer breezes.

  We were dropped off at the train station just moments before our train departed, having had a flat tire along the way. It was a British train, with the large letters R O D painted on its side, for Railway Operating Division of the Royal Engineers.

  We shared the car with several Tommies and many crates of food and ammunition. Indeed, the trains were arteries of the war effort, bringing the lifeblood of supplies to the front.

  Fred and I had agreed not to discuss our current situation. Détente was the word he used, and I was only too happy to oblige.

  We were only an hour or so into the trip when I was feeling peckish, despite a good breakfast. I fished around in my travel bag for the piece of dark bread I had squirrelled away.

  But Fred was more prepared. “If experience serves me, you’re famished by now.” He pulled small, oblong tins from each of his chest pockets.

  “Sardines?” I was probably one of the few people who would eat the small, oily fish right out of the tin, but still, it was an odd snack.

  “No, tuna.” He wiggled the key off the bottom of the can and proceeded to peel away the metal strip to open it.

  “Hurray!” Canned tuna had just started appearing in our markets before we left the States. I had tried it a few times. “What a nice break from bully beef.”

  I was quite enjoying the fish, spread on some crackers, when the conductor announced, “Next stop, Vernon.” Some fellow passengers fairly leaped from their seats. Apparently the tuna smell wasn’t quite as endearing to them as it was to me.

  Fred started packing things up and putting on his wool uniform jacket.

  “We still have quite a way to go.” I poked at some crumbs on my lap. This was not the neatest of snacks.

  “I thought we might take a bit of a side trip. This is a lovely village; I think you’ll enjoy it. I checked the schedule, and another train will come by in less than two hours.”

  I ran the numbers through my head. “That will put us in at…”

  “4:00 p.m. Plenty of time. Will you trust me on this?” He was already standing, prepared to disembark.

  “The name is familiar. Oh, I went to an art show in New York several years ago. There were six or so artists, and I believe they lived here.”

  “Hush. You’ll spoil my surprise.”

  The station was just a covered walkway, and we were the only passengers to disembark, confirming my suspicion regarding the smelly tuna.

  I could tell immediately that it was a special place. Fred led me down a narrow road where we hired a horse and buggy, as there were few automobiles here.

  We traveled across the small village, then across Pont Clemenceau, a small stone arched bridge over the Seine. The buggy pulled up at a small hotel, apparently the end of his tour.

  “It’s a mile or so farther. Would you like to walk? Or I’m sure we can find another ride.”

  It felt great to be stretching my legs, and I had on my good sturdy boots. “Let’s walk.” I took his hand in mine. Surely that would be allowed during détente.

  It did me a world of good. Birds chirped from the treetops, flowers were poking up here and there, and there was not a sign of an ammunition dump, nor a burned-out tank, nor lines of wounded soldiers. It would have been one of the best of my days, just enjoying the walk. But as promised, Fred had another surprise in order.

  We came to an ornate iron gate. Fred checked his watch, then pushed right through it.

  “Fred, this looks like private property.”

  “Indeed. My friend has obtained permission from the owner to explore the grounds.”

  He led me on a narrow path along a small, bubbling creek. The area was thick with vegetation, with many trees, including willows that seemed to be leaning to drink from the stream. The creek soon forked, and in between was an amazing stand of a tall reedlike plant.

  “Bamboo,” he said.

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “Yes, once before.”

  As we came around a bend in the path, the vegetation thinned, and a beautiful small pond appeared
. Spanning the far end of it was a single arched, green wooden bridge, as I’d seen in a Japanese-style garden. Even though it was still early spring, there were blue irises and delphiniums and multitudes of white and yellow flowers ringing the pond. Although there were not yet flowers, lily pads floated on the surface. The trees and flowers reflected in the rippling water between the lily pads.

  With a start, I realized exactly where I was. “Oh my word.”

  I tore my eyes from the incredible view to look at Fred. He wore a huge grin.

  “What do you think? Worth a stop?”

  “This is le Clos Normand, isn’t it? Claude Monet’s garden.” I could hardly catch my breath.

  “The very same. Come. The house is just around a few more bends.”

  “The house? His house?”

  Fred laughed. “Yes, but don’t worry. He’s not currently here. But we can take a look from the outside.”

  We passed through garden after garden. One was surrounded by an unusual shrub, trimmed as a short, straight hedge, like a boxwood, but the leaves were larger. Taking a closer look, there were fragrant flowers and here and there some fruit, just starting to develop.

  “Do you know what this shrub is?” I asked. “The fruit looks like little cherries.”

  “Believe it or not, those are apple trees. When Monet bought the land, it was an abandoned orchard. I guess he wanted to preserve some of them.”

  We came to a crossing of the paths, and looking to the right, I could see the house. It was two stories tall, pale pink with green shutters. At least I thought it might be pink. The front façade was nearly covered with ivy.

  I stopped in the middle of the intersection of the paths and closed my eyes. I willed my brain to capture everything about the moment. The trees, the flowers, the birds, and even the bugs singing. The orchard rescued from destruction and given a new way to thrive—I wanted to remember it all. I breathed in the scents of the blossoms, held out my hands to the breeze that rippled the pond and caressed my face. I let it fill my heart. Then, I felt the comfort of Fred next to me. Felt his pleasure, knowing how much joy it was giving me.