The War Nurse

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  In addition, in the collection of her letters home found in the book Finding Themselves, Julia is quite effusive in her praise for Dr. Murphy, especially early on. She mentions having dinner with him and how much the nurses love him. Toward the end, he gets a more passing reference, almost like she was hiding their true involvement.

  After the war, it seems they went their separate ways, as Julia started moving up the ranks, ultimately being in charge of all nurses in the European theater, then head of the Army Nurse Corps and the Association of Nursing, while Fred Murphy returned to his surgical practice.

  Julia never married, while Dr. Murphy did remarry after the war. So although there isn’t written documentation of a romantic relationship (and why would there be?), there is ample evidence that they were personally close, but then something happened. There is documentation that the members of the group continued to have reunions in St. Louis for many years after the war. Strangely, it seems Fred and Julia didn’t attend in the same years. It may be coincidence or happenstance, or it may be due to a falling out or bitter regret. They took that secret to their graves.

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  Washington, DC

  February 1864

  The light, sweet honey scent of burning candles did not quite mask the odor of blood and sweat in the makeshift ballroom. Not far from the White House, the room was tucked inside a military hospital, itself a repurposed clothing factory. Noise echoed in the vast space, with cots, machinery, and great rolls of cotton neatly stacked against the walls. Tall windows let in slanted rectangles of light upon women in dark uniforms setting out flower arrangements. I too felt out of place. Dressed in a ball gown, I was like a fresh flower in a room meant for working men.

  Double doors opened from an anteroom, and chattering guests tumbled in. An orchestra hummed, tuning up as men clad in sharp Union dress uniforms gathered in conversation groups with women in their finery. Nearer to me, a line of men on crutches and in rolling chairs aligned themselves along a wall, each of them missing a limb or two or otherwise too broken to join the healthier soldiers.

  I nodded my greetings, hesitant at first. Like most young women in my small town of Cold Spring, New York, other than a glimpse of a few limping, bedraggled returned soldiers, I had been sheltered from the consequences of war. Here, the wounded men clambered over one another, some in hospital pajamas, some half in uniform, reaching out to me, seeking to be included despite their infirmities.

  I ignored the bloody gauze wrapped around heads and the stench of healing flesh as I shook their hands, right or left, bandaged or missing fingers, making my way down the line. One after the other, they thanked me for coming and begged me to dance and enjoy myself.

  In the letter that had accompanied the invitation to the event, my brother had been clear: The ball is intended to be a celebration of life, a brief interlude for men who have seen too much, and the last frivolity for too many others. It pained me to look into their eyes, wondering who amongst them were enjoying their last pleasure on this earth.

  “So pleased to meet you. I’m Emily.” I offered my hand to a soldier with one brown eye, his face cobbled by burns.

  He held my hand in both of his. “Miss Emily, you remind me there is still some joy in life.”

  I smiled. “Will you find me when it is time to dance?”

  The soldier laughed.

  My face flushed. It was too forward for a lady to ask a gentleman to dance. And perhaps he was unable.

  “You can’t tell from my pajamas, but I’ve earned my sergeant’s stripes.” He tapped his upper arm. “I won’t be joining the butter bars.”

  The term butter bars rather derogatorily referred to the insignia of newly minted lieutenants. Belatedly, I recalled my invitation was to the Officers’ Ball, and the sergeant had apparently come to watch. My cheeks warmed. I had gaffed thrice with one sentence. Not an auspicious beginning, considering my goals for the evening.

  More women filtered in, each on the arm of an officer. In contrast to the men against the wall, the exuberance and freshly scrubbed skin of these officers made me doubt they’d seen battle. I felt rather out to sea. I had insisted on arriving without a chaperone, as I had expected to be escorted by my brother, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  His last letter had said the fighting had slowed during the winter months, but that could change at any moment. Even if it hadn’t, he was a target. I shook the image of a sniper out of my head. Surely, if something terrible had happened, they wouldn’t still be setting up for a ball.

  The soldier still had a firm hold on my hand. I pasted a smile on my face and peeked about the room. Was it more awkward to mingle with the others, all in couples, or rude not to?

  The sergeant jutted his jaw toward the center of the ballroom. “Go now. We’ll be watching.”

  I nodded and slipped my hand from his, resisting a peek at my white silk gloves to see if they’d been soiled. My ball gown showcased the latest fashion: magenta silk, the skirt full in the back and more fitted in the front. My evening boots echoed the profile; with an open vamp and high heel, they reminded me of Saint Nicholas’s sleigh. I smoothed the gown’s travel creases and mulled its merits. Comfort: adequate. Usefulness: very good, considering its purpose was to please the eyes of young men. Mother had disapproved of the deeply scooped neckline, but she had sheltered me long enough. I was now twenty years old and craved amusement.

  The handsome dress uniforms and elaborate gowns each guest wore suggested formality and elegance, but raucous laughter shattered the tranquility of the elegant piano music. Clusters of young men erupted in challenges and cheers, guzzling whiskey and fueling their spirits.

  I stepped closer to a particularly animated group in which a tall, handsome captain held court among a dozen lieutenants. Perhaps he could advise me as to where I could find my brother.

  “What will you do after the war?” someone asked.

  “Rather the same thing as before. Build bridges. Blow them up.” The captain raised his glass, and the others followed, laughing and cheering.

  A bespectacled, earnest-looking young man asked, “Sir, why would you blow up bridges in times of peace?”

  The captain’s smile faded, and he leaned into the group as if sharing a great conspiracy. “There are only so many places to build a bridge, and sometimes we have to blow up an old, rickety bridge to make room for a new one.”

  I stepped back, feeling awkward for eavesdropping.

  The captain continued his lesson. “I’ll be helping the country to heal, connecting Kentucky and Ohio with a long-abandoned project. And then we’ll be doing the impossible. Connecting New York and Brooklyn with an even grander bridge. It will become one enormous city. If you want a job after the war, boys, come see me.”

  I shook my head. The captain didn’t lack for hubris. But just as I was about to approach to inquire about my brother, he excused himself and hurried off.

  * * *

  Twilight had faded, and the candles and gas lamps burned brightly, as if the assembly’s energy had leached out and lit the room. All the women seemed thoroughly engaged, so I wandered about, my worry for my brother steadily increasing. A tiny glass of golden liquid was thrust at me, and I took a sip, the burning in my throat a pleasant sensation.

  The orchestra played a fanfare, and a deep voice rang out. “Ladies and gentlemen, the commander of Second Corps, Major General Gouverneur Kemble Warren—the hero of Little Round Top.”

  Relief ran through me like a cool breeze on a hot day. I should have known that the commander of thousands would need to make an entrance. Officers snapped to attention and saluted the colors as they passed, then held their position for my brother. My heart fluttered when I saw him, taller than most, shaking hands as he made his way through the crowd. Our family calle
d him GK, as Gouverneur was a most awkward name. Thirteen years my senior, he was now in his thirties, with sleek black hair and a mustache that met the sides of his jaw.

  After months of worry and cryptic letters from which I could only gather that his troops had won a major battle in northern Virginia, seeing my brother lifted me two feet off the ground. I waved as he scanned the room, his eyes finally finding me.

  GK had been more surrogate father than older brother, our father having passed away several years previously. He was the closest to me amongst all our surviving siblings, no matter the time or distance that separated us. As he edged closer, my smile faded at the sight of his gaunt frame, the strain of war reflected in the streak of gray in his hair and the slump of his shoulders.

  The young officer following behind my brother glanced my way. I looked, then looked again—GK’s aide was the same captain who had been boasting about healing the country with bridges. His eyes landed on me for the briefest moment, then scanned the room as if the enemy might leap from the shadows.

  I coughed to cover a laugh. While he tried to appear vigilant, his gaze returned to me again and again. Perhaps he had seen me eavesdropping.

  I squeezed past the knots of guests toward GK, but the crowd was thick around him. He greeted the wounded men, exchanging a few words and shaking hands down the line. Next, he worked his way into the larger crowd, and I was pushed back by officers surging toward him as they jockeyed for his attention.

  “Men of the Second Corps.” GK’s booming voice filled the room as if to assure them that he could be heard over the firing of cannons. “Let us welcome these fine ladies and thank them for honoring us with their presence.”

  He signaled the orchestra, and hundreds of young men in dark blue began to dance, their shoulders shimmering with gold-fringed epaulets, like an oasis after years in the desert. I danced with one handsome lieutenant, then another and another, each spinning me into the arms of the next in line. When at last I paused, gasping for breath, the officers gathered around me, helping me to tuck back the long ribbons that were losing the battle to contain my curls. While the other women sniffed their disdain at my exuberant dancing and frequent change of partners, the men laughed and vied for me. No matter about the women. I meant to keep my promise to my brother by providing amusement for his men.

  A lieutenant came by with a tray of drinks, whiskey for the men, tea for the ladies, he said, although it was difficult to tell them apart. The guests emptied the tray save two. The lieutenant handed one of the glasses, filled nearly to the brim, to me. “For you, Miss…?”

  “Just Emily.” He needn’t know I shared a surname with the general.

  “For you, Miss Just Emily,” he said, loudly enough to elicit chuckles from the crowd.

  I took the glass and sipped. It was whiskey.

  “No, all wrong.” He took the last glass, swirled the amber liquid, and took a deep whiff of its aroma. Then he downed it in several gulps.

  I poured the whiskey down my throat and held up my empty glass, pressing my lips together to stifle a cough. The group cheered and my spirits lifted, sailing on fumes of whiskey. I was no longer a fresh flower in an old factory. I was their queen.

  The crowd grew louder, but this time, it wasn’t me they were rooting for. A short, broadly built officer leaped into the air and landed with his legs split. The throng whistled and yelled “Just Emily!” for my response.

  The group clapped a drumbeat, encouraging me. My competitive spirit outweighed my sense of decorum, and I spun, each step in synchrony with the clap, faster and faster until my dress lifted. Then I slid down into a split, one arm raised dramatically, my ball gown splaying in a circle of magenta folds around me.

  As several officers helped me up, the crowd parted, revealing GK and his aide. My brother raised one eyebrow in warning, and the younger officer gaped at me. Heat rose in my face, but this time, it wasn’t the whiskey.

  “Moths to the flame.” GK gave his aide a slap on the shoulder.

  The aide then closed his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his blue uniform collar. “Shall I escort the young lady from the dance, sir?”

  My opinion of him matched that of the booing crowd.

  GK rubbed his chin. “A generous offer.”

  The aide flashed a conspiratorial grin, but his smile faded when GK added, “But that won’t be necessary.”

  Even though the captain had seemed a presumptuous young man, I was chagrined that GK was teasing him. GK slung his arm across my shoulders and led me away from the group.

  “Emily, I trust you are enjoying yourself?” GK’s face showed a mix of tenderness and disappointment. I wanted to curl up like a pill bug.

  “Quite. It is my pleasure to offer a small bit of entertainment.” I crossed my arms across my middle, feigning boldness. It had been a full year since I had seen my dear brother, and I wanted to show him how grown up I was and how much I cared about our soldiers. But despite my good intentions, I was a bit late to realize that my actions might reflect poorly on him.

  One of the men called out, “Aww, let her stay and dance with us, sir.”

  “Not now. The lady needs a rest.” GK maintained a grip on my arm, firm enough to tell me I was most certainly out of line.

  The aide glanced wide-eyed from GK to me. His thick hair and neatly trimmed mustache were the color of honey, and his expressive eyes reminded me of the crystal water that filled the quarry at home.

  “Miss Emily Warren, allow me to introduce Captain Washington Roebling.” GK lifted my gloved right hand and offered it to his aide. “I owe my life to this captain and my sense of purpose to this charming sprite. It is only fitting the two of you meet.”

  The captain cleared his throat. “You—your wife? I thought she was unable to—”

  “Gracious no.” GK laughed. “My sister. She and my wife happen to share a name. Now then, will you be so kind as to guard the honor of Miss Emily Warren?”

  I felt sorry for the poor man; his eyes took me in, from escaping curls to rumpled hem, as he reconciled my identity. Perhaps trying to oust his commander’s sister from the event was only slightly less humiliating than ousting his wife. My presented hand hung awkwardly in the air until the captain regained his composure and took it in his own.

  “It will be my pleasure, sir.” Then his first words to me: “Miss Warren, Captain Roebling, at your service.”

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  READING GROUP GUIDE

  1. How much did you know about nursing (particularly World War I–era nursing) before reading this book? What was the most surprising thing you learned?

  2. If you were told that your entire workplace was uprooting to support a war effort, what would your first reaction be? Did Julia have a real choice when it came to shipping out?

  3. Both Julia and the doctors she assists can be territorial about their authority. How does this affect their working dynamics? Are there any consequences for the patients the team treats?

  4. Julia and Dr. Murphy discuss the ethical and procedural challenges of authorizing nurses to perform lifesaving procedures on their own. Compare the benefits and drawbacks of strictly following protocol to the consequences of a nurse performing whatever procedures she feels are best.

  5. Dr. Murphy compares the doctor’s role to that of a car mechanic and gives the majority of the healing credit to nurses. What do you think is a nurse’s most important role? How would you rank their importance next to doctors?

  6. Julia hesitates in her relationship with Fred, not wanting to feed the rumor mill. How does outside opinion influence relationships? Compare the rumor mill of Base Hospital 21 to today’s social media. How do their relative positions affect their willingness to “let the chips fall where they may” when they begin seeing each other more seriously?

  7. What di
d you think of Julia’s choice to keep her skin condition a secret? Do you think she was right to fear dismissal? What were the consequences of her decision?

  8. How does the 1918 Spanish flu outbreak compare to the 2020 novel coronavirus? Are there lessons that can be learned from the way Julia and her nurses battle their pandemic?

  9. Did Julia do the right thing by violating protocol to operate on Private Dempsey? What would you have done in her place?

  10. What did you think of the final scene of the book? Can you think of a moment you wanted to bottle up and keep forever? What do you think is next for Julia and Fred?

  A CONVERSATION WITH THE AUTHOR

  How did Julia Stimson evolve as you started to relive her story?

  First, I read the collection of her letters in Finding Themselves. This gave me a good idea of her voice and perspective of the events. I realized that what she wrote home was probably censored, both officially and by her, so as not to upset her family too much with how difficult a situation she was in. So I continued my research, reading diaries of other World War I nurses, along with other historical references. One reference, a letter from one of the real doctors to his wife, spoke glowingly of Julia: her organizational skills and positive relationships. This enabled me to fill in the blanks and hopefully present a more realistic view of what Julia went through. She became a more three-dimensional person in my mind, with hopes and fears, regrets and insecurities—most of which she had kept to herself.

  How does working with a true historical figure change the process of getting to know your characters?

  I think it is more difficult to work with a true historical figure, because you are limited in many ways, such as time and geography. I would have loved, for example, to put Julia in more physical danger from the war, but that would be too far from documented facts. But in some ways, true characters are more rewarding to work with, because you have bits and pieces of their lives and true anecdotes that are fun to work into a scene.