by Lizzie Page
‘I promised them “no unnecessary risks”.’
I didn’t know that…
‘No unnecessary risks?’ Elsie was shouting now. ‘You brought a child to a war zone, for God’s sake!’
This was unfair. Hadn’t I proved myself?
I butted in. ‘I’m not a—’
Too late. Dr Munro stomped out the hall. His footsteps down the passageway made a dramatic echo.
‘Oh, brave naturist!’ Elsie called after him in her mocking voice.
‘Come on, Helen. I want nothing to do with these, these…’ Arthur was searching for the right word. Eventually he decided on ‘Herberts,’ which made Elsie’s lip curl even more.
‘Herberts?’ she repeated. ‘Is that the best you can do?’
At that, Arthur got up, threw down the handkerchief that doubled as a napkin and walked off. Helen followed him but reluctantly, giving us a resigned grimace. Elsie lit a cigarette, shrugging as though all this bad atmosphere had nothing to do with her. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t help dithering. What was the right thing to do?
Lady D arrived bright, bushy-tailed and, as usual, completely unaware.
‘Shall we pick some turnips today, girls?’
* * *
I went back to our room, feeling upset at the beastly altercation. I liked our team. I had had my initial doubts, yes, but it hadn’t taken me too long to realise that I was the chink in the armour, not them. They were all exceptional. I had more than an inkling that my father wouldn’t like this latest development – Elsie’s plan – but I pushed it away. He was miles away now. I had to make my own decisions.
After we had returned from the fallen village the second time, I had crept into the kitchen and thrown out the horsemeat. I couldn’t bring myself to cook it or even cut it. It crossed a line. Dr Munro asked where the meat was and I considered saying it was stolen or lost, but in the end, I just said it was inedible. He didn’t mention it again, preoccupied as he was with saving the lives of the Dixmude fallen. As soon as I could, I teamed up with Lady D and we went hunting, with some success, for rabbit, which I turned into a stew to much (undeserved) acclaim.
I was settled in Furnes and had thought I might stay until Christmas or until the war ended, whichever was first. To leave now seemed ludicrous. But how could Elsie think we could set up a clearing station just yards from the firing line?
She had not directly asked me to join her, but I knew she wanted me to go.
Would I be able to manage the work? I wondered. Yes. I was learning fast. So many things that would have been alien to me just eight weeks ago as I mooched around Dorset were normal to me now: the importance of keeping the injured warm with hot drinks, but not if the patient is suffering an abdominal wound; even the most badly hurt soldier likes a cigarette; everyone likes morphine but – please – mark the patient’s forehead with an ‘M’ to avoid an overdose; being too free with the antiseptics could sometimes (often) make things worse; a broken bone, especially a femur, could prove fatal; a Liston Splint was hardly worth the bother; the quicker we got to them the better…
Back in our room, I noticed a postcard on Elsie’s bed, which I couldn’t resist picking up. On one side there was a delightful picture of two bonny children – twins maybe – ice skating in Dutch national dress. It was entitled ‘Double Dutch’. On the blank side, Elsie had written in her urgent black scrawl:
My darling Kenneth,
* * *
How the devil are you? I hope you are as wonderful as ever. Have I told you I have a best friend? I have never had a best friend before. I often watched enviously as you and little Clive played your games together. Her name is Mairi and she is strong as an ox and as pretty as a picture. She has bright orange hair, a sweet turned-up nose and is formidable. You will meet her one day!
* * *
Ta ta for now, my sweetest, bestest boy.
* * *
All my love,
Mama
How could I resist that? No one had ever so much as remarked on my nose before. Until that moment, I had thought my nose was entirely unremarkable! Not any longer. Pretty as a picture, that was me. And I had a best friend. I had someone who respected me, who trusted me. And hadn’t she promised to take care of me? I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, presented with a bottle: Drink Me!
Yes, Father, I am easily swayed. So what?
8
It had once been a beautiful three-storey house. Now, it was a house with a fallen-in roof, missing windows and floors and only two out of its four outside walls standing upright. It was not safe. It was a hazard. It looked as though it might collapse at any moment. But it you looked closely you’d find a trapdoor that led down to a secret underground world – a cellar. Elsie had found it with the help of a Gilbert – a Dr Gus Van Hint. He was attached to a Belgian army battalion that, unlike the English authorities, seemed keen to help our new project.
I followed Elsie down six uneven stone steps into the cellar. It was a small space, probably about half the size of a classroom. It was dank, dark and dirty. The grates in the ceiling let in little air and less sunlight. The dust got stuck in your throat. Coughing wouldn’t clear it.
I knew instantly, as Elsie had known before me, that it was perfect.
The most important thing was its location. It was in the abandoned village of Pervyse. Unlike Ghent or Furnes, everyone had gone from Pervyse. No petrol boy or patriotic butcher remained here. There were no women picking turnips in the fields. There were no civilians left. We were north of Ypres, south of Ostend, about five miles from the hospital at Furnes. One hundred yards from the front line. The mere run of a rugby pitch. One try and we would be at the heart of the Western Front. Or to put it another way, the Germans would be at our throats. The Belgian Army was building trenches only a few metres from us. The British Army was not much further away.
Elsie’s idea was that we would be an interim measure for the wounded – an interim measure before the other interim measures kicked in. We would pull the injured out of the trenches and carry them to the safety of our dressing station. Then, underground and therefore out of both the shells’ and snipers’ way, we could assess their condition, bandage them, administer pain relief, warm them by the stove or with a hot-water bottle, make them comfortable or sew them up before we sent them back to the trenches or off to the hospital…
Alternatively, we could send them off to the morgue.
We would be the go-betweens. If our men weren’t strong enough for the journey, they’d go when they were. And if they were ready, off they could pop.
‘Find them, fix them, ferry them, forget them!’ said Elsie with a reassuring wink.
Of course, it didn’t work exactly like that.
From the glassless windows of the house above, we hung a triad of flags: Belgian, French and English. I didn’t think we would find the Scottish flag for love nor money, but a few days later, Dr Van Hint had tracked one down. I could rest easy. The Saltire made an excellent fourth addition.
My mother had always said that a house without windows is like a face without a soul, but I doubt my mother had seen many a face without a soul. It was nothing like that: the cellar house, with its quartet of flags, represented something wonderful to the soldiers fighting nearby. It was a beacon of light and comfort. The Belgians called us ‘Poste de Secours Anglaise’ – British First-Aid Station – and word quickly spread that we were there.
Elsie and I went hunting in nearby abandoned houses for furniture and we found a strong low table and some invaluable lanterns. There was no room for beds, so instead we picked up straw. I thought of Jesus born in a stable in Bethlehem. I liked the humility of it.
Carrying armfuls of the stuff to the car, Elsie laughed. ‘Straw brings to mind the three piggies, doesn’t it? Kenneth used to enjoy that.’
I smiled at her. ‘We all know how that turned out!’
Elsie laughed, picking up a second load. ‘These little piggies will be fine.’<
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I couldn’t stop grinning. I had made the right decision.
We had left behind anything that wasn’t immediately useful. There was no room for excess or luxury – I left Alice to her fate in Wonderland and the playing cards I bequeathed to Arthur – although I kept my Bible, of course. Elsie loaned Lady D her favourite green dress. We took one ambulance – I hadn’t known that the Fiat was Elsie’s own – and we also had the Chater-Lea with its temperamental sidecar and my Douglas.
The Belgians lent us a chef, Martin, who had recently lost a leg up to his knee (and along with it his good temper) and a reckless driver, Paul. Elsie said, ‘All the best ambulance drivers are mad.’ She always excused Paul, even though he had a habit of disappearing at the worst possible times.
Martin and Paul spoke Flemish and very little English or French. We managed to communicate though, with grunts, sign language and routine. They would, when necessary, spend the night on our straw, at the far end of the cellar. Nobody else seemed to raise their eyebrows at this, so, although it took some effort, I kept my eyebrows low too.
The evening we moved in – 12 November 1914 – Elsie instructed me to chop off all her hair. At first I thought she was making a joke, but she handed me some scissors, sat on the floor and refused to get up until I did it. I didn’t want to. That liquorice-glow hair! She wouldn’t be Elsie without her stunning brunette frame. I held her hair away from her head, and felt a nervous sadness as the blades wrenched it free.
I needn’t have worried though. With no distractions, her face looked even more beautiful. I think Elsie knew it too!
Elsie said I didn’t have to cut mine. I had enough self-awareness to know that whatever Elsie thought about my upturned nose, I didn’t have the symmetrical features required to carry off such a short style. But I also knew the shorter style wasn’t just practical, it was symbolic too. Our new life warranted seriousness. Hair was a frivolity and those days were behind us.
So I surrendered to the determined snip of the scissors.
‘I look terrible, don’t I?’ I whispered.
‘Fiddlesticks,’ said Elsie. ‘You look like a beautiful young warrior.’
‘Elsie?’ I asked uncertainly, when I wasn’t looking at her face, ‘What happens if the Germans break through the lines?’
‘Can you run fast, Mairi?’
‘Twelfth in county cross-country, 1911.’
‘Good,’ she said. We didn’t discuss it after that.
After my cut was done Elsie held up my locks to the candlelight, where they looked more beautiful than they had on my head.
Then Elsie entwined my ginger locks with hers. ‘Forget blood brothers, we are scalped sisters,’ she said and I felt like I would burst with pride.
That first night, as I lay on our straw bed, my ‘scalped sister’ asleep next to me, I wondered about the family whose blessed cellar we were occupying. I imagined a pink-faced sporty boy, and a bright-eyed academic girl with pigtails. I had a feeling that they were a good, hard-working family: I wouldn’t have been surprised if the father was a doctor. I felt they would be lucky for us.
Was this why God had taken the men from the house on the hill? To bring Elsie and me to this place? Was this my mission?
Next to me, Elsie moaned, ‘Not now, not now.’
I put my hand out to touch her cropped head. It was as prickly as the lawn of a tennis court. She opened her eyes, took one look at me, then drifted back to sleep.
9
Each day we woke at five and made our way to the cold zig-zag of the trenches – corrugated iron, barbed wire, wet shell holes. We distributed soup or sweet hot chocolate. We said comforting things and looked after the minor injuries. Helped the stretcher-bearers with anything more major. Sometimes, when the shells were incoming, we had to sprint for it.
The men were so grateful, so pleased to see us: it made utter sense to be there. To do anything else would have been an affront to humanity. I might not have entered this new mission for the most selfless of reasons, yet I was not a truly awful person for it was for selfless reasons that I stayed committed to it.
Before they got used to us, some of the men said ‘Stay away,’ or ‘This is no place for you!’ But, as Elsie put it, their trembling hands reaching for the handles of the mugs told a different story. Their tear-brimmed eyes did too – their eyes said thank you, thank you for being here.
* * *
Dr Munro, Arthur and Helen refused to view our new home. Dr Munro was furious with Mrs Knocker and ‘her dangerous scheme’, though he didn’t attempt to stop us (I believe he could have if he put his mind to it.) I sympathised with him. The war wasn’t what he’d been sold. We continued to see him most days when we deposited injured souls at the hospital, or when he had something to deliver to us, but he treated us with barely any more warmth or familiarity than he did Paul or Martin. After a while, I ceased to find it hurtful, although in the early days I sometimes found myself rushing back to the cellar in tears.
Unlike the others, Lady D visited whenever she could. She stuck a ‘Votes for Women’ leaflet on our cellar wall, and when it disappeared (I blamed Paul), promised to replace it. Unfailingly helpful, she was a great believer in ‘four o’clocks’ and it was she who implemented our afternoon-tea ritual at that time of day. If the Belgians had thought the two British ladies in their midst were crazy, then they probably found our approach to teatime even crazier. However, if any soldier was in our cellar at that time, they soon joined in.
I wrote to my parents explaining our move. Perhaps they didn’t understand the implications, because they weren’t worried. My mother wrote about her rows with Cook over vegetables and the behaviour of friends who she seemed to dislike more than her enemies. She also devoted paragraphs to Uilleam, who had finally left home for our family plantation. Mother had paid extra for a cabin above sea level, but should she have got him a double cabin? She hadn’t realised that was a possibility! Ship breakfast was served between 7.00 a.m. and 10.00 a.m. – if Uilleam didn’t manage to get up for breakfast, would he be allowed to go to the ship’s kitchen for a sandwich? She didn’t display much curiosity about my life, although she had heard that Belgian waffles were tasty if fattening – ‘watch your waistline, Mairi!’ Every time I wrote, I mentioned that we would be grateful for supplies – nothing major, just old towels, blankets, tin cups etc – but she ignored my requests. She mentioned more than once that Father couldn’t for the life of him understand why Dr Munro had split the group between two separate locations – but she never directly asked why this was, so I didn’t tell.
If the noise had been bad at Furnes, here it was five times worse: the constant rhyme of shells whizzing over, the roar of the machine guns in chorus. You could set your clock by it.
And the smell, the dynamite, the petrol: the unnatural scent of unnatural things.
* * *
Elsie and I lived like an old married couple, the big difference being that outside our front door were the battlefields of Western Europe, and instead of going off to the factory, the farm or the market, we retrieved the injured, the dying and the dead.
We learned each other’s strengths and overlooked each other’s weaknesses. Elsie was steely in a crisis – she didn’t suffer from shaking hands, she let no quiver of indecision be shown. She always knew exactly what needed to be done. All I had to do was to follow her orders, and this I did willingly. It soon became apparent that Elsie didn’t have the patience for administration, book-keeping, records or any ‘dull things’ like that, so I was charged with overseeing the logbooks. This was more time-consuming than you would have thought; however, I was naturally adept at organisation. Perhaps it was because I was in charge of the books that I felt our lack of resources more keenly than Elsie did. It was another growing worry. Elsie had financed us so far with her savings – but we had nearly cleared them out.
‘Can I ask you something, Elsie?’
‘Yes?’ Her voice was wary. She didn’t like personal question
s. That was another thing I had learned.
‘How on earth are we going to keep this going?’ I remembered Dr Munro’s assertion that no one would pay for this ridiculous caper and Elsie’s glib response.
‘Something will turn up,’ Elsie said.
‘But we are running out of everything.’
She ignored me. ‘It always does.’
Obviously, we couldn’t allow the men in the trenches just to drop by, otherwise we’d have been inundated. They had to get permission from their superiors. We dealt with all manner of problems from shakes and barbed-wire wounds to gangrene – one time, we even had to pull out a soldier’s tooth. The men carried their own first-aid kits and plenty of them had tried to mend themselves, only to make it worse. Then there were the larger problems: like when the men were hit by incoming shells, or, of course, when they were ordered over the top.
If Elsie was out, and I was in the cellar with our companions – lice, spiders, mice and perhaps a poorly fella with a broken kneecap or a nasty wound – I liked to sing. I didn’t have much of a voice, but it helped. Elsie suggested hiring me out to the Belgian Army.
‘You could be their secret weapon! The Germans would give up if they were subjected to that for long!’
Uilleam used to say that kind of thing so I didn’t mind. Anyway, I was a better helper than I was a singer and that was the important thing. After my initial freeze in Nazareth, I never failed to get involved in anything. I snipped, I cleaned, I comforted, I prayed. I reassured. I didn’t let ugliness put me off anything and there was a lot of ugliness. I nursed our vehicles too (and even managed to fix the door of the sidecar). Elsie often told me that I was a trooper. I knew my limitations: I lacked experience and education and I was poor on innovation and taking risks; but I hoped my strengths – I was strong, reliable, cautious and gentle – more than compensated.
