The War Nurses

by Lizzie Page

  10

  Dreary day in. Dreary day out. The freezing temperatures created a new set of problems.

  ‘Like we didn’t have hardship enough,’ sniffed Elsie.

  It wasn’t just machine guns and shells that made the boys suffer so that January; their bodies were icing up. Crunch. Frostbite. The tip of the ear. The big toe got it. And then how it spread! I could never have imagined anything like it.

  I don’t know if we became hardened to horror, or if horror was normalised that winter. We were still compassionate, I hope, we were still gentle… but a man with no nose, a man whose jaw had been blown off, wouldn’t surprise us any more.

  Every morning and every evening, we crunched out on frost. Elsie and me, never getting warm, laughing, bickering, teasing, down the cold lanes of the trenches. Blue lips, fists clenched. Trying to bring good cheer, but sometimes the coffee froze over in the two minutes it took to get there. Sometimes, there was no time to eat or drink. If stretcher-bearers were there, they would pull the injured out; otherwise the task fell to us. Speed and safety was vital. You could dredge out a man only to have him shot in the chest if you dilly-dallied (this happened once). And strength, we had to be strong too. Every day was a test of endurance.

  Driving a few miles up the road to Furnes was more dangerous now the roads were icy, so sometimes men stayed with us in the cellar for days and weeks instead of hours. Black ice caught me out a few times, but I managed to avoid falling into the roadside ditches.

  But what improvements we saw when the boys were with us for even a day or two longer! A hot-water bottle, a blanket, a warm stove and some understanding could be transformative. Sometimes it would be enough.

  It was a terrible time. To see humanity reduced in this way broke my heart. I hated what war did to us all. I cleaved ever tighter to the things I knew were good and pure: to God, to family and to Elsie.

  Towards the end of January 1915, we heard that there was a new law. Women were no longer allowed on the Western Front. A new law passed and yet, an honourable exception had been made in our names. No women allowed on the Western Front, except for two: a Mrs Elsie Knocker and a Miss Mairi Chisholm! Elsie was speechless when she heard. Tears swam in her eyes.

  ‘They know about us!’ she kept saying. ‘They know what we do. They care.’

  I wasn’t sure how to react. How absurd: no women allowed? Yet how wonderful to be considered an exception! It was such an honour that I didn’t feel big enough to fill it. What if they discovered I wasn’t good enough? I knew that Elsie was, but me? I bet everyone thought that I was just riding on her leather coat-tails.

  I was proud that I would be able to write to my parents with the information about our exception, although I was certain my mother would treat it with less excitement than the time when their neighbour Mrs Barton had fallen off her horse and tumbled into Mr Harris’s pond. At least my father would understand that this was an honour even if he wouldn’t react as I would like him to.

  The Belgian doctor, Gus Van Hint, brought us the fine news accompanied by a bag crammed with three-day-old bread. He spoke heartily between mouthfuls. ‘Well, this is good news, except perhaps it’s bad news.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because… it sounds like we’re settling in for the long haul.’

  ‘I imagine we’ll still be here by Easter,’ Elsie said.

  ‘That’s if we’ve got enough money…’ I replied. I hated to be negative at a rare moment of good news, but we were still in dire straits. A fact Elsie always seemed reluctant to acknowledge.

  Elsie squinted at me. ‘I may have an idea…’

  ‘What?’ I asked, but she said it was early days and when she had something of import to relate I would be the first to know.

  Dr Van Hint shrugged. ‘I think we’ll be here until next Christmas.’

  ‘No,’ I said flatly. I couldn’t imagine how the men could endure so long in the trenches.

  He looked at me. ‘Thing is, both sides still believe they can win it.’

  ‘We can win it, though, can’t we?’ I asked optimistically.

  He shrugged again, offering me some more bread. I picked out the mould and tucked in.

  Things appeared to be going better for my brother in the Carribean, at any rate. My mother wrote that he had met a nice girl from a good family (the good family was clearly more important than the nice girl). Everyone was frightfully hopeful. Hopeful seemed a cautious word but that was my mother all over.

  In his letters Uilleam didn’t mention anything about a nice girl or a good family. Instead, he ranted on about the oppressive heat and the sticky rum, the lack of interesting motor vehicles and the strange pungent herbs he was smoking. He also wrote a lot about when we were younger. I had never known him to be so nostalgic. It was out of character. ‘Do you remember Christmas at Grandfather’s? The time Bessie threw up on the tree?’ Or ‘Do you remember the first time we went to Saunton Sands? Did Father step on a weaver fish or did I imagine it?’ He hadn’t imagined it but I had no idea he looked back on those times with such affection.

  He signed off with his flamboyant signature, and a postscript that made me smile: ‘What’s Gypsy doing now? What I’d do for five minutes with her!’

  In February 1915, Elsie found a little dog limping forlornly around the woods near the cellar. She removed the thorn stuck in his front paw and tweezered away the other splinters the poor mite had acquired. Then she warmed him by the stove on a blanket. Initially, I wondered (hopefully!) if the dog had once belonged to the house – if he was Madeleine’s dog maybe – but he didn’t seem to know where he was and often bashed into things. Maybe he has poor eyesight?

  ‘What do you think he is?’

  ‘He’s a dog, Mairi,’ said Elsie, grinning.

  ‘I meant, a terrier cross or—’

  ‘Whatever he is, he’s sweet,’ admitted Elsie.

  He had a long brown nose and short white whiskers. His eyes were greeny-brown. He was small – he only came up to my knee – and good-natured. He was so confident, he must have been loved once.

  We earnestly said goodbye, explaining that he should go and find his friends.

  Elsie said, ‘I bet after all that, he runs straight in front of the first truck he sees.’

  But the little dog didn’t run out. He point-blank refused to leave us. He wouldn’t go. Even when we set him at the top of the stairs, pointing, that way, to the forests, even when we tried in French and German – nothing. So after about ten minutes of useless cajoling and persuading, I spoke up: ‘Couldn’t he stay with us, Elsie?’

  Elsie looked doubtful. ‘It’ll mean more work—’

  ‘I’m not afraid of hard work, Elsie, you know that.’

  Elsie screwed up her face. ‘We would have to agree on a name…’

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ Elsie smiled.

  Suddenly I felt like I was six years old and I’d been given the best present. We were keeping the dog! I snuggled him in my arms and brought him back into the cellar. ‘You’re home now, fella!’

  I was still wondering if he was house-trained and what he would eat and all those practical things, but just this once, I was determined to put the practicalities to one side.

  ‘How about Gilbert?’ I teased.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Hector? No, I know, Munro!’

  Elsie mused, laughing. ‘Arthur would get jealous if we did that.’

  ‘Arthur then!’

  ‘No!’

  I considered. ‘What was your husband’s name? Perhaps—’

  Elsie shook her head. ‘Not suitable I’m afraid.’

  I felt annoyed at myself. What an awful, shameful idea! To think of naming a dog after her late husband! And to actually say it out loud!

  But Elsie didn’t seem bothered. ‘How about Bones?’ she said. ‘Or Bruno? Spotty?’

  I picked him up and just then there was the sound of heavy gunfire overhead. Things were heating up
. I cuddled him closely to me. ‘There, there, shh…’

  But his eyes barely flickered at the cacophony. He was as docile as anything.

  ‘We could call him Shot?’

  Elsie smiled. ‘If you like.’

  * * *

  What a dog Shot was! He would climb onto your lap and sit as still as anything; at other times he might give himself a fright and chase his own tail. He would lick the men on their battered fingers or nuzzle under their arms. How they would respond to him! Nothing would cheer up a man with his foot blown off like a little beastie with a wagging tail. Nothing would cheer me up like the sight of Shot stretched out contentedly over the straw. When the war ended, or if we ran out of money and had to leave, I decided Shot would come home with me. Barney the cat would just have to get used to him.

  Even Paul and Martin perked up in Shot’s presence. Martin gruffly communicated that he used to have a Labrador, Noble. It was more than he’d told us in our months together and he didn’t say much again after that, but he stroked Shot in the evenings and ensured he had food at least as good as any of us.

  11

  After the evening run to the trenches, when both sides of the lines would be readying to sleep, you could usually count on it staying quiet. Still, it was a rare occasion when it was only Elsie, Shot and me in the soft light of that gloomy cellar. Perhaps we should have caught up on sleep, but sometimes, you must savour your moments awake to remind yourself that there’s something worth living for.

  It was March and the freeze was thawing. You’d expect to see flowers but nothing blossomed in or near No Man’s Land.

  There was a scuffling sound above us. If Shot hadn’t been curled up, a little heavy weight in my arms, I would have thought it was him sniffing around outside, or a particularily intrepid fox.

  Then came a friendly rat-a-tat on the cellar door. Shot pricked up his ears. I rose reluctantly.

  ‘Perhaps it’s a new Gilbert for you, Elsie.’

  ‘I certainly hope so… I need some diversion.’

  At the door was Tommy, a young lad with the British regiment nearby. He was wearing casual clothes – a tight vest top, baggy trousers and braces. The two lines went taut up his muscular chest like a railtrack. As he entered, I primly averted my eyes.

  ‘Ah, Tommy! Mairi and I were just talking about you.’

  ‘All good I hope?’ He told us that he and the boys had clubbed together to get us a treat.

  ‘A present? For me?’ Elsie‘s voice was sensual – a contrast to the straw sticking out from her hair.

  Tommy glanced at me. ‘Well, both of you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You can’t have all the attention, Elsie,’ I teased her. She shrugged.

  ‘Come see, ladies!’ Tommy called enthusiastically. ‘It’s quite special.’

  We followed him to the top of the stairs. My expectations were not high, and from the look on her face, neither were Elsie’s. Food would be welcome; we were desperate for something that wasn’t Maconochie. Maconochie was stew originally from my Scottish homeland but that was its only redeeming feature. A thin, wilting broth of carrots, potatoes and the blasted ubiquitous turnips, it had begun to turn up as the villain in my nightmares.

  ‘Ta-daaaaaa!’

  It wasn’t turnip stew, thank the Lord, but I didn’t think it was much to write home about: it was an antique chair, but not a chair anyone would have chosen. Its arms were long and scratched, its back heavy and old.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ I whispered to Elsie, but her eyes were shining.

  ‘The fellas noticed you having to creep out after dark,’ Tommy began hesitantly. ‘And it’s not bleedy safe…’

  I wasn’t sure what he meant.

  ‘My darling. The romance!’ squealed Elsie. I thought she was being sarcastic until, staring at the chair, I finally got it. Ohhh…

  I don’t know why, but the boys’ thoughtfulness reduced me to tears. I covered my face with my hands and sobbed.

  Elsie grinned. ‘Of all the things… it’s a ruddy commode that makes her weep!’

  Tommy looked like he wanted to beat a fast retreat. The men didn’t like to see us upset any more than we liked to see them sad. ‘We appreciate all you do, ladies.’

  We staggered down with it, hung some blankets around it and voila – our own private WC. No more running out to the trees in the middle of the night. No more cold calls of nature. Shot examined it with an approving sniff.

  I didn’t think I had ever been so pleased with a gift before, and Helen’s limerick took some topping!

  Tommy turned to go, revealing the taut, attractive Y of the braces stretched across his back. There was something mesmerising about his good looks. Two peas in a pod, he and Elsie were. Both tall, dark and delicious. They both knew it too.

  Elsie followed Tommy to the top of the cellar steps. I could hear them chatting.

  ‘Won’t you marry me, Elsie?’

  ‘That’s the twenty-third time you’ve asked.’

  ‘What’s your twenty-third answer?’

  I saw Elsie kiss Tommy, passionately. It was a lingering, outside-the-hotel-in-Harwich type of smooch. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I examined the commode. Still they kissed. Then she pushed him away.

  ‘Not a chance!’

  She gave him five cigarettes though and he said, ‘Blimey Elsie, where d’you get these?’

  ‘I have ways.’

  ‘I bloody know you do!’

  Tommy was still laughing as he left. I didn’t know what this kissing business meant. Surely Elsie wasn’t in love with him? I said what I had heard Helen and Arthur once say about her – ‘You are such an infant-snatcher!’ It was, of course, water off this duck’s back.

  ‘If it weren’t for my Gilberts, I wouldn’t get through this.’ She scratched behind her ears madly. ‘I hope I haven’t given him nits! Can you imagine?’

  ‘He should still be playing in a playground.’

  ‘So should you!’

  * * *

  At the low table, Elsie dashed off some messages to people whose names I didn’t recognise: May Turner in the Somme, Bridgit Burns in Exeter, Philippa Bridlington in London. Elsie had friends everywhere. It used to be a source of hilarity to me and Lady D that if we said, ‘Cardiff’, she would say she had a friend there; ‘Manchester’, she had a friend there; ‘Sarajevo’, a friend there also!

  Elsie said, ‘That’s what happens when you get to the ripe old age of thirty-one.’

  I couldn’t imagine it myself and Lady D replied, ‘I’m older than that, and I don’t know anyone!’

  I would have liked to have seen what Elsie wrote in her cards, but she only ever showed me the ones to Kenneth.

  It was surprising how jolly those letters to her son were; it was as though Elsie completely separated herself from anything else she did. Elsie and I had dragged two young men squashed by a shell from a frozen trench that very morning, but would you have guessed from her postcard to Kenneth?

  Darling boy,

  * * *

  Today I saw a cat that reminded me of our neighbour’s cat, Tiny. ‘Cat’ was one of your first words. I’m proud to say, ‘Mama’ was the other! I’d love to hear all your words now!

  * * *

  Mairi sends big kisses, and I send all the love in the world, no, not just the world, there is not enough love here, all the love EVERYWHERE.

  * * *

  Love Mama! (and Mairi and Shot the dog!)

  Xxx

  * * *

  We had a play-fight over who was going to christen the commode first. It would not be me – Elsie would never let me forget it! Joking aside, Tommy’s gift would make a big difference to our day-to-day lives and we were hugely touched. Perhaps we were on the up.

  As we lay in the straw that evening, I thought again of Elsie’s letter to Kenneth. There was no mention of his father, as usual. I didn’t know what kind of a mention I was looking for, but there was never a ‘Daddy would be proud of you’
or ‘Daddy is watching from heaven’. Yes, I know she didn’t believe, but surely she wanted Kenneth to? As for the rest of her family, I knew only that she was adopted young after her mother and father tragically died. The family that adopted her now took care of Kenneth.

  She was still awake so I asked, ‘What was Kenneth’s dad like, Elsie?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You never talk about him. Was he fun? Sporty? Handsome?’

  ‘Umm. He liked rugby, cricket, horses, the usual, you know.’

  ‘How did he die, Elsie?’

  ‘I… don’t exactly know… like most deaths, it went slow, slow, and then quick, quick… slow.’

  I took that in. Then asked, ‘Was it unexpected?’

  ‘Well, we had four weeks or so to prepare.’

  ‘Did he know?’ I said, gripped at the thought of having the answers to the questions that had been dogging me. She rustled the blanket and I was afraid she was going to get out of our cocoon. Talking about him was still so painful for her; I should have realised. I wished I could quote some passage from the Bible to comfort her, but it never did and she always liked me less when I tried.

  She didn’t move away though. She spoke softly, ‘I don’t think so…’

  ‘Were you with him at the end?’

  ‘Not quite,’ she said shortly.

  ‘You know how they say sometimes people prefer to be alone or with a stranger rather than their loved ones at the moment of passing?’ I wanted to offer Elsie a small bone of comfort.

  ‘I have heard that,’ she said.

  ‘Did it make sense to you?’ I persisted. I shouldn’t have kept on, but I had never felt closer to her. For a long time, I had needed her to open her heart to me, and I loved that she had this evening.