The War Nurses

by Lizzie Page

  I sniffed. ‘Can I still be your sister?’

  ‘Scalped sisters?’

  ‘Couldn’t we be something a bit more poetic?’

  ‘Shell sisters? Sniper sisters? Shrapnel—’

  ‘Just sister will do.’

  ‘Just sister it is.’

  I looked up at her. ‘We’re nearly out of money.’

  She took my hand, ‘I know, sister, I’ll think of something.’

  Eventually my father wrote. It was only the second letter I’d ever had from him. The first was when I was at boarding school and I had the temerity to complain about one of the teachers who was overly fond of the belt. My father wrote that if I ever received a belting at school, I would receive double at home (I made sure I never did!).

  He got straight to the point in this letter too:

  Your mother is worried sick. She had a fainting episode so I took her to see Dr Barret in Exeter.

  I pictured Father sitting at his mahogany desk, furiously dipping his pen into the ink. Great black blots like angry blood clots on the paper next to him. The pulse in his forehead blue and throbbing. Periodically, he would look out the window at our neatly mown lawn and the even more neatly trimmed hedges and he would frown.

  All this business with you and Uilleam (what business?) is not good for her head. Family comes first. I appreciate you are enjoying yourself (enjoying!) too much to leave Europe, but your mother deserves some respect.

  Father.

  I guessed that this was his way of saying they accepted that I was staying put but that I had better bloody write soon, and of course, stickler for the rules that I am, I did.

  Wire and mud, bandages and buckets. Life expectancies quartered. Boys born in 1896 or 1897 – like me – waiting for their number to be up. We stopped asking why, we stopped asking anything. There was never a satisfactory answer. Just work, monotony helps you not think. I put Harold and his love-you-forever to the back of my mind too. He would recover, we would never see him again and that was how it should be.

  One morning down in the trenches, a soldier cleaning his gun called out, ‘Hey! Remember me?’

  I didn’t. In their helmets, if the sun cast a shadow over their faces, the men were hard to distinguish. This man had the happy air of an escaped convict.

  ‘Really? You don’t?’

  I smiled guardedly and bowed my head. I was thinking, how quickly can I walk away?

  ‘It’s Mairi, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is.’ Where was Elsie? She was great with the odd ones.

  ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘The fall of Dixmude? You and Elsie got me to the hospital. They packaged me up and sent me out here.’

  ‘Gosh,’ I said, still uncertain. I would have thought those who survived that terrible night would be too injured to ever soldier again.

  Elsie encouraged me to remember our successes, but it was the failures that stuck in my head: the slaughtered at Nazareth, the horse on the road, the dead Samaritan, Sandy, Tommy.

  ‘And the other man?’ I asked tentatively.

  ‘Alive, thanks to you!’ he chuckled. He wasn’t crazy – it was just his way. I was filled with such relief I would have hugged him if his gun weren’t between us. ‘He’s recovering in the Netherlands. I will write and say the lovely redhead is still saving lives.’

  ‘Send my best wishes. And stay safe.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’ Spitting on his cloth, he continued polishing. His weapon shone so brightly that, for a brief moment, I was taken back to the drinking glasses our housekeeper made sparkle every Friday. ‘I’m a fortunate man.’

  His words stayed with me a long time. Whenever I doubted myself, whenever I thought of my mother scolding me for being selfish, whenever I thought we’re going to run out of money soon, the memory of him gave me a much-needed glow.

  Occassionally, we went to Furnes for the evening. We went for Arthur’s birthday in February and once again in March when Lady D had received a delivery of whiskey. We took Shot one time, but he made Helen sneeze. Elsie was never too keen to go. She preferred socialising with the engineers – there was one, Robin, who was disgustingly sweet on her – or she’d drive to France to meet friends there. I was also less enthusiastic about leaving the cellar than I used to be. It was silly, but I didn’t like the idea that Harold might come back while no one was there.

  I always enjoyed it when we did go though. It was an escape. We visited for Easter Sunday and sang ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ and ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’. We discussed Churchill’s campaigns: ambitious – the prospect of using aeroplanes in war – unlikely; the chance of American involvement – nil; and then Lady D gave her usual impassioned speech about women’s right to vote while I clapped. I had been reading her pamphlets and I was fully onboard. Even Arthur supported Lady D’s polemics, which surprised me.

  Elsie didn’t join in with the political talk. She wasn’t interested in theories or philosophies: by nature, she was practical; her instinct was to mop up the mess that the politicians and generals got us into. She was, however, unbeknownst to me, passionately interested in the fates of the current polar expeditions. ‘Such ingenuity, such courage!’ she burst out when the conversation turned to the explorers. She looked desperate when Helen quietly explained that Shackleton and his crew were all missing, their ship had been abandoned and they were presumed dead.

  And then we drove back home to the cellar. Going away and coming back made the cellar feel more like home than ever.

  Despite Elsie’s assurances, our finances were still a worry. A Belgian officer who had for some time been admiring my Douglas offered me money for it. I dithered at first, but I knew that one bike between Elsie and me was enough and hers was the better one, so I agreed a sale. I was unsentimental throughout the transaction, though I hid in the cellar rather than see Douglas go. I had loved that bike dearly.

  As I ordered the things we needed and paid Martin and Paul some money we owed them – and asked them, please, to source us some beef as an overdue treat – I felt I had made the right decision. We could breathe easily for another month or so.

  The imaginary conversation I had with Harold where I impressed him with my sacrifices also went some way to compensate.

  * * *

  At last, in May 1915, something did turn up. One of the friends Elsie wrote to in London, Mrs Philippa Bridlington, had been taking Elsie’s letters to the newspaper office that just happened to be at the end of her street. Bish, bash, bosh: we were the front-page news of The Times of London and causing quite the stir.

  ‘Didn’t you know,’ Elsie looked at me shyly, as though debating whether to continue or not, ‘the newspapers are calling us “The Madonnas of Pervyse”?’

  ‘Goodness!’

  ‘Mairi!’ Elsie laughed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t pull that face.’

  ‘What face?’

  ‘Your face says, Elsie! A Madonna? She’s more like a Mary Magdalene!’

  I laughed. In truth, neither of us deserved to be called Madonnas. We were just hard-working women doing our best. Why couldn’t they just say that instead of giving us these sensational nicknames? ‘I suppose today’s news will be tomorrow’s chip paper.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘I just don’t see the point,’ I insisted.

  ‘You’ll see,’ she said.

  * * *

  A few days later, I did see. Elsie plonked a stack of money on the table for me to log.

  I examined the bundle of notes and thought, God has heard my prayers. ‘What is this?’

  Elsie shrugged.

  ‘Is it from your family?’

  Elsie’s family had never sent money before, but it seemed to be the most likely answer. She shook her head. Fleetingly, I wondered if Harold had something to do with it.

  Elsie explained. It was from people, complete strangers, who had read about our efforts in the newspapers and now
wanted to contribute to our cause.

  ‘Well, I never.’ I picked up the accompanying letter:

  I saw your story in the Daily Telegraph and felt compelled to put pen to paper… Never have there been two such noble heroines who have made such sacrifices risking—

  ‘Oh, just put it with the others,’ Elsie interrupted, pointing to a pile of letters stuffed under the table. How had I not noticed them before?

  ‘What? Really?’

  ‘Fan mail,’ Elsie said with little emotion. You think she’d be delighted, but she wasn’t. This was business. ‘People love to romanticise a war and try to get involved.’ She shrugged. ‘If it helps us buy what we need to continue, then let them.’

  * * *

  Our fame created more work for our friendly post-boy. Fortunately, he seemed to be growing and filling out as much as his post bags.

  ‘Madonnas of Pervyse?’ he read out slowly, then squinted at us with his lop-sided grin. ‘That’s not you ladies, is it?’

  ‘It’s not what we would call ourselves, no.’

  ‘Then who’s this? The “two stunning girls on the Western Front”? That you as well?’

  I held out my hand. ‘Thank you.’

  My mother also wrote that her circle had read about us in the Dorset Sun and were determined to ‘… do their bit for the Madonnas of Pervyse. (But couldn’t you live somewhere easier to pronounce?)’. I was to send her a list of necessities immediately.

  Since I had been asking Mother for supplies for the last six months, this grated more than a little. Only now, with the validation of the newspapers, did she want to get involved. She had evidently forgiven me for my interest in helping foreigners.

  Still, I couldn’t fault her efficiency. Mother and her circle burst into action knitting lavish scarves and gloves and acquiring blankets, belts and braces from goodness knows where. I wrote effusive letters – under Elsie’s direction – saying how grateful we were:

  ‘Our appreciation knows no bounds. Is that too much?’

  ‘No.’ I wrote it down. ‘She’ll love it.’

  ‘The boys will be forever in your debt.’

  ‘That’s perfect.’

  It made a welcome change from her worrying about Uilleam every line. And she didn’t call me selfish again.

  Now that we were in the papers, my mother had acquired a new passion for Mrs Knocker. ‘Is she really as beautiful as everyone says?’ (My mother had a keen nose for a woman’s appearance.) ‘How does her little boy cope without her? What a darling he must be!’ I replied to these questions without Elsie’s help because Elsie would only sigh: ‘There’s a reason a private life is called a private life, Mairi!’

  So much was sent to us that we had to leave some supplies at Furnes with Dr Munro and some in the engineers’ house. Robin stacked up our boxes heroically with his lovelorn eyes on Elsie.

  ‘You’re so good to us, Robin,’ Elsie said, one hand on his wrist, the other fluttering over her heart.

  ‘I’d do anything for you, ladies,’ he said, red as sunset.

  I was uncomfortably sure he would have done too – for one of us anyway! Oh, I was learning a lot!

  We were also sent two hundred copies of the New Testament. There was a rumour going around among the soldiers that if you had this New Testament on your person when going into battle, you would survive. It looked like the people back home had also heard this. The trenches were a breeding ground for superstitions.

  Elsie couldn’t have looked at the books with more disdain. ‘And they’re in English!’ she said, appalled. ‘What Belgian boy will want to read the Bible in English?’ She shook her head incredulously at the never-ceasing stupidity of people back home. ‘Never mind, we’re always running out of paper for the toilet.’

  * * *

  Delighted with our financial successes, in June Elsie proposed expanding the cellar house upwards. The ground floor would be converted into a clinic. We would be safe enough in daylight – though no guarantees of course – and then at night, we and any patients would retreat underground to sleep. We would learn from nocturnal creatures, bats and rats.

  It only took an afternoon to build. We created sandbag walls where walls were missing. The engineers provided us with a tin roof. It had jagged edges that we had to take care not to bang into. It was remarkable to see it being constructed.

  What a relief it would be to nurse in the light, in the air, where we could breathe more freely! We had always tried to do our best, but it felt like our best was about to become better. I thought if Harold ever came back to see us, he would be impressed.

  And how nice to put Madeleine’s old home to use again! What stories we would tell her one day! To think we were experiencing just a few moments in the long history of this house, of her family. Madeleine would grow up and one day, she might talk about us at dinner parties as she poured sweet wine and handed out warm bread. ‘And this room was where Mairi and Elsie used to bandage the soldiers before sending them on.’

  Martin made pea soup ‘to celebrate’. We sat drinking it out of tin cups, searching out the odd prodigal pea.

  I couldn’t help feeling that the war would be over soon. It had to be, didn’t it? Of course, I had no evidence for that. Quite the contrary: the trenches looked more permanent; wooden planks were nailed up, more barbed wire was set down, whole pavements were laid. These were sandbag villages, or even underground cities.

  How could people go on killing each other when nature was once again bursting into life? Summer was determinedly on its way. They couldn’t stop that. Nor the larks who never ceased piping, not even when the bombardments were at their worst. I saw ladybirds and counted their spots. Each spot represented a single day. A ladybird didn’t have many days.

  One sunny morning, I took Shot with us to the trenches. As expected, he proved as popular with the men out there as he was with everybody who came into the cellar. He nose-butted the soldiers, eyeing them curiously. They crowded around and stroked him. Although our Shot was not easily shaken by loud noises, and would even sleep through the whistle of shells, he became unsettled by so much attention at once.

  ‘He smells fear,’ I said. It was something my father used to say about animals.

  ‘He’ll be happy here then,’ a soldier said. ‘Fear’s all you can smell.’

  That wasn’t quite true, unfortunately.

  Shot was a delight: the men passed him around as if he were a chocolate bar, each taking turns in the pleasure. His little tail wagged and he made affectionate snuffles into their chests. Some of the men were more familiar with dogs than others, but they all had a go. A young soldier, Jake, held him close to his freckled face.

  ‘Nan had a dog,’ he told me. ‘Hulking thing, big as a pony.’

  The stories Shot would elicit never ceased to amaze me. It was as though everyone had an old dog’s tale.

  ‘She used to meet me after school, at the garden gate. I didn’t appreciate her ’til she was gone.’

  He was burying his face in Shot’s furry back when there was the whizz, hiss and boom of a shell. It must have landed extremely close. Shocked, Jake dropped Shot to the ground and suddenly, before our stricken eyes, Shot panicked like he never had before. He clambered up the trench walls, and ran for it. There must have been a rip in the barbed wire, or a burrow or something. He was streaking up and away, towards the vast space of No Man’s land.

  I can’t tell you the horror I felt to see our little dog making for that desolate landscape.

  Shot was trapped between us and the Germans. Elsie was further along the trenches treating someone’s eye. She wouldn’t know what was happening.

  He was still heading away from us. I waited for the sniper’s bullet. I couldn’t even scream for him.

  Silence. The Germans must have seen him frolicking about, if only through their binoculars, but perhaps he pleased them too? Perhaps we were all in need of some entertainment.

  He stopped, looked back at us.

  Realis
ing that using his name wasn’t a good idea, I called, ‘Here doggy!’ instead. No response. Shot sank onto his hind legs.

  I was going to have to go for him. I started to climb up the ladder, but they pulled me back.

  Jake was weeping. ‘I didn’t mean to let go, Mairi.’

  Shaking off the soldiers, I bolted my way up to the top and went over to him, crawling through the mud. One foot, two foot, three… waiting for one or both of us to die.

  He came towards me. Thank God. I scooped him up, praying for safety, wincing at the prospect of the fire, the explosion, the bullet to the head. It didn’t come. We backed off, Shot squeezed between my belly and the ground.

  ‘I’ve got you, Shot,’ I whispered. I felt the life pulsing through him in my arms. His racing heart. His silky ears.

  I half jumped and was half pulled into the trench. I felt elated. What joy it was to be alive. We had been saved.

  Elsie was striding towards me, her leather coat swishing from side to side. She stood over me, a giantess, hands on hips, fury in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t you ever, EVER do anything like that again, Mairi Chisholm.’

  Elsie pummelled me: she actually punched my shoulders with her clenched fist, first one side and then another, not violently, not viciously, but certainly enough to hurt. I thought of my father hitting Uilleam – how he would not make a sound. How everyone conspired to pretend it never happened.

  I stared at her, waiting for it to stop. ‘Don’t do anything to provoke him,’ I used to whisper to Uilleam. ‘Everything about me provokes him,’ he used to reply.

  ‘I couldn’t bear it!’ she shouted, and pushed me again.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I muttered. ‘We’re fine.’

  ‘If anything happened to you, I would die.’

  Elsie pulled me up from the trench floor. She hugged me, squeezing the whimpering Shot between us. She caught my chin between her hands, gazing at me like she was seeing right through me. Tears were falling down her face, making white tracks through her mud-stained cheeks. I stared at her in astonishment. Then she thumped my back again: ‘You idiot!’ I think she must have remembered that all the startled men were watching her because she straightened up and began playing to the crowd. ‘Did you see what this crazy girl did?’ Then she was off, checking wounds and telling boys they’d be back home with their sweethearts soon enough without once looking back at me.