A Hospital Summer

by Lucilla Andrews

  She looked quite dazed. ‘It seems such a waste of time?’

  ‘And why worry about that? The time belongs to the Army. Hand me that file of discharge forms like a splendid girl, and I’ll make out a list with this report-book. You can be filling in the forms with me. Then we can go and check up on the men, in case we have second thoughts about whom to transfer and whom to keep, and later come back and sign them.’

  ‘If you say so, Mr Slaney.’ Sister wore the pained air of a well-trained nurse who obeys a doctor ‒ under silent protest. She turned to Mary. ‘Will you two V.A.D.s carry on with your ‒ er ‒ usual routine for now?’

  ‘I hope your V.A.D.s are feeling strong, Sister,’ murmured Joe, scribbling a list of names, ‘as they’ve a packet of running back and forth with kit to do.’ He gave her the list. ‘Those are certain transfers. If you give them to your girls they can be getting on fetching that lot of kit while we work out the rest.’

  It was obvious that Sister had no idea what he was talking about, or what Mary and I were to do with the list. She had, however, a very good idea of how to cover ignorance with an efficient manner.

  ‘Will you see to this, please, Mrs Frantly-Gibbs? Take Miss Dillon to help you, and report to me again when you have finished.’

  Mary and I went into the first ward. ‘Bless the girl,’ said Mary quietly, ‘she’s clean out of her depth, and damned if she’s going to let on. I’m beginning to agree with you, Clare. I think I’m going to like her.’ She raised her voice. ‘A word in your ears, gentlemen.’ She read out the names that applied to that ward.

  ‘You’re going to be transferred. Will you start packing, then get into bed, and let us have your blues so that we can get your uniforms?’

  The up-patients crowded round us. ‘Do you know where we’re going, Mrs Frantly-Gibbs?’ asked Gabriel.

  ‘No idea.’ She smiled at him. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. We just know you are going. Here.’ She gave him the list. ‘Go and tell these other transfers to get packing, will you, Gabriel? There’ll be more to go after this, but we can get on with this lot. While you are doing this for me Miss Dillon and I can start shifting the sheets.’

  Fifteen minutes later we staggered across the square with the first load of soiled sheets, pillow-cases, shirts, and blues. When we reached the Pack Store we heaved our bundles on to the wooden counter, and were greeted by a resigned ‘Ob. Block emptying, ladies? Thought as much!’ from the staff-sergeant in charge.

  Staff-sergeant Williams was a Regular soldier in his late forties. He was a good staff-sergeant, moderately liked, so we were told, by the men, adored by the V.A.D. staff. He treated us all with paternal kindness and phenomenal patience, and had guided each of us in turn through the various stages of procedure and many complicated little forms that must be filled in before you can acquire so much as a pocket handkerchief for a sick soldier. His patience was second only to his omniscience about Army life, the affairs of the hospital, and happenings of the camp. Corporal Jenkins on the switchboard might occasionally hand on a false rumour; Staff Williams never gave gratuitous information about anything not directly concerning his Pack Store, but he always knew the answer to any question put to him. As Mary had told me to remain in the Store and check the first batch while she returned to the Block for more, I undid the knotted sheet of one bundle and asked, ‘What’s this flap about, Staff? France?’

  ‘That’s right, miss. Let’s have them shirts first.’ He licked his pencil and looked at me. ‘Them Frogs is the trouble. There’s bad goings-on over there.’

  I arranged the shirts in a row. ‘What sort of goings-on?’

  He pushed the stub of pencil behind one of his ears and sorted the remaining clothes neatly as he answered. ‘As I see it, miss, it’s this way. Jerry ‒ now, he’s a fighter. The Froggie ‒ he’s what you can call a fighting-man, too, when he’s got his heart in it. From what I hear from the lads as have come back on their leave or sick, this time Froggie, he just ain’t got his heart in it. And they do say’ ‒ he glanced round with the instinctive caution of a Regular soldier; a caution that had nothing to do with any official enemy and careless talk, but was simply the result of the many soldiering years in which he had learnt that it was a mistake ever to be seen casually chatting by a superior, even when his hands were at work, as they were now, folding soiled clothes. We were momentarily the only occupants of his store, so he went on, repeating himself ‒ ‘they do say as this time the Froggie ain’t got what you might call much discipline. Now, you got to hand it to Jerry, miss ‒ Jerry’s got discipline all right ‒ same as our own lads. You tell Jerry to march; he marches. Our lads too. But Froggie, he always was a one to argy-bargy; remember the last little lot, I do, when I was a lad over there meself. From what they tells me’ ‒ he pushed the clothes aside and leant farther over the counter ‒ ‘Froggie, he carries argy-bargy-ing something cruel right now, so that’s why they got to pitch our lads over there fast like as they’re doing now. Got to stop the argument some way, they have, so they’re sending our lads in to break it up and hold Froggie back, like.’

  I said slowly, ‘Staff, are the French running away?’

  He removed the stub of pencil from behind his ear and scratched the side of his nose with the blunt end. ‘I’m not over there, miss. I don’t know no more than what you do what’s going on, what with all I hear from the lads ‒ and all that talk we hear on the wireless. Talk.’ He grimaced. ‘I dunno. Seems as that’s all most of ’em can do. Talk.’ He shifted the final bundle of that first batch on to the floor on his side. ‘That the lot for now, miss? Want to take the stuff back with you?’

  ‘Please.’ I pulled a collection of soldiers’ receipts from my bib pocket. ‘I’ve got their forms.’ He wandered off to his shelves with the forms. When he returned with the khaki bundles I asked, ‘Staff, what do you think? This is just another flap, or the real thing?’

  He smiled a little wearily. ‘I got twenty-four years’ service, Miss Dillon. I don’t think no longer.’ He leant on the counter again. ‘You don’t want to let these things worry you, miss. All be the same in a hundred years’ time.’

  I said, ‘I can’t help worrying. That’s why I want to know what’s going on to-day. You’re a Regular; you’ll know the difference between an exercise and real trouble. Is this just another game to boost our morales?’

  He glanced round, even more cautiously than last time. ‘You got someone over there, miss? Your boy friend?’

  ‘No. One of my brothers. Twin brother.’

  ‘That’s so?’ His voice softened. ‘Young chap he’ll be ‒ begging your pardon, miss. Reckon you and he are pretty close?’

  ‘Pretty close.’

  ‘What’s his regiment?’

  ‘No regiment. He’s in the R.A.F. ‒ a P.O. on Blenheims.’

  ‘He’ll be a Regular?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I waited. I knew I ought to be hurrying back to all the work there was to do in the Ob. Block, but I had to stay. I had been too occupied with my fire and Miss Thanet to pay much attention to this particular flap, until I saw that expression on Joe Slaney’s face. I was not in the habit of setting any store on anything Joe Slaney did or said, but his expression had worried me, and I wanted the opinion of a wise old soldier like Staff Williams. I knew I could not hurry him into speech, that his answer was not going to help lessen the nagging worry for Charles I had had all morning; but I still wanted to hear what he had to say. In his own time he told me.

  ‘Seems,’ admitted Staff Williams, ‘as this time it ain’t no exercise, miss. Seems as there’s a big do going on. Seems as they’re expecting us to fill up sharp ‒ with our own lads from the other side.’

  ‘Is there a big battle going on? At last? There was nothing on the News about it this morning.’

  ‘That’s right, miss. There wasn’t.’ He lowered his already quiet voice. ‘It’s been going on some time, so they say. Our lads have been moving up Belgium way. They’re still up the
re, some of ’em. And they do say as that Leopold’s asking Jerry for his cards.’

  ‘Staff! He can’t!’ I watched his expression. ‘Or ‒ has he done it already?’

  ‘That’s what they tell me, miss.’

  We looked at each other in silence. I did not ask who had told him all this; there are certain questions you do not ask soldiers. That fact does not stop their answers to other questions being frequently right.

  ‘What about the French? They can’t give up. And they needn’t. They’ve got the Maginot.’

  He said laconically, ‘That’s a fact, miss. Maybe it’ll hold.’

  ‘You don’t think it will? Isn’t it meant to be ‒ what’s the word ‒ impregnable?’

  ‘So they says, miss. But I did hear as there’s a gap there somewhere, and if I hears it you can lay to it, miss, Jerry, he’s heard it too. If there’s a way through Jerry’ll find it. Sharp as a needle, Jerry is, and he knows how to fight.’ He looked at and through me. ‘I got my lad over there too. Fitter, he is ‒ ground crew, R.A.F. It could be as he’s in the same lot as your brother. I mind as he was fitting Blenheims last time he got his leaf. He’ ‒ a slow smile illuminated his stolid, pleasantly grim face ‒ ‘got his tapes too, then, same as his dad. Doing all right, he is. Reckon you and me had best get out the flags, miss. Reckon your brother and my lad may be home a lot sooner than we thought.’ Another V.A.D. came into the store then; he straightened his shoulders and became his official self. ‘Morning, Miss Carter. I been expecting you Acute Medical ladies! Over here with your lot, please, miss. Miss Dillon’ll want to use her corner again with her next lot.’

  I waved a hand at him. ‘Thanks, Staff. See you later.’

  He gave me a little nod. ‘That’s right, miss.’

  Agatha Carter heaved her bundle on to the counter. ‘Talk about a flap, Clare! We’re shifting all our T.B.s this morning. We’ll have nothing left but gastrics this evening. How about you?’

  ‘Far as I know, we’re shifting the lot. But I bet we’ll be full again this evening. The Ob. Block’s always full.’

  Agatha said she wished she worked in the Ob. Block. ‘You girls may see the seamy side of life in the Army ‒ but you do have a gay time.’

  I smiled. ‘Gay is the word, dear. We’ve got a new Sister, and she’s got a fine new lamp. She’s been rubbing it hard all morning. Came on an hour early to do the job properly.’

  ‘How perfectly ghastly!’ Agatha changed her mind about working in the Ob. Block. ‘I prefer our old war-horse in A.M. She may be hell, but at least she never bothers us provided we leave her alone to her beloved M.O.s.’

  Staff Williams coughed discreetly. ‘Ready if you are, Miss Carter?’

  Agatha beamed at him. She was an apparently ordinary-looking young woman with very fair hair and very good teeth. Whenever she smiled she seemed to show too many teeth, good as they were, but, since she had a great deal of sex appeal, her teeth did not matter. ‘It’s all yours, Staff!’ she announced.

  I watched Staff Williams’ expression alter slightly as he sorted her bundle, then went back across the square. I had a lot to think about, but for a few moments I stopped worrying if this flap was going to affect Charles, and thought about Agatha. Not even the fatherly Staff Williams was paternal when Agatha was about; I wondered casually about that quality which she possessed and I did not, and what the possession must feel like. The fact that I lacked her appeal did not bother me, because it was clean out of my hands, and I have never been a person to bother much about things that are beyond me. But it interested me, and I was still brooding over Agatha, Helen of Troy, and Miss Betty Grable when I met Mary in the middle of the square.

  ‘There’s all hell going on in the duty-room now,’ she told me cheerfully. ‘The C.O. and Major Endsby are both there putting their heads together with Sister about the empty beds we haven’t got. Sister looks ready to go up the wall. That first list of discharges has been scrapped.’

  ‘What does Joe say to that?’

  ‘I left him making more tea. He’s too busy to bother with anything else. Oh, yes ‒ the post has come. I’ve got yours in my bib.’ She thrust her bosom at me. ‘Help yourself. I haven’t a hand.’

  I pulled five letters from her apron bib. Three were hers from her husband. One was my mother, the other from Charles. The sight of his handwriting made me feel much more cheerful. ‘If the mail is still coming it can only be a flap. Staff and Jenkins must be wrong.’

  ‘Well, dear,’ she said, ‘they are pets, but they are old soldiers, and they have to spin us horror-stories. It’s all part of the game.’

  I read my letters rapidly as I walked more slowly the remaining distance to the Ob. Block. Just as I arrived Joe was ushering the C.O. and his attendant major from the door. He waited for me to precede him into the Block again. ‘Brother Charles flourishing?’

  I looked up at him. ‘How in the world did you know I had a brother called Charles? I never told you?’

  ‘No one ever tells me anything. But I keep my ear to the ground ‒ and have no shame when it comes to eavesdropping. How’s big brother Luke getting on at sea?’

  I smiled at him. Charles’s letter had been pleasantly normal; my mother’s had contained the splendid news that Luke was in hospital in Scotland with a broken leg that was doing well, and was going to keep him on land and out of the War for at least two months, according to my father, a general practitioner. I felt much happier. The sun was shining, and the world was fun, even if it did go in for major or minor wars and flaps. ‘Brother Luke’s doing nicely. He’s busted his right tibia playing hockey and is in a nice safe hospital bed. Thank you very much, Mr Slaney. Anything else you’d like to know about my family?’

  ‘Just one thing. How in the name of God, will you tell me, did your brother break his tibia playing hockey?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Mother doesn’t say. Maybe the Navy version of hockey is a rough game.’

  He said if there was one thing he detested above all else in life it was playing rough games. ‘Don’t you agree, Sister?’

  Miss Thanet was too occupied with paper-work to pay attention to him. She gave me another list. ‘These are the last transfers. They must be ready to move out at eleven-thirty. When you’ve got their kit organized will you go to the Orthopaedic Block and collect all their X-rays and notes?’

  For the rest of that day, and the remainder of that week, we Ob. Block V.A.D.s traipsed backward and forward across the square, exchanging khaki for blues, blues for khaki. Sister and Joe Slaney sat side by side at the desk table; with each passing day they came closer to being totally buried beneath the mountain of forms on that desk. The camp rumours increased as fast as did the forms; every day another regiment marched to music along the road in front of the hospital, and we grew so used to the sound of a band that we stopped bothering to go up to the D.S. balcony to watch the men go by.

  By Saturday evening our feet were exhausted, our spirits decidedly low. Even the calm Mary said she felt jittery. ‘Have you got a date to-night, Clare? If not come with Mick and me to the theatre. The show’ll be very blue, but it’ll be something to do. Mick’ll love to produce another man. The poor boys are just as worn out as we are with all these tedious exercises.’ Mick Hammond was Mary’s cousin. He was a captain in the Gunners, and very useful to Mary whenever she needed an escort in her husband’s absence, as Mick appeared to be a permanent fixture in the camp. Men might come and go, but Mick Hammond remained, much to his annoyance, as his own company had moved out weeks ago. I had nothing better to do, so I agreed with thanks. Mary rang Mick at the last moment, but there were so many surplus young men in the camp that that made little difference to Mick’s providing another man to round off our party. He offered Mary a selection of five names; she chose one, Bill Something. ‘He’s a harmless soul, Clare, and you’ll have to like him, as he hasn’t enough character ‒ or chin ‒ to be disliked.’

  Bill Something also possessed an aged Bentley, so we drove to the
Garrison Theatre. The variety show was very bad, but the troops sat through it with admirable phlegm; the jokes were filthy, and only very rarely funny as well. Mick and the chinless Bill grew more and more uncomfortable at each joke. Mary soothed them, ‘You don’t have to worry about me, my dears, I being an old married woman ‒ and as for young Clare, she’s still at the stage of innocence where such muck goes clean over her head.’ To prove this she demanded, ‘Did you follow that last one about a man’s bicycle?’

  I leant forward in my seat to answer. ‘No. I was just going to ask one of you to explain.’

  Mick Hammond let out a shout of laughter; Bill turned pink; Mary said gently, ‘No dear. Don’t ask that, because none of us will.’ She looked at the two men. ‘Relax. See what I mean?’

  The show was stopped by the theatre manager just before the interval. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement to make.’ He waited for the delighted roar that followed his words; the troops always roared that way when addressed as gentlemen, because, we guessed, they felt the roar was expected. Troops are obliging men, and invariably react as expected. The manager went on to request all officers to return to their Messes immediately. This request was greeted with a far more genuine roar: ‘Who’d be a something officer?’

  Our escorts were not distressed by the recall in itself; these recalls were very frequent, and after being hauled back to their Messes they were seldom kept for more than a couple of hours, but they were distressed at the thought of having to leave Mary and me to make our own way home. ‘Sure you girls don’t mind walking back through the camp? Sure you wouldn’t like to ride some of the way with us?’

  Mary sent them off on their own. ‘Clare and I’ll be all right. We aren’t frightened of soldiers ‒ and we’re nurses. You may not know it, but our uniform is the finest armour a girl can have. No one makes an improper pass at a V.A.D. Get going, boys, or you’ll catch it from your boss.’

  Mary was quite right. We sat through the rest of that dreadful show, simply because we were glad to sit down. Later we walked slowly back to our Mess through the heart of the camp in which ‒ according to rumour ‒ there were still around one hundred thousand men. It was evening, and growing dusk, but not one soldier did more than whistle, or sing a snatch of ‘Nursie, come over here, and hold my hand,’ or tell us brokenly that we were the reason they had left home. As Mary said, the only thing that would have worried us would have been if we had failed to raise a cat-call or wolf-whistle. ‘When that happens, Clare, then a girl knows she’s past the girl stage, and all that’s left to her is to grow old gracefully.’