A Hospital Summer

by Lucilla Andrews

  ‘Eight. Why?’

  ‘Why not have dinner with me? We can have a grand time talking birds. I can pick you up here when you come off, and if I can raise a pass for you too we can go out of camp. There’s quite a good eating-spot just before Upper Weigh. The R.A.F. generally have it booked solid, but I may be able to ring them up and reserve a table. If not we could take a chance. What do you say?’

  ‘I’d like it very much. Thank you. I’d love to get out of the camp. I’ve got claustrophobia coming on fast.’

  ‘Well, now, you’ve got yourself a date.’ He tucked his cane under his arm. ‘Now, no standing me up for an Australian. Run along to your jolly afternoon with the soldiery, and spare a thought for me and the long, peaceful afternoon I’m going to have off from the big war. And when they ask me, “And what did you do in the Big War, Daddy?” I’ll say, “Son, I watched birds.” ’

  He had barely said that when an anti-aircraft gun barked sharply; a second gun opened up directly after the first; and instantly the camp air-raid sirens began to wail in warning.

  Joe looked up at the low grey sky. ‘Why, oh, why,’ he asked sadly, ‘could I not have kept my big mouth shut?’

  ‘It might just be practice.’

  Another gun cracked. Joe raised one eyebrow. ‘If it is someone’s wasting one hell of a lot of the tax-payer’s money. Hear that, Clare?’ He tilted his head to listen. ‘That’s no far-off thunder, dear. For my money it’s pal Jerry come to have a look-see. I’ve a hunch our little friend Kirsty is now going to see quite a few nice pretty aeroplanes with lovely big black crosses on them. We’ll have to beat it, Clare. You to the Ob. Block and me to my damned theatre.’

  Chapter Six

  TIME IS OURS

  The hospital siren screamed like an agonized banshee as I crossed the square; the ambulances scurried under cover; the sick men in wheel-chairs on the Block balconies and in beds on the flat roof over the entrance arch were hastily wheeled and lifted inside the wards by their attendant Sisters and VAD.s. In the Ob. Block Mrs Yates wore her tin hat on top of her large, flowing Army cap. ‘I refuse to remove my veil,’ she said firmly.

  ‘I have never appeared in a ward incorrectly attired, and no German is going to make me do so this afternoon.’ Yet she insisted that we V.A.D.s in her charge should remove our own caps. ‘Fix the straps of your tin helmets securely, Nurses; you don’t want them dropping off and crowning a wounded man when you bend over a stretcher. You should by rights have your respirators at the alert’ ‒ I noticed her respirator lay on her desk ‒ ‘but the wretched things do get in the way so when you’re working. Keep them handy, and slip them on if you see the P.A.D. officer or the C.O. coming this way.’

  The bed-patients were highly amused. ‘Got to put me tin hat on, have I, Nurse? What? An’ me in me nightshirt? Cor, strike a light! Proper carry-on this is ‒ still ‒ if you say so, Nurse. Ta, that do you?’

  The up-patients, forbidden the ramp, crowded round the ward windows until Sister shooed them away as if they were a set of mischievous schoolboys. ‘Call yourselves fighting-men? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Do you not know better than to stick your silly noses to a pane of glass when a bomb is liable to go off? If you’ve nothing better to do help the nurses pull all those beds away from the wall. That’s right.’ Sister looked round at what we were doing. ‘Get all the bed-patients in the centre, Nurses, then put the mattresses from the empty beds against the windows to prevent any glass coming in.’

  Mr Peters strolled in looking consciously casual. He wore his tin hat almost on the bridge of his nose, and his respirator was strapped firmly at the alert. ‘You look as if you’re expecting trouble, Sister. Have you forgotten the large red crosses we have painted on our roof?’

  Sister turned on him. She was a plump, homely body, but she looked very dignified at that moment. ‘I have not forgotten, Mr Peters. I have not forgotten what happened in the last war, either. I spent three years in various hospitals in France. I know very well with what respect the Germans treated our red crosses then, and from what I have heard they have not altered.’

  The men who had been in France this time nodded at each other. ‘Aye,’ they murmured, ‘she’s right, that old Sister.’

  Five minutes later Mrs Yates and those men were proved right. From the sound the raiding aeroplanes appeared to be directly over the hospital; there were no guns in the hospital grounds, but the hospital was right in the centre of that great camp, and every gun in the camp seemed to be firing in our furious defence.

  The men grinned appreciatively. ‘This’ll learn Jerry to take pot-shots at hospitals! Hear that ack-ack, Nurses? (As if it was possible not to hear.) Must have around five hundred ack-ack guns going on this camp! Cor! Hear that? That’s another opening up!’

  The noise was overwhelming, and strangely exhilarating. The men who had been in France were triumphant. ‘Jerry’s catching it good and proper this time! We got something to hit back with here ‒ and the lads are hitting back real good!’

  Suddenly we heard a whistle. It was a soft sound against the greater noise of the guns, but all the experienced soldiers reacted instantly. ‘Down flat on the floor, Nurses ‒’ and to ensure we did as they said they pulled us down with them. I found myself under a bed when the bomb exploded; when I sat up I saw most of the mattresses had been blown from the windows by the blast. The windows were shattered; miraculously, it seemed to us, outward.

  Sister brushed down her skirt. ‘We will put one mattress over each of the bed-patients.’ She walked calmly through the Block, instructing us. ‘Now, you boys in bed, I want you to be good and stay under those extra mattresses. You won’t stifle, and they’ll make a deal of difference if the roof falls in. Just be good lads. There.’ She might, by her manner, have been tucking down a nursery for the night. ‘Now, you three nurses. It seems ‒’ She had to stop and duck in mid-sentence. When we were on our feet again she straightened her tin hat, rearranged her veil, and continued. ‘It seems this is going to be bad. We will split up. Each V.A.D. to one ward. I will take two; Mr Peters, you will please take two. We cannot risk all being killed together. It would cause great inconvenience to the office.’

  She sent me back to the first ward. The soldier who had pushed me under the bed apologized for knocking me down. ‘When you hears the whistle, Nurse, you don’t stop to ask questions. You wants to get down flat and cover your head if there’s cover.’

  No more bombs fell close to the Block that afternoon; the noise lessened, faded, died away. When the all-clear sounded we were all in high spirits, triumphant at being alive and unhurt, delighted to see through our broken windows that the hospital appeared untouched, and enthusiastic about the strength of the camp’s anti-aircraft barrage. Jerry, the men said, had found he wasn’t knocking over a row of skittles this time, he wasn’t!

  Our high spirits were short-lived. Not all the camp was untouched, and before our beds were back against the walls, or the mattresses replaced on their rightful beds, the first casualties began to arrive. Our telephone rang immediately. Sister answered it. She came into the first ward. ‘Mr Peters. Will you go to Casualty at once?’

  It rang again as Mr Peters, looking rather pale, was leaving the Block. Again Sister answered it; again she came back to the. ward. ‘Miss Dillon, will you go to the Acute Surgical Block? They need more nurses. Stay there for the rest of the day.’

  I collected my cloak before I left in case it was colder tomorrow. It was just as well I collected it. I never returned to work in the Ob. Block again.

  The A.S. Block consisted of five twelve-bedded wards and the operating theatre. It was always staffed by three Sisters, and six V.A.D.s. The men in that Block were sick men, most of whom were newly post-operative. The men who came in that afternoon were even more sick, and to make room for them we had first to remove the patients from their beds. There were no orderlies to lift the patients on to stretchers, or to carry the stretchers down the iron staircase to one of the conv
alescent surgical blocks, since all the orderlies were either busy in the theatre or ‒ the vast majority ‒ had gone out with the ambulances to help bring back the injured men. But the chaplains were there when we reached the Block ‒ not only the three hospital chaplains, but others from the camp who had come up spontaneously, removed their jackets, rolled up their shirtsleeves, and seized one end of a stretcher.

  When I reported to Miss Mason, the Sister in charge, and Senior Sister in the hospital, she told me to go and help with the moving. ‘We must have the beds empty, Miss Dillon. I’ve got fifteen men lying on my duty-room floor at this moment. Go and lend a hand where you can.’

  I joined Kirsty and Father O’Brien, the R.C. padre. ‘Shall I carry your end for you, Forbes? You know more about what’s going on than I do.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve got to get these beds made up clean.’

  Father O’Brien was a short, tubby little man with a strong brogue. He said he would hold the stretcher steady while I helped the sick man on to it. ‘And if ye can tell me of a finer way to lose my fat, son, I’ll be glad to know it! Right, boy, the Nurse’ll be lifting ye’re legs on; there, that’s it fine! Now ye put ye arm round her neck and she’ll manage. That’s the way, Nurse. I see ye have the touch. Now if ye’ll be taking the feet I’ll take the head. Off we go.’

  I had never lifted a stretcher before; from that afternoon I acquired a new respect for the men who carry those heavy, unmanageable objects. Going down the iron staircase was one of the nastiest experiences of my life. I was terrified that I was going to drop the ends; terrified that the patient would slip off; terrified that poor Father O’Brien, who was sweating heavily, was going to fall on top of us. Somehow we reached the bottom safely, walked the few yards necessary to the ward in the block below, and put down the stretcher. My hands shook badly when I let go. Father O’Brien smiled at me. ‘It’s heavy work for a woman. You managed well, child. We’ll go back for more.’

  As we carried back our empty stretcher I asked, ‘Father, why can’t we use the lift?’

  ‘They’ve had to keep it for the boys going up. They’re in a bad way. They couldn’t stand the stairs ‒ not even on a stretcher.’

  When we reached the A.S. balcony one of the other sisters came up to us quickly. ‘Father O’Brien, you’re needed in the end ward right away.’ She nodded at me. ‘Go and find Mr Gill, the C. of E. padre. Ask him to go to the duty-room at once.’ She looked at my face, and recognized I was a stranger from another block. ‘Are you here permanently or just up from the convalescent block?’

  ‘For the afternoon, Sister. I’m from the Ob. Block.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Go to the end ward yourself. They want every pair of hands they can get in there.’

  There were twelve beds in the end ward and twelve stretchers on the floor by the beds. Both the beds and the stretchers were occupied by men who had been wounded in the afternoon’s raid. A blood-transfusion stand stood between every bed and stretcher; there were twin bottles of plasma on the stand, twin rubber tubes going down, one to the bed, one to the stretcher. The Assistant Matron was working there; she told me to go and find as many hot-water bottles as I could, fill them, bring them back. ‘Fast as you can, Nurse.’

  I tucked one of those water-bottles under the feet of the soldier beside whom Father O’Brien was praying. He looked up, still on his knees, and saw what I was doing. ‘Give that bottle to another boy, Nurse,’ he said very quietly, ‘it will not be wanted here.’ And as he spoke he covered the face of the soldier whom I had supposed was unconscious. ‘The poor lad has passed on; God rest his soul.’

  ‘You, Nurse.’ The Senior Sister was by me. ‘Go and get me three more dressing-drums from the theatre. And on your way look in at the duty-room and see if Mr Gill is there. Tell him he’s needed in here now.’ She turned to the chaplain. ‘Father, that boy in the corner is asking for you.’

  The warning light that showed an operation was in progress was on over the theatre door. I found the sterilizing room open, went in, and helped myself to three dressing-drums. A voice called, ‘What do you think you’re doing, Nurse?’

  I turned to see a masked and gowned figure behind me. She sounded like a Sister. ‘Miss Mason asked me to fetch these, Sister.’

  ‘I see. Well, next time, remember to ask permission. All right, take them. Don’t help yourself again.’

  I apologized and raced back to the ward. I found the dead soldier had been moved; a new man was in his bed. Sister sent me for blankets, brandy, tea, more hot-water bottles, more blankets, more tea. Then she took me to one side. ‘Go and sit by that boy in the corner bed and hold his hand. There is nothing more we can now do for him. He’s frightened. Stay with him. If anyone tells you to do anything else say I told you to stay by him.’

  The soldier in the corner bed had a sterile towel covering the left half of his face. The towel was fixed round his forehead and neck with two large bandage bows. The bows seemed to me indecently large and frivolous; I was still too inexperienced to realize they were tied that way intentionally, as a large bow was easier and quicker to untie than a small one.

  He blinked at me with his free right eye, as if he found difficulty in focusing. His eye was bloodshot, the skin around it purple with contused blood. He said, ‘Hallo, Nurse.’

  ‘Hallo, soldier.’ I touched his hand and smiled at him, hoping that smile would cover the fact that I was very scared, as successfully as the sterile towel on his face was covering what injuries lay underneath. ‘How are you feeling?’ The touch of his fingers made me want to jump away. His hand was ice-cold; his fingers moved stiffly, like a skeleton hand, as he gripped me. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Raines.’ His voice sounded peculiar. There was no depth in it, no tone. His accent was educated, and when he spoke again it was as if he was imitating the absurd, rattling voice of a character in a film cartoon. ‘Raines, J. S., 6429271; “B” Company, Royal ‒’

  I stopped him. ‘I don’t want to bother you with your number and regiment. Just your name. What’s the J. S. stand for?’

  ‘John Stephen.’ He closed that one eye. ‘The chaps call me Johnny.’

  ‘John’s nice; so’s Johnny.’ I could not think what else to say, or what to do. My hand was growing cold in his. I had to say something. ‘My name’s Dillon. Clare Dillon.’ I knew we were not meant to tell the men our Christian names; I did not know how we were meant to talk to the men while they died. No one had ever told me that. It was not in our training manual, either.

  He sighed heavily. ‘Clare. I knew a girl called Clare. She was a friend of my sister’s ‒ she ‒’ His voice trailed off slowly like a gramophone record running down. ‘She was fat and she had spots. She was ‒ quite ‒ good ‒ fun ‒ though’ ‒ he sighed again ‒ ‘and I don’t suppose ‒ she could ‒ help ‒ having ‒ spots.’

  ‘No. I’m sure she couldn’t. Lots of people have spots.’ I was growing desperate. Surely there was something I could do for him? There must be more I could do than just hold his hand. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m not thirsty.’ He screwed his eye, opened it once more. ‘I’m frightfully comfortable. I just feel sort of vague. But I wish’ ‒ he stopped for a vast breath that did not seem to do him any good ‒ ‘I wish I could see you ‒ properly. I ‒ can’t. You’re all blurred ‒ and ‒ they ‒ said I had to keep this other eye covered.’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt you? Sure?’

  ‘Nothing ‒ hurts ‒ any more. It did ‒ but they gave me something. I feel much better now I’ve had it.’ The exposed side of his face twisted horribly, and at first I thought he was in pain, then I realized he was smiling. ‘I was a bit scared, you know. I ‒ I thought ‒ I’d bought ‒ it. But I feel ‒ much better now. Silly, really. One always panics.’

  ‘Yes. One does.’ It was an effort to keep my expression under control. I looked round the ward, and found my own vision momentarily blurred. It was like looking at a forest of dead, white,
leafless branches, and on the branches were scarlet and yellow fruit. I blinked, and saw the bare trees were transfusion stands; the fruit was the vacolitres of blood and plasma. The floor was thick with stretchers; the beds heaped with still bundles of grey; as I watched, two men in shirt-sleeves lifted one of the grey bundles from the bed and lowered it on to the floor. I saw a Sister hastily sweep all the clothes off the bed, throw on a clean mackintosh and under-blanket and stand back, while two other men lifted another figure on to the bed. I recognized one of the men as Joe. I did not recognize his expression or the brisk manner in which he moved as he helped his colleagues carry a dead soldier from the ward.

  John Stephen Raines was talking again. ‘Nurse, could you just shift this dressing affair a bit? It’s awfully uncomfortable. It keeps tickling my nose.’

  His voice sounded much stronger; less rattly. I felt cheered, warmed. ‘Of course. Tell me if I hurt you.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t. I can’t feel anything.’

  ‘Good.’ I smiled as I bent over him and untied the bows. ‘You’ve got a couple of highly classy bows here ‒ I hope I can tie them ‒’ and then my own voice ran down as I saw what lay underneath that large linen towel. ‘As well,’ I had to add, as he was expecting it.

  There was nothing that you could recognize as half of a face under that towel, very little that you could recognize as half of his head. It was as if someone had taken a knife and cut away everything from the side of his nose to an inch or so behind where his ear must have been. He was watching me, so I had to keep a fixed smile on my face. I hoped his blurred vision would prevent his seeing the smile could not touch my eyes. My hands shook badly as I retied the bows. ‘Better? Afraid I haven’t made as good a job of the bows as Sister.’

  He said, ‘It doesn’t tickle any more. Thanks. Tell me,’ he panted slightly, ‘have I got a whacking black eye?’