“Hardy! Sergeant Hardy! Are you all right b-back there? You were thrown. Sergeant, answer me!”
“Lieutenant!”
“Hardy, p-please, for God’s sake, answer—”
“Lieutenant Pitman, it’s all right, we’re with you,” said the nurse. “You must have been dreaming, thinking of the horror—”
“No, I wasn’t dreaming. I’ve lost my sergeant.”
“Who, Lieutenant?”
“Sam, Sam Hardy, my s-section head, my NCO.”
“There is no Sergeant Hardy here at this hospital. I’m sure he is fine. Now you need to rest, or else you’ll make your condition worse, especially your eyesight.”
“Dammit! Please do f-find out about my Sam.”
Chapter 9
October 1916
Dozing in the streaming sunshine, I recognized the familiar voice but not the setting.
“Lieutenant Pitman. Captain Scott at your side. I’m sorry to wake you, but I’ve been looking over your chart and need to examine you. How you are doing?”
I was confused. I knew Captain Walter Scott, an Alberta doctor with the RCR, was stationed with the Canadian Army Medical Corps at the Somme front. It didn’t make sense that he was with me. “Captain Scott, it’s n-nice to hear your familiar voice, but we are no longer at the Somme, is that correct?”
“We are at Number 14 General in Boulogne. I was rotated out, away from the intensity for a few weeks. Can we sit you up a little, take a look at things?”
“Boulogne? When did I arrive here?”
“Today, while you were sedated, on the hospital train.”
Captain Scott gave me a thorough examination, asking probing questions. I was relieved when he reassured me my sight would return. A nurse reapplied the eye bandage after my eyes were checked again. The captain explained that the stutter I had developed, as well as deep and fitful sleep, was typical of shell shock. He concentrated on my sleep patterns, the nurses reporting that I’d been talking out loud, acting out.
“Ought I a-apologize for anything bad I may have said or done, Captain?”
“Good heavens, Pitman! You were buried alive, fighting for your life amid the hell of a barrage. You needn’t feel responsible for having nightmares. That hellish experience would cause anxiety for anyone. I understand your platoon is concerned about you.”
“My platoon? Yes, my platoon. Have you any n-news on Sam— ah, Sergeant Hardy?”
“Oh, Sergeant Hardy was your NCO, was he? Yes, he came through the Casualty Clearing Station right around the time you did. Concussed quite severely, result of the blast straight at his right ear. Broken arm as well.”
“H-he’s alive?”
“Yes, the sergeant is very much alive. His injuries are all physical, so he was sent straight on to mend in Blighty.”
“Oh, thank God. I don’t remember much, b-but I do recall Sam being blown backward away from me b-before, well, before—”
“Before you blacked out.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
The doctor left me in the hands of the nursing staff, promising to come around regularly. He had explained that select British Army doctors, mind specialists, were studying the increasing cases of shell shock and advised me not to worry about the war. I knew that meant I was out of it for a while.
. . .
A few days later, I was up, slowly gaining enough energy to move around the hospital room. “Good morning, Lieutenant.” Captain Scott beamed. “Fine Sunday morning. I see you’re dressed and moving around; very good. Blindfold off. So, let’s see, five days since the injury. How is your sight just now?”
“Good m-morning. I am frustrated, sir. I’m trying to present myself p-properly to meet military requirements. The nursing sisters are not willing to surrender my uniform.”
“Your uniform was sent off for a full cleaning and delousing, repairs as well. The convalescent blues are required for all patients, even the typically well dressed. Those are now your military requirements, I’m afraid.”
I felt silly wearing an ill-fitting flannel jacket and trousers all in blue; they were rather like pajamas patterned as a suit. “I-I understand, Captain, but with these rolled cuffs and gaudy red four-in-hand necktie, I could be starring in a children’s Christmas play.”
“Now, now. That sight of yours must be better, eh?”
I grinned, knowing I was being difficult and that having my sight was worth a lifetime of wearing blue pajamas. “Better. Still b-blurry but on the mend, I’d say. I’m relieved to have sight of any kind.”
“Good, that is consistent with what we’ve seen among soldiers that have been exposed to explosions at close range. While some of the senses protectively shut down, we find that once the cause is removed, our brains work to correct the reaction.”
I wallowed in the feeling of relief. “That is good n-news, sir!”
“Yes. Now, I’d like to spend some time this morning reviewing your symptoms. During our recent discussions, I felt I lost you on several occasions, especially when recalling the barrage itself. Sound all right?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Captain Scott reviewed my trauma symptoms, which included slight dizziness, stammering, and the feeling of being dissociated from people and things around me. The recurring nightmares were confusing as they didn’t seem to relate to my battle experience. All I remembered was the consistent and relentless bombardment, seeing Sam being blown backward, and my struggle to breathe. Yet the doctor felt that recollection was good progress.
He probed about prewar nightmares, wondering if they were different from those after the barrage. I told him that the prior dreams were caused by general anxiety, being worried about a patchwork of little things, whereas the current dreams were centered on a sense of dread and threats of violence.
“Perhaps we can start with current dreams, then, ones that connect to battlefield events. It would be helpful to try to remember at least one of those dreams.”
“Since I have also been acting out in my sleep, I have been thinking a lot, trying to remember. There was one in which Sister Mary helped me back into bed while she talked it through.”
The captain worked with me to recall the nightmare, helping me through the frustration of not remembering all of the details. We moved to stand near a window, looking out at the Strait of Dover, which was calming for me as it faced the direction of my childhood home in England.
In the dream, I was in a vast ocean surrounded by an endless horizon of dark water. My mind was in turmoil as unknown—imagined and unidentified—danger swirled below the surface, ready to strike. I recalled feeling deep fear before I suddenly awoke, breathing heavily. Then, I remembered that it was the chaos of the water that yanked me out of my self-control—not being able to defend myself, to harness the turmoil. With the help of Sister Mary to regain some control over my senses, my breathing slowed, and I was again able to fall asleep. Later, I had thrown myself to the floor, diving onto the ground and hitting my head on the side table in the process.
The nursing sister had run back into the room. I woke others as well. Everyone was kind, helping me back to bed. But the sister remained after the lights were shut, whispering soothing words, which helped me remember why I had hurled myself onto the ground. Mysteriously, that dark water had cleared and a shark approached menacingly, his eyes bulging as he looked straight at me. In my dream, I gathered strength, enough to kick hard and dive right under his attack. He missed and I survived. I acted out that dive, crashing to the floor.
The captain remained silent after I related my nightmare, both of us peering out the window to the waves crashing ashore. I turned and could see he was processing, deep in thought.
“That was a profound experience, Lieutenant. An extraordinarily detailed recall.”
“It seemed r-real enough, sir.”
“Yes. I believe it represents how your brain processed your battlefield experience—the threatening bombardment, the sea of mud, diving valiantly to avoid the
menace, to survive. Your subconscious invented the shark dream as a way for you to process the reality, to put it behind you.”
I shifted nervously, not used to discussing ways of the mind. “I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way, Captain.”
“It is a guess, but the connection is quite remarkable—a way for you to process fear in a setting you are not used to.”
“I see that. It feels redeeming to m-make sense of that nightmare.”
“Based on your symptoms, I’m diagnosing you with shell shock and recommending you for a few weeks’ rest in Blighty. That will do you good.”
“Blighty, sir? Back to England? Is that n-necessary? I’m to be regarded as unfit?”
“Afraid so, Pitman. The 14th General is a good facility, but you need expert consultation. Here we offer good care, but only for physical wounds.”
“S-so, you are saying I need an asylum?”
“No, not at all. The British Army has expert ways of dealing with emotional wounds, wounds to the heart, as it were. Specialists are developed in that field. At a dedicated facility, you will get the care and rest you require.”
Chapter 10
9 October, 1916
Matron Nursing Sister Kay processed my admission to the Maudsley Military Hospital of the 4th London General at Denmark Hill. The grounds were welcoming with meticulously manicured lawns and bright gardens, the chirp of the birds suggesting a healthy natural environment.
Matron Kay was predictably stern but defied the stereotype of her title due to alluring blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a modern hairstyle. As a pleasant surprise, she had assigned me to a single room in the officers’ ward, a privilege when military hospitals were overcrowded. I felt immediately comfortable and safe at the Maudsley.
Over breakfast the following morning, no end of patients offered comments about Dr. Mott. I was to expect a rigid man with a fair complexion, penetrating brown eyes, combed-back white hair, and a distinctive white handlebar mustache. I also learned he was considered eminent across Europe for his knowledge of neurology, which some found daunting. Still musing about those unsolicited comments, I stepped over to his offices for my first appointment.
“Lieutenant Pitman,” Dr. Mott’s confident voice rang out from the inner office.
I stood and approached the door. “Yes, sir.”
Mott moved to the center of the room and shook my hand with vigor. “Come in, have a seat. I understand that you have settled in and had a nourishing breakfast.”
“Y-yes, Doctor, I have. I’m still a little exhausted over the travel here yesterday.”
Settled into his leather chair, he leaned forward across the oversize desk. “Good, good. That is, good that you had a nourishing breakfast. We encourage our patients to eat and rest well here at the Maudsley.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Now that I was before him, I considered the others’ references too daunting. While he seemed exacting, he had compassion on his face, which belied any threatening manner.
“I suspect it’s more than the travel that has you tired. I understand you had quite the time of it on the battlefield.”
I forced a smile and nodded.
Mott leaned back in a contemplative posture, fingers on each hand pressed against those of the opposite. “Now, as I understand, your encounter was a week ago. I see from your attestation that you are a law student back in Canada. Is that correct?”
“Y-yes, sir, yes. That is, until I volunteered for service.”
The fingers began tapping each other. “I see. Volunteered, and no prior service anywhere in the Empire?”
“No, s-sir, just three years’ militia prior to the outbreak of the war. In Saskatoon. That was more like a drinking club, though!”
Mott ignored my attempt at humor while the fingers froze in place, hands pressed together as if in prayer. “So, no battle hardening prior to our current dust up, eh? You would characterize yourself as not outwardly seeking military service, is that correct?”
Dr. Mott was direct in his questioning. At times he pointed at me with hands pressed together, but there was an enduring tone to his speech. I understood how some might view his demeanor as stuffy and rigid, but I attributed that to being intensely focused on his work. Anyway, I was used to authority figures in my previous dealings with judges at the Saskatoon law courts.
“Th-that is correct, Doctor. I was largely drawn in by loyalty for King and Country.”
The hands separated and flung upward. “Yes, yes, that’s the spirit!”
The doctor had made me feel comfortable enough to be direct. “I am w-wondering, though, about the reason for that question? Does bravery or leadership or even fear matter when it comes to signing up?”
“Very good question, Lieutenant Pitman—may I call you Bob?”
“Of course, Doctor.”
Mott ruminated as he leaned forward into the desk. “We’re still examining circumstances that cause shell shock, Bob. Some doctors claim lack of experience makes a difference, whereas battle hardening protects against shock. Others see it as an unavoidable genetic taint that’s exposed. Shall we say some men are naturally predisposed to hysteria, as women tend to be?”
I wondered about that statement, thought about my strong, independent mother and about my grandmother who was an accomplished schoolmistress. I had never seen them hysterical.
After a reflective pause, Mott continued, “Now, I’ve reviewed Captain Scott’s notes, and yes, it appears you have a genuine case of shell shock. Perhaps we could speak about what happened over there?”
I noted Mott’s reference to genuine but set the comment aside, for I knew there were slackers who did try to shirk their duty. “I’m mostly concerned about my inability to remember what happened.
The artillery barrage has been explained to me, that I blacked out, but I d-don’t recall the detail.”
“All right, lack of memory. And I know you are experiencing a lack of connection to events and people as well. How does that make you feel?”
“Not very g-good, sir.”
I listened to Dr. Mott explain how my symptoms dovetailed with characteristics of shell shock. I was interested to learn that with loss of memory came a loss of association with people and things around me, precisely how I was feeling. It was promising to understand that memory returns as dissociation fades. Yet it was how memory would return that I did not understand.
Mott smiled compassionately. “Does that explanation help, Lieutenant?”
I wrinkled my forehead in spite of trying not to frown. “Y-yes and no. I understand the diagnosis, but it doesn’t help me feel good about how it looked when I blacked out.”
“Tell me more.”
I nervously fidgeted with my cap, moving it from hand to hand. “Well, as platoon leader, I worked hard to be brave in battle. I must have shown great weakness lying in the mud, not dead but unconscious. I had a responsibility—”
“Pitman,” Mott barked. “You come to me with a reputation for pluck, for discipline, and especially concern that you showed for your men. You were hit, my good man, hit hard. Your platoon knows that and surely holds you with valor.”
So this was the sternness now coming out, although the raised voice was offset by a compassionate smile. I collected my thoughts. “Thank you for reminding me of that, sir. Perhaps I’m trying to tidy this up in logic, when I need to consider that it’s emotional.”
“Yes, this has nothing to do with logic. Be strong. It’s only been a number of days since your shock. Your memory loss, dissociation, stutter, blindness—they all sum to neurasthenia. You will require rest for some time yet.”
Mott paused to look at me as I drew in his words. Assured that I was attentive, he continued. “I see your case as being treated with rest, good nourishment, a healthy dose of occupational therapy, and perhaps some social activities. I practice an atmosphere of cure here, Bob.”
“It’s all about rest?”
“That’s right. There are some hospitals with doct
ors who practice disciplinary treatment; they use drastic techniques such as shaming and infliction of pain to rid the victim of shock. But not here.”
I sat up, taken aback as I visualized such treatment. I controlled my breathing. “What does an atmosphere of cure look like?”
“Oh, relaxation techniques, taking hot baths, eating well, plenty of activity. Over time, we will see you lose the stutter, cease the nightmares. Count on it, Bob.”
I expelled a deep breath and smiled. “I’m relieved there will be no shock in the program. Ah, one more question. I’ve heard that the brass wants us b-back in the trenches soonest, that there is pressure on doctors to discharge soldiers as fast as possible. Is that so?”
Doctor Mott sat back, studying the ceiling for a few moments as his fingers pressed together. “I won’t deny that there is pressure on the Royal Army Medical Corps to return soldiers to the front, but in my hospital, I will not certify discharge unless I’m certain of positive integration back into battle.”
“Th-thank you, Doctor.”
Mott came around to see me out the door. Despite the prescription for social activity—and perhaps as a result of Mott’s intense questioning—I wanted to curl up into a ball, to withdraw and sleep. The doctor’s expectation of a positive outcome was understandable as it was in his interest to see patients get well using his atmosphere of cure. I agreed, for I wanted to get well, to return to the RCR, and to prove that I had the courage to get up after being knocked down, to get back in the saddle. But I was so very tired.
Chapter 11
October 1916
While I preferred relaxing on my bed during the days, I loathed it at night due to a cycle of nightmares and insomnia, which in turn caused daytime fatigue.
The worst dream since the one involving the shark attack was when I was confronted by a demon coming out of the dark. There was no shape, nothing to relate to other than a growling and guttural hissing that echoed off of unseen walls. It smelled wet, like hot, suffocating air. With imagined senses on full alert, I stood in a defensive position, holding my thick wool coat out as protection.
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