Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

  With my arms flailing and feet kicking, the nursing sister managed to wake me while avoiding a black eye. We talked about it, but whereas I could identify with the shark, this demon’s form remained hidden. I could not relate the threat to any particular experience, which made me wonder if my shock was getting worse.

  I decided I had better become more active, convincing myself that some fresh air and activity might actually help me sleep at night, so I ventured to the workshop. Assessing things at the entrance, I looked into the vast canvas tent, the only light being the bright sunshine emanating through the open doors and netted windows. As I stood there peering in, I instinctively tapped out the burned contents out of my pipe on the sole of my shoe.

  After packing in fresh tobacco, I struck a wooden match and sucked on the pipe stem. The sweet cherrywood aroma delivered a pleasant feeling that relaxed me as I walked in. Everyone in the hut sprang up and saluted.

  “Hello, lads. D-do you greet all patients with such high regard?”

  A tall soldier, somewhat older with a warm smile, was the first to speak. “No, sir, but we stand and salute officers.”

  “How d-do you know I am an officer?”

  The tall soldier grinned. “Your cap badge, sir.”

  “And your pipe, sir. It’s rather posh!” observed another.

  These observant lads with their friendly demeanors put me at ease. “Of course.” I chuckled. “However, w-we are all here at the Maudsley for rest and good health, so no need for formalities.”

  “If you will excuse me, sir,” corrected the tall one, “Dr. Mott insists on maintaining military discipline even in our relaxed atmosphere.”

  I had noted the distinction where Mott spoke informally to soldiers in therapy but maintained protocol outside his office. “Carry on, then. I’m just getting used to the hospital facilities, and I’m interested in what it is you are creating.”

  As the men drifted back to their work, I wandered through the large tent, pausing for a moment beside a couple of men crafting a footstool. I moved on to a table where a few men were weaving baskets. There was a lone soldier freehand painting in pastel. It was a peaceful scene, one that placed everyone on equal footing in the quest for relaxation.

  Though there were moments I had to manage an instinct to involuntarily recoil at some of their shell shock symptoms—facial tics, powerful tremors, sudden spontaneous shrieking, and physically shrinking from notice. Their trauma in dealing with an invisible enemy, a hidden menace, was the direct manifestation of a dreadful war. The visible result was that shell shock was obliterating minds. It made my stutter seem immaterial in the face of what I saw, and I wondered if they had nightmares too.

  Deep in thought, I drifted back toward the entrance, when suddenly the tall soldier was beside me with his hand extended in a friendly gesture. “Would you care to join us in some basket weaving, sir? I’m sure by now you’ve heard the joke that some of us here are called basket cases.” His laughter was shared by the others.

  “I admire your g-good sense of humor. You strike me as s-seasoned—an NCO sergeant perhaps?”

  He beamed with the recognition. “Yes, sir, you bet. Thank you for knowing that, sir!”

  I looked at him, admiring his caring eyes and taken in by his gentle mannerism. “Not at all, Sergeant. I’m a r-recent volunteer in His Majesty’s service, but I’m beginning to recognize regular, uh, career soldiers. What is your name?”

  “Richard Barker.”

  “Thank you, Richard. I’m Lieutenant P-Pitman. Bob Pitman if we skirt Dr. Mott’s rules.”

  “Well, we’ll have to abide the formal engagement, sir. But I’m known as Sarge. Would you care to learn the fine art of basket weaving?”

  “With respect to your kind offer, Sarge, I will take a p-pass for the moment as I need time to settle in, stroll the grounds a little more, visit the library, and so on. Trust you understand.”

  “Of course, Lieutenant. We would be more than pleased to show you our skills when you are ready.”

  “Very kind, and I bid all of you soldiers a good afternoon.” There was murmuring as I strolled out of the hut into an autumn sunset. I was upset with myself that I had gone in search of activity but didn’t commit. Yet I had little desire to mingle with those who were emotionally broken by war, even though we had common grievances. I wasn’t ready to become mired in reasons why one soldier or another could not get well, even if that was blatantly selfish.

  I justified this attitude because I was still fighting enemies in my sleep, and I desired to be alone. They were nice folks, well meaning in their offer to help me. Yet seeing, feeling, their symptoms reminded me too much of my own anxious trauma, so I preferred to disconnect. When I returned to my room, a letter was sitting on the bedside table. Turning it over, I saw its return address was from John Forbes at the 2nd General Hospital in Bristol. I hadn’t heard from Minnie since parting ways on the day of our arrival at Amiens. I knew that he was in Blighty like me, but was a little surprised he had remained. Eagerly opening the envelope, I was anticipating good news, especially from a fellow Saskatonian. He was recovering well from his upper-arm wounds and was to be discharged once he was able to again level a rifle at the enemy. Minnie signed off with a desire to meet up in London, either at the Maudsley or a more cheerful establishment, if I was in decent shape myself.

  I penned a short note in return, stating that my condition was still uncertain, but I was all for meeting just as soon as I was discharged. Minnie’s short letter was like a shot of single malt on a breezy summer day. It gave me a connection to the outside world, to a friend who cared enough to write, and to our shared Canadian past. That was a boost to my well-being.

  The thoughts of Saskatoon, of feeling the connection to family and friends, inspired me to be strong enough to write to my father.

  Mr. Charles R. Pitman

  426-8th Street East

  Saskatoon, Saskatchewan

  Dominion of Canada

  12 October, 1916

  Dearest Papa,

  Thank you for the letters of August and September past that arrived in the regimental post. Please give my blessings to Mama, little Hilda, and to Grandma Crippen as well. I trust Ethel is doing well out in Vancouver.

  Papa, you will by now have received a cable from the war office that I was wounded in action while serving in France. I am not permitted to provide much detail; however, can confirm I was at the Somme, a battle that I know has been described at length in the Saskatoon Star (thank you for sending a few copies). I am currently at the 4th London General Hospital, the Maudsley Military section, under the care of Major Frederick Mott.

  Please don’t be disappointed that my wounds are not physical; rather, I am suffering from shell shock, or in technical terms neurasthenia, a nervous debility.

  There are parts I don’t recall (memory loss is one of the symptoms). The record shows my platoon was caught in severe bombardment, resulting in my state of unconsciousness facedown in mud.

  As an officer, I am charged with leading my men into battle with a lively attitude, even in adverse circumstances. I put my men before me by protecting them as best I could. The surroundings were horrific: mud, rats, and the stench of decomposing bodies from recent battles. An intense and constant threat to one’s life is ever present. Fear is everywhere, but so too the force of goodness to see this war through. Some doubt the shell shock condition, but lest they walk in a soldier of the Somme’s shoes, they will know not the truth.

  The papers are reporting that the number of casualties being shipped back to England from the Somme has come to a crisis level, you will hear about some that hide among the wounded, preferring to shirk their duty to our King. Those malingerers, by feigning shell shock injury, place suspicion on all sufferers. I am not one of those—never will be—no matter the sacrifice. I remain committed to returning to the front as soon as Dr. Mott deems it appropriate.

  I consider myself one of the lucky ones to have thus far escaped the woo
den cross. Please accept my condition with the understanding that would accompany physical wounds, for they are equivalent.

  Upon discharge from the 4th General, I will need lodgings for a short period and I will contact our good family friend Mrs. Courtenay Clarke for permission to remain with her until the medical board rules on my fitness to return to general service.

  Your loving son,

  Bob

  Chapter 12

  October 1916

  It was a breezy, sunny day as I strode into the doctor’s office and took my usual seat.

  “Hello, Bob. How are we today?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Matron has brought me up to date. Let’s see, your eyesight has returned to normal, and your stutter has receded very nicely.” His grin showed that he was proud of his atmosphere of cure. “Now, what about the nightmares?”

  Knocked from my high spirits, my mind raced, at first about childhood dreams, then more recent ones. I remembered dreaming, at a tender young age, that there was broken glass in my father’s slippers, ready to cut him. I had woken screaming, sobbing, crying, and ran from the bed. While he gave me one of his perfunctory hugs and assured me all was well—who on earth would want to hurt him?—I have always wondered if it was I in the dream who wanted to punish him for his detached nature. My memory would not go that deep.

  There were current dreams about fleeing shells that rained down—spheres of hate and destruction. I would try to duck them, to weave, to do anything to avoid the menace, while my unconscious mind smelled noxious chemicals and a toxic mud that would make my face feel like exploding. One dream was about dodgeball, with an endless stream of balls coming out of darkness at me. I moved, kicked, and tried to push them away as they came close. I would run this way and that, jumping backward and then pushing forward, all the while my arms flung them away. It was tiring.

  “Bob. I say, Bob.”

  My head snapped up as I was jolted back to the moment. “Yeyes, Doctor.”

  Mott leaned into his desk. “You were gone for a moment, deep in thought. Perhaps you can share. What was happening just then?”

  “I don’t know if they’re connected, Doctor. I mean, two dreams I was thinking about. One a childhood nightmare which saw my father hurt, or almost hurt. Then, I suddenly shifted to a dream about having dodgeballs hurled at me. In both cases, I fled the terror, tried to run away by jumping out of bed. And thinking about it, there was a fitful nightmare on the train coming into Amiens on my first day in France, sort of like these dreams.”

  As he leaned back in his chair, Mott’s fingers pressed together in what I learned was his contemplative posture. “Yes, the nurses explained to me that you have these vivid dreams, but also that you’re willing to talk them through. That is a good sign.” He looked over at me, ensuring I was still attentive. “It may be you are prone to anxiety for other, perhaps childhood, reasons, and that your shell shock is causing that to surface in an accelerated fashion.”

  “It’s very serious, then? Long lasting?”

  “No, needn’t be. We all have dreams, nightmares, where some of us fret but don’t act out. Those others may suffer with night sweats or tremors. You are a very open person, Bob; you don’t hold back. That taking action is, I think, reflected in your dreams.”

  I grinned. “Yes, I share things easily. An open book, some say.

  Ha ha!”

  He sat up straight and nodded his head in approval. “Well, the good news is that you are not stuttering nearly as much as you were. That tells me you are beginning to relax, normalizing.”

  Mott continued to steer the discussion away from my dreams by injecting positive aspects of my recovery, for which I was thankful. I knew there were shell shock victims much worse than me who spent all day staring wide-eyed at an open field, waiting to fight in a fictitious battle that was never going to come, and men who dove under tables at the instant of a sudden noise. I was thankful not to be in that state.

  I faced the task of accepting that my shock was a normal reaction to the most significant and destructive terror I had ever experienced. I realized that most people, civilians in particular, could not begin to understand.

  Dr. Mott reinforced his prediction that the nightmares would subside and my memory and connection to others would improve. Before I knew it, Mott craftily shifted the discussion to his belief that group therapy—the working with others—was good for the soul. That he was a founding member of the Society of English Singers fit nicely with his plan to promote cheerfulness by holding a Friday-evening sing-along in the second-floor lounge. Intrigued, I agreed to attend.

  . . .

  Plink-plink-plink! Plink-plink-plink!

  I heard the repetitive tuning of middle C on the piano as I drew on my pipe, watching the glow of the embers. The taste of the smooth tobacco seduced my senses into contentment. Again, the plink-plink-plink drew attention to the upstairs lounge.

  It was Friday after dinner as I sat in the hospital library listening to the notes whispering down. I thought back to my childhood in Walthamstow. There were times, particularly Sundays, when my granny’s home school for girls was closed for the day and our family gathered around the black-and-whites for a sing-along.

  It was Easter Sunday 1908, just before immigrating to Canada, that I remember most for a wonderful singsong. The entire world was singing then, as prosperity was boosting spirits across Europe and America. We had attended Easter services before walking along High Street, where it was warm enough to enjoy the season’s first ice cream cone. Arriving home, Granny and Mama had played a duet on the piano, laughing at their rusty mistakes. It was always enjoyable to watch and hear, bringing comfort into our home.

  We all broke into song. At fifteen, I was still getting used to my rough masculine tone, whereas my younger sisters were like angels with dulcet voices. At twenty-one, Eric, our cousin who lived with us after his parents’ divorce, brought a wonderful baritone to the mix. The tunes were fresh and mainly from America, and we knew them well.

  School days, school days

  Dear old Golden Rule days

  Every time we got to the third stanza, Hilda would trip over the words and break into hysterical laughter, and Ethel and I would press on with so much fun.

  ‘Reading and ‘riting and ‘rithmetic

  Taugh to the tune of the hick’ry stick

  Oh, for the days of Blackhorse Road, for memories of Walthamstow! I remembered my entry to adolescence when Eric was there for me, teaching me everything about growing up, including some predictably naughty things.

  Papa was physically there, but Eric was my guiding light. He would divert great-uncle Charlie with conversation while I nicked a candy from his Pitman’s Grocery on High Street, or he would steal a kiss from some unsuspecting lass just to see what she would do. It was great fun being with Eric right up to the time of his plans to settle down with Daisy. That was just before our immigration to Canada.

  Suddenly, the upstairs lounge rang out with a similar melody, bringing me back to the present.

  There is a flower within my heart,

  Daisy, Daisy!

  In spite of an earlier hesitance, I followed the tunes up the stairs to the second-floor lounge.

  Planted one day by a glancing dart,

  Planted by Daisy Bell!

  Sarge was lingering at the door, playing the welcoming committee as he was when I visited the workshop. “Hello, Bob,” he whispered. “We thought you were the musical type. Can’t stay away from a good tickling of the ivories, eh?”

  “You got me on that one. I grew up around the family piano and fancy myself a bit of an enthusiast.”

  Whether she loves me or loves me not,

  Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

  “It’s great to see you not buried in a library book. Me ‘n the lads, we really like you, what with being one of the nicer officers. You know, you respecting us without throwing your position at us.”

  “All right now, no need to swell my head to that exte
nt!”

  Yet I am longing to share the lot

  Of beautiful Daisy Bell!

  He grinned. “Well, what with bein’ accused of bein’ a pacifist, I’ve nothin’ to lose with bein’ honest, eh?”

  “A pacifist?”

  “Oh, yes. Was felled durin’ a machine-gun barrage. We were pressin’ forward in no man’s when our own shells dropped down all over us. I was crazy scared, mumbling stupid, cursin’ our own artillery idiots. After they got me back to the trench, seems my CO heard me talkin’ about a stupid war, a need to end it at all costs, both sides should go bloody home.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you said?”

  Daisy, Daisy,

  Give me your answer, do!

  I’m half crazy,

  All for the love of you!

  “Well, I might ‘ave told him to fuck off and die. Before I knows it, the court martial brass call me shell shocked, respectin’ my long service the only thing keeps me outta field punishment or the firin’ squad. They says I was temporarily insane, and nows I’m here weavin’ baskets.”

  I continued looking at him, empathetic to such a sorry story. “You’d think they’d want solid fellows like you back out in the trenches instead of judging righteousness or personal beliefs, for that matter.”

  It won’t be a stylish marriage;

  I can’t afford a carriage.

  “Nah, not quite. Theys don’t want the likes of me infectin’ the morale, the spirit of the lads out there. I understand that. Just do my time here, go before the med board with a promise to say nice things about the cause. Be back sooner than Bob’s your uncle. A little humor on you there, eh?”

  We momentarily held our look and then burst into laughter. “Well, you’re a good man, Sarge. I’ve seen you with the other lads, and you have a way about things. With them, I mean.”