A Casualty of War

by Charles Todd

  We had eaten dry sandwiches for so long. Not that I would complain, but the warmth of the tea and the soup sent me crawling into my cot, exhausted.

  I was roused in the night by Sister Medford touching my shoulder.

  “There’s someone to see you,” she said, smiling.

  My hair was down, and I thought, This is no time for Sergeant Lassiter to come and press his suit.

  Cross, I dressed hastily and went out to see who it was.

  There was the Colonel Sahib, a dark shadow against the light of the small spirit lamp. I’d have known him anywhere, and I flew into his arms with a cry of delight. How long had it been since I last saw him?

  He held me close, then at arm’s length. I could see that he looked tired, and I could only imagine what he had been doing in these last weeks of negotiating for an end.

  “I hesitated to wake you, my dear—I know how precious sleep is for you—”

  I broke in. “All is well at home? Tell me, I need to know if it isn’t.”

  “Well and looking forward to having you back with us again. I ought to be twenty miles from here, but I wanted to see you. Your mother sends her love, and so does Mrs. Hennessey. I don’t know where Simon is at the moment, but when I last encountered him, he was looking rather pleased with himself. God knows what he’d been doing, he didn’t say. I’ll be happy when he’s no longer at risk as well.”

  We talked for another ten minutes, and then his aide was there to let him know his time was up. I watched him walk out to the staff car that had brought him here and waved him out of sight before returning to my bed.

  It had been a grave risk for my father to come so far forward. With the Front seesawing daily, he could have been caught in a collapsing pocket and taken prisoner. But he must have been given very good intelligence before setting out, for he was never one to put others in jeopardy.

  In the morning, under a weak sun, we dealt with the wounded and with German prisoners, streaming south away from the Front. Most of them seemed glad that their war was over, men who had fought valiantly while they could, now facing the reality of defeat. Some of them spoke a little English, and were polite as we dressed their wounds. A few, eyes angry and sullen, still believed victory was possible.

  The consensus was that Germany was collapsing, the war draining her of money and men and hope.

  And still the guns fired, day and night.

  Word came down that at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, all shooting would cease. It was real, then, this Armistice.

  Eleven November, at eleven o’clock.

  That was tomorrow.

  I awoke to the guns, firing almost continually, the chatter of machine gun fire in the distance, and the cries of men who were hit and wounded.

  In our quiet corner of this village where we worked, where there were no people or farm animals, not even birds singing overhead, sound traveled from the fighting to us.

  We had mostly machine gun cases in the morning, legs shattered, in some instances unsalvageable. Dr. Weatherby did what he could but most were sent back in the long line of ambulances heading to hospitals.

  At ten o’clock, I drank my tea as I sewed up a shoulder wound, and Dr. Weatherby was already dealing with a jaw from the shelling. Ten more men stood outside our tent, faces haggard. They had made it nearly to the end, and then their luck had run out.

  At ten thirty, I was busy with a stomach wound, trying to stop the bleeding, and at ten forty-five, I was dealing with more machine gun knees.

  Eleven o’clock came before I was aware of it.

  We had just bandaged a head when Dr. Weatherby’s pocket watch chimed the hour, the bell-like tones pure and sweet.

  I stared at him.

  In all the time I had worked with him, I had never heard it chime.

  And we became aware of the silence.

  We lifted our heads at the same time, listening.

  In the distance I saw men falling to their knees, a column moving forward toward the fighting. Mercifully it had stopped.

  I walked out of the convent. There was no mad cheering, just—blessed silence.

  I realized that tears were rolling down my cheeks, and as I looked, I saw them glistening on the faces of those around me. Men who had endured so much for so long wept with me.

  It was over. This bloody, wretched war was over. And in that moment I didn’t care whether it was victory or armistice, I was just very grateful that the killing had finally come to an end.

  Dr. Weatherby, standing beside me, put a hand on my shoulder, a comradely gesture of acknowledgment of what we were all feeling.

  And then I walked back into the tent, for a line of wounded was still making its way toward us. The last casualties of this war.

  Chapter 7

  We didn’t move back straightaway. There were still patients to attend to, but as the week went by they were mostly German prisoners. The quiet was almost eerie.

  Finally word was passed to Dr. Weatherby to prepare to move south, and he gave the order to us over breakfast on Thursday morning.

  Ambulances came to take the last of the wounded, and there was room for all of us as well.

  I stood by my door looking north, thinking about all the weeks and months and years we had moved toward this moment, and then I took my seat. Dr. Weatherby, in the last ambulance, gave the signal to start.

  There were no shells to duck or aircraft to dodge, but the roads were still abominable, and the rains had done nothing to improve them.

  It took us quite some time to cover the distance to Base Hospital, and I found changes there too.

  Those who could be sent to England to recover were already being given their Blighty ticket, their permission to go home. And over the next week, as they were slowly ferried farther south to Calais, we discovered that there were empty beds—and no one waiting for them.

  I wanted to ask for news of Captain Travis, but there had been many staff changes since the last time I was here. Most of the new Sisters had served in different sectors and wouldn’t have any reason to know the Captain’s history.

  When I encountered Matron in the passage, I smiled. Some of the weariness had faded from her face, gone along with the desperate struggle to find beds for the dying men brought in by the next convoy of ambulances, only to see a new line making its way toward her and the struggle beginning all over again.

  She still gave her orders with brisk efficiency, and we obeyed them just as quickly. But she seemed a little more approachable now. And so I stopped her to ask if there was news of Captain Travis.

  Matron studied my face for a moment. “You are fond of this patient, aren’t you, Sister Crawford? It’s not wise, you know. Even with treatment his future will be bleak.”

  I stammered, “It’s not— I was there from the beginning, you see, and—and it was an unusual case. I don’t have any personal attachment. I did have some concerns, as you already know.” It was rather a fierce defense to offer my superior, but I wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t asking for news out of a misguided affection for him.

  She nodded. “I hope you can continue to see him in that light. As for news, I’m afraid there’s been none. Our task is sometimes made more difficult because we never know what becomes of the men in our care. But perhaps that’s for the best. We’re here to help now, in this moment, and we must leave what lies ahead of a patient in the hands of those who follow us.”

  I was reminded of Dr. Weatherby swearing when he lost a patient he’d fought to save. It hadn’t been the future he was thinking about but the man slipping away under his hands, and knowing he didn’t have the skill to do more.

  “Thank you, Matron. I promise you, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She returned my smile then. “You’re a credit to your family, Sister. As well as to your training.” And she walked on.

  Very soon we were left with those who were in no condition to make the journey. Some of them suffered from influenza or trench foo
t or wounds that hadn’t healed sufficiently to risk the drive to Calais, the crossing to Dover or Folkestone, and the train to London. And because we had the space now, we could keep them a little longer. Base Hospital Seven had not finished its war. Not yet.

  At week’s end, I was just sitting down at a table in the canteen to eat my lunch when Sister Edgars came to find me.

  “Bess? Matron would like to see you straightaway.”

  I frowned. “It’s not the lung case, is it? Sergeant Melton?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe so. She asked you to come to her office, not the ward.”

  We’d fought hard for the Sergeant and his gassed lungs. Relieved, I quickly finished my meal and hurried to Matron’s office.

  She smiled as I came in, a reassurance that this had nothing to do with a critical patient. “Sister Crawford. Please, sit down.”

  I took the chair across from her and folded my hands in my lap.

  “I’d like you to take the next convoy to London. Tomorrow morning. You can confer with Sister Walker meanwhile, so that she’s fully informed about your patients.”

  I stared at her. This was completely unexpected.

  “Matron—” I began.

  “Yes?” She was surprised in her turn by my hesitation.

  I asked the question that had popped into my head as she was informing me that I was to return to England. “Did my— Did Colonel Crawford arrange for me to be sent home?”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Sister? Of course not.” She held up several sheets of paper. “I have the rotation list here. All staff who spent more than the last month at the Front are being sent back as space becomes available. You’ll have a fortnight of leave, and then be reassigned.”

  “But there’s my work here. The war isn’t finished for many of these patients.”

  “That’s true. But we feel it’s important for those of you who worked directly with the wounded in the field to have this opportunity.”

  “Is it likely that I’ll be posted to France once more?”

  “That’s up to London, my dear. At this stage, you are scheduled to take this next convoy. That’s an order.”

  I was trying to take it all in. I was a skilled surgical Sister. But there was less demand for those skills now. There were in fact enough of us that some of us could be spared.

  Taking a deep breath, I said, “Yes, Matron, thank you.”

  Summoning a smile, I rose.

  “You’ve been a very fine example of the best in nursing,” she said as I opened the door. “It’s been a pleasure to work with you, Sister Crawford.”

  It was another unexpected compliment. And this time it had a ring of farewell to it. I thanked her again and closed the door.

  Home.

  I’d looked forward to leaves all through the war. A brief opportunity to see my family and my friends. A way, really, to put the horrors I’d seen behind me for a bit and restore my courage and endurance.

  Why should this be any different?

  As I went to my quarters to begin packing, I remembered a story that my father had told us. There was a cavalry mount, taught to react to commands. He had been retired and sent to a farm not far from where he had been trained. The old farmer who had taken him in to live out his life in peace was disturbed by what he saw the first week the horse was there. He would do drills, there in the pasture, day after day, and the farmer thought the horse had run mad. He finally called the post and asked someone to come out and see what was happening. The Sergeant watched the horse for a few minutes, his smile growing broader and broader.

  “There’s no mystery here,” the Sergeant told the farmer. “He can hear the bugles training the young horses. And he’s obeying.”

  “I don’t hear any bugles,” the old man said.

  “Ah, but he does,” the Sergeant replied. “It’s the only life he’s known.”

  Nursing wasn’t exactly the only life I’d known, but it had been my every waking and sleeping moment for four years. What I feared was being put out to pasture before I was ready to leave the Queen Alexandra’s. I wanted to finish what I’d begun in 1914. Cases like Sergeant Melton didn’t suddenly recover, stand up, and walk off just because the war had ended. Their suffering would go on long after the armies had gone home.

  And then I smiled, hearing my father’s deep voice again as he told that story to me at the age of ten. It would be good to see my parents. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself. Feeling a little better, I finished packing my belongings and then went to find my replacement and walk with her through the ward.

  In spite of peace, Calais was still a madhouse of men and equipment. The convoy from the base hospital had wound its way down to the docks, and an officer of the Sea Maid was waiting to help us aboard.

  I knew him from many crossings, and he greeted me warmly. It didn’t take us long to unload the ambulances and carry my patients aboard. There were quite a few serious cases, but none of the critically wounded I’d often worried about through the rough voyage across the Channel. There was nothing worse than seasickness on top of great pain. At least today’s transfer had gone smoothly, so far.

  As we cast off, one of the crew members came to stand by the rail where I was watching preparations before going below to my charges.

  “Seems odd, Sister,” he said, “not to scan the approaches for signs of submarines. That was always the most dangerous part, before we were fully under way. Now I can stand idle as we slip out of the harbor.”

  I remembered, too well, the worry over submarines. If we’d been torpedoed, most of the wounded would have gone down with the ship, too ill to be saved or to save themselves. I’d been aboard Britannic when she went down, and the crew and the nursing staff had had a difficult enough time of it. We’d been grateful we were sailing empty.

  From the bridge came voices, one with a familiar accent—I looked up to see that there was an Australian officer on board. I was reminded suddenly of Sergeant Lassiter and his proposal. I told myself I’d been right to say no. I wasn’t ready to settle into a new life. Not yet. But I had been honored by it, and I knew I would always think of him with great affection. My only regret was that I couldn’t love him as he must love me. The last thing I would have wanted was to hurt him in any way.

  After a few more moments of watching Calais disappear from view, I turned and went below.

  It was an uneventful crossing, and the landing in Dover went well. We got the wounded on board the waiting train carriages, and I asked the First Officer of the Sea Maid if he would send a telegram to my parents in Somerset, telling them of my arrival.

  “Are they on the telephone? Excellent. I’ll do better than a telegram, I’ll call them myself.”

  And so with some excitement I gave him the number.

  One of the amputees was restless, and I thought that instead of soothing him, the clacking of the wheels had reminded him somehow of the war. I stood there and held his hand until he dropped into an uneasy sleep.

  It was very late when we pulled into Victoria Station, the steam from the engine wreathing the lights and hiding some of the faces of those waiting for us. I saw to the unloading and signed papers describing each man’s condition and his destination, and when at last the train was empty, the cleaning crew came on board to prepare it for its return to the ports in Kent.

  Collecting my kit, I stepped off the train. The platform was nearly empty now, and I thought that my parents must not have received the telephone call from Dover in time to reach London. It was, after all, a very long way to London from Somerset.

  I was just speaking to the stationmaster when I saw Simon Brandon striding toward me.

  Turning, I smiled in greeting.

  “Your mother is on her way,” he said. “I’m to see you to Mrs. Hennessey’s and stay with you until she arrives. I think she’s afraid you’ll vanish into thin air.”

  He took my hands in both of his and held me at arm’s length. “You survived, Bess. We all did. I�
��m so very glad to see you safe.”

  And then he kissed me on the cheek.

  “That’s for your father. He’s at Sandhurst at present, and chafing at not being here to greet you. God knows what the staff there is suffering as his patience runs out.”

  I laughed. “He’ll leave the minute they’ve toasted the King.”

  He took my kit from me and gave me his arm. We walked out of the station and down the street to where he’d left his motorcar.

  London was quiet at this hour, and I stared around me at all the lamps lit and the few motorcars on the road passing us with headlamps bright. “It’s so different,” I said, accustomed to the wartime precautions against the Zeppelin raids.

  Simon handed me into the passenger’s seat and went around to turn the crank. “What will you do with yourself now? Stay in London or go home with your mother to Somerset?”

  “I’ve only been given a short leave. A fortnight. Then I’ll be reassigned.”

  He turned to look at me, surprised. “You aren’t resigning from the Queen Alexandra’s?”

  “Not yet. Not until the last of the wounded leave France. After that—after that, I haven’t decided.”

  He said nothing.

  Changing the subject, I said, “While I’m here, will you help me with something I need to do? There’s an officer who was under my care. They’ve sent him back to England—some time ago. And they’ve put him in a home with men suffering from shell shock and head wounds. I want to see him. I want to know if that’s the right place for him.”

  “Bess. Your mother is going to expect you to come to Somerset. At least for a bit.”

  “I will. But first I’d like to be sure that Captain Travis is safe. After that I can rest. In a way I’m responsible for what’s happened to him.”

  “Tell me,” he said simply. And I did.

  In front of Mrs. Hennessey’s house we sat in the dark in the motorcar for a quarter of an hour as I finished my account.

  Simon hadn’t interrupted. He’d heard me out before saying, “I’ll do what I can. You know I will. If this man is so important to you. You asked me about this James Travis before. I sent a message.”