by Charles Todd
“I’d like to make amends,” he answered. “I can read to the other patients. Write letters for them. Whatever they need. It will spare you and the other Sisters. I saw something else—how tired you are.”
I wasn’t sure just what had touched him last night or shifted his mood. The music? Whatever it was, I was glad to see it. We had learned, dealing with the wounded, that the state of a man’s mind could make the difference between life and death, often in the face of the doctors giving up hope that they could save him. It was true of amputees too.
“Thank you, Captain. That’s very thoughtful of you.”
When I said something to Matron later, she smiled. “I don’t know if it was only the singing. He doesn’t receive any letters, our Captain. But one came in the last post from his sister-in-law. It raised his spirits no end. Apparently he and his brother were close.”
I knew that Matron kept an eye on the letters men received, and sometimes read them first when she had reason to think they would distress men already struggling to address their future.
“He’s never spoken of his family. I didn’t know he had a brother.”
“And nor did I. I debated whether to give it to him, but in the end decided I had no right to withhold it. And a very good thing I did.” Matron smiled. “I must say, the Captain was the most cheerful I’ve ever seen him.”
My parents came to the base hospital for New Year’s. I wasn’t sure just how my father had managed it, but I was so pleased to see them. There was only time for a meal at a small restaurant that my father had found. The food was barely edible, but we didn’t care. It was enough to enjoy each other’s company.
Afterward, while my mother had tea with Matron, the Colonel Sahib toured the hospital. I watched from a distance. He had a way with men, speaking to each one with a personal warmth that made them sit up a little straighter in their beds and smile. High-ranking officers had visited hospitals often during the war, but since the Armistice, they had come infrequently.
When he had finished the tour and rejoined my mother in Matron’s tiny sitting room, I came to say good-bye and walk with them to the official motorcar that stood waiting by the door.
Matron was just behind me as the motorcar drove away. “Your parents care deeply for you, Sister. They would never say so, but I have a feeling they would be happy to see you at home again, now the war has ended.”
“I’m still needed, Matron.”
“Yes. We must not fail these men.” And then she turned and went inside.
I stood there in the cold wind and watched the tiny red rear light disappear in the early dusk of January, feeling a sudden loneliness. But I was on duty at four, and went to relieve Sister Grant in the burn ward.
I hadn’t told the patients that the Colonel Sahib, as we called him, was my father. It was best if they believed that he had come out of concern for them. Which was true enough.
Captain Williams was the only man to put two and two together. He said the next day, when I saw him at breakfast, “He’s a fine man, your father. I wish there had been more like him at HQ. The war might have been conducted differently. And I see where you get your strength and determination.”
I took it as a compliment, not a reference to my persistence over the Welsh choir.
Ten days later, many of our patients were sent to England as the Medical Corps found accommodation for them in various clinics around the country. The Welsh patients had somehow arranged to be sent to the same clinic. I was fairly certain that Matron had had a hand in that, because they had not only served together but also been wounded on that same frightful morning. What surprised me was the news that Captain Williams had managed to be sent to the same clinic, although he was an officer and it was for other ranks.
When I commented on that, he said, surprising me by grinning, “I’ve got accustomed to telling that lot what to do and how to behave.” Then, the grin fading, he said, “They’re worried, Sister. Private Morris has already asked me what he’s to do when they’re released to go home. There’s no work for them in the mines. They don’t have the education I was given, and so they aren’t prepared for any other work. Now that we’re returning to England, it preys on their minds. I’m concerned about them.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said. “Private Jones in particular is not doing well.” He had lost both feet, and he’d become increasingly moody. When the other men had been given crutches, he was confined to a wheeled chair. “And there’s Private Evans as well. I can’t believe he’s resigned to his lot. I’ve asked the orderlies to watch him on the crossing. It would be all too easy to fall overboard.”
It wasn’t done, discussing one patient with another, but I thought the Captain already knew who was at greatest risk. As he’d learned to manage his crutches, he’d spent a good bit of time in the wards with his men. I knew that was not a sign that he himself was comfortable with the loss of his leg, only an indication of the responsibility he felt for his men.
Perhaps because he could return to his position in the mine office, he felt he owed it to them to see them through what lay ahead.
“I wanted to be a schoolmaster,” he’d said one day as I was changing his bandages. “I had a gift for mathematics, and that was why I was sent off to school. It was expected that I’d come back and work in the office. When I asked if I could teach instead, I was told to be grateful for the opportunity I was given.”
“That must have been a disappointment.”
“It was. I was saving as much of my pay as I could, to go back to school, and then the war came along. I expect this”—he pointed to his leg—“will put paid to any hope of teaching.”
“You never know,” I said, encouraging. “Stranger things have happened. You won’t be the only schoolmaster on crutches, surely.”
We readied the patients being sent back to England, and in mid-January, we said good-bye to them.
Captain Williams said, as he was being loaded into the first ambulance, “I shall miss your meddling, Sister Crawford.”
I smiled. “You’ll find that most Sisters are rather good at getting their own way.”
He nodded. “It’s a good thing you weren’t your father’s son instead of his daughter. You’d be running the Army by now. I’d give much to see you in the same room as General Haig.”
“It would probably have meant the end of my career as an officer,” I retorted, and wished him well before turning to settle the next patient being brought forward.
We watched them out of sight, my fellow nurses and I, then went back to the wards to prepare for patients being sent to us from a smaller base hospital that had now been closed.
The winter roads were crowded with refugees trying to return to whatever was left of their homes, and sometimes we found ourselves helping a child with the croup or a man with blisters on his feet from walking in shoes that didn’t fit. We found the man a pair of Army boots from a patient who had died from pneumonia that same week, and sent him on his way. Pneumonia was our enemy as the rains began. And then I was sent back to England with another convoy, as additional space was found in clinics there, and my ambulance drove through a cold rain all the way to Calais.
The facial wounds were going to a clinic in Sussex where some attempt at reconstruction was being made, but a Sister who had been there told me privately that it was mostly a leather shield that kept the wound from shocking people. The burn cases were going for special surgical repairs of ears or nose, and something to help smooth out the tight, bunched scars. Amputees were destined for clinics where they would be kept until their stumps were healed. One Yorkshire man told me he was going to whittle himself a wooden leg, “like pirates wore.”
I wanted to weep for all of them.
The orderlies kept a suicide watch on board the ship as men grew more and more anxious the closer we came to Dover. A few sat in the lee of the deck, to watch for the white cliffs to loom out of the sheets of rain.
One said to me as he spun his cigarette over the r
ail, “I never thought I’d see England again. I expected to die out there.”
He’d been a solicitor in his life before the war. Although he’d lost an arm, he could go on being a solicitor. What worried him was his wife’s reaction to his wound.
She had been told about it. But that was quite different from seeing it.
But there she was, on the docks at Dover, waiting for him, and I could see the relief in his eyes as she watched him come awkwardly toward her. He would remain in a clinic for several weeks, but she had come all the way from Hereford to see him as soon as possible.
Most of the wounded dreaded pity above all. Pity in the eyes of their loved ones and in the faces of people on the street.
We’d run out of the rain halfway to London, but it was a cold, dreary evening all the same. It was after midnight when at last I was free to enjoy the four days’ leave I had coming to me. Not enough time to go to Somerset, but my mother had written that she and my father would be driving up to London to meet me.
I walked out of the station with my kit in my hands, and there was no one waiting for me.
Surprised—and more than a little worried—I looked around for a cab that I could take to Mrs. Hennessey’s. I’d kept my flat there for just such short leaves, and over the four years of the war, it had become a second home. And in a way I’d come to enjoy my independence. I was no longer the young girl I’d been in 1914, looking forward to tennis and parties and weekends in the country. Many of my prewar friends were already married. Or in some cases already widowed. I was still finding nursing satisfying—if sometimes heartbreaking. While men needed care, I was unwilling to resign from the Queen Alexandra’s.
I was just about to hail a passing cab when I heard someone call my name. I turned and saw Simon Brandon walking briskly toward me.
“Hallo,” I said, smiling. “I didn’t expect to see you this evening. Mother mentioned that you were in Scotland.”
“My train got in earlier. There was a telegram waiting for me asking me to meet you. Your mother has taken a chill and won’t be coming after all. Your father is in Paris, some conference or other. He thought he’d be finished with all that now, but he was right more times than the generals in France, and the Army is getting around to recognizing that.” He took my kit from me, smiling down at me. “How are you?”
“Tired. We left the hospital last evening, in order to reach the Sea Maid before the tide turned. And when we put into Dover, the trains hadn’t arrived from London. I think I’m sleepwalking.”
He laughed. “You’ll be in your bed soon enough. I stopped in at Mrs. Hennessey’s to let her know you were coming in. That’s why I was late. She’s expecting you. Have you had any dinner?”
“A bowl of soup in Dover. One of the ship’s officers brought it to me. But I don’t think I could stay awake through a meal, even one at Buckingham Palace.”
“My motorcar is just over there. Mrs. Hennessey will have tea and hot water bottles waiting.”
“It sounds heavenly,” I answered.
Mrs. Hennessey lived up to his promises, and even allowed Simon to carry my kit up to my room.
“There’s no one in at the moment,” she said, rather spoiling the effect of this unexpected relaxation of her rule that no man could go up the stairs unless he was carrying luggage for one of her ladies, as she called us, and escorted by her. Even the Colonel Sahib was forbidden, which always amused him. Still, he was a very attractive man, and she guarded our reputations like a dragon.
Simon came back, stayed for a cup of tea, and then was gone, promising to see me in the morning.
Mrs. Hennessey, delighted as always to have me back in London, said as she followed me up the stairs, “You have fresh sheets and towels, and there’s already a hot water bottle in your bed, and hot water in the pitcher on the washstand. Is there anything else you’d like, my dear?”
“That’s more than enough,” I reassured her. “Any word from Mary or Diana, or Lady Elspeth?” They had been my flatmates throughout the war, although we seldom were on leave at the same time.
“Lady Elspeth is visiting Peter’s family at the moment. Mary was here a fortnight ago, then returned to France. And Diana is still on her honeymoon in Cornwall, although I can’t think how that could be very pleasant in January.”
She had had a lovely wedding, and I’d begged leave to be one of her bridesmaids. Her gown was absolutely stunning—Diana had always had wonderful taste in clothes—and the groom, whom I’d known for some years, was extraordinarily handsome in his uniform. His fellow officers lined the short path from the church door to his motorcar, swords raised above their heads as the two of them ran laughing through a hail of flower petals specially ordered from the Isles of Scilly. How so many of his officers had managed to get leave for the wedding was still a mystery.
Mrs. Hennessey had been there as well, wearing a dark blue dress with a matching coat and hat, flushed pink with happiness for one of her young ladies.
When she had gone back downstairs, I put out my light and lay there in my comfortable bed, my feet warmed by the hot water bottles and my sheets smelling of lavender, wondering how my charges from the convoy were faring in their new surroundings. It would be a different homecoming from the one they had expected when they enlisted.
Four days later Simon drove me down to Gloucestershire to my new assignment. A telegram had arrived while I was in London ordering me to report to duty at a clinic there for amputees. I had wanted to return to France, and I went at once to QAIMNS headquarters to request a French assignment, but I was told that I was needed in England just now.
One didn’t argue.
Chapter 2
February 1919
And so I arrived in the middle of a wretched downpour at a large country house that had been converted into a clinic. I said good-bye to Simon, who was on his way to Somerset, and gave him all sorts of messages for my mother.
Watching him drive away was hard. I’d have liked to go to Somerset too.
Matron was pleased to see me, and she assigned one of the staff Sisters to show me to my room and acquaint me with the wards and my duties.
Sister Baker said as she led me up the grand staircase, “I’m glad you’ve come. I served with Mary, you know, near Ypres. Any news of her?”
I passed on what Mrs. Hennessey had told me. “I’d been looking forward to going back to France myself.”
“So was I,” she said, turning down a passage on the second floor. “But they closed my base hospital, and I was posted here. And we’re needed, you know. I can’t really complain.”
There were other ranks here, some of them undergoing more surgeries to clean out infection or to improve their stumps. Some were able to manage with crutches, and others were still in invalid chairs. A few were due to be released soon.
Sister Baker was giving me an overview of the patients, their regiments, and their wounds. “And there are quite a few Welsh patients as well. Their commanding officer is here too. I don’t know how he managed it—he should be in Dorset, at the clinic there. But I’m glad to have him. He keeps them in line.”
“Don’t tell me—not Captain Williams and his men?”
Surprised, she said, “Yes. Do you know them?”
“They were in the base hospital where I was posted in December. How are they faring?”
She frowned. “I’m worried about several of them in particular.”
“Oh, dear. Private Evans?”
“Sadly, yes. They keep to themselves, the Welsh. I think because they know they’ll be released soon. Matron says we shouldn’t try to change that. They’ll need each other when they go home.”
“I understand. They probably don’t have much in common with the English patients anyway. They’re from the mines. It’s a different world.”
“I expect it is.”
My room had once belonged to servants, I thought, up here under the eaves of the house. I shared it with Sister Baker, and she sat on her bed as I un
packed, telling me about the staff and what to expect from them.
An hour later, when we went back downstairs, tea was being brought in to the patients. Those who were able to get around gathered in what had been the billiard room of the house, and I had an opportunity to meet them.
They were eager for news about what was happening in Paris, and I told them what I could as the orderlies brought in their tea.
Captain Williams sat in a corner of the room. His dark hair had been cut, but there were still circles beneath his dark eyes.
His face brightened as I came into the room, and when I reached him, he said, “You’re back. For my sins.”
“Yes, indeed, Captain. They told me in France that you still needed to be sorted out.”
He laughed, but it faded as he said, “We’ll be leaving here soon. I’m told they’re sending us home. That won’t be easy.”
I remembered suddenly that he hadn’t received letters from anyone when he was in the base hospital, except for one shortly before Christmas. That must mean he had no idea how his family felt about the loss of his leg.
Now I wondered.
As if he had read my thoughts, he said, “The men haven’t had any visitors. It’s a long way from Wales. Most of their families don’t have the money to travel this far.”
And then several of the other Welshmen came up to speak to me, and I was told that they’d be singing that evening.
“How nice,” I said, meaning it. “I look forward to it.”
But this time the songs were from their other lives, folk songs and hymns and one or two songs from the war. There was a sadness in their voices now. When they’d finished, I went up to thank them. Sister Baker was talking to Captain Williams, and I realized that she found him attractive. It was there in her face and her posture.
He didn’t show the same interest in her, which was just as well. Matron saw everything.
When we went up to bed, I asked Sister Baker if they sang often.
