Their patient, now cleaner than he had been for weeks, was moved gently by Pierre, the ward orderly, to an empty bed. Pierre then knelt by the unmoving figure on the stretcher and lifted him up on to the table where each man was cleaned up as far as possible before he was put to bed to await the doctor. Another man, also still dressed in dirty service tunic with the sleeve cut away and with a grubby bandage around his arm that had been sitting on the floor by the door, got to his feet at once.
“That’s my mate, Harry,” he said. “Harry Cook. He got it in the leg, and now it’s going rotten.” His own face was grey with pain or exhaustion, his eyes red-rimmed hollows above his gaunt cheeks. He half put out a hand as if to help Pierre, but dropped it again as the big orderly swung Harry easily up on to the table.
“What is he saying?” asked Sister Eloise.
“He says it is his friend, son ami,” replied Molly. She turned to the second man. “Don’t worry,” she told him gently. “Harry is in good hands now. The doctor will be in here in a minute, and before that we’ll do all we can to make him comfortable.” She smiled at him and added “What about you? Is your arm bad?”
The soldier shook his head wearily, “No, I’ll live. Harry’s the one who needs you now. I’ll just wait here.” He slumped down on the floor again, and Molly saw him close his eyes as he leaned back against the wall, instantly asleep.
Harry Cook was in a bad way. Whatever had hit him in the leg had ripped away much of the thigh muscle and smashed the bone to splinters. As they removed the remains of his trousers and makeshift bandage some overworked doctor had put on it at a casualty clearing station, a sickening stench of rotting flesh exploded among them, make both Molly and Pierre take an involuntary step backwards. Sister Eloise seemed not to notice the rank smell, but continued slowly and steadily cutting away the dirty clothing until the man’s shattered body lay exposed for them to wash and warm and put into bed to await the doctor.
One look at the leg had told Sister Eloise that it must come off, and immediately, if there were to be any chance of Harry Cook surviving. She looked sharply at Molly to see how she was coping with tending a man she actually knew, but after the one moment of involuntary recoil, Molly had straightened her shoulders and was standing ready with another bowl of hot water and dry warm towels. With an approving look, Sister Eloise gave Harry a shot of morphine and set to work to do what she could for this latest piece of flotsam from the front.
As they worked, washing away the grime and the mud, Molly looked down at Harry’s exposed body and the thought flew through her mind that the last time she had seen Harry Cook naked was when they were both about six years old and they had played in the river at home. She had had a beating from her mother, not for getting her clothes wet, but for taking them off to play in the water as naked as the village boys.
How long ago that was, she thought now, and how far away.
When Dr Gergaud appeared, Sister Eloise directed him to Harry Cook first, explaining the wound, now marginally cleaner and covered with a light sheet. Sister Eloise had seen no point in putting the poor man through the agony of re-bandaging a leg that must be removed within the hour.
“The poor man will have enough to go through if he survives,” she murmured to Molly. Gently she took Molly’s hand. “Your friend is very bad,” she said. “They will operate, but it may be too late. There is gangrene.”
Molly nodded, understanding what she was being told as she recognised the words “bad”, “operate” and “gangrene”.
Dr Gergaud had Harry taken to the operating theatre in the main convent building, and having watched him carried out of the ward on a stretcher, Molly forced her attention back to the other men who needed it. Harry’s friend was still slumped against the wall. As he was asleep, they had dealt with the others first. Now, at last it was his turn, and Molly shook him gently awake. At her touch he was immediately alert, looking round him to remember where he was.
“It’s your turn now,” Molly said, and held out her hand to help him to his feet. He ignored it, however, and pulled himself up alone. Understanding his need for independence, she lowered her hand and turned her head to look down the ward, so that she shouldn’t see him struggle, until he was standing beside her.
“What’s your name?” Molly asked, smiling as she faced him again.
“Tom Carter,” he replied. “Where’s Harry? Is he all right?”
“He’s in the operating theatre,” answered Molly. “I’m afraid they have to take off his leg. They have no choice if he’s to survive, you know.”
Tom nodded wearily. “Yes, I know.”
Molly smiled at him. “Now, what about you? Let’s get you cleaned up and have a look at that arm.” She helped him out of his tunic and as gently as possible cut away the bandage. It was soaked with blood, now dried, and peeling it away pulled at the scabs that had formed, allowing fresh red blood to ooze through the dirt that surrounded it. Tom Carter sucked in his breath as the bandage came away, but made no other sound, gritting his teeth against the pain. Sister Eloise was at once at their side, and sent Molly off from more hot water as she dealt with the wound herself. It looked much worse than it was and though it would take some time for Tom to regain the use of his arm, it did not appear to be life-threatening. She cleaned and dressed it and gave him a shot for the pain, before handing him over to Sister Marie-Paul to blanket bath and put to bed.
“Time and rest and he will be well,” she instructed the novice to tell him, as she moved to another bedside.
As soon as he saw her again, Tom called Molly over and asked again about Harry Cook.
“He’s not out of the theatre yet,” Molly told him, “and when he is I doubt if he will come to this ward. I am surprised he was sent here in the first place. Usually the men we have in here are not so badly wounded.” She smiled at him. “Try not to worry about Harry, he’s always been tough, he’ll pull through.”
Tom looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘always been tough’? You don’t know anything about him.”
“Oh, but I do,” laughed Molly. “I’ve known him all my life. He’s my cousin. We live in the same village, Charlton Ambrose. His mother is my auntie; they have the farm up the valley a ways from ours. I’ve known him and Tony always.” Then she added, “Do you know his brother Tony as well?”
Tom nodded. “Yes, we’re in the same unit. The 1st Belshires. We all joined up together.”
“Did you? Do you come from Belcaster, then?”
“No, London born and bred. Harry and me worked in the docks at Belmouth, and as we signed up together we was put into the same platoon. We did our training and that, and we was really good mates, see. We’ve stuck together ever since.”
“Well, as soon as I can find out anything about him, I’ll let you know. How do you feel yourself?”
Tom Carter shrugged, “I’m all right. That nun, the one with the smaller headgear…” he nodded at Sister Marie-Paul, “she said I’ll be out of here in no time.”
Molly smiled at his description of Sister Marie-Paul. “Well, she’s probably right… once we’re sure there’s no infection and you’re starting to heal. You won’t have to stay in bed long anyway.”
“Will I be able to go and see Harry in whatever ward he is in, miss?” asked Tom. “I want to know he’s going to be all right.”
“I expect you can. I mean, I don’t see why not.” Molly said a little doubtfully. “But it’s not up to me. I’ll ask Sister Eloise, if you like… she’s the one in charge in here, but I doubt if it’ll be till tomorrow at the earliest.”
“If you would ask, please, miss.”
He looked so tired and worried, his face still grey with fatigue and the pain of his arm. Leaning back against the white pillow he looked much older than his twenty or so years, and yet vulnerable, like a little boy ill in bed. Impulsively Molly reached out her hand to him and said, “I will, I promise, if you promise me to try and get some sleep now. Next time I come on duty, I’
ll tell you her answer. Will you be good and try and rest now?”
He managed a tired grin and said dutifully. “Yes, miss, I will.”
“My name is Molly,” Molly said gently. “I’m going off duty now… Tom, isn’t it?” He nodded. “So, Tom, I’ll come and see you as soon as I’m back in the ward, and I’ll bring you news of Harry.”
Tom nodded again and closed his eyes. Even as Molly watched, his face relaxed and he was instantly asleep.
At the end of her shift she went into Ward Three where she expected to find Harry Cook. He was there, recently returned from the operating theatre. Sister Jeanne-Marie was not best pleased to see her, but when she finally understood that Harry was a friend from home she grudgingly let her go to his bedside.
He lay still in the bed, his face the colour of putty, the sheet pulled up to his chin, his hands lying motionless on the outside of the covers. If it hadn’t been for the faintest rise and fall of the blankets with the sighs of his breathing, Molly would have thought that he was already dead. The small shape in the bed was lopsided, where the left leg had been removed, and Molly was as certain as she could be that death hovered over the fragile figure.
Softly she touched his right hand with her own. It was cold, and without thinking she tucked it gently in under the covers, and then did the same with his left. Watching her, Sister Marie-Jeanne made no comment, noticing only the gentleness with which Molly touched the young man.
“He is an old friend?” she asked.
Not quite sure of what she had been asked, Molly replied in her fractured French. “Family,” she said, “from children. He is my friend age four.”
Sister Jeanne-Marie nodded and reaching out her own hand to Molly said softly, “Unless he is very strong, and God gives him life, he will not live. Pray for him, my child.”
Molly nodded. “May I sit with him for a while?” she asked, and then repeated her request as best she could in French.
Sister Jeanne-Marie smiled wearily. “Pull a chair to his bedside,” she said, “but don’t stay too long. You need your rest as well.”
Molly found a wooden chair and placed it beside Harry, close enough to be able to touch him if he stirred, but his eyes remained closed and his breathing was swift and shallow, and she simply rested her hands on the smooth coverlet and watched him, willing him to hold on to his life, willing him to fight with all his strength.
When at last she stumbled wearily upstairs, she found Sarah was already in bed. Molly tried to move into the room quietly, but the lamp was still burning and Sarah heaved herself up on one elbow and said, “Molly, where on earth have you been? It’s very late.”
Molly flopped on to her bed and said quietly. “Harry Cook was brought into our ward this afternoon. He’s had to have his leg off.”
“Harry Cook?” For a moment Sarah was puzzled then she said, “Harry Cook. Not Harry Cook from High Meadow Farm?”
“That’s him. He’s my cousin. I’m an only child so I used to play with him when I was a nipper, him and his brother Tony.”
“Oh, Molly, I’m so sorry! How dreadful for you. I remember him. He had red hair.”
Molly slowly began to get undressed. “No, that’s Tony, his older brother. Harry’s a sort of mousy colour. He’s in ward three. I’ve been sitting with him.”
“Is he really bad?” asked Sarah softly.
For a moment Molly didn’t answer. From habit she folded her blouse and skirt over the chair and put her dirty apron to one side, laying out a clean one for the morning, then as she climbed into bed she said, “Sister Jeanne-Marie said to pray for him. You’d better do that, Sarah, I’m not very good at praying.”
“Of course I will,” Sarah said. “Do you think he’ll get better?”
Molly gave a watery sniff and said simply, “He’s in ward three, Sarah. What do you think? It’ll take a miracle.”
“Then I’ll pray for one,” Sarah replied, and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, Molly was still sitting up in bed, her knees bent up to serve as a desk, scribbling in her diary.
“You should try and get some sleep, Molly,” Sarah said gently. “Write your diary tomorrow.”
“I must write it now,” Molly answered without her pencil losing its flow across the page, “I must write it while I know what I think. I try to capture what I feel. By tomorrow the sharpness of it will be gone and I’ll only write of shadows.”
Next morning Molly spoke to Sister Eloise about Tom visiting his friend in ward three.
“It is his friend… l’ami de ce soldat,” she explained. “His wound is bad… très blessé, ma soeur. He wants to see him… dans la salle trois.”
Sister Eloise understood well enough, but she was not happy that one of her patients, who was weak enough himself, should wander off into another ward to visit a friend, even if that friend was probably dying. She told Molly to get on with her work and said she would discuss the matter with Sister Jeanne-Marie later in the morning.
As the ward came to life, Molly went round to each bed taking temperatures. Tom Carter was still lying flat when she reached him, his eyes closed, but something about him told her he wasn’t asleep and she spoke softly.
“Tom. Are you awake, Tom?”
At the sound of her voice his eyes flew open and he tried to sit up. Gently she pushed him down again. “I’ve come to take your temperature,” she said, putting the thermometer under his tongue. “I have been to see Harry. He’s had his leg off, I’m afraid, but we knew he was going to, didn’t we? He was very weak last night, and the sister in charge of his ward, Sister Jeanne-Marie, said that sleep was the best possible thing. I’ve asked Sister Eloise if you can go and visit him later today and she says she will discuss it with Sister Jeanne-Marie. I think it depends on how you are yourself. She doesn’t want you to tire yourself either. She is still afraid that your arm may become infected. It’s so difficult to guard against cross-infection in a place where there are so many putrid wounds.”
Tom watched her as she explained the situation to him, his eyes intent upon her face, unable to speak with the thermometer in his mouth.
Molly went on: “If you’ve got a temperature, and I’m afraid you have,” she laid a cool hand on his forehead and felt the heat of fever under her fingers, “I don’t think she’ll let you go, but I’ll keep asking for you.” She took the thermometer from his mouth and saw it read 102°. Too high, she thought, much too high. “Why don’t you ask her yourself when she comes round? She doesn’t really speak any English, but she will know what you are asking and will get Sister Marie-Paul, you know the one in the small headgear? She’ll translate for you if I’m not here.” She smiled down at him and, noting his temperature on his chart she moved away before he could ask her what it was.
In her breakfast break, before she went to the kitchen to join Sarah for their chocolate and bread, she slipped into ward three to have a look at Harry. Sister Jeanne-Marie was busy behind curtains around another bed at the end of the ward, and Molly was able to stand for a moment at Harry’s bedside. He looked very much as he had the night before, his face ashen, his breathing quick and ragged. His hands were again outside the covers, and Molly reached down and covered his right hand with hers. At the touch of her hand, his eyes flew open and he looked up at her. For a moment he simply gazed at the woman who stood beside him, then slowly recognition slid into his eyes, recognition followed by incredulity.
“Molly? Molly Day?” His voice came as a croak, and she had to lean down to make out his words. “Molly, is it really you or am I dreaming? Where am I, Molly? Am I at home? Am I back in Blighty?” The ghost of a smile curved his lips as he said, “I’m back in Blighty! Thank God, I’m back in Blighty!”
Molly perched on the edge of the bed and squeezed his hand gently. “Yes, it’s me, Harry. I’m here.” She smiled, taking his hand in both of hers, “But I’m afraid you haven’t reached Blighty yet. You’re in a hospital in France, but as soon as you’re a little bit stro
nger you’ll be off home.”
Harry looked confused. “But why are you here? Did Ma send you?”
Molly laughed. “No, Harry, I’m here with Miss Sarah from the Manor. We’re helping in this hospital, you know, to nurse the wounded, like you.”
“Miss Sarah is?” He seemed about to say more when a spasm of pain shot through him, making his body arch and sweat break out on his brow. An involuntary cry escaped his lips and immediately Sister Jeanne-Marie appeared from behind the curtained bed. When she saw Molly her face darkened.
“What are you doing here, upsetting one of my patients?” she demanded. Molly understood the look and the tone, if not the words. She stood at once and said carefully, “Ce soldat est Harry Cook. Il est mon coos-san.” She had asked Sarah the word for cousin last night and produced it now with a flourish, adding with sudden inspiration, “Nous… prier. Vous me dire… prier.”
The idea that they had been in prayer together rather took the wind out of Sister Jeanne-Marie’s sails. She had, after all, told Molly only the night before that she must pray for her friend. She retreated into her position as sister in charge of ward three and said briskly, “Well, please ask before you come into my ward again, Molly. This man needs complete rest, so please leave at once.” She waved Molly towards the door and her meaning was clear to both Harry and Molly.
Molly said demurely, “Oui, ma soeur,” adding softly in English as she turned away, “I’ll come back and see you again, Harry,” and had the enormous satisfaction of seeing Harry’s left eye droop in a wink.
Back in her own ward later that morning Molly saw that Tom was sitting up propped with pillows, his bandaged arm resting on two more. He had been washed and shaved, and though he still looked pale and ill, his eyes were alert. As she moved around the ward, making beds, sponging faces and helping the more experienced nurses with dressing changes, Molly was aware of those eyes following her, but she had no real chance to go and talk to him until it was lunchtime and she was sent to help him with his food.
“Have you seen Harry?” were his opening words. “Is he all right?”
The Lost Soldier Page 17
