Sister Warren was in charge of the operating theatres and organized the sisters and nurses to assist the surgeons. She assigned Sister Blackstock and her three nurses together and introduced them to the man for whom they’d be working.
‘This is Dr Ernst Hartmann. You will work directly under his instruction, but of course you, Sister Blackstock, will be in charge of your nurses.’
Florrie’s heart missed a beat. Ernst Hartmann was a handsome man. In his early thirties, he was tall and thin. Black hair smoothed back from a broad forehead, his face was lean with a strong jaw line set in grim determination. Straight nose and generous mouth, yet there was no smile of welcome. His bright-blue eyes swept over the four of them with disinterest. He merely gave a curt nod and in a deep voice that sounded more like a growl, muttered, ‘More fine ladies come to smooth the wounded soldier’s brow and write a last letter home for him.’ He spoke in perfect English, but with a strong accent that sounded suspiciously German. Florrie glanced at Sister Warren.
‘Dr Hartmann is Swiss.’
The man gave a wry laugh. ‘Did you think for a moment that you had got behind enemy lines?’
It was Florrie who answered, even though it was not her place to do so. She grinned with a sudden spark of mischief and spoke in German. ‘Not at all, Herr Doctor.’
Beside her Sister Warren gasped and Sister Blackstock looked thunderous. Dr Hartmann looked startled. Then he regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Do you speak any other languages, Nurse?’
‘French, sir,’ she answered, still speaking in German. ‘And English, of course.’ Not for the first time did she have cause to thank her grandmother, who’d insisted that she have a good education, even though Edgar had always declared such learning was wasted on a girl.
‘Of course,’ Ernst Hartmann murmured.
‘And I’m only a nursing VAD,’ she said, now speaking in English. ‘Not a pukka nurse.’ She kept her face straight and looked directly at him, not glancing at her companions.
He frowned and turned to the others. ‘But you three are pukka nurses, yes?’
‘I’m a fully trained sister and these two are probationary nurses, but they have completed a full year’s training, whereas Maltby—’ Rosemary Blackstock tried to explain, but the doctor grunted again and turned away, saying over his shoulder, ‘I need two at any time. Arrange it between yourselves and be ready to assist me in ten minutes.’
Already orderlies were bringing in a man whose leg had been blown off below the knee. They hoisted him up onto the table where he lay, biting his lip to stop himself crying out. Even so, a guttural groan escaped his lips now and again. The stump was covered with a filthy blood-soaked dressing and a dirty bandage was pulled tight around his thigh as a tourniquet. Without waiting to be told, Florrie whipped out the scissors she always carried in the pocket of her uniform and began to cut off the man’s trousers.
Ernst Hartmann, readying himself to operate to staunch the flow of blood from the wound, paused, smiled grimly and turned towards Sister Blackstock. Raising his black eyebrows, he murmured, ‘It seems we have a keen volunteer.’ The note of sarcasm was not lost on Florrie, but she made no sign of having noticed and continued to get the patient ready.
‘I will work with Maltby,’ Rosemary Blackstock said, ‘And you two can work together.’ For a moment she and Sister Warren spoke together, organizing the shifts the four of them would work.
‘It might not always be Dr Hartmann you’ll be assisting,’ Florrie heard Sister Warren say, ‘but whenever he’s on duty, two of you must be here.’
Florrie said nothing, but silently she determined that she would always be one of the two. Despite his gruff manner, the doctor had captivated her with his handsome dark looks and his capable, clever hands. Not normally given to sentimental outpourings, she would follow him to the ends of the earth to work alongside him.
Later Rosemary castigated Florrie. ‘You’d no right to do that in such a forward manner. You should’ve waited for instruction.’
‘The man was bleeding to death. The tourniquet wasn’t working and, even if it had been, there was no knowing how long it’d been there,’ Florrie defended herself. She’d no need to tell the sister what happened if a tourniquet was left in place too long without being released every so often.
‘You still had no right to take action like that, and speaking in German to him—’ She gave a tut of exasperation. ‘Showing off. That’s what that was.’
‘I’m sorry – I didn’t think.’
‘Well, you should,’ the sister reproved her. ‘Nurses – pukka nurses – should always think what they’re doing and saying.’ Suddenly her mouth twitched and she lowered her voice. ‘But I have to admit, Maltby, your spirit is just what we need here, but curb its waywardness a little, eh?’
‘I’ll try, Sister,’ Florrie smiled.
To her surprise, Grace and Hetty thought it all a huge joke. ‘Trying to impress the handsome doc, that’s what she was doing,’ was Hetty’s pronouncement.
‘Well, she can have him. The dark, brooding type’s not for me,’ Grace said cheerfully. ‘Give me ol’ Doc Johnson any day of the week. I like a kind, caring man.’
Unbidden, Gervase’s face was immediately in Florrie’s mind. She smiled to herself. How Grace would love Gervase!
The days passed in a blur. Dr Hartmann seemed to need little rest. He worked from early in the morning until late at night, pausing only to eat because he needed to keep himself healthy.
‘Enough!’ Ernst declared late one evening. He threw down his instruments onto the metal tray with a clatter. There were still three patients needing urgent operations, but the doctor strode from the tent, leaving Sister Blackstock and Florrie staring at each other. They made the patient who’d just been operated on as comfortable as they could and called for the orderlies to take him back to a ward.
‘Had we better find Dr Hartmann?’ Florrie asked. ‘See what’s the matter? He might be ill.’
‘Ill? Him?’ The sister laughed grimly. ‘Never!’ She sighed. ‘I think it’s all just – just got to him.’ She glanced around at the three men lying on the ground waiting patiently for their turn on the operating table. For the first time Rosemary was showing a hint of helplessness. ‘Just look at them, Florrie,’ she said softly. ‘Look at these – these beautiful young men. Oh no, I know they don’t look very beautiful at this moment. Caked with mud and blood, their unshaven faces twisted in agony. But they are – they are beautiful. And they’re going to die – most of them. If not from their wounds, then from disease. Most of them will never see their home again. And if we do get the less seriously injured well again, what happens? Do they get sent back to their loved ones? Oh no! Back to the Front to be shot at again. And maybe killed next time.’
‘But we have to try,’ Florrie said. ‘Don’t we?’
‘Of course we do. That’s our job – our duty. But what are we really achieving? And I think that’s what’s got to Dr Hartmann. He’s working round the clock nearly, and for what? Leave him, Florrie. Leave him to work it out for himself.’ She turned away as she murmured, ‘Like we all have to do.’
Sister Blackstock sent the three patients back to their wards, promising that they’d be first on the list in the morning. They made not even a murmur of complaint.
‘Get to bed, Florrie,’ she added wearily. ‘At least we might get a few hours more sleep tonight.’
They parted outside and Florrie watched the sister disappear into the gloom of the chilly summer evening. Pulling her cloak around her, Florrie hurried in search of Dr Hartmann. She found him in the tent that served as a canteen, sitting alone at a table, his head in his hands, a cup of strong tea in front of him going cold. Her heart was in her mouth as she moved towards him and stood on the opposite side of the table until he became aware of her presence and looked up. She’d probably be told curtly to mind her own business and, if one of the sisters were to hear about it, she’d certainly be in trouble.
&n
bsp; ‘Oh – it’s you. Come to fetch me back to that – that butcher’s bench, have you?’
Without waiting for an invitation or even permission, Florrie sat down. ‘No,’ she said gently. ‘We’ve sent the patients back to their wards. The post-operative patient is fine and the other three – well – Sister told them they’d have to wait until morning.’
‘Wait – wait – wait! That’s all those poor devils do. And it’s the waiting – the delay – that’s killing them.’
‘But you work as fast as you can. You and all the other surgeons. You—’
‘It’s not that, Nurse—’ Despite the seriousness of their conversation, his use of the title that she didn’t really deserve gave her a warm glow. ‘It’s the time they have to wait before they reach us here.’
Florrie stared at him, not quite understanding. He sighed, leaned back in the chair and explained. ‘They’re wounded. They get shot or blown up by a shell and injured by shrapnel. The ones that are so badly hurt they can’t move for themselves have to lie wherever they are – out in the open, in a rat-infested shell-hole or a muddy dugout. They might be there for hours – days even – until their comrades or stretcher-bearers are able to find them. They’re taken first to an RAP—’
Seeing Florrie’s puzzled frown, he explained. ‘That’s a Regimental Aid Post – the first stop.’ He began to tick off on his fingers the various stages the wounded had to go through. ‘If they’re still alive, they’d then be taken by stretcher-bearers or field ambulance to the advanced dressing station. Then they’re moved again back to the main dressing station. If their wound is so serious that it cannot be dealt with there, they’re then taken to the casualty clearing station by ambulance, lorries – any mode of transport available. And then – as the previous name implies – they’re sent to a general hospital. That’s us, but just look at how many times the seriously wounded have been lifted, carried and transported, their wounds not properly dressed or at least not often enough. Oh, I know there are medical staff aboard the trains bringing the wounded here, but do you suppose they can treat everyone properly on an overcrowded, rickety train?’
Florrie shook her head, unable to speak for the lump in her throat. She could see it all so clearly, feel it – and it broke her heart.
‘The casualties we’re getting now are from Ypres,’ he went on.
Florrie felt a fresh jolt of fear as she thought again of Tim. But knowing nothing of the inner turmoil his words were causing her, Dr Hartmann went on, ‘Ypres is about fifty miles away, but it’s still a long way for men in need of urgent medical treatment to have to travel.’
Florrie said nothing. She was still having difficulty quelling her fears for Tim’s safety and concentrating on what the doctor was saying.
‘And now—’ Ernst Hartmann’s face was gaunt, his blue eyes dull with fatigue, his cheeks hollowed and his shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘They’re getting gassed, so that not only are their lungs damaged, but the wounds are infected by the gas too.’
‘So that’s that awful smell that still hangs about their clothes,’ Florrie murmured. ‘What is it?’
‘Chlorine. It chokes them. If it doesn’t kill them straight away, by the time they reach us they’re suffering from acute bronchitis. And wounds become gangrenous. That’s the awful smell. Gas-gangrene.’
‘Is there anything they can do to protect themselves? Any sort of – sort of mask?’
Dr Hartmann shrugged. ‘A cotton-wool pad wrapped in some sort of loose woven material tied over their mouths would help.’ He sighed. ‘But how are we to get such supplies?’
Florrie thought of Augusta and Mrs Ponsonby and the ladies of Candlethorpe and Bixley frantically knitting socks. Perhaps they could make masks like that. It wouldn’t be much amongst the thousands of men who needed them, but it would be a start. In this chaos, anything was better than nothing. She’d write tonight.
Then her mind turned to the other problem of the men having to wait so long before they received medical attention. ‘But there must be hospitals nearer the Front than ours. I mean proper hospitals – not just dressing stations.’
‘Oh, there are, but no doubt they’re so overwhelmed they can’t cope with every serious case. And by the time they reach us – it’s too late. You’ve seen the terrible blood loss, the septicaemia, the gangrene . . .’ He clenched his fist and thumped the table in frustration. ‘If only I could be nearer. Treat them much earlier, I could do so much more. I know I could. I feel so wasted here.’
Florrie put her head on one side and regarded him steadily. ‘Then why don’t you?’
He stared back at her. ‘Why don’t I what?’
‘Go to a hospital nearer the Front. Set up a field ambulance, if necessary. At least you’d feel you were doing your best.’
She held his gaze steadily. She could see his mind working. ‘I’d need nurses,’ he said at last. ‘I can’t ask young women to go so close to the danger. It wouldn’t be—’
‘I’d go with you.’
Now he gaped at her in astonishment. ‘You would? You’d really go that near the fighting? The shelling? The snipers? Do you know how dangerous it would be? You could be killed. A field hospital was hit recently and a colleague of mine killed outright.’
‘I knew that was a possibility when I first volunteered. I’ve not changed my mind. In fact, having seen all that I have, my resolve has hardened, if anything. It’s what I’ve worked for. That’s if you think I’m good enough. After all, I’ve only a couple of certificates – no proper nursing qualifications.’
He laughed wryly. ‘You’re better than some pukka nurses – as you call them – that I’ve worked with.’
She felt a flush of pride and was about to say, coquettishly, ‘Thank you, kind sir’, but she could see that his mind had already moved on from her.
‘I wonder if it’s possible?’ he mused. ‘I’ll talk to my colleagues. See what they think. If only we could get near to the Front, get to the wounded so much sooner, we could save so many more lives.’
‘Speak to Dr Johnson. He said much the same thing back in London.’
He stood up, so invigorated by her suggestion that he would go this minute and talk to the other doctors. Wild and dangerous though the idea was, he wanted to do it. He turned back briefly and glanced down at her. ‘Are you really sure you could stand it? The conditions we’d have to work in would be so much more primitive than here. You’ve seen some terrible sights already, I know, but there it would be even more ghastly. And the danger would be ever-present. I couldn’t have you losing your nerve in the middle of an operation or showing fear or revulsion in front of the men.’
Despite the gravity of the moment, Florrie marvelled once more at his command of the English language. It far surpassed her knowledge of the German spoken by the Swiss, sufficient though that was.
She stood up slowly. ‘Back home, before all this started, I was a suffragette. I was imprisoned for a while and suffered force-feeding. I don’t give in easily, Dr Hartmann.’
‘Ah! I have heard about that.’ He smiled. For the first time he seemed to be seeing her as a real person, not just as a figure in a white apron to pass him instruments and do as he instructed her. The lines around his eyes deepened and there was a mischievous glint in the blue depths. ‘So why are you not still waving banners and marching in protest?’
Florrie’s chin rose defiantly. ‘Because winning this war is even more important than the battle for Votes for Women. But believe me, once this is over – if I survive – I’ll be back to the banner-waving and the window-smashing.’
His face sobered and he nodded slowly. ‘I am so glad you said “if I survive”. I hope you do – I truly hope you do – but the fact that you said it tells me that you understand how very dangerous our work will be.’
Florrie nodded and said softly, ‘I do, Doctor. Indeed I do.’
Twenty-Six
Dear Gran— Florrie began her letter the moment she got back to the tent. Gr
ace was asleep, snoring gently, and Hetty was snuggled beneath the covers.
Firstly, she explained about the masks that were urgently needed. Perhaps you could get in touch with the authorities and see what is the best thing to do. Where you could send them, and so on. Lady Lee might be able to help. Lady Lee, she knew, had contacts in the War Office. She would help. Florrie paused before writing the next bit. It’s likely I shall be going nearer the Front to help set up some sort of a field hospital so that the wounded can be treated more quickly. The doctor I work with most of the time is wonderful – so dedicated and clever. And he’s very handsome!! Now you’re not to worry about me, Gran, and please don’t tell Mother. Let her think I’m still well away from the fighting. . .
Florrie’s idea, which Dr Hartmann had taken up so enthusiastically, was initiated with amazing speed. Supplies they’d need were requisitioned and promised for delivery in two weeks’ time to a French village close to the border with Belgium and as near to the British front line as they could get, yet still be just out of reach of the enemy artillery.
‘That’s not close enough,’ Ernst Hartmann fretted. ‘We need to be as near as possible.’
‘I think he wants us to set up in the trenches themselves,’ Sister Blackstock muttered. As soon as she had heard about Dr Hartmann’s plans she’d volunteered her services without even waiting for him to ask her. Grace and Hetty too had no intention of being left behind. ‘We make such a good team,’ they insisted to Sister Blackstock. ‘You and us three nurses.’
Florrie smiled quietly. It seemed, at last, she was accepted.
‘There are ten of us going initially,’ Rosemary told them. ‘Dr Hartmann and Dr Johnson, Sister Carey and myself and six nurses. The plan is that we find a suitable location as near to the Front as possible without actually being in the firing line and, if all goes well, we can then ask for further volunteers to join us. It has to be volunteers because it is likely to be extremely dangerous. You do all understand that, don’t you?’
Suffragette Girl Page 18
