Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  Of course they did. How could they not know?

  ‘What about orderlies?’ Florrie asked.

  Sister Blackstock shrugged. ‘We’ll be sited somewhere near the rear lines, I expect. Dr Hartmann hopes some of the soldiers not actually at the Front will help out.’

  By the time the supplies should be reaching their destination, the medical team was on its way north in three ambulance cars drawn from a motley variety of vehicles given by generous organizations in Britain. A fourth vehicle – a lorry – was packed with the doctors’ own equipment and medical supplies that Sister Blackstock insisted on bringing, to say nothing of their own camp beds, folding canvas chairs and other personal belongings.

  ‘I’d have thought we’d have gone by train,’ Grace said as she, Hetty and Florrie squashed together in the back of one of the cars. Florrie chuckled. ‘I think Dr Hartmann pulled a few strings.’

  ‘He’s a poppet, isn’t he? Your Dr Hartmann.’ One of the other girls travelling with them introduced herself. ‘I’m Norah and I’m in Dr Johnson’s team. He’s a peach – but he’s quite old. You’re very lucky to be working for the dishy Ernst.’ She leaned forward. ‘But they say he’s very demanding – strict, you know. Is it true?’

  Florrie hesitated. She’d now seen another side to Ernst Hartmann: the deep concern he had for the wounded, and how he was almost frantic to give them a better chance of survival and recovery. ‘He’s very – dedicated,’ she said slowly. ‘He gives unstintingly of himself, and I suppose he expects the same of his nurses.’

  Norah pulled a face. ‘Then I think I’ll stick with good old Dr Johnson. He laughs and jokes with his patients all the time. It keeps their spirits up – and ours.’

  Florrie said nothing, but privately she thought: And I’ll stick with my Dr Hartmann.

  The journey was tortuous, made all the more heart-wrenching by the pitiful sight of the refugees: old men and women, pushing their belongings on hand-carts; young children, so tired they looked as if they couldn’t take another step, trailing along beside the hand-carts or clinging to their mother’s hand. Too tired even to cry or complain. Young women, weeping openly, all hope gone and replaced by a gnawing fear. But there were no young men amongst them – or even middle-aged ones. They were all gone to war.

  A more heartening sight was a company of soldiers, marching along, their arms swinging in tune to someone playing a mouth organ. They waved and cheered and whistled as they saw the nurses’ uniforms.

  ‘Poor boys,’ Sister Blackstock in the front seat of the car murmured. ‘I wonder if they know what they’re going into?’

  The noise of the shelling grew louder as they drew closer to the battle zone. They passed battered houses and farmland laid waste. There was evidence of trenches, once occupied, but now deserted as the front line had gained a little ground and moved forward. They came to a hamlet where people were still living in some of the houses. But, like the folk they’d passed along the way, their faces were gaunt and their eyes hopeless.

  The convoy halted and the doctors and nurses clambered out to stretch their legs and look about them. The two doctors talked together. Florrie watched them. They seemed to be arguing. Ernst Hartmann was waving his arms about and pointing towards the direction where the Front must be. The two men came towards Sister Blackstock. Florrie stepped closer to listen.

  ‘We’re still not as near as we’d like to be,’ Ernst Hartmann said. ‘But we feel this would be a sensible place to make camp.’ His mouth twitched with wry humour, and Florrie knew that he’d lost his own personal battle to be even closer to the wounded and dying.

  ‘We have to think of the safety of our nurses,’ Dr Johnson said. The bluff, straight-talking, no-nonsense Yorkshireman laughed a lot and could be relied upon to raise the lowest of spirits and bring hope to those who’d given up. He would never accept that any patient of his was going to die until they actually breathed their last. And even then he’d been known to continue working on them, as if by the force of his considerable will he could bring them back to life. ‘But,’ his merry eyes twinkled at his colleague, ‘we’ve agreed that Dr Hartmann should take a small party and see if he can find a suitable place even nearer than here. The earliest possible treatment is the key.’ He glanced at his colleague and nodded. ‘We’re both agreed on that.’

  ‘I need a couple of volunteers.’ Ernst Hartmann glanced at the two sisters. ‘Preferably one of you with a nurse.’

  At once Sister Blackstock said, ‘I’d be happy to go with you, Dr Hartmann.’

  ‘And me.’ Florrie stepped forward. ‘That’s if – if you think I’m good enough,’ she added quickly, not wanting to push herself before the other, more qualified nurses.

  She glanced at Grace, who shuddered and shook her head. ‘This is quite close enough for me, thank you very much,’ she said adamantly. The others smiled. They understood her feelings, though her bravery was not in question. To have come thus far proved that.

  ‘You stay with me, Nurse Featherstone,’ Dr Johnson boomed and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘There’ll be plenty to do here, when they send the wounded down the line to us.’

  ‘How are we going to get them here?’ Sister Blackstock asked. ‘It’s all very well establishing these first-aid posts – dressing stations or whatever they call them.’

  ‘Ah, but what I want is something more than a first-aid post, Sister,’ Dr Hartmann interrupted. ‘I want the urgent cases to receive proper surgical treatment.’

  ‘But we need to be able to move them on,’ Sister Blackstock insisted. ‘We can’t keep them so near the front line. Besides, we’ll be inundated with casualties.’

  ‘There’ll be the usual channels for bringing them out. But for our own purposes, we’re being allowed to keep two of the vehicles that have brought us here. The lorry and one of the cars, but we can’t keep the drivers.’ He glanced around. ‘Can any of you ladies drive?’

  No one spoke until Florrie said hesitantly, ‘I’ve driven a motor car, but only once or twice.’

  Dr Hartmann nodded. ‘That’ll do. Get some instruction from the driver of the lorry before he leaves. And find out how we get in touch with the supplies depot behind the lines. It’s all been set up for us to get anything we need from them. Somehow, we need to get in touch with a Sergeant Granger . . .’

  The VAD drivers who’d brought them were volunteers who were too old for the army or who’d failed their medicals. When they’d unloaded all the equipment, Joe Hanson, the volunteer who’d driven the lorry, beckoned to Florrie. ‘Right, miss, I’ll give you a driving lesson and we’ll see if we can find the supplies depot at the same time.’

  The roads were rough, the gears difficult, but after a while Florrie mastered the controls. Above the noise of the engine, Joe shouted, ‘You’re a natural, miss.’

  Tears sprang to her eyes as she remembered Gervase saying those very same words. Where was he now? Was he safe? She brushed aside melancholy thoughts and turned, with a wide grin, towards Joe. ‘Thanks. Now we’d better try and find this Sergeant Granger.’

  They drove around for a while longer until the sound of gunfire made them head back to the rest of their party. But, whilst they’d been away, Sergeant Granger had found the new arrivals.

  He was a young man, not much older than she was, Florrie thought. He shook hands warmly with the two doctors and smiled and nodded at the nurses. ‘We’re so glad to see you,’ he said. ‘Our medical officers and stretcher-bearers do a magnificent job, but, to be honest with you, they’re overwhelmed. This latest skirmish – they’re calling it Hill 60, though in truth it’s only a huge mound of earth from the building of the nearby railway – has been the very devil.’ His face was bleak. ‘We’ve lost a lot of men and there are so many wounded . . .’ He lifted his shoulders helplessly and said no more. There was no need.

  Dr Johnson clapped him on the back. ‘Well, my boy, the cavalry’s here, but we’ll need your help.’

  The young man nodded. ‘We
’ve received orders to help you in any way we can, sir. I believe medical supplies are on their way.’

  ‘On their way!’ Dr Hartmann exclaimed. ‘Do you mean nothing’s come for us already?’

  Looking anxious, as if he felt he’d already failed them, the sergeant shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but no. The supply train due yesterday hasn’t arrived yet. A dispatch rider brought the message that the line’d been damaged and was being repaired.’

  ‘I see,’ Dr Hartmann said curtly. ‘Have you any idea when it might arrive?’

  Embarrassed, the young man shook his head. ‘No, sir. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault, my boy,’ Dr Johnson put in. ‘Just let us know when our stuff arrives.’

  ‘Of course, sir. At once.’

  ‘Now,’ the doctor went on. ‘There’s something else we want you to help us with . . .’ He went on to explain how Dr Hartmann and two nurses planned to get even nearer the Front. While he was speaking there was a whistling sound through the air, a loud ‘crump’ and the ground beneath their feet seemed to shake. Grace gave a little shriek and clung to Florrie, whilst the other women turned pale. Dr Johnson continued without even pausing, though the sergeant looked anxious. His concern, however, was not for himself, but for the new arrivals.

  ‘Are you really sure three of you ought to be going any closer, sir? I mean—’

  ‘We’re here to do a job,’ Dr Hartmann said firmly. ‘To save lives, and the only way we can do that is to give treatment to the wounded as soon as we can. Then Nurse Maltby will drive them back here, where they will receive further treatment and care until they can be taken further by hospital train – when they’re fit enough to travel,’ he added with great emphasis.

  Now the young sergeant gaped in horror at Florrie. ‘You’re going to drive an ambulance from – from there back here?’

  She nodded. ‘Well, this lorry. We’ll have to kit it out as an ambulance.’

  ‘But—’ he began.

  Dr Johnson laughed his loud, booming laugh and slapped the young man on the shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry about Nurse Maltby. She was a suffragette – a very active one, if you get my meaning.’

  Florrie grinned. She hadn’t been aware that Dr Johnson knew about her previous activities, but it seemed it was no surprise to anyone there apart from the sergeant, who was suddenly regarding her with fresh admiration. Another thought crossed the young man’s mind and he frowned again. ‘But she might encounter Germans. Odd ones do get separated from their company or – or desert.’

  Dr Johnson guffawed loudly. ‘Then I pity the poor chap who encounters her.’

  ‘But she ought to carry a gun. Er, can you shoot, miss?’

  Florrie thought of the times she’d gone out shooting with Gervase. How he’d taught her to hold the gun, to aim and to fire well enough so that by the time she was seventeen, she’d been good enough to join the shooting parties on the Bixley Estate. But never those held at Candlethorpe. Her father would never hear of her joining his shooting parties at home. ‘A woman? Shooting? Ridiculous!’ he’d said, and that had been an end of it. But now, thanks once more to Gervase, she was able to nod and say, ‘A bit, yes.’

  ‘I’ll get you a revolver, miss,’ Sergeant Granger promised.

  ‘Oh, I haven’t used one of those,’ Florrie apologized. ‘Only a shotgun.’

  ‘Fancy – there’s something she hasn’t done!’ Grace quipped, but it was said in good humour.

  ‘Well, I’ll give you a few lessons,’ the sergeant promised. ‘At least it’s useful if you’ve used a gun of some sort, but the Webleys do kick a bit on firing. In fact—’ He glanced around them. ‘I suppose you all ought to have something.’

  ‘We don’t need them,’ Dr Johnson said brusquely. ‘We’re here to save lives whatever their nationality, not take them. Though I do agree,’ he acceded, ‘that Nurse Maltby should carry one for her own safety, if she’s to transport the wounded. Even with patients on board, they’re unlikely to be of much use to her, and on the return journeys she’ll be on her own.’

  ‘We nurses are not allowed to carry weapons,’ Sister Blackstock said firmly.

  Dr Johnson put his hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Sister, I’ll take the responsibility.’

  Sister Blackstock still looked anxious, but said no more.

  Sergeant Granger returned a short while later with a revolver and ammunition for Florrie. He also brought two young soldiers with him who, much to the annoyance of Sister Blackstock, winked and nodded cheekily at the nurses.

  ‘I’ve set up some cans on a wall over there, Nurse,’ the sergeant said, ‘so whilst the lads get those tents up for you, let’s see what you can do.’

  Florrie followed the young man towards a derelict house that had fallen victim to the shelling. The roof had gone completely and some of the walls were badly damaged, yet there was still furniture amongst the ruins. Maybe the former inhabitants were amongst the refugees they’d passed on the road, Florrie thought sadly.

  The sergeant had set ten empty tins on the wall. ‘Right, let me show you how to load it.’

  The sergeant was thorough. He made her load, unload and reload several times before he was happy she could do it properly. ‘Now, aim at the first two cans on the left, miss.’

  Florrie raised the revolver, took aim and fired twice. The two cans remained stubbornly where they were.

  ‘Try the next two,’ the sergeant encouraged. Florrie took aim again and this time both tins bounced in the air and fell off the wall.

  Sergeant Granger grinned. ‘That’s very good, miss. Now, if you move back ten paces and fire at the next two, and so on.’

  She did as he bade her, hitting all the cans except the first two and the last one.

  ‘That’s excellent, miss. Some of my men can’t shoot as well as that. You’ve got a good eye. Now, here’s some ammunition. Keep it safe.’

  They walked back to where the others were busily setting up camp. Florrie stowed the pistol and ammunition in the medical bag she would carry with her at all times.

  As darkness fell, the shelling stopped, but the silence was eerie and, strangely, more unsettling than the sound of gunfire. Sleeping quarters were the smaller tents, whilst the larger ones had been set up as an operating theatre and recovery wards.

  ‘Hardly ideal,’ Ernst Hartmann murmured. Florrie, handing him a mug of tea, saw his glance turn towards where the sound of gunfire had come from. ‘We need to get closer. At least as near as we can get to the support trenches. When they carry the injured out, we’d be right there.’ He punched the air with his clenched fist. ‘Right there!’

  He took a sip of tea and then turned to her, his dark-blue eyes assessing her. His black hair was ruffled and she felt the foolish urge to smooth it from his brow.

  ‘Let’s take a look, Nurse Maltby,’ he said softly. ‘Are you game?’

  She nodded, her heart lifting at the thought of being alone with him, even if only in such ridiculous circumstances.

  Twenty-Seven

  Through the soft light of evening, they walked in the direction Sergeant Granger and the two soldiers had taken. Grotesque shapes of shattered houses and outbuildings cast long, eerie shadows. There was no sign of life anywhere, not even cows or sheep in the fields. No birds flew overhead or roosted in the trees. Indeed, there were few trees left standing untouched by the shelling. Explosions and shrapnel had ripped away branches, leaving only bare stumps.

  ‘These poor folk. They’ve lost everything,’ Florrie murmured, more to herself than to the doctor, but Ernst said grimly, ‘It’s a tragedy.’

  ‘We’ve had a lot of Belgian refugees come to Britain,’ Florrie said. ‘But how will they ever rebuild their homes, their farms, their lives when they come home?’

  They walked on, but still there was no sign of any army personnel, of huts or tents or mounds of ammunition and other supplies. Just land laid waste.

  ‘What are we actually looking for?’ Florrie ventur
ed.

  ‘The guns. The long-range artillery. They’re behind the system of trenches that lead to the front line. If we could set up a post there—’

  ‘Near the guns?’ Even Florrie was horrified now. ‘But – but won’t the enemy have their guns trained on that area?’

  ‘Probably.’ Ernst sounded nonchalant, completely regardless of his own safety – and consequently of the safety of anyone who was foolhardy enough to go with him!

  ‘Oh.’ Florrie was thoughtful for a moment, then she shrugged. Oh well. So be it.

  He stopped and turned to face her. ‘Still want to come with me?’

  She stared at him through the twilight. His features were in shadow, but she could hear the passion in his tone, his determined dedication. There’d be fire in those bright-blue eyes, if only she could see them.

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘Oh yes.’

  Briefly, he touched her hand in gratitude. Then he turned and walked on, leaving her stroking the place on her hand where he’d touched her.

  ‘It’s further away than I thought.’ His voice came back to her and she started forward to catch up with him. ‘We must have walked a mile or more. We’d better go back.’ He sounded annoyed that they’d not found the site he wanted.

  They were about to turn around when a scuffling sounded in the ruins of a lone, abandoned house. A voice bellowed at them to halt. Against the night sky, they could see the shape of a soldier standing on top of a broken wall.

  ‘We are doctors and nurses come to set up an emergency dressing station near to the trenches . . .’ Ernst began, but Florrie saw the rifle against the soldier’s shoulder and heard an ominous click. His wry laugh came out of the darkness. ‘With that accent – I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m Nurse Maltby and I’m English,’ Florrie shouted. ‘And Dr Hartmann is Swiss.’

  ‘Swiss? Don’t give me that. They’re neutral. What would a Swiss doctor be doing out here?’