Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  Thirty

  Florrie drove slowly, mindful of the terribly injured man in the back of the vehicle. The constant thud of the guns grew a little fainter and the soldier sitting in the passenger seat beside her began to relax.

  ‘D’you reckon mine’s a Blighty wound, miss?’ he asked. It was the thought uppermost in every wounded soldier’s mind. And if she’d a pound for every time she’d been asked that same question since coming here, Florrie thought, she’d be a wealthy woman. This soldier’s arm, the bone smashed by flying shrapnel, was bandaged and in a sling. At the house they’d been able to clean the wound, but he too needed a more complicated operation than Ernst Hartmann could perform with the limited facilities in the cellars.

  ‘Dr Johnson’s marvellous with bones,’ Florrie reassured him. ‘But your arm will take a while to mend, so,’ she grinned at him, ‘you never know your luck.’ She didn’t add that she thought the arm would never mend properly and it was very likely he’d be invalided out of the army. It wasn’t her place to guess the decision of the medical officers.

  Despite the terrible pain he must be in, the soldier grinned back at her. ‘Well, me luck’s held out this far, miss. Not like a lot of me pals.’ His face clouded again. ‘At least I’m still alive.’

  It wasn’t long before they reached the camp. It was a very different place now from when they’d first arrived. There were more tents and hastily erected wooden huts, with duckboards between to act as walkways. It was more like a real field hospital. Yet more doctors and nurses had arrived. Dr Hartmann had been proved right. Immediate treatment saved many a wound from becoming infected and consequently saved lives too. Most of the patients were still taken by train back to the larger hospitals on the coast, but many minor injuries were treated successfully and the soldiers returned more swiftly to their units. Whether the men themselves were happy about this was questionable. Perhaps they felt cheated of a longer trip away from the Front, even if it was only to the coast of France and not back home.

  But the doctors were fair. They never sent a man back until he was fully fit. And if he showed signs of shell shock, they found a way to keep him a little longer or send him to the coast.

  ‘If I send the poor bugger back in this state,’ Florrie had once heard Dr Johnson mutter over a patient who was shaking and disorientated, even though the minor wound on his leg had healed, ‘they’ll have him shot at dawn for cowardice.’

  Florrie climbed down from the driving seat and hurried round to the back to help the patients. The broad figure of Dr Johnson appeared from the largest tent, which was now an operating theatre. Blood spattered his white coat and his face was drawn with weariness. But he strode across the grass, his hand outstretched to greet his colleague.

  ‘What brings you here, Hartmann?’

  Swiftly, Ernst explained about the badly injured man and the need for further supplies. ‘Sergeant Granger’s been very good, but even he can’t make the trains run on time. I’m hoping you might have what we need.’

  ‘Some of our stocks are running low too. But we’ll see what we can do.’ Dr Johnson clapped him on the back. Two orderlies rushed forward to carry the stretcher case straight into the theatre tent. ‘Come, I want more details about this patient.’

  Ernst glanced at Florrie. ‘Perhaps you’d see Sister Warren about the list of items.’ He turned back to the other doctor. ‘We can’t stay long. We must get back, Johnson, as soon as we can. You understand?’

  Florrie felt her heart sink. Perhaps Ernst had changed his mind about their outing. She sighed and went in search of Sister Warren.

  The supplies were loaded and Florrie stood beside the vehicle waiting for Ernst. It seemed an age before he appeared from the tent with Dr Johnson, shook his hand and strode towards her.

  ‘Right, Nurse Maltby,’ he said, climbing into the passenger’s seat without even glancing at her.

  Florrie turned the lorry and headed back the way they’d come.

  ‘When you get over the hill out of sight of the camp, turn left. We’ll double-back.’

  Florrie said nothing, but she smiled. Ernst had not changed his mind.

  They drove through deserted countryside, but, further away from the Front, there were signs of life. Cattle grazed in the fields and farmers were scything the long grass and raking it up into mounds. On one farm they saw soldiers helping with the hay-making.

  ‘Are they prisoners of war? Germans?’

  ‘No, no, they’re allies at rest.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Do you remember Sergeant Granger telling us how our soldiers do so many days in the trenches and then so many in rear-line billets, but usually they remain where the supplies are, often acting as carriers?’

  Florrie nodded. ‘And he also said they come into the countryside when they’ve a few days off. How long do they get?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no idea. You’d have to ask an army chap. Varies probably, according to what’s happening at the Front. But more than likely it’s not long enough for them to go to Paris or the coast, so they just come as far as here to get away from the guns for a while.’

  ‘Mm. But you can still hear them in the distance, can’t you?’ She glanced again at the young men, some stripped to the waist, working in the sunshine. Still they could all hear the thunder of guns and the explosions of bursting shells; they could never get right away from the constant reminders of the war. Several glanced up and saw the vehicle with its Red Cross emblem. One or two waved, but others looked away quickly as if it reminded them painfully of the war and all its horrors.

  Florrie drove on and they came to a little village – no more than a hamlet – where children were still playing in the street.

  Florrie gasped. ‘I hadn’t realized. It – it looks so normal. All those refugees we saw. I thought – I thought—’

  Ernst smiled. ‘You thought everyone had gone. Only from where the fighting is actually taking place.’ He shrugged. ‘But one day perhaps these poor folk will be forced to flee too, if our armies are driven back. It was the Kaiser’s intention to march through Belgium and approach Paris from the west. Only he hasn’t managed it.’ Ominously, he added, ‘Yet.’ Trying to lighten their mood, Ernst went on, ‘Now, let us see if Monsieur Gaston still has his little cafe open. Pull over to the right.’

  The meal was surprisingly good. They dined leisurely, enjoying the luxury of being able to take their time and savour the wine. Across the table they touched hands briefly and gazed into each other’s eyes. But they didn’t talk much, they were just happy to be together.

  ‘We are lucky,’ the host told them in broken English, waiting on them himself. ‘We still have local supplies.’ He lifted his shoulders and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘But for how long?’

  It was a question not one of them could answer.

  But there was something that Florrie wanted to ask Ernst. She leaned across the table and touched his hand. ‘Why are you here, Ernst? In a war that’s nothing to do with your country?’

  His expression was wary. He glanced away and didn’t answer immediately.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry. I was just curious, that’s all. I never thought about it myself. It wasn’t until that sentry said . . .’ Her voice faded into silence.

  With obvious reluctance, he said stiffly, ‘My mother was French and I have cousins fighting with the French army. I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. Not when my skills could do so much good, even though . . .’ He pressed his lips together as if to stop himself saying any more.

  ‘Even though?’ Florrie prompted gently, but Ernst shook his head. ‘Oh, nothing.’ His attitude made it quite clear he was not going to say anything more about his family or his life back in Switzerland.

  They drove back as the light began to fade.

  ‘The guns have never stopped,’ Florrie murmured.

  ‘Stop. Pull up here,’ Ernst said suddenly.

  ‘What? Why? What’s the matter?’ Alarmed,
Florrie pulled to a halt.

  ‘Switch the engine off.’

  ‘Why? I don’t understand—’

  ‘Just do as I say. Now, get out and put one side of the bonnet up.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  He turned and leaned towards her. Running his finger gently down her cheek, he whispered, ‘You do want me to make love to you, don’t you?’

  Her heart thumped and her body tingled ‘Yes, oh yes, but why do I have to put the bonnet up?’

  ‘If anyone should come along, we’ll hear them. You’ll have to get out and play the “damsel in distress”. Make out the engine’s stopped and you can’t restart it.’

  Now Florrie giggled. ‘You think of everything.’

  ‘Naturally,’ he said.

  She did as he said and then they climbed into the back of the vehicle. They spread the blankets, which Florrie carried for her patients, on the floor of the lorry and lay down.

  Slowly, Ernst unbuttoned the blouse of her uniform. He kissed her shoulders, her neck and, at last, her lips, his fingers struggling with the laces and buttons of her under-garments. They did not undress fully, not this time, for fear someone might come along the road. His hands explored her gently, arousing her to heights of longing. She groaned and writhed beneath him, willing him to enter her quickly, so urgent was her need of him.

  She cried out in sheer joy, her fingers digging into his back as he buried his face in the softness of her breasts. He shuddered and groaned and lay still on top of her, panting. Florrie lay back, smiling and stroking his hair. She closed her eyes.

  And all the time the pounding of the distant guns never ceased.

  ‘Quick! Someone’s coming. I hear marching feet and – and singing.’

  Bleary-eyed, Florrie scrambled to find her clothes in the darkness.

  ‘I’ll stay here. Pretend I’m a patient,’ Ernst suggested, pulling the blankets over him.

  ‘I can’t find my shoes. Ernst, you must help me.’

  ‘Get out of the back. Be quick!’

  She felt around in panic. ‘Oh, fiddlesticks! I’ll have to leave them.’

  She stepped down into the road in her stockinged feet.

  The squad of soldiers was only yards away, their voices filling the night air with the strains of ‘Who were you with last night, out in the pale moonlight’. How appropriate, Florrie thought, suppressing a nervous giggle. Seeing her, the sergeant called a halt and came across to her.

  ‘You in trouble, miss?’

  ‘It – it just stopped. The engine and I – I don’t know how to start it again,’ she finished lamely. She hated herself for sounding like a weak and ineffectual female, when in truth she’d probably learned far more about the internal workings of her vehicle during the last few weeks than any of these soldiers knew.

  ‘No trouble, miss. We’ll take a look for you.’ He turned and yelled, ‘Martindale – Robinson – at the double—’

  ‘Please, not so loud. I have a patient in the back. I – I think he’s sleeping.’

  ‘We’ll be as quiet as we can, miss.’

  The soldiers he’d called out for stuck their heads under the bonnet.

  ‘Can’t see anything wrong, sir. We’ll try an’ start it up for you, miss.’

  Seconds later the engine fired into life.

  ‘Oh, how silly of me,’ she said, finding it quite easy to feign embarrassment as she blushed furiously at her deception. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, miss. It’s us that should be thanking you nurses for being out here.’ The two soldiers saluted her once again. As they turned and began to walk back to their comrades, Florrie distinctly heard one say, ‘I wonder why she’s got no shoes on?’

  ‘Best not to ask, mate. Mebbe that patient in the back ain’t as sick as he’s mekin’ out.’

  Their laughter filled the air until the voice of their sergeant called them to order. But Florrie, left standing by the lorry, felt even more foolish.

  She waited until they’d marched a good distance down the road before she whispered, ‘They’ve gone. You can come out now.’ And seeing Ernst emerging from the back of the lorry, half-undressed and with his smooth hair decidedly ruffled, Florrie was overcome by a fit of the giggles she could no longer quell.

  ‘The engine stalled and Nurse Maltby didn’t know what was wrong,’ Ernst explained smoothly to Sister Blackstock, who’d been watching out for them, her anxiety growing with every passing minute. ‘But we were lucky. Some soldiers were marching,’ he waved his hand airily, ‘somewhere – and stopped to help. So, all is well. Goodnight, Nurse Maltby.’ He didn’t smile at her, didn’t even glance at her as he strode away towards the house and his bed in the cellar.

  Stiffly, Sister Blackstock said, ‘You can see to the lorry in the morning. You’d better get to bed too.’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ Florrie said meekly. ‘Goodnight.’

  Sister Blackstock watched her go, a worried expression in her eyes. There was something different about the girl. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was definitely something.

  She hoped it had nothing to do with the handsome Dr Hartmann. She didn’t want to have to send this particular nurse home in disgrace.

  Thirty-One

  ‘There’s someone asking for you, Nurse Maltby.’

  Surprised, Florrie said, ‘For me?’

  ‘He was brought in half an hour ago,’ Sister Blackstock said. ‘He’s very badly injured. I don’t think he’s going to make it.’

  The colour drained from Florrie’s face. Her eyes widened. If someone was asking for her by name, it must be someone she knew. Oh, Tim! Was it Tim? Knowing he was somewhere in the area, she’d dreaded seeing him brought in on a stretcher.

  ‘Don’t faint on me, Nurse,’ Ernst snapped. ‘Don’t let go of that clamp or this boy will die. Get a hold of yourself.’

  ‘I – I’m sorry.’ Florrie swallowed and took a deep breath to calm her trembling hands. She struggled to concentrate on holding the instrument whilst Ernst stitched with expert fingers.

  ‘He didn’t say his name, but I think he’s one of the boys who helped you clean out the cellar. He’s insistent he wants to see you. So, Nurse, as soon as you can.’

  A few moments later Ernst said tersely, ‘You can go.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Don’t argue. I said you can go.’

  Florrie took a last look at the patient. He was a good colour and seemed to be breathing normally. It was amazing after the trauma his young body had suffered. But, thanks to Ernst’s skill, he would live. Not to ‘fight another day’, but this soldier would certainly get home to Blighty and his family. Though, without his right arm, she doubted he would ever work again. She hoped he’d a loving family who’d care for him.

  ‘Ben!’ she whispered. ‘Oh no!’

  She knelt beside him and took his hand. The boy – for, despite everything, he was still no more than a boy doing a man’s job – was white-faced and shaking with sobs.

  ‘I can’t see,’ Ben struggled to say. ‘It’s got me eyes.’

  His breath was a rasping, laboured sound. He sounded as if he was drowning and there was the stench of gas about him. But that was not all: his right leg was a bleeding, mangled mess and, though Sister Blackstock was doing her best to clean the horrific wound, she glanced at Florrie with wordless despair. Even Ernst Hartmann, with all his skill, would be able to do no more than chop it off above the knee.

  ‘I want me mam, Miss Florrie. I want me mam.’

  ‘I know, Ben, I know. I’ll write to her for you. What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Tell ’er to come. I want ’er. I want to tell ’er I’m sorry. Sorry I went against her wishes and joined up. She were right. I should’ve listened. Tell ’er I’m sorry – sorry – Mam – oh, Mam . . .’ He drifted off into blessed unconsciousness. Florrie sat beside him, holding his hand to her cheek. How was she ever going to write to tell Mrs Atkinson that her only son – her
beloved boy – had been killed?

  What an appalling waste this war was! There were no words to describe the ghastly carnage to those waiting back home. Though they read the casualty lists and mourned in their thousands, they still wouldn’t be aware of the full horror of it all.

  If she got home, Florrie vowed, she’d make sure they knew. She’d tell the world. A war like this must never again be allowed to happen.

  Ben woke once more and seemed calmer. ‘Miss Florrie?’

  ‘I’m here, Ben. I’m here.’ She’d remained sitting beside him into the early hours of the morning, knowing the boy did not have long. Ernst had been to examine him and shaken his head sadly at her. Then he’d left them alone.

  ‘I’ve seen Master James, miss.’

  ‘James!’ Her heart contracted in fear. ‘Here? Are you sure, Ben?’

  ‘Oh yes, miss. Him and that other chap what married Miss Richards. He’s a captain now, miss. Did you know?’

  ‘No, Ben, I didn’t.’ She was about to ask more questions, but she saw that he’d drifted away again. He died at three in the morning without regaining consciousness. But all the while, Florrie sat holding his hand.

  Ben was laid to rest at Poperinghe and, though they couldn’t often attend the funerals of their patients – there wasn’t time to spare – Ernst allowed Florrie to attend the burial of the young boy she’d known since childhood. She remembered walking across the fields to the Atkinsons’ farm with her grandmother, taking a basket of goodies on the day that they’d heard Mrs Atkinson had given birth to her baby boy. Florrie had been four years old and had skipped alongside Augusta in the spring sunshine. And now she was standing beside his grave, with the rain pouring down and the incessant sound of pounding guns. Dead at just seventeen.

  And all the while she couldn’t help thinking: It could have been James.

  Although she tried to make enquiries, she couldn’t find out where James was. She began to think that perhaps Ben, in his delirium, had been mistaken. Perhaps he’d been dreaming of home and thought he’d seen him in reality.