Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘But where shall we be?’ Sister Blackstock said worriedly. ‘I mean – we mightn’t find a house as suitable as this.’

  ‘We’ll take tents then. There’s plenty at Base Camp now. They can spare a few.’

  Base Camp had mushroomed over the months until it resembled a proper field hospital.

  ‘No – oh no,’ Rosemary shook her head decidedly. ‘I’m not having my nurses under canvas in a dangerous position. I know you by now, Dr Hartmann. You’ll want to get as near as you can to the battle front.’

  ‘Of course I shall, woman,’ he snapped back heatedly. ‘That’s the whole point.’

  ‘Then I’ll only agree to it if you can find somewhere like this. A place with cellars. But tents? Oh dear me, no!’

  Ernst Hartmann flung out his arm towards Florrie. ‘Well, she’ll come with me, won’t you, Nurse?’

  Nervously, Florrie bit her lip. His anger was making him careless. She met Sister Blackstock’s frosty stare steadily. ‘I can see both sides of the argument, Dr Hartmann, but I’m under Sister’s command. I must do what she says.’

  With a growl of frustration, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

  Florrie watched him go, tears prickling behind her eyelids. She shivered, feeling suddenly cold. She hated it when he was so angry with her.

  Thirty-Three

  ‘I knew he’d win. Men like him always get their own way.’

  Rosemary Blackstock was decidedly disgruntled to find that the other doctor now at the Chateau, and Dr Johnson and his colleagues at Base Camp, agreed with Ernst Hartmann. They’d seen for themselves the success of his theories and backed him wholeheartedly.

  ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘he can do it without me this time. I’m going back to Base Camp, and you nurses,’ she nodded at Grace, Hetty and Florrie, ‘are coming with me.’

  ‘Oh, but—’ Florrie began, but the sister pointed her finger.

  ‘Not another word. That’s an order.’ Secretly, she was trying to put distance between the pretty VAD and the handsome doctor. And not a moment too soon, she thought, if I’m not mistaken.

  But even Sister Blackstock proved herself unable to withstand Ernst’s considerable charm.

  ‘This time we cannot find a house with cellars, Sister, but we have farm buildings – strong and sturdy – just outside the range of the enemy artillery. I promise you,’ he murmured, raising her hand to his lips and fastening her with his blue gaze, ‘I would not dream of endangering you or your nurses.’

  So the sister relented enough to allow volunteers to follow the doctor, though she remained resolutely at Base Camp this time. But, of course, one of the willing volunteers was Florrie. Rosemary Blackstock sighed, but could do no more.

  They were in the very thick of the action again and Ernst was in his element. Florrie now drove the ambulance more than she actually nursed the soldiers, because of the greater distance to and from Base Camp. But whenever she could, she still stood at Ernst’s side in the small barn where he carried out emergency operations.

  ‘D’you know,’ she told Sister Blackstock on one of her trips, ‘the British are using gas now at Loos. Isn’t that dreadful?’

  But Rosemary was philosophical. ‘What’s sauce for the goose . . .’ she murmured.

  ‘Well, I think it’s diabolical. It’s not – it’s not gentlemanly.’

  Rosemary laughed wryly. ‘Nothing about this war is, my dear.’

  Angry and worried too, Florrie climbed back into her vehicle to go back to ‘Poppy Camp’ as they’d nicknamed their new first-aid post, after the blood-red poppies that grew in the fields of Flanders. It seemed a lot of nicknames were used. The soldiers even had names for the trenches, so she’d heard. As she drove, the sound of gunfire and shelling became louder and louder and, even from a distance, she detected the telltale smell of gas drifting on the wind.

  And out there, somewhere, she knew, was James.

  Eventually, the offensive ground to a halt and both sides settled down to a second winter in the trenches. Florrie breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been thankful not to see James brought into their post, and she’d not had word that he’d been wounded or worse. And there was no bad news, either, about Gervase or Tim. In fact, there was no news at all about any of them now.

  Nightly she prayed that they were all safe.

  Although there were still skirmishes, there were no major battles in their area. Now they treated chilblains, trench foot, bronchitis and pneumonia. Their main ‘battle’ was a never-ending one with the rats that invaded the farm buildings in search of food and warmth – more so since the onset of winter.

  ‘You should see ’em in the trenches, Nurse,’ one soldier told her as she threw her shoe at another unwelcome visitor. It scurried away and Florrie went in search of her missile. ‘Big as cats, some of ’em, and they snuggle up to us at night to sleep. I woke up one morning to find one of the buggers nestled in me armpit.’

  Lice were another perpetual problem when the mud-soaked, unwashed soldiers were brought in. Florrie could deal with those, but she hated the rats and feared the disease they might carry.

  As Christmas approached, the team at the farm and those still at the Chateau went back to Base Camp.

  27th November 1915, Dear Gran, Florrie wrote and then, with a wistful smile changed it to, Dear Grandmother, Your welcome letter has arrived at last. It had taken three weeks to get here, and the one from Mother sent a week after yours was in the same batch. Mail is delivered spasmodically (sometimes I get three at once!) but, please, don’t stop writing. You say that the redoubtable Mrs P and her group of ladies are still knitting for the troops. Please thank her. It’s getting very cold here now. I’m sitting up in bed to write this by candlelight and wearing my topcoat, socks and gloves! And talking of socks – that is what is still badly needed. The boys could have no better Christmas present. . .

  The next letter she received from Augusta told her they’d heard from James that he was back near Ypres.

  So if you see him again, be sure to tell him how proud we are of him. But tell him to take care . . .

  Over the next three weeks, Sister Blackstock put the less seriously ill patients to work making decorations for the wards for Christmas. ‘It keeps them busy and out of mischief,’ she declared.

  ‘Don’t you think it reminds them too much of home?’ Florrie wondered.

  ‘They’ll already be thinking of home, Nurse. I don’t think making a few paper chains is going to make much difference.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Suddenly Florrie was overwhelmed with homesickness. It was the first time she’d really felt it. She longed to be back at Candlethorpe Hall, planning Christmas with her mother and Augusta. How they’d always loved Christmas, and how lonely the huge house would seem with only the three of them there. No Florrie and no James. She wondered if Isobel and her baby would join them, or if Tim might wangle a few days’ leave to get home and see his son and heir. But then, even if he didn’t, Isobel would probably go down to Dorset to be with Lord and Lady Smythe.

  Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of them all. She longed for news of James. She worried every minute of every day for the safety of her young brother who, in her eyes, was still only a boy.

  ‘God keep him safe,’ she whispered. ‘And Gervase and the Hon. Tim too.’

  Three days before Christmas, several large packages arrived by special delivery, all addressed to Nurse Florence Maltby.

  ‘By heck, darlin’, someone loves you,’ the orderly who carried the parcels into the tent where Florrie slept teased her.

  Florrie laughed. ‘They’re not for me. They’re for the boys.’ She tore open the brown paper of one of them and out tumbled pair after pair of thick, brown socks in different sizes. ‘See.’

  The man’s mouth dropped open. ‘You’re going to be popular on Christmas morning, I can tell you.’ He watched as she undid the rest of the parcels. There were gloves, soap, toothbrushes and powder, writing paper and envelopes.
‘Very popular.’ He eyed the items longingly. Florrie smiled and picked up a small bar of chocolate from the parcel that had been addressed as ‘personal’. ‘Here, thank you so much for your help. And this is our secret, mind, until Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, ta, miss,’ he took the chocolate gratefully. ‘And yeah, ’course it is. And if you want any help with the tree on Christmas Eve, miss, I’m your man.’

  Now it was Florrie’s turn to look surprised. ‘A tree? We’re getting a Christmas tree?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The man was delighted to be telling her something she didn’t know. ‘Dr Hartmann has arranged it all. His family’s sent one from Switzerland.’

  Florrie was suddenly still. Ernst’s family. She was shocked to realize that she knew so little about the man who had become so important in her life.

  ‘Right, miss, if there’s nothing else . . .’ The orderly’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘No – no, nothing just now and – and thank you.’ As he turned to leave she added, ‘And I’ll be very glad of your help with the tree.’

  On Christmas Eve, the orderly, whose name she found out was Len Brewster, helped Florrie decorate the wards. Because she was not assigned to a particular ward here at Base Camp, she helped out anywhere she was needed. She was greeted with whistles and catcalls and Len fended off the cheekier remarks. ‘Now then, lads, behave yerselves.’

  Florrie glanced around and was gratified to see several of the men at whose operations she’d assisted Ernst at Poppy Camp. Some of them remembered her, but others could not. Most seemed to be recovering well and all were in good spirits. The parcels from home could not stretch to include all the patients, so Florrie decided to give her gifts to the men in the two surgical wards now run by Sister Blackstock.

  On Boxing Day, with a brief hour to spare, Florrie wrote to her mother and enclosed a note for Mrs Ponsonby saying how much all the gifts had meant to the soldiers.

  At dusk on Christmas Day, she told Clara, the tree was lighted and several of the nurses who could be spared went around the wards singing carols. It seems strange to say it, but we all had a wonderful time and everyone tried to make the best of being away from their loved ones.

  ‘Another visitor for you, Nurse Maltby.’

  Sister Blackstock beamed. She’d taken at once to the tall, broad young man with fair curling hair and a small neat moustache. He’d arrived at Base Camp on New Year’s Eve loaded with gifts for the sisters and nurses and had asked so politely if he might see Nurse Maltby.

  Florrie gaped and her mouth dropped open. Then tears sprang to her eyes. She held out her arms to him. ‘Gervase. How wonderful!’

  His strong arms were around her and he was lifting her off her feet. For once, Sister Blackstock broke her own strict rules and crept out of the tent, leaving the young couple alone. She was mentally crossing her fingers that the arrival of this very pleasant young man would drive out any silly notions Florrie might have over a certain dark-haired doctor.

  ‘Whatever are you doing here? And how are you? I’ve not heard anything from you. I was so worried.’

  ‘Were you?’ He looked down into her upturned face and held her even more closely. ‘It’s been very difficult to let anyone know, my dear. I’ve been travelling up and down the Western Front ever since I came to France. I don’t seem to be in any one place for very long.’ He smiled. ‘And as for what I’m doing here. Well, it’s New Year’s Eve.’

  Florrie threw back her head and laughed. ‘James was right. He said you’d come.’

  ‘James? You’ve seen James?’

  ‘Oh yes . . .’ Still holding his hands, she drew him to sit side by side on her camp bed while she told him everything that had been happening to her.

  There was only one thing she did not tell him. She did not mention Ernst Hartmann.

  Thirty-Four

  ‘So, who was that who came to see you on New Year’s Eve?’ Ernst asked, his eyes dark and brooding, his manner terse. ‘Another brother? A cousin? Or a grateful patient?’

  Florrie stared at him, then she giggled. ‘Oh, Ernst – I do believe you’re jealous.’ She moved towards him, stretching out her arms to embrace him, but he took a step backwards. ‘You forget yourself, Nurse. We are working. We have a delicate operation to perform under ridiculous conditions. My patient will be brought here at any moment.’

  She gaped at him, but he turned away and she was left staring, bewildered, at his back.

  They worked with professional rapport as they always did, but in a tense, uncomfortable silence. As the patient was carried out, Florrie whispered, ‘Ernst, it was an old family friend from home. I haven’t seen or heard from him for almost a year.’ It was the truth, even though she’d heard of him now and again.

  Ernst stood very still, then he turned and smiled, his face creasing, his eyes bright with love and desire. He touched her cheek. ‘That’s all right then,’ he murmured.

  As the next patient was carried in, they turned back to their work, but now harmony was restored.

  By the spring of 1916 the Western Front stretched from the Swiss border to the French coast. The British and their allies held the trenches from a point on the coast between Ostend and Dunkirk running inland to beyond Amiens, whilst the French were dug in as far as the Swiss border.

  In February news came that the Germans were bombarding the French lines near Verdun. It went on for days, weeks and months. The enemy was, it seemed, determined to crush the resistance and bleed France into submission by overrunning an area of their country that had special significance for the French people.

  ‘We must go there. We are needed,’ Ernst insisted, but this time his colleagues disagreed.

  ‘It’s a French battle, Hartmann,’ Dr Johnson said. ‘If they ask for our help, we will go, of course, but until then we have our own soldiers to care for.’

  Having lost his own personal battle, Ernst stamped away in frustration. Instead he divided his time between the house, Poppy Camp and Base Camp. And he insisted that more small first-aid posts in tents should be set up along the line of defence so that he could visit and give emergency treatment to the wounded.

  ‘He’ll upset the army medical officers if he’s not careful,’ Florrie heard Dr Johnson say to Sister Blackstock. ‘He’s making it look as if they can’t cope.’

  ‘Well,’ Rosemary said rationally, ‘they can just cope now, whilst things are quieter here, but I have to say, Doctor, that when we get a major battle, let’s face it, they can’t.’

  The big man sighed. ‘You’re right, but I just wish the chap would calm down a bit and take a rest.’ Then he added bitterly, ‘We’ll have another battle of our own before long, I’ve no doubt.’

  As spring progressed into summer, the Ypres salient was becoming a rest area for troops from the battle zones or a place where new arrivals from Britain could be eased into life in the trenches. But there was enough gunfire, shelling and spasmodic trench raids to introduce the raw recruits to war before they were dispatched to more dangerous areas. Despite the steady flow of sick and injured men to care for, Ernst still chafed that their skills were not being fully used here.

  To Florrie’s disappointment, he did not ask her to go with him as he travelled up and down the line, visiting the dressing stations. Now she hardly saw him and they were never alone. He seemed to be ignoring her and she was hurt. After all they had been through together, after all they had shared . . .

  Dr Johnson’s prophecy came true on the 1st July when the British, in an attempt to relieve the pressure on the French at Verdun, launched a major offensive near the River Somme. It was the largest army the British had sent into battle and, though the French sent troops in support, they could not muster as many as they had promised. Their army had been drained by the continuing savagery at Verdun.

  ‘Now we must go,’ Ernst declared and, this time, no one argued. Everyone guessed it was going to be a long, weary and costly campaign.

  James came to the Base Camp to s
ay goodbye. His battalion had been ordered south. His young face was white and drawn. ‘Fine way to be spending my eighteenth birthday next week, isn’t it?’ he said, trying to make light of it, although his voice was shaking. ‘Oh, Florrie,’ he burst out, gripping her hands and clinging to her. ‘I don’t want to go. And I’m not just being a coward. There’s a good reason why I should stay here – why I ought to stay here—’

  ‘James, what is it? Tell me.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Nurse,’ Sister Blackstock’s voice cut in. ‘You’re needed. Please say goodbye to your brother now.’

  ‘James, come and see me later. Tonight,’ she whispered urgently.

  ‘I can’t. We’re moving out in an hour. I have to get back, but Florrie, please—’

  ‘Nurse!’

  He sighed and his shoulders sagged. ‘You go,’ he said flatly. ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble. I’ve done enough of that already.’

  Florrie forced a laugh, ‘Of course you haven’t. It’s just that we’re so busy getting all the patients ready to go to a general hospital. We’re all going as soon as we can – to – to the Somme.’

  James tried to smile. ‘See you there then.’

  ‘I hope you don’t, darling James.’ She hugged him swiftly and then gave him a little push. Tears were very close and she didn’t want him to see her cry. ‘Go on – and take good care of yourself.’

  ‘I’ll – try,’ were his last words as he turned and walked away.

  ‘Nurse!’

  ‘Coming, Sister.’

  Two weeks later, they were still at Base Camp. There had never been any intention to close down the facilities there, or even the Chateau and Poppy Camp, but the promised replacement medical staff had not arrived.