Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  Ernst fretted at the delay, but Dr Johnson was sanguine. ‘We’ve no choice but to remain here until we’re relieved,’ he said, adopting the parlance of the army. ‘And there’s no point in just a few of us going.’

  ‘There are thousands wounded and dying,’ Ernst protested. ‘Haven’t you heard? They’re lying out there on the battlefield for days until they’re found. We’re needed, Johnson, as we’ve never been needed before.’

  The older, wiser and less impetuous man put his hand on Ernst’s shoulder. ‘I know, old boy, but there’s no sense in rushing heedlessly down there without being properly prepared. I’m sorry to say it, but I don’t think it’ll end before we get there.’

  For the next few days the team continued to treat the injured, nurse the sick and wait. It was not something Ernst Hartmann was good at.

  Florrie drew her ambulance to a halt at the side of the Chateau least damaged by the shelling. She climbed down wearily. It had been a long day. She’d been up at five as usual, and now it was gone eight o’clock in the evening, the setting sun slanting its golden light across the fields. But it had been a good day. She’d been ferrying patients back to the Base Camp all day. Not one of them had died, and all were expected to recover well. And that counted as a good day. A very good day.

  She leaned against the vehicle, shading her eyes and looking out over the fields towards where she knew the trenches were. There was no shelling here tonight, but now, in the stillness of the summer evening, she could hear the distant sound of artillery fire.

  Could she really be hearing the guns on the Somme? She sighed. In a few days’ time, they’d be there too, for surely their replacements must arrive soon. Then perhaps Ernst would come out of his black mood. When they were once more in the thick of battle and being useful, Ernst – perversely – would be happier.

  A figure was striding towards her, silhouetted against the evening glow. Florrie gasped and new life flooded into her tired limbs. She stretched out her arms towards him and began to run. ‘Gervase, oh, Gervase!’

  He opened his arms and she ran into them. He held her close, his arms tightly around her as if he would never let her go. ‘Florrie, oh, Florrie, my darling girl,’ he murmured against her hair. At once she knew something was wrong. She pulled back and looked up into his face. ‘What is it? What’s happened? Oh! It’s – it’s not – James?’

  He didn’t answer immediately, but his solemn face and the anxiety in his eyes told her more than words could say.

  ‘Oh no!’ she breathed. ‘He’s – not—’

  ‘No,’ Gervase spoke swiftly. ‘No, but he’s in trouble. Serious trouble.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Why? What d’you mean?’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can go?’

  ‘Well. . .’ She hesitated, not thinking straight, the worry blotting out all sensible thought. ‘The kitchen, I suppose, but the others might be there, having their meal. I – I’ve just got back. I – oh, Gervase, please tell me now.’

  He took her hands and held them. ‘My dear, James has been arrested for desertion. He’s to be tried by court martial.’

  ‘Court martial! Oh dear Lord, no!’ Her face blanched and her whole body began to tremble. She’d been out here long enough to know exactly what that meant. If found guilty, her brother – her baby brother – could be shot. Her knees began to sag and she would have sunk to the ground if Gervase had not caught and held her. Her voice was a husky whisper as she asked, ‘When is it to be?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow. He’s asked for me to stand as – as his “prisoner’s friend”.

  This was something she hadn’t heard about. ‘What – what does that mean?’

  Gervase sighed. The burden was resting heavily on his shoulders. ‘Out here there’s no such thing as a solicitor or a barrister to defend the – the accused, but they’re allowed to have someone to speak for them, if they wish. Several don’t even ask for that, but James has asked for me.’

  Florrie looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. She clutched at his arms. ‘Oh, Gervase, you must save him. You can’t let him die. Not James. You can’t.’

  Gervase’s face was haggard. ‘Florrie dearest, you know I’ll do everything I can.’

  She gazed into his eyes and whispered, ‘It – it sounds as if there’s a “but”.’

  He sighed heavily and pressed his lips together before saying flatly, ‘They’re very heavy-handed about desertion or – or anything they see as cowardice. Some have been executed just for refusing to go over the top or for “throwing their arms away”, as they phrase it. A top London lawyer would probably have argued a good case and got them off, but out here – it’s rough justice.’

  ‘Can we get someone to come out? If I send word home, maybe—’

  ‘Florrie darling, I told you, the hearing’s the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘So soon? But when did this happen? How long’s he been held?’

  ‘He was arrested five days ago.’

  ‘Five days! But that’s ridiculous.’ Now Florrie was angry. ‘That’s no time to gather evidence, to get witnesses.’

  ‘They don’t get witnesses,’ Gervase explained sadly. ‘The fact that he was found miles from his unit, without his weapons and trying to get here—’

  ‘Here? Why was he coming here? Oh!’ She clapped her hand to her mouth and her eyes widened. ‘Was he trying to find me?’

  ‘I don’t know. He won’t say. In fact, he won’t say very much at all.’ Gervase’s face was bleak. ‘If only he’d open up – tell me what happened – give me something to work on. But if he won’t—’ He said no more, but his meaning was clear.

  Florrie covered her face with her hands and groaned. ‘Last time I saw him, just before they all left to go to the Somme, he seemed upset about something. He said he didn’t want to go, and I’m sure he wanted to tell me something, but we were so busy. Oh, Gervase,’ she cried in anguish. ‘I didn’t listen to him. If only—’

  He held her close again. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, dearest girl. I’ll talk to him – try to find out what was troubling him, and if that had any bearing on why he—’ Again, he stopped, unable to put into words the bald truth. His beloved girl was already hurting enough. He glanced about him and, seeing the lorry, couldn’t help asking, ‘Have you been driving that?’

  Florrie took a deep breath, trying to calm her inner turmoil. ‘Yes. I drive it between here and the field hospital we set up about a mile away. It’s well behind the danger zone.’

  ‘But this isn’t,’ Gervase said bluntly. ‘You shouldn’t be so close to the trenches. How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since the end of April last year.’

  He looked at her in horror. ‘When the battle of Ypres was going on?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s why we came here. Ernst, I mean Dr Hartmann—’ Swiftly, she explained Ernst’s theory and how he’d been proved right. ‘We’ve saved so many more lives, and the men’s suffering.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Gervase said grimly, ‘but you’ve risked your own life.’

  Quietly, Florrie said, ‘Haven’t we all?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s different, you’re—’

  ‘Don’t say it, Gervase. Don’t you dare say, “you’re a woman”.’

  He looked into her eyes and said seriously, ‘I was going to say, “you’re the girl I love, and I can’t bear to think of you in danger”.’

  ‘It’s not so bad. We’re using this house. We cleaned out all the cellars. That’s where the patients are and where the doctors carry out emergency operations. Oh, Gervase, I wish you could see them at work. How clever they are. Especially Dr Hartmann. And we use the kitchen and a couple of the other ground-floor rooms when there’s no shelling going on.’

  Gervase’s face was grim as he was reminded painfully of the reason he was here. ‘Cellars, you say?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘I – we—’

  ‘What is it?’

  He swall
owed painfully. ‘I’ve come on ahead. I came to find you – to warn you. James is being brought here for trial, to – to Poperinghe. And – and they’re looking for somewhere to hold him.’

  For a moment Florrie was confused. And then she understood the awful truth. His jailers would be looking for a suitable ‘cell’ in which to imprison him whilst he awaited his trial. ‘I see,’ she said quietly. ‘And you think they’ll want to use one of our cellars?’

  Gervase nodded. Now he could think of nothing to say.

  ‘So,’ Florrie said bitterly, ‘they want to use the very place where every day for more than a year we’ve tried to save lives to imprison a young boy they intend to execute without even a proper trial?’ When he didn’t answer, she asked, ‘But why here? Why Poperinghe?’

  Gervase’s face was bleak. ‘Because – because there’s an execution post there.’

  Florrie swayed. ‘Oh, my dear Lord!’

  He put his arms around her and held her close again and that was how Ernst Hartmann, coming out of the ruined house to see if Florrie had returned, saw them.

  Thirty-Five

  Ernst’s face was thunderous as Florrie made the brief introductions. Her mind was in a whirl, she scarcely knew what she was saying or doing. Her heart was aching with fear and she felt as if every limb in her body was trembling. Even Gervase was tight-lipped. It seemed as if both men sensed at once that they were rivals. Unwillingly, they shook hands and eyed each other like a pair of fighting cocks.

  ‘What are we to do?’ Florrie whispered, her face in her hands and hardly aware of the unspoken antagonism passing between the two men. She turned to Ernst Hartmann and, haltingly, explained the terrible news that Gervase had brought her, ending by repeating the same unanswerable question. ‘What are we to do?’

  ‘Where is the boy now?’ Ernst asked.

  ‘Being brought here under escort.’

  ‘They want a – a place to keep him in. They – they might want to use one of the rooms in our cellars.’

  Ernst stared at her for a moment, then glanced at Gervase. ‘That’s quite impossible,’ he said curtly. ‘We need all the space for our patients.’

  ‘I’m afraid the major might commandeer it,’ Gervase said quietly, disliking the man before him intensely. Ever perceptive about anything concerning his beloved Florrie, he sensed there was more between them than the mere professional closeness of doctor and nurse. Ernst gave a grunt and turned away. ‘We shall see.’

  Major Grant was not a man to be trifled with. It was he who’d brought the charge against James and he who intended to see that what he believed to be justice should be done and seen to be done. He was already annoyed that it had not been possible to try the boy where his battalion was fighting. He wanted to use the case as an example to the men of what would happen to them if they were even to think of deserting. But circumstances prevented it and he’d been obliged to organize a Field General Court Martial near Ypres, where his men had previously been billeted.

  The following day the major and an escort party arrived, marching James into the cellars. They took him to the far end of the warren of rooms, to a damp and crumbling small space that had not been thought fit to use for patients. Sister Blackstock, Grace, Hetty and Florrie watched in horror to see the young boy’s gaunt, pale face. But he was marching straight-backed, looking neither to right nor left. There was a determined, defiant look – a look that Florrie had never seen before on her brother’s face.

  Sister Blackstock put a restraining hand on Florrie’s arm. But Florrie had no intention of acting hysterically, even though the fear welled up inside her. She wanted to run to James, wrap him in her embrace and hold him safe from harm. But instead she stood dry-eyed, proud and erect. She must act sensibly and rationally if she were to be of any use to him. No one would take any notice of a hysterical woman. But as the three men guarding the prisoner drew closer, Florrie caught her breath and, at her side, she heard Sister Blackstock’s gasp of surprise. One of the escorts was Sergeant Granger. Rosemary Blackstock’s grip tightened. ‘Leave it for now, Florrie,’ she murmured as if already reading what was in the girl’s mind.

  They returned to their patients, where they all had to face a barrage of questions from the men, who’d heard rumours about the impending court martial and that the soldier on trial had been brought here. They’d seen him now, marched past them through the makeshift wards, to his dungeon.

  ‘What’s going on, Nurse?’ ‘What’s happening?’ ‘What’s ’ee done.’ ‘He don’t look old enough to be out here in this lot. It’s them officers that want shooting, nor that poor little bugger.’ On and on the gossip and speculation wrangled until Florrie could stand it no longer. She fled from the cellars. Stepping into the kitchen, she stopped and stared at the three men sitting around the kitchen table. Two were strangers to her, but the one she knew turned his face towards her, the sorrow in his eyes plain to see. He stood up.

  ‘Oh, miss,’ Sergeant Granger said brokenly. ‘I wish there was something I could do . . .’ She saw the helplessness she’d noticed in Gervase’s eyes mirrored in the sergeant’s. She moved slowly towards the table and sat down heavily. The sergeant sat down too. One of the other men rose, his chair making a scraping sound on the flagstones as he pushed it back. He went to the stove and poured a cup of tea. He placed it in front of Florrie. Automatically she murmured, ‘Thank you.’ Then he and the other soldier went outside, leaving Sergeant Granger and Florrie alone.

  She raised stricken eyes to meet his gaze. ‘I want to speak to the major.’

  ‘I don’t think—’ he began.

  ‘I must,’ she cut in. ‘I must try everything possible.’

  He sighed and then nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But the – the court martial is tomorrow.’

  ‘I know and I’ll be there.’

  ‘Oh, miss, I don’t think—’ he said again, but she held up her hand to stop him.

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  The man fell silent. He knew when he was beaten.

  She stood up and, leaning her hands on the table, said, ‘Please take me to the major.’

  Now the sergeant didn’t argue.

  The major was a big, thickset man with a bristling moustache. Florrie guessed him to be in his late forties. His brown hair was thinning and his face was florid, his jowls flabby. His eyes, devoid of any feeling, bored into hers. ‘And what can I do for you, Nurse?’

  Florrie stood before him, thankful that she was not under his command and desperately sorry for those who were. She lifted her chin and faced him squarely. ‘Private Maltby is my brother, and I would like to know what the charge is.’

  ‘Ha-humph,’ the man grunted, stroking his moustache. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I wouldn’t have brought him here if I’d known he had a relative nearby.’

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ Florrie replied tartly. ‘But since you have and I am here, would you have the courtesy to tell me with what he is charged?’

  ‘ “When on active service deserting His Majesty’s Service”,’ the man quoted bluntly.

  ‘And what grounds have you for that assertion?’ She was speaking stiffly and correctly, drawing on every ounce of her upbringing and education to put this pompous major firmly in his place. But the man was a tough nut to crack.

  ‘On the grounds – as you put it, miss – that he was found miles from his unit and thumbing a lift away from the battle zone. He’d deserted his post, thrown away his arms and was,’ his lip curled disdainfully, ‘running away.’

  ‘And has he given any explanation as to the reason for this alleged “desertion”?’

  ‘No. He refuses to say anything, other than to ask for Captain Richards to act as his “friend”.’

  ‘Are witnesses to be called?’

  ‘There are none.’

  She took a step towards him, gratified to see that the major actually blinked in surprise. He’d heard the phrase ‘a formidable woman’, but he’d never actually met one. H
e ruled his own wife and family with the proverbial rod of iron and not one of them dared stand up to him. But to his surprise, he now found himself facing a female who appeared unafraid of him. She had the air of a tigress protecting her young.

  In a soft voice that was even more menacing – and certainly more effective – than hysterical sobbing or pleading would have been, Florrie enquired, ‘And have you asked if there are any witnesses? Have you tried to find out why he was where he was? And what exactly do you mean by “he’d deserted his post”? Where should he have been?’

  ‘He should have been on sentry duty in the support trenches.’

  ‘And has he been questioned as to why he wasn’t?’

  ‘Not yet – but he will be tomorrow.’

  ‘I see. So he was given no chance to explain before the charge was brought against him? By you, I presume?’

  ‘That is correct.’ The major answered her in the same formal manner.

  ‘And has anyone talked to him since? Taken a statement? Or merely listened to him?’

  ‘As I say, he will have ample time tomorrow at his court martial.’

  ‘I see.’ Florrie’s eyes glittered with anger. ‘In a proper court of law, Major, as you well know, the accused is allowed legal representation. His brief is given time to prepare a defence and—’

  ‘There is no defence for a soldier who deserts his post and betrays his fellow men. I wish you good day, Miss Maltby.’

  ‘So, you’re telling me that the only person allowed to speak for him is Captain Richards?’

  Two soldiers came to stand beside her, stamping their feet and coming to attention before the major.

  Major Grant ignored her question and said curtly, ‘Miss Maltby is leaving.’

  And this time Florrie could do nothing but obey.

  The following morning, Florrie stood outside the building in the town of Poperinghe where the court-martial hearing was to be held. At the door, two soldiers barred her way.

  ‘Let me pass,’ she muttered through gritted teeth.

  ‘We have orders, miss, not to let anyone in other than those involved in the trial.’