Song of Songs

by Beverley Hughesdon

  I stared at the empty sky and said abruptly, ‘My fiancé didn’t have a club foot, so he was killed, just after Neuve Chapelle.’

  ‘I am so sorry, Girvan.’

  We walked on together in silence for a while, then she began to talk of the hospital and the other VADs – where they came from and how long each one had been at No. 23. I tried to concentrate on what she was saying.

  We drank coffee together in a small, pretty cafe in Paris-Plage, and the brisk walk back beside the estuary, breathing in the sharp salt air, cheered me up a little. But as we came back over the bridges and saw the great camp with its barbed wire, its endless rows of dull brown huts, its acres of dirty grey bell tents, the clattering unresting railway – it all seemed to press in on me and quench my spirit.

  That night, as Aylmer prayed for her Tom, I lay on the hard army mattress and remembered Gerald – and knew I was no longer the girl he had loved; the war had stolen not only my dear one but also my innocence. I turned my face into my pillow and wept for my lost dreams.

  Over the next ten days we evacuated our patients as soon as they were well enough to stand the journey; they left, jubilant, for Blighty – except for those unlucky few who were ordered instead to the convalescent camp up on the hill. Trainloads of ammunition and guns rumbled through the camp, night and day, while draft after draft of men from the big infantry camp on the hill marched down to the station each morning. The rumours said the offensive would be at Ypres, where so many men had died already. Aylmer was quite calm. ‘God will never desert us, if we trust in Him,’ she said to me one evening.

  I looked at her earnest face and could not help my reply. ‘But presumably there are those who trust Him in Germany, too.’

  She flushed, then said quietly, ‘God is good, Girvan.’

  I envied her her confident faith but I did not share it. I spent my off-duty time writing long and determinedly cheerful letters to Robbie. His replies were briskly reassuring, but I was not reassured.

  The attack was launched on the last day of July, just as the weather changed and the rains began. By the following afternoon the wounded were flooding in. As I came out of the ward to watch the first ambulance of our convoy arrive from the hospital siding I saw Snaps at the wheel. She jumped down to roll up the canvas curtains for the orderlies and saw me. She whispered, ‘I’m sorry, there’s only two – I had to stop at the mortuary to unload the others.’ Her face was so distressed, as if it were her fault, that I found myself replying in a ridiculous attempt at comfort, ‘Never mind – you couldn’t help it. They shouldn’t send them down like that.’

  She shook her head. ‘They say they’ve put the CCSs further up and they’re being shelled – so they have to fill all the trains.’ She dropped the curtains as soon as the men had been carried out, and ran round the front to go and collect another load; a second ambulance backed up and I hurried into the ward.

  By the end of the day the hut was full, and men lay on stretchers down the centre. But next morning the centre aisle was clear again – sufficient men had died in the night, so now everyone could have a bed. One of Aylmer’s texts ran through my head: ‘The Lord will provide’ – and, indeed, the Lord had provided beds. I heard the faint wail of the Last Post sounding from the hillside above – God had given us the cemetery and that was big enough – why, over these last few days had we not seen the gravediggers taking in a new section – digging the deep trenches, ready as the men had marched down from the camp to entrain for the front? Yes, the Lord had provided. I stared at the cleared centre aisle, at the long rows of beds holding pain-racked men – and I began to giggle. Loos, the Somme, Arras – I had seen them all – yes, God was good.

  I slipped away into the kitchen so that I could laugh aloud. I was still laughing when Sister came in, closed the door, raised her hand and slapped me, hard, across the face. I stared at her, stunned. ‘Go back to the ward, Nurse Girvan, and start the dressings on the left-hand side.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ I went.

  But as I prepared the dressings trolley I made my decision – I would not look upon these broken bodies and see them as men – I did not want to suffer any more. From now on they would be objects – parcels to be unwrapped and probed and squeezed and bundled up again. I had no more pity to spare.

  For days I worked like a machine. Some died at once, some were soon fit to be evacuated, others lived on for a week, eyes bright with pain, and then died despite our efforts. I resented these – how dared they waste all our work?

  Once, long ago, I had been frightened when I dressed a wound, frightened that I would not have the courage to cleanse it adequately, to thrust the drainage tube in deep enough – but now they were not men so I was determined and uncompromising, and Sister praised me for my thoroughness. And now I only spoke in the meaningless platitudes of the ward, ‘Not long now, Sonny – hang on’, ‘Turn over, Taffy, soon have you comfortable’, ‘Soon be finished, old man, and then you’ll feel better’ – but I never met their eyes.

  An amputation case had a pocket of pus in his wound and it had to be emptied every day; he whimpered as I came towards him, but I ignored his frightened panting, and as the orderly held his stump steady for me I put my two strong thumbs squarely down on the tender flesh and squeezed as hard as I could. He screamed, and I was annoyed and said sharply, ‘It has to be done – it’s for your own good.’

  Then I moved on to deal with a jaw case. I tugged out the sodden dressing and poured peroxide through his head and out of his ear – he tried to catch my eye, to make contact, but I did not look at him. And at the next bed it was easier as there was no eye, only a gaping socket where it should have been. Swiftly I pulled the rolls of stinking gauze out of the hole, syringed it and pushed the clean dressing through into the cavity behind. I was very quick these days, as quick as Sister, but then I needed to be – there was so much to be done.

  None of the men asked me to write letters for them any more, and I was glad, for we had no time off duty now and after supper I only wanted to write to Robbie. Brief letters still came from him, but he had given up trying to reassure me. He and his men had not gone over the top yet, but I knew from the way he wrote that it would not be long now. And finally a short, mud-stained note arrived one afternoon. It ended: ‘Take care of yourself, Hellie – and remember, I love you.’ My flesh went cold in the clammy mess hut, then I gulped down the rest of my tea, put his message safely into my pocket, and went back to the ward.

  As I rebandaged the Australian corporal in the second bed it was obvious that he was dying; Bourne had put up a strong fight – there was a girl he wanted to get back to in Queensland – but his body had suffered too many wounds. I wondered if he would last out until eight o’clock. If he died after eight then it would be the night staffs responsibility to lay him out – it would be a nuisance if he went earlier because there were still some dressings I must do, and a man was due back from the theatre any minute – and Sister simply had to catch up on her paper work. I pinned the last bandage and turned away from the bed – and a thin hand reached out and caught my skirt. ‘Sister, don’t leave me – I’m frightened.’

  I said briskly, ‘I’m sorry, old man, but the orderlies are just coming back from the theatre.’ I detached his hand and went down the ward to the bed I had prepared. It was another amputation, so as he was being violently sick into the bowl I was holding, I looked to check that the tourniquet was hanging ready from the bed rail. It was – good, everything was quite satisfactory. I went to empty the bowl.

  On my way back from the sluice the Australian opposite Bourne called me over. I went to his bed impatiently. ‘Yes, Walker – what is it?’

  He whispered, ‘Jack Bourne – he’s going, isn’t he?’

  I glanced across at the irrigation in the next bed – what a nuisance, the receiver had overflowed and the bed was wet – we really did not have time to cope with irrigations at the moment, but Captain Adams had insisted we try with this one and now I would have to
change all the bedding.

  ‘Sister, Jack Bourne…?’

  I glanced down at the face in front of me, then my eyes slid away again as I said formally, ‘Corporal Bourne is not very well,’ and turned to go. Suddenly I felt my hand seized in a tight grip – I was jerked down and the man’s unshaven face was only inches from mine as he spat out, ‘You callous bitch!’ Then he threw my hand aside. I backed away, staring at him – then I turned around and half ran down to the linen store. I was shaking.

  I made myself reach up for a sheet – I had a bed to change. But the words reverberated in my ear, and the contempt I had seen in his eyes as he flung my hand away scorched into my brain. I tried to take hold of the sheet, but my hand – the same hand – would not close on it. A man lay dying in pain and fear; a young man who had loved his girl and fought bravely to live and go back to her, but instead he was dying here, thousands of miles from his homeland – and I had not spared him even a single minute. For a moment I hated him for the guilt and pain I felt, then I turned and walked up the ward, found a chair and carried it to his bed and sat down beside him. ‘There, I’m not so busy now – I’ll sit with you a while if I may – and rest my feet!’

  His bloodless lips managed to smile, then he said simply, ‘I’ll not keep you long, Sister.’

  I kept back my tears and my voice was quite calm as I offered, ‘Would you like me to write to your girl at home?’

  He looked up at me in naked defeat. ‘What’s the use? I been thinking this afternoon – remembered what blokes have told me about their wives – not even faithful when they’re married. I used to believe in my Jenny, but now – even if she does cry for me when she gets the cable – I reckon she’ll have forgotten me by the next day.’

  So I had to speak, to tell him. ‘No, Bourne, she won’t. My fiancé was killed more than two years ago now, and I’ve never forgotten, never. I love him still, and I always will.’

  His eyes were fixed on mine and he gave a small sigh as he read the truth in them, and then he whispered, ‘Thank you, Sister. I’d like to think she’d remember me – we’ve been sweethearts a long time. Please write that letter for me – and tell her I loved her.’

  He died just before eight, so Sister and I had to come back after supper to lay him out. I copied the address I needed out of his pocket book; there was her photo there, too – she was not a pretty girl, her nose was too big for that – but her large anxious eyes were trying to smile for her Jack. Back in the hut I began to write:

  ‘Dear Miss Foster, It is with the deepest regret… But at least this time I could tell her the truth: that he had died bravely and with her name on his lips. I hoped it would be some consolation.

  And now they were men again, with faces and personalities and eyes that looked at me for comfort, and I gave them all I could. But as I stood by the bed while Captain Adams told a young cockney that his leg would have to come off and saw the boy’s nostrils quiver like a frightened rabbit’s, and his dry furred tongue trying desperately to moisten his flaking lips so that he could whisper, ‘All right, sir,’ then I wished I was a machine again. But it was too late now.

  A few days later a scribbled note came from Robbie; as I held it in my hand my whole body was shaking with relief. He had survived, but the Colonel and adjutant had both been killed, and my brother wrote that when the battalion had finally been relieved and had lined up for roll call only five officers and a hundred and twenty men had answered to their names – more than five hundred had gone into the attack. ‘And we’ve been luckier than some. The stretcher bearers just can’t cope in these conditions; it’s taking eight of them to carry one man out, and anyone who slips off the duckboards simply disappears into the slime. Still, I know Ralph managed to get back – he was hit in the arm, thank God – so perhaps some of the others have been lucky too. And I’ve still got Sergeant Holden with me; it makes all the difference having an NCO as unflappable as he is, in this kind of show.’ I read that last sentence and was glad – Sergeant Holden had rescued Eddie and brought him back to me, however briefly – surely he would look after Robbie if he were wounded? I clung to the thought as a talisman. But I would not have to worry for a while, because Robbie’s battalion would have to wait for new drafts and a refit before it could go into action again. Surely they could not even be sent to hold the line after such a mauling?

  At the end of August I had a letter from Innes at St Omer. She had written to tell me she was going home on leave, and as soon as she had arrived back she had been transferred, just as I had been. She wrote philosophically of the change, but it was obvious that, like me, she missed Rouen. As I answered her letter I felt glad that she was still in France.

  Early in September we heard that the hospital site at Camiers had been bombed. No. 11 General had suffered badly, medical staff had been killed and wounded and men had received fresh injuries. The men were British soldiers, but the nurses and doctors and orderlies were Americans they had come over ahead of their main armies to tend our wounded, and this was their reward. Camiers was only a few miles away – I wondered uneasily if it would be our turn next; it seemed so unfair that men already wounded should not be safe even in their hospital beds, but the railway that ran through our camp would provide an easy target and it carried supplies and ammunition day and night.

  Some kind of food poisoning was going the rounds of the Sisters’ compound and most of us were affected. Sister and I had to rush out to be sick in a basin in the sluice several times a day, and we discovered that one of the patients was running a book on how often each of us turned green and took to our heels. Sister was disapproving, but I thought it was really rather funny – Tilney and Mac screamed with laughter when I told them – but I knew my face was scarlet every time I came back from the sluice afterwards.

  Then, before we had recovered, the bookmaker was evacuated, along with half of the ward, and after a frantic rush in the morning we were able to relax a little. I was tidying the linen cupboard after lunch when Sister called me out; she was smiling. ‘Nurse Girvan, your brother-in-law is here to see you.’

  ‘Hugh! Oh how nice.’ Then I felt my face fall. ‘But I’m not off until teatime.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that – we’re not busy at the moment – you can finish the linen cupboard tomorrow. Run along now.’

  I thanked Sister and ran. There, outside the hut, was Hugh – Captain Knowles now – looking as kind and solid and dependable as ever. He held out his hand and I clasped it between both of mine. ‘Hugh – how lovely to see you! Are you going on leave?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, Helena – worst luck. The Colonel wanted an officer to come down here to fetch a draft, and as soon as he said Étaples I volunteered – I told him I had a beautiful sister-in-law there and he put me down for the job at once! Now, where would you like to go – can I buy you a nice tea in the village?’

  ‘No – Matron might spot us – we could risk Paris-Plage – but, well, actually Hugh, I’d rather not go anywhere to eat in public. I’ve got a touch of ptomaine poisoning – it’s nothing, we’ve all got it, it’s the weather I think – but I may have to be sick.’

  ‘Poor old Hellie. Then let’s go down and find a quiet spot among the sand dunes.’

  The quiet spot was not really very quiet since we could hear the machine guns clattering away on the Bull Ring, but it was private; Hugh spread out his greatcoat and we sat down on it.

  He said, ‘I suppose you’ve been very busy, down here.’

  ‘Yes, yes, we have. Hugh, we only hear rumours – has anything been gained?’

  Hugh shrugged his square shoulders. ‘We are a bit further forward, but we haven’t got the ridges yet, and that’s what the brass hats are after. I suppose they’re right – Ypres’d be a safer place if we could capture them, but…’

  Ypres, ‘Wipers’. I said, ‘The men – the ones who go to the convalescent camp – they dread the thought of being sent there.’

  ‘So do I, Helena. It’s one vast
charnel house – acre after acre of rotting corpses.’

  My stomach heaved. ‘Excuse me, Hugh.’ I jumped up and stumbled through the sand to be sick in a hollow. Hugh came floundering up beside me and held my shoulders steady. When I had finished he wiped my mouth with his own handkerchief.

  ‘I’m sorry, Hellie – I shouldn’t have spoken like that – how tactless of me.’ His voice was guilty.

  I looked up at him, surprised. ‘Oh, it was nothing to do with what you said, Hugh – I’m always sick about this time in the afternoon – just before tea. I’m very lucky, poor Sister gets it afterwards and wastes all her bread and jam!’ He hugged me tight, and as I leant gratefully against his broad chest I said, ‘But it is good of you to take care of me like this, Hugh – most men would run a mile.’

  He replied simply, ‘I can remember what Alice was like when she was carrying the boys.’

  He led me back to his greatcoat and we sat down again. I slipped my arm through his and said warmly, ‘What a nice brother-in-law you are, Hugh!’

  His face reddened and he looked pleased, then he suddenly said, ‘I have tried to be, Hellie, but once – I don’t know whether I did the right thing by you – perhaps…’ I stared at him; I could not imagine what he was talking about. He took out his pipe and began to fiddle with it, then he turned and smiled at me. ‘It doesn’t matter, Hellie – that was a long time ago. But I did my best, I really did.’

  He looked so anxious that I said quickly, ‘Of course you did, Hugh – always.’

  We sat and chatted together, easily and comfortably, and then it was time to go back. He walked me to the hospital entrance and bent to kiss me goodbye. Then he said abruptly, ‘Helena – I told you – this show’s not going too well – in fact it’s a bloody shambles up there. So if anything happens to me, will you write and tell Alice that I loved her? I know I wasn’t fit to black her boots but I loved her, I always did.’