by Peggy Savage
They sent in their applications, and they waited. Helen was impatient. ‘Why don’t we hear? I’ve told Peter that we’re coming.’ At last, at the end of August, the letters came. They had both been accepted. Amy wrote to her father and to Johnny.
They packed their meagre belongings. They spent an afternoon saying goodbye to Paris. They went to Nôtre Dame, the Place de la Concorde, the Place de l’Opera. The statues and monuments were surrounded by even more layers of sandbags.
‘I’m going to come back after the war,’ Helen said. ‘I shall get Peter to bring me. We’ll stay at our hotel and be proper tourists.’
Amy laughed. ‘I’ll come with you.’
They bought more toilet soap and some perfume. ‘I think we might need this,’ Helen said, ‘if what we’re told about Étaples is anything to go by.’ They went to Printemps and bought sturdy boots and mackintoshes and several sets of warm underwear. Winter in a hut was a chilling prospect.
They said their goodbyes in Paris and took the train, crowded as usual, and arrived in Étaples in the late afternoon. The station was packed with wounded men waiting for trains to take them to Paris or to Boulogne and then a boat back to England and home.
They made their way out of the station. It was raining and the roads were thick with mud.
‘God,’ Helen said, ‘if it’s like this in August what is November going to be like?’
They left their bags at the station to be collected and walked to the camp. Long rows of huts came into view with sand hills and sparse grass here and there between them. The railway line ran alongside the huge camp between the huts and the sea and the road to Camiers ran close by.
As they drew nearer they heard a constant rumbling sound, the sound of traffic on the road. They watched in growing horror. The road was packed with troops and lorries and ambulances. Many of the wounded were on foot, men who looked half alive, eyes empty and faces drained of everything but the supreme effort of making it to the camp. Wounded men helped others more injured than themselves. Many were on makeshift crutches. Many were without boots, their feet wrapped in ragged bits of cloth.
Helen clutched Amy’s arm. ‘Oh, Amy,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘I knew it was bad, but I never imagined anything like this.’
They walked through the endless rows of huts, looking for the hospital they were to join. Here and there a few flowers bloomed, a few daisies or a brave rose. They found their hospital and reported to the matron, a small, round woman with a steely eye. ‘Settle yourselves in,’ she said, ‘and report to me in the morning.’
They were led to the small hut that was to be their home. They looked around.
‘Goodness,’ Helen said. ‘Matron in Paris didn’t exaggerate, did she?’
The hut had two beds, a table and two hard chairs, a cupboard for each of them and a few nails hammered into the wall appeared to be all there was of a wardrobe.
‘Real home from home,’ Helen said.
Amy hung her dripping raincoat on one of the nails. ‘A bit closer to reality,’ she said grimly.
Helen grinned. ‘A bit closer to Peter, anyway.’
They felt, rather than heard, a distant deep, vibrating rumbling, and the hut gave an almost imperceptible shake.
Helen paused from her unpacking, a pair of boots in her hand. ‘What on earth’s that?’
The rumbling came again. ‘It’s guns,’ Amy said. ‘Heavy guns, a long way away.’
Helen said nothing, just pressed her lips together and put her boots in the cupboard.
The next morning they reported to Matron. ‘I see that you both have some experience,’ she said. ‘That’s good. I’ve assigned you to the theatre, Miss Osborne. Report to Theatre Sister.’
Helen, to her shock and surprise, was assigned to the German ward. ‘Germans?’ she said, unable to hide her reluctance.
‘They are patients,’ Matron said sharply, ‘just like everyone else, and most of them are very ill. You will treat them the same as our own men.’
‘Of course,’ Helen said quietly. ‘Of course I will.’ Later on, in their hut, she was still disappointed. ‘The German Ward! Really!’
‘We had Germans in Paris,’ Amy said.
Helen sighed. ‘Not a whole ward full.’
They are just men, Amy thought, caught up in this mess like everyone else. The propaganda about the Germans had been relentless. They were accused of doing appalling things, murdering prisoners, murdering woman and babies, looting and raping. Some of it might well be true. Hatred, she thought, is a powerful tool. Hatred of the enemy and patriotism and love of one’s country were weapons more powerful than the guns. Why else would any man go through this? ‘Even if what we’re told is true,’ she said, ‘they won’t be in any condition to do anything.’
‘I suppose not,’ Helen said, ‘but I’ll be on my guard.’
Amy reported to theatre and was given her duties. She was appalled by what she saw, injuries and wounds more dreadful than anyone could imagine, rows and rows of men in the huts and tents, waiting patiently for their turn, blood everywhere, pus-soaked bandages, a bin in theatre almost full of body parts.
She and Helen fell into bed that night, exhausted. ‘How was it?’ Amy asked.
Helen sighed, ‘Just what Matron said. They’re all too ill to speak. One of them died today. He was only nineteen.’ She paused for a moment. ‘How was theatre?’
‘Dreadful. The men are so patient, waiting and waiting their turn. There just aren’t enough surgeons.’
‘There isn’t enough anything.’
‘There’s a proper X-ray department,’ Amy said. ‘A permanent one. That’s a real boon.’ The X-ray department had been a very pleasant surprise. She was also delighted to see that blood transfusion was being used quite commonly. ‘They’re giving blood transfusions too,’ she said. ‘Using citrated blood.’
‘What’s that?’ Helen said sleepily.
‘The citrate stops the blood clotting,’ Amy said. ‘So they can store it for a little while and transport it. It means the donor doesn’t actually have to be there.’
‘I don’t know how you know all these things,’ Helen said. Then her voice brightened. ‘I went to see Matron again. She says that I can meet Peter, seeing that we are engaged. She says we can meet at the mess hut for a cup of tea, but she wants you to be there as chaperon.’
‘Chaperon?’ Amy said. ‘I thought those days had gone.’
‘Not here,’ Helen said. ‘She’s very strict. No hanky-panky.’ She paused. ‘I expect he’ll bring Dan if he can.’
Amy laughed. ‘Captain Fielding, you mean,’ she said. ‘We’re strictly on official terms in theatre. Absolutely no first names. It’s supposed to give a bad impression to the patients.’
‘Captain Fielding, then.’ Helen turned over and yawned. ‘Got to sleep. Good night.’
Amy woke early the next day. She had been dreaming about Johnny, about flying with him over the peaceful fields of England. It seemed a million miles away.
She had known since they arrived that she would be seeing Dan. She realized that Helen was right and she would have to tell him about Johnny, but how? He had never actually made an approach to her. It would be presumptuous of her to assume that he ever would. It could be very embarrassing for them both. Helen seemed to be convinced that he cared for her, but she might well be wrong.
Over dinner with Helen she said, ‘How am I going to tell Dan about Johnny? I can’t just blurt it out, “Oh by the way, Dan, I’m involved with someone else”. It might be dreadfully embarrassing. He might have someone else himself.’
‘I know how to do it,’ Helen said. ‘Why don’t you just wear your sweetheart brooch. He’s bound to see it, and then he would know.’
‘It’s an idea,’ Amy said. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Their tea took place a few days later. Helen put up her hair with great care and pinched her cheeks to give them some colour.
Amy laughed. ‘You look as if you’re getting
ready for a deb’s ball.’
‘I do my best,’ Helen said. ‘I haven’t seen him for weeks.’
Amy opened the little jeweller’s box. She took out the brooch and looked at it for a few moments. Then she pinned it to her uniform. It seemed the best way.
They walked to the mess hut, skirting the puddles. There was no one else in the hut. Peter arrived first. Helen blushed pink and threw her arms around him. Amy smiled and sat down at the far end of the hut, giving them as much privacy as she could.
Dan arrived soon afterwards. He smiled broadly when he saw her and came to sit next to her. He took her hand. ‘Hello, Amy,’ he said. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’
‘And you, Dan,’ she said. He was looking at her with eyes full of unmistakable pleasure and affection. He pressed her hand gently.
A stray ray of sunshine came through the window and caught her brooch and the diamond must have gleamed. Dan looked down and stared at it for a moment, his face puzzled and shocked. ‘Sweetheart wings?’ he stammered. He let go of her hand.
Amy looked at him directly, desperately not wanting to hurt him, but knowing now that it couldn’t be avoided.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I have a friend in the Flying Corps.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘I see,’ he said at last. ‘I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me.’ He looked away, out of the window. ‘Are you engaged to him, Amy?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not exactly.’
He looked back at her. She could see in his face the conscious effort he was making to hide his feelings, to suppress his disappointment. ‘I’m glad you have someone … to care for you,’ he said.
She wanted to touch him, to tell him she was sorry, that she had never meant to hurt him, that he was a good man and a good friend.
His face closed down to a normal friendly expression. ‘How are you getting on here?’
‘I’m working in theatre again,’ she said.
‘I shall be seeing you now and again then.’ He looked across the room to where Helen and Peter were murmuring together. ‘Your friend. What is his name?’
‘Johnny Maddox,’ she said.
‘How did you meet?’
‘He was one of the wounded that I picked up in the ambulance, and then he was a patient at the hospital.’
‘I see.’ He got up. ‘Must get back to work. I expect I’ll see you about. I’m glad about Helen and Peter.’ He walked away and left the hut.
She sat alone, looking out of the window. She knew now that she had underestimated his feelings and she was unhappy that she had hurt him. It was the last thing she wanted. But she was glad she had told him the truth. She was so tired of secrets. She would tell Johnny everything as soon as she possibly could. She wanted her life to be open and free again.
The Battle of the Somme ground on. The chaos was uncontained. The wounded poured in; through September and November there was no respite. Helen, to her relief, was transferred to one of the British surgical wards where they were desperate for staff. Sometimes they worked for several weeks without even a half-day’s rest. The rain became almost constant and the mud almost ankle deep. ‘God,’ Helen said, ‘it’s like treacle.’ The war seemed to have produced a special kind of mud, sucking and cloying. The wounded staggered in, coated from head to foot, feet rotting from standing in trenches half filled with water. Their stories were dreadful, of wounded men drowning in mud and filthy water in shell holes. Men lay in beds or on the floor in huts and tents waiting for surgery. Their patience broke Amy’s heart. The surgeons, exhausted, moved from one operating table to another, often from one theatre to another. The patient would be anaesthetized and prepared so as not to waste time, and the surgeon would rush in, scrub up again, and perform the next surgery. Sometimes, by the time they got there, it was already too late.
Amy saw Dan frequently. They met in theatre with time only to nod to each other. He never sought her out at any other time. If ever they met by chance apart from work he was carefully polite and distant. He looked as all of them did, ready to drop, often unshaven and wearing crumpled clothes he might have slept in. The work was relentless. All of them worked doggedly on, snatching meals or a cup of tea or a few hours’ sleep whenever they could. The surgeons often worked sixteen or seventeen hours a day, snatched a meal and slept. Sometimes it was even longer.
Amy was given more and more work in theatre; there could never be enough staff to deal with the endless tide of the wounded. Each time there was another push on the Somme the road was crammed and the noise of lorries and ambulances never ceased, night or day.
Even after the Somme offensive stopped in the middle of November, there was no respite. Christmas came, and poor and hopeless efforts to celebrate. The news came in. There had been more than 400,000 British casualties, and all for nothing. There was still stalemate.
Amy found herself becoming more and more tense. She felt like a volcano that was about to erupt. She would stand beside the operating table with Sister, waiting for the surgeon to arrive, knowing that men were often dying simply because they had to wait; that while they were waiting they bled to death. Every day she could feel more and more that a violent rage was rising within her, a rage that it was almost impossible to contain. The waste of her skills and training seemed like a crime against humanity, a crime against these dying men. She knew that one day it would overcome her. One day it would come to a head.
On Christmas Eve she stood beside Sister in theatre. The patient, anaesthetized, lay on the table between them. They were expecting Dan at any moment. On the table, the man’s abdomen was split open. Covered with a loose, wet dressing, a piece of shattered small intestine protruded from the wound, leaking blood and body fluids. He was deathly pale with blood loss and shock. The seconds ticked by. In the theatre there was a tense, anxious silence. Somewhere outside they could hear a few voices singing ‘Silent Night’.
‘Where’s Captain Fielding?’ Sister said unhappily.
An orderly put his head around the door. ‘The doctor’s been delayed a bit,’ he said. ‘He’ll be a minute or two.’
‘He’s going to die,’ Sister said. ‘It can’t wait any longer.’
Quite suddenly Amy was filled with an extraordinary calm. It was as if a light had been turned on inside her. Her rage and frustration fled away. She knew now what she would do.
‘Sister,’ she said. She looked her in the eye. ‘I haven’t told you or anyone here the truth. I am a doctor, a surgeon. I can’t explain it all to you now but I am going to do this surgery, at once. If I don’t, he is going to die.’ She reached over to the sister’s tray and took the clamps. She placed them carefully over the intact ends of the shattered intestine.
For a moment Sister seemed too astonished to move, her eyes wide behind her mask. Then she gave a wail. ‘No, Miss Osborne. Stop at once! Whatever are you doing? Don’t touch him!’
Amy ignored her. She took a scalpel and cut out the shreds of intestine, clipping off the bleeding vessels, and dropped the bits of intestine into a dish. Amy didn’t look at her, concentrating on what she was doing. ‘I’ve told you, Sister. I am a surgeon. I know what I’m doing and I’ve done this before. If you try to stop me you’ll be responsible for his death.’ The anaesthetist was staring at her, his eyes also wide with astonishment.
Amy held out her hand. ‘Hand me a suture,’ she said firmly. ‘Now. There is no time to lose.’
Sister hesitated for a moment, obviously not knowing what to do, but she picked up the suture. Amy took it from her. She began to stitch one side of the two ends of gut together. Sister watched her, hovering and undecided, but she seemed to realize that Amy really did know what she was doing. She seemed to make up her mind and held the retractors to expose the gut. Silently Amy stitched the ends of the gut together. The door opened suddenly and Dan came in.
‘Captain Fielding….’ Sister began, her voice uncertain.
Dan came to the table and stood beside her. ‘What on earth?’ he said. ‘Miss
Osborne, what on earth do you think you are doing?’
‘Repairing the gut,’ Amy said quietly. ‘As I have done before. Otherwise he would have died.’ She could feel him beside her, tense and undecided, not knowing what to do. She went on with the surgery. He could hardly fight her over the patient. He couldn’t snatch her hand away as she was stitching. She began to stitch the other side of the gut. She glanced at him and he was watching her intently. ‘I am not Amy Osborne, Dan, I mean, Captain,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I’ve had to deceive you. I am Amy Richmond. Perhaps you will understand now.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
1916
‘AMY Richmond?’ Dan sounded utterly puzzled. She glanced at him briefly. He was looking at her as if she were crazy.
She finished stitching the gut. She could feel Dan standing beside her tensely, hands hovering, ready to take over at any moment. The anastomosis looked neat and secure. ‘I think that will do,’ she said. She quickly examined the rest of the abdomen for any further injuries. All the other organs seemed to be intact. ‘I think we can close up now.’
‘Amy Richmond?’ Dan said slowly, as if a light were slowly dawning.
‘Doctor Amy Richmond,’ Amy said.
‘You mean you were the doctor who was—?’
‘Yes,’ She interrupted him hurriedly, concentrating on what she was doing. ‘That’s me. Perhaps I can just finish this before he suffers any more shock. I’ll explain later.’ Sister and the anaesthetist were silent, but the atmosphere crackled with their curiosity.
‘Yes,’ Dan said. ‘It looks fine. Close him up.’
Carefully, and in silence, Amy closed up the peritoneum, leaving in a drain to remove any infected fluids that might gather inside. She closed the abdominal muscles and then the skin. She put on a dressing, then at last she turned and looked at Dan. He was still staring at her, still looking almost unbelieving.
He seemed to collect himself and turned to Sister. ‘He can go back to the ward now, Sister. Fluids only by mouth.’ He turned back to Amy. ‘You did a good job, Miss Osborne,’ he said. ‘But I think I’d better take over now. We’ll get on with the rest of the list, Sister. Let’s have the next patient.’
