As he watched her, Douglas said, “I have a castle in Wales called Caernarvon.”
“You don’t say,” Sheila said casually.
“I do say,” he said. “I’d love for you to be my princess and come home with me.”
She flashed him a warm, playful smile. “I just accepted a proposal from King George, himself, an hour ago. I can’t possibly disappoint his Highness for fear of losing my head.”
He let out a loud laugh, “A good choice, he has far more gold than I.”
She winked at him and moved on to the next patient. Sheila recalled what her ward doctor had told her one day as he watched her engage the injured men: “A pretty nurse is fine medicine.” She knew she had to maintain her upbeat demeanor. She also knew that some men would never fully recover, while others would recover only to be sent out to the battlefield again. Everyday a new crop of wounded would replace those leaving; their bodies torn apart by war and then patched back together again just as those before them.
Sheila had been in France nearly six months now. It didn’t seem possible. When the fall semester had ended at Queens University, she had joined the nurse corps. After a short indoctrination, she was sped to the Western Front where her services were sorely needed.
Although she was remarkably outgoing and made friends with ease, she missed her pipers and drummers terribly. Several times a week Sheila would take time out to play her pipes for the patients, doctors, and fellow nurses. Entertainment was a scarce and valued commodity that would serve to take one’s mind off of the ugly realities of war. It had a valuable recuperative quality that was totally lost on the head nurse who believed Sheila’s playing to be completely unladylike and undignified.
At times the weight of caring for others who were so desperately damaged and whose young futures had been so irrevocably dashed was too much for her to bear. She would be overcome with deep despair. It was a feeling that would have prompted most other people to run away and cry, but Sheila was not one for tears. She would subdue these feelings by playing her pipes and dropping deeply into the pipers’ trance. This would blank out everything around her as she totally immersed herself in her music.
There were a total of one thousand beds in the 5th Canadian Stationary Hospital and, thanks to the relentless fighting on the western front, the beds were almost always occupied.
Infection and gangrene were the enemies of the severely injured. The doctors and nurses relied heavily on iodine, alcohol, sulphur, ointments and, most of all, the individual’s healthy immune system. Antibiotics had not been discovered yet, of course, but had they been available they would have reduced the number of post battlefield deaths enormously. Ultimately it boiled down to the person’s ability to recuperate and a cheerful nurse could only help.
Sheila worked with those that were recovering, but for those that were not expected to survive there was a select ward. It was a sad and horrible place, referred to as “the ward for the hopeless.” As is inferred by the name, it was the place where those who had no chance for recovery were taken when nothing more could be done for them.
Most of the wounded in Ward 51 were acutely aware when an orderly came to wheel a patient out to that place. The ward always fell silent and somber as the unlucky man was being moved. God forbid, the patient was conscious because, if he were, he knew that his young life was soon to end. The look of desperation and fear on that patient’s face as he was wheeled out would haunt all who witnessed his exit for the rest of their lives.
There were very few that would beat the odds and return from the ward for the hopeless, but, from time to time, it would happen. When one did it would provide a spark of hope to those being wheeled out of the recovery ward. The job of the nurses was to make those who “were being given up on” as comfortable as possible which usually meant morphine.
Morphine was widely and liberally used because, frankly, it worked. It would subdue the worst pain and provide a feeling of euphoria. The downside of the drug was that it would slow down the patient’s metabolism and, if given in regular and sufficient amounts, could stop the respiratory system resulting in death. Since this was what was awaiting most of the men that entered that ward, the odds of the patient spontaneously recovering became even slimmer in as much as their natural ability to fight for life was compromised by the negative effects of the drug.
Morphine was commonly used by field medics to ease the agony of those who were wounded beyond the point of saving, a humanitarian practice that would allow the soldier to quietly slip away. Doctors, likewise, would look the other way and use the drug for “humane” purposes in the ward for the hopeless.
If Sheila had a dollar for every morphine shot she had administered, she could comfortably retire.
There was one patient with whom Sheila had become quite intrigued, almost infatuated with. He was a mystery and she loved a good mystery. Maybe in his mid-twenties, he was about six foot, quite handsome, and had a strong build. He had been in the 5th Canadian Hospital since they returned from Galipolli about a year earlier. Some of the senior nurses claimed that he was found in a convent near the front. The nuns had taken him in and nursed him along, but were unable to bring him out of the coma in which he persisted. After exhaustive care for many months and endless prayers, they realized that he was beyond their capabilities and alerted a nearby clearing station who promptly took charge of him.
He had been found in a trench and because he was thought dead his tunic and boots had been stolen. It was determine that he was a soldier for the commonwealth but his cold meat tags were gone so his identity remained a mystery.
The injury that had befallen him was a serious head wound and it was a miracle that he had survived at all. It had, however, rendered him completely unconscious in a semi-comatose state. He had stabilized in that persistent state with no improvement so the doctors were inclined to focus their attention on those who were responding and all but ignored the mystery patient.
On two separate occasions he had developed a fever that was thought to be due to infection so they put him in the ward for the hopeless to die. But, because he was comatose, there was no need to morph him up so his metabolism was not impeded by the drug. Miraculously, he spontaneously recovered both times.
Sheila had taken interest in this fighter and spent much of her free time tending to him. One doctors’ observation to Sheila was that his brain sustained damage but not so severe that he would never recover. His reflexes and survival instinct gave hope. When drink was put to his mouth he would swallow, when soft food was spooned into his mouth he would ingest it and masticate with no problem.
Sheila made him her project. She even named him “Bully” after the canned beef issued to the B.E.F. He seemed capable of eating massive quantities of the substance that most other patients and soldiers complained about. In fact, his appetite was greatly responsible for his being alive at all.
Several of the concerns that must be addressed in dealing with a non-ambulatory, bed-ridden patient are muscle atrophy, joint calcification, and tendons tightening. The patient must be moved regularly. Their arms, legs, neck, and back must be moved through as full a range of motion as is physically possible.
Sheila knew this and would work on Bully several times a day. The regular movement of the young man also prevented bed sores which could become quite severe in patients such as Bully. She would even wheel his bed outside to provide him with some fresh air and sunshine, often taking the opportunity to play the pipes for the other patients while Bully was getting his sun and air.
One doctor had warned her about getting too involved with any patient especially one with such a dismal prognosis. She knew he was right, but couldn’t seem to turn her back on this unknown young man.
“He’s somebody’s son,” she said in answer to the doctor’s warnings.
As she was on break, deep in thought, and pulling and twisting Bully’s arms and legs, a thought came to her.
“Perhaps I should have named you Lazarus,�
� she muttered to him. “After all, you came back from the ward for the hopeless twice.”
She flexed his wrists and fingers. “No. That would sound stupid. Lazarus. Who would want to be called Lazarus? Bully is better.” She moved his head from side to side. She needed this man because he represented a spark of hope where despair, pain, and suffering were the norm. He had to recover. She was too deeply involved.
A doctor tapped her on her shoulder snapping her out of her thoughts. “A train of injured just arrived,” he said. “They will be here any minute. We may need extra help in the OR and, most certainly, after they’re patched together you’ll be very busy.”
“Thanks for the warning,” she said in an uncustomarily cheerless voice. “Did you inform Sister Kathleen?”
“I was hoping you would take care of that for me,” he said in a slightly apologetic tone.
“Thanks,” Sheila said sarcastically, as she turned to get a clean apron that would soon be covered with blood. “I’ll take care of it,” she said over her shoulder.
Most of the senior nurses were sisters, that is, they were nuns. The British matrons, as they were sometimes called, were inducted into the medical corps as majors. The Canadian nurses were lieutenants and, although they were not nuns, they retained the title “sister nurse.”
The matrons were wonderful, selfless ladies, devoted to their calling and a pleasure to work with. There were some matrons, however, that were bitter old hags, hell bent on making a miserable situation far more intolerable and leaning heavily on their rank to do so.
Major Sister Kathleen Blighton–or as Sheila and her fellow coworkers called her “Major pain in the ass”–was one of those miserable matrons. Her nastiness and bitterness was so overwhelming that it seemed to manifest itself upon her physically. She was not a pleasant person to behold, thin and ungainly with a large nose and several moles strewn about her face. She had a classic witch face that seemed to be in perfect keeping with her demeanor.
Sister Kathleen would ferret out the weak or mild mannered nurses and hound them relentlessly. She had the mark of a true bully. To her it was more than just some sick game. It was her passion to persecute those under her charge. Sister Kathleen had been at the 5th Canadian Stationary slightly longer than Sheila and, when they met, there had been an instant dislike by both parties.
They were polar opposites, and neither one tried to keep it a secret. Sheila was there to relieve pain and Sister Kathleen was there to inflict it.
Sister Kathleen immediately made her rank known at their first meeting, and began to intimidate and humiliate Sheila and her coworkers. Sheila knew how to handle someone like the sister and calmly complied with all of the orders that were intended to rattle her. That lack of emotion only served to make Sister Kathleen more resolute in her effort to upset Sheila, which in turn made Sheila more steadfast in keeping herself in check.
Sister Kathleen seemed to be unable to jar Sheila’s resolve, and things would have continued to escalate had it not been for the keen observations of the chief physician. He had seen the conflict go on too long. It was beginning to disrupt his ward.
“If you two can’t work together here, I can send you both up to the front to work in a clearing station for the ambulance corps,” he told them one afternoon.
Sister Kathleen, having very little common sense, replied coldly that she should be able to order her nurses in the manner that she deemed appropriate.
The doctor glared at her. “I can have those orders drafted up today and you will be at the front before weeks end,” he said acidly. “You’ll find that there isn’t time for this kind of nonsense when you are up to your eyeballs in death and dying.”
Sister Kathleen, used to having the final word, struggled to hold back further protests. The doctor stared icily at the pair as he waited for a confirmation that the feud would end.
“Very well, doctor,” Sheila said quietly, with her eyes fixed on the floor.
Sister Kathleen’s eyes darted from the doctor to Sheila and back to the doctor, whose stare was fixed on her now with greater intensity. The last place she wanted to be was on the Front in harm’s way.
“Why, of course, doctor,” she finally said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have nurses that need my direction.”
She spun on her heel to leave, pausing only long enough to whisper to Sheila. “You are wasting your time with that hopeless vegetable of yours.”
THE ROAD TO SOMME FOR THE 1ST NEWFOUNDLAND
Terry, Dan, and George had assimilated into the 1st Newfoundland Regiment with little difficulty. Their hosts were pleasant, likeable people who were easy to talk to, and they had openly and genuinely accepted the Canadians into their regiment unreservedly.
The Newfoundlanders were ruggedly built Nordic types, with a heritage that might suggest they would ravage, rape, and plunder as their distant ancestors did, but nothing could be further from the truth. They were gallant soldiers and fierce fighters on the field of battle, but on a personal level, they were totally without aggression and the boys found them to be quite charming. They had an open appreciation for the pipes and drums, even though the instruments were not commonly familiar to the average Newfoundlander.
Consisting of eight hundred men, the 1st Newfoundland Regiment was one of four brigades that made up the four thousand strong British 29th Division. A part of the 1st Newfoundland Regiment had been in place on the Somme Front for three months waiting for Haige’s Big Push, but now the entire regiment would be called on.
Mess was over and the call to make ready for deployment was given, so the men scurried back to disassemble their tents and pack their equipment for the long train ride.
Most of the men knew the drill and went about their designated tasks. The small pipe band, however, was new to the drill and simply tried not to get in the way of the rest of the 29th Division.
They were to board a train located south of camp. Colonel Kelton asked the band to lead the division on a march to the waiting transportation. Terry gladly accepted the request and they took position in front of the large formation. Kelton looked back down the rows of men and gave an order to form up and dress right. The soldiers shuffled slightly so as to form straight lines using the man furthest to their right as the lines base. The men now stood at the ready in clearly defined straight lines.
With the trio in position, Terry turned back toward the men and yelled the order: “Mark time by the rolls, step off to the street beat.”
The order was relayed down the line by officers standing to the right of the formation. Then Terry yelled, “By the right, quick, March!”
Dan began the drum rolls and the formation began to march in place. When Dan started the street beat, four thousand men took their first steps toward the Battle Somme.
The 29th Division marched past the smoking steam engine and stopped about midway down the 25 boxcars that were lined up behind it. It was the first of two trains of equal size. The forward two cars were regular passenger cars intended for the senior officers. The remaining twenty-three cars were standard box cars with a sign affixed to the doors: “30 MEN/15 HORSES.”
The men were counted by rows and then assigned a car number. It became clear at once that the thirty-man limit sign was there for show only, and that they intended to cram as many men into the cars as was possible.
Terry was certain that there must have been 80 to 90 per car. “I hope they don’t intend to put 15 horses in with us,” he quipped.
Dan sat on a bale of hay next to several fellows trying to perch on the same bale. “If they do, I’m walking!” he replied.
The heat of so many men packed into one place created a very uncomfortable environment that was thankfully reversed by the cooling of the evening. The doors were left opened and a breeze produced by the moving train was a welcome relief.
The noise of the spartan freight cars, as they rattled and clanked down the rails, made conversation strained by the requirement to yell to be heard. Because of this,
conversation died off and the men sat quietly thinking about family, home, or nothing at all. Many just allowed themselves to be entranced by the hypnotic clanking of the wheels on the rails.
Darkness had fallen over France and the countryside faded to a soft blur of dimly lit farmhouses and villages. The men slept, leaning on each others shoulders, with their heads rocking back and forth to the swaying of the boxcar. A few men were speaking as quietly as possible, which was considerably louder than normal due to the noise.
Terry looked around the car at his new comrades and marveled at how at ease they seemed. Few appeared to be apprehensive at the thought of the coming battle. He rose and made his way over to the opened door. A small line of men had formed to urinate out the door, which was quite a stunt considering they had to lean out while holding onto the door with one hand and their “Johnson” with the other.
Because of the wind from the moving train, and the inevitability of spray-back, no one sat near the downwind side of the door. Terry hiked his kilt and leaned out to relieve himself. As he hung out the door urinating, his kilt began to flap in the breeze getting too close to the stream and he shifted to try to prevent his kilt from getting soaked. Just then, the boxcar swayed and Terry began to lose his balance. Before he tumbled out of the opening a large hand firmly grabbed the waist belt of his kilt saving him from an embarrassing and possibly dangerous tumble down the tracks.
“We can’t be losing our pipe major,” Dan smiled. “I’m next, spot me will you?”
It was about two o’clock in the morning, and the only light visible from the boxcar door was that of the occasional floating ember in the smoke trail of the engine. Off in the distance, to the east over the dark countryside, they could see the flashes of some far off thunderstorms.
The Last Lady from Hell Page 14
