Poppy in the Field

by Mary Hooper

  ‘You know it’s important in a war to maintain morale,’ he said.

  ‘So they say . . .’

  ‘Well, I think I should borrow a car to take you for a spin and get you out of Sister’s way.’

  Poppy smiled. She’d never been for a ‘spin’ before. It was the sort of thing that affluent couples did: went for a spin into the country, to the seaside or for a picnic. She shook her head, however. ‘That’s very kind, but as Sister never fails to remind us, nursing staff are not allowed to dally with the doctors.’ She thought a moment then added, ‘Or the patients, or the locals, or anyone really. We’re either on duty, or have to stay in our rooms and darn our stockings.’

  Michael Archer raised his eyebrows. ‘British nurses must not stray from the path of righteousness!’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Poppy said. ‘What about British doctors?’

  ‘Doctors,’ he said, ‘are allowed a little more leeway.’ He touched Poppy’s arm lightly. ‘I go now in search of eggs! I’ll call in and see you one day. Ward 5, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Please don’t!’ Poppy said in alarm. ‘Sister Shrew will have hysterics.’

  But he just winked at her and went on down the street with his canvas bag.

  Chapter Seven

  The Pantiles,

  Mayfield,

  Herts

  12th March 1916

  My dear Poppy,

  I was so proud to receive your letter and to hear that you’d decided to nurse in France. I am sending this letter care of Devonshire House and I’m sure it will find you.

  I have been feeling rather low lately, but your news gave me such a boost. If you were here, I expect you would ask me why I was feeling low and I think I would probably answer that it’s because I haven’t got a lot to do. We’ve been more or less promised that women will be granted the vote (heaven be praised!) when this damnable war ends, so it doesn’t seem worthwhile expending energy on that particular fight, which is almost won.

  My other occupation, the giving out of white feathers, has also come to a halt. You will know that conscription has started so that a great deal more men are now going off to fight, but I’ve begun to wonder (I’m going to be perfectly honest here) if I ever should have demanded that other women’s sons sacrifice their lives when I have no sons of my own to lose.

  I will tell you about something which happened to me which is much on my mind. Some months back, I approached two young men at a charity function. They were brothers and both said they were in reserved occupations – one a carpenter, the other a glazier. Knowing that they hadn’t volunteered to fight, I spoke to them sternly for some minutes, asking if they thought it was right that other young men of their own age should be in the trenches in appalling conditions, while they stayed at home in safety. Finding out their address, the next day I sent them each a white feather.

  This was about eight months ago and I didn’t think much more about it, but just two weeks back I was woken early in the morning by a woman hammering at my door. It was the mother of these two boys, quite hysterical, telling me that one son had been hit by a mortar and no trace of him remained, the other had his arms blown off by a grenade and died of trauma and blood loss. On the same day!

  It was a terrible shock for me, but, of course, nothing compared to how it was for that poor woman. She was accompanied by her sister, who had to interpose herself between us, or I believe the bereaved woman would have actually attacked me.

  Since then I’ve been thinking very deeply about the giving out of feathers and have decided not to continue. I still think everyone ought to fight for their country and defend what is theirs, but they must decide this for themselves.

  I am taking a back seat and joining a comforts group – yes, one of those enclaves of upper-class women I so despised! Perhaps you will find an assortment of knitted scarves on their way to you very soon. Please don’t worry about writing often – I know how busy you must be and the important thing is caring for the men, our brave soldiers.

  Yours with affection,

  Enid Luttrell

  Receiving this letter, Poppy got one of the postcards she’d bought and, deciding not to mention either white feathers or her troubles with Sister, gave Miss Luttrell her new address at the hospital and said that things were going well for her in France. She added a PS to ask that, if possible, the comforts group might knit some warm bedsocks for the boys in her ward, for those who were immobile – particularly those with only one leg – tended to suffer terribly with aches and cold in the limb which remained.

  *

  The doctors and consultants did a round of the hospital wards every day, usually after dinner and before the boys had their afternoon nap. This meant all the patients had to be fed, watered and tidied by one o’clock, leaving no trace of trays, bowls or food debris to sully the pristine condition of the ward and bring down the wrath of Sister Shrew. On the arrival of the medical officers, Sister would glide down the centre of the ward (like a luxury liner, Poppy wrote to tell Matthews) accompanied by a nurse on each side, with a convoy of doctors bringing up the rear.

  While this little ceremony was going on, Poppy and the other VADs and orderlies would be occupied doing some tidy job out of the way of the main action, writing a letter home for a man who didn’t have use of his arms, or helping two or three ‘up patients’ with a jigsaw. If it happened that the doctors arrived when Sister was occupied with a dying man or a patient’s family had arrived to speak to her, one of the nurses would take her place at the head of the procession and, excitingly, a VAD would be asked to join the doctors’ round.

  So far, this VAD had not been Poppy, but she watched closely how things worked in the hopes that one day, by some twist of fate, it might be her turn to be chosen. The medical officers – two, three or four of them – approached each patient in turn, looked at their charts, studied movement in their remaining limbs and queried various bodily functions. Following this, after consulting each other and sometimes Sister, they decided what should happen next to that patient. He might have to lose another slice of a limb that had turned gangrenous and was not healing, or have to start a different treatment. He might be found fit enough to return to his regiment or – the golden prize – be told he could join the next group going back to Blighty. This lucky man could be picked out by the blue label tied to his bed-frame and the broad smile on his face.

  Poppy soon realised that the doctors differed as to how strict or how lenient they were and this affected what course of action they recommended. Some felt that a certain patient had suffered enough and were all for giving him a ticket home. Others believed that the only purpose of a hospital was to get a man well enough to return to fight. On one doctors’ round she heard a surgeon insist quite forcefully that the army could certainly find a one-armed man something useful to do in Flanders, and saw the face of that same man (who had certainly thought he was going home) turn pale with shock.

  ‘What on earth are these?’ Sister Sherwood exclaimed, studying the coloured bundles which turned up in a parcel from England some two weeks after Poppy’s request to Miss Luttrell.

  ‘They’re bedsocks, Sister,’ Poppy replied.

  ‘And why have I got them?’

  ‘Well, some of the men mentioned to me that their feet were cold, and in Netley we used to have bedsocks for them and I thought one of the comforts groups could –’

  ‘Oh, in Netley!’ said Sister. ‘That would be the Netley, of course, where the sky is blue and the sun always shines.’

  The two other VADs smirked at this, but Poppy stared straight ahead of her and said nothing. When she’d first arrived she thought she probably had spoken a bit too much about Netley – about how the patients were always playing tricks on the nurses, about how nice they looked in their blue hospital-issue suits, about their singing of marching songs to accompany the gramophone while their bandages were being changed – but she’d only been making conversation. When she’d realised that every time she mentioned N
etley, Sister took it as a direct slight, she’d stopped.

  There was a silence, then Poppy said, ‘May I give them to anyone who asks for them?’

  Sister tutted. ‘They’re very gaudy, aren’t they? They look as if the women who knitted them used whatever old scraps of wool were left at the bottom of their baskets.’

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ Poppy said.

  ‘But,’ she said grudgingly, ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  *

  At doctors’ round two days later, the ward was just as tidy, but all the patients with only one leg, whether in traction or not, sported a loosely knitted bedsock in red, pink, green or blue – or a combination of all these colours for, as Sister had suspected, wool was getting scarce and the women had indeed used whatever lengths they could find.

  There were four senior doctors on this particular round, and Sister Shrew headed the tour as usual. Poppy, playing a game of dominoes with Corporal Tanner, listened to what was being said and heard that the ward was going to be cleared as much as possible because fresh casualties were coming in from Ypres – usually called ‘Wipers’ by the boys – a town often under attack because of its valuable position on the front line. This meant that six patients from Ward 5, all of whom had recovered well from their most recent operations, were to be given Blighty tickets. The group included Private Norman with his leg and two arms in splints, and five others with plastered-up legs still in traction.

  ‘Lucky blighters!’ came the call as soon as the doctors had left the ward.

  ‘Goin’ home, goin’ home, goin’ home!’ came the triumphant chant from those given a blue ticket.

  ‘Go and see my wife, will you?’ someone called. ‘Let her know I’m all right.’

  ‘You give me your address and I’ll do more than see her!’ came the reply.

  ‘Did you have to sleep with Sister to get that Blighty ticket?’ another asked, and that joke ran around the ward, but quietly because although Sister had stepped outside to speak to one of the doctors, her presence could still very much be felt.

  ‘I’m going to hop straight along to the limb place to demand a new leg and two new arms,’ Private Norman said.

  ‘D’you think you’ll get all three at once?’ someone asked. ‘Or is it like rationing – you get one thing and then have to go to the back of the queue again for the next?’

  The ragging went on, with those going home promising to keep in touch with those who weren’t, and young Private Ridge offered to visit anyone’s girlfriend in England and give them a good time. This led to someone saying that if Ridgey went anywhere near his girlfriend then Ridgey would end up with his other leg chopped off, so Poppy quickly stepped in to change the mood, suggesting that they all did one of the quizzes in an old Photoplay magazine on the table.

  Guessing that at least one or two of these boys with limb injuries might end up in Netley for the rest of their treatment, Poppy longed to write a ‘wish you were here’ message to Moffat and Gallagher on the fresh white plaster of their legs, but under the watchful eye of Sister, she did not dare.

  That afternoon, the departing men’s medical notes were tidied into files to be despatched with them, their personal possessions and any souvenirs of battle packed into their kitbags, and postcards sent to their families to tell them what was happening. Spaces being available on a hospital ship bound for Southampton that evening, a dozen orderlies appeared, ready to wheel the boys’ beds on to the backs of lorries with as little bumping as possible and drive them the short distance to the docks.

  Off they went to envious cheers and several choruses of ‘Goodbyeee’. Poppy’s last glimpse of Private Norman was of his big stripy bedsock, dangling from his leg like a flag, disappearing around the corner. Seeing him go, her eyes stung with sudden tears. She’d very much liked him and the way he always made light of his injuries. How much of it was just bravado in front of the others, though? How would he be able to manage at home? What place was there in England for a man with three limbs missing?

  She sighed. This was a rotten, stinking war, whatever side you were on.

  Ward 5,

  Casino Hospital,

  Nr Boulogne-sur-Mer,

  France

  20th March 1916

  Dear Matthews,

  I can hardly bear to put this in writing. I last wrote to you about the newspaper cutting with Freddie and his new bride. Well, something terrible has happened which has put everything into perspective, so that any matters of the heart seem of little consequence.

  A couple of days ago at doctors’ round, six boys were told they would be going back to Blighty to make room for some new casualties. There was the usual fuss in the ward – the teasing and the singing and so on. After that a solemn quietness descended on all of them and a sadness, too, for some of them had been serving in the same regiment and had become like brothers. They must have been wondering if they’d ever see each other again. The staff were very quiet, too, because we all have our favourites and Private Norman – he with three missing limbs – had become one of mine (although I would never let anyone else know this, as Sister Shrew has a down on us having favourites).

  When they were wheeled off by the orderlies in the late afternoon, each chap was wearing a new warm bedsock on his foot (kindly sent by Miss Luttrell’s comforts group) and those of us who could get to the window waved as they were wheeled on to the back of a Red Cross open lorry. I remember saying to one of the other VADs that it wasn’t far to Boulogne docks and thank goodness it had stopped raining, which, in the circumstances, was the most inconsequential remark in the world.

  Anyway, when my shift ended I went downstairs to the nurses’ quarters, only to find that orderlies had cleared a whole new section of the basement and were putting up bedsteads in readiness for the arrival of more nurses. I decided to keep out of their way so I went to the canteen and was sitting with some soup when an orderly ran in shouting that a hospital ship had been torpedoed halfway across the Channel and gone down with all hands.

  Everyone got in a frightful stew and started rushing about trying to find out which ship it was. It turned out to be the ship (I won’t name it, because of the censor) that had left with not only our six boys but dozens of recovering soldiers from different wards who’d been given a Blighty ticket. Boys not just from here, but also from other nearby hospitals.

  Everyone was speechless and horrified. There were lots of tears, even from hardbitten orderlies. It was the most heartbreaking thing to think that we’ve patched up these boys, removed their shrapnel, treated their wounds, plastered their broken limbs, and fed and nurtured them, and all for nothing.

  We got to bed very late, for everyone was waiting for more news to come in. We were all so angry about it being a hospital ship (marked, of course, with a big red cross on each side) that some were saying that, to get our own back, we should refuse to look after the wounded German prisoners of war. There were many more of us who didn’t think this was right, however, and later there came intelligence to say that it was not a torpedo or a U-boat which had sunk our ship, but a mine. And mines can’t tell the difference between a hospital ship and one carrying troops, of course.

  This morning our ward had something else to bear, for we discovered that about half the casualties on the hospital ship had been rescued by nearby craft, but none of these were Ward 5 boys. This was because, their legs or arms still being in traction, they were secured to their beds with wooden ‘scaffolding’. In the water, naturally the wood had floated, and in the process had turned the patients upside down and drowned them. Matron-in-Charge has now decreed that no more men should be sent home in traction.

  And now I can’t stop thinking about the last moments of those boys. They went off with their bedsocks on and there’s a picture in my head of a vast expanse of grey sea, with two or three coloured bedsocks floating upon it, so tiny that they can hardly be seen. I feel very sad as it seems more than tragic that they should be drowned whe
n they’d overcome so much and were almost back home. Better they should have died in the trenches than have their lives snatched away again like this. It feels as if they’ve died twice.

  Oh, do think about coming out here, Matthews! I need someone to talk to and I promise not to go on about Freddie de Vere. Look, I’ve hardly mentioned him in this letter!

  With my love,

  Poppy (or Pearson, if you like) xxx

  Chapter Eight

  Poppy found the next couple of weeks hard to get through, for everyone was subdued – or, worse, snappy. Sister was more shrewish than ever, finding fault with Poppy’s bedmaking and her laying up of trays (‘Sometimes I feel you have completely the wrong attitude to be a VAD’) and saying she lacked professionalism because she caught her laughing at a patient’s joke. Poppy even got ticked off for leaving a pillow with its open end facing the door, because one of Sister’s rules was that pillows should all show the same smooth side (‘to look tidier when the doctors come into the ward’).

  Seemingly just to spite her, Sister found Poppy urgent things to do when it was time for her dinner break and managed to organise the rota so that she didn’t get a half-day off for three weeks.

  Should she go to Matron and ask to be moved? Such a complaint would be frowned on, Poppy knew, because it sounded so petty and childish to say that your superior was picking on you when, all around you, boys were fighting for their lives. Besides, although the tasks she was allowed to carry out appeared to be insignificant, at least she was doing something. She fumed inside, though, knowing that this wasn’t what she’d come to France to do. She’d wanted to make a difference to the lives of those who were injured, not to count the number of sheets in the linen press – the orderlies could do that well enough.

  In Netley, Poppy had had a few not too badly injured patients she liked to think were her particular responsibility. She changed their dressings, wrote their letters and generally kept a special eye on them. There was no chance, however, of her or anyone else having the same sort of relationship with any boys in Ward 5.