Poppy

by Mary Hooper

  ‘I’m so pleased to see you!’ she said. And when he gave her his beaming smile, added quickly, ‘Oh, I don’t mean in that way!’ in case he got the wrong idea. Then, thinking that sounded too blunt, murmured, ‘I mean, it is always nice to see you, but . . .’

  ‘That’s all right,’ he interrupted, putting down his heavy leather bag. ‘I’d like to think that you want to see me for myself alone . . .’ here he put his hand on his heart, ‘. . . but I know it’s because of your brother.’

  Poppy smiled. ‘I’m just so grateful to have you looking out for him.’

  ‘Well, to start with, the operation on his foot seems to have been a success. Luckily there wasn’t much damage to the small bones of the ankle.’

  ‘That’s grand.’

  ‘As to the other matter – the more serious matter concerning his crime – have you ever heard of shell shock?’

  Poppy shook her head.

  ‘It’s a new name for what they used to call nerves. I’m afraid it’s an increasing problem with men who’ve been under fire, a nervous debility which can manifest itself as acute fear of noise, unpredictable behaviour, sickness, dread.’

  ‘Billy spoke about all those things.’

  Michael Archer nodded. ‘I’m no specialist in that particular field, but it seems to me that your brother is suffering from this shell shock and, once he’s recovered from surgery, should have proper psychiatric help.’

  ‘And what does that mean, exactly?’ Poppy asked, wondering if her brother was mad.

  ‘It means that his shell shock might be considered an illness, and his shooting himself a symptom of that illness.’ On Poppy frowning, he added, ‘Well, think of it: a boy living a sheltered life at home with his doting mother is taken to an alien place where people are attempting to kill him. He’s deprived of sleep and comforts, he sees his friends dying in more and more gruesome ways . . . Who could blame him for wanting to get out of it? He must have been almost mad with terror.’

  Poppy nodded slowly.

  ‘We have officers – highly educated men, authors and poets – in our psychiatric unit whose fear has manifested itself in all sorts of bizarre ways. If officers can be found to be suffering from nerves, I see no reason why a regular Tommy shouldn’t. When you think of it, a man has got to be a little mad to dare to inflict such tremendous pain on himself.’

  ‘Really?’ Poppy asked, her heart lifting a little. ‘So there might be a reason for Billy’s behaviour and he might not be . . . condemned to death?’

  He nodded. ‘A number of enlightened doctors are saying that a man shouldn’t be called a traitor just because he’s terrified. I’m going to recommend that, while your brother’s foot is healing, he be sent to a hospital for nervous diseases.’

  ‘And not court-martialled?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  Poppy closed her eyes briefly, fighting back tears. ‘I’m so grateful, sir. I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘It’s Michael,’ he said, picking up his case. ‘And, please – I’m only doing my job.’

  ‘Well, thank you for doing it! Thanks awfully,’ Poppy said. He was such a jolly nice chap . . .

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A few days later Poppy, Matthews and Jameson were having breakfast together in the hostel canteen. While Jameson read out requests in the newspapers that the public put their savings into war bonds, Poppy looked at the pages containing the names of the latest casualties to make sure that there were no de Veres amongst them. Having satisfied herself that Freddie wasn’t on the Died in Action or Died of Injuries Received lists, she counted up the days since she’d written to him.

  It had been eight days. Eight days! Surely he should have replied by now? At the start of the war the post office had said that letters to and from those on active service would be delivered as soon as possible, within two or three days. This meant, she calculated on her fingers, that if Freddie had written back as soon as he’d received her letter, she should have heard four days ago. But perhaps he wasn’t going to write back! Perhaps he thought she had no business asking if his mother knew about their relationship. Perhaps he thought the way she’d signed off, love always, was a bit too much.

  ‘Might my signing off like that have frightened him off?’ she asked Matthews.

  ‘Of course not!’ Matthews protested. ‘Give the chap a chance – eight days is nothing. He probably hasn’t even received your letter yet. Besides, a soldier has other things on his mind besides writing to his sweetheart.’

  ‘He’s probably up to his neck in mud and bullets,’ said Jameson.

  ‘I read somewhere that sixteen thousand mailbags go off to France every day,’ Matthews said. ‘Your letter is just a tiny drop in a huge ocean.’

  Poppy nodded. ‘All right.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I’ll try not to mention it again.’

  ‘You can try,’ Matthews said, grinning, ‘but I rather think you will mention it . . .’

  ‘Oh, look!’ said Jameson, who’d been reading a list of those who had Died of Injuries Received. ‘There was a memorial service in London yesterday for a German officer who was a British prisoner of war.’

  Poppy and Matthews looked at her.

  ‘So?’ Matthews asked rather sternly.

  ‘Well, nothing really. I’m just telling you what it says,’ said Jameson. And she read out: ‘British officers paid their respects and laid a wreath on the bier of Major Christian von Statten, taken prisoner at Ypres, who died of his wounds in Westminster Hospital.’ She looked at them earnestly. ‘I mean, the very fact that high-up British officers attended his funeral goes to show that they held him in respect.’ When the other two girls didn’t comment on this, she added, ‘Look, when it comes down to it, every soldier, British or German, is just fighting to protect his country, isn’t he? How could anyone be blamed for doing that?’

  Matthews got up abruptly to take their dishes back.

  ‘Honestly, Jameson, I don’t think you should be working on that ward any longer,’ Poppy said. ‘You’re going to get yourself into trouble.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Jameson said, and returned to her newspaper.

  Poppy made up her mind to ask Sister’s advice about the matter, using a different name and situation, but going into the ward that morning she saw there wasn’t going to be the opportunity. Astonishingly, the night staff were still on duty, everything was topsy-turvy and a convoy of badly wounded soldiers was expected in at any time. Bed space was desperately needed, so, to accommodate newcomers, those patients from Hut 59 and other wards who were due to be moved to convalescent homes had been given their blue hospital suits (winter warm, lined with flannelette) and were now temporarily ‘camping out’ on canvas chairs in the long airy corridors of the main hospital.

  ‘Oh, thank heavens for another VAD!’ the night nurses greeted her.

  Poppy was kept busy for the rest of the morning scrubbing down old lockers ready for the new men, requisitioning sheets and blankets from the linen store, airing mattresses with hot water bottles and making up beds precisely as Sister Kay liked them.

  By eleven o’clock everything was ready. The newly vacated beds had been made up with crisp sheets and clean counterpanes and each had its top sheet folded back invitingly. A new pair of pyjamas, vest and hand-knitted bedsocks waited on each pillow and there was a white enamel bowl on every locker, containing a soap and flannel, toothbrush, razor and comb. The incomers probably would not be bothered with washing and shaving for a day or more, but when they did, they would find everything they needed.

  By midday, though, the staff of Hut 59 were still waiting for their convoy and the night nurses had gone home to get some sleep. Poppy took the dinner trays round, then cleared them away and did the washing-up, helped by two ‘up patients’ who, keen to see the new boys and have news from the front, had volunteered to give her a hand.

  After dinner, Poppy was asked to go and see how Private Taylor was doing in the ward for pneumoni
a cases, and discovered that medical wards were very different from surgical wards, mainly because all the patients in these huts were very gravely ill. It was considered important that they had as much fresh air as possible, so the ward’s large windows were permanently open to the sea breezes. Despite this health-restoring wind, however, most of the patients were comatose, so the only sound in there was of the wind buffeting outside and the dry rasping of men struggling to breathe. There was none of the banter that Poppy had come to expect on the surgical wards, no singing, no gossip nor plaintive calls of ‘Nurse! Can you come and tuck me up!’

  ‘I’ve come to enquire about Private Taylor,’ Poppy said to the nurse sitting at the front desk.

  ‘Private Taylor . . .’ The nurse sighed and shook her head. ‘He’s not at all well, I’m afraid. Do you know him personally?’

  ‘Well, I’m a VAD from his last ward. Sister sent me.’

  The other girl shrugged. ‘He’s a tragic case.’

  ‘I know. His twin . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ The girl looked at Poppy sadly. ‘We’ve sent for his people. All I can say is, we’re doing our best.’

  At two o’clock a message came from the docks to say that, owing to rough weather, the hospital ship had only just managed to drop anchor beside the pier, and as a consequence as many hands as possible were needed to help get the injured men off safely before the tide turned. Hearing this, Sister asked Poppy, Moffat and Smithers to go down to the docks, saying she and Nurse Gallagher would stay at Netley to begin the nursing care of the incoming soldiers as soon as they arrived.

  ‘Do whatever you can,’ she told them both. ‘You may find yourselves mopping up sick – or worse, if there are dysentery cases on board – sluicing down decks, holding the hand of a man who’s dying or escorting a blinded man on to a train. Whatever you do, and however ghastly the sight before you, please try to carry out your duties willingly and conscientiously. And smile,’ she added. ‘After all they’ve been through, those boys deserve a smile.’

  Poppy, Moffat and Smithers joined the bus-loads of VADs and orderlies going down to the quayside. For some, it was their first important outing as VADs; for others it was something they’d undertaken before. Everyone was quiet and solemn, and if they spoke to each other it was in whispers. They were uneasy because of the scale of the operation: there were hundreds – possibly thousands – of injured men coming home, so were these numbers an indication of how the war was going? Were there as many casualties on the German side? They wondered and surmised, but kept their notions to themselves. It was not patriotic to have doubts.

  Poppy was awe-struck at the sight of the hospital ship. It was a dull day and the sky was ashen, but the ship, now safely moored, was painted glossy white and, with lights glowing along its walkways and portholes, shone like a giant lantern in the gloom. On the sides of the ship huge red crosses were painted, indicating that it carried injured men only, and should be allowed to sail unimpeded to and from the French and English ports.

  Along the dock were lines of lorries, carts, charabancs and private cars waiting to convey the weary patients to Southampton hospitals or the station and then, if they were considered well enough to stand the journey, on to other hospitals in other cities.

  The bus carrying Poppy and the others got as close to the ship as possible. There were, Poppy saw, two gangplanks from ship to shore and VADs, doctors, nurses and orderlies were streaming up one of them and coming back down the other, pushing wheelchairs, supporting boys on crutches, carrying stretchers or helping along limping or hopping soldiers, some of whom were trailing bloodied bandages.

  Once they were all on board, the VADs and orderlies from Netley stood on the deck waiting to be told where to go and what they should do first.

  Poppy, apprehensive about what she might see, clutched at Moffat’s arm. ‘The smell,’ she whispered, for the combined stench of overflowing latrines, dried blood, gangrenous wounds and sea-sickness was ghastly in the extreme.

  ‘Awful.’ Moffat nodded. ‘Try not to breathe in too deeply.’

  An army doctor addressed them, his voice hoarse with tiredness. He had blood all down his jacket, Poppy noticed, and his hands were stained with iodine.

  ‘We’ve been able to do a very quick assessment of most of the men on the way over,’ he began. ‘The majority are now labelled with the type of injury they have so that they can be sorted on to trains more easily. Don’t touch anyone with a red stripe on their label.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Poppy asked.

  ‘These are men with dangerous head wounds, those liable to haemorrhages and convulsions, or those who may need emergency treatment at any moment,’ said the army officer. ‘They must only be moved by a doctor. Some of these boys have come straight from the field and are in a very bad way.’

  ‘How do we know who to take first?’ someone asked.

  ‘Take whoever you come to,’ came the reply. ‘Some of these young men shouldn’t have travelled at all, but there was no more room in France. Just let’s get these boys off!’

  The Netley VADs were shown into what had once been, in the heady days before the war, the luxury cruise ship’s dining salon. Crystal chandeliers still swung overhead and the turquoise walls were painted with a lavish underwater scene, but where there had once been linen-clad tables, silver cutlery and sparkling glasses, now there was nothing but rows and rows of makeshift beds, each containing an injured man. Dreadfully injured, Poppy thought, looking about her and seeing blood and dirt, torn uniforms, stained bandages, gaping wounds and caked-on mud. In the rush to get them away, some of the men had come straight from battlefield to ship, and had not had even the most rudimentary of clean-ups or any dressing of their wounds.

  Poppy stood in the midst of this horror, her heart aching, hardly able to believe what she was seeing. So many men; such ghastly injuries . . .

  ‘All these men must be taken off the ship before the tide turns,’ said the army officer. ‘The doctors at the foot of the gangplank will read their labels, make a decision about where to send them and list their names so we know where to find them again. If the patient is unconscious or doesn’t seem to know who he is, then look for his tag to give his name to whoever is taking details.’

  ‘What if he can’t speak and his tag’s gone?’ someone asked.

  The officer spread his hands as if to say he had no idea. ‘Just try and find some distinguishing mark. Look at his cap badge for his regiment perhaps.’ He indicated the salon. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your patients are waiting.’

  Poppy took a deep breath, forced a smile and went in.

  By five o’clock, most of the casualties had been taken off the ship. Private George Williams hadn’t been left until last deliberately, but his wounds were so terrible and – as much to spare his own feelings as anything else – his stretcher had been placed behind a pillar. Private Williams had taken a grenade hit and one of his arms was no longer there, but it was his face that had come off the worst. Someone had pulled what remained of his khaki jacket collar up as high as possible, but the mess that had once been his face was still clearly visible.

  Coming across him suddenly, Poppy didn’t have time to compose herself or make his face a little out of focus, and couldn’t help but give a small gasp of shock. ‘Oh, I didn’t know anyone was behind this pillar!’ was all she could say to cover herself.

  There came a strange, choked reply, for Private Williams couldn’t speak: most of his mouth and a good deal of the right side of his jaw were missing. The hole where it had been was now plugged with muslin, but this must have been done some time ago, for the mater­ial was dark and dried, and smelled like rotten meat.

  Fighting down a wave of nausea, Poppy bent over and looked at his label. She must keep talking, she thought – talking and smiling.

  ‘Hello, Private Williams. You’ve a smashed arm? We have lots of men with limbs missing on my ward – that is, Hut 59.’ She stretched her mouth upward in what she hoped looked like a s
mile and not a grimace. ‘Maybe you’ll be coming to us. Sister Kay is very nice. You’re assured of a warm welcome from her and Nurse Gallagher.’

  As she straightened up, the man’s eyes followed her.

  ‘Will you be able to walk off the ship with my help?’ She smiled again. Too much smiling, she thought, but it was either that or scream. ‘Would you prefer a stretcher or a wheelchair? Maybe a stretcher would be better, in case your legs are wobbly.’ She smiled again – smiled until her face began to ache. She was asking all these questions, but how was he going to answer her?

  He tapped the pocket of his torn, blood-stained jacket. Poppy felt inside, then drew out a pencil and small notepad.

  ‘Ah! Of course,’she said.

  She held the notepad on his chest, placed the pencil in his hand and he laboriously printed the words On stretcher. Please cover face.

  There was a long moment during which she re-read his words several times and struggled to find the right reply. ‘I understand what you mean,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll go and get an orderly, a stretcher and a covering.’ She blinked back a sudden rush of tears. ‘I’m so sorry, you must excuse me. I’ve seen so many men today . . .’

  Please cover face.

  Sometimes she felt she couldn’t bear another moment of this war.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As fate would have it, Private George Williams was indeed one of the eight ‘new boys’ assigned to Hut 59. Poppy felt that she’d half-known this was going to happen: that her ward would get him. Somehow a higher power had placed him there so that she could try and make up for her reaction on the troop train.

  Tragically, two of Hut 59’s new boys were so badly injured that they died within twenty-four hours, and the ward became unusually solemn as two Union-Jack-draped coffins were carried out to the mortuary. The six other Tommies – Private Williams amongst them – lived on.

  Talking about the deaths with Moffat in the ward kitchen one morning, Poppy wondered if Private Williams might want to die, too.