Yours respectfully and
with our love,
Mrs Maggie Campbell
4 October 1916
My dear niece,
As you will see, I have been transferred to No 15 Casualty Station. It is only a day’s drive from your canteen and I trust that before long I will be able to take a day’s leave and see you. At the moment though there is no leave for anyone. We are terribly understaffed, as always. It breaks my heart sometimes to refuse the girls their half-day off a week. But even that is impossible with the number of casualties we are getting.
I am giving this to an officer who will be passing your canteen on his way home. His wound did not appear serious at first, but it seems that the nerves of his hand have been damaged as he is unable to use it. Perhaps they will be able to fix it in England—but I very much hope for his sake and his family’s that it proves stubborn and that he is transferred to lighter duties. But this way at least the censor will not be able to make his usual scribbles over my address!
I heard from Dougie last week, though the letter must have taken many weeks to reach me.
I have also been asking if any of the men who were at Gallipoli have any knowledge of Tim, as you requested. I did find one who said he knew him, a Corporal Mather. I do not want to get your hopes up, my dear, as the poor chap was very feeble and I do not put much trust in anything he might remember. But he seemed to think he saw Tim with a group of four men taken as prisoners of war by a Turkish captain.
I am afraid I have no time to write more. Things are so very strained here. I will give you more details when I see you next. But please, please do not put too much reliance on this, as I think it likely that poor Corporal Mather was simply trying to remember anything to please me.
Your loving aunt,
Sister Eulalie Macpherson
Midge slid across the leather seat, behind Boadicea’s steering wheel. Dolores bounded happily over her, then settled down on Slogger’s and Jumbo’s feet.
How much did she really remember about managing a car, Midge wondered. And no matter what she had assured Slogger, driving an ambulance along the dark and rutted roads would be different from puttering across the village in the Station Master’s car.
Almost without thinking her hands turned the ignition key, then pushed ‘spark’ to up and ‘gas’ to down, and turned the battery switch to ‘bat’. The battery began to buzz. Contact! She quickly slid out of the driver’s seat and round to the front of the car and grabbed the crank handle, pushed in and brought it up, then grabbed the radiator wire and pulled till she could hear the familar sound of gas being pulled into the engine. She let go of the wire. Now around and around with the crank handle…
The engine coughed twice, then burst into life. She raced back to the driver’s seat, adjusted ‘spark’ and ‘gas’, and threw the switch over to ‘magneto’.
The engine hummed.
Jumbo grinned. Her freckles danced across her nose. ‘I see you and Mr Ford are well acquainted.’ The smile slipped as she glanced at Slogger. The girl’s face was damp with sweat. ‘Down, Dolores! Come on. We’d better go.’
It was strange driving again. The rumble of the engine, the vibration so different from a train. The headlights were pools of light cutting through the darkness, illuminating scenes suddenly then leaving them behind. Hedges, the ghostly outline of a ruined tank, more hedges, then suddenly a line of men in greatcoats, boots and gas masks like a tribe of insane grey grasshoppers.
Guns spat and growled somewhere in the night, closer and louder than they’d been at the railway station.
‘That’s the turn-off to our headquarters at the chateau ahead,’ said Jumbo. She turned to Slogger. ‘We’ll drop you off first before we do another pick-up.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Slogger tightly.
‘No, you aren’t.’ Jumbo flinched slightly as Midge clashed the gears.
‘Sorry. I’m out of practice.’
‘You’re doing well. It’s a talent,’ said Jumbo lightly, her tone contrasting with the concern on her face as she looked at Slogger. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever get the skill.’
Boadicea trundled along the chateau’s driveway. It was wide and had evidently once been well gravelled, though now the ruts were appearing and the gardens on either side were ragged. Midge drew up outside the wide stairs leading to the front door.
Jumbo slid out the other door. Dolores bounded out happily and galloped up the chateau steps. ‘Come on, old thing,’ she said to Slogger. ‘You wait here,’ she added to Midge. ‘Keep the engine going. I won’t be long.’
The two girls followed Dolores.
Ten minutes later Jumbo ran back down the stairs, Dolores prancing at her side.
Midge leaned over and opened the door for them. ‘How is she?’
Jumbo shrugged as Midge let in the clutch. ‘Bad. She’ll have to go back to England. There’s no way her hands can be treated here—we just don’t have the extra staff to look after her. Look here, do you think you can stay on for a while as driver? The last girl whose hands went septic was away three months. I’d hate to keep old Boadicea out of the action for that long.’
Midge felt her heart leap. An ambulance meant travelling, a greater chance to ask questions. A change.
‘Yes. I’d love to.’
‘You won’t be so keen after a few days. And nights,’ said Jumbo drily.
Midge glanced at her. ‘Then why don’t you head back to England with Slogger?’
Jumbo shrugged. ‘Can’t let Boadicea down,’ she said lightly. ‘The old girl was wasted as a butcher’s truck. The clearing station is to the right,’ she added. ‘One more lot for us tonight, I think. Then we’ll see about getting you digs at the chateau.’
The word ‘chateau’ had conjured grandness, gilt furniture perhaps, and giant quiet rooms.
The reality was different.
An entrance hall more like a waiting room, with desks and an army-style telephone. A middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair took down her name, address and next of kin and qualifications—none; but ‘Captain Nancy’ didn’t seem to mind.
‘Age?’
Midge hesitated. ‘Twenty-three.’
Captain Nancy smiled. ‘Amazing how many girls just happen to be twenty-three. Don’t worry, my dear. You don’t have to be twenty-three to serve with us. We’re a private outfit. It doesn’t matter how old you are, as long as you can do the job. Come on, I’ll show you to your room. Down, Dolores! Jumbo, take the dratted beast down to the kitchens, will you?’
A staircase that curved into a ceiling of faded murals: archangels and trumpets and a forest of vines behind; another staircase and then another, each one narrower as they climbed.
‘Convalescent senior officers on the first floor,’ said Captain Nancy. ‘They’re in purple silk pyjamas. Convalescent junior officers on floor three, in lilac—’
‘Silk pyjamas?’
‘The Duchess’s idea. To keep up morale. We’re supposed to dress formally at night too. Do you have an evening dress?’
Midge shook her head.
Captain Nancy smiled. ‘Most of the ambulance staff don’t either. Just means you’ll take your meals in the staff quarters, not the main hall with the Duchess and officers. Here we are, the attic…not as bad as it sounds. I’ve put you in with Slogger and Jumbo. There’s a trundle bed for tonight, but you can use Slogger’s bed tomorrow. She’s in the infirmary now but she’ll be up to get her things so best leave it for tonight. Baths are down in the washhouse in the courtyard—there’s a sign out the front. Hot water Tuesdays and Saturdays, but if you get a dose of the creatures just say the word and Cook’ll heat you up a tub. Lice,’ she added, at Midge’s confused look. ‘Most of the men are crawling with them. The casualty stations mostly clean them up, but if they’re sent straight on without treatment they can be pretty whiffy. Best to strip off and scrub before you spread them to the rest of us, and put your clothes out for boiling and a hot iron. Which reminds me
, you’ll need a uniform—report downstairs at 7 a.m. Lacey will be on duty then, and can show you the ropes. We do pick-ups from several stations—depends on what’s needed. Do you know your way round here at all?’
Midge shook her head.
‘Never mind. You’ll pick it up. Chamberpot under the bed—we each empty our own, Jumbo will show you where. Candles and matches on the dresser. No fires up here and no more blankets, I’m afraid, so if you’re cold just sleep in all your clothes. That’s what most of the girls do. Any other questions?’
‘Does Dolores sleep up here too?’
Captain Nancy grinned. ‘She sleeps by the fire in the kitchen. That dog’s no fool. Sleep well then.’ She hesitated. ‘You’ll find it hard at first. All the girls do. Just remember, a good cry does wonders. Don’t bottle things up either. We’re a fine crew here. No matter what you’ve seen or gone through you’ll find the others will stand by you. Goodnight, my dear.’
Midge opened the door. The room was small, the wallpaper faded and curling at one corner, the low roof sloping over the two small beds.
She pulled the trundle out from under the bed by the window. It was already made up: the sheets, thin patched linen; the blankets thin and patched as well.
She wondered what the convalescent officers’ rooms were like, as they slept in their purple silk pyjamas.
And then she slept as well.
Chapter 9
SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE
1 October 1916
Dear Miss Macpherson,
I hope you are well, and your new job isn’t too much for you. But I think you are the sort of person who wouldn’t shirk whatever came your way.
We’ve just come back from up at the front again. My word it was crook. Exactly the same trench we were in last time; same mud, same dead trees only a bit deader if you take my meaning.
I saw one of the new ‘tank’ things a few days ago. They call them ‘motor monsters’ and my word that’s the right name for them. We took a couple of Fritz prisoners yesterday and one of them could speak a bit of English. He kept saying ‘Germany is kaput’ so I think they have really got the wind up.
We’ve been in a right pickle here and no mistake. No, not from Fritz but because Johnno has lost his teeth. Maybe you remember Johnno? Anyhow they were a fine set of teeth. He only got them just before we sailed. But the silly blighter took them out when we were doing bayonet practice and now he can’t find them. Well, he says some blighter pinched them but I can’t see it myself.
He can manage without them now, especially as the food parcels from home have been pretty good. But once we go up to the front again he’ll be done for as you need a good pair of teeth to eat the biscuit which is about all they give us to eat. Most times there isn’t even any tea to soften the biscuits in. One poor bloke was nearly starving when he got back last time—his teeth broke when one of the dugouts collapsed. He said he’d rather have lost a toe than his teeth!
It’s funny to think we are going into winter, while at home the new grass will just be starting and there’d be more lambs than you could poke a stick at. Dad says the lambing rate has been good this year—lots of twins, though the dingos have been a problem, what with so many men away. I told him how big Glen Donal was and he was just amazed. He thought New Zealand was all little farms, not great big spreads like yours.
What do you think of all this talk about conscription in Australia? I reckon it should be left to those who want to come and they can tell that to old Billy Hughes with my love. I tell you what, I wouldn’t want a younger brother of mine coming over here, not now. I still think that the cause is right, don’t get me wrong. But the English generals don’t care how many of us they send to die. We’re just numbers on a map to them. I hope I haven’t offended you, Miss Macpherson. But a lot of the men feel much the same as I do. We have been fighting back and forth over the same bit of ground for so long. How many men can die for a couple of miles of mud?
There is one more bit of news I am leaving till last, but it doesn’t mean much, just that all the better blokes are gone! But I can sign myself now,
Yours respectfully,
Corporal Harrison
10 October 1916
Dear Corporal Harrison,
I hope you are well. It is wonderful about your promotion. Your family must be so proud!
I am starting to get used to being here. The work is pretty heavy. Mostly we pick up stretcher cases from the casualty clearing centres, not the battlefield aid stations. The orderlies are supposed to load the stretchers for us. But there are never enough orderlies, and anyway Jumbo and I can manage by ourselves. Jumbo’s real name is Augusta, by the way. Her father is vicar of Buttermere-in-the-Marsh and a noted classics scholar. Jumbo passed the Oxford entrance exam, but gave up her place to work here. She has done her VAD exams and is teaching me a lot.
We work eighteen hours a day sometimes, but other times we can even have a morning or afternoon off, as long as we stay on call. Most of us spend the time in the kitchen where it’s warm, doing our mending or writing letters, but some of the girls are fiends for card games.
Everyone goes to bed or gets up at the strangest times, depending on where we are needed. But I suppose that is something you are all quite used to! And after a year at the canteen I don’t mind having breakfast in the afternoon any more.
The kitchens here are like a giant cave—it takes ten minutes just to go from one end to the other! The ceiling is low like a cave too, and there are flagstones on the floor. All it needs are some small dogs to turn the spits in the fireplace (NOT Dolores—she’d eat the dinner), though these days there is a big coal range there instead of a roasting ox.
The cooks keep a big pot of coffee on the stove all the time for us ambulance staff, and there are plates of what passes for bread these days always on the sideboard. It’s made of ground acorns and bran with a touch of potato, I think, with a scrape of oily white margarine. Or we can have rat stew any time of day or night instead.
I don’t think it really is rat—the small bones look more like rabbit. But I wouldn’t put anything past these cooks. The stuff they serve up in the dining room for the officers and ‘ladies’—the Duchess’s friends who help look after the convalescents—is quite different. They have silver cutlery up there—great big heavy old stuff, I’ve seen it. The Duchess brought over two of her gamekeepers to shoot wild boar—it’s illegal in wartime to shoot other game in France, but the boar do too much damage to leave. Wine is brought up from the cellar every night. There is even a small flock of sheep in one of the fields to provide fresh meat. I go and visit them when things get too bad, just to say hello.
I like all the other drivers. The girls and women all live in the chateau, up in the attics like me. The men live out in what used to be the stables. The other drivers and crew are all older than me, but very friendly. They all have brothers in the army, except for Lacey. She was married to a lieutenant in the Guards but he was killed a week after their wedding, so she came here.
The girls were a bit hard to understand at first. They all have nicknames and they call their ambulances by a pet name too. So when someone says ‘I’m just going to have a chat to Grunter’, it might mean they’re going to see their best friend or that they’re planning to give the engine an overhaul. Meals are called ‘duff’ or ‘giving a curtsey to the rodents’ and going to sleep is called ‘toddling off to the attics’ because that is where most of us have quarters. It’s a bit like being back at school in a way. There are lots of practical jokes too. But it really does help to keep laughing.
We’re finally formally attached to the Red Cross but our unit is still run pretty independently. Most of the running costs are met by the Duchess herself, with donations from her friends in England. A few of the staff get small wages, especially the doctors and registered nurses. But the rest of us survive on allowances from our families, except for Kanga. She was a nursing sister in Sydney. She paid her way over here from her savings and reall
y finds it hard going. But the other girls make sure they share any chocolates and things like that with her, and replace her worn-out shoes with: ‘These old things my sister sent; darling, they pinch my toes terribly, CAN you use them?’
Nearly all the patients here are ‘ambulatory’—able to walk around the gardens with the ‘ladies’. They get to dance to the gramophone in one of the reception rooms too. (Not the ballroom —that is fitted out as a surgery.) According to the Duchess, dancing is SO good for morale.
I’ve only met her once. She is striking—lots of wild red hair and white arms with lots of bracelets and the most beautiful clothes. She always has a couple of her dogs with her, even when she visits the wards in one of the hospitals. But she is away most of the time, as she is opening a big convalescent centre in Flanders. And thank goodness she has taken Dolores with her! The last time I took her out she had an argument with a poodle (Dolores won). She kept getting fleas, too—and worse.
Well, I think that is all from me now. There’s been a call for Leggy and Woogles so I think Jumbo and I will be called out next. I’m going to be sad to leave here when Slogger gets back, in spite of the hard work.
With best wishes,
Midge Macpherson
P.S. They call me Midget!
5 NOVEMBER 1916
Midge ran up the kitchen stairs after Jumbo, taking care not to slip. The autumn afternoon light was dim and the stairs were stone. More than one tired girl had injured herself on their slickness.
Captain Nancy sat at her desk in the entrance hall. Did she ever sleep, wondered Midge. She gave the girls a tired nod. ‘Usual station. Fast as you can. Gas cases,’ she added shortly, handing Midge a rough map.
The gas cases were the worst. Mustard gas meant blindness, and burnt lungs and skin. Phosgene gas was even worse; a foul yellow liquid bubbled from the men’s rotting lungs till they died. Men mostly suffered their wounds silently. But the gas cases screamed.
A Rose for the Anzac Boys Page 9
