War Nurse

by Sue Reid

  “The men. . .” I faltered. “I’m supposed to wash them.”

  “Never mind about that now. Nurse Mason’s doing it.”

  Jean? I thought vaguely. She was working nights. Was she still on duty?

  As soon as the men are brought in, the QAs and MOs go from mattress to bed, from bed to mattress. They check the men’s breathing and pulse. Is that man still in shock? Can we risk removing his uniform? They call me over. “Nurse, I’d like you to wash this man, please.” I run over and cut off his uniform as I’ve been shown. “Be careful how you do it, Nurse. We must try to save all we can.” Gently I wash the gritty sand and dirt off him. Under an old bandage there’s a wound on his abdomen. Blood is seeping through the bandage. I need a fresh bandage – now! The haemorrhage is staunched, the new bandage wound tightly over the wound.

  “His pulse is very weak, Sister.” I look up from my patient at Sister’s face. Sister’s sleeves are rolled up. She looks as if she’s been up all night.

  An MO takes over and I’m sent to fill up hot-water bottles again. Soon, we’ve run out. “Nurse, look in the patients’ beds – over there, Nurse, over there!” Blankly, I pull out a hot-water bottle from next to a patient’s feet. The feet are very cold, I tell the Sister. He’s dead, she says briskly. No time for tears here. The body is rolled into a blanket and lifted off the bed. Automatically I wash down the mackintosh sheet, dry it, and then I rip open a package and pull out another blanket, which I lay on top of it. Next to me the stretcher bearers are waiting impatiently. As soon as I’ve finished, the bed is filled again.

  Back and forth I go into the annexe, squeezing out the flannel, watching dirt and blood and sweat swirl away together down the sluice.

  QAs run round the ward and the corridors, handing out injections of morphia as though they’re cups of tea. There are metal stands between the beds, bottles of blood swinging off them. Rubber tubes connect them to our patients.

  A Sister asks me to sort through a pile of bloodstained clothing and get it ready to go off to the store. I’m glad to be able to keep my head down. Glad not to have to look for a time at those exhausted despairing faces, those blank eyes. But I can’t shut out the groans, the eternal tramp tramp tramp of the stretcher bearers, bringing more men into the ward, and taking others down to Theatre.

  And still the ambulances come. The BEF is being evacuated from Dunkirk. When I first heard the news, I felt strangely relieved. Soon, I hoped, my brother would be home.

  Not now.

  Each time an ambulance arrives I wonder if he’ll be amongst its patients. Each time the doors swing open, I have to force myself not to look up. I’m terrified. I don’t want to see Peter here, but even worse is thinking of him left behind in France.

  A cheerful, smiling nurse can do more to help her patients than a cross and weary one, I suddenly remember from my training. But I cannot laugh, I cannot smile. And oh, I am weary. And this – I feel horribly certain – is only the beginning.

  Wednesday 29 May

  Dragged myself up to bed at last at three in the morning – felt like curling up on the stairs – legs so wobbly and weak. Scribbling this in bed . . . too tired to think. . . That’s some little comfort, I suppose. I must write my diary because I promised Anne. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to remember what I’ve seen today. I want to forget. I daren’t let myself think – if I stop to think, I’ll never get through this.

  Thursday 30 May

  We’ve had another blow. The Belgian army have surrendered to the Germans. It happened two days ago, I’m told. In the hospital the wards are overflowing. All our usual routine’s gone to the winds, though Sister tries her best to keep order.

  Though I’m constantly exhausted, I often wake up when the ambulances drive up to the hospital. It’s hot and stuffy in our little room, too, which makes it hard to sleep, but we’re not supposed to open the blackout shutters. Tonight, though, I felt I just couldn’t breathe. I had to open the window. I crept quietly over to it and managed to prise it open. I gulped in the cool night air.

  It was a clear night and I looked up at the stars. Those same stars shine over France, I found myself thinking, and then, without any warning, the tears came. I just stood there, trying not to sob, feeling the tears slide down my cheeks. Oh, please – don’t let him be killed. Please.

  I heard the door open and a moment later I felt a hand touch my shoulder. Jean had come in.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. I couldn’t speak. “Is it Peter?” she whispered. I nodded and felt her arm go round my shoulder. “Has anything happened to him?” she asked carefully.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just don’t know.”

  Jean stared out into the night. “My brother’s out there too,” she said.

  “Oh, Jean,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” I put my arm round her shoulders and we stood there, the tears silently pouring down our cheeks.

  Friday 31 May

  As soon as I arrived on the ward this morning one of the QAs hurried up to me. She took me over to a bed surrounded by screens.

  “I’d like you to keep an eye on this boy while I find an MO.” She lowered her voice. “He’s very sick.”

  I looked at my charge. His eyes had opened ever so slightly when he heard our voices. Now he closed them again. I saw what an effort even this took. He looked awfully young – younger even than Peter. There was a blanket on the bed and though it was quite warm in the room, he was shivering. I took his hand in mine and rubbed his fingers gently, trying to warm them. They were very cold. I asked him his name, but it was clearly too difficult for him to speak. I talked gently to him. I don’t know what I said exactly but soon I forgot everything else – all the chaos and the noise on the other side of the screens. Occasionally I saw him move his lips slightly – they looked awfully dry, so I got up and dampened them with a moistened swab.

  My patient’s lips were moving again and I leaned over the bed to listen. A smell – that awful stench of dried blood that I know so well now – rose up from the bed and it was all I could do not to retch. “Thank you,” I heard him murmur faintly. And then he said something else and I leaned closer to hear. “Billy.” His voice sounded as if it were coming from somewhere far away.

  “Billy, I’m Kitty,” I whispered, close to his ear. I didn’t care that it was against the rules to tell him my name. It couldn’t matter now. I squeezed his fingers, very gently. Billy’s face was very pale and stained with perspiration, and I could see something damp begin to seep through the red army blanket. The wound had begun to bleed again. I stood up urgently. Where was the MO? I needed help – now. And then I heard a sigh and there was a sudden movement under the blanket – a sort of shudder that seemed to pass through Billy’s whole body. I was still holding his hand.

  A screen was moved aside. The MO was standing there, the QA next to him. The MO leaned over the boy and took his stiffening wrist loosely in his hand. It’s too late for that, I thought. I was trying to choke back tears. Quietly I got to my feet and made myself walk across the ward to the annexe. I didn’t want anyone to see my tears.

  The QA caught up with me a few minutes later. She asked me to wash the bedstead and change the sheets. I didn’t need to look back to know that the screens had gone and the body lifted off the bed. How could she ask this of me? I wondered dully. A boy had just died in that bed. Didn’t she care? “His name was Billy,” I wanted to tell her. I felt angry and upset. And then – fleetingly – I saw the sadness deep in the QA’s eyes, and the tiredness, and I felt ashamed.

  I made up poor Billy’s bed. I don’t know how I did it, but I did.

  Saturday 1 June

  Wounded soldiers are pouring in from the Front in France each day. Here, days and nights run into each other, but I’m thankful that I’m able to do something useful. New VADs arrived again today from outstations – sick bays, first-aid posts and other hospitals. I k
eep hoping to see Anne’s merry face amongst them, but I’ve heard nothing more about her hoped-for transfer.

  Whenever I have time to grab a break, I go outside – stepping through corridors packed with wounded men, all of them waiting to be admitted. I take off my mask and breathe deeply – filling my lungs with fresh air, glad to get rid of the hospital smell. Today I sat down for a time on the warm grass, under the shade of a big sycamore tree. While I was sitting there, a squirrel bounded across the lawn in front of me. It stopped and looked at me and I looked back at it. Then it was off again, running up the tree. That squirrel doesn’t know we’re at war, I thought suddenly. Its life carries on as it always has. The thought comforted me a little. I looked out to sea again. There was a great ship bobbing up and down in the Channel, nose pointed to port. I wondered if it was a hospital ship, bringing more of the wounded home. It was like a signal to me. Tiredly I got to my feet and made my way back to the ward.

  Only the very sickest are brought to coastal hospitals like ours. They’re a motley lot – they come from regiments stationed all over the country. Some of them had their wounds dressed in France or on board ship on the way home, but even so, infection can set in. There’s not much we can do if it really takes hold. I hate feeling so helpless.

  Sunday 2 June

  This morning I was asked to wash a new patient. Like all our new arrivals his face was caked with dirt. He had a shrapnel wound and I knew that he’d soon be going to Theatre. As I washed the dirt off him, I saw his eyes on me, grimacing with pain. I felt distressed. I asked if I was hurting him.

  “I’m all right, Nurse,” he said shortly. “Don’t bother about me,” his eyes seemed to be saying. “Don’t bother about any of us. We’re not worth it.” There was such shame on his face.

  Gradually I’ve begun to understand why. Our boys lost the battle and they feel that they’ve let us down. But to us they’re heroes and I cannot begin to imagine what they’ve had to endure. I hope that they’ll understand this soon.

  Monday 3 June

  There have been a lot of mutters about the RAF. “Where were the RAF when we needed them?” This is all one poor boy says. Everyone who walks past his bed gets asked the same question. “Where were the RAF?” Just that. Again and again. Sometimes he screams in his sleep. It upsets the other patients, but we can’t move him, as there’s nowhere for him to go. Another patient told me that they were bombarded by enemy planes as they retreated. They didn’t just target soldiers, he said, but refugees as well. Old people, children – it made no difference. Jerry planes strafed the lot. We could do nothing for them, he said. Our planes were nowhere to be seen. I could see that his eyes were swimming as he relived the horror of the memory, and I went to fetch him a cup of tea. My legs were shaking as I walked over to the ward kitchen. I thought I’d heard and seen it all, but the soldier’s words sickened me. What kind of person does a thing like that?

  It was growing dark, and I put up the blackout boards. I still couldn’t put that soldier’s words out of my mind. Where had the RAF been, I wondered. I hoped that Giles would be able to tell me.

  I don’t know what time it was when I went off duty. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, but I couldn’t have touched a morsel.

  Jean came in when I was still sitting on the bed, too tired even to get undressed. She had two mugs of Ovaltine in her hands. I looked at her drained face. It seemed to reflect what I was feeling. I took one of the mugs gratefully in my cold and shaking hands. “Nurse Mason,” I said to her. “What would I do without you?”

  Tuesday 4 June

  Mr Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister, has spoken to the nation. It was a wonderful speech. We crowded round the wireless to listen. I managed to scribble down some of what he said.

  “We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing-grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.”

  Feel tearful, proud and full of renewed hope and purpose. Whenever I feel despondent, I will look at these words. I don’t merely hope we’ll win any more. I know we will.

  Thursday 6 June

  In his speech the Prime Minister also said that the RAF played a big part in helping the British and French armies escape from Dunkirk. I’d heard that German bombers targeted the towns and beaches where the men were waiting and the ships sent to pick up the men. They even bombed hospital ships! And Dunkirk and other French coastal towns nearby have been bombed into blazing ruins. But without the RAF, the Prime Minister says, the situation would have been even worse. There were a few disbelieving snorts amongst our patients when they learnt what he’d said. And today I heard them muttering about it again. I was accompanying some of them down to the station where they were to catch an ambulance train. As we bumped down the drive, a young boy with a bandaged head said: “Our Prime Minister’s just covering up for them – RAF cowards.”

  “Only planes I saw had those black-and-white crosses on them,” snorted another, who’d lost an eye. “Since when did our planes have black-and-white crosses on them?”

  There were more angry snorts. I just sat there silently. I felt sure they were wrong, or were they? After all, they had been there, hadn’t they? As I looked at them – at their injuries – I thought they had every right to be bitter. So this evening I sat down at last and wrote to Giles. I know it may be weeks before I hear from him, but I’ve at least got to try and find out what really happened at Dunkirk.

  Monday 10 June

  Mother rang today. Peter is home! Not wounded, not dead – he’s safe. He’s exhausted, Mother said when she finally got put through to me. Otherwise he’s all right – and very relieved to be back. Mother says he was picked up in a little boat – that there were hundreds of them helping the soldiers get off the beaches. Whoever picked Peter up saved my brother’s life. I don’t know who you are but thank you, thank you, thank you.

  Tuesday 11 June

  All down one side of the ward now are men with arms or legs encased in plaster – bones shattered by gunshot or shrapnel. It’s horrible, the smell that comes off them. When I go over to them, I try not to let my face show that I notice it, but they know. Poor boys, it’s so much worse for them. We’ve tried all sorts of things to hide that smell, but nothing works.

  Italy declared war on us yesterday.

  Monday 17 June

  France has surrendered. Now we are really on our own. It may sound odd, but in a way I feel relieved. At least now we know where we stand. Jean’s awfully worried. She thinks that her brother’s still in France, but she’s not had any news of him. She doesn’t know if he’s been captured, or even if he’s still alive.

  We sat together in the VADs’ mess, aching feet propped up on chairs, mugs of hot tea in our hands. Bunty was looking so pale. I wish I knew if she’s heard from her officer, but I feel too scared to ask. Lots of people are going round the hospital with that same look on their faces – people who’ve lost brothers, husbands or sons at Dunkirk. We didn’t talk much – we were all too tired – and I fell asleep in my chair. When I woke up, they’d gone and the half-full mug was still in my hand.

  I don’t know how I find the energy to keep up my diary, but I don’t know what I’d do without it. Sometimes I can’t bear to relive my day, and it’s only my promise to Anne that makes me write. But at other times it brings me comfort of a sort.

  Thursday 20 June

  Ambulances full of wounded men arrived here yesterday. The operating theatres are working flat out again and I was told to report there this morning. One after another the men were wheeled in with awful gunshot or shrapnel wounds. Then it’s back on to the wards again, a few hours later, often with one bit or another missing. So many shattered or gangrenous limbs that can’t be saved.

  The last of our forces are being brought back from France. They’d retreated west of Dunkirk to the Cherbourg peninsula. But Jean still has no news o
f her brother. I feel so grieved for her.

  We went out for a walk together this evening. We hadn’t gone far when we saw the oddest sight – fields full of old cars. Apparently it’s to stop German planes from landing in them. Everyone expects that the Germans will try and invade us soon. All there is to stop them now is a thin stretch of water – and the RAF. But if the worst happens our boys will be ready for them and we are relieved that so many have got safely out of France.

  Friday 21 June

  I got a letter from Giles today. He did take part in the “battle for France”. He says he doesn’t think the Germans will risk an invasion until they’ve destroyed our air force and have control of the air. And there was something else, which made me sit up.

  “I’m glad you asked me about Dunkirk,” he wrote. “People here seem very angry with the RAF. They don’t even try to listen to our side of things and I want to set the record straight. To put it bluntly, if we’d not been there, many of our boys would still be holed up in France, either dead or in a German prisoner-of-war camp. I guess the lads on the ground didn’t see us, but we were there all right.”

  In his letter he said that he’d made many sorties to France. “Once,” he said, “I really thought I’d bought it – engine ran out of petrol. I had just enough fuel left to get me back over the Channel but I had to make an emergency landing in a field and find my own way back to base.”