Sunday 21 November, Deans Park
Sleety and cold, which proved just what the doctor ordered. I have spent the weekend playing cribbage and spillikins (Eugenie’s request) and generally lolling in front of the fire. Only poor Father has been obliged to venture out. Which reminds me that I have yet to write to Harry; I had quite forgot. I shall do it now.
22 November, 1st Eastern
Rushed to the Post Office as soon as I was off-shift: not only Harry but Winifred and Edmund and Corporal Lindsay shall all profit by my lazy weekend. I feel extremely virtuous as a consequence.
23 November
Sister has slipped on a patch of ice outside ward 16 and is laid up. Touching concern from the men.
25 November
Snow. Cannot feel excited as I did last year, and wonder how the men in the trenches are coping. It is bad enough to see them huddled in blankets and greatcoats around the braziers that have newly been installed between the wards. Why we cannot have heating inside, I do not know!
27 November
Edmund writes that it is most fearfully cold in Berkshire, but that he is now walking without a stick and hopes to return to the Front before Christmas. He goes before the Medical Board on 10 December.
Sunday 28 November, Deans Park
Service for the Fallen. Not a dry eye in the congregation.
29 November, 1st Eastern
Letters awaited my return: Winifred, very down to earth, says the work is positively gruelling, her Commander a martinet (‘though some of the girls use an altogether less polite word more correctly applied to female dogs’), and apologises profusely for not writing more often, saying there is simply not time. She adds in a postscript that there is talk of her coming home for a month in the New Year to assist Lady B in a recruiting drive, at which I am sure she will excel.
Corporal Lindsay writes of the small (unnamed) village where he is stationed and the old woman from whom he purchases fresh eggs and sometimes milk. He makes no mention of the War. I shall send him Winifred’s address, in case there is any chance she is nearby.
1 December
Found Hillary throwing up this morning. I told her she should report sick, but she would not hear of it. She thinks it something she ate, so at least it is not contagious.
2 December
Harry is signed Fit for Active Service; he is to be transferred to a training depot, and says I should hereafter write care of his Regiment. I am determined to speak to Father: it would be a great shame were he not to see his eldest son before he is returned to France.
3 December
Matron has established a new intake procedure (additional assessment); some to receive training next week — I do hope I may be amongst them.
Sunday 5 December, Deans Park
Had rather an awkward conversation with Father which has left us no further forward. Rather more success with Millie, who required advice regarding an outfit to wear to a party next weekend. I do believe she is growing up! I had quite forgotten about parties and all that palaver.
6 December, 1st Eastern
Olive and I are both selected — Hurrah! Then on my first day under the new regime, we lost two men to haemorrhages that simply could not be stopped and on top of that come the agonies of dressings. Sister says that the worst cases would be better off in the Bath ward, but that there is simply not the space.
7 December
Came upon Hillary in the bathroom looking very red-eyed. I assume bad news, as my enquiry was not well received. Spoke with Olive about it, but she is none the wiser.
8 December
Chilblains on my hands are quite bad. Sister has prescribed a cream, to be applied morning and night.
9 December
I need not have disturbed Father’s equilibrium: Harry is to embark next week, and intends spending his final leave ‘with chums’ — which I take to mean getting thoroughly drunk! I am no longer so naïve as my dear parents might suppose!
10 December
Rather bitter telegram from Edmund: he has been turned down by the Board and is back on ‘light duties’. Our parents will be relieved, as am I, but that is not what Edmund needs to hear.
11 December, Deans Park
Mother distressed by my hands. I told her I was rather better off than most of the men. Reaction predictable.
Sunday 12 December
Uncle Aubrey is confident that Sir Douglas Haig’s promotion to Commander-in-Chief is a positive step. I do hope he is right.
13 December, 1st Eastern
Interminable rain. No end of leaks in the wards and the canvas makes a frightful racket in the wind; it is a wonder any of the men sleep at all. They remain stoic, of course.
14 December
Hillary still suffering. I asked Olive whether we should insist she reports sick and another of the VADs laughed, saying, ‘What she’s got will take another seven months to cure.’ It was only on reflection that I realised what she meant (and only thanks to Mother’s experience). As it is, I do not know what to believe. It is too shocking for words.
15 December
Postcard from Harry, his handwriting somewhat difficult to decipher, being very tightly crammed. He is to go up the line tomorrow (which means he will be there now, the card being dated the 11th). He asks whether I might write about New Zealand, ‘for the contrast to everything here’. With which I will happily comply, and will also suggest he write to Father.
16 December
Whispered conversations abound; poor Hillary appears thoroughly miserable. I sat with her at tea, pretending as hard as I might that nothing was amiss. Impossible to tell whether it helped, though I believe it kept some of the less kind comments at bay.
17 December, Deans Park
Off early, thanks to extra evening shifts through the week. Father was waiting for my train as it is dark by four and the lane rather boggy. Aunt Marjorie says it will snow overnight. Very cold!
18 December
It is astonishing how a dusting of white transforms the landscape, the miserable mud replaced by a vista most lovely (when viewed from the warmth of one’s room, with one’s hands spread to the fire!). Even the trees, which yesterday reminded me of naked bones, today look starkly beautiful set against the sparkling white.
My uncle and aunt have gone to meet Monty’s train. He is home for three weeks and will be thoroughly delighted.
Sunday 19 December
Slept through the early Service in favour of Eventide Carols, accompanied by Eugenie and Millie (Monty says he has had enough of ‘all that’ at school, and my aunt is inclined to indulge him at present).
20 December, 1st Eastern
Hillary is gone; we are told she has returned home for reasons of health. How easy and cheap it is to snigger.
21 December
As we were singing carols, unbeknownst to us, the Gallipoli Peninsula was being evacuated. Not a man was lost: truly a Christmas Miracle.
22 December
Sister asked whether I have volunteered to work on Christmas Day, but with Edmund home on leave I plan to go down as usual on Friday so that we may be together as a family. We have been wrapping gifts for the men all week and have them hidden away in readiness, while one of the drivers has offered to gather holly and mistletoe, which he will bring in on Friday morning.
23 December
Another service postcard from Harry — I think perhaps he did not take his writing set with him. He says he will try to write every week as letters help to make it tolerable (inducing guilt, as I have yet to reply to his last). He is due to go out with a wiring party, of which he says ‘there’s other parties I’d rather go to’, and ends by sending his best wishes of the season to ‘all the family’. I shall make time to write at length over the weekend.
Christmas Eve, 24 December
The wards look splendid. There are parcels for all the men: our small contributions, which include donations from Millie’s Girls’ Society, as well as something for each man from Queen Alex
andra herself.
Christmas Day, 25 December, Deans Park
Impossible not to remember other Christmases, and to wish for Peace. It is as if the War is a large and unwanted guest who sits glowering at our table. Of us all Monty is most cheerful, followed by Mother, content with Edmund on one hand and William (who is too young to know what all the fuss is about but enjoys the attention, nonetheless) on the other. Cook pulled out the stops and we are positively stuffed (how Mother would blanch if she heard me use such a term, irrespective of how well it reflects the situation!). Uncle Aubrey looks exhausted. I had planned to ask about some of the battles my poor men have suffered through, but have decided against, for fear it spoil his Christmas.
Boxing Day, Sunday 26 December
Went for a long walk with Edmund. His leg is much improved though he says it aches in the cold. He plans to apply to the Medical Board again next month.
27 December
Horrible, shocking news. Harry has been killed, on Christmas Eve. Word reached us today. It seems so unjust, when he was so newly recovered and freshly returned. I cannot believe it. His letters and cards were so alive. The worst is to realise the unspeakable waste of it all.
29 December
Endeavoured to talk to Father. Discussing Harry has always been fraught and now proves no different, however, he appeared quite moved when I showed him Harry’s last postcard.
31 December
I cannot wait for this year to end, and hope and pray that God has nobler things planned for the next.
1 January, Deans Park
William’s birthday. I gave him a teething rattle purchased from the men’s woodwork exhibition at 1st Eastern, but could not get into the spirit, my thoughts continually drifting to my half-brother. I must keep telling myself there is no doubt he is gone, but it is as if the news of his death is something I dreamt, and will soon wake to find not so.
Sunday 2 January
Though it remains undiscussed, Harry’s death has cast a pall. Edmund returned to London early. Father visibly upset: one son’s death must surely make one feel the departure of another more keenly.
3 January, 1st Eastern
A letter awaited my return to Cambridge. It is from a Captain Elliott, Harry’s Commanding Officer. Included are my letters and various personal effects — it seems Harry asked that these come to me in the event of his death. The Captain writes that Harry and four others were killed by a shell while on wiring patrol, that it would have been instantaneous and that they would not have suffered. I am shaken to realise he was killed only hours after writing, and to learn that he had spoken of ‘the great kindness I had shown him’. Captain Elliott concludes, ‘Private Clark was a good soldier and a fine man. He died bravely in the service of his Country, and will be welcomed by God.’
I wonder how many such letters the Captain has been obliged to write? It left me feeling rather cast down, though I am aware that was not his intent.
4 January
I cannot credit how little care seems to be taken of the men before they reach us. Half are still covered in mud, and their dressings — if they have any — are shocking. Men tell me they have lain for days in the mud before being carried in, then waited hours or even days at a Dressing Station before being seen. Some have spent as long again on railway sidings before being sent on to the Channel Ports. Can this really be the best we can do?
5 January
Today I admitted a soldier who looked so young I could scarcely believe he had been allowed to the Front. At first he claimed he was nineteen then, faced with my scepticism, confessed he was ‘nearly seventeen’. He said many lied about their age, adding that if they’d known what they were in for, they likely wouldn’t have.
7 January, Deans Park
I had hoped for a moment alone with Father in which I might show him Captain Elliott’s letter, but the opportunity is yet to arise. Mother tells me Winifred is home. I am surprised she did not write to let me know she was coming.
8 January, Deans Park
The newspapers report that President Wilson of the United States of America is arranging a Peace Conference, which is perhaps why the German U-boats have decided against sinking more of his ships, leaving them free to concentrate more fully on ours.
Father thanked me for showing him the Captain’s letter. As to why it had been sent to me, no questions were asked. It seems he has no desire to discuss the matter further, while I should like to complain bitterly about the injustice of it all.
Sunday 9 January
Sent up a prayer for Harry. Captain Elliott’s letter has been much in my mind: would he relay it, I wonder, should one of his men’s deaths not be ‘instantaneous and without suffering’? At the Hospital we are advised to couch such letters in the most idealised terms. For Harry’s sake, I pray the Captain’s words were sincere. I should have liked to discuss it with Winifred, but Mother says I cannot visit without first sending a note, and was Not Amused by my proposal that I might save time and effort by delivering the note myself.
11 January, 1st Eastern
There seems no end to the men who stream through our doors. At least the majority depart all the better for our care.
12 January
Who should bound into the common room this evening but Winifred! Looking thin and rather shadowed around the eyes, but quite as energetic as ever. We had hardly a moment to talk as all were eager to have her news, but she has promised to meet me for lunch tomorrow. I shall only have half an hour so she will have to talk quickly!
13 January
Winifred reports the Red Cross well run, the Commander ‘not worth a single one of the drivers, nor even their shadows’, the War ‘ghastly beyond measure’ and the women she works with ‘mostly good sports’. She says it is usually clear from the outset who will manage. I suspect I should not. Her stories of her fellow drivers left me rather shocked, even as they made me laugh. (Suffice to say, smuggled alcohol seems to feature rather often, and poor Hillary’s predicament would perhaps come as no surprise.)
When I told her the dreadful news about Harry she laid her hand on my arm, saying ‘at least it was not Edmund’. My heart and stomach clenched at that terrible thought. W saw at once how her words had distressed me, and took my hands in hers. ‘It will not happen, Dearest. He is altogether too good.’ I did not say that Harry was no less good or deserving, though I might have.
Winifred’s Lecture Tour begins next week and will be impossibly exhausting, especially as she finds, on being home, that all she wants to do is sleep. After which we had run out of time. At the last minute I asked whether she had seen Corporal Lindsay, but she said not, and that no one knows where anyone is, as it is all ‘hush hush’ in case a German spy should discover information of use.
14 January
A Major Caldwell joined us today, quite the bravest man I have met, having been wounded three times previously. When I commented to that effect he replied that being wounded so often might suggest him stupid rather than brave, or perhaps just extremely unlucky. ‘Lucky, rather,’ I told him, ‘for it could each time have been so much worse.’ Growing very sombre he replied that having seen his men mown down by machine-gun fire as if they were wheat being scythed, hundreds falling at a time, he is somewhat uncertain where luck stands in the matter.
That will teach me for not thinking before I speak! Though he seemed sad rather than cross. I do not expect he will be going back to try for a fifth injury as he seems unlikely to walk again, due to the fourth.
Sunday 16 January, Deans Park
What a tonic Winifred is! Lady B gave her permission to collect me in the motor, and W insisted I take a turn behind the wheel. Having not driven for more than a year I proved rather rusty, but we arrived with both ourselves and the motor intact. Over luncheon Lady B outlined the schedule of their Tour. Winifred looked a little wan as her aunt enthused, and when Lady B departed it was as if someone had let out her stays. She is completely exhausted. I warned that if she is not car
eful she will fall ill; her reply was that if she cannot bear the Tour she may very well choose to do just that! I do miss her sense of humour.
18 January, 1st Eastern
Great Britain’s Prime Minister, Mr Asquith, has placed a Bill before Parliament that will allow for Conscription. Thankfully for Uncle Aubrey it will not apply to men with families. I think he would not be eligible anyway, as he is almost certainly in a Reserved Occupation — as is Father, but he is anyway too old.
Evie's War Page 11
