Evie's War

by Mackenzie, Anna

  7 December

  Braved hideously cold weather to tromp across the dunes to the sea, which offered a depressingly bleak outlook: grey waves under a grey sky. But worth it to get fresh air into my lungs. There is something austere and almost depressing about the Sanatorium — perhaps it is only that its oppressive red brick and cold corridors remind me of a prison or workhouse from one of Mr Dickens’ novels. There is a kind of wild heather growing on the dunes, very hardy. I snipped a few sprigs, which now sit in a jar by my bed. This little touch makes me rather homesick — though I cannot say quite where ‘home’ now lies.

  11 December

  Charles’s birthday in two days. He would have been twenty-seven. Sent a card to Mr and Mrs Miller, who will be feeling it quite as much as I.

  13 December

  Nieuwpoort last night suffered a bad gas attack. I responded with alacrity to Matron’s call for volunteers (no more Sister B!), citing my previous experience with mustard gas. Poor lambs are suffering badly; all blinded and in great pain. Ambulances kept coming all night; there are over 500 admitted.

  14 December

  Rushed off our feet and twelve-hour shifts — much individual attention required. We have lost a few, due to lungs. Though we do our best, there will be more.

  15 December

  The burns seem to worsen for several days post-exposure. Several orderlies have burnt hands from handling the uniforms (gloves issued too late). Blisters form wherever skin has been exposed to the gas, including inside the lungs — rather horrible to contemplate. The worst affected cannot bear to be touched, so we tent the bedclothes over them (seen from the end, the ward resembles a model of the Alps). There is much moaning and crying out for relief. One knows it is bad when the men cannot retain their usual stoicism.

  17 December

  Worst of the respiratories moved to Moribund. Matron believes it will have a positive effect on the remainder if they are not faced with the daily deaths of their fellows.

  18 December

  Eyes and throat beginning to act up. We are encouraged to walk outdoors after our shifts, sea air being ‘good for the lungs’. It is quite the coldest I have ever been and the wind only makes one’s eyes smart and water more freely. But I cannot complain when my poor boys are so much worse. I have lost a good number; a blessing for them by the end.

  19 December

  Hard frost; still on the ground at midday. Feels as if it never quite gets light before it is again getting dark. Cough quite bad this evening.

  20 December

  Mr Lindsay has sent a card wishing me ‘a festive Christmas and safe New Year from your sincere friend, Arthur Gordon Lindsay’. Sister ordered me to bed. Doctor to visit later. I do wish they wouldn’t fuss.

  Later

  Ordered three days’ rest and no more Gas. Dread the thought of going back under Sister B.

  23 December

  Slept the better part of two days. Now sitting up so that I might help do Christmas parcels.

  Christmas Eve, 24 December

  Moved to Minor Wounds: no Sister B and mainly dressings to do, as well as help men with writing letters and similar. Very tired. Sent off Christmas cards; too late to arrive in time. I do hope Edmund is safe and warm — but suppose that is expecting too much.

  Christmas Day, 25 December

  Ward looked a treat done up with paper streamers and branches of heather from the dunes. Christmas dinner of turkey and plum pudding — men in high good humour, aided by brandy all round. Felt quite light-headed all afternoon.

  27 December

  On Boxing Day I woke bleary-eyed and head pounding. Supposing it caused by an excess of Christmas spirit, Sister showed little sympathy — whereupon I promptly fainted. Came round to find the men giving her a thorough ticking off: ‘Any fool can see she’s not well!’ Sister put her wrist on my brow and sent me back to bed. I feel heartily embarrassed. MO has just come along and ordered me transferred to a sickbed. Head feels like a watermelon with goblins pummelling away from the inside.

  31 December

  Assured Matron I was perfectly well despite the persistent tightness in my chest. My head is at least back to normal size. Had a lovely ‘welcome back’ from the men, to which I replied that I was jolly glad to see them. It is a total bore being ill.

  Some of the nurses drank a toast to the New Year but I did not join in. A year ago tonight Charles kissed me beneath the mistletoe in his parents’ home.

  1 January

  My brother William’s third birthday. I try to imagine them celebrating with a cake and gifts but it is as if a fog rises up and covers the scene. Found myself longing for Charles.

  4 January

  Winifred writes with ‘wonderful news’ — she is to be married to her distinguished Colonel, of whom Lady B approves. She asks if I might get leave to attend; it is not until May. I wonder if Mr Lindsay knows.

  6 January

  Abysmally cold; it is as if the wind comes straight from the Arctic (which perhaps it does). I shudder to think of our boys in the trenches and CCS tents and huts.

  9 January

  Edmund injured; he is in a Hospital at Hazebrouck. I have asked Matron for leave.

  10 January, train siding near Hazebrouck

  I cannot imagine a slower journey! At present it would be faster to walk.

  11 January, Hazebrouck Stationary Hospital

  Edmund has shrapnel wounds in his arm, shoulder and chest. I sat by his bed for the better part of a day but he barely came around.

  12 January

  Night Sister kindly let me bed down in her room, and promised to fetch me when my brother woke, which he did early this morning. He is quite groggy and dispirited.

  Later

  Present when Edmund’s dressings were changed. The chest wound is high, missing the lung, and should heal cleanly; the arm is peppered but nothing too bad and no sign of gas gangrene; he was apparently got in very swiftly. The shoulder is the most problematic: two entry wounds, one right through with considerable damage, the other having left several pieces of shrapnel, one awkwardly lodged. The MO, Major White, thinks it better not to attempt it as it is too near the spine. Edmund is painfully thin. I told him he must eat to build his strength, to only the slightest response. Telegram sent to Deans Park telling them Edmund is injured but recovering and that I am with him.

  13 January

  Edmund sat up and took a little soup. He has a tremor and did not wish me to see it, but equally did not wish me to feed him. I told him that was nonsense and that I had seen far worse. That earned a grim look. ‘You have, and you shouldn’t have. It is not right.’

  I agreed it was not and fed him his soup.

  14 January

  A drain has been installed in Edmund’s shoulder. I have begun making myself useful while he sleeps. He is running a slight temperature this evening.

  15 January

  E to be transferred to Étaples, and will likely be sent on from there once the MO is satisfied he is stable. Major White concedes that removing the shrapnel may be feasible under better conditions.

  16 January, Zuydcoote train

  Edmund slightly brighter. I wrote letters for him this morning, then did the same for several others while he rested. It was an absolute wrench leaving him.

  17 January, Zuydcoote

  Back in Admissions and told off for being distracted. How can I not be? All my thoughts are with my brother.

  19 January

  Shells again flying overhead and an unfamiliar ‘boom’, repeated over and over, which I am told is the Naval Ships’ guns. We are all grateful they are pointed elsewhere, though Dunkirk and Nieuwpoort are getting it badly, which will mean a rush coming our way.

  Sunday 20 January

  Note from the Sister in Edmund’s ward to let me know he is today being sent on to Étaples. Visited the Chapel for the first time in some while.

  21 January

  I have been like a cat on eggshells all day. I simply cannot c
oncentrate.

  22 January

  Went to see Matron, who expressed sympathy but advised that I must ‘think beyond my own concerns to all the other Suffering Men’. She has offered a further week’s leave, which obliges me to come back, but I have taken it on the understanding that I may still resign if I believe Edmund has need of me. Catching the first train tomorrow.

  24 January, Étaples

  Edmund’s colour is still off and temperature up. They intend to operate in the morning.

  25 January

  Slept not a wink, and will not till I hear.

  Later

  Awake but groggy. Signs encouraging.

  26 January

  Exchanged half a dozen words with my brother. He stands a chance, I think.

  27 January

  Overcome by exhaustion. Staggered back to my Hotel and slept for several hours, waking confused and jumpy. Hurried back to the Hospital to be told it was meal-time and no visitors, but Sister took pity and let me in. Edmund gave a feeble smile, and I was at least able to relieve the nurse of some small portion of her responsibilities.

  28 January

  Walked about Étaples in a daze; I remember little beyond it being busy and cold, though not so bitter as Zuydcoote. Edmund is improving; all else increasingly surreal.

  30 January, train, somewhere near Saint-Omer

  Very hard to leave my brother, though clear he is in good hands. He will remain in Étaples until able to be evacuated, thence to one of the New Zealand Hospitals in England. To think, had things been different, we might both have found ourselves at Hornchurch.

  31 January, Zuydcoote

  Letters awaiting from Mother (all a-flap), Father (more measured and wishing ‘every detail you can muster’), and Winifred (filled with news of her fiancé). I barely glanced at them last night before falling into bed; slept solidly but feel no less tired today. It is as if the relief has unwound something that perhaps needed release but was also holding me together. Very weepy. And in the rush of it all, I forgot it was my birthday on Saturday. I am twenty-two and feel ninety.

  3 February

  Note from the Sister in Edmund’s ward to say he will be transferred in a few days. So now I need only worry about U-boats!

  5 February

  Assigned to General Medical. Steady numbers coming in, commonly suffering from no single condition but several: often chests, either pleurisy or pneumonia, almost always trench foot, often chilblains, trench fever common, and a great many twitching and stammering, all terrified whenever the aeroplanes come over too low or the shelling is bad. What they are subjected to is inhuman. And on top of it they are expected to live in the open, freezing cold and plagued by rats and lice, then go out and kill other men.

  8 February

  Word from Deans Park to say Edmund is safely arrived in England, and a note from Mr Lindsay. I must have let some of my negativity seep into my last letter: he advises that I should consider taking leave before matters ‘get me down to such an extent that it is difficult to get back up’.

  11 February

  This winter seems only to grow colder. My cough is returned together with a tedious tightness of breath.

  12 February

  Sister says I look peaky; sent me off early. Very tired.

  15 February

  Surprise visit from Emma! Lovely to see her. She has four days’ leave and is come to see a cousin who is in Fractures (left femur); I said I would have visited him had I known, but she has apparently only just learned of his whereabouts. He was injured when out with a wiring party near Polderhoek Chateau.

  16 February

  Sister gave me the morning off and Emma and I went for a walk, bundled to the eyes. She was alarmed by my breathing, which did become rather laboured; I have grown accustomed to it being bad.

  18 February

  Father writes that Edmund is at Hornchurch and recovering well.

  20 February

  Woke feeling quite feverish; obliged to report sick.

  24 February

  Weak and weepy; terrible few days. Was at one point certain Charles was standing at my side.

  25 February

  Diagnosed a ‘touch of pneumonia’. Matron says a month’s rest at a Convalescent Hospital or ‘with your people’. Feel too abysmal to care.

  27 February

  One of my orderlies popped in, saying he’d heard I’d ‘copped a Blighty’. Much embarrassment when I became tearful, but I just feel so useless.

  28 February

  Matron came to see me off — ‘by the long way round, I’m afraid, given the state of Channel crossings’. Says my first priority is to get well as I am no use to anyone otherwise.

  1 March, Étaples

  Dreadful train journey — felt as though the rocking and rattling would never end. Poor, over-worked nurses running hither and yon; wished I might help but quite hopeless. Knees like water, head back to watermelon proportions. Feel such a nuisance when they have a trainload of wounded men to care for. Finally arrived and mercifully motionless, though not for long.

  2 March

  Cough much worse. My breath rattles in my lungs like one of my poor men.

  3 March

  Delays due to weather. Tomorrow, I think. Hoping for a decent crossing and no U-boats.

  4 March, Nurses’ Convalescent Hospital, Brighton

  Ghastly crossing; horribly sick all the way. Off the boat and onto a train, thence an ambulance. Tried to tell the driver I had driven a GMC ambulance in Flanders but he appeared to think me delirious. Staff very calm and brisk — odd to be on the receiving end. Barely settled when Winifred arrived. I must have looked a fright (and probably smelt one too). She had been anxious about the ship being delayed, fearing us sunk. I was not up to much but she prattled happily about her Colonel — of which I remember scarcely one word. Sister shooed her along so I could sleep.

  5 March

  Winifred visited mid-morning; Colonel Mallory once again the topic. Eventually we reached a pause, after which she said I looked ‘beastly pale’ and, ‘they tell me pneumonia, but …?’ I confessed I had caught a little gas. She is under strict instructions to report to Deans Park on my well-being; I advised telling them ‘pneumonia and recovering’. And shortly after fell asleep. When I woke Sister told me my friend had left but promised to return next weekend. Perhaps by then I might feel up to it.

  8 March

  What luxury to do nothing but sleep! The boys think us marvellous when we get them tucked up, even when they are frightfully knocked about. And now I know why.

  9 March

  The Home is a converted residence, newly opened and rather grand. There are seven in my ward, which must have been the dining room — lovely ceiling, pressed zinc, and burr walnut sideboards built-in either side of the door with carved arches above. Weather is beastly; gales lash the windows, while I sink deeper beneath my blankets.

  11 March

  Doctor Talbot says my chest is a little clearer. Cough not improved. I am to get up tomorrow.

  13 March

  Mother and Father came to visit, my breathlessness and coughing disturbing them a good deal. Mother began to insist I come home, till Sister bustled along and dealt with that.

  14 March

  Father returned yesterday evening to tell me — much clearing of throat — that not all Edmund’s wounds are healing as might be hoped and that there may be some permanent impairment. He seemed worried this would shock me — I wonder what they think I have been doing for the past three years! Mother is apparently ‘taking it all rather badly’; hence asked Father to ‘break the news’. I reminded him gently that I had seen Edmund’s wounds soon after they occurred.

  15 March

  Endeavoured to walk the length of the ward: shockingly weak.