Evie's War Read online

  Declined Matron’s offer of leave; staff and patients still under the weather.

  5 April

  Letters: Corporal Lindsay says there are poppies everywhere that light the fields and heart, though not near the Front where all is mud (as I well know).

  Captain Miller describes London as grubby and dour, and expresses surprise that I have never thought to mention my uncle, who it seems has mentioned me. I do hope they do not make a habit of discussing me.

  7 April, Deans Park

  Sometimes I think the Postal Service holds things back on purpose so that it might then provide a veritable deluge. Waiting at Deans Park were two more letters, from Ada, who sounds perfectly miserable, and Lettie. Ada writes that Tom’s Sacrifice will never be forgotten, and that their poor Mother is inconsolable. Also that there is scarcely a family anywhere untouched by the War, and endless fundraising marches and picnics, the most ambitious being the fête organised by the Municipal Ladies’ Welcoming Committee for The Wounded, which did not, in the event, prove quite the success envisaged. In a postscript she notes that Mr Steinbeck, our languages teacher at School, has been arrested as a spy (which I cannot credit), and that Mrs Invers has had both her Dachshunds put down for fear she will be considered a German sympathiser.

  Lettie, from whom I have not heard in an age, writes that she is engaged! And hopes to be married this month before her intended is sent abroad — which I gather means that Oxford is no longer included in her plans.

  10 April, 1st Eastern

  Back to normal on the wards with all staff recovered, and just in time. A convoy is expected tonight.

  11 April

  One of the new intake told me he had spent four days on trains and lying on the platforms of railway stations before even reaching the coast, where they waited again for a ship. I cannot comprehend such inefficiency. He says the staff were very good, especially the nurses on the trains, who he thinks have an awfully difficult job with men stacked in stretchers two or three layers high, and that the Doctor who saw him in Amiens, though not a cheery fellow, seemed to know his work. He is also full of praise for his comrades, who came out into No Man’s Land to find him, and for the women who spare a thought for the poor soldiers waiting for trains and supply them with soup and coffee or hot chocolate. If all the wounded experience a similar journey, it should be no surprise they arrive as thin as rags and too exhausted to eat. They are so grateful for our help it is pitiful.

  12 April

  My talkative Private says the food he gets here is quite the best he has ever eaten. I could not claim the same!

  13 April

  Three of my new intake have passed away and another two are likely to follow. Sister believes that sometimes all they are waiting for is to know they are home in England, and to hear a familiar voice and perhaps see their mothers, before they are ready to go to God. For those mothers who cannot arrive in time, she says we must stand in.

  I sat with one fellow, an older man, who whispered the names of his children over and over until his voice was stilled. Sister has asked if I might this evening sit with another, Private Jones, who is unable to speak, having lost his larynx, and whose breath whistles in and out through a hole in his throat. It is impossible to say no. They deserve so much more.

  14 April, Cambridge Station

  Private J was still clinging on when I left. Sister has promised to be with him when his time comes, which will surely not be long.

  My train has arrived.

  15 April, Deans Park

  Mother says I am growing maudlin and proposes an excursion to Saffron Walden, claiming I need to ‘get out in the world and meet some young men’. And apparently quite fails to see the irony.

  Sunday 16 April

  Birthday tea for my cousin, delayed for my benefit. She is a dear! I gave her a book, which the seller assured me has proven popular in America, wherein its author, Eleanor H. Porter, resides. It is entitled Pollyanna. I had dithered between that and Mrs Burnett’s The Secret Garden, and am now glad I chose the former, Millie already having a copy of the latter.

  17 April, 1st Eastern

  Private J lingers still. There is nothing we can do.

  19 April

  Corporal W, who we thought on the road to recovery, has faded quite suddenly. Matron has been in touch with his people; I do hope they get here soon.

  20 April

  Private J gone at last. Held my hand until his grip faltered. They have all been gassed, Matron thinks, in addition to their wounds, part of the difficulty being that the effects can be quite delayed. The Kaiser will have much to answer when he stands at Judgement before God.

  Good Friday, 21 April

  I have been thinking about Sister’s words and I believe she is right, that it is easier to die in one’s own country than in a place where one’s memories are of such inhumanity as this War has revealed.

  22 April, Deans Park

  Edmund’s application has fallen on deaf ears. He is to join his Regiment in France in six days. Mother very brittle.

  Easter Sunday, 23 April

  Easter sermon on the theme of Sacrifice, inevitably. Monty home; rather quiet. Aunt Marjorie spared half a clutch of eggs, which he and his sisters painted.

  My uncle tells me there are to be special ceremonies on the 25th in all places that New Zealand and Australian troops are to be found, marking the engagement a year ago of ANZAC forces at Gallipoli.

  25 April, 1st Eastern

  Attended chapel. A New Zealand Army Chaplain (recovering from wounds) spoke. Very moving.

  26 April

  Had hoped to see Edmund before he left but in the event it proved impossible.

  27 April

  Two letters from Winifred, dated three weeks apart — another Mystery of the Postal Service. She is now in France rather than Belgium, but still ‘in the same general vicinity’. She says the roads are chronic but the weather improving daily. She is awaiting delivery of a new ambulance, ‘the Old Girl having taken a fatal wound’. I do hope she is safe.

  The second brief note was written after she was in receipt of my last. ‘Chin up; it will all come to an end one day and we shall then be glad that we were in it.’ I am not sure I can agree, though of course it is better to be doing something useful than sitting about at home.

  28 April, Cambridge train

  A big clear-out on all wards, which does not bode well. Walking wounded being transferred — some for physical therapy, some to Hospitals nearer their homes, some discharged medically unfit — my talkative Private amongst them. As we saw them all off he kissed my cheek! Sister told him off quite soundly but it did not dispel his grin. Face burning for a good time after.

  As I left for the Station one of the new VADs ran after me with a postcard that had been wrongly delivered. It is from Corporal Lindsay. He says he rescued a cat, trapped in rubble, after hearing it crying all night, but that upon its release it ran off without the slightest sign of gratitude. He has sketched it in the corner — he is quite accomplished at drawing. Read the papers at the Station: news of a widespread gas attack in France. Made me want to weep. Meanwhile, German Battle Cruisers have bombarded British ports, killing civilians.

  29 April, Deans Park

  On waking this morning Mother handed me a letter from France, the envelope and text written in an unfamiliar hand. It comes from a Captain Hall, whom at first I assumed must be one of the men I have nursed, but that was not it. He begins with a warning that the news he has been requested to convey will be distressing. The note thereafter is brief, though I had to read it through several times before I properly understood. Corporal Lindsay — from whom I have just received such a sweet card — has been wounded ‘most grievously’. Captain Hall provides no details, saying only that he is ‘asked by Corporal Lindsay to thank me for my friendship and to convey his very best wishes for my future’.

  I went at once to find my uncle. He was of the view, once I had managed to explain my distress, that Corp
oral Lindsay’s wounds must indeed be serious, and has undertaken to find out what he can, to which end I have given him such details as I know.

  Sunday 30 April

  Aunt Marjorie says I have had a shock and must certainly not return to Cambridge; she has telephoned to Matron. Millie, dear girl, has just brought up flowers for my dresser.

  1 May

  Aunt Marjorie insisted on a walk, and I do feel better for it. I do not quite know why I am feeling so low; it is not as if Corporal Lindsay is anything other than a friend. Father quizzed me after lunch on the ‘young man concerned’. Once I had explained that he travelled with us on the Remuera we sat in silence, both, I think, considering how very long ago our journey seems and how different the world is become.

  4 May

  Edmund has written to say he is in a training camp well away from the Front so we are not to worry.

  5 May

  Uncle Aubrey has located information regarding Corporal Lindsay. At last notification he was moved from a Casualty Clearing Station to a Base Hospital, possibly Boulogne. We are not yet able to ascertain his condition. I have written to both Boulogne and Captain Hall in the hope of learning more.

  6 May

  Aunt Marjorie proposes I take leave, but I cannot see how it would help. Far better I am useful. I shall catch the train tomorrow.

  8 May, 1st Eastern

  Matron gave me a thorough grilling before pronouncing me ‘a good girl’. She has agreed that my uncle may telephone her if there is news.

  9 May

  Matron has me back in the Officers’ ward and Under Her Scrutiny. I cannot be quite as insouciant as I was, but perhaps, these days, I do not seem quite such a ninny.

  11 May

  Brief note from Boulogne: unable to help. They suggest trying Stationaries rather than Generals. Feel rather helpless.

  12 May

  Captain Miller strolled into the ward with a note from my uncle (‘still looking into the matter discussed’), and took me to tea with Matron’s blessing. His visit was a tonic! I did not laugh quite so much as on our previous outing, but I do find him most diverting.

  13 May, Deans Park

  Fell into bed on arrival; slept till eleven. Father is in London; we are a Household of Women.

  15 May, 1st Eastern

  Edmund writes that he is cured of all desire to march anywhere ever again, and that surely the worst kind of marching is around in circles.

  17 May

  Captain Hall has replied that, regretfully, he cannot supply any further information, the Regiment having been relocated. Matron pronounced me looking rather strained and has given me a half day on Friday so that I might go down to Littlebury on the early train.

  18 May

  Telegram from Uncle Aubrey: Corporal Lindsay located; seriously ill but not a ‘desperate case’.

  19 May, Deans Park

  Uncle Aubrey is not coming up, which means no further news. Mother pleased to have had a letter from Edmund in which he complains of boredom.

  Sunday 21 May

  While sending up a prayer on Corporal Lindsay’s behalf I realised I do not know which Faith he professes. Perhaps it is All One in God’s eyes.

  22 May, 1st Eastern

  Back in Respiratories; a mix of medicals and shell damage, the latter often curable but leaving such terrible scars.

  24 May

  Note from Uncle Aubrey confirming it likely Corporal Lindsay will be transferred to England within a week. No news re the extent of his injuries, but we ‘should take the transfer as a good sign’. He is in No. 11 Stationary Hospital (rather than Base, both in Boulogne). I have written to him there, and also to Winifred.

  27 May, Deans Park

  At breakfast Mother handed me a letter from Lettie. Poor girl: she has been married a month and has received a telegram to say that her husband is killed. I wrote straight away but what can be done? This War is simply Vile.

  Sunday 28 May

  Prayed for Lettie as well as Corporal Lindsay. To think I once believed a romance imminent between them!

  Newspapers full of a Great Sea Battle. The British Navy has won, despite losing a number of ships, and maintains control of the Seas. We are safe still.

  30 May, 1st Eastern

  New intake, all suffering from gas. We do our best, but it is not enough.

  1 June

  Matron has opened two new Respiratory wards for gas victims. I am to shift immediately, and will work through the weekend until we are settled. Both wards are in marquee tents — I hope they will not prove too breezy.

  3 June

  Postcard from Southampton: Corporal Lindsay has been admitted to the Royal Victoria Hospital; signed by a Staff Nurse. Wrote to enquire after his health as soon as I had a moment.

  Sunday 4 June

  Lost several men today. More will go tonight. Some at least were given the opportunity to bid farewell to their families. Most were ready to go and proud to have served.

  5 June

  One of my boys fought all night then slipped away quietly this morning not long after I went off to breakfast. I was sorry not to have been with him.

  6 June

  Britain has suffered a terrible blow: Lord Kitchener has been killed by a mine in the North Sea. Much weeping in our quarters, and red eyes on the ward for reasons other than gas.

  7 June

  Everyone still in shock; the Secretary of State for War is a great loss within the Cabinet. His face, familiar to us all, will now be seen no more.

  8 June

  Matron has given me leave till Tuesday night. I shall sleep till noon every day!

  9 June, Deans Park

  A letter awaited from Corporal Lindsay, dictated to a nurse. He says he is ‘in a sorry state but far better than he was’ and hopes that I am well. It offers no other news! Perhaps the nurse was in a hurry. Mother says it would not be impossible to visit, but Uncle Aubrey advises waiting until we know whether Corporal Lindsay is to be transferred, Southampton being ‘a clearing house’.

  13 June

  Slept well last night for what felt like the first time in an age, and have since sat for an hour on the lawn watching William toddle about. He has such fat little legs and never seems to mind a bit when he sits down unexpectedly — he is thoroughly delicious.

  14 June, 1st Eastern

  Latest intake has bought no new gas victims but a dozen quite terrible facial injuries. We endeavour to forewarn visitors, but they are often unable to mask their shock. It is very hard for the men.

  16 June

  A note from Winifred. She has ten days’ leave and hopes to be in England early next week. I wonder if she might travel via Southampton.

  Sunday 18 June, Deans Park

  Lady B was at Church and confirmed that Winifred will be home later this week; I am invited to stay on Saturday. Mother agreed without demur.

  21 June, 1st Eastern

  Corporal Lindsay is to be transferred to the 3rd Southern General at Oxford; his letter again dictated (it is useless to speculate on his injuries, but difficult not knowing). I do hope Winifred reaches England before he is moved.

  22 June

  Olive came in rather late and sat on my bed. She has been assigned to one of the wards newly opened in a School and is not at all happy. I think there is also some trouble at home. I have asked whether she might like to come down to Deans Park one weekend.

  24 June, Deans Park

  Mother has had three letters from Edmund, each dated a week after the last but all arriving within a few days. They are being moved up. I said nothing to Mother, but assume a Push is coming up. Sent a note wishing him luck.

  Sunday 25 June, Audley End

  Though she refuses to admit it, Winifred is completely exhausted. Lady B professed concern. Winifred is adamant that she is ‘the last thing worth talking of’, but on the subject of Corporal Lindsay, whom she saw in Southampton, she was more forthcoming. He has suffered wounds to his chest and right arm and has lost
the sight in his right eye, retaining only partial sight in the left. She says this latter may improve, but that there will be facial scarring. It was a shell blast. They are responsible for such a multitude of injuries, I believe them quite as bad as gas. But at least Corporal Lindsay is now out of the War, and may return to his studies once he is recovered. Winifred waves off any suggestion of a romantic attachment (I stand unconvinced). I will write this evening to assure him of my continuing friendship, and will mention seeing Winifred. I should not like either of them to feel that I present any impediment to their attachment; the reverse: I should be delighted.