Evie's War Read online

  15 October

  Wounded from the 12th still coming in. All in a terrible state, stone cold and barely a pulse. Once warmed, they rouse a little. Most are so grateful for brandy or tea it is pathetic. Some quite frightful mutilations and gas gangrene very bad; it is inevitable in those left out so long. Their only hope is amputation. The Theatres work around the clock. Quite a number die soon after coming in; it is almost as if they are only waiting for a kind word and gentle touch.

  No one I recognise as yet. I do not know where Edmund is, but must not let myself think of it.

  Later, 10 p.m.

  A dozen bearers from the New Zealand Medical Corps just in, all exhausted beyond speech. Haggard, bloodshot eyes, feet so swollen we must cut off their boots, trench foot in evidence, and several with fearful chafing wounds on necks and shoulders where the stretcher slings rub. One told me it takes a relay of six men up to seven hours to bring in a single stretcher case, slogging through mud in places thigh deep, and all the while under shell and machine-gun fire. I shall never again complain of an ache in my back or feet.

  16 October

  Half a day off, and at last a break in the interminable rain. Slept for nine hours straight, despite the shelling, and now sitting with feet up before I go back on. Peters brought me a newspaper from the mess, which trumpets the outstanding courage of the ANZACs while saying nothing of the carnage. I suppose that is why mothers keep sending their sons, and why young men keep coming. Charles is at least spared witnessing this. I wonder was his War as bad, and he never spoke of it?

  17 October

  Letter from Winifred: her ankle is recovering. Also she recommends I write to my parents, who are ‘fairly agitating’ for news. I am moved from Admissions to Gas; Fritz having devised yet another fiendish weapon, we must find another way to deal with it. The damage with this new gas is to both skin and lungs. For the latter, oxygen must be given by way of Novita sets, five times in the hour, and between times the poor men are convinced they will die of asphyxia. The external effect is also bad: by the time they reach us their eyes are gummed up and weeping, lids swollen, faces and all exposed skin burnt dark plum. Sister demonstrated the treatment for eyes, which must be bathed in a solution of bicarbonate of soda and then cocaine solution inserted to reduce the agony. The eyes must also be kept bandaged, the afflicted men having an aversion to light. It is not yet clear whether a full recovery can be made.

  18 October

  I asked our MO why the new gas is called ‘mustard gas’; apparently it is because the shells carrying it are marked with a mustard yellow cross. It is far worse than chlorine and phosgene, he says.

  19 October

  Emma sought me out. We are all highly relieved to have the worst of it done and a slightly easier time — though it may also mean that Matron has less need of me. I should hate to be sent home now. Emma thinks it enough that I have shown myself thoroughly able in performing my duties, but the conversation has left me with a feeling of disquiet.

  20 October

  A nurse came running to fetch me. Edmund is here! Inevitably I assumed the worst, but no, he is just visiting. He says that on receipt of my last letter he determined to seek me out at the first opportunity and now, having leave, came at once to find me. He looks gaunt and far older than his twenty-three years. When I said so he only laughed and advised me to look in a mirror — I had not felt in the slightest self-conscious until then! As I feared, he has been in the thick of things and is lucky to have got through. He said little on the topic but, knowing him so well, I can see he is cut up over the losses they have suffered. I warned I could not talk for long but Sister took pity and sent me off early. Having a car, Edmund drove us to Pops where we had supper of soup and omelette in a dowdy little estaminet. There was quite a fug inside and plenty of cheer, helped along by plonk. I had two glasses and became slightly tipsy, while Edmund drank quite steadily to little effect. Mid-evening he saw some fellows he knows and we might have had quite a night but, as I was on again at 5 a.m., I elected the path of restraint and he drove me back. He has promised to visit again as soon as he is able. I felt quite sick bidding him farewell and told him he must, at all costs, keep himself safe. His half-smile and shrug was not in the least reassuring.

  21 October

  Very flat this morning. Seeing Edmund was a boon but I am left with nebulous worry. He was both himself and not. Sister commented on how alike we look. I am not sure how to take it given I thought Edmund looked terrible! I have picked up a cough and my eyes ache. I had to assure Sister I was not weeping, but that it was only my eyes running with an incipient cold.

  22 October

  Matron has moved me from Gas. Apparently my cough and weeping eyes are symptoms of gas poisoning, contracted from breathing the fumes coming off the men. I was dreading that she might say she no longer had need of me, but instead I have a half day and strict instructions to bathe my eyes, and am to report tomorrow to Chests. Constant shelling again; I hope it does not signal another attack, but fear it must.

  23 October

  Having heard I was gone off sick EC popped in yesterday. Once certain that a full recovery was expected she made great fun of my eye mask. She says the drivers are working around the clock to clear the wards, which can mean only one thing. I felt quite despondent last night, but was cheered this morning to have word from Edmund: his Battalion is being moved south. Although it means I will not see him, the news brought me much relief. The Lieutenant who delivered my brother’s message was perfectly charming and showed signs of wishing to linger. Both Sister and I gave him short shrift!

  Sister has me draining wounds and changing dressings. She is thoroughly no-nonsense, prepared to give credit, and says she would rather I ask than do something wrong and be obliged to start over. I believe we will get along well. Some of the men get the wind up with the constant noise of the guns but there is little we can do. To say one gets used to it would not be the truth.

  24 October

  One Captain, quite cut up with various wounds, told me that he received each on a different day, but kept going as long as he could. He is a medical man.

  25 October

  Shelling particularly bad last night. Staff and patients alike beginning to look rather ragged. They have been at it for days, going hard for half an hour before stopping, then, just when you breathe a sigh of relief, starting up once more. One bright note: a long letter from Winifred, who is ‘up on her pins’ and says she will soon be out to join me. I think perhaps she has not yet received my last. Of my parents, there was indeed ‘all hell to pay’, but my uncle and Lady B were apparently ‘helpful in calming them’. She says I must write home forthwith to confirm I am ‘safe as houses’. I have taken her advice, reiterating that I am working in a Hospital, which I believe they will prefer over driving, and passing on first-hand news of Edmund.

  26 October

  Particularly heavy barrage at 5.40 a.m — one honestly felt one might go mad. We could do little for the poor men until it died down; some, with shattered nerves, I found cowering beneath their beds. The signs are that we shall soon find ourselves busy; Matron has just been through and sent me off for three hours, after which I am to report to Admissions.

  27 October

  No let-up all day yesterday. Four hours sleep about 3 a.m. then the same today. Constant shelling and rain. Torrential. Men caked with mud like nothing I have seen. Canadians getting it this time.

  29 October

  One of my men said it has been hand-to-hand combat with bayonets all through the night. He has a wound in his side, and stands a chance, having been got in before gas gangrene set in. Too busy for niceties, it is just blankets and drinks, clean and dress wounds, then on to the next. Upwards of 700 admitted yesterday, and just a handful of us to deal with them. The orderlies are wonderful, dead on their feet; they have all the heavier jobs.

  30 October

  Sister sent me off for eight hours from midnight; slept (to the sound of shell bla
sts, as if a mighty symphony — the Hell Chorus — was playing just over the horizon) until 5.50 a.m. when the barrage started up in absolute earnest. Rain so dense it is hard to see a yard ahead — I was soaked after running from our hut to the mess. Saw Emma briefly; she said their tent leaks and she is so tired her eyes feel out on stalks. Quite grateful to be in a ward rather than driving, the roads must be a trial. Cannot imagine what the men must be suffering. One boy told me he had seen two of his comrades drown in the mud and could do nothing to help them.

  1 November

  Matron breezed through, asking in passing whether I felt I might be able to manage Post-operative. Sister says it is at least better than Resuscitation (which is a euphemism, being the Moribund ward) and also that she will be sorry to lose me, which I take as high praise.

  3 November

  Saw Sister Duncan briefly yesterday. She looks dreadful, her eyes quite sunken and bloodshot, skin blotched and grey. The Theatres work non-stop and there are simply not enough teams, even with the extras brought in to assist through the Push. They appear hardly ever to rest.

  4 November

  Some fight hard to live while others just seem to give up — perhaps on learning the extent of their injuries? There was one poor boy who had had both legs, right arm and left hand off. He did not linger long. Another told me he had been a champion sportsman. Despite my best efforts, there is sometimes little comfort I can give. It makes me admire Charles all the more for the way he picked up and carried on. With the press of work I had not thought of him in over a week.

  7 November

  The last New Zealand boy remaining went this morning. I was with him at the end. Sister has asked if I might like to add a note to her letter to his mother. He was very brave, clinging on, but never stable enough to move to a Stationary Hospital. He was wounded on the 12th attempting Passchendaele, which is now taken by the Canadians, and at as great a cost.

  9 November

  The newspapers announce the battle is ‘going well for Our Brave Lads’, though that proves hard to believe when one is busy mopping up. Also, that Russia has completely withdrawn from the War, which will free a great many German troops to join their fellows on the Western Front.

  11 November

  The Great Battle is won, and all of Passchendaele Ridge lies in British hands. And meanwhile we will continue in our tasks as if nothing has changed.

  13 November

  Gunner brought in with both legs badly crushed, his injury caused when he slipped beneath the wheel of a limber. One forgets that ordinary accidents still occur.

  14 November

  Two letters: Winifred and Aunt Marjorie. The latter sets out by proclaiming me an extremely thoughtless and selfish girl to have caused such worry to my parents, works around to reporting them all relieved to hear that I am situated in a Hospital, and ends with the note that they are, of course, proud of my efforts. I wrote at once to thank my aunt for her heartening letter — no doubt the irony will be lost on her. Winifred reports having experienced ‘a change of heart’; she has signed on with the Women’s Royal Naval Service and is now working in London, driving a ‘distinguished Colonel, very enjoyable’.

  Matron has given several of us three days’ leave, after which I am to be transferred.

  16 November, Saint-Omer

  Emma, Fraser and I went by train to Hazebrouck, where Fraser believed her cousin to be, but not being able to locate him we travelled on to Saint-Omer. It is a pleasure to be away from the guns and to view a landscape not turned to mud with sticks for trees and all recognisable features obliterated. Shortly after we arrived Emma saw a group of Officers she knew. After some debate they managed the loan of a car and we drove to a small estaminet west of the town for a very pleasant lunch. One was an exceedingly earnest young man, much concerned by the impact of the revolution in Russia and the views of their new leader. I asked whether he thought this Mr Lenin would find bread for Russia’s many hungry mouths, which drew a great groan from the others, who said I ‘must not encourage him’. And thereafter we talked only of the silliest things. It proved a little hard to shake them off, but having finally done so we toured the Cathedral, which is splendid, and the ancient ruined Abbey.

  This morning came on quite cold, with snow overnight that sits like a dusting of sugar on the cobbles. We walked briefly but are mainly happy to sit with our toes to the small fire in our room and do very little. Two of yesterday’s Officers called to invite us to supper.

  18 November, Remy

  A postcard from Edmund awaited my return. He is ‘not far from where we last met though south of where he had been’. Which rather dashed my hopes that he would be safely out of it. I wrote at once, describing our visit to Saint-Omer and its beautiful Cathedral, and warned against his visiting until I was able to confirm my new posting, likely to a CCS which is to be converted to a Convalescent Hospital, where I am sent with a very good reference from Matron.

  20 November, Zuydcoote

  Plans were revised at the last and I find myself on the coast with mountainous dunes lying between me and the Channel and that lovely tang of brine in the air. Apparently on a clear day (if ever we are to be offered such a thing!) it is possible to see England. The buildings served as a Sanatorium before the War, and are large enough for one to become thoroughly lost. But a great improvement over draughty huts and leaky tents; also better equipped. And baths! I had one as soon as possible (and got in trouble for it, as it was apparently not an ‘approved time’). Matron is a distant being, and Sister in Charge quite unimpressed with my credentials. So I shall have to win her over.

  21 November

  A train delivers casualties from Ypres and its surrounding CCSs right up to the Hospital doors. There are a great many medical cases, including an entire ward of pneumonias, and another of scabies and impetigo. Sister is scathing of all ideas and experience beyond her own.

  The noise of shelling is constant; we hear them whizzing over our heads on their way to Dunkirk, which seems to be under almost constant attack. One of the VADs says things have been very rough, though I doubt they could be rougher than where I have come from.

  23 November

  Sister is an absolute martinet; I should not care were she to be squashed flat by a German shell!

  25 November

  Air raids, as well as shells going over and the awful thuds as poor old Dunkirk gets it again. Whenever we hear the distinctive growl of the Taubes we get the men under cover; impossible to get them all to the basements, so under the beds must do, which they at least prefer to just lying there.

  30 November

  Three bombs scored a direct hit on the Hospital; eight orderlies were killed outright and one nurse and a dozen patients wounded. Some are in a great flap. There is nothing to be done but carry on.

  Sunday 2 December

  Chapel Service crowded; no doubt the effect of the bombs.

  5 December

  A package reached me from Deans Park; it has had quite a journey getting here, having gone via Remy and thus having a letter from Emma and a forwarded one from Mr Lindsay tucked beneath its string. Within lay a scarf and mittens from Millie (most welcome) and a cake with a distinctly pumpkin-ish flavour, from Eugenie. Mother says in her note that they hold the gravest of fears for Edmund (I am glad they know nothing of bombs hitting Hospitals!), then goes on to talk of William and the Church fête and gossip from around about — it feels like a country quite foreign! And was apparently posted before news of my having seen Edmund reached them. I shall write back shortly and describe my new surroundings; I suspect this Grand Edifice will better suit Mother’s notion of nursing than would tents and huts and mud. Within the parcel were also forwarded letters from Ada and Lettie and another from Mr Lindsay, posted before he was aware I had crossed the Channel.

  Ada and her mother are engaged in supporting the troops at Trentham Military Camp, organising farewell lunches before each Regiment embarks, and entertaining on leave those Officers who a
re without friends and family nearby. Her brothers Ernest and Walter were both in the Camp when she wrote, but she says Ernest is unlikely to be sent abroad due to having a weak chest.

  Lettie has abandoned farm work in favour of a munitions factory and says she has gone quite yellow! She is engaged again, but of that says, ‘he is due to go to the Front in a month, so there is little point really, but he did so want me to say yes’.

  Mr Lindsay’s first letter, sent on from Deans Park, includes several amusing anecdotes from Oxford. His second, which is written after he had news from Lady B of my abrupt departure to the Continent, expresses concern for my safety and asks after my ‘peace of mind’. I have written to reassure him on both matters.

  Emma reports herself well but claims there is ‘far less cheer’ without me. She includes a card from one of the Officers we met in Saint-Omer, who wishes us ‘all the very best for the coming festive season’ and trusts we are safe. I confess I am not sure which of the young men he was.