Evie's War (17 page)

A touching scene today: one of my Heads — not as bad as many; his nose and mouth badly disfigured but still able to speak — discovered his brother had newly been admitted. I wheeled him (he has also lost both feet) to ward 12 where they greeted one another with delight. The brother is rather worse off, but may yet survive.

Quick excursion into town with Olive to visit the bookshop in Rose Crescent, and we bumped into Hillary pushing a battered perambulator and looking rather drab. Her baby, a little girl, kept up a continuous wailing complaint; apparently she suffers from a bronchial ailment. Hillary did not seem enamoured with motherhood, claiming a ward full
of wounded men less demanding. She is living at home for the duration. We could not stop long, having only half an hour. I do wish she had not looked quite so unhappy.

Father received a letter from Edmund earlier this week; his application for transfer has been approved, and he will by now have joined the New Zealand Division. He will be pleased! House quieter since Monty returned to school.

It is grown very cold. Millie is going to knit me a scarf; she seemed delighted to be asked.

Uncle Aubrey confirms the newspaper's reports of a newly developed weapon being used with great success. These armoured motor vehicles (called ‘tanks') can apparently clear a path across the barbed wire of No Man's Land and even roll right over the Hun trenches, having wheels the full length of the vehicle. Uncle A is confident this will see us turn a corner in the War, which he hopes may thus soon be brought to a close.

Much talk of the new tanks. One patient's comment: ‘Could have done with them at Fricourt.' Matron believes it a good sign when the men take an interest.

Several of my cases transferred this afternoon. No doubt more to come. Wind quite bitter and frost so heavy I could still not feel my feet at midday.

I have sat all day in front of the fire. Mother tells me I should go out for a walk, to which I reply that I walk from dawn to dusk throughout the week and am quite content to give my poor feet a rest!

Captain Miller surprised us by arriving for lunch, though it was apparently no surprise to my uncle and aunt. I do wish they had warned me as I should then have been rather tidier! We went for a brisk walk in the afternoon; I am sure my nose glowed bright pink with cold.

Captain Miller writes that it was a pleasure to see me; letter signed ‘Charles'. I have signed my reply ‘E', which somehow feels less intimate than ‘Evie'.

Winifred wounded. Telegram from Lady B, but no details. I shall discover more when I get down on Friday.

Much relief: Winifred has broken her wrist. I had, of course, imagined The Worst.

Mother took it upon herself to Speak To Me about Captain Miller. She says I must not ‘keep the poor man wondering'. I told her I did not know what she meant, though I suspect that I do. But he has said nothing, so what am I to think? I count him a friend, and said as much.

It seems our travails are not to be over quite as soon as hoped. While the tanks have allowed great strides to be made, Uncle Aubrey concedes they are less effective when the ground is cut up, as is currently the case with the weather in France having turned very bad. Even so, he remains positive regarding the long-term outlook.

Postcard from Edmund. It has taken weeks to get here; I suspect he is back in the Front line.

Six men from the Queen's Westminster Rifles were admitted this morning, and would have been split between the wards (reflecting their various injuries) had they not requested to be kept together. We have done our best, though two, being in a worse state, have of necessity gone elsewhere. The remaining four do not talk a great deal but it is clear they take comfort in one another's company.

Corporal Lindsay has written in his own hand — very shaky and a little hard to decipher, but an excellent sign.
He says that he is improving, and looks forward to seeing me when possible. I wonder whether he knows about Winifred? I wrote immediately to tell him.

One of my QWRs passed away during the night. Of the remaining, one could not cease weeping and another shuffled over to his bedside to console him. Very moving.

No word as yet regarding Winifred's return. Lady B says she hopes it will not be long.

Uncle Aubrey delivered a package from Captain M: a book of poetry by Brooke. It is inscribed: ‘For the Most Charming Nurse E, who tolerates without judgement.'

Eugenie's birthday. I posted five packets of seeds, both flowers and vegetables.

Winifred is home! Matron has agreed to my taking Friday off so I can go down on Thursday night. When I mentioned it to one of my remaining QWRs he affected great distress. Two of the others have been sent on.

Father is looking tired, food shortages in the cities adding pressure at just the time there are not the men to assist in increasing production. I suggested he might take on
workers from the Women's National Land Service Corps; he says he may have to. Eugenie thanked me for the seeds, and promised to save me some of the fruits of her efforts.

Despite the most miserable weather I took the trap to visit Winifred. She is wan and far too thin — one might be forgiven for thinking they have not been feeding her at all. Her journey home was a nightmare; they saw a U-boat in the Channel and were convinced they would be sunk — at which she says she thought: So it has come to this. I only hope it is quick. Thankfully the U-boat left them in peace, and I, for one, am very glad!

Her wrist is broken rather badly; the Clearing Station where she had gone to collect a load of stretcher cases was shelled and her arm crushed in the mêlée. I said she was lucky to have escaped with her life, to which she replied, ‘Oh, luck.' She is not in the best spirits. Lady B proposed I spend the night but I felt Mother would prefer me home and promised to return tomorrow instead.

Pouring rain! Mother refuses to allow me out, and Father supports her. I do hope Winifred does not mind.

Lady B gathered me up at Church and whisked me off, Mother being quite unable to stand up to her imperious arranging. On our arrival Winifred entertained me for an hour with animated conversation but is now resting. It is as though she has a measure of energy which, once used up, leaves her thoroughly deflated in body and spirit.

A note from Winifred, laboriously written with her left hand, to say how grateful she was for my visits. It occurs we did not speak of Corporal Lindsay: I wonder how things stand there?

A VAD came running to fetch me with the news that one of her new admissions was asking for me. It was Harriet's brother George! He has twice been injured, first in the Dardanelles and now in France. He told me he had been evacuated from Gallipoli to Egypt, where he spent some months recovering before being returned to his Regiment — or such as remained of it — on the Western Front. It is a sorry business, nursing men back to health only so that they may return to the fighting and be shot up again. But the best news is that he has seen Edmund! They were together at Abbeville, where they undertook several weeks of training, then went into the line not far from one another near the town of Flers. They had been twenty days at the Front when George was injured. (‘Twenty bl___y days. It's inhuman' were his actual words, followed by a red-faced apology for his language.) He said that Edmund was well ‘on last sighting'. I couldn't spare more time, but promised to visit when I can. Of course, I would rather have heard that Edmund was safely behind the lines, but I know that would not make him happy.

George underwent surgery this morning — his arm is straightforward but the wound in his side something of an issue. When I stopped in after my shift, he asked rather pitifully whether I thought he would survive. I told him I
should jolly well think so after all our trouble, as it would be thoroughly ungrateful not to. It cheered him enormously.

He says that half the men he went in with were finished ‘one way or another' at Gallipoli, and that of those he was with in France, another half have gone. ‘At this rate it'll be only girls and old men and bl___y cripples left back home,' he said. Then apologised for speaking so bluntly. I assured him I had heard a great deal worse, but as I write those words, my heart feels swollen to bursting with grief. His next: ‘The noise is the worst, that and knowing that every shell might be the one for you. And when they're coming over twenty a minute, you don't have time to think sensible thoughts much at all.' And then more apologies. It is as if he doesn't want the words to get out but can't keep them inside. It was the same for some of my Officers — he was a little cheered when I told him so. Of course I shall say nothing of any of this to Harriet.

More re-organisations. A Specialist Hospital has been established for those men whose low spirits might depress the rest or who are so benumbed by their experiences that they are not in their right minds or whose limbs jerk about or any other manner of odd symptoms. But unless they are particularly bad, we are to retain those also suffering physical wounds. I am to go to one of the General wards; I do hope it might be George's.

Arrived rather late but Uncle Aubrey had waited for my train, having got in not long before. We discussed the situation in Russia as we went up to the house: advances on the Eastern Front have ground to a halt, lowering the
morale of the Russian troops. Mother and Father had already retired, so it was not until this morning that I could share my news of Edmund. My emotions rather got the better of me when Mother asked after George, which was only because I am tired. But my uncle fixed me with a gimlet eye and has just now sought me out to advise that, no matter what I might hear from Men in Extremis, for their sake and my own I must Keep My Spirits Up. Also that under no circumstances should I speak of what I might hear to Mother. I assured him his advice was superfluous as I was not a complete ninny. He patted my shoulder and said he had never thought I was.

Winifred seems a little brighter though her wrist gives considerable pain. She is a mere shadow of that Amazon who toured the country delivering rousing speeches only a matter of months ago. When I enquired — somewhat tentatively — whether Corporal Lindsay might be encouraged to visit she said she had not yet been in touch.

I am transferred to St Chad's for a week, the walk to which necessitates getting out of bed ten minutes earlier — and oh! how those ten minutes seem to matter!

A brief note from Corporal Lindsay (in his own hand!) requesting news of Winifred. I cannot believe she has not yet written! I sent a note at once, and have also written to chivvy her along. Such absence of mind (let alone of consideration) is not at all like her.

George has suffered a setback but Sister says he will pull through.

Hurrah! A note from Edmund. He says they have moved ‘to a previous location' by which I take it he means Belgium. There are no details, of course. He has not yet received my letter telling him that George is here.

Winifred's spirits very low; I was quite unable to cheer her. Father, too, is looking a little grey. Only Mother seems in good heart, and that is largely thanks to William having grown into a most engaging fellow.

Interminable rain. I am sick of it!

Busy the last two days clearing out for another big intake; the first arrived today. They now reach us rather more quickly but in an even filthier state. The mud that clogs their clothes and hair and skin has a particular smell; I should not be surprised if it should haunt me for the rest of my life.

Captain M requests permission to call upon me this weekend. How quaint such a notion seems in the midst of this chaos! Of course I have said that he may.

Drawn out by CM (I still cannot manage to call him ‘Charles'), Uncle Aubrey acknowledged that it appears unlikely the War will be over by Christmas. I believe we should simply stop expecting it to end. Each year we hear the same, and still it goes on.

Captain Miller and I called on Winifred. She was polite and rather distant, with nothing of the sparkling energy and humour I have admired from the first. I would like to give her a shake and demand that the real Winifred return. I had not planned to discuss her situation with CM, but he took the bull by the horns and raised it himself — of course, he also remembers how she was before. His opinion is that she is suffering shell shock, and that it is quite unsurprising. He says the best thing is rest, and for her not to go back, which for the moment she cannot as her wrist is still giving trouble.

I felt strangely shy last night about committing all that has transpired to paper, which is too ridiculous, as only I will read these words. CM drove me to the Station and waited with me for my train, which was late. We were sitting side by side on the Station bench, he tapping his fingers on his knee, when all of a sudden he reached across and took hold of my hand. I gave a little cry, as I had not been expecting it, and he smiled rather wryly then simply held my fingers without saying anything at all. The train came, and I stood up, and he stood with me and took my bag and settled me on board. ‘Will you write?' he asked, as if we have not been writing for months. I managed to say I would, and he
smiled again and said I was very good, and then had to step down or travel to Cambridge with me, and I rather wish he had! At least then there would have been time to talk, rather than this interminable breathless wondering.