The Last Lady from Hell (23 page)

Most of the senior nurses were sisters, that is, they were nuns. The British matrons, as they were sometimes called, were inducted into the medical corps as majors. The Canadian nurses were lieutenants and, although they were not nuns, they retained the title “sister nurse.”

The matrons were wonderful, selfless ladies, devoted to their calling and a pleasure to work with. There were some matrons, however, that were bitter old hags, hell bent on making a miserable situation far more intolerable and leaning heavily on their rank to do so.

Major Sister Kathleen Blighton–or as Sheila and her fellow coworkers called her “Major pain in the ass”–was one of those miserable matrons. Her nastiness and bitterness was so overwhelming that it seemed to manifest itself upon her physically. She was not a pleasant person to behold, thin and ungainly with a large nose and several moles strewn about her face. She had a classic witch face that seemed to be in perfect keeping with her demeanor.

Sister Kathleen would ferret out the weak or mild mannered nurses and hound them relentlessly. She had the mark of a true bully. To her it was more than just some sick game. It was her passion to persecute those under her charge. Sister Kathleen had been at the 5th Canadian Stationary slightly longer than Sheila and, when they met, there had been an instant dislike by both parties.

They were polar opposites, and neither one tried to keep it a secret. Sheila was there to relieve pain and Sister Kathleen was there to inflict it.

Sister Kathleen immediately made her rank known at their first meeting, and began to intimidate and humiliate Sheila and her coworkers. Sheila knew how to handle someone like the sister and calmly complied with all of the orders that were intended to rattle her. That lack of emotion only served to make Sister Kathleen more resolute in her effort to upset Sheila, which in turn made Sheila more steadfast in keeping herself in check.

Sister Kathleen seemed to be unable to jar Sheila’s resolve, and things would have continued to escalate had it not been for the keen observations of the chief physician. He had seen the conflict go on too long. It was beginning to disrupt his ward.

“If you two can’t work together here, I can send you both up to the front to work in a clearing station for the ambulance corps,” he told them one afternoon.

Sister Kathleen, having very little common sense, replied coldly that she should be able to order her nurses in the manner that she deemed appropriate.

The doctor glared at her. “I can have those orders drafted up today and you will be at the front before weeks end,” he said acidly. “You’ll find that there isn’t time for this kind of nonsense when you are up to your eyeballs in death and dying.”

Sister Kathleen, used to having the final word, struggled to hold back further protests. The doctor stared icily at the pair as he waited for a confirmation that the feud would end.

“Very well, doctor,” Sheila said quietly, with her eyes fixed on the floor.

Sister Kathleen’s eyes darted from the doctor to Sheila and back to the doctor, whose stare was fixed on her now with greater intensity. The last place she wanted to be was on the Front in harm’s way.

“Why, of course, doctor,” she finally said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have nurses that need my direction.”

She spun on her heel to leave, pausing only long enough to whisper to Sheila. “You are wasting your time with that hopeless vegetable of yours.”

THE ROAD TO SOMME FOR THE 1ST NEWFOUNDLAND

T
erry, Dan, and George had assimilated into the 1st Newfoundland Regiment with little difficulty. Their hosts were pleasant, likeable people who were easy to talk to, and they had openly and genuinely accepted the Canadians into their regiment unreservedly.

The Newfoundlanders were ruggedly built Nordic types, with a heritage that might suggest they would ravage, rape, and plunder as their distant ancestors did, but nothing could be further from the truth. They were gallant soldiers and fierce fighters on the field of battle, but on a personal level, they were totally without aggression and the boys found them to be quite charming. They had an open appreciation for the pipes and drums, even though the instruments were not commonly familiar to the average Newfoundlander.

Consisting of eight hundred men, the 1st Newfoundland Regiment was one of four brigades that made up the four thousand strong British 29th Division. A part of the 1st Newfoundland Regiment had
been in place on the Somme Front for three months waiting for Haige’s Big Push, but now the entire regiment would be called on.

Mess was over and the call to make ready for deployment was given, so the men scurried back to disassemble their tents and pack their equipment for the long train ride.

Most of the men knew the drill and went about their designated tasks. The small pipe band, however, was new to the drill and simply tried not to get in the way of the rest of the 29th Division.

They were to board a train located south of camp. Colonel Kelton asked the band to lead the division on a march to the waiting transportation. Terry gladly accepted the request and they took position in front of the large formation. Kelton looked back down the rows of men and gave an order to form up and dress right. The soldiers shuffled slightly so as to form straight lines using the man furthest to their right as the lines base. The men now stood at the ready in clearly defined straight lines.

With the trio in position, Terry turned back toward the men and yelled the order: “Mark time by the rolls, step off to the street beat.”

The order was relayed down the line by officers standing to the right of the formation. Then Terry yelled, “By the right, quick, March!”

Dan began the drum rolls and the formation began to march in place. When Dan started the street beat, four thousand men took their first steps toward the Battle Somme.

The 29th Division marched past the smoking steam engine and stopped about midway down the 25 boxcars that were lined up behind it. It was the first of two trains of equal size. The forward two cars were regular passenger cars intended for the senior officers. The
remaining twenty-three cars were standard box cars with a sign affixed to the doors: “30 MEN/15 HORSES.”

The men were counted by rows and then assigned a car number. It became clear at once that the thirty-man limit sign was there for show only, and that they intended to cram as many men into the cars as was possible.

Terry was certain that there must have been 80 to 90 per car. “I hope they don’t intend to put 15 horses in with us,” he quipped.

Dan sat on a bale of hay next to several fellows trying to perch on the same bale. “If they do, I’m walking!” he replied.

The heat of so many men packed into one place created a very uncomfortable environment that was thankfully reversed by the cooling of the evening. The doors were left opened and a breeze produced by the moving train was a welcome relief.

The noise of the spartan freight cars, as they rattled and clanked down the rails, made conversation strained by the requirement to yell to be heard. Because of this, conversation died off and the men sat quietly thinking about family, home, or nothing at all. Many just allowed themselves to be entranced by the hypnotic clanking of the wheels on the rails.

Darkness had fallen over France and the countryside faded to a soft blur of dimly lit farmhouses and villages. The men slept, leaning on each others shoulders, with their heads rocking back and forth to the swaying of the boxcar. A few men were speaking as quietly as possible, which was considerably louder than normal due to the noise.

Terry looked around the car at his new comrades and marveled at how at ease they seemed. Few appeared to be apprehensive at the thought of the coming battle. He rose and made his way over to the opened door. A small line of men had formed to urinate out the door, which was quite a stunt considering they had to lean out while holding onto the door with one hand and their “Johnson” with the other.

Because of the wind from the moving train, and the inevitability of spray-back, no one sat near the downwind side of the door. Terry hiked his kilt and leaned out to relieve himself. As he hung out the door urinating, his kilt began to flap in the breeze getting too close to the stream and he shifted to try to prevent his kilt from getting soaked. Just then, the boxcar swayed and Terry began to lose his balance. Before he tumbled out of the opening a large hand firmly grabbed the waist belt of his kilt saving him from an embarrassing and possibly dangerous tumble down the tracks.

“We can’t be losing our pipe major,” Dan smiled. “I’m next, spot me will you?”

It was about two o’clock in the morning, and the only light visible from the boxcar door was that of the occasional floating ember in the smoke trail of the engine. Off in the distance, to the east over the dark countryside, they could see the flashes of some far off thunderstorms.

An hour later, the men were beginning to stir. Terry and Doc were shouting back and forth, trying to have a conversation, but it was increasingly difficult to hear one another’s voice. Much harder than it had been several hours ago.

Something was different, but it was difficult to put one’s finger on it. It was insidious and had been creeping up on them for the last hour. The rattling and clanking of the train was now being drowned out by a new noise, a dull roar that seemed to come from all sides.