The Walnut Tree (7 page)

Chapter Six

W
e were pushed back by another German attack, scrambling to move ourselves and our wounded out of harm's way. I was in the last ambulance, my companions the dead. Their pale faces reflected the light from the shelling, and I thought,
They are the lucky ones, beyond pain and worry and grief.

A letter from Madeleine, by some miracle, had reached me the day before. She wrote,

Henri saw you in France, much to his consternation. He had believed you were safe in England. My dear, how did this come about? You never mentioned it to me. How can you bear to work with the wounded? I am told that the sight of such terrible wounds can drive one mad. You must be a far braver soul than I. But what should I tell Alain if we are able to reach him finally? He will be so worried for you. The hope now is that he is prisoner of the Germans. He and his men were fighting a rearguard action to allow the main body of troops to move to a stronger position when he was cut off. He got most of those in his command clear of the encircling Germans, he and one sergeant holding them at bay, before he was overrun. It's believed that he was wounded, although no one was able to say how severely. We pray that it was not serious and that he has been able to survive in the wretched conditions of a prison camp. He has earned a medal for such courage. Meanwhile, young Henri is thriving. He has his father's blue eyes and my chin. When I think how much we owe you, I'm at a loss for words.

I read the letter again. Alain. Wounded? A prisoner? There was room to hope.

Missing
so often meant
dead,
the body unrecovered. Unrecoverable.

But if he was a prisoner, wounded or not, he was no longer fighting. If the wound healed, he would live to see the end of the war. Safely out of it.

Knowing Alain, how that would chafe, it was hard to think of him in such straits. And how good was German medical care in a prison camp? I touched the ring at my throat, a talisman now for his safe return.

I'd tucked the letter away in my traveling box, the little portable desk that Bruce, my cousin, had given me when I first went to France to study.

To remind you to write,
he'd said as I opened it.

He too had been a German prisoner. And he'd escaped. But at what cost?

There had been no news of Rory or Bruce since I left England, and I couldn't write to my cousin, not without giving myself away, the envelope itself betraying where I was, and why.

We beat our hasty retreat, set up the aid station again as soon as we safely could, and watched the long line of wounded come in. The machine-gun cases were the worst, I thought, although the burned pilot was nearly as bad. Watching those flimsy aircraft high above our lines was incredible, and I found myself wondering what it would be like to fly. My father had told me once that it was the last freedom.

New orders arrived, coming in with the next convoy of ambulances. I was reassigned to transfer duty. I was to accompany severely wounded men on their way to England for more care.

I went to Dr. Philips straightaway.

“I don't want to leave France,” I said, showing him my orders.

He looked at them, then said, “You're a very good surgical nurse, Sister Douglas. I shall hate to lose you. But I can't change your orders. And it's important for you to have this respite. Leave will bring you back to us all the more rested and better able to serve these men.”

It was meant for encouragement, but I didn't need respite. I had found on my arrival in France that all I'd learned in my training was just a beginning, that standing beside a doctor working on the worst cases had taught me more in a few minutes than I'd learned in days of working in the hospital in London. I could second-guess the doctor, put into his hands the scalpels and the swabs and the threaded needles and the scissors before he asked for them. The result had been so very uplifting, an indication of my ability to make a difference.

My flatmate, Bess Crawford, had written to me before I left London for Dover that she had discovered depths in herself that she hadn't been aware of, before she went to France.

It was amazing, and the most rewarding experience of my life. I could concentrate in the most appalling situations, I could remember what I had seen done and apply that knowledge myself when it was necessary. Do we all feel this way? I don't know. I shall have to wait and ask Mary and Diana if this was true for them as well.

Well, I could tell her that it was true in my case. And I didn't want to lose those skills, that sharpness.

But three days later I was heading south, meeting a convoy just north of Calais, and relieving one of the Sisters who had brought it that far.

We had a train, and the wounded could be made more comfortable, the Sisters could watch over them far better than in an ambulance hurtling across the bleak and devastated countryside. I moved through the two carriages that I'd been assigned to cover, watching over my patients, seeing that they were kept hydrated and that any bleeding was discovered before it became dangerous.

And all the while I thought about Dr. Philips and the others in that forward aid station. Wishing I stood beside them, or was sorting the stretchers as they came in, or was looking in on our surgical cases to be certain they were stable.

I tried not to remember that Peter was fighting nearby.

The crossing was stormy, and the patients we'd transferred to the ship were often seasick. I cleaned up vomit and urine and never had time to ask myself if I felt queasy.

In Dover, the first person I saw as we were moving our stretchers to the waiting train was Diana. She hailed me from one of the carriages, came running, and enclosed me in a fierce embrace.

I hugged her in return with the same sense of relief. I'd grown quite fond of my flatmates, and I couldn't imagine now having gone off to Cornwall and never meeting them.

“You're all right, then. Mrs. Hennessey had had no news. We were worried.”

“We were on the move, as often as not. The Front is shifting almost daily.”

“I must see to my charges. Shall we have dinner in London?”

“I'd like that,” I told her.

And off she went as I returned to my own duties.

We'd lost seven patients on the ship and another three on the way to London. Infection, fast moving, unstoppable. I had held four of them as they died and had wept for them, so close to home, so close to those they'd left behind.

It was almost a relief in London to turn my own charges over to the next contingent of Sisters and watch the train pull out for Hampshire, Wiltshire, and Sussex, where there were now hospitals in what had once been stately homes. Even manor houses had taken in their share of ambulatory wounded, for the London hospitals couldn't possibly have accommodated so many.

Diana and I walked to Mrs. Hennessey's house from the omnibus stop closest to her street. The late autumn air was surprisingly cold, and the London damp was penetrating. I'd forgot that, in northern France.

Diana, shivering beside me, said, “I've heard from Mary and Bess. Barely a letter, but enough to tell me they're well.”

“I've heard very little. From anyone.”

We opened the outer door to Mrs. Hennessey's house and stepped into the hall out of the wind. Mrs. Hennessey herself came hurrying from her flat to greet us, and I felt I'd come home.

“I've a bit of chicken,” she said, after we'd exchanged news. “I'll put it on and we'll have dinner. Food is getting more and more scarce. You'll be glad of a good meal tonight, without having to go out again.”

When, an hour later, Diana and I came down again, Mrs. Hennessey had set the table, cooked the chicken in an herb broth, and baked potatoes, carrots, and parsnips in the oven. Bustling about her kitchen humming to herself, she was glad to have company for the evening.

Pausing while the tea was steeping in the pot, she went to the desk in her sitting room and brought back a letter.

“This was well traveled,” she said, handing it to me. “I didn't want to risk sending it on.”

The envelope was stained, torn in places, my name and my direction in Cornwall nearly illegible. It was a miracle that it had reached there, much less survived to find me at Mrs. Hennessey's in London.

I recognized Alain's handwriting at once. And my heart was in my throat as I opened the envelope.

“Take it into the sitting room to read it, love,” Mrs. Hennessey said gently. “In private.”

And so I did.

It was written on the eve of battle, although not the one where he'd been captured, I thought. An earlier one.

My dearest Elspeth, I hope you are safely in England and out of danger. We've saved Paris, somehow, but it was a near-run thing, let me tell you. The Germans got much too far down the Marne, well past Villard. I hesitate to think what the house must have suffered at their hands. Henri will be devastated. The Germans are very determined, and we shall find it very difficult convincing them to return to their own country. The war that was to end by Christmas will be lucky to end in the new year. The worst of it is that I have no expectation of speaking to your cousin before the Spring. Now I must close and see this into the pouch. You are my anchor in this nightmare, and I consider myself a very lucky man. I think of you in Cornwall, well out of this, and it gives me peace.

But I wasn't in Cornwall.

“Good news?” Diana asked, coming into the sitting room.

I took a deep breath. “A dear friend, writing to say he's all right. Only it's been a long time since this was written. Latest word is that he could be a prisoner.”

“I'm so sorry,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulders. “Come to dinner and think about it later. There's nothing you can do tonight.”

True.

I said as we went into the small dining room and took our places at Mrs. Hennessey's table, “Did you find it hard to convince people that you were right to become a nursing Sister?”

Diana rolled her eyes. “My parents. My brother. My friends. But I think they're slowly coming to realize that I'm doing my part in this war. My great-aunt told me that no decent man would want to marry me now. Mrs. Hennessey can tell her that that's not true.”

As she passed the roasted vegetables, Mrs. Hennessey nodded. “Someone proposes at least once a week. Cheeky, if you ask me!”

We laughed. Such proposals were a part of our days, most of them made as the sedative took effect and their pain subsided or as a frightened soldier, hardly more than a boy, dealt with severe wounds.

“Is there no one you care for particularly?” I asked Diana.

“Well, there's Simon Brandon. He's a family connection of Bess's, and the most attractive man I've ever met.”

Mrs. Hennessey tut-tutted. “Pay no attention to her. He's the nicest young man, and he would never flirt with the likes of our Diana. She's broken more hearts than the Army can mend.” But it was clear to me that Diana was one of Mrs. Hennessey's favorites, for there was no censure in her tone of voice.

“I wonder sometimes if I'll ever truly fall in love. I like this person for his sense of humor, that one for his kindness, or another one for his cleverness,” Diana said pensively. “Finding every quality that matters to me in one man? Is it possible?”

Mrs. Hennessey said, “I had no doubts when Mr. Hennessey came along. I can tell you that. And he made me very happy. I wasn't to know then, was I, how few years we'd have together. But I'll never regret marrying him.”

Diana turned to me. “Have you found anyone in particular that you care about?”

I could feel myself flushing.

“Oh, do tell!” Diana said at once. “Is he anyone we know?”

I tried to adopt the same light tone. “He's the brother of a school friend. I was madly in love with him when I was thirteen. Sadly, he's much older and he hardly knew I existed. He told me so himself.”

They laughed, as I'd meant for them to, and commiserated with me on my misfortune in love. I couldn't tell them that he was the one who was missing, possibly a prisoner. I hadn't quite learned to show my feelings as easily as Diana could, or even Mary. Lady Elspeth was always expected To Set a Good Example. Sister Elspeth had yet to lose that aspect of her upbringing in an Earl's household.

Still it was a cheerful meal, and I found myself enjoying it. The very ordinariness of it drew me into this circle of friendship. All of my flatmates were of good breeding, and I was very glad I could appear to be one of them, rather than set apart by an accident of birth. I'd grown up with a personal maid to dress me and a footman to run my errands, a coachman to take me wherever I wished to go, before my father replaced him with a motorcar and a chauffeur. My meals were served to me, rather than dishes passed around the table for each person to help him- or herself. I was accustomed to dressing for dinner and having wine with each course.

Did I miss all that? I was beginning to think that it belonged to another world, one I had shared with my father. Without him, I wasn't sure I wished to return to it.

I was glad to go up to our flat and prepare for bed. Diana and I were very tired, and we didn't linger over our tea. Mrs. Hennessey wished us a good night, and as Diana and I climbed the stairs, Diana said, “I wonder sometimes if I'll look back on this war as one of the happiest—and the saddest—periods of my life.”

I knew what she meant. In spite of the fatigue, the heartbreaks, the nightmares, doing something that mattered had become more important to me with every passing day.

I was grateful after all for this respite in England. But I longed to be back in France.

A
nd soon enough, I was.

Growing up I had known the names of all the proper regiments—the Scots Greys, the Guards, the Argyle and Sutherland, the Household Cavalry, the Buffs, and so on. But the lines were becoming blurred as they were depleted and new recruits were brought in to replace officers and men who had been wounded or killed. In place of old family names were those from small towns across England, Scotland, and Wales. A very different Army, but one none the less that fought bravely and did its best to hold the line against the Germans. But as the line wavered, so did our casualties increase.