Angel of the Somme: The Great War, Book 1 (3 page)

Chapter Three

Sam swam up from inky depths to the sound of a female voice. Not British, but not German either. He tried to place it, but thoughts came so slowly and it was such a strain to concentrate upon the meaning her words formed.

“…moving around more. Your legs have changed position several times. I’m sure of it.”

He heard some male mumbling that he couldn’t quite make out, followed by light-hearted laughter.

“You get more than your share of attention, I’m sure, Lieutenant.” Her voice was farther away for that bit. Wood groaned on tile. The sound of something—
chair? table?
—being pulled up. “And if he is aware of what’s going on, better to have a reason to wake up, don’t you think?”

The same male voice grumbled a few words, then Sam heard paper being torn. The noise echoed through his mind, making it difficult to think. A thin blade of pain slipped in and felt as if it was slicing cruel but precise incisions into his brain. He tried to move his arms, to feel why his head was in such agony, but they refused to budge.

The pleasant voice continued, and brought with it a sense of calm. He relaxed and listened. “You’ve another letter from West Sussex, Captain.”

When he tried to open his eyes, he saw only darkness.

“‘Darling Sam,’” the woman began. “‘Yesterday we got another letter from someone in the Voluntary Aid Detachment. Please thank her for writing, will you? The VAD says you’re well, but goes into no more detail than that. I like to suppose you don’t write to us yourself because you’re too busy getting better—but I’ve a worry that it only means you’re still sleeping.’”

Pain crashed inside his skull in waves. It radiated down his body in angry torrents. The harder he tried to stay awake, the more his head ached—as if his struggles were feeding a beast inside his mind.

“‘Mum and Father are getting on as well as you’d expect. Mum worries, but Father tells her that your being in the hospital is good news. It means you’re safe and no longer a target for Jerry’s bullets. I must admit that I’d feel a lot better if I could read a letter in your illegible scrawl with your tendency to over punctuate.’”

Another sharp pain sliced through the top of Sam’s skull. He tried to groan in response, but remained mute. He focused his mind and held onto the woman’s soothing voice and her words from—
sister? Evie?
—the letter writer.

“‘We received a rare letter from Bad two days ago. He’s been informed about your injury but is too far away to…’”

Sam held to the sound of her voice as hard as he was able, but a roar of agony screamed inside his mind, drowning out the sound of the woman as if she were a songbird on the battlefield. Her words grew so faint that he could no longer make them out. As he slipped back into darkness, she faded to a comforting murmur until sleep claimed him.

He woke again with no idea if it had been days or hours since he’d last been conscious. His head felt clearer, at any rate. The ice pick of pain had been replaced by a dull throbbing, which was a sweet mercy.

Concentrating as hard as he was able, he opened his eyes only to see the same blackness as before. He knew he had to be awake for there was a steady sense of a busy world going on all around his bed. A conversation burbled up near him and he could distinguish the sound of footsteps and the squeaking wheels of carts being maneuvered about.

Again, he tried to move his hands. This time, his right arm jerked up then fell back down onto his chest, like a kite suddenly deprived of wind. He slid his hand up his chest along the bumpy material—
blanket? bandage?
—covering him.

That slight movement was strangely exhausting and his headache flared up. He concentrated over the pain, directing all his will toward his right arm. He lifted it, just slightly, and pulled it toward his face. His head roared in protest.

His clumsy fingers touched a barrier—wrappings covered his head, including his eyes. Thank god—he wasn’t blind then. Or…he might not be. The bandage could mean many things.

“Captain?” It was the male voice that had spoken the other day, no longer mumbling. “Oi, Sister? I think Sleeping Beauty might be waking up.”

Sam pulled his arm away from his face, letting it fall gracelessly back onto the bed.

“Captain Dwight?” A female voice, but not the soothing one from the other day. “Can you hear me?”

He tried to think of what to—
speak? voice? tongue?
—and found his throat once again too uncooperative. And the pain inside his head yowled in protest.

A darker shade of black crept into his vision from the edges and he fell into it without a fight.

Sam woke to the sensation of movement. Then a male voice, very loud and authoritative, sounded in his left ear.

“Captain Dwight, can you feel my hand?”

It was so difficult to think beyond the blanket of pain wrapped around his mind. Sam searched to find meaning in the words—
feel? hand?—
but couldn’t find his way through. When he tried to speak, his throat seemed unfamiliar, as if it didn’t quite belong to him.

Sam felt the slight pressure of fingers placed directly over the top of his own, but could not react. His fingers seemed like dead things that someone had pinned to the end of his hand. It was maddening. He’d been able to move the damned things earlier.

He tried to speak, forcing his lips to shape a word, any word.
Yes, hand, pain.
He remained mute.

“How about this, Captain?” The women’s voice sounded in his ear. It was her, again. The sweet voice. Fingers, warm and confident, turned his hand over and slipped inside Sam’s open palm. “Squeeze.”

Sam squeezed.

“Yes!” She gave a delighted yelp.

“You were right, Lieutenant,” said a male—
father? doctor?—
voice. “Your roommate is coming around.”

“Shall I remove the bandages?” the woman asked.

“When were they last changed?”

“I changed them myself this morning. There was no sign of herniation.” She paused. “I also checked for neck rigidity and there was none. And no history of fever. I think meningitis is going to pass by our captain all together.”

“Very good. Once again, you’re ahead of me, Miss Curtis.” The male voice sounded genuinely impressed. “He appears to be beating the odds, touch wood. Once he’s stabilized, he’ll be bound for Blighty.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Let’s have a look at you, shall we, Lieutenant?” The man’s voice sounded farther away now. “You’re looking well. The lateral tremor seems a bit reduced. Now how’s that leg of yours?”

The woman’s fingers, so warm and comforting, began to slip from his palm. Sam tried to tighten his grip, but his hand was uncooperative and slow—as if it belonged to a puppet and he was clumsily pulling at knotted strings.

The voices moved farther away, and he slid back into the comfort of darkness.

When Sam woke again, it was night. Even through the darkness, however, he could recognize shapes. He blinked rapidly to make sure it wasn’t an optical illusion. He wasn’t blind then. At least he had that much. He lifted a hand to his head. His arm trembled, but cooperated as he cautiously ran his fingertips across his face. Other than beard stubble, his skin felt smooth and unmarked. He then ran his fingertips across his head and bumped into a shaved area just above his right ear. He felt a small, rectangular bandage, no more than two inches long.

He dropped his hand and looked up at the ornate plaster ceiling high above him. He turned his head. Though the room was dimly lit, he could see rows of beds covered with khaki blankets. A hospital ward, then. And from the silence and the condition of the building, it was a good long way from the front.

The silhouette of the man in the bed beside him shifted slightly and faced him. The fellow’s head wobbled from side to side in a very peculiar way. It made Sam feel uneasy, so he looked at the ceiling instead.

“So you’re properly awake then?” the man asked.

Sam took a moment to form a response in his mind. “Yes.” His voice cracked and sounded nothing like his own.

“You all right, Captain? I can fetch a nurse,” the voice whispered. From the corner of his eye, Sam could still see the lad’s head continuing to tremble in that unnatural way which reminded him vaguely of a chicken.

“No, please. Fine,” Sam replied.

“I’m Gordy. Well, Second Lieutenant Gordon Robbins but here at New Bedlam, we keep things on a first name basis. I’m with the Eighty-eighth of Newfoundland.”

“Sam.”

Gordy sat up in bed and reached for something on Sam’s bedside table. When Sam tried to follow his movement, the world seemed to pitch to one side and a wave of nausea hit him. He closed his eyes.

“Have some water, Sam. You sound a bit parched.”

Gordy lifted a tin cup to Sam’s mouth. The lad’s head might wobble, but his hand was steady. Sam took a welcome drink.

“You sure you don’t want me to call a sister?” Gordy asked.

“Yes,” Sam replied, great guttural beast that he was.

Sam lay back on his pillow. It felt cool and soothing against his neck. After gathering his thoughts for a few moments, he opened his eyes and looked at Gordy, who was watching him with a wary expression.

“Where now?” Sam asked. “England?”

“France. You’re in New Bedlam. Well, officially it’s Base Hospital Seventeen.” Gordy paused for a moment. “It was an asylum before the war. One of those rich Frenchy places with a too-fancy-for-
vous
name. It’s not a madhouse anymore. Well, no less a madhouse than the rest of the Western Front. We only named it New Bedlam in hopes that it would be good luck for bringing the Yanks into the war. They’re so fond of renaming things by sticking a ‘new’ title in front of it. New York, New Jersey, New England.”

Sam nodded and felt the world sway a little.

“I’m talking too much,” Gordy said, not entirely untruthfully.

“Meet you,” Sam said.

It was a moment before Gordy responded. “Pleasure to meet you as well, Sam. You go ahead and get some rest, now. And try not to worry. They’re a good lot here. You should have seen me before they took me in.” Gordy lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “My head used to wobble from side-to-side and look at me now.” He chuckled, seeming pleased with himself.

“Thank you,” Sam said.

The pain in his head roared like a cyclone. Sam closed his eyes, hoping sleep would take him.

Eventually, it did.

Chapter Four

Rrrring, rrrring.

The morning bell pulled Lily from sleep. She groaned and rubbed her hand over her eyes. Five o’clock in the morning was an unholy hour to wake, but especially so since she’d been on the ward floor until well after midnight.

She stretched and looked over to her roommate, Rose, who’d slept right through the bell. Poor lamb. She was aptly named, with golden hair and healthy pink skin that almost glowed—a hothouse English Rose. Unlike Lily herself, who was nothing like her namesake with auburn hair and green eyes and skin that had clearly seen the summer sun. If Lily were a flower, she reckoned she’d be something wild. Maybe an Indian paintbrush, from back home in British Columbia. Or perhaps, she considered, a weed.

Lily slipped out of bed and reached out to shake Rose’s shoulder. The girl sat up, looking at first surprised, then profoundly disappointed.

“Already?” Rose groaned.

“I’m afraid so.” Lily slipped on her standard blue VAD dress and began to button it. “At least we shouldn’t be getting any more casualties today.”

“How do you know?”

“We’re out of room. Unless they fancy strapping patients to the roof, they’ll have to send them to Le Havre or Rouen.”

Rose was like most of the young women who made up the Voluntary Aid Detachment—a sweet girl from a wealthy home, but with no experience in any kind of work, let alone something as demanding as a base hospital. Though the girls had gone through basic nursing training, they were far more comfortable around a needle when it was sewing a sampler than when stitching up the wounded.

The recruiting poster promised a life of pretty girls wearing crisp VAD dresses while they heroically tended grateful and very tidy patients. The reality was an overwhelmed girl frantically patching together a bloody line of boys suffering grievous wounds just as they’d begun to live life.

Rose moved toward her wardrobe and sluggishly gathered her dress, and her starched apron and scarf. Then she sat back down on the bed and crushed the bundle of clothing in her arms. With her apron crumpled, the red cross on the front had transformed into an angry tangle of crimson lines.

“One day at a time, Rose. You truly are seeing the worst of it. Before this latest push, things were much calmer around here.” Lily tied her own apron around her waist, then wrapped her white scarf around her head. “You’ve been doing fine, really.”

“Matron Marshall doesn’t think so.”

Lily gave an unladylike snort. “Matron Marshall would find fault with Marie Curie herself.”

Rose looked over, a hint of a smile on her lips.

“Cross my heart. Just the other day I heard her complaining about Madame Curie’s x-rays vans. Said they were a nuisance at the front and a proper RAMC nurse should know if a leg is broken just by looking at it.”

Rose beamed, a real grin this time.

Lily smiled in return. “You can’t take what she says to heart, Rose. You’ll get the hang of this in no time.”

“I don’t think so. I’ll never know so much as you do.”

“I think you will. And I’ve had a few years head start on you, so it’s not really a fair comparison.”

“Years?” Rose asked. “But I thought you only arrived six months ago.”

“I’ve been working as a nurse since I was in my early teens.”

“You’re joking.” Rose tilted her head to the side and gave Lily a skeptical look.

“Not at all. My father is a doctor in Vancouver, Canada. Since British Columbia wasn’t blessed with an over abundance of trained nurses, he had me at his elbow as soon as I turned fourteen. His practice wasn’t quite like this—the brutality of men intentionally tearing one another to bits, but I’m quite familiar with the basics.” Lily sat on her bed and quickly laced up her shoes.

“Why aren’t you a nursing sister then?” Rose asked.

“The Royal Army Medical Corps said I hadn’t been properly trained as a nurse, so it was VAD for me.”

“And your father? Did he join as well?”

“He tried to, but he’s got a rather poor heart. The army couldn’t take him. Since it’s just the two of us, it was up to me to represent Clan Curtis.”

Rose looked down her lap, where she’d been strangling her dress and apron.

“Today’s bound to be better,” Lily said. Rose did not look terribly convinced. “Just keep your chin up and try to stay out of Matron’s way.”

Lily gave Rose an encouraging smile, then stepped into the hall. A few fellow VADs were up and moving slowly in the dim gas-lit hallway. She followed them to the kitchen.

At over a hundred years old, the building wasn’t terribly modern. It had been retrofitted for electricity and the wards were still illuminated by gas lamps. In the winter, the antiquated heating system alternately froze or broiled the patients, depending on its mood.

Still, the old place had a lot in its favor. Being a former mental institution, it was ideally suited to be refitted as a base hospital with four large wards, a spacious kitchen and three rooms at the back which suited nicely for surgery. The two dozen smaller cells along the east side were put to use as staff quarters. The large kitchen featured windows that looked out over the back garden, which was Lily’s favorite place—a tranquil spot in the midst of so much chaos. Lily had even put in a small herb garden when she’d first arrived—long since abandoned due to the war’s relentless demands.

To be sure, remnants of New Bedlam’s former life lingered. There were still bars on many of the windows and an odd assortment of straitjackets piled in a shed out back. But since many base hospitals were little more than a collection of tents, Lily knew she was fortunate to have been assigned a place with four solid walls.

She worked her way past a gaggle of bleary-eyed VADs and grabbed a seat at the crowded wooden table next to the window. Gobbling down her breakfast of porridge and plums in silence, she inadvertently scalded the roof of her mouth.

After scooping out a final spoonful of porridge, she dashed to the sink to wash out her things, then began loading up the breakfast cart for the patients.

Though the VADs were usually assigned to both officer and enlisted wards, Matron Marshall assigned Lily exclusively to the officers’ ward. The matron didn’t trust Lily as she might a nursing sister, but she recognized that Lily had experience. If someone was going to make a mistake, Matron Marshall wanted it to happen amongst enlisted men where there was less likely to be trouble. Army stripes hadn’t done much for breaking down class walls. Not in the matron’s case, at any rate.

Lily pushed the cart through the door with a bang. Bright sunshine streamed through the wide, barred windows on the south side of the room, bringing much needed cheer to the room. A few litters still clogged the aisles, but the ward wasn’t as crowded this morning, at least, which would make delivering breakfast less problematic.

Though Lily occasionally accompanied Dr. Raye, this morning Sister Newell was making the rounds in his place. The three staff doctors would have to be dead on their feet at this point. They’d begun operating as soon as the sun was up and had still been at it when Lily had gone to bed. Lily knew better than to offer her assistance to Sister Newell. The nurse was agreeable enough, but placed VADs in the same general category as songbirds: pleasant to look at and nice enough creatures, but generally useless.

Lily threaded a path through the few men that had been billeted on the floor, offering them breakfast first. As always, they greeted her with grateful smiles, peppered with lots of “Thank you ever so much, miss,” and “This looks delightful,” even though their meager feast consisted of only porridge and slightly bruised plums.

Lily made three trips to the kitchen to refill her cart before she was on her final breakfast run. Most of the men wouldn’t be with them more than a few days. By the time the wounded made it to the base hospital, they were injured badly enough to send back to England on a hospital ship.

There were a few, however, who stayed at New Bedlam a bit longer. Some men were injured just lightly enough to need to remain in the hospital for a few weeks, or had a non-life threatening illness, such as trench fever. Other men stayed because they hadn’t stabilized enough to risk travel by hospital ship. This happened most often with head injuries and, on occasion, amputees.

The longer term residents tended to cluster together in the far corner of the room. Tending to them was Lily’s favorite part of the day. Over time, she’d gotten to know them well and considered them her friends. Her comrades in arms. After long days with so many nameless lads, these boys in the corner of the room helped Lily remember why she’d signed up in the first place.

Lily saved the best for last. The Canadian and the Captain. Lieutenant Gordy Robbins was a gangly, freckled lad who never failed to brighten her day with his unbound enthusiasm and optimism. Besides, talking to her countryman helped ease her homesickness.

His neighbor, Captain Dwight, held other charms. Though he’d only regained consciousness days ago, there was something irresistible and calming about his presence. Whenever she read his letters to him, it held a kind of intimacy, peering through this charming window to his family, his life.

Matron Marshall would have vehemently disapproved of such warm feelings toward patients, and she wasn’t alone. From the top on down, VADs were discouraged from being overly familiar with soldiers. Some hospitals had taken it so far as to forbid eye contact with patients. To Lily’s mind, this was a thoroughly wrong-headed approach to patient care. But then, the Army didn’t care much what Lily Curtis thought about a great many things, as they’d proven time and again.

Since the matron couldn’t lurk in the officers’ ward all the time, the staff maintained slightly looser protocols in her absence. Much to Lily’s relief, most of the nursing sisters treated the soldiers in a friendlier manner than the matron would have liked, and they didn’t begrudge the VADs for doing the same.

She pulled the cart up to Gordy’s bed. He watched her, his head wobbling from side to side in its typical exaggerated manner. His lateral tremor was a tic associated with shell shock, unusual but not unheard of. Though the wobble had gotten a little milder over time, it still was very noticeable. From a distance, he looked like a man in the throes of anger, shaking his head in a rage. Nothing could be further from the truth when it came to dear Gordy.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Robbins,” she said.

“I told you not to call me that. It’s Gordy. And good morning, Bluebird.” Gordy grinned in anticipation.

“I told you not to call me that. It’s Miss Curtis.”

Their routine of arguing about titles was terribly silly, but it clearly delighted Gordy no end. She placed the breakfast tray on his bedside table.

“How are you feeling this morning?” she asked. “I’m more than happy to help with your breakfast.”

Gordy held up a hand. “I’d like to try to manage myself again, if you don’t mind. Though I wouldn’t say no to your company.”

“Shall we do your manipulations first? They always seem to bring the tremors down a notch.”

“Yes, thank you,” he said.

With a hand above each ear, she grasped his skull, then pulled his head in a wide circle. “You’ve improved a great deal in just a week. In fact, Lieutenant, I heard Dr. Raye bragging about you to the matron just yesterday.”

“I have to say, I didn’t expect her to agree to it. Warden Marshall seems a bit disagreeable when it comes to new fangled medical practices.”

“Warden?” Lily began pulling Gordy’s head from side to side. “You’d better not let her hear you call her that. And the matron may be resistant to new ideas, but she’s never gone against a doctor’s orders.”

Lily stopped her manipulations and stepped back to get a better look at him. Though his head still shook, the tremors weren’t as marked.

“Thank you, Bluebird. You reckon my head will cooperate long enough for me to put porridge in my mouth?”

“I think so. And I’d better wake your neighbor for his breakfast before it gets too cold. Did he rest yesterday? It was rather chaotic and I wasn’t able to check in as often as I’d have liked.”

“That he did.” Gordy managed to get the spoon into his mouth without spilling a drop.

Lily turned around to look at Captain Dwight, who appeared to be deeply asleep. A few days’ beard growth darkened his jaw line but she could see his cheeks were far too thin, his cheekbones too prominent. The small, white rectangular bandage just above his right ear remained firmly in place, so at least he must not be moving around too much.

“Captain?” She shook his shoulder, gently at first, then with a firmer grip. “Captain, wake up.”

His eyes fluttered open. They were a light blue, the color of summer sky.

“Remember me? Miss Curtis? I’m here to give you breakfast. Come, let’s get you sitting up.” Lily placed her hands behind his shoulders and pulled him forward, then propped two pillows behind him.

When she sat down, he’d already closed his eyes, black eyelashes resting on too-pale skin.

“Headache?” she asked.

“Yes.” His voice was low and raspy. She poured a small measure of water into his glass and held it to his lips.

He gulped it down. “Thank you.”

“It’s only porridge this morning, but you’ve been asleep a long while and you need nutrition.”

“Not hungry.” His blue eyes narrowed for a moment as if he was searching for something. “Sorry,” he added at last.

“We’ll need to get your appetite started then, won’t we? Like the hand-crank on an automobile.” She gave him a bright smile and held a spoonful of porridge to his lips. “Open up.”

He parted his lips and swallowed obediently.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked.

“Hospital,” he replied.

“And where is the hospital located?” She slipped him another spoonful of porridge.

He swallowed. “France.”

“And can you tell me your name?”

“Sam.”

“And your rank? Your surname?”

“Just Sam. Informal here.” Sam pointed a shaky finger at Gordy, a hint of a grin on his lips. “He said.”

“The Lieutenant has already gotten to you, has he?”