Suffragette Girl (22 page)

To her delight, Florrie was assigned to the ‘wards’ under Sister Blackstock’s charge along with Grace Featherstone and Hetty Newton. Work for them all began the following day
and Florrie eased herself quietly into the background. Every morning she made the beds, dusted the lockers, helped the patients to wash, took temperatures and served lunch. Later in the afternoon,
the beds were made again and tea was served at five o’clock. Then she should have been off-duty, but Florrie found herself once again at the beck and call of everyone, just as she had been at
the London Hospital at first. The nurses who’d been there a while were quick to put the new VAD very firmly in her place.

‘Maltby – get rid of these filthy clothes . . .’

‘Maltby – clean up that mess . . .’

‘Find a cradle for this lad. He’s got trench foot. And if you can’t find one here, Maltby, beg, borrow or steal – just get one. But mind you return it when we’re
done with it. That’s the unwritten rule round here.’

‘Maltby – Maltby – Maltby . . .’

Then gradually, as more and more wounded arrived and the wards became stretched to bursting point, they began to ask for her help with nursing duties.

‘Help me give this man a bed-bath.’

‘Maltby, help Nurse Featherstone with that young man’s dressing.’

And finally, when Hetty Newton fainted whilst cleaning the septic stump of a man whose arm had been blown off at the elbow, ‘Maltby, take over . . .’

Later, Hetty, sitting on her camp bed in the shared tent, wept. ‘I feel such a fool. Me – a nurse – passing out at the sight of a wound.’

‘Well, it was pretty gruesome,’ Florrie said, handing her a strong, hot cup of tea and sitting down beside her. ‘Far worse than just an ordinary wound. We’re all used to
the sight of blood, but that. . .’ Florrie shuddered.

‘It’s all gruesome,’ Grace remarked, coming in at that moment and catching Florrie’s words. She sat down on her own bed, eased off her shoes and rubbed her feet. She
closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘I never in my worst nightmares imagined it could be as bad as this.’

Hetty gulped her tea and began to feel a little better. ‘You know, Maltby, you’re doin’ ever so well, ain’t she, Grace? You ought to train to be a nurse after this is all
over. You’re a natural.’ She pulled a comical face. ‘An’ I never thought I’d say that to a debutante VAD.’

Florrie laughed. ‘I’ll take that as a real compliment. But I’m not a real debutante. I was too wild to be presented at court.’

Grace leaned forward and in an exaggerated whisper said, ‘She was one of them suffragettes. Been in prison, she has.’ She cast her eyes upwards as if in despair. ‘The types we
have to put up with.’ But it was said in teasing good humour and not without a hint of admiration.

Hetty’s eyes widened. ‘Were you? My auntie was one of them, but it’s all stopped now ’cos of the war, ain’t it?’

Florrie nodded, ‘But once – like you say – this is all over . . .’ She said no more, but the two girls were left in no doubt that Florrie Maltby meant to resume her
militant activities to win the right for women to vote.

‘Well, I reckon you’ve got a point, girl,’ Grace said, easing her shoes back on. ‘If we’re good enough to do all sorts of jobs to help the war effort, then I reckon
we’re good enough to vote. Now, you an’ me’d best get back. Sister’ll be looking for us. You rest a bit, our Het. We’ll cover for you, won’t we,
Florrie?’

‘Of course.’

From that day, the two girls called her by her Christian name in private and now they often called upon her for real nursing duties. Even Sister Warren, who visited the wards every day, seemed
to recognize Florrie’s capabilities, even though she still wore the VAD uniform.

They’d scarcely settled in when rumours of a huge battle near the Belgian border reached their camp. Sister Warren called all her senior nursing staff together, and Rosemary Blackstock
related the information to her nurses later.

‘We’re to expect a great influx of patients and Sister Warren has asked me to take charge of one of the operating theatres.’ She glanced at Florrie, Grace and Hetty. ‘And
you three are to come with me. Are you sure you’re up to it, Nurse Newton?’

Hetty nodded, anxious not to be left out. ‘It was only that one time, Sister. It won’t happen again.’

Satisfied, Sister Blackstock nodded.

‘Sister,’ Grace asked, ‘do we have to move? Our sleeping quarters, I mean?’

Rosemary smiled. No doubt in her mind that the girl was hoping for some improvement in their billet. ‘No, I’m afraid not. You’ll just have to walk a little further each day,
that’s all.’

Behind her back the three girls exchanged a glance and grimaced.

However tired she was by the end of her shift, Florrie had managed to scribble a few lines home each day, to either her mother and father, Augusta or Isobel. Word from home
came spasmodically as the arrival of mail was erratic. Her mother’s letters were full of tales of woe, her father’s full of glee that both his children were doing their bit, but
whenever she saw Augusta’s scrawling handwriting, Florrie pounced gleefully on the letter.

Well, my dear, the miracle has happened. Your mother is knitting furiously and attends all Mrs Ponsonby’s fund-raising activities in the village. We even held a fair here at the Hall
last Saturday. Your mother performed the opening ceremony and was made a great fuss of by all the locals. Do try to send her cheerful news, my dear, though you can always tell me the truth. James
is still safely on British soil at gunnery school at present, so there’s no need to worry about him just yet. I saw Isobel last week. She is well, but anxious about both the Hon. Tim and
Gervase. They all send their love to you. We’re not sure where they are and they can’t say, but Timothy and Isobel devised a kind of code. She believes he is near a place called Ypres .
. .

Two days after receiving Augusta’s letter, rumours flew around the camp that a major battle was being waged near Ypres. Florrie’s heart turned cold. Was Tim there?
Was he in the thick of the fighting? Was he safe? And what of Gervase? She’d no idea where he was, though she knew he’d come to France. It was quite feasible that he was there too. The
only thought that gave her hope was that James was still safely in England.

It seemed the trains bringing the wounded from the Belgian border would never stop. Soon the wards were bursting and time off was a thing of the past. Florrie’s hours of duty were even
longer and so heartbreaking that she could scarcely drag herself back to her tent, undress and wash, never mind writing letters. She’d never known such utter weariness or hopelessness –
not even during her time in Holloway. To see a whole generation of fine young men mutilated and suffering made her rage inwardly. Where was the sense in it all? But she was too exhausted to do
anything except get through each day and do the very best she could to help the wounded and dying.

Sister Warren was in charge of the operating theatres and organized the sisters and nurses to assist the surgeons. She assigned Sister Blackstock and her three nurses together
and introduced them to the man for whom they’d be working.

‘This is Dr Ernst Hartmann. You will work directly under his instruction, but of course you, Sister Blackstock, will be in charge of your nurses.’

Florrie’s heart missed a beat. Ernst Hartmann was a handsome man. In his early thirties, he was tall and thin. Black hair smoothed back from a broad forehead, his face was lean with a
strong jaw line set in grim determination. Straight nose and generous mouth, yet there was no smile of welcome. His bright-blue eyes swept over the four of them with disinterest. He merely gave a
curt nod and in a deep voice that sounded more like a growl, muttered, ‘More fine ladies come to smooth the wounded soldier’s brow and write a last letter home for him.’ He spoke
in perfect English, but with a strong accent that sounded suspiciously German. Florrie glanced at Sister Warren.

‘Dr Hartmann is Swiss.’

The man gave a wry laugh. ‘Did you think for a moment that you had got behind enemy lines?’

It was Florrie who answered, even though it was not her place to do so. She grinned with a sudden spark of mischief and spoke in German. ‘Not at all, Herr Doctor.’

Beside her Sister Warren gasped and Sister Blackstock looked thunderous. Dr Hartmann looked startled. Then he regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Do you speak any other languages,
Nurse?’

‘French, sir,’ she answered, still speaking in German. ‘And English, of course.’ Not for the first time did she have cause to thank her grandmother, who’d insisted
that she have a good education, even though Edgar had always declared such learning was wasted on a girl.

‘Of course,’ Ernst Hartmann murmured.

‘And I’m only a nursing VAD,’ she said, now speaking in English. ‘Not a pukka nurse.’ She kept her face straight and looked directly at him, not glancing at her
companions.

He frowned and turned to the others. ‘But you three are
pukka
nurses, yes?’

‘I’m a fully trained sister and these two are probationary nurses, but they have completed a full year’s training, whereas Maltby—’ Rosemary Blackstock tried to
explain, but the doctor grunted again and turned away, saying over his shoulder, ‘I need two at any time. Arrange it between yourselves and be ready to assist me in ten minutes.’

Already orderlies were bringing in a man whose leg had been blown off below the knee. They hoisted him up onto the table where he lay, biting his lip to stop himself crying out. Even so, a
guttural groan escaped his lips now and again. The stump was covered with a filthy blood-soaked dressing and a dirty bandage was pulled tight around his thigh as a tourniquet. Without waiting to be
told, Florrie whipped out the scissors she always carried in the pocket of her uniform and began to cut off the man’s trousers.

Ernst Hartmann, readying himself to operate to staunch the flow of blood from the wound, paused, smiled grimly and turned towards Sister Blackstock. Raising his black eyebrows, he murmured,
‘It seems we have a keen volunteer.’ The note of sarcasm was not lost on Florrie, but she made no sign of having noticed and continued to get the patient ready.

‘I will work with Maltby,’ Rosemary Blackstock said, ‘And you two can work together.’ For a moment she and Sister Warren spoke together, organizing the shifts the four of
them would work.

‘It might not always be Dr Hartmann you’ll be assisting,’ Florrie heard Sister Warren say, ‘but whenever he’s on duty, two of you must be here.’

Florrie said nothing, but silently she determined that she would always be one of the two. Despite his gruff manner, the doctor had captivated her with his handsome dark looks and his capable,
clever hands. Not normally given to sentimental outpourings, she would follow him to the ends of the earth to work alongside him.

Later Rosemary castigated Florrie. ‘You’d no right to do that in such a forward manner. You should’ve waited for instruction.’

‘The man was bleeding to death. The tourniquet wasn’t working and, even if it had been, there was no knowing how long it’d been there,’ Florrie defended herself.
She’d no need to tell the sister what happened if a tourniquet was left in place too long without being released every so often.

‘You still had no right to take action like that,
and
speaking in German to him—’ She gave a tut of exasperation. ‘Showing off. That’s what that
was.’

‘I’m sorry – I didn’t think.’

‘Well, you should,’ the sister reproved her. ‘Nurses –
pukka
nurses – should always think what they’re doing and saying.’ Suddenly her mouth
twitched and she lowered her voice. ‘But I have to admit, Maltby, your spirit is just what we need here, but curb its waywardness a little, eh?’

‘I’ll try, Sister,’ Florrie smiled.

To her surprise, Grace and Hetty thought it all a huge joke. ‘Trying to impress the handsome doc, that’s what she was doing,’ was Hetty’s pronouncement.

‘Well, she can have him. The dark, brooding type’s not for me,’ Grace said cheerfully. ‘Give me ol’ Doc Johnson any day of the week. I like a kind, caring
man.’

Unbidden, Gervase’s face was immediately in Florrie’s mind. She smiled to herself. How Grace would love Gervase!

The days passed in a blur. Dr Hartmann seemed to need little rest. He worked from early in the morning until late at night, pausing only to eat because he needed to keep
himself healthy.

‘Enough!’ Ernst declared late one evening. He threw down his instruments onto the metal tray with a clatter. There were still three patients needing urgent operations, but the doctor
strode from the tent, leaving Sister Blackstock and Florrie staring at each other. They made the patient who’d just been operated on as comfortable as they could and called for the orderlies
to take him back to a ward.

‘Had we better find Dr Hartmann?’ Florrie asked. ‘See what’s the matter? He might be ill.’

‘Ill? Him?’ The sister laughed grimly. ‘Never!’ She sighed. ‘I think it’s all just – just got to him.’ She glanced around at the three men lying
on the ground waiting patiently for their turn on the operating table. For the first time Rosemary was showing a hint of helplessness. ‘Just look at them, Florrie,’ she said softly.
‘Look at these – these beautiful young men. Oh no, I know they don’t look very beautiful at this moment. Caked with mud and blood, their unshaven faces twisted in agony. But they
are – they are beautiful. And they’re going to die – most of them. If not from their wounds, then from disease. Most of them will never see their home again. And if we do get the
less seriously injured well again, what happens? Do they get sent back to their loved ones? Oh no! Back to the Front to be shot at again. And maybe killed next time.’

‘But we have to try,’ Florrie said. ‘Don’t we?’

‘Of course we do. That’s our job – our duty. But what are we really achieving? And I think that’s what’s got to Dr Hartmann. He’s working round the clock
nearly, and for what? Leave him, Florrie. Leave him to work it out for himself.’ She turned away as she murmured, ‘Like we all have to do.’