Suffragette Girl (23 page)

Sister Blackstock sent the three patients back to their wards, promising that they’d be first on the list in the morning. They made not even a murmur of complaint.

‘Get to bed, Florrie,’ she added wearily. ‘At least we might get a few hours more sleep tonight.’

They parted outside and Florrie watched the sister disappear into the gloom of the chilly summer evening. Pulling her cloak around her, Florrie hurried in search of Dr Hartmann. She found him in
the tent that served as a canteen, sitting alone at a table, his head in his hands, a cup of strong tea in front of him going cold. Her heart was in her mouth as she moved towards him and stood on
the opposite side of the table until he became aware of her presence and looked up. She’d probably be told curtly to mind her own business and, if one of the sisters were to hear about it,
she’d certainly be in trouble.

‘Oh – it’s you. Come to fetch me back to that – that butcher’s bench, have you?’

Without waiting for an invitation or even permission, Florrie sat down. ‘No,’ she said gently. ‘We’ve sent the patients back to their wards. The post-operative patient is
fine and the other three – well – Sister told them they’d have to wait until morning.’

‘Wait – wait – wait! That’s all those poor devils do. And it’s the waiting – the delay – that’s killing them.’

‘But you work as fast as you can. You and all the other surgeons. You—’

‘It’s not that, Nurse—’ Despite the seriousness of their conversation, his use of the title that she didn’t really deserve gave her a warm glow. ‘It’s
the time they have to wait before they reach us here.’

Florrie stared at him, not quite understanding. He sighed, leaned back in the chair and explained. ‘They’re wounded. They get shot or blown up by a shell and injured by shrapnel. The
ones that are so badly hurt they can’t move for themselves have to lie wherever they are – out in the open, in a rat-infested shell-hole or a muddy dugout. They might be there for hours
– days even – until their comrades or stretcher-bearers are able to find them. They’re taken first to an RAP—’

Seeing Florrie’s puzzled frown, he explained. ‘That’s a Regimental Aid Post – the first stop.’ He began to tick off on his fingers the various stages the wounded
had to go through. ‘If they’re still alive, they’d then be taken by stretcher-bearers or field ambulance to the advanced dressing station. Then they’re moved again back to
the main dressing station. If their wound is so serious that it cannot be dealt with there, they’re then taken to the casualty clearing station by ambulance, lorries – any mode of
transport available. And then – as the previous name implies – they’re sent to a general hospital. That’s us, but just look at how many times the seriously wounded have been
lifted, carried and transported, their wounds not properly dressed or at least not often enough. Oh, I know there are medical staff aboard the trains bringing the wounded here, but do you suppose
they can treat everyone properly on an overcrowded, rickety train?’

Florrie shook her head, unable to speak for the lump in her throat. She could see it all so clearly, feel it – and it broke her heart.

‘The casualties we’re getting now are from Ypres,’ he went on.

Florrie felt a fresh jolt of fear as she thought again of Tim. But knowing nothing of the inner turmoil his words were causing her, Dr Hartmann went on, ‘Ypres is about fifty miles away,
but it’s still a long way for men in need of urgent medical treatment to have to travel.’

Florrie said nothing. She was still having difficulty quelling her fears for Tim’s safety and concentrating on what the doctor was saying.

‘And now—’ Ernst Hartmann’s face was gaunt, his blue eyes dull with fatigue, his cheeks hollowed and his shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘They’re getting gassed,
so that not only are their lungs damaged, but the wounds are infected by the gas too.’

‘So that’s that awful smell that still hangs about their clothes,’ Florrie murmured. ‘What is it?’

‘Chlorine. It chokes them. If it doesn’t kill them straight away, by the time they reach us they’re suffering from acute bronchitis. And wounds become gangrenous. That’s
the awful smell. Gas-gangrene.’

‘Is there anything they can do to protect themselves? Any sort of – sort of mask?’

Dr Hartmann shrugged. ‘A cotton-wool pad wrapped in some sort of loose woven material tied over their mouths would help.’ He sighed. ‘But how are we to get such
supplies?’

Florrie thought of Augusta and Mrs Ponsonby and the ladies of Candlethorpe and Bixley frantically knitting socks. Perhaps they could make masks like that. It wouldn’t be much amongst the
thousands of men who needed them, but it would be a start. In this chaos, anything was better than nothing. She’d write tonight.

Then her mind turned to the other problem of the men having to wait so long before they received medical attention. ‘But there must be hospitals nearer the Front than ours. I mean proper
hospitals – not just dressing stations.’

‘Oh, there are, but no doubt they’re so overwhelmed they can’t cope with every serious case. And by the time they reach us – it’s too late. You’ve seen the
terrible blood loss, the septicaemia, the gangrene . . .’ He clenched his fist and thumped the table in frustration. ‘If only I could be nearer. Treat them much earlier, I could do so
much more. I know I could. I feel so wasted here.’

Florrie put her head on one side and regarded him steadily. ‘Then why don’t you?’

He stared back at her. ‘Why don’t I what?’

‘Go to a hospital nearer the Front. Set up a field ambulance, if necessary. At least you’d feel you were doing your best.’

She held his gaze steadily. She could see his mind working. ‘I’d need nurses,’ he said at last. ‘I can’t ask young women to go so close to the danger. It
wouldn’t be—’

‘I’d go with you.’

Now he gaped at her in astonishment. ‘You would? You’d really go that near the fighting? The shelling? The snipers? Do you know how dangerous it would be? You could be killed. A
field hospital was hit recently and a colleague of mine killed outright.’

‘I knew that was a possibility when I first volunteered. I’ve not changed my mind. In fact, having seen all that I have, my resolve has hardened, if anything. It’s what
I’ve worked for. That’s if you think I’m good enough. After all, I’ve only a couple of certificates – no proper nursing qualifications.’

He laughed wryly. ‘You’re better than some
pukka
nurses – as you call them – that I’ve worked with.’

She felt a flush of pride and was about to say, coquettishly, ‘Thank you, kind sir’, but she could see that his mind had already moved on from her.

‘I wonder if it’s possible?’ he mused. ‘I’ll talk to my colleagues. See what they think. If only we could get near to the Front, get to the wounded so much sooner,
we could save so many more lives.’

‘Speak to Dr Johnson. He said much the same thing back in London.’

He stood up, so invigorated by her suggestion that he would go this minute and talk to the other doctors. Wild and dangerous though the idea was, he wanted to do it. He turned back briefly and
glanced down at her. ‘Are you really sure you could stand it? The conditions we’d have to work in would be so much more primitive than here. You’ve seen some terrible sights
already, I know, but there it would be even more ghastly. And the danger would be ever-present. I couldn’t have you losing your nerve in the middle of an operation or showing fear or
revulsion in front of the men.’

Despite the gravity of the moment, Florrie marvelled once more at his command of the English language. It far surpassed her knowledge of the German spoken by the Swiss, sufficient though that
was.

She stood up slowly. ‘Back home, before all this started, I was a suffragette. I was imprisoned for a while and suffered force-feeding. I don’t give in easily, Dr
Hartmann.’

‘Ah! I have heard about that.’ He smiled. For the first time he seemed to be seeing her as a real person, not just as a figure in a white apron to pass him instruments and do as he
instructed her. The lines around his eyes deepened and there was a mischievous glint in the blue depths. ‘So why are you not still waving banners and marching in protest?’

Florrie’s chin rose defiantly. ‘Because winning
this
war is even more important than the battle for Votes for Women. But believe me, once this is over – if I survive
– I’ll be back to the banner-waving and the window-smashing.’

His face sobered and he nodded slowly. ‘I am so glad you said “if I survive”. I hope you do – I truly hope you do – but the fact that you said it tells me that you
understand how very dangerous our work will be.’

Florrie nodded and said softly, ‘I do, Doctor. Indeed I do.’

Dear Gran—
Florrie began her letter the moment she got back to the tent. Grace was asleep, snoring gently, and Hetty was snuggled beneath the covers.

Firstly, she explained about the masks that were urgently needed.
Perhaps you could get in touch with the authorities and see what is the best thing to do. Where you could send them, and so
on. Lady Lee might be able to help.
Lady Lee, she knew, had contacts in the War Office. She would help. Florrie paused before writing the next bit.
It’s likely I shall be going
nearer the Front to help set up some sort of a field hospital so that the wounded can be treated more quickly. The doctor I work with most of the time is wonderful – so dedicated and clever.
And he’s very handsome!! Now you’re not to worry about me, Gran, and please don’t tell Mother. Let her think I’m still well away from the fighting. . .

Florrie’s idea, which Dr Hartmann had taken up so enthusiastically, was initiated with amazing speed. Supplies they’d need were requisitioned and promised for delivery in two
weeks’ time to a French village close to the border with Belgium and as near to the British front line as they could get, yet still be just out of reach of the enemy artillery.

‘That’s not close enough,’ Ernst Hartmann fretted. ‘We need to be as near as possible.’

‘I think he wants us to set up in the trenches themselves,’ Sister Blackstock muttered. As soon as she had heard about Dr Hartmann’s plans she’d volunteered her services
without even waiting for him to ask her. Grace and Hetty too had no intention of being left behind. ‘We make such a good team,’ they insisted to Sister Blackstock. ‘You and us
three nurses.’

Florrie smiled quietly. It seemed, at last, she was accepted.

‘There are ten of us going initially,’ Rosemary told them. ‘Dr Hartmann and Dr Johnson, Sister Carey and myself and six nurses. The plan is that we find a suitable location as
near to the Front as possible without actually being in the firing line and, if all goes well, we can then ask for further volunteers to join us. It has to be volunteers because it is likely to be
extremely dangerous. You do all understand that, don’t you?’

Of course they did. How could they not know?

‘What about orderlies?’ Florrie asked.

Sister Blackstock shrugged. ‘We’ll be sited somewhere near the rear lines, I expect. Dr Hartmann hopes some of the soldiers not actually at the Front will help out.’

By the time the supplies should be reaching their destination, the medical team was on its way north in three ambulance cars drawn from a motley variety of vehicles given by generous
organizations in Britain. A fourth vehicle – a lorry – was packed with the doctors’ own equipment and medical supplies that Sister Blackstock insisted on bringing, to say nothing
of their own camp beds, folding canvas chairs and other personal belongings.

‘I’d have thought we’d have gone by train,’ Grace said as she, Hetty and Florrie squashed together in the back of one of the cars. Florrie chuckled. ‘I think Dr
Hartmann pulled a few strings.’

‘He’s a poppet, isn’t he? Your Dr Hartmann.’ One of the other girls travelling with them introduced herself. ‘I’m Norah and I’m in Dr Johnson’s
team. He’s a peach – but he’s quite old. You’re very lucky to be working for the dishy Ernst.’ She leaned forward. ‘But they say he’s very demanding
– strict, you know. Is it true?’

Florrie hesitated. She’d now seen another side to Ernst Hartmann: the deep concern he had for the wounded, and how he was almost frantic to give them a better chance of survival and
recovery. ‘He’s very – dedicated,’ she said slowly. ‘He gives unstintingly of himself, and I suppose he expects the same of his nurses.’

Norah pulled a face. ‘Then I think I’ll stick with good old Dr Johnson. He laughs and jokes with his patients all the time. It keeps their spirits up – and ours.’

Florrie said nothing, but privately she thought: And I’ll stick with my Dr Hartmann.

The journey was tortuous, made all the more heart-wrenching by the pitiful sight of the refugees: old men and women, pushing their belongings on hand-carts; young children, so
tired they looked as if they couldn’t take another step, trailing along beside the hand-carts or clinging to their mother’s hand. Too tired even to cry or complain. Young women, weeping
openly, all hope gone and replaced by a gnawing fear. But there were no young men amongst them – or even middle-aged ones. They were all gone to war.

A more heartening sight was a company of soldiers, marching along, their arms swinging in tune to someone playing a mouth organ. They waved and cheered and whistled as they saw the nurses’
uniforms.

‘Poor boys,’ Sister Blackstock in the front seat of the car murmured. ‘I wonder if they know what they’re going into?’

The noise of the shelling grew louder as they drew closer to the battle zone. They passed battered houses and farmland laid waste. There was evidence of trenches, once occupied, but now deserted
as the front line had gained a little ground and moved forward. They came to a hamlet where people were still living in some of the houses. But, like the folk they’d passed along the way,
their faces were gaunt and their eyes hopeless.

The convoy halted and the doctors and nurses clambered out to stretch their legs and look about them. The two doctors talked together. Florrie watched them. They seemed to be arguing. Ernst
Hartmann was waving his arms about and pointing towards the direction where the Front must be. The two men came towards Sister Blackstock. Florrie stepped closer to listen.