Authors: Sue Reid
This morning I was asked to wash a new patient. Like all our new arrivals his face was caked with dirt. He had a shrapnel wound and I knew that he’d soon be going to Theatre. As I washed the dirt off him, I saw his eyes on me, grimacing with pain. I felt distressed. I asked if I was hurting him.
“I’m all right, Nurse,” he said shortly. “Don’t bother about me,” his eyes seemed to be saying. “Don’t bother about any of us. We’re not worth it.” There was such shame on his face.
Gradually I’ve begun to understand why. Our boys lost the battle and they feel that they’ve let us down. But to us they’re heroes and I cannot begin to imagine what they’ve had to endure. I hope that they’ll understand this soon.
There have been a lot of mutters about the RAF. “Where were the RAF when we needed them?” This is all one poor boy says. Everyone who walks past his bed gets asked the same question. “Where were the RAF?” Just that. Again and again. Sometimes he screams in his sleep. It upsets the other patients, but we can’t move him, as there’s nowhere for him to go. Another patient told me that they were bombarded by enemy planes as they retreated. They didn’t just target soldiers, he said, but refugees as well. Old people, children – it made no difference. Jerry planes strafed the lot. We could do nothing for them, he said. Our planes were nowhere to be seen. I could see that his eyes were swimming as he relived the horror of the memory, and I went to fetch him a cup of tea. My legs were shaking as I walked over to the ward kitchen. I thought I’d heard and seen it all, but the soldier’s words sickened me. What kind of person does a thing like that?
It was growing dark, and I put up the blackout boards. I still couldn’t put that soldier’s words out of my mind. Where had the RAF been, I wondered. I hoped that Giles would be able to tell me.
I don’t know what time it was when I went off duty. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, but I couldn’t have touched a morsel.
Jean came in when I was still sitting on the bed, too tired even to get undressed. She had two mugs of Ovaltine in her hands. I looked at her drained face. It seemed to reflect what I was feeling. I took one of the mugs gratefully in my cold and shaking hands. “Nurse Mason,” I said to her. “What would I do without you?”
Mr Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister, has spoken to the nation. It was a wonderful speech. We crowded round the wireless to listen. I managed to scribble down some of what he said.
“We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing-grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.”
Feel tearful, proud and full of renewed hope and purpose. Whenever I feel despondent, I will look at these words. I don’t merely hope we’ll win any more. I
know
we will.
In his speech the Prime Minister also said that the RAF played a big part in helping the British and French armies escape from Dunkirk. I’d heard that German bombers targeted the towns and beaches where the men were waiting and the ships sent to pick up the men. They even bombed hospital ships! And Dunkirk and other French coastal towns nearby have been bombed into blazing ruins. But without the RAF, the Prime Minister says, the situation would have been even worse. There were a few disbelieving snorts amongst our patients when they learnt what he’d said. And today I heard them muttering about it again. I was accompanying some of them down to the station where they were to catch an ambulance train. As we bumped down the drive, a young boy with a bandaged head said: “Our Prime Minister’s just covering up for them – RAF cowards.”
“Only planes
I
saw had those black-and-white crosses on them,” snorted another, who’d lost an eye. “Since when did our planes have black-and-white crosses on them?”
There were more angry snorts. I just sat there silently. I felt sure they were wrong, or were they? After all, they had been there, hadn’t they? As I looked at them – at their injuries – I thought they had every right to be bitter. So this evening I sat down at last and wrote to Giles. I know it may be weeks before I hear from him, but I’ve at least got to try and find out what really happened at Dunkirk.
Mother rang today. Peter is home! Not wounded, not dead – he’s safe. He’s exhausted, Mother said when she finally got put through to me. Otherwise he’s all right – and very relieved to be back. Mother says he was picked up in a little boat – that there were hundreds of them helping the soldiers get off the beaches. Whoever picked Peter up saved my brother’s life. I don’t know who you are but thank you, thank you, thank you.
All down one side of the ward now are men with arms or legs encased in plaster – bones shattered by gunshot or shrapnel. It’s horrible, the smell that comes off them. When I go over to them, I try not to let my face show that I notice it, but they know. Poor boys, it’s so much worse for them. We’ve tried all sorts of things to hide that smell, but nothing works.
Italy declared war on us yesterday.
France has surrendered. Now we are really on our own. It may sound odd, but in a way I feel relieved. At least now we know where we stand. Jean’s awfully worried. She thinks that her brother’s still in France, but she’s not had any news of him. She doesn’t know if he’s been captured, or even if he’s still alive.
We sat together in the VADs’ mess, aching feet propped up on chairs, mugs of hot tea in our hands. Bunty was looking so pale. I wish I knew if she’s heard from her officer, but I feel too scared to ask. Lots of people are going round the hospital with that same look on their faces – people who’ve lost brothers, husbands or sons at Dunkirk. We didn’t talk much – we were all too tired – and I fell asleep in my chair. When I woke up, they’d gone and the half-f mug was still in my hand.
I don’t know how I find the energy to keep up my diary, but I don’t know what I’d do without it. Sometimes I can’t bear to relive my day, and it’s only my promise to Anne that makes me write. But at other times it brings me comfort of a sort.
Ambulances full of wounded men arrived here yesterday. The operating theatres are working flat out again and I was told to report there this morning. One after another the men were wheeled in with awful gunshot or shrapnel wounds. Then it’s back on to the wards again, a few hours later, often with one bit or another missing. So many shattered or gangrenous limbs that can’t be saved.
The last of our forces are being brought back from France. They’d retreated west of Dunkirk to the Cherbourg peninsula. But Jean still has no news of her brother. I feel so grieved for her.
We went out for a walk together this evening. We hadn’t gone far when we saw the oddest sight – fields full of old cars. Apparently it’s to stop German planes from landing in them. Everyone expects that the Germans will try and invade us soon. All there is to stop them now is a thin stretch of water – and the RAF. But if the worst happens our boys will be ready for them and we are relieved that so many have got safely out of France.
I got a letter from Giles today. He did take part in the “battle for France”. He says he doesn’t think the Germans will risk an invasion until they’ve destroyed our air force and have control of the air. And there was something else, which made me sit up.
“I’m glad you asked me about Dunkirk,” he wrote. “People here seem very angry with the RAF. They don’t even try to listen to our side of things and I want to set the record straight. To put it bluntly, if we’d not been there, many of our boys would still be holed up in France, either dead or in a German prisoner-of-war camp. I guess the lads on the ground didn’t see us, but we were there all right.”
In his letter he said that he’d made many sorties to France. “Once,” he said, “I really thought I’d bought it – engine ran out of petrol. I had just enough fuel left to get me back over the Channel but I had to make an emergency landing in a field and find my own way back to base.”
I felt very thoughtful as I put the letter away. So my patients had been wrong and the Prime Minister was right. Giles should be very proud of what he did. He sounds different somehow – older, grown up. If only I could feel more for him, but I just can’t.
As soon as I got off duty today I collapsed into bed. I woke up again when Jean came in. She had two mugs of hot tea in her hands, and there was a huge smile on her face. Most unJean-like! Sleepily I sat up in bed.
“All right, tell,” I said, patting the bed next to me. She flopped down on the bed at once. I’d guessed what she was going to say, for she looked so happy.
Her brother got out on one of the last ships to leave Cherbourg, she told me, beaming. German tanks harried them all the way to the port. She shivered and I gave her a big hug. I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like – and then I thought about the dirty, exhausted faces of the wounded men pouring into the hospital, and I wondered about those others, the ones who didn’t get out.
There are a lot of Poles among our patients now. We all know how brave they were and how they refused to surrender to the enemy when it looked as if it was all up for them. Somehow they managed to reach the French coast and were brought safely across the Channel to Britain. There’s a rumour that as many as 20,000 of them have got away!
In spite of everything there’s a good atmosphere in the country, and it’s rubbing off on us in the hospital. One of the QAs told me that as well as the Poles, Czechs, Canadians, Free French, New Zealanders, Australians and South Africans, and many from other lands too, are flooding into the country to join our forces!
Not
that we needed anything more to stiffen our resolve.
So many acts of heroism and courage. Big ones and little ones. I see them every day in both our patients and staff. This war brings out all that’s best in us. It doesn’t matter what the enemy does, I
know
that somehow we will come through this. We must.
When I went off duty today, the first person I saw was Bunty. She looked very drawn and tired. She smiled at me, but her eyes were sad. She seemed to be making an effort to hold on to herself. She told me she had something to tell me and together we went into the VADs’ mess. I felt scared. What was she going to tell me? Had something happened to her officer?
We sat down. I waited.
“It was awful on the ward today,” she said at last. Her voice was barely a whisper. “You cannot imagine how awful.” Her lips trembled and I was afraid that she was going to break down. I felt shocked. I didn’t recognize the Bunty I knew in this sad and shaken girl. So this was what she wanted to tell me. That she couldn’t cope. Bunty! Of all people! I put my hands on her shoulders and shook her slightly. She looked surprised. Then I surprised myself.
“Bunty,” I said, firmly. “You’ve got to pull yourself together. It’s the same for all of us.”
She turned away from me, laying her head on her arm. “You’ve changed, Kitty. You sound so – so
hard
.”
I flinched. “I’m only trying to help,” I said. I felt so hurt.
“Oh, Kitten, I can’t bear it any more,” she burst out suddenly. I looked at her, startled.
She looked up at me, eyes brimming now. “I always used to dread it when the wounded were brought in, in case it was him, but today . . . each time a wounded man came on to the ward, I hoped and prayed it
would
be him, that he’s just wounded . . . not . . . not. . .”
She began to sob and suddenly I felt cold all through. “He . . . he’s never coming back. Oh, Kitty, he’s been killed!”
I stroked her hair until her sobs had died down. “Bunty, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. Tears were running down my face now. I wish I’d listened to her when she’d tried to tell me. I wish I hadn’t been so hard on her.
As soon as I finished work today I got out my bicycle. Soon I was out in the countryside, pedalling hard.
I was still feeling upset about what I’d said to Bunty – and what she’d said to me. Had I changed? I admired the way professional nurses coped, and somehow I’d also found the strength to cope. But had I become harder too?
I hadn’t, had I? I thought desperately.
I cycled until I felt too tired to cycle any more. On the way back to the hospital I saw a radar tower facing out to sea. I remembered what Peter had once told me about them – how they help us track down enemy planes – and I took a good look at it as I cycled past.
Suddenly I hit a stone and my tyre blew. Bother, I thought. I hopped off, and pulled out my repair kit.
I was still fumbling with it rather hopelessly when I heard a voice call out and a bicycle pulled up next to me. It was Lieutenant Venables! Was I relieved to see him! He took my kit from me and I stood by and watched as he deftly fixed the puncture.
When he stood up again, his hands were covered in sticky black oil and there was a smudge on his cheek. I saw that he was about to put his oily hands into his pockets so I quickly fished out a hanky and gave it to him. It was the sort of thing Peter would do, I found myself thinking as, rather sheepishly, he wiped his oily cheek and hands.
Together, we cycled back up to the hospital. I told him I was working in Theatre again and he asked me how I liked it. “I’d rather be on the wards.” I told him. He smiled at me as if he understood. By the time we’d got back I was feeling a whole lot happier. I do like Lieutenant Venables. Later I found myself thinking about him again. It’d been such a long time since I’d seen him. And then I remembered Bunty and I felt ashamed that I could have forgotten her troubles so easily, and I went off to find her. Honestly, I’m heartless, I really am.