Evie's War (15 page)

My train has arrived.

Mother says I am growing maudlin and proposes an excursion to Saffron Walden, claiming I need to ‘get out in the world and meet some young men'. And apparently quite fails to see the irony.

Birthday tea for my cousin, delayed for my benefit. She is a dear! I gave her a book, which the seller assured me has proven popular in America, wherein its author, Eleanor H. Porter, resides. It is entitled
Pollyanna
. I had dithered
between that and Mrs Burnett's
The Secret Garden
, and am now glad I chose the former, Millie already having a copy of the latter.

Private J lingers still. There is nothing we can do.

Corporal W, who we thought on the road to recovery, has faded quite suddenly. Matron has been in touch with his people; I do hope they get here soon.

Private J gone at last. Held my hand until his grip faltered. They have all been gassed, Matron thinks, in addition to their wounds, part of the difficulty being that the effects can be quite delayed. The Kaiser will have much to answer when he stands at Judgement before God.

I have been thinking about Sister's words and I believe she is right, that it is easier to die in one's own country than in a place where one's memories are of such inhumanity as this War has revealed.

Edmund's application has fallen on deaf ears. He is to join his Regiment in France in six days. Mother very brittle.

Easter sermon on the theme of Sacrifice, inevitably. Monty home; rather quiet. Aunt Marjorie spared half a clutch of eggs, which he and his sisters painted.

My uncle tells me there are to be special ceremonies on the 25th in all places that New Zealand and Australian troops are to be found, marking the engagement a year ago of ANZAC forces at Gallipoli.

Attended chapel. A New Zealand Army Chaplain (recovering from wounds) spoke. Very moving.

Had hoped to see Edmund before he left but in the event it proved impossible.

Two letters from Winifred, dated three weeks apart — another Mystery of the Postal Service. She is now in France rather than Belgium, but still ‘in the same general vicinity'. She says the roads are chronic but the weather improving daily. She is awaiting delivery of a new ambulance, ‘the Old Girl having taken a fatal wound'. I do hope she is safe.

The second brief note was written after she was in receipt of my last. ‘Chin up; it will all come to an end one day and we shall then be glad that we were in it.' I am not sure I can agree, though of course it is better to be doing something useful than sitting about at home.

A big clear-out on all wards, which does not bode well. Walking wounded being transferred — some for physical therapy, some to Hospitals nearer their homes, some discharged medically unfit — my talkative Private amongst them. As we saw them all off he kissed my cheek! Sister told him off quite soundly but it did not dispel his grin. Face burning for a good time after.

As I left for the Station one of the new VADs ran after me with a postcard that had been wrongly delivered. It is from Corporal Lindsay. He says he rescued a cat, trapped in rubble, after hearing it crying all night, but that upon its release it ran off without the slightest sign of gratitude. He has sketched it in the corner — he is quite accomplished at drawing. Read the papers at the Station: news of a widespread gas attack in France. Made me want to weep. Meanwhile, German Battle Cruisers have bombarded British ports, killing civilians.

On waking this morning Mother handed me a letter from France, the envelope and text written in an unfamiliar hand. It comes from a Captain Hall, whom at first I assumed must be one of the men I have nursed, but that was not it. He begins with a warning that the news he has been requested to convey will be distressing. The note thereafter is brief, though I had to read it through several times before I properly understood. Corporal Lindsay — from whom I have just received such a sweet card — has been wounded ‘most grievously'. Captain Hall provides no details, saying only that he is ‘asked by Corporal Lindsay to thank me for my friendship and to convey his very best wishes for my future'.

I went at once to find my uncle. He was of the view,
once I had managed to explain my distress, that Corporal Lindsay's wounds must indeed be serious, and has undertaken to find out what he can, to which end I have given him such details as I know.

Aunt Marjorie says I have had a shock and must certainly not return to Cambridge; she has telephoned to Matron. Millie, dear girl, has just brought up flowers for my dresser.

Aunt Marjorie insisted on a walk, and I do feel better for it. I do not quite know why I am feeling so low; it is not as if Corporal Lindsay is anything other than a friend. Father quizzed me after lunch on the ‘young man concerned'. Once I had explained that he travelled with us on the
Remuera
we sat in silence, both, I think, considering how very long ago our journey seems and how different the world is become.

Edmund has written to say he is in a training camp well away from the Front so we are not to worry.

Uncle Aubrey has located information regarding Corporal Lindsay. At last notification he was moved from a Casualty Clearing Station to a Base Hospital, possibly Boulogne. We are not yet able to ascertain his condition. I have written to both Boulogne and Captain Hall in the hope of learning more.

Aunt Marjorie proposes I take leave, but I cannot see how it would help. Far better I am useful. I shall catch the train tomorrow.

Matron gave me a thorough grilling before pronouncing me ‘a good girl'. She has agreed that my uncle may telephone her if there is news.

Matron has me back in the Officers' ward and Under Her Scrutiny. I cannot be quite as insouciant as I was, but perhaps, these days, I do not seem quite such a ninny.

Brief note from Boulogne: unable to help. They suggest trying Stationaries rather than Generals. Feel rather helpless.

Captain Miller strolled into the ward with a note from my uncle (‘still looking into the matter discussed'), and took me to tea with Matron's blessing. His visit was a tonic! I did not laugh quite so much as on our previous outing, but I do find him most diverting.

Fell into bed on arrival; slept till eleven. Father is in London; we are a Household of Women.

Edmund writes that he is cured of all desire to march anywhere ever again, and that surely the worst kind of marching is around in circles.

Captain Hall has replied that, regretfully, he cannot supply any further information, the Regiment having been relocated. Matron pronounced me looking rather strained and has given me a half day on Friday so that I might go down to Littlebury on the early train.

Telegram from Uncle Aubrey: Corporal Lindsay located; seriously ill but not a ‘desperate case'.

Uncle Aubrey is not coming up, which means no further news. Mother pleased to have had a letter from Edmund in which he complains of boredom.

While sending up a prayer on Corporal Lindsay's behalf I realised I do not know which Faith he professes. Perhaps it is All One in God's eyes.

Back in Respiratories; a mix of medicals and shell damage, the latter often curable but leaving such terrible scars.

Note from Uncle Aubrey confirming it likely Corporal Lindsay will be transferred to England within a week. No news re the extent of his injuries, but we ‘should take the transfer as a good sign'. He is in No. 11 Stationary Hospital (rather than Base, both in Boulogne). I have written to him there, and also to Winifred.

At breakfast Mother handed me a letter from Lettie. Poor girl: she has been married a month and has received a telegram to say that her husband is killed. I wrote straight away but what can be done? This War is simply Vile.

Prayed for Lettie as well as Corporal Lindsay. To think I once believed a romance imminent between them!

Newspapers full of a Great Sea Battle. The British Navy has won, despite losing a number of ships, and maintains control of the Seas. We are safe still.

New intake, all suffering from gas. We do our best, but it is not enough.

Matron has opened two new Respiratory wards for gas victims. I am to shift immediately, and will work through the weekend until we are settled. Both wards are in marquee tents — I hope they will not prove too breezy.

Postcard from Southampton: Corporal Lindsay has been admitted to the Royal Victoria Hospital; signed by a Staff Nurse. Wrote to enquire after his health as soon as I had a moment.

Lost several men today. More will go tonight. Some at least were given the opportunity to bid farewell to their families. Most were ready to go and proud to have served.

One of my boys fought all night then slipped away quietly this morning not long after I went off to breakfast. I was sorry not to have been with him.

Britain has suffered a terrible blow: Lord Kitchener has been killed by a mine in the North Sea. Much weeping in our quarters, and red eyes on the ward for reasons other than gas.

Everyone still in shock; the Secretary of State for War is a great loss within the Cabinet. His face, familiar to us all, will now be seen no more.

Matron has given me leave till Tuesday night. I shall sleep till noon every day!

A letter awaited from Corporal Lindsay, dictated to a nurse. He says he is ‘in a sorry state but far better than he was' and hopes that I am well. It offers no other news! Perhaps the nurse was in a hurry. Mother says it would not be impossible to visit, but Uncle Aubrey advises waiting until we know whether Corporal Lindsay is to be transferred, Southampton being ‘a clearing house'.

Slept well last night for what felt like the first time in an age, and have since sat for an hour on the lawn watching William toddle about. He has such fat little legs and never seems to mind a bit when he sits down unexpectedly — he is thoroughly delicious.

Latest intake has bought no new gas victims but a dozen quite terrible facial injuries. We endeavour to forewarn visitors, but they are often unable to mask their shock. It is very hard for the men.

A note from Winifred. She has ten days' leave and hopes to be in England early next week. I wonder if she might travel via Southampton.

Lady B was at Church and confirmed that Winifred will be home later this week; I am invited to stay on Saturday. Mother agreed without demur.

Corporal Lindsay is to be transferred to the 3rd Southern General at Oxford; his letter again dictated (it is useless to speculate on his injuries, but difficult not knowing). I do hope Winifred reaches England before he is moved.

Olive came in rather late and sat on my bed. She has been assigned to one of the wards newly opened in a School and is not at all happy. I think there is also some trouble at home. I have asked whether she might like to come down to Deans Park one weekend.

Mother has had three letters from Edmund, each dated a week after the last but all arriving within a few days. They are being moved up. I said nothing to Mother, but assume a Push is coming up. Sent a note wishing him luck.

Though she refuses to admit it, Winifred is completely exhausted. Lady B professed concern. Winifred is adamant that she is ‘the last thing worth talking of', but on the subject of Corporal Lindsay, whom she saw in Southampton, she was more forthcoming. He has suffered wounds to his chest and right arm and has lost the sight in his right eye, retaining only partial sight in the left. She says this latter may improve, but that there will be facial scarring. It was a shell blast. They are responsible for such a multitude of injuries, I believe them quite as bad as gas. But at least Corporal Lindsay is now out of the War, and may return to his studies once he is recovered. Winifred
waves off any suggestion of a romantic attachment (I stand unconvinced). I will write this evening to assure him of my continuing friendship, and will mention seeing Winifred. I should not like either of them to feel that I present any impediment to their attachment; the reverse: I should be delighted.

Burgeoning number of tent wards; the Hospital's capacity has been doubled over the past month.

We have received a donation of twenty gramophones for the new wards, enough to rotate them through each marquee for one day a week. I must ask Olive if any have made it to her School.

My alarm failed to go off this morning and I overslept rather badly. Missed breakfast, and was late to the ward. Sister raised both eyebrows at the state of my hair.

Captain Miller sent a note to say he hoped to come up to see me, but that it may be a week or two yet before he can get away. I wonder whether I should take that as a warning that we should soon expect a rush?

My supposition gains weight: Uncle Aubrey is detained in London. I shall send up extra prayers for all our boys.