Poppy (9 page)

‘That’s certainly me,’ Poppy said drily.

‘You’ll probably just be washing out the lavs.’

‘I dare say.’ Poppy hid a smile as she spoke, thinking that no one, even the tactless Jameson, could take away the thrill of being one of the first two girls in the detachment to be asked to do
real
war work.

Downstairs, Matthews and Poppy exchanged comments about how nervous they were, until they heard a call from outside of ‘Girls! Now, please!’ from Sister Malcolm, and hurried out to where an old army pick-up truck was waiting in the street. There was a regular soldier in the driver’s seat, and Sister was sitting beside him.

‘Quick as you can!’ she called.

Both girls clambered in, ignoring the appreciative wink from the Tommy.

‘Any more coming?’ he asked jovially.

‘No, just we three,’ said Sister Malcolm.

‘Pity,’ he said. ‘Any more and you might have had to sit on my lap, sister!’

Matthews nudged Poppy and she giggled before she could stop herself, but Sister Malcolm acted as if she hadn’t heard and was very icy with him for the short drive to Southampton station, murmuring, ‘Such insolence!’ under her breath as his truck drove away. She left both the girls waiting under the station clock whilst she dashed off to discover which train they were needed on.

The concourse was chaotic, heaving with Tommies, officers, equipment and kitbags nearly as big as their owners. There were two train loads of new troops waiting to catch their ships, cross the Channel and join the fighting, as well as several hundred wounded men newly arrived from France and waiting to be despatched to hospitals all over England. Along with the soldiers, there was a crowd of townspeople waiting to see off one group and welcome home another.

‘So many people. So many soldiers!’ Poppy gasped.

Matthews said, ‘Well, the front line goes along four hundred miles.’

‘You can tell which boys are going to fight and which are coming back, can’t you?’ said Poppy, for the new boys had spruce uniforms and were jaunty and smiling, occasionally bursting into song or whistling cheerily, whereas those returning, apart from any obvious wounds, were tired and grey of face, with muddy, bloody uniforms. They might have looked awfully weary, but they didn’t look miserable, for they were back in Blighty and out of the war.

‘So many of them coming and going,’ Poppy mused. ‘Who actually decides where the injured ones should end up? Do you know?’

‘Well, my big sister’s a VAD at a hospital in Dover,’ Matthews said. ‘She told me that they assess the injured lads when they come in from the battlefield, and if they’re bad enough they get what they call a “Blighty ticket” and come back on the first ship. Some of these boys go to the local hospitals at the port they arrive at, particularly the really badly injured, because they might not survive a railway journey. Some get taken to London or one of the other big cities – anywhere they’ve got the space, and close to their families if possible.’ She sighed, and added in a low voice, ‘Some die on the journey over, of course . . .’

Poppy was about to ask something else, but Sister Malcolm was gesturing to them from across the concourse. ‘Pearson, Matthews!’ she called. ‘Come with me.’

She led the way to a platform where a long train waited, steam already belching out of its funnel and the red crosses on its sides showing that it was a hospital train and, as such, should not be attacked by the enemy or harmed in any way. As they walked along beside it, Poppy looked through the windows and was both gripped and appalled to see that the train had been converted and, instead of seats, a lot of the carriages contained what looked like narrow bunk beds, or racks to hold stretchers. One carriage was completely closed off, its blinds rolled down all the way along.

‘That’s a small operating theatre,’ Sister Malcolm said as they passed it. ‘Some poor chaps are bound to need stitching or warrant some other urgent attention before we get to Manchester.’

‘Manchester!’ Poppy said.

Sister Malcolm nodded. ‘Though we’ll see next to nothing of it. We’ll get there, the boys will be taken off and our train will be loaded with supplies for our return to Southampton.’

They passed another, smaller carriage with its blinds down, which Sister said was for men with facial injuries. ‘They don’t want to be stared at as we go through stations.’

‘Where will
they
be going, then?’ Matthews asked.

‘To one of the hospitals which specialise in helping men with that sort of injury,’ Sister Malcolm said. ‘They can rebuild noses and jaws and make false ears and so on. In fact, you’d be surprised at what they can do these days. The boys call them the tin noses shops.’

Poppy and Matthews smiled, though Poppy thought it was one of the most tragic things she’d ever heard. Tin noses, tin ears, tin masks . . . How could anyone manage to live their life wearing a tin face?

Almost at the end of the train, the little group came to a carriage which had been transformed into a buffet car, with a counter running most of its length and what appeared to be a long, narrow kitchen behind it.

Sister Malcolm halted. ‘This is where you two girls will be for the next few hours.’

‘Working in the buffet?’ Poppy asked.

‘Yes indeed. The boys who are “up” patients – that is, those well enough to be on their feet – will come along here and queue for their cheese rolls and tea. Those who are confined to their bunks will be served by orderlies, who’ll come along with trays.’

‘And we’ll be handing out the food?’ Poppy asked, secretly thrilled at the thought of greeting, being terribly nice to and – who knew? – maybe even flirting a little with scores of young Tommies.

‘No, I’m afraid you’ll be slicing rolls,’ Sister said. ‘Slicing, buttering and putting a chunk of cheese inside, then passing them through the hatch to whoever is running the show. You’ll also be seeing that the tea and cocoa doesn’t run out.’

‘Who’ll actually be serving them, then?’ Matthews asked, while Poppy tried not to look too disappointed.

Sister smiled. ‘Your time will come,’ she said, ‘but today it’s the turn of more experienced VADs who’ve earned that privilege. Also, we try and break you new girls in gently to the realities of the injuries you might see. There will be boys with limbs missing, those who are blinded or who have gangrenous or open wounds. Some of them, trust me, are not pretty sights. You’ll be in the back of the kitchen and at a distance today, and I hope that you’ll both be sensible enough not to react badly if you see anything which alarms you.’

Poppy and Matthews both assured her that they would try not to let her down.

‘If you do happen to meet a badly injured man, the best thing you can do is bid him welcome home and give him a smile. Some of these men haven’t seen a girl for months and you’d be surprised at how a pleasant greeting from a girl their own age can help them feel human again.’

‘Where will you be, Sister?’ Poppy asked as the three of them climbed aboard and hung up their coats and hats.

‘I shall be with two doctors and half a dozen nurses and we’ll be going from the front to the back of the train, sterilising, stitching, tidying and bandaging as we go. The doctors on board will assess everyone and will hope to have seen them all by the time we reach our destination. It means we can be much more efficient at the other end.’

Along the counter of the narrow kitchen were six huge baskets each containing a couple of hundred fresh rolls. There was also an urn of water, just coming to the boil, and a vast pottery bowl containing a soft mass of margarine.

‘The boys will have their own enamel cups and plates, and you’ll find knives and spoons . . .’ she looked around, ‘. . . somewhere or other.’ She smiled at them. ‘I must go and find my team. Get a message to me if you’re in difficulty. Otherwise, Pearson and Matthews, work well and I’ll see you both later.’

She disappeared and the two girls looked at each other.

‘I need to practise something,’ Poppy said.

‘What’s that?’

‘Saying, “Welcome home, soldier” without blubbing.’

The two VADS who would be serving the boys arrived: Rees and Colebrook, who turned out to be very friendly and capable. They’d both done hospital runs before and said that the amount of food that the Tommies could put away was impressive.

‘They’re allowed two rolls – great crusty things that I’d struggle to eat half of,’ said Rees, who was plump and smiley.

‘If they want to queue up again, they’re allowed another roll,’ put in Colebrook.

‘And another – for as long as they last,’ added Rees. ‘Some of the poor darlings haven’t eaten for twenty-four hours.’

There was a huge metal teapot standing by, which the two VADs said held about fifty cups.

‘But you’d better not brew up yet,’ Rees said, ‘in case it gets stewed.’

‘Our boys don’t like stewed tea!’ added Colebrook.

‘We’d better get started on our roll mountain instead then,’ said Matthews, and she and Poppy went behind the partition to begin the slicing and buttering.

They had only got through about a quarter of the rolls when they heard clapping and cheering from further down the platform.

Colebrook put her head round the serving hatch to speak to them. ‘The boys are coming on board! Come and see.’

All four girls went to the open door of the carriage and leaned out, two standing on the top step and two on the one below. Seagulls cried overhead, a band could be heard playing on the concourse, and there was much flag waving and shouting from the crowd who’d gathered.

The funnels of the docked troopships could just be seen, and it was from this direction that they came, stretcher cases first, then the ‘walking wounded’, two by two in a long line, some walking quite briskly but with injuries to their arms, some limping, others leaning on crutches or being helped along by willing orderlies. The stretcher cases mostly boarded the train further down, but as the raggle-taggle line of men came closer to the buffet car and Poppy saw a couple of lads who’d been blinded being led by their companions, she could feel her nose prickling and a lump forming in her throat.

She quickly went back into the kitchen, followed by Matthews.

‘I don’t want to stay out there in case I make a chump of myself,’ Poppy said.

‘Me neither.’ Matthews gulped.

Rees and Colebrook came in as well.

‘It always gets me,’ Colebrook said.

‘I think we’re being very wise.’ Rees blew her nose heartily. ‘The last thing those boys need is a pack of girls blubbing all over them.’

Fifteen minutes later, with men laid out on every bunk and squeezed into every corner, the train chugged out of its siding, bellowing steam, for the cross-country journey across country to Manchester. As Sister Malcolm had predicted, the minute it left the station there were boys queuing for food, and it seemed that as soon as they’d eaten their rolls they began to queue for more, so that Nurse Rees had to tell them with mock sternness that there would be no seconds until every man on board had had his firsts. Even so, the demand was incessant: several times queues built up because Poppy and Matthews couldn’t slice and butter quickly enough, and they heard much light-hearted banter between Rees, Colebrook and the men about how they’d thought they might die of their wounds, but never thought they’d die for want of a bread roll. Poppy and Matthews – buttering for England, they declared – marvelled at the resilience of the men, laughed at the jokes and occasionally, if the soldier had a nice voice, turned and peeped through the hatch to see his face.

The train made three stops at major stations, one for a full hour. Here three St John nurses boarded the train and went from front to back distributing treats for the men: cigarettes, pipe tobacco, newspapers, and postcards so that they could write to their families and let them know what had happened to them. At the second stop a vast assortment of cakes was put on board – every local woman had given up her egg-and-sugar allowance for a week so that she could bake a cake for a Tommy.

The following stop was scheduled to be thirty minutes and several of the injured soldiers, wanting to stretch their legs, got off the train to walk up and down the length of the platform.

Poppy glanced out of the carriage window, then gasped and looked again more closely. It looked like . . . yes . . . it really
was
Jasper de Vere, his khaki trousers cut away to show a heavily bandaged foot and leg, limping along the platform leaning on a crutch.

Jasper
injured
, she thought, appalled. He could only have been in France a month!

She approached Rees, her heart pounding. ‘I say, I think I’ve just seen someone I know,’ she said. ‘Do you think I could possibly go and have a word?’

‘Oh, I think we could spare you for a few moments,’ Rees said. ‘What do you reckon, Colebrook?’

‘I think that would be absolutely fine,’ said the other VAD.

Poppy carefully climbed off the train and approached Jasper de Vere, pleased she was seeing him whilst she was dressed as a nurse. Maybe she couldn’t help hoping, he would tell Freddie that he’d seen her. Maybe he would even have news of Freddie?

‘Mr de Vere?’ she said tremulously.