Tabitha (24 page)

She nodded and dropped to her knees opposite him. She folded
her sweater and, while the doctor lifted the woman’s head, she placed it
underneath. The violent thumping of the woman’s head against the deck was not
as worrisome once Tabitha’s sweater cushioned the blows.

The seizure lasted all of two minutes. As the woman began to
come around, she moaned and thrashed in her confusion.

Tabitha leaned her mouth near the woman’s ear. “Please lie
still and quiet. You have had a seizure, but you will be all right. Please lie
still and be quiet.”

The attention of the assembled passengers, which had been
riveted on the small drama playing out before them, suddenly shifted. They all
heard the engines of their ship throttle up. The regular, dull rumbling of the
engines driving the
Arabic’s
twin screws, the low growl to which they
were so accustomed, swelled and rose to a higher pitch.

“We’re speeding up,” someone whispered.

“We can’t outrun a U-boat!” a man cried.

“Silence!” The second mate’s glare skewered the offending
passengers.

Without warning, the ship heeled over. “The captain’s tryin’
t’ ram the U-boat,” someone hissed.

“The Germans’ll sink us now, f’sure!” another man groaned.

“Shut yer pie hole!” whispered several voices at once.

The
Arabic
, as unwieldy as she was, was now running
hard through the dangerous waters off Ireland, scrambling for her port. Still
kneeling near the woman who had suffered a seizure, Tabitha began to pray aloud
in a soft voice. “O God, I do not believe you have called me to serve the war
wounded only to be sunk at sea. Lord, in the name of Jesus, I beg you to save
the lives on this ship! We are calling upon you, Lord! Please help us, Father
God!”

“Amen,” the doctor breathed.

“Yes, amen,” the woman’s husband added.

The
Arabic
shuddered again as the captain ordered the
helm hard over. The floor of the salon tilted, and the passengers slid and
struggled to keep their footing. Moments later, they both heard and felt the
jarring grind of the ship’s port side raking across metal. Some passengers lost
their balance and fell down only to be accidentally stepped on as the deck
lurched again and their fellow shipmates stumbled and tripped. Excited and
terrified murmurs erupted across the salon.

“Rammed her, by God! Rammed that U-boat!” someone called.

The murmurs grew into shouts and shrieks that were drowned
out by the ship’s sudden, sharp claxon.

“To your lifeboat stations!” the second mate bellowed. “To
your lifeboat stations!”

Tabitha’s heart thumped and raced, but she made herself
assist the doctor as he lifted their patient to her feet and into her husband’s
arms. “Get moving, man!” the doctor urged her husband. Tabitha looked about in
the melee for Mrs. Patch, but could not see the tiny woman in the panicked
crowd.

“Look!” a man screamed. He pointed out the port side windows
of the salon. Many necks craned to see what was happening.

“It’s a battleship!” another shouted. “British! Thank God!”

Tabitha caught the barest glimpse of iron gray sliding past
them—and then the BOOM of guns.

“Get to your lifeboats!” the second mate bellowed again. He
jumped from his box and ran to assume his own station.

“Mrs. Patch! Mrs. Patch!” The salon emptied as Tabitha
sought her roommate.

“Go!” one of the crew commanded.

Tabitha raced for her cabin’s side of the ship and fought
her way down the deck toward her assigned lifeboat. When she reached the
cabinets where the life vests were stored, she was relieved to find her
roommate already lined up against the wall of the ship opposite the rails.

“Hurry, dearie!” Mrs. Patch called to her.

Tabitha reached for one of the remaining vests and struggled
to put it on. A crew member grabbed it and jerked the vest over her head.

“Tie it off here and here,” he instructed before turning
away.

But Tabitha was staring at the scene in the sea before her.
The British battleship, perhaps a quarter mile off the
Arabic’s
port
side, was sending lifeboats of her own into the water.

“Captain Finch scraped that U-boat’s side, he did, and the
crew took shots at it as we came close,” Mrs. Patch said from Tabitha’s elbow.
“Some was saying the German boat could not go under the water after that. The
battleship arrived before the U-boat could get away.”

“What are they doing?” Tabitha screened her eyes with her
hands but could only make out dots bobbing in the water.

“Our boys sank that U-boat, thank the good Lord! Now they
are trying to save the Germans who jumped as their boat was going under.”

Tabitha stared—and finally understood that the “dots”
bouncing in the frothy sea were
men
.

The claxon overhead ceased. Tabitha’s ears still rang from
its harsh blare, but she sighed in relief as the order went round, “Secure
lifeboats! Secure lifeboats!”

The danger was over.

From the rails of the
Arabic
, Tabitha watched the
docks of Liverpool drawing closer. She and her fellow shipmates exchanged sighs
and shy glances, mutual expressions of relief, of freely drawn breaths and
slowing heart rates.

Tabitha sucked in the tangy salt air and blew it out.
I
do not care to repeat such a scare, Lord.

Thirty minutes later, they docked and passengers began to
line up to disembark.

“Goodbye, dearie.” Mrs. Patch patted Tabitha’s arm and
padded off toward the gangplank, her suitcase in hand. Tabitha soon lost sight
of her.

Down on the docks, Tabitha clutched her own suitcase and
handbag and looked about for the bus service her instructions promised. She
knew those instructions by heart: She was to take a bus from her port of entry
to the rail yards. There she would board the next train to London’s Victoria
station. From Victoria station she was to catch the Brighton line to Surrey.

Tabitha felt in her pocket for the folded paper that
identified her as a VAD for the nursing service. She need only to show the
letter on the bus or train to be given a ticket.

From the docks to the rail yards, Tabitha looked about her
with wide eyes. The bustle was much like what she had seen in New York, but
something about the people was different: They carried themselves with grim
determination and rushed at their duties or raced to their destinations with
dogged haste.

War
, Tabitha comprehended with a shiver.
They are
at war. How many here have already lost son or husband, brother or cousin?

Despite her instructions, Tabitha lost her way in Victoria
station and had to ask for directions to the Brighton line. After she reached
the right platform and boarded the train, she settled herself in the
compartment and watched the green of the countryside chug by.

The trip was not long; the clock in the station where she
disembarked read 2 p.m. She passed vendors in the street, many selling foods.

I am starving
, Tabitha realized when her stomach
lurched.
I have not eaten today!

Fumbling for the British money in her purse she approached a
vendor selling pastries. “What are those, please?”

“Meat pasty,” the vendor answered. He cocked his head at
her. “You a Yank?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yank. American.”

“Oh. Yes.” She pointed at a steaming pie the size of her
palm. “I’ll take one, please.”

He wrapped the pie in a piece of brown paper. “That’ll be
twelve pence.”

Tabitha opened her palm and studied the coins there. “I
apologize. I am new here. Could you help me?”

He stirred the coins in her palm and picked out one.
“Shilling. Same as twelve pence.” he slapped the coin on the counter, pointed
to it, and then studied her a moment, puzzled. “Not many tourists knockin’ down
th’ door t’ Merry Old England these days.”

She shrugged. “I am not a tourist, actually. I am a nurse.
I’ll be reporting to the QAIMNS today as a volunteer.”

“Cor! A VAD? From America?” He seemed astounded.

Tabitha shrugged again. “Yes.”

He looked away and then pushed the shilling toward her.
“Pie’s on me t’day, miss. And thank ye fer yer service.”

Tabitha hesitated before she picked up the coin. “You are
most kind.”

“Bloody war. Lost m’ baby brother in France last fall,” he
muttered. He looked away again, but not before Tabitha saw the glimmer of tears
in his eyes.

“I shall do my best here,” she whispered. “God bless you.”

~~**~~

That evening Tabitha was given a bed in a VAD dormitory. She
was exhausted and did not pay much attention to her surroundings. In the
morning, however, she awoke with fresh eyes and ears.

Around her three nurses of a Volunteer Aid Detachment (she
had heard the man at the lunch counter yesterday call her a “VAD,” pronouncing
each letter) readied themselves for their shift at the nearby hospital. They
eyed Tabitha, and she listened to their chatter, but they did not speak to her.
Tabitha, for her part, had difficulty understanding them, so broad and strange
were their accents and many of their words or phrases.

The three VADs were clad in simple blue-gray dresses, immaculate
aprons, and typical white nursing hats, each sporting a small red cross. The
girls tugged on white oversleeves designed to protect their dress sleeves, and
each girl wore a single white armband with a red cross upon it.

The three VADs were nearly ready to depart as a group when
Tabitha asked, “Pardon me. I am new here. Before you go, could you please tell
me where I am to report?”

They had watched her, curious but silent—until she opened
her mouth.

“Blimey! She’s a Yank!” one expostulated.

“You daft? You never seen a Yank?” another jeered.

That girl, sandy haired and bright-eyed, pointed her chin
toward the window behind Tabitha. “Report t’ matron ’cross th’ yard, Yank.
She’ll put you right. And chivvy along. She runs peevish midmorning.”

“Um, thank you kindly,” Tabitha replied, not following half
of what the girl said.

“Ooo! So posh, is she,” the first girl commented with a
little sneer.

“Oh, budge up, Nancy, and let me at th’ sink. We’re late as
is.”

The three VADs at last clattered down the stairs leaving
Tabitha alone. She peered out the window and noted her destination, the
official-looking row of buildings on the far side of the grass.

Tabitha took extra care with her toilet that morning and
made certain not one strand of her flaming hair escaped the severe knot she
pinned at her neck. She gathered her handbag and made sure she had the envelope
she had picked up at the pier in New York. It contained the letter identifying
her as an incoming VAD. She patted her pocket: Her handkerchief and its
precious corner piece were secure.

She marched up the steps to the building and introduced
herself to the receptionist typing away inside. “Good morning. My name is
Tabitha Hale. I am here to report for intake.”

She handed the letter to the woman, who examined it and
nodded. “One moment, please.” She was back in another moment. “Please go right
in.”

Tabitha slipped through the door the receptionist indicated.
There she found two other women, one behind a sizable desk, the other standing
close to it.

“Good morning, Miss Hale. I am Lady Perth–Lyon, assistant to
the
Matron-in-Chief. This is Sister Alistair. I take it your crossing was
uneventful?” Lady Perth-Lyon was a mature woman with pleasant features. Her
head bore a crown of graying braids.

Tabitha thought of the
Arabic’s
near disaster with
the U-boat but did not mention it. Instead she nodded. “Thank you, yes.”

Lady Perth-Lyon set her head to one side and studied
Tabitha. Tabitha realized both women were examining her. She remained placid
under their scrutiny.

Finally Lady Perth-Lyon broke the silence. “We are in a bit
of a quandary about you, Miss Hale.”

Tabitha raised her brows. “I beg your pardon?”

“Yes. Quite . . .” The gray-haired woman
tapped her pen on her desk pad and bent a questioning eye on Sister Alistair.

Sister Alistair wore a pale blue-gray dress similar to the
VADs Tabitha had met in her dormitory but, at present, no apron. Tabitha noted
two inch-wide bands of scarlet set upon her sleeves just above the white cuffs.
Around her shoulders and under a stiff white collar she wore a short cape—its
color a darker blue than her dress—trimmed with a wide band of scarlet.

An oblong medal at the end of a short ribbon hung from the
nurse’s cape just over her breast. Tabitha recognized the medal as the symbol
of the QAIMNS. And rather than a nurse’s cap, Sister Alistair’s head was bound
in a simple white wimple with a veil that hung down in the back just past her
shoulders.

Lady Perth-Lyon smiled a little. “You see, Miss Hale, Queen
Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service belongs to the army and has very
strict standards of admission. QAIMNS nurses must, first of all, be British—and
you are not British, of course.”

Tabitha nodded her understanding. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Our nurses must also be ladies of good social standing and
have completed a rigorous course of training—three years at an approved
hospital, in the main.”

Tabitha nodded again. “Yes, ma’am. I am aware.”

“Our VADs, on the other hand, come to us primarily from the
ranks of the less educated. They are not trained nurses, nor are they
necessarily of good social or, er, moral standing. Many of our volunteers are
simple, rough, frequently coarse, and without proper qualifications—except that
they are willing. They often serve, not in any nurse’s aide capacity, but as
cooks, kitchen maids, laundresses, and clerks.”

Lady Perth-Lyon sighed and studied the papers on the desk
before her. “However, you, Miss Hale, have been very well trained and have
nursing specialties we covet. We normally do not interview our VADs. They are
recruited elsewhere and sent on to us through the British Red Cross. But
you . . .”

She turned that discerning eye upon Tabitha again. “Until we
could meet with you personally, we could not form an opinion regarding your character
or professionalism. What we observe at present seems to confirm the glowing
recommendation of—” she looked down again, “One Emilia Gunderson, Dean of
Nursing at the school you attended in Boulder, Colorado, and from which you
graduated . . . with honors.”

Sister Alistair stirred. “You see, Miss Hale, we cannot
place you in the QAIMNS where by training and character you belong. We cannot
even enroll you in the QAIMNS Reserves. Times are changing and the need is
great, but the standards have not yet shifted to meet the need. And yet, you
are far
too
qualified to be wasted in the ranks of the VADs. This is the
quandary of which we spoke.”

“I see,” Tabitha murmured.

Well, Lord?
she inquired. She waited for the two
women to decide her fate.

Lady Perth-Lyon looked again at the papers on her desk. “It
says here that you were proctor to the incoming freshman class in your school?
What can you tell me about your responsibilities in that role?”

Tabitha raised her brows in surprise.
I do not wish to
discuss my problems at school and how Nurse Rasmussen sabotaged my
graduation—that would only lead to more questions.

Instead she answered simply, “Mine was a new and somewhat
unique position, ma’am. I had to leave school in my freshman year to address a
family emergency, thus delaying my graduation.”

She swallowed hard and pushed ahead into safer topics. “In
my last year at school, I needed only to complete my required core nursing
hours. However, it was then that Deans Wellan and Gunderson offered me the
position of Head Proctor. I held office hours, mentored struggling students,
and helped them to address particular needs when they arose. During my last
year I also took two specialty courses, one in infectious diseases and one in
traumatic wound care.”

“Yes, both courses are of interest to us,” Sister Alistair
murmured, “as is your experience as Head Proctor.”

Lady Perth-Lyon folded her hands and stared at Tabitha.
“Tell me, Miss Hale. Why are you here?”

Tabitha thought for a moment. “I am here to serve, ma’am.”

“But in what capacity?” Sister Alistair insisted.

Tabitha turned toward her. “Ma’am, I hope to be of service
where I can best be used, but I am not afraid of hard work. Wherever the need
is, I am willing.”

Lord, wherever you need me,
she pledged silently.

The two women opposite her exchanged glances, and Sister
Alistair nodded.

Lady Perth-Lyon pursed her lips and replied. “Very well,
Miss Hale. We thank you in advance for your service. We are sending you to Colchester
Military Hospital as a VAD. Colchester is an army hospital in Essex, not far
from here. Sister Alistair is also posted there and you may see her
occasionally.

“Understand that wounded soldiers are treated first at
casualty clearing stations and then field hospitals. Those who require ongoing
surgeries, hospitalization, and convalescence are sent home to military
hospitals such as Colchester. You will see every kind of injury possible at
this posting, and they are quite in need of skilled nurses. We may, later on,
have something more suitable for you.”

She signed some paperwork, folded and sealed it into an
envelope, and extended the envelope to Tabitha. “Please report to Matron
Edwynna Stiles, chief nurse of the hospital. Give her this letter. The
receptionist outside my office will provide you with directions.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Tabitha answered.

A young volunteer put Tabitha aboard a bus later that
morning, and Tabitha arrived at Colchester Military Hospital late in the
afternoon. The hospital lay within an army troop and cavalry station. Army
administration buildings and a myriad of tents, stables, and parade grounds
formed a labyrinth. The hospital itself was an imposing collection of
three-story brick buildings, a few topped by crenelated battlements and towers.

Tabitha, after asking directions several times, presented
herself to the matron’s office. Her interview with Matron Stiles went much as
her meeting with Lady Perth-Lyon and Sister Alistair had gone.

After perusing the letter from Lady Perth-Lyon, the matron
asked, “Are you willing to undertake the same duties as any other VAD?” Matron
Stiles was a stern woman, but something about the set of her mouth gave Tabitha
hope that she was also a fair one.

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“You will call me Matron, Hale. QAIMNS nursing sisters in
charge of hospitals are addressed as Matron. Other nursing sisters are
addressed as Sister. VADs are addressed by their surnames, although patients
often call them ‘nurse.’ I dare say many things are different here than where
you trained. Please make an effort to adapt yourself.”

“I will, Matron,” Tabitha answered.

“Draw your uniforms from the supply window. My clerk will
assign you to a dormitory and a ward. Good day, Hale,” Matron Stiles dismissed
her.

That evening Tabitha again slept in a dormitory of VADs. Ten
young women in total occupied the top floor of a brick building poorly
illuminated by dormer windows. As Tabitha introduced herself, the girls, all of
whom were younger than her, had the same reactions as the VADs in Surrey.

“You American, then?” one asked.

“Yes, I am,” Tabitha answered.

They silently took Tabitha’s measure, and several of the
girls whispered together. In the end, they offered to show her where to pick up
her uniforms and where to take her meals.

Tabitha received a cap, two uniform dresses (with
admonitions to wash one each day), four aprons, and four sets of oversleeves
that afternoon. She was told to report to her ward promptly at seven the
following morning.

After dinner she ironed and hung her uniforms. As she
undressed for bed, her fingers touched the hanky and puzzle piece pinned inside
her pocket. Tabitha unpinned them and held them in her hand a long moment.

Then she tucked them into the corner of her suitcase.

“VAD Hale reporting, Sister,” Tabitha said in a quiet voice,
but she was staring down the long ward at the rows of beds all filled with men.
Wounded men. Every patient an amputee.

The collective groaning, murmuring, and sighing of the
patients was, in itself, indicative of the level of pain they were suffering.

The harried nursing sister who oversaw the ward looked up
from her charts and sighed. “Another new one, eh? And likely you canna even
make a proper bed.” She waved for one of the VADs Tabitha roomed with to come
over. “Darby, be showin’ Hale here about and have her follow you today.”

“This way,” Darby motioned. Away from the sister, Darby
frowned. “Look lively, Yank. I will tell and show you something but one time.”

“Got it.” Tabitha ground her teeth to bite back a smart
retort.

I am here to serve as you wish, Lord. Please help me to
do so humbly and to have and keep a meek heart.

Then
s
he had a disconcerting realization:
My
trials at school taught me how to exercise control over my temper and acid
tongue.
She chuckled inwardly.
That self-control should serve me well
here.

Darby pulled a stack of linens from a deep closet. “We keep
clean linens here. Dirty ones go in that bin. Night shift feeds the patients
breakfast at six; we come on and clear away the remains, after which we change
all the linens in the ward.”

Tabitha noticed the other two VADs stacking dishes and
collecting trays.

“Pay attention.” Darby thumped the stack of linens into
Tabitha’s arms and retrieved another stack from the closet. “Our patients are
not amb’latory—that means they cannot get out of bed on their own—so changin’
linens is a trick. We work two nurses to a bed to shift the boys while we
remove the soiled sheets and replace them with clean.”

She leaned toward Tabitha, her brows pulled down. “They’s
already in pain enow. Have a care you don’t hurt them more, eh?”

Darby motioned Tabitha to the other side of a bed. “Stand
over yon.” She gripped her side of the bottom sheet.

To the legless patient she said in a bright voice, “Good
morning, love,” and rolled the man toward Tabitha.