by Ryan Byrnes
My first assignment was as a nurse at the Baltic and Corn Exchange Hospital in Calais. After my brief training, the doctors trusted me enough to do the dirty work of cleaning wounds and applying bandages.
One morning, I was hard at work changing the sheets of one of the beds in which a soldier had just bled out. They were scarlet; apparently, the soldier had shot himself before his fellows could stop him. His entire lower body had been missing when he came in, for it had been blown off by a mine. Regardless, I walked in and changed the sheets. The other men looked at me with fear, some thinking I was a kind of goddess with the power to decide life or death, others with disgust that I could be so uncaring. The truth was, I knew what had happened was a sad thing, but I had seen many more death and suicide than they. In Africa, we would often find tribesmen hung from trees. It is in moments of madness when one realizes the world they know has already passed; in that moment of personal brokenness, all reason and convention fall out from underneath. I taught the native children English and watched them put on suits with their British accents and look with uncomprehending eyes upon their own elders who spoke only in the local tongue.
The soldiers heard this, and I became a sort of prophet to them. They would come to me seeking counsel. One of them asked me if there was a God, and I could not reply. Another asked me if he could be forgiven for all the Germans he had killed. I only said, “Forgive yourself,” not knowing what I meant by it, simply led by the notion that it might be of some comfort to him. “What kind of a woman are you?” he asked, and I could tell he wanted me to reply, “A saint. A sage. Something of the like,” but I could not.
Soon, the other doctors started coming to me when I was alone, closing the door behind them. They spoke to me of the soldiers they had failed to save and wept in front of me. I listened and laid a strong hand on their shoulder. They asked me what they should do next, to which I replied, “Live,” because I thought it sounded comforting. I explained to them that in Africa, the village elders would hold two funerals, the first to mourn a life and the second to celebrate it. Many of the doctors who wept at my feet of a night would not meet my eyes the next morning. Eventually, I learned I had become something of an oracle.
By November, I had heard a sorry tale from just about every person working in the hospital. They began to call me “Mother Brand,” and it was fitting, really, because of how the bonnets we wore looked like a nun’s habit. Even the nuns sought council from me. I didn’t even try to give advice, though, because nothing I knew could ease their pain. I merely listened.
There was a room at the Baltic and Corn Exchange Hospital where men went to die. None of the soldiers went there willingly; they claw at the walls and call for help as we carted their beds down the hall and the wheels squeaked on the floor. However, often I was the one pushing the cart because none of the other nurses had the strength to. I was the one who stayed with the soldiers to their deaths, praying for them until the light in their eyes finally flickered out. Then, orderlies took the bodies away and I changed the sheets.
As the fighting stagnated in November, and we heard the soldiers had dug themselves in trenches for a long stalemate, the doctors established more permanent hospitals. I remember my superior, a doctor by the name of Mason, soliciting for nurses to train the new volunteers at these clearing hospitals. Dr. Mason came to us in the early morning, while we were all groggy and trying to revive ourselves with coffee. I was ignoring him, concerned only with the poor soldier two floors up suffering terribly from a disease of the reproductive system. The words “Third Corps” and “Fourth Division” crossed Dr. Mason’s lips, and I asked him to repeat himself. “One of the clearing hospitals in Hazebrouck is calling for experienced volunteers to serve the wounded of the Third Corps. Would you consider it?” I told him I would for I knew the Royal Warwicks, the boys of Leamington that I knew fondly, were among the Third Corps.
My peers threw a party for me before I left, and we all gathered in the staff lounge, a tiny hall with a radio, and shared tea and coffee. Due to the rations, there were no sweets of any kind. Ah, sweets. I remembered going to Baker’s Sweets on Bath Street as a little girl, whenever I stumbled upon a penny in the gutter. I remembered Ms. Baker and her son fondly. He made truffles like Michelangelo carved marble. Those halcyon days were far behind, though, and I felt a duty to distract people from the fact. After all, to accept it was a death in itself.
I took the train from Calais to St. Omer to Hazebrouck along with three Carmelite nuns. They prayed the rosary through about a dozen times while on the train, but I did not participate even after they invited me. “You are a sister, though, are you not? The doctors call you Mother Brand.” I explained to them that it was only a name, only a name. I was proud to be working alongside these women, three veterans who had known intimately every kind of despair a man could face in his final days. As we traveled southeast, the land turned from green to brown. Outside the train window, I saw the occasional crater from stray shells and many boarded-up farmhouses. Blasted tree stumps poked out everywhere, but no forests. Hazebrouck was about twenty miles behind the British trenches, and if we squinted, we could see the smoke rising over a brown ridge. The whole view could fit behind my thumb, where it would be obscured.
The clearing hospital was spread out amongst a local church, a pub, a barn, a theatre, and many other businesses that had graciously opened their doors to us. I slept at a local convent with the Carmelite nuns and was woken every day at dawn by their eerie Latin chanting, prayers for the healing of the sick. My room was bare and cold except for a crucifix and a skull mounted above my bed. I supposed the skull was a symbol of mortality, which really was fitting for about half of the wounded that came there died. For those men, all I could do was prepare a soft bed. I considered myself a professional pillow-fluffer.
I was only there from November 1st to November 3rd and the wounded we saw arrived by ambulance a little after breakfast. They came from the recent battles out in Flanders. On my second day working there, I could feel the ground vibrate from the shelling at the front, and hear the bombs explode as if they were right outside the door. Stray shells landed in Hazebrouck, destroying several barns, and we soon received orders to temporarily evacuate the wounded.
On the evening of November 9th, I recall having a moment of quiet to myself. It was after my shift, and I was strolling through the village. I looked over the French countryside, and it was really quite pretty.
“Mother Brand!” I heard one of the nurses calling for me, and I was grateful for it. “One of the men is throwing a fit! He’s disturbing the soldiers and none of us can calm him.”
I threw my cigarette away and followed her to see the commotion. I heard moans echoing down the hall as I entered the foyer. Further down, I saw the figure of a man running about the beds of the soldiers in his underwear. He was banging on walls and knocking over tables, flapping his hands. The man was surely suffering from severe shell shock, but the sight reminded me of a time when I was a little girl and had occasion to witness such behavior in Leamington.
I pulled a dozen pillows off empty beds and threw them into an open space on the ground, where I directed the strong-armed nurses to hold the man down until his attack subsided. He thrashed against them, until finally, his breathing slowed and his lower lip trembled. I read the name on the dog tag and then said to the other doctors, “Leave us. I will take it from here.”
This man, whom I will call Smith, was one of my girlhood acquaintances. He was indeed from Leamington, and we had grown from birth alongside each other. I always knew he was born different, and I could not, for the life of me, figure out how he had come to be enlisted. Surely those who cared for him and those who understood his affliction would never have allowed it. With some help, I managed to get him dressed and invited him out on a walk to let the fresh air calm him, but he would not go with me. He would not go out into the open because, he swore to me, a mean man wanted to hurt him. I insisted, but he refused. Finally, I
decided to take him to my personal quarters, a nice closed space, where we spoke. Our conversation is as follows.
“Smith, do you remember me? I’m Ethyl Brand. I was friends with your brother. I used to buy your truffles.”
“I make the best truffles. The best in the world.”
“Can you tell me why you aren’t making truffles now?”
“I am.”
“What?”
“With mud. I make truffles with mud.”
“Chocolate truffles, though. Why aren’t you still making those in Leamington, where it’s safe?”
He sniffled a little and only said, “He tricked me.”
“Who tricked you?”
No answer. Smith grabbed his head and shrieked, and I sat next to him on the bed, hugging him. I noticed the dark circles under his eyes and wondered how long it had been since he’d slept?
“Would you like to take a nap? You can sleep in this bed here.”
“Is it safe?”
I nodded. “I’ve been sleeping here for months, and not one shell has even come close.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, you’re safe here.”
“But I have bugs, and I’m dirty.”
“I’m bound to get lousy sooner or later.”
“Will you stay here, please?”
I nodded and pulled back the covers. He took off his boots, and I saw that his toes were pruned. The rest of his feet were spongy and soft like wet paper, and I was afraid they would tear from all those weeks of walking in filth and freezing water. With a towel, I dried his feet and covered them in lard from my own personal stock, then I told him I would be right back and I took my basin out to the faucet and filled it with water. When I returned, I sponged the dirt off his body and gave him one of my shirts to wear, because at least they were dry. His hair and beard were matted with dirt, so I gave him a good trim and a shave, so short that the lice wouldn’t be so much of a bother. While he was under the covers, I tucked in the sheets beneath him so that they hugged his figure like a cocoon. Within moments, he was sound asleep in what I would assume, his first good rest in months. To me, his snores were the music of home, and I curled up on the floor beside the bed and listened to his symphony.
I soon learned that Smith was not wounded, but had only been sent to the hospital with a fever, which he soon overcame. By law, he was required to return to his regiment on the front. Before he left, I made him promise me, “I will not antagonize my officers. I will never be the first to respond to an order. I will not be the first to leave the trench. I will stay in the back of the crowd. I will not leave the sight of the other boys from Leamington, and I will not look over the wall of the trench, no matter how tempted.”
When he left in the morning, I marched straight up to the military headquarters, shaking with rage. It was a little cottage just outside of town, sprouting with telegraph wires and antennae. Inside was a radio box and a table plastered with elevation maps. I met with an officer and gave him a good piece of my mind. The officer looked up at me—his chest bedecked in jingling medals, his guns and saber clean and shining and unused—and asked me what in God’s name was I going on about. I told him that Smith was unfit to serve, that he had been tricked into enlisting, and that he was breaking the law by keeping him at the front. “Who is Smith? You can’t expect me to know all their names,” he snarled, and tried shooing me away. But I refused to leave. Finally, he called for an aide and he ushered me out the door by physically picking me up off my feet and setting my outside. Then he bid me Good Day and shut the door in my face.
I approached the general and told him we had a soldier who was mentally unfit and needed to be sent home. The general was in a busy meeting and dismissed me, saying he didn’t have time.
If my word wasn't good enough, perhaps the doctors' would be. Afterwards, I went straight to round up a group of doctors and asked them to do an evaluation of Smith. They agreed because they owed me from previous favors. They all collaborated on a letter and strongly recommended Smith be sent home, that a mistake had been made during enlistment. This letter was sent to high command, and they told me to wait a few weeks for a reply.
That is why I am writing this article. This man, Smith, was done a grave injustice and no one cares one whit. I would like to raise awareness for his plight, to let his family know, and to solicit help in any way I can.
Mrs. Ethyl Brand,
By order of the British government, you are commanded to stop writing or face persecution. Effective 8 August, 1914, the Defense of the Realm Act (DORA) outlaws amateur journalism on the Western Front.
Your article has been intercepted and disposed of, and your information will be kept on record should you continue damaging public morale and antagonizing the war effort through your writings.
To: Mr. Michael Surrey, Leamington Courier
From: Ms. Ethyl Brand
Dear Sir,
You may recall that I wrote to you several weeks ago, although the mail, being what it is during wartime, may have not reached you yet. I am, therefore, taking the liberty of writing to you again.
Your wonderful publication has done much to enlighten and enthuse me over the years toward the aims of social justice. Motivated by your fine journalists, I have spent my youth seeking meaning in the world, and I think your publication could gain from my vast experiences. For one year, I served as a missionary in Nigeria, where I taught English to natives and witnessed many evils. I fell ill with malaria, barely surviving, and returned to England just last year, where I volunteered with the British Red Cross. In that capacity, I served the wounded soldiers on the Western Front.
I have a unique perspective on world events that you would be hard-pressed to find in most others of my age, and I think my perspective would draw in both female readers and young people seeking the exotic. Currently, I have written several pieces reporting my experiences as both a wartime nurse and a missionary in Africa, although I assume the nursing would be of greater interest to your paper.
I have fair writing skills, considering my work as an English teacher that I mentioned earlier, although you may read for yourself, as I have attached a sample of my work for your consideration.
You may remember me from my youth or be acquainted with my family, as Leamington is the city that raised me. I understand you are in contact with many other publications as well, and I would be appreciative if, should you not find my work to your taste, you would pass this message on to your peers.
Sincerely,
Ms. Ethyl Brand
4 December, 1914
P.S. If you respond after December 1914, please do not mail to the return address, but rather to the Baltic and Corn Exchange Hospital in Calais, France.
Attached: “Adventures of a Frontline Nurse”
Adventures of a Frontline Nurse
Ethyl Brand
Fate is kind to the soldiers on the Western Front. They are in high spirits and fight with the strength of proud men. I came to serve them as a nurse soon after returning from British West Africa, where I followed my duty to our great nation. But that story is for another time. When I heard the war had finally begun in Europe, I volunteered for the British Red Cross immediately, if only to serve my God and King.
Upon my arrival in Calais, I quickly learned the normal duties of a nurse. I cleaned the bed sheets and emptied the bed pans—one of the more disgusting and primal duties—but I soon learned it was quite easy work. Whenever I felt like the work was too much, the resilience of these bold soldiers never failed to inspire courage in my bones.
The soldiers were, overall, an admirable group of fellows. They did not blink in the face of despair, but rather ran to the frontlines for every bomb that detonated. I cannot even begin to imagine how many lives they saved each day.
I often heard them singing songs in their hospital beds, and they told me they were quite well and wished they would heal up so they could go back to fight for liberty with their pals. “Take your medicine a
nd we’ll see,” I told them, and they all laughed. We really did have a good time together.
Soon, I heard word that the hospitals closer to the frontline, particularly out in the village of Hazebrouck, were in need of more nurses. Eager to separate myself from the crowd of volunteers, I took the position along with three nuns, who spoke to me of holy things and kept my morale high. The more time I spent in the hospital, the more I learned how lucky our boys really are to have such skilled nurses. Wounded soldiers enter the hospital by ambulance, babbling about how the Germans were on their last gasp and how the German supply lines had been cut off. In general, they spoke of victory, which was encouraging to me, for so many of us hoped the war would be over by Christmas, so we could spend time with our beloved families.
I believe that my most difficult duty was to get them to pipe down about their adventures so that they could eat the hearty meals of beef and potatoes we served them. This was one of the best hospitals I’ve had the privilege to work at as there was always a bed for anyone who needed it, and I often played card games with the soldiers for good fun.
However, there was a war on, and occasionally, shells would land in the nearby fields. Nobody was ever hurt; usually, the shells missed houses and instead killed unfortunate livestock. For obvious safety reasons, we soon relocated the hospital to a nearby village. While there, I even met a young man, a soldier by the name of Luther Baker, who had overcome a mental deficiency just so that he could serve his country as a soldier. A fine soldier he was, too. To his mother, who undoubtedly is reading this, please know I am doing all I can to look after him. If the news I receive is true, the war should be over very soon, thanks to the boldness and excellent morale of the British Expeditionary Force, and our dear Luther will be on his way home a hero.
To Ethyl Brand,
Congratulations! I received your article and thought it was a wonderful piece of journalism. I will publish it in the upcoming week. Thank you for considering the Leamington Courier. Please write more; I feel you will attract a great audience.