The War Nurse

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  We were halfway through our route, on my favorite part along the river. Tall and full horse chestnut trees grew in a line, providing shade over our path. The flowers had fallen from the trees, and the clusters of spiky pods were just starting to form. We spoke of the beauty of the area and discovered we both adored the painter Claude Monet.

  “Benjamin told me that Monet lives not too far away. One of these days, we must escape upriver and see his gardens.” The trees thinned out a bit, creating a frame for the river view. “Wouldn’t this be a lovely spot for him to paint?”

  He didn’t answer, and we didn’t speak for a few minutes. We were so comfortable with each other by then that this was not unusual; indeed, they were pleasant moments. But this silence went on for longer than usual. Finally, I broke it, cheerfully asking if he’d had a new letter from his beloved.

  “Why yes, I have.” His voice was tight, and he looked away.

  “Is she—is everything all right?” I lightly touched his hand.

  “Oh, she’s fine. Just brilliant,” he said, his words clipped.

  He picked up the walking pace, and I stepped with him. Simultaneous feelings of dread mixed with a lightness and joy, which confused me to no end. Why did I feel lightness when something was clearly upsetting him?

  “Well, that’s lovely. Perhaps you’ll be able to meet in London soon.” I couldn’t let it go. My inner self chided me, while its evil twin pushed me on.

  “Here, read how brilliant she is for yourself.” He slipped a letter from his pocket.

  I scanned the loopy, feminine script. It was short, just a few paragraphs.

  Dear Murph.

  Yuck.

  I had been faithful for all these long months, now nearly a year, waiting for you, worrying ever so. I’m afraid the worry has gotten the best of me, and my health has suffered. I’m not strong like you. I can’t bear the strain.

  I must let you go, lest you waste your time pining for a girl who no longer deserves you.

  I have found another, someone who is here and takes care of me, so you needn’t worry for me at all.

  I wish for you much happiness for all your days.

  Love, L.

  I gasped. “Oh, Major, I’m so sorry.” I hoped my words sounded as perfectly sincere as part of me meant them. In truth, I was feeling a stirring in my heart every time we were together. I looked forward to our walks not only for the chance to escape our duties for a moment of distraction but for the sound of his voice and the occasional brush of his fingers across my hand.

  Which he did—and more—when I gave the letter back to him. He took my hand in his and said, “Julia, will you do me the biggest of favors?”

  “Of course.” I couldn’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for him.

  He pocketed the letter and motioned for us to sit on a park bench. After we were settled, he reached down to pet Sam while I waited to learn of his favor. Conversations with him took patience. He was not one to speak without carefully considering his words—a trait I admired and could use more of, but still found frustrating.

  Just as I was about to ask about it, he said, “Would you please call me Fred? I think we’re past the Major and Miss Stimson stage.”

  “Certainly. But not in front of the others. You must have heard there are rumors about us. And we should be especially careful around Dr. Valentine. It seems he’s the self-appointed chief of the rumor mill.”

  “So what?” He waved my accusation away. “Let them have their fun. But I agree, only when we’re alone together, which I hope will be often.”

  “Agreed,” I said in my most professional manner. But inside, I was as giddy as a girl at her prom. “Is that the favor? Or are you just warming up to that?”

  He laughed. “That’s all I ask for now.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The trains arrived in Rouen each evening and were met with ambulances. The British practice was to bring the stretchers from the ambulances straight to a bed. There, the soldiers lay in their filthy uniforms and wouldn’t see the surgeon until morning.

  Through the night, the nurses went from bed to bed, changing bandages, giving baths, and injecting morphine to those who needed it. When they found someone having trouble breathing or with heavy bleeding, they would summon a surgeon or internist. On nights after gas attacks, the tents seem to shake with the sound of hundreds of men violently coughing and gasping for breath. These nights were the hardest for the nurses.

  In addition to the coughing, there was the difficult task of changing the clothing of the men who had been exposed to mustard gas. Normally the easiest bit of admitting other types of patients, it was traumatic for both the patient and the nurse. First, she had to carefully remove the crisp-with-dirt uniform, using gloves due to the contamination. Most of the men gritted their teeth and bore the pain silently, but some screamed as the fabric was removed from their burnt skin. They usually tolerated the hypochlorite solution poured over them and being wrapped in bandages, but being dressed in the heavy blue pajamas caused another round of yelps.

  Worst of all was to come upon a patient who had been quietly bearing his pain. A nurse came to me in tears. “Matron, I just can’t bear it.”

  “What is it?”

  “My patient with the burns across his chest and back. We put him on his stomach, because that side is a little better.”

  “It’s difficult to deal with patients in pain. But know that you are easing it as best you can,” I offered, my words seeming pathetically cold.

  “It’s not that, Matron. I can accept that. It’s the singing. The poor man just keeps singing, right through his gritted teeth, and I can’t bear it.”

  The positive attitudes of the wounded men continued to amaze the nurses. Not a one would complain about some discomfort or inconvenience when they worked with men who had experienced the vilest things yet carried on as if it were another day on the farm.

  We continued to serve mainly British soldiers, with some Canadians and Australians and the occasional American. The combination led to humorous rivalries and practical jokes. I saw an American surreptitiously pour out a Brit’s tea and replace it with coffee, which was spit out as if it were poison. The Brits loved to mock the Americans’ accent, which made everyone laugh. A multinational group of amputees gathered each day for a card game, sometimes placing a prosthesis on the table to up the ante.

  * * *

  With Fred’s blessing, I convinced Colonel Fife, the unit commander, to allow us to rearrange the patient receiving process. We had waited long enough; the British were gone, and it was time to implement our own methods. I proposed we take the most critical cases straight to the X-ray room, with those walking or not needing X-rays going to the bathhouse. Once they were medicated for pain, cleaned up, and treated for vermin such as lice, we dressed them in blue pajamas and transferred them to the salle de triage, which soon became known simply as triage.

  In triage, as I saw in France, the surgeon would do a quick examination, then the soldier was either assigned a bed, sent to the operating theater, or transferred to another hospital. This prevented much of the disruption of the wards and, more importantly, ensured the most critical patients were seen sooner.

  This worked rather well, but still the process took too long, and we sometimes lost men whilst they waited for the surgeon. We had five surgeries in process in the theater and three more surgeons working at bedsides. Nearly half needed to be resting or seeing to their own needs. This left only three to do triage, and with sometimes hundreds of wounded men arriving in an evening, they were quickly overwhelmed.

  * * *

  I attended a weekly medical staff meeting chaired by Fred, who headed up the medical side, Colonel Fife, the overall commander of the unit, and the chief of surgery, Dr. Valentine. They were all quite a bit older than me and of course physicians, and they seemed to politely listen to my i
deas, even if they didn’t value them as much as those from someone with an MD after their name.

  “Let this meeting come to order. Miss Stimson, ladies first.” Tall, slightly balding Fred was of course my favorite. He made every effort not to show any undue emotion toward me, barely looking up at me as he opened the meeting and invited me to speak.

  “Our first concern, as we complete the transition to wholly American staff, is how best to utilize their precious time. I have come up with a plan, therefore, to that end.” I passed around a diagram I had drawn for each of them. “Gentlemen, our triage plan is a great improvement and has no doubt already saved lives.”

  “Here, here,” Dr. Valentine said. The short, robust man with perpetually smudged eyeglasses banged his coffee cup.

  “But I think we can do better,” I continued. “In my diagram, you’ll see I have moved some of the process to staging areas in the field.”

  I shifted in my seat in discomfort as the silence while they reviewed my diagram went on too long to be good news. There was some coughing and throat clearing, but it seemed no one wanted to be the first to throw darts at my idea.

  Colonel Fife tapped the diagram. “As the only regular army officer here, I need to point out a few things. Miss Stimson, you have good intentions but perhaps not the first notion of the situation at the battlefront.”

  The other doctors stifled a chuckle.

  “Are you aware that the first persons to treat our wounded are often under fire themselves? Do you understand they may be working with shells exploding only feet away? Their vision is half-blinded by gas or even just by the gas mask covered with the splatter of dirt and blood and who knows what. It is all they can do to get them to a train or ambulance without getting shot themselves. And now you want them to play doctor as well? One of the gravest mistakes the British made was sending their physicians to the front.”

  I stood, thankful for my excessive height and booming voice. “I’m asking no such thing. What I suggest is enhancing the staging areas, out of the range of artillery, where we can give further care and assessment before sending the wounded on to the hospitals. The medic who delivers the wounded to the transportation area would pass on just a word or two regarding the injury so that a tag can be made for each man. Something like ‘right arm, tourniquet’ or ‘mustard gas, no mask.’ Maybe some color-coded tags would make the identification easier and quicker. Then the medics can get back to their units, and the station takes over.”

  “Bottom line, Miss Stimson, is we don’t have control over the battlefield,” Fred offered in his quiet, calm way. “Nor do we want it.”

  “I concur.” Colonel Fife tapped a finger on the diagram. “We cannot control where we have no jurisdiction.”

  “Then maybe we need to go where we are needed. A team, say a doctor, a nurse, and an orderly, rotating out to staging areas. These areas exist already, no? The CCSs, and also the points where the trains are loaded. From what I have heard, a tremendous amount of responsibility is laid upon a single nurse, who must decide in an instant who gets evacuated and who is beyond help. I think we can do better. And I propose to be the first nurse so assigned.”

  “Have you lost your mind completely? Do you have too many nurses and orderlies on your hands? Our surgeons are extremely short-staffed as it is, and you propose having them traipse out to within miles of an ever-changing front, taking up more time and, dare I say it, exposing them to all sorts of hazards?” Colonel Fife tossed the diagram aside.

  “We have asked for reinforcements.” Fred tapped his pencil. “Miss Stimson may have a point here. We have three surgeons, who could be operating, tied up in triage. With quicker evaluation, we could further eliminate the cases that come here that should go elsewhere and perhaps treat them in the field instead of making the long trip to the hospital.”

  “You’ll never get the field commanders to agree.”

  “Soldiers returning to battle after a quick stitch-up? Medics able to rejoin the units more quickly? I should think the commanders would welcome the idea.” Fred broke from his usual formality to give me a wink.

  Colonel Fife, if hardened by years of fighting wars, was still a thoughtful man. “Very well then. We’ll send the proposal up the chain.”

  The answer from the field was something along the lines of “What are you waiting for?”

  * * *

  Benjamin, the ambulance driver, hailed from Manchester. He was to be on the last trip back to “Blighty,” as the Brits called their homeland. He came to me the day before the transport, his hair trimmed and neatly parted down the middle, dressed in a fresh if two-sizes-too-large uniform.

  “Allo, Matron, could I have a word before I go?”

  I was explaining to an orderly how to sort units of blood by type and date but excused myself. I held back a sigh. It seemed I was forever being interrupted with a million small things and barely had a chance to do anything useful. But Benjamin had proven a trustworthy helper, somehow appearing just as he was needed and always wearing a gap-toothed smile.

  I led us to the nearly empty mess tent, where there was always a pot of coffee. “So you’ll be heading to Manchester in the morning. Whatever will we do without you?”

  “That’s just it, ma’am. I don’t want to go back.” He poured us both a cup of coffee. I was becoming rather fond of the robust aroma; it was fresher and stronger than the watery stuff brewed back home.

  “I admire your dedication, Benjamin. But it wouldn’t be fair to keep you here longer. It’s been what, two years already?”

  “Three, or nearly that long. But I’ve got nothing to go home to and hope they’ll let me stay on with you Americans. My life is here, and I’ve never felt better or more useful.”

  That saddened me. I couldn’t imagine a life where wartime duties seemed a better alternative than home. “Why have you come to me? It’s not my decision.”

  “Was hoping you’d put a word in. Several of us limeys will be staying back.”

  “True, but they’re supply chiefs and administrators and such. And we’ve already sent for a new driver from St. Louis.” Although I had always enjoyed Benjamin’s company, I knew his replacement. In fact, I had requested Ned, the ever-helpful clerk, and he had readily agreed.

  “Please, Matron. I can do anything. Carpentry, plumbing, electric. I built my own house, I did. What’s one more bloke left behind?”

  All those skills would surely be useful. We frequently used German prisoners for construction and repairs, which always made me uneasy.

  I stood up and gathered our cups. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  * * *

  The next morning, I was barely dressed and still shaking off the nightmares of a restless night when there was a knock at my door. It was Benjamin, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a wool coat in the other.

  “Top of the morning, Matron. Thought you’d want a cuppa. Seems we have an assignment.”

  “Am I going back to Blighty with you?”

  He chuckled as he set the coffee down on a table. “No, ma’am. You’re stuck here with me. And I’ve a request from the commander to take you to town. Part of the bargain.”

  A week earlier, I had requested and was granted permission to go into town. “I planned to take a bicycle. We certainly can’t spare a truck just for me and my errands.”

  He took my coat off the hook next to the door and held it open for me to slip into. “Orders are orders, ma’am.”

  There was something about his bright cheeriness so early in the morning that annoyed me. But I donned the coat, grabbed the coffee, and followed him out to the truck he had left running.

  We bumped along the country road in the Ford until we reached Rouen proper, where the cobblestone streets were smoother.

  “Have the roads always been this bad?” I asked. As far as I knew, we weren’t in an area that had been
attacked.

  “Road maintenance isn’t high priority. And this area is pretty good by comparison. When I was up in Belgium, I saw soldiers get hit and fall over face-first in the mud because of the heavy pack on their backs.” He glanced at me. “We couldn’t get them out, because we’d get stuck ourselves and shot to pieces. Those guys didn’t die from being shot. They drowned in the mud.”

  Horrified by this, I remained silent for several minutes, just staring as the countryside went by. Finally, Benjamin broke the silence. “You’ll never guess how I managed to avoid trench foot.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Where I grew up, there were quite a few pig farms. Outside the slaughterhouse, we could pick up all manner of offal for free. A favorite thing was pig bladders.”

  “Of course they were.” I laughed. Benjamin seemed to have a story for any occasion.

  “They’re like tough balloons, you see. We’d blow them up and tie them off. Then use them to play football.”

  “Oh, like our pigskin football.”

  “Nah, way better. Lighter, but water- and airtight.”

  “And this helped with trench foot?”

  “Back when there were still pigs in the area, I collected a few bladders, just like I did back home. Cleaned them out, then stretched them over my socks before putting on my boots. Kept my feet nice and dry.”

  “Quite the ingenious use. Did you share it with anybody?”

  “Nah, not enough to go around.” He stared at his hands. “Guess that wasn’t right of me.”

  Oh no. Now I had made him feel badly. “No, it was perfectly right to do.”

  Whatever regret he had was short-lived, and his mood suddenly brightened. “What’s your pleasure, Matron? A little nip?” Benjamin mimed taking a drink as we passed a café-bar.

  “I wouldn’t mind, but my first task is a patisserie. Or whatever they call a bakery.”

  “That depends on what you want. A pastry? Then we’re off to the patisserie. Bread? I know a boulangerie just on the next corner.”

  “How about croissants?”