“Oh, uh…” He looked down sheepishly.
“A way to do what?”
He scratched under his nose. “Well, as he may have told you, he wanted to join Base Hospital 21, back in ’16.”
“He said he changed his mind. I’m confused. Why didn’t he come with us then, instead of being assigned to a combat unit?” I felt anger rising in me, at both my brother and Fred. No doubt Fred foresaw my anger, which explained his reticence.
“I turned him down. We couldn’t spare another resident. And he’s a pediatrician, for God’s sake.”
“You? You made the decision yourself?” I shook the telegram in my hand. I had a strong feeling it was going to be followed by another telegram, with much worse news.
“I did. And it was the right one.” He slammed his fist into his other hand. “We don’t get to favor certain people, even when they have a tiger for a big sister.”
Suddenly feeling foolish, standing there in my bathrobe and at the same time angry for no good reason, I bit my lips before I uttered words I’d later regret. Instead, I opened my door and waved him out.
* * *
I received just a handful of letters from Phil as he was settling in on the Continent. He couldn’t share where he was but assured me he was safe and happy. He had arrived in mid-August, and from the hints in his letters, I concluded he was not far away, probably up near Cambrai. In early September, we heard of a bombing at a CCS just north of us. Thankfully, I was too busy with the incoming wounded to spend very much time worrying about Philip. Otherwise, I would have done nothing else.
CHAPTER 9
September 1917
Each day, I received a pile of mail with a combination of hope and dread. It was always a happy sight when a package arrived, whether intact with brown paper and string or in a broken heap inside a canvas bag. We had started to encourage all our benefactors to send their precious gifts inside some muslin, as the long journey wore straight through cardboard and paper.
But I always sorted through the most likely happy pieces, searching for any word from Philip. On the morning of September 8, I found not the letter from my brother that I was hoping for but a letter from a chaplain from the No. 3 Canadian General Hospital. I held the envelope a moment, hoping it contained happy news regarding the ongoing recovery of patients we had sent there. But something about it seemed ominous.
Then I spied another letter from that unit. This one’s return address was for a lieutenant colonel. My heart started thumping, and I eased into a chair before reading.
Dear Miss Stimson:
This note is on behalf of your brother, who was admitted today into this hospital, slightly wounded in the muscles of the back by shrapnel.
There is no cause for alarm. He will be sent on to the base after a short treatment…
Hurriedly and with my vision narrowing into a tunnel, I opened the letter from the lieutenant colonel. It provided a bit more detail:
…the piece of shell entered his back just below the right scapula in a slanting direction. I sent him on to a CCS and am advising him to try to get down to your hospital.
Yes! It seemed he was well enough to travel, or would be soon. Of course, he must come to our hospital, where I could look after him personally and ensure he got the best of care.
I adored my younger brother. I had encouraged him to become a physician when it was clear I could not. He had both a wacky sense of humor, subject to performing practical jokes, and a tender heart. When he thought he might have hurt someone’s feelings with one of his antics, he apologized profusely.
Oh, how I missed my talks with him. He had a way of breaking through the clouds of complex issues and seeing a clear path ahead.
The colonel concluded with:
He has proven himself a good officer whilst with me, and I am very sorry to have to lose him, as we rarely get them back once they go to the base. I greatly regret that this has happened.
The breath went out of me as if I had been punched in the stomach. Oh my God.
I grabbed both letters and sped out the door toward Fred’s office. I burst in without knocking. He was filing paperwork into a briefcase.
“Julia! Come to see me off? I don’t leave until—”
“Oh, must you leave? I’ve just gotten word.” I offered the letters. “It’s Phil. He’s been injured in a raid on his hospital.”
“That’s quite disturbing. How badly is he injured?” He continued to pack his bag, which seemed uncharacteristically insensitive to me. Finally, he stopped and took the letters.
Fred shuffled between the letters. “This is normal protocol. He’s injured, that’s all.”
A small wave of relief washed over me. “How bad do you think it is?”
“Not life threatening. He was hit by shrapnel. I don’t have to tell you how common this is and how well the men usually do.”
“But it went down his back. What about his spine?”
“I presume he’s moving arms and legs. They’ll have to open him up of course, to remove the shrapnel and drain the channel. It will be a long, painful recovery.”
“Where is this hospital? Can we bring him here?”
“Up in Étaples, near the Sick Sisters Hospital.”
“I must go at once.”
“I don’t advise that. There’s been some unrest up there, riots in fact, and that’s in addition to an enemy attack. I wouldn’t be surprised if they send him to Blighty.”
“Then I’ll go there.”
“Julia, you can’t just run off like you’re going to save him.”
“Miss Taylor can run things for a few days. Certainly, you understand that I need to be with him.” I was already packing my bags in my head.
“Of course she can, but that’s not the point. We have to wait for him to be dispositioned appropriately. Let them get him through surgery, wherever that might happen, in the best and most timely place possible.”
“The best place is right here, with the people we know and trust. Not somewhere else, where he is just another casualty.”
“Again, I’m sorry it didn’t work out for your brother to be assigned with us. But now, you need to have more faith. He’s going to be fine. Do you give inferior care to patients you don’t know personally?”
Chastened, I relented. “Fine, but when he is stable, I want your word that you will help bring him here for recovery. How many others have the opportunity to convalesce with loved ones nearby?”
* * *
The next few days were spent chasing down where exactly Phil was and finding a way to get him to us. The commander of the Cleveland unit was very helpful in locating him at the No. 20 General Hospital in Étaples.
I was able to get through to No. 20 by telephone but was distressed to learn that they were preparing to send Phil back to England. With every fiber of my being, I knew I must have him there with me. He had the sort of wound that could easily be ignored as non-life-threatening among so many that were. But it was also the sort very likely to get infected without careful observation, and it extended dangerously close to his spinal column.
I badgered poor Colonel Fife until he agreed to work on bringing my brother to us if he was well enough to travel. He was also gracious enough to allow me two days leave to travel up to visit him, along with a doctor to evaluate and treat him if needed on the trip. This was especially considerate of him, as he had steadfastly refused my requests to go to a CCS due to my critical duties in the unit.
But those were tense days in the coastal area of northwestern France. I sat in the telegraph office as cables came in. They were calling for all available military police to rush to Étaples. Then there were orders that no one would be allowed to enter or leave the area from Boulogne to Camiers. I asked the young soldier manning the telegraph machine what this was all about.
He shrugged his boyish sh
oulders. “Some sort of riot goin’ on, ma’am. That’s a bad place up there. They say if they don’t kill you in the hospital, they’ll be sure to kill you the next day on the training grounds.”
“You mean the prisoners? Are they treating prisoners that badly?” I thought back to the horror stories regarding the German camps. “Surely, the British are better than that.”
“Oh, it’s not the prisoners that are bad off. It’s the new recruits that get sent there to toughen up, and the wounded, fresh out of the hospital, being readied for battle again. They run them ragged, double-timing on the sand dunes while firing shots over their heads. I hear they beg to be sent back to the front.
“So a few got mad enough to stage a protest. Then the police came in and started shooting. Killed a French woman, I hear. Or maybe just wounded her.” He shrugged his shoulders again.
His nonchalant tone confused me. How much was true and how much was rumor, I couldn’t fathom. But I did know I had to get Phil out of there.
* * *
Colonel Fife appeared in my office door. “Good news. We have a man who needs to go up to the British Hospital for Chinamen.”
“I’m not sure that’s good news for him.” Word had spread that Egyptians and Chinese were not being treated as well as soldiers with lighter skin. It was disturbing to me that soldiers on the same side would be treated poorly. As if fighting this war against a ruthless enemy weren’t bad enough. “Why would it be good news for us?”
“Because he needs to go in the direction of Camiers. That’s where—”
There was no need for him to explain further. I was on my feet in an instant. “Phil. We can get past the road blocks and rescue Phil!”
“Precisely. You, one of the doctors, and a driver can get going tomorrow. I’ll let you choose who.”
Of course, my first choice was to travel with my favorite doctor, Fred. But as he was off with the traveling surgical team, it was Dr. Valentine who accompanied me. Our relationship had not started on the best foot, and I thought we could get to know each other better on the drive. And of course, I chose Benjamin as our driver for the trip, totaling nearly 250 miles.
We dropped off our Chinese patient, then had a lovely drive up to the coast. Dr. Valentine proved a delightful conversationalist. He was enamored of Philadelphia, where he had trained, and insisted we stop and visit with the Philadelphia unit. I was only too happy to meet with them, as I had kept in touch with their chief nurse, Miss Dunlop, since sailing with them on the Saint Paul. Dr. Valentine, Miss Dunlop, and I teased one another over which was the better city to live in, Philadelphia or St. Louis. For every park or museum I could mention, they would name two.
After the quick visit, we were back on the road, continuing our spirited conversation. It seemed surreal, speaking of grand American cities while motoring through France, passing green pastures and intermittent peeks at the Atlantic Ocean. If it weren’t for the occasional bombed-out village and too-skinny people guiding too-skinny cows, I might have imagined I was on holiday.
Upon entering Étaples, it was clear that something had changed. There were military police at every street corner and barricades blocking off many roads and hospital entrances. When we were stopped, Benjamin showed our authorization papers, and we were let on our way with warnings of possible escaped and dangerous soldiers. Carefully, we picked our way up to Camiers.
It was dark by the time we arrived, and if it hadn’t been for Benjamin’s excellent eyesight, we would have never found the hospitals. “The Boche, those bastards, bombed the hospitals. They have airplanes that can fly at night now. So no outside lighting is allowed,” Dr. Valentine said.
Without a lantern, we had to hold hands and thread our way down a narrow path to the hospital tents. We arrived at a hospital that had been taken over by a unit from Chicago. The chief nurse insisted we join them for dinner, and we could hardly refuse. They were eager to show us around, but I rudely kept inquiring as to my brother.
It turned out he was in the British hospital next door, and we were taken to him by the commanding officer himself, once again stepping into the forbidding darkness.
“Watch your step now. Crater on the left.”
There was no crater to be seen in the black velvet air, but I imagined it a huge, gaping hole in God’s earth, created by a force of evil in an otherwise peaceful place.
Phil was in a tent with other doctors who had been injured in the attack on his unit, along with some who were injured in the aerial raid on the hospital. He was sitting up in bed, pillows carefully arranged about him so as to avoid his wound.
“There’s my girl,” he said, as cheerily as if I had just popped over to watch him play baseball.
Joy and relief at once filled my heart. He had not the hollow-eyed look of the typical men who came to No. 12, but then, he had only been in theater about a month.
I leaned over to kiss his cheek. He was clean shaven, and I detected no fever.
“I’ve come to kidnap you. We’re quite short of pediatricians at the moment.”
“Well, you’ve got me.” He held up his pale, freckled hands. “Sorry not to be a surgeon like your friend here.” He nodded toward Dr. Valentine. I was sure Phil was using the term friend facetiously. I had complained to him in letters more than once about how Dr. Valentine was a thorn in my paw. “But you know I’m becoming quite the expert on infectious disease,” Phil said.
This piqued Dr. Valentine’s interest. “Are you now? With any luck, maybe they’ll let us keep you.”
“Well, I don’t get to decide these things, but I wouldn’t mind an assignment where I can check up on my big sister.”
“After you recover, of course,” I broke in. “Are you up for a road trip? Your medical officer says you are clear to travel if you choose.” I hesitated, trying to frame my face and voice in as neutral tone as possible. This would need to be his decision. “That is, if you want to go and can bear the pain.” I had noted him wincing with each small movement. I was beginning to doubt that a long, bumpy drive would be the best thing for him. But certainly, our hospital was in a safer area, and he would be with me. “We can make you as comfortable as possible, but—”
“They have treated me splendidly here. No question. But I’m ready to go with you right now.”
Dr. Valentine tried to gently dissuade him, seemingly wanting to ensure he really wanted to go. “We’ll be staying the night. Take the time to think about it.”
“Yes, sir, but if you know my sister at all, you know what the answer will be.” He flashed a grin at me. Oh, how wonderful it was to see that.
* * *
The next morning, I hurried to see Phil first thing. He was already up in a chair, and an orderly was helping him to dress. His bed had been stripped and his belongings neatly arranged on the floor.
“So I take it you haven’t changed your mind?”
“What the hell. You could probably use some supervision.”
I took his hand. It felt cool. “No fever this morning? Has the medical officer released you?”
“They’ve already called for a stretcher.”
Indeed, two men were carrying a stretcher toward us. It took another orderly and myself to get Phil onto the stretcher, as he could barely support his own weight. But soon we were off in the ambulance, headed back to Rouen.
* * *
We arrived at suppertime, and thankfully the hospital had not been too busy in our absence. Colonel Fife had a bed for Phil ready in an empty tent. He was well settled with many pillows to keep him comfortable and books and puzzles to keep him entertained. It felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, having him safe and where I could keep an eye on him. If I did nothing else in this war, I would see my brother through as best I could.
CHAPTER 10
October 1917
Our lull of admitting injured men did not last lo
ng. In the waning days of September and early October, we started receiving one hundred to two hundred injured each night. During the day, I worked in the office with supply requisitions, communications, payroll, leave approvals for my nurses, and on and on. We had a secretary assigned to us, and this was a most welcome relief, as she could type like the wind. My assistant, Miss Taylor, had been with me all along and could perform all these tasks in my absence.
After supper was when the ambulances usually showed up. The receiving tents were now well ordered, and I no longer needed to supervise there. But on many nights, there were dozens of men needing surgery. Most of it was minor, the removing of shrapnel from every imaginable body part. I would scrub up and assist when the caseload was especially heavy. Although new nurses had arrived, we also had several away at the contagious hospital with diphtheria.
As the caseload increased and the nurses became more experienced, they took on more and more tasks. In surgery, they were no longer simply handing over the sterilized implements. After much observation and practicing on fruit, my nurses were inserting drains and suturing as well. This meant the surgeon could move on to the next piece of shrapnel much more quickly.
On nights with heavy arrivals, the problem became what to do with the patients who were awaiting surgery. Dr. Valentine came to me while I was making rounds in a tent with our postoperative patients. Each tent had from fourteen to thirty beds, but not all of them were occupied.
“We need to start using these beds for the men in receiving. We’ve run out of beds there.”
“You can’t bring them here. They are still in their filthy uniforms, they are unstable, and we are not staffed to take care of their needs.”
“Well then, get staffed. Do you want us to put them two or three to a bed because you’re fussy about pajamas?”
“This is not about fussiness. This is a clean, postop area. And if you fill it with preop patients, where will they go postop?”
“Back to the same damn bed.”
“Doctor, we have a logical flow here. If you disturb this, it will cause confusion and contamination.” I knew by instinct that his plan wouldn’t work. But I couldn’t just refuse to help the situation. “Let’s go together to the receiving area. I’m sure if we put our heads together, we can figure something out.”
The War Nurse Page 11