The War Nurse

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  “What you should tell the next team is to be prepared for hell. A cold, soulless hell,” Dorothy said.

  I tapped my pen on my opened notebook. “Go on.”

  “Have you ever looked at the moon through a telescope?” She took off her glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and went on without waiting for a reply. “The landscape looks like that. Barren, full of craters. The only difference is that the countryside once held life, verdant hills and valleys where cows roamed and children played. There’s none of that now. Just mud and rubble and long lines of weary soldiers trudging through it, their eyes staring blankly ahead at nothing at all.”

  Dorothy dabbed at her eyes. It was the first time I had seen any sign of emotion in the stoic woman.

  “And your work at the clearing station?” I shoved the precious sugar bowl toward her, but she stirred her tea without putting any in.

  She looked me straight in the eye. “That was the best work I’ve ever done. The cases seem to never end. I did intake—name, rank, unit, chief complaint. Ambulatory patients told their own story. Some really wanted to go on about it, but I had to move them along. I always promised to come back to let them talk when I could, and I did as much as possible. The stretcher cases, they had the carriers with them usually, and they gave the report. Sometimes they couldn’t wait around, so they pinned a tag on the wounded’s shirt. I made them form a separate line so I could get to them first.”

  “What kind of injuries were you seeing?”

  “Lots of shrapnel from artillery. Head wounds from sniper fire. Usually greenhorns who couldn’t resist peeking out the top of the trench. Pneumonia. Gas cases. Everything we see here, plus some lighter cases…and some that never make it here.”

  She tapped a finger on my notebook. “Here’s something I didn’t expect. About half the gas cases were from British canisters. The wind shifted after firing, and a bunch of their own got caught in it. It had happened a few days earlier, but the blisters showed up slowly. They only reported to the medic when the pain got unbearable.

  “I saw it too. The mustard gas, a yellowish-green cloud out on the horizon.” She shook her head. “They tell me the Jerries are combining the chlorine and phosgene gases. ‘Best of both worlds,’ they joked. The phosgene doesn’t stink like the others and does its damage by first numbing the respiratory system. So the soldiers don’t feel it and don’t put on their gas masks soon enough and don’t cough it out. When the chlorine hits, they cough mightily, feeling like their lungs are on fire. Then, their bodies try to put out the fire by pouring fluid into their airways. If they survive, that’s when they get to us, drowning in their own secretions. But we haven’t seen the hell they went through before that.”

  My nights of walking the wards, trying to comfort men coughing violently and struggling with each breath, attested to this. I patted her hand. “If something good could ever come from this war, it would be the outlawing of gas attacks forever. What else did you see?”

  “Lots of trench foot. The terrible rains this summer made rivers of the trenches and wet feet for months. Sometimes we can clean them up, treat them with chloride of lime, and send them on their way with fresh socks and foot powder. But usually, if they’re reporting to the station, it’s beyond that. I got good at diagnosing with one whiff. The stench of a fungal infection is bad enough, but let’s just say gangrene gives itself away.”

  I was interested in all the details of course, and it was important to allow Dorothy to talk about her experience. But the information I most needed was of a nature that no one else could gather for me. I had to get to the clearing station myself. Of course, I had requested the assignment straightaway, but it was denied due to the danger involved and the difficulty they would have in replacing me if something were to go awry. But I had persisted, and now, due to the international interest and with the American Red Cross’s blessing, my chance had come.

  As I walked to my rooms that evening, I had an attack of nerves. What if Colonel Fife had been right, and it was too dangerous for me to go to the CCS? Would I be overwhelmed by seeing the casualties, outside the security and comfort of the base hospital? What if I was gassed, or worse, captured?

  My unease abated, however, when I entered my rooms. The air was perfumed with the scent of fresh flowers. There, on my little table next to the coal stove, was a vase of white lilacs. They were a favorite of mine, and the scent took me back to my childhood, when I had the honor of crowning a statue of Mary, Mother of Jesus. The flowers always appeared the same month as the crowning, which was held in her month of May. How on earth did lilacs appear in November? Leave it to the French to make that miracle happen.

  There was a note with the flowers:

  Rare flowers for a rare and special woman. I look forward to our adventure tomorrow. Apologies for any sense I may have given you that I felt wise otherwise.

  Fred

  I wondered how Fred knew I loved lilacs. Had he written to my family? I thought that unlikely. Perhaps a lucky guess. But I let the scent fill me with a deep sense of peace. I got to crown Mary because I was the smartest girl in the class. And because I was brave enough as a six-year-old to climb the ten-foot ladder to do it in front of the whole school.

  I was still smart. I was still brave. And I was loved and trusted and wasn’t about to let anyone down.

  * * *

  6:00 a.m. rolled around mighty quickly when I’d been up until five. My bravado of the night before began to fade. Although I had a pretty good idea of what to expect at the clearing station from Dorothy’s report, unexpected enemy advances putting us within the reach of German artillery was always a threat. Their aircraft were getting better and better. Soon, none of France would be safe from aerial bombs.

  Then there was the uneasiness regarding my changing relationship with Fred. Ever since our walk along the river, when he had confided about the breakup with his girlfriend, I’d realized I had romantic feelings toward him. And the lilacs seemed to show that he felt the same. I had to keep this to myself, as any hint of it getting back to headquarters would lead to my swift departure and probable job loss at home.

  I had heard snippets of gossip from the nurses when they didn’t think I was in earshot. Any attempt to quash the chatter wouldn’t accomplish anything, so I studiously ignored it. Maybe going off to the CCS with Fred was a bad idea. But it wasn’t my idea after all. Deciding I was too concerned with the whole issue, I took the flowers to the mess tent for all to enjoy. Minus the note, of course.

  * * *

  Our assignment was to last three days, including travel time, so I packed a small suitcase, some refreshments for the road, and a nice bottle of French wine. In my silly, younger days, when I decided I didn’t favor the taste of alcohol, I had not yet experienced a French wine. Who knew if I would have time to drink it, but one should never travel in France without. It had gotten quite chilly in the past week, so I brought my warm wool cape and rubber boots—wellies, as the Brits called them—as well.

  Fred was waiting in front of the grandstand. He was smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper, leaning on our modified Tin Lizzie, a truck that had been built on a Model T frame. He glanced at his wristwatch, making me glad I was right on time. It still seemed strange to see a man wearing a wristwatch. Before the war, only women wore them. But field soldiers had too much to carry already without a pocket watch, and now it was becoming the manly thing to wear, even by men who carried nothing but a pen in their pockets.

  “Don’t you look snappy in civilian clothes,” I said.

  “Probably against regulation, but what the hell.” He opened the passenger door for me. “I think it makes me less of a target for sniper fire.”

  I looked down at my uniformed self. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Uh, yeah, sort of.”

  “Should I change?”

  “No, I like you just the way you are.”
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  “Fred, I can’t tell if you’re serious or joking.”

  “Oh, I’m just trying to put you at ease. And failing miserably. Let’s go. That is, if you’re still game for this adventure.” He glanced at my bottle of wine. “Well, it does seem you’re prepared.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Good.” He picked up my bag and tossed it into the back. “Hope you have good warm clothes. The gas lamp doesn’t put out enough heat.”

  * * *

  After stopping for petrol and lunch, we arrived at the clearing station, outside Albert, just before two o’clock. There were no lines of wounded soldiers, just a few men on stretchers being tended to by medics. The first thing Fred did was ask the medics to radio our expected French and Australian observers and postpone the planned visit. We needed a full-on casualty evacuation to demonstrate our methods.

  The British had won an offensive up near Cambrai but were just now digging in and tending to the wounded. We received a report from the team we were relieving, then settled into a routine of intake, assessment, first aid, then queuing them for transport, either back to their units or on ambulances for further treatment. It was rather like duty at Base Hospital, except we were in the open air, and we had no warning by wireless before patients arrived. The low, booming thud of artillery fire was much closer. I could feel it in my bones.

  The clearing stations moved with the front lines, some existing for a few months, others for years. This particular station had been set up recently, and there weren’t enough of the large bell tents for the staff to sleep in, so they used small conical tents that had been left behind by the Germans. A few, those that had transportation, were scattered about in nearby private homes and farms.

  Fred and I were to be housed on an all-but-abandoned farm. It stood a kilometer outside what I was told was once a charming village. There was nothing left of the village except narrow cobblestone streets and piles of rubble along them. We passed a few elderly women, dressed all in black, carrying baskets of what appeared to be walnuts. Where they had gotten them was a mystery, as it seemed not a tree was left standing.

  We could see trenches crisscrossing the landscape. Rows and rows of barbed wire stretched as far as I could see. Occasionally, we got out to inspect a crater or an opening to a tunnel, which were still framed by lengths of wood and protected by sandbags. We came upon a huge crater, nearly perfectly round, hundreds of feet wide and about a hundred feet deep. It was lined with chalky white earth.

  “I can’t imagine any artillery could have made something this large. And surely airplanes can’t carry a bomb big enough,” I said.

  As Fred was officially in the army, he knew much more about such things as the latest weaponry. “No, you’re quite right. Not artillery or aerial bombs. This was created from explosives set from underground mines.

  “The front was right here for a good year or so. As you can see, there are long, low ridges and shallow valleys. No place to build a stronghold, so each side built underground fortifications. No doubt we’re standing upon a maze of tunnels this very moment.”

  Even though we could see the effects of the war in the ruined villages and pockmarked landscape, there was a whole other world of ruin beneath us. I shook my head at the massive crater. Here and there, some tufts of brown grass bore witness to nature’s effort to recover.

  As we headed back to the truck, I wandered a few steps off the rocky path to examine what looked like a patch of mushrooms. Fred yanked me back by my elbow and gave me a stern warning. “You must not step off the path. There are unexploded shells everywhere.”

  I sighed. Those mushrooms were so close. I could just taste them, cooked in a little butter. Even with the extra rations Alice brought me, my stomach growled between meals. But I couldn’t let my hunger get the best of me. The image of erupting in a plume of smoke and flames kept me on the path.

  We had to carefully go off the path at one point to go around a bomb crater about fifty feet wide. A creek ran nearby, and the crater had filled with clear water. There was a large collection of objects at the bottom. I was taken aback when I realized what they were—helmets of several different types: British and French and German. There were rifles and bayonets and something that appeared to be parts of an artillery gun. “Is that a…” I didn’t want to say it, but there appeared to be a skull among the muddy, rusting objects.

  “God knows how many died here.” Fred bent to scoop up a fistful of dirt and tossed it into the water. “May they rest in peace.”

  We were silent during the brief remaining drive out to the farm. I think we were both exhausted and aching for a world that once was. The setting sun streaked the sky with red, then purple bands, a signal that the world still spun, no matter the damage the foolish humans committed to it.

  It was late when we arrived, and a note on the farmhouse door requested we stay in the nearby barn. It was hard to tell at night, but loose stones and debris around the house indicated it had been damaged.

  Slightly disappointed but grateful to have somewhere to lay my weary head, I gathered my travel bag and walked behind Fred, who lit the way with a kerosene lantern. He unlatched the large barn door and pulled it open. The barn was constructed of yellow and gray stone and wood. Its interior appeared in better condition than the house, although there didn’t seem to be any source of heat. Each side was lined with unoccupied animal stalls, and a couple of bales of hay bristled on the center of the dirt floor.

  “How’s this one?” He lit a second lantern for my straw-lined stall. “You should be nice and cozy in all that straw.”

  “Where will you be?” I cringed at my question. It made me sound either weak or wanting romance. Either one would be awkward.

  His smile and raised eyebrow hinted that he thought it was the latter. “How about two stalls down.” He pointed toward the back of the barn. “Far enough to give you privacy but close enough to protect you if a wild animal comes after you in the night.”

  “Like what, for instance? Do you think there are mice and rats in here?” I peered into the dark corners of my stall.

  “Probably. You’re not exactly a country girl, are you?” The eerie light cast by the lantern did not disguise his smug smile. He warmed my shoulders with his hands. “Don’t you worry. The rats and I will take good care of you. And the hedgehogs. You’re not afraid of them, are you?”

  I wasn’t sure what a hedgehog was, but I was too tired to worry about it. I crawled into my cozy stall and promptly fell asleep.

  * * *

  The second day at the station was busier, and lines formed, stretching out for half a mile. We hurried the process along as much as possible, ever aware of the suffering of those still waiting. When I could get someone to relieve my position at intake, I walked down the lines, doing quick assessments to find the most critical cases.

  Some of the men who were able to speak wanted to share the story of what caused their injury. Just as Dorothy had warned, it pained me to put them off, but I simply had to. “I’m sorry. We’ll have time to talk later,” I told one after the other as I grasped their hand oh so briefly, then moved on to the next.

  Fred came rushing up to me. “There’s been an explosion at an ammunition depot. A whole trainload of men will be arriving.”

  “Okay, where do you want me?” I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins. My heart quickened, and I actually felt relieved to move on from the emotionally draining lines.

  “Go out and help unload the train. I’ll follow shortly, after I collect the French and Aussies. We’ll be glad for their help after all.”

  There were two medics, one French doctor, and myself to meet the train, but there were four carloads full of badly burned men. After the quick ride in the ambulance, I jumped on the first railcar and found a British VAD (a member of the Voluntary Aid Detachment, like a nurse’s aide) in charge. She was moving franti
cally from one patient to the next, applying water to cool compresses. There were no tags with condition and identity pinned to any of them.

  “Where are the priority cases?”

  “No time to triage them at the site and unnecessary, since they all have similar injuries,” she replied.

  An orderly arrived.

  “I’ll stay in the car. You two start loading the ambulance,” I said. The VADs didn’t commonly move stretchers, but she seemed sturdy enough. She jumped at the new responsibility, probably relieved to escape from the railcar, crammed with burned and groaning men.

  I made a quick round of the twenty or so patients, some in chairs, a few leaning against the sides of the car, and the rest sitting on the floor or in stretchers. Most had burns to the hands and singed uniforms and hair but nothing life threatening. Then I came upon a soldier, lying on a stretcher, his uniform melted into his stomach. His eyes were bulging, and he looked at me pleadingly as he gasped for breath. He could make no sound, and his nose and mouth were badly burned.

  The memory of something similar flashed through my mind. Fred and his lesson to the nurses before we left the States. “What do you do?” he had insisted over and over. This was real life, and this soldier needed to be intubated very quickly. Or lacking the equipment, a tracheotomy. I could do it. I had sharp, sterile scissors wrapped in cloth in my pocket.

  I hesitated and yelled for help. I felt the soldier grab my arm; he was pulling me toward him with more strength than he should have been capable of.

  I looked back at him. Bubbles formed on his lips, his color growing grayer by the second. I felt for my scissors.

  Then I ran to the door and shouted at full volume, “Doctor! I need the doctor here immediately!”

  At first, the hustle and bustle and screaming stopped, and there was silence. Then there was a chorus of “Doctor, Doctor!” with all arms pointing to me and the soldier. With the vocal arrows pointing at us, it wasn’t more than a minute before the French doctor arrived.

  He was an administrator, so I feared he wouldn’t know what to do. But some instinct kicked in after I showed him the problem.