Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  ‘I’m afraid that Private Bellamy will not survive; I don’t know how he has hung on for so long.’

  ‘So what is wrong with the poor man,’ returned Arthur.

  ‘He is suffering a terrible infection. Apparently, he was badly wounded and left lying in the open, half covered by the earth blown from a shell explosion. We know now that so static is the war area that the soil has become terribly contaminated. As you can see we are trying to drain off the infection, but this is only a temporary respite. He is such a lovely man.’ Arthur realised that one of the many smells in the ward was rotting flesh.

  From the far corner, came the sound of continuous shouting. ‘It’s fucking hell; just fucking hell.’ The words were then lost in a miscellany of cries and unclear words that Arthur thought were probably other expletives. He went over to the youthful man who looked angrily at him: ‘Fuck you mate; it’s all right for you.’

  Arthur was at a loss to know what to do or say. ‘Tell me what the matter is if you want to.’

  ‘I didn’t know what they were doing, but they had cut off my fucking leg. It was all right before, but then they just fucking took it and I used to be a footballer.’

  Arthur had no idea what to say or do; any words might further antagonise the poor man. Ashamed afterwards for his poor response, Arthur simply muttered, ‘God bless you,’ and moved back towards the sister.

  ‘I didn’t know what to say,’ he confessed.

  ‘None of us does. Poor Private Bland is suffering so much, mentally even more than physically and we understand his feelings. He came to us with advanced gangrene, but strangely not much pain and we wondered if his leg had lost all feeling. He would have died within days, so an amputation was the only hope, but we just don’t know how to help his rage. In fact, the amputation went as well as one might hope and he may make a good recovery and with a prosthetic limb may walk again. What will happen to his injured mind I just don’t know. Reverend, are you all right to go on?’ Arthur felt uncertain, but nodded in a way that he hoped looked confident.

  ‘We’ll go into the next ward which is isolated from the rest. As you will realise, the twelve men have only just come to us. Their condition is grim, but when we have cleaned things up, they will all be a little better.’ Sister Carmichael opened a door and led the way down a short, but well-lit corridor. As she opened the next door, leading to the old dining room, the smell hit Arthur.

  ‘This,’ said the sister, ‘will at first seem as close to hell as you will ever get and we won’t stay long. The men have a variety of injuries, some are almost certainly not life threatening and may soon move on to another hospital, rather more like a nursing home.’

  Arthur had been surprised at the orderliness and air of tranquillity which he had seen, but this ward was totally different: most of the men totally unkempt, bandages were filthy. Nurses were at several beds washing the men regardless of screams and shouts of abuse. It took four nurses to hold one man down whilst a fifth did the best she could to wash him. Arthur’s eye went to two men at the far end who looked altogether different; washing them had already occurred.

  ‘They arrived by boat at Harwich early today and were driven here. They were filthy, their heads and bodies crawling with lice and goodness knows what else. As you can see it’s hard for the nurses to get any vestige of order, but they will. For the moment we have an open mind about what’s best for them.’ She gently took Arthur’s arm and led him back to the corridor. From there they walked across a room full of crates of many sizes. ‘Our most recent stores, which have just been delivered.’ Arthur recalled the vehicle he had seen at the front of the house.

  ‘So, Your Reverend, I think you’ve seen enough for one visit. I hope it hasn’t proved too shocking for you?’

  Arthur pondered for a moment as to how to reply. ‘It is indeed shocking; shocking that men should suffer so much and shocking that you and all the medical staff have to deal with man’s inhumanity to man. I’ve heard enough about the war, seen the terrible casualty figures, but understood so little. Sister, what you are doing is truly wonderful, God’s work indeed.’ He saw a slightly quizzical look on her face.

  After leaving the hospital and clambering into the trap, he gave Sparky a brief account of what he had seen, his final words to Sister Carmichael coming back to him. “God’s work,” he had said. He wondered at these words; if God was able to work through the nurses to heal and comfort, why did the same God allow the men to be injured and maimed in the first place? Did his words make sense; to him, never mind to Sister Carmichael? It was a troubled man who returned to Rusfield; troubled by what he had seen at the hospital, but much more by the relationship between God and suffering. How could they coexist in the same world?

  The hospital visit affected him in another way. Having thanked Sparky as he was dropped off at the vicarage, he was lovingly welcomed by Eleanor. After a quick wash and warm up from the cool drive in the open trap, Eleanor brought in cups of tea.

  ‘Well Arthur, how did you find the visit? Not all pleasant I imagine.’ Arthur told his wife of some of the men he had seen and the work performed by the nurses.

  Eleanor’s eyes twinkled: ‘And do you still think it’s a place for only men to visit; not really suitable for me and others of my sex?’

  Arthur pondered for a moment. ‘Eleanor, like so many other times, I was wrong. I did find it hard although I am glad I went. However, there must have been over fifty nurses and they are coping with horrendous problems. I admire them so much. No, it certainly showed me that women are more than equal to men on this one. I’m sorry I suggested you didn’t come.’

  ‘From what you have said there will be other occasions. Maybe we can find other people that might go. I’m sure the Mansfields, the Jacksons and the de Maines would go if they knew it helped the men. We could also ask Nurse Hazlett and Olivia Atkins. Let’s see if we can organise a rota.’

  Arthur smiled. How fortunate he was to have such a wonderful wife. He had little doubt as to which of the two of them the wounded soldiers would prefer to see.

  ‘But we must both get ready for our next appointments,’ Eleanor reminded her husband. ‘The choral group is really going quite well; there are nearly twenty of us now and everyone is very enthusiastic. And guess what, Arthur? Young Albert Jones is joining us tonight. It seems an age since the two of us last sang together. Sad that he is back off to France in a couple of days; he still seems far from recovered.’

  They shared a kiss before leaving the vicarage: Eleanor to the church; Arthur to the meeting of the Village Coal Club to see how the accounts were faring after such a cold winter. In the midst of this terrible war both activities seemed trivial, but it was all they could do.

  FORTY-ONE

  1915 - April 1916

  Private Fred Smith was confused, unwell and deeply depressed. After a chance meeting had promised better things for him, the war had got worse and since Jack Atkins had been injured and returned to England nearly a year and a half ago, he had not seen any of his Rusfield mates. After fierce fighting around Givenchy, the small, beleaguered platoon, of which Fred was part, had retreated to await orders. The pain in his head still screamed at him as the guns had never ceased firing, but then came a brief respite. While resting near a heavily scarred village, a small group of Dragoon Guards had appeared at the nearby crossroads and Fred’s eyes lit up when he saw their fine horses. When the men dismounted, leaving the horses to search for grass on the lightly snow-covered ground, he edged over to a fine-looking grey which turned and looked at him, recognised by the blacksmith’s former apprentice as a welcoming look. It gave a gentle snort and nuzzled Fred.

  ‘You seem to have made a good friend there.’ Fred was caught unawares, turned and saw a moustached and smartly-attired major. He immediately came to attention and saluted.

  ‘His name is Caesar. He’s a fine beast isn’t he?’ the smiling officer said, giving the horse a couple of pats.

  ‘Yes sir, a wonderful horse.’
Whilst Fred was wary of officers, talk of horses immediately dispelled that worry. He was suddenly back at Joe Bacon’s forge, enquiring after a horse brought in for his attention.

  ‘You seem to like horses, do you know much about them?’ Shyly, Fred explained his work at the forge. The major was surprised at the conversation, but later reflected upon it as one of the few moments when rank was cast aside in a happy interlude in a terrible war.

  Major Richard Carpenter sketched out something of Caesar’s war. ‘We got together when I came over with our regiment and were at Mons; lucky to escape free of injury. But now the army spends most of its time in trenches, our duties have changed.’ He looked at Fred; this pale-faced private reminded him of young Peter who had been one of the stable boys on his father’s estate in Leicestershire. ‘I can see you easily bond with a horse; do you know enough to help heal wounds and cope with equine illnesses?’

  Fred was not too sure about the equine part, but knowing it had to do with making horses better, he honestly answered: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we are based in a camp about two miles from here. We carry out reconnaissance work, but for the past two months we have also provided a centre for injured horses; let’s call it a horse hospital. Some carry serious wounds, others are exhausted and need their strength building up. So many are needed: pulling ambulances, supply wagons and the growing numbers of heavy artillery; they’ve become real war machines. You seem as if you could be useful to our force.’

  Fred could hardly believe what he was hearing. The major went across to the fair-haired, young commander of Fred’s platoon and asked, but in such a way as to expect agreement, that Fred be transferred to his command. Twenty-one-year-old Lieutenant Roseberry-Jones was surprised, for Private Smith had not displayed any qualities warranting such a request. ‘Well sir, I’m happy to agree with your request,’ he meekly replied.

  Fifteen minutes later the Guards mounted their horses. ‘Private Smith, you’ll see the direction that we are heading. Make for that clump of trees and only a short distance on you will find our encampment.’ So it was that some forty minutes later Fred reached the camp where he hoped his war would take a better turn.

  It was an area which he judged to be ten times as big as the village green. On two sides stone walls marked the boundary, the rest surrounded by a wire fence. ‘Bloody hard knocking those posts in,’ Fred heard a hefty corporal say later. There were two large red-tiled barns near the centre which Fred thought must have been the reason for choosing this place, but he later saw another reason: a small stream running across one corner. Fred quickly learnt that Caesar’s major commanded the whole activity.

  He found himself under the immediate command of Sergeant Hughes who later told his new recruit that he had worked on a farm near Newbury for breeding race horses. ‘Different sort of job, Smith, but at least I’m still with animals. I reckon they’re more reliable than men.’

  ‘Sergeant, what do you want me to do now?’ asked the ever-willing Fred.

  ‘Well, there don’t seem much of you, but get some bales of this newly delivered hay into that left-hand barn and spread some around. I think there might be a frost tonight, so we’ll have as many horses inside as possible. Oh, one other thing, you’ll see there are some horses already in the one barn. They’re in a pretty bad way and we need to keep a special eye on them.’

  Fred could see that the opening into the paddock, used by many vehicles, was muddy with rutted wheel and horse tracks, most filled with water. Two days later he was to be ordered to move some posts and wire to create a more passable entrance. With the help of two privates, whom Fred found it hard to understand, ten bales were moved into the barn. The slight, but tough Choppy, a Liverpudlian, told Fred that a few years earlier he had been laying the foundations for a new building at Aintree race track when the owners had given him full-time work. This had brought him in to contact with horses. ‘I loved them.’

  Fred could see around fifty horses and he and Choppy were ordered to move three quarters into the barn for the night. ‘Then see if there’s room for the rest,’ Sergeant Hughes ordered.

  ‘Anyway,’ explained Choppy, ‘we open the door around midnight and then if anymore want to come in that’s all right. You’ll find a few decide to go out for a drink.’

  Fred found his two new mates friendly. ‘We’re glad to have you with us,’ said Baffer between gasps when moving the bales. ‘There’s plenty for Choppy and me to do, but sometimes we get a bit of help from one or two who come over from “next door”, but most of the time it’s just us.’

  This was the first time since Jack had left that there seemed a chance to have any real mates; he knew people had rarely sought him out to be a friend. When he had started at the village school he found himself left out of other games and some poked fun at him as learning to read and write seemed more difficult for him than most, hard though he tried. Then in the third year he had found himself sitting next to Willy Johnson and from then on he always had a mate; they both loved nature and football. All bullying ceased.

  Fred had already learnt that the nearby farmhouse provided quarters for the major and Sergeant Hughes. There was also a tall Glaswegian whose job Fred assumed, later confirmed, to be the major’s batman and his messenger with the rest of the Dragoon Guards encamped a quarter of a mile away, referred to by Choppy and Baffer as “next door”.

  Fred’s work was just completed in daylight and Choppy went off to collect food from the HQ. It was basic, but filling thought Fred. ‘Good grub,’ he commented to the other two: it was more substantial than his mother could often provide. He wondered how she and his gran were getting on. He desperately hoped he would get some leave so he could see her at least one more time; hope that so far had led to nothing. He was very grateful to Jack’s mother as he had received a lovely letter from Olivia Atkins thanking him for his note telling her that Jack was recovering well. It was the first letter he had ever received, but thereafter she wrote to him every two or three months. He had also received two letters from the vicar and one from Major de Maine.

  In answer to his question about sleeping quarters, Choppy pointed out that each barn had a raised platform and by being there they could keep an eye on the horses. ‘As it’s yer first night Fred, you and I will be in this barn and Baffer in t’other.’

  They saw Sergeant Hughes once more that evening. ‘I’ve just had a look at the poorest horses and there’s a couple that might not see out the night, but make sure you keep a special eye on them. Chopton, you and Smith take it in three-hour shifts to stay awake and get down regularly taking a look at the really sick ones. Smith, with all this hay around take care with your light.’ Fred nodded. What a lucky thing it was that he had befriended Caesar. Bedding down with the horses was fine; he could think of no better place to sleep.

  The night passed quickly enough after Choppy had taken him on a round of the eight sick horses. Fred could see that five were being nursed for really bad wounds, two from shell explosions, one shot in its hind quarters and two, the sickest of the group, from an undiagnosed sickness. Both were unreasonably thin, yet had grossly distended stomachs. Fred could see a fluid coming from their noses which on closer examination gave out a foul smell. They were further alarmed when the one, a piebald, gave off slight tremors. ‘Apparently they had been together moving howitzers up to the front and then almost collapsed,’ explained Choppy. ‘They really had to be encouraged to get this far and steadily worsened. When the major came in yesterday he said if they don’t quickly get better we’ll have to put them down.’ Fred shuddered as he heard this, but his mind went to some of the terrible human casualties he had seen who had been allowed to go on suffering without any hope of such an ending.

  On two further checks that night he ensured that water was easily available and did his best to check their heartbeat. Joe Bacon had been a good teacher and shown Fred that by placing his hand on the left side of the chest, just under the elbow, he could feel the heartbeat. The pieba
ld and its sick companion appeared no better and heart rates were irregular.

  The next day he fully understood when the sergeant told them the two would have to be put down. When the other horses were out in the field enjoying the freshly spread hay on a morning of rare winter sunshine, the sergeant, Choppy and Fred went in to the barn. Meanwhile, Baffer and two men who had come over from “next door” had pulled a low cart into the area where the sick horses lay. They had also tethered two fit horses ready to pull the cart on the final journey for the piebald and its companion. Fred had seen horses put down before, but could barely look as the sergeant took out his revolver and placed the nozzle against the piebald’s forehead. As the shot resounded round the barn, the horse gave an involuntary shudder. This final act was repeated with the other creature. Fred could see the sadness of the sergeant burdened with the death of creatures that should have been enjoying their work in peaceful villages and countryside.

  The sergeant came over to Fred. ‘Yes, it is the worst thing that I ever have to do. What a bloody world it is; these two fine creatures are the most innocent of all victims of the war. They don’t deserve this; at least we volunteered for it, it’s our job.’ He turned to the other men. ‘Now let’s get the rest done.’

  ‘They take the body about 500 yards from here, where a ditch has been prepared,’ Baffer explained to Fred. The operation was repeated for the second corpse when the cart returned an hour later. Sergeant Hughes and Choppy got on with checking all the horses, placing a yellow band round the tail to show the check had been done. Meanwhile Fred and Choppy got on with “shit shovel duty”, clearing the plentiful supply of dung in the barn into barrows, which they then carted over to prepared pits.