by Jane Peart
It was already past midnight. Heart in her throat, Kitty followed the straggling crowd of passengers and joined the line forming on the jetty under the shed.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please have your passports ready," instructed someone in a precise British voice. With a shaky hand, Kitty drew hers out of her handbag. An irrelevant fear gripped her that here, at this last minute, she might be turned back. Ridiculous, she told herself, glancing about at the others standing with her. Their faces looked ghostly in the yellow light, mirroring her own anxiety.
The line moved forward silently and slowly. Credentials were presented to the officer standing at the gangplank. Kitty tried to think of other, more pleasant thoughts. Then at last it was her turn. Her passport was studied for what seemed an inordinate amount of time, then the officer gave her a brisk nod and handed it back to her.
"All right, Miss," he said. "Next, please."
She moved quickly past him, up the gangplank. Then she was on deck. She moved over to the railing, leaned against it. Only then did Kitty realize that she had been holding her breath.
The wind off the Channel, moist with sea spray, was freezing. Gradually she felt the vibration of the engine starting up, the slow, rocking movement of the boat beneath her, sliding out from the dock, edging its way out from the harbor. As she gripped the rail, the boat plowed through the dark, dangerous waters of the Channel. She was on her way to France at last!
The wind grew bitingly cold, and Kitty left the deck, seeking the warmth of the lounge below. It was furnished only with plain wooden benches. Many of the other passengers had already taken refuge here.
Her fellow travelers were a mixed lot. About ten VADs from other training centers were also on their way to field hospitals. Kitty did not know any of the young women, merely recognized them from their uniforms identical to her own—the red-lined capes, the short-brimmed blue hats, the Red Cross insignia on the armband.
There were soldiers, too, some who looked heartbreakingly young, obviously on their first tour of duty. These men, laughing and joking among themselves, offered a sharp contrast to others with glazed eyes and hunched shoulders, perhaps returning to battle after leave.
It was a strange night, one that Kitty would always remember. Though some slept, her mind was roiled with many thoughts, interspersed with prayer. For some reason, a poem by Emily Bronte that she had learned in college came to her:
No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
I see heaven's glories shine.
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear—
Kitty hoped that she would be brave, hoped that she would not be found to have a "coward's soul" when she was faced with whatever lay ahead.
A gray dawn was breaking over a pewter sea when the boat nosed into the landing dock. Groggy and feeling rather queasy from hunger, Kitty followed the line of passengers trailing off the boat onto the dock.
After landing, the VADs were instructed to line up to have their papers checked by the French port authorities and once more by an officer from the medical corps. When their identities were established, verified by double-checking against a long list, they were given the name of the post to which they would be assigned. Kitty and four other young women were directed to a bus, which they boarded silently.
They acknowledged each other with stiff little nods and nervous smiles, but no one spoke. Soon a sergeant swung on to the bus and got behind the wheel, announcing cheerfully, "Right-o, ladies, off we go," and with a great grinding of gears and the noisy scratchy sound of a rusty ignition, they started off.
It was getting lighter now. Kitty looked out the smeared window of the bus and saw the bleak, unfamiliar landscape.
From Dunkirk to the front, the road was lightly guarded.They passed village after village that appeared to be deserted.Beyond lay fields flanked by groves of poplar trees, and beside them a muddy canal slithered through the scene like a venomous serpent,
Even above the rattle of the vehicle, Kitty was aware of the distant sound of booming artillery. This was really it. She was in France. Not far away was the war zone. Her heart hammered in her throat, her palms under the woolen gloves grew clammy.
They must have driven for two hours. Kitty lost all track of time. Her head ached dully from lack of food, and every nerve in her body tingled with tension.
"Well, ladies," boomed the driver, "we're almost to our destination—formerly the Chateau Rougeret, now officially an evacuation 'ospital. This buildin' was once the home of the Rougeret family, who are, I'm told, quite the hoi-poloi, leastways until most of 'em lost their bloomin' 'eads in the Revolooshun!" He laughed heartily at his own joke.
Amused, Kitty could not help wondering if the sergeant had been a music-hall comedian before the war.
"Madame Rougeret still lives in part of the chateau," he went on, "although I don't know anyone who's actually seen her ladyship!" Once again, he stopped to enjoy his humor. "Maybe she's a 'eadless ghost! Who knows? Maybe the 'ouse is 'aunted!"
One of the other VADs sitting across the aisle from Kitty leaned toward her, winked, and asked in a stage whisper, "Do you suppose he's trying to cheer us up?"
Kitty shrugged and returned her mischievous smile.
The young woman thrust out a mittened hand. "I'm Dora Bradon."
"Kitty Cameron." She started to ask where she'd trained, but just then there was another announcement from their driver.
"For your information, ladies, the chateau is situated only ten miles behind the Allied lines, so don't worry, you'll have plenty of business, as they say."
At that moment the bus lurched, and everyone had to grab the back of the seat ahead to keep from sliding into the aisle and onto the floor.
As their vehicle chugged into a village which, from the look of it, had been the target of heavy bombardment, their driver began weaving crazily to avoid the deep shell holes blasted out of the street. In the field to one side, Kitty saw many little crosses, and the sight chilled her heart.
A little farther along, a platoon of men came marching alongside, their eyes fixed, faces grave and determined. A wagon loaded with artillery rumbled past them down the rutted road.
Protesting in backfires, the bus began a long uphill climb. Flanking them were dense woods. At the top, a turreted stone building was silhouetted against the overcast morning sky.
The bus braked at last to a groaning stop.
"Here we are, ladies—Chateau Rougeret!"
Stiff and shaky, Kitty emerged from the bus. She took a few steps and glanced around. On what must have once been terraced lawns and formal gardens stood several wooden buildings, looking as though they had been hastily erected.
"This way, ladies." The sergeant motioned them forward, and the little group followed him up some shallow stone steps and into a gloomy entrance hall.
Kitty's first impression was of impregnable cold. The great hall had the feeling of a fortress, untouched by sunlight for centuries.
"Wait here. I'll go fetch Matron." The sergeant left them and disappeared down a narrow vaulted hallway.
"Suppose that's the way to the dungeon?" quipped Dora Bradon, the young woman who had introduced herself to Kitty.
Unexpectedly, Kitty burst out laughing. Soon all four VADs had joined in, welcoming the input of some humor into this alien situation. With the laughter came a release o f tension, followed by a round of introductions.
They had just completed this exchange when a tall, handsome woman in a nursing sister's uniform walked briskly toward them.
"Good morning, ladies. I'm Matron Elizabeth Harrison.What you've undertaken is far from easy, but I believe you are all well qualified to take on this challenge or you would not have been sent here by your supervisors. We run a tight ship here, but we're supportive of each other and work as a team.We expect discipline, strict adherence to duty, and unquestioned obedience to orders. I commend you for your patriotism."
Her bright eye
s traveled over the group, and she gave a little nod. "You will be assigned two to a room, so choose your roommates, and settle in. Shift assignments will be posted as soon as you report to your ward nurse. Thank you, ladies." With that, she turned and walked back down the hall.
There was a moment of silence when they looked at each other before Dora arranged the painting. "Let's go find our room, Kitty."
The Chateau Rougeret, once the palatial home of a noble family, had been transformed into a model British field hospital. On their way through the great halls, where patients lay on cots lining the walls, Kitty could see that most of the rooms had been converted into spaces accommodating four patients each. The staff, the VADs, and ambulance drivers were billeted to the top floor, which had once been the Rougeret servants' quarters.
At the top of what felt like thousands of stone steps up a twisting stairway, Kitty and Dora found the room they were to share. It was hardly more than a closet. As they unpacked, they bumped into each other repeatedly, at length bursting into helpless laughter.
"I don't mind telling you," Dora admitted, "I'm scared stiff! I've never tended war injuries before."
It was a relief to Kitty to put into words what they both were feeling.
After a cold supper taken in the staff dining room where they were barely acknowledged by weary nurses just coming off duty, they returned to their room. They got ready for bed quietly. Soon both were in their narrow cots, too absorbed in their own thoughts for further conversation.
Awakening well before 4:00 A.M., the hour she was to report for duty, Kitty left her cot and began to dress. She had not slept well. She had been too cold, for one thing, and too apprehensive, for another. Her fingers were numb as she buttoned on her coverall apron, laced up her shoes, adjusted her cap with its crisp veil, and pinned it in place.
As she dressed, all her self-doubts rose to taunt her, the questions pouncing upon her from the deep well o f her own insecurities. Would she measure up to the Matron's expecta- tions? Had her training at a civilian hospital equipped her to handle the kinds of wounds and injuries she would soon be seeing?
Dora was sleepy but cheerful when she finally joined Kitty in the dining room for a breakfast of coffee and chunks of toasted French bread. Except for a few sips of the scalding brew, however, Kitty could not swallow a thing.
When Dora left to receive her assignment in another ward, Kitty met the kind-eyed woman who would be her immediate supervisor. "Welcome, Nurse Cameron. I'm Sister Ferris."
She began by reviewing the duties Kitty would be expected to perform, showing her where supplies were kept and apprising her of daily routines and schedules. In response, Kitty warmed to her gentle instruction, feeling a returning of self-confidence.
Kitty soon learned that everyone admired Sister Ferris. She issued orders in a soft but authoritative voice and knew how to correct in a quiet manner, suggesting alternative tasks. Consequently, Sister Ferris was a favorite, adored and respected by doctors, nurses, and orderlies alike,
At the end of the day, Kitty found that Dora had not been so lucky. Her roommate had drawn a real tyrant for a ward nurse and soon came in at night, smarting from sharp reprimands, or reporting some hilarious encounter.
There was little time for the new group of VADs to become acclimated, for the first week, a big drive at the front brought a convoy of ambulances pouring into the courtyard. They came at night, the only time vehicles could safely transport the wounded without being the sure targets of enemy fire.
Nothing Kitty had yet experienced had prepared her for this carnage. As ambulance after ambulance deposited its victims, a barrage of moans and sharp outcries assaulted her ears. The sight of so much human suffering was permanently imprinted on her brain—the pain-contorted faces, the cries of agony, the panicked pleas for help.
Kitty and the other nurses did their best to handle the wounded as gently as possible, cutting off mud- and blood-soaked uniforms and making the men comfortable until a doctor could make a diagnosis and determine the treatment needed.
Up and down the crowded aisles they raced—from the hissing sterilizer to the bandage store to the sinks for antiseptic soap. From the operating room annex next to the ward, the odor of disinfectant and ether drifted in, making Kitty's nostrils prickle and making her stomach lurch uneasily.
Still, despite the grim realities she was facing, she was determined to remain calm, not become maudlin or ineffective. More than anything now, she wanted to become a highly skilled professional without losing her compassion.
For all her own discomfort, Kitty knew the suffering of these men was far more intense. Many of them had lain out in the cold and rain for hours, waiting to be picked up and driven to the hospital under the cover o f darkness. So besides shrapnel wounds, the nurses soon began to see gangrene of the extremities, the result of standing knee-deep in muddy trenches, and dozens of cases of pneumonia and bronchitis from the abominable winter weather.
The painkillers and narcotics, kept under lock and key in the pharmacy, were reserved for the post-operative and amputation patients, so there was little to do for the others except rely on the remedies Kitty had learned in her Red Cross First Aid training—rub the feet and legs with oil, wrap them in soft cotton wool, and apply linseed poultices to the chest cases.
Kitty prayed as she worked, grateful for the skills she had been taught that could alleviate even in small ways the agony of these men. The fact that they were all so grateful, often even apologetic for the trouble they were causing, humbled her, knowing how much more they had given.
The bone-chilling cold Kitty had noticed the first day never abated. At one time or another, almost all the staff succumbed to coughs or colds. But as long as the nurses could stay on their feet, there was no thought of taking a well-earned day off.
To make matters even worse, the weather turned really miserable—the coldest winter in fifty years—so said the French orderlies and ambulance drivers. Dora wrote her mother to send woolen long-johns, and a package from Blythe, containing beautifully knit sweaters, finally reached Kitty.
The added layers helped a little, but crawling out from the blankets on chill mornings became harder and harder. They dressed quickly, shivering convulsively, their breath frosty plumes in the frigid air.
After being on duty for twenty hours at a time, the long climb up the steep stone steps seemed an impossible challenge. Only the prospect o f a few hours of dead sleep enabled Kitty to put one foot in front of the other.
In her room at the end of a day on the wards, Kitty was usually too physically drained to think about Kip. Not until she was finally in bed at night or had awakened in the eerie light of dawn, did her thoughts center on him. She had hoped to hear from him after she sent her letter telling him that she was now stationed in France. She hoped that he would find a way to come see her. Of course, she didn't know exactly where he was, or whether her letter had reached him. He might have been transferred to another airfield, or . . . and a deep shudder would tremble through her body. Surely if anything had happened to him, she would know!
Often Kitty had to fight the waves of homesickness that sometimes unexpectedly engulfed her. It was a kind of agonized aching for all the faraway beauty of Virginia, especially the blossoming woods between her home and Montclair where their little honeymoon house, Eden Cottage, awaited their return. The pink impatiens she had planted all along the flagstone path to the blue-painted door, seemed an almost comical reminder of a virtue she herself must cultivate.
Remembering it all, Kitty would close her eyes, feeling the awful urge to c r y - f o r all the lost days, the lost happiness, the lost innocence before she had known about war and blood and the terrible dailiness of death.
chapter
16
IN FEBRUARY came the news that after the sinking of an American freighter, the Housatonic, by a German submarine, President Wilson had broken off diplomatic relations with Germany. "Surely now the Americans will come in" was the opinion
voiced most often by members of the medical staff at the chateau. But when weeks went by with no further word that the United States would join the Allies, Kitty and some of the other Americans attached to the British Red Cross unit felt an undercurrent of hostility beginning to surface.
Later in the month, a brutal German attack on Verdun sent the number of casualties soaring into the hundreds of thousands on both sides, and the staff was taxed to the utmost. News of the fierce battle brought an urgent demand for more ambulances to bring the wounded to the hospital. French as well as British units were alerted for service. Soon a steady stream of ambulances was arriving at the chateau. To Kitty's mingled delight and dismay, knowing the risks of such duty, Cara was one of the drivers. The twins had a brief ecstatic reunion before the orders for dispatch were announced.
Since a VAD would be assigned to each ambulance, Kitty kept track of the posted assignments. When she saw that another VAD had been given the number of Cara's vehicle, Kitty quickly traded with her.
As they hurried out into the darkness and scrambled into the high cab of the ambulance, Cara spoke for the first time. "Thank God, there's no moon." She did not need to explain.Kitty understood her sister's remark. It was more than a statement. It was a heartfelt prayer of gratitude. Both knew that the Red Cross symbol painted on the top was not always the international protection it was designed to be, but at least the moonless night would give them a chance to move undetected past enemy fire.
If either twin had been struck by the incongruity of their presence here in France, neither said so. Only a year ago, that they should be setting out on such a mission would have seemed incredible.
Cara turned the vehicle expertly out into the line of ambulances. Kitty, sitting silent beside her, was gripped with anxiety. Was she up to what would be demanded of her before this night was over? She glanced over at her twin hunched over the wheel, saw her profile under the beaked cap—the small chin thrust out, her lips tightly compressed.