The Silver Locket (Choc Lit)

by Margaret James

  Then they heard the guns. At first the sound was muted, a series of dull thuds like distant thunder, as if a storm were breaking miles away. Then the noise intensified. It became continuous and much more threatening. A few miles later, a rocket screeched menacingly overhead, then exploded in a nearby wood.

  ‘Blasted things,’ the driver muttered, and Rose saw his knuckles were clenched and white upon the wheel. ‘But don’t worry, Sisters. They don’t usually get this far behind the line. The CCS is just a couple more miles down this road. I dare say they’re expecting you.’

  The casualty clearing station was a clutch of wooden huts a mile behind the line. Sick or wounded soldiers walked or were carried there from first aid posts, either for further treatment or to await evacuation.

  Rose saw the huge white crosses painted on the flimsy roofs. She hoped the German aeroplanes she’d seen flying overhead did not regard the crosses as so many targets.

  The railhead was a hundred yards away and, as Rose and Maria got out of the car and dragged their luggage from its boot, a train came chugging down the track towards the wooden buffers.

  ‘Miss Courtenay and Miss Gower?’ A harassed-looking RAMC major came striding from the nearest hut. ‘You’re late. You should have been here yesterday.’

  ‘But we only arrived in France this morning,’ Rose began.

  The major glared at her, then scowled down at his sheaf of papers. ‘You will be Miss Courtenay – or Miss Gower?’

  ‘Miss Courtenay, sir.’

  ‘Well, Miss Courtenay, let’s get one thing straight. We don’t need nurses who give cheek to their superior officers. So if you can’t keep a civil tongue, the best thing you can do is bugger off back to Blighty.’

  As Rose blushed red, Maria spoke. ‘Where will we be billeted, sir?’ she asked the major calmly and politely.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ The major looked as if he’d have a fit. ‘You and your delightful friend have both been posted to the ambulance trains, God help us all. You will be escorting men from the clearing stations to the general hospital at base, and you’ll be billeted on the bloody train.’

  ‘That was Dr Callaghan, he’s always rather irritable,’ a young Queen Alexandra nurse told Rose and Maria. She took them on to the empty train and showed them where to stow their kit, in a sleeper carriage in the middle of the train. Here the nurses, orderlies and doctors had their cramped but warm and draught-proof quarters.

  ‘You two are being thrown in at the deep end,’ grinned an orderly, who was walking past with piles of blankets.

  ‘So I hope you’re fit.’ The QA nurse shoved Rose’s Gladstone bag into a luggage rack. ‘We heard this sector’s had a dreadful battering these past weeks, so I dare say the men we’ve come to fetch will be in quite a state.’

  She glanced out of the window. ‘Look, here come the stretcher-bearers now.’

  It took two hours to load the train with wounded, broken men. Some were clean and in the regulation blue pyjamas, but most still wore their mud and blood-streaked uniforms.

  ‘We’ll get them settled first,’ the QA nurse told Rose. ‘The stretcher cases can go on the floor, and we’ll get the others into bunks. Pack the pillows and blankets round them, so they won’t feel the jolting of the train.’

  As the train moved off, the orderlies were lighting primus stoves to boil up water for hot drinks and to wash the men. Rose set to work, and soon she realised this would be no picnic.

  St Benedict’s had been a modern hospital where there’d been running water and every possible facility. But here she was working in a badly-lit and tiny space, trying to undress and wash exhausted, filthy men crammed into bunks like narrow bookshelves, and all the time the train was jolting, lurching, swaying from side to side.

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’ The corporal whose gashed and mangled arm she’d washed and bandaged awkwardly managed a feeble smile of gratitude. ‘I know you’re busy, but could I have a drink?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rose packed the blankets round him. ‘I’ll ask the orderly to bring you something.’

  The soldier braced himself against the side of the couchette. ‘Harry Liston, down there on the left,’ he whispered, pointing. ‘He’s got a bullet in his brain, and they think he’s going to lose his sight. So go and let him feast his eyes on you, and he’ll die happy.’

  It was dark and snowing heavily when at last the train came shuddering to its final halt. Now the staff would help the stretcher bearers get the wounded off, then strip all the bunks, clean up and get the train all ready to go off again.

  Rose peered into the darkness and saw lights. Suddenly there were dozens of men in RAMC uniform, opening the doors and working with a calm, methodical efficiency as the sick and wounded were unloaded and taken to the waiting ambulances, to be driven to hospital or shipped home to England.

  ‘Poor thing, you look all in.’ The QA nurse who’d shown Rose where to put her luggage smiled. ‘I dare say you’re hungry?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’ Rose yawned and rubbed her aching, bloodshot eyes.

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘When we were on the boat.’

  ‘Last night?’ The nurse looked horrified. ‘Look, we’ll be here for an hour or two at least, while they change the engine and we sort out the train. So fetch your friend, then go and have a decent meal in the Red Cross canteen. You’ll find it at the end of Platform 2. Miss Courtenay?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I kept my eye on you. I saw you were nervous, and occasionally you weren’t sure what to do. But you didn’t keep asking. Instead, you used your gumption. You did very well.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’ In spite of her fatigue, Rose smiled. She’d done very well, and it was going to be all right.

  The spring came slowly to the blasted land, furtively clothing it with green and hiding all the wounds inflicted that appalling winter, but with the warmer weather came new military offensives. Maria and Rose spent March and April as relief staff on the ambulance trains, constantly being ordered from one sector to another, never knowing where they’d end up next.

  They trudged along endless pot-holed country roads, hitching lifts in lorries or squashing into the back seats of military cars. They rode in London buses, half a dozen of which had been transported to the front to ferry troops around.

  ‘I don’t understand these orders.’ One April morning, Rose pored over the long list of badly-typed instructions they’d received from the sister in charge a minute or two ago. ‘It’s the seventeenth. We were supposed to be in Aix-les-Givres yesterday.’

  ‘Then we’d better shift ourselves.’ Maria shoved the last few bits and pieces into her carpet bag.

  Later that same evening, several lifts and lots of walking later, they were alone and stranded somewhere deep in rural France, having been assured their destination was a few yards up the road.

  They started walking once again. Reaching the railhead, they picked their way across the tracks, dodging shunting engines and looking for their train.

  ‘There you are at last!’ The QA sister who let them on the train looked down at them and frowned. ‘Why weren’t you two here yesterday? We were so short-staffed, but we still had to fetch a crisis load, then take it back to Rouen.’

  ‘But we’ve just come from Rouen,’ Rose began.

  ‘Then why didn’t you wait for us?’ The sister grimaced. ‘You civilian girls don’t ever seem to use your common sense.’

  So it went on.

  ‘It’ll be a French train down to Herlancourt,’ Maria said one May morning, as she and Rose dashed into a canteen to snatch some breakfast, before they went trundling off again. ‘God, I hate French trains.’

  ‘I prefer them,’ smiled Rose – for French trains were exciting. English carriages, that had been shipped over to supplement the French, had corridors. So the train was one long ward, and nurses could walk safely from one end to the other.

  But French trains had no corridors, so to get from coach t
o coach the nurses had to foot-board down the outside of the train, getting rained on, snowed on, and with their long skirts flapping in the wind.

  They were supposed to get down from the train and walk along the track to the next carriage. But the tracks were muddy, and foot-boarding was fun.

  ‘You shouldn’t do this at night,’ scolded Maria, as Rose appeared in the carriage one dark, rainy evening, breathless but with eyes aglow. ‘You should wait until we reach the junction, not assume you have enough time when we’ve just stopped at points.’

  ‘Everybody does it, even Sister Langford,’ countered Rose, as she brushed the smuts off her white apron.

  ‘You sisters are amazing,’ said a corporal. ‘They ought to put you all in the front line.’

  ‘Yeah, they should.’ A sergeant grinned. ‘Jerry would take one look at Sister Courtenay and run back to Berlin.’

  But after VAD Rose Courtenay hurt herself when foot-boarding along the carriage of a train that moved off suddenly, the nurses were forbidden to do this any more. In future, they’d have to wait until the train was at a junction, and the guard was watching. They’d have to jump down into all the muck and mud, then trudge along the track.

  ‘A good thing too,’ observed Maria, when she visited her friend in hospital in Boulogne. ‘Rose, you’re lucky to be alive. How is your arm today?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Rose. Still embarrassed by what had happened, she stared down at the blanket on her knees. ‘The doctor said the break was clean.’

  ‘Rose, you’re such an idiot,’ said Maria. ‘What possessed you, trying to change carriages in all that rain and darkness? I’m not surprised you slipped. What if that other driver hadn’t seen you? What if he hadn’t stopped in time?’

  ‘As it turned out, he did.’ Rose shrugged. ‘I hear they’ve banned foot-boarding now?’

  ‘Yes, and just as well.’

  ‘You’re going to a convalescent hospital for junior officers, in Marlancourt,’ the matron told her, when Rose’s cuts and bruises had all healed and she was passed fit again that July. ‘You’ll be on light duties until that arm is really strong again.’

  Rose kept her eyes cast meekly down. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ she whispered gratefully, for she’d been dreading being sent back to England.

  ‘No more derring-do, Miss Courtenay,’ said the matron crisply – but as Rose looked up, her blue eyes twinkled. ‘You’ve been a model patient, but we don’t wish to see you here again.’

  ‘It’s two in a tent,’ announced the VAD who welcomed Rose to the new hospital, which turned out to be a huddle of wooden huts in a French forest. ‘Come on, I’ll show you round.’

  Rose discovered all the nursing staff lived under canvas, and decided that in summer this ought to be pleasant – except for all the insects. Already she’d been bitten on her neck and ankles, and knew she would be scratching half the night.

  ‘The boys are mostly mobile,’ went on the VAD. ‘So there’s not much lifting to be done. We spend as much time playing whist and writing letters home for them as doing their dressings and handing out their pills.’

  ‘So this place is a convalescent home for us, as well?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it must be.’ The VAD grinned archly. ‘We heard about your accident. I’m getting over scarlet fever.’

  ‘But didn’t you want to go back home and rest?’ demanded Rose.

  ‘God forbid!’ exclaimed the VAD. ‘My mother didn’t want me to come and nurse in France. If I went home to convalesce, she’d put her foot down. I’d never be allowed to come back here again.’

  ‘You’ll be on Trafalgar Ward this week,’ the matron said to Rose, when she’d been in the forest for a fortnight and had settled in. ‘They’re a very lively set of boys, so since you’re new they’re bound to rag you. But don’t take any nonsense. We’re in charge, although we mustn’t be too hard on them.’

  Rose went down the boardwalk that connected all the huts. In the sister’s office, she found the list of patients and the day book. She began to read the latest notes.

  Turning the page, she stared in disbelief. But then, she thought, she shouldn’t be surprised. He was on active service here in France, and had as much chance as anyone of being wounded.

  ‘Miss Courtenay?’ A young VAD came in. ‘I’m Belinda Cross. Sister Minton’s busy on another ward just now, and she said I should show you round.’

  ‘What happened to the man in the third bed?’ asked Rose, as they went down the ward.

  ‘Why, do you know him?’ asked Belinda.

  ‘Oh – no.’ Rose blushed. ‘I’d just begun to read his notes when you came in to fetch me.’

  ‘He copped it when the Germans bombed a dugout,’ said Belinda. ‘It seems he spent last winter at the sharp end, doing night patrols, undermining German ammunition dumps, going out on raids – all very dangerous stuff, but he never got a scratch on him. Then his company went into support and bought it with a vengeance.’

  Belinda smiled. ‘But he’s doing nicely. He had some nasty gashes in his side, but they’re all healing. He can see again, although he still gets double vision. Come on, it’s time we did the round. I’ll introduce you to the boys – or anyway, to those who are awake.’

  The man in the third bed was fast asleep, and as Rose looked down at him she suddenly wanted more than anything to touch his hand, to stroke his face, to make him look at her and smile.

  But she left him sleeping. When she and the other nurse had done the round, had helped the men who needed it to take a bath and shave, she looked across the beds to him again.

  ‘Do you let that officer sleep all day?’ she asked Belinda.

  ‘If that’s what he wants.’ Belinda shrugged. ‘Sister Minton’s always saying sleep is the great healer.’

  Rose took a deep breath. ‘I was wondering if he needs a bath?’

  ‘Yes, he could do with one – he’s been in those pyjamas all this week.’ Belinda looked at Rose. ‘I was just going to start the morning drinks. Do you need a hand, or can you manage?’

  ‘I can manage.’

  Rose collected towels and soap and then went over to the bed. The officer was still fast asleep. They all looked so young when they were sleeping, and Rose thought this one looked about fifteen. His long, dark lashes lay on his pale cheeks, and one arm was lying on his pillow, as if he were fending off an enemy. The back of his head was criss-crossed with long scars. She was glad he hadn’t caught the blast full in the face.

  She told herself she didn’t like him. He drank too much, he had no social graces, and he ran after women. But what could one expect, she thought, when he came from a family like that?

  ‘Lieutenant Denham?’ she said, sharply.

  ‘What?’ Alex’s dark eyes opened. He looked at Rose and blinked. ‘Go away,’ he muttered. ‘I’m asleep.’

  ‘No, Mr Denham,’ Rose said firmly, ‘you’re very much awake. I want you out of bed and in the bath.’

  ‘But why are you here?’ Alex looked at Rose and frowned in puzzlement. ‘You’re in a nurse’s uniform, but you can’t be a nurse.’

  ‘I am a nurse,’ said Rose.

  ‘You’re not old enough, and you live in Dorset with your parents.’ Alex turned over on his side. ‘I’m going back to sleep.’

  ‘You’re going to have a bath, Lieutenant Denham.’ Rose turned the blankets back. ‘Come along, I haven’t got all day.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Mr Denham’s such a nice young man,’ Belinda Cross said wistfully, as she and Rose sat in the sister’s office writing up the day book, later that same week.

  ‘Lieutenant Kelly and Captain Green are as nice as well,’ said Rose.

  ‘But Lieutenant Denham must be in a lot of pain. He had all that shrapnel in his head, and when I changed his dressing today his side was still a mess. But he always has a smile for me.’

  ‘He drinks too much,’ said Rose. ‘Brandy, wine, champagne, you name it. Every time I pass his bed it’s, “S
ister, may I have a glass of brandy?” or “Sister, will you bring me some champagne?”’

  ‘Rose, don’t hold that against him,’ said Belinda. ‘They all drink too much. They’ve seen their friends get killed, and they’ve been wounded. They’re dreading going back.’

  ‘There’s such a thing as moderation, and Alex Denham’s liver must be pickled.’

  ‘All the same, I like him.’ Belinda closed the day book and then looked at her watch. ‘It’s time to do the bedtime drinks,’ she said. ‘God, my feet are killing me today. I’ve got new boots, and do they pinch!’

  ‘I’ll make the cocoa, then,’ said Rose. ‘You sit down and write those letters for Lieutenant Kelly.’

  ‘Rose Courtenay, you’re a brick.’

  Anything to get out of the ward away from Alex, Rose thought gratefully. As she stirred the milk into a dozen cups of cocoa, she was annoyed to feel the colour creeping up her face. He had no right to make her blush.

  When she’d led him over to the bath house that first morning, he had sat and watched her as she filled the wooden tub.

  ‘I expect you can manage by yourself,’ she’d told him briskly, as she checked the water to make sure it was hot.

  ‘I don’t think so, Sister.’ He’d fumbled ineffectually with his dressing gown. ‘I can’t untie the belt on this.’

  So she’d untied it for him.

  He’d let the gown slide to the floor, then looked down helplessly at his pyjamas. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t manage buttons yet.’

  She helped him take off his pyjama jacket.

  He tugged at his pyjama trousers. ‘The cord is in a knot.’

  As Rose untied the cord, she felt her face begin to glow. She’d helped to bath hundreds of men, and they always hated it, resented being treated like helpless infants. Sometimes it was even worse than that, for some of them would be aroused, and then it was horribly embarrassing.

  Also, nurses weren’t supposed to be alone with patients. Unless they were very busy, baths were always done in pairs. ‘I think you’ll be fine now,’ she said curtly.