by M J Lee
Rose Clarke,
c/o Wibbersley Hospital,
Flixton,
Manchester.
'That's just down the road from here.' Mark carefully pulled out a yellowing letter, written on lined army notepaper. He unfolded it and began to read.
Jayne saw his lips move as his eyes scanned the page. 'Don't keep us waiting, Mark. What does it say?'
Mark coughed once and began to read out loud.
'My darling Rose,
Obviously, I can't tell you where I am but if you were to imagine where you were working recently you wouldn't be far wrong.
The men of my new regiment are in fine spirit and even if I do say so myself, they are one of the finest companies in the British Army, fit, strong and spirited. They will make a good show against the Boche.
Thank you for your letter, the parcel and the photograph. Both finally caught up with me in our camp over here. The socks were a godsend as were the whisky and the lighter. How clever of you to engrave it with my name. I'd forgotten how much time you had spent with the men who had been here. Of course, you know what we need.
And thank you for the wonderful picture. Sometimes, I forget how beautiful you are and how lucky I am.
I miss you so much, Rose. Those few days we spent together in Scotland will stay with me for the rest of my life. A time of joy and happiness and love which I will never forget.'
Mark turned the page and continued reading
'You are my soul, my centre, my love, my life. My one and only, Rose. I long for the day when this war is over and we can be together for ever and ever and ever.
I love you with all my heart,
David.
There was silence in the living room when Mark had finished reading.
'It's a beautiful letter,' said Jayne, 'he obviously loved her very much.'
Mark pinched his top lip with his index finger and thumb. 'He doesn't say he was married, does he? Just that they spent time together in Scotland.'
'The hotel register said Captain and Mrs Russell.'
The father lifted his head and spoke. 'That's what they had to say in those days. Not like today when you can just go and stay at any hotel without a by-your-leave. Those days, they had standards. Unmarried couples couldn't spend the night together in a room.'
'So they had to say they were married.' Jayne frowned. 'I don't believe David Russell and Rose just spent a night together. It's not like her. Or him.'
'It was war. Lots goes on in wartime. And there's still no proof, is there?'
Jayne was beginning to dislike this bitter old man intensely. 'Mark, please read the next letter. Perhaps it will help.'
Chapter Forty-Seven
Wibbersley Hospital, Flixton, Manchester. June 20, 1916.
The stub of Captain Arnold's leg was suppurating again. Rose removed the dressing and gently cleaned the sticky white, green and red mess from the end of what had been his thigh. The Captain lay back in his bed holding the metal rails above his head and gritting his teeth. Rose had pulled the screens around the bed before she had begun to redress the wound. Some of the men cried during this procedure, tears flowing from their eyes as they begged her to stop.
But she had to carry on. Sister was watching and waiting for an error, hovering like the Angel of Death, not a supporter of life. This particular nurse, a woman from Yorkshire, loved her rules. Those who could walk were to be up and out of their beds by 6.30 in the morning. The ones who couldn't had to be woken anyway. Breakfast was at 7 a.m. sharp and woe betide any VAD who delivered her trays a few minutes late.
This hospital was under military regulations and would be run with strict discipline, enforced with sharp words and written comments on the ward book.
The men hated her with a passion, each one in their own way rebelling against her rule. But she broke the most rebellious easily; a dressing changed twice a day instead of twice a week. A hot water bath where the water was a little too hot. Letters from home forgotten or misplaced. A thousand petty rules enforced more than rigorously. For the most part, they shut up and accepted their fate like cattle in a byre.
It was Rose who suffered the most:
'Miss Clarke, you were three minutes late this morning.'
'Miss Clarke, redress this wound.'
'Miss Clarke, this toilet is filthy, clean it immediately.'
Rose bore it all, thinking of David and the baby growing inside her. She told nobody of her marriage, wanting to avoid the bitter jealousy of the sister and the jokes of the other VADs.
She wrapped the final bandage over the stump of the leg and fastened it with a safety pin, making sure it lay along the leg at 90 degrees. Captain Arnold was sweating profusely but still managed a whispered thank you.
Rose checked her watch. Time to prepare the trays for lunch and, after it was finished at 1.25, she had 30 minutes to herself. She was supposed to eat, but usually just threw herself on the bunk and napped. Today, though, she would write to David.
She rushed through the preparation of the trays, making sure everything was precisely positioned and ordered. Luckily, cook was on time and she managed to get out onto the wards exactly at 12.30. Sister was standing there, waiting, staring at the watch fastened to her uniform. She checked the first tray Rose delivered to Lieutenant Davies, looking over it like a beagle eyeing a morsel of food.
'And how are you today, Lieutenant?' asked Rose.
The sister was a stickler for the correct forms of address. No first names or nicknames, just ranks. Davies was known by the other men as Taffy for obvious reasons.
'Better than yesterday, and worse than tomorrow, Rose,' the Lieutenant answered cheerfully.
'Lieutenant Davies, you will address Miss Clarke by her surname. We have no time for frivolous informality in this ward.'
'No, Sister. I mean yes, Sister,' stammered the Lieutenant.
Sister Colman signalled Rose was to move on to the next bed.
'Would you like some more bread and butter?' Rose asked the Lieutenant.
'Yes, please, Rose. I mean Miss Clarke.'
'Here you are. Anything else I can get for you?'
The sister's small beady eyes stared at Rose.
'I'm fine thank you, Nurse.' Lieutenant Davies looked at the sister, daring her to rebuke him. The use of ‘Nurse’ for an uncertified VAD was a crime punishable by death in the sister's eyes.
Rose pushed the cart to the next bed. The sister joined her, whispering in her ear. 'If you talk to every patient, Miss Clarke, you will not be able to complete the trays on schedule at 1 p.m.'
'But, Sister, they like me to talk to them otherwise…'
'Otherwise, the men in the next ward will receive cold food. I do wish you would think of them, Miss Clarke.'
Rose knew it was useless to argue but carried on regardless. 'Sometimes, I'm the only person they talk to.'
'Miss Clarke, the men in this ward are here to get better, they are not here for your amusement. Would you like me to report you to the VAD coordinator?'
'No, Sister.'
'Well, perform your duties with alacrity, Miss Clarke. With alacrity, do I make myself clear?'
'Yes, Sister.'
'I will be checking you finish precisely at 1 p.m.'
'Yes, Sister.'
The sister walked back to her office at the end of the ward. Rose carried on delivering the trays and talking to the men, finishing on time. Sister was waiting as she had promised, watch in hand and sneer on her face.
'Just in time, Miss Clarke. Now collect the trays, if you please.'
'Some of the men haven't finished, Sister.'
'Just do as you are told, Miss Clarke.'
Rose collected the trays, allowing the men who hadn't finished their food time to eat.
At the end of the service, she rushed back to her bunk, kicked off her shoes and wriggled her tired toes. She picked up the letter she had received that morning and read it through once again. He was in France, he couldn't tell her where, but she
could guess. He was going up to the line in the next few days. She hoped he would be safe wherever he was sent. She didn't know what she would do if something happened to him.
Time to write to David and tell him the news. One of the more friendly doctors had confirmed the results when he examined her earlier.
She picked up the pen and wrote.
Darling,
I have some wonderful news for you. At least, I think it is wonderful and I hope you do too. I'm going to have your baby…
Chapter Forty-Eight
Sale, Manchester. April 2, 2016.
Mark unwrapped the second letter from the bundle. It was written on the same army notepaper in a neat, precise, hand.
Darling Rose,
I’m to be a father? You wouldn’t believe how happy I was to hear your news. Are you suffering terribly? Is it painful? Are you feeling sick?
I wish I could be there with you, Rose, to hold your hand and wipe your brow if you are not feeling well.
You must make sure you eat properly. Remember you’re eating for two now. When will you stop work? I worry about you walking those long corridors, carrying and cleaning all day long. You mustn’t tire yourself out. Would you like me to write to the hospital asking them to give you light duties? I’m sure they would help if I asked. I know how you feel about such things, Rose, but please let me know if you want me to write the letter. You should think of yourself and the baby now.
As for me, I’ve been transferred to an Irish regiment because there's a shortage of officers with combat experience. The men are the salt of the earth, and the subalterns rule them with an iron fist. I haven’t learnt much about them yet, only having arrived at the training camp in you-know-where yesterday, but I’ll soon whip them into shape.
Talk of the next push is getting stronger at the moment. But don’t worry, the men will look after me.
I told my sergeant, Flaherty is his name, you were pregnant and all he could say was ‘I’ve seven myself, I only have to look at the wife and she drops another one.’
I can hear Flaherty calling for me now, Rose. Please look after yourself and the baby.
Remember I love you more than life itself.
Always yours,
David
Mark finished reading the letter. For a moment, all three of them were silent. It was Jayne who spoke first.
'The child must have been your grandfather. He was born in February 1917 and David Russell’s name is on the birth certificate.’
'Perhaps he wasn't the father.’ Mr Russell lit a cigarette with his lighter. 'The dates are very close. Married at the end of April and the baby born at the beginning of February. Smells funny to me.' He inhaled and blew out a long stream of blue smoke.
'Why do you always have to sneer about Rose, Dad? She was your grandmother.'
'You never met her. You never saw the pain she put my father through with her fantasies and her lies. You never saw how much my father hated going to see her. But he went anyway, from London to Derbyshire, because that's what a son did in those days.'
'In those days…' sneered Mark. 'In those days, women were locked up for life for no reason.'
The father stayed quiet.
'Let's read the next letter,' said Jayne, stopping their bickering.
Mark unwrapped the next letter from the bundle and began reading. The tone was immediately darker than the others, less joyful.
My darling,
How are you feeling? Is the baby causing you too much discomfort? I wish I could be there with you, Rose.
As I write this, I can hear the boom of an 18-pounder in the field behind the farmhouse where we are billeted. The battery fires every two minutes, I can almost time them. Three loud crashes ring out and then silence. It's like waiting for a shoe to drop. I'm sitting at the kitchen table. I don't know where the owners of the farm are living, perhaps they ran away at the beginning of the war, or are hiding somewhere close. I will never know.
A cat lives here. Lieutenant Crawford gave him our leftovers, not that there was much left over. He just smelt it, turned his nose up and walked away, tail waving like a flag in a breeze. Obviously, farmyard rats taste much better than our tinned bully beef.
The guns are firing again, one after the other. Every time, the farmhouse shakes and tiles fall from the roof, crashing down to the ground. If they carry on for much longer there will be nothing left of this house save a heap of bricks with a cat sitting on top licking his paws.
I miss you so much, Rose. I miss holding you tight in the middle of the night, hearing the sigh of your breathing and touching the softness of your breast. (Don’t worry, a friend is being posted back to London tomorrow, so this letter can avoid the army censors.)
Mark stopped reading and picked up the envelope. ‘It's postmarked London and there seems to be no censor's stamp.'
'Please carry on reading, Mark,' said Jayne.
Mark's eyes scanned the page and found his place. 'I was sorry to read in your last letter that the morning sickness has started. It seems to be a bit early, not that I know anything about being pregnant. Can you ask one of the doctors to look after you? Is it safe to carry on working in your condition?
Please look after yourself, Rose, you're all I have. You're all that matters, now more than ever. There's going to be a big push soon. Everybody seems to think it will be a walk in the park, but I'm not so sure. It seems I'm not sure of anything any more.
Except for one thing. I love you.
You're not to worry though, I'll keep myself safe and sound, no heroics from me.
I desperately want to hold you and our baby in my arms, Rose. It's all that keeps me alive and keeps me going through the mud and the slime and the stupidity.’
Mark stopped reading. 'There's a different pen, now.' He searched for his place again. 'I have to go, we're moving forward and I have to give this to Lieutenant Rimmer. I love you, Rose, I'll always love you. Your David.'
'What's the date on the letter?'
’28 June, 1916,' read Mark.
Jayne thought for a moment. 'Three days before the Battle of the Somme. Three days before he dies along with 19,000 other men on that dreadful first day.'
Mark didn't answer and, for once, the father kept silent too.
'Please read the next letter, Mark.'
‘There are two more.' He picked up the next letter. Jayne could see it wasn't as long as the others and the neat, confident handwriting had been replaced by something more rushed; a nervous scrawl as if somebody had written it in a hurry.
'My darling Rose,' Mark began to read out loud.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Hawthorn Ridge, the Somme. July 1, 1916.
Perhaps, three hours from now, he would be dead.
Captain David Russell shook his head to banish the morbid thoughts from his mind. He had so much to live for, too much to live for.
Outside, the shells still rained down on the forward trenches of the Germans. The solid crump of the 9.2s, the whine of the 18-pounders, and whoosh of the trench mortars, were accompanied by the occasional boom of the Howitzers. A whole orchestra of murder.
Next to him, Crawford lay curled up in a bunk far too short for him, snoring gently through an open mouth, his diary lying on his chest. The man would win gold in an Olympic sleeping contest. He should confiscate the diary as they were forbidden by the High Command, but he didn't have the heart. Writing in it was the one thing keeping Crawford sane and focussed.
He felt something bite his wrist. They had only been in the line for six hours and already the lice were inside his clothes, burrowing into his skin. Never mind, he would soon get used to them. A man could get used to anything.
A German shell from a counter battery exploded somewhere behind the line. The candle flickered in a Fry's Chocolate tin that served as a sconce, and a fine line of chalk dribbled from the ceiling above his head.
He looked down at the letter to his parents lying on the orange crate. His mother wouldn't be happ
y when she read it, but he didn't care. His father would carry out his wishes to the letter.
He picked up the pen and wrote the last two paragraphs quickly, signing his name with a flourish. He had made it as clear as possible, there could be no misunderstanding.
Sealing the letter in one of the army's thin envelopes, he placed it next to the letter to Rose he had written earlier. If they were to reach England, he would have to send both of them back to Division before the attack.
He licked his index finger and thumb, and extinguished the flame of the candle. The dugout was plunged into darkness with just the occasional flashes of red from the shrapnel shells slipping round the army blanket covering the entrance.
He sat in the darkness for a moment with the smell of the extinguished candle for company. Crawford in his bunk snored on. A German flare illuminated the curtain with an intense white light for a few seconds before softening to a glow. The artillery kept on firing steadily, each gun making a different sound, distinguishable from the others.
Standing up quickly, he felt his legs give way beneath him. 'Set an example to the men, Russell. Show them how to behave.' He heard the voice of his old training sergeant. The man had died at Mons, his throat slashed by a piece of hot shrapnel. The old soldier would never speak again, but still the grating voice lived on in David's head.
He pushed through the curtain and stepped outside into the thin slime of mud lining the bottom of the reserve trench. Sergeant Flaherty was leaning against the hastily built parapet smoking a Sweet Afton, the smoke forming a white cloud around his head. As soon as he saw Captain Russell, he stood to attention, throwing the cigarette away.
'At ease, Sergeant. The men are comfortable?' He knew it was a ridiculous question before the words had even left his mouth. What did comfort matter at a time like this?