The Woman at the Front

by Lecia Cornwall

  Robert leaned back and rubbed his hand over his face. He needed sleep himself, weeks of it, in his own bed at home, in England. He wondered if it was just age that made him feel the exhaustion and futility of it all more than younger men, or if it was because this was his second war. His bones ached. With the shortage of doctors, he couldn’t even get leave. Today he’d lost count of the surgeries he’d performed in fourteen hours, setting shattered bones, cutting off limbs, picking shrapnel out of once healthy young bodies that would now be forever twisted and scarred, despite his best efforts.

  He looked at the folding frame on his desk, the photographs of his wife and his children, Colin and Elizabeth. Thank heaven Colin was only twelve, too young to join up. Elizabeth was only four. He’d missed most of her life. The bloody war went on and on, bloody, terrible, and—

  “Pointless,” he said aloud. He looked at Blair. “I’ve been informed it will take at least a week to get a replacement for Captain Duncan. They’ve asked us to send someone to take over the aid post until then. As if we can spare anyone.”

  He met Blair’s eyes, but there was no surprise there. He had probably known when his commanding officer had sent for him and pressed a glass of fine cognac into his hand that he’d have to be the one to go to the front.

  Blair studied the contents of his glass for a moment. “Are we expecting anything heavy?”

  Bellford sighed. “Not that I’ve heard. Not on our side, at least. I’ve had no word about what the Huns have in mind.”

  Blair looked up again. “It will leave you rather shorthanded, Colonel.”

  Alone, the only surgeon, the only doctor.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll need someone to replace me while I’m replacing Duncan.”

  “I’ll ask 4/CCS at Doullens if they can send someone.”

  “They’re as short staffed and stretched as we are.” Blair leaned forward, the glass cradled in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. “I have a solution to suggest, sir.”

  Bellford frowned. “Oh?”

  “Dr. Atherton.”

  Bellford felt his blood pressure rise and blow like the whistle on a steam kettle. “That woman?”

  “She’s good. She, um—stepped in—today. Yesterday, actually,” he said. “We could ask her to stay. Temporarily, of course.”

  “She was ordered not to interfere,” Bellford said. He squeezed his glass until the cut crystal points pressed into his palm. “She doesn’t listen, she’s impetuous, and impertinent, and—”

  “She’s also efficient and quick thinking, sir. In her defense, Sergeant MacLeod asked her to help when he saw we were overwhelmed,” Blair said. “She agreed at once, and she managed well. Once MacLeod showed her the way things work here, she took to it.”

  “Sergeant MacLeod is a stretcher bearer, not a doctor.”

  “Which is why he insisted we ask Dr. Atherton to help. She is a doctor, and she was the only one available to us, sir. She saved many who might not have made it without her.”

  “There are sound reasons why the War Office refuses to allow female doctors to practice on the front lines, Captain, reasons I fully support. Women are too flighty, too likely to be shocked or startled by war. And some of the wounds, the illnesses—they’re nothing a lady could—or should—cope with.”

  “They’re nothing anyone should have to cope with. She managed triage all day, and her diagnoses were all correct. Her manner was calm and professional. She didn’t faint or turn squeamish at the sight of blood,” Blair said.

  “She’s young, unmarried. She’s probably never even seen a naked man.”

  Blair grinned. “Perhaps not a live one, but—well, you remember dissection class.”

  “Our patients are not for experimentation!” Bellford snapped.

  Blair’s smile faded to earnestness. “Of course they are, sir. Think of the things we’ve had to try, to improvise, to make do with since this war started.”

  “How do I know what her qualifications are? She’s very young. She might have no experience beyond midwifery and children’s sniffles.”

  “Not often a midwife needs to cope with a pneumothorax.”

  Robert resented the reminder. He remembered seeing Eleanor Atherton in triage after fourteen hours of work. She’d been on her feet, bright-eyed, not sobbing in a corner. Do you know anything at all about treating a gas victim? he’d asked her. I do now, she’d replied. In that moment, he understood all she’d seen and done that day, what she’d managed to accomplish—and on her own, too, since both he and Blair had been in surgery. He’d felt shamed, as if he were less of a doctor or a soldier or a man for not being able to cope without the help of a mere slip of a lass. He was protective of women, but he hadn’t protected Eleanor Atherton. She hadn’t needed his protection, he realized. Perhaps the guilt he felt came from the need to know he could still control something, keep one precious thing safe and sacred in this terrible place—a single, innocent woman, a girl.

  He raised his chin. “I’m sending her home to England tomorrow.”

  “With respect, sir, I think that would be a mistake. Think of what might have happened if she hadn’t been here, how many more might have died.”

  Bellford scowled at him. His masculinity, his authority, weren’t being threatened by the female doctor.

  “When I go up to the front, there’ll be only you, sir,” Blair said. “And if I don’t make it back, and I might not—there’ve been two MOs killed in the past three months—you’ll be unable to cope if there’s an attack. Dangerously so. The alternative—”

  “I know what the alternative is!” They’d have to close, join with another CCS farther away, a longer journey for the wounded, more crowding. He wouldn’t be in command any longer. Still, he was stubborn. “This isn’t my first war, Captain. I daresay I can find a way to manage.”

  But they both knew this war was different, the weapons and the terrain, and even the wounds were different, and the treatments—gas, gangrene, men blown to pieces in an instant, shell shock. To Robert, having a female doctor in a war zone, especially a young woman like Eleanor Atherton, was unthinkable, an insult to his Victorian sensibilities. Had the world changed so very much? His aging bones ached with fatigue.

  “We’re down to asking the chaplain to handle anesthesia in the operating theater,” Blair said. “We can’t stretch ourselves any thinner and still do what we’re here for. Can we truly turn away qualified, willing help and call ourselves doctors?”

  “Chastaine will be ready to travel within the week. She’ll leave anyway.”

  “But even that week would help, sir,” Blair pleaded. “That week might very well pass quietly. It may not even be necessary to use her if there isn’t another attack. It’s just in case.”

  Or that week could be filled with days like today, days that ran together, drowned in blood and toil and an endless stream of broken bodies. She’d be by his side. He’d have to trust her.

  David Blair held his tongue, waited. The damned pup was no doubt thinking that his commander had no choice, and he was right, damn his eyes. She was here, and she was competent.

  “She was hired to see to Chastaine’s care. Even if I were to ask her to, to—help out—she’d likely refuse after today. If she has sense, she’ll insist on going home as soon as possible.” He paused, sighed. “If she stays, I’ll make use of her only in emergencies, and she’ll have rules to follow—and she bloody well will follow my orders from now on, or I’ll send her home with or without Chastaine.”

  Blair nodded. “Of course, sir. It is possible she might refuse, but I don’t think she will.” He set his empty glass down on the desk and got to his feet. “I’ll go and ask her—”

  Bellford rose himself. “You will not. I’ll be the one to speak to her when I’ve made a decision on this matter, Captain.”

  Blair scanned his face
. No doubt he thought his commander was a stubborn old goat, but he was still in charge. “Very well, sir.”

  Bellford sighed. “I suppose you should at least go and see how she’s faring,” he said shortly. “Now that it’s all over and she’s had time to think, she’s probably scared, shell-shocked. It would serve her right, of course—” He broke off, felt that fatherly, chivalrous sentiment again. “Just make sure she’s all right.”

  “Yes, sir.” He hesitated, and Bellford frowned again.

  “Well, Captain, what is it now?”

  “You’ll be—less gruff—when you ask her to stay, won’t you, sir? She’s a colleague now, a fellow doctor.”

  Bellford’s frown deepened. “One week, Captain. Then she goes home.”

  Blair offered a wry smile. “I wish we could all be that lucky.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The minute Fraser arrived back at the aid post, the waiting bearers knew by the look on his face that Duncan was dead. There was no need to say it aloud. For a long moment Chilcott and others stood or sat silently, their faces strained and tired. Another good officer, a fine doctor, a good man, gone.

  “Anything happening?” Fraser asked. He noted the half dozen lightly wounded still waited for transport, but they’d been given basic care and something hot to drink, and there was no cause to worry.

  Chilcott shook his head. “It’s gone quiet again,” he said softly, his usually cheerful face crumpled with sorrow. “Thank God. So when do we get a new MO?”

  “Blair might come,” Fraser said. He poured a cup of tea, black as sin and thick as treacle, before sinking down onto a chair with his cup. It was undrinkable, but it warmed his hands.

  “Are you hungry?” Chilcott asked. Fraser looked at the half loaf of bread on the table, the open tin of plum-and-apple jam. He couldn’t bring himself to eat it, though he hadn’t eaten since morning, when he’d grabbed a meal at the CCS.

  “If that’s all there is to eat, I’ll eat my boots instead.”

  “Probably a better choice,” Chilcott agreed.

  A corporal came down the stairs, fresh off the line, muddy and cold. He held up his hand to them. “I cut my trigger finger on a bit of wire when we were out on patrol. Lieutenant sent me back to get it patched up properly, me being a sniper and all. Where’s the doc?”

  “Dead,” Chilcott said dully. “You’ll have to make do with us.” He turned to collect the necessary supplies. “We’ve no commanding officer. For now, Sergeant MacLeod’s in charge—at least until we get a new MO.”

  The corporal frowned. “Crikey. Then I hope the bloody rumors aren’t true.”

  “What have ye heard?” Fraser asked.

  “That patrol I was on. We were supposed to capture a Hun, bring him back so our lads could ask him a few questions, if you know what I mean. The lads in our listening posts have heard some funny things lately. The Huns are bringing up troops. The men in our own forward trenches can hear ’em talking and scurrying around like rats across from them.”

  Fraser felt the back of his neck prickle. Soldiers were sensitive to rumors, learned to listen and to observe, to be prepared for what was coming. He’d learned to do it, too. It was habit now. If he survived, made it home—if—he’d always be on high alert for trouble, one ear forever cocked for a shift in the sounds around him, one eye on the horizon, watching. As Chilcott once said, It’s a hell of a way to live, but not when you consider the alternative.

  “Did you get a Hun prisoner?” Chilcott asked, indicating that the corporal should sit at the table across from him.

  “Aye,” the corporal said. He leaned in. “He didn’t say nothin’, but his uniform was clean, almost new.” He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. “Even when they don’t say a word, we get the story, eh? Means he’s fresh meat, hasn’t been up on the line before. Young, too—maybe sixteen.” Chilcott held the corporal’s hand over a basin and poured disinfectant solution over it, and the patient swore at the sting. He looked at Fraser. “If they come, there’s a rumor they’ll come through our lines here first—that’s straight from our lads. Means you chaps will be in the line of fire if we have to fall back.” He looked around at the snug basement. “My lieutenant said to tell your MO that it might be best to scout for a new spot for your aid post, farther back, just in case.” He grunted as Chilcott took the first stitch in his torn flesh, but he kept still. “But you don’t have an MO.”

  “Ah, the happy signs of spring,” Chilcott said with sarcastic cheer. “You can always count on daffodils and snowdrops and brand-new bloody offensives, regular as the sunrise and the bells of St. Mary’s back home. I used to love the spring, but not anymore. I’d hate to have to move house. It’s a snug little hole we’ve got here, and it serves us well.”

  “There’s a farm up the road a mile or so that might do,” Fraser said. The bearers were used to keeping an eye out for alternative sites. You never knew when an aid post might have to move back fast, since they were barely a hundred yards behind the firing line here, where the wounded could easily find them. The farm he had in mind was a landmark. The house had been bombed to a roofless shell, but there’d likely be a useful cold cellar, deep and relatively bombproof. There’d be no bread oven like in this one, though—which meant it would be cold, summer and winter. Fraser hoped the German medical team appreciated it if—when—they took this place over. He suspected yesterday’s attack was just a sign that there was indeed a major offensive coming. The enemy was testing for soft spots in the British lines. They were all soft, every unit under strength with no fresh recruits coming, and the politicians back home arguing over the wisdom of sending more men into the meat grinder of the Western Front.

  Chilcott wrapped a bandage around the corporal’s hand. “Keep it clean and dry,” he said, and the corporal laughed.

  “I’ll do my best to stay out of the mud,” he said sarcastically and left.

  Fraser couldn’t sleep. He tossed on a cot for an hour before he got up again. He reached for his greatcoat and shrugged into it.

  “Where the devil are you going?” Chilcott asked. “It’s raining out there.”

  “I think I’ll take a look at that farm.” He pulled his collar up around his neck and headed out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  May I have a word, Miss Atherton—Dr. Atherton?” the colonel called to Eleanor as she hurried toward the officers’ ward to see Louis. She’d only meant to sleep for a few hours, but she’d dragged off her blouse and skirt and had been asleep before she’d even dropped onto her bed. She’d woken twelve hours later groggy, stiff, and very late. She’d rushed to wash and dress, tossing her bloodstained skirt and blouse into a pile and choosing a plain dark gray skirt and a pale blue blouse. She wanted a very long, very hot bath and a chance to shampoo her hair and brush it by the fire as it dried, then rub rose oil into it until it shone. She’d settled for combing the dried blood out of it and washing it in cold water with carbolic soap, and now her crowning glory was itchy against her neck. When she looked into the mirror, sure she was pale and tired, a new face stared back at her. Her eyes were puffy, but they were also bright and keen. She’d saved lives, given hope, eased pain under dire circumstances. But Louis was her patient, and he was waiting.

  And now Colonel Bellford stood before her on the boardwalk, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression flat, his stance rigid. “I’d like a moment of your time.”

  Eleanor’s belly tightened. She was sure another dressing-down was coming. She clasped her hands at her waist. “I know you told me not to, to—” She fumbled for the right word. Interfere? Intervene? Assist? “Help—but there were so many men, so much suffering.” She raised her chin. “As a doctor yourself, I’m sure you could not stand by and watch someone suffer, knowing they might die if you did not intervene, use your skills and training to assist . . .”

  “Captain Blair and Reverend Strong have
made me fully aware of your contribution. Thank you.” He said it as if it choked him to do so, but still Eleanor smiled.

  “It was—” Educational? Enlightening? Breathtaking? “Good to be of service, sir.”

  “One of the men killed yesterday was a doctor, a medical officer who was serving at the front.”

  Her smile faded. “Yes, Captain Duncan. I’m sorry.”

  He scanned the camp. “We’ve lost far too many doctors in this war, too many good men. Now I’ve been ordered to send Captain Blair to the aid post to take Duncan’s place for a few days.” He peered at her. “A week at most, I’m assured, until a replacement can be found.”

  She pictured David Blair wounded, dying, and her throat tightened.

  “Unfortunately, that will leave us shorthanded. As you saw yesterday, we were barely able to cope. If there’s another attack—” He paused again and rocked on his toes, making the leather of his boots creak. “We’ll have to turn men away, send them on to other facilities, delay care and leave them to face the risks of infection, hemorrhage, death.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Do you?” he asked. She nodded solemnly. He scanned her face, his expression grim. “I find I must ask for your assistance after all, Miss—Dr. Atherton. If there is another influx of wounded while Captain Blair is away, and only if, would you consider pitching in again?” His face flushed red and he frowned. “It is strictly against regulations, as you know. It would not be an official role. It would be considered—a favor—since you’re here—”

  “Yes,” Eleanor said at once. “Yes, of course.” She clasped her hands together more tightly. Surely she shouldn’t be elated, but she was. “I do want to help, I’m willing. More than willing,” she babbled.

  “There will be strict rules, of course, and you will be called upon only under extreme circumstances. Of course, at this point Lieutenant Chastaine is more in want of amusement than of a doctor. It’s a simple matter of keeping him still for a little while longer.”