Two Women Went to War

by L E Pembroke

  When Madeleine met Tom I saw at once that this visit was a tremendous morale booster for my brother. His immediate interest in Madeleine was obvious. Tom’s personality seemed to change completely in her presence. I thought it was incredible; my dry stick of a brother openly flirting with my friend. I was happy to see that even for a few moments he was able to forget his disability. Madeleine, on the other hand, was used to patients who tried to make up to her. She ignored Tom’s overtures, and it was apparent she was anxious to keep the visit brief.

  We left the hospital together and walked towards one of the officers’ clubs for a meal. As we hurried along the narrow streets I noticed a bunch of very small British soldiers. I was rude. I stared openly and turned to Madeleine. I remarked that I thought the soldiers were only boys and how dreadful it was that we had been reduced to conscripting children.

  Madeleine laughed and told me to take a closer look. They weren’t young. Charlie had told her that many small men who tried to enlist in 1914 were turned down because they didn’t reach the height or weight requirements. Then, when the British casualty figures became excessive, the army decided that these small men should be drafted into special, so-called bantam battalions. They were mostly from up north, miners or mill workers who were underfed and undersized. Charlie told her they were ferocious fighters determined to prove they were at least equal to the taller, heavier fellows in the other battalions.

  The men would have seen my curious glance. One called out to us. ‘What the f— are youse c—s staring at?’

  Quickly looking away, I knew I was blushing deeply. My predisposition to blush has always been beyond my control. I was aghast; had never been spoken to in that way, not even by the roughest soldier from the humblest of backgrounds.

  Madeleine smiled at my discomfit. ‘I told you they were aggressive; it’s nice to see you’re still able to blush, darling.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean? Are you suggesting that you think I’ve become tough?’

  ‘No, of course not, but you have changed quite a lot in the year since we met.’

  I muttered, ‘Who hasn’t?’

  She tried to calm me, saying that of course most of us had changed and with good reason. Ashamed of my outburst, I apologised for my thoughtlessness, and said I thought the way she was bearing up was marvellous.

  ‘I’m getting on with life because I will never accept that Charlie is dead.’

  I wasn’t sure that attitude was a healthy one. I worried about Madeleine. When would she ever accept the reality and get on with her life? How gaunt she looked, how strained her face, and only twenty-one.

  Once in the club we ordered supper. As many foods were in short supply, we had the plat du jour: herrings on toast, preceded by gin and tonic. As soon as we settled with our drinks Madeleine began to reveal some of her innermost thoughts.

  ‘I can’t even comprehend what life would be like for me without Charlie, and I’m just too scared to think about it. I think I’d rather be dead than live alone remembering what might have been. The only time I don’t think about him is when I’m involved picking up those poor chaps coming in from the front. You know, Genevieve, I used to cry when I saw a young soldier severely wounded, but I don’t anymore; for me, those poor men are just bodies that have to be patched up and sent back or on, although sometimes when I go to bed I worry about them and try to imagine what their lives will be like back home.’

  I understood her feelings exactly.

  She told me that she had seen an employee of theirs from Morton a couple of days before. He was a very young stable hand and had lost both legs. She said she worried about him and had written to her uncle asking him to find a job for the young man, something like mucking out the stables and grooming the horses – something he could do in his wheelchair. Madeleine went on to talk about the wounded she’d seen last time she had been in London, lots of young amputees. ‘How terrible it is to see them wearing their army greatcoats, on crutches or stuck in a wheelchair on freezing street corners selling newspapers. I’m sure there will be thousands more by now. I sometimes think they’d be better off dead.’

  I didn’t agree, believing that while there was life there was hope. However, I had to admit I had seen some shocking wounds and wondered whether the men and their families would ever come to terms with them. I believed the ones who lost a limb were far better off than those with dreadful facial wounds. They were the ones I felt most sorry for, those chaps with noses and mouths gone, only able to be tube-fed for the rest of their lives. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I replied. ‘I wonder how wives and children react when they see their men come home in that state, and what if their husbands are shell-shocked with their whole personality changed? It’d be like being married to a stranger.’

  We sat in silence; I was wondering whether it would ever again be possible to meet normally and talk about everyday matters such as what to wear to a party or the latest hairstyle. ‘Don’t talk about the war any more, Madeleine.’ I changed the subject to something that had been on my mind ever since we left Tom in the hospital, and that was how much Tom had enjoyed her visit.

  ‘He’s quite nice, your brother,’ Madeleine replied, albeit without enthusiasm.

  I pursued my chain of thought by saying that I’d rarely seen Tom as animated as he was with her. ‘Even though he’s quite a kind-hearted person, he’s frequently shy with strangers and gives the impression of being aloof and uncaring.’

  Madeleine replied dispassionately, saying that people like that were often shielding themselves from emotional entanglements because they were fearful of being hurt. ‘You’re a bit like that,’ she said.

  Was I like that? Had my affair with Gordon had a greater effect on me and my personality than I realised? Did I have a bad self-image? Was I not prepared to show emotion because I wasn’t prepared to risk rejection? These thoughts made me shift uncomfortably in my chair. Time to change the subject again.

  Previously, I had been thinking, what if, when she finally accepted Charles’s death, Madeleine turned to some other man for comfort. What if she turned to my brother? Stranger things have happened. Tom would soon be repatriated to England, and she was returning at the end of the year. I would have loved to have Madeleine as a sister-in-law, but the chances of that happening were remote.

  We finished our meal. I suggested that Tom would welcome another visit from her before he left for England. She didn’t think much of the idea, saying something about always being run off her feet.

  That was the truth, I thought, as we prepared to go our separate ways. Everything depended for us on what was happening on the various battle fronts.

  *

  The following afternoon I came off duty at five o’clock and immediately visited Tom. I was dead tired and didn’t plan to stay for more than a few minutes.

  ‘That’s a shame. You’ll probably miss a good mate of mine, Andrew Osborne. Remember him? We had a night out in Cairo.’

  Of course I remembered him. Instantly, my heart bumped around crazily; I experienced a ridiculously childish feeling of excitement. ‘Andrew here in Calais?’

  ‘Yes, he’s been here for a while. He’ll be going back in a day or so.’

  I was furious. ‘Why didn’t you mention it before, Tom? I would have liked to meet him again. Did you tell him I was in Calais?’

  ‘Sorry, sis, never thought of it, and then when you brought Madeleine along, well, everything else went clean out of my head.’

  Typical. Tom really was thoughtless as well as being totally insensitive. ‘Well, I’ll stay then, just to say hello.’ I wasn’t going to lose this opportunity. My fatigue was now forgotten. I tried to concentrate my thoughts on my brother’s other news, despite my brain being in a whirl. Even though my thoughts were on my imminent meeting with Andrew I asked Tom what sort of a future he had to look forward to in the Army.

  As I supposed, after a few weeks in a rehab hospital in London, Tom expected to get a desk job at our London headquarters
. He said that the best news was that he’d never have to go back to France. ‘I’ve been wondering, though, how the hell I’ll cope at Bellara with just one arm.’

  How many times had I listened to amputees musing about what sort of future was in store for them. I tried to comfort him. I reminded him that lots of servicemen had lost limbs and how much more difficult it would be if it were a leg. I assured him he’d learn to manage and that Madeleine’s grandfather lost a leg in the Crimea and by all accounts he managed to do almost anything. He had been an expert rider right up until his death.

  Tom’s face lit up at the mention of Madeleine. ‘She’s charming, your friend; I’d like to get to know her a bit.’ He looked bashfully at me. ‘What about it, Genevieve? Do you think a one-armed colonial would stand a chance with her?’

  Made slightly uncomfortable by his unusual frankness, I hesitated and tried to explain that Madeleine would still not accept that Charles was dead.

  ‘If she’s heard nothing for months he’ll have been killed.’

  ‘I agree, but she doesn’t listen. Maybe you could look her up next year when you are both back in London.’ I also advised him not to push Madeleine too hard. That was the last thing she would accept.

  Out of the blue Tom brought up another subject. ‘I heard the other day that Gordon McCann bought it at Passchendaele.’

  No rush of blood, no sense of shock or regret. It was as if Tom was speaking of a stranger. I might have blushed, but if I did, I don’t think Tom noticed. ‘Oh, I hadn’t heard he’d been killed. I thought they said only the good die young.’

  Tom looked up at me sharply. ‘That’s a bit hard, Genevieve. I have never heard you speak like that before. Whatever else Gordon McCann was, he was a decent fighting soldier, and he’d been at it ever since the Gallipoli landings. I would expect you to show a bit more compassion because of all the suffering you’ve seen. Gordon didn’t deserve to die like that – nobody deserves to die that way.’

  Of course I had sounded callous. Tom knew nothing of my experience with Gordon. He was fired up. Never have I heard Tom speak with such emotion.

  ‘I know some of our blokes haven’t got a good reputation because of their behaviour on leave. And they’re pretty hard to handle at times – cheeky, ill-disciplined buggers – but I admire them, and I’d trust most of them with my life. Admittedly, they do a lot of whingeing, but when push comes to shove, they are always there behind you. I’ll tell you this, Genevieve, every time, just before we went over the top, I’d look along the trench line and see that all the joking and shiacking had stopped. They slurped their mugs of tea or ration of rum; nobody was in the mood for talking. I could see their tense faces and sense their foreboding as they willed themselves to go over again. They were damn fine soldiers.’

  I was astounded at the pent-up emotion in Tom’s voice as he revealed the loyalty and – yes – almost love he had for his troops. Then, as if embarrassed by his display of emotion, he added, ‘Of course, if Gordon hadn’t been killed he’d have been court-martialled.’

  ‘Why? I thought you said he was a good soldier.’

  ‘Yes, he was, but every man has his breaking point, and the last time he was supposed to go over, he had reached it. There was an investigation. Apparently when his lot went over, he shot himself in the foot, and when the reserves were coming forward, they passed him hobbling back along the communication trench towards the CCS. A shell finished him off, and he died seconds later.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tom.’ I was sorry, sorry for all those who’d died, sorry for all those who’d seen so much horror that they’d never forget and even sorry for Gordon, that grinning, handsome boy who now would never have the chance to grow up and know real love.

  I glanced at the nurse’s watch pinned to my uniform. Desperately I hoped I hadn’t missed Andrew and glanced towards the door of the ward. There he was. So easily recognisable – a tall and thin Australian major standing there and looking towards me. I waved and walked quickly towards the door. He grinned. ‘What a marvellous surprise! Tom didn’t say you were in Calais.’

  ‘My brother isn’t the world’s best communicator.’

  ‘Maybe we could have dinner together. Remember, I couldn’t make the one we planned in Cairo.’

  How marvellous it was to be standing so close to Andrew again. I didn’t feel in the least like repressing my feelings for fear of being hurt or let down. Just the opposite in fact; I wanted him to see how happy I was to see him again. And I was prepared to take a risk. Andrew would never let me down; I was sure of that.

  ‘I do remember. I’d love to have dinner with you, Andrew. I’ve thought of you often since our last meeting. I’m free tonight if you are.’ We were walking back down the ward towards Tom as we spoke.

  ‘I thought you said you were exhausted and couldn’t wait to get to bed, Genevieve.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I said that, Tom.’ I frowned at my brother. Why was he so thick?

  I was more excited than I’d been since leaving Egypt; felt as though I had just wakened after a long sleep. My over-riding memories of the war are of interminable loneliness. I’d had no special man in my life, no man to write to, to think about, to worry about, to kiss and to love. Life for me during those three war years was totally unbalanced – all work and lots of sorrow – well, I guess it was like that for most of us who served.

  How appealing Andrew was. What a mischievous grin. What marvellous and sensuous clear grey eyes. I’d almost forgotten his eyes, but not his good looks and quiet charm.

  I wasn’t in the least reticent and said I would give him my address so he could meet me there in an hour and a half or so. I suppose I sounded eager because I was and didn’t care that he would know it. This was the man I’d been keen on when I was only fourteen, again when I was twenty-four and the one I badly wanted to spend the next few hours with. I wanted to be loved, and I wanted him to love me. I wanted to write to him and to meet him again after this was all over. I stood in front of him smiling, probably almost inanely.

  ‘Good idea. Why don’t you head off now, Genevieve? I’ll stay here for a bit with Tom and then make a dinner booking somewhere.’

  That sounded perfect. I said goodbye to Tom and turned to go.

  ‘Wait a minute, how about your address?’

  I wasn’t thinking clearly, wasn’t quite sure what I was doing. Quickly, I wrote it down.

  ‘I’ll be there, Genevieve – at eight o’clock.’

  *

  I raced through the streets, oblivious to all around me. I felt like a child preparing for a very special birthday party or a young girl on her first date or the way I’d felt the night Gordon took me to dinner at the Metropole when I guessed he was going to ask me to marry him. One thing I was certain of was that Andrew was nothing like Gordon McCann. I believed I’d learned a lot since 1914 and was confident of Andrew’s innate decency and sensitivity.

  There could be no dressing up in glamorous clothes; simply a bath, a little perfume and a fresh uniform with a dab of powder and a little lipstick. I was still preparing and wishing that I didn’t have to wear my drab grey uniform, when he arrived. I said as much.

  ‘It suits you. I like it. Anyway I hope there’ll be other times, after the war, when we meet and you’ll be able to wear more glamorous clothes.’ So he too was thinking about a long-term relationship. ‘I found a nice little place with a violinist and a small dance floor. I noticed they serve snails. Do you like snails, Genevieve?’

  ‘Not really. I don’t think I could manage to swallow one without thinking of all those creatures that crawl over the fence posts at home.’

  ‘That’s good because I don’t fancy them either. Never mind. There are plenty of alternatives.’

  The thing about being with Andrew, I thought again and again, was that there were no awkward silences. We had so much to say to one another, so much to reveal, that the hours passed in a flash – too quickly. And, what’s more, I was certain he was keen on me. I
knew I was keen on him.

  ‘When are we going to meet again, I wonder? My train leaves tomorrow night at 2000 hours.’

  ‘And I don’t get off duty until 1800 hours.’

  ‘What about I try to meet you for a quick farewell drink? Might be able to meet at the hospital when you come off duty.’

  ‘I’d love it. I’ll be in the foyer waiting for you.’

  ‘And if something happens to hold me up, I’ll write to you, Jen. Is it OK to call you that?

  ‘Yes, it’s OK. I like it, and I’ll write to you, often.’

  He walked me home, held my hand for a minute, looked into my face and lightly kissed my eager lips. ‘We’ll say goodbye tomorrow.’

  I remember every minute of those few hours we had together. I thanked him for the delightful evening and said how very much I looked forward to seeing him the following day. Why pretend?

  He saluted and walked away from me. I watched until he disappeared into the black night.

  *

  I was off duty promptly at six o’clock. Within five minutes I was at the front entrance to the hospital and looking eagerly in all directions. I waited for ten minutes, until I was forced to assume that he was not coming. Sick with disappointment, I began the journey home. Don’t be miserable, I kept repeating to myself, Andrew is not the type to let me down. He did say if something untoward happened and we missed each other, then he would write. Yet, how could I not be disappointed? I’d been thinking about him all day, counting the hours until we met.

  It was a bleak, dark October night when I walked through the hospital gates and turned towards my home. The few streetlights in town were almost completely obscured by fog that swirled in from the harbour and the Channel beyond. The grey, wet cloud reduced visibility to less than two metres and deadened the footsteps of passers-by. Once or twice I heard doors banging in the distance, but those sounds were muted. Indistinct patches of yellow occasionally defined open doorways. I heard muffled laughter; the voices of troops who thronged the bars and small cafés floated across the intervening space. I imagined the men, stumbling like new-born puppies, heading to another bar or perhaps to one of the many brothels in this town crowded with eager customers.