Nightingale

by Fiona McIntosh

  Matron, Claire had learned, only sounded like a stickler; she bent the rules constantly to make sure they helped as many wounded as they possibly could. Claire obeyed her senior and headed up the stairs. The sound of mortar shells and artillery got louder the higher she ascended. The smell of carbolic switched to cordite, and black smoke, like drifts of gloom from various explosions, hung above the tiny bay. She wondered when the captain of the Gascon ever imagined the officers and nurses might fraternise. There was barely time for anyone to scribble letters home. Developing romantic relationships was the last notion on anyone’s minds right now, she was sure.

  The scene above was worse than below. Walking wounded helped their fellow diggers stagger down the short beach that was now a chaotic casualty clearing station, swarming with soldiers and alarmed animals that intermittently escaped handlers or pens and were capable of hurting themselves and further injuring already hurting men. Wounded diggers took their chances under fire and in a raggle-taggle line made their way towards the shore, ignoring regimental medical officers, who were also undoubtedly finding proper assessment near impossible. Their ticketing system had clearly been abandoned. To Claire’s knowledge none of the nursing team had viewed a priority red ticket recently; besides, near enough every soldier seemed to qualify for that category.

  She massaged the muscles above her shoulderblade and arched her back to stretch out the soreness that nagged from shifting around prone men daily. Day, night, afternoon, evening . . . it was a seemingly interminable round of blood-soaked dressings and despair. Each time the Gascon sailed away with its hundreds of casualties Claire knew there were dozens of desperately hurt men left behind at the clearing station on the beach. Too many of them would die before the three-day turnaround gave them access again to full surgical help.

  Even so, some evenings they’d sailed with seven hundred injured or sick, dropping off the least grave at Mudros before going on to Egypt – to Alexandria, where ambulances, quality facilities and specialist staff attended to the most seriously hurt men, who may then be transported to Cairo for even more sophisticated help.

  Cairo! What a city. It was only weeks but it felt like a lifetime ago that she’d witnessed the enormous orb of sun sinking behind the Great Pyramid of Cheops. Claire recalled in vivid clarity how, in the diffused half-light of that golden-pink evening, she had allowed one of the turban-headed donkey boys to assist her onto the saddle of his patient beast before guiding her to the opulent Shepheard’s Hotel. Sunset cocktails had been flowing and she could remember the frisson in the air of imminent departure for most of the men present. Even now Claire could stretch her thoughts and almost taste the cooling hum of infused fresh mint tea that she’d sipped on the terrace behind the wrought-iron balustrade overlooking the frenetic activity of Ibrahim Pasha Street. And if she reached for the happy memory far enough, she knew she could reconstruct the feel of the famous hotel’s wicker armchairs pressing against her grey nursing uniform and hear the echoes of laughter bouncing off the stucco façade as she and Rosie were entertained by some officers from the 3rd Light Horse Regiment.

  So handsome in their dress khakis, they were surely the smartest of all the Australian divisions with those tall boots and spiral strap leggings and spurs. One of the men had allowed her to try on his slouch hat, making sure it sat on her head in true, rakish light horsemen style. Three finger spaces above the left ear, two finger spaces above the left eye and a finger space above the right eye. ‘There,’ he’d said, having adjusted it perfectly, his tanned face stretching into an appreciative grin. ‘Now despite the fact that you’re a gorgeous blonde who is surely going to give men in the trenches unhelpful daydreams, you’re now an honorary member.’ Its ostentatious but nonetheless striking white emu plumage at the back had danced in the soft Cairo breeze of a mild night that teetered, in late April, with the promise of summer around the corner.

  Though the hotel was built in Opera Square and on the pulse of the city’s heartland, Claire had decided it was spiritually a world away from the ramshackle cluster of brothels, restaurants, cafés and cinemas that cluttered around it, luring soldiers with coin to spend and an itch to scratch. Despite all the warnings from their troop leaders about the dangers of fraternising with the local women of the Wazzir district – or ‘Wozza’, as the Aussies called it – she had noticed that the streets were thick with Australians, New Zealanders and British keen to escape into someone’s arms – or fists – for a happy distraction.

  She could picture the donkeys queued up kerbside, vying for space with fruit sellers or men who’d trained their monkeys to hop onto willing shoulders for an unusual photograph, which of course Rosie had to have to send home. Jugglers, card sharps, nut sellers, trick cyclists and gambling touts – even women selling themselves from balconies desperately tried to catch the attention of fit young men on leave with mainly one thing on their minds. That all felt like a century ago – a different world . . . another lifetime almost.

  Matron arrived by her side and the aromatic memory of mint tea faded.

  ‘Is there any triage occurring down there?’ Claire asked, nodding at the beach.

  ‘Think you could do better in that hell?’

  ‘It wasn’t a criticism, Matron. I’m sorry, I —’

  ‘And mine wasn’t a serious question. I feel as helpless as you do.’

  Claire gave a sad smile. ‘I would like to try, though.’

  Matron blinked slowly. ‘We don’t put women ashore.’

  ‘Think of me as another soldier. Better, think of me as an extension of you, Matron. I know you could make a difference down there and I also suspect you’d love to get a better idea of what’s happening too.’

  Matron’s eyes smiled, although her mouth forbade the warmth to touch its tightly pinched line.

  ‘Let me try,’ Claire pleaded. ‘We can actually ticket some of these men and organise their care better. Right now they’re all taking matters into their own hands.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Nightingale.’

  ‘They’re dying, Matron.’

  Her supervisor sighed. ‘They’ll die here too.’

  ‘Yes, but at least they’ll die hearing a woman’s voice speaking kindly to them. Most of those boys need a mother as much as the morphine. A tender touch can do a world of good to their state of mind.’

  ‘You’re as soft as you are daring, Nurse Nightingale. I hope you don’t have to face the Western Front lines because that romantic soul of yours is going to be badly scarred.’ Matron paused. ‘What is it about you, Claire? I can tell you about each of my staff: why they became nurses, why they volunteered for a war zone, why they do what they do. Most of them had the calling or felt the need to be doing something meaningful with their lives. But you remain an enigma to me. I like you very much, you’re a brilliant young nurse, but sometimes you strike me as a ghost.’

  Claire laughed, puzzled. ‘A ghost?’

  ‘Indeed. You move among us sometimes as if invisible, not wanting to leave a mark.’

  ‘Sometimes I do feel like that,’ she admitted, further impressed by her elder’s insight.

  Matron smiled and her expression was filled with kind concern. ‘Why would you ask to go ashore when you know it’s so dangerous?’

  She stared at Matron, slightly flustered. ‘It’s my job. Surely we —’

  ‘No need to patronise me, Nurse Nightingale. I’ve got three decades on you and deserve honesty.’

  Claire’s shoulders slumped. ‘I lost another patient this morning. He didn’t even have stubble on his chin he was so young.’

  ‘They’re mostly heartbreakingly young. Why did this one make such an impression on you?’

  She folded her arms in a protective gesture. ‘His eyes reminded me of childhood summers in Cornwall with my father – happy times.’ Claire sighed in memory. ‘And then I saw his tag and it told me his surname was Cornish.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘It was as though it was a message to me. I started to think about h
is mother.’

  ‘Most unwise. Didn’t we teach you that?’

  ‘Easy to learn, hard to put into practice. And even more unwisely, his death got me thinking about my own family.’

  ‘And?’ Matron pressed.

  ‘That the few people I love are no longer alive. And it occurred to me that should I die in some foreign land like young Cornish, it really wouldn’t matter to anyone.’ She watched Matron’s expression turn fractionally exasperated as she opened her mouth to respond but Claire hurried on. ‘No, it’s true, Matron. There is no one hoping to hear from me. I move from place to place, belonging nowhere and to no one. The person I’m closest to is Rosie Parsons and I met Rosie six weeks ago. I’m twenty-five, Matron; don’t you think it’s odd that in a quarter of a century I have no one who might be touched in any way should I die?’

  ‘Claire, how very bleak of you.’

  She gave a sad smile. ‘Sorry. But you did insist.’

  Matron squeezed Claire’s wrist with concern. ‘And being adventurous soothes this mood?’

  ‘No, but I am a logical choice for a dangerous task. The most I have to lose is my life, and as no one cares about it, I’ll endanger it willingly if it saves another person who matters to someone.’

  ‘And is this why you took up nursing, Claire? Did you go into this vocation simply so that you would have people to care for?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’ She hesitated, caught by the insightful suggestion that she suspected was true. ‘More likely it’s because of my father, whom I adored. We were a team; he used to say I was his favourite girl and that no woman would come between us.’ She hesitated and then gave a rueful smile. ‘Of course one did, but that’s by the by. My father fought and survived the Boer War, then came to Australia, where I’d been sent to live with cousins because my mother had passed away when I was a child, and he died far too soon after his return from disease . . . but I believe more especially from a lack of good nursing. If we can get to these men faster —’ Claire gestured across Anzac Cove, ‘and perform triage with more expedience, maybe we can save them losing limbs or dying from injuries out there on foreign land.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s about more professional nursing.’

  ‘I see. You’re a crusader,’ Matron said, adding levity to her tone and a smile.

  Claire shared it, glad to leave the dark years of her early teens behind. ‘I’m happy to take that role,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, Claire, I want no heroics today. You are simply to help where you can in the brief period you’ll have but essentially you are to observe and report.’

  Claire’s eyes widened. ‘You’re letting me go onto the beach?’

  ‘I have a message to get to the medical officers from the surgeons here. You can go with the messenger. Whatever you can achieve in the time there is up to you. But I do agree it will help if we get a nurse on the ground. Focus – I want valuable information coming back with you.’

  Claire’s smile shone as brightly as her gaze. ‘Thank you, Matron.’ She turned to fetch some supplies.

  ‘Nurse Nightingale.’ Claire spun back as a roar from the nearby HMS London signalled the unleashing of some firepower. ‘This is a very dangerous business, you know. I’m breaking orders but only because you’ve broken my heart a little with your romantic notion of nursing. What you need is some real romance.’

  Claire grinned. ‘Well, I doubt I’m going to find it here, Matron.’

  2

  Jamie made a silent promise that he would never complain about flies again. They had been annoying during the swearing-in parade of the 9th Regiment of the Australian Light Horse at Morphetville, on the outskirts of Adelaide city, but nothing like Turkey.

  A lone sniper bullet cracked uselessly above him and a fleck chose that moment to target his eye. ‘Bugger,’ he muttered, rubbing at the grit that instantly felt like a rock beneath his eyelid. The thorny scrub had become so dry over the last few weeks it was now brittle. He blinked rapidly, hoping his tears would loosen the annoying mote, and reflected that despite the sniper fire it was a relatively quiet day, given the carnage of the previous week. He was leaning back against the parados of the trench and unless a mortar came straight at him he considered himself relatively safe for breakfast. It was odd how mortar coming from the left or the right could be pinpointed, but if it was like an arrow coming at you, then you were its breakfast. He found this twist on the thought darkly comic and smiled privately.

  He peered into the tin of jam he’d opened minutes earlier and his amusement died. ‘I can’t even tell what fruit’s in this,’ he lamented, staring at what had got to his treat before him.

  ‘It’s all good, mate,’ his neighbour said, reaching over to dig his spoon in where a horde of flies had gathered so thick that the pressure pushed at least a dozen of them into the thick, sticky conserve. His companion sucked the spoon clean with an appreciative sigh. ‘There you go, mate. Fuckin’ apricot,’ he confirmed, grinning as he swallowed the glob. Jamie noticed that Swampy didn’t seem to care that flies were in his eyes or that they were sucking at his sweat on his receding hairline. He’d bounced back from his bout of dysentery too; Swampy just accepted. He was probably the perfect recruit. Never complained, mostly cheerful, and always ready to bait his fellow digger and amuse those around him.

  Why had they thought Johnny Turk would be a pushover? They’d just assumed they’d be an untrained rabble of shepherds or farmers, and certainly not as well equipped as the ANZACs. What had meant to be a triumphant, surprise attack had been resisted brilliantly and forcefully. Now both sides had worn each other down into a stalemate of trench warfare and neither Turk nor ANZAC could dislodge the other.

  The greater challenge was surviving the despicable conditions of heat, illness, insects, poor hygiene, lack of water and food . . . and rapidly diminishing ammunition.

  They had sailed from Port Melbourne in February, arriving into Egypt mid-March, where it was soon agreed that being a mounted division made them unsuitable for the push for the Dardanelles. But the decision was made to leave the horses in Egypt and deploy to Gallipoli, only arriving this month to hear the horror stories of the amphibious landings the previous month and the heroics that ensued.

  ‘Stretcher-bearer told me the figure’s now knockin’ forty thousand,’ Swampy remarked, rolling a thin cigarette. He licked the paper with a dry tongue through cracked lips that he stuck his smoke to and then lit. The nickname Swampy truly suited him. Jamie had gathered that he’d been a vagrant at the time of his recruitment but somewhere in his past he’d been a brilliant horseman. Jamie had stopped wondering what had gone wrong in Swampy’s life. He was happy that he was among them and no longer offended by his poor manners.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  Swampy shrugged and scratched his lice-riddled chest. ‘It’s what I was told, mate.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Jamie said, but he was the one lying. He did believe it. The Turkish counterattacks had decimated entire divisions of the ANZACs but the Turks had paid a terrible price as well. The seemingly endless skirmishes took lives on both sides daily, as did the sniper fire. Just yesterday they’d lost one of their favourites, a popular 36-year-old called Archie Cammelle. Everyone pronounced his last name ‘Camel’, so it was only a short leap to call him Humpy. It was Spud, Jamie’s closest mate, who’d found Humpy, dead on the latrines; a lucky sniper’s bullet had caught him clean through the temple and he’d simply sagged where he’d sat on the timber boards, which barely covered and certainly didn’t mask the foul reek of the drop hole.

  Spud returned from that very place now, dragging with him a terrible whiff of the latrines. ‘I just took a crap with the lieutenant,’ Spud said, sounding chuffed.

  Jamie laughed. Spud was reliably amusing without trying.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Spud should never have told Jamie that his mother reckoned he looked like a potato when he was born. In fact, everything about Harry Primrose was entertaining – from his surname for such
a block of a man, to his nickname because he did look a bit like a potato (a King Edward, Jamie thought), to his pale skin and the pink splotches that were erupting in this warmer weather, to his deadpan expression that was the key to his accidental comedy. ‘Bloody bugs,’ he said, not waiting for Jamie’s answer and scratching his crotch. ‘I think I’ll just pour petrol over my dick.’

  The men chuckled and chimed in with a few other ripe suggestions for what Spud might also try. His friend sat down, leaned back against the wall alongside Jamie, his vast size-thirteen boots looking like a pair of laced twin monoliths soaring up from the duckboard floor of the trench. Jamie was half as tall as their twelve-foot high trench; Spud probably stood six inches shorter than Jamie but his stocky frame was muscular. ‘Years of being a shearer,’ Spud had boasted as he’d flexed his biceps when they’d met on Christmas Eve while clearing out the stables at their training barracks.

  ‘Not going home?’ Spud had opened the conversation.

  ‘I’m happy to tend the horses. Someone has to.’ He grinned. ‘How about you?’

  His shorter, barrel-chested companion had offered a hand. ‘Harry Primrose. You’re a bit dedicated, mate, aren’t you? I volunteered to stay because they’ve ordered extra rations of food and beer for the boys left behind.’ He winked. ‘What’s your name, then?’

  ‘James Wren.’ He lifted a shoulder with embarrassment. ‘My family calls me Jamie.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘A place called Farina in the Flinders Ranges.’

  ‘Ah, right. Got a girl?’

  He caught his breath at the unexpected query. ‘Er, sort of, well . . . not really.’

  Spud looked at him with quizzical amusement.

  ‘No. I did.’ He hesitated. ‘But I don’t want any girl waiting for me.’

  ‘Does she understand?’

  ‘I’m not thinking about all that right now. I don’t know what I feel other than I wasn’t ready to put any sort of ring on her finger. I just want to do my country proud.’