Ardnish Was Home

by Angus MacDonald

  DP’s shoulder was terribly swollen, with a hole so big in the scapula you could almost put your hand in it. Bits of bone mixed with blood were flecked on his green shirt. Dr Sheridan decided to operate immediately.

  Luckily, a senior doctor arrived and took charge. I felt overwhelmed with relief that DP’s life would not lie in the hands of Dr Sheridan.

  We feared that the shock of the operation would kill him, but we knew it wouldn’t be long before gangrene settled in if we didn’t, so there was no real choice. We had to act quickly.

  ‘His heart’s too weak for morphine,’ the doctor pronounced, to my horror. And so four male medics were called to hold him down while the cutting was done. As the knife started to cut out the damaged flesh, he woke with a loud scream, bucking and twisting with amazing strength. We were terrified that he might throw us off and he would end up on the floor.

  I had to turn my head away, so the medical staff wouldn’t see the tears pouring down my face. Mercifully, DP lapsed back into unconsciousness and, after quite a struggle with the forceps, a bullet was found and removed. It had twisted and followed a bone down into a muscle alongside his spine.

  Later on, I decided not to tell anyone but Prissie of my previous meeting with DP. I knew I would not be allowed to nurse him if Matron knew. But I knew that I cared for this man – just a few hours on a train and yet I remembered every second. Pity, and the yearning to help him, only compounded my wish to take him in my arms and hold him. But I couldn’t. I was too scared. This was not how I had imagined our reunion.

  The next twenty-four hours were going to be crucial if DP was going to live. Fortunately, there was a lull in new admissions and so I was able to concentrate on him. I sat beside him throughout that first night, to stop him rolling onto his injured side and to bathe his brow with cool water. He was delirious, and kept calling out in Gaelic, words that were unintelligible to me. At times he would lie motionless with his eyes wide open. They were in a dreadful condition, more like red welts filled with pus. Matron had decided that they should remain unbandaged to allow them to dry and heal better, and also allow us to monitor their condition for the first day or two. We used white salve on his burns to lessen the pain.

  One time, when my face was only a few inches from his, I felt his hand come up and rest briefly on my neck, but I didn’t know if he was aware of what he had done.

  Everyone was surprised that he survived the first night, but he was certainly still in danger. His commanding officer, Colonel Macdonald, came by to visit, and spoke to him in Gaelic for a long time before going. I don’t think DP heard a word of it, though.

  But the fever had definitely gone from him. He’d stopped shaking and would take a little of the porridge I spooned into his mouth.

  After many hours, Prissie was told to relieve me, and Matron marched me to the nurses’ tent with firm instructions that I was not to reappear until the next morning. My mind was in turmoil and it was ages before I drifted off into an exhausted sleep. Was he going to live? Had he recognised my voice, realised who I was? Had anyone said my name? He couldn’t see, obviously, and he wouldn’t know I had also been posted to Gallipoli. I decided, with a twinge of sadness, that he was almost certain not to know and, though it broke my heart, I wasn’t going to tell him.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Prissie everything, though. That night as we lay in our camp beds, I told her that DP was my Highland boy from the train, that we had a special connection. Did she remember when I went to my Dad’s funeral?

  Prissie was astonished. She was so kind. She wished me luck and held my hand tightly, but she did say that falling for a half dead man wasn’t a good idea.

  DP slowly improved over the next couple of days. His fever subsided, and he regained consciousness. I spent several hours a day at his bedside, talking about everything you can imagine. He spoke little at first, reconciling himself to his injuries, and building up his strength. I fed him mashed food and gave him boiled water, and he often slept twelve fitful hours at a time. His dreams were horrid and violent, and his body would twist to and fro, often damaging the tissue that was repairing during the day.

  He would shout out Sandy’s name and the names of his family. He would plead for his captors to leave him alone, then he would cry silently. I shared his pain and wept along with him, though I was careful not to let anyone see me.

  I thought back to the train journey and wondered if it had just been a passing attraction. We had only spoken for a short time, really, on that train back to Wales. But since then, I had often dreamed about him and wondered what had happened to him in the ensuing months. Now he was in my care, and I was as close to him as you could get. My friends back home in Wales would have been practically measuring me up for my wedding dress, had they known how I felt.

  A new Scottish General, Sir Hector Munro, arrived, and there were rumours that a retreat was being considered. Certainly there were no new troops arriving, so DP got more than his fair share of attention. I was sure that he would soon be sent to the hospital ships, but, apart from one, they hadn’t yet returned from taking casualties to Malta. I was fairly sure I would be able to get on whatever ship he was on, anyway, I was well enough known by now.

  About two weeks had passed since DP had come into the Clearing Station, and he was different from the broken, scarred and silent man I saw after his capture. His face was still a mess, but it was scabbed rather than looking like livid raw meat. His shoulder was healing well, and best of all it seemed that he might get some sight back in his right eye. He wasn’t strong by any means but I felt sure he was going to live. We had an easy rapport now, enjoying each other’s stories and company.

  Thankfully, Dr Sheridan and I were working together less often. He was mainly in the operating tent and I was in the recovery tents. Occasionally though, he would do a round. One morning, I noticed he was holding a tube of some thick yellow paste, which he seemed determined to force down DP’s throat.

  I asked him what it was, and he said that it was vitamins and minerals, to build his strength. His own concoction, he volunteered. As usual, he wouldn’t catch my eye.

  I told him in no uncertain terms that I was not happy about it, but he ignored me. I knew I could not let him continue, so I repeated what I’d said and told him I was going to get the senior doctor for a second opinion.

  He became flustered and strode out of the tent. He had probably never been challenged like that before.

  I was shaking and desperately needed to sit down. On the edge of DP’s bed, I covered my face with my hands, I was desperate to reach out for his hand, for his support, but didn’t. We had an audience. Many of the other men in the ward had seen my act of defiance and were clearly on my side, but I prayed I wouldn’t be reported for insubordination and sent back to the ship. I was counting on the fact that he wouldn’t want too much attention on himself and his potions.

  But even as I recovered myself, I knew I had become even more determined to expose him.

  The 26th of November brought disaster. An enormous storm hit us. Torrential rain and gale force winds hit at tea-time and again two hours later when it was dark. Tents were blown down, causing misery to the injured men inside. All who were able rushed outside and did their best to put in new posts and hammer pegs back in. But the ground became so wet and soft that the pegs were just ripped straight out again. The big tent was completely shredded and lay flapping in the wind. Everyone was soaked and miserable.

  The next day, it continued. Relentless freezing rain and sleet with 70mph winds. To make matters worse, the Clearing Station started to get very busy, with a steady stream of men coming down with exposure and exhaustion. We had managed fairly well with 200 patients, but by the night of the 28th we had over 800 men seeking help and shelter. The three cooks did an incredible job providing tea and hot food for everyone. That night, the rain turned to snow and the temperature dropped to −18. Apparently, five soldiers who had tried to take shelter were found dead the next morning, t
heir soaking uniforms frozen solid. No wonder we saw so many casualties.

  We desperately needed to get men onto the ships as soon as possible, but the sea was too rough for the ambulance boats to work. The beetles were best for the job, being covered, but they didn’t hold many. It was eventually decided that we would send some men back, and myself and DP were to be on one of the first boats.

  I told DP that we would be leaving that afternoon.

  ‘What about my pipes?’ DP asked. ‘Can we take them?’

  I had to tell him that there probably wouldn’t be any room.

  Later, DP called me over and asked if we could write ‘Colonel Macdonald, Lovat Scouts’ on them. Then, there might be a chance they’d get to him. He’d know whose they were.

  I agreed, and told him I’d put them in the headquarters tents. I knew how much they meant to him. The Colonel wasn’t exactly well, either, however. He was suffering from dysentery, and important though the pipes were to DP they surely wouldn’t matter much to his CO. If there was a retreat from the peninsula, space would be at a premium, and I felt sure the pipes would be left behind. Still, DP seemed pleased and confident they would be in safe hands and that, for now, was what mattered.

  Prissie came on the first boat out, too, along with Dr Sheridan, a couple more medics and fifteen injured soldiers. Sailors held the boat steady as we loaded the men, wading out waist-deep into the waves. We were about halfway across the 800 yards to the Gloucester Castle, I guessed, with the boat being thrown about like a cork, when there was a huge wave and water began pouring in through the hatch. There was much shouting from the sailors. The struggling engine missed its beat, and after a minute it packed in. Our hearts were in our mouths, with not a word from the anxious passengers.

  A couple of the sailors were in the hold with us, with the cover off the engine, cursing about water in the fuel. We couldn’t see anything, and felt helpless as the waves crashed relentlessly on top of us. There was about a foot of freezing water in the hold by now, and we were soaked. A man was standing on the deck and waving, trying to catch the attention of other boats so we could get a tow.

  An injured officer pulled himself onto the deck to see what was going on. He told us that we were drifting parallel to the shore, that he could see the ships but they were a mile away.

  I put my arm around DP and pulled a blanket around his shoulder. He was shivering so badly with the cold.

  Then, one of the sailors shouted that we were heading for the rocks and we’d have to get out as quickly as possible. It was terrifying. We just sat, surrounded by the noise of the sea and the commotion from the deck as the sailors tried to manoeuvre the boat using oars. But it was hopeless. With a great crash and the sound of ripping wood we thumped into the rocks. What seemed like an eternity passed as the beetle was dragged by the sailors out of the worst of the surf and we were helped out through the waist-high waves onto the safety of the rocks – though they were treacherously slippy with the water freezing on top of them.

  Despite there being a man on each side of DP, he slipped and fell again and again as he blindly inched his way forward. He wore a sling on the injured side, so he couldn’t put an arm out to protect himself if he fell. He was in a lot of pain, wet and cold and shaking like a leaf.

  We crawled in the evening light to the relative shelter of the cliffs to try to escape the snow. The sailors had rescued a canvas tarpaulin from the beetle and, using the oars, a windbreak was erected. There was no food or means of making a fire. Everyone huddled against each other and a miserable cold night dragged by. This was the first time DP had walked anywhere since he’d arrived at the Clearing Station. I knew that if we were going to move around at all I would need to help him get about. Three other men were terribly injured. One who had been unconscious for several days but recently come round was mentally not with us. Another had just had his lower leg amputated, and there was a Catholic priest who was paralysed from the waist down.

  The next morning, we discovered that one had died. The more able men buried him under a pile of rocks. The officer and a few of the others discussed plans. Clearly, DP and some others weren’t fit to move at all. We were only a few miles to the north of Suvla beach, yet we were unsure who would or would not make it. Where could the less strong men go for shelter until help could be sent?

  As the day passed, a party of three men went out, returning an hour later. They’d found a farmhouse on top of the cliffs and reckoned that if we could get everyone there, we could shelter, rest and wait for them to send help.

  So, we all headed up the cliffs, very slowly in the case of a couple of the patients, and we made it to the farmhouse. It had been deserted, but was perfect for us to stay in for a few days. There were matches and some logs, which we all agreed were the most important things, as well as some oranges and jam and a few other scraps of food. Dr Sheridan had been pressured to stay with us by the officer despite arguing that he would be needed back at the Clearing Station. It was so typical of the man to try to wheedle his way out of a difficult situation.

  Prissie joked that he would be of greater use to the Turks wherever he was, and all the men laughed.

  The officer said that they had to go, as it was daylight, and decided that it would be best if they weren’t armed. They thought it would be safer to be in a Red Cross situation, rather than a military one. So, he passed his pistol and some bullets across to us and hoped we wouldn’t need to use them.

  They promised to send help as soon as they could and off they went: a snake of green, with the four sailors in blue, each fit man supporting an injured one. The officer was at the front with a stick, and on it a white handkerchief. It was a tragic sight, and we wondered if they had any chance. If the Turks didn’t get them, then the weather surely would.

  Dr Sheridan kept out of our way. It would have been much better if he had gone with the others the day before. He was by now in no doubt how much I disliked and mistrusted him, and I was convinced he would disappear at the first sign of trouble.

  That night he checked DP’s dressings. I was shocked when DP asked for a word with him. Reluctantly, Dr Sheridan agreed. DP encouraged him to go, stressing that he was needed more on the front line or with the rest of the patients at Suvla. He reassured the doctor that Prissie and I would look after him.

  Dr Sheridan responded in a voice that was filled with insinuation: ‘Oh, Louise will look after you, all right.’

  With that, I slapped him hard. There was a stunned silence for a second and he rushed out of the farmhouse. Prissie came in to find me shouting, ‘I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him! I will!’

  I could see how tense DP was. I knew he wanted to defend me and sensed his frustration that he could not. ‘Just wait till he comes back,’ he said. ‘I’ll give him a piece of my mind!’

  But Dr Sheridan didn’t reappear until late that night. I stood in the shadows, close to the bed, listening to the fire crackling. He sat down on the bed beside DP. I don’t think he knew I was there.

  He told DP that he was leaving, that he was going to follow the same route as the others along the coast. DP said nothing. Then I heard the doctor whispering to DP that I had had it in for him since we were on the ship coming out and that he couldn’t stay.

  DP replied. ‘You’re right. You should go. None of us trusts you, or likes you. Louise is right, and if I were able, I’d kill you. You’re a charlatan, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re exposed.’

  Dr Sheridan was speechless. When we woke the next morning, there was no sign of him. The scraps of food we had to keep us going were also missing.

  Chapter 7

  WAR

  Along with the two nurses and us injured is a very young officer, Mr Skinner. He was knocked out as the beetle was being loaded and only regained consciousness yesterday. He was left with us to command our party – perhaps there was concern whether he would be up to the trip.

  With the majority of the fit and able men gone, we are left wonder
ing how long it will take them to send a rescue party for us. They may already have emerged behind the Turkish trenches, and been captured. We will definitely be here for a few days; any longer will be a problem as we’ll run out of food. Although we hadn’t heard formally from our officers, the allied forces seem to be planning a retreat from Gallipoli. There were a lot of rumours among those in the Casualty Station that early December would be the date for complete withdrawal.

  The nurses have got everyone here organised. Louise made up beds in the main living area so that we could make the most of the fire. Helped by Mr Skinner, they dragged a couple of mattresses down, then went off again and came back with armfuls of straw and wood from the stable.

  We are stripped down to our underwear and our clothes are hanging up to dry.

  ‘Does it hurt as bad, DP?’ Louise asks me. She prods my wound gently with her finger. ‘It looks all right. At least it’s not septic.’

  She unwraps the bandage around my head, bathes my eyes with water and dabs the seepage off with a cloth. I can feel her breath on my cheek and the warmth of her body only inches from mine. When Dr Sheridan treated my eyes he hurt me, but with Louise it is as if she is caressing me.

  ‘Your left isn’t too great,’ she says, ‘but the right doesn’t look too bad now. I can see the green of your eye, and it definitely reacts to the light when I open your eyelid. Let’s leave the bandage off tonight and you can exercise the muscles. Keep opening it and try to hold it open.’

  I nod. Over the next hour, I do this and can definitely see light – even the comforting flicker of the fire! I feel so excited, so pleased with this improvement, that I’m convinced it’s going to get better and better over the days ahead. I tell everyone, and both Louise and Prissie come over to exclaim and ruffle my hair, sharing my excitement.