Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

nervously at the office door, the black-clad woman watches me, but there is no human warmth in her glance, and no greeting. She simply watches me.

  I hear a shout from inside the office “Come”. I open the door, and step inside.

  The gaunt, khaki-clad man sitting at the desk doesn’t even glance up from his papers. “Ah, Volunteer Auxiliary Frocester.” He continues reading, his eyes nervously scanning the pages as he speaks to me. “I just need you to know that tomorrow, you must be ready to leave here, at a moment's notice.” Finally, he looks up at me. Although he and I only met for the first time three days ago, I notice that the haunted look in Major Jardine's eyes is visibly worse. Eyes that are ringed by the dark circles of many sleepless nights.

  “Of course, I'll be ready, sir.” There's a pause of a few seconds. As he doesn't add any further information, I ask the obvious question.

  “Am I being transferred back to Poperinghe, sir?”

  Three days ago, five of us – Military Surgeon Green, three regular military nurses, and myself, a mere volunteer Red Cross auxiliary, were dispatched from the main Casualty Clearing Station at Poperinghe. We were sent to Ypres, close to the battle lines of the Western Front, and ordered to report to Major Jardine. Among his many duties here is the running of the improvized Main Dressing Station. The need for more medical staff at Ypres is horribly obvious, even in the Major's office: in this room too, the windows are empty holes, and everything is covered in the fine dust generated by shell explosions. The German bombardment of the town started five days ago, and it was decided to send us into Ypres, to reinforce its overloaded medical facilities. Every day there are fresh casualties, both military and civilian. Mostly, all we can do for them is stop them losing blood, bandage them up until they're fit to travel, and then send them on to Poperinghe, where they can be properly diagnosed, given initial treatment and sent on again to a Stationary Hospital. But until we arrived here, soldiers and civilians were dying of blood loss on their journey between Ypres and Poperinghe. Or “Wipers” and “Pops” as everyone in the British Army calls them.

  But today, there’s a difference: there are no more civilians among our casualties. Yesterday the decision was taken: Ypres is a death-trap, and all Belgian inhabitants must evacuate. From dawn to dusk yesterday we witnessed a procession of despairing women, old men and children leaving the town, all with their few movable belongings piled in handcarts. No-one has any idea where they are going.

  Moments pass by, and I wait for a response from the Major. My simple question about where I am to be sent seems to have unsettled him. Finally he looks up. “Not necessarily back to Poperinghe, Frocester. You'll have noticed the silence.”

  “Yes sir.” And, now he mentions it, I have indeed noticed it. A strange period of calm. Since I arrived here, the German bombardment has been intermittent. Typically, an hour or so goes by, punctuated every few minutes by the noise of shells exploding in and around the town, then there's a short quiet period. We're in one of the lulls right now. But this time, the silence has lasted much longer: several hours.

  I look into the Major's face, searching for an answer to my original question.

  “The silence is for a reason, Volunteer Frocester. As you will know, Ypres is at the centre of a bulge in the Western Front. This town and the surrounding area held by British and French troops – it sticks out into the German battle lines, like a sore thumb.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The shape of the bulge means that there are German troops to the north, east and south of us. Well, I've received a number of dispatches this afternoon indicating that a German regiment two miles north of us has begun an advance against the French Army’s North African divisions, who are holding that section of our lines.”

  “That sounds bad, sir.”

  “Yes. But for us here in Ypres, it means that the Germans are no longer using their heavy guns, because they are preparing to move them. They expect to move the guns into the areas which they are, at this very moment, capturing from the French.”

  “I see, sir.” I stand and wait, hoping he’ll explain more.

  “So, Frocester – we believe that the current German attack on the French colonials – Moroccan and Algerian troops, for the most part – is only the first phase of a series of assaults against our allied forces. The Germans would like to capture the entire bulge, including Ypres town itself. Further attacks on our troops are very likely. We think their plan is to, ah –”

  “Cut the thumb off, sir?”

  “Exactly.” He nods wearily at me. “So, Frocester, in anticipation of more German attacks, we have moved troops into the area alongside the Moroccans. Our new and totally inexperienced Canadian Division. It's unfortunate, but they are all that we can spare at the moment. If the Germans do attack the Canadian troops, we can expect a very large number of casualties. Their medical staff will need support. So we may need to send you there – at short notice, as I mentioned.”

  Major Jardine finishes speaking, and he's looking down again at the papers in front of him. I’m wondering why he’s using his valuable time to speak to me at all: amid the scale of what’s happening, the dispatch of one Red Cross volunteer to another Station hardly merits calling me away from the treatment room. But I already have an uneasy feeling about this conversation. Amid all the dust and mess of this so-called office, and the Major's extreme stress and exhaustion, I sense something unexpected, a strangeness in the atmosphere. Maybe it’s the catch I hear in his voice. I have the odd feeling that Major Jardine is lying to me. Or at least, he’s concealing something. There’s something else, something important, that he’s not told me.

  “Very well, sir. I'll be ready whenever needed.” He’s looking at his papers again, and I hesitate before bothering him with yet another question. “Will there be any facilities at my new Station?... what will I need to take with me?”

  “We have an Advance Dressing Station near the village of St Julien, around which our Canadian troops are now based. I'm sending further medical supplies there now. And I should also introduce Dr Bernard.” The Major looks down at his papers again, but then suddenly he rises from his chair, walks round from behind the desk and opens the office door. There, standing in the doorframe, is the woman I saw in the lobby earlier. Again I notice her colourless complexion, her pale eyes and hair contrasting with her coal-black dress. Most of all, I notice her steady, judgmental gaze. She looks unimpressed with both Major Jardine and myself.

  “Dr Bernard, may I introduce Volunteer Auxiliary Frocester? She will be assisting you this evening. And as I mentioned, she may be able to accompany you tomorrow if you are required at the Advance Dressing Station at St Julien.”

  Dr Bernard's eyes move between the Major and me. I'm suprized to hear an almost German accent come from her lips. “Miss Frocester. I am Dr Bernard, surgeon. A Swiss citizen, but I have volunteered my services with the Red Cross.”

  Major Jardine motions towards the red cross hand-sewn onto my sleeve. “Volunteer Frocester is also with the Red Cross, and she too is a foreigner to this conflict. A citizen of another neutral country: she is American. I think that you two will work well together.”

  Dr Bernard looks at the major coldly. “Thank you for your opinion, Major. But I will judge this volunteer’s performance for myself. May I meet the other staff now?”

  “Of course, Dr Bernard. I'll call Military Nurse Carstairs, and she will show you the treatment room and get you a suitable uniform. Frocester, you'd better get straight back to looking after the patients.”

  I turn on my heel and go. But as I re-enter the lobby on my way back to the treatment room, I ponder these strange orders I’ve been given. I've been in France only a month now, so I've little experience to judge by – but the major’s instructions are completely outside my experience. Firstly, I’ve never had a direct order given to me by one of the officers: I'm at the bottom of the hierarchy, the most junior of all medical staff. Until now, all my instructions have come through the m
ilitary nurses. Secondly, because I’m a menial assistant, all my orders are simple instructions: bind that wound, wash those bandages, make those beds. No-one has ever explained a situation to me, or informed me about the state of battle: that’s the sort of information you only get from whispered rumours, or from the mouths of injured soldiers. Why was Major Jardine telling me about the fighting which, if he is correct, must right now be raging immediately to the north of Ypres between France's North African regiments and the attacking Germans? It’s as if he feared me asking questions, and was giving me all those details as an explanation, an excuse. Perhaps, a smokescreen.

  Most of all, I realise that Major Jardine’s distracted manner, his avoidance of my eyes, was evasive – furtive, even. What is it, about the orders he has given me, that he is not telling me?

  But as I cross the lobby, all these thoughts are stopped utterly dead. The hotels’ doorway is darkened by human figures, two stretcher-bearers and a casualty. But it’s the noise that grips me: the strangest sound I’ve ever heard fills my ears. Half-scream, half-burble. Like a cry of agony, blown through bubbles.

  2.Cowardice

 

  On the stretcher, the patient’s back is arched. His head is thrown right back: I see the