by Evelyn Weiss
black outline of his bearded chin. I rush over, as does Dr Bernard. The soldier’s elegant, Arabic features make the blank, unseeing stare in his eyes even more shocking, but I see no blood, no obvious wound. Looking into those sightless wide-open eyes, I see that they are weeping: a flood of tears tracks down his cheeks. His head jerks, his mouth gasps for air, and his back arches further: it’s as if his spine is being deliberately bent to breaking point by some superhuman strength.
“Nurse! Nurse! I need a solution of bicarbonate of soda, most immediately.” Dr Bernard’s sharp accent cuts through the patient’s horrible gurgling. But then the bubbling noise increases again, and a spasm like an earthquake passes through the man’s body. This time his back straightens, rigid like an iron rod. I see Dr Bernard putting her lips to those of the patient. A kiss. I stand by helplessly as the doctor breathes deeply into the patient’s open mouth.
I hear Nurse Carstairs’ voice. “Here it is. A solution of bicarbonate of soda, as you asked for, doctor.” Even Carstairs’ normally calm tones sound shaken – frightened, almost. Dr Bernard stands erect again, and holds the man’s mouth open as she pours from a beaker between the trembling lips. I have no idea what we are dealing with here: neither does Nurse Carstairs.
The two soldier stretcher-bearers are still holding each end of the stretcher, as if keeping watch over the man. I’m standing too, doing nothing. We all look down at the pulsating lips and the appalled, glassy-staring eyes.
The last drops of the bicarbonate solution pour from the beaker. Five seconds pass. Then, like a bursting geyser, the man’s mouth erupts, spewing a fountain of yellow froth over the stretcher and into my face, the faces of the stretcher-bearers and Dr Bernard and Nurse Carstairs. Our clothes, our hands, the floor – everything is covered in sticky foam. I smell an utterly strange, metallic smell.
I hear Dr Bernard’s voice. “This froth – it is from his lungs. Hydrochloric acid is filling this man’s lungs, preventing him breathing. We need more bicarbonate: he is drowning in acid.”
I can’t help it: my legs just move themselves: they run. I have to get out of sight of this victim: I simply can’t face it. I scamper towards the lobby reception desk: behind it, a doorway leads into a corridor where we keep the supplies: cupboards full of bandages, sheets, drugs… I fall onto the floor next to a pile of blankets, sit with my back to the wall, draw my knees up to my face. My eyes close. I need to see nothing, to hear silence, to look into blackness. I feel my own flesh quivering like jelly.
Moments pass. In the dark, a random memory appears in my mind: the very first case I dealt with, one month ago, back at Poperinghe. A wounded hand, the skin hanging from it like a glove. After treating it, I went into the bathroom, vomited copiously. I’m not hardened yet to the seeing men’s injuries: every other day, at least, on pretence of needing to relieve myself, I escape from the treatment room, hang my head over a basin, and evacuate the contents of my stomach.
Crouching here, hidden away, it’s almost comforting, thinking about those other incidents where I’ve funked. I’m a coward, afraid of the sight of blood, and I know that – I’m familiar with it. But what I have just seen in the lobby goes beyond my experience, beyond the worst I can imagine. I’m in Hell, I think. All of us are. Jardine, Dr Bernard, Nurse Carstairs, that poor, poor North African soldier… we are damned souls in some infernal darkness. But some of us have courage: my comrades-in-arms are coping with it, getting through each day, helping each other. I, on the other hand, am not.
Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes pass in silence. I try to get up. I say, out loud to myself ‘Stop wallowing in self-loathing. Get back there, now.’ But then, I hear my name spoken. By a man’s voice.
“Frocester?”
“She’s rubbish, sir. Near-useless. I suppose some of these Red Cross volunteers might help us a little, when they are doing simple tasks back at the Stationary Hospitals. Even at a Casualty Clearing Station they might be of use, if they are properly supervised. But near the front line they are a liability. And Frocester’s the worst: she’s incompetent at even the simplest of tasks.”
“As you say, Jardine, most of the Red Cross nursing auxiliaries are unqualified, so they’re kept well away from the front lines. They spend their time cooking and cleaning at the Stationary Hospitals. However, Frocester is different: she trained as a nurse – at the Radcliffe in Oxford. But rather than going into a hospital when she qualified, she volunteered with the Red Cross. That’s why they decided not to keep her back with the other volunteers: instead they sent her to Poperinghe.”
“Sir, I have to be honest with you. If Frocester trained at the Radcliffe, it doesn’t show in her work. She’s a joke, sir: she needs basic training in how to make a bed, let alone dress a serious wound. And she’s as nervous as a scared rabbit. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that she’d forged that nursing certificate. But then she’s not even British, isn’t she? This is not her war. I think she wanted to see it, to take a closer look at the horrors. A kind of hysterical female voyeur. That’s why I strongly recommend to you that we don’t use her for this.”
“I hear what you’re saying, Jardine. But this is no time for debate. It’s time for action.”
“Of course, sir. I don’t mean to appear insubordinate. I have followed your orders to the letter. As you asked, half an hour ago I gave Frocester notice that she may be needed with the Canadians at St Julien tomorrow. So she’s ready to go.”
The voices, I realise, are coming through the cracked walls of Major Jardine’s office. He is giving his candid opinion of me to another, superior officer. But I can’t stay to listen: I must get back to my duties. I start to get up: my legs are wobbly, my knees weak. My head spins: the corridor, the piles of supplies, seem to whirl around me in a blur. I hear Jardine’s voice again.
“In my opinion, the same goes for Dr Bernard as for Volunteer Frocester. The battlefield is no place for women, sir. Too emotional and unstable. I’ve heard that at Poperinge another female – a military nurse, not a volunteer – fell in love with a Frenchman and just walked away with him, leaving men dying in their beds. I’ve even heard a rumour that a female note-taker at central command has recently deserted her work, despite the messages that need to be sent hourly to the front. Put bluntly, sir – war is no place for women.”
“Needs must when the Devil drives, Jardine. All males who can must fight: women must take on every possible task, to support them. It’s modern war.”
“But – with Dr Bernard and Frocester – the risks are not just due to their sex and their temperament. To speak plainly sir, I don’t like taking responsibility for these foreign nationals. An American Red Cross volunteer – and now a damned Switzer. The Swiss are half-German, aren’t they? Excuse my language sir, but given what you have told me, the security and secrecy of this operation is…”
“…the security and secrecy of this operation is so paramount that it is better to use medical staff who know absolutely nothing, Major Jardine. And, as you have seen, Dr Bernard is exactly what we need. She saved the Moroccan soldier’s life just now.”
“I would rather trust British medical staff.”
“And I wouldn’t. Not for this particular job. Neither would Field Marshal Sir John French, or General Douglas Haig, both of whom have given a specific mandate to use foreign Red Cross medical personnel for this mission. I’ll remind you: this operation could be the key to victory. Victory, Jardine.”
The unknown voice pauses for a few seconds, as if for effect. Then he speaks with crushing emphasis. “But if we get this operation wrong – both you and I know the consequences.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We will lose the war.”
“Yes, sir. I do understand.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Neither of us want to see the Kaiser parade in victory past Buckingham Palace, do we?”
“No, sir.”
“Now, Jardine, you know that, as well as the medical staff, the Field Marshal has also mandated the speci
al armed unit that I told you about. Have you recruited them yet?”
“I have, sir. I followed your instructions exactly. The unit is already out at the front, with the Canadians.”
“Good work. And –” There’s another dramatic pause, as if the mystery speaker is delivering a speech. “– think about it, Jardine. We may be within weeks of ending this war, if we get this operation right. But – you saw the Moroccan they brought in on a stretcher. You know how the Germans did that to him, don’t you?
“Yes sir. The rumours – they must be true. The German Army has started using poison gas against us. Chlorine, probably.”
“They gassed him, Jardine. Barbaric. And this latest German atrocity follows on from what everyone is calling the Rape of Belgium. Thousands of civilians, including women and children, massacred in Belgian villages by the German hordes. We’ve been fighting only a few months, but the Kaiser’s troops have already broken every single rule of civilised warfare. We can’t let them win, Jardine, whatever the cost.”
“No sir.”
“You see what I’m saying, don’t you? Getting this operation right is the most important thing either you or I will ever do. I can see your nerves are bad, Jardine. But please – hold it together, for just a few weeks more.”
“Of course,