Angels at War

by Freda Lightfoot

  Livia pulled the blankets over her head. ‘Night, night, sleep tight.’

  ‘Hope the bugs don’t bite. Well, not too much anyway.’ Another of their silly jokes meant to keep spirits up.

  Mercy blew out the candle, then, after a moment, quietly asked, ‘Did the mail come today?’

  ‘Yes, but there wasn’t any for us.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  Livia could hear the disappointment in her sister’s voice. ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘I’m starting to worry.’

  ‘So am I, but there’s little point in worrying. We just have to keep our chins up and hope they’re both fine. I’m sure they are, now get some sleep. It’s late.’

  Mercy slid beneath the covers, shivering with cold and deliberately trying to block out all thoughts of Jack. Livia was right, there was little point in worrying, although it was hard not to. Probably his letters had just got held up somewhere, or gone astray. It happened all the time. Her head was aching and her throat was sore, and she was far too cold to keep still and get comfortable. Dear Lord, she hoped she wasn’t coming down with flu. She had no time to be ill, and this wasn’t the place.

  She thought with longing of the hot-water bottle she’d brought with her, useless without some means of heating the water to put into it. It was past twelve o’clock and there was certainly no hope of doing so tonight, even if paraffin for the stove weren’t in such short supply.

  The two girls lay for a long while in silence, the darkness folding around them, the bitter cold nipping at their noses and toes. Mercy listened as the wind gathered strength and flapped the walls of their tent while Livia prayed the guy ropes would hold as the rain was sheeting down outside and she had no wish to go out right now to slacken them.

  At length, thinking she really had no right to complain when she considered what the poor Tommies were facing, Mercy asked more soberly, ‘How many of today’s casualties survived?’

  ‘About half, at a guess,’ Livia said, rolling over onto her back to answer. ‘I again asked the sergeant why we couldn’t get closer to the front, pointing out that many of these boys are dead before they get anywhere near medical care. He just repeated the mantra about women having to be at least three miles away, that we were too sensitive and our nerves couldn’t stand it.’

  ‘Utter poppycock! We’re women, therefore we can stand anything,’ Mercy argued. ‘We withstood prison and force-feeding, didn’t we?’

  ‘Exactly what I told him,’ Livia mumbled, yawning. ‘But he insisted it was far too dangerous.’

  ‘What about the ambulance trains we often have to travel on to fetch the wounded, aren’t they still targets, despite having red crosses plastered on their roofs?’

  ‘I mentioned that too.’

  ‘I shall have a word with Sister Pretty. We’re nearer five miles away from the front here, let alone three. It’s ridiculous. What use are we if half of our patients are dead before they even arrive? Will you support me if I volunteer to go to a first aid station one mile from the front, or even less?’

  But Livia didn’t answer. Livia was asleep.

  It was a long time before sleep finally claimed Mercy, as her headache had got worse.

  By seven o’clock the two girls, along with a couple of other VADs, were making themselves a fry-up breakfast. Livia was anxiously watching Mercy as she picked at her food in a desultory way. She hadn’t slept well and was looking decidedly feverish. Livia was just nagging her to eat more when Sister Pretty came upon them. ‘Goodness me, what are you VADs doing here? This is no time for feeding your faces. The ambulances have arrived. There are casualties to be checked in. Get off your lazy backsides and jump to it.’

  They all stopped eating at once, even though it was the first food they’d tasted in over twelve hours, and ran to where stretchers were already being lifted and carried over the rutted, frozen field. The sheer number of wounded was terrifying, but at least the freezing temperatures meant a temporary respite from the mud. No doubt it would be a thousand times worse once the thaw came. They could already hear strafing and the crack of gunfire but, head down, they kept on running, hoping and praying they got through all right.

  Mercy, who hadn’t run off with the rest, was grabbed by Sister and marched along to the reception tent. ‘You can sort the wounded as they arrive, Simpson.’

  It was not a job Mercy cared for, nor felt properly qualified to do, but with doctors and nurses stretched to the limit there was little chance of finding one of those available. The task involved choosing which patients could afford to wait, and who must be rushed to the operating tables as quickly as possible. Deciding the priority of treatment often meant the difference between life and death. Mercy hated the responsibility at the best of times, and even more so today when she felt below par. She was shivering and sweating all at the same time, and could hardly keep her eyes open.

  She groaned. ‘Why me again? I did it yesterday.’

  ‘And you’ll do it again today, and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, if I say so,’ Sister Pretty tartly informed her. ‘What’s got into you lately, Simpson?’

  Livia happened to overhear the remark as she was helping to set down a stretcher on the floor. ‘You must excuse her, Sister, she’s overtired.’

  ‘We are all tired. I can’t have VADs lounging about all day doing nothing because they feel tired. Now jump to it, Simpson.’

  ‘And she’s not well.’

  ‘She looks perfectly fit to me.’

  ‘I believe she has a temperature. Perhaps it would be best if Mercy were kept away from the patients today.’

  Sister Pretty stared at Livia as though she had grown two heads. ‘Are you defying me, girl?’

  Livia lifted her chin. ‘I’m saying it wouldn’t do for her to pass on any infection, would it?’

  Mercy was sitting holding her head in her hands, not having moved a muscle throughout this exchange.

  ‘Do I have to drag you there by your hair, Simpson?’ Sister bitingly remarked, then peevishly grabbed a handful of hair and yanked Mercy to her feet.

  The girl cried out, pain vibrating through her sore head, eyes glazed, and even Sister Pretty looked alarmed.

  Livia said, ‘She’s most definitely feverish.’

  On closer inspection Sister had to admit that the girl looked worryingly flushed.

  ‘There’s no doubt about it. I’m going to take her temperature and check.’

  ‘Not now you aren’t, Miss Ministering Angel. You’re going to take her place and receive the patients. I’ll see to Miss Mercy here. Dear me, what unfortunate names you two girls have.’

  Mercy did indeed have a raging temperature and spent the rest of that day and the next in bed. Livia was the one left with the responsibility of meeting the tide of casualties.

  She saw the most terrible injuries: limbs blown off, faces burnt, eyes blinded, bloodstained bandages and filthy dressings stuck to gaping wounds. Some of the Tommies had been gassed, while others had no obvious sign of injury but were in a highly distressed state. One had both legs blown off, another had lost an arm below the elbow. Some medical orderly had stuffed sphagnum moss into a large hole in the side of a young corporal, presumably to absorb the discharge and hopefully prevent infection. Livia put him in the waiting area and sent the boy with no legs straight onto an operating table, as he looked in danger of bleeding to death.

  She checked each stretcher as they were placed in line on the floor, watching helplessly as some of the young soldiers died before her very eyes. But there was no time to grieve, or even to think. Livia read what was written on the tickets tied to their wrist or ankle, then used her own judgement to decide whether the cold, clammy feel of their skin was a result of the bitter cold weather or the approach of death. There was no one to watch over her and point out her mistakes, which could prove fatal. If only they could spare one of the doctors to cast an expert eye over these boys.

  Those who looked unlikely to make it were taken to
a large marquee. The stench in there was nauseating, the cries of the dying heartrending, and nursing care was at a minimum. The dead were then sewn into blankets, taken to the burial ground and laid side by side in a long trench.

  They were all so young, so helpless, and dependent on her making the right decision. Livia did her utmost to give these wounded young men the right priority, and to get them all treated, but counted her successes rather than her failures. The alternative only led to madness.

  In the days following, whenever she was finally relieved of duty, and despite her exhaustion, Livia would hurry to heat soup for Mercy, who was growing sicker by the hour. She even managed to provide her with a hot-water bottle, which Livia refilled as often as she was able, though never enough to stop what seemed to be a permanent shivering fit in the girl. ‘Do try to keep warm, dearest, and you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Thanks for standing up for me with Sister Rendell,’ Mercy croaked, which caused Livia to frown.

  ‘You mean Sister Pretty. We’re in France, remember, not the military hospital.’

  Mercy looked at her with glazed, unfocused eyes. ‘I knew that,’ she lied, then as she started to cough, pressed a hand to her chest.

  ‘Does your chest hurt?’

  ‘A bit.’

  It clearly hurt quite a lot and Mercy made no protest as Livia unfastened her clothing and gently rubbed camphorated oil over it. ‘That’s the best I can do for now.’

  This was not a good sign. Nor was the fact that she was confused and couldn’t seem to focus. Talking had brought on a fit of coughing, not the dry one she’d had the other morning but one full of phlegm, which came up green and smelly. Livia was seriously worried, fearful of the onset of pneumonia. Later that day the doctor confirmed Livia’s diagnosis, but there was little he could do either. Mercy was ordered to keep warm, rest, and drink plenty of water.

  Only hours later, Mercy was drifting in and out of consciousness; tossing and turning, rambling with a high fever, and for a while Livia feared for her sister’s life. She lay beside her in the bed in an effort to bring some warmth to her frozen limbs and stop the endless shivering that racked her body despite the fever and clammy brow. She refilled the hot-water bottle, tried to give Mercy a drink of warm weak tea to no avail, rubbed her hands and feet to reduce the chill in them, and talked endlessly to her.

  ‘Don’t give up, dearest. You have to fight. Jack will be fine. Don’t worry about him. You will be too, but you must fight. We all must. We have a whole new future before us, once this war is over. You mustn’t give up now.’

  The next twelve hours were the longest Livia had endured in her entire life as she remained by her sister’s beside. She worried that Mercy might never come out of this coma, never recover. Would she ever laugh again, and quarrel and argue and be the irritating, difficult, cheeky, lively, thorn-in-the-side girl they all knew and adored? Her breathing was laboured, the hectic flush in her cheeks most troubling, and as Livia sat holding her hand, she couldn’t help but reflect on the misfortunes that had beset Mercy throughout her life. Living in penury on Fellside, losing her beloved mother, abandoned and then incarcerated by a neglectful, cruel father, betrayed by her own husband. No wonder she was prickly and awkward, and yet she could as easily hug you tight, as she had done in the prison cell that night, and reveal how very vulnerable she really was underneath. And she’d been most protective of Livia, too, when she’d been losing the baby. If only she would accept the love of her sisters as generously as it was offered, then she might begin to put the past behind her and heal.

  But her breathing grew ever more shallow and Livia was in despair. ‘Oh, do please come round, Mercy dear. If our family failed you in the past, Ella and I really do wish to make up for our father’s neglect. We love you, we do really.’

  At some point during the night, and despite every effort not to do so, Livia’s own eyes closed and she began to droop. She must have fallen into a deep sleep for her head had sunk onto the bed when she felt a hand upon her hair, gently patting her.

  ‘You look worn out, and what sort of a day have you had?’

  Jerking awake, Livia looked up into her sister’s pale face, a wry smile twisting her rosebud lips. Livia returned the smile and said, ‘Absolutely spiffing fun. How about you?’

  ‘Top-ho!’

  Then Livia was laughing with relief, Mercy was chuckling and they were hugging each other tight. The patient, it seemed, would live.

  There was further good news when a much longed-for letter from Jack arrived. Mercy at once pressed it to her lips, as if trying to recapture the kiss he might have left there for her. Livia smiled, tucked the blankets up to her chin, and went back on duty.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ella, too, was working hard back in Kentmere, assisting Amos as best she could on the farm as well as keeping their home going and minding the children. It was a hard life and she welcomed the fact that Mary had stayed home to help.

  ‘How would I manage without you?’ she was frequently heard to say, as Mary would sweep up the five-year-old twins and take them off her hands for a while. ‘Though how you will ever find a young man to marry if you don’t go out into the world, I dread to think.’

  Mary would only laugh, saying she wasn’t planning on looking for one at present. ‘I’ve only just turned twenty, there’ll be plenty of time to think of such things when this war is over. Assuming there are any young men left to marry,’ she quietly added.

  ‘Oh, don’t say such terrible things.’ But it was a very serious possibility, judging by the numbers of reported casualties in the newspapers every week.

  Back in the spring, when they’d been at full stretch with the lambing, a couple of land girls had been billeted on Todd Farm, and they were a great boon, particularly as more of the land had been ploughed up for cereal crops. Emmett, having left school at fifteen, was now a great help to his father, trekking for hours with him over the fells to mind the sheep. Two years younger than her brother, Tilda would normally have been going into service when her education at the village school was completed this July. Instead, she’d declared her intention of training to be a nurse.

  ‘You’ve just got caught up with the romance of it all,’ Ella told her.

  ‘If Aunt Livia can go off to war with only first aid training, why can’t I learn to be a proper nurse?’

  ‘Because you’re too young. Your father would never allow it. Neither would I.’

  Nevertheless the child had persisted with her ambition through a long, tiring summer that seemed to drag endlessly on, and Ella and Amos eventually agreed they would investigate when she might be considered old enough to commence training as a nurse. It was a worthwhile profession, after all. ‘And this war can’t last for much longer, can it?’ Ella would cry, fearful for all her brood.

  Today was Sunday, and Ella was driving the trap to church. The land girls had volunteered to mind the farm, Amos and Emmett were out over Mardale checking the ewes, but Tilda, the twins and Mary were all on board, looking forward to this welcome break from routine and a chat with neighbours.

  ‘Oh, I never thought I would miss Mercy, but I do,’ Ella confessed as they drove along. It was a bright autumn day with soft white clouds seeming to settle in the dips of the valleys, although with a slight nip in the air as there often was in this mountain region. Everyone was well wrapped up in warm coats, hats and scarves, enjoying the sunshine even if there was little warmth to it. ‘I worry about her and dearest Livia all the time. I do hope they’re both well.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be fine,’ Mary said, in an effort to reassure her stepmother.

  ‘If only we had more news. It must be three or four weeks since we heard anything from them.’

  ‘Letters often get held up. I’m sure we’ll hear something soon.’

  Once settled in church, Ella, Mary and Tilda took out their knitting while they listened to the sermon. The vicar had given permission for the ladies of the parish to knit socks, mitt
ens or mufflers for the soldiers during church services. For some, it was the longest time they actually found to be quietly seated and able to pursue the task. Some of the older ladies nodded off, fingers would still and they’d miss the sermon altogether, only waking for the final rousing hymn.

  It was as they were leaving, chatting here and there to neighbours in the churchyard, when Mrs Jepson hurried over to ask if they’d heard the news.

  Ella immediately felt sick. ‘What news? Is it Livvy? Or Mercy?’

  Wilma Jepson put a comforting hand on her friend’s arm. ‘No, no, not your dear sisters. Jessie Flint is in church this morning, and she’s in a bit of a state. She’s been carrying a letter from her son Jack around for over a week now, and can’t bring herself to open it. She thinks he’s been injured. Isn’t he married to your Livia?’

  ‘Oh, goodness, yes. I must see Jessie at once. Thank you, Wilma, for telling me.’

  Ella hurried over to the old lady, leaving the children in the trap with Mary while she talked to her. Jessie Flint at once handed over the letter. ‘I can’t read meself but I’m sure it must be bad news. I’ve heard nowt from him for weeks and letters never bring good news, do they? I can’t bear to think he might be badly injured. You read it, Ella love. Is it bad? Is he a goner, d’you reckon?’

  Overwhelmed with pity, Ella sat the old lady down on a drystone wall then quickly scanned the single sheet. ‘Shall I read it to you?’

  ‘Ooh, aye, please do. Just tell me my Jack is safe.’

  ‘The letter is from him,’ Ella quickly reassured her. ‘So he must be all right.’

  ‘Praise the Lord.’

  She swiftly flicked through the words of endearment to his mother and siblings, some talk of ceaseless rain and mud, the awful food, and cut to the heart of his message:

  ‘I was in the dugout and suddenly there was this tremendous noise. I couldn’t begin to describe it to you, Mam. It felt as if the earth had dropped away from me. We’d been hit by a mortar bomb. When the smoke cleared the first thing I saw was that the machine-gunner next to me had taken a hit full in the chest. There was nothing I could do for him. I knew I had to get out and I can’t tell you how relieved I was to find that my legs still worked. I’ll spare you the details but I had to crawl out of that hellhole over the strewn bodies of dead men who minutes before had been laughing and joking with me. I’ve a wound in my shoulder which I’ll get seen to, but otherwise I’m still in one piece. Just wanted you to know that.