And as well as the mud there was the endless noise. This was another thing to which it was difficult to adjust. The sound of shells exploding on the battlefield could even be heard across the channel on the east coast of England, but the sound of it at close quarters was something that had to be experienced to be believed. It was often likened to the noise of Hell, at least to what one imagined Hell might be like. It could not be worse, though, than the conditions endured by the thousands of raw recruits, day by day, in the futile battle of the trenches. Especially for those who did not have the stamina to endure.
And it was not only men who lived in the trenches. There were lice…and rats. By now these beasts had infected the trenches to such an extent that the military authorities had adopted special measures to deal with them. The French army had appointed rat-catchers who pursued the rodents with dogs. In the British trenches, too, ratting had become a popular and very necessary sport.
And, as if conditions were not already insufferable enough, the Germans had introduced another deadly weapon, that of poison gas. If it didn’t actually kill it could seriously impede the enemy, making them ill or even blinding them. The stench of it was in the air, carried by the wind along with the foul odour of death, which was always present; the stench of the rotting corpses of men and of horses, too, those unfortunate defenceless beasts that, in the early stages of the war, had been used and – unlike the human volunteers – had not been given a say in the matter.
Dominic, safe for a time in his dugout, was trying to compose a letter home to his beloved Tilly, as well as one to his parents. He chewed the end of his pen, deliberating as to what he could – in any honesty – tell them. There could be no mention of the atrocities: the rising death toll, the deafening sound of shells and machine guns, the plague of rats, and the continual danger that they faced even when further back in the reserve trenches. Nor could he mention the poor chap who had lost his nerve, sent out of his mind by the infernal din from the shells. He had turned tail and run away, and had been shot on the spot by his commanding officer. Apparently it had not been the first time he had gone out of his mind and it had been feared that his conduct might influence others. He had not been the first, though, and he would certainly not be the last.
Letters had to be realistic, however, to a certain extent. Those back home already knew that it was not exactly a picnic that their menfolk were enjoying.
At the moment Dominic’s and Tommy’s battalions were in the reserve trenches, but they knew that their turn would come. So far they had taken part in minor skirmishes, but nothing that could be considered a major attack. Most of their days, if they were not actually involved in the fighting, were spent in routine tasks, and so Dominic wrote of the daily inspection of rifles. ‘Stand-to’ was at dawn, when they waited to see if there was to be an attack. If not, then the command to ‘stand-down’ came an hour later. Their rifles were cleaned and inspected every morning, and maintenance of the trench was carried out each day. The barbed-wire entanglements were repaired at night; there was no need to mention to the folk back home that the wiring parties were also instructed to find out information about the enemy’s defences, nor that their lives were in constant danger from a sniper’s bullet.
The work that had gone into constructing the trenches – their own and those of the enemy – had amazed Dominic. They were like a network of roads with junctions and paths leading off to the right and the left. They had even been given place names such as Piccadilly and The Strand, the intersections being named Hyde Park Corner or Marble Arch. There were other more personal names too; Thomas, James, Albert or Henry Street, or – ironically – Stardust Way, Sunshine Street or Moonlight Avenue.
There could be no harm, either, in writing about their daily diet. Dominic’s mother, in particular, was anxious to know that he was getting enough to eat. Few would complain about the quantity of the food; it was the quality that was lacking. They ate a good deal of corned beef – known as bully beef – and tinned stew that went by the name of Maconochies. When there was no bread available they ate hard biscuits, resembling dog biscuits but much larger, sometimes made more palatable with a smear of jam. And the daily ration of rum was something they all looked forward to. Water was in short supply. There was usually enough to drink, but not always sufficient to wash and keep oneself clean; there was no need to mention the lice, though…
Dominic knew that he wrote a good letter. It came easily to him, in the way that writing essays had always been a satisfying task when he was at school. After all, it was the way by which he intended to make a living when this wretched war came to an end. Sometimes it was hard to believe it ever would. ‘If all’s well and the Lord’s willing,’ was a phrase he had often heard his mother use when she was hoping that something or other might come to pass, probably without thinking too much about what she was saying. It was hard to believe in this particular hell-hole that all would be well. Dominic, like many others, had tried to hold fast to the simple faith of his childhood, but the age-old tenets he had learnt at Sunday school about ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild’ seemed totally irrelevant now. And would the outcome of the war depend on the willingness of the Lord to bring it to an end? No; he had decided that his mother’s old adage was far too facile.
He wrote for a while with Tilly’s photograph at his side. She was looking smart and efficient but still as lovely as ever in her nurse’s uniform, although the black and white photo did not do justice to her blue eyes or her red-gold hair, only part of which could be glimpsed beneath the snowy-white headdress. But whenever he closed his eyes he could conjure up her image in his mind’s eye and she was constantly in his thoughts. He was trying to make the account of his days interesting and amusing, although God knew there was little to laugh at. It was amazing, though, how most of them managed to keep so cheerful. As he wrote he could hear the sound of singing drifting over from a nearby trench. It was the old tune ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’ – a great favourite amongst the men and able to bring a smile to most faces.
After the account of how he spent his days – carefully edited – he came to the more intimate part of the letter.
‘My darling,’ he wrote. ‘I have been reading, once again, the book that you told me was your favourite of Hardy’s novels, Far from the Madding Crowd, one that is a favourite of mine as well. Do you remember the passage where Gabriel tells Bathsheba of his love for her? It is one that I know off by heart. “And at home by the fire, whenever you look up, there I shall be…and whenever I look up, there will be you.” That is how I like to think of you and me, my darling; maybe years and years from now, when we’re quite old, we will be there by our own fireside. Bathsheba didn’t love Gabriel, of course, at that point in the story, but she came to love him in the end, as you know. We are lucky, dearest Tilly, that we have found one another while we are still young. But our love will last for ever…’ He closed with endearments and his hopes that it would not be too long before they were together again.
‘Shall I send your love to Tilly?’ he shouted across to Tommy, who was reclining on a make-shift bunk a few yards away, reading one of his favourite Sherlock Holmes books.
‘Yes, and tell her I’ll drop her a line before long,’ Tommy replied, putting his book aside and coming over to speak to his friend. They saw one another quite frequently, especially when there was a respite from the action, their platoons occupying adjacent dugouts.
Tommy peered casually over his friend’s shoulder and Dominic hastily put his hand over the page he had just written.
He grinned. ‘I’m afraid it’s private, Tommy, old man! What you might call soppy stuff, just between Tilly and me.’
‘Fair enough,’ laughed Tommy. ‘I wasn’t trying to read it; just taking an interest, that’s all. I do owe them a letter back home, Mother and Uncle Will, as well as Tilly. I haven’t replied since Mother told me about Arthur joining the ambulance brigade.’
‘Yes, they soon got him over here, didn’t they?’ remarked
Dominic. ‘I wonder if we shall see him at all?’
‘Anything’s possible, I suppose,’ replied Tommy, ‘although it’s not very likely. There are thousands of us over here and God knows how many miles of trenches.’
‘He’s at a field hospital near Ypres, didn’t you say?’ Dominic pronounced it as Wipers, as did all the seasoned die-hards in the trenches. It had been the scene of one of the first great British offensives, resulting in a staggering loss of life, and had been the beginning of the loss of morale to many. ‘And we’re near to Amiens. That’s – what? – at a guess about a hundred miles away. Anyway, jolly good luck to Arthur. He’s got what he wanted now, to be able to do his bit.’
‘Yes, and our Jessie is relieved, too, from what Mother says. She worries about him, of course, but she feels she can hold her head up now when she’s with her friends. They all had husbands who were involved in the war, except for Arthur… That’s a good photo you’ve got of our Tilly,’ Tommy added. ‘I must say it’s a flattering image. She looks lovely.’
‘Flattering? Of course it isn’t,’ Dominic retorted. ‘It’s just like her; she’s a beautiful girl. Why? Haven’t you got one as well?’
‘No, I don’t need a photo of my twin sister,’ said Tommy. ‘All I need to do is look in the mirror.’
‘You’re flattering yourself now,’ laughed Dominic. ‘I’ve just said…she’s beautiful.’
‘And I’m not, eh?’
‘Mmm…there’s a certain resemblance,’ agreed Dominic. ‘The same red hair, of course, although it doesn’t show on the photo, and the same smile.’
‘And I must say that Tilly has smiled a lot more since she got friendly with you,’ said Tommy. ‘You’ve brought her out of herself. She used to be such a timid little mouse.’
‘Yes, I think we’re good for one another, Tilly and me,’ said Dominic. ‘To be honest – I’m being serious now, for a change – I think I’ve become a nicer person through knowing her. More tolerant, and not so skittish as I used to be. And I’ll always be so grateful that you brought us together.’
‘Don’t mench…’ said Tommy. ‘Put in a PS, will you, and tell Tilly I’ll drop her a line soon. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to hit the hay.’ The statement was quite a literal one as their bedding consisted largely of straw-filled mattresses and a rough blanket. He picked up his battle-dress and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Cheerio then, mate. Sleep tight an’ all that; hope the bugs don’t bite!’
‘That’s a forlorn hope!’ answered Dominic. ‘Cheerio, Tom… Hey, hang on a minute. That’s my tunic you’ve got there.’
Tommy looked at it. ‘So it is. Sorry…easy mistake.’
‘Yours is over there, see, where you left it.’
Tommy went over to retrieve it and the book he had been reading. ‘It makes no odds,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any more of the ready than I have.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Dominic. ‘Although there’s precious little to spend it on, is there? See you then, Tom…’
He added a postscript to his letter, put it in an envelope and sealed it. Then he took out the volume of poetry that had been his Christmas present from Tilly. Old familiar poems and more modern ones, all of them well-loved. None more so that those of Rupert Brooke, whose untimely death in the Dardanelles had been a shock to all his admirers, making him something of a romantic hero. His death, though, in truth, was no more tragic than that of thousands of others already lost in this terrible conflict. His poetry had a simplicity that spoke to the heart.
‘If I should die, think only this of me
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England…’
But Dominic did not want to die and tried never to think of the possibility. The poem spoke to him, though, not just of death but of life and the memories of his country that he loved so much. He had not realised until he was away from it how much he loved England, especially his own little corner of it in north Yorkshire.
Brooke spoke of the ‘thoughts by England given’. Dominic let his mind wander then, back to the leafy lanes of the Forge Valley in summertime, to the heather-clad moorland, the castle on the hilltop overlooking the sweep of the bay, and the mighty waves crashing against the rocks on a stormy day.
‘…And laughter, learnt of friends and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.’
Chapter Fifteen
By the late spring of 1916 the convalescent home on Victoria Avenue was up and running. Faith had decided, with the approval of the other members of the family who were involved, to call it the New Moon Convalescent Home (For soldiers of all ranks). Faith, together with Maddy, Hetty and Jessica, had joined the Voluntary Aid Detachment – commonly known as the VAD – which had been formed in 1909 to supplement the Territorial Army’s medical services. Many members of the VAD were qualified nurses, but as well as the nursing staff the VAD provided welfare services to the sick and wounded servicemen. It was under the auspices of this organisation that the New Moon home was being run.
Faith, who had no nursing qualifications but who had been the instigator of the scheme, was appointed as administrator, in charge of bookkeeping, salaries and staffing, and admissions and departures. Hetty, who had experience of office work through working for her father at the family undertaking business, was appointed as her assistant. Maddy and Jessica were also working on the auxiliary side, helping our wherever their services were needed; seeing to the general welfare of the patients and performing tasks that did not require actual nursing skills, such as dealing out pills and medication, helping the men to the bathroom, or assisting with the writing of letters home or with eating their meals. Some of the men had lost limbs and needed to learn to cope with what formerly had been part of their daily routine. One of the main duties was keeping up the morale of the patients. On the whole they were over the worst, having already spent time in the field hospitals before being sent back to England. Many of them, however, were still suffering from what was becoming known as shell shock, the consequence of being subjected night and day to the incessant noise of the shells and machine guns. They often woke in the night from a bad dream or felt lost and lonely and unable to sleep. There was always an auxiliary helper on duty at night, as well as a nurse, to cope with such problems.
One very keen assistant on the auxiliary side was Priscilla Fortescue, Dominic’s cousin. She had shown her willingness to help in any capacity right from the start and had proved to be popular with both staff and patients. Jessie was the only one, apart from Faith, who had met her before and both of them had seen her, as most people did, as an insignificant sort of person, very much under the thumb of her parents. Now, after only a few weeks, there had been a remarkable change in her. She had become very much her own person, ready not only to receive orders but to take initiative. She was especially good at conversing with the patients who were in need of a shoulder to lean on or somebody in whom to confide, being a very good listener rather than a talker.
Mrs Baker was in her element in charge of the catering arrangements. She had a kitchen maid cum assistant cook called Freda – a young girl of fifteen – and between them they managed the three meals a day plus supper-time drinks. The cleaning of the home and the laundry – a mammoth task – was undertaken by two middle-aged ladies whom Mrs Baker had recruited from the church she attended. It was a happy work-force, under the direction of Faith Moon, who was always ready to listen to any problems or grievances, not that there had been many so far.
The professional nursing staff consisted of a matron, Mrs Steele, who was proving true to her name with an iron grip on her staff. Her hair, too, was steel-grey and worn in a roll around her head when it was not covered by her cap. Her posture was that of a soldier on parade and she seldom seemed to relax. She was brusque and efficient, but Faith discovered quite quickly that this concealed a warm heart and a sympathy that could come to the fore when necessary. But Agnes Steele knew ho
w important it was for nurses to be realistic as well as caring and that it could be a mistake to become too emotionally involved with a patient. The same rule, she had hinted, did not necessarily apply to the auxiliary helpers; that was why they were there in addition to the nurses. There was also a nursing sister, Florence Bartlett, and two nurses, one qualified and one probationer, Rose Bishop and Lilian Potter respectively.
They were able to accommodate up to twenty-four soldiers at a time. Faith had stuck to her principles in taking men of all ranks, both commissioned and non-commissioned servicemen. There was a certain amount of segregation in that the commissioned men occupied the rooms in the original Moon household. There were three bedrooms – now called wards – available, and there were always fewer patients from the commissioned ranks. The others were accommodated in the five bedrooms in the next-door annexe. There were three beds in each room, plus wardrobes and chests of drawers, so there was not a great deal of space left over. They could not be called luxurious but the quarters were comfortable and more than adequate.
All the men ate together in the large dining room, except for those who might be rather unwell, whose meals would be served in their ward. There was a communal lounge too, with a piano and a wind-up gramophone. The strains of ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ or ‘There’s a Long, Long Trail a-Winding’ could often be heard echoing through the building.
The garden at the rear of the houses was quite lovely in the early summer of the year. The hedge that had divided the properties had been removed and replaced by flowerbeds with rose bushes and a selection of annual and perennial flowers, which would provide colour until the start of the winter months. Several of the men were often to be seen, in their distinctive royal blue uniforms, taking their ease on the lawns in the deckchairs and loungers. It was a haven of peace after the torment and misery they had all endured. It was little wonder that many of them did not ever want to leave.
Until We Meet Again Page 17