by Mary Hooper
‘Because what in the world will he do with himself now?’ she said, her voice taut with anguish. ‘How will he manage with only half a face? He can’t eat or talk to anyone, he can’t go for a stroll around the grounds. All he does is sit in bed all day hidden behind a newspaper.’
‘His face can be reconstructed, though, and we’re helping with his eating,’ Moffat said, for a device had been made for those patients whose injuries prevented them from taking food or drink in the normal way: a jug and rubber tube affair which sent milk or soup directly down their throats. It took an age to feed a patient in this way, and they hated it, gagging and coughing throughout, but it was either that or they would starve to death.
There was one piece of good news in the hectic and difficult days following the arrival of the Red Cross ship: a message arrived from Private Taylor’s ward to say that since his mother had moved to a guest house nearby, he’d begun to eat again, and his prospects seemed brighter.
Billy’s leg injury was, as Doctor Archer had predicted, relatively straightforward and the fracture seemed to be healing well in its plaster cast. Two weeks after his operation, Poppy received a note from him saying he was going to be moved to a different hospital and the guards were allowing her to come and see him.
In pelting rain, going across the grass to Hut 600, Poppy could not help feeling relief that Billy was being transferred elsewhere. She’d only visited him two or three times, but had found the visits utterly depressing. He didn’t seem to feel guilty about letting down his mates nor particularly grateful for Doctor Archer’s attempts to help him. His attitude was all wrong, Poppy thought.
There was a new inmate in Hut 600 by then, a young man who, Billy told Poppy, had thrown himself on the mud and pretended to be dead when given the command to run with his bayonet towards the German line.
‘I told him I didn’t blame him one bit,’ Billy added.
‘Hush,’ Poppy said, looking around for the guards. ‘You mustn’t say things like that – there could be repercussions. It’s as if you’re encouraging him not to fight.’
‘That’s just what I am doing.’
‘But it’s not patriotic.’
‘Nor is getting your stomach sliced open by Fritz.’
There were changes in him, though. Poppy noticed that Billy had a twitch above his left eyelid. And his hands, resting on top of the bed, were constantly scratching at the blanket.
‘Billy, I can’t stay long,’ she said. ‘Tell me about where you’re going.’
‘Bloody Scotland,’ Billy said.
‘Scotland?’ Poppy echoed, surprised.
‘Your doctor mate came round and told me. I’m going to an asylum for boys who’re off their heads.’
Poppy frowned. ‘I’m sure he didn’t say that. It must be a hospital for nervous diseases.’
‘Same thing.’
His nails were chewed right down, Poppy noticed. He hadn’t bitten them since he was five!
‘It’s for those who are suffering from their nerves,’ she said. ‘Men who’ve been under fire and who are over-anxious and distressed.’
‘You know what everyone calls the place? Dottyville.’
‘Better to be in Dottyville than to be dead!’ said Poppy, exasperated. ‘You don’t seem to realise what you’ve done, Billy – how you’ve let everyone down.’
‘I’ve heard they give you electric shock treatment there and dunk you in cold water.’
‘Stop it!’ Poppy said. ‘Whatever they do, at least you’ll be alive. You’re not being shot at dawn, are you?’
‘No.’ For a brief moment Billy looked scared and younger than his years. ‘A loony bin, though! It strikes me that you’re all bloody lunatics and I’m the only sane one.’
‘Oh, hush! Look, have you written to Ma yet?’
Billy shook his head.
‘Well, you must. Tell her you’re going to Scotland. You needn’t say exactly where, just tell her it’s to convalesce or something. And, Billy . . .’ she glanced around to make sure no guards were close enough to overhear, ‘when you get to this special hospital, don’t forget that it’s for soldiers affected by their nerves. Shell shock, they call it.’
‘Yeah. Shell shock,’ Billy repeated.
‘Try and act a bit vacant and a bit strange, because if they think there’s nothing wrong with you, they might still charge you with cowardice under fire.’
Billy shrugged, looking as if he didn’t care one way or the other. ‘Bloody war . . .’
Two more days went by and Poppy, adding them up, made it fifteen days since she’d written to Freddie. Fifteen days! He’d either decided not to reply to her, or he’d been injured and lost the use of his hands. She wouldn’t contemplate the other option.
Coming home late from work on the sixteenth day, however, there was a letter from him waiting for her. Immediately seized with all manner of hopes and fears, she carried it off into the bathroom to be alone with it.
Duke of Greystock’s Rgt.
27th November 1915
Dearest Poppy,
Please don’t apologise for the swift end to our evening – of course you had to go and see your brother. I am glad to hear that his injuries were not serious and hope that he will be able to return to duty soon.
The sailing over here was quite calm; I believe we were lucky. When we arrived in Boulogne the Red Cross had provided tents for the men, showers and a makeshift canteen, and we made full use of all these until our troop train turned up. Of course, I am not allowed to divulge exactly where we are now, but it’s not far from the action.
At the moment my unit is in a dugout. We will be moving towards the front if and when we get the command to do so. We are just sitting around waiting, writing letters, reading, carving whistles from wood or playing cards. There are even men who are knitting their own socks. These pastimes may make our life sound rather relaxing, but take my word that it is anything but. There is spasmodic shelling from above, the continual boom of bombs and the ever-present fear of snipers’ bullets. To add to this, it has not ceased raining since we arrived and everything we see, touch or do is sodden and muddy.
Poppy, our last meeting was so rushed . . . but I really do want to explain about Miss Cardew. My mother and her very dear friend, Mrs Edna Cardew, have long held the wish that Philippa and I should marry – it was one of those things that were decided when we were in our cradles. I must admit, I was content to go along with things until, as it says in the song, I was smitten by your charms. Since my brother died, Mother has become more insistent that this marriage should take place, and in view of our family tragedy, I have not wanted to upset her. I’m sure you will understand this. However, I have three days’ leave in the new year and I intend to speak to my mother very plainly then and tell her that I have no intention of marrying Miss Cardew.
I hope this reassures you. My dear girl, I think of you often and believe we will have our time soon. After I have seen my family, I will be going back to see action via Southampton and hope we can meet up again. Would you be able to take a day’s leave and we can spend longer in each other’s company?
With fondest regards,
Freddie
The next morning, Poppy read to Matthews the piece about Freddie’s mother and her long-held wishes.
‘What do you think?’ Poppy asked anxiously. ‘It’s obvious that no one knows he’s seeing me.’
Matthews pulled a face. ‘Well . . .’
‘It’s good that he considers his mother’s feelings, of course.’
‘On the other hand, he says he’s going to tell her that he has no intention of marrying Miss Whatsername, but doesn’t say he’s going to tell her about you.’
Poppy had noticed this, but was pretending that she hadn’t. ‘But look – see here,’ she said, holding the letter in front of her friend’s face. ‘He says he was smitten by my charms. And he thinks our time will come!’
‘Yes, I know,’ Matthews said. ‘I suggest you write back,�
� she went on, ‘but not immediately. Try and keep him guessing a little. You don’t want to look too eager.’
‘I suppose not.’ But she was eager, Poppy thought. She was . . .
Poppy travelled to the hospital with Jameson that morning and told her a little about the contents of Freddie’s letter, hoping that she might learn more about the upper classes and their habit of arranging marriages between their offspring. Jameson was strangely subdued, however, and hardly seemed to take in what Poppy was saying. After a while Poppy stopped talking. There she was, unburdening her heart, and Jameson wasn’t even listening!
In Hut 59 that morning, Private Williams’s bed, as usual, had two screens around it, as much for his comfort as for anything else. At visiting time or when there were strangers expected on the ward, the screens would be closed so that he was completely hidden from view. The rest of the time there was a narrow gap left between screens, and all the staff, from Sister down to the orderlies, made it a point of honour to go and speak to him at least once in the morning and once in the evening. His face looked just as horrific, but his wounds were cleaned and dressed each morning, and he was as comfortable as any man in his condition could be.
Poppy, doing the rounds with the breakfast trays, wished Private Williams a good morning, then left one of the orderlies to feed him. When she’d washed up the breakfast things, Sister beckoned her over.
‘Two jobs for you, Pearson. The first is to take Private Williams to Facial Reconstruction.’
Poppy’s heart sank. She was managing as well as she could with the injured soldier, speaking to him brightly and cheerfully and never without a smile, but the thought of taking him somewhere and being with him for any length of time was not an appealing one.
‘I know,’ said Sister Kay, though Poppy hadn’t articulated this, ‘but we must try and get him back into society. FR can do great things. They need to assess his face now, early on, before it starts healing.’
‘They can’t make a whole new face for him, though, can they?’
‘Not quite that,’ Sister said. ‘But they’re getting awfully good. The surgeon wants to see him this morning to give him some hope.’
‘I’ll take him now,’ Poppy said, trying to look keen. ‘And what’s the other thing?’
‘Well, I daresay you’ll like this better,’ Sister said. ‘Christmas is coming and last year we didn’t do much because we all expected the war to be over. This year we know better, so I want to make Christmas as good as possible for the boys. I’d like you to start collecting bits and pieces for their Christmas stockings.’
Poppy laughed, surprised. ‘Oh, yes please!’
‘Charities are excellent at donating things, and the big local stores, and tobacco companies and breweries. I’ll give you a list.’ She hesitated. ‘Now, Christmas Day is going to be a day like any other as far as the sick and injured are concerned, so I’m hoping all my staff will be in here that day – that is, if they’ve nowhere else they ought to be.’
Poppy thought of her ma and sisters far away at Christmas, of Billy in Scotland, of Freddie with his family. ‘Nowhere else at all, Sister. I’d like to be on duty.’
‘Excellent, Pearson.’
Private Williams had already been told he was going to Facial Reconstruction and an orderly had settled him into a wheelchair. He had a great woolly muffler wound around his neck and, because this completely hid the lower half of his face, to the rest of the world he appeared quite normal. The boys in the ward looked at him, did a double take and, because his mutilated face was hidden, forgot to be awkwardly tactful and spoke to him as if he was no different from anyone else.
‘Enjoy your trip to the tin noses shop, Williams!’ one shouted.
‘Mind you get a corker!’
‘Say you want to look like Rudolph Valentino,’ called another.
Private Williams could not reply in words, but Poppy felt he was enjoying the change. Either way, he raised his good arm in farewell to his fellow Tommies as she wheeled him from the ward.
Chapter Twenty-Three
YWCA Hostel,
Southampton
1st December 1915
Dear Freddie,
I was very happy to receive your letter! Thank you for letting me know more about Miss Cardew. Your mother only wants your happiness, but surely she will come round to what you want in the end?
I often think of missed opportunities when we were both in Airey House and wonder how these things start. I remember there was a look between us and a smile, but what made that particular look different from all the others, so that we both knew something strange had happened?
Our time will come . . . I treasure those words and try to imagine where you were and how you felt when you wrote them. To me they foretell a magical time when the war will be over and everything has returned to the way it should be. You are a very long way from here, somewhere unknown, but in Southampton we can sometimes hear the distant thunder of bombs exploding and I shake a little inside when I hear them, for I always fear that they are falling near you.
I would dearly love to see you when you come back through Southampton. How fortunate that I’m working here! I could so easily have been sent to nurse in Birmingham or Liverpool and then we would never be able to meet.
Freddie, I am about to go down to breakfast, so will finish now, hoping that this letter finds you safe.
You are in my heart and in my thoughts.
Poppy xxx
Poppy read through the letter twice, wondering if she’d been too syrupy and sentimental, then in a sudden understanding that it contained the truth – this was how she felt – put the sheets of paper in an envelope and went down to breakfast with Matthews. Jameson came down too, for it was her day off and she’d got up early in order to make the most of it.
‘Guess where I went yesterday?’ Poppy asked and, after they’d had several fruitless guesses, told them it was the facial reconstruction unit.
‘Gosh, what was it like?’ Matthews asked. ‘Was it gruesome? Like a waxworks?’
Poppy shook her head. ‘More like an artist’s studio, with photographs pinned all around the room of the men as they were before they were injured, plaster casts of faces on shelves, and baskets containing spectacles and wigs and so on.’
‘But how do they make artificial faces?’ Jameson asked.
‘Well, first of all, any dental work is done – sometimes a new jaw has to be made,’ Poppy began. ‘After that, the surgeon puts plaster of Paris on to the good portion of a man’s face and makes half a mask, and then that gets reversed and stuck to its other half.’
The two girls were looking at her with interest.
‘But where does the tin come in?’ Matthews wanted to know.
Poppy frowned a little. ‘Well, somehow, somewhere along the way, the mask gets transferred – beaten – on to very thin metal.’
‘What, and made skin colour?’ Matthews said.
Poppy nodded.
‘But does the finished article look any good?’ said Jameson.
‘Does it look real?’ asked Matthews.
‘Well . . .’ Poppy hesitated, ‘from what I could see of the ones being made, they don’t look great, but with a false moustache, or beard and glasses, they’re passable. Better than what was there before, at any rate.’
‘And have they started making your chap’s face yet?’ Matthews asked.
Poppy shook her head. ‘It’s too early. He’s got to have dentistry work done on his left side – a new jaw and a new set of teeth. The surgeon wanted to show him what was possible, though, just to cheer him up a bit.’
‘And was he cheered?’ Matthews asked.
Poppy shrugged. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Not really.’
‘He must be relieved they can do something,’ Matthews said. ‘After all, a person can manage without a leg or arm, but how can they manage without a face?’
They were all quiet for a moment, thinking about this, then Poppy said, ‘Pr
ivate Williams has got to write to his wife and ask her for some photographs of what he looked like before he got hit.’
‘Does she know what’s happened to him?’ Matthews asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Poppy. ‘He told me – well, when I say he told me . . .’ the others nodded to say that they understood and she carried on, ‘. . . that he’d sent her a field postcard telling her he was being shipped home, but I don’t know what he said.’
‘What about your Fritz?’ Matthews asked Jameson suddenly. ‘Is he allowed to send postcards home?’
Jameson, startled, looked at the other two girls as though she’d been cornered. ‘What? Why do you ask?’ she blustered.
‘No particular reason,’ Matthews said. ‘I just wondered how he kept in touch with his family in Germany.’
Jameson looked at them – a sudden, desperate look – then covered her face with her hands.
‘Jameson . . .’ Poppy said, trying and failing to remember her friend’s first name. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’
Jameson didn’t reply, but just shook her head.
Matthews said, ‘Is this something to do with your German friend?’
Jameson nodded. ‘Reinhart,’ she said, in a muffled voice.
‘Have you become engaged to him?’ Poppy asked, giving Matthews a look of horror.
‘Kind of. He’s given me his ring.’ A long moment went by and then she took her hands away from her face and said. ‘But it’s not that.’
‘What, then?’ asked Poppy.
‘It’s . . . it’s all gone wrong.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, you see, yesterday . . . yesterday he asked me if I could find out how many hospital ships are docking here, and where most of the casualties are coming from.’
Poppy and Matthews both gasped.
‘He wanted you to find out that?’ cried Poppy.
‘He’s asking you to spy for him!’