The Witch’s Daughter

by Paula Brackston

  ‘Nurse Hawksmith,’ she said, her voice even more stern that usual, ‘my office, if you please. This instant.’

  3

  It would not be an exaggeration to say Sister marched me to her office. I braced myself for what was to come. I presumed that by now Corporal Davies’ death had been discovered. I could only imagine someone must have said something about my sitting with him shortly after the end of my shift. Had the other patients heard the strange sounds coming from behind the screens? Could they have seen the apparitions or heard my incantations? I had administered no drugs. There could surely be no evidence to suggest I had had anything to do with his death. However, even in his extremely fragile state, Danny had not been expected to die so quickly. Sister Radcliffe sat down behind her desk and, to my surprise, bade me take a seat myself.

  ‘I have been watching you closely since your arrival, Nurse,’ she said. ‘I admit I find some of your methodology, shall we say, unorthodox. Nevertheless, you have proved yourself to be hard working, diligent, competent, and, possibly most important of all, able to keep your head.’

  I was taken aback. The last thing I had been expecting from Sister was praise of any sort.

  ‘Thank you, Sister,’ I said.

  ‘In peacetime these would have been qualities I would have expected from my nurses without exception. However, this is not peacetime. These are extraordinary circumstances, and many of the girls here would never have thought to unravel a bandage had it not been for the war. Suffice it to say most of them are not natural nurses. In truth, there are few here I consider worthy of the name. But we must make the best of what we have. To this end, my job is to see to it that the most expert care is given to those who require it, and this often means my best nurses find themselves overstretched and under considerable pressure.’

  She paused and I wondered if she was waiting for me to say something. I still had no idea where this speech was leading, so I sat still and remained silent.

  ‘The upshot is,’ Sister continued, ‘I face a dilemma. Should I, at all costs, keep the most able of my staff here at the CCS, where I know their talents will be well used? Or should I, as I have been asked to do, relinquish a valuable pair of trained hands to lend support to a woefully undermanned field hospital?’

  ‘A field hospital? You mean, at the front?’

  ‘Precisely.’ She pulled a letter from the neat pile of papers on her desk and studied it. ‘The request has come from the commanding officer himself. He does not ask lightly.’

  ‘Is it customary? To send nurses, female nurses, so close to the battlefront?’

  ‘It is not. However, there is soon to be a major offensive. I give away no secrets in talking about this, as you will have heard the Allied bombardment of the past few days. It precedes the order to attack. It is believed this may be the final push. Such is the nature of our sustained artillery fire that it is considered the risk to our own men will have been minimized. Heavy casualties are not anticipated. However, the number of soldiers involved is great, and it is felt that the medical officers need more support. All the CCSs have been asked to send someone.’ She looked up from the letter. ‘Well, Nurse Hawksmith, do you consider yourself equal to the task?’

  ‘Why yes, Sister. I am willing to do whatever is needed. I am flattered to be asked.’

  ‘Don’t be. I would have sent Nurse Strappington, but we simply can’t spare her. You are the next best choice. Have your things packed for the morning. You will be taken in one of the ambulances along with the requested medical supplies. Now, go and get some sleep.’

  I stood up, ‘Thank you, Sister,’ I said. ‘I won’t let you down.’ I had almost reached the exit when she spoke again.

  ‘One thing more, Nurse. Corporal Davies passed away this evening.’

  I was glad I had my back to her. I composed my features into as blank an expression as I could muster and turned around. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Sister,’ I said.

  ‘Are you? Are you really, Nurse? I wonder.’ She looked at me through narrowed eyes and then returned to her paperwork. ‘Hurry along now,’ she said.

  The next day I said brief farewells to Kitty and Strap and climbed into the front seat of an ambulance. The bonnet of the vehicle bore a deep gash. The driver told me with grim relish it was a shrapnel scar from a perilously close encounter with a German shell. I wedged my bag beneath my feet and clung onto the doorless frame of the open-fronted van as it rattled its way out of Saint Justine and toward the Front. Soon we had left the roads and joined the rough track that served as conduit between the railway station and the front line. This was the main route for all supplies, as well as being the most direct path for transporting the wounded to the hospital, and for troops going to join battalions in the trenches. As the ambulance drew closer to the location of the Allied artillery, the sound of the guns became utterly terrifying. And the farther we drove from the village, the more sinister the landscape was. Gone were the fescued fields and bird-filled hedgerows. Gone, indeed, were all signs of normal farming activity. A relentless combination of wagons, bombs, booted feet, and unseasonal rain had rendered the low-lying fields a muddy wasteland. All that could be seen was a gray-brown wetness pocked with waterlogged shell holes. The mud was riven with zigzagging trenches and entrances to subterranean dugouts. At random points, stretches of wire remained, all that was left of an earlier measure of the army’s advance: a previous line drawn on a map somewhere that translated to a wound on the skin of the landscape, jagged and barbed and filled with the blood of young men. The rain that had been falling steadily for many days showed no signs of stopping. Even so, it could not hope to wash away the stains such slaughter had left upon the gentle countryside. Nor could it cleanse the ground of the all-pervading stink of death. The smell was overwhelming. I pressed a hand to my mouth, amazed at how none of the passing soldiers seemed to notice the intolerable odor that filled my nostrils and threatened to make me retch. I was forced to the conclusion that they no longer detected it, so accustomed were they to the stench. It was the smell of stagnant water and rotting vegetation, of cordite and smoke, and above everything, the smell of decomposing flesh. I had encountered it so many times before, and in so many ways. The dead sheep behind the hedge. The plague corpse left too long in a house. The unmissed vagrant disintegrating in an alley. The hospital morgue on a warm day. There was no mistaking it.

  At last the ambulance stopped.

  ‘This is as far as I go,’ said the driver. ‘I’m unloading the medical supplies here, and they’ll be carried up the line to the field hospital. If you hang on a mo’ you can follow on.’

  I climbed out of the van, moving awkwardly with my gas mask strapped over my heavy greatcoat, and did my best to keep out of the way as men were mustered to transport the crates and stretchers. The driver made no attempt to conceal his eagerness to leave, and the moment the last item was handed over he revved up the coughing vehicle and was gone.

  ‘Stay close,’ a sergeant addressed me as he passed. ‘Watch your step now, Nurse. Don’t want to lose you, do we? Right you are, lads. Let’s get this lot to the medical officer, quick as you can now.’

  We were still some distance behind the foremost trenches, but there was no road. Instead, we stepped onto a complex network of duckboards. The wooden slats were coated in a layer of slippery mud and tipped in places at unhelpful angles. Some of the tracks sank and wobbled as we made our halting progress, so I was amazed to see teams of horses and mules using these makeshift paths as they pulled supply wagons and even gun carriages. The animals plodded stoically on. Constant exposure must have inured them to the cacophony and flashing lights ahead of them. That or extreme fatigue. We stood aside to let one team pass. The lead horses’ mouths were foaming, and their brown flanks were sleek with sweat from the effort of their work. Their hooves slithered on the treacherous surface, but still they leaned into their collars, urged on gently by the driver atop the biggest of the four. Two gunners rode the hind pair of the o
utfit. Behind the carriage walked an officer. His gait was confident and brisk, but there was an unevenness to it. As he drew level with me, I recognized him as the soldier I had seen outside the reception marquee. He saw me and stopped. Surprised, he smiled, and I found myself smiling back. After a moment we became aware we were being observed.

  ‘Forgive me, Nurse,’ he said. ‘Manners fare badly out here in the salient.’ There was a laugh at the edge of his voice, and the faintest trace of Caledonian origins. ‘Lieutenant Carmichael, Ninth Battalion, Royal Scots Regiment, surprised but delighted to meet you.’ He offered me his hand and I took it.

  ‘Nurse Hawksmith. I’ve been sent out from the CCS at Saint Justine to assist at the field hospital.’

  ‘Ah, is that what they’re calling it?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s not much of a hospital. More an advanced first-aid post, really. But you are absolutely what they need, I’m sure of it. I’ll take you there myself. You’ll like the MO. Looks like a light breeze would blow him over, but the man’s a trouper. Couldn’t wish for better.’

  I fell into step beside him, though I had to slow my pace to do so.

  ‘Surely you should be recuperating, Lieutenant. Your leg…’

  ‘Is perfectly fine, thank you so much for your concern. I may never be a sprinter, but I could still tramp the heather from dawn till dusk. Seems a good enough test of a man’s fitness to me.’ He broke off abruptly, raising his eyes to the sky. He seemed to hear something I did not. In a second he had hurled me to the ground and flung himself upon me. Only as I landed on the boards did I hear the approaching shell. The random bombardment was swift and merciless. I pressed my eyes shut and threw my hands over my head in an ineffectual reflex as the deadly metal ripped through the air and exploded only yards from where we cowered. The noise of the shell was replaced by the screaming of the horses. We scrambled to our feet. Three soldiers lay dead, having taken the main force of the blast. It was their misfortune that killed them and our good luck that decreed we should live, nothing more. The terrified horses had bolted and charged from the duckboards, dragging their weighty cargo into the mud. One had taken a piece of shrapnel to the chest and lay lifeless on its side, while the other three thrashed and screamed in the silt-filled water that was already up to their bellies. The two gunners clambered onto the howitzer. The driver clung to his horse’s back, frantically trying to calm the panic-stricken animal. His words were lost in the noise and chaos as the horses plunged and roared in desperate attempts to escape the sucking mud into which they had run.

  ‘Get out!’ Lieutenant Carmichael shouted at the men. ‘Climb back along the gun!’

  ‘Got to untie the horses, sir!’ the driver replied, reaching down to grope for the chains and straps, which were already submerged.

  ‘There is no time.’ The lieutenant organized other soldiers to form a human chain to reach the gunners, who were now kneeling on the end of the gun carriage, only the barrel of the weapon visible above the liquid mud that was dragging it down. ‘Leave the horses, driver, that’s an order! Now, man, while there’s still a chance we can reach you!’

  The young soldier shook his head.

  ‘No, sir! I can’t leave them, sir!’

  The weight of the sunken gun speeded the descent of the doomed horses into the mud. Their struggles were futile. Within moments only their heads—eyes rolling, nostrils pink and distended—remained above the soupy waterline.

  Lieutenant Carmichael grabbed a nearby ladder. ‘Corporal, hold the end of this,’ he said, flinging the ladder ahead of him onto the mud. He lay on top of it, spreading his weight, and crawled toward the petrified driver. He reached him just as the lead horse was finally swallowed by the mire. Its last, exhausted groan was replaced by a heartbreaking silence, disturbed only by the ever-present booming of the guns. The officer grabbed the young soldier’s arm and dragged him onto the ladder. Too shocked to protest, the driver lay beside him, shaking, as the gunners and two more soldiers struggled to drag the ladder back to safety. The lieutenant sat on the boards and held the sobbing lad in his arms, the two of them coated in a layer of filth, the young soldier’s tears washing clear trails down his grime-covered face.

  Quietly, people returned to their duties. The dead soldiers were near enough to be recovered and were taken away for burial. There were, miraculously, no further casualties. Lieutenant Carmichael instructed the gunners to take their driver back to their unit in the reserves. He stood in front of me and took hold of my hands.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I am unhurt. I dropped my bag,’ I began to look around. He spotted it and picked it up. Taking my arm, he directed me along a short stretch of boards that led to one of the trenches.

  ‘Come along,’ he said, ‘the MO can wait a little longer. I have some brandy in my dugout.’

  We picked our way down a flight of uneven and slippery steps into the trench. I was surprised at how deep and how narrow it was. How could men spend hour upon hour, day upon day, often night after night in such inhospitable, wet, stinking places? Although the trench was hundreds of yards long, it was zigzagged, the better to protect its inhabitants from blasts, so that I could only see a short distance ahead. The effect was claustrophobic, while at the same time offering scant protection. Indeed, if a trench was to take a direct hit from a shell such as the one I had just encountered, there would surely be no hope of survival for anyone in it. One young soldier sat on his haunches over a tiny stove, entirely focused on stirring stew in an improvised tin pot. Another leaned against the sandbags and played a harmonica softly. A movement caught my eye on the floor. A rat, bigger than any I had ever seen, scuttled among the debris. It was fat and sleek and clearly thriving. I thought it strange, at first, knowing how scarce rations were at the Front and how jealously supplies were guarded. Then the awful truth came to me. There was no shortage of food for these creatures. Indeed there was a limitless supply of meat, freshly slaughtered by sniper or barrage or machine gun, readily available in the wastes of No Man’s Land. Now I saw that the narrow passage was alive with rodents, many spiky with mud, others caked in gore. I fought the desire to vomit and followed the lieutenant down another short flight of steps. The dugout was surprisingly dry inside, with boards on the floor, four bunk beds, a locker, and a table and chairs in the center of the space. Little light penetrated from the outside, so two Tilley lamps dangled, rasping from nails in the beams, swinging with each shudder of the assaulted earth above. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could make out two figures, one standing beside the table, the other reclining on one of the lower bunks.

  ‘Please, take a seat.’ Lieutenant Carmichael pulled out a chair for me, taking off his cap to dust it. ‘Oh, this is Lieutenant Maidstone, and that lazy creature over there is Captain Tremain. This is Nurse Hawksmith. Break out the RAD, Maidstone.’

  ‘This is more like it,’ said the mustachioed officer, ‘company and cocktails. Why, I could imagine myself back in Berkshire.’

  The captain stirred himself and rose slowly from his bunk. He was tall and lean but moved stiffly, as if life in the trenches had rusted his very joints.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Maidstone. ‘RAD, or Rarely Arrives at Destination, as we call it. Glasses, please.’

  The three of us held out tin mugs while he tipped brandy into them. We did, indeed, for all the world resemble a little gathering enjoying pre-dinner drinks. If only one could block out the distant rumble of the artillery. If only one could stop the stink of rotting flesh from creeping up one’s nostrils. We drank in silence. Lieutenant Carmichael smiled at me. Lieutenant Maidstone openly stared, making me wonder how long it was since he had seen a woman. Captain Tremain was standing a little too close to me for my comfort. Then, to my astonishment, he leaned closer still, closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He was actually smelling me! This bizarre action had not gone unnoticed. Maidstone let out a rattle of loud laughter.

  ‘I say, Tremain,
you’re aiming to get your face slapped!’ he said.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he murmured, opening his eyes slowly, ‘it would be worth it.’

  Maidstone laughed some more. I stole a glance at Lieutenant Carmichael and was reassured to see he did not think the incident in the least bit amusing. Nor did I. More than that, I was unsettled. A coldness settled about my shoulders, provoking an involuntary shiver. The ridiculousness of this struck me. After all I had experienced on the duckboards, after all the horrors I had dealt with at the CCS, why was I now so disturbed by one man’s harmless impertinence? As if I needed an answer to my question, from the trench outside the dugout came the whining strains of the young soldier’s harmonica, distorted by the mud wall and the distance but unmistakably the one tune guaranteed to strike fear into my heart.

  4

  The rain worsened. It was not cold, and there was no wind to speak of, it simply fell relentlessly and pitilessly upon the sodden ground and upon the battle-weary soldiers whose world had been reduced to a few miles of bleeding earth. Lieutenant Carmichael escorted me farther along the meandering boards to my new post. He explained that I was to wait there for the MO and that he himself would call back that night to make sure I was well provided for. There was no compulsion on him to appoint himself my protector, but I did not protest. In truth, I was pleased that I would be seeing him again. Already I found I was altered in his presence; affected in a way I had almost forgotten existed.

  The field hospital was, in fact, nothing more than an abandoned German pillbox. I could not believe that this cramped, dark, single room was to be all we would have. It was certainly a solid structure and, from the look of it, had already withstood many blasts, but it was so small. I was still staring wordlessly about when the medical officer in charge arrived, blocking out the precious light allowed in through the doorway. He was, as the lieutenant had told me, a slender reed of a man, with wayward wisps of gray hair and a sparse mustache. His gaunt features and generally cadaverous appearance did nothing to inspire confidence that he would be able to look after himself, much less anyone else. However, there was indeed a steely core to the man.