by Sue Reid
“What’s up?” she whispered.
“I’ve got to go to Theatre!” I told her.
“Good luck!” she whispered.
In a bit of a daze I made my way down to the operating-theatre suite. All down the corridor were men, lying there on stretchers. Some of them looked in a pretty bad way. I tried not to look at their faces. One of them might soon be lying on the operating table in front of me.
Heart thudding in my chest, I marched into the “scrubbing-up” room. I leaned over the sink and began to scrub my hands and arms up to my elbows. I wondered what they’d ask me to do. I was feeling terribly nervous and there was a sick feeling in my tummy.
Theatre Sister told me to get dressed quickly. I got into a theatre gown, and tied a cap on my head, making sure that every hair was tucked securely under it. Then I put on a mask and rubber gloves. My hands were trembling, and I saw Sister look at them.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “The last girl they sent us fainted.”
I swallowed. I wished she hadn’t said that. Holding my hands clasped in front of me, as we always do after we’ve washed our hands, so that I wouldn’t touch anything that wasn’t sterile, I followed her into Theatre.
My job was a simple one – to fetch and carry for the team. I stood by the wall and waited as the long minutes ticked by. I looked anywhere (and everywhere) but at the patient. There was Theatre Sister, standing next to the surgeon. There was another gowned figure nearby – the anaesthetist. My eyes wandered round the room, resting in turn on a lotion bowl in a tall stand, on an instrument table where the surgeon’s instruments lay – I tried not to shudder as I looked at them – and then there were dressing trolleys, and a bucket where the dirty swabs were dropped. Every so often I saw the surgeon turn to Sister and ask her to pass him something – a swab or an instrument like a scalpel or probe to examine the wound. I tried not to listen as he bent over the patient. I tried to concentrate on something else – anything but what was happening to our patient. I mustn’t faint, I told myself. I mustn’t let the team down.
“We need sterile dressing towels, Nurse,” a voice interrupted my thoughts. I shot off, heart thudding in my chest, to fetch them. And then suddenly it was all over and our patient was being wheeled out of Theatre. My job now – to rinse out the bloody dressing towels. Then finally it was my turn to wash. I looked down at myself. Rivulets of blood were dripping down my front. I really nearly did faint then.
Friday 8 March
We’re less busy in Theatre now as most of our ship casualties have been evacuated to hospitals inland. I’d expected to be sent back to Surgical, but I’ve stayed on here. I thought Jean would be envious that I’m working in Theatre, but she says not.
Anyway, I spend most of my time merely washing stuff in the sluice room. On a busy day, bucket after bucket of dirty towels is dumped at my feet. After they’ve been rinsed in cold water in the sluice – this helps to get the blood out – there are all the instruments to clean. First they have to be scrubbed and cleaned with metal polish, and only then are they sterilized. Theatre clothing needs to be sterilized too – this goes into the autoclave.
But today, I was asked to go into Theatre again. I was awfully pleased. I stood there for about an hour – and then all I had to do was hand the surgeon a towel!
Wednesday 13 March
Our Theatre was crowded this morning. The surgeon was trying out a new technique and the room was full of excited doctors. When I wasn’t busy I stopped by to watch too.
One of the surgeons is very nice. He’s quite friendly – a bit like nice Lieutenant Venables. When he’s not too busy, he even tells me what he’s doing. In Theatre, we’re like a little family, and I actually miss it when I go off duty.
“You’re joking!” Bunty said, shuddering when I told her. We were walking down to the tennis courts together, rackets swinging in our hands.
“There’s lots of cleaning too, of course,” I said. “That’s mostly what I do. I’m not always needed in the operating theatre itself. Sometimes I wish I was back on the wards. I do miss the patients.”
“At least your ones can’t answer back,” said Bunty, grinning.
“Bunty!” exclaimed Molly.
I laughed and lobbed a ball high into the air. “I was back in the operating theatre today,” I told her.
“Don’t tell me,” said Molly shuddering, scurrying down to the far end of the court where Marjorie was waiting. “It was an amputation, I’ll bet. I don’t want to know.”
“It was very interesting,” I said, seriously. “The surgeon. . .” I stopped and lunged in vain for the ball, which was soaring high over my head.
“You’re putting me off,” Bunty said crossly, serving another ball wide of the court. It bounced at Molly’s feet. Molly just stood there, looking at it. Even across the court I could see that her face looked odd. It was really green.
Monday 18 March
Early this morning Theatre Sister asked me to help her lay out the instruments for the first operation on the surgeon’s list. I muddled through somehow.
“You’ll soon learn,” Sister said, smiling, as I ran off and came back with the wrong instrument – again. I can’t think how she manages to remember it all.
After we’d finished the day’s operations, she gave me a book to study. “This will help you,” she said. “Study it well.” I took the book from her. I must have looked awfully anxious, for she laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll check that we have all the right instruments before we go into Theatre.”
Feel very flattered that she thinks I’m worth training. On Sunday morning – Sundays are usually quiet as we don’t often have any operations – she’s going to give me a proper lesson.
Giles has won his pilot’s wings! I had a letter from him today in which he told me all about it. He’s a fully-fledged fighter pilot with Fighter Command’s “11 Group” now. Apparently that’s the group that covers south-east England. There are several groups, he told me – each covering a different part of Britain. He’ll be flying Spitfires, and he sounds jolly proud. Tomorrow he’s going to join his squadron – and is longing to get a shot at the enemy. What is it about men? They spend all their time fighting, and then we have to patch them up!
Friday 5 April
Everyone here has been very buoyed up by the Prime Minster’s speech. It seems he thinks that the Germans should have attacked us straightaway when the British and French armies weren’t ready for them. Now, he believes, the situation’s changed – our armies are much stronger now. I hope he’s right.
This evening a call was put through from Father. I was thrilled! I haven’t spoken to him since Boxing Day. He sounded guarded when I asked him what he thought about the Prime Minister’s speech, but I’m going to try not to let his caution worry me.
Wednesday 10 April
The Germans have overrun Denmark and now they’ve invaded Norway. Norway is a neutral country – not on one side or the other in the conflict. But the Germans don’t seem to care about that. It seems incredible but in only two days all the main Norwegian ports have been captured by the Germans.
The whole of Europe is being dragged into this terrible war. Too depressed to write any more.
Monday 15 April
Just as I’m learning to set the instrument table, I’ve been shifted back to the Surgical ward. Typical!
Today a plane crashed near the hospital. It was so close that all the glass rattled in the window panes. It was very hot in the ward and I’d just gone over to the windows to open one of them when I saw a long tail of black smoke vanish somewhere behind the trees and then suddenly there was a huge explosion. I felt very scared – and a bit sick. How could anyone survive that crash?
For what seemed like an age there was complete silence – then suddenly there was a dash for the windows. From his bed Private Jones swore blind that it was a Jer
ry plane. Over in his bed Corporal Lister was sceptical. “You couldn’t even see the thing,” he said. The Private said he just knew, but I could see that his eyes were twinkling. After that there was a lot of argy-bargying back and forth. Some of the men sided with Lister, others with Jones. In the midst of all this, Sister came in to do her round, looking as calm as if nothing had happened.
“What’s going on in here?” she asked.
“Nothing, Sister. Sorry, Sister.” And off they shuffled, looking sheepish.
Funnily enough, Private Jones was right – it was a Jerry plane. I know because the pilot was brought into the ward just before I went off duty this evening. He’s our first prisoner of war. He was very quiet, and seemed rather frightened, and I found myself feeling sorry for him. It must be awful to be shot down in an enemy country and find yourself in a hospital ward surrounded by the very people you’re fighting.
None of the aircrew have been brought in, so we think they must have bought it. None of us know what that plane was doing here either.
Later on I had another thought. That plane could so easily have hit the hospital. There’s a big red cross painted on the roof so that the enemy will know that we’re a hospital and won’t target us. But how will that protect us if a plane crashes on top of us, or a bomb misses its target and lands on us instead? I feel very scared when I think about that.
Tuesday 16 April
The men don’t seem to mind sharing their ward with a German prisoner of war.
“Johannes’s all right. . . He’s just another poor lad – fighting for his country like the rest of us,” one of them told me. I think they feel sorry for him – he’s broken both his legs. And he’ll be sent off to prisoner-of-war camp as soon as he’s recovered.
Johannes seems a bit bewildered by us. He told me that he broke his legs in the fall and when he came round he saw a man pointing a gun at him. “I told him not to shoot. I said I wasn’t armed,” he said. Then, he said, a woman came out of the house near where he’d landed, a cup of hot, sweet tea in her hand. “She said it was for me.” He shook his head. “I do not understand you English,” he said.
Wednesday 1 May
I wish I knew what was happening across the Channel. News does reach us in the hospital, but sometimes it’s hard to know what to believe – the rumours flying round the hospital or the news on the wireless. There’ve been a lot of angry mutters about how the government is handling the campaign in Norway. Our troops were sent out to help Norway in April – but they were ill-equipped and unprepared for the task they had to do apparently. No match for the Germans or the snow. I am so relieved that Peter isn’t out there.
Friday 10 May
Jerry’s invaded the Low Countries! We’re all so shocked – everyone’s walking around in a daze. First their airfields, railways and arms depots were bombarded from the air. Then the enemy’s tanks rolled across the Dutch, Belgian and Luxembourg borders without warning. German planes are raining bombs down on their cities. Our Allied armies have been taken completely by surprise.
I’m writing this very late, but I had to get this down. Mr Chamberlain, our Prime Minister, has resigned! People haven’t been at all happy about the way he’s been running the War. Another minister, Mr Winston Churchill, is now our Prime Minister. At nine o’clock this evening we all crowded round the wireless in the VADs’ mess to hear Mr Chamberlain’s resignation broadcast to the nation. Mr Churchill went to the palace at 6 o’clock this evening to see the King, who’s asked him to form a new government. There was a real sense of relief in the room.
“We’ll be all right now,” I heard someone say after we’d turned off the wireless. Oh, I pray they’re right. There’s something about Mr Churchill that makes us feel safe. He won’t take any nonsense from Jerry, I feel sure, but is there anything anyone can do to help us now?
Thursday 16 May
The German army seems unstoppable. In the last few days they’ve stormed through neutral Belgium and now their tanks are rolling across France. They entered France through the Ardennes, an area in eastern France. That was another big surprise. The Ardennes region is hilly and forested, and it was thought that their tanks wouldn’t be able to cross it. But apparently the Germans have got a new sort of tank, which seems able to cope with all sorts of obstacles – even forests and hills. The French armies are being pushed back under the German onslaught. The British Expeditionary Force is still standing its ground, but how much longer will it be able to do so?
Trying not to think what this means for us, but we’re all jolly frightened.
Holland has surrendered to the Germans. As soon as I came off duty, I wrote at once to Peter and Giles. I don’t know if my letter will ever reach Peter. I don’t know if I will ever see him again. I cannot bear it.
Tuesday 21 May
When I woke up this morning I thought for an instant that I could hear something – guns, or bombs – a sort of distant boom, boom – far away, across the sea. I told myself not to be so silly, we can’t possibly hear them here, and anyway, the Germans are still very far away, but I could feel my heart beat a lot faster.
I popped outside on my break. Shielding my eyes in the sun, I looked out to sea. You can’t walk on the beach now. It’s been mined and there’s barbed wire draped everywhere – even on the promenades we used to cycle down.
Mr Churchill says we’re in deep trouble. We’ve nothing to match the Jerry tanks. If the Prime Minister says that, then we are indeed in an awful fix.
Bit by bit, the British and French armies are being pushed back towards the sea. Nothing they do seems to be able to stop the German advance. I wish I could stop thinking about that. My brother’s out there in that hell.
Wednesday 22 May
Letter from Mother today. She writes that she’s made up her mind and joined ARP (Air Raid Precautions) – as an air-raid warden! She misses having us all to look after, she says, and she needs to feel she’s doing something useful. Now it seems she’s got a whole village on her hands!
She didn’t mention Peter, so I know that she must be very worried about him. I wish I could go and see her but a lot of new patients are expected here soon and more VADs are being drafted in to help. It would be wonderful if Anne was amongst them!
Friday 24 May
On the 20th the Germans captured the French towns of Amiens and Abbeville. Our armies are retreating. At the hospital we’re all holding our breath.
I’m trying not to think about the War. It is such a relief to be able to bury myself in work. But as soon as I go off duty, I start to worry again. I can see worry plain on everyone else’s faces, too. It’s all anyone can talk about – what’s going to happen now? Bunty’s going round with a face as white as a sheet. The strain we’re all under here is quite awful.
Sunday 26 May
Half day off – I spent it in Surgical. It’s all hands to the deck now. All leave’s been cancelled. Sister and our MO were kept busy all morning, doing rounds and organizing patients’ discharges. For me it was back and forth to the store, returning hospital “blues” and bringing back the soldiers’ kits. As I ran back and forth, I saw men in khaki and women, white caps on their heads – doctors and nurses I’ve never seen before. I don’t know what they’re doing here.
All those patients well enough to travel are being evacuated to hospitals further inland to make room for the new arrivals. They’ll travel by ambulance train, escorted by a team of MOs and nurses. I still don’t know who the new patients are, or why so many are expected here. But something’s happened. Something big.
Monday 27 May
There are men lying on the floor, all along the corridor and in the ward, and on mattresses between the beds. Sweat pours off their faces, and they’re filthy. As I entered I saw a VAD on her knees, cutting off a man’s uniform. Her face was white and strained. It was Marjorie! I could see a dirty bandage swathed round the man’s leg and there was an
identity tag round his neck. It was unreadable – stained with blood and dirt. One of the QAs took me over to another stretcher. Under the blanket the man was fully dressed. She asked me to wash his face. “Do it gently, Nurse,” she said. “And be quick about it. There are plenty more here that need washing.”
I knelt on the floor by the stretcher, a bowl of warm water to hand. Gently I lifted the soldier’s head, pillowing it on my arm, and began to wipe his face. His eyes were bloodshot and sweat was pouring off him.
“Wha. . . a. . . a. . . a. . .” he started to say. Oily stuff dribbled out of his mouth. I laid his head carefully back down on the stretcher. There was something staining my arm where his head had lain. I ran for help.
It was the last thing he said.
I ran into the annexe and leaned over the sink, taking deep breaths. I felt awful – too upset even for tears. Desperately I tried to pull myself together. I’ve got to cope – everyone else is. I must cope. I must.
“Nurse, I need your help,” I heard a voice say gently behind me. I dried my face quickly and turned round. The QA had a stack of hot-water bottles in her arms. “Heat these up for me, will you?” she asked.