Somewhere in France

by Jennifer Robson

  A new nurse had arrived and stood expectantly at Robbie’s side. “Good evening, Captain Fraser.”

  “Good evening, Nurse Greenhalgh.” That was the end of pleasantries for now. “Hemothorax. Wound is debrided and flushed with Carrel-Dakin. I’ve stopped the internal bleeding. Shall we drain his chest and send him on his way? I’ll do this without a trocar. Scalpel, please.”

  He made an incision between the man’s fourth and fifth ribs; then, using a hemostat, he bluntly dissected through the muscles and entered the pleural space. Blood began to drain out of the patient’s chest immediately. He opened the incision wide enough so he could insert his finger, then felt inside to ensure the ribs on either side were intact.

  “Tube and forceps, please.” He fitted the end of the rubber tube to the forceps and guided it gently into the pleural cavity. The other end of the tube sat in a basin, rapidly filling with blood, that Nurse Greenhalgh had placed on the floor.

  It took him hardly any time at all to suture his patient’s chest wounds; few seamstresses could match his skill with a needle and thread. The chest tube he’d leave in place for now, at least until the drainage abated.

  He checked the clock on the wall behind him. It was half-past eight at night, which meant he’d been on his feet, in this tent, for nearly thirty hours. Not quite straight, for he’d visited the latrine twice, and had taken a minute to drink a cup of tea and wolf down a sandwich that morning. Or had it been yesterday morning?

  “Anyone able to take on triage?” asked Colonel Lewis, who was, Robbie noted, halfway through a double leg amputation: he’d detached the patient’s left limb, or what remained of it, and was now turning his attention to the man’s mangled right leg.

  “I’ll go,” Robbie volunteered. “How many shall I bring back with me?”

  The colonel surveyed the hut; six tables, not including Robbie’s, were occupied. From the look of it, none of the other surgeons would finish anytime soon.

  “Just two for now. I won’t be long with this one.”

  Robbie stripped off his gown, cap, and gloves and tossed them into an overflowing hamper by the door. Stepping outside, he was relieved to see that he and his colleagues had, miraculously, made a dent in the volume of patients waiting for care; earlier in the day, at least a hundred men had crowded the reception marquee. Some had even been left to lie on their stretchers in the open air. But now there were no more than two dozen Tommies awaiting aid. With any luck, they’d all be seen to before midnight.

  He caught the eye of one of the orderlies. “How long have these men been waiting?”

  “Last ambulance came in round about six o’clock, sir. Already sent the critical cases on to you.”

  Robbie walked through the tent, listening to Private Harris describe the wounded men’s injuries. Apart from one man with a compound fracture to his tibia, all seemed stable and reasonably comfortable. All except one.

  “What about him?” Robbie asked. He pointed to a stretcher at the far side of the marquee; its occupant was eerily still, his face ashen with shock.

  “Beg your pardon, sir, I should’ve said so before. He came in about a half hour ago. Ambulance driver took it slow for his sake. Spinal injury.”

  “How high up?”

  “Not sure, sir. High enough. Can’t move his arms or legs. Having trouble breathing.”

  Robbie walked across the tent to the patient, who was no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, and knelt on the ground next to the boy’s stretcher. “I’m Captain Fraser, one of the doctors here. I’d like to take a look at you now. Can you speak?”

  “Aye, sir,” came the whispered reply.

  “What’s your name, Private?”

  “James Kerr, sir.”

  “From the sound of your brogue, I’m thinking you’re from the same part of Scotland as me. Lanarkshire?”

  The boy smiled weakly. “Airdrie,” he murmured.

  “That’s no more than ten miles from where I grew up, Private Kerr. Have you heard of Auchinloch?”

  “Aye. Captain . . . ?”

  “Yes, Private?”

  “What’s wrong wi’ me?”

  “You’ve sustained an injury to your upper spine. That’s why you’re having trouble feeling your limbs. Can you remember what happened?”

  “No, sir . . . sorry.”

  “How are you feeling now? Are you in any pain?”

  “No pain. Hard to breathe.”

  “We’ll give you some medicine that will help with that. I’m going to ask our orderlies to carry you into one of the tents so you can rest. I’ll check on you in a while, and you can tell me all about Airdrie.”

  The boy wasn’t going to last the night.

  While they’d been talking, Robbie had tested his reaction to touch, and there’d been no response when he pinched the skin on Private Kerr’s legs, arms, and abdomen. The note from the medic at the ADS, who’d examined and dressed the wound, had been quite clear: axial loading to the lower cervical spine, sustained when a shell blast had dashed him against a support beam. Private Kerr would die, likely by asphyxia, within hours.

  Robbie stood up and turned to the orderly at his side. “Take him to the resuss tent. Who’s on duty there now?”

  “Nurse Bell.”

  “Tell her to give him morphia, half a grain, to keep him comfortable. And have her call me when things change.”

  “What of the rest of them, sir?”

  “We’ve only got space for two, so I’ll take the man with the tibial fracture as well as the fellow next to him.”

  “The one with the crush injury to his hand?”

  “That’s him. Colonel Lewis has a way with hands. Perhaps he can save it.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll just get some help from the ward tent for this here stretcher—”

  “No need. I’ll help you move him over to pre-op. But make sure you get Private Kerr to the resuss tent as soon as we’re done. Might as well make sure he’s comfortable.”

  IT WAS HALF-PAST eleven, a mere blip of time, before Robbie finished his final surgery of the day and stumbled, his eyes burning, his head pounding, into the night.

  In thirty-three hours, he had performed nineteen surgeries. Fourteen limbs and one spleen removed, three bowel resections, one hemothorax drained, and countless debridements of wasted, destroyed, pulverized human flesh.

  “Captain Fraser?” It was one of the orderlies; Robbie couldn’t remember his name.

  “Yes?”

  “Nurse Bell asked me to fetch you. The paralysis case.”

  Robbie set off at a run for the resuss tent. Inside, the lights were low, but he could make out the figure of Nurse Bell, sitting on a stool next to Private Kerr’s cot.

  “Nurse Bell? May I speak with you a moment?”

  They stood at the foot of the bed, their voices lowered, their words carefully chosen.

  “Prepare a syringe with another half a grain. Just enough to ease his breathing.”

  “Yes, Captain Fraser. It’s not busy in here tonight; shall I sit with him until . . .”

  “No, thank you. I’ll stay.”

  Robbie perched on the stool and focused his attention on the boy. “What does your mam call you, Private Kerr?”

  “Jamie, sir.” His voice was so soft that Robbie had to bend close to hear it.

  “Would you like me to write to her, Jamie? And your da? To let them know how you’re getting on?”

  “Aye,” came the halting reply. And then, “Can’t . . . breathe . . .”

  Robbie took the syringe from Nurse Bell, who stood silently behind him, and injected its contents into Jamie’s slender arm. “I’m giving you some medicine. It will make it easier.”

  The boy made no answer; he was beyond speech now. As the morphine took effect, Robbie was relieved to see his breathing become less labored, though increasingly shallow. His pulse was slowing, too. They were nearing the end.

  “You know, Jamie, it’s been a long time since I met someone from home,�
� Robbie began. “I left Auchinloch when I was eight, to go to school in Edinburgh, but at half term and in the summer I would go home to my mam. I expect summers in Airdrie weren’t much different. I remember how I’d go fishing for perch in the loch. The water was always so cold, even in the summer. And then, when I took the fish home to my mam, she would grumble about the state of my clothes. But I think she was happy enough to have fresh-caught perch for our supper.”

  He watched the boy’s face intently. Seeing the shadow of a smile, he decided to carry on. Robbie kept up a comforting flow of reminiscences, as soothing to himself as to his patient, until his voice faltered and he found he could go no further.

  Jamie’s eyes were closed, his breathing so shallow that Robbie could no longer mark it by the rise and fall of his chest. With one hand he brushed the boy’s hair off his forehead, rather as he imagined a loving father might do; with the other hand he felt for the boy’s pulse.

  Gradually it slowed, the space between beats lengthening: further apart, further, ever further, then ceasing.

  Robbie sat for a minute, too tired to move. When he did stand he found himself staggering. Evidently the exhaustion of the day, and the emotion of the moment, had caught up with him.

  Nurse Bell was at his side in an instant. “Captain Fraser! Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you. I simply stood up too quickly.”

  “I will take care of the paperwork; you should get some rest.”

  “Thank you, Nurse Bell, but I’ll do it. I don’t mind.”

  Leaving her to prepare Private Kerr’s body for burial in the cemetery adjacent to the hospital grounds, he exited the resuss tent and entered the ward tent next door. Sitting down at the desk he and the other surgeons shared, he drew a blank sheet of paper from the pigeonhole above and began to write. He left the address blank; the boy’s OC would have to provide it.

  14 June 1917

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Kerr,

  I am very sorry to inform you that your son James died this morning, at twenty minutes past midnight. You will no doubt also receive official notification, but I felt I must write to you and let you know the circumstances of his death.

  I am a surgeon with the 51st Casualty Clearing Station and received Jamie into my care late yesterday evening. He had suffered an injury to his upper spine that could not be remedied by surgical or other means, and it was this that led to his death. I should add, however, that because of the nature of his injury, he was insensible to pain and remained quite comfortable in the last hours of his life.

  I remained at his side until the moment of his death. His final thoughts were of you and it was his express wish that I write to you.

  Despite our brief acquaintance it was evident to me that Jamie was a courageous and honorable young man. I deeply regret that I was unable to save him.

  Please accept my sincere condolences for the loss you have suffered. If at any time you wish to correspond with me further, I would be delighted to oblige.

  Yours faithfully,

  Cpt. Robert Fraser, RAMC

  51st CCS

  France

  Chapter 18

  Burlington Hotel

  Folkestone, Kent

  24 July 1917

  Dearest Edward,

  Let me begin by thanking you most sincerely for your letter and the birthday wishes it contained. I was so relieved to hear that you were finally given some leave and were able to enjoy two days of leisure in Saint-Omer.

  It was a very great surprise to receive the hamper from Fortnum & Mason—there was no card but it could only have been from you. It arrived a few days ago and I am ashamed to say I opened it directly, rather than wait for the twenty-third. I have shared the books and magazines with my friends and they extend their thanks. The ladies’ journals, with their illustrations of the latest fashions, were indeed a sight for sore eyes. The chocolates are all gone, I’m afraid, for we ate them straightaway, but several inches of Dundee cake remain, and we haven’t yet opened the pots of jam and marmalade. I plan to ration the tea, reserving it for the rainiest days only. I doubt it will last long!

  Last night my friends surprised me with an impromptu party after supper. Bridget had procured a bottle of champagne (I dared not ask whence it came) and we toasted my twenty-four years by clinking together our tin cups and tooth mugs. I think it was the nicest birthday party I have ever had, despite the absence of guests such as yourself and Charlotte.

  Life here is much the same as it has been since my arrival in April. Breakfast at dawn, up to Shorncliffe Camp, drill, lectures, practice driving, a filling but tasteless dinner, more drill, another lecture if we are particularly unlucky, more practice on the Crossley, then back to our hotel for supper, with lights-out no later than ten o’clock.

  This evening at supper our unit administrator told me and a number of my friends that she wanted to speak to us tomorrow. She didn’t seem in the least perturbed, so I’m not overly concerned. Probably she wants us to volunteer for something tiresome—showing around new WAACs, or tidying the grounds in anticipation of a visit from a higher-up. I shan’t lose any sleep over it!

  It’s lights-out in a few minutes, so I shall end this letter now and post it tomorrow. Do write again as soon as you can, for I treasure every scrap of news you send me.

  With much love from

  Your devoted sister

  Lilly

  Her letter complete, Lilly changed into her nightgown, washed her face, and brushed out her hair. Her uniform lay across the foot of her bed in readiness for the morning; with six women in one tiny room there were only so many hooks to go around.

  She climbed into bed, willed herself not to notice the scratchiness of the blankets, which was all the more noticeable since there were no sheets, and waited for her friends to return from the hotel’s dining room. It was there they spent most evenings, crowded together, the air heavy with talk and song and the smoke exhaled by several especially daring girls. Lilly had joined her roommates earlier in the evening, but had stolen away after an hour so she could write to her brother.

  It astonished her to think of it, even now, but her impulsive decision to step forward and help the other women with the troublesome Crossley had turned the tide in her favor, particularly where Annie and Bridget were concerned. They still delighted in chaffing her at every opportunity, but now did so more gently, and with greater gentility, than previously.

  For her part, Lilly now did her best to join in whenever invited, and if that meant endless evenings in the raucous, headache-inducing confines of the dining room, so be it. It was worth it.

  “GOOD MORNING, LADIES.”

  “Good morning, Unit Administrator Davies,” the women replied in unison. They’d been finishing dinner when the summons had come to meet with Miss Davies. Eight of their group of sixteen drivers, Constance, Annie, and Bridget among them, now stood before her, shoulder to shoulder in the close confines of her office.

  “At ease, ladies. I have been very pleased with your progress over the past three months, and I have the utmost confidence in your abilities. I want to be very clear on that point.

  “The army needs your help. As you may know, until recently most ambulance drivers were drawn from the Army Service Corps. Now that more and more of the ASC drivers are being transferred to frontline duties, there are too few drivers for the routes between the advanced dressing stations and the casualty clearing stations.”

  Her words echoed in Lilly’s ears. Surely Miss Davies had made a mistake; had meant to say something else entirely. Or perhaps Lilly herself had misheard and was imagining it all.

  “I must now ask,” Miss Davies continued, “if any of you are willing to drive those routes. While they are not, strictly speaking, part of the front lines, they are well within reach of the enemy’s guns, and the Front itself is only miles away. It will be difficult and, I fear, emotionally trying work, as you can well imagine. I stress that this is a request only, and not a command. Those among you who
choose not to volunteer will not be censured in any way.”

  Lilly stepped forward almost before Miss Davies had finished speaking. “I volunteer.”

  A heartbeat later, Constance joined her. “I will go as well,” she said. From the corner of her eye Lilly saw Annie, then Bridget, then the remaining WAACs, step forward.

  Miss Davies’s eyes became suspiciously bright, and she cleared her throat again. “Your eagerness to help is most commendable, ladies. I shall be sorry to lose you.”

  “Do you know where we will be posted?” Constance asked.

  “My aide is finalizing the details now. I expect you’ll be somewhere in the vicinity of Saint-Omer, well south of the Ypres salient. I suggest you return to your quarters and pack your things. Miss Blythe will let you know as soon as possible. No need to wait here; she knows where to find you.”

  Rising, she shook their hands, one by one. “Each of you is a credit to the WAAC. I wish you the best of luck, and farewell.”

  The women filed out of Miss Davies’s office and began to walk across the compound to their quarters, all except Lilly. “Don’t mind me,” she told her friends. “I’ll be along soon.”

  Retracing her steps, she hurried back to the warren of rooms that housed the WAAC administration at Shorncliffe Camp. Just down the hall from Miss Davies’s office was the room, hardly bigger than a broom closet, which had been allotted to her aide. Lilly knocked lightly on the doorframe.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, Miss Blythe. I just wanted to say hello before I left. Do you remember me? Lilly Ashford—”

  “Of course I do. How lovely to see you again.”

  “Are you enjoying your work over here?”

  Ellen Blythe beamed at Lilly. “I adore it. Why I thought I would be happy in the motor corps I’ll never know.”

  “You were making some progress—”