Tabitha

by Vikki Kestell

  The talk now centered on America.

  “If them Yanks don’t toss their hats into this war soon, we can start bidding the entire Continent g’ morn’ in German,” one soldier in the wards snarled.

  Tabitha heard similar sentiments expressed wherever she went, and she wondered why her own country delayed. Would Congress and President Wilson’s deliberations end in a declaration of war against Germany or would America sit back and allow all Europe to be crushed under the Kaiser’s boot?

  What will become of England if the Germans win? she wondered. She had grown to love her coworkers and their country and feared for them.

  Mason’s frequent letters were brief and gave her little clue as to how his pilots were faring, but Tabitha knew from the “rags” left in the dining hall how badly things were going.

  They met at a hotel in Colchester for Christmas. Tabitha fell into Mason’s arms, drinking in his strength. “Oh, Mason! How I have missed you.” When she pulled away to search his face, she saw the same shadows lurking in his eyes that she saw everywhere: The shadows of fear and uncertainty. His arms around her were as needy as hers about him.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 24

  January 1917

  The year 1916 ended, and no sooner had 1917 arrived than the Germans resumed unrestricted U-boat attacks on American ships.

  “Iffin that don’t light a fire under th’ bloody Yanks, noffing will,” Tabitha heard an orderly predict.

  Finally spring arrived, a bloodstained, horrifying spring. When at last President Wilson called for war and the Congress agreed, Tabitha heard not one voice in the hospital celebrate or applaud. She observed only measured sighs of relief and glimmers of hope in otherwise war-ravaged faces.

  Rose wrote her of the American military draft and the many young men from Denver called up to fight. We were worried that they would call Billy up, but he is safe for the moment, she wrote. And we do not take our joys for granted in these perilous times. We delight in Pastor and Breona’s little one and in the hope that Joy and Mr. O’Dell will soon give me another grandchild to fill these aching arms.

  Tabitha’s tears were happy ones. I long to see Breona as a mother, she admitted. And Joy! Another child for Joy! O God, thank you! And thank you for little Edmund . . . wherever he is, we know you have not lost sight of him.

  April arrived, and the British, in a coordinated offensive with the French, launched an attack against the Germans at Arras, France. Tabitha read the reports with a sinking heart: Even though the offensive was considered successful, more than 300 RFC aircrew perished and 245 aircraft were lost providing support to the troops.

  Mason wrote, Twenty of our pilots, young lads we had scarcely trained, died at Arras. They lasted less than two days after leaving us. We led twelve of them to Christ before they departed, God be praised.

  Tabitha’s heart was breaking—for her husband, for the young men and their families, for the British nation, whose very heart was bleeding and broken.

  O Lord! Use me, Tabitha prayed. Use me! Do not let me send our VADs to the front without you!

  As uncomfortable and unprepared as she felt, Tabitha began organizing afternoon and evening Bible studies for the VADs and led the studies herself. Matron placed the weight of her office firmly behind Tabitha’s efforts.

  As word of the meetings got around, the study groups and prayer times grew. VADs who worked nights flocked to the afternoon sessions before they ate dinner and commenced their shifts; VADs who worked days ended them with God’s word and prayer.

  Not one VAD who attended was unmarked by the war: All had either brother, cousin, or friend who had perished in the fighting. Two widowed VADs had lost their sons.

  Tabitha was wearing thin, but she was no more worn than anyone else, so she pulled on her early memories of Palmer House and the studies Rose had conducted each morning. Tabitha would open to a familiar passage, read it aloud, and ask the Holy Spirit to fill her mouth—and he did.

  The numbers attending the study groups grew. Tabitha, by stepping out in faith, began to ask the women if they were ready to surrender to the Lordship of Jesus Christ. “Not to a church, and not to a religion,” she explained, “but to Jesus himself. Today you can choose to make him your Lord, Master, and Savior. You can be free of your sins and guilt.”

  Prayer sometimes lasted hours, and Tabitha was in over her head, but she fell into her bed each night with the satisfied peace that only living fully for God yields.

  At the same time, Tabitha intensified her efforts to prepare VADs to work in the field hospitals that operated scant miles from the front. She now had a team of experienced VADs whom she utilized to accelerate the training.

  “Please,” she begged Matron, “please do not post the members of my training team to the front. All our efforts will slow if you do.”

  Matron nodded, and Sister Alistair sighed. The need was great and they could not disregard the army’s demands for more nurses and aides.

  As fast as they could prepare them, newly trained VADs were sent to support nursing sisters in the field hospitals and casualty clearing stations. The clearing stations were often so close to the front that they could hear and smell the battles raging—sometimes only on the other side of a hill or just across a farmer’s blood-soaked fields.

  Then news arrived of the deaths of some of their own: Sister Ingram and three of her VADs, gone in a brutal instant, their clearing station obliterated by errant mortar fire.

  The young women scheduled to ship out next looked at each other with fresh insight—and showed up to Bible study ready to give their hearts to Christ.

  Tabitha slipped away one sunny Saturday in May to meet Mason. They would have only the one precious night together, but they first took the bus to St. Martin’s where they would, for a few hours, forget the agony they dealt with day upon day.

  Mason sat on the floor and crowded children onto his lap. Others leaned against his back and clung to his arms. Tabitha, her own lap and arms full, read aloud from Peter and Wendy.

  As she read about the boy, Peter Pan, who could fly, she stole glances at Mason. He was laughing and surrounded by happy children. Tabitha tried to capture the scene in her mind’s eye.

  We can fly, Mason, my love, she found herself thinking. You are my Peter, and I shall be your Wendy, and you shall teach me to fly. Oh, if only we could fly to Neverland today!

  ~~~

  “Nurse Hale, you are wanted in Matron’s office, please.” The VAD delivered her message and scurried away.

  Tabitha tidied her hair, checked her apron, and walked down the two flights of stairs to the ground level. The June air kissed her face, and she hummed as she walked the cobbled paths to Matron’s offices.

  “Good morning, Miss Thompson,” she said cheerfully.

  Miss Thompson’s eyes skittered away from her. “Good morning, Nurse Hale. Please go right in.”

  Tabitha blinked at the young woman as she went toward Matron Stiles’ doors and let herself in. She closed the door behind her and turned. “Good morning, Matron—Cliff! I mean, Mr. St. Alban, what are you—”

  “I will leave you here, Nurse Hale,” Matron murmured. She bit her lip, but her chin was quivering as she passed Tabitha.

  Then she was alone with Cliff St Alban, her husband’s best friend. He would not meet her inquiring eyes.

  “Cliff?”

  He reached for her arm as her legs buckled. “Sit here, Miss Hale. Please. Sit.”

  “Cliff? Is Mason all right? Please?”

  He knelt on the floor beside her chair. “No, Miss Hale. I am so sorry. He is gone.”

  Later, Tabitha played Cliff’s words over and over in her head. Even when she did not wish to hear them, his voice haunted her and his words echoed in her mind.

  “We always start our trainees in the two-seater trainer planes. Three of us trainers and our trainees were in the air when German planes dropped out of the clouds. They had never attacked our base before! There were two of
them, their ugly red crosses clearly marking them. I shouted for my trainee to run for it, but I knew a B.E. could not outrun a Fokker—and we had no guns.

  “Mason was on the ground. He climbed into a fighter, one of our newest models, and took off. The Germans had by then shot down one of our trainers. The plane made it to the ground, but it cracked up on landing. The trainer and his trainee ran from the wreckage, ran from the machine gun rounds chasing them.

  “One Fokker was on our tail, shooting at us. Mason swung around behind the German and came up from underneath. He shot the tail off that plane and then swung wide to find the second.

  “We put down on the ground as soon as we could. The third trainer got down all right, too. By then several of our pilots had taken off in fighters.”

  Cliff lifted his eyes to Tabitha’s. “These pilots are just kids, Miss Hale, most of them as green as grass. Mason knew that. He drew the German plane away and headed out to sea, following the coast. Our pilots followed behind.

  “They told me he flew like an Ace, diving, rolling, giving back what that German dished out. He would have won, too—except two more German planes dropped down on him. Then Mason, he hightailed it—far away from the base, away from our pilots. I know it was to save them!

  “Our boys followed, though, down the length of England, over Norwich, and out over the sea, toward the coast of Belgium. They-they saw when the Germans shot him down.”

  The Germans shot him down.

  The Germans shot him down.

  The same five words played over and over in Tabitha’s mind.

  “Did they . . . did your men find Mason?”

  Cliff’s sorrowing eyes filled with tears. “No, Miss Hale. He was still far out over the sea when his plane went down. Our boys saw it go into the water.”

  He looked away. “The Germans did not know our boys were following. They brought their fighters up behind and below the Huns and blasted them. Two of the three German planes went down in flames. The other crashed into the water. They made the Germans pay for Mason, Miss Hale.”

  Do I care? Tabitha asked herself. She fingered the gold band hanging about her neck. No. It does not bring him back.

  Cliff shook his head. “After, when our flyers circled back . . . they found no trace of Mason or his plane.”

  He swallowed hard. “Mason saved those young trainees and their trainers, Miss Hale. He-he saved me. He made a tough call . . . but he did what he felt he had to do.”

  Sometimes in life we do not have the choice to be careful, Tabitha. When sudden events demand our response, we must act and pray we make the right call.

  Tabitha shuddered. I will never hear him speak again. Never hear his voice.

  Cliff extended an envelope. “I found . . . this in his things. I-I did not know you and he, that you had gotten married.”

  Tabitha glanced up. The envelope Cliff held out to her read, Tabitha Carpenter. In Mason’s handwriting.

  “We kept our marriage a secret because of the rules of nursing. So I could keep training the VADs here.”

  Cliff nodded. “I-I wondered. I am glad you married him. He loved you very much.”

  With those words, Cliff ran out of steam. He looked away, unsure of what to do or say next.

  Tabitha had attended the deaths of many patients, had delivered bad news many times. Without weeping.

  She touched his arm. “Thank you, Cliff. Thank you for coming in person to . . . tell me,” she whispered. Her experience and training were all that kept her together.

  When he at last excused himself, Tabitha fingered the envelope. Do I want to read it here? Do I want to read Mason’s last words to me here?

  She immediately answered herself.

  No.

  Tabitha left Matron’s office with eyes straight forward and shoulders squared. She walked on stiff, wooden legs to the grove of willow trees where Mason had taken her . . . a very long time ago it seemed.

  Within the shelter of the same willow where he had kissed her, Tabitha collapsed onto the grass. She sobbed for a while, still numb and unbelieving, before opening his letter.

  Dearest Tabitha,

  If you are reading this, then something very bad has happened, something neither of us anticipated, but that God has known of since before time began. Do not be afraid, Tabitha. If I am no longer with you, I am with the Lord. I will wait for you here, in his Kingdom, until he also calls you to himself.

  I want you to know that I have provided for you, my darling. The moment I returned to Catterick after our wedding and honeymoon, I sent word to Banks and enclosed our marriage certificate. I also enclosed written instructions to my attorney to rewrite my will.

  You already know that I made provision for your parents before I left for England. With the exception of a bequest to St. Martin’s and for Banks’ and the other servants’ pensions, you are my sole heir, Tabitha. Everything I own—my house, all that is in it, my car, my accounts—they are all yours. You shall never want for anything.

  I make only one request, or perhaps a suggestion if, some day, you can bear it: Fill our home with children who need a mother’s heart. I cannot be there with you, but that old mansion could be home to many a brokenhearted child—and this war has left so many alone. If you think you can do this, please know that I would approve.

  My darling wife, you are the bravest woman I have ever known. To survive what you survived and grow into the woman of God you have, has made me the proudest of husbands.

  I waited many long years for the woman of my dreams before I met you, Tabitha.

  You were worth waiting for.

  With all my love,

  Mason

  Although she felt as though she were clawing her way through a dense fog, Tabitha kept moving. One hazy, confused step after another, she got up each morning. She taught, monitored, counseled, worked, and slept again.

  It was clear to those who knew her that she had suffered a great blow, but she refused to speak of it and refused to pause . . . or even slow down to feel her own pain.

  I am not the only one suffering in this war, she told herself. I am but one of the far too many brokenhearted. I must do my duty just as they are doing theirs.

  Mid-July a letter from the American Red Cross reached her.

  Now that the United States has entered the war, we have a mandate from the president to work in Europe. We invite you to join our ranks in France.

  “No,” Tabitha spoke aloud.

  Then she pondered her decision. No, I cannot abandon my VADs or the nursing sisters. I must stay here at Colchester. It is where God himself placed me.

  Her heart added, These were the last places I saw Mason. No, I cannot leave. I cannot leave . . . him.

  ~~~

  “I should like to send you on a small assignment,” Matron Stiles announced to Tabitha in early October. “The children of St. Martin’s Orphanage need inoculations and screenings. You will leave tomorrow and return in two days.”

  Tabitha’s eyes narrowed and her old anger threatened to surface. “Why would you send me, Matron? Any trained VAD can perform this task.”

  “Because you need to go, Nurse Hale.” Matron Stiles’ tone brooked no further argument.

  And then Tabitha saw it, a tender, caring tightness about Matron’s mouth.

  Tabitha stared at the floor. “Very well, Matron.”

  That evening she packed a small bag with a nightgown and a clean uniform. In the morning she drew the supplies she needed and trudged to the bus stop. As the bus trundled along, the changing scenery, the grass and trees, the little cottages as the bus left Colchester proper, began to speak to Tabitha’s frozen heart.

  She remembered Boxing Day, the first time she had taken this same route—with Mason in Sister Alistair’s motorcar.

  It was cold that day, she recalled, when Mason and I brought Christmas presents and candy to the children. But the last time we came, the sun was fighting through the mist and warming ditch banks covered in cockle shells. Tul
ips nodded in pots by front doors and roses climbed upon trellises.

  Something peaceful and right wrapped itself around her as the bus chugged ahead.

  When she knocked on the weathered old orphanage door, Sister Mary Angela gave her a warm welcome. “Please! Come in. Matron told us to expect you.”

  In the morning, the children queued up for their exams, and Tabitha recognized many of them from past visits.

  “Where’s that man?” one boy asked. He was eager, expectant.

  The sister shushed him, and Tabitha, while grateful that she did not have to explain, could not miss the hurt on the boy’s face.

  He knows, she sighed. He knows how dads and mums go away and never come home.

  Tabitha released the child she had just examined, and a tiny girl with fiery red hair stepped forward. The child edged up to Tabitha, placed her hands on Tabitha’s knees, and stared at her with wide, expressive eyes.

  “You m’ mum?” she demanded.

  “I beg your pardon?” And then Tabitha saw her, truly saw her. The tot was, perhaps, age four. Her wild, curling locks were nearly the same shade as Tabitha’s hair.

  “Said, you m’ mum?” the girl insisted. She pointed at Tabitha’s hair and reached to touch it. The hand she stretched out had been badly burned. Two of the fingers were bent; the scarred skin stretched taut over them was marbled red and white.

  O dear Lord, Tabitha mourned. So much hurt and pain in this world.

  She pulled the child up onto her lap and the girl instantly sank against her breast.

  “Smells good, it do,” she announced.

  “This is Sally, Nurse Hale,” a nun whispered.

  “Hello, Sally. May I look at your face?” Tabitha helped her to sit farther out on her knees so that Tabitha could examine her. Tabitha looked in Sally’s ears, eyes, nose, and mouth.

  Sally’s blue eyes studied Tabitha in return. “You m’ mum?” she asked the third time.