Until the War is Over

by Until the War is Over (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  ‘How are you, Sir?’

  Frank Bentley was standing by his bed.

  ‘Better, I believe.’ He gave Frank a brief account of his injuries. He must not succumb to anxiety. He had seen his wounds now when they changed the dressings. They had amputated his right foot and had taken off part of the leg as well, almost halfway to the knee. He had stared in disbelief at the ghastly stump.

  A day or two later a tall, middle-aged man had come round to check his patients’ recovery. He had recognised the distinguished surgeon who he had met socially before the war. ‘We were anxious to avoid infection,’ Mr Westholme had told him. Even his left foot had been hit: he had lost two toes.

  ‘It’s good to hear you’re making progress,’ Frank said now. ‘I’ve brought you some cigarettes.’

  ‘Thanks, Bentley.’ He opened the packet eagerly and they both lit up.

  ‘The men all wish you a speedy recovery.’

  ‘Are they holding the Line?’

  ‘We’ve hung on along the canal. I even think the enemy bombardment is less fierce now. I gather the German advance is so extended the Huns are having trouble holding the land they’ve gained.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘Our replacements have just arrived.’ The men now fighting would fall back for a few days.

  ‘Any fresh casualties?’

  Bentley brought him up to date. Of course there had been losses. Two good men had been killed and another injured, though not severely.

  ‘Has anyone told you about Fletcher?’ Bentley said.

  ‘What about him?’ He was suddenly anxious.

  ‘He got you out of the Front Line when you were hit. He was bloody brave. Shells were landing around him while he applied the tourniquet. He got wounded himself, though not badly. He was suffering from concussion by the time other orderlies arrived.’

  ‘Fletcher got me out of there?’ Charles could remember very little of what happened between being hit and finding himself on the hospital ward.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Please call me Charles.’

  ‘Right ho. Fletcher is here in the hospital. He’s making good progress, I understand. I’m going to his ward to see him next.’

  When his fellow officer left the pain seemed stronger and all his anxieties rushed back to plague him.

  Chapter Seven

  Larchbury and Flanders, April and May

  ‘I need to see Orderly Fletcher,’ Charles told the tall nurse. ‘I’ve heard how heroically he behaved, evacuating me when I was hit and applying the tourniquet. Do you think someone would wheel me to his ward in an invalid chair?’

  ‘Possibly, but I could ask him to see you instead, and make it clear he’s welcome on this ward for a visit.’

  ‘Yes – that would be easier. Thank you, Nurse.’ He looked at her again. ‘I know you socially, don’t I?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve met. I live in Alderbank. I’m Lavinia, Mr Westholme’s daughter – you know, he’s the surgeon.’

  ‘Of course, I remember now.’

  ‘Father’s working out here too. He may well have performed your operation.’

  ‘I believe he did. He was here, checking on my progress. I’m very grateful for his efforts.’ They were still examining both his legs regularly, as though anxious they were healing well.

  ‘We all do what we can.’

  He remembered suddenly where he had last met the nurse. ‘Weren’t you at Edmond’s wedding to Amy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  For another minute they discussed the latest news of Amy and her daughter, and other mutual acquaintances, but she had to hurry away. The nurses were overstretched with casualties as usual.

  * * *

  Later that day James Fletcher arrived to see him, limping a little, a bandage visible below the trouser leg of his pyjamas. He was Amy’s cousin, Charles recalled.

  ‘How are you, Sir?’ the orderly asked.

  ‘Improving,’ Charles said, though he was fighting off the fatigue which made him want to sleep in the middle of the day. ‘Do sit down. Are you better? You look in reasonable shape.’

  James pulled up a chair. The officer who was awake in the next bed looked curiously at him, but would assume the orderly had been invited to visit the officers’ ward. ‘Yes – I’ve got a leg wound, not especially serious, and at first they were watching me as I’d been concussed briefly.’

  ‘You were damn brave. I can’t remember much about being hit, but I gather I owe you my life. You got me out of the line of fire and stemmed the bleeding.’

  ‘Any orderly would have done the same, Sir.’ He had a friendly, open expression but did not have the air of a hero.

  ‘I’m not so sure about that. You took a great risk, with the bombardment continuing. I’m relieved to hear you’re making progress.’

  ‘When my leg has healed sufficiently they’ll send me to a convalescent hospital for a few weeks, then I’ll be back working again.’

  ‘I suppose they’ll have heard at home about our injuries now.’ Charles was not entirely sure how much time had passed since he was hit.

  ‘Yes – they’re bound to write to us, but the letters may take a few days to get through.’

  * * *

  ‘Has Pa gone up to the forest again?’ Amy asked Edmond one morning.

  ‘Yes.’ He was in the drawing room, drinking coffee and taking a few minutes’ break from working in the study on Pa’s business paperwork.

  ‘He’s spending more and more time up there,’ Ma said. ‘I’m worried he’ll wear himself out.’

  ‘Why can’t he leave Walter in charge?’ asked Beatrice.

  Edmond was silent. He had told Amy once that he suspected his father sometimes joined his workers to do a stint of heavy labour in the forest, worried that otherwise they would not keep up with the demand for timber.

  ‘Have you had a letter from Charles yet?’ Ma asked Beatrice. By now the morning mail had arrived.

  ‘No – I haven’t had one for a few days. It’s unlike him not to write.’

  The others exchanged glances. ‘I hope he’s all right,’ Beatrice said. ‘One hears such dreadful things.’

  Just then they heard voices outside the room and Pa hurried in, his expression strained. His right hand clutched the left one. Amy thought she could see a streak of blood.

  ‘Have you hurt your hand?’ she got out of her chair. Edmond stood up too, pale with concern.

  ‘It’s nothing – just a splinter,’ he told them. ‘Ross was making a fuss about it and insisted on bringing me back on the wagon so Amy can clean it up.’

  ‘Let me have a look,’ Amy said, gently taking his injured hand. The splinter was easy to see, large and jagged, and blood was still seeping from the wound.

  ‘That must be very painful,’ she said. ‘Let’s go to the kitchen so I can deal with it.’ Cook kept a first aid kit there.

  ‘What in the world have you been doing up there?’ Ma demanded as they reached the doorway. ‘It’s not your job to handle the timber.’

  ‘We’re behind with an order.’ Pa was casually dressed in plus-fours.

  Soon he was sitting on the kitchen chair while Cook produced a bottle of iodine and some cotton wool, and Amy manoeuvred some tweezers to catch hold of the exposed end of the large splinter.

  ‘Ouch!’ cried Pa. ‘Sorry, Amy, I know you’re doing your best.’

  ‘I’m trying to pull it out in the opposite direction to the way it went in, to make it as painless as possible,’ she said, ‘but it’s a monster splinter.’

  As she made another attempt Edmond came in with a glass of whisky for Pa, which he was happy to drink.

  Most of the splinter came out at her second attempt. She cleaned up the wound and examined it. ‘I’m afraid there are still a few fragments left,’ she said. ‘It’s important I get those out too.’

  At last she had removed all the pieces and turned her attention to disinfecting it with the iodi
ne.

  ‘I know this stings, but the wound will begin to hurt less now I’ve got the splinter out,’ she said.

  ‘I’m very grateful, Amy,’ he said as she bandaged it.

  ‘You must take more care,’ Edmond said forcibly.

  ‘I can’t fall behind on an order,’ he said. ‘And I’d like some extra supplies to give to a few families in Larchbury who are struggling to make ends meet after they’ve lost menfolk at the Front. It’s still cold at night.’

  How committed he was, Amy thought, with a new respect for him. Her own father often told her about children at his school who were facing poverty, and Uncle Arthur sometimes mentioned their problems and encouraged parishioners to be generous.

  ‘You’ve got a dangerous occupation,’ Edmond said. ‘I worry you might get hit by a falling tree or have a sawing accident.’

  ‘I think of supplying wood as a patriotic wartime duty.’

  From outside came a baby’s cry. ‘Beth wants feeding,’ Amy said. She had left her sleeping in her pram on the veranda now the weather had improved.

  ‘If this nightmare war is ever over I’ll ask George to come back as gardener,’ Amy heard Pa saying as she hurried out. ‘Then maybe Joe might consider working in the forest – and Henry, when he’s back.’

  * * *

  That afternoon Amy went into the village again, with Beth in her pram, to buy a pair of shoes. She returned as the shops were closing, making the short journey through the quiet streets, still walking slowly and limping a little. Neighbours and old friends stopped to chat to her and admire the baby.

  As she turned into the drive of The Beeches a smart motor car was driving away. She did not recognise the middle-aged man at the wheel or the woman in the large hat who accompanied him.

  As she approached the house Edmond came out to meet her. She could tell from his stricken face that something was wrong. ‘We’ve had dreadful news,’ he told her. ‘Charles has been wounded.’

  ‘Oh, Heavens!’

  ‘His parents drove over here to tell Beatrice. She’s terribly upset about it, as you can imagine.’

  ‘How badly is he hurt?’

  ‘He’s lost his right foot. They hope to save the other leg.’

  She felt faint for a moment, struggling to absorb this latest piece of disastrous news.

  He helped her bring the pram up the steps as they went in. There was an ominous stillness about the place, as though everyone was tiptoeing and speaking in whispers.

  ‘Where’s Beatrice?’ she asked, wondering what she could say to her.

  ‘She’s gone up to her bedroom. I don’t think she’ll be down for dinner.’

  They went up to their own room. There was a leaden feeling in Amy’s stomach again. How could life keep on being so cruel? She had always liked Charles, but she was especially concerned how the news was affecting Edmond.

  ‘It’s still going on,’ he moaned, sitting down on their bed. His hand went to his chest instinctively, as though to protect his own scars. ‘When will all the horrors end?’

  She took Beth into the nursery and laid her down in her cot. She went back to their room and took Edmond into her arms. His face was pale and strained.

  ‘Charles is a brave man,’ she said. ‘He’ll make a good recovery and carve out a life for himself, like you’re doing.’

  He sat staring across the room, in a world of his own. From the nearby nursery she could hear Beth starting to become fretful: she must be hungry. Amy went and fetched her, undid her blouse and sat feeding her. Her closeness with her baby soothed her, and as Edmond looked towards them his face relaxed a little.

  Then Mrs Johnson knocked on the door. Amy liked the plump, grey-haired woman, who still worked as a charlady for Amy’s parents one day a week and worked as a cleaner at The Beeches some days as well. ‘There’s a telephone call for you, Mrs Derwent.’ She looked a little anxious.

  Amy went down to the hall and picked up the receiver from where it was lying by the phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Amy…’ Uncle Arthur’s voice was less calm and reassuring than usual.

  ‘What is it, Uncle?’

  ‘It’s James – he’s been wounded.’

  Amy swayed and caught hold of the telephone table.

  ‘He’s got a leg injury. He wrote the letter himself and says he’s not in serious danger.’

  ‘Thank Heavens!’

  Her uncle explained that he had been injured on duty.

  ‘Poor fellow. I keep telling everyone it’s not an easy option, being an orderly. I must write to him.’

  Still shaken, she went to tell Edmond this piece of news, reassuring him that her cousin was not in danger. She hoped this assessment of his injuries was accurate.

  Dinner was a miserable meal. Later, when they went to bed, Edmond was tossing and turning and Amy could not sleep either. He’s remembering what it was like at the Front, she thought. She took him in her arms.

  ‘Hold me close, angel,’ he said.

  As it grew light she woke and he was sleeping. She dared not move for risk of waking him. She lay quietly until Beth’s cries of hunger rang out. He stirred and Amy had to get up.

  * * *

  Beatrice did not appear until lunchtime. She had shadows under her eyes and was unusually dishevelled. Amy and Edmond told her how shocked they were at Charles’s misfortune.

  ‘What will happen to him?’ she asked as she took her place with them, turning to Amy for information.

  ‘He’ll get the best attention,’ Amy said as Cook brought them plaice in parsley sauce. ‘They’ll have given him emergency help at a casualty clearing station first, then sent him to the nearest hospital where he can get the treatment he needs.’

  ‘Perhaps it’ll be the one in Ypres where Edmond was treated,’ Ma said.

  ‘It might be,’ Amy said, ‘but when James last wrote he said they were having to evacuate some of the wounded from that area.’ News of the German advance was confusing, but Field Marshall Haig’s order to the troops to fight to the end had made it sound alarming.

  ‘They say Charles has lost a foot! He must be in dreadful pain,’ Beatrice said, her eyes wide. ‘And to think he might never dance again!’ She was staring at Amy, as though reminded of her ungainly movements, resulting from her injured ankle, and wondering how badly her fiancé might be affected.

  ‘He’ll be brave, and you’ll support him,’ Edmond said. ‘They’ll fix him up with some kind of artificial appliance. It will be difficult to adjust, but he’ll manage. Have you written to him yet?’

  ‘I simply don’t know what to say!’ She fiddled with her napkin.

  ‘Just tell him you love him and will stick by him,’ Edmond said.

  ‘Yes.’ She looked at Amy imploringly. ‘They’ll have to send him home, won’t they? He can’t go on fighting if he’s badly wounded.’

  ‘Yes, as soon as he’s fit to travel they’ll send him back, maybe to a hospital in London.’

  Beatrice pushed her food round her plate for a few minutes longer, then set aside her knife and fork. After lunch she played a sad lament on the piano, then abandoned it and went back to her room.

  * * *

  Florence was shocked when Amy told her of Charles’s wounds and that James had been injured. After church Amy and Edmond needed to hurry back, but were able to assure her they had heard that James was making good progress.

  The vicar and his wife were talking to their parishioners, so Florence set off home. Her parents were ahead somewhere, but they all walked back as they lived so close to St Stephen’s. As Florence walked along briskly she soon caught up with the Fletchers, Amy’s parents.

  ‘I’m embarrassed at some of the things I’ve said about James,’ Florence told them. ‘It was unkind and ill-informed of me to suggest he’d taken a cowardly option in the war.’

  ‘Lots of people thought the same,’ Mrs Fletcher said.

  Florence sighed. ‘I wish now that I’d become a VAD like Amy and Lavinia,’
she confessed. ‘I’m here in my comfortable home, doing very little for the men at the Front.’

  ‘You’re working in a vital profession,’ Mr Fletcher pointed out. Though they taught in different parts of the village school they sometimes caught glimpses of each other coming and going.

  ‘Yes… I try to give what comfort I can to pupils who’ve lost fathers in the war,’ she said. ‘There are some very sad cases.’

  ‘I heard about the Watson girls,’ Amy’s mother said. ‘Their family is hard up now so the girls go to the farm to milk the cows before they come to school.’

  ‘They’re often tired when they arrive,’ said Mr Fletcher.

  The younger of the two girls had been in her class when she had started teaching, and Florence knew of the family’s struggles.

  ‘The Jones children also lost their father recently,’ she told them. ‘Harry’s in my class. He told me his sister Violet, who is only ten, is virtually running the home, minding the younger children, because her mother has had to go out to work.’

  ‘I call in sometimes to make sure she’s coping,’ Mrs Fletcher said. ‘I can take some cake or leftover meat to help them out.’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ Florence said. ‘When Mother has something she can spare I pass it on to them, or one of the other families that’s struggling. And your sister-in-law, the vicar’s wife, makes me keep her informed about children who need help.’

  There was plenty to do locally to help the unfortunate, but still sometimes it did not completely engage her.

  * * *

  Every morning Charles awoke to the bitter realisation that he was no longer the fit young man who had sauntered through the West End, spent evenings on the dance floor and marched with his troops. That life had been swept away in one brief moment as he defended the Lys canal. He was also desperately anxious that no further infection threatened his legs.

  By early May they were allowing him out of bed for part of the day. A nurse or one of the orderlies would wheel him in an invalid chair to the dayroom, where the patients could sit together and share newspapers. The chairs were comfortable and there were a few potted plants. Today the French windows were open, allowing in fresh air from the garden outside. At one end of the room were a gramophone and a piano, and formal photographs of the King in military uniform, and Queen Mary.