Until the War is Over

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

  ‘Where do you live, Miss Clifford?’ he asked her.

  ‘In Sussex. Our village is nearly forty miles from London.’ She felt a little awkward, standing there beside the confident young officer, who had sandy hair below his cap. I’d better be polite, she thought. His ambulance crew are getting me back to the coast, and sparing me another trip on Lavinia’s contraption. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

  ‘New England – a town called Concord.’

  She had no idea where that was. ‘Your uniform is quite like ours,’ she commented.

  ‘Yes, but you’ll find we have very little variation between the different ranks. I’m just a Warrant Officer, but my uniform is almost the same as the commissioned officers wear.’

  ‘How long have you been over here?’

  ‘Only a couple of months. It was thrilling to have the opportunity to travel to Europe.’

  She fidgeted, irritated at his blithe manner. She supposed he and his unit were yet to find themselves in the Front Line. ‘You’ve already sustained some wounded,’ she pointed out. She considered telling him about Bertie’s death and Edmond’s injury.

  ‘Yes. We’re not here for fun, I know that,’ he said more soberly.

  The sister summoned them back to the ambulance and soon they were on their way again. There was more traffic on the road now. Her sick feeling was beginning to intensify but she thought the air was fresher here, as though they were approaching the sea. The woodland was giving way to more open countryside with trees that were leaning from the intensity of the prevailing wind.

  They passed a signpost indicating Boulogne and caught up with some other vehicles. Soon they were in a queue dawdling towards the coast. They inched forward for almost an hour before reaching the busy port as the shadows were beginning to lengthen.

  ‘I guess this is where we leave you,’ said the sister, as they drew up.

  ‘Thank you so much for letting me travel with you,’ she said.

  Warrant Officer Fawcett helped her down. ‘Will you be able to get a ship tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your help, Warrant Officer Fawcett.’

  ‘Call me Caleb. How would it be if you wrote to me?’ He turned his light blue eyes on hers with an intense look.

  ‘I already write to a great friend who’s an orderly,’ she told him gently.

  ‘Just a few lines – to cheer a soldier who’s far from home.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  He wrote down the name of his unit and where they were based on the Marne. ‘What’s the name of that village in Sussex where you live?’

  ‘Larchbury.’

  ‘Larch – like the name of the tree?’

  ‘Yes.’ She did not want to encourage him.

  He took her hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Florence.’

  ‘I hope the war isn’t hard on you and your unit, Caleb.’ Accepting her overnight bag from him, she took her leave.

  She set off towards the promenade hoping to secure a place on a ship.

  At least when she got home she could tell Amy, and James’s parents, that he was nearly well and in good spirits.

  Chapter Eleven

  France, August

  They sent James to serve in a hospital north of Abbeville, where casualties from the fighting around Amiens were being sent. He was anxious to hear that Florence had reached home safely, and before long was reassured by Amy in a letter. One from Florence soon followed and it seemed she was indeed beginning to return his affection. How thrilled he still was at the memory of her trim figure walking into their dayroom at the casino. He had never imagined she would come to see him. To be there she had undertaken a long journey, including the hazard of crossing the Channel. Later she had also endured being interrogated by Sister Reed.

  As she had chatted and passed on news of home he had sat admiring her light brown wavy hair and dainty hands. She had looked happy to see him, and had allowed him to kiss her soft lips: he loved reliving the memory. Even so, he did not think her face had dimpled in the merry way it used to when she had been engaged to Bertie. But all of them had changed since those days. He replied to her letter and asked her to send her photograph.

  He was uncertain whether Charles would still be at their original hospital, or at a place for convalescents, or, with good fortune, back in Blighty. He made enquiries and found out he was still in the same ward as before. One day when he had forty-eight hours’ leave he set off north to see Charles, alarmed that Lavinia had implied he was not making a good recovery. He booked a room at the modest inn, then walked to the nearby hospital.

  ‘Good to see you, James,’ Charles said from his bed. He managed a smile that was a shade unconvincing.

  ‘How are you now, Sir?’

  ‘Please call me Charles.’ He levered himself up to a sitting position. ‘I needed another operation. The other damn foot was showing signs of gangrene.’ He reached for a cigarette and offered James one. They both lit up.

  ‘Very sorry to hear that, Charles.’

  ‘They’re trying to cosset me here, to give the remains of this foot the best chance of healing. I had a stupid setback two days ago and it was all my fault.’ He took a deep puff of his cigarette. ‘The major was visiting the wards. I was sitting in a chair at the time – they were usually getting me up at least once during the day. When the major came in I tried to stand to salute him – what an idiot! But my legs feel as though I still have both feet: it’s the nerves, still active. I fell over, as you can imagine, and they had to haul me up again and give me a thorough examination to see how much damage I’d done.’

  James was used to hearing alarming stories like his. ‘Little harm done, I hope?’

  ‘Only minor bleeding. They cleaned me up and confined me to bed for a few days.’

  ‘I’ve brought you a copy of The Wipers Times.’

  ‘Splendid!’ He reached for it and glanced at the front page. ‘This is one I haven’t seen… So, you’re back serving in a hospital again.’

  ‘Yes.’ He told Charles about his latest posting. In some ways he was relieved to be helping the injured once more. At present he was working some distance from the Front Line, but he might yet find himself posted to a more dangerous position. ‘Have you heard, Charles, we’ve sent the Huns into retreat around Amiens now!’ There had been a spectacular British advance one day recently which had been hailed as a victory at last.

  His smile was genuine now. ‘Yes, that’s capital. Everyone’s been talking about it. If only we can keep them in retreat.’

  There had been many previous ‘significant breakthroughs’, most of which had come to nothing.

  ‘Have you heard any plans to send you to Blighty?’ James asked.

  ‘They were talking of it, just before my latest accident. I expect they’ll send me soon.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Beatrice, my fiancée, knows I’ve been injured badly, of course. I haven’t told her yet how much my second foot is damaged. I don’t think my parents have told her.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. ‘She still writes me encouraging letters, but she’s got to accept that I’m handicapped now.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Beatrice was a lovely young woman but from what he had heard from Amy, she could be demanding.

  ‘Captain Shenwood? Might I have a quick word, Sir?’ An orderly had come in, a jolly looking fellow, probably in his mid-thirties.

  ‘Orderly Cole – how are the arrangements going for the concert?’ Charles asked. ‘We’re holding it in the dayroom tomorrow afternoon,’ he told James. ‘I hope you can come and see it.’

  ‘I’d like to, if it doesn’t go on too late. I mustn’t miss my train back,’ he said eagerly. ‘We had a first rate concert party at my hospital last winter. Another one was planned for Easter time, but by then the German offensive was at its height, so it was cancelled. They held one a week ago at my new hospital, but I had to miss it as they needed some of us to stay on duty.’

&n
bsp; ‘Bad luck!’ said Charles.

  ‘In the end I heard some of the singers – they came up to the ward after the concert. They performed a few songs to cheer up the dangerously ill men who hadn’t been able to attend.’

  ‘It must have brightened their day.’

  ‘I’ll say. One of them unexpectedly pulled through.’

  ‘There’s nearly a full programme now.’ Orderly Cole flourished a list of performers.

  ‘Thank goodness – we’ve had to postpone it more than once,’ Charles told James. ‘Captain Turnbull was keen to play for us, but he got sent on. There were some Scottish soldiers nearby for a while, who would have played bagpipes for us, then they got sent nearer the Front.’

  ‘Nurse Westholme has promised to sing for us,’ Cole told him, ‘and one of the doctors plays the violin and has his instrument here in France. We’ve roped in a few musicians from the village, and some of we orderlies will sing a little and put on a sketch or two.’

  ‘First rate work, Cole.’ Charles was enthusiastic now.

  ‘Thing is, Sir, we could do with some good piano playing, and I understand you’re gifted in that area.’

  ‘They weren’t sure they’d even allow me down to attend after my latest problem,’ Charles said, ‘but I’m planning to see the show, with or without permission. I can’t imagine playing from an invalid chair. I’ll attempt a performance if at all possible.’

  ‘We’d really appreciate that, Sir.’ Orderly Cole scribbled something on his programme. He looked across at James.

  ‘How about you? Are you musical at all?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ His father had hoped he might learn to play the organ but he had lacked musical talent.

  Cole looked disappointed.

  ‘I recite a bit, if that’s any use. I often read the lesson in Father’s church, and I used to perform Shakespeare at school.’

  ‘That would be very welcome,’ Cole told him. ‘Even the men in the ranks enjoy hearing Shakespeare or poetry at these events. Henry the fifth’s speech before Agincourt is very popular.’

  James cringed. ‘I’d prefer not to read anything warlike.’

  ‘Very well – is there any other speech you remember which the men might like?’

  ‘I know a few – I’ll choose something from one of the comedies. But it’ll need to be near the start of your programme to make sure I’m not late leaving.’

  ‘Right ho.’

  What was that speech in Henry IV, Part One, about honour only going to soldiers who had died? The Bard had conveyed cynical views of battles, though he had been writing in the sixteenth century. If only he dared perform that speech – but no, it really wouldn’t do.

  Perhaps he could give the speech from As you Like It beginning ‘All the world’s a stage’. Then he remembered Jaques’ speech included mention of a soldier, as though that was an essential part of a man’s life.

  ‘Listen, Cole, this show won’t be bawdy, will it?’ Charles said. ‘There are bound to be nurses attending.’

  ‘That’s understood, Sir. We haven’t even got a female impersonator this time – I couldn’t find anyone prepared to dress up.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear anything at all about “Mademoiselle from Armentières.”’

  ‘No, Sir – that song’s strictly for the trenches.’

  * * *

  Extra rows of chairs had been brought into the dayroom and there were fresh vases of bright orange dahlias. Lavinia was officially off duty. She had received a letter from Florence that day, thanking her for her help in travelling. It was a relief to know she had got back safely. In her friend’s letter she had detected an element of pride that she had contrived to visit Flanders. Compared with Amy and herself Florence had spent a relatively sedate war, though doing valuable work as a schoolteacher. Now she had asserted herself and proved to her somewhat protective parents that she could escape pre-war concepts of ladylike behaviour.

  She stood, smiling, as injured men were helped into the dayroom, some of them on crutches or in invalid chairs. They settled as comfortably as possible, facing the royal portraits at one end of the warm, sunny room. The show would take place around the piano.

  What shall I do about Charles? she wondered. Officially he was not on the list of men well enough to attend. She was disappointed that Matron here was so strict, as Captain Shenwood had encouraged them all to take part in the show. With a few minutes left before the opening chorus she considered helping him down from his ward. Then she saw James Fletcher wheeling him into the room in an invalid chair, a blanket over his injured legs. The other officers and men fell silent and then there were a few cheers that he had arrived.

  ‘I’m not sure you should be here,’ Lavinia said. Matron might be angry but she could not find the resolution to send him back.

  ‘Nothing will stop me seeing the concert,’ he said firmly. He smiled at her. ‘How lovely to see you out of uniform,’ he said. She had put on her blue crêpe de chine dress, the one smart garment she had brought to France.

  James positioned the invalid chair beside the others in the space to one side of the room. A doctor and a sister were looking in Charles’s direction dubiously as Orderly Cole played a few introductory bars on the piano. Lavinia could sense the patients’ anticipation.

  Charles should be congratulated on his timing, Lavinia thought. By arriving at the last minute, without assistance from any staff working at this hospital, he’s presented them with a fait accompli and little opportunity for argument. Her own anticipation was intensified by the knowledge that he was there to enjoy the show. But I’ll check he doesn’t look overtired, she thought. Any sign of a problem and I’ll get him back on his ward straight away.

  The show began with a rousing chorus from HMS Pinafore, with the choir, mostly orderlies, dressed in their tunics turned inside out to the blue side. Charles was pale again after his recent setbacks. His dark curly hair was tidy but his face more haggard than in the old days when he had charmed her and the other girls at social events.

  Next Doctor Shaw played a violin piece by Paganini. Charles looked relaxed, leaning back in his chair to enjoy the music.

  Then James was invited to the front to recite. He had remained short of ideas for a suitable piece and had finally resorted to the speech from As you Like It. He had a good voice, projecting well and conveying the theme meaningfully. The audience sat quietly, enjoying the words. As they clapped afterwards he smiled and returned to his place.

  After a humorous sketch performed by the orderlies, everyone joined in the song ‘Belgium Put the Kibosh on the Kaiser’, a rousing number before the interval. The concert was proving to be of a patchy standard, but patients and nurses were smiling and laughing. The French doors were open and the sweet smell of honeysuckle wafted in from the garden.

  Charles smiled at Lavinia, who was standing nearby at the end of a row of patients. ‘It’s turning out well,’ he said.

  The orderlies were bringing around mugs of tea and some bowls of small, sweet strawberries which had been supplied by a French family with large grounds who lived nearby.

  ‘They’re very variable, these concerts,’ Lavinia said. They were just happy to secure any reasonable form of entertainment. The men were uncritical, glad to be diverted.

  ‘I was fortunate in seeing a good one in the winter,’ James said. He was still standing beside Charles’s chair. ‘They’d managed to get hold of some real entertainers from before the war.’

  ‘There’s a Suffragette called Lena Ashwell who organises them,’ Lavinia told them. ‘She’s worked as an actress, and she managed to persuade the authorities to send volunteer performers over here. I met her once at a concert party back in 1916. There was a lot of prejudice against them to start with but she said they could wade through mud and sleep in barns the same as anyone else. I wish we’d managed to get her group to come here.’

  ‘Soon after I came out I heard Ivor Novello perform ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’, not long af
ter he’d written it,’ said Charles. ‘The men were very struck with it.’

  The concert began again with some local musicians performing, with Orderly Cole accompanying them on the piano. A patient in an invalid chair had a choking fit and Lavinia rushed to him with a glass of water. She helped a nurse on duty to prop him more comfortably with cushions.

  After another sketch, the elderly concertina players from the local band entertained them with a couple of folk tunes, showing more enthusiasm than musical skill. Then they were joined by a pretty dark-haired singer who performed ‘Madelon’ and ‘Sous les Ponts de Paris’, which were well received, some of the men humming along to the tunes. At the end the valiant little group were applauded.

  Then it was Lavinia’s turn to sing. She had chosen an operatic song, ‘Je veux vivre’ from Gounod’s Romeo and Juliet. She had taken singing lessons when younger and had often been persuaded to sing at parties. She felt her voice soaring confidently as she performed it in French. As the short piece closed the men burst into applause and she thought she heard Charles calling out ‘Brava!’

  ‘Have you a second song for us?’ asked Orderly Cole.

  ‘Oh – I didn’t bring any other music…’

  ‘Please sing something, Nurse Westholme. I’m almost through the performers now. Do you know a folk song you could sing unaccompanied?’

  She allowed herself to be persuaded, and sang ‘She Moved Through the Fair’. This too was well received.

  ‘Your turn now,’ she told Charles. James wheeled him to the front and she helped him manoeuvre Charles on to the piano stool.

  He assured her he was comfortable there and began to play while she remained nearby. The notes of Erik Satie wafted through the room, calm, relaxing, though Lavinia felt she had heard it played better. This must all be a strain for him, she thought.