Lofty’s arm was healing well and the concentrated humming of the early days had ceased now; instead he talked of his wife and family all the way through the dressings. I listened and smiled and nodded as I wielded my forceps. ‘Had a letter from the missus this morning – she says eldest lass is singing in Messiah at chapel this year – front row of the altos, and she’s only fourteen.’ He added wistfully, ‘I’d like to have bin there, I likes a good Messiah.’
‘Aye, me too.’ Ben Holden had just come back from doing the washing up with Ginger. ‘There’s nowt like Messiah for getting folks ready for Christmas. I’ll push trolley back for you, Sister, while Ginger gets his trousers down.’
Ginger looked almost serious. ‘Me old Mam, bless ’er, she used to take me to Messiah every Christmas when I were a youngster – I didn’t alius fancy goin’ then too long for me it were, an’ chapel seats’s powerful ’ard – I’d start wriggling and she’d clip me one right across shin, low down where minister couldn’t see – she knows what’s right, me Mam does. But now, well I’d like to be ’earing it this Christmas, truth to tell.’
He climbed on to the bed and lay face down for me. ‘Slide across a little, Ginger, there’s a good boy.’
He turned his head and grinned at me over his shoulder. ‘Here I am, at feet of most beautiful nurse in the world – and all she does is tell me I’m a good boy.’ I was quick with my reply, ‘Ah, but we’re both of us flatterers!’ And laughed down at the comic face he pulled.
Ben Holden had taken his outer bandages off ready for me. I dealt quickly with his thigh, then he shifted slightly so that I could tackle his arm. He did not speak, but his eyes watched my face all the time I worked over him. I had grown used to his steady scrutiny – it seemed to help him bear the pain and discomfort. When I had finished he said, ‘Thank you, Sister,’ and reached for his blues.
I moved on to Lennie; his pitiable whimpering began before I had even touched him. As I began to unpin the bandage, Ben Holden pushed through the screen and took a firm hold of Lennie’s left hand. I looked down at the ruins of his right shoulder; it was not healing. The foul yellow pus stank more each day, and Captain Adams had said it might have to be dressed in the evening as well. Sister and I had looked at each other in horror – as it was, the daily dressing was more of an ordeal than he could stand, but he was too weak to be anaesthetized for it. Today as I pulled out the slime-coated rubber tube he began to scream – a thin, high-pitched noise like a rabbit caught in a trap. Ben Holden’s grip tightened and his voice deepened as he talked on steadily – he had lapsed into a dialect so thick I could not understand what he said. But it seemed to bring Lennie back from the brink; the terrible screaming stopped, though his breath still came in frantic, hunted gasps.
By the time I had finished the boy lay white and shaking on the bed.
Ben Holden said, ‘I’ll get the clean sheets – Ginger, fetch bowl.’
I washed my hands and then took hold of Lennie’s good one and stood gripping it until he gradually calmed. Ben and Ginger came through the screens, Ginger put his burden on the locker and slipped away, but Ben Holden stayed to help me. In the pain and terror of his dressing Young Lennie was incontinent now: it happened every morning. I wiped between his buttocks with a handful of tow as Ben held him steady, then, very carefully, we eased him on to the edge of the soiled drawsheet so that I could wash his behind. Ben swung him over a little so that I could soap and rinse and towel dry his small floppy genitals, then, between us, we pulled out the dirty drawsheet, slid in a clean one and tucked him in. Ben said, ‘Back in a minute, Lennie,’ and the simple, childlike eyes followed his movements trustfully as he hefted the soiled linen in his one hand and set off down the ward. I followed with my bowls.
In the sluice I could not help myself. I burst out, ‘He should never have been sent out, never! How could someone like him possibly understand what was happening?’
Ben Holden shrugged. ‘We all knew that, Sister – and Captain Girvan tried everything he could to get him sent home, but it weren’t no use. He’d volunteered see, like the rest, of us. But the Captain kept an eye on him – and Lennie worships him, he does.’
I looked at the stocky man beside me. ‘And I think he worships you too, Ben.’ Ben Holden’s face reddened, and he limped back into the ward without another word.
It was a Sunday, so the night VADs came in to tea. MacLeod threw herself down beside me and stared at her bun. Tilney called across. ‘How are the enemy, Mac?’
Mac said shortly, ‘Dying – just like the rest,’ and picked up her cup. When she had drunk she turned to me. ‘God knows, I didn’t want to go on the German ward, but,’ she sighed impatiently, ‘they’re frightened and in pain just like the others – and with no Blighty to look forward to. And, do you know, when they first come in they flinch as they see us walking towards them, as though they think we’re going to stab them with a scalpel. God knows what they’ve been told about the British. But when all’s said and done, they’re only men – except the ones who are still boys.’ Her face twisted. ‘Oh, Girvan – I was so angry with Night Sister last night. We’ve got this boy in, he really is only a child – he can’t be more than fifteen, and he’s had both hands and both feet blown off by a shell. He just lies there all day, looking up at the roof, but whenever I go near him he keeps trying to ask for something. In the end I got one of the other prisoners to translate – he’d been a waiter in London before the war, so he speaks good English – and it seems that this poor child had had a row with his mother before he left – something quite trivial, the man said – but the boy’s desperate now to tell her he’s sorry. The other man offered to write a letter for him, so I spoke to Sister – we all know he can’t live much longer – and after she’d bawled me out for even daring to ask, she went on about security, and suppose he was a spy sending information – I ask you, the state he’s in! In any case I could have found somebody to censor it. And the worst thing was, he guessed I’d been asking – and his face when I had to say no!’ She bent her head down and stared at her empty plate.
I spoke quickly, ‘Mac – I’ll do it if you want. I could come over tonight.’
Her face shot up. ‘Oh Girvan, would you? I’d be so grateful – I didn’t know you spoke German.’
‘I spent two years, more than two years, studying in Germany before the war – in Munich.’
She gave a short laugh. ‘Whatever you do, don’t tell that to Matron – she’ll have you arrested. Munich, that’s one word I do know – this boy keeps sobbing, “Mutter” and “Munchen” – that’s Munich, isn’t it? He must come from there. Look, Sister’s generally done her first round by ten – slip over after that and I’ll smuggle you in. We’ll have to be careful, there’ll be all hell let loose if she finds out.’
‘I’ll come.’ Then suddenly I thought: Munchen – it’s little Franzl – it must be little Franzl! My stomach lurched and I hurriedly scrambled over the bench and out into the cold air. ‘Oh, please God, not little Franzl!’ It was not little Franzl. A strange face looked hopelessly up at me from the pillow – a downy-skinned, child’s face. He was attached to some kind of frame like a crucifix and only his eyes moved as I sat down beside him.
I spoke softly. ‘Guten Abend, mein junger Freund, Ich bin gekommen den Brief zu Schreiben.’ I saw the tears well up in his eyes and overflow to trickle down his thin cheeks. I wiped them gently away and took out my pen and writing case. ‘Wie is die Adresse Ihrer Mutter?’
He began to sob, then with a great effort he got control of himself and started to dictate his letter. It was a jumbled, scarcely coherent catalogue of real and imagined misdeeds such as a boy would commit: a stolen spoonful of jam, a lie about a fishing expedition – I wrote down each word of the pitiful little confession and the anxious, pathetic apologies.
‘I shouted at my mother, Sister.’
I whispered, ‘She will understand, Karl, she will forgive you – I know she will.’
When he had finished he lay exhausted for a while, with his eyes closed. Then they opened again and sought mine. ‘You speak good German, Sister.’
‘I studied in Munich, before the war.’
‘Sister, please talk to me a little of Munich, my home.’ So I talked of his home – of how I had stood on the Luitpold Bridge in the spring and watched the tumbling green waters of the Iser; of how I had stopped every day on my way down the Schellingstrasse to look at the Flirstenhauser with their brightly painted scenes of knights in armour on prancing horses. ‘Ah, yes, Sister – do you remember the knight on the left, waving his sword? I used to pretend I was he – I was only a child, then,’ he added hastily. And I smiled at the child still, as I told him I did remember his knight, and the beautiful maiden below.
‘Munich is a beautiful city, the most beautiful in the whole world – what did you like best in Munich, Sister?’ I pursed my lips and pretended to think a little. ‘That is a difficult question, Karl – there are so many lovely buildings in Munich.’ I saw his face flush with pleasure. ‘But I think I liked best the Residenz Theatre – and all those plump golden cupids with their flowers – I visited the opera often in Munich, Karl, for it was singing that I was studying there.’
His face stilled and he whispered, ‘My mother sings – when I was a little boy she would sing me to sleep every night.’
He did not ask, but I saw the longing in his eyes, so I bent over and touched his cheek. ‘Then I will sing you to sleep tonight, liebe Karl.’
As I straightened my back I glanced down for a moment at that broken body under its coarse grey blanket – then my gaze returned to his fair young face and, softly, I began to sing.
‘Guten Abend, gut Nacht,
Mit Rosen bedacht,
Mit Naglein besteckt,
Schlupf unter die Deck:’
Good evening, good night; slip under this flower-strewn coverlet, bedecked with roses – and I watched the cradle song of his countryman bring peace to this dying child. His eyes were fixed trustingly on mine:
‘Morgen friih, wenn Gott will,
Wirst du wieder geweckt.’
Tomorrow morning, if God wills it, you will wake again. If God wills it.
His eyes closed obediently at the final bidding:
‘Schlaf nun selig und sub,
Schau im Traum’s Paradies.’
Sleep sweetly now and be blessed – and in your dreams may you see Paradise.
But after the last note had faded away his eyelids quivered and he gazed up at me again – but I knew it was not I he saw as he whispered, ‘Mutter, liebste Mutter, kuss mich!’ so I bent down and kissed his cold forehead, and he was smiling as he fell asleep.
I picked up my writing case and turned away, and as I walked down the ward I heard the voices in the darkness, whispering; ‘Danke schon, Schwester,’ ‘Vielen Dank, Schwester’, ‘Gott segne sie, Schwester’.
And there in the entrance to the hut stood Night Sister, her face very cold. ‘I shall report this to Matron first thing in the morning, Nurse Girvan.’ She drew her skirts aside with a crackle of starch as I came towards her. I could see Mac’s agonized face behind her shoulder, but I walked on. There was nothing to say.
But before I went to bed I huddled over my torch and wrote a quick note to Guy and then put the two letters together, addressed the envelope and crept out again to the post.
I was in the ward next morning when Matron came – I had just finished settling Lennie, and Ben and Ginger were still with me. She swept up the ward, her face mottled red with fury. ‘Give me that letter, Nurse Girvan.’
I stood facing her, and said as calmly as I could, ‘I have already sent it, Matron – to my brother.’
‘To your brother! And where is your brother? I insist on knowing.’
I looked straight back and said, very distinctly, ‘Major Lord Muirkirk is attached to General Gough’s staff at Fifth Army Headquarters. He will ensure it is censored and sent on to the Red Cross in Switzerland.’
She was almost gobbling with fury now, but I managed to keep my gaze steady, grateful for the presence of Ginger and Ben Holden close behind me. Then I saw the flicker of cunning cross her face – she glanced beyond me and raised her voice so that it could be heard right the way across the ward. ‘And do your patients here know that you visited the German hut last night?’ I heard a sharp hiss of breath behind my shoulder, quickly suppressed. As I felt the blood drain from my face I knew what she would say, I knew how she had chosen to punish me. Her voice rang out again. ‘So you, Nurse Girvan – a British nurse – not only chose to write a letter for a German prisoner, but you also sang to him – you sang to a Hun! And then, Nurse, you were so far lost to all human decency that – you – kissed – him – goodnight!’ She turned on her heel and left the field of battle triumphant.
With churning stomach and shaking hands I bent over the locker to pick up the bowl; there was silence over the entire ward. I straightened up and stared full into the set faces of Ginger and Ben Holden; they looked at me, expressionless, and then, with one accord they turned their backs and walked away.
I was weeping as I cleaned the trolley in the sluice. Sister came in. ‘Nurse Girvan – why ever did you do it?’
I whispered, ‘He was only a young boy, Sister – a dying child, crying for his mother.’
She sighed, and then she patted my shoulder in comfort. ‘Well, it’s done now – and if it’s any consolation, I don’t think Matron’ll take it any further. She’s had her revenge.’
Yes, she had had her revenge. I dreaded going back into the ward again, and when I did the men were polite; far too polite. I saw that Lofty had come back from the latrines, and Ben Holden and Ginger had got him in a corner, talking heatedly. I knew from their expressions that they were retelling my sins. I ran into the kitchen and tried to hide there for the rest of the morning.
At lunchtime I swallowed my meal hurriedly and ran back to the privacy of the hut. I found a brief note there from Mac, to say that the German boy had died at five o’clock that morning – he had never regained consciousness. I took out my pen and to the address I remembered I wrote in German: ‘Dear Frau Sussner, It is with the deepest regret that I write to tell you…’ Guy would be kept busy with the Red Cross this week.
When I got back to the ward Sister said, ‘Several of the men want to speak to you, privately, so I told them they could wait in the kitchen.’
I took a deep breath and pulled my cardigan more tightly round my shoulders as I went in. Ben Holden and Ginger were there, with Lofty’s small wiry figure standing foursquare in front of them. He began to speak at once. ‘Sister, these youngsters want to have a word with you.’
I looked at them apprehensively. Ben Holden stared fixedly at some point over my left shoulder and blurted out, ‘Me and Ginger – we’re sorry, right sorry – we reckon we didn’t understand – and we should have trusted you.’
Ginger added, ‘Aye, I’m sorry, too – real sorry.’
They both looked at me desperately until at last I whispered, ‘That’s all right,’ and the two of them blundered out.
Lofty said apologetically, ‘They’re only youngsters, those two – they don’t think. I went for them, and Sister told them how it was when you went off to dinner. They’ve been right upset since, they really have.’ He leant towards me, his small seamed face very serious. ‘I reckon – if my lad’s ever captured an’ lying like that – well I hope there’s a girl over there as’ll do for him what you did.’ He half turned away, and then asked, ‘How is he, this German youngster?’
‘He died early this morning, Lofty – it was better that way – he had lost all his limbs, you see.’
Lofty reached out and patted my arm, then he shook his head sadly and left.
I was still nervous when I went out on to the ward; Ginger was trying hard to be his usual self, but Ben Holden was very quiet, and I knew I was just as constrained. Lofty said to me later as he helped with the washing up, ‘Don’t be too hard on ’em, Sister – a lot of it were jealousy, you see – that you’d never sung to them.’ He grinned a moment: ‘Or kissed them goodnight, for that matter.’
I stopped and looked at Lofty, then I managed to smile. ‘I don’t know about the kisses – but I can certainly sing to you all, if Sister agrees.’
His face lit up in a beaming smile. ‘Then I’ll ask her now – we’ll have a little concert like, tonight that’s just the ticket.’
Lofty reported that Sister was agreeable, and when I came back from tea there was a pleasant air of anticipation in the ward. I walked in, running through a list of the trite old favourites in my mind. But when I stood in the centre of the hushed marquee looking at the expectant faces I suddenly knew I could not begin with ‘Hold your Hand out, Naughty Boy’. I remembered Lofty’s daughter – Christmas was very near now – and these men deserved better.
I stood still and let the opening chords play through my head, then took an imperceptible breath and let my voice soar up into the shadowy canvas in the age-old message of hope:
‘I know that my Redeemer liveth, – and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.’
As my voice died away in the final ‘earth’ I sensed them hearing with me their familiar chapel organs playing the intervening bars, until I raised my voice again at the terrible:
‘and though worms destroy this body – yet in my flesh shall I see God, yet in my flesh shall I see God.
– I know that my Redeemer liveth, and though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.’
I sang the final triumphant:
‘for now is Christ risen from the dead, the first fruits of them that sleep.’
No one stirred until the chords of our memories had ceased to play. Then there was a low murmur of appreciation and a voice asked hesitantly, ‘Can tha sing “How Beautiful are the Feet”, Sister?’
So I sang of the gospel of peace to men maimed and wounded in this most terrible of wars.
Then it was the joyous song of exultation:
‘Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice greatly, rejoice, O daughters of Zion!…
Shout, O daughter of Jerusalem…
behold, thy King cometh unto thee…
And finally, at Sister’s mouthed; ‘Only one more now, Nurse,’ I sang that short and beautiful message of comfort:
‘Come unto Him, all ye that labour, come unto Him, that are heavy laden, and He will give you rest…
Take His yoke upon you and learn of Him,
for He is meek and lowly of heart,
and ye shall find rest, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.’
We waited together until the final chords died away in our memories, then I turned away from the centre of the great marquee and walked down between the beds, and heard the voices calling softly, ‘Thank you, Sister’, ‘Thank you so much, Sister’, ‘God bless you, Sister’.
I remembered Elsa Gehring’s words – the words of my friend whom fate had made my enemy: ‘You must be able to sing anywhere – in the tiny cell of a monk, or the great Schloss of a king,’ and thanks to her, I could. But never, never had I thought that I would one day sing in this huge camp of weary, suffering men; all of us caught up together in the greatest and most terrible war the world had ever known.