6th June 1917
Dearest Jane,
It is a glorious day here in Ypres. As I sit here atop the cemetery’s bluff in the warm sun, I never seem to tire of the view. The canal stretches below like a road of glass among the rolling hills dotted with lazy cows. There is even a charm about the broken windmill whose remaining two blades are like clock hands frozen at 4:05. Though I’ve become accustomed to the booms and thuds of shelling, the rows of fresh graves with their white crosses are a constant reminder of the killing fields only a few miles away.
Our wards have been fairly quiet, although Captain Darcy tells us there is a slight increase of minor injuries at the boys’ school ward due to the amassing of troops. The anticipation of the expected offensive has everyone in a heightened state of readiness. I think they will secretly be glad to get it underway to break the tension. Monsieur Dubois fears waiting too long will make an utter quagmire of the loamy fields with the autumn rains.
Did I tell you one of the new Sisters shares my name? She even bears quite a resemblance to me except she spells Bennett with two “t’s” instead of one, and she’s rather reserved. Many jokingly call her “Sister Tootie,” short for “Two-T.” I hardly see her, though, as she often works the night shift.
But enough of me. It’s hard to believe you have been married for several weeks now! How exciting for you that Charles is being reassigned to London. At last you will be mistress of your own home. I hope Charles’ townhouse is as lovely as Caroline’s boasting made it out to be. Oh, and I am so relieved you will be close enough to regularly visit Mama!
Lili is now barking at the children coming to play with her and the little stuffed dog I bring on my rambles whilst my little Frenchman visits his neighbour.
So I will close with all my love,
Lizzy
A concussive explosion bolted Elizabeth upright in her bed and shook the house. What was that? No rain pattered in the darkness outside, so it couldn’t be thunder. Air raid. A chill ran through her. Monsieur! Pulse pounding, she staggered to her feet and snatched her dressing gown. Voices crescendoed in the hall as she joined the panicked doctors and nurses clamouring down the stairs.
“What happened?”
“Get the patients to the root cellar!”
“Knocked me out of bed!”
“Armageddon!” Cowart cried out, nearly trampling her on the steps.
Elizabeth forced her mind to think clearly. She was responsible for seeing to the monsieur and Lili.
Passing through the great hall, she dodged stretchers and staff heading towards the root cellar out of the veranda door. The Yank’s calm directives rose above the bustle and clamour of anxious voices. “Watch behind you, Johnson. Easy does it there, Sister.”
She sidestepped her way into the library where Mrs. Simpson was working to calm her frantic employer. “Beaumanoir! Beaumanoir! What has become of my home?”
“Monsieur.” Elizabeth grasped his shoulders while Mrs. Simpson scooped up the terrified dog. “Monsieur!” She gently shook him to force his focus to her eyes. “We must get you to the root cellar. We don’t know the manor has been damaged.”
“Oh, Chérie, my house! Lili!”
“Monsieur!” she ordered more firmly. “We must go—now.”
His expression softened in acquiescence.
“Mrs. Simpson has Lili. She is safe.” Elizabeth placed a supportive hand under his arm and urged him up. Tottering towards the door, Elizabeth’s eyes darted to the captain’s door—it was open. He always kept it locked.
They joined the stream of orderlies, nurses, and patients in various states of nightdress funnelling towards the cellar. Crossing the yard Elizabeth glanced around. The moon’s light revealed no damage, and no aeroplanes hummed overhead. All was still and quiet. What had happened? She pressed her charge onward.
At the cellar’s entrance, Elizabeth handed the arm of the little Frenchman to an orderly just inside the stairs. Descending underground, the smell of musty earth enveloped her, and she raised her gaze, scanning the unfamiliar space. A string of bulbs ran along the earthen ceiling, lighting the benches that lined the narrow walls. At the back of the cellar, crude bunks were topped with patients on stretchers.
She dropped onto the bench beside Dubois and sighed. It was a good thing someone had the forethought to prepare the space. Captain Darcy. Of course he had thought of it. Her gaze swept the shifting bodies, buzzing with nervous uncertainty. Where was he? Was he hurt? He hadn’t been in the great hall either. A tingle of fear crept down her spine. Then she relaxed, recalling his open office door. He must be here somewhere.
The stuttering rumble of a motorcycle broke the silence as it revved to life then sped away. A moment later Colonel Weekes appeared on the cellar steps with pipe in hand, dressing gown open, and tousled hair. “Immediate danger is over,” he announced matter-of-factly. “Explosion at Messine’s Ridge.” His monotonous expression broke into a slight chuckle. “Seems we blew the Huns to kingdom come.”
Whoops, cheers, and laughter swept the tension away like a collective exhale.
The colonel’s waving hand quieted the crowd. “Best get on. I expect we’ll see the first casualties within the hour.”
The confined space sprang to life again. Elizabeth rose and spied Dr. Cowart at the back of the cellar, barking out directives to the orderlies as if he were some sort of gallant leader. What a coward. Elizabeth shook her head and helped her employer to his feet.
The monsieur was uncharacteristically quiet on the walk back to the manor and stopped halfway up the veranda steps. Thankfully Dr. Frazier appeared and coaxed the little man to the top. Breathless, Dubois shuffled into the library, and Elizabeth tucked him back into bed.
What was wrong with him? Was he just shaken by the night’s events? She pulled the upholstered chair closer to the bed and settled into it, afraid to leave him. Minutes later he fell asleep with peaceful, even breaths. Hopefully a long rest would have him back to himself.
She glanced towards the library’s door where muffled voices and footsteps bustled over the marble floor in the hallway. She shifted in the chair, itching to be among the staff preparing the receiving tent, sterilising the surgical instruments, and readying the wards. But her responsibility was to the monsieur.
She impatiently drummed her fingers on the chair, considering her options. Her eyes darted to the wall clock. 5:35 am. Her gaze circled the panelled library and stopped on the annexe door now closed. Darcy? A moment later she released a giggle and relaxed her shoulders. How silly of her. Did she expect him to come sauntering in and return to bed? Certainly not. Surely he was out working shoulder to shoulder with the doctors and orderlies doing whatever he could to ensure their efficiency.
Elizabeth turned to a noise at the door. “Mrs. Simpson!”
“Are you still up dear?” The matron whispered.
Elizabeth related her concerns about the monsieur’s lethargy.
“You go and help with the patients. I’ll stay here with him.”
Elizabeth squeezed the woman’s plump hands and moved towards the door, then paused and turned back. “Have you seen Captain Darcy?”
“He left on the motorcycle for the school.”
Elizabeth released a relieved breath. She hadn’t even considered the other location.
After donning her uniform, she inquired in the operating theatre, but with the additional new Sisters and the captain’s reorganisation, they needed no help. She stuck her head into the resus ward where two stretchers rested on trestles. A relaxed greeting from Sister McAdams and an orderly assured her that all was under control. With casualties just beginning to arrive, perhaps the receiving tent could use her help.
She stepped out the front door into the early morning dawn and met a line of ambulances winding around the fountain. She smiled recalling her initial night’s arrival. But this time there were two additional marquees beside the receiving tent and no Tommies idly mingling about. The same medical officer stood at the back of the lead ambulance, glancing at the tunic tickets of the injured as they were unloaded two at a time. Those he directed towards the marquee went into the first tent, the others were carried into the chateau. There was a relaxed efficiency tonight that had been missing on her arrival some six months ago.
She pushed back the flap of the second tent and found a row of jovial Tommies seated on benches with their feet immersed in buckets, joking as they scrubbed with long-handled brushes.
“What can we do for ya’, lass?” called out a grimy Scotsman with twinkling eyes. “I’m appointed chief cook an’ foot-washer, I am. See me chef’s hat?” The others laughed as he pointed to the white bandages circling his head.
An orderly seated behind a table laden with sliced bread and cheese quieted their merriment. “You boys be kind to Florence. Your injuries may be minor this time, but next time you might meet her in the operating theatre.”
“Ooooh,” they chorused.
Elizabeth smiled at their jesting, then turned to the orderly. “May I be of any assistance here?”
“I don’t believe so. Captain Darcy’s got it all sorted out. He’s put the boys waiting for the train in charge of dressing and feeding the newcomers. Cracking idea. It’s like a dozen extra hands. Might go check in the wards for prisoners. Word is our boys were taking prisoners by the hundreds.”
Elizabeth walked around to the stable block and indeed found it bursting with activity. She finally found employ slicing and buttering bread for the injured prisoners. All she could do was smile and offer them a drink as she knew no German.
Late that afternoon Elizabeth’s hand stilled on the butter knife when Captain Darcy strode in. He was a born leader. Other than his rumpled uniform, he appeared comfortably in command. He pressed a smile as he passed by her and spoke to several orderlies, a sister, and medical officer in turn. Minutes later they began to disappear. Elizabeth stopped Sister Sowell as she passed. “Where are you going? What did the captain say?”
“He’s ordered some of us to bed for a few hours. Looks like this might go on for another day or two, so he’s begun a sleep rotation schedule. I’ll be back at midnight.”
Wave after wave of arrivals brought more and more prisoners, so that two of the marquees on the south lawn initially appointed for Tommies were diverted for Jerries. Elizabeth lost count how many trips she made across the torch-lit yard throughout the night to the tarpaulined kitchen for more bread and butter.
At dawn Sister Sowell placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m off to bed again in a few minutes. Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll find a replacement for your post, and you can walk with me to the house.”
Elizabeth waited outside and watched the sunrise glowing behind the windmill. She chuckled. The blast had even shaken the stoic structure—its blades now read 5:10.
A moment later she fell into step beside Sister Sowell. “The staff seems to be handling the influx of casualties with surprising ease.”
“Indeed. It is amazing what a difference wise planning and organisation have made. Did you see the gardening shed? Captain Darcy turned it into another operating theatre. Brilliant idea. Don’t know why we hadn’t thought of it before.”
It was my idea! Elizabeth bit her lip not wanting to be a braggart like Dr. Cowart. Besides, she’d worked throughout the day and night and was tired.
After parting company with the Sister in the hallway, she tiptoed into the library and picked up a note resting on the upholstered chair vacated by Mrs. Simpson.
Monsieur slept most of the day.
Sleeping peacefully now.
Gone to help with breakfast.
Will check on him in few hours.
Elizabeth sighed in relief. Maybe her little Frenchman would be back to his cheery self when he woke.
After a cool splash of water on her face, she nestled into the chair. Just before she closed her eyes, her gaze lingered on the captain’s door.
Elizabeth woke to the gentle stirring of her employer and the sun high in the sky. She quickly sat up, rubbing the stiffness in her neck. “Good morning, Monsieur. Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough,” he sighed.
Elizabeth’s senses snapped to attention evaluating her charge. “The morning is late. Shall I call for breakfast?”
“Oui.”
Concern crept over her. He clearly lacked his usual gaiety. He seemed tired—worn down.
“Good morning!” Mrs. Simpson appeared at the door. “I see you are awake.”
“Y-yes. Yes, we are.” Elizabeth slanted her eyes to communicate her concern. “I think we would like some breakfast. Perhaps some eggs?” She looked to her employer who hadn’t even acknowledged his little dog.
After a near-silent breakfast of eggs and bacon, Elizabeth surveyed the north lawn out of the window, hoping the activity outside would stir his interest. “I see there are still some wounded prisoners arriving, but not nearly so many as last night.”
She turned to the little man for a response, but he only returned a weak smile. “Yesterday some four hundred Jerries passed through our tents. I think some were secretly glad to have been captured.”
“I would like Mozart.”
“Mozart? You would like some music?”
He nodded.
When the soothing melody bathed the library, he leaned back in his chair with a contented smile and eventually fell asleep.
Later, Elizabeth glanced at the clock—half-past three in the afternoon. Monsieur Dubois was asleep again. He’d woken briefly throughout the day, mumbled a few words, then resumed his slumber. It was hard to be content confined to the library when so much activity bustled about The Ritz, but she still felt uneasy about leaving her charge.
Elizabeth finished knitting one sock and began another. She kept the gramophone playing and her hands moving to help pass the time. Between knitting rows, she occasionally lingered her gaze at the captain’s quiet door or out the window. Was she looking for something?
Just after six o’clock, Lili’s excited barks roused Elizabeth as the little dog bounded from her master’s lap to greet Captain Darcy. He strode through the library unshaven, bloodstained, and haggard, not bothering to toe Lili away. Silently entering the annexe, he shut the door.
The sun radiated from high in the sky before the door opened again.
He’d worked for more than thirty-eight hours.