Two days had passed since Guy’s left leg had been amputated from just above the knee. The day after the operation, he had received a blood transfusion to prevent post-operative shock. As he was getting ready, Major Cartwright, the surgeon, told Guy in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘Had the leg been sterilised and drained a bit earlier, we could’ve saved it but it’d become infected with gas gangrene.’
‘Gas gangrene?’
‘’Fraid so, Private, a gas-forming bacilli, which, once it infects a wound, can only be treated by amputation. What can do you, eh?’ Guy took this as a vague apology but he knew this wasn’t the place where surgeons had the luxury to worry about what might have been. They concerned themselves only with the here and now, and if a surgeon believed an amputation was needed, off it came, no time to seek a second opinion. Guy’s leg would have been chucked into a bucket, along with numerous other limbs, and some poor nurse detailed to take it away and throw the grim contents into the furnace. In the meantime, Guy had had a bath – his first proper bath in over two months. The water had to be almost cold so as to not cause further pain to the stump. The water turned black as soon as he lay down in the metal tub, sparing Guy the trial of staring at his shorn leg. Once finished, he found it impossible to drag himself out and, much to his embarrassment, had to call for assistance.
Within those two days, Guy had almost come to terms with the loss of his leg. How long would it have taken under normal circumstances? But these were far from normal circumstances. Here, mangled men with wounds severe and life-threatening surrounded him. What was a leg to a jaw or charred skin or the poisonous effects of inhaled gas? Guy’s leg ached – a dull, incessant pain which served as a constant reminder of its absence. Guy lay on his bed for two full days, barely acknowledging his fellow patients. He needed to be left alone, allowed time to absorb his new self, his new being. At least his war was over, but it was a high price to pay, one hell of a Blighty. How long would it take to be strong enough to go back to England? he wondered. And once home, what would he do then? He had no concern for his financial future – he could simply slot in with the family millenary business. With Jack at his side, they could take over and allow their father to enjoy his long sought-after retirement. His sniggered at the thought of his father being unable to resist offering his advice and being incapable of relaxing for fear his sons were cocking it up. No, Guy’s concern was more for his personal future. He was considered a good-looking chap and he had had the pleasure of a few short-term acquaintances, but never a serious girlfriend, with, perhaps, the exception of Mary. But who would be interested in him now – an incomplete ex-soldier? What woman would want to share his bed, to have his children, to provide his father with a grandchild, the grandchild he was so looking forward to? He remembered his dream; his scathing father complaining about his legless war hero of a son. In removing his leg, the surgeon had cut off his future; the women he could have had, the bride that would never be.
At least now, in this hospital, Guy felt safe, cocooned from the outside world, his wound like a membership card to a unique club of contorted and mutilated men. Here, he was one of many, they were all one of the same, victims to the same cause. They understood him and Guy understood them. They’d all seen, felt, smelt and experienced the same emotions of fear, boredom, hatred, deprivation, apathy, love, comradeship, pity and self-pity. A generation of young men, just like himself, united by the experience of war. Surely, their sons and grandsons would never have to experience or suffer as they had experienced and suffered?
But would the outside world understand? Here, among the cripples, the wholesome and healthy staff were the odd ones out. But out there, back in England? Would they understand; would they try to? Out there, isolated from each other, he and his fellow victims would stand out like lepers. Guy shuddered at the thought.
After the third day, Guy began to take more of an interest in his surroundings and his fellow inmates. In the bed next to him was a man in his thirties who had lost his right arm, a Devonian with a pockmarked face, a corporal named Lampton, who spent his time learning to write with his left hand.
According to Lampton, they were in Ruby Ward. With just ten beds, it was one of the smallest wards and contained only the lightest casualties – the not so badly wounded, or amputees or potential amputees. There was little sign it had ever been a classroom. The walls, which had been painted yellow, looked dirty and uneven. The wooden floorboards were dusty and unswept, the windows filthy and cracked, two large but dim lights swung from the high ceiling. Two paintings broke the monotony of the peeling yellow paint – one, an alpine scene, the other, a portrait of King George. Guy was tempted to salute each time he looked at the earnest monarch and his piercing eyes. By each bed stood a small table for their meagre belongings. Guy’s table was empty, so Lampton gave him his copy of Dickens’s novel A Tale of Two Cities.
The corporal introduced Guy to each of his fellow occupants. Opposite him a chap called Stephen Browne – Browne with an ‘e’ – and either side of him, two men whose names Guy couldn’t remember but whom he christened Smith and Jones. Jones, poor chap, was a basket case – he’d lost all four limbs, various tubes were attached to him, leading to a huge demijohn beneath his bed. Guy, to his shame, felt a shudder of revulsion. Smith, for his part, had lost his right arm and his right leg. Further down, a Welshman with part of his jaw missing and bits of food smeared across his shattered mouth. None of them were in a fit state to talk or acknowledge Guy’s hello. And this, thought Guy, was a ward for the lighter casualties?
Browne seemed ridiculously young, his fresh complexion belied by his dark eyes. Although quiet, Browne was able to offer his own explanation, ‘Got caught by a piece of shrapnel,’ he told Guy. ‘Gouged out my thigh. But I was lucky; they saved it in time.’
Each had his own sorry tale, similar to Guy’s. And now together, in Ruby Ward, they found solace in each other’s company, swapping stories, jokes, cigarettes, optimism and encouragement.
Later that afternoon, the autumn sun shone and the nurses encouraged the men to go outside and exercise, and enjoy the fresh air. One of the nurses brought Guy a pair of crutches. He struggled to use them and found the effort exhausting. He asked for a wheelchair but the chairs were in short supply and reserved for officers or those like Smith and Jones in greater need. It put into perspective the nature of his suffering. So, he persevered with the crutches. It was difficult at first, fearful as he was of falling over at any moment. Lampton accompanied him as he stumbled precariously around, the corporal promising Guy to help him if he looked like he was about to fall over. Guy wondered what Lampton could do with his one arm, but he was grateful for the offer. Once outside, Guy was surprised to see the lawn covered in long wooden huts and even a series of marquee-style tents. Lampton anticipated his question. ‘They’ve been put there,’ he said, ‘ahead of the next big push.’
‘Expecting a lot of casualties then?’
‘Yes. How fast we learn, eh? At least we’re out of it. They’ll move us out soon; we’re taking up too much valuable bed space.’
‘Home?’
‘Yep, home – a beautiful word, don’t you think? Not so sure about Browne though,’ he added, lowering his voice.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, poor chap, he reckons he’s got himself a Blighty but I’m not so sure.’
‘You reckon he’ll get sent back?’
‘Yeah. It all depends on the Blighty nurse.’
‘The what?’
‘The doctors – they’re so rushed off their feet they ask the nurses what they think. So on Ruby, the Blighty nurse, I don’t know which one it is, but she seems to have the authority of who gets sent home and who doesn’t.’
‘Good God, that’s some responsibility.’
In the far distance, the men could still hear the rumblings of war. For some, the sound was too much and even at this safe distance, they preferred to stay indoors, closeted from the audible reminder of what had brought them here.
The nurses were mostly well-to-do English ladies, attached to the Voluntary Aid Detachments, but there were a few French nurses in attendance. Guy found the contact with women such a humanising effect. For two years, he had lived with men in an unreal, unnatural environment where the thought of women seemed such a trivial distraction and where death made a more natural if unwelcome bedfellow. As such, he had forgotten how much he missed the company of women. For the first few days, whenever a nurse spoke or touched him, Guy felt thankful, almost tearful, for their attention. It wasn’t the women’s sexual being that so moved him; it was the sense of comfort, of maternal security and well-being that was so blissful. Once, in those early days, when a nurse rested her palm against his forehead, Guy felt his muscles relax, the inert tension ease and his mind drifted away. He wondered whether she was the Blighty nurse that Lampton had mentioned. But there were, of course, a few nurses who were considered particularly attractive and the subject of much lurid discussion. The men regarded the nurses with either maudlin sentimentalism or lewd crudeness. Guy was relieved that at least in front of the nurses, the men always behaved impeccably. They all preferred the English nurses, women who could talk to them of England and the things that reminded them of home. The French nurses were fine, but even if they spoke good English, and some did, the men felt alienated by their accents, the lack of common ground. And Guy couldn’t help but agree. After such a long absence from home and away from women, talking to an English nurse was like touching home. Whether she represented your girlfriend, your mother, your sister, you felt the bond, the hand stretching across the Channel resting on your forehead, soothing one’s whole being.