The British Army’s main field hospital in Flanders occupies all three floors of the old Provoost Lace Mill in Poperinghe. It houses over 600 men in beds so close together that there is only just room to pass between them. Matron-General Emma McCarthy visited the hospital yesterday and declared that she was very satisfied with the way it is being run.
Margaret Killingbeck, one of three ward sisters, is in charge of Ward 1 on the ground floor. She is mightily relieved, knowing what a tartar McCarthy can be. British sappers have been able to restore the mill’s ancient steam-powered lifts so that the worst cases, those who have no need of the ground floor operating theatres and who are likely soon to die from their wounds, can be kept in the relative calm of the top floor.
It is a relief to the medics, nurses and orderlies that they have a relatively permanent base in Pop, given that they have moved all their patients and equipment five times since arriving at the Front.
Despite the immaculate cleanliness and organizational efficiency of the hospital, and the elevated tranquillity of the top floor, it is a grim place. It is, after all, an old lace mill, not a hospital. Painkilling drugs are in short supply, there are not enough surgeons, and sheets and blankets are hard to keep clean. On Ward 3, at the top, although there is mostly silence from the men slowly losing the struggle for life in semi or total unconsciousness, some are fighting their battle noisily, unable to deal with the dreadful ordeal of their pain, or unable to accept that death is close.
Hywel Thomas is allocated a bed on the ground floor, the area reserved for men who may not need to be sent home to Britain and could go back to active service. He is a borderline case. The injury to his palm has badly damaged his right hand, but he is still mobile. And his state of mind has improved. The desire for revenge has overcome the self-pity he felt in the coppice at Zwarteleen.
When the senior surgeon, Surgeon-Captain Noel Chavasse, a man just twenty-nine years old, examines Hywel’s mangled right hand, he concludes that the bullet has shattered metacarpals two and three, the bones that control his two central fingers – the middle finger and the ring finger.
Hywel’s first question is to ask whether he will still be able to anchor his rifle. The surgeon furrows his brow.
‘You won’t be using a rifle any more, Fusilier. You’re going home. Your regiment won’t take you back in your condition.’
‘But, sir, I’m the best shot in the battalion. They’ve made me a sniper.’
‘But it’s your right hand –’
‘I’m left-handed, sir.’
‘I see, let me have another look.’
Chavasse spends several minutes carefully examining the wound and talking to his juniors, who are gathered around Hywel’s bed.
‘It’s a clean hole, but the metacarps are beyond repair. There will be extensive nerve damage, and the healing time will be months.’
‘Please, sir, I have no family to go home to. My parents are dead, and both my brothers were killed yesterday.’
Captain Chavasse is stunned. He can see the desperation on Hywel’s face.
‘I’m sorry … that’s very unfortunate. Please accept my condolences.’ The surgeon examines the hand once more. ‘What is your name, Fusilier Thomas?’
‘Hywel, sir.’
‘Look, Hywel, it could take three or four months to heal. To be blunt, the army is not going to feed and house you for that length of time in the unlikely hope that you are going to be able to shoot again.’
‘Sir, I only need my right hand to rest my rifle on. I’m a quick healer, and while it’s getting better I can work here at the hospital.’
‘With one hand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Doing what?’
Hywel looks around at the frantic activity of the nurses and orderlies.
‘Most of what they’re doing, sir. I have a strong left hand.’
Chavasse smiles.
‘Let me talk to your CO.’
‘He doesn’t know me, sir. I only arrived from Wales last week. Our officer was killed yesterday; the only one who knows how good I am is Colour Serjeant Hughes.’
‘Very well, where is he?’
‘At the Front, I think, sir – the other side of Wipers.’
‘Well, I think he may be a little preoccupied at the moment.’
Chavasse smiles again and looks at his juniors next to him. They stand in respectful silence, waiting to see what he will decide to do. His smile breaks into a mischievous grin.
‘Very well, I’ll take your word for it that you’re a top marksman. I’ll operate this afternoon and will see what we can do. You’ll need a reinforced glove, but I know where we can get one.’
Chavasse’s juniors look puzzled; this is the first they’ve heard of such a thing.
‘Desoutter Brothers in London, a new company set up by Marcel Desoutter. Eighteen months ago, he was badly injured in a flying accident. I had to take his leg off. Not satisfied with the wooden leg he was fitted with, he and his brother designed a new artificial limb made out of duralumin, an alloy of aluminium. They have now started a new company making artificial limbs.’
One of Chavasse’s juniors cannot resist making an acerbic quip.
‘From what we’ve seen in the last three months, sir, they’ll soon be rich men.’
‘Quite! I’ll get them to make a reinforced glove for Fusilier Thomas, designed to help the hand in supporting a rifle. It’ll be a good challenge for them and an interesting case for us.’ He then turns to Hywel. ‘You make sure you bag plenty of the Hun to justify all this.’
‘Don’t worry about that, sir. There is a German sniper I need to nail for Lieutenant Orme and for popping my hand. He may as well pay for my brothers too.’
‘That’s the spirit! I should warn you, you’ll have no flexibility from your middle fingers, but your little finger, your index finger and your thumb should, with a bit of luck, hard work and a following wind, function as they do now.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You will be in pain for several weeks and should only undertake light duties for three months after that. Then we’ll put you on the range and see how you get on.’
‘Don’t worry, sir, I’ll take the eye out of a sparrow at three hundred yards.’
‘I’m sure you will. Nurse, would you tell Sister Killingbeck to get this man ready for surgery after lunch?’
Hywel’s euphoria at the news about his hand is dramatically dissipated on hearing Margaret’s name. His eyes follow the nurse. As they do, he sees a nursing auxiliary appear from the sluice room, where the bedpans and urine bottles are dealt with. It is another blow to his elation of only moments ago. The auxiliary is the sister he has disowned.
Bronwyn looks pristine in her pale-blue uniform, white apron and cap. In fact, Hywel thinks she looks even prettier than the sweet Welsh lass he remembers from happier days at Pentry before the trauma of the summer. Bronwyn does not notice Hywel as she walks past the end of his bed.
He is distraught; his eyes begin to fill with tears. He does not know what to say or do. His instincts tell him to run away, anywhere, but he has no clothes, bar the hospital gown they have given him. He also wants to have his operation so that he can fulfil his newly found purpose in life: to avenge Lieutenant Orme and his brothers by killing more Germans.
Bronwyn has gone out of sight, further down the ward, but she soon appears again, carrying a bedpan, and walks back past Hywel’s bed. He calls out in Welsh, wishing her a happy birthday.
Bronwyn lets out a squeal and drops the enamel bedpan and its contents all over the ward floor. She turns towards Hywel, screams again and rushes out of the ward. As she does so, she pushes past Margaret, who is carrying the notes of ‘Fusilier Thomas, Royal Welch Fusiliers’.
Guessing immediately what has happened, Margaret brings to bear all the discipline and self-control of her training.
‘Nurse Henderson, sort out that bedpan.’ She then calmly walks over to Hywel’s bed. ‘Good morning, Fusilier Thomas. How are you feeling?’
‘I’ve felt worse, Sister, but only just.’
‘Well, let’s get you operated on so that you can start to get better.’
Then, as she goes around his bed tucking in his sheets and arranging his pillows as nurses do, she speaks again, but in a whispered tone that no one else can hear.
‘You are looking a lot better than when I saw you at Pentry.’
‘Thank you … Can I call you Margaret?’
‘Of course, but only in private.’
‘It wasn’t difficult. She was where you said she would be.’
‘Doing what I told you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘She’s fine. Can’t you see that?’
‘How did you do it?’
‘I’m a nurse … and a woman. She saw you in Pop when you arrived.’
‘I saw you, but not Bron. Was she with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then she saw Geraint and Morgan as well?’
‘Of course; it was quite a shock for her.’
‘Not as big as the one she’s got coming. I don’t know how I’m going to tell her.’
Margaret stops fiddling with Hywel’s bedding, a look of horror forming on her face as she sees the pained expression on Hywel’s.
‘They’re both dead. We got cut to pieces yesterday. I was lucky; I was sniping behind the attack. So few of the boys came back.’
Margaret cannot hold the tears in check. Despite all her resolve, they begin to spill down her cheeks and her chest heaves involuntarily.
‘Look, Hywel, I must go and find Bron. I’ll get a staff nurse to cover for me for an hour, she’ll get you ready for the op …’ She pauses, remembering her duty. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, you go. I’m not feeling like I did when we met before. I’ve found something I’m good at, and I want to recover for my brothers’ sake. I also want to make it up to Bron for not looking after her.’
Margaret puts her hand on Hywel’s shoulder and then rushes away to the nurses’ quarters, where she finds Bronwyn curled on her bed, sobbing. Margaret sits on the edge of the bed, pulls Bronwyn towards her and cradles the girl’s head in her lap. She begins to stroke her hair, but does not say anything.
Several minutes pass before Bronwyn speaks.
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s been shot in the hand.’
‘Which one?’
‘The right.’
‘Thank God for that small mercy; he’s left-handed.’
‘Don’t worry, they’re going to patch him up. He’ll be fine.’
‘He said “happy birthday, lovely girl”.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?’
‘I’d forgotten. And besides, I can’t remember what day it is, let alone the date.’ Bronwyn sits up and shakes her head, as if to clear her thoughts. ‘Do you think he’s forgiven me?’
‘Yes, I think he has.’
‘I’m sorry I dropped the bedpan; he gave me such a fright.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ Margaret takes a deep breath. ‘Bron, you know I said I would tell you my dark secret one day?’
‘I remember; I’ve been hoping you’ll tell me ever since we got to France.’
‘Well, I think I should tell you now. But I want to say something first …’ She takes another deliberate breath. ‘I love you, Bron.’
Bronwyn smiles, her tears gone.
‘And I love you, Margaret; you have saved my life and been so kind to me.’
‘But it is more than that; I really love you.’
Bronwyn looks puzzled.
‘That is my dark secret. I like women; I’m ashamed to say I’m physically attracted to my own sex.’
Bronwyn is shocked, motionless. Margaret stands up and straightens her crumpled uniform.
‘There, I’ve said it. I’ve wanted to tell you for weeks, but I was terrified that you would reject me. I don’t want us to be lovers, but I wanted you to know. I think you are so brave, dealing with everything you’ve had to endure. I watch you every day, putting up with all the drudgery on the ward, and you never complain; you are so strong.’
Bronwyn has regained a little of her composure.
‘Margaret, I don’t know what to say –’
‘Don’t say anything. I just wanted you to know so that we can be honest with one another. I know all your secrets, and now you know mine.’
‘Have you had many lovers?’
‘Just two. A girl back home – you know, in the village I told you about in Swaledale? She was the vicar’s daughter, from two villages away, down in the valley. She was full of life, very clever; they were happy days together.’
‘What happened?’
‘We got caught in her bed by her mother. She told her parents that we were in love and she was going to run away with me. All hell broke out. She was sent to her mother’s sister somewhere – they wouldn’t tell me where, for obvious reasons – and my parents threw me out on the street.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Worked in pubs, did cleaning; whatever I could, just to get by.’
‘You didn’t do what I … ?’ Bronwyn cannot bring herself to put it into words.
‘No, but I sank pretty low. I tried men, lots of them, looking for the one that would release me from my “illness”. That’s what they say, you know, that it’s an “illness”. That’s why I said that I understood what you were going through.’
‘How did you become a nurse?’
‘Study, hard work, just like you’re doing now.’
‘What about your other lover?’
‘A nurse, like me, at Guy’s, where I trained. She was very precocious and very sexually aware, which is why I understood what happened between you and Philip. And why I am so certain there is nothing peculiar about you.’
‘Bloody hell! I wish you’d told me all this ages ago; it would’ve helped a lot.’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s not an easy thing to talk about.’
‘And your boyfriends?’
‘Most were young, immature and, you know …’
Bronwyn smiles – a warm, sympathetic smile.
‘I know! They’re big, ’airy, smelly things, aren’t they?’
Margaret smiles back, but then stops herself. She sits down next to Bronwyn again.
‘Bron, I told you I love you and bared my soul so that you know how much I care about you, because I think you’re going to need me. There’s something else.’
‘Oh God, Margaret, your face!’ Bronwyn begins to shake her head wildly. ‘Not one of the boys? Not Geraint or Morgan?’
Margaret is struggling to maintain her composure. Bronwyn stares at her friend’s now stern demeanour and begins to scream.
‘No! No! Please don’t tell me. Please!’
‘Bron, Geraint and Morgan are dead. They were both killed yesterday, in the same attack in which Hywel was injured. Few of the Welch Fusiliers survived. I’m so sorry.’
Bronwyn howls in a fusion of anger and sadness.
‘Why our family? Look at what’s happened to us! Ma an’ Da gone, two brothers dead, another injured. And me, a so-called redeemed whore who spends her days emptyin’ tins o’ shit, moppin’ up blood, an’ pickin’ up bits of bodies.’
Margaret lets Bronwyn wail for a while. She longs to comfort her friend, but is afraid any gesture on her part may be misconstrued.
‘Morgan and I were so close as kids. We even knew what the other was thinking. And Geraint, well, he was my baby brother; no more than a child, really.’
Margaret feels inadequate in the face of such grief and attempts to put her arms around Bron, but the girl recoils and pushes her way.
‘No! No! And on top of everything else, my best friend’s a fuckin’ fanny-licker!’
Margaret swings round and runs out of the room in floods of tears. She keeps going, even though she can hear Bronwyn calling after her, shouting that she is sorry.
Margaret does not reappear on the ward until over an hour later, when Dr Chavasse is just finishing his second round of the day. He notices immediately that Margaret has been crying.
‘Sister, are you all right? You’ve been away rather a long time.’
‘Sorry, Captain, I’ve just been telling one of the nurses that she has lost two brothers, one of whom was her twin. And it’s her nineteenth birthday today.’
‘Oh, I see, how very distressing for you. And for her; poor girl. Do I know her?’
‘Yes, I think so, her name is Auxiliary Thomas. She happens to be Hywel Thomas’s sister, as well.’
‘Oh dear, what a terrible business all round. She’s the pretty little Welsh one; the one who’s caught the eye of several of my juniors.’
Margaret winces.
‘Yes, she’s a pretty little thing; I’m sure all the young men are after her.’
‘Her nineteenth birthday, you said? How did she become a nurse so quickly?’
‘It’s a long story.’
Chavasse changes the subject and brings them back to the unintentionally callous cataloguing of injury, healing, infection and death; the daily routine of the Royal Army Medical Corps.
‘Sister, most of today’s operations have gone reasonably well. We lost four men in theatre, but they were pretty irretrievable. The rest are a mixed bag.’
Chavasse begins to hand notes to Margaret, who keeps them carefully in order.
‘These are two amputees above the knee, and three below the knee. They are in good shape, but they’ll have to go upstairs to Ward Two to recover before being sent home. I have three for the top floor. Grimwood: I’m afraid his lungs will not recover, he’s going to need morphine and will spit blood until he dies. Matthews: I’ve stitched up his stomach, but there’s nothing further I can do for him; just give him enough morphine to take the edge off, but he won’t survive the night. And this poor sod, Macpherson: he must be as strong as an ox, he should be dead already; give him a lot of morphine, he deserves it.’
‘What about Hywel Thomas, Captain?’
‘Ah yes, he’s with this lot’ – Chavasse hands several more notes to Margaret – ‘all fit enough to stay downstairs and convalesce before going up the line. Thomas begged to stay here, said he had scores to settle. I’ve patched up his hand. I think he’ll retain feeling in his thumb, and perhaps his index finger, but the rest will be useless. Infection is the problem with him. Try and get him to behave himself. One of my lads has telegraphed London to see if we can get him a reinforced glove.’
‘Why, Captain? Surely he’s no use to the infantry with one hand?’
‘Apparently he’s a crack shot. An officer came over about an hour ago, an odd fellow, wearing a Stetson cowboy hat. He looked like a big-game hunter, called himself Major Hesketh-Prichard. He said Thomas was the best shot the Royal Welch has ever had and that his scores on the range broke all British Army records. They’re going to make him a serjeant when he recovers and get him to help train others to shoot.’
Margaret goes to Hywel’s bedside before she goes off duty that afternoon to reassure him about his hand. He has already been seen by Major Hesketh-Prichard and is ecstatic about the news.
‘What did the major tell you?’
‘He wants me to join this training unit he’s startin’ up, to improve our snipin’. Apparently, our average soldier is a much better shot than the average Fritz, but their snipers are much better than ours. I did a deal with him.’
‘Really?’
‘He agreed I could go back to my battalion for three months to pop that Hun who plugged Lieutenant Orme.’
‘How will you find him?’
‘If his unit is still here, I’ll find him. Then I told the major I’d nabbed a telescopic sight off the sniper I shot. I thought he was goin’ to kiss me! He’s taken it off to be tested.’
‘That’s excellent news. Well done!’
‘So, how’s Bron? Did you tell her about the boys?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Is she in a bad way?’
‘I’m afraid she is, Hywel; she’s going to need you to lean on.’
‘Please ask her if I can come and see her. The Doc said I can get up in a few days, if I wear a splint.’
‘I will, Hywel. I’ve given her some time off, but I hear they’re expecting another big battle later this week, when I’ll need her back. Why not wait until Thursday.’
‘Thanks, Margaret.’
Margaret makes her way back to the nurses’ quarters, where she finds Bronwyn waiting for her in her room.
‘Margaret, I hope you don’t mind me being in your room, but I didn’t want to miss you.’
‘Of course not. How are you feeling?’
‘A little better, but still very raw. Listen, I’m sorry about what I said. I was upset.’
‘Don’t be sorry, it was a crude way to put it, but I’ve heard worse. So now you know, you’re not the only one who has to live with guilt. You said you thought you weren’t normal; well, how many women do you know who are lesbians?’
‘Is that what you’re called?’
‘Yes, “lesbian” describes what I am, but most people use expressions like the one you used.’
‘Oh, Margaret, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it.’
Bronwyn embraces her, but this time Margaret is the one to reject the approach.
‘No, Bron; if we’re going to stay close, you can still treat me like a friend but you can’t be intimate with me.’
‘Oh, I see, but I liked our cuddles together.’
‘So did I, but they were also an agony for me, because I so wanted them to go further.’
‘I understand; it must have been awful for you. Let’s go out for a drink in the Maison de Ville tonight. After all, it is my birthday!’
‘Are you sure? What about your brothers, isn’t it in poor taste?’
‘It might be, but me an’ the boys always had a drink together – in good times and bad – so let’s go an’ have one for them.’
‘All right; you know, Bron, you are so strong. I just don’t know how you do it.’
‘I do it thanks to you.’
‘Come on, I think we both need a drink.’
Forty-five minutes later, having taken a bath and changed their clothes, Margaret and Bron have toasted Geraint and Morgan and are sitting in the Maison de Ville, in Pop’s Grande Place.
Neither one says much to the other; they are both deep in their own thoughts. So much has happened to them in the space of just a few months. There is so much pain and suffering all around them. Their emotions are strained almost to breaking point, and yet, they are sitting in a bar enjoying a drink. After a while, Bronwyn utters a long tortured sigh.
‘If I was at home now, I’d be dressed in black, sittin’ by the fire. No one would say anythin’; all the men would look grim, the women would wail. But look at us, drinkin’ wine!’ She looks around the room with a wry smile on her face. ‘And look at this lot, all drinkin’, laughin’, lookin’ for a quick one with any old tart. What’s the war doin’ to us?’
Margaret has her own thoughts. Other than the lover she had at Guy’s, she has not talked to anyone about being a lesbian since she left Swaledale. She is still not reconciled to her sexual feelings and spends many hours hoping that, miraculously, she will revert to ‘normal’. The trouble is, to her, her feelings are normal. She has not really heard what Bronwyn said.
‘Margaret?’
‘Sorry, I was daydreaming.’
‘I was saying, the war is turning us into thoughtless, cruel creatures.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. We talk about the men like a vet talks about cows: put this one with the poor milkers; this one can go to the knacker’s yard …’
As she continues, the two nurses suddenly hear the crisp tones of an aristocratic male voice.
‘Good evening, Margaret, I was told I would find you here. How are you?’
It is Hamish Stewart-Murray. He is back from Blair Atholl; his wound has healed and he is rejoining the Camerons, who are billeted near Ypres. Margaret is flustered and, not helped by the red wine, her cheeks glow a rosy red.
‘Hamish, good heavens … er, I’m fine. Please sit down; have some wine.’
‘That’s most kind, thank you. But only if I’m not intruding?’
‘No, no, not at all. And how about you; your wound is healed?’
‘Yes, it’s fine. I’m going up to Ypres tomorrow, back to the Camerons.’
Hamish looks at Bronwyn and smiles.
‘Oh, sorry; Hamish, this is Bronwyn Thomas. We nurse together.’
Margaret realizes at once that she should not have mentioned Bronwyn’s first name, thus revealing who she is.
‘Bronwyn, what a lovely name …’ He pauses as he remembers where he has heard the name before, but manages to stop himself saying so.
Bronwyn realizes who Hamish is.
‘It’s all right, Margaret, Hamish. This is a day for shocks. You must be the officer who was there when Philip died. I hope you don’t think me too wicked, sir.’
‘Not at all, Bronwyn, and please don’t call me “sir”; it’s Hamish, this is Civvy Street.’
Bronwyn has a mischievous look on her face.
‘Well, Hamish, I think you should take Margaret out to dinner and buy her the best bottle of wine in Pop. She needs cheering up.’
Hamish’s face transforms itself into a broad grin.
‘That was exactly my plan, Bronwyn; how astute of you. Would you like to join us?’
‘That’s very kind, but three’s a crowd.’
Hamish’s grin gets broader still. But Margaret is looking less than pleased.
‘Hamish, you’re so kind, but I have to be on duty at –’
Bronwyn interrupts her.
‘Margaret, don’t be a spoilsport! Hamish has come all the way to Pop to see you; you can’t stand him up.’
Bronwyn is right, and Margaret knows it. Her face softens.
‘Yes, of course … Hamish, that would be lovely.’
An hour and a half later, Margaret is enjoying herself. She and Hamish have both heard that the Germans are likely to make one last attempt to break through at Ypres before winter finally takes control. There will be no time for relaxation for many days to come, so, despite her initial reluctance, she is now grasping the opportunity with increasing relish.
She has been treated to the best food and wine in Poperinghe, at a small, inconspicuous family restaurant behind the Grande Place. Somehow, it manages to provide the local senior French and British staff officers with fare on a par with the giddy heights of Parisian cuisine.
‘Hamish, that was astonishing food, better than anything I’ve ever had in London. Thank you so much. How do they do it?’
‘They always find a way to serve fine food here, even in the most trying circumstances.’
Their conversation flows.
Margaret tells Hamish a little of Bronwyn’s story and of her life amidst the horror surrounding Ypres. It is good therapy for her.
Hamish tells her about his family problems, Geordie’s likely death, and his father and brother’s indiscretions.
‘And what about yours, Hamish?’
‘There have been a few, but not with the same consequences as Bardie’s.’
‘I should hope not!’
‘And what about yours?’
Margaret’s mood changes and becomes sombre again.
‘There haven’t really been any – at least, none I care to remember.’
Hamish seizes the moment.
‘Would you like to change that?’
Margaret takes a while to answer. She is on the horns of a dilemma. She had so hoped that Bronwyn might reciprocate her feelings, but it does not look like she will. Perhaps she could love a man, after all, and find satisfaction with him? Hamish is not like the other men she has met. He seems kind and gentle, and she is sure he is an experienced lover.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Here; they have a small apartment upstairs. Very cosy, very private.’
Margaret is tempted. She can feel the beginnings of a sexual frisson – perhaps this time? She takes his hand.
‘Hamish, if I stay with you, will you be gentle with me?’
‘Of course, like a butterfly on gossamer.’