Chapter 20

December 1916

Amid the winter bluster of English Channel winds, I had arrived at the Brighton Training Grounds. The second week of the month had me fully engaged in gymnastics and training offered by their professional staff, and it felt good to be active. In addition to daily runs along the seacoast, prison-like push-up drills, and calisthenics, we got out onto the playing fields for house-league matches, both football and cricket. The high skill levels shown by some of the men—from bowlers and spinners to strikers—made the games quite competitive.

However, one morning I felt off. It wasn’t a headache or fever, but rather a general feeling of malaise. Upon rising from a good night’s rest, I noticed a little smarting while passing water. I hoped this was a fleeting issue since I didn’t want to miss my reporting to the RCR Depot at Le Havre, where I was scheduled to sail from Southampton in a week. Since the regimen did not require me to attend every activity, I opted to remain in quarters that morning and write Cissy a letter.

Miss Cissy Ann Taylor

C/O Brunner Mond Munitions Dormitory

Silvertown, West Ham

8 December, 1916

Dear Cissy,

I trust you are well, working hard for the cause, and enjoying your one or two nights out with your friends. I am doing well, settled in at the Brighton training facility. It is such a nice feeling to think that I can write to you while I am deployed, remembering the tenderness we shared.

I have thought about you often, about your wonderful sense of humor and your quick intellect. You are a beautiful person, and I am so privileged to have spent such intimate time with you. Daisy was so right to make the introduction. Now it is up to us to decide how the rest is to unfold.

It is a comfort to hold intimate thoughts about you as I proceed to France and back into battle. No matter the outcome and no matter what future is written for you and for me, fond memories will endure.

You may write me C/O Royal Canadian Regiment, Headquarters Le Havre. Correspondence will be forwarded from there to wherever I may be in the field.

Yours,

Bob

I thought about my words for quite some time, wondering whether they were too forward for such a new relationship or perhaps too rigid in my desire to avoid sounding wanting. Cissy and I had shared an experience that most couples would have been more cautious about, but we had succumbed to it because of wartime circumstances. I decided to post the letter and see what response I would receive, if any.

Strength training and outdoor physical exercise continued into the new week despite the wintry coastal rains that at times pounded the fields. I preferred these strenuous workouts to Maudsley bed rest. However, the smarting that began a number of days before had developed into outright pain and burning while passing water and was now keeping me up nights.

I checked with the Brighton doctor. He turned me away, stating that he only dealt with training mishaps such as sprained ankles. In fact, he was completely uninterested in being involved in my internal issue and suggested I await diagnosis when transferred to the RCR Depot.

. . .

I was picked up from the bustling Le Havre port by the CO’s adjutant, who drove me to HQ. As it was just the two of us in the army car, I decided to explain my condition. When I looked over I saw his face had turned an angry red. “You mean to say, Lieutenant Pitman, that you have had a burning sensation down there for a week now?”

I felt I could trust this staffer and that opening up was the right thing to do. “Yes, as well as having to get up three or four times during the night.”

He snapped his head in my direction. “Why didn’t you check yourself into a hospital?”

“I tried to get medical attention at Brighton but was advised that, unless it was a military emergency, the two hospitals there would not see me, being reserved for the Imperial Indian Army and for the Aussies.”

The vehicle lurched to a stop in front of the HQ building. I felt demoralized as we walked in silence until we arrived at the adjutant’s office, where he lit up again. “Dammit, Pitman. Caught quickly, this could have been nipped in the bud. Now it likely means you will have extended hospital downtime.”

“Caught what, sir?”

“Venereal disease! Gonorrhea. VDG! You have the classic symptoms, which if caught within three or four days, well—”

“Gonorrhea? Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not sure! I am not a damned doctor, but I’ve seen so many cases come through this depot I’m familiar with the symptoms.” I was shaken, stunned by his prognosis. “But how could . . .” I trailed off, feeling stupid. My thinking became like mush, wondering if the emotion triggered in the adjutant was born from intense morality or from a secret checkered past. But it didn’t matter. He began to speak between clenched teeth, forcing the words out through puffed, reddened cheeks.

“You tell me, Lieutenant! Just when we had you traveling up to Arras to rejoin the regiment, you bring me this news. Dammit!” He stood two feet away, staring directly at me. “We need officers in the field. You’ve let your regiment down.”

I felt a need to explain, as awkward and embarrassing as the situation was. “I was with a girl only once, a couple of weeks ago. A good girl.”

The adjutant stood rigid. “Well, not that good a girl, is she? Tell me, where did you find this whore?”

I had to control my emotions so as not to make things worse. While I wanted to protect Cissy, I had to have the understanding of the commanding officer’s assistant. I breathed purposely, trying to be calm. “Sir, she is a friend of a friend, actually a friend of my cousin’s wife. We met during my convalescence. It was innocent, things happened.”

“I am spitting mad. You recovered from shell shock, which I understand. However, with leave on your hands, you couldn’t seem to keep your—your pants—well, your health straight. Get yourself over to Number 39 and let them deal with you.”

. . .

I was admitted to Number 39 General in Le Havre, where the diagnosis of gonorrhea was confirmed. I felt horrible and disgusted and spent a fitful night worrying over the circumstances that placed me back in hospital. The frustration was not so much about the disease itself, but rather the shame of not being a good officer who was expected to show leadership.

My mind was in turmoil. I had been in training and then saw action with no leave for a year, not dating any girls and certainly not seeking any professional love. Unless there was some immaculate process at work, I could only have contracted the disease from Cissy. Had she known she was infected and simply didn’t care enough to inform me? Had she lied about encounters with male companions, about her holding strict values and being selective about whom she embraced? Could she perhaps not have known that she was infected? Many more troubling thoughts attacked my overactive mind.

At my initial examination, I was bristling at being questioned about Cissy and lost control of my demeanor. However, after a level of mutual trust was built concerning the circumstances of my activity, and after a sensible discussion, the doctor and nursing sisters were understanding and professional. I learned that a woman is sometimes unlikely to know she has that particular disease.

As my thoughts turned from frustration to grief, I became concerned about Cissy. The medical staff assured me she would be contacted at the Brunner Mond factory to “have a word,” but I was under military order not to contact her for fear she could react “irresponsibly, perhaps run.” That was harsh, and I felt trapped.

After another bedridden day, the adjutant arrived, turning my pensiveness to anxiety. Sitting up in bed, I tried to smile and remain humble. Donning the hospital blues made that easier.

“Lieutenant Pitman,” barked the adjutant,”I have come around to discuss your situation.”

“Captain, I . . .”

He looked at me with a level of haughtiness and an impersonal distance. “No need to explain or justify. I’ve done this dozens of times. The examining doctor has apprised me of the circumstances, and although he is convinced you had a somewhat innocent dalliance only once with your little munitionette, you have let your regiment down.”

My smile waned but not my humbleness. “I am so truly sorry.”

“I am not here for that, Lieutenant. What occurred was unfortunate but not in violation of military law. As you did not conceal the disease, there is no offense, but you will be subject to hospital stoppage. Since your disorder was not connected with military service, deductions from your pay will offset the medical costs. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain Hume advises that you will likely be resident here in Number 39 for up to four weeks, after which you will be assigned according to CEF needs in the field. I am afraid you lost your appointment back to the RCR.”

After the adjutant left, I felt a little better, the same way perhaps a school boy would feel after having his punishment completed. I was still left with guilt, but not completely sure why.

Had I not sacrificed a lot for King and Country? Was I not willing to continue that pledge? Were changing societal morals allowing for physical contact between unwed couples not gaining a level of understanding, if not acceptance? Was there no consideration that soldiers who could die at any moment might take sexual risks?

I reflected on where I was laid up: Le Havre, the Haven of Grace. While the physical location of a hospital is meaningless, there seemed some solace in being surrounded by grace.

I was sitting up, reading an old copy of The Telegraph, which a sister had so graciously found for me, when the doctor appeared at my bedside. “Good morning, Lieutenant. Captain Hume, I’m head physician and will be taking over your case. I understand the adjutant has dealt with your military issues. Let’s dispense with that and work on getting you better. We don’t judge here, just treat.” Hume seemed genuinely nice, not just in a doctorish way.

“Thank you, Doctor. That is some comfort.”

“Now, we will be applying several treatments to rid you of this bacterial infection, and I ask you to be strict with the process. That way we will have you cured and on your way.” He examined me behind the closed curtain, but a couple of times, in spite of his being gentle, I gave a painful start. “Your medical history shows you’ve just been released from the London medical system for shell shock concussion, so I’m sure you want to re-employ as quickly as possible.”

With the examination over, I leaned back against the pillow. “Yes, that’s exactly what I want. More than ever, I need redemption through getting on with what I set out to do here in France.”

Hume patted my forearm while looking at me with kindness. “You are a good man, I can tell. That positive attitude will be a key piece of your cure.”

The doctor reviewed the treatment, which included good food, fresh air, and silver solution injections that would stimulate my immune system. “I’m embarrassed, but thank you for looking after me and for your kindness.”

He nodded his acknowledgment. “Lots of bed rest and a worry-free mind, Lieutenant. Light exercise, no cricket, no football, no running. I find walking along the seacoast to be rehabilitating. One sees many hospital blues along the boardwalk.”

I kept to the strict regimen prescribed by Dr. Hume and began to feel better after the first week. However, because there remained evidence of infection, I needed to stay the course and be patient. I wanted the bacterium completely out of my system.

Yet the companion to patience is time. With time on my side, I thought a lot about Cissy. How was she doing? Had the authorities contacted her? Who were the authorities, military or the national health board? Thinking of the adjutant’s attitude, were they kind or rough?

I wavered in my intense feelings between anger and compassion, which confirmed at least one thing: I cared about her. If she had known she was carrying the disease, I would be devastated, since that meant she didn’t care about my welfare. But if she was innocent and didn’t know, then I needed to be a comfort to her. But how could I help when I was forbidden to contact her and was shortly to be assigned to a battlefield?

. . .

I welcomed the 1917 New Year in a quiet fashion from the hospital grounds in Le Havre, followed by a mid-January order to report by shuttle lorry to the nearby Canadian Base Depot. I marched out that day in full uniform, feeling relieved to finally be returning to my military duties yet unsettled about the two recent hospital visits on my record.

I began my journey under a cloud of confusion about what was to come, what was before me. I struggled to keep my emotions in check, to not sit in the lorry and sob my heart out. I felt guilty, remorseful, embarrassed, and uncertain as I sat beside the driver, reflecting on what was to come. I wasn’t just scared about my immediate future; I worried over Cissy.

I wanted her to be clear of responsibility, to have been as surprised as I was about the disease. I wanted that shared innocence to spawn a new world for both of us. Yet I felt desolate at not being able to speak with her, hold her, and hear her weep out the straightforward truth. I felt as anguished as on that day at Mouquet Farm when I was buried by enemy artillery. I again felt buried, this time with emotion.