‘Benson, you’re late.’
‘Only three minutes, Sister.’
‘You are late. Three minutes, thirty minutes, it’s by the way. When our soldiers go over the top, they can’t be even three seconds late.’
‘Yes, Sister.’ She knew all this by heart. ‘I’m sorry, only I was so tired this morning.’
‘We are all tired. If you spent less time chatting to the patients, you might be less tired. The fact you’re only a VAD is no excuse. You must behave like a proper nurse.’
‘The poor fellows, they need someone to talk to them, they’re so far from home.’
‘Your job is to look after the patients’ medical needs, Benson. This is not a convalescent ward, there is no time for social pleasantries.’
‘Yes, Sister.’ She sounded as contrite as she could. It maddened her to be late, she aimed to be so professional.
‘Buck up, Benson. You work hard, I know. And from today you have new duties. As you know, this building is full of Germans.’ She spoke as one might say it was full of rats. Sister Marsden did not care for Germans, the Huns were the worst people in the world, lower than natives in Africa, because they pretended to be civilised but they were savages who’d never changed from the days of Attila. She knew every detail of the atrocities in Belgium, the children they’d bayoneted, the nuns they’d raped. There was absolutely nothing good to be said about Germany. If anyone dared to argue with her she’d lose her temper. ‘The Bryce Report, may I remind you of the Bryce Report? It’s all there, the full record of German atrocities, compiled by our former ambassador in America, do you doubt him?’ She said she understood that Sophia spoke German, as though it were an unpleasant personal habit.
‘Yes, I learnt it at school.’
‘From today, you are assigned to duties on the German wards. Someone has to communicate with the Hun. But you will speak to them only in the course of duty, you understand?’
‘Very well, Sister.’ She acquiesced, though she knew, as doubtless Sister Marsden did, that she would still steal time to ask questions and admire the photographs of loved ones that were always offered for inspection, just as she did with the British soldiers. When she saw these poor broken men, how could she not comfort them? How could she mind that they were German?
This was a first-resort casualty hospital. It was some way behind the lines but you could hear the guns almost all the time. When there was a big battle, the Red Cross ambulances came in all day, bodies were piled up like sacks. Even when things were quieter, men were brought in. The wounded did not stay here long: if they survived for a few days they were sent on trains to Boulogne and Blighty, but many left only to be buried.
The hospital was housed in an old château, though you’d hardly know it. All the old furnishings had gone. It was years since the fountain in the courtyard had played, the urns and statues had left only battered plinths, the park was rank with weeds. The chimney pieces were chipped, the walls were roughly whitewashed plaster. The bare floorboards were stained: however hard the prisoners scrubbed, the stains never came out. Many of the room partitions had been removed, the wards stretched into a shadowy distance. Only the chapel in the courtyard retained some of its old appearance, still served by a priest, still used by a few local people, and now the site of an uneasy ecumenicism where visiting army chaplains held services from time to time. Usually the hospital maintained a certain order, in spite of the blood, the filth, the frequent sense of mounting chaos, but when the fighting was particularly bad, all she and the others could do was select which bodies might possibly be saved and which could only be left heaped on the straw.
Sophia had been there for two months or so, she hardly remembered how long. This was her third hospital, they opened and closed as needs changed. She did not think she was a particularly good nurse, she was too upset by what she saw. At the end of the day she was so tired that sleep was the only option.
The wounded German prisoners were housed in a wing that was even more dilapidated than the rest. British soldiers stood guard at the entrances, even though most of the prisoners could hardly walk, let alone run away. These patients were given adequate medical attention but little more.
The sister in charge turned out to be the amiably hearty type. She seemed pleased to see Sophia, said how useful she would be and told her to make a round of the wards. ‘Make sure all the Huns are still alive, won’t you?’ she said. Sophia must have looked at her strangely because she went on, ‘Well, I don’t mean to be unkind. They don’t behave in a particularly German way, except they will speak the language. They’re surprisingly polite and grateful.’ She sighed. ‘Well, some of them will go home one day, when all this is all over.’
Sophia walked round the wards. There were three of them, on three floors, with a separate room down a long passage for those considered close to death. The rooms were bare and cold, but at least this morning the sun was shining. There had been heavy fighting, and many prisoners had been taken. Most of the men lay motionless, some breathing painfully or crying out from time to time. The smells were hardly drowned out by the disinfectant.
At the end of the ground-floor ward, a few men were sitting on their beds, waiting to be moved elsewhere. They were quite cheerful. ‘Good morning, Nurse,’ they said in English, saluting as she passed. ‘Are you our new nurse? Congratulations.’ And, ‘Could I have a beer, please, Nurse?’ She did not smile: being familiar with patients, particularly prisoners, was not encouraged.
In the top ward, something stopped her. She recognised someone, even though he was quite altered, even though he was a wretched shadow. She did not want to recognise anyone here. Especially not this one. He had a bandage round his head and was staring into the distance, his eyes unfocussed.
She stopped. What was she to do? She could not stop and speak to him, she was on duty. But then, how could she not?
At the end of his bed was the patient’s chart, with his name, rank, number. It was Curtius, Captain. His eyes met hers, or so she thought. She tensed her mouth, expecting him to recognise her. But he seemed not to see her, his eyes closed.
At least he was not in the room for those expected to die, or for the drastically amputated.
‘Are you all right, Nurse?’ said a voice. It was a nurse she didn’t know. VADs were not expected to stand staring at patients.
‘Yes,’ said Sophia. ‘Sorry.’ She moved down the ward, looking to the right, looking to the left, mechanically, not knowing what she saw.