Page 20 of Summer in Greece

GERTIE

Dover, 1916.

THAT AFTERNOON, MOTHER AND I stood before Sissy’s grave. ‘Promise you’ll come back, Gertie. I don’t need a hero.’ She took my hand and squeezed it. ‘You’re my only child now. I couldn’t bear to lose you too.’

‘Mother, it’s the safest ship on the water, ask Father. Nothing bad is going to happen. Stop worrying.’

The last autumn leaves tumbled down around us in a sudden gust. I peered into the bare branches and wondered if Sissy was sending her blessings. ‘I won’t let you down,’ I whispered.

‘I know,’ Mother answered, dabbing her nose with a lace handkerchief.

*

Back home, I went straight to my room and pulled the Huntley & Palmers tin from the back of my writing desk. Inside, lay all Sissy’s letters from the munitions factory, and from the isle of Lemnos, before her sickness and death.

I’d read them so often the corners were dog-eared. With the tin in my lap, I sat quietly, recalling how pleased she was that women were at last stepping up the ladder of equality. I unfolded the top letter and heard her sweet voice as I read.

Dearest Gertie,

How I miss you! I wish you were here in glorious Greece. There are beautiful beaches and beautiful men, and days of endless sunshine. You would love it. Life is very different here in the field hospital. All day yesterday and through the night we heard the boom of guns, and the night nurses say the windows in the surgical hut rattled. It was the loudest I have heard so far, and every time I hear them, the words of one of our patients come to my mind: ‘Some poor devils are going to keep you busy.’

Soldiers from the front say there’ll be a big push in a few days. God knows how we’ll cope. We have fifty beds in our hut. We ease their pain, then send them to tent wards.

After work, at midnight last night, I went down to the receiving tent to see how the incoming wounded were handled. The big marquee had two feeble electric lights. Some doctors had electric torches. We’re told when a convoy is on its way. The stretchers are laid on the dirt floor, close together. The injured have a ticket on their coat assigning them to a tent where men with similar conditions also wait: shrapnel wounds, gas, blindness, limbs missing, gunshot and trench foot. I think about Arthur often, Gertie. Sometimes, a soldier will come in covered in mud . . . and for a moment I am fooled. Hope that there has been a mistake rises rapidly and leaves me breathless. Then my heart is broken all over again. At those times it’s difficult not to show affection for the poor blighters. They are all some mother’s son, aren’t they?

Volunteers hand out hot soup, usually pea with horsemeat. Unless they’re in agony, we bathe the men, put their clothes in the fumigator, then let them sleep. The doctors talk to them a little, but they don’t examine them. For those desperate darlings who will not make it through the night, there is morphine. A high dose.

The soldiers say very little. They’re exhausted, traumatised, and in terrible pain, but they’re also brave beyond measure. When I ask how they feel, torn open or limbs missing, they answer wearily, ‘Not too bad, nurse’ or ‘A bit rough, to tell the truth.’

I love them all, Gertie, although there are terrible repercussions if any nurse is found fraternising with a patient. However, I do occasionally sneak a small square of Mother’s chocolate in for a terminal case or two. God help the poor devils.

One patient was caught in an explosion and thrown onto an entanglement of barbed wire between us and the enemy. He had to stay there, exposed to gunfire, hunger, and thirst for twenty-four hours before anyone could get him away. He caught some shrapnel and several bullets, but I believe he will recover.

Another was shot in the hip and could only drag himself a few inches at a time between the trenches. He was out there, bombs and bullets passing over him, for three days. He took water from the canteens of dead soldiers until he was eventually rescued.

There was something about him, Gertie, something terribly special; my heart went right out to him. Thomas, was his name. Oh, my goodness. What a brave soldier! The light from his eyes shone right into my heart. When I cleaned the mud from his face, I gave him a fleeting kiss on the lips. This was such a forbidden gesture that I could have been expelled right there and then. Thankfully nobody noticed. ‘Do you believe in love at first sight, nurse?’ he asked. How I wished I could know him outside of this hellish war. I wanted to bathe him, tend his wounds and ease his pain. When I came back on duty, I brought him a square of treasured chocolate, but he had gone. Gone to heaven, Gertie. I wanted to be with him, in every sense of the word, so much that my heart broke into a million pieces. All I am left with is his name, Thomas . . . my Thomas.

I lie on my cot at night and hear the marching feet of new soldiers heading for battle. I wonder how many will come back incomplete – with limbs left in the mud on the front line – and how many of those marching feet will end their journey toes up on some foreign battlefield, never to return.

In the back of my mind, I can hear all the weeping mothers. You can’t get away from the tragedy of it all. It is with you every waking minute, and in your ears as you sleep. The boots go on marching, marching, marching. Never so many, and never so firmly, when they return.

Enough of this misery. I am honoured to be here, helping our wounded. At least I had a choice and can leave whenever I wish. Not so for our poor men.

One of the greatest things about being here is meeting so many kinds of people. The Australian sisters are here, and the New Zealand nurses too. Without them, heaven knows what we would do. We all suffer the same discomforts and eat the same food. It’s not too bad, and keeps us going, but we have lost much weight.

I’ve reached the end of my news, dear Gertie, but I will write again the moment I get a chance.

Love and kisses from me, your dear sister,

Sissy

My darling Sissy was my inspiration. I may never be as bold, brave, or intelligent as my sister, but I would try my best, and all would be done in her name. On 12 November, I stood on Southampton’s dock, antlike in the shadow of HMHS Britannic, my skin tingling with excitement. Sissy’s inspiration and my St John Ambulance certificate had carried me this far, the rest was up to me.

I squinted up at the majestic white ship. A broad green stripe ran around the hull, amidships, broken in three places by the universally recognised red cross. Low winter sunlight caught the great sign causing it to glint and flash, and confirming in our minds that nothing bad could ever happen to such a magnificent vessel. Breathless with excitement, and proud to be seen in public wearing my new uniform, I smiled at everyone who glanced my way.

‘Smith, wipe that grin off your face, you’re not a showgirl!’ Matron ordered as she rounded us up on the quayside.

‘Yes, Matron, sorry, Matron.’ I removed the smile, but it was impossible to dampen the sparkle in my eyes. We VADs and new nurses were ordered aboard. My heart thumped with pride. Most of us rushed to the rail and peered down at those on the wharf below. We were so high, they looked small, but how desperately I wanted to see my parents . . . wanted them to see me. I searched and searched, gripping the rail and leaning over as far as I dared, hoping to stand out in the sea of uniforms. Then, I caught sight of my father’s face, upturned, luminous with worry and stern as ever. Mother stood beside him, dabbing her eyes with one of his large white handkerchiefs. She held it in the air, fluttering it as if flinging her tears my way. I jumped up and down, arms thrust above my head, they had to see me! A voice came from behind.