abdomen. Blood is seeping through the bandage. I need a fresh bandage – now! The haemorrhage is staunched, the new bandage wound tightly over the wound.
“His pulse is very weak, Sister.” I look up from my patient at Sister’s face. Sister’s sleeves are rolled up. She looks as if she’s been up all night.
An MO takes over and I’m sent to fill up hot-water bottles again. Soon, we’ve run out. “Nurse, look in the patients’ beds – over there, Nurse, over there!” Blankly, I pull out a hot-water bottle from next to a patient’s feet. The feet are very cold, I tell the Sister. He’s dead, she says briskly. No time for tears here. The body is rolled into a blanket and lifted off the bed. Automatically I wash down the mackintosh sheet, dry it, and then I rip open a package and pull out another blanket, which I lay on top of it. Next to me the stretcher bearers are waiting impatiently. As soon as I’ve finished, the bed is filled again.
Back and forth I go into the annexe, squeezing out the flannel, watching dirt and blood and sweat swirl away together down the sluice.
QAs run round the ward and the corridors, handing out injections of morphia as though they’re cups of tea. There are metal stands between the beds, bottles of blood swinging off them. Rubber tubes connect them to our patients.
A Sister asks me to sort through a pile of bloodstained clothing and get it ready to go off to the store. I’m glad to be able to keep my head down. Glad not to have to look for a time at those exhausted despairing faces, those blank eyes. But I can’t shut out the groans, the eternal tramp tramp tramp of the stretcher bearers, bringing more men into the ward, and taking others down to Theatre.
And still the ambulances come. The BEF is being evacuated from Dunkirk. When I first heard the news, I felt strangely relieved. Soon, I hoped, my brother would be home.
Not now.
Each time an ambulance arrives I wonder if he’ll be amongst its patients. Each time the doors swing open, I have to force myself not to look up. I’m terrified. I don’t want to see Peter here, but even worse is thinking of him left behind in France.
A cheerful, smiling nurse can do more to help her patients than a cross and weary one, I suddenly remember from my training. But I cannot laugh, I cannot smile. And oh, I am weary. And this – I feel horribly certain – is only the beginning.
Wednesday 29 May
Dragged myself up to bed at last at three in the morning – felt like curling up on the stairs – legs so wobbly and weak. Scribbling this in bed . . . too tired to think. . . That’s some little comfort, I suppose. I must write my diary because I promised Anne. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to remember what I’ve seen today. I want to forget . I daren’t let myself think – if I stop to think, I’ll never get through this.
Thursday 30 May
We’ve had another blow. The Belgian army have surrendered to the Germans. It happened two days ago, I’m told. In the hospital the wards are overflowing. All our usual routine’s gone to the winds, though Sister tries her best to keep order.
Though I’m constantly exhausted, I often wake up when the ambulances drive up to the hospital. It’s hot and stuffy in our little room, too, which makes it hard to sleep, but we’re not supposed to open the blackout shutters. Tonight, though, I felt I just couldn’t breathe. I had to open the window. I crept quietly over to it and managed to prise it open. I gulped in the cool night air.
It was a clear night and I looked up at the stars. Those same stars shine over France, I found myself thinking, and then, without any warning, the tears came. I just stood there, trying not to sob, feeling the tears slide down my cheeks. Oh, please – don’t let him be killed. Please.
I heard the door open and a moment later I felt a hand touch my shoulder. Jean had come in.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. I couldn’t speak.
“His pulse is very weak, Sister.” I look up from my patient at Sister’s face. Sister’s sleeves are rolled up. She looks as if she’s been up all night.
An MO takes over and I’m sent to fill up hot-water bottles again. Soon, we’ve run out. “Nurse, look in the patients’ beds – over there, Nurse, over there!” Blankly, I pull out a hot-water bottle from next to a patient’s feet. The feet are very cold, I tell the Sister. He’s dead, she says briskly. No time for tears here. The body is rolled into a blanket and lifted off the bed. Automatically I wash down the mackintosh sheet, dry it, and then I rip open a package and pull out another blanket, which I lay on top of it. Next to me the stretcher bearers are waiting impatiently. As soon as I’ve finished, the bed is filled again.
Back and forth I go into the annexe, squeezing out the flannel, watching dirt and blood and sweat swirl away together down the sluice.
QAs run round the ward and the corridors, handing out injections of morphia as though they’re cups of tea. There are metal stands between the beds, bottles of blood swinging off them. Rubber tubes connect them to our patients.
A Sister asks me to sort through a pile of bloodstained clothing and get it ready to go off to the store. I’m glad to be able to keep my head down. Glad not to have to look for a time at those exhausted despairing faces, those blank eyes. But I can’t shut out the groans, the eternal tramp tramp tramp of the stretcher bearers, bringing more men into the ward, and taking others down to Theatre.
And still the ambulances come. The BEF is being evacuated from Dunkirk. When I first heard the news, I felt strangely relieved. Soon, I hoped, my brother would be home.
Not now.
Each time an ambulance arrives I wonder if he’ll be amongst its patients. Each time the doors swing open, I have to force myself not to look up. I’m terrified. I don’t want to see Peter here, but even worse is thinking of him left behind in France.
A cheerful, smiling nurse can do more to help her patients than a cross and weary one, I suddenly remember from my training. But I cannot laugh, I cannot smile. And oh, I am weary. And this – I feel horribly certain – is only the beginning.
Wednesday 29 May
Dragged myself up to bed at last at three in the morning – felt like curling up on the stairs – legs so wobbly and weak. Scribbling this in bed . . . too tired to think. . . That’s some little comfort, I suppose. I must write my diary because I promised Anne. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to remember what I’ve seen today. I want to forget . I daren’t let myself think – if I stop to think, I’ll never get through this.
Thursday 30 May
We’ve had another blow. The Belgian army have surrendered to the Germans. It happened two days ago, I’m told. In the hospital the wards are overflowing. All our usual routine’s gone to the winds, though Sister tries her best to keep order.
Though I’m constantly exhausted, I often wake up when the ambulances drive up to the hospital. It’s hot and stuffy in our little room, too, which makes it hard to sleep, but we’re not supposed to open the blackout shutters. Tonight, though, I felt I just couldn’t breathe. I had to open the window. I crept quietly over to it and managed to prise it open. I gulped in the cool night air.
It was a clear night and I looked up at the stars. Those same stars shine over France, I found myself thinking, and then, without any warning, the tears came. I just stood there, trying not to sob, feeling the tears slide down my cheeks. Oh, please – don’t let him be killed. Please.
I heard the door open and a moment later I felt a hand touch my shoulder. Jean had come in.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. I couldn’t speak.
Similar Books
