“Is it Peter?” she whispered. I nodded and felt her arm go round my shoulder. “Has anything happened to him?” she asked carefully.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just don’t know.”
Jean stared out into the night. “My brother’s out there too,” she said.
“Oh, Jean,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” I put my arm round her shoulders and we stood there, the tears silently pouring down our cheeks.
Friday 31 May
As soon as I arrived on the ward this morning one of the QAs hurried up to me. She took me over to a bed surrounded by screens.
“I’d like you to keep an eye on this boy while I find an MO.” She lowered her voice. “He’s very sick.”
I looked at my charge. His eyes had opened ever so slightly when he heard our voices. Now he closed them again. I saw what an effort even this took. He looked awfully young – younger even than Peter. There was a blanket on the bed and though it was quite warm in the room, he was shivering. I took his hand in mine and rubbed his fingers gently, trying to warm them. They were very cold. I asked him his name, but it was clearly too difficult for him to speak. I talked gently to him. I don’t know what I said exactly but soon I forgot everything else – all the chaos and the noise on the other side of the screens. Occasionally I saw him move his lips slightly – they looked awfully dry, so I got up and dampened them with a moistened swab.
My patient’s lips were moving again and I leaned over the bed to listen. A smell – that awful stench of dried blood that I know so well now – rose up from the bed and it was all I could do not to retch. “Thank you,” I heard him murmur faintly. And then he said something else and I leaned closer to hear. “Billy.” His voice sounded as if it were coming from somewhere far away.
“Billy, I’m Kitty,” I whispered, close to his ear. I didn’t care that it was against the rules to tell him my name. It couldn’t matter now. I squeezed his fingers, very gently. Billy’s face was very pale and stained with perspiration, and I could see something damp begin to seep through the red army blanket. The wound had begun to bleed again. I stood up urgently. Where was the MO? I needed help – now. And then I heard a sigh and there was a sudden movement under the blanket – a sort of shudder that seemed to pass through Billy’s whole body. I was still holding his hand.
A screen was moved aside. The MO was standing there, the QA next to him. The MO leaned over the boy and took his stiffening wrist loosely in his hand. It’s too late for that, I thought. I was trying to choke back tears. Quietly I got to my feet and made myself walk across the ward to the annexe. I didn’t want anyone to see my tears.
The QA caught up with me a few minutes later. She asked me to wash the bedstead and change the sheets. I didn’t need to look back to know that the screens had gone and the body lifted off the bed. How could she ask this of me? I wondered dully. A boy had just died in that bed. Didn’t she care? “His name was Billy,” I wanted to tell her. I felt angry and upset. And then – fleetingly – I saw the sadness deep in the QA’s eyes, and the tiredness, and I felt ashamed.
I made up poor Billy’s bed. I don’t know how I did it, but I did.
Saturday 1 June
Wounded soldiers are pouring in from the Front in France each day. Here, days and nights run into each other, but I’m thankful that I’m able to do something useful. New VADs arrived again today from outstations – sick bays, first-aid posts and other hospitals. I keep hoping to see Anne’s merry face amongst them, but I’ve heard nothing more about her hoped-for transfer.
Whenever I have time to grab a break, I go outside – stepping through corridors packed with wounded men, all of them waiting to be admitted. I take off my mask and breathe deeply – filling my lungs with fresh air, glad to get rid of the hospital smell. Today I sat
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just don’t know.”
Jean stared out into the night. “My brother’s out there too,” she said.
“Oh, Jean,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” I put my arm round her shoulders and we stood there, the tears silently pouring down our cheeks.
Friday 31 May
As soon as I arrived on the ward this morning one of the QAs hurried up to me. She took me over to a bed surrounded by screens.
“I’d like you to keep an eye on this boy while I find an MO.” She lowered her voice. “He’s very sick.”
I looked at my charge. His eyes had opened ever so slightly when he heard our voices. Now he closed them again. I saw what an effort even this took. He looked awfully young – younger even than Peter. There was a blanket on the bed and though it was quite warm in the room, he was shivering. I took his hand in mine and rubbed his fingers gently, trying to warm them. They were very cold. I asked him his name, but it was clearly too difficult for him to speak. I talked gently to him. I don’t know what I said exactly but soon I forgot everything else – all the chaos and the noise on the other side of the screens. Occasionally I saw him move his lips slightly – they looked awfully dry, so I got up and dampened them with a moistened swab.
My patient’s lips were moving again and I leaned over the bed to listen. A smell – that awful stench of dried blood that I know so well now – rose up from the bed and it was all I could do not to retch. “Thank you,” I heard him murmur faintly. And then he said something else and I leaned closer to hear. “Billy.” His voice sounded as if it were coming from somewhere far away.
“Billy, I’m Kitty,” I whispered, close to his ear. I didn’t care that it was against the rules to tell him my name. It couldn’t matter now. I squeezed his fingers, very gently. Billy’s face was very pale and stained with perspiration, and I could see something damp begin to seep through the red army blanket. The wound had begun to bleed again. I stood up urgently. Where was the MO? I needed help – now. And then I heard a sigh and there was a sudden movement under the blanket – a sort of shudder that seemed to pass through Billy’s whole body. I was still holding his hand.
A screen was moved aside. The MO was standing there, the QA next to him. The MO leaned over the boy and took his stiffening wrist loosely in his hand. It’s too late for that, I thought. I was trying to choke back tears. Quietly I got to my feet and made myself walk across the ward to the annexe. I didn’t want anyone to see my tears.
The QA caught up with me a few minutes later. She asked me to wash the bedstead and change the sheets. I didn’t need to look back to know that the screens had gone and the body lifted off the bed. How could she ask this of me? I wondered dully. A boy had just died in that bed. Didn’t she care? “His name was Billy,” I wanted to tell her. I felt angry and upset. And then – fleetingly – I saw the sadness deep in the QA’s eyes, and the tiredness, and I felt ashamed.
I made up poor Billy’s bed. I don’t know how I did it, but I did.
Saturday 1 June
Wounded soldiers are pouring in from the Front in France each day. Here, days and nights run into each other, but I’m thankful that I’m able to do something useful. New VADs arrived again today from outstations – sick bays, first-aid posts and other hospitals. I keep hoping to see Anne’s merry face amongst them, but I’ve heard nothing more about her hoped-for transfer.
Whenever I have time to grab a break, I go outside – stepping through corridors packed with wounded men, all of them waiting to be admitted. I take off my mask and breathe deeply – filling my lungs with fresh air, glad to get rid of the hospital smell. Today I sat
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