They followed a crudely painted sign and turned a corner to find a wide, bombed out shell hole appropriated as a sort of waiting room. Dozens and dozens of men sat about listlessly. Some bandaged, some staring vacantly ahead. Others lay on stretchers, still and lifeless. The group worked their way through the crowd of men, who parted quietly, politely, until the nurses came to a lean-to structure made from timber, corrugated iron and sandbags.
“Captain Lippett?” enquired Padre Rand.
A man, late thirties, with slickly oiled hair and a small pair of pince-nez sat on his nose, dressed in shirt sleeves and braces, wearing a blood-stained apron, looked up from a bare-chested, pale skinned man, whose arm wound he was cleaning. “Padre. If you’ve coming looking for work there’s plenty. Many of these men will die today. I haven’t the time or the facilities to deal with them here. I’ve got a large percentage bleeding from eyes, ears and nose. Never seen anything like it. Damned if I know what’s caused it. Been tellin’ ’em it was the gas. Seems to keep ’em quiet for a while. Tompkins,” he called to a nearby orderly, “dress this man’s wounds. Bloody lucky there, private.”
“Light duties, Doc?” the man asked weakly.
“For you? Yes, I’d say so.”
The man could barely disguise his smile as the orderly led him away.
“Actually, I’ve brought you some help,” said the Padre.
Captain Lippett turned to look at the women over the top of his glasses. He obviously wasn’t pleased with what he saw. He hurriedly took the Padre by the arm and dragged him away. There seemed to be a heated discussion going on between them. Edith made out the words “Women!” several times. It was clear that the MO didn’t approve of their being there, but here they were and there was nothing to be done about it. In the end the officer threw up his hands in submission and returned to the nurses.
“Well, if you’re so put out, Captain, I’d be obliged if you could just arrange transport back to the hospital,” said Sister Fenton.
“Sister, I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. And it would seem motor ambulances, or indeed transport back to anywhere, is beyond us at the moment. In the meantime, however, we have many injured men here and, while I believe that this is no place for a woman, frankly I could use your help.”
Which was about as much apology as they were going to get. Nellie was set to sterilising equipment and finding bandages, while Sister Fenton assisted the MO with the more serious cases. Edith was assigned the duty of helping MO orderlies assessing and treating the crowd of walking wounded. She cast her eyes around the crater. There were so many of them waiting around stoically and the stretcher bearers were bringing more. There was a sudden rush as the more ambulatory felt they would rather be treated by a woman than the rough hands of Privates Tompkins and Stanton.
A soldier with a bandaged head caught Edith’s attention, or rather, his grin did. She beckoned him over. He shuffled over humbly, steel helmet in hand, dirty bandages covering his head, and sat down on an ammunition crate.
“Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he said. “We don’t ever get nurses this far up the line. I must have died and gone to heaven,” he said.
“Any more talk like that and you’ll wish you had,” she said firmly as she began unwinding the bandage from around his head. She gently eased the dressing off his wound. He winced. Edith uncovered the now scabbing furrow on his temple. The wound, at least, seemed clean.
“My name’s George. George Hopkiss, but my mates call me Porgy,” he said. “Guess why?”
“I can’t imagine,” she said, keeping her business-like demeanour, working intently on his wound, feeling herself blush.
“Kiss the girls and make ’em cry, don’t I?”
“Well that’s not much of a recommendation, is it?”
“Do you fancy walking out with me down Broughton Street tonight?”
“Shhh. Or Sister will hear!”
“She can come too, if she likes,” he grinned.
“Now, now I’ll have none of that. I’ll have you know I’m a respectable lady.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it.”
“I was a debutante. I was presented at Court before the war.”
“You don’t say! Cor, That’s as good as Royalty to me. Fancy!” said Porgy amazed, trying to turn round, but she took his head in her hands and gently, but firmly turned him back to face front.
“Oh yes,” she said as she carried on cleaning the burned and torn flesh. “So don’t forget with whom you’re dealing! I have friends in high places,” She dabbed the iodine on and Porgy stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” she said. She wondered if it sounded too playful and improper.
“I knows me place,” he said, touching his forelock, mockingly. Edith gently pushed him on his shoulder.
“You. Now you’re teasing.”
“Nurse Bell!” barked Sister Fenton. “When you’ve quite finished fraternising with that jackanapes there are other men waiting for your attention!”
Edith felt her face burn as she reached for a gauze pad. “Hold this,” she told him as she placed it over his wound.
“Sorry, Miss,” said Porgy. She began wrapping crepe bandage around his head. “Not too much,” he said, “otherwise I won’t be able to fit me battle bowler on.”
“I’ve a feeling your head’s way too big for it anyway,” she said with a smile. “Away with you.”
EVERSON REACHED THE makeshift Headquarters. It was dug back into the side of a trench; all salvaged beams, corrugated iron and tarpaulins. News of the death of the Major hadn’t taken long to filter down through the Company and the men had taken it quite hard, especially as the next in command was Captain Grantham. To be truthful he didn’t have much faith in the new Skipper himself. Captain Grantham shouldn’t even have been at the Front. He’d had some cushy job back at Battalion, but he’d probably whined and groused about a Front Line position, wanting to see a bit of action just so that he could say he’d been there before returning to his nice desk job in the rear. Now, for better or worse, they were stuck with him.
“Is this it?” Everson asked, stepping inside and looking around despondently. “Is this all of us?”
It was dispiriting how few officers were left. There was Slacke, the Company Quartermaster Sergeant, Padre Rand and Captain Lippett, the MO and Captain Palmer of D Company. Jeffries was sat on a wooden chair, slouching with his legs stretched out in front of him, his chin resting on steepled fingers, glowering blackly, lost in thought. His eyes flicked up as Everson entered, but seeing nothing to interest him, lost focus as he turned back to his own contemplations. Grantham looked up from talking to a Royal Flying Corp officer and an officer with Machine Gun Corp insignia on his uniform.
“Everson,” said Captain Grantham. “I’m afraid so.”
The Flying Officer looked young, even to Everson. He had blonde hair and there was something about the double breasted tunic and that RFC wing on the left breast that just looked so — dashing. Everson felt a pang of jealousy. Here he was caked in mud, dog-tired and aching to his very bones and here was a handsome young man seemingly unmarked by the terrors of war; an ‘angel face’ he believed they called it.
“James Tulliver, RFC,” he said, turning, extending a hand and jerking his head in Jeffries’ direction. “Who’s that louche chap over there, I’m sure I know him. Hibbert, is it?”
“Jeffries, Platoon Commander, 4 Platoon, C Company.”
“Jeffries?” said Tulliver, mulling the name over. “Oh. Are you sure? No, of course you are. Sorry, my fault. Thought he was someone else.”