August 30th, 1916
Duchess of Connaught's Red Cross Hospital, Taplow, England

Play your part in war

I make sure to have a little time to spare as I leave Taplow Lodge the next morning to start my first shift in the surgical ward. I am, admittedly, a little uncomfortable. My uniform feels too stiff, my apron too clean, my veil too white. Everything about my appearance screams "newbie" and, after having only just graduated from student nurse to fully-fledged sister I do not revel in the feeling of having to start at the bottom all over again.

I am, however, very glad to have been posted to the surgical ward. Of course, in the army one does what ones has been ordered to do and does not complain about it, but I've always had a knack for the work with wounded patients compared to those with illnesses and diseases. In Montreal I'd even tentatively started to make a name for myself as a decent theatre nurse, even though I hardly expect to be allowed anywhere near the operating theatre in the foreseeable future.

A little hesitantly, I enter the hut I've been ordered to report to. The centre aisle, running the length of the room, is flanked by two rows of beds. Clean, white, properly made up beds, just as can be found in any decent hospital. The occupants of these beds turn to me, observing me. They do not seem unfriendly, merely curious, and yet I am glad to discover a familiar face on the other side of the ward.

Miss Talbot looks up at that very same moment and nods in greeting. "Miss Blythe, good morning. You will, until further notice, do duty in this ward. I have been asked to show you around. So far, today has been rather quiet, so the timing is good."

And just like that here's another thing I am glad to learn. I've a feeling Miss Talbot and I will get along reasonably well. She's the sober, unfussy type, the kind to demand a strict order, but this I know from my time at nursing school. And if it means having to scrub the floor a second or third time, then so be it. I far prefer working with nurses that know to keep order than having to muddle through in a ward where chaos reigns supreme – even if it means having to scrub the floor just that one more time.

"I have not been told how much you know and do not have the time to find out. I will inform you of anything you need to do. Should you have heard it before, you will simply hear it again," Miss Talbot informs in clipped tones.

"Rather twice than not at all," I nod my agreement.

A wave of her hand motions for me to follow.

"As we are a surgical ward, we only take wounded patients. Whoever has an illness or disease, be that trench fever, malaria or pneumonia, will be taken care of in the medical wards. Same for the gas cases. Each ward takes about 50 patients, most of them Canadians, but we also get patients from England and from all her colonies and dominions." Miss Talbot strides purposefully along the centre aisles and I hurry to keep up with her.

"There are four sisters on every ward during the day, or at least there should be. In the evening, the night sister takes over. We are supported by orderlies in our daily work. They keep the ward clean as well as the patients, assisting with their personal hygiene. As nurses we mostly concern us with actual nursing. We distribute medicine and change dressings and also oversee the work of the orderlies. Never forget that you are an officer and therefore, in a hospital, are authorized to give them orders! Some of them do not like being told what to do by a woman but for the ward to run properly you must never let them doubt that you are in charge!" Abruptly Miss Talbot comes to a halt and looks at me through narrowed eyes. I nod dutifully.

"Very well," says she, turning back around. "We, in turn, are under command of the matron and the doctors. To prevent misunderstandings a doctor always holds the rank of a captain at the very least while a sister is only ever a lieutenant, except for the matron who ranks as a captain as well. Orderlies are part of the other ranks, never rising above the position of non-commissioned officers. It helps to keep the chain of commands clear to everyone at any time, just as the army prefers."

I knew that, actually. Jem's a captain and devoted three paragraphs in one of his last letters to explain in detail that he is authorized to order me around. Typical Jem!

Miss Talbot, meanwhile, stops next to one of the beds, taking the patient's chart. Without so much as looking at it she hands it off to me. Quickly, I study its contents. Name and rank are at the very top, followed by mention of his wounds and what looks like a list of medication and treatments. It looks a little different from the charts we had in Montreal but not fundamentally so.

"As you will soon learn, our patients are seriously wounded, as the lightly wounded ones are kept in France, the sooner to send them back to the front. The army is mainly interested in how quickly patients can be patched up and be back in the trenches. Only when a quick recovery is not expected do they get sent to England, and yet most of our patients are already over the worst by the time they reach us. We do not have many deaths, for those that die mostly do so long before reaching English soil," Miss Talbot explains. She gazes over her shoulder, scrutinizing me, likely to see how I am coping with what she has just said.

I, consequently, try my very hardest to keep a straight face, even though the very thought of how many soldiers die in an alien country without ever reaching England – not to speak of Canada – makes me sad.

The patient chart gets pulled from my hands and moments later Miss Talbot is back on the move, leading me to the front side of the room. She halts next to a small table, laden with all kinds of things, and takes pen and paper to hand. Her hand moves quickly, sketching what looks like a schematic map of sorts.

"All wounded in this war follow the same path. The first to treat them is the medical personnel of their unit, chief of them being the Medical Officer, or MO, assisted by men trained to give first aid as well as the stretcher bearers. Next they get taken behind the frontline to an Aid Post or Dressing Station, usually run by a field ambulance, a mobile medical unit. From there on it's further back to a Casualty Clearing Station. A CCS is a temporary hospital some miles behind the front and the first place where patients may be operated on. These mobile hospitals are also equipped to care for patients for up to three weeks before they get transported further back still, usually by motor ambulance or ambulance train. The Casualty Clearing Stations are the furthest places nurses are allowed to serve. You do not get closer to the action as a woman and it is considered a great honour amongst us to be chosen for work in a CCS."

Miss Talbot pauses, looks up from her sketch to survey me, eyes narrowed. I have a sure feeling I will get used to this particular look very quickly.

"Everything clear so far?" she enquires.

I nod. "Perfectly clear."

Satisfied, she turns back to the sketch, continuing, "There are two kinds of field hospitals in France, most of them set along the channel coast. Stationary Hospitals tend to be smaller, taking several hundred patients, and in theory are supposed to be more mobile as well. A General Hospital usually has at least a thousand beds, sometimes double that. The work in both hospitals, however, is pretty similar, and patients can stay there up to several weeks. Only those having survived to reach these hospitals but with a wound serious enough to make a quick recovery unlikely gets taken on a hospital ship and brought to England. Here we patch them up as best as we can before sending them on to Convalescent Hospitals. This is where they are given time to recuperate and from where, should they be declared unfit for further duty, they are sent back home. For the rest of them it's back to the trenches – and for those getting wounded a second time the cycle starts all over again."

She gives a soft sigh – the first time all morning she shows something akin to emotion. Quickly, however, she turns her back to me.

Yet I do not feel surprise at her words, horrible as the reality behind them may be. It is the one great, jarring discrepancy our work is built upon. We were trained to heal people and yet the army is only interested in our skills to utilize them to get as many soldiers as possible back to the frontline. We work ourselves to the bone trying to care for our patients and make them well again, only for them to be sent back into the same danger that brought them to us in the first place. It is a strange paradox and one, I think, that is not always easily borne.

"Miss Talbot!" a new voice calls out. As I turn, there's an unknown-to-me nurse standing behind us. She appears stressed, her veil askew, her cheeks coloured.

"The man in the fifth bed…" she starts, just as Miss Talbot silences her with a wave of one hand. Together they set of along the aisle towards one of the beds by the door.

I consider following them but decide against it. I'd hate to be in the way and anyway, I might as well make myself useful until my lesson resumes, right? So instead I walk up to a random bed and survey the man lying within it.

He is more boy than man, has likely yet to celebrate his twentieth birthday. His eyes are huge in his pale face, flitting to and fro. He murmurs to himself, incessantly.

I see a movement in the corner of my eye and as I turn my head, I see the fourth sister on duty, walking up to stand next to me. "No idea what's wrong with him. He's been like that ever since they brought him in last night. I hope the doctor can do something for him when he does his round. Right now he's got me pretty well stumped," she admits.

Inclining my head to show that yes, I've heard her, I lean closer towards to boy, trying to understand his mumblings.

"That's French," I observe, straightening, "maybe he's from Quebec? Or the Acadian coast?"

The nameless sister gives an impatient shrug. "Well, what does he say then?" she wants to know.

For a moment, I hesitate. "His legs hurt. As do his feet."

Incredulously the sister looks from me to the boy and back again. "He doesn't have legs anymore," she hisses.

And surely enough, where his thighs should have been there are only two little stumps. The lower half of his bed is empty, the blanket lying flatly on the mattress. They probably took the legs while he was still in France. Only, no-one seems to have told him – or maybe he just refused to believe it?

"I'll take care of him," I announce, detecting instant relief in the eyes of my colleague. Whether it's because she does not speak his language or because there must be easier cases than a boy in denial about the loss if his legs, I cannot tell. Maybe one reason is as good as the other.

For a moment or two I watch after the retreating sister as she hurries towards another patient calling out for her, then I turn back to the boy with no legs. Humming softly I bend over him. It takes several seconds before his looks up at me, meeting my gaze.

"What is your name?" I ask in French.

Surprise registers in his eyes over being addresses in his own language. I file it away as a good sign. At least he's well enough to be surprised.

He clears his throat, then, "Henri."

His voice is hoarse, so I offer him a glass of water from his nightstand which he eagerly takes, drinking in large gulps. I put my hand in his back, stabilizing him, but on the whole he seems strong enough to support himself. Another good sign.

Once he's finished I take the still half-full glass from him, put it back on the table, then sit on the edge of his bed. "Where are you from?" I ask conversationally. Maybe talking will help distract him from his pain.

"Kamouraska," he says. His voice is quiet still, so much that I have to strain my ears to understand him, yet when he sees the cluelessness reflecting on my face the corners of his mouth raise in a smile.

"It's right by the St. Lawrence River. And it is the most beautiful place in the world," he says with conviction.

I laugh-doesn't everyone consider the home of their childhood far superior to any other place in this whole wide world? Well, as long as the childhood was a happy one, at the very least.

"I grew up in Glen St. Mary, a village on Prince Edward Island, and for me, it is the most beautiful place there could ever be," I tell Henri.

The smile climbs from his lips, right up to reach his eyes. He eyes me for a moment, then, with conviction, "So there are two most beautiful places in the world."

Which, all in all, sounds sensible, so I nod my consent. "Tell me about your family?" I ask, trying to keep him talking.

He frowns, but it seems thoughtful rather than displeased. And indeed, some seconds pass, then he clears his throat. "There's four of us. Babette is older than me and married. Jeanine is next and Florent's the baby. He's fifteen."

He pauses, and instinctively I know we are both doing the math, figuring out just how long this war will have to last for it to swallow up young Florent as well. That would be 1919 – but that's nonsense, right? It cannot possibly go on for another three years!

Henri, being the sensitive lad I've already taken him for, notices the mood changing and continues quickly, "My mother is the best cook in all of Quebec – maybe in all of Canada. And my father is a teacher. He taught me right from the very first day of school up until I graduated, and every single year I prayed for God to finally send me a different teacher. Now, father was good at teaching, but…"

As he breaks off, I pick up the thread of conversation. "I know what you mean. I was taught by one of my sisters for my final two years at the village school. My sisters are twins and gained their teacher's licenses at the same time so they had to draw straws to decide who got our school and who had to travel to the one in the neighboring village. And well, what can I say? Di and I both drew the short straw – her for having to travel to Mowbray Narrows for two years and me for being stuck with the much stricter Nan as a teacher…"

I roll my eyes, making it look especially funny on purpose and gaining a laugh from Henri for my effort. Seconds later the laugh turns into a yawn.

"You're tired. You should sleep," I say, trying out my best strict-sister-face.

He nods, well-behaved boy that he is, and pulls the covers around himself when, suddenly, he pauses. Shyly, his hand reaches for mine. "Would you… would you stay for a while longer, sister? Just sit with me, so I am not so very alone?" he pleads.

I cannot help smiling. "Of course I will," I promise. „But now, sleep, yes?"

Whether it is the familiar language or the calming words or the plain fact of having someone take care of him, I do not know, but for whatever reason Henri really does close his eyes and it takes only a little while for his breath to become slow and even. Of course, nothing has changed, really – he is still the boy with no legs and he still has not accepted it – and yet at the very least is seems to hurt less than before. It's not much, but it is something.

Minutes pass before I cautiously draw back my hand. Henri moves a little but does not wake up, so quietly I rise from my place on his bed.

"Phantom pain?" a voice from behind me asks. Miss Talbot.

I turn to look at her, "I am afraid so".

She nods slightly. I have only confirmed what she already knew. For a moment her gaze is fixed on the boy before rising to meet mine. "Have you ever heard of gas gangrene?"

I move my head, half nodding, half shaking it. "I've read about it while I was at nursing school but I have never seen an actual case."

"Only a matter of time, now that you are here," Miss Talbot purses her lips. "What can you tell me about gas gangrene?"

For a moment or two I search my brain for information on gas gangrene, then take another second to marshal my thoughts. I am certain that, though the name may imply otherwise, gas gangrene is not caused by actual poison gas, the kind of which the Germans have first released on our Canadian boys near Ypres almost one and a half years ago.

"Gas gangrene is a serious infection, commonly developing in dirty wounds. It can be recognized by the huge blisters, filled with air or gas, which is how the name came to be. Infected tissue turns gangrenous very quickly and the infection has been known to spread through the entire body in a matter of days or even hours. Once vital organs are afflicted, death is certain. The life of the patient can, however, often be saved by early amputation of the affected limb," I say, a little hesitantly.

"Quite correct," Miss Talbot gives a curt nod. Her eyes move back to look at the boy with no legs and I do not have to be told that gas gangrene is to blame for his state.

Maybe he feels our eyes upon him or maybe it is because I have stopped speaking to him, but whatever the reason, Henri suddenly grows restless. Under their lids, his eyes flit back and forth, his head moving from side to side. Without thinking I take his limp hand back in mine, take step closer to his bed and, bending closer to him, start whispering in French. I am not even certain quite what I am saying, but it likely does not make a difference either way. The moment I begin speaking to him, he becomes calmer, and a short while later he stills, his breath going back to normal. Gently I let go of his hand and step back from the bed.

"You speak French?" Miss Talbot has, apparently, been standing behind me this entire time.

I cannot place the question, or rather, her intent in asking it, but still I nod in response.

"Good?" she further enquires.

"Good enough", I retort.

I learned French at the Queen's Academy, if only to escape the prospect of having to study yet more Latin and Greek. And even though I am reasonably sure to live in Montreal without ever having to speak French – Betty and Polly at least seem to have managed just fine – I, quite in reverse, actively sought to polish my classroom French out in the real world. I enjoy the sound of it and, more importantly, I figured it might be useful not to be limited to English when it comes to living languages. When war started, bringing with it the ever hardening resolve to leave Canada for Europe, I consciously intensified my efforts.

The truth, accordingly, is that I really do speak French. But I probably would have claimed knowledge of the French language even if that had not been the case. I did not come here to spend the rest of the war in a sleepy village in the backcountry of England. Right from the start my goal has been to get as close as possible to my brothers. My destination, therefore, is France. And when my ability to speak French will help me get there sooner, I have no qualms whatsoever to share my linguistic skills with Miss Talbot or anyone who cares to listen, really.

Miss Talbot, in any case, seems to have filed the information for later use, for she has already moved on to care for a freshly operated patients a few beds to the right. She is only halfway there, when suddenly she stops and turns.

Indicating the boy with no legs she states, matter-of-factly, "Good job, Miss Blythe."

The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Your King and Country want you' from 1914 (lyrics and music by Paul Rubens).