October 20th, 1916
London, England

Up to mighty London

London might just be the dirtiest place in the world. Even the air is heavy with soot. It makes you feel like you will never be clean again and never breathe quite as easily. Maybe it's only right, then, for the train stations to be amongst the dirtiest places in this dirty city.

It is, therefore, with considerable impatience that I stand on the platform of Paddington Station, on the lookout for my brother. For one thing, I'd hate having to be here for longer than absolutely necessary, and for another, my train back to Taplow leaves in precious few hours.

Suddenly, a voice behind me says, "Now, would you look at that! You look almost grown-up."

I spin around, and even though I should probably be giving him what-for for his cheek alone, I throw my arms around his neck instead, and hold him tightly for several seconds. Only then do I step back, the better to look at him.

It's been one and a half years, almost to the day, since I've last set eyes on Shirley. He was still in Canada back then, just preparing to leave that training camp in Ottawa for England, and I have to admit that he, too, has grown up in the meantime. Only, I'm not sure whether that is really a good thing, everything considered.

"Hello, brother-dear," I greet, amiably. I am far too happy to see him, alive and well and healthy, not to be able to overlook his teasing.

"Hello yourself," he retorts with a grin.

Because I know Shirley not to be a fan of overlong displays of affection, much less in public, I let go of him, albeit a little regretfully. Instead, I link arms with him and drag him over to the exit. I do not want to stand around on this grimy platform any longer than at all necessary.

"Where would you like to go? Are you hungry?" I ask as we move to leave the station.

Shirley shakes his head. "Not really. But then, we wouldn't be allowed to eat together anyway." The way he says it makes it clear I should have known this – while, at the same time, he is obviously perfectly aware of my not knowing.

Still, I do him the favour of enquiring, "Why ever not?" He's right about me not knowing, anyhow.

He raises the arm not linked with mine and taps the two brass stars on my shoulder, "Officer," then indicates the three chevrons sewn onto his uniform, "and sergeant."

Which explains just about nothing. Sure, he's a non-commissioned officer, NCO for those in the know, but what's that got to do with food?

Shirley, having taken note of my confusion, smiles, decidedly amused. "As an officer, you are not allowed to fraternize with the lower ranks. Actually, us walking like this and talking is already frowned upon, but when it comes to the consumption of food, the army draws the line."

"Well, the army sure likes to draw all kinds of lines, doesn't it?" I murmur rebelliously, seeing Shirley's smile widen.

Honestly, though! Some of those rules… the less said about them, the better.

"Why aren't you an officer, anyway?" I wonder aloud, just as we are leaving the impressive station building, stepping into the busy bustle that is London.

If Shirley thinks the question strange, he does not show it. And maybe it isn't even so very strange? He's the only non-officer among us, after all. With Jem, Walter and me, the rank is tied to the work we do and Jerry was commissioned a lieutenant based on his college education, I think. Shirley though, even with a masters in engineering, still takes his place in the ranks.

"I am good at making things work," Shirley replies easily, "I am not good at leading people."

An explanation, captivating in its simplicity.

"However, there have been some rumblings lately of me being sent on an officers training course sometime in the none-too-distant future", he continues with a shrug, "so, maybe next time we see each other, we might even be able to grab a bite to eat." He waggles his eyebrows and I can't help but laugh.

"Next time," I confirm. "And what do we do this time?"

Another shrug from Shirley. "Depends on what you want to see. We can go to see the Palace or down to Parliament. Then there's the Tower and more churches than even Walt could wish for – Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral… And, of course, even more museums than churches. During my month of disciplinary transfer I discovered the British Museum. You could spend that whole month in there and still not see everything there is."

"Disciplinary transfer?" I repeat quizzically, too distracted by his choice of words to focus on museums.

Shirley gives a laugh. "Not a real disciplinary transfer, mind you. That's just what the men in my old unit called it. Remember how the powers that be called me back in February to help with the newbies?"

I frown, then nod. After five months in France, Shirley had indeed been ordered back to England early this year. He was amongst a group of experienced soldiers meant to support a newly-created engineers' company, as far as I understood it. Now, he wasn't altogether very happy to be back in England, after already having spent almost six months there last year, but within four weeks he was back across the channel, so I suppose he managed to cope. He's been in France ever since, anyway.

"So, that's my disciplinary transfer. And while it lasted, I spent an off-day perusing the wonders of the British Museum. Want me to show you? There's a tube station over there." His free arm points down the road.

The tube. I wrinkle my nose. The museum sounds nice, but the thought of setting foot into a train under the surface… well, it's an experience I could do without.

"Oh, maybe," I say noncommittally, waving my hand about. "Isn't there anything to see that's, well, a bit closer? I only have a half-day off, after all, and my time is limited. I have to be back by curfew this evening."

Not that Shirley was ever going to buy it. "You're scared of riding the tube?" he asks, incredulous, before breaking into a wide grin. Instinctively I know that he, too, remembers my first encounter with an elevator, all the way back in Montreal, long before the war. To put it in a nutshell… it was not one of my more laudable moments.

Still, that's in the past, right?

"Not everyone can be besotted by those new-fangled contraptions you love so much. And, anyway, how can a train running all the way down under the surface not be the stuff of the devil?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Never said it wasn't, did I?" Shirley agrees easily. "Only… it's so very convenient."

With a wave of my hand, I brush his remark aside. "Whatever you say, Doctor Faustus," then, returning to the problem at hand, "now, do you know a place we can go to or not?"

"'Go' being the key word, right?" Shirley retorts, not missing a beat. He welcomes the smack I direct at his forearm with a laugh.

I follow up the blow with a glare. Not that he looks affected by this either.

Raising a placatory hand, he says, "Alright, no need to kill me. You are a nurse, remember? You are not allowed to kill. Isn't there some kind of oath to that effect?"

"The Hippocratic oath? That's for doctors. Nurses aren't bound by it," I shoot back.

"In that case… forget I ever said anything," Shirley quickly amends with a smile and a wink. As I make a point not to react, he stops, gives a theatrical little bow. "May I interest the lady in a walk through Kensington Park then? It's not far from here. You aren't cold, are you?"

With October being a good three weeks old and promising to be the harbinger of a Siberian winter, temperatures are indeed only slightly above freezing. A little fresh air, though, has never harmed anyone, even more so as I usually spent my time between dorm and ward, the latter especially not being known as the sweetest smelling of places.

"Kensington Park sounds lovely," I therefore concur.

Arms linked, we set off along the road, revelling in a moment of silence.

No-one acquainted with both of us would be surprised to hear I am the one to break it in the end. "You know your way around London quite well."

"Apart from those weeks in February, I came up several times while stationed in Shorncliffe with my old unit last year. Whenever we got a day off, we escaped to London. Don't you do that?" Shirley wonders.

I shake my head. "Polly dragged me along once, not long after we came to Taplow, but after that… well, Polly still comes here whenever she gets the chance, which isn't altogether very often, but Betty and I usually don't get further than Maidenhead. For a half-day it's hardly worth the effort when there's no special reason, like you being on leave is. Besides… it's terribly dirty, isn't it?" I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

"There's so much to see, though. I liked living in Montreal, but in comparison to London, even Montreal seems provincial, in spite of its being Canada's biggest city," Shirley argues.

Montreal was our shared temporary home. Out of his five years and my three years there, only one overlapped, when he was just finishing up his studies at McGill University and I had only started my time at the Royal Victoria Hospital, but even so, we were the only ones in our family who ended up there. Looking back, I am grateful for that one year – the last year of peace. Because, in spite of my living in the nurse's dormitory and Shirley occupying a draughty rented room, we've never seen more of the other before or since. I ended up being the only one he told of his plans to enlist – everyone else he only informed after the fact.

For, while Jem joined up during that heady August days, when we still thought war would be over by Christmas, Shirley elected to wait. He'd only just left college, had taken on his first job as a consulting engineer in Montreal and, being the thoroughly rational being he is, chose to wait and see how the European situation would develop before giving it up. Therefore, he only volunteered with the second contingent, when war was already three months old. It might not sound like much, but when you consider quite what happened in those three months, they made a world of difference. Three months were enough to carry Jem to Valcartier and further on to England, and three months were enough to make anyone realize that this war would be many a thing, but definitely not be over soon.

In a nutshell, Jem joined up when we all thought the war would be won by Christmas, and Shirley joined up when we all knew it wouldn't be.

That's Shirley for you. No rash decisions for him, thank you very much. And so he only enlisted once he could be sure he would not be giving up his civilian life for nothing. Jem never considered waiting and, I suspect, neither would Jerry have done, had he and Nan not been married so very recently. That being as it was, he, too, only went at the beginning of November, same as Shirley, knowing all too well it might be a considerable while before he could return to his bride.

I shake my head, trying to clear my mind of that thought. It only leads to the question of when all of us will return, and that leads to the question of who might not return and that's not something I ever want to consider.

"So, how did you spend your leave so far?" I enquire instead, trying to sound upbeat. My sudden cheerfulness earns me a curious glance from Shirley, but he lets it slide.

We've reached a park now, probably the promised Kensington Park, and, for all it being clad in its winter dress already, I can imagine what it'll look like once frost has relaxed its grip. Maybe London isn't dirty everywhere.

"I did some travelling, met some people. Walt sends his love, by the way," Shirley replies in his matter-of-fact way.

This succeeds in gaining my attention, anyhow. "Walter!" I exclaim. "Why didn't you say? How is he?"

Shirley shrugs – one of his preferred forms of communication. "When I was there he was quite well, but last week he's had another bout of fever, apparently. He's well and truly sick of that hospital by now, but I don't expect him to be able to leave it all that soon."

"It's persistent, trench fever," I confirm with a nod.

"Mostly he's worried that he won't be posted back to his unit after recovering," Shirley continues, "Which, in truth, really is pretty likely."

I cock my head to the side. "Why wouldn't he be posted back to his unit?"

"It's different for normal enlisted men, but for officers and the like, once they get moved to a hospital in England, their position is often assigned to someone else. When they stay in France, even when in a hospital, the position is only temporarily filled and they can have it back on their return, but when they have to go to England, it's usually gone. Once they are recovered, the army will simply have them fill another posting that's vacant at the time. The likelihood of that being in their old unit is negligible at best and even lower in Walter's case. There aren't all that many catholic chaplains anyway – one for every brigade, if at all," Shirley explains.

"Oh, he won't like being separated from his men for good. He feels responsible for them," I remark, with sympathy.

"Don't we all?" Shirley says simply and quite suddenly I am reminded of the fact that, as an NCO, he, too, has men under his command.

"Still, poor Walter," I sigh. "First the fever and then he won't even be allowed to go about pastoring where he wants to."

Shirley nods, but appears to have moved on from the subject of Walter's tribulations already. "Speaking of being posted elsewhere… did I mention my meeting Carl?" he enquires casually.

I blink, surprised. "Carl?"

"Yes, Carl," Shirley retorts with fine emphasis. "Remember Carl?"

He's trying to tease, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

"Hardly, to be honest," I reply instead and that's only halfway in jest.

It's been a very long while since any of us has seen Carl and it feels so much longer, for even before the war we've seen precious little of him. Carl decided long before me that college was not for him, left Queen's after his first year and, at the ripe old age of sixteen, ran away to join the merchant marine. Ever since, he's been sailing the oceans and, when finding himself in England in August 1914 quite by chance, he did not hesitate to transfer his loyalty to the Royal Navy. He's an able seaman and, knowing Carl, he'd fight tooth and nail to prevent a promotion.

Since he joined the Navy, it's been even more difficult to stay in contact with him, more so, as Carl gets easily bored by writing letters. He makes sure to put the odd line to paper once in a while, but still you can never be sure where he is or what he does. He's alive and well and that, I guess, is what we have to content ourselves with.

Until now, apparently.

"Still want to know how he's been?" Shirley asks with a raised eyebrow.

I roll my eyes in reply. "Tell!" I order, using all the authority my uniform and two months of keeping tabs on an unruly ward have invested me with.

Shirley puts a little distance between us at this, but answers, "He's reasonably well, which makes for a nice change. He's as cagey on details of his war experiences as he's always been, but I'm fairly certain he was in the Mediterranean during the fighting at the Dardanelles and he has implied that his ship was torpedoed and sunk off of the Turkish coast, but…"

He does not get any further. "Torpedoed?" I interrupt. My voice sounds unusually high even to my own ears.

Soothingly, Shirley shakes his head. "Not to worry. He's fine, so whatever happened, he got through it quite unscathed. Somehow, I have a feeling that it isn't Carl's life we have to worry about. He's become a seaman, through and through – the sea will not harm him. I mean, he's already survived one and a half years in a submarine, which is no mean feat."

"A submarine," I repeat, shuddering slightly at the thought as I do every time when remembering Carl in one of these contraptions. Thinking of the tube makes me feel uneasy – thinking of a submarine makes me feel quite sick.

At the very least, I serve to amuse my brother, for there's a slight grin flashing across his face. "Not for you, is it?" he asks – not that I'd ever deign to answer, of course. Without waiting for me to, anyhow, he adds, "At any rate, Carl says he's being transferred, but it will be to another submarine."

"He's crazy", I mutter, "completely crazy!" To live for weeks and months on end in a tin box in the middle of the sea… and to go and actually like it…

I look up at Shirley, only to find, to my surprise, the grin having given way to a deep frown.

"Speaking of crazy," he says, hesitantly, "I've been to see Jerry."

And just like that, any thoughts of Carl and submarines are gone from my mind. "What do you say? Crazy?" My voice is curiously toneless.

"Ah, no, sorry. Crazy isn't the right way to put it," Shirley amends, "but…" He breaks off, gives a helpless shrug. Whatever it is, he feels uncomfortable having to be the one to tell it.

"But, what?" I prompt.

Shirley sighs. "But… ah, well… you know they moved him to a different hospital at the beginning of the month?

Impatiently, I nod. "To a special hospital in Buxton," I say. Buxton is all the way up in Derbyshire and when I heard Jerry had been moved there, it was immediately clear I would not get a chance to visit him before getting proper leave. And proper leave is usually only given after six month of service, if then.

"And do you know what they specialize on in this special hospital?" Shirley responds and I have a sure feeling he's just going to keep asking questions until I am forced to say out loud what he does not want to tell.

Actually, I really do know what they specialize in at the Canadian Red Cross Special Hospital in Buxton. Miss Talbot told me. So, I tick off, "Rheumatic fever, arthritis and neuritis, neuralgia and myalgia, otitis and nephritis, insomnia, diseases of the heart and –"

Abruptly, I break of. I know now, where this is leading. Hesitantly, almost shyly, I search Shirley's eyes. He nods, nearly imperceptible, prompting me to go on.

"… and neurasthenia." My voice trembles.

So that's what he meant by crazy.

"Shell shock", Shirley confirms quietly.

There's something ominous to the words. Something vague, but threatening.

"How…?" I begin, trailing off when I realize I have no idea how to end the question.

Thankfully, Shirley understands me even without so many words. "He's not totally bonkers, having to be locked up or anything like that. He's… nervous. Shuffling. Cagey somehow. Can't keep still and won't look at you. Jumps whenever he hears a sound. Trembles. Quite thin, too. It's classic, really. I've seen the likes of him before, only… it's different when you know them. When you know how they used to be and see how they are now."

I let the words sink in for a few seconds, as we silently stroll through the park. It takes some time to work up the courage for my next question. "Do you think he'll get better?"

Shirley frowns. "No idea," he admits. "His arm is pretty much healed, so that's something. As for the trembling… I have no idea." He shrugs, helplessly.

And how could he? I hardly know anything about shell shock and I am a nurse!

"Do you suppose we ought to write to Nan?" Shirley asks, looking at me quizzically from the side.

Now I'm the one shrugging. "That's the question, isn't it? She has a right to know, that's certain, and she's terribly worried because he hardly ever writes and because they still won't release him. It's just… what to write? We know next to nothing ourselves." I cannot stop a frustrated sigh from escaping my lips.

"But she must know, right?" Shirley asks.

I nod, slowly. He's right, she must know. But it won't be him, writing that letter. Letter-writing does not come easily to him at the best of times. Writing this particular letter might yet prove to be beyond him. So, it'll have to be me and, even though I already know I will do it in the end, I abhor the thought. I hate to be the one to hurt her.

He must have felt my reluctance, gently squeezing my hand and, short as it is, the gesture is comforting. With an encouraging smile, he nods to the left. "Look, there's Kensington Palace."

And though I know this to be a thinly veiled attempt at distraction, I follow his gaze. Kensington Palace is a brick building that would look plain but for how vast it is. As I ask about some trivial architectural detail, Shirley answers readily, only too glad to leave the subject of Jerry far behind him.

I try to concentrate on his explanations, I really do, but my mind is all a-jumble. It takes several moments for me to arrange my thoughts into some semblance of order. Once they set into place, however, a single thought stands out in front of the others.

Almost two years of war have passed without it hurting any of us. Sure, there was Jem and his dysentery – which could easily have ended up fatal, as I very well know – but as Jem makes such a big joke out of it, it's easy to forget quite how dangerous that could have been. Apart from his illness though, there's been nothing, for very many months – until now.

Jerry's injury, Walter's illness, now this… somehow it feels as if war has moved a lot closer in recent weeks. Threateningly close, really. Or maybe… maybe it's just that I am closer to it now?


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary' from 1912 (lyrics and music by Jack Judge).