Chapter Ten;
England, 1917
It's funny, how one single life can change those around them so significantly by merely continuing to exist. How a person can affect those in close proximity to them without meaning to. How even a decision made by a single individual can affect so many others.
Death is a fact of life. It awaits every living creature, human or otherwise.
It also affects every living creature, human or otherwise, in unimaginable ways. But sometimes it is when a person defies death that they cause the most effect to others.
So many people should have died during the war but they didn't.
They clung to life, they fought hard to survive and make it home to their loved ones.
And in most cases that survival came at a cost.
A limb. A sense. Sometimes even a person's sanity.
Their decision to survive shaped not only their futures but the futures of those around them, those who cared for them. They shaped the lives of people they knew, people they'd only briefly met and, in some cases, people they had never met in their entire lives.
It wasn't easy.
Nothing worth having ever is.
But it was worth it.
It's funny, how one single life can change those around them so significantly by merely continuing to exist. How a person can affect those in close proximity to them without meaning to. How even a decision made by a single individual can affect so many others.
"He must have smuggled a razor into his bed," Major Clarkson sighed deeply as the small group gathered around the bed which had been placed at the far end of the ward behind a protective screen following the unfortunate incident in the night. "It's a miracle you reached him in time, Sergeant. I dread to think how this might have turned out had you not…"
"It's because we ordered him to go."
Sybil's soft voice spoke the words he himself longed to say but knew that he could not, knew that opening up that particular floodgate would be a bad idea. Instead he continued with his current task of ensuring that the dressings on Lieutenant Courtenay's damaged wrists were done properly so as to protect the delicate stitches holding his skin together.
"We don't know that."
Mrs Crawley stood ever so slightly off to the side clutching her clipboard as though her life depended on in, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she took in the figure lying on the bed. They'd been forced to apply a series of leather straps to keep Lieutenant Crawley still once he woke up, whenever that might be, for fear of him trying to kill himself again.
It was a rather distressing sight to witness, one which prompted Sybil to fuss about making sure that the straps were tight enough to do their jobs but not so tight as to cause him harm.
"This is a tragedy, I don't deny it," Major Clarkson admitted, some of the colour returning to his cheeks after spending so many hours looking positively ashen. Thomas had never seen the older man look as shaken as when he had arrived on the scene, his trousers pulled on over the top of his pyjamas. "But I cannot see what other course was open to me. We have no room for men to convalesce here and Farley is the nearest house I can send them to."
"There is a solution and it's staring us in the face," Mrs Crawley countered softly, squaring her shoulders when all three of them turned to stare at her with various levels of confusion and hope in their eyes. "Downton Abbey."
Thomas's response was exactly the same as Major Clarkson's, both of them scoffing loudly.
"Would the ever allow it?" Clarkson wondered disbelievingly. "Or even consider it?"
"I think they would," Sybil murmured, rising from her crouched position before leaning down to run her fingers through Lieutenant Courtenay's wayward curls. Her eyes locked with Thomas's, filled with pure determination. "After this, I think they can be made to."
Thomas truly hoped so.
His heart still hadn't calmed down from the rapid pace it had taken up upon finding Courtenay with his wrists slashed open, blood everywhere and calling his name weakly.
He was beginning to doubt it would ever calm down.
Stepping back in order to allow Major Clarkson to get to work saving the Lieutenant's life had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, his mind screaming at him that he needed to be the one to save Edward. Eventually he'd hurried around the bed to take over from the patient holding tightly to the Lieutenant's other hand, feeling the wild thrum of the younger man's heartbeat through the warm blood pulsing against the palm of his hand.
"Thomas, I want you to stay with the Lieutenant until he wakes up and then send one of the nurses to fetch me," Major Clarkson ordered, running a shaking hand through his own hair. "It has been my experience that failed attempts of suicide such as this are usually followed by secondary attempts which almost always prove fatal. We cannot allow that happen."
"I'll stay with him, Major Clarkson."
Thomas had never been happier to follow a superiors order than he was in that moment.
He had been sent away to "clean himself up" in the early hours of the morning after sitting vigil over Lieutenant Courtenay's bed with Major Clarkson, both of them reluctant to leave in case the young man should take a turn for the worse. He'd done so, scrubbing his skin raw and throwing his ruined uniform into the laundry basket to be cleaned, before hurrying back to the ward. It never even crossed his mind to take a longer break, to get some sleep.
Now as he sat watching the steady rise and fall of the young officer's chest he found himself struggling to keep his eyes open, the lack of sleep causing them to sting and ache uncomfortably. Leaning out from behind the screen he beckoned to the Nurse on duty and asked for her to arrange for a cup of strong tea and a newspaper to be brought to him.
He needed something to keep him awake and alert.
As it was he found himself stunned beyond belief as he read the erroneous articles about the war in France, muttering to himself as he felt his blood start to boil with every piece of blatant propaganda and carefully worded reporting he came across. It didn't seem to matter to them that the casualty lists for the battle they were glorifying were still coming in, didn't seem to care that an estimated 25,000 men had lost their lives. There wasn't even a mention of how many men had been wounded in action, seriously or otherwise.
All that matter to them was that strategically they could claim it as a British Victory.
"…what are you…muttering about?"
A gasp escaped his previously pursed lips as his gaze snapped up from the sheets of newspaper spread across his thighs, finding the blank stare of the young officer lying beside him on the bed visibly contorted with confusion. Hurriedly he pushed the newspaper away, uncaring of how it fell to the floor, as Lieutenant Courtenay had chosen that exact moment to attempt to push himself up into a sitting position and discovered he was restrained.
"T-Thomas?" he gasped fearfully. "Why can't I move?"
"You've been strapped down to the bed," Thomas hurried to reassure him, placing his hand on top of Edwards and giving it a gentle squeeze. With a shuddered breathe the young officer grasped hold of his hand. "It's…it's to stop…do you remember what happened last night?"
Edward stilled instantly, what little colour he'd had draining out of his face.
"…it seemed like…it seemed like my only option at the time…" he eventually mumbled hollowly, tilting his head down as though looking at his damaged wrists through his sightless eyes. "…I couldn't face the idea of leaving here…leaving you…I need you, you see..."
His heart clenched painfully in his chest.
"Sir..."
"I do," Edward hissed firmly, tightening the grip he had on Thomas's hand to the point where the medic had to wince. "I need you. I can't...I can't face it without you. I won't..."
It was times like these more than any others that he wished he still had his other hand.
"I need you to calm down, sir," he eventually murmured, reluctantly pressing his stump against the back of Edwards's hand. "The last thing we want you to do is tear your stitches."
Thomas honestly didn't think he could stand seeing that much blood coming out of someone he knew, someone he cared for, someone he loved, ever again.
His mind would…shatter…
Thankfully his request seemed to break through the panic which had settled around Lieutenant Courtenay's shoulders, clouding his judgement, and almost at once he let go of Thomas's hand with a pained hiss. A circle of red had appeared on the pristine dressing.
"I need to fetch Major Clarkson," he murmured, giving Edwards hand a gentle squeeze as he forced his stiff legs to respond and rose from the chair. "I'll send a nurse to sit with you."
"…I really do need you, Thomas…" Edward mumbled just as Thomas was about to disappear around the screen. "You…you keep the voices away and…and I know I can trust you…"
"Old" Thomas would have scoffed at that.
Trust him?
What a ridiculous notion, one that would cost the individual doing the trusting a great deal once "old" Thomas had figured out a way to use said trust against them for his own gain.
"New" Thomas, the one the horrors of war had created, merely smiled and silently vowed never again to do anything which would jeopardise the trust which had been placed in him.
"I'll do my best, sir," he murmured. "I'll ask the nurse to bring you something to drink."
Edward managed a tremulous smile in response.
After passing on his request for a nurse to take a cup of tea and sit with Lieutenant Courtenay he went in search of Major Clarkson, finding him in front of the hospital busy organising things for the expected arrival of the ambulances bringing patients from France.
"Make sure all of those stretchers are prepared and laid out neatly along the wall," he ordered two of the youngest orderlies who weren't the best at putting the wooden and cloth stretchers together. Thomas made a mental note to send a more experience orderly out to check on them. "Nurse, I want a tea urn over there for the walking wounded. Make sure it's nice and strong and put sugar in their cups, even if they don't usually take it."
"Major Clarkson?"
"Barrow?" Clarkson frowned as he turned to face him. "I thought I told you to stay with–"
"Lieutenant Courtenay is awake, sir," Thomas interrupted the doctor before he could begin to lecture him about obeying orders when they were given. "I've asked a nurse to sit with him whilst I fetched you. He was rather upset upon waking and may have torn his stitches."
Major Clarkson's stern expression dropped into one of concern. And of course it was at this precise moment that the first of the ambulances they were expecting turned into the road.
"Barrow, I need you to set up a basic triage centre out here whilst I check on Lieutenant Courtenay," Major Clarkson ordered, handing his clipboard over to a nurse. "Keep the walking wounded out here for the moment. Those who are in need of immediate attention to the operating theatre and the small ward. It's been temporarily cleared to accept these cases. Those not in need of immediate treatment but who require a bed can be put on the main ward for now. Nurse Crawley, you'll be in charge of getting them settled in the main ward. Nurse Rawlings, could you organise the patients who are taken to the small ward?"
"Yes, Major Clarkson."
"I'll only be five minutes or so," Major Clarkson murmured reassuringly. "These men take precise cd over anything else that is not life threatening including Lieutenant Courtenay but I would rather see him settled and comfortable before we begin treating those in need."
"Yes, Major Clarkson."
Thomas got the feeling that in this particular instance settled meant the same as sedated.
Perhaps that was for the best, though, since Thomas doubted he would be able to return to Edwards side until much later in the day thank to the task he'd now been given to complete given the fact that they were expecting six ambulances to arrive in total, a task he should have been expecting to receive as Head Orderly but hadn't for whatever reason. He could do without the added duties, if he was being brutally honest, given the fact that he hadn't slept over twenty-four hours and had spent a fair chunk of those as an emotional wreck.
But this was wartime, this was his job and therefore he didn't have the luxury of saying no.
It was quickly evident that the first ambulance had been crammed full with the worst off patients, the ones who had been evacuated directly to England without going through a field hospital. The mud still clung to their clothes and bodies, all drenched in blood, and most of them only had a field dressing covering their wounds. Infection would be a huge problem with this group, he expected, as most of those field dressings were just as dirty.
Making sure to check each stretched over before a patient was transferred on to it, relieved to find them all securely put together and not at risk of collapsing, he directed the gathered orderlies and ambulance crew to follow Nurse Rawlings to the theatre and the small ward.
The second, third and fourth ambulances all arrived in quick succession and held a mixture of patients. Most were bad but not in desperate need of attention so these he passed over to Sybil whilst he himself took on the task of herding the walking wounded to one side.
"Petunia," he called out to the trembling young nurse by the tea urn. "Tea. Now."
"Y-Yes, Sergeant Barrow."
When the fifth ambulance arrived he discovered it was crammed to bursting with walking wounded, mostly cases of gas blindness, and so he quickly instructed another nurse to take the first group of walking wounded and get them settled into the garden at the back of the hospital where the orderly's tent was. They'd be comfortable on the soft grass, warmed by the sun and with warm tea in the bellies, but they'd also be safely out of the way for the moment. This meant this new group of walking wounded could be looked after out front.
The last ambulance was followed by a very familiar car, from which alighted the newly promoted Captain Crawley in his smart uniform and Tom Branson in his familiar chauffeur's uniform, buttons gleaming in the sun. He paid them no more attention after that as the final ambulance had been filled with a mixture of serious and those not in urgent need of care.
"Do you know where Lady Sybil is?"
Thomas glanced sharply at Tom, noting the basket he had retrieved from the motor car.
"Follow me," Thomas murmured, already envisioning how this would play out inside. He gestured for the orderlies to get to work transporting the patients to the various places they needed to be and left the walking wounded gathered around the tea urn where Petunia, or Nurse Biddle as she should be known, had finally come to her senses and was taking charge. "As you can see we've just received a delivery of new patients so we're a little busy."
Both Captain Crawley and Tom nodded, their eyes falling to some of the stretchers being carried past them. The horror and confusion they felt was evident although Thomas was pleased to note a significant amount of compassion and sympathy in their expressions too.
They found Sybil working alongside Mrs Crawley to get the mud covered men settled into the empty beds, most of them temporary and places between the already existing beds.
"Right to the other end," Mrs Crawley ordered, gesturing towards the screen behind which Thomas knew Edward lay. The orderlies she'd spoken to changed direction. "That way."
Thomas watched out of the corner of his eye as Tom hesitantly approached Sybil.
"Her Ladyship had Mrs Patmore make this up for you so you could eat something during the day."
"Oh, I won't have time," she murmured, only briefly glancing away from the young man she was helping get settled. Half his face was concealed by bandages and he seemed more than a little out of it, his body slow to respond to her touch. "But, thank you, for bringing it..."
Major Clarkson appeared into the room, his white cost already stained with someone's blood. There was a smudge of dirt on his chest as well. He gestured for Thomas to join him.
"Clarkson," Captain Crawley murmured, nodding respectfully towards the older man whilst Thomas struggled to Madame his way through the chaotic throng of people. "Mother…"
"Oh, Matthew," Mrs Crawley gasped loudly. "I'm afraid I'm very busy, as you can see."
"I just want to help."
"Sergeant Barrow, I commend you for the speed with which you got everyone through the initial triage," Major Clarkson's sincere praised surprised Thomas when he finally reached his superior officers side. "And it was an excellent decision to get the walking wounded settled in the garden. It's very peaceful out there for them which will help keep them calm."
"Thank you, sir," Thomas murmured in response. "I just thought it would be too cluttered to bring them all inside at this moment in time. Many of them will have to sleep in the hallway as it is but once we've got these patients seem to I'll look into where else we can put them."
"Excellent," Major Clarkson exhaled. "I shall be busy in the operating theatre for the next couple of hours, I imagine, so you'll have to take charge out here. Keep up the good work."
"Yes, Major Clarkson."
"Is it what you thought it would be?"
This soft question was not directed at him but at Sybil from the young following behind her as she moved past where Thomas stood watching his superior officer hurry out of the room.
"No," she responded immediately whilst still focusing the majority of her attention on the latest patient she was tending to. This time it was a young man who's left arm was almost completely swathed in bandages. "No, it's more savage and more cruel than I could've imagined, but I feel useful for the first time in my life, and that must be a good thing."
Tom's expression was torn, obviously concerned for her but equally proud of what she was doing. There weren't many daughters of Lords ego would be willing to do such horrific and dirty work, rather they wanted the glory that came with donning a uniform but wanted to do nothing more than mop a fevered brow whilst the patient gazes longingly up at them.
They'd had one of those for all of two days before she'd decided the VAD wasn't for her.
Sybil straightened up, smiling briefly at Thomas before turning her attention towards her cousin who was standing in the centre of the room looking more than a little bit lost.
"Matthew, are you busy?"
"No, of course not," Matthew answered immediately, hurrying to help her settle another patient with their head sloppily bandaged down onto a bed. "You're quite safe now."
Thomas moved to stand beside Mrs Crawley who was jotting something down on the clipboard she held in her hands, all the whilst smiling reassuringly down at her patient.
"Mrs Crawley, I trust I can leave organising this ward in your capable hands?" he enquired, laying on the flattery as he knew it was the best way to get her to do what he asked. Mrs Crawley was a woman who liked to feel needed. "With Nurse Crawley's help, of course."
"I'd be glad to take over the organisation here, Sergeant Barrow," she responded with a pleased smile, her eyes already bright with her new purpose. "I'll ensure that everyone is settled and that we have a list of their injuries that Major Clarkson can work from. We'll set about treating minor wounds, cuts and burns and the like, so that he doesn't have to."
"I knew we could count on you, Mrs Crawley."
"So you wouldn't go back?" he heard Tom enquire as he moved to check up on Lieutenant Courtenay, unable to resist the urge any more. "To your life before the war? If you could?"
"No," Sybil answered softly, shaking her head. "No, I can never go back to that again."
As he'd suspected Edward had been sedated and was resting peacefully amidst the chaos so Thomas didn't feel guilty as he left the main ward, moving to check up on the small ward before focusing his attention on getting all of the walking wounded settled in the garden so that their identities and injuries could be catalogued. This time the list would be beneficial to both Major Clarkson and Thomas who had the difficult task of finding them all beds.
He genuinely didn't know where they were going to put most of them.
They'd definitely been sent too many patients this time but what could they do, turn them away? This was just another factor that would benefit from Sybil's scheme to turn Downton Abbey into a convalescent hospital where men like the walking wounded could be cared for.
In the end he had no choice but to order the orderlies tent to be split in half, leaving half for the orderlies to use while the other half became a temporary ward for the overflow patients. It wasn't ideal, not enough beds even with the orderlies agreeing to share and "hot bunk" where the different shifts would take turns sleeping in the same bed. There was a still an alarming amount of men on temporary beds made of straw and blankets on the floor.
For himself he had moved his things into the supply cupboard where he would bunk down on his own nest of blankets and straw, not that he had had much time to sleep before the incident with Edward so he probably wouldn't end up spending too much time in there.
"If you don't give me one of those I won't be held accountable for my actions," Sybil announced a good few hours later when she stumbled out to collapse down beside him in their usual smoking area, reaching out for the cigarette between his lips. He surrendered it with a smile and set about lighting another for himself. "I haven't stopped since…since…"
"I know," he chuckled softly, holding his packet of cigarettes against his chest with his stump so that he could pull one out. "They were just putting the tea urn on for the Nurses and Orderlies when I came out of here and someone was going to make up some sandwiches."
Sybil let out an unladylike groan of delight.
They smoked side by side in silence for a long moment before Thomas finally voice a question that had filtered through his mind again and again as he had struggled to find space for everyone, struggled to make sure everyone was being properly looked after.
"Do you really think they'll let us set up a convalescent home in the house?"
Sybil blew out a long stream of smoke.
"Because I'm having trouble seeing the old battle-axe going for that..."
The loud guffaw he received in response to letting his mouth run away from him was even more unladylike than her earlier groan had been, Sybil letting out an actual snort as she turned to face him, grinning brightly as she laughed her way through repeating his words,
"The old battle-axe?!"
Thomas felt his cheeks flush an unpleasantly red colour, the colour seeming to burn him.
"...apologies, I forgot who I was talking to..."
His apology did nothing to stifle her giggles.
"If you mean Granny then leave it with me," she told him, shaking her head in merriment. Her eyes were practically sparkling with joy as she bumped her shoulder against his. "I've been getting my own way for years. Time for me to put that particular talent to good use."
It was Thomas's turn to chuckle than.
They reluctantly headed back inside once they'd finished their cigarettes, stopping in the tiny kitchen for a quick cup of tea and a cheese and tomato sandwich, before heading back to the main ward. Sybil returned to her nursing duties, soothing men in pain, while Thomas made a beeline for Lieutenant Courtenay who had woken earlier or so he'd been told.
"Thomas?" Edward called out softly as he dropped down into the chair. "Is that you?"
"Yes," he confirmed, reaching across to take Edwards hand gently. He gave it a gently squeeze, noting that his dressings had been changed at some point. "It's me."
He couldn't stay long. He needed sleep. But he'd stay as long as he could.
He wouldn't let Edward feel alone or abandoned ever again.
"Tell me about your day, Thomas…"
"Well…"
A/N – Did you really think I was going to let him die? Nope. His survival is far too important for my overall story plan. I know how it's going to end now which I honestly didn't when I started writing it originally. I'm off to France for a week of Living History (aka dressing up in my fabulous vintage clothes for a week) in our 1944 Morris C-8 Truck (called 'Minty') but I am going to try and get some writing done in the evenings. I just won't be able to post anything until I'm back in the UK with access to my laptop. Comments welcome. X