Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Sorry for the wait, start of new term at uni which means essays and exams and other boringness like that, but I haven't forgotten about this :) Again, tried to be as accurate as I could, but I want to move the story along & the list mentioned in this chapter actually wasn't introduced until 1917, but what the hell, this is fanfiction and I can do what I want! :D
So R&R and I hope you enjoyyy …
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"This conflict is one thing I've been waiting for. I'm well and strong and young - young enough to go to the front. If I can't be a soldier, I'll help soldiers."
- Clara Barton (American Civil War Nurse, Founder of the American National Red Cross, 1821-1912)
March 1915
Sybil had been to London many times before of course, but this time it felt different. It was different. There was no time for social visits or dinners with acquaintances; her time had to be spent training, and when she wasn't training, she was reading up on it. She was determined to complete it and make her father, her family, and of course Tom, proud of her.
She'd had a clear idea of what the training would entail thanks to Isobel Crawley, whom she'd asked countless questions, and made her demonstrate countless procedures, before travelling down to London. She soon found that she had a certain advantage amongst some of the other new recruits due to these few months of experience. Mrs Crawley, she had discovered, was extremely knowledgeable about a nurse's duty, and her training had given Sybil valuable experience, allowing her to pass the first aid and home nursing examinations, that everyone was required to take successfully before they could proceed, with flying colours.
Sybil was accepted at St. Thomas's Hospital in London where she would both live and work with her fellow nurses. Initially she had supposed that she would have to live with her aunt Rosamond, whom she had stayed with for a few weeks prior to her arrival; yet soon found that she was required to stay in a separate part of the hospital during her training. This suited her just fine; she may have been used to the high standard of living which came with being a Lady but, unlike her other sister's she mused, Sybil could live without those luxuries.
She had managed to persuade everyone that she was twenty-two years of age, soon to be twenty three. She knew she didn't particularly look it, but she wasn't questioned about it to her immense relief. Sybil had heard that the government had decided VAD's could be sent overseas to help with the ever-increasing number of wounded soldiers on the front lines. However, she had been initially disappointed, and even slightly anxious, that she would not be able to go because the conditions were that the nurse must be at least twenty-three years of age and have three months or more experience.
She hadn't told anyone, least of all her family back home, what she had done. If that got out she suspected her father would march down to London himself and drag her back to Downton before he let her go to France. Her becoming a nurse and remaining in England, Sybil supposed, he could just about handle, but on her own overseas when there was a war going on? She doubted it.
All romantic notions that Sybil may have had before arriving were dashed within days of arriving there. Even the hospital itself was foreign to her. The one at home was so much smaller and more homely, yet here there were huge corridors with countless beds in one hall, rather than divided into separate rooms. Treating the wounded was a daunting prospect, but a challenge she readily embraced. Initially, it was much less hectic than she had been expecting. She supposed that was due to the fact they were in England, and so they only received those who were stable enough to be sent back home to recover from their injuries.
Despite her competence when it came to injuries, she still felt like a fish out of water when it came to the more menial tasks. Of course, having been brought up a Lady, with all manner of servants to attend upon her, she'd never really done any manual household work. So, when she was required to do things such as stoke the fires she was lost, much to her annoyance. Sybil was, of course, more than willing to learn, but couldn't help but feel slightly foolish when she had to ask for help in how to make a cup of tea.
Another thing she had to deal with was the uniform. She was expected to wear the standard ankle length blue skirt covered by a long white apron when working, along with a belt in which she could hold various implements such as scissors and bandages. Sybil was so used to fine dresses that were fitted to her figure that she initially couldn't stand the stiff collars that accompanied the uniforms. Yet, soon the intense work seemed to push any thoughts to her own comfort from her mind.
Sybil soon fell into the routine, and when she was told how to perform a task once, she didn't need to be reminded. She, of course, made awful mistakes at first but she always learned from them. The days and weeks seemed to fly by and Branson soon became her driving force. When she was on the verge of giving up, all she had to do was glance at one of the soldiers lying injured in the ward; every time she did she couldn't help but wonder what she would do if it was Tom lying there.
She continued to exchange regular letters with Branson, yet ever since she'd read about an offensive his division was involved in she had been waiting anxiously for another to make sure that he was alright and nothing had happened to him. She'd also kept up with the news about any scrap of information she could get from the region of Artois and the death lists that were constantly posted. Sometimes she couldn't even look at the lists, just in case his name appeared on there. Every day in between their letters her worry increased, until it finally arrived, and then the cycle started all over again.
Sybil arrived in the nurse's living area of the hospital after the end of her shift and practically collapsed on to her bed she was so exhausted. She looked up quickly when she heard the shuffle of feet and was met with a friend of hers who was also being trained.
"What is it Sophie?" she questioned, a feeling of worry creeping over her as she took in her friend's concerned features.
Sophie seemed to hesitate for a second, "The man, the one you write to, he's called Tom Branson isn't he?"
Sybil sat up straight on the bed, alarm bells seemed to go off in her mind; "Yes, why?" she questioned, her voice growing firmer as her concern increased, "What's going on?"
"It's just … well", the young girl was unsure how to phrase her next words, "I got the War Office Weekly Casualty List, you know, to look out for James, and his name-"
"-No" Sybil cut her off harshly, bolting up from the bed and making her jump slightly. Her mind had suddenly gone into overdrive, whirling through all the possibilities in a split second. "He's not- no."
"Wait, it's not-" Sophie began, but Sybil had already pushed past her, her mind blanking out the rest of her friend's sentence, and ran through to the kitchen area. He heart hammering wildly in her chest she picked up the list, eyes frantically searching for his name. She managed to locate it, and his number and hometown alongside it just proved it was him. A feeling of dread formed in the pit of her stomach until her eyes fixed on one word next to it; wounded.
Sybil almost sobbed with relief; he wasn't dead.
That was the moment Sophie came racing in behind her and, realising she'd read it, placed a comforting arm on her back, "If you'd have just let me finish" she began, and then sighed as she took in Sybil's dishevelled appearance, "I'm sure he's fine" she reassured, "at least it's not the alternative."
All the emotion and fear Sybil had concealed for months about his wellbeing seemed to pour out of her, "I know" she began, wiping the tears from her eyes, "It's just I don't know what I'd have done if-"
"Just don't think about it" Sophie reasoned.
"But that's just it, I can't not think about it- it's always there in the back of my mind, always."
Sybil was worried about how bad his injuries were; Would he be alright? Would he be coming back to England? Would he soon be sent back to the line again?
Then her mind fixed on the glimmer of hope; the fact that he was still alive, still breathing, still the Tom she'd fallen in love with. The last thought seemed to surprise her, but it was true. She loved him and wanted to be in France, fighting in her own way alongside him. If he had to do his duty and be in the firing line, she would do her duty and help those that were caught up in it.
This only served to harden Sybil's resolve; she was going to France one way or another.