February 12th, 1918
No. 7 Canadian Stationary Hospital, Arques, France

Sick as we can be

Work on the medical ward is different from anything I've done here in Europe so far. For some reason, it took one and a half years before I was posted to a medical ward for the first time, despite there actually being more ill than wounded patients, especially in the winter. They don't have this worrying tendency to die tough, the ill patients.

Meningitis is a killer, admittedly, but thankfully very seldom. Pneumonia, too, can turn pretty nasty pretty quick – even more so when the patient has been gassed as well. We're mostly on top of tuberculosis though, I think. At least they don't die as easily from it as La Traviata wants to make you believe.

Tetanus and typhoid, those old killers from past wars, are also mostly under control. Every member of the Canadian army is mercilessly inoculated against typhoid, and I say 'merciless' because it's far from pleasant. Often enough, a whole unit is struck down by debility after having received their inoculations and as there's not one but three of them, it's easily imaginable that the soldiers don't like it much. I was inoculated as well, back in Canada, and it's not one of my favourite memories.

When it comes to tetanus, we also have a preventive treatment in place, namely the administration of an antitoxin. Every man who has been wounded or looks as if he might have been, receives the antitoxin, preferably while still in the field. Because if we want to prevent the disease from taking root, the anti-tetanic serum needs to be administered as early as possible. Once lockjaw has truly set in, it will end in certain death. And a cruel death it is! The system we have in place, as well as the antitoxin, seems to work though, and in one and a half years, I've hardly ever had a case of tetanus.

Quite on the contrary, actually. Sometimes, one would be forgiven from mistaking the isolation ward for the paediatric one. Measles, mumps, rubella, diphtheria, sometimes scarlet fever and chickenpox – name a childhood illness and chances are, we have at least three patients suffering from it. Often enough, it's whole companies that are struck down by the break out of one of these illnesses, preferably shortly before or shortly after their arrival in Europe, but even here in Arques we get our share of these illnesses. They don't die from them very often, though. Our soldiers are a fairly hardy bunch.

Tonsillitis is also very common, as are various heart problems. There's jaundice, illnesses of eyes and ears, and several different fevers. Then there's trench fever, which is what Walter had, but also rheumatic fever, and certainly common colds and bouts of flu. These are especially prevalent this February, which might not be as cold as the last one but is cold enough. All those illnesses usually refrain from being lethal though.

Apart from them, we also have those diseases that aren't so nice to look at. Rashes and eczema of every kind, and whatever other unsavoury sights the human skin has to offer. Scabies comes to mind – I wasn't aware of scabies still being a problem in this day and age, and yet, here we are. It's about as disagreeable as trench mouth, the name of not reminiscent of trench foot for nothing. It shows itself in rotten, infected gums and smells as unpleasant as it looks.

The blame for a lot of these diseases must be placed not only on the cold, wet trenches but on assorted creatures that live in them. Rats, mites, lice – all of them have made a home for themselves wherever soldiers are and not a few of them carry illnesses from one man to the next. Even in our hospitals, we are not safe from them, as persnickety as we are about hygiene and cleanliness. The lice especially are a downright plague. Not for nothing do I take the time to comb my hair with an especially fine-toothed comb every evening, regardless of how late it is and how tired I am. Lice stop at nothing and no one and I have seen men go clean mad over their itchiness.

The truly mad patients – shell shock or whatever other nervous diseases there are – aren't treated in this hospital. The venereal cases, too, are channelled past us into specialised hospitals, which is perfectly fine with me. I'd much rather deal with a nice bout of scabies than be confronted with gonorrhoea, even from afar.

Scabies and gonorrhoea notwithstanding, I have to say that work on the medical ward reminds me much more of what I used to do back in Montreal. Fewer blown-off arms and bullets stuck in heads, more fever and coughs and rashes. It is, absurd as it might sound to an outsider, a nice diversion.

I can't say it's less strenuous, because on the surgical wards, the patients tend to be more awake and alert once they are through the worst. They demand more attention, but they are better able to help themselves as well. The sick patients are sick, first and foremost, and are usually tired and exhausted and pretty out of it. They need a different form of care and I suppose it's this different that makes it interesting for me at the moment.

"Destroyed a thermometer yet today, Sister?" a voice suddenly calls out to me. It belongs to a brazen little Australian with an ear infection in a bed to my right. When I turn to him, he grins widely. He's one of the few that are far from 'out of it', despite being ill. He's certainly not wanting for cheekiness and because of his accent, nothing he says ever sounds truly serious.

One of the more unpleasant realities about work on the medical ward is that we have to take their temperature even more often. I was quite proud of having reduced my wastage of thermometers to an almost normal level, but the four weeks I've been on duty here since returning from London have reliably done away with all that. By now, most of the more alert patients have figured out that thermometers don't have long to live in my care.

"Not yet, thanks for asking," I respond as graciously as I can manage, but have to hide a smile myself.

Infected Ear grins even wider. "Well, the day isn't over," he retorts, wiggling his eyebrows meaningfully.

"But my shift is," I point out. "And you, did you take your medicine?"

He raises a hand in salute. "According to your orders, Sister," he announces in snappy tones.

"As it should be," I nod. "Sleep well. I'll see you in the morning."

"Another day, another thermometer," I hear him remark, sotto voce, after I've turned my back on him.

Shaking my head slightly at his antics, yet unable to keep a smile from my face, I walk away from his bed. I do one last round, then have a look at the middle-aged man with the mucous cough that's been causing me worry for a few days now. He didn't get worse, which, all things considered, is a good thing, I suppose.

I hand over the ward to the night sister, put on my coat against the persistent frost and step out into the night. The cold air feels nice, but still I can't fight a big yawn.

I send a quick prayer to whatever might up be up there, watching over our fates, that we might be spared an air raid alert today. They come more often recently, sometimes more than once in one night, but equally we are sometimes spared it for one or two nights. Our hospital has never been truly threatened by the falling bombs, but the alert is just not conducive to a good night's sleep.

As I enter the Sisters' Mess, I am greeted by what looks to be a tea party. I suppose it must have been announced in advance, but for whatever reason, those announcements usually go right past me. Instead, it makes for a nice surprise.

The majority of nurses not currently on duty are in the room, as well as some of the doctors attached to our unit. I don't see any patients, but that's easily explained by the fact that we don't normally have officer patients and it goes without saying that invitations to these teas are only extended to officers. Instead, I spy several British officers. Infantry, judging by their uniforms. In all probability, they are stationed somewhere in the area and have therefore been invited. It's the done thing to send out invitations to these shindigs to officers of other units in the vicinity.

A table has been laden with pots of coffee and tea, as well as cakes and sandwiches. One of the British officers has taken over the piano and plays a jaunty tune. Several pairs are dancing in the middle of the room, and the rest of the attendees are eating and chatting. The mood seems to be exceptional.

I shrug off my coat while surveying the room. At one of the tables I see Maud, newspaper spread out in front of her. Humming softly to the music, I make my way over to her.

"Any news?" I enquire as I sit down next to her.

"Wilson has added four principles to his fourteen points," Maud informs me, wrinkling her nose, "Whatever he means to achieve by it." The look she gives the front-page photograph of the American president tells me quite how little she thinks can be achieved by either points or principles.

"And the Russians are still negotiating for peace," she adds and once more, her look leaves little doubt that she thinks even less of that.

Then she sighs and shuts the paper with a decided swish, turning towards me instead. "But we're not changing any of that, are we, darling?" she asks, resigned.

I shrug. She's right. We're just lowly nursing sisters. The world won't listen to us.

"Here, before I forget." Maud reaches into her pocket and pulls out a bunch of letters.

With hasty, almost greedy fingers I take them from her, half aware of her indulgent smile. It's been a few days since we last had mail and my haul is appropriately rich. Quickly, I skim the envelopes to see who they are from.

There's the weekly letter from Colette, who is still stuck in Saint-Cloud and more sorry about it than ever. A letter from Betty, also in France by now, doing her duty in Doullens, somewhere in-between Amiens and Arras. She's writing her letters alone now, consequentially, but it still somehow irritates me to see her signature unaccompanied by Polly's. There's also a letter from Miss Inglish, who writes rarely but reliably.

Shirley's letter is in a rather sad state, stained and dog-eared, considering it had one of the shortest of journeys into my hands. The letters from Canada, in contrast, have travelled that much further. Dad's letter especially I have been waiting for impatiently, for I have asked his advice on the treatment of rheumatic illnesses. He might not be all that familiar with blasted-off limbs, but when it comes to illnesses of any kind, there's no faulting Dad's expertise, and I'm curious to read his take on this.

Even farther than the journey of Dad's letter was that of the envelope coming from Di-and-Mildred. Di seems to have decided that it's time for Mildred and me to get to know each other, and because of that, in recent months, every one of Di's letters has been accompanied by a letter from Mildred– or Milly, as Di calls her. It was a little strange in the beginning, but by now, I find myself looking forward to Mildred's letters as well. She's energetic and passionate and she has opinions – lots and lots of them! – but she is also funny and warm and that the food parcels from Toronto are in no way inferior to those from the Glen isn't my sister's doing either.

The third letter to have journeyed across the Atlantic makes me smile. Little Henri was the first patient I ever did anything for here in Europe and maybe that's why he's so dear to me still. I'm glad that, even after all these months, he still writes to me occasionally. And I'm even gladder to read his cheerful tales about his family and his beloved Kamouraska. Somehow, he seems to have made peace with his lot.

I rarely hear anything from the majority of patients after they have passed from my care, but I have some that do write still. Not very many, because I've not done enough ward duty for that in the past. It's quite natural for a man to write to the sister who cared for him for weeks instead of the theatre nurse who he only ever saw once, and with his mind befuddled by chloroform to boot. But even I have a few pen pals among my former patients. Some from the Taplow days, a few Français from my time in Saint-Cloud, and even the odd patient whom I especially cared for in either of the CCS.

It's nice when they write. It reminds me that life goes on.

The army forbids it, same as it forbids keeping a diary, but many of my fellow nurses also have autograph books in which the patients can write word of thanks, quotes, even poems. Some of the men sketch or draw, and the nurses paste photographs – also forbidden – into the books. Sometimes, they even put in locks of hair. And while I suppose it's a nice idea to keep one of these books as a souvenir, I never got around to starting one and it doesn't seem to be worth it now. Besides, I'd much rather have a proper letter from Henri from Kamouraska than a faded lock of hair pasted into a book.

I put Henri's letter to the side, skim through the last three envelopes. All are from Ken. He writes daily, and I can never quite decide if his letters make the separation easier or if I just miss him all the more for it. If that's even possible.

"How is Major Ford?" enquires a voice from my left. A deep voice that very obviously does not belong to Maud.

I peer up at Zachary. His face is impassive, making it hard to read him. For a split second I wonder why he's asking this now but then I realize he must have seen Ken's name on the envelopes.

"He's well, all things considered," I answer cautiously, "Bored more than anything."

"Understandable," nods Zachary. He hesitates for a moment, then pulls up a chair from the neighbouring table and sits down next to me. I watch him do it, but out of the corner of my eye I see Maud gathering up her newspaper and melting into the crowd. Part of me wants to call her back, but I suppress the impulse.

All around us, people are whirling and laughing, but between Zachary and me, silence reigns. We've managed to find a way to work together, but so far, any contact has been strictly work-related. This must be the first time in more than three months that we speak to each other outside of work. It is, therefore, the first time I have an opportunity to properly thank him.

"I – well, we… well – I never got around to thanking you. For everything you've done for Kenneth," I blurt out. The next second, I grimace slightly at my own words. So much for approaching this with caution.

"It was nothing," Zachary counters with a slight shake of his head.

I frown. "You were the one who made it possible for him to be treated the way I wanted. And you backed me up on it, even though you would have decided differently yourself," I remind him. "That's not nothing. And I don't bet, but if I did, I would bet good money that it was you who kept him here all these weeks."

That he doesn't contradict me is all the confirmation I need. "You don't need to thank me for that," he replies instead.

But this might be the only opportunity I will ever have to thank him, and I'm not likely to give up this chance just because he's decided to be modest about it.

"I mean it," I persist. "I never properly thanked you for what you did. For Ken. For me. It wasn't a given, especially – well, especially in light of our history."

The ghost of a smile appears on Zachary's face. "I was glad to do it," he assures.

Upon seeing my sceptical expression, he laughs softly. "Truly, I was. Major Ford is a good man and it's clear how much he means to you. And you, if I may say this without any hidden agenda, are a good person. That's why I was glad to help."

Great. Now I feel really bad. He's behaving so gallantly and I treated him so horribly. "That I left without so much as a word back in June wasn't one of my finest moments though," I point out and pull a face.

Zachary raises his shoulders in a shrug. "No, probably not," he agrees, "But it did bring me back down to earth. And… we all make mistakes. I certainly made more than one where you are concerned."

Something flits across his face – regret? – but his smile is kind. "I would like to believe that we could have had a chance had things been different," he continues, voice composed, "But if we ever did, it went up in smoke the moment Major Ford first appeared at our CCS. I didn't want to admit it, but I suspected it even then and that's why I tried to force something that couldn't be."

I don't protest his assumption that Ken was one of the reasons for why there was never a chance of anything but friendship between Zachary and me. It wasn't the only reason, but if he hadn't suddenly re-entered my life like this – well, who knows how things would have turned out?

The truth is – that girlhood crush for Ken that I had claimed to have been over for so many years? If it was ever gone, it came back that much more forcefully once he stood in front of me again. Maybe it has been there the entire time, buried under other emotions and other problems. Zachary, in any case, never stood a chance once Ken was back.

Some seconds of silence pass, before Zachary moves to speak again. I push the thought of Ken from the forefront of my mind, into the little corner where he made himself at home a long time ago.

"Look at it as a form of atonement, if it helps," Zachary suggests. "For forcing your transfer back in June by my actions."

Thoughtfully, I frown at him, think over his words. Strictly speaking, he's right, and there was a time when I blamed him for it. Now though… it seems so inconsequential after everything else that has happened since then.

"You don't need to atone for anything," I assure him.

Zachary nods slowly. "In that case… do you think we might be able to leave the past be?" he asks, words carefully chosen. The look he casts my way is cautious.

"And be friends?" I add.

He nods and I smile. Zachary's friendship, after all, was what I have wished for from the start.

"I am glad," Zachary says, voice steady. "I promise that you won't have to worry about my uncalled-for, well, feelings for you anymore, but I care for you as a person. I would have regretted it, had we parted with all this still standing between as."

I raise my head to look at him, part questioningly, part hopeful. "So my application for transfer has been approved?" I ask.

A nod from Zachary. "You're leaving us tomorrow," he confirms with a regretful little smile.

And I find myself feeling some regret at his words as well. I am reluctant to leave Maud, who has become almost a mother figure to me in recent months, in the way I've not allowed my own mother to be for many years – this, too, is something I regret. And yes, I'm also sorry to be parted from Zachary, now that we've finally managed to put things right between us. Still… I will be closer to Ken and there's no person in this whole wide world that I've ever missed as painfully as him in the past four weeks. And that's why I have absolutely no doubt about where I want to be and where my next path will take me.

Back to Blighty.

The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Bombed last night' from 1917 (source unknown).

Wilson is Thomas Woodrow Wilson (1856-1924), member of the Democratic Party, and 28th President of the United States from 1913 to 1921. Part of the reason for his re-election in 1916 was that he had kept the US out of the war up until then. Only after the Germans resumed unrestricted submarine warfare did the US enter the war on the Allies' side in April 1917 (one month after Wilson's second inauguration). In 1918, Wilson outlined his 'fourteen points' which he regarded as the only possible basis for ongoing peace. One of the points was the right of the people to self-determination. He followed up his points with 'four principles', 'four ends' and 'five particulars'. During peace negotiations the German delegation tried to refer to Wilson's points, but the Allies only allowed parts of them to be implemented.