July 10th, 1918
No. 15 Ambulance Train, France
As the train moved out
Leaning forward, I press my forehead against the train window. The glass is cool against my skin, while my warm breath causes it to fog up. A veil of mist, hiding the French countryside passes by the window. Normandy, I think, but I couldn't be sure. I sigh softly and my eyes close of their own accord, as my thoughts, once more, travel back to that train ride to Paris. To the last hours I spent with my husband.
The train was crowded and it took an eternity to reach our destination. Again and again, passing military trains forced us into unplanned stops on this side or another. It wasn't different from the situation as I knew it from England but for the first time in my life, I didn't mind the wait. Because every military train we had to yield to delayed our inevitable separation for a few more, precious minutes.
Ken had found us two seats in an open-plan carriage and convinced me to lie down, my knees drawn upwards, my head in his lap. We hardly talked at all, for everything worth saying had already been said in the previous night. I dozed off several times, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic movements of the train and the gentle stroking of his hands. Ken, however, remained wide awake. Every time I looked up at him, my gaze was met by his, steady and unwavering.
We spent hours on that train and there was a moment when, still half-asleep, I found myself hoping that maybe, we had succeeded in stopping time. I would have spent the rest of my life in that crowded carriage and would have done it gladly, just so long as we would have been there together. But the light of morning revealed the suburbs of Paris passing by behind breath-clouded windows and ended my irrational hopes on the spot.
Diane awaited us at the Gare Montparnasse, holding a telegram with my next orders. No longer was Liverpool the destination of my travel. Instead, I was to report for duty in Abbeville that very same evening. If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the look in Ken's eyes when I told him what kind of duty I would do there.
I have to admit that there were moments when something within me rebelled against the concern he sometimes regards me with. Out of the two of us, I have much more cause for worry, after all. The danger he is in far surpasses anything I will ever encounter. I have slipped through fate's fingers twice now, but I know that he has managed the same feat an innumerable amount of times already. There's no telling if there won't come the day when, finally, he fails.
What I have understood by now is that the difference lies in the fact that he has no choice. Nothing was ever going to separate him from his men, but ever since Borden's conscription robbed even officers of their privilege to hand back their commission and go home, it's become quite impossible. Ken is bound by duty, as is every man his age. The danger is undisputed, as is the worry, but to rail against it would be quite useless. I have no what if to torment me and that's where I differ from him.
Because I could turn around and go home tomorrow, if I so wished. I know Ken wishes I would. I have to give him credit for hardly ever mentioning it. He respects my decision, much as it counters his impulse to bring me to a safer place. I know how hard that is for him and I can guess at how it torments him at night. And yes, I've had weak moments when I was almost ready to do it, if only to take at least this one burden from his shoulders.
Why didn't I do it then? Why am I still here, in a softly rattling train somewhere in Normandy, in the middle of a moonless night?
In giving me our small Breton house of dreams on its cliff, buffeted by wind and sea, Ken took from me my fear of ending up like Polly, lonely and idle back in England. But there's a different fear, rooted deeper, that I wasn't aware of myself for a long time. And this fear didn't abate after our wedding but grew ever so much stronger instead.
I'm not foolish enough to think I will be able to do much for my husband or my brothers if they were to be wounded. Even when fate brought Ken to Arques and into my care, it did so against all odds. Those odds won't be beat a second time, as I am well aware. But it still makes me throw myself into my work in the hopes that, if I can't help them, there will be someone else to do it.
It's a kind of barter and I hope that fate might have silently agreed to it. As long as I do my work, diligently and without complaint, there will hopefully be someone else to do it for those I love when the time comes for it. I know it's superstitious, but… well, what did Walter say? To believe in superstitions is a kind of belief as well. And right now, that seems to be the only belief I am capable of.
Even that superstitious belief staggered and stumbled, however, during those last shared minutes in a loud, dirty Parisian train station, when my train was all ready to leave and Ken still didn't show any intention of letting me go again. I knew beforehand that this separation would be the hardest yet – but never could I have imagined how hard. Even now, days later, the memory is enough to have me blinking away tears.
Angrily, I wipe my face with the back of one hand, but there's little I can do against the burning behind my eyelids. Without much success, I try to banish Ken into a corner of my memory, but as usual, he doesn't want to stay there. And so I get up, sure in the knowledge that nothing will distract me from the sad thoughts as reliably as good, honest, backbreaking work. Besides, my break is already ten minutes long and ten minutes really have to suffice around here.
Hospital ships are known among nurses as one of the easiest postings there are. The patients on them are usually convalescents, having spent several months in hospitals in France and England. Their healing process, therefore, is quite advanced already and while they still need care, there's no comparison to those patients straight from the front.
On the other end of the spectrum from hospital ships are ambulance trains. Ambulance trains are utilized to transport wounded and ill men all through France. From CCSs close to the front to the hospitals in the back and from there, on to the harbours along the coast for transfer to England. And sometimes, when the situation calls for it, ambulance trains are sent further onwards still. When it comes to regular postings, a CCS marks the place closest to the front where nurses can be found – but in an ambulance train, one can come even closer to it.
Ken knew that. When I showed to him the telegram with my amended marching order, he looked as if he had woken up to find himself in his worst nightmare. For it is No. 15 Ambulance train that will be both home and workplace for me in the foreseeable future.
Early in the war, ambulance trains were just adapted passenger trains, sometimes even cargo or cattle wagons, but our train was planned and built specifically as an ambulance train. For three years now, it has driven through France, and for the longest while, it did so under command of the RAMC, the medical corps of the British army. The CAMC took over only this spring and ever since, the train is manned by CAMC personnel. It was kitted out, or so they say, by Princess Christian and it is from her that it receives its unofficial name as well. Princess Christian Ambulance Train.
The train is made up of twelve grey wagons. Directly behind the locomotive is one that holds the guards' room as well as the infectious wards for our ill patients and the orderlies tasked with their care. Doctors and nurses only go in there when we have to, because afterwards, we invariably need to wash thoroughly. Granted, there are lavatories to do the washing and fresh water in tanks on the roof of the train, but no one has time for this kind of washing.
The second carriage is the staff car, containing the officers' and nurses' quarters, and this is where I have come to take my short break. The cabin I share with Miller, the other nurse, is tiny. A bunk bed, a wardrobe and the small table at the window where I just sat, and the cabin is filled to the brim. Right next door is our mess, just big enough for a bench seat, a table and two armchairs, and beside the mess is our lavatory, equally tiny. For while the train is equipped with everything we need, there is just never enough space.
Moving my arms backwards and forwards several times to relax the knotted muscles in my shoulders, I step out onto the narrow corridor. Turning right, I first pass the matron's cabin, then slip through door separating the nurses' quarters from those of the doctors. To my right are five doors – three cabins, one for each doctor, followed by their mess and lavatory.
The couplings connecting two carriages are bridged by gangplanks and enclosed by tarpaulin, so at least we aren't subjected to the weather's whims when crossing from one carriage to the next, but it remains a wobbly affair I still haven't gotten used to. I am, accordingly, relieved to find my feet on steady ground once more while I walk swiftly through the first of six ward cars. On both sides of the narrow aisle are fixed cots, always three on top of each other. The middle one can be folded back to be turned into a backrest so that, together with the lower cot, it forms a bench for patients to sit on. The more sitting cases there are, the more patients the train can hold.
Every ward car takes between 50 and 65 patients on average and as we are only three nurses, it's two ward cars to a nurse. Normally, we have about 400 patients on board, which equals the maximum capacity of the Stationary Hospital in Arques. According to Miller, the train gets filled by up to 700 patients at peak times and while I can't really imagine that, I'm afraid I will come to see it with my own eyes soon enough.
When it's three nursing sisters to several hundred patients, there's nothing in the way of night or day shifts. When we have patients on board, we are on duty and on our feet, no questions asked. Our shifts follow neither time nor plan, as I already learned on my first day here. A mere two hours after my arrival and shortly after midnight, the train left Abbeville, to arrive in Crouay in the morning and be loaded with 350 patients, followed by a midday departure and arrival in Rouen at nine in the evening. Five hours later, we departed once more in the direction of Sotteville.
At first, I thought this to be an extraordinary day, but the past week has taught me better. It's not seldom for the personnel of an ambulance train to be up and on duty for more than 24 hours straight, and in consequence I immediately lost what little I had reacquired in the way of sleep routine in Brittany, after coming off weeks of night duty. One advantage is that we are currently ferrying patients between hospitals and are, therefore, driving through the French countryside far behind the frontline which should serve to calm my husband, if nothing less. Right now, we're driving westwards – to Rouen, maybe, or Le Havre. We left Étaples at around seven in the evening and now it has to be past midnight, but I have a feeling we won't reach our destination before the next evening. Just another never-ending day.
I am passing through the first three ward cars with swift steps, nodding to the matron as I walk past her, and finally reach the pharmacy car, clamped between Miller's two ward cars. As the name implies, this carriage is where we keep medicines and drugs of all kinds, but also a treatment room that doubles as operating theatre in emergencies, and an office for the doctors. It is currently occupied by Dr Hunter, the CO of the train, who smiles in greeting when he sees my passing by the open door. Next to the office is the linen room as well as a small room holding so called 'medical comforts', which don't solely consist of liquors, but of which liquors certainly make up a sizable part.
As I am the newcomer among the nurses, I have been given responsibility of the last two ward cars. Behind them, there is the kitchen wagon, also holding sleeping quarters for the three French cooks, as well as the NCOs' mess. Next is the personnel car, where the NCOs sleep in an open plan carriage, and finally a wagon filled with stores and cupboards. Twelve carriages in total and if one isn't careful, it doesn't take long for one's entire world to shrink down to their size.
When I finally set foot into my first ward car, I am pleased to see most of my patients dozing, even if proper sleep is as unlikely for them as it is for us on this train. Some talk quietly, others whimper softly. When the train lurches forward for a second, one of them screams. As I walk down the aisle between the rows of cots, some faces turn to look at me. The men know me to be responsible, even if I spy Miller at the end of the car, bending over one of the lying cases. She took over my wards alongside her own while I had my ten-minute break. I nod at the patients as I pass them, making sure that no one requires my immediate attention, and then walk over to Miller.
Miller's given name is Pauline, but at our very first meeting the informed that Pauline was a cow's name and did she look like a cow to me? So I call her Miller and she calls me Blythe and I'd be lying if I claimed not to start every time she speaks the name that is my name no longer. Apart from that, Miller is just what my heart, tender as it still is from separation, needs. She is as impudent as she is fearless, as energetic as she is brash. She certainly suffers no fools, and to top it off, she has a kind of caustic humour that has regularly left me unsure of whether I am supposed to laugh or not.
We share a sleeping cabin, Miller and I, which she had declared to be a blessing, blithely informing me that the matron snores. Which she does, as I learned during the first night behind thin cabin partitions. Apart from nightly snoring, however, Matron Mary White can't be faulted. She is small and wiry and, as if to belie her name, everything about her is iron grey, most of all her will. She rules this train, there's no doubt about that, but she is also unfailingly just and always has an eye on Miller's and my wellbeing. Poor Dr Hunter, a very peaceable man, lives in a permanent state of fear, lest he get on her wrong side.
"Everything alright?" I ask Miller after having reached her, and quickly survey the patient in front of us. He is in one of the middle cots, which is nice because to reach him, we neither have to bend down deeply towards the floor, nor do we have to procure a stool to climb on.
Miller glances at me swiftly while answering, "Our southern rebel here is in pain, but I gave him something for that and now he's fine. Aren't you, Southern Rebel?"
The soldier takes some moments to realize that it is him she has re-christened Southern Rebel. Once he has understood that the question has indeed been posed to him, he is in such a hurry to answer that he chokes on his words and is overcome by a coughing fit. Miller not-so-lightly pats his shoulder and rolls her eyes in my direction.
"Fine, Miss. Thank you, Miss," the soldier manages to choke out. I can't quite place his accent, but his newly bestowed nickname and the part of his uniform peeking out from under the blanket reliable identify him as an American.
They still elicit a pained little feeling within me, the American boys. When I saw them march in Étaples in spring, they were so young and naïve and hopeful. Now they have become like our boys have been for years. Hurt, broken, and so much older than it should be possible to become in a mere three months.
In a more banal sense, it is fairly irritating that now, when I have only just learned to reliably place all the different accents of the British Isles, the powers that be have decided to throw an entirely new country at my feet, complete with at least as many accents as the British have. My lesson in phonetics has just begun anew.
"Where are you from?" I therefore ask the little American. His fearful eyes, previously fixed on Miller, dart over to look at me.
For a moment, he seems frozen and when he does speak, he does it so softly I have to lean forward to understand him. "Germantown, Miss. That's in Tennessee, Miss," he whispers.
I blink. Miller snorts. "That is really quite unfortunate," she remarks drily. The little American scoots further down under his blanket.
My colleague, however, has no more time for him. "How was your break?" she asks of me, even as she starts turning away from the American soldier.
I make sure to give him a quick smile – met with a wide-eyes gaze – before going after Miller. "As nice as ten measly minutes can be," I reply, shrugging. "It takes more time to walk through the entire train towards our cabin than I actually have to spend there."
"Which is why I usually hide in the linen room", Miller informs me with a wink. "It's closer and because no one sets foot in there voluntarily, you always have enough time and quiet for a cigarette or two."
I look at her, feeling a little startled. "But the smell…" I murmur, instinctively casting a glance over my shoulder to see if anyone heard her admission.
Miller just laughs. "You show me the soldier complaining about his linen smelling of tobacco," she demands, clearly unconcerned.
Opening my mouth to speak, I find myself closing it again after mere moments. "There you go," comments Miller with a satisfied nod and gently pats my cheek, before turning to march along the aisle, towards her own wards.
Shaking my head slightly, I look after her for a second or two before turning towards my own patients again. Southern Rebel seems to have nodded off, so I take a look at the man in the cot beneath him. Dark eyes meet my own and I blink in surprise.
He's not the first Indian soldier I see, not by far – according to Shirley, there are two or three times as many Indians fighting this war than there are Canadians – but their sight remains an exotic one. Dark skin, even darker eyes, black hair, hidden by carefully wound turbans.
Crouching down next to the Indian soldier, I ask, "Can I do something for you?"
He struggles into a half-sitting position, almost hitting his head on the cot above in the process. "Thank you, Memsahib. I am well," he answers in that soft, singing tune I instinctively connect to the Indians. That and the unwavering politeness they all seem to exude.
I survey him a little sceptical, but he meets my eyes, calm and steady. "Alright then. But tell me if I can help you in any way," I order before getting up from the floor again, slowly straightening my aching knees.
They always make me feel sorry for them, those Indian soldiers. They might look different from us, but they, too, are colonials and therefore, share a particular distinction with Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders – they all have been called to arms to defend the British Empire in a strange, far away country. And yet – we're all far from home but how much more hostile must this cold, wet continent feel to the Indians, coming, as they are, from a country bathed in light and warmth?
But maybe that, too, is exemplary for this war. A Canadian nurse in an English ambulance train, travelling through the French countryside, taking care of soldiers from India and the USA. It is almost something of a metaphor for a war that became a world war long ago.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Good-bye-ee!' from 1917 (lyrics and music by R.P. Weston and Bert Lee).
Princess Christian is Princess Helena (1846-1923), third daughter of Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom. She married a German Prince, Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, but the couple resided in England after the marriage. During WW1, Helena, Christian and their two daughters renounced their German titles – the surviving son, however, fought on the Prussian side. Helena was an active member of the Royal Family and often undertook public engagements. She was an advocate for women's suffrage and very interested in nursing. She was involved in the founding of the British Cross and acted as president of the Royal British Nurses' Association, the Army Nursing Reserve as well as the Army Nursing Service. During the Boer War she was also involved in kitting out and dispatching an ambulance train and in WW1, another ambulance train was named for her.
