Note: Double chapter to start off the story! Hope you enjoy it.
Calais, France
October 1917
"Good morning," Caroline repeated slowly into the small handheld mirror she kept under her bed. "My name is Nurse Robinson. I will be nursing you today." She studied her mouth in the mirror, rounding out her vowels just as she heard them from the likes of the educated sisters and toff-covered doctors.
Since she was a child, she had always been a natural mimic and it hadn't taken her long to extinguish her cockney accent and replace it with a more palatable soft accent that came from any upper middle-class London girl. Almost out of routine than necessity she still practised it every morning, alone in her tent, once all the other nurses had gone for breakfast.
She skipped breakfast this morning and headed straight to Matron to report to her shift. Caroline always felt the need to work that much more fastidiously the morning after her midnight sojourns. While she had never been raised as a religious person, perhaps atoning for her sins through hard work would be the way to make it up to God if he ever existed.
The Eighth General Hospital where she had worked for the past six months had recently been relocated to the last railway stop before reaching Calais. They were to be the middle ground between the CCSs triaging those closest to the battlefield and the larger base hospital in the heart of Calais. Their specialty was infection management; the ultimate killer of men. Caroline was perfectly suited for the role after spending her whole life fighting against an invisible force that continually seemed to knock her down, even when she was on the precipice of success. Foolhardy, a doctor had once referred to her as she stuck by the patients that all others had given up on. The men who arrived at the hospital were already amputated, sewn and patched up; some ready to return to their units after a small convalescence and others ready to be expedited back to England. But that didn't mean that they were safe from the reaper's scythe just yet.
The mobile hospital's move was only supposed to be temporary and as such, she was still getting used to the walkways that meandered their way through a variety of tents, marquees and ramshackle buildings that dotted the once bucolic landscape.
"I saw you last night, Nurse Robinson!" Corporal Riley, a gregarious orderly whom Caroline had been working with for the past year called out to her as she walked passed him with her head down, deep in her own thoughts. He had to call her name twice before she acknowledged him, as sometimes she still wasn't used to responding to a name she had never gone by before the war.
"Oh?" her heart kicked up, her hackles raised as she prepared to defend herself.
"Must've found out from Nurse Archibald that I fixed the hot water in the showers," he smiled, tilting her hat in her direction.
"Right, yes, the showers." she paused, with each word she breathed out trying to sound more sincere. "You are too good to us, Corporal."
"Just don't use up all the hot water again before Nurse Hamilton gets her fix, you know what type of mood she gets in without it."
"You have my word."
"Thank you, Nurse. I'm sharing the wards with her tonight and appreciate when she's in good humour."
Trying not to get held up in any more conversation, Caroline hurried down the dew slicked duckboards, pushing past any soldiers or fellow hospital staff. Eventually, she reached the receiving tent without any further trouble. Before walking into the large canvas marquee, Caroline closed her eyes and took a deep centring breath. Even though she could now effortlessly slip into the woman everyone thought her to be, some days she still felt like the impecunious girl who had no business waltzing into this profession. There would come the day when someone would discover she was an imposter in their midst, but each morning she committed to ensuring she saw through another day undiscovered.
"Nurse Robinson?" Matron called out to her, surprised as soon as Caroline stepped in front of her small, wooden desk, shuffling through piles of patient folders.
Caroline had not worked the receiving tent in many weeks. As her heart much preferred assisting in theatre, the blood pumping in her ears as she navigated a life or death situation. The doctors that she worked with regularly had even recently stopped second-guessing her insubordinate comments about their practice which she took with great pride. Today she wanted to be put to work wherever they needed her, and an easy day running the receiving ward seemed like the easiest start.
"Reporting for my shift, Matron."
"You're early,"
"I had difficulty staying asleep knowing that there was such an influx of patients arriving."
Her words weren't exactly a lie. She did have difficulties falling asleep, though it was not due to the news of receiving fifty men in the early morning hours. After her successful pilfering last night, a deadly cocktail of adrenaline and guilt surged through her keeping her mind racing for hours.
"Good to hear you are ready and able. We have already admitted the most critical cases into theatre or resus. The ones left here are still serious, but not life-threatening as yet. You'll need to check them over, give them their change of clothes, and prepare them for surgery. No food, only sips of water. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Matron." she clearly replied, the procedures of her job rote as she completed the same repetitive steps since early 1916. Caroline was always more than willing to meet Matron's standards of perfection and she smoothed down her apron, ready to work.
"Hop to it then, Nurse. No time for dawdling today." Matron clipped, returning her gaze to her paperwork.
Caroline began at the far end of the tent beginning with a quick pass over of the occupied beds before her. She estimated that there were around thirty men waiting to be seen by her, therefore she allotted two hours to get through the lion's share.
Matron's earlier advice proved unnecessary. She never dawdled when on the wards and today would be no different.
Gunshot wound, shoulder. Shrapnel left leg. 3rd degree burns, both hands. Head trauma, possibly severe concussion.
Caroline was methodical in her work, checking each patient's charts and updating them after evaluating the status of their notable wound and assessing their health over again when she was finished. Unfortunately, it was rather common that a more serious injury was passed over in the hullabaloo of getting to the hospital. A young man died in her care a few months ago, after a tiny piece of shrapnel in his chest punctured his heart, killing him instantly. He was admitted with a simple gunshot wound to the upper arm. That day she vowed he would be the last man that would die in her care under those circumstances.
After almost two hours, her eyes weakened and blurred when reading the sloppy handwriting on the charts in the poorly filtered morning light seeping in from the gaps of the tent walls. But she needed to push through the last five patients before she earned her cup of tea and warm roll that had just been carted out to the nursing station.
After arriving at the last bed which had been crammed in the most dismal corner of the already stuffy tent, she examined the chart quickly, becoming impatient as her stomach growled.
Gunshot wound left leg. Potentially fractured tibia.
The bullet had gone straight through the leg, which was always a good sign, but the fracture posed complications to the recovery of the soldier.
"Name and rank?" she muttered, looking down at his chart in order to confirm that there had not been a mix-up in the charts. Again, it had happened before but of course, never on her watch.
"Private John M. Shelby."
"Date of birth?"
"July 30, 1895."
"Regiment?"
"Small Heath Rifles," he responded proudly and with much more gusto than she typically heard on the wards.
His unexpected response caught her attention. There was no regiment named as such because she had been memorising their cap badges and names over the years. She knew he must be mistaken and she furrowed her brows before looking up at the soldier's face her intended remark lost on her tongue.
His face was clean-shaven, which highlighted his youthful appearance that carried a certain edge to it. As if he pretended to be much older than he actually was. But it was his eyes that shone through his mud-streaked face that made her tired heart beat a little bit faster. She stared at the crystal blue orbs that gazed up at her with amusement, forgetting what she had even asked in the first place before a small smirk pulling at the corner of his full lips sparked her memory.
"Pardon me?" she pressed trying to collect herself as she gave him another opportunity to respond.
"Small Heath. My neighbourhood back home in Birmingham. A local saying for the fighting lads regiment," he trailed off, looking at her deadpan face. "I'm just trying to lighten the mood in here," he added, gesturing to the other men in their beds who were sleeping, smoking, or letting out small moans of pain.
"I haven't time for jests. Neither do they." She snapped, her eyes flicking to the other beds in annoyance as she stared him down waiting for him to speak.
A cheeky grin appeared on his face before he conceded.
"Royal Warwickshire."
She flourished her pencil upon his chart with an exaggerated checkmark, nodding her head in cordiality.
"Thank you, Private. Next, I will need you to change into these," she commanded as she placed the folded blue and white striped pyjamas onto the end of his bed.
"I don't think they would match me haircut, nurse. Got any in red?"
She blinked hard for a moment, taken aback by the comment. This was not what she expected for the last bed of the day.
So he was one of those, was he? The class clown. The joker. She knew how to silence the type.
"Fresh out, I'm afraid. Though I can happily get a set of rusty shears and give you a haircut that you could actually be proud of to match the pyjamas if you prefer." she quipped, her voice falsely high and sweet. Most of the time, soldiers shut up quickly after receiving a jab like that one.
After a moment of mutually gauging their reactions on each others' expressionless faces, he let out a forced laugh, running his hands through his short mud-caked hair.
"Certainly got the pluck, Nurse. Good on ya." he replied goodnaturedly, reaching down to grab the pyjamas, letting out a small groan of pain.
Her mind immediately slipped back to her task and her eyes floated down to his leg that was bound in a thick, blood-caked bandage.
"We'll need to get you changed with minimal movement to the leg. Does it still hurt?"
"Aye, Nurse. Some bastard's shot me."
Though her temper flared at his obstinate comment, she chose to ignore it and continue on.
"I'll have to cut through the trousers. Try to stay as still as possible which would include not moving your mouth,"
He heeded her warning and she worked in silence as she cut through his pant legs, pulling out his cut trousers slowly from underneath him, leaving him exposed in his undershorts and light blue undershirt.
"Wasn't this seen to at the last casualty clearing station?" she asked seriously, looking at the old bandage that looked like it was a basic field dressing.
"I didn't go to one. I was sent to the 5th CSS straight from the front, but me and a few others were sent directly here when they didn't have any space to see to us."
It didn't bode well for the situation closer to the front line if men in conditions such as Private Shelby were not able to receive treatment closer to the frontline.
As she scrutinized his exposed wound she was relieved to see that despite the lack of care he had received that the bleeding had stopped and there were no signs of infection. He was extremely lucky, though she kept that news to herself as all signs were pointing to a positive outcome.
"Things are looking up, Private Shelby. I have seen much worse. But I still feel the need to expedite you to surgery to ensure your healing can begin right away."
"All sounds good to me, nurse. Whatever it takes to get back to my unit."
"In the meantime, do you have any other pains that you can think of? Any other wounds or injuries that might require treatment? From your chart, I can see that this is the first time you have been admitted to hospital."
"After three years in this shithole, I thought I was going to be one of the lucky ones. But I couldn't even cop a fucking blightly when Fritz came a knocking."
To any other nurse, his language would have been indefensible enough to have them storm off the ward, hauling over Matron to deal with the willful behaviour. But she had been inundated her entire life with such colourful remarks and crass humour, that she actually felt at peace in his presence. All the while she had been pretending to be the good nurse, she really did miss being able to freely run her mouth.
"I don't think this one will be your blighty ticket, Private. Not while I'm nursing you. Unfortunately, you're stuck with the best. So it seems to me that if you are looking to be sent home then this is your unlucky day."
His eyes sparked at her comment as she allowed herself to slip her own brand of humour into her words.
"What is the date?" he asked calmly, his eyes locked onto hers and she shifted on her feet, feeling his hard gaze deep within her.
"October 17th."
"Right," he nodded, holding out the palm of his hand while miming a pencil scratching across it.
"Whatever are you doing?" she replied, fighting back the laughter from her words.
"Reminding myself for the future. October 17th," he repeated seriously, "don't get out of fucking bed John; unlucky day ahead."
Now she really did laugh, a brief chuckle that escaped her lips before she put her hand over her mouth, prematurely silencing herself, horrified if Matron had heard. His eyes danced across hers, and that self-satisfied grin appeared on his face yet again. A smug victor, she chastised herself. In the future, she would have to be much more careful around this one if she was to stay ahead of him.
"For now, please change into the pyjamas whenever you feel comfortable and I will be back to check on you momentarily. Do you have any further questions?"
"Yeah, only one."
She nodded her head, clutching his chart against her chest, preparing to leave.
"Aren't you gonna stay for the show?" he grinned before he pulled his overshirt over his head and winked at her dismayed form, staring with her mouth open as her eyes roved over his well-muscled chest.
