The Matron at the Casualty Clearing Centre scarcely looked at our carefully forged papers before deploying us, which was a bit of a bugger because Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson had spent a long time on them. She sat behind her desk, stiff and starched, and pointed a Roman nose in our direction. The nose looked us up and down. I got the impression we were found wanting.
‘Show me your hands,’ she said abruptly. Thanking God I’d remembered to clip my nails really short, I held them out, front and back. She stared. She sniffed. Obviously, the hands weren’t up to spec, either. I knew what the problem was – too white and soft. Still, a couple of weeks here would soon change that.
‘Where are you from?’ She peered at our papers, ‘Black?’
‘I’m Maxwell,’ I said helpfully and got the look I’d had from every teacher at school and from Bitchface Barclay in the not-too-distant past. I don’t know why I bother. Matron was no different and the nose really reminded me of Dr Bairstow. Maybe she was an ancestor.
‘I’m Black,’ said Kalinda, courageously drawing her fire. The nose turned in her direction. I hid my hands behind my back.
‘And you are from …?’
‘Manchester,’ she said, broadening her accent and showing her hands without being asked. What a creep.
Matron handed us a list of rules and regulations. There were a lot of them. I wondered how many I’d already broken.
Dismissed from her presence we stepped outside. I breathed deeply. The smell was distinctive. The tang of wood smoke. And horses. Actually, I’ve never been anywhere that didn’t stink of horses. I could smell the latrines, even though they were in the next courtyard and the hospital stink was everywhere; even outside in the supposedly fresh air.
I looked around. The shabby old chateau had either been disused for some time or was in very bad condition to begin with. Many windows were boarded over. Plaster and rendering were falling away. Tiles were missing from the roof. I couldn’t help feeling it might fall down long before it burned down. We’d never been so deliberately in harm’s way before. My heart raced in exactly the way it had for my first jump. Just when I thought I was getting the hang of things they threw something like this at us. But every jump is different; every jump has its own set of problems and every jump has its own set of terrors.
There was cold, wet mud everywhere. Too many people; too many vehicles; too many horses; too much rain. They’d laid planks down but they were already slowly disappearing into the ooze.
Over by the gates I could see a number of tents of varying sizes and purposes and people scurrying everywhere. Everyone seemed busy; everyone seemed to know what they were doing, and everyone seemed to have a purpose. Well, so did we and we’d better get started.
We climbed into our uniforms and got stuck in. Sussman had been whisked away almost immediately. He was billeted separately as well. I often saw him in the distance, or waving as he disappeared round a corner, but he was wise enough to be discreet. This was the beginning of the 20th century and girls then were still nice young things.
Kal and I slept in a tiny room in the attic. We didn’t like being away from the pod, but all female staff were bed-checked each night by a Senior Sister, so we had no choice. It was cold, damp, and never saw the sun. We shared a bed and there weren’t enough covers. We couldn’t bring anything from the pod to make ourselves more comfortable in case we had to leave in a hurry. And with such hardship in the trenches, it didn’t seem right, somehow.
I don’t know where Sussman was. A group of orderlies slept above the stables so he may have been with them, in which case, we were much better off than him. It was cold when we arrived and it got colder. And wetter.
The casualties poured in from the Regimental Aid Posts. Matron sent me to work in the Reception Tent, assisting with sorting and prioritising. I was good at it and it freed up a senior nurse. I hated it. I’m not God. But, sometimes you can see death in a face and there’s nothing you can do except move on to the ones who can be saved. And from the Reception Tent I could direct men to the Resuscitation Tent where they could get warm and maybe get transfused. Most I sent to Pre-op to be prepped for surgery. The Operation Tent was the biggest. Kal was in there somewhere. From there, patients were moved to the wards in the main building before being transferred to a bigger hospital away from the lines.
Men came in on stretchers, carried by Sussman’s mates; orderlies whom I can never praise highly enough. Some walked in. I checked everyone’s labels and directed them accordingly. If I was lucky, I saw Sussman himself at least once a night and even if we only had time to exchange a glance, it was better than nothing.