Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

Early Summer, 1917

As my train pulled into London, I looked out at the early summer rain and was glad to see the dreary day had followed me from Hampshire. It suited my mood.

I had only thirty-six hours here. And I intended to spend them in bed, catching up on lost sleep. The journey from France with the latest convoy of wounded had been trying. Six of us had brought home seventeen gas cases and one severe burn victim, a pilot. They required constant care, and two were at a critical stage where their lungs filled with fluid and sent them into paroxysms of coughing that left them too weak to struggle for the next breath. My hands ached from pounding them on the back, forcing them to spit up the fluid and draw in the air they so desperately needed. The burn victim, swathed in bandages that had to be changed almost every hour, was frightful to see, his skin still raw and weeping, his eyes his only recognizable feature. I knew and he knew that in spite of all his doctors could do, it would never be enough. The face he'd once had was gone, and in its place would be something that frightened children and made women flinch. I'd been warned to keep a suicide watch, but he had a framed photograph of his wife pinned to his tunic, and it was what kept him alive, not our care.

It had been a relief to turn our patients over to the efficient clinic staff, who swept them into fresh beds and took over their care in our place. The other nurses were already on their way back to Portsmouth while I, as sister in charge, signed the papers noting eighteen patients delivered still living, none delivered dead, and went to find a cup of tea in the kitchen before the next train left for London. The kitchen was busy and so I stood looking out the windows of the staff sitting room as I drank my tea. The green lawns of the country-house-turned-clinic led the eye to the rolling Hampshire landscape beyond, misty with the rain. So different from the black, battle-scarred French countryside I'd just left. Here it was peaceful, and disturbed by nothing louder than birdsong or the lowing of cattle. It had been hard to tear myself away when the driver arrived to convey me to the railway station.

Now as the train came to a smooth stop and the man sitting opposite me opened our compartment door, I smelled London, that acrid mixture of wet clothing, coal smoke, and damp that I had come to know so well. My fellow passenger smiled as he handed down my valise, and I thanked him before setting out across the crowded platform.

As I threaded my way through throngs of families seeing their loved ones off to God knew where, I caught snatches of hurried, last-minute conversations.

"You will be careful, won't you?"

"Mother will expect you to write every day-"

"I love you, my boy. You're in my heart always."

"Did you remember to pack your books?"

"I'm so proud of you, son. So proud-"

A pair of Highland officers stepped aside to allow me to pass, and I found myself facing a couple who were oblivious to my approach and blocking my way to the exit.

She was standing with her head bent and slightly turned toward her companion, her hat brim shielding her face. But even at a distance of several yards, I could tell that she was crying, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. The man, an officer in a Wiltshire regiment, seemed not to know how to console her. He stood with his hands at his sides, clenching and unclenching them, an expression of long-suffering on his face. I thought he must be returning to the Front and had lived through this scene before. She clutched an umbrella under her right arm while her left was holding to his as if it were a lifeline.

Her distress stopped me in my tracks for a moment. Watching them, I wondered at his reluctance to touch her and at the same time I was struck by the air of desperation about her. I'd seen this same desperation in men who had lost limbs or were blinded, a refusal to accept a bitter truth that was destroying them emotionally.

But there was nothing I could do. Rescuing kittens and dogs was one thing, marching up to complete strangers and asking what was wrong was something else.

Still, I felt a surge of pity, and my training was to comfort, not ignore, as her companion was doing.

I was about to walk around them when a whistle blew and she lifted her head to cast an anguished glance at the train, as if afraid it was on the point of departing.

I had the shock of my life.

I'd seen her before. There was no doubt about it.

Hers was the face in the photograph that the pilot, Lieutenant Evanson, had kept by his side like a talisman during his treatment in France and in all the long journey home. His wife, he'd said. There was no doubt about that either.

I couldn't be mistaken. I'd seen that photograph too many times as I worked with him, I'd seen it that very morning, in fact, when I'd changed his bandages one last time. She was looking up at the officer now, her eyes pleading with him. I couldn't be sure who was leaving whom. But just then the engine's wheels began to move and the officer-I couldn't see his rank, he was wearing a trench coat against the rain-bent swiftly to say something to her, kissed her briefly, and then hurried toward the train.

She lifted a hand as if to stop him then let it drop. He swung himself into the nearest compartment, shut the door, and didn't look back. She stood there, forlornly watching him until he was out of sight.

It had all happened rather quickly, and I had no idea who this man might be, but I had the distinct impression that she never expected to see him again. Women sometimes had dreams or premonitions about loved ones, more a reflection of their own fears than true foreboding. They usually hid these well as they sent their men off to fight. But perhaps hers had been particularly vivid and she couldn't help herself. It would explain his restraint and her desolation.

Before I could move on, she turned and literally dashed toward the exit. I tried to follow, but I lost her in the crush. By the time I reached the street, she was in a sea of black umbrellas as people made their way toward the line of cabs waiting there.

I gave up my search after several minutes, and found a cab of my own to take me to the flat. I wasn't sure what I'd have done if I'd caught up with Mrs. Evanson, but I'd have felt better knowing she'd taken a cab rather than tried to walk off her low spirits in this chill rain.

Mrs. Hennessey opened her door as I came into the hall, smiling up at me in welcome. From her own ground-floor flat she watched us come and go, took in our mail when we weren't there, brought us soup when we were ill, and generally kept an eye on us without in any way intruding.

"Bess, my dear! And just look how wet you are."

She embraced me with warmth, then added, "You've just missed Elayne. She left this morning. Mary is in London, but staying with her brother's family, and there's been no word from Diana since she went back last week. Is there anything you need? I must say, you do look tired. How long will you be here?"

I laughed. "Thirty-six hours. Thirty-five now. And yes, I'm tired. And I'm glad to have the flat to myself. I want only to sleep."

"And you must do just that. I'll see that you have a nice tea. You look thin to me, Bess Crawford, and what would your mother say to that?"

"We sometimes miss meals," I admitted. "You won't tell Mama, will you?"

For some time I'd had a sneaking suspicion that my mother and Mrs. Hennessey had entered into a conspiracy to keep me safe. Choosing nursing as my contribution to the war effort hadn't been met with the greatest enthusiasm at home. The Colonel Sahib, my father, had no sons to follow in his footsteps, and while I believed he was secretly quite proud of me, he was also well aware that war had an ugly face, and nursing sisters saw the worst of what war cost.