Deborah Carr - The Poppy Field

“Yes, Matron.” Alice turned and hurried to the ward. It was a relief to find the captain sleeping and Mary checking his temperature.

“Don’t look so concerned,” Mary said, her voice barely above a whisper in the now relatively quiet tent. “He’s slowly warming up. I’ve put two extra blankets on him and Sister has just checked his vital signs.”

Alice drew up a stool and sat next to his bed. “Matron wants me to stay with him.”

“Then you’d better do as she wishes,” Sister Brown snapped.

Mary opened her mouth to speak, when a cry from another injured patient pierced the air. “I’ll go see to him,” she said and left Alice alone.

Alice watched the captain sleep. She could see his eyes moving under his closed eyelids. He must be dreaming, she thought. He looked so handsome now that the dust and caked blood had been washed from his face and his head wound freshly bandaged. She couldn’t help wondering if he was going to make it. She hoped so.

She didn’t think his head wound was too deep. She did, however, know from experience that it was deaths brought about through infection that came as more of a shock, especially when it had stemmed from a minor injury. Alice had been here a year and knew not to assume that those with lesser injuries would definitely survive. She had learned to expect the unexpected. It made sense not to allow herself to get too close to any of the patients, the heartache when they were discharged, or died, would be too hard to stand.

She felt the captain’s forehead with the back of her hand, and he sighed as her skin came in contact with his. Alice thought of the more severely injured patients she had been surprised to see make incredible recoveries, and how floored she had been by two seemingly healthy men dying unexpectedly on her shift. This was a place of miracles and heartache.

“How is he doing?” Matron asked a couple of hours later.

“He’s not very responsive. He’s been asleep most of the time.”

She watched Matron examine him. “We’ll do our best for him,” Matron said, making a note on the captain’s records. “I’m not holding much hope, I’m afraid,” she whispered so quietly that Alice barely heard what she said.

She studied the captain’s tanned face, his lashes fanned on his scratched cheek. She willed him to survive. Surely, he must have a wife, or sweetheart waiting to hear from him back in England somewhere?

“I’ll send someone to take over from you,” Matron said, resting a cool hand on Alice’s shoulder.

“I’m fine, Matron,” she said, not ready to leave him. “I don’t mind staying.”

“You’ve been here long enough,” the older woman said quietly. Her voice didn’t invite argument. “We must take care not to become attached to any of the patients, Nurse Le Breton. However handsome they might be.”

Alice went to argue but thought the better of it. “Yes, Matron,” she said, mortified. Had her thoughts about the captain been that obvious, she wondered?

Gemma finished reading the note about Captain Woodhall on the back of Alice’s letter. Alice seemed to be developing a soft spot for him and Gemma couldn’t help hoping he survived. Knowing what she did about his condition, she couldn’t help fearing the worst for the poor Captain, especially as the nursing staff at the casualty clearing station must have been pushed to their limits. How did they find the time to focus on the more fragile patients?

It had been a bonus to discover the extra snippets on the back of most of the letters, written in Alice’s rounded script. The added insight into Alice’s day intrigued Gemma. They were both nurses, albeit Gemma was highly trained, and Alice had only received three months’ worth of training. However, the experiences Alice endured during her time assisting on the wards was something no training could ever hope to prepare someone for, Gemma was certain of that much.

She wondered how different it must have been to deal with the constant arrival of horribly damaged men. She thought the trauma unit to be busy if there were a dozen patients arriving at once and that didn’t happen too often, she thought. Gemma couldn’t imagine how shocking it must have been for Alice to nurse those poor soldiers. Gemma had seen old film footage that gave her an idea of the devastation to life during and after a battle. But would Alice have known what she was letting herself in for when she’d registered for her training? Gemma doubted it.

The notes referred mostly to someone called Ed, and Gemma presumed Alice must be referring to the injured Captain, Woodhall. But why would Alice write the notes on the back of Lieutenant Peter Conway’s letters?

Distracted by footsteps, Gemma wondered how long had she been engrossed in Alice’s story? She noticed that the fire was lit, which she was sure it hadn’t been earlier. Gemma looked up to see Tom walking into the kitchen.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said, aware she had been unsociable.

“It’s no problem. I don’t mind being ignored,” he smiled. Holding up a mug, he added. “I hope you don’t mind, if I made myself a coffee. I can make you one, if you like?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s fine, thank you. I should be getting on with work, too,” she said guiltily as she stood up.

“Why? Carry on reading your letters. I’d be interested to hear what they’re about.”

“I shouldn’t really,” she said, wondering why she found it so difficult to sit quietly in someone else’s company.

“Rubbish. You read on. I’ve got to get back to work. I don’t want to let my client down.” He gave her a cheeky grin. “I don’t want her sacking me before I’ve finished.”

Amused by his gentle teasing, Gemma held out the letter for him to see. “Alice was a nurse, like me,” she explained. “I was comparing how different our lives must be, despite similar work.”

He took the letter and scanned it quickly. “I can’t see that it would be that different. If you worked in a trauma unit, then isn’t that really what she was doing?” He handed her back the letter a little abruptly.

Gemma was disappointed that he hadn’t taken the time to read it properly. “I suppose so,” she said. “Although I could at least get away from the day’s drama. She lived on site, so there was no real relief from it.”

“That’s true.”

Gemma told him about the notes added to the back of most of the letters. “I had a sneaky look at a few from the other bundle and most of those have notes, too. I’m not sure why yet. They seem to be like diary entries, but without the dates.”

“Maybe they were parts of her story she recalled afterwards.”

Gemma assumed that to be the case. “Or she might have written on the backs of the letters because she knew the information would be hidden away.”

“Possibly,” he pushed up his sleeves. “It’s intriguing.”

Gemma agreed, even though she could see Tom was only being polite about the letters. He could be squeamish, she thought, aware that not everyone had the stomach she did for gore. Tom was a bit of an enigma to her. Always easy going, but with a haunted air about him that she hadn’t worked out yet. “Still,” she said. “No need for me to ignore you when I invite you inside for a coffee.”

“You weren’t,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

She heard him washing his mug in the sink. Returning to the living room, he glanced at the open tin containing the letters. “You won’t miss having a television,” he said. “Not with all those to keep you busy. You can tell me more about what you’ve discovered so far, if you want?”

Gemma put the letter she was holding down onto the table next to her. She picked up her mug, nodding as she took a sip.