consequences. The Pennines, it seemed, had spent a good deal of time on this world unwittingly digging a deeper and deeper hole for themselves. Everson hoped it didn’t turn out to be their grave.
A MID THE CHAOS of the Aid Post, Edith was trying to hold down and calm a wounded young soldier. He seemed about sixteen years old, barely older than her younger brother and almost certainly not old enough to join up. He lay writhing and whimpering on the mat before her. Nellie had just finished bathing and bandaging the eyes of a lad caught out by an acid spit, and Edith caught her attention. “Nellie!”
They unbuttoned his tunic and ripped open the blood-soaked shirt. The spear must have been barbed. It went in cleanly enough but ripped his guts out on the withdrawal. His belly was a mess. Nellie applied pressure to the wound with a field bandage, but he wouldn’t lie still. He thrashed about in pain, sobbing openly. Blood pulsed up and soaked the field bandage; in moments it was sopping. She discarded it in a tray and pressed another to the wound.
He needed surgery, but there were several other surgical cases backed up ahead of him and it was unlikely this boy would survive long enough to make it to the table.
“Mother!” he cried, through snivelling sobs. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”
“Shush now,” said Edith, taking hold of his hand and trying to look him in the eye, but he kept throwing his head from side to side. “Look at me,” she said firmly. “Look at me.” He turned his face to hers but he no longer saw her.
“Charlotte, is that you?” he said with relief, spluttering through the blood.
Edith clasped his hand more firmly so that he would know someone was there.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m here.”
“I love you,” he muttered.
“I love you, too,” said Edith.
He started to smile but the life left him before he could complete it.
Edith felt the corners of her eyes begin to sting with tears. She blinked them away fiercely. It always got to her, the little white lie. The one nurses always told the dying. In her time she had been mothers, sisters, wives, sweethearts, anyone, so long as they eased the passing. Edith slipped his hand from hers and placed it across his chest. There were no words left to say. Just a job to do.
N ELLIE CLEARED UP the blood-soaked bandages and left Edith to lay out the body, before summoning the orderlies to remove it to where the Padre would give it the Last Rites as they cleared the space for the next poor soul. Nellie stepped outside to where a brazier burned, tipped the bloodied pads into the fire and returned to the aid tent.
Nellie was looking for her next patient when Half Pint hobbled into the hospital tent on his peg leg, clutching the thigh above it, his face ashen as he looked wildly around. His gaze latched on Nellie.
“Gawd help me, it’s my leg!” he cried, limping towards her.
“Private Nicholls, you’ll have to wait. There are more urgent cases,” she said, only half listening as she glanced around, looking for assistance. Poilus, an urman of Napoo’s clan, was helping to bring more wounded in, some walking, others carried in on blood-soaked stretchers.
“But the pain, nurse. Shooting pains right up me thigh. Sharp they are, like bloody red hot needles,” he griped.
His forehead was beaded with sweat. He gritted his teeth and a grunt escaped his lips as his hand clutched his thigh. He lost his balance and collapsed into her.
“A little help here!” she called as she staggered under his weight.
Edi and Poilus came to her rescue. By now Half Pint’s breath was coming in ragged pants and his eyelids fluttered as he struggled to keep them open, his head lolling back.
Nellie directed the pair to an empty straw mat, where they laid him down. She put a hand on his forehead and tutted. “He has a fever. The stump is probably infected. I told him not to wear that peg leg of his for more than an hour
A MID THE CHAOS of the Aid Post, Edith was trying to hold down and calm a wounded young soldier. He seemed about sixteen years old, barely older than her younger brother and almost certainly not old enough to join up. He lay writhing and whimpering on the mat before her. Nellie had just finished bathing and bandaging the eyes of a lad caught out by an acid spit, and Edith caught her attention. “Nellie!”
They unbuttoned his tunic and ripped open the blood-soaked shirt. The spear must have been barbed. It went in cleanly enough but ripped his guts out on the withdrawal. His belly was a mess. Nellie applied pressure to the wound with a field bandage, but he wouldn’t lie still. He thrashed about in pain, sobbing openly. Blood pulsed up and soaked the field bandage; in moments it was sopping. She discarded it in a tray and pressed another to the wound.
He needed surgery, but there were several other surgical cases backed up ahead of him and it was unlikely this boy would survive long enough to make it to the table.
“Mother!” he cried, through snivelling sobs. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”
“Shush now,” said Edith, taking hold of his hand and trying to look him in the eye, but he kept throwing his head from side to side. “Look at me,” she said firmly. “Look at me.” He turned his face to hers but he no longer saw her.
“Charlotte, is that you?” he said with relief, spluttering through the blood.
Edith clasped his hand more firmly so that he would know someone was there.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m here.”
“I love you,” he muttered.
“I love you, too,” said Edith.
He started to smile but the life left him before he could complete it.
Edith felt the corners of her eyes begin to sting with tears. She blinked them away fiercely. It always got to her, the little white lie. The one nurses always told the dying. In her time she had been mothers, sisters, wives, sweethearts, anyone, so long as they eased the passing. Edith slipped his hand from hers and placed it across his chest. There were no words left to say. Just a job to do.
N ELLIE CLEARED UP the blood-soaked bandages and left Edith to lay out the body, before summoning the orderlies to remove it to where the Padre would give it the Last Rites as they cleared the space for the next poor soul. Nellie stepped outside to where a brazier burned, tipped the bloodied pads into the fire and returned to the aid tent.
Nellie was looking for her next patient when Half Pint hobbled into the hospital tent on his peg leg, clutching the thigh above it, his face ashen as he looked wildly around. His gaze latched on Nellie.
“Gawd help me, it’s my leg!” he cried, limping towards her.
“Private Nicholls, you’ll have to wait. There are more urgent cases,” she said, only half listening as she glanced around, looking for assistance. Poilus, an urman of Napoo’s clan, was helping to bring more wounded in, some walking, others carried in on blood-soaked stretchers.
“But the pain, nurse. Shooting pains right up me thigh. Sharp they are, like bloody red hot needles,” he griped.
His forehead was beaded with sweat. He gritted his teeth and a grunt escaped his lips as his hand clutched his thigh. He lost his balance and collapsed into her.
“A little help here!” she called as she staggered under his weight.
Edi and Poilus came to her rescue. By now Half Pint’s breath was coming in ragged pants and his eyelids fluttered as he struggled to keep them open, his head lolling back.
Nellie directed the pair to an empty straw mat, where they laid him down. She put a hand on his forehead and tutted. “He has a fever. The stump is probably infected. I told him not to wear that peg leg of his for more than an hour
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