31 July, 1917My darling Mama,
First, let me apologize for the manner of my departure. I know that it must have been very hurtful to you to have me simply disappear like that. I can only tell you that I could no longer sit quietly in England while the dreadful news from the Western Front trickled in. Ever since Danny’s funeral, two years since, I have planned this.
I have joined the war, Mama. And not as a nurse or an ambulance driver. I cannot tell you any more than that, for I know this letter must pass through the hands of a censor before it reaches you. For that reason I cannot tell you where I am. But know this – I sit this morning not more that half a mile from the place that claimed Danny’s life. Two years on and we have advanced no further than that. And at such cost.
But no more of that. What is done is done and today I must look only forward. It is barely 3 o’clock in the morning and in just under an hour we will go over the top. Our mission is to advance as far as we can and we are all prepared. My comrades line the trenches with me and for once the guns are silent. For the past 10 days our artillery has pounded the German lines relentlessly. Like my friends and colleagues here with me, I am wondering just how we are meant to surprise our foe when all we have done is tell them exactly where we will advance.
But it is not our place to question the wisdom of the old men who drive us on from the safety of their dugouts, miles behind us. We must simply fix bayonets and charge when the word comes to do so. Grist to the mill.
I do not know where I will be in an hour, Mama. If I am able, and as soon as I can, I will send word. I know that I am causing you great pain. I know that as your last living child I should have stayed home safe with you. But something compelled me here and I had to listen to that call.
Forgive me. I will come home to you, this I swear. The thought of you and our home and friends will keep me safe in the coming hours.
I must go now, Mama, for the whistles are sounding.
Your loving child,
Hunter
“Last mail call!”
The tall young soldier rapidly folded the single sheet of mud-spattered paper into quarters and stuffed it into the envelope, leaving it unsealed as the censors instructed. The private with a mailbag slung over his shoulder approached and Hunter handed him the letter. He stuffed it in the bag where it joined a large damp pile of correspondence home.
How many of us have said goodbye this morning? the soldier wondered. How many of us will be left to take it back?
The trench was packed. They were shoulder to shoulder, lining the eastern wall of the muddy ditch that had been home for the past 14 days since they had relieved the previous, battered occupants. Hunter looked left and right. Soldiers were quietly going about the business of preparing to die. Some sat morosely on wooden crates or small ledges they had dug into the trench wall. Rolling cigarettes, or simply staring into space. Others prepared their weapons, engaged in the futile exercise of trying to get the mud out of firing mechanisms, or shining up bayonets that would likely never come within arm’s length of a German.
Hunter leaned back against the cold, wet wall, one leg tucked up, foot flat against the trench’s side. The dawn threatened to break but it was still gloomy and grey, a light mist brushing across the top edge of the trench, leaving all before it chilled and damp. Hunter shifted inside the cheaply-made, rough uniform. Everything itched against skin that hadn’t been properly bathed in days.
Particularly irritating were the bindings that were an essential part of her disguise. For the most part Mother Nature had helped Diana Hunter pull off this act of deception. She had a naturally low voice, was tall and rangy in her limbs, athletic and tomboyish, and she possessed an angular face the beauty of which was easily disguised by dirt and circumstances. But a woman’s more voluptuous assets were not so easy to hide. The bindings were an uncomfortable necessity here amongst the men she fought alongside.
A handful of money had taken care of the army medic who had cleared her for active duty. Apparently Diana was not the only woman compelled by some strange fierceness to fight. And that wasn’t all. She knew at least three of her own company who were well underage.
What is it that has drawn us here? Diana pulled out the tiny photograph of her beloved younger brother that she kept tucked in a fold of her uniform tunic, close to her heart. I know I am came here to honor him, somehow. To carry on what he volunteered for. But now that I’m here … She gazed around the wasteland of mud and bare, stripped tree trunks, barbed wire and body parts. The stench of death and fear was everywhere here. If this had a noble purpose once, it’s long gone, buried under pointlessness and ego, she thought. And yet we’re all still here, living this hell. Not running from it. Embracing the duty of it all.
The whistle blew again and she jammed her metal helmet on her head, hooking the strap under her chin. The platoon sergeant stumped along the duckboards that lined the bottom of the trench, splashing through puddles. He growled and cajoled his soldiers until everyone was poised on the bottom rungs of the ladders that led up into No Man’s Land.
Diana waited, one hand wrapped around the rough wood of the ladder, the other gripping the stock of her rifle.
“All right lads,” called the sergeant. “Next whistle we’re over the top.”
Diana felt her stomach clench, real fear gripping her for the first time since she had arrived in this grim hell. Her mouth went dry and legs previously strong and sure suddenly went to jelly. I’m sorry, Mama.
The whistle blew for the last time and Diana pushed herself up and out into the unknown. “In God I trust,” she muttered as she plunged forward.
“Don’t just stand there, woman. Help me,” exclaimed the exasperated doctor who was wrist-deep inside the sucking abdominal wound of the man sprawled on the field stretcher. “Come on, girl!” he yelled again. “I need your hands in here.”
Caragh O’Dowd lurched forward, her training taking over where her emotions could not.
“Here,” the surgeon pointed with his chin. “See that artery I’m holding with my right hand?” Caragh nodded even as her stomach clenched at the smell and sight of the gaping wound. “Reach in and take it from me.” He watched as she snaked her arm under his. She was far shorter than him and it was a struggle for her to see exactly where he meant. “No, no, in front of my fingers, not behind. Yes, there. You have it?”
She nodded.
“Okay then. I’m letting go. Squeeze hard.”
The surgeon released his grip and Caragh felt the surge of pressure against her fingertips as the soldier’s blood mindlessly sought its path. The doctor moved around her, fighting to do what he could for the soldier. Nothing more was required of Caragh than to be a living clamp, but even that task felt too much for her senses.
She looked around at the chaotic scene in the crowded room. Dead and dying British soldiers were wall to wall. Blood covered the concrete floor, making everything slippery under foot. The stench was almost overwhelming and the sights … Caragh had never imagined how ghastly the butchery would be.
“You can let go now,” she heard the doctor say, bringing her back to this soldier’s reality. Caragh looked at the surgeon, her eyes questioning him. “He’s dead, nurse. Let’s move on to someone we can help. Orderly! Here’s another for the morgue.”
Caragh looked down at the soldier. He was young, his moustache thin and wispy – a novelty on a face still babyish. With horror, Caragh realized that she could already feel the cold of death creeping into her fingertips as they remained deep in the boy’s wound. She snatched them away, and then softened the movement, knowing that whatever else he was now, this was a soldier to be honored.
Dead he may be, she thought. But I’ll not treat him with anything but respect and reverence. Carefully she covered his wound with the remains of his tunic before she reached up to the glazing brown eyes and gently slid them shut. Then she crossed herself.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
The prayer was said softly, Caragh’s gentle Irish accent giving it a tender lilt that somehow heightened its meaning.
“Hurry on, girl,” said the doctor, who had watched her little ritual with understanding, if slightly impatient, eyes. “There are plenty here who need you more than he does now.”
Caragh said nothing, but nodded. She moved down the row of makeshift beds and stretchers, looking for someone who required her attention. At the far end, tucked against the grimy wall, lay a man suffering in silence and solitude, while nurses and doctors moved around him, tending to others. Caragh slid between his bunk and the one beside it. The soldier’s right leg was bloodied from the knee down, the uniform leg burned away. The flesh of his calf was raw and lacerated to the bone. It must have been extremely painful, yet the man lay quietly, one arm flung across his face.
“Has no one tended you?” Caragh asked gently.
The soldier did not move.
“There are others in greater need than I,” came the low response. The voice drew Caragh closer. There was something about its timbre, its … feel … that intrigued her.
“I’m going to find some water and bandages and then I will be back to clean your wound,” Caragh said.
“Thank you,” said the soldier huskily, his eyes still hidden.
Caragh backed off slowly, then turned and walked away, completely missing the vivid blue eyes that watched her from beneath a uniformed arm.