Calling the Stork

Most of all, she was a stern woman, rigorously enforcing the rules of nursing practice, of conduct, and of her perceptions of life. She frequently came down on me about some small infraction or another, making me wonder if she truly disliked me or if she just wanted me to be perfect.

"I'm not perfect, ma'am," I retorted one day, when I'd had enough, "but I'm doing the best I can."

She glowered at me and placed her hands on her hips. At about 5'-8" and somewhat over 200 pounds, she was much larger than my 5'-3" height and almost 110 pounds.

"Keep trying, Miss O'Grady. While no one is perfect, perhaps, if we're lucky, one day we'll find you approaching close enough, if, that is, you can stay away from those damn doctors."

I fought off the tears right then but let them flow later that night as Pa hugged me. The next day, though, I was back and doing my best, trying to improve, and Mrs. Cruickshank was continuing to gripe about the doctors who would take advantage of me as if I wouldn't have something to say about that.

***

Thursday, August 23rd

Dr. Trentlaw's smile dazzled me again today, but this time, before he asked me to dinner, he took my hand and held it, causing me to tingle all over and giving me just enough courage to keep from fleeing once more when he again asked me the question. This time, I put Mrs. Josephina Cruickshank out of my mind for a moment as I agreed to his invitation.

"Saturday evening? I'll get passes for us so we can go into the village."

"That would be nice," I breathed, barely making the words audible.

Still, he smiled again, and melted me a little more, before pulling my fingers to his lips and giving them a tiny kiss. I didn't swoon like some women in the books that I've read, but I smile like him when I think how easily I could have.

***

Friday, August 24, 1917

A.M. Miss Pinnock did a bed check last night and made sure that lights were out, putting an early end to my writing. I look forward to seeing Dr. Trentlaw again today, and to having dinner with him tomorrow evening.

P.M. A new group of patients arrived today and I didn't have time to speak to Dr. Trentlaw beyond a quick hello. I don't think there is a single empty bed in The Manor, and I've heard they are considering outfitting the stable to make room for more wounded coming our way. I'm so tired this evening.

***

Saturday, August 25, 1917

I'm writing this on Sunday morning before mass because Saturday was another very busy day.

The day started like most others here, but the new wounded that arrived on Friday took a great deal of effort since many of them don't have a proper bed. Calling them "new" or maybe even "newly" wounded isn't correct since most were wounded days or even weeks ago and have been brought here to heal and recuperate.

Dr. Trentlaw collected me this evening wearing his military uniform--he's a captain in the British army, like Captain Durnell in ours, though they're much more proper about everything--and looking quite dashing in it, while I wore my white uniform. Fortunately, it wasn't too dirty, since I have no proper evening clothes.

We walked the mile to the village with our arms linked and me feeling as if I was floating at his side, my feet barely touching the ground. Talking as we walked, he asked me all about myself. I answered, question after question it seemed, and I learned almost nothing at all about him until we were seated in the village tavern.

"How did you come to be here?" I asked.

"Happenstance," he replied with a grin, leaving me confused before he continued.

"Being younger and having just finished my medical training, I went to France in June 1915 and worked in a battlefield hospital, learning how much I didn't know and much more besides, for almost a year before I was wounded while treating those being brought in from the battle nearby. We thought we were far enough from the front that we'd be safe, but I flopped over sideways, fell out of the tent, and came closer to drowning in the mud than from the unexpected bullet that passed through my leg."

He laughed as he told the story, so I'm not sure if he was serious. "They brought me home to recuperate and then sent me here a few weeks later when I could walk again. Trips to here in the village have been good in helping me regain my strength. I'm almost fully there now. Healed, I mean."

"Do you plan to return to France? To the battlefield?" I asked, dreading his reply.

He sighed. "Yes, in a few weeks, I imagine; however, I must admit, having been shot once already, probably by accident by someone on our side, I'm hoping I can avoid such occurrences in the future, from whatever the source."

I couldn't help smiling at the way he said it, almost jokingly, but I feared for his safety at the same time. "Perhaps the war will end before you have to return," I suggested.

"Perhaps, but not likely," he agreed on seeing my doubtful look.

We talked while we ate and he told me to call him Howard when we are together away from The Manor. Howard--I get a thrill at the thought of being familiar enough with him to just write his first name!--is 28 years old and is the eldest son of a doctor in Birmingham. He has an older sister, who is married with two youngsters, and two younger brothers, though, sadly, his youngest was killed in fighting last year in the Somme. I could tell he misses him terribly, making me think of my dear Clara. She is quite the pest at times, but I love and miss her so much anyway.

After dinner and under a starry sky, Howard and I walked back along the lane to The Manor. We were arm-in-arm again, with me enjoying the feeling of his recovered strength against me and the assurance of his sure-footedness in the dark. He has no limp, his wound being completely healed.

"Mary, stop for a moment," he said as we passed a gate in the stone fence.

I did as he said and looked around toward him, only to feel him pull me into his embrace and his lips to close on mine.

I'm 20 years of age and I've never been very interested in men until Howard, but this wasn't my first kiss. Clay Bergen took care of that during my last year of school. Since I hadn't offered the kiss and since he surprised me with it, I slapped him and he grinned.

"If you'll let me kiss you again, you can smack me like that again," he said. I almost did slap him again, much harder, for good measure but stomped off instead, never letting him have another. In hindsight, I don't really remember how it felt other than rough, dry, and scratchy.

Nor, I'm afraid, was it my second. That was Jim Shawner at the hospital in Philadelphia before I started nursing school. I thought for a brief period that I might be interested in him so I didn't slap him, of course, but after his attempt that rivaled Clay Bergen's in its ineptitude and his pawing at me, I wasn't interested in letting him have another either. It did nothing for me and I didn't see the appeal of trying again just to be sure.

This, though, was different. Perhaps they were boys who had as little clue about what they were doing as I did, but Howard wasn't a boy and he clearly knew more. I felt tingly all over as his lips played over mine for just moments before he relaxed, releasing me.

"Very nice," he breathed, but I didn't trust myself to say anything as he escorted me the rest of the way back to The Manor. With people around when we arrived, he didn't try to kiss me again, though I'm not sure I would have objected if he had.

***

Sunday evening, August 26, 1917

So many thoughts are swirling through my head today.

I don't know how I feel about Howard; he's a nice guy and very good looking, but I barely know him. Still, that kiss!

It was a new experience for me, making me want to understand how it felt and leaving me aching for more. Now, I even believe I might understand how some of the girls back in school could rave about kissing when I, through my very limited experience, thought it completely boring and somewhat disgusting. Then there are my parents, who frequently stole little kisses when they didn't think Clara and I would see. Perhaps that makes more sense now, though if their kisses are as good as Howard's to me, I'm not sure how either of them ever get anything done from thinking about them.

Even during mass this morning, I couldn't get that kiss and what it meant out of my mind, so I have little recollection of the service itself. I didn't see Howard today either, making me wonder what the coming days will bring.

***

Mon., Aug. 27

Tired today. Overwhelmed. New patients arriving with nowhere to put them. So much work to do.

I saw Howard several times today but was never close enough to say hello.

Maybe tomorrow?

***

Wednesday, August 29, 1917

Vivian, my best friend here among the nurses, gave me bad news after lights out last night. Howard went to dinner with one of the English nurses who was already here when we arrived; she saw them kissing in the courtyard under the arbor when they returned. I felt bad and couldn't sleep after she told me, making me even more tired today.

It isn't my business if Howard goes to dinner and kisses someone else and it doesn't bother me that he is.

At least that's what I keep telling myself. Why then, I ask myself, do I keep thinking of it?

***

Friday, September 1, 1917

Howard asked me to dinner again for Saturday evening after we get off our shift. Vivian and Christy saw him with another nurse last night, so I asked him about his intentions before I could answer his invitation.

"Why do you ask, Mary?"

"Because I like you, though I'm not sure how much," I replied, "but I don't want to interfere with you and other women you might be seeing or them with us."

"No need for you to worry about that," he replied. "I'm not interested in settling down or getting married or anything of that nature at the moment. No, I'll be returning to France soon and there's always a chance I might not come home. My younger brother didn't, after all, and I've already come home on a stretcher once. Instead, I want to have a good time and I think--"

I don't remember the rest of his comment, but his desire to "have a good time" flew in the face of what my mother had taught me.

"I'm sorry, Howard," I replied some moments later after collecting my thoughts. "You're very nice and I like you a lot, but I don't think I can see you again."

He was a gentleman about it, saying he was quite disappointed but that he understood and wished me well. I guess he wasn't that disappointed though, for I heard a little later this afternoon that a Canadian nurse had agreed to his dinner invitation.

"Mary, dinner can be fun without being a commitment," Vivian told me a few minutes ago.

I know that of course, but I asked her, "Viv, what's the use in going to dinner with a man if there's no chance of the two of you striking it off? Or, in the chance that one might like the other but not have the feeling reciprocated? Fun at the moment, true, but if one's feelings are rejected, the pain would linger long after the fun was forgotten, right?"

She nodded slowly, seeing my point, I think, before getting up and leaving with tears in her eyes. I followed, trying to see if she was okay, but she was visibly upset and asked me to leave her alone for a while.

Perhaps I'm wrong but romance, I begin to suspect, may be far more trouble than it's worth.

***

Tuesday, September 4, 1917

I saw terrible news in the newspaper this morning of a German attack on Kent, southeast of London, earlier this week. While not the first time, the German aerial attacks on England are getting more deadly. This time, it was their aeroplanes that dropped bombs that hit a Royal Navy barracks on the docks and killed many young recruits who'd never shot a cannon (or whatever Navy men do) and a lot of other people in the area. The newspaper report said that it was over 150 people, their lives snuffed out like a candle, and many wounded. They won't be sending them here, though, since we have absolutely no room to spare for them.

Miss Pinnock reminded us this evening not to take open lights outside at night for the safety of all. One of the nurses said afterward that if the Germans can reach Kent, they can probably reach us, too.

More worries, more things to pray about.

I just hope God is listening.

***

Saturday, September 8, 1917

It's been a busy week and I've had little I've wished to write since my last entry, with it being the same situation day in, day out. Even today, there would be nothing worth recording except that I heard Howard will be returning to France in a few days. While we aren't together and never will be, I said a prayer for his safe return home someday and I hope he finds the right woman for him when the time is right for both of them.

Being the daughter of a seamstress, I started learning to sew around age five or six and had developed a reasonable facility with and an equally understandable dislike of the art by the time I was eight. Still, with Clara hating it much more than me, it was something Ma and I could do together sometimes to escape Clara's clutches and, as I got older and neared adulthood, I developed an appreciation of sewing as an art and how it allowed us to speak about topics that that weren't appropriate for Clara with a degree of privacy that we found difficult to attain otherwise.

Considering how Howard kissed me, the feelings it stirred in my breast, and the subsequent discussion with him, I've been wondering when--or perhaps if--I'll find the right person for me. I know now is not the time to be seriously concerned about such silly nonsense, what with war raging just across the Channel and with a number of aerial attacks here on England itself, but those feelings, that desire for more, that he gave me with his kiss, reminded me of one of those sewing sessions.

"Ma, how'd you know Pa was the one?"

"Mary, where'd that come from? Are you...interested in someone?"

I could see her trying to hide a smile, since I'd never been interested in boys and had sometimes proclaimed that I never would be. After being chased by Billy Briggs (with his puppy love) when I was younger and Clay Bergen in school, I didn't think they were worth the trouble, but I'd met Jim Shawner at the hospital and had found him to be of at least some small interest. The problem was I didn't know how much.

My recollection is that I hemmed and hawed a bit before replying, "Maybe?"

Ma smiled at me but didn't pressure me for more information on him, saying instead, "I thought your pa was my 'one' the first time I saw him in our old neighborhood. With me being two years younger, he looked right past me as if I wasn't there. I'd see him from time to time, but he never noticed me and I almost gave up hope of attracting his attention, but eventually I did when I'd given up and wasn't even trying any more.

"Most important, though, is that it doesn't matter if it feels right to one of you, it has to be right for both and you both have to be willing to take a chance that it actually is or you'll probably be unhappy for the rest of your lives." She paused for a moment and looked up at me from her stitching. "So...want to tell me about your young man?"

No, I didn't, so I begged off and, within two weeks or so, Jim Shawner kissed me that one time and was then out of my life, too.

***

Sunday, September 9th

I begin to question if this senseless war, with its death and destruction, on land, on the sea, and from air, will ever end.

And I realize this morning that I've only been here, far from the actual fighting, for a month, while some of the wounded under our care had been fighting for three whole years. As I look at them, I question the worth, or why the leaders of the sides think there is worth to war rather than working out their differences in peace. Do people really hate each other so much?

Sadly, in looking at the rows of beds in our wards, I realize that most of these men will recover, but few will recover so well as to be able to return to the front, to resume fighting.

Perhaps, for them, that is a good thing.

***

Tuesday, September 11, 1917

Our patients aren't supposed to fraternize with the nurses or we with them. We help them as we can, giving them aid and comfort but trying to avoid getting personal with them since they have their duty and we have ours, with the two being quite different, and, according to Miss Pinnock, much like Mrs. Cruickshank at school, mutually incompatible.

Still, a young soldier asked my name this morning. I'd seen his chart a few times since he was brought in last week--he'd been gassed and his lungs damaged, and he'd slept much of the time since he'd arrived. I asked, "Why do you wish to know, Private?"

It was slow as he slid his hand onto mine and gave me a squeeze. "When I get to see Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates," he told me, "I want to be able to thank him personally and give him the name of the wonderful angel he sent to help get me well."

I patted his hand on top of mine with my other hand and had a good laugh at his joke but then realized from the look in his eye and the lack of laughter on his lips that he was being quite serious. I felt so guilty for laughing at his expense, so I added, "I thank you for that, Private, though I'm only a nurse, not an angel, and you are getting well, not seeing Saint Peter anytime soon. And my name's Mary."

His eyes widened and he whispered gruffly, as those with damaged lungs and vocal cords tend to do, "Mary, Mother of God! The Madonna herself! Thank you, Saint Peter," as he signed himself and fell back into his usual stupor.

At least that prevented him from hearing my laughter a second time.

***

Wednesday, September 12, 1917

His name is Private Henry Bankston, and he's 20--almost 21--years of age. I was looking at his chart this morning before he startled me, calling out to me again, "Hello, Nurse Mary. How are you this morning?"

"Good morning, Private Bankston. We nurses aren't supposed to socialize with our patients."

He laughed, causing his body to wrack in pain, before he growled out, "What more can they do to me? And you, the angel of mercy if not the Madonna herself? Surely they wouldn't risk the Lord's wrath?" He smiled at me though, making me realize the gruff sound really was due to his lungs and vocal cords rather than actual anger.

"Rest your lungs and your voice, Private, or I'll report you myself," I whispered back to him with a similar smile. "As for what they'll make you do, maybe make you stay here an extra month or two?"

He made a strange face, causing me to wonder its meaning before I patted his hand. "Seriously, Private, we want you out of here and on your way home to your loved ones as soon as possible," I said.

"An extra month or two of your care and seeing your face each day would be a gift, not a punishment," he said.

"Private Bankston, you flirt with inappropriateness, with crossing that forbidden line," I warned him.

He just smiled at me, a real smile this time, and replied, "Flirting with it? I hoped I was charging right over it, out of the trenches and across the no man's land. If not, maybe I'll have more success tomorrow. I will see you tomorrow...correct, Nurse Mary?"

"I'm sure of it," I replied, actually looking forward to it.

***

Thursday, September 13, 1917

I whispered with Private Bankston for a little while today each time I tended to him. He is the oldest of six children, with four younger sisters following and a little brother bringing up the rear. He hopes that the war will be over by the time his little brother is old enough to fight, but, if not, that his sisters will become nurses just like me.