Calling the Stork

We had our first two cases of the flu here over the past few days. They were immediately isolated, and Miss Pinnock wore a gas mask and suit to take care of them. Several of us volunteered to help, but she told us no, saying we needed to stay well to take care of our wounded. We worried about her getting too tired to do all the work, but it doesn't matter now; both men died in the past 24 hours. Everything was sanitized and Miss Pinnock said she hopes that is the end of the epidemic for us since she really doesn't want to put that mask back on.

To keep us from having new cases and since we're already so full, we've stopped taking in new patients as of today. We hope that will do it and the epidemic burns itself out soon before we have to take more.

***

Monday, September 9, 1918

I noticed a new patient in my ward looking at me today.

It turns out he's actually been here at The Manor for almost a week but today was the first I've seen him since he's been under sedation in the special ward since his arrival. A victim of a plane crash and fire that cost him part of a leg and much more, the doctors have had him on painkillers to dull his mind and allow him to heal without, they hope, too much horror since his arrival. Thinking him past the worst of it, the doctors have weaned him from the opium medicine now (a terrible process in itself), and he looks dazed and confused as a result.

His hands and what's left of his legs are wrapped in bandages; I gagged involuntarily as I rebandaged his hands today. The horrible burns prevented me from having a firm grasp of what was left. He noted it, looking away in probably as much pain as he's felt since whatever it was that happened to him.

When I had to move to rebandage the remains of his legs, it was even worse, and it was all I could do to keep from passing out. Both are horribly burned, the left missing several toes, and the right is completely missing some distance below his knee. There were tears on his face as I did my work, but he didn't cry out in pain. When I was done, I heard a barely audible "Thank you. It's okay."

***

Wednesday, September 11, 1918

I went to dinner with Dr. Yarborough and Vivian and Dr. Maloof this evening. Dr. Yarbo, as most around here call him, is a nice man and we had a good talk, but I had to explain to him about Henry and my ongoing grief for him.

"There's no schedule for grieving, Miss Mary," he told me after dinner. "Take your time and let me know if you'd like to try again someday."

I thanked him for his understanding and kissed his cheek before he kissed two fingers and touched my cheek with them. I told him goodnight and looked for Vivian, but she and Dr. Maloof had disappeared. One must hope she knows what she's doing if she's actually doing what I suspect and fear.

My burn patient, a Captain Walsh, continues to thank me daily and tell me "It's okay" each time I gag as I clean and re-bandage his wounds. I can't imagine the pain he must be in now, or the pain he must have felt as it happened. Death, I suspect, would have been welcome to me, so he must have a powerful reason to wish to endure.

***

Thursday, September 12, 1918

Vivian was a mess when she sneaked into our quarters around 3 AM. The only way I know the time or how Vivian was disheveled was from the match that Christy struck and held up, causing Viv to cry out and me to be partially blinded.

"Viv, you did it, didn't you?" hissed Christy, who, to my surprise, I found out this morning is as much a virgin as myself despite some of her risque adventures. Vivian, however, no longer has to concern herself with that issue now that she's agreed to marry Dr. Maloof and stay in England with him.

We were all awake then and happy for her, but I hope she doesn't come to regret her decision to enter in with him prior to their wedding vows.

***

Sunday, September 15, 1918

Viv and her situation have been on my mind the past few days, making me wonder if Henry and I might have eventually reached the point she has with Dr. Maloof. They've actually been seeing each other for about seven months, since only days after he was transferred here, so I understand how their love, their passion, and their ardor must have grown to make their decision understandable. I don't know if Henry and I would have reached a similar choice, but I hope that we would have had the fortitude to wait or the courage to see the priest for our vows.

I mailed Henry's ring to his mother on Friday, telling her of the great comfort it has given me since his passing, but that I am returning it to her and his family so it might bring similar comfort to them and perhaps even eventually be used by someone else in their family to carry on Henry's legacy.

I spoke with Dr. Whalley yesterday about my patient's burns. He said the weeping and sickening look is normal and that, if we can keep it from becoming infected, the patient, Captain Walsh, should recover in time. I don't know about that but the man continues to thank me each time I bandage him. Yesterday, he developed a very manly reaction when I was giving him a sponge bath, showing me that while his injuries are severe, he's not injured everywhere. Unable to control it, he gritted his teeth and looked away, never meeting my eyes, but he thanked me as always when we were done and I had his gown back in place.

I can only hope that he didn't see the grin on my face. The man is quite comfortably endowed.

***

Sunday, September 22, 1918

I refused Vivian's invitation to dinner with her Dr. Maloof and yet another young officer this week. It isn't fair to the young man if I know from the start that I will have no interest in him, will decline any further invitations, and will reject any advances no matter how trivial. Perhaps when I return home after the war my thoughts will change, but for now I am content remembering my beloved Henry and avoiding any potential romantic encounters.

Dr. Whalley said yesterday that Captain Walsh continues to improve, though I have a hard time seeing any improvement myself. Still, he continues to thank me each time I bandage him or assist him in whatever way, even as I attempt to hide my revulsion at his wounds. I prayed for him in service today; it was the first time I'd attended in several weeks.

This war, with all its death and destruction, its cruelty and hurt, its gore and hideousness, shows humans for the miserable creatures we are when pushed too far. The evil we see see in the horrible wounds suffered by the men and the stories of the war we read in The Daily Express (which is delivered daily, tossed to the guard at the gate from a distance to avoid spreading the flu), has shaken my faith, always so strong in the past but now a mere pittance of its former self. The chaplain's sermon this morning helped me a little; perhaps I'll go see him sometime soon.

Or probably not.

***

Tuesday, September 24, 1918

Captain Walsh asked me my name today when he thanked me as usual. "I'd like to thank you properly by addressing you," he said.

"You thank me quite well enough, sir," I replied. Remembering Henry, I won't be familiar with a patient again.

***

Wednesday, September 25, 1918

Captain Walsh thanked me for caring for him again today, as always, and then once again asked my name. I declined again, leading him to nod in understanding and me to wonder if, like Henry, he has an inordinate interest in Saint Peter.

***

Thursday, September 26

What is it with that man? He asked once more, I declined with equal fervor, and then he said, "Until tomorrow, Ma'am."

On the good side, his burns have started to heal, though that will still take weeks or possibly months and the scars that remain will be with him forever.

Dr. Whalley told me that Captain Walsh will be fitted with an artificial leg when his burns have healed enough. The surgeon in France saved enough below the knee, in spite of the burns and the pain, that he may be able to walk fairly well someday with a prosthesis, special shoes, and a cane, and perhaps, with just the prosthesis and shoes alone.

***

Saturday, September 28

It has become a game with him, asking each day for my name, me declining, and him saying something about "Perhaps tomorrow." I realized today that I nodded to him each time, as in telling him, "Perhaps so," but that he may be taking it as that I'll be back to care for him tomorrow.

Vivian suggested this afternoon that I ask to be transferred to another set of wards, to allow someone else to take care of him, but I told her no. "I must fulfill my duty to Captain Walsh, to help him heal and get better."

Viv and Christy looked at each other with smirks and nodded. "That's just what we thought," said Christy. "So stop complaining."

***

Sunday, September 29, 1918

When I declined to give my name to Captain Walsh this evening, I added, "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

The man broke into a smile, exposing pretty white teeth below his mustache and dimples above his scruffy beard. His eyes, a dark brown, almost black, seemed to twinkle at me, too.

"Captain, do you shave?" I asked, realizing that the mustache was much longer and fuller than the beard.

"Not recently, no," he answered, holding up still bandaged hands, "but before I learned that hands don't make very good fire extinguishers, I used to shave my beard daily. The wind in the sky blowing across my face made me feel free."

***

Monday, September 30, 1918

We did the usual routine this morning during my early rounds, and after I finished with all my patients, I returned to Captain Walsh's bed with a caddy.

"Captain, I've never been called to do this before, but may I give you a shave?"

"I'd be honored for you to do so, my nameless one."

I chuckled. "Good thing I hadn't started; you'd have gotten nicked with that one."

He smiled in reply. "A small price to pay for such attention."

"You'd best hush," I told him, "before I cut you for real. Now be quiet and let me do this, okay?"

I trimmed his beard as close as I could with the scissors, my hand touching his jaw and cheeks, making me tingle as I did. The orderly would normally do this for the men each week, but he'd apparently declined the man's services or perhaps the orderly had postponed the shave due to the severity of the captain's injuries. I shaved him as well as I could, with him looking at me all the while, his eyes watching mine with more interest and humor than I would have thought possible for someone in so much pain.

When I whispered that to him, Captain Walsh replied, "Oh, I'm actually feeling much better. In fact, I expect to be back up on my foot any day now."

I groaned involuntarily when I realized he was joking and he cracked a smile at me before asking, "Since we've become so familiar, may I have your name now, Miss?"

That ruined the moment and he realized it as my face fell. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you or put our little interaction to an end."

My breath caught, the thought of him thinking it was a silly game hurting me more than I could have imagined. "Excuse me," I gasped before escaping with my caddy so he wouldn't see my tears. I stepped into the custodian's closet down the hall to keep others from seeing as well, but it was then that realization of his possible meaning struck me.

Perhaps he didn't mean it in a bad way, but rather, as a playful engagement, trying to make me smile?

There is far too much, I now realize, that I don't know about romance.

***

Tuesday, October 1, 1918

This morning, the words slipped from his lips at my approach.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Forgive me? Please?"

"It wasn't your fault. My relative inexperience led me to misinterpret your words and it was only after making a complete fool of myself that I realized--"

"Shhh, my Nameless One. No fools were made, whether complete or partial. As for the rest, inexperience, you say? In what way? Romance? Love? Not nursing, surely? I assure you, you are, by far, my favorite nurse."

I laughed at the way he added the last part before nodding. "Romance...love...loss. All of it."

"You lost someone...someone you loved...in the war?"

My heart in my throat, I could say nothing, only giving him a nod. His hand, finally devoid of bandages in recent days, cupped over and patted my own. "I'm so sorry for your loss and don't wish to prolong your hurt. Therefore, I'm here for you if you ever need to talk."

He said nothing else to me today, instead giving me a compassionate smile each time I checked on him. Rather than putting me at ease as he probably intended, it made me want to speak more each time until I was ready to bite my tongue to keep words from slipping out.

Or maybe that was his intent the whole time.

Men! I don't understand them at all!

***

Wednesday, October 2, 1918

He continued his quiet campaign this morning, frustrating me further. When I asked how he felt, he gave a nod and a smile.

"It's hard to put the meaning of a nod in one's chart," I told him.

"It's hard talking to a nameless wonder, too, yet I've been doing it for weeks. You'll get by, I suspect, as have I."

I frowned at him and he smiled in reply, leading me to fight off a giggle. Twenty-one years old and I giggle in front of a man. I looked at the details on his chart as I wrote, only then realizing that tomorrow, October 3rd, is his birthday. He'll be 23.

Off to the kitchen now to see if I can get ingredients to make a cake.

***

Thursday, October 3, 1918

Captain Walsh is indeed 23 today but he didn't know the date or that it was his birthday until I surprised him with the cake this afternoon. I felt bad making it last evening, in a way, as if I was betraying Henry, but I have no interest in Captain Walsh other than having him get well, so I put it out of my mind.

He got the first piece and everyone else in his ward received a smaller piece. Again, there was no sugar for icing, but he said the cake was sweet enough, "matching its maker." My face was redder than a beet, I'm sure, but he touched my hand, patting it, as he thanked me and told me it was the best cake he'd ever tasted.

I barely heard him, though, for it was his hand touching mine that was sending a shock coursing through me, making me realize how much I've missed that little pleasure since Henry left so long ago. While my duty prohibits it, I almost grasped his hand with mine, wanting his touch and wanting him to share my own.

One thing I noted was that I've been concerned about the burn scars still healing on his hands, but it was only later that I realized I didn't feel them when he touched me. I hope, for his sake, that they continue to heal so he'll have full use of his hands as time goes by, particularly if he ever finds love with a woman of his own.

***

Friday, October 4, 1918

After the cake yesterday, I wondered what Captain Walsh would say this morning, but he shocked me even more than his touch.

His eyes tracked me as I went from patient to patient in the ward this morning, a smile covering his face, while I blushed at his familiarity. On arriving by his bed, I said, "Good morning, Captain. How are you feeling today?"

"And good morning to you, beautiful one. I'm feeling fine, I slept well, and that really was the best cake I've ever eaten. Thank you."

He let me get through the rest of my questions before asking, "Do you have a moment?"

"No, Captain. I have many patients and must continue my rounds."

"Please? Just a few seconds?"

I nodded, knowing that seconds wouldn't matter and it actually would be polite to see what he wanted.

He drew a deep breath as he closed his eyes, held it for a second or two, and then exhaled as if he was Atlas, with the weight of the world on his shoulders. I almost asked if he was okay but then he started reciting, at barely a whisper.

"She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes...."

His eyes opened and I could see they were cloudy, as if fighting tears as he'd often done during the earlier part of his stay with us.

"Bastard! How dare you?"

I stormed out with tears streaming down my face, hoping that no one beyond the ward had heard my outburst. That he would try to copy Henry cut me to the quick and I hated the man. On drying my tears, I returned to my rounds but refused to say another word with him today.

***

Saturday, October 5, 1918

I didn't sleep well, the events of yesterday and the last few days clouding my mind.

Things may be finally changing in the war. Word comes that we've taken thousands of German prisoners in recent days, as well as a large number of Turks in the Levant. We've also read that Kaiser Wilhelm has appointed a new Chancellor of Germany; word came this morning that the new fellow has formed a new government and there's a rumor that he's asked for peace talks.

Perhaps the war will end sooner rather than later. Perhaps my prayers will be answered.

Captain Walsh's words bothered me all night. How could he have heard that Henry quoted Byron to me? That "She Walks in Beauty" was his favorite poem? It hurt me to think that his attention has all been a lie, a deception to get close to me. Oh, I hate the man!

I've thought for almost an hour since writing that last sentence, recalling so vividly my time with Henry. Perhaps I'm wrong but my recollection is that Henry always whispered the words to me, no matter the poem, saying they were to me and me alone, so he said them so no one else could hear. In addition, all of the patients near Henry's bed in the ward have moved on, home, or in a few cases, back to the front, so there would have been no one to share the word. Perhaps a nurse, but I know not whom and don't even remember telling anyone.

Still, I wonder if he is playing a game with me, so I was guarded today, saying nothing outside the questions needed for his care and answering none of his questions. I could see the hurt on his face, as clearly as I felt it in my heart.

***

Sunday, October 6, 1918

Vivian and I whispered for a long time after lights out last evening. I didn't tell her about the specific poem, but she said that I was being silly.

"Men," she said, "generally remember one or two poems at most, with 'Roses are Red' being one of them. If a man quotes you anything beyond that, he's probably reciting the only other poem he knows!"

After not sleeping very well from all the turmoil in my soul, I went to the interfaith mass this morning and prayed throughout most of the service. The accusations in my heart against Captain Walsh are painful and, quite possibly, even probably, unfounded. Therefore, I visited with him today.

"Captain Walsh, please forgive me for yesterday. Your words on Friday were surprising and painful."

"I'm sorry to have hurt you," he replied. "If I'd known, the words would never have slipped from my lips."

"Why did they?" It was blunt and to the point, but I desperately wanted to know.

'It was my favorite poem when I was in school. We memorized many at the time, and I promptly forgot them all. It's taken me a week to remember that part, but no more, despite how I've agonized over the rest. I'm very sorry, both to you and to Lord Byron. You deserve the rest, oh beautiful nameless one, but it's been quite some years since school. As to the Poet, he deserves a better voice than--"

I looked at him closely and came to believe his words, that he was telling me the truth.

"Shush!" I scolded him as I tried to fight off the tears. "I am sorry for the way I took it, clearly the wrong way and not as you intended. Lord Byron would be as pleased as I am honored with your recitation. Thank you," I concluded before fleeing once again to keep him from seeing my tears flow.