Nightingale (13 page)

He saw the staff officer look at his watch and begin taking down the makeshift flagging. A new, tense silence had overtaken them that felt eerily dangerous and with it came the promise of more bloodshed, mocking the day's toil. He took out his father's watch and saw that it was now almost four-thirty but the Turks still lingered on the parapet, clearly unenthusiastic to go back into their trenches and resume the killing. And yet within minutes Jamie was back down in his trench with his mates, reluctant to share the experience of the day that felt as though he had communed with the spirits of the dead and released them.

A shell went off nearby and that set off a chain reaction that seemed to drag all the men from their curious stupor. Suddenly a volley of bullets was whizzing and spitting again but seemed to deliberately miss their mark. It was as though both sides were clearing their throats, warning of the end of their polite truce. The rifle fire only lasted a few heartbeats but it certainly signalled they were back to being enemies, locked once again in deathly combat.

Jamie thought of Shahin and felt a profound sadness grip him as he recalled the youngster's conviction that he would not survive the war. He reached for the letter through his uniform again, heard the paper crinkle, and as though that was a trigger he heard a shout ring out into the brief silence, and recognised the voice.

‘Look at this silly bugger, will you?' his neighbour said. His name was Don but everyone called him Donkey.

Jamie turned at the sound of the yelling voice, hearing his own name.

‘
Jamie Wren, keep your promise!
' came the cry.

‘No!' Jamie howled in closed-eyed despair into the brief report of bullets.

‘Stupid bugger,' Donkey sighed, lowering his makeshift periscope he'd fashioned from an old tin can of fruit. ‘Some young Turk taking your name in vain there, Wrennie. What's that about?'

Jamie could barely swallow. He grabbed for Donkey's periscope to bear witness to Shahin's suicidal dash, but it was the last conscious action he made. The mortar landed as did the return fire and Jamie felt himself helplessly bent double before being flung by an invisible shove that tossed him aside with the strength of a thousand angry men.

Broken and unconscious, Jamie Wren landed, crumpled, in the neighbouring trench.

Claire was once again on the beach. Given the armistice, she had swiftly volunteered to help clear the backlog of men most desperately in need of nursing attention. She and another nurse had been given permission to accompany a doctor going ashore. Everyone on the
Gascon
was on full alert – without the fear of shelling, they planned to shift twice as many soldiers this evening towards the safety of Mudros and Egypt.

Claire closed her eyes momentarily as she alighted from the jetty to feel damp sand suck at her feet. She was now sharing the same land as Jamie. He wasn't even that far away, perhaps half a mile, and she cast a silent wish for the miracle that she might see him today. She shyly scanned the bathers, hoping that he may be one of the men laughing like schoolboys in the warm seawater. The playful atmosphere felt wrong given the awful work that was being carried out above them. Word was that the dead were so thick on the ground, so badly decomposed and mixed in with the Turkish corpses in some parts, that proper burial was going to be impossible. Some of the brave Allied soldiers would be left behind in Turkey, unidentified, but she couldn't dwell on that now; she had to focus on the living.

Ragged men were brought down from the dressing stations on high to the beach for hopeful removal away from their hell. She saw two Turks in among the wounded. One had his jaw shot away so badly she didn't spend much time examining him once she'd pulled away the dressing to see him hemorrhaging.

‘We found him hiding in the scrub. A sniper. Can't imagine how many of our boys he's killed,' the accompanying soldier said. ‘But he's still a bloke, probably with a family like me.' She'd squeezed the man's arm and thanked him for his compassion. The Turk had taken a final wheezing breath and died with a word on his lips she did not understand. It wasn't Allah, though. She could guess what it was.

‘You did the right thing,' she assured the New Zealand soldier, who looked down at the dead Turk, hardly daring to believe he was gone.

‘How bloody inconsiderate.'

She smiled sadly, knowing the dry humour helped the men to cope. ‘We'll take care of it,' she said and the soldier sighed, nodded and moved on.

Claire shielded her eyes as she looked up the cliff face, once again searching for any sign of James Wren, feeling her desire to lay eyes on him again like an obsession. She noted a chaplain being helped to clamber over the scrubby landscape and imagined he would never have a busier day. Everything seemed to be happening at twice the normal speed as the ANZACs took full advantage of the ceasefire.

She refocused her attention on a man who cheerfully assured her he couldn't see anything and wondered if she might clean away what was blocking his sight. Claire couldn't bring herself to tell him that she didn't think his injury would ever permit him to see again.

‘Let's get Lieutenant Shepperton moved down to the jetty for loading, please. He's to go on tonight's sailing.'

‘Thank you, Nurse Claire,' Shepperton said. ‘But if there's a man whose life might be saved in my place, please give him my spot.'

She squeezed his shoulder. ‘Room for everyone tonight, Lieutenant,' she lied with a smile in her voice.

Claire couldn't hear a single rifle and after nearly a month of continuous shelling and gunfire, it felt unnerving. They'd all become so accustomed to the sound. The day wore on and the sun like a molten orb conspired with the drizzly morning to turn the atmosphere tropical. The stifling air was just how she remembered it in Sydney. Those Australian summers she recalled had made her feel like a fish suddenly dragged from the water, gasping to breathe. Her hair would stay dampish all day from her morning shower and her school dress would stick to her back while she waited for the train on a sunlit platform. She wouldn't describe those as happy days because she missed her father and worried for his life daily, but they were not unhappy, more an uneventful series of weeks connected by a railway line that took her either to school in eastern Sydney or back home on the North Shore. When the family she was staying with moved to Hunters Hill she enjoyed the ferry ride each morning and evening into the city, but she only had that pleasure for a short while before leaving again for the unknown of life in Tasmania.

However, she had taken control of that life as soon as she could and she promised herself now, on a small, crowded patch of beach in Turkey, that she would never permit other people's circumstances to crush her spirit as had nearly happened in Australia. And even though Jamie's situation was dire, she would not give up on him either. Somehow she would see him again and test whether their moment of madness on the ship had been real.

Right now she could feel teardrops of perspiration coursing down the shallow valley between her breasts, and a salty wetness stung her eyes. If the broken, damaged soldiers could remain cheerful, so could she.

It was nearing four-thirty when she diverted her attention to sip some water, without even looking up from her patient, and heard a hail of gunfire.

‘The armistice is officially over,' Gupta confirmed.

Claire let out a slow breath of quiet despair. ‘Well, I'm not leaving yet.'

Gupta gave her a soft look of silent reprimand as if to say there were already too many men destined for the sailing tonight but he said nothing . . . perhaps knew better.

‘There we are, Maurie. Your broken bits are all immobile now. It will hurt a little but we'll get those bones set properly back on Mudros. You're off to sail the Greek Islands tonight.'

Maurie blew her a kiss with difficulty. ‘Sounds romantic. Thanks to you, Nurse Nightingale.'

She stood and stretched out her aching back as Maurie from Gippsland was helped away between a couple of able men down the beach. Claire became aware that the sound of artillery had increased, a sobering reminder that no matter how many men she put through triage today, there would be dozens more taking their spots on the beach by tomorrow. It felt momentarily hopeless but a timely arrival of one of the doctors was just what she needed.

‘Well done, Nightingale. The most seriously injured are now all accounted for and being loaded. Can you believe we're down to seeing men with non-life-threatening wounds now?'

She smiled. That did feel satisfying.

‘That's truly something.' He beamed. ‘After a month of feeling like I've been drowning, we've clawed our way to the surface because of one day of ceasefire.'

Claire wanted to say it would be so easy to have a ceasefire every day but the doctor suddenly frowned, looking past her, distracted.

‘Spoke too soon, Nightingale. Looks like an urgent one. Come on.'

She dragged her hand across her forehead and then used her sleeve to dab away the drenched feeling on her face. Matron would not approve. Setting her shoulders, Claire trudged after the doctor through the sand, feeling the weariness of her long, hot day complaining through tired legs.

‘Put him down,' she heard the doctor order and she saw the legs of a soldier on a stretcher appear. ‘Right, we've got bleeding, Nightingale.'

She hurried around the doctor and knelt down, focused entirely on where the doctor was pointing. The soldier looked like any other, his features hidden by dirt and blood.

‘Shears!' the doctor growled.

Claire began cutting away the uniform at the man's shoulder. He reeked of decay and she instinctively began looking for a gangrenous wound. She had to catch her breath, the stench was so powerful, and the doctor was pulling a similar expression. ‘Heavens, that smell is far too strong – he should be dead.' Claire noticed a handkerchief was still tied around the injured man's face and pointed to it in query. ‘What's this?'

‘He was one of the burial party volunteers,' a stretcher-bearer nearby explained. ‘You should smell it up there.'

The injured man's entire front seemed to be oozing blood. They couldn't guess where the main wound was located.

‘How could this happen during armistice?' the doctor groaned, his happier mood of just minutes ago evaporated.

‘It was the first shell of the day,' one of the men continued. ‘Apparently Trooper Wren was one of the most stoic – he did the work of several men today.'

Claire gasped at the mention of his name.

‘Right, let's make sure his airwaves are clear.'

She let out a tight squeal of anguish as the doctor pulled away the soldier's handkerchief.

‘Found the wound?' the doctor asked, thinking that had prompted her surprise.

But Claire couldn't answer. She snatched the handkerchief, dipping it into the bowl of antiseptic and wiping away the dirt from Jamie's face. Her breath was coming hard and fast, sobs not far away.
Stay in control
, she urged herself.

‘Nightingale?'

‘I know him,' was all she could choke out. ‘He's . . . a close friend.'

‘Bugger!' the doctor said. ‘You really shouldn't —'

‘Don't!' she snapped, silencing him with a glare. ‘Where's he hurt? We have to find the wound.' She ripped open his uniform frantically, slicing through his shirt with eager scissors, before letting out a groan of fear. They all seemed to share it. His shirt was soaked with fresh blood, wet, gleaming and eager to flow.

‘Claire . . . this one looks —'

‘No. No, please.' Helpless tears ran a line down both cheeks as she entreated her superior. ‘We have to try.'

Claire could see as well as the doctor that James Wren would normally be given up as a certain death but today had been a special day of few bleeders. Maybe her luck would run as fast as her tears.

The doctor peered into the wound. ‘Shrapnel. He's going to need immediate surgery if he's to last the next few hours. Go with him, Nightingale. But then hand him over.'

She sniffed, forcing down the uncharacteristic feeling of silent hysteria.

‘Let's go! Follow me,' she ordered the stretcher-bearers and without even looking back to thank the doctor, she was pushing through the shoulders of others, marching down the beach, urging the stretcher-bearers on.

‘Emergency!' she called to the man directing operations onto the craft.

One glance at Nurse Nightingale's distraught face made him call for instant action and in minutes she had supervised Jamie's loading onto the barge and they were being ferried towards the
Gascon
.

‘Hold on, Jamie, hold on,' she murmured, feeling fresh tears sting, but she wouldn't let them fall as she pressed down on the hemorrhaging wound.

________

It was a blur. She'd seen Jamie all the way into theatre before promising to return ‘in a blink'.

Matron must have seen the sudden activity and after a glance at Claire's crumpled expression as she hurried into the nurses' station to scrub her hands, her superior's gaze settled to one of implacability. Claire got no further than untying her filthy apron.

Matron came up behind her. ‘If you think, Nurse Nightingale, that I plan to allow you into theatre tonight, you are wrong.'

Claire swung around, but Matron's finger was already in the air. ‘Absolutely not. Under no circumstances.'

‘Matron —'

‘No. Go change, get some food and a cup of tea, and sit tight. I have no idea why this soldier is so special to you but I shall see you soon enough and you can tell me then. Until I see you next, stay well away from theatre. That's not a suggestion, Nightingale. And for heaven's sake, change!'

Matron turned on her heel and Claire gulped back a dry sob that rose helplessly from her chest. If Matron was right about anything, she needed to pull her shattered mind together; she was no good to anyone, least of all Jamie, if she couldn't think straight.

‘He's in the best hands,' Rosie murmured nearby, squeezing Claire's arm. ‘Your favourite surgeon is clearing theatre for him.'

‘Thanks,' Claire bleated.

‘Wash your face, take a break, and get your mind back on the job. I wish I knew what this was all about.'

‘Who's doing the anaesthetic?'

‘Claire,' Rosie murmured with exasperation. ‘Go.'

Her friend left her alone to stare at her hands, which were stained with blood – Jamie's blood. It could have belonged to others but she knew in her heart it was his life that had bled into her hands. She could feel the red-brown smudges burning, taunting her with the fragility of his life in the trenches and up on the ridges.
Live, Jamie, live
, she pleaded in the tilting, muggy silence of where she stood.
Live for me. And I will love you
.

She heard voices and turned away, but someone called her name.

‘Claire! You're needed in theatre.'

She felt her heart give as her mind scattered to the possibilities. He'd died before they'd even had a chance to operate? No, he'd roused, was asking for her so she would share his dying words . . .

‘I'm not supposed to —'

‘Matron's orders.'

She ran back, ripping off her apron, scrubbing her hands and, flicking droplets of water, hurried into theatre.

Matron met her. ‘Contrary to my best advice, our surgeon insists only you should apply the anaesthetic.'

Claire straightened, and the older woman forced her to return her gaze. ‘Claire. It's not just one wound, it's several.'

She nodded, swallowing hard, and found the calm that her years of training had bestowed. The surgeon trusted only her. Jamie was depending on her.

‘I'm fine, Matron,' she finally said, surprised her voice sounded so steady. In theatre she knew her role and already she felt more in charge of herself. ‘I know what I have to do.'

Matron gave her a final warning but Claire saw beyond the stare to glimpse only sympathy.

‘Nightingale!'

‘Coming, sir.'

She finally approached the prone Jamie. His clothes were removed, his body stained with blood and his skin was slightly charred, but his face in repose looked relaxed and unmarked . . .vulnerable but desperately handsome. And hers. No one had belonged to her for years; now someone did. She wouldn't give him up.