Nightingale (5 page)

He wouldn't fall, he wouldn't trip, he wouldn't give up . . . he wouldn't let his mate down. He thought of Pippy and how tirelessly she worked because he asked her to. It didn't matter how hot the sun blazed, or how many hours they were in the field, Pippy wouldn't stop because Jamie needed her. And Jamie wouldn't stop now because Spud needed him and no Johnny Turk was going to have the chance to shoot him in the back. He thought of the music he played most nights with his enemy and wondered if that soldier was shooting at him right now.

His thoughts were roaming.
Stay focused.
‘Spud?'

Nothing.

‘Spud!'

‘It's your shout,' Spud mumbled and Jamie helplessly began to leak tears around his grim smile.

‘Hang in there, Harry,' he whispered, more for himself as he encountered a familiar nullah he had negotiated so many times previously. ‘We're halfway, mate.'

The noise of shelling and rapid gunfire this close was disorienting as well as terrifying. Claire was momentarily paralysed the moment she set foot on the beach, as though her feet had taken root. The smell of tar and wet timbers of the hastily erected jetties broke through the familiar aroma of smoke that permeated the hospital ship. The soft late spring breeze brought the earthy whiff of animal dung and, curiously, soap. She blinked at the men who were laughing and bathing in the water, some drying themselves with their shirts and others racing each other down to the water as though they were at the seaside.

The scene around her was surreal. Groans from the wounded and dying mingled with the braying of mules and voices of joshing soldiers, while a dislocated man's voice on a megaphone barked orders that she presumed someone was following. In the distance and over the last few minutes the shelling had suddenly gone quiet and all she could now hear was the soft, infrequent crack of gunfire. She could swear a bird was singing somewhere too. It was like hell's version of a holiday resort. And cheese . . . why could she smell cheese?

A Turkish shell obligingly landed thirty yards from where she stood, exploding in the water to snap her from her stupor. The shock of watching explosive, unexpected death arrive so callously made Claire gasp with horror.

Her guide, Gupta, who was clearly used to these scenes, pleaded with a frantic gaze at her. ‘Please, madam,' he urged, his head shaking in that Indian way. ‘Please,' he repeated, herding her off the makeshift jetty towards the cliff face and its relative protection to the shamble of tiny awnings that she gathered were serving as the field dressing and clearing station. Claire quickly gathered her wits.

‘I'll be fine. Gupta, get help for those men in the water; one may bleed to death if he's not taken onto the ship immediately.'

‘I have to —'

‘I know. But him first. Promise me, or I'll go and get him myself.'

‘I promise, madam. I'll go now.'

Looking around, Claire could see it was a shambles. She'd already calculated that there was seemingly nobody in overall command of the embarkation of wounded men at the jetty, which now explained the increasingly steady stream of the walking wounded making their own way onto the hospital ship. Others, less mobile, waited – bleeding, dying – to be ferried out to the transport ships that were also anchored offshore and each evening would make the sailing back to Mudros and then on to Egypt. These ships were rapidly earning the nickname of deathships because there was no medical officer on board, no nurse, and no medical supplies, despite the pledges. Reports were that many were dying from infection or hemorrhaging on the voyage. It all felt so hopeless.

There was no sign of the medical officer when Claire finally arrived into the thick of suffering at the base of the cliff and knelt immediately in the sand to gauge the situation of the wounded man nearest her. Half of his jaw looked to have disappeared, blown away by shrapnel. At the sight of her, a single tear leaked from the man's eye, snaking into his hairline. She nodded and smiled to cover the misting in her eyes. A weeping nurse helped no one. She checked his identification disc.

Charles
, she read. ‘Charlie?' she guessed and he nodded awkwardly. ‘I'm Nurse Nightingale. I'm going to help with that pain and then I'm getting you onto the hospital ship. All right?' He nodded again, wearily, as though just her words of intent brought the relief he needed.

Claire quickly assembled her syringe, pulled out a vial of morphine and within moments Charlie Packer floated away to a new place in his mind where there were no bombs or blood, hunger or thirst. She caught the attention of a stretcher-bearer. He ran up. She scribbled a note, glad she'd had the forethought to pack these few items, detailing what had been administered, and pinned it to Charlie's chest. She'd have to tell Matron that they needed safety pins, pencils and cards down here so adequate triage could be organised; they also needed someone on the jetty making sure the most urgent cases were loaded first. ‘This man needs immediate attention.' The bearer nodded and yelled to a companion in a language she didn't understand. ‘He'll need to go straight to theatre,' she insisted.

Claire looked around and felt the weight of fear press on her chest as there were dozens of men lying on the sand in equal need of attention. She blanked out everything around her except the man she was working on and became lost in her work and rapidly began to marshall anyone within shouting distance for help. Men on rest hours, surprised, horrified, perhaps even vaguely delighted to see a woman in their midst, came to her aid and cheerfully carried out her orders.

Claire inwardly rejoiced at the feeling of being in control at last – not of people, but finally of her situation. It felt uplifting to be in command, achieving, giving directions and not hovering in a mire of despair as it often felt on board. Claire experienced her sense of purpose returning and knew her presence, no matter how short, was going to make a difference and ultimately save some lives today.

Within a short time she was known as Nurse Claire, even caught herself laughing with a couple of the less gravely injured who assisted her with writing out notes, pinning them to men and then helping with forming the queue to the jetty in order of urgency.

‘You can hold on, can't you, Johnno?'

‘For you, Nurse Claire, I could fly to the moon.'

She smiled. ‘Your shoulder's dislocated. I can put it back in, but —'

‘I'll be right,' Johnno said. ‘Just light my smoke first. You can see to me later.'

Claire lost track of time and patients but it felt like only moments had passed before a senior officer tapped her on the shoulder.

‘Nurse Nightingale?'

‘Er, yes?' She stood from where she'd been kneeling to dress a shocking burn to a man's face. As she straightened, she felt the tightness in her back complain; it had probably been protesting all morning. The smell of burnt flesh was still cloying. The young soldier would be maimed for life but he would live to see his girlfriend in Bathurst.

The officer frowned at her. ‘Thank you.' It sounded heartfelt but uncertain. ‘But you shouldn't be here. It's too dangerous. I'm . . . confused.'

‘Claire,' she said, wiping her hand and offering to shake his.

He did so. ‘You're doing triage?'

‘I tagged along with the messenger. I know this breaks the rules but Matron wanted to get a proper sense of what's happening here on the beach and how we might help streamline things for you. I volunteered.'

‘Happening? Chaos, death, destruction . . . lunacy. I don't think our generals can keep the death toll secret any longer. I won't let them. What's happening here is beyond all reasoning. I wonder if they'd send their sons.'

She nodded. ‘Matron forbids us to think like that.'

He blew out a long sigh. ‘I'm sorry I wasn't here – I was getting a message out to the
Queen Elizabeth
about this hellhole but I'm afraid their focus is squarely on gaining ground. The evacuation procedure is wildly insufficient, to say the least. Hundreds of men are dying that we could likely save if the system were better, but of course you can see that for yourself.' He shrugged an apology. ‘Thank you for coming. Your presence alone will make a huge difference.'

‘Better get back to it,' she said, bending down to tend to a soldier.

________

Another bullet snapped a small branch from a scrubby bush to his right. Ten more steps and he'd be out of range. Impossibly, he began to run. He had handed himself over to instinct and the tiny corner in his mind that was pure animal took over. With a guttural roar, he ignored the crush in his chest as his ribs were compressed by Spud's dead weight and he was charging, feinting left, then right, even jumping once over a furrow. No matter what, he pushed on. He was out of firing range, but didn't want to think about whether Spud had been hit. Droplets of sweat stung his eyes and he tasted the salt leaking onto his lips. Almost there.
Push!
his father urged from far away.
Keep your head down, stay safe, come home. Not in a box, mind
. Echoes of the Flinders crowded in on his empty headspace. The sound of magpies warbling to each other; Pippy barking joyously, simply because she was alive; colours brighter, deeper, richer than he could describe gathered in a rainbow to remind him of home – purples, yellows, reds and endless blue. He would see it all again. He would kiss the ground at Farina one day.

The numbness that had reached down his arm mocked him. Where was that coming from? Had he been hurt? That's right, his shoulder. Don't reach my legs, he pleaded. Let me get to the beach, then you can take all of me.

He could no longer feel anything on his left side, although his legs mercifully kept moving by instinct, but now his vision was blurring and surely tricking him. That couldn't be a woman on the beach – he had to be hallucinating. No, it was surely an angel.

Was that sand beneath him? Was that the shore? Gunfire had faded, he could hear no more artillery but his senses had narrowed entirely to the sketchy, blurry vision of an angel in the midst of the carnage.

Perhaps they had both died? Was heaven collecting them? His legs finally crumpled and he sagged, Spud rolling off his back as the angelic figure noticed him.

________

Claire realised she didn't even know the officer's name and was about to ask when she suddenly saw behind him a lurching figure with a face entirely covered by a crusted layer of blood and dirt. He was staggering towards the tent. Looking in far worse shape, however, was the soldier he had somehow balanced across his back. Their gazes met as his knees buckled and the wounded soldier toppled off into the sand. Claire rushed towards them.

‘Help me, please,' Jamie begged before he collapsed. It took a few moments before he found his voice again, shaking his dark head as if to clear a muddled mind. ‘We were buried. He's badly wounded but he was conscious not long ago,' he rasped.

Claire and the medical officer dragged the fallen man closer to the casualty station.

‘Are you hurt?' Claire asked, moving back to speak with the heroic carrier.

He ignored the question, eyes riveted on his friend. ‘They all said he was a goner. I don't want to believe that, not Spud.'

She shielded her eyes and looked up the escarpment of unforgiving terrain. This soldier had somehow carried a man twice his own weight downhill over the most treacherous landscape in heat, all the while being shot at . . . She licked her lips, feeling her own thirst, unable to imagine how lightheaded he must be feeling. ‘What's your name?'

‘Jamie Wren.'

She smiled sadly at him. ‘Claire Nightingale. You're very brave.'

He looked at her now and his broken expression beneath the dirt on his face touched her. ‘He's my best mate.'

Claire nodded. ‘The doctor's with him. Wait here.'

Jamie didn't wait, though. He struggled to his feet, shambling behind her. Claire peered into the tent. ‘Do we have any water for this man, please?'

No one reacted. She glanced at the doctor's water canister at his hip and undid it. ‘Forgive me – this man needs a sip to recover.' She handed it to Wren. He glanced at the doctor who nodded and only then he accepted it.

‘Thank you, sir.'

As he reached for it she saw him wince and knew he was hurt.

‘Is he dead?' he asked as he handed her back the can, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, heedless of the blood on his hands.

Claire's concerns deepened.

‘No,' the doctor replied. ‘But close enough, son.'

Claire watched her soldier's expression remain unchanged but within the darkest of warm brown-green eyes she saw the flicker of hope dashed.

She imagined the power brokers on the ship staring at maps from some safe vantage and making decisions – poor decisions – with young men's lives. If they were here – if they could see it, experience it for themselves – they'd surely evacuate all these men, her inner voice raged.

A groan from their patient captured their attention. The doctor looked at Claire and shook his head slightly over the top of Wren's bent head as he leaned over his mate. The doctor stood, moved away quietly to someone whose life he had a better chance of preserving. Claire knew she should do the same.

‘Hey, Spud, you silly bugger. You caught one.'

‘Yeah. Caught but not out, mate.'

‘No, not out, Spud.'

She tuned out to the desperately sad conversation and stepped away with the doctor.

‘Not worth taking him on board?' she whispered.

‘He'll be gone before you reach the jetty.'

She took a deep breath, saw Gupta arriving and turned back to touch Wren's shoulder. ‘I must go, but —'

‘Just a moment longer? I don't want to do this alone.'

There was something so heartbreakingly touching about the plea that Claire had nodded before she could censor herself. ‘Let's move him over here. It won't hurt him, I promise.' She didn't believe the man called Spud was feeling much at all. ‘What's his name?'

‘Harry Primrose,' Wren answered and his look defied her to smile.

She did with a soft gasp of a laugh. ‘Gosh, you two must take some stick. Wren and Primrose.'

‘Yeah,' he said and his eyes lingered on her.

‘Nurse Nightingale?' It was Gupta.

‘Just a moment please, Gupta. What happened?' she said, trying to keep Wren talking.

He explained.

Harry's lids fluttered open again and Claire could barely believe it when his expression broadened into a wide smile, wrinkling the mud that caked his face. She recognised the sudden lucidity that often pre-empts death. Harry was about to leave them. ‘Cor, mate, is this a trick of the eye or are you the luckiest bloke in hell to have found a gorgeous girl?'