The Last Lady from Hell (22 page)

Ward 51 was close to the operating rooms, and in cold weather the surgeons and nurses would regularly visit to warm up between operations. Ether was commonly used in the OR as an anesthetic, and because of its explosive nature no stoves or flames of any sort were allowed in the vicinity. Fortunately spring was on its way now and on this day, the stoves were not needed.

The patient Sheila was tending to was a 23 year old man from Wales. His patient charts were hanging on a hook mounted at the foot of his bed and Sheila had made herself thoroughly familiar with the information.

“Douglas Patrick Waren,” she read. “Protestant. Multiple lacerations to the legs, numerous burns on lower body.”

She unwrapped the soiled bandages and replaced them with new ones. The wounds were improving each day. She took great care to swab the surrounding areas with alcohol and iodine, if the patient’s wounds became infected, it would not be because of her poor attention. His condition was not grave and with the care of Sheila and the grace of God, he was expected to recover fully, at least physically.

Waren’s wounds were fully due to a German mortar round nicknamed “Minnie,” short for Minnenwarfer, the name of the manufacturer. The bomb landed in his trench killing five of his fellow infantrymen and injuring him and two others. The fragments that ripped through his legs had thankfully missed all major arteries and due to the quick actions of a field medic his loss of blood had been kept to a minimum. In fact, he lost far more blood on the operating table with the surgeons digging out the shards of metal than he did on the battlefield.

Young Douglas Patrick was awake and, despite his wounds and the pain from the removal of the dressings, his attention was focused on his attractive young nurse.

Sheila smiled as she worked on his wounds, she knew he was watching her and she marveled at the innate flirtatious nature of young men. It was actually a good sign and indicated that the patient was mentally and physically recuperating well.

As he watched her, Douglas said, “I have a castle in Wales called Caernarvon.”

“You don’t say,” Sheila said casually.

“I do say,” he said. “I’d love for you to be my princess and come home with me.”

She flashed him a warm, playful smile. “I just accepted a proposal from King George, himself, an hour ago. I can’t possibly disappoint his Highness for fear of losing my head.”

He let out a loud laugh, “A good choice, he has far more gold than I.”

She winked at him and moved on to the next patient. Sheila recalled what her ward doctor had told her one day as he watched her engage the injured men: “A pretty nurse is fine medicine.” She knew she had to maintain her upbeat demeanor. She also knew that some men would never fully recover, while others would recover only to be sent out to the battlefield again. Everyday a new crop of wounded would replace those leaving; their bodies torn apart by war and then patched back together again just as those before them.

Sheila had been in France nearly six months now. It didn’t seem possible. When the fall semester had ended at Queens University, she had joined the nurse corps. After a short indoctrination, she was sped to the Western Front where her services were sorely needed.

Although she was remarkably outgoing and made friends with ease, she missed her pipers and drummers terribly. Several times a week Sheila would take time out to play her pipes for the patients, doctors, and fellow nurses. Entertainment was a scarce and valued commodity that would serve to take one’s mind off of the ugly realities of war. It had a valuable recuperative quality that was totally lost on the head nurse who believed Sheila’s playing to be completely unladylike and undignified.

At times the weight of caring for others who were so desperately damaged and whose young futures had been so irrevocably dashed was too much for her to bear. She would be overcome with deep despair. It was a feeling that would have prompted most other people to run away and cry, but Sheila was not one for tears. She would subdue these feelings by playing her pipes and dropping deeply into the pipers’ trance. This would blank out everything around her as she totally immersed herself in her music.

There were a total of one thousand beds in the 5th Canadian Stationary Hospital and, thanks to the relentless fighting on the western front, the beds were almost always occupied.

Infection and gangrene were the enemies of the severely injured. The doctors and nurses relied heavily on iodine, alcohol, sulphur, ointments and, most of all, the individual’s healthy immune system. Antibiotics had not been discovered yet, of course, but had they been available they would have reduced the number of post battlefield deaths enormously. Ultimately it boiled down to the person’s ability to recuperate and a cheerful nurse could only help.

Sheila worked with those that were recovering, but for those that were not expected to survive there was a select ward. It was a sad and horrible place, referred to as “the ward for the hopeless.” As is inferred by the name, it was the place where those who had no chance for recovery were taken when nothing more could be done for them.

Most of the wounded in Ward 51 were acutely aware when an orderly came to wheel a patient out to that place. The ward always fell silent and somber as the unlucky man was being moved. God forbid, the patient was conscious because, if he were, he knew that his young life was soon to end. The look of desperation and fear on that patient’s face as he was wheeled out would haunt all who witnessed his exit for the rest of their lives.

There were very few that would beat the odds and return from the ward for the hopeless, but, from time to time, it would happen. When one did it would provide a spark of hope to those being wheeled out of the recovery ward. The job of the nurses was to make those who “were being given up on” as comfortable as possible which usually meant morphine.

Morphine was widely and liberally used because, frankly, it worked. It would subdue the worst pain and provide a feeling of euphoria. The downside of the drug was that it would slow down the
patient’s metabolism and, if given in regular and sufficient amounts, could stop the respiratory system resulting in death. Since this was what was awaiting most of the men that entered that ward, the odds of the patient spontaneously recovering became even slimmer in as much as their natural ability to fight for life was compromised by the negative effects of the drug.

Morphine was commonly used by field medics to ease the agony of those who were wounded beyond the point of saving, a humanitarian practice that would allow the soldier to quietly slip away. Doctors, likewise, would look the other way and use the drug for “humane” purposes in the ward for the hopeless.

If Sheila had a dollar for every morphine shot she had administered, she could comfortably retire.

There was one patient with whom Sheila had become quite intrigued, almost infatuated with. He was a mystery and she loved a good mystery. Maybe in his mid-twenties, he was about six foot, quite handsome, and had a strong build. He had been in the 5th Canadian Hospital since they returned from Galipolli about a year earlier. Some of the senior nurses claimed that he was found in a convent near the front. The nuns had taken him in and nursed him along, but were unable to bring him out of the coma in which he persisted. After exhaustive care for many months and endless prayers, they realized that he was beyond their capabilities and alerted a nearby clearing station who promptly took charge of him.

He had been found in a trench and because he was thought dead his tunic and boots had been stolen. It was determine that he was a soldier for the commonwealth but his cold meat tags were gone so his identity remained a mystery.

The injury that had befallen him was a serious head wound and it was a miracle that he had survived at all. It had, however, rendered him completely unconscious in a semi-comatose state. He had stabilized in that persistent state with no improvement so the doctors
were inclined to focus their attention on those who were responding and all but ignored the mystery patient.

On two separate occasions he had developed a fever that was thought to be due to infection so they put him in the ward for the hopeless to die. But, because he was comatose, there was no need to morph him up so his metabolism was not impeded by the drug. Miraculously, he spontaneously recovered both times.

Sheila had taken interest in this fighter and spent much of her free time tending to him. One doctors’ observation to Sheila was that his brain sustained damage but not so severe that he would never recover. His reflexes and survival instinct gave hope. When drink was put to his mouth he would swallow, when soft food was spooned into his mouth he would ingest it and masticate with no problem.

Sheila made him her project. She even named him “Bully” after the canned beef issued to the B.E.F. He seemed capable of eating massive quantities of the substance that most other patients and soldiers complained about. In fact, his appetite was greatly responsible for his being alive at all.

Several of the concerns that must be addressed in dealing with a non-ambulatory, bed-ridden patient are muscle atrophy, joint calcification, and tendons tightening. The patient must be moved regularly. Their arms, legs, neck, and back must be moved through as full a range of motion as is physically possible.

Sheila knew this and would work on Bully several times a day. The regular movement of the young man also prevented bed sores which could become quite severe in patients such as Bully. She would even wheel his bed outside to provide him with some fresh air and sunshine, often taking the opportunity to play the pipes for the other patients while Bully was getting his sun and air.

One doctor had warned her about getting too involved with any patient especially one with such a dismal prognosis. She knew he was right, but couldn’t seem to turn her back on this unknown young man.

“He’s somebody’s son,” she said in answer to the doctor’s warnings.

As she was on break, deep in thought, and pulling and twisting Bully’s arms and legs, a thought came to her.

“Perhaps I should have named you Lazarus,” she muttered to him. “After all, you came back from the ward for the hopeless twice.”

She flexed his wrists and fingers. “No. That would sound stupid. Lazarus. Who would want to be called Lazarus? Bully is better.” She moved his head from side to side. She needed this man because he represented a spark of hope where despair, pain, and suffering were the norm. He had to recover. She was too deeply involved.

A doctor tapped her on her shoulder snapping her out of her thoughts. “A train of injured just arrived,” he said. “They will be here any minute. We may need extra help in the OR and, most certainly, after they’re patched together you’ll be very busy.”

“Thanks for the warning,” she said in an uncustomarily cheerless voice. “Did you inform Sister Kathleen?”

“I was hoping you would take care of that for me,” he said in a slightly apologetic tone.

“Thanks,” Sheila said sarcastically, as she turned to get a clean apron that would soon be covered with blood. “I’ll take care of it,” she said over her shoulder.