Angel Of Mercy: Wwi Trilogy, #1 63276y

Angel of Mercy

WWI Trilogy, Volume 1

Melina Druga

Published by Sun Up Press, 2021.

Copyright 2019 Melina Druga/Sun Up Press Melina Druga www.melinadruga.com

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Editor: John Druga Cover art: London Montgomery

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

1914

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Thank you for reading Angel of Mercy!

Canada During World War I

A Sneak Peek of Those Left Behind

The Medical Care in Angel of Mercy

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Further Reading: Those Left Behind

Also By Melina Druga

About the Author

About the Publisher

1914

I hate not Germans, nor grow hot with the love of Englishmen, to please the newspapers. – From This is No Case of Petty Right or Wrong by Edward Thomas

Chapter 1

“H ettie, stand still and let the seamstress do her job.” “There’s just something about it I don’t like,” Hettie said. Mrs. Steward sighed. “Really, dear, you must learn to be less particular. Come stand back on the stool and let Miss Fletcher note the alterations.” Henrietta Steward briefly turned back to the full-length mirror, trying to envision, without much success, how her hair would look in one of those newfangled styles she had seen in her sister Ida’s fashion magazines. Not that it mattered anyway; her mobcap veil would cover her hair. As she critiqued herself, Hettie swayed slightly, keenly aware something was amiss. Maybe it was because the fashion of the dress wasn’t, well, fashionable. It certainly would not have been Hettie’s first choice, but it was respectable and presented her well in society, so her parents approved. She placed a hand on her chest. The lace on the dress’ neckline was encroaching on her throat, giving the persistent and constant feeling that she was choking while the buttons near her wrists felt as tight as manacles. Hettie attempted to inhale when her mother once again ordered her back to the stool. Hettie obeyed, returning to the centre of the room, and stood facing her mother and sister, Mabel, while Miss Fletcher took additional measurements and pinned fabric. The clock on the mantle struck eight, and Hettie glanced at it, reminding herself she had to leave within the hour. “After the wedding, I’m going to miss going to the hospital every day.” Mrs. Steward sighed again. “Working as a nursing sister was very noble of you, and you received the education your father believed you deserved. But it’s time to allow a man to take care of you now. It’s one of the benefits of marriage.” “Building a life with the one you love is the only benefit of marriage,” Hettie said. “Mrs. Bartlette works.” “I don’t know where you get these ideas. Mrs. Bartlette is a widow with four children still at home.”

Hettie glanced at Mabel for help dealing with Mother, but her sibling was silent. Amelia Bartlette, Mrs. Steward’s closest friend and Hettie’s future mother-inlaw, did indeed have four children at home – four adult children. Both Hettie and Mabel suspected Mrs. Bartlette worked outside the home because she enjoyed it and took fulfillment from it although they had no idea why someone would take fulfillment from being a charwoman when she could so easily have chosen to be a seamstress or a tutor or even a shop girl. It seemed very menial. “Hettie,” Mabel said, “you won’t be thinking about Royal Victoria when you see how handsome Geoffrey looks. And besides, I’m looking forward to spending time together again.” The bride-to-be smiled, ing the days when she and Mabel were girls. They did spend much of their precious free time together, playing as children and discussing boys and fashion as teens, but that time had dwindled to nearly none at all in recent years. She didn’t want to risk hurting Mabel’s feelings by disagreeing, so for the time being, she decided to discontinue her debate with Mother. “Yes, I look forward to that as well,” Hettie said, still smiling. Mother looked pleased. “Good. See, all is well that ends well. Simply keep your priorities top-of-mind and you’ll never miss working.” Hettie thanked Miss Fletcher and went into a back room to change into her nurse’s uniform. The moment she crossed the threshold her smile faded. Why did I have to be such a coward and dropped the debate? she thought. What does it say about my character if I can’t stand up for my right to have a career? Was I simply frightened of being impolite? Why can’t a woman have both a husband and a career? Why must I be forced to choose between the love of my life and my life’s ion?

HOURS LATER, HER SHIFT over, Hettie walked out of Royal Victoria Hospital, pausing to adjust her nurse’s veil and smooth her coat when she saw her fiancé Geoffrey Bartlette waiting for her on the sidewalk. He was punctual, as always, ready to escort her to the Bartlette house where Hettie kept her bicycle during the workday. Their eyes met, and Hettie left the covered porch and skipped down the white staircase to where he waited, a delighted smile on his face. Her haste startled the birds that had settled for their daily slumber on the trees and bushes of the hospital’s grounds, and she laughed as some took flight while others chirped in alarm. He kissed her gently when she reached the sidewalk, and they began to stroll arm-in-arm toward Ross Street. Then, as he did every evening, he asked about her day. “I’m feeling very sentimental about this place. I’m going to miss it,” she said over the din of car engines and horses’ hooves. “I know, but we’ve been through this before,” Geoffrey said. “If it were my decision, I’d allow you to work until we have children, but I can’t do that, Hettie. Some people – outside of our families – think it’s a bad match for a man to marry a woman more educated than himself. If you continue to work, people will think I can’t us.” Hettie gave him a sympathetic, knowing glance. She knew what he meant without an explanation. Geoffrey had wanted to continue his education and become the first person in his family to finish high school, but instead that honor was going to go to his sister, Maeve, a blow to both his pride and masculinity. And, sadly, it was all beyond his control. In 1906, when he was sixteen, Geoffrey’s father died, and the priority switched to helping Geoffrey’s mother and siblings pay the mortgage and other expenses. He had managed to talk his way into a position at a law firm, and spent his days filing, typing, running errands and doing anything else the solicitors found it beneath themselves to do. The position had been previously held by a woman, yet another blow to his masculinity, and the low pay reflected that. From there on out, education had become a luxury, a luxury for other people, like the Stewards.

Hettie had completed high school before spending three years in Toronto attending a competitive nursing college. Geoffrey had been forced to stay behind, the entire time being the patient, ive fiancé, never once voicing his dreams. It flattered his ego to know that she loved him despite the fact he was an uneducated clerk and she could so easily attract someone with pedigree and status. Even though Hettie was aware of all of this, she did not understand why it mattered if a married woman worked outside the home. She had no doubt she could be both a dutiful wife and a dedicated employee. “I have good news,” he said, interrupting her just as she opened her mouth to speak. “I’ve found us a place to live. It’s in H Block, of course, near Mama. I’d like you to go with me tomorrow to see it.” Their eyes again met, and she noticed his green eyes were shining. He looked proud of himself. Could she really start a disagreement with him now that his mood was so buoyant? “Yes, set it up and we’ll go look. I’m eager to see it.” She paused and when he didn’t immediately respond said, “Freddie told me the most interesting piece of gossip this morning.” “Do we have to talk about your brother right now? I wanted to tell you more about the flat.” Hettie swallowed hard and nodded, her face beginning to feel flush. “Of course. My apologies.” “It’s all right, Hettie. It’s just sometimes it seems like your mind is elsewhere. Only one more month left, and we’ll be spending the rest of our lives together.” Hettie felt her stomach turn. The phrase “the rest of their lives” seemed so final. There had never been another person in the world she wished to marry, yet she was equally ionate about nursing, and no one seemed to understand that. Her life would not feel complete without Geoffrey or nursing. She wanted both. She needed both. If only there was a way... Geoffrey coughed, and Hettie tightened her grip on Geoffrey’s arm. When she did so, she could feel his ribs through his thin coat. Geoffrey was of average

height, but he had been ill throughout childhood and was perhaps a bit on the skinny side. She would soon fix that in no time, she told herself, by cooking him nutritious meals. As for his clothes, which were not as nice as her father’s and brothers’, she would improve that area of his life as well. Geoffrey needed her, she knew; he needed her to erase all the bad memories and experiences of his formative years. Isn’t that the role Mother kept telling her a good wife filled? “I don’t mean to seem distracted or distant, Sweetheart. But I’m not like those silly girls who when planning a wedding think of nothing else. I have patients to tend to at work. Freddie and I are spending as much time as we can together, and Father insists we keep up-to-date on events overseas so we can discuss them at dinner.” “I don’t care about European politics.” Geoffrey pointed. “Do you see that?” The setting sun behind Barrie’s buildings cast strips of orange brightness and gray shadow on the city. Hettie laughed. “It looks like a painting. It’s beautiful.” “You’re beautiful.” Geoffrey ushered Hettie off the sidewalk and into Queen’s Park. “You might be a bit late for that political debate tonight.” Far enough into the park that ersby could not see them, Geoffrey pushed Hettie against a tree and kissed her ionately for several minutes. When he finally pulled away, they were both breathing heavily. “See,” Geoffrey said, “there’s another thing that happens in a month. We can finally be together without chaperones or fear of being caught. Without running across Freddie and his girlfriend in the barn.” Hettie giggled and felt her temperature rising. “I want that more than anything.” “Good.” Geoffrey kissed her again, this time more quickly, and when he pulled away, he led her deeper into the park. Spring flowers were blossoming, and he stopped at a collection of yellow lilies. She was expecting a bouquet, but he only picked two, explaining that the flowers represented them. Hettie lifted the buds to her nose, letting their faint aroma fill her nostrils.

The couple looked at one another and smiled.

Chapter 2

Hettie had been dreading moving into the apartment ever since she saw it a month ago, but she had not allowed herself to betray her true feelings. When Geoffrey had showed it to her, she feigned enthusiasm and gratitude. She reminded herself that he was doing the best he could and that their fortunes would surely change if she were patient long enough. If she had anything to say about it, and if Geoffrey’s pride didn’t get in the way, she would find a way to help them better their station. The first step had happened this morning. Now that they were married, her hard-earned savings automatically transferred to him. Today was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, but, as the newlyweds traveled from the reception to that horrid apartment, she felt as if she were about to face her executioner. Hettie had not started off the day thinking negatively. She had awakened optimistic and happy, face aglow and flush with anticipation. Her elder sisters and her brother Walter’s wife had helped her get ready, and they had talked about men like school girls, giggling the entire time. Afterward she rode to Barrie Presbyterian with Father, and it felt like a privilege to have his undivided attention. By the time Father walked her down the aisle, the butterflies in her stomach had begun. With everyone’s eyes upon her, the room felt hot and if she closed her eyes, it felt like it was spinning. The ceremony was a jumbled blur, already mostly forgotten. All she ed was Father giving his permission for the marriage and the minister pronouncing her and Geoffrey “man and wife.” The sheer number of well-wishers in the receiving line had been overwhelming, and by the time it was over, Hettie’s cheeks ached from smiling. Hettie had hundreds of relatives while Geoffrey had, at best, a couple dozen. His father had been an orphan with no known family, and most of his mother’s family had either moved or ed away. Still, thanks to their mothers’ close, lifelong friendship, Geoffrey and his four siblings were as intimate as blood relation. Their mothers were so pleased by this marriage. The Bartlette and Steward children were close in age, some even born in the same years; it seemed only a matter of time before of the two families married each other, but

it took longer than anyone anticipated. The eldest children had no interest in ing the two families, and everyone had to wait for Hettie to attend nursing school, graduate and work for a year. The reception had been fun, at least for a while. The Stewards had spent a portion of their modest fortune – her inheritance, Hettie joked – on a lavish reception. They had done the same with Ida and Mabel and presumable would do so for Alice and Adelaide when the time came. Nonetheless, although Hettie would never it it, she was impressed by Mother’s hostess skills. The food was delicious, the centerpieces were vases of red roses, and the band even played ragtime. Everything went well until Hettie found herself alone with Freddie near the end of the party. Her face was ruddy from all the dancing and she was once again giggling, lost in the moment, but when she saw him, she gasped. In comparison, he was pensive, brow wrinkled and shoulders hunched. “I wanted to have you to myself for a few minutes before you go away,” he had said. “Freddie, you sound so serious. We’re not going anywhere. I’ll just be living in a different neighborhood.” She scanned the room, avoiding eye . “That may be, but it will never be the same. We’ll never be under the same roof again.” She ran her hands along his shoulders, pretending to smooth the fabric of his dinner jacket, and told him he could visit whenever he wanted. Nothing in their relationship would change. “I want you to be happy,” he said. “But if anything should happen, you can count on me.” “I appreciate that, but nothing in the world could spoil the happiness I feel right now.” Yet Freddie’s comments had spoiled her happiness. She just didn’t realize it until the upbeat atmosphere of the reception was behind her and she and Geoffrey were in the taxicab. Eyes transfixed on their guests waving at them from the curb, she said nothing as the vehicle rumbled forward.

“I don’t think Maeve was at all unpleased to have the attentions of your brother,” Geoffrey said when they were no longer in sight of the hall. “No, that’s true.” Hettie shook her head slightly, trying to stop Freddie’s words from replaying in her mind. “Tommy is finally making his intentions known.” “That should make our mothers happy.” Why did Freddie have to say what he did? she thought. Hettie forced a smile. “Yes, I suppose it would,” she said quietly. Perhaps at some point, there would be another Steward-Bartlette wedding, but Tommy and Maeve were only 18, and Hettie hoped and wanted them to enjoy their youth and freedom before making a commitment. Geoffrey had not noticed his bride’s change in demeanor. He held up his hand and pointed to his wedding ring. “This is the only piece of jewelry I’ve ever owned.” He flashed his brilliant smile. It was infectious and she couldn’t help but smile back. “It suits you well.” “You seem awful quiet.” Hettie broke eye but did not immediately answer. It was essential she change her mindset and snap out of her brooding; she knew this. She could not put the love of her brother above the love of her spouse. She couldn’t tell him what Freddie said or that she didn’t want to live in the apartment. But before she thought of an appropriate response, Geoffrey said, “Are you nervous for the wedding night?” Hettie laughed, her ears beginning to burn. “No. Should I be?” “Of course not. It’s a perfectly wonderful and natural thing for married people to do. Teddy had ‘the talk’ with me this morning. It was my understanding your father gave it to him when he got married.”

Hettie tried to imagine Geoffrey and his brother talking about sex in a sincere manner, but chances were they had snickered and looked at vulgar photos. “How awkward. About Father, I mean.” Hettie laughed again. “Mother had it with me this morning. She forgets I took anatomy and physiology in nursing school. I probably know more about it than she does.” “And what did she tell you?” “Evidently, I’m supposed to close my eyes, lie there and let you do whatever it is that you want.” “Too bad you didn’t know that the first time.” “Geoffrey!” She hit him in the chest, her ears burning even hotter. What if the cab driver had eavesdropped on their entire conversation? “Okay, I won’t say any more about it.” Geoffrey took her hand and squeezed it. “Do you the day I made my intentions known?” The burning in her ears was replaced with a warm feeling that washed all over her. “How could I forget? You sent me a bouquet of primroses. I was only 14years-old, and Father was so upset. Had you been anyone but Geoffrey Bartlette I would never have been permitted to see you again.” “Yes, he was very cross.” Geoffrey laughed. “At the time, I was frightened of him.” “It’s Mother you need to be frightened of. Father says firm things, but he’s harmless. He wouldn’t have been happy to know that I used to do things to impress you. I’d put flowers in my hair and borrow Ida’s rouge. When I was a child and played dolls with Mabel, I imagined all my dollies were your children.” “Did you really?” Geoffrey looked pleased with himself. She laughed, but then the cab stopped, and she saw the building to their left, and her expression went blank. Their triplex loomed not far from the road. Hettie looked askance at the triplex and continued to gawk as Geoffrey helped her out of the vehicle.

How could she be expected to live in a place like this after the comfort of the Steward family home — the house she had spent the majority of her life in, had been nurtured and cared for in? The other tenants could be heard through the walls, and the water pipes creaked and rattled. It was no doubt frigid in the winter and sweltering in the summer. Hettie was astonished the building was electrified and that the gas stove worked. Geoffrey paid the taxicab driver, and Hettie felt her stomach turn as he drove away. Geoffrey took her hand, and they entered the building and climbed a staircase that creaked like the rigging of an old ship to their apartment. Both the entryway and the stairwell appeared dark and gloomy, illuminated with one small lighting fixture that hung from the ceiling three stories above. It was in great contrast to the Steward home’s grand staircase with its gleaming oak and a light at the end of the railing. Hettie held her breath as her skin begin to itch. What if there are insects and rodents crawling in the walls?

Geoffrey unlocked the door when they reached their apartment then lifted Hettie and carried her over the threshold. She giggled at his playfulness, forgetting about their surroundings, and held on as tightly to his neck as she could. Once inside, he kissed her before setting her down. “Welcome home.” Hettie gasped. There, in the sitting room, were all their wedding gifts. Just three days ago, the gifts had been in her parents’ parlor. She and Mother had hosted a thank-you tea for all the gift-givers, but Hettie had paid more attention to the guests than the packages themselves. The gifts were arranged as if they were a display in a department store’s front window. Some were decorated with bows or silk flowers. Each had a card attached. Hettie ran her hand over the pastel wrapping papers. Tears began to fill her eyes as she thought of all the people who loved them enough to ensure they would start married life with the items they needed. “They’re beautiful,” she said. “You’re beautiful,” he said, standing behind her and putting his arms around her waist. “I am so happy to be here with you. I can’t imagine anywhere I would rather be. Thank you for being my wife.”

The tears flowed more freely now, clouding Hettie’s vision. A life with Geoffrey was, after all, what she always wanted. This apartment was only temporary, she told herself, until something better came along. Something good would happen soon to change their situation. Yes, something good would happen; she was sure of it. This dinky apartment was home. For now anyway.

Chapter 3

“T oday is August 5,” Hettie said, marking the day off the calendar. “That means we’ve been married 75 days.” Hettie’s voice sounded foreign and loud. She was alone, having gotten into the habit of talking to herself to alleviate her loneliness, yet she had not grown accustomed to the sound of her own voice. The hair stood up on her arms. A day like today would be an opportune time to visit Mabel, but circumstances had conspired against Hettie. Mabel was pregnant now, and her over-protective husband, Gardner, would not allow her to exert herself in any way, believing activity of any kind was harmful, and he did not permit Mabel to go out or entertain visitors. “That means it’s been 76 days since I was last at Royal Victoria.” One vulnerable afternoon, Hettie had made the mistake of venting to Mother and was told she had electricity, central heat and running water — which Mother didn’t have in her first home — and, therefore, had no right to complain. Mother’s words, though, were mostly exaggeration. She never had to struggle much, even in the early days of marriage. Father’s inheritance had been generous, allowing the family to live a life without worry while still pursuing their own interests. Mother was protected from being subjected to the daily labors most of her peers endured because she had the help of the family’s housekeeper, Mrs. Norris. With Hettie’s marriage, Mother had four children left at home, whom she was trying to mold and guide, and also her customary social rounds to make, and those were the most stringent of her daily activities. “Okay, groceries, I suppose you aren’t going to put yourselves away. If only you could.” Hettie glowered at her adversary, a basket of groceries sitting on the kitchen table. This morning, she had struggled to carry the basket up the three flights of stairs to the apartment and had almost dropped it twice. It was as if the basket was taunting her now, daring her to put everything into the cupboards. Beside the basket sat her housekeeping book, still open to the page where she recorded today’s purchases. There was little left in the budget to cover any more

expenses. Geoffrey knew nothing of Hettie’s dissatisfaction. She had refrained from mentioning it to him, even in ing, for fear she would inadvertently give him the impression that he was at fault, that perhaps she regretted marrying him because he failed to give her the type of home she was accustomed. She was content with Geoffrey himself. His presence put her nerves at ease and calmed her mind, but when he was away, she wished she were anywhere else. How could she explain that to him without reinforcing his belief that he wasn’t good enough for her? Hettie examined the figures in her ing book as if somehow the numbers could have changed. “I mustn’t forget to order more ice. It can’t be avoided in this weather.” Hettie looked out the window before adjusting the table fan in a futile attempt to bring in a cool breeze. People seemed more energetic than usual, their pace more hurried, their voices more boisterous. She wondered if something had happened or if it was just her imagination. “Maybe Geoffrey’s heard something at the office and will tell me when he comes home.” She returned back to her drudgery and the pile of clothing on the sitting-room floor. “Geoffrey’s work shirts need starched. My dress needs ironed. Those need washed. Is housework going to be my entire lot in life until the end of my days?” The building had no washing machine, so she could only do a few pieces at a time. She had to scrub laundry in the bathtub, wring it out and then either lug it outside to hang on the clothesline or hang it by the stove to dry. Her houseplants sat on the windowsill above the kitchen radiator looking parched. She watered them while watching the street below. “What is going on down there?” she said, this time to the plants. “You know, it could be my imagination getting the better of me. If it is, won’t I feel silly.

Geoffrey will be home soon enough. I could just wait and ask him. And the laundry needs done. But if I go buy a newspaper, it’ll settle this at once.” She turned around and spotted her s book. There was scant money left for frivolous things, and a newspaper was by no means a necessity, but there was definitely something different about today. Soon Hettie was stepping onto Owen Street and tipping her face upwards to feel the sun on her skin. She inhaled deeply and her nostrils were met with the stink of manure mingled with exhaust fumes, but it didn’t matter. It was wonderful being outside, among the town’s other inhabitants. She took a moment to savor this, and then ed why she was outside in the first place – the newspaper. As she made her way to the end of the street, she caught bits and pieces of people’s conversations but not enough to tell what, if anything, was happening. When she ed one building, a dog began barking, and in front of another, the scratching noises of broom bristles being swept across the sidewalk caused Hettie to shudder. She quickened her pace, and, finding a place to cross, found a newsboy standing on the corner of Owen and Worsley. “War declared!” she heard him say over the din. Again she shuddered, and the dog’s barking somehow seemed prophetic as if it had been warning her not to go any further, not to pursue her curiosity because she’d be sorry if she did. The newsboy shouted again. “Canada s the war!” Hettie purchased a copy, and a furrow appeared in her brow as she read the headline and subheads. GREAT BRITAIN DECARES WAR ON ! OFFICIAL DECLARATION CAME LAST NIGHT. CANADIANS OFFER TO SERVE. Her heart began to race. Simply because Britain had declared war on didn’t automatically mean Canada had to, or at least that’s what Father would argue, because in reality, being a Dominion of the Empire did mean Canada had no choice. The only freedom the government had was determining the nation’s level of involvement. For some unknown reason, she felt nauseated. No one she knew was in the permanent force; there barely was a permanent force. There was a much larger

militia, but she didn’t know anyone involved in the militia either. She had no cause for worry, she told herself, yet this did not calm her sour stomach. Someone whistled, and Hettie nearly dropped her newspaper. A man was waving his hat in the air, motioning for others to him. He, too, purchased a paper and hoisted it high above his head. “We’ll thrash those Heinies and make them regret the day they stepped foot into Belgium.” Two other men shouted in agreement. “God save the King.” This brought both cheers and applause. As Hettie stood motionless, the man began parading down the street, shouting patriotic pronouncements that were met with smiles, applause and the occasional shout. When he began singing “Rule Britannia,” it didn’t take long for others to him. People are actually happy about this? she thought as goosebumps covered her body. They’re happy we’re at war? She watched until she could no longer tolerate it, then hurried home. Once there, she tossed the newspaper, its pages slightly damp from her clammy palms, onto the kitchen table and thought of Father. Benjamin Steward was proud of his heritage, but he believed Canada had been a Dominion long enough to decide what was best for it and its territories. He would certainly think this was the worst news possible. “You’re the one who had to know what was going on,” she said. “You had to know, and now you do know and it’s unthinkable. It can’t be undone. What am I going to do?” Hettie wiped her shaking hands on her skirt. “Calm yourself. You can’t stand here glaring at the paper willing the headline to change. Do something. Do something!”

Hettie turned on her heel and left the apartment, this time so quickly she didn’t even lock the door. After 15 minutes of wandering downtown, Hettie found herself in front of Gregsen’s Motorcars, Trucks and Trolleys. She lingered on the sidewalk for a moment examining the building as if she’d never seen it before. Gregsen’s name was on the storefront sign, but “Walter Steward, manager” was painted in bold lettering on a smaller sign beside the front door. All the windows and doors were open, letting in what little breeze could come through, and allowing the wham of metal on metal and the roar of engines to drift outside. One man dropped a wretch, and it hit the cement floor with a clang causing some of his coworkers to tease him about being unable to keep his grip. Hettie came closer and saw a Russell among the cars being repaired and ed Walter saying they constantly had problems with sleeve valves malfunctioning, whatever sleeve values were. The Russell was beside a Ford with a bent rim, which she recognized as Walter’s best friend’s car, his chum the speed racer. Look at the damage. He’s going to get himself killed one day, she thought then ed they were at war and shook her head. There will be no more talk about anyone dying. Not today. Hettie entered the garage, hitching up her skirt and walking on her tiptoes as she made her way to the back offices. The grease monkeys, their clothing and hair streaked with oil and petrol and reeking strongly of sweat and fumes, whistled at her as she ed. She ignored them, focused on her destination. Walter was standing in his office studying a ledger and comparing the figures to a stack of papers in the corner of his desk. He was in stark contrast to his employees and looked to Hettie as if he’d just stepped out of a catalogue illustration. He was wearing a spotless pair of tan tros and a waistcoat, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows and his jacket over the back of his chair. Hettie smiled and stood outside the open office door, observing him for a moment. When he didn’t notice her, she knocked. Walter jumped slightly before lifting his head. “What are you doing here?” “I wanted to see you. Is something wrong with that?” “No, not at all.” Walter furrowed his brow for a moment. “Dorothea and I

would be happy to have you us for dinner sometime if it’s a visit you want.” He placed emphasis on the phrase “if it’s a visit you want,” and Hettie knew he was aware she had come for a reason other than she missed him. “We would be delighted,” Hettie said. They both sat and looked at one another for a moment. Hettie continue to smile, but it slowly faded. “Has Father heard the news?” “I imagine so.” “He can’t be very happy.” Walter laughed. “Does it matter? We won’t have to hear about it.” “It doesn’t concern you at all? Mother and our younger siblings will sustain the brunt of Father’s fury.” Walter waved his hand toward the office window. “Maybe you should go bother Freddie about this. After all, it’ll affect him more than us. He always has time for you and your imagination. He always agrees with you. He —” “Walter! We are at war. There are people who are happy about it. Why are they?” “You know as much about the subject as I do. Father saw to that. Okay, you want my opinion? Honestly, I don’t think there is anything to be concerned about. This is a European war; our involvement will be purely symbolic. And even if there is something of concern, don’t involve yourself with politics. You don’t have the vote, so you can’t change a damn thing. What does Geoffrey think of all this?” Hettie inhaled sharply. “I don’t know. We haven’t spoken since this morning.” “Well, perhaps you should find out.” Walter looked down at his ledger and picked up a pen. “You really shouldn’t be here, Hettie. This is no place for a well-bred woman. Go home before something happens.”

Hettie crossed her arms, her brother’s dismissal of her concerns making her cheeks burn. She wanted to yell at him, to cause a scene, but all she could force herself to do was excuse herself and begin the walk home. “I can’t believe Walter,” she said then glanced over her shoulder to make sure no ersby heard her pronouncement. “Since when has this been the case? That a husband’s views and opinions are the same as his wife’s views and opinions?” She huffed and silenced herself. We weren’t raised to think that way. Father and Mother disagree all the time. Never once has Mother turned to him and said, “How should I feel about this?” or, worse, asked, “How do you want me to feel about this?” Why does Walter assume I should do that with Geoffrey? Is that what Dorothea does with him? That seems very unlikely. By the time Hettie returned home, the entire apartment felt like an oven. She turned on the fan then plopped onto the sofa, tears of frustration beginning to form in her eyes. The laundry was never touched, and the ice delivery was never scheduled. She would have to do both tasks tomorrow because now it was time to start dinner. The newspaper still sat on the kitchen table. She stood, grabbed it and tossed it into the cupboard. Tears were streaming down her face, and she wiped them away. Geoffrey could not see them. He could not know what sort of afternoon it had been.

GEOFFREY WAS, IF NOTHING else, predictable and reliable. Today’s dinner, like every other dinner since their marriage, followed the same pattern. Geoffrey recapped his day with statements Hettie almost could quote verbatim. First he complained about the dullness of his duties and the egos of his employers followed by gratitude that he had a position which ed them and put food on their table. Then he always praised his dinner, even though Hettie thought the meals were mediocre, and told her he was happy to be home with her. Hettie, for the most part, was equally reliable. She greeted him at the door every evening with a squeeze and a lingering kiss. His presence was a respite from her otherwise unbearable days. With him home, she no longer had to talk to herself to break the silence. There was life and love in the apartment; it seemed like a different place, a place where she could imagine her future as a happy one, even without Royal Victoria in it. Tonight, however, Hettie was expecting a break from the norm. “This is the most wonderful pork chop I’ve ever had,” Geoffrey said. “And I’ve had plenty of wonderful pork chops.” “Thank you, Sweetheart. I’m happy you’re enjoying it.” Hettie ed him more butter sauce for his carrots and waited. Surely someone in the office must have said something about the governor general’s declaration, or Geoffrey must have ed a newsboy on the way home or heard gossip or something. The war wasn’t, after all, a well-kept secret. It was front-page news. Geoffrey said nothing. Hettie leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table and propping her chin on her hands. She sucked on her lips then pushed them forward, hoping they were plump and red. Still Geoffrey still did not react. He didn’t even seem to notice, so she waited for a response that never came. Eventually, she inhaled sharply. “Did you hear about war being declared?” “I did.” Geoffrey wiped his mouth on his napkin but didn’t bother making eye .

She slipped off her shoe and began running her foot along the length of his calf. At last, he lifted his head and met her gaze. “Why are you pouting, Sunshine? What is it that you want?” “I want to know what you think about it so we can discuss it.” He looked down at his dinner. “I don’t know enough about it to form an opinion.” Hettie put back on her shoe. Walter told me to get my husband’s opinion yet Geoffrey doesn’t have an opinion. So by this logic am I also not supposed to have one? “How could you not have an opinion? I’m always full of opinions, brimming with opinions.” “I know you are. You and your mother are probably the most opinionated women I know. What does your father call you? An independent minded female?” Geoffrey resumed eye . “I’ll read the newspapers in the next few days and then I’ll let you know.” In the next few days? Perhaps I will go visit Father tomorrow and have a conversation with someone who values opinions and the need for discussion. She feigned a smile and leaned back. “All right.” So there it was. She would have to wait days for a simple opinion on whether he thought the war was justified. They finished dinner in silence and when her plate was empty, Hettie went to the sink and began filling the dish pan. “I’m sorry to have upset you,” Geoffrey said. “You were too young to really know my father well, but he taught us not to form opinions or question anything. You accept things as they are.” Hettie turned to face him, hand on her hip. “Why was that?” “You wouldn’t have liked my father had you known him the way I did. He behaved differently in public than he did at home. He treated Mama badly and blamed her for all our problems. He worked as much as he could, not only because it was his duty to do so but because he didn’t want to be around us. I told myself that if I ever had a wife and family, I would treat them with respect.”

As her cheeks began to feel warm, Hettie turned back to the sink and did not respond. Geoffrey’s father had died when Hettie was fourteen. All she knew was he was the father of the Bartlette children and the husband of her mother’s closest friend and that he had worked at the ice house. I wonder what “blamed her for all our problems” means, especially since Geoffrey didn’t give any details. Did Mr. Bartlette lay hands on Mrs. Bartlette? Did he cause her injury? As Hettie washed dishes, she could hear the ruffling of pages and knew Geoffrey had begun reading the newspaper. She bit her lip, a habit when stressed, and forced herself to keep on task and not demand to know his thoughts. Eventually, she heard a plop as he threw the paper down on the table followed by the scrape of his chair on the wooden floor. “When you’re finished, let’s go for a walk by the bay. We need to clear our heads.” Hettie smiled. “Yes, let’s go. It’s been the longest time, it seems, since we’ve been to the bay and summer is already half over. Pretty soon, we’ll look back and say, ‘where has all the time gone?’” “We’ll get ice cream and enjoy the sunset.” Hettie’s smile faded slightly when she ed their budget and the figures in her ing book. “Ice cream? Do you have an appetite for it?” Geoffrey put his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. “As you say, summer is half over. We might as well enjoy it while we can. You never know what might happen.” “What might happen?” Hettie felt a pins and needles feeling envelop her and held her breath. “Well, yes. Before long, you might find yourself in Mabel’s position.” “Oh, of course.” Hettie laughed and the pins and needles feeling dissipated. She turned her head and kissed Geoffrey. “It’ll happen when it’s meant to be.” “I can be patient. God decides these things, not us, anyway.” “Of course. Maybe we’ll see Freddie and Posie, and if they are there, we can go

for a boat ride.” Geoffrey gave her a playful swat on the rear. “Well, hurry up then. It’ll be just like old times, when we had not a care in the world.”

THE HEADLINE ON SATURDAY read ENLISTMENT BEGUN. CANADIANS TO BE SENT TO THE FRONT. The newspaper was within sight as Hettie prepared Sunday breakfast, but she purposefully kept it out of her gaze. Despite the ominous news, there were more important things going on closer to home. Her sister Alice’s sixteenth birthday was next week and she had squirreled away a portion of her final paycheck from Royal Victoria to purchase a gift. But what would Alice like for a milestone birthday? A hair comb, perfume, face powder? Geoffrey entered the room. “Good morning, Sunshine. You rose earlier than me this morning.” “I couldn’t sleep. You know how picky Alice is, and I need to buy the perfect gift or she’ll never forgive me.” “Alice will be all right. She doesn’t realize how privileged she is.” Geoffrey paused and cleared his throat. “Hettie, I read all of the newspapers multiple times, and I made a decision about the war and my views on it. I feel compelled to enlist.” Hettie dropped her spatula into the eggs she had been preparing. “No, no, Sweetheart. You’re joking. This is a bad a joke. Geoffrey, it’s not funny, especially an hour before church.” “Hettie, it’s not a joke. It’s true. This is what my father would want me to do.” The pins and needles feeling that had become so familiar over the past few days returned. “But you said your father was a horrible person, and you didn’t want to be anything like him.” “He was horrible to his family, yes, but he knew how do be dutifully and patriotic. I have to do this for my country, our country.” Hettie shook her head and inhaled sharply. She held up a finger, not knowing what to say. “Wait. What? I don’t understand.” He responded, but she didn’t hear a word he said. Her hands began to shake and she felt faint. This is my fault. I prodded him for his opinion, encouraged him

to read the papers. But how did I know this was going to happen? All I wanted was his opinion, not to spur him into action. She knew she should say something but when her mouth opened, nothing came out. Finally, she said, “No, I can’t let you do this. This war is wrong. This is not our fight.” “I can see your father influences you the same way mine influences me. It is up to each individual to decide whether the war is justified, and I want to be part of it. That’s my final decision. I won’t be swayed. When you went away to nursing school, I ed that decision, didn’t I, even though I would have rather have married four years ago. I’ll do this without you but I’d rather do it with you.” “Geoffrey!” Hettie took a step toward him as the odor of burning eggs filled the apartment. “How can I this?” Geoffrey headed back toward the bedroom. “You’ll have to find a way.” She ran to him and grabbed his arm, tears beginning to swell in her eyes. “Geoffrey. Please. No. You can’t.” “Then come with me, Hettie, because I’m not changing my mind. Have a chance to work again.” “To work? What do you mean?” Geoffrey wiped the tears from her cheeks. “The army nursing service. I know you know what that is and the type of work they do. If you enlist in the army nursing service, you can come with me. What a grand adventure we’ll have together. It won’t be for long. Everyone says this war will be over by Christmas. When the war is over, we’ll stay on the Continent and have our honeymoon. I don’t know of any other way I can give you a honeymoon, Hettie.” Her heartbeat thumping in her ears, she seemed unable to move. “To work again?” “Think about it. I don’t need an answer right now, but I’m going to Toronto tomorrow morning, so I will need to know by then.”

Geoffrey excused himself and walked into the bedroom. When he returned, he was dressed for church. Hettie was standing where he left her. She choked down tears. He was so handsome and so full of the fiery energy she always wished he embodied. She smiled meekly, so proud to call him her husband, before giving him a kiss. “What sort of work do you suppose I’d be doing in the nursing service?” “I suppose you’d be working in a hospital and doing things similar to what you did at Royal Victoria.” “Similar to Royal Victoria.” She paused, letting her brain process this almost unbelievable fact. I can be a nurse again?! “And your plan is for us to have a honeymoon?” “An absolutely perfect honeymoon.” “Then, yes. Yes, I’ll come if it means—” She didn’t finish her sentence, but instead threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. Going back to work is exactly what I need, a break from housework and this apartment and my isolation. It’s a great opportunity that will probably never come again. It— “I’m so happy, Sunshine, that you’re excited about seeing Europe.” She opened her eyes and focused on the wall. He thinks I’m excited about the honeymoon. I can’t let him know the truth. He won’t understand. It’ll make him unhappy.

“Wonderful, Sweetheart.” Geoffrey looked at the mantle clock. “It’s getting late. We best leave now if we want to make it there in time. I’ll take care of the eggs.” Hettie pulled away and made eye . He was pleased with his decision. What was a few weeks in the army if it meant a lifetime of confidence for him? Maybe this was one of those sacrifices Mother was always mentioning, the kind

that were done for the betterment of the family, the kind that were difficult to do initially but had a good end result. Hettie smiled, but her hands again began to shake. Before they left, they would need to face her family, and they would try to stop them. “I love you, Sweetheart.” “I love you, too, Sunshine.” Geoffrey pulled her close again. “This will be a decision we won’t soon forget, will we?”

Chapter 4

As Hettie gazed out over the Atlantic Ocean, three things struck her. First, this was the only time she had ever ventured outside of Ontario. Even her training with the Canadian Army Nursing Service had occurred relatively close to home in Niagara-on-the-Lake. Yet, here she was, about to travel more than a thousand miles from her birthplace. Second, the Canadian Expeditionary Force, abbreviated CEF, was the largest convoy in history to cross the Atlantic. The soldiers, Geoffrey among them, had trained in Valcartier Camp in Quebec. Now, they were all headed to the Salisbury Plain in Southern England for the winter and, if the war did not end first, would enter active duty in the spring. The third thing was more difficult for her to put into words, but in essence it was the flaws in their grand plan. These were flaws Hettie knew from the moment Geoffrey suggested she follow him, but she had chosen to ignore. The lure of working again had been too great. She bit her lip and inhaled, the spray of seawater misting her face. Geoffrey was on one of the other ships, although she didn’t know which one. When would she see him again? The separation was, at times, almost unbearable. Shivering, she told herself she must not dwell on homesickness or Geoffrey. This chance to work again was an excellent opportunity that needed to be seized. Besides, everyone said the war would be over in three months and two months had already ed; it would all be over shortly. It had to be. It was bad enough she was going miss Freddie’s twenty-first birthday on November 11. She wasn’t about to break the promise she’d made Mabel, that she would be home before Mabel gave birth. North America was a smudge on the horizon that blinked out of view. Hettie’s stomach turned. It may have been from seasickness, but more likely it was from her mother’s words echoing in her head: “What kind of husband allows his wife to accompany him to a warzone? Not a very good one, that’s what kind. If we had known this, we would have forbad you to marry him.” When she and Geoffrey had told the rest of the family their plans, there had been emotions she had never seen. Everyone was talking at once, their tone getting progressively more agitated, before the screaming and crying began. Father and

Alice had stormed out of the room, while the others tried to talk some sense into the couple. Everyone was in agreement – Hettie should not go – but although no one liked the idea, it was acceptable for Geoffrey, a man, to go to war. For a woman, it was unthinkable. Why would she want to involve herself in a man’s war, especially in a European man’s war? What’s done cannot be undone. Hettie pulled her cape tightly around her torso. It’s all about making the best of it, and that’s what I intend to do. There’s no turning back now. England is an 11-day steam away. She imagined what Geoffrey was doing at that moment. I’ll see you again soon, Sweetheart. She broke her gaze with the spot on the horizon where Canada had been and surveyed the other ships in the convoy for a moment before beginning to walk the deck. Many of her fellow nursing sisters were still on deck, although most had ventured inside after they departed. She studied their faces. They were as excited about this opportunity as she was. After all, only a tiny percentage of volunteers had been selected for overseas service. When they had been training, Hettie had resisted the urge to socialize and make friends, acknowledging only the women she knew from her years at Toronto General Hospital School of Nursing, but now that Barrie was no longer a short train ride a way, that decision was the wrong one. The other nurses were gathered in small groups engaged in conversation, Geoffrey was with his regiment, and she was alone. She hadn’t even met her roommates. She sighed and went inside, making her way below deck. When she first boarded the ship and went to her cabin, it was empty. The room contained four bunks, so she knew there were three introductions to be made. With luck, she could take care of all of them at once. As she approached the cabin, her nausea growing worse, voices could be heard filtering out into the corridor. There were two women, both young, deep in conversation about uniforms and how men look in them. Hettie could tell from their accents that they didn’t grow up anywhere near Barrie. Why couldn’t she have been assigned a room with her former classmates? Hettie lingered unseen, eavesdropping on their conversation. Why are you acting like this? They won’t bite. Get in there and say something, Hettie. Hettie crossed the threshold, imagining one of her siblings egging her on by daring her

to do it, and cleared her throat. Both of the women turned. One was tall and slim with a freckled face and her light hair pulled up in a style that was popular a decade ago while the other was shorter and fuller with dark hair and flushed cheeks. The taller one said, “Hello. Are you one of our roommates?” Hettie walked toward her with her hand outstretched. “Yes, I’m Henrietta Bartlette from Barrie, Ontario.” “Well, Henrietta Bartlette from Barrie, Ontario, I’m Charlotte Gates from Carman, Manitoba, and this is Elizabeth Barrow from Halifax, Nova Scotia.” Charlotte shook Hettie’s hand and gestured about the room. “Bessie here is hoping we’ll meet some nice boys. What do you think?” “I already have a nice boy. My husband is a member of the CEF. After the war, we’re honeymooning on the Continent.” Charlotte furrowed her brow. “I thought married women weren’t allowed in the service.” Hettie swallowed, her cheeks beginning to burn. She hadn’t kept her wedding ring or the fact she was married secret, but it also hadn’t come up in conversation before either. What if her fellow nurses resented her for taking the place of a single woman, a woman who followed the rules? “My uncle is involved in politics. He had some people who owed him favors. He knew how important it is for me to follow my husband.” Standing in the centre of the room, Bessie put one hand on her hip and the back of her other hand on her forehead, pretending to feel lightheaded, then dramatically moved her hand from her forehead to her chest. “How romantic.” Charlotte chuckled. “Bessie, you make me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever met.” Hettie smiled out of politeness and removed her hat and cloak, revealing the alumnus pin on her chest with its pomegranate emblem and the phrase “that I

may serve” in Latin. She had worn it as a reminder that her time in the Canadian Army Serving Service was, in actuality, to serve patients and not an excuse for a Continental honeymoon. Hettie sat and again smiled as she realized Mother would be horrified knowing her daughter was forced to associate with such unrefined company. It violated etiquette to be on a first name basis with people one just met. To do so is what the etiquette books call “a sign of ill breeding.” Charlotte and Bessie, this social faux pas aside, had to be competent nurses or otherwise they wouldn’t be here, and Hettie saw nothing vulgar and ill-bred about them. In some ways, she envied their freeness with each other. She said, “What do you think will happen to us once we reach England?” “I don’t know,” Charlotte said. “Work in a regular hospital for a while before they send us where they need us.” “Maybe the war will end and it won’t matter,” Bessie said. Charlotte shook her head. “I have cousins in England, and they say things are worse than we are led to believe.” Bessie nodded in agreement. “Worse?” Hettie thought of Geoffrey and feigned a cough so the others would not see the fear in her eyes. “Oh, yes,” Charlotte said, “there have been several battles already, and let’s not forget about the March to the Sea and the fact Paris was nearly captured last month.” Ordinarily Hettie would have been impressed with Charlotte’s knowledge, but she found herself shaking slightly, her fists clenched in her lap. What have we done, Geoffrey? What have we done? Bessie put her hand in front of Hettie as if doing so would protect her. “I think that’s enough talk about that. We don’t know where they’ll send our boys. They could work for the quartermaster for all we know.” “Do you really believe that?” Hettie said.

Charlotte shook her head again. “I’ve not known the two of you for much time, but you know what is at stake here. If they see any weakness in you, in me, they’ll send us home. How many lives will we save if we’re sent home? None. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Do you know who the person is that I ire the most? Florence Nightingale. During the Crimean War, she saw many horrible things, but she didn’t let that stop her from doing what she needed to do.” Hettie and Bessie exchanged glances. The former opened her mouth to speak, wondering for a moment if she was in the presence of some alternate version of herself. “And do you know what’s more?” Charlotte said. “The soldiers have a nickname for us nurses. Do you know what they call us? They call us angels of mercy.” “Angels of mercy,” Hettie said, her eyes now shining. “I like the sound of that.” “So do I,” Bessie said. Charlotte clasped their hands. “There you go, girls. That’s the spirit. Whatever may come, we are here to serve.”

Chapter 5

Iam the most selfish person that ever lived , Hettie thought, as she was reminded it was Dec. 23, and her promise to return home before Mabel gave birth had been broken. It was impossible to make it home in time. But even as she chastised herself for putting her own interests in front of those of the family’s, she knew it was not exactly her fault. The hospital ward was filled with the cacophony of the injured and dying: crying, screaming, whimpering. Other patients were sedated with morphine and slept soundly. A nursing staff of nearly 80 hurried about trying their best to provide individualized care to the more than 500 patients. These men had received wounds during the Battles of Ypres and Yser. More casualties, from the recent Battle of Givenchy, were expected to arrive at any time. But where, Hettie thought, where will we put them? Hettie sat next to a patient who had been blinded by shrapnel, his eyes covered with bandages. He was young, looking the same age as her brother Tommy, and for this reason, her chest tightened every time she saw him. His injury was probably permanent, but she could not bring herself to ask the doctors. Matron was constantly keeping an eye on her nurses. If they did poorly, they would not receive a recommendation to move on to a field hospital. That was Hettie’s goal, above all else, and she worked to impress her supervisor. Like the others, she changed bandages and disinfected wounds, served meals, changed bedpans and gave sponge baths. She volunteered for extra shifts whenever possible and mentored the Volunteer Aid Detachment nurses, all of whom had never worked in a hospital yet alone seen battlefield injuries. As Christmas and Hanukah neared, she spent part of the day writing holiday letters on soldiers’ behalf. The blinded boy had told Hettie he was an avid reader and Charles Dickens was his favorite author. She had asked around and managed to borrow an old worn copy of A Christmas Carol that she surprised him with a few days ago. As she began to read, several other soldiers began listening, and her section of the ward quieted. “‘...and had barely time to reel to bed before he sank into a heavy sleep.’”

She heard footsteps. Glancing up, she saw Charlotte walk past on her way down the aisle. Hettie continued. “Stave three. The Second of the Three Spirits. ‘Awakening in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Scrooge ... ’” She heard Charlotte’s voice and, again distracted, looked up to see Charlotte near the ward’s threshold speaking to a stranger she assumed was a doctor. “‘... Scrooge had no occasion to be told that the bell was ... ’” “She’s over there,” Charlotte said to the stranger. Hettie looked up for a third time. Charlotte pointed to her and as she did the stranger, who as it turned out was a soldier, started walking down the aisle. Transfixed, Hettie could not take her eyes off this person. There was just something about him that seemed so familiar, but what was it? Then her heart began to race, and her cheeks burned. She clasped her hand on her mouth and, as she did, the book fell. “What is it, Love?” the blinded boy said. Preoccupied with the soldier, she didn’t comprehend the patient’s English accent, and when she didn’t answer, he repeated himself. She responded that it was her husband. Oh, am I asleep? Is this a wonderful dream? She took her heel and jammed it into the top of her foot until it smarted. No, this is real. This is real. Hettie hadn’t seen Geoffrey since before they left Canada; the only they had after reaching England was through letters. Somehow this did not seem possible. How was it possible? He was supposed to be on the Salisbury Plain while she was here in the city. Geoffrey reached her and smiled. “Hello, bluebird.” There were no protocols for situations like this. Her heart was thumping in her chest. How was she expected to behave? Should she jump up and embrace him as any happy wife ought, or should she greet him as a nurse greets a soldier?

Why can’t you just be free like Charlotte and Bessie and never mind proper etiquette for once? It’s Geoffrey after all. Hettie jumped up so quickly her toe hit the fallen novel and propelled it into Geoffrey’s feet. “Sweetheart, I’m surprised to see you. How are you here?” “Happy Christmas,” he said, grinning and holding out his arms to indicate he was her Christmas gift. She exhaled and laughed, then silenced herself. The soldiers she had been reading to were observing them quizzically, and Matron just entered the ward. “I don’t think I can abandon my post,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “That’s all right. Continue what you were doing.” Hettie curtsied slightly then immediately felt ridiculous. Why did I just do that? That wasn’t proper at all. Geoffrey seemed not to notice and sat at the end of the blind soldier’s bed while she picked up A Christmas Carol and started chapter three again from the beginning. As she read, she kept Geoffrey in her peripheral vision, as if he might disappear if she lost sight of him, and occasionally peeked at his face. In the beginning, he too was watching her, but his eyes strayed after a time and he seemed to be paying more attention to his fellow soldiers. By the time she finished the chapter, the patients were being brought their midday meals, and Hettie’s shift was officially over. Hettie slipped her arm in Geoffrey’s and patted his chest with her free hand. “I’ll show you around, and introduce you to the people I know.” Hettie was so intent on showing her husband where she had spent the past several weeks that it never crossed her mind that Geoffrey had wanted time alone with her, not a tour of the building. It was the same introduction repeatedly. “This is my husband Private Bartlette,” she would say. “He’s here for Christmas. Isn’t it lovely?” Then she would introduce her fellow nurse to him before moving on to the next.

After the introduction of the commanding officer, Dr. Wakefield, Geoffrey stopped making conversation and clenched Hettie’s arm tightly. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I shouldn’t be showing you off like a prized pig. Forgive me. You must be exhausted.” “I’m fine. Your work always has been your pride and joy. But I would like to get out of here soon. I have a surprise for you.” Hettie smirked. “Hum, a surprise?” “Yes. Now get permission to leave so I can show you.” “I’ll need my cape, too. It’s in the dormitory.” A short while later, the newlyweds met on the sidewalk in front of the hospital. Hettie had her cape snug around her shoulders and her nursing veil had been replaced with a hat. She beamed when she caught sight of Geoffrey leaning up against a lamppost and quickened her pace, finally brushing etiquette side and forgetting the rule that a lady never walks at a quickened pace. “What is the surprise?” she said, taking his arm. “Are you sure you want to know?” he said, grinning. “Geoffrey, please. I’m bursting at the seams to know.” “Okay. The last thing I want is for your seams to burst. We have a small preview of our post-war honeymoon.” “What? How?” “Christmas is two days away, but I don’t need to report back until New Year’s Day evening. That leaves time to explore Salisbury, perhaps even visit Stonehenge. We’ll have meals together and conversation. And most importantly, we’ll able to spend time together as husband and wife.” Hettie squealed and hopped twice. Geoffrey smiled even broader and straightened his shoulders. “Are you

pleased?” “Of course, silly.” “Then, what are we standing here for? The world is ours.”

BASKING IN THE AFTERGLOW, Hettie pressed her body against Geoffrey’s and wrapped his arm around her. She smirked as she studied his room at the bed and breakfast and imagined it was their apartment back home. If our real bedroom looked as lovely as this one, I’d have never dreamt of leaving. “Sunshine, I can’t breathe with your hair in my face,” Geoffrey said, tossing her hair from the back of her head to the front so that it now covered her view of the room. “You know, if I didn’t love you so much, I’d be very cross with you at the moment for ruining my–” “You’re what?” She couldn’t force herself to say daydream. “My hair.” Hettie rolled over so that she was now facing him and again snuggled. “That’s more like it. Your best place is always by my side.” She said nothing and began running her palm up and down his torso. Every time she ed his heart, she felt it spasm against her skin. After a few more caresses, she stopped her hand and counted the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of his lifeblood. “Were you aware that your heart rate is much higher than it should be?” “I can feel it,” he said. “I can feel it all the time.” She sat partially upright. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing is wrong.” “Something must be wrong. Your heart is racing like Father’s and he’s had rheumatic fever.” “Well, I don’t have heart damage like your father. If I had rheumatic fever, wouldn’t I have other symptoms? Don’t worry. Stop being a nurse when you’re with me.”

He gently rubbed her shoulder the way a parent would do with an upset child. Slowly, she eased back, her hand still on his chest. “My mind is putting stress on my body right now. That is all. I’m feeling extreme guilt, Hettie,” he said, rubbing her arm, “for putting us in this situation. This isn’t how I envisioned it would be. I thought we’d be on our honeymoon by now. It’s all my fault.” “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know the war would drag on. And besides I came here willingly.” She paused. “But I do miss you terribly, and I wonder how much longer we will be forced to make this sacrifice.” “But it is my fault,” he said, his voice raising. “I wanted to be more than an uneducated clerk. In Barrie, that’s all I would ever be or could ever hope to be. By becoming a soldier I could reinvent myself. I could become important and valuable.” Hettie began caressing Geoffrey’s chest again. He covered his face with his arm. “You are important and valuable,” she said. “No matter what you do for a living you’re my husband and I love you.” “Don’t. Don’t try to make me feel comfortable with my station in life and fill my mind with your so-long-as-we-have-each-other nonsense you Stewards are famous for. You’ve never struggled.” He turned his back toward her. “If my father had been a better man, I wouldn’t have had to be a damnable clerk in the first place.” “Your father died of meningitis, Geoffrey. Whatever he did to you in life, I can assure you he did not die just so you would have to leave school before you wanted and go to work.” He vaulted out of bed, throwing the bedding on the floor. Hettie gasped, her own heart now racing, and bolted upright. She grabbed her pillow and clenched it, eyes bugging out. “But my father wasn’t like your father,” Geoffrey said. “He didn’t teach me to value education or to have a mind of my own and question things. He didn’t teach me I could be anything other than a failure.”

“Geoffrey, please, you are not a failure. Most people aren’t like my father. And no matter what amount of self-loathing got us in this position, we’re here for the duration so we might as well make the best of it.” “Oh, but I am a failure. Nothing ever turns out the way I wanted it to.” Tears began forming in his eyes. Geoffrey walked over to the dresser and took a drink from a small carafe. Hettie said nothing as he ran his fingers over every object on the bureau as if he were feeling them for the first time. She bit her lip and resisted the urge to wrap her arms around him and tell him everything would be fine. Finally, he turned, face pale and forehead wrinkled. “I feel better now. That’s been festering for some time, and I apologize for allowing it to escape while in your presence.” Hettie smiled and patted the bed. “I’m grateful it boiled over when you were with me and not on the battlefield.” He lowered his head Oh, no, she thought, I’ve said the wrong thing. “Geoffrey, I—” “If this war continues much longer, the battlefield is where I’m headed. We both know it. Let’s not kid ourselves. And we all know what happens then. I saw those men today. How can you surround yourself with such suffering day in and day out?” “Those men are the lucky ones.” “The lucky ones? How is it considered lucky to be blinded or maimed? Explain that to me.” “Because once in the hands of the medical corps, they have an excellent chance of survival. We disinfect their wounds and feed them nutritious meals, provide them with medicine.” “You never answered my question. How can you stand it, Hettie, to see suffering every day?”

“It’s a calling.” She patted the mattress and this time Geoffrey picked the bedclothes off the floor and remade the bed. Once they were wrapped in the blanket, he said, “Everyone at the hospital treats you well?” “Yes. I talk all the time with my roommates from the ship,” she said. “It helps to have someone to commiserate with.” “You’ve made friends? I knew you would.” She shrugged. “I suppose, but it’s not like with Mabel or Ida or my friends from school. I’ve only known these nurses for such a short while. I’m hesitant to get to know them better in case we don’t stay together ... once the CEF moves.” “That’s true. After I report back in January, I may never see you again either, Hettie.” “Don’t say that.” “I allowed myself to be swept up in patriotic furor, and here we are. A higher power has plans for me.” “I don’t believe in fate. You met my acquaintances. One of them was the nurse who told you where to find me and the other we saw on the second floor after the operating theatres.” “I don’t . We talked to so many people. All I really is the soldiers.” “It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. All that matters is today and that we’re here together.” Geoffrey hugged her tightly. “I love you.” “I love you, too, Sweetheart.” “Thank you for being my sunshine.”

They kissed before closing their eyes and drifting to sleep. Or at least Geoffrey fell asleep. Hettie opened her eyes and, glancing at Geoffrey’s watch on the nightstand, saw only a few minutes had ed. Geoffrey still worries me, she thought, but there is nothing I can do about it. I only hope him confiding in me helps relieve his conscious.

He was breathing softly on her neck. She ran her hand gently over his face. Geoffrey, you’re the most important person in the world, and your health and happiness are my top priority. I hope your misery eases soon, my sweet.

1915

“We are the dead; short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.” —From In Flanders Fields by John McCrae

Chapter 6

Dearest Sister, I am hoping this letter finds you well. I think of you often, and sometimes I forget that you are not home. For instance, just the other day, I finished reading a book I was convinced you would enjoy. I had it set in my mind that I would bring this book with me to Sunday dinner and ask you if you wanted to borrow it. I even put it on the table in the foyer and set my gloves on it so I would not forget. It wasn’t until sometime later that the realization struck me. You would not be at Sunday dinner. I sadly removed the book from the foyer and put it on a shelf in the study for safekeeping. This is not the first time something like this has occurred. How goes your work? Are there many wounded in your hospital? Have you seen Geoffrey? I’m interested to know what your days are like. It appears letters between us will take at least a fortnight. That is the fastest any of your correspondence has arrived, so please, dearest sister, respond the day you receive my letters and I shall do the same. This way we will keep the “conversation” going. I write you today with news you have no doubt been eagerly waiting for and with another piece of news that will come as a complete surprise. First, I will start with the news you are eagerly waiting. Mabel has given birth to her child. It is a boy. He was born the third of January and has been named Charles Phillip Hill. I know you had promised her you’d return in time for the birth. Do not let this bother you. I do not think she is cross with you. She understands. But Mother .... On one hand, Mother is happy with the birth of her fourth grandchild, her first grandson (after all I could only give her girls), but, on the other hand, she also is frantic. The family is not complete. You are not home, and this is something beyond her control. I have told her that you are simply obeying your husband’s wishes and doing your duty in service of our country, but my words have had no effect. Be prepared for her next letters to you to be unjustifiably cruel as we all know she is not skilled at keeping her opinions to herself Meanwhile, I’m certain you have not heard of this yet. Victor has enlisted. He

did so less than two days ago. No one is exactly certain why. Perhaps it is because he has always idolized Geoffrey and wants to do whatever his brother does, but one would think he’d be too old for such childish behaviours. Perhaps it is from a sense of duty. Or perhaps, like you, he suffers from wanderlust. Do not be surprised to see him, if you should, and warn Geoffrey as well of the possibility. Mrs. Bartlette is, of course, upset. She didn’t want him to go, begged him not to, but he wouldn’t listen. She told him he had a good job; why was he leaving it? Since when has working for a grocer unloading crates and cleaning up horse manure been a good job? Makes me shake my head. I’m glad Father taught us to hope for better. That is all from here for now. James, the girls and I are all well. I await your next letter. Your sister, Ida Morris

SWEETEST MABEL, My sincere and humble apologies for breaking my promise to you. I can’t think of another time in our entire lives when I did not keep my word. I had wanted to be there for the birth, to share in your joy and to help you, and I feel very remorseful for having missed it. You know me well enough to know that I do not say things I don’t mean. I am not a person of hollow words. Ida tells me she does not believe you are cross with me. But if you are, even deep inside where you lock away your inner thoughts, please find it in your heart to forgive me, as you know I would do the same for you. Circumstances beyond my control keep me here. Congratulations on the birth of your son. Did the midwife treat you well? Are you strong and rested? Is Charles sleeping through the night? Please tell me everything and do not leave out any detail. Let him know his dear Auntie loves him and hopes to meet him soon. Again, my apologies. With regrets, Hettie

MY DEAR, DARLING HUSBAND, Not a day goes by when I do not think about you. You are the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about at night. I even think about you while I sleep. You visit me in my dreams. Overnight I had a dream about you. We were in Paris at the base of the Eiffel Tower, and the war was over, and we were happy again because we were together. It seemed vividly real. I could touch and feel you. Your scent filled my nostrils, and I could taste your kiss on my lips. I was saddened when I awakened and discovered it was all a figment of my imagination. A letter from Ida came today. She has news from home. Some of it was bittersweet, the rest disconcerting. Mabel had her baby last month, a boy named Charles Phillip. And I missed it. I made her a promise, and I broke it. I have already written her a short note, which I took to post immediately, in which I apologized profusely, like a fool surely. I know my closest sister well enough to know she will not fault me for being here, yet part of me feels she might fault me because I came here voluntarily. I did not mean to anger my family by entering the nursing service, but clearly I have done things to incur their anger. I have news of your side of the family as well. That’s the disconcerting part of Ida’s letter. Victor has enlisted. I have no details other than that. Ida wished for me to tell you should you see him in the field. I have no idea if you will, but she seems to be under the impression there are so few of us that everyone knows everyone else. I miss you, and I love you. Hope to see you soon. Hugs and kisses, Hettie

TO MY AFFECTIONATE wife, You do not realize how much you are missed. How amazing is it that I can be surrounded by people all day and all night without ever a break and yet be so completely and utterly alone. There is only one person in the world who makes me feel wanted, appreciated, who gives my life a purpose, who believes I am more than I think I am, and that person is you. Nay, it is I who has everything to be regretful for. You are here because of me and, while I know you will attempt to correct me, it is true, and that is a guilt I shall have to live with for the rest of my life. I can never apologize to you enough. I have not seen Victor nor do I expect to now that we are in . He could be still home or possibly on his way to England, and I don’t know where I’ll be once he gets here. I cannot begin to speculate as to what is on his mind. He didn’t write me to let me know or to ask me any questions. Why he didn’t attempt to communicate with me I probably will never know. Had he bothered, I would have told him the truth about this place and set him straight. I probably won’t see him again until we return home and by then it will be too late. As I write this, daylight is fading. when we would sit in the schoolyard and watch the sunset, and no one knew where we had gone? In my imagination, we are once again teenagers falling in love, wondering what our emotions mean and if they will amount to anything. Every glance and touch and whispered word was exciting. Sleep well, Sunshine, and think of me as I will be thinking of you. With much love, Geoffrey

“IS THERE A DIFFERENCE between a feeling and a premonition?” Bessie looked at Hettie as if she had just announced she was from the moon. “What a strange question? What is on your mind?” Hettie shook her head. That morning, she had awaken with shivers. Yes, it was only early April, and it was still near freezing in the middle of the night, but the cold that permeated her body refused to leave no matter what she did. In addition, she awoke in a mood that was the complete opposite of the cheery one she had had before going to bed. She and some of the other nurses had been sharing silly stories and jokes and had been laughing, but this morning, she felt as if she should be upset about something. She didn’t know what that something was, and the unknowing made it worse. How could she express this to Bessie? “Nothing specific,” Hettie said, pretending to be engrossed in the bed she was preparing for an as-yet-unknown patient. “I just have a sense of foreboding.” “On a day like today, it’s no wonder. I really wish that messenger hadn’t come here yesterday to warn us. I’d rather not know until the wounded are here, you know what I mean.” Two days earlier, a chlorine gas attack on the Allied line had caused chaos. French and British colonial troops had allowed their lines to collapse during the attack and many fled while thousands of others were injured or killed. The Canadians, however, had held the line and prevented further damage. Dr. Wakefield had called the frightened men cowards when he told the medical unit the tale. Matron, standing beside him, had nodded in agreement and reminded all the nursing sisters that they must be like their brave lads, facing their fears instead of running from them. The speech Matron gave was far from inspirational. She had said, “Soon it won’t be English boys you will be nursing, it will be Canadian boys. They will come pouring through those doors in the coming hours and days. You will see familiar faces from familiar places. The litters will carry the bleeding, the maimed and men crying out in pain. There will be more wounded than you’ve ever seen in your career. Many will be dying, and there will be nothing we can do for them. Some will arrive dead, and others will die not long after they get here. Again, there is nothing we can do for those cases.”

Matron had continued on, but Hettie had heard none of it. She had gotten stuck on the sentences “Many will be dying, and there will be nothing we can do for them. Some will arrive dead, and others will die not long after they get here.” Hettie swallowed and felt as if she only now heard Wakefield and Matron speak instead of 24 hours ago. Geoffrey was near – she knew it in both her mind and her heart – and he was in danger. She shivered. Yesterday, she had tried to ignore her superior’s words, but there was no more running from reality. Maybe this is why married women aren’t generally allowed in the service, Hettie thought. It’s distracting, but I will not allow thoughts of Geoffrey to distract me from my work. I will prove I can be both a dutiful wife and a dutiful nurse. Think of something pleasant. A memory came to mind. Childhood. Freddie and Victor were playing ball on the side of a road parched and hardened from the summer sun. It was the Bartlettes’ road in H Block. She and Mabel were clapping their hands together and singing a song. Was this the day Alice was born? Yes, the adult Hettie realized, it was. They had been sent to the Bartlettes’ to play. Ida, Walter and Tommy were with Aunt Sadie. Soon Father will come tell them that Mother has had a baby girl, but first Geoffrey will come home with his elder brothers and pull Hettie’s pigtails and laugh. The adult Hettie smirked but as she did, the memory changed. Suddenly, she was no longer six. She was 17. Geoffrey was ill with pneumonia. The Bartlette children were always ill, it seemed, but this time was different. Geoffrey suffered for days with a fierce cough and a high fever. Doctors didn’t have much hope he would survive. Hettie was sitting in the Bartlette front room, twiddling her thumbs in her lap, and waiting to receive permission to go upstairs and say goodbye. No, think only pleasant thoughts. Not only did Geoffrey recover, but he had not been ill since; it was all just a bad scare. I almost lost him once. I don’t want to go through that again. I must think only of happy times. Hettie squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled. In the distance, she heard a bell. How curious. Its clang sounded like a schoolmistress’s bell only louder. Ding, ding, ding. Her eyelids shot open. No, it wasn’t curious at all. The bell meant wounded were arriving. “They will come pouring through those doors in the coming hours and days.” She ran.

BY NIGHTFALL, THERE was news of another chlorine gas attack. Men arrived at the clearing station barely able to breathe, their eyes and noses burning. Some of the wounded told them that the gas could be rendered inert if a person breathes through urine soaked rags, but the first victims had had no time to react. Oh, God, Geoffrey. His delicate lungs. He— Hettie stopped mid-thought as she rounded a corner and nearly tripped on a soldier sitting on the floor. He hadn’t been there two minutes ago. “How did you get here, Soldier?” she said, stooping to his level. “Has someone already helped you through reception?” He failed to make eye , and she repeated her questions. Blood was rolling down his temple and cheek like big, red tears. She removed a shirt that had been wrapped around his head for a bandage. Underneath, she found a gash in his scalp surrounding a piece of protruding shrapnel. Blood squirted out and felt like warm water as it hit Hettie in the neck. “I walked here,” he said. “Many of us did.” She replaced the makeshift bandage, and wiped the blood away with her sleeve. “You walked here? Where were the ambulances?” “Busy.” His eyes rolled back in his head slightly.

“Where are you from?” she said, trying to keep his focus on her voice. “Back home, I mean.” Again, he didn’t answer immediately. “Ontario.” Hettie felt cold. “Which brigade? Which battalion?” He cackled. “I don’t know. The Germans came for us. They targeted us.” Hettie reached into her apron pockets. They crackled as she did, dried blood having made the fabric stiff. At least six patients had contributed to the blood that decorated her white apron, making it candy striped, but the pockets’ contents were unmarred. She pulled out a pencil and a paper. On the patient’s medical tag, she wrote: “Diagnosis: laceration, simple fracture of the cranium. Notes: Suspected brain injury.” Then she attached it to his uniform and stood. All the surgeons were occupied, and he would need to wait. The patient’s blood had somehow made it inside her dress, and her collar was damp and sticking to her skin. There was no time to change, but if she hurried, she could wash his fluids off her neck and be back before anyone missed her. Hettie left the corridor and made her way to the ladies lav. To reach it, she needed to make her way through a section of the building that served as the resuscitation unit. This was where the dying and severely wounded were kept after they ed through reception. Inside were rows of men on stretchers laid out on the floor, so many they were shoulder to shoulder. Upon sight of them, Hettie paused. She had aided so many men through reception that she hadn’t stopped to think about what happened to them. Her work was more like an assembly line, one task and that was all, but this, this ... The nurses in resuscitation were running about delivering blankets, calming patients, instructing the orderlies to take away the dead. In the corner, two patients were receiving blood transfusions. The chaplain was muttering prayers over a soldier with an arm so mangled it no longer looked human, but when the chaplain closed his Bible, Hettie knew the patient had died. The chaplain moved on, heading in the direction of a man screaming in confusion. Other patients were coughing, some moaning. One tried to stand, his bandages seeping in the process, and had to be forced back down by the orderlies.

Hettie caught sight of Bessie dressing a wound. Hettie, she told herself, you must hurry back to your post. Quickly, quickly. You mustn’t let Bessie do all the work. “The litters will carry the bleeding, the maimed and men crying out in pain. There will be more wounded than you’ve ever seen in your career.”

She hurried through resuscitation and made it to the women’s washroom where she removed the patient’s blood from her neck before looking at herself in the mirror. Dark circles shadowed her eyes and her cheeks were flushed. She splashed her face with cold water. The bell began ringing. No, oh, no, not more. Hettie ran to the window. In the distance, headlights pierced the darkness. As the ambulances bounced on the dirt road, every so often, a beam illuminated the dead laying outside, row upon row like the men in resuscitation. The only difference between these men and the men in resuss was the blankets covering their faces. “Some will arrive dead, and others will die not long after they get here.” Hettie gasped and rushed back to her post.

THEIR FACES BLURRED together, patient after patient. She barely acknowledged them, never made eye and focused only on filling out medical tags. The soldiers, officially patients once their tags were completed, went next either to resuss, to pre-op or to evacuation to be sent on their way. Hettie tried not to think about the men in resuss or the corpses neatly arranged on the lawn. When Charlotte called her name the first time, she did not hear. She was focused solely on medical tags and trying her best to block out the whines of the wounded and her fellow nurses barking orders at orderlies who scurried past carrying stretchers. When Charlotte called the second time, Hettie responded. There was an urgency in Charlotte’s voice that made Hettie snap back to reality. “Henrietta, come here immediately.” Hettie obeyed but when she got closer, Charlotte blocked her way, arms raised to indicate stop. “I was afraid you weren’t going to come. I know you’re just as busy as the rest of us, but I couldn’t not call you. He’s already been through reception. I did it. I filled out the medical tag. Don’t be cross.” “What are you talking about?” Hettie’s body felt like it was being poked by pins. “Tell me. Charlotte, please.” Charlotte stepped aside. Lying on a stretcher, head bent back and coughing, was Geoffrey. He was covered head to toe in dirt, face streaked with sweat. Hettie stood, mouth agape, for what felt like an eternity. “Hettie,” Charlotte said, “go to him. It might be beneficial.” Somehow, she knew not how, Hettie forced her body to move. She knelt beside the stretcher. “Geoffrey, Sweetheart, can you hear me?” He blinked at her as if he were looking at a stranger.

“Geoffrey Bartlette, I am your wife Henrietta Steward Bartlette. Friends and family call me Hettie. Our mothers are bosom friends, have been since they were six-years-old. We met when we were in diapers. You have four siblings – Gilbert, Teddy, Victor and Maeve – and I have seven – Ida, Walter, Mabel, Freddie, Tommy, Alice and Adelaide. Those names should be very familiar to you because we all grew up together in Barrie, Ontario, as if we were one big happy family. We married May 23rd of last year. You asked me to follow you to Europe because I’m a nursing sister.” As she spoke, Hettie surveyed his condition: Skin cold to the touch. Face an odd violet red. Ears and fingernail beds blue. Lips and tongue dry. Breath rapid and lungs making a sound commonly heard in gassing patients. She ran her hands over his body, not knowing what she hoped to discover. Near his left hip, his uniform was damp and, when she pulled her hand away, her palm was covered in blood. She started untucking his shirt. An abdominal wound. How serious? Did the bullet puncture any vital organs? What had Charlotte written on the medical tag? As she reached for the tag, Geoffrey propped himself on his elbows. “Hettie, there was gas, gas, gas. Lord help us. Gas.” His eyes were bloodshot and watering. The sight of them made her own eyes tear up. She swallowed hard. He could not see her cry. “Were you gassed, Geoffrey?” “It happened so quickly. There was no time to react.” “Is that when you were shot?” “I tried to flee, to get to a safer location. One with no gas, so I could get a rag over my face. They were firing on us. It wasn’t at all like in training, Hettie. I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t do anything. Same as a coward, I froze.” Like the patient she had seen earlier in resuss, he tried to stand. She pushed on his shoulders, but he fought her, flailing his arms and repeating the word “gas.”

“Lie back down. You’re wounded. You’re going to make it worse. Lie back down.” He calmed. “You know. I don’t the bullet that tore through me. Serves me right, too, for how I behaved.” “No one deserves to be shot. Please, Geoffrey, may I read your medical tag.” He nodded. Charlotte had written, “Diagnosis: damage to the lungs and mucus membranes from chlorine gas. Wound to left hip. Notes: Bleeding from hypogastric artery?” “What does it say?” he said. “It says you’ll be just fine. Perhaps a blood transfusion might be needed first. But don’t be frightened if that’s the case.” She swallowed hard as the tears returned. Now, you’re the one who is the coward. You can’t tell him the truth. Orderlies picked up the stretcher. As they began making their way down the aisle, Geoffrey took a firm hold of Hettie’s sleeve. “Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me. My head hurts so badly. It feels like it’s going to explode.” Matron nodded her permission, and Hettie followed the stretcher into resuscitation. It seemed even busier than before, though how that was possible Hettie did not know. Patients were constantly moved in and out of the ward, but now the stretchers were being placed in the aisles, leaving scant little room for the medical personal. The chaplain was still there, praying over a new patient, and so was Bessie. She was wrapping a patient in blankets, but paused when she saw Hettie with Geoffrey. “Don’t worry,” Hettie said to Geoffrey. “It might seem overwhelming, but we have a system in place and we’re really quite organized.” The orderlies placed Geoffrey at the foot of several other patients. Hettie knelt

beside him and tried to take up as little room as possible. She sat sideways, one foot and knee on the stretcher, but still the nurses and orderlies struggled to get past her. She tensed her muscles as a tray of medical instruments nearly grazed her head. “We’re just busy today,” Hettie said. “You know what this room actually is? Before the war this was a school and this was the gymnasium. Imagine all the children who took their morning stretches here. Or perhaps sang ‘La Brabançonne’ before classes.” Geoffrey, who had not eased his grip on her sleeve, said. “Don’t leave me, Hettie,” Bessie brought them a blanket, and Hettie tucked Geoffrey in. “I’m right here, Sweetheart. I’m not leaving you.” “I love you, Sunshine.” “I love you, too, Sweetheart,” she said, smiling. “You’ll always be my little sunshine. Don’t forget. No matter what you do in this world, you’re my sunshine. Don’t forget.” She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could Geoffrey began to violently cough followed by wheezing as he struggled to catch his breath. He grasped her arm so hard it hurt, and then, as breathing became more difficult, scratched at her clothing. “Sweetheart, stop thrashing about. Calm yourself so you can breathe. Calm yourself.” He coughed up a mouthful of yellowish-green mucus, laid back and was still. “There you go, Sweetheart. Be still until you can breathe easier.” She paused. “Geoffrey. Geoffrey? Speak to me. Geoffrey!” She checked his vitals once, twice, thrice. No breathing, no heartbeat. She beat on his chest, screaming his name. Bessie started walking toward them, presumably to comfort Hettie, but she couldn’t have that. Geoffrey could not be dead. He could not be. Hettie bolted from the room and ran aimlessly through

the building, Matron’s voice echoing in her head. “There is nothing we can do...” Hettie found herself in the back of the building. Here it was quiet, the din of the hospital wards a distant muffle. She sat on a bench in the corridor, folded her hands in her lap and stared at the wall. Her mind returned to the memory of Geoffrey ill with pneumonia. He had survived then. He had survived then. Why not now? Why not now?!

NEARLY TWO DAYS LATER, in the quiet before dawn, the clearing station was still. The patients had either been operated on, evacuated to a stationary hospital or dead. Relieved of duty, Hettie sat on her bed in the Spartan room she shared with Charlotte, Bessie and a fourth nurse. It was nothing more than their beds, a washstand, their luggage and an overhead light that cast harsh shadows. All three were in their nightgowns, their hair loose around their shoulders, while the fourth roommate, Olive Marshall, was already sound asleep. “I can’t believe what happened in the past few hours,” Hettie said in a voice that waivered as she spoke. “Moreover, I feel so ashamed for running when he ... died. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” “You probably still aren’t,” Charlotte said. “But maybe this means you can go home now.” “Go home to what? An empty flat? My father’s house? I turn 23 next month. Our first anniversary. Victoria Day.” Bessie said, “Perhaps you’ll feel differently in the morning, or in a fortnight. The stress of this place is enough to break an unmarried woman yet alone someone in mourning.” “I don’t think so. Happy memories are everywhere in Barrie. If I go home now, all those memories become painful reminders that Geoffrey—” Hettie paused, no longer wanting to discuss this topic. “Let’s go to sleep. I have never been so exhausted in all my life.” Bessie switched off the light, and the nurses tucked themselves into bed. After Geoffrey died, Hettie had sat in her refuge for an hour before Wakefield found her and asked that she return to her nursing duties. Although she did return, Hettie didn’t any of the patients who came through the door after Geoffrey. Every face, every action blended together into a blur. Wakefield had told her that, starting in the morning, she could stay with Geoffrey’s body until the funeral. Geoffrey would be buried with the other patients who had died in a cemetery near the clearing station. Wakefield had instructed she would wear her navy blue dress-uniform with its red cuffs and collar and its hat, only a black armband to signify she was in mourning. The

band was akin to what servants wear when a member of their employer’s family es away, he said. Then his voice softened and he told her he would also attend the funeral and would carefully write down the location of Geoffrey’s grave for repatriation after the war should Hettie wish. In the darkness, Hettie sat, unable to rest yet alone sleep. She ed Salisbury not quite four months before. She and Geoffrey had visited Stonehenge. The structure was larger than they envisioned it would be. Hettie had stood in the centre and spun around in a circle, her arms outstretched, like she used to do as a little girl. Geoffrey watched her, chuckling, and then teased her that she was descended from the Druids. Another memory came to mind. April 1914, the evening of the dress fitting. The moment Hettie arrived home from work, Mother was upon her. “Why must you be so stubborn?” Mother had said. “It’s a perfectly respectable dress.” Hettie hung up her coat. “It’s a perfectly boring dress, and so are the bridesmaids’ dresses. They will be so unmemorable.” Mother had begun explaining about how appearances matter and no one wants a scandal at their wedding while Hettie could barely keep her composure. In the threshold to the parlor, behind Mother’s back, Freddie was mocking her. Oh, how I would trade these past few days for a million arguments with Mother, Hettie thought. This is not how things were supposed to go. What happened to the happy, long marriage I had been promised? Maybe I shouldn’t have been so selfish and should have given up nursing school so I could have married Geoffrey earlier like he wanted. We might have had children by now that I could him by. We’d be in Barrie right now and I wouldn’t even know Geoffrey had died until the notification arrived in the post. Hettie hugged her pillow and used it to muffle her sobs as tears streamed down her face. This was the first time she had cried since Geoffrey died, the first time she had felt any emotion, the first time the realization struck her that she would keep living and he would not. Eventually, the pillow failed to conceal the deluge of feeling. Hettie could not catch her breath and gasped for air not much differently than the men who had been gassed.

Arms reached for her in the darkness and cradled her close as a mother cradles a child. “There, there,” Charlotte said, “it’s all right to cry. Let it all out. God will reward you for your sacrifice one day.”

Chapter 7

Dear Henrietta, Please, for the love of God, come home. Words cannot express how frightened I am for you. I know, child, that you think you went to Europe for a worthy cause, but the fact of the matter is you went there because of Geoffrey, and now that Geoffrey is no longer among us, there is nothing which remains to keep you there. I have spoken with your father, and we both decided that when you return, you shall move back home with us. Our home is the best place for you right now. You need to be surrounded by family, not careless strangers. I simply cannot understand what the appeal is there for you. I never did understand your incessant need to be a nursing sister. Why do you wish to be so near ill and injured people? It is because of this fascination of yours that you missed Mabel give birth. It is because of this fascination that you are bringing this family additional pain. End this foolishness and return home. Mother

DEAR MOTHER, Today I received your letter begging me to come home. Might I say, Mother, that you certainly are quite skilled at upsetting someone who is already greatly upset. I stay here because I receive fulfillment from helping others. In addition, there are countless other Geoffreys out there who are worthy of help. I will not be returning home. I will be here for the duration. And when I do return home, I plan on living on my own. I’m certain they would give me back my old job at Royal Victoria. And as far as me being among “uncaring strangers,” everyone here has been quite kind to me. They have even taken over shifts for me when I was distracted. They have consoled me, and listened to me. Nothing said they had to do this; they did it out of kindness and regard for my wellbeing. I am not quitting, and I shall overcome this and succeed. I have not brought you more pain. Geoffrey’s death is the only cause of anyone’s pain. Please do not be surprised if I do not write for a while. Hettie

Dear Hettie, I am sitting here, partially in shock, as I write you. My heart is broken. I have cried so many tears I no longer have any tears left to cry. Over the course of the past several weeks I have reread the message from the war office several times. It has been folded, unfolded and folded again. And every time I read it, I tell myself perhaps it is a cruel joke, that Geoffrey is alive and well after all. I have lost children before but somehow this time it seems unbelievable. How could my son be killed on foreign soil in a war? How? Your mother tells me that perhaps you can return home. Please come home. You are the second widow Bartlette. I would like you to spend some time with me reminiscing. I await your response. Mama Bartlette

DEAR MAMA BARTLETTE, I was happy to receive a letter from you. I know you are hurting and grieving as much as I. It is a cruel fate life has thrown you. Perhaps God has a great reward waiting for you. It is very kind and loving of you to wish for me to return home so we may spend more time together. I must, however, regretfully decline. My place is here. This is where I must be. I have other mothers’ sons who need my help. Geoffrey would want me to help them so their mothers don’t suffer. When the war ends, I shall return home with my head held high. And we can have tea together every day if you wish. Please do not worry. I am well taken care of and far enough behind the front line that I am not in danger. I apologize for the brevity of this letter. My work keeps me very busy. Your daughter-in-law, Hettie

(LETTER TUCKED IN THE pages of Hettie’s journal.) Dear Darling Husband, How do I even begin? It has been weeks since I lost you. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been alone for years. Other times the pain is so real it feels like you died this morning. I don’t want to even begin to imagine what my life will be like without you. It is something my brain cannot even begin to fathom. There has never been a time in my life when you were not in it. I have never had eyes for anyone else, not even as some girls do to make their boyfriends jealous. I always knew I had your attention, and now, as selfish as it sounds, I crave your love, your attention, your adoration. I miss your touch, your feel. I wake up some nights from very vivid dreams, thinking you are here with me, not just here with me in Europe but here beside me. And then I cry when I realize it was all just a fiction fabricated by my own imagination. I have decided to stay here to continue the work I’ve been doing. But for some reason no one can understand why. It frustrates me. They refuse to see my side of things. Why does everyone automatically assume I should be so consumed and wrapped up in my own feelings that I am therefore useless to everyone else? Why? Don’t they realize what going home would mean? It would mean living alone, being alone in our old home, keeping house for a husband who will never return, or it would mean moving back with Mother and Father. Either way, how could I do that? There are memories of you everywhere in that town. No matter where I go or what I do there will be memories of our childhood, our courtship and our marriage. Moreover, I am a nursing sister and it is my duty to help. I love you with all my heart. I love you more than life itself. And I will never understand why you were taken from me. We never even got to celebrate our first wedding anniversary, and so many of our plans will go unfulfilled. For us, there will never be a honeymoon or a first born child or growing old together. There will never again be simple pleasures like a walk by the bay, building a snowman, sharing a hearty laugh, dinner by candlelight or sleeping in each other’s arms.

You were more than my husband. You were my confidant, the person who gave me advice, the person who gave me comfort, the one who calmed my fears. Who will do that for me now? I cannot understand why you were taken from me. What purpose does it serve? Is it for some greater good, some higher duty, or is it a senseless death without any rhyme or reason or justification? Who else sacrifices besides me? Does the prime minister? Does Parliament? Does the King? Do they care or even know you are dead? You’re just a number to them, nothing but a number, a faceless, soulless statistic. But to me you were the world. I miss you so much. Your loving wife, Hettie

A LARGE STACK OF LETTERS, letters Hettie would rather forget than save, lay hidden under her bed. Everyone, absolutely everyone, wanted her to abandon her post and beg to be demobilized. Not one person thought deciding to stay on was a reasonable, yet alone good, idea. They all thought she was emotional, perhaps a little delirious with grief, unable to make her own decisions. Their pleas and condescending words did nothing other than elicit anger. Hettie dressed quickly, kicking the letters even further under her bed as she slipped on her shoes. If she went home, every morning she would dress herself in a black frock trimmed in crepe, and when she finally left the house, after several months of seclusion, she would don a black veil or a widow’s bonnet. People would expect this without question. The entire family also would be in mourning dress, and that, too, would be expected by society. But in the nursing service, every day she dressed herself in a blue uniform with a white apron and a white veil that covered only her hair. Here she was no different than the other nurses. The only thing that differentiated her was her wedding ring, which she still wore on her finger, and the black mourning band on her arm. Tugging on her apron, Hettie sighed as she glanced over the dressing table for what potentially might be the last time for days. There, interspersed between her and her roommates’ hairbrushes and mirrors were family photos and a withered poppy. Charlotte had a photo of her large family, their farm in the background. Bessie had a snapshot of her brother Nathan while Olive had a cabinet card of her mother. Only Hettie had two photos, one of Geoffrey and one of Freddie. The poppy also was hers, a souvenir of Belgium and a reminder that she was forced to leave Geoffrey’s body behind when No. 100 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station moved to . Hettie entered the award room just in time to serve the patients breakfast. She spoke tenderly to each of them as she handed them their tray. A few of them would need their breakfasts fed to them and she smiled as she promised to return shortly and help. The room was long and narrow, lit by windows on each side during the day and by chandeliers at night. The building had been an opera house, opulent and grand, but was requisitioned and stripped for military use long before their arrival with only the lighting fixtures and architecture left to betray its former

life. In-between an influx of patients, this time from the attack of Givenchy-enGohelle, Hettie and the others enjoyed high tea from the balconies that overlooked what was now the operating theatres. A bell began ringing. Oh, no, Hettie thought, no pretending to be Princess Mary having tea in Windsor Castle today.

Hearing the bell should have been a cause for haste, but since Geoffrey’s ing, both Matron and Wakefield had been lenient with Hettie and permitted her to finish tasks a bit slower than the others. At that moment, as Hettie heard the bell ringing, she decided to finish feeding these men breakfast. After all, it was unclear when she would be able to return and if the men were moved to evacuation, and eventually to the train, it could be hours before their next meal. Wakefield was standing near the entrance to the ward with a lieutenant colonel. The colonel was Canadian, that much Hettie could tell, but his face was unfamiliar. He was quite possibly the highest-ranking Canadian she had seen outside the medical corps, which ordinarily would have caused her a twinge of pride, but today the significance did not interest her. The colonel was silently watching her which caused her to immediately look away, as if ashamed, an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Sister, I was telling you about my bizarre dream?” a patient said as she handed him his tray. She smiled. He was being discharged to a stationary hospital that afternoon, and this would be the final time they would speak. “The one where you were encased in ice?” “Yes, that’s the one,” he said, looking satisfied she had ed. “I had it again. It seemed so realistic. I was trying to free myself and screaming. No one could hear me. What do you suppose it means?” “I suppose it means you feel trapped in your situation and cannot get out.” “Is that what Dr. Freud would say?” She chuckled. “I have no idea. I have never read any of his research. Perhaps

dreams do have a meaning or perhaps they are simply a figment of brain impulses.” “You mean one’s imagination?” Hettie opened her mouth to respond, but before she could utter a word, someone grabbed her elbow and held it so firmly pain shot up her forearm. When she turned to see the offender, prepared to berate whom she assumed was an orderly, there stood the mysterious lieutenant colonel. Her eyes opened wide. She couldn’t berate a colonel – she’d be dismissed and sent home immediately – but why did he grab her? “This isn’t a dance hall,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be doing your job instead of standing here trying to find a husband?” Hettie wrenched her arm free and, abandoning the meal cart in the aisle, did the only thing she felt she could do in this situation: Flee. As Hettie left the room, Olive following her, she could hear Wakefield’s voice but could not make out what he saying or to whom. Had this colonel said anything other than what he did, she may have been able to dismiss the comment as being a consequence of his position. She even may have been able to forgive the force with which he got her attention. If he had said something else, anything else ... Hettie leaned against the wall in the corridor, her face flushed and chest heaving. “Men think they can say whatever they please to women as if it doesn’t matter.” “I’ve had many awful things said to me,” Olive said. “You get used to it after a while.” “What’s more, he doesn’t even know how hurtful his words are. I’m looking for a husband? What nonsense is that? And to grab my arm!” Tears began forming in Hettie’s eyes, and she pounded her fist against the wall. “Back home,” Olive said, eyeballing her feet, “my sister’s husband lays hands on her all the time. He broke her ribs once.” Hettie held her breath and focused on Olive who had yet to make eye . “He what?”

“He broke her ribs. I bandaged her torso up for her and put a poultice on it.” “I’m relieved you could help her,” Hettie said, her own problems suddenly not so important. Olive’s mood changed, and she lifted her face, the corner of her lips upturned. “I’m assigned to surgery. I’ll trade you places today. You take my place, and I’ll finish feeding the patients before going to work in reception. Let me deal with the colonel. Nothing can be said to me that I haven’t heard before.” Hettie agreed and hurried to prepare. As she washed her hands and put on sterile garments, a thought ran through Hettie’s mind. What if by doing this, I’ve made it worse for myself? They’ll send me home for sure for disobeying orders, and everyone back home will be so happy. They’ll think I wasn’t made for war work and crumbled. Too late now to change my mind, Olive. Hettie pushed back the curtain that portioned this operating theatre from the rest and knew immediately what had happened to the patient moaning on the table. They had seen plenty of these types of gun wounds in Festubert. A reversed bullet had caused a wound that required a partial amputation; there was no bone left for several inches of thigh. Reversed bullets break bones and send shards into the surrounding muscle. Upon exiting the body, they destroy soft tissue and leave a gaping hole much larger than the entrance wound. He would be forever handicapped but in the surgeon’s capable hands, the patient would live. When the surgery was complete, an orderly removed the severed limb from the room, and the patient was taken to evacuation. I should go back to my assigned duties now, Hettie thought. I need to face whatever punishment I might receive and I cannot drag Olive any more into this. She squeezed her fists together and made her way to reception.

NOTHING CAME FROM EITHER Matron or Wakefield – no harsh words, no requests to do better next time or to not to let it happen again – and Hettie sighed. Was it possible no one noticed she had traded duties with Olive, or was it simply that their supervisors didn’t care so long as the patients received the care they needed? Either way, Hettie’s preoccupation had shifted to Olive. When she found Olive, dark circles framed Olive’s lower eyelids. Olive always looked this way, Hettie acknowledged, as if she was carrying the weight of the world. Maybe it’s because of what Olive said, Hettie thought, as she disinfected instruments alone in a small room. “My sister’s husband lays hands on her ... He broke her ribs once.” How is it that we’re all people, yet men and women can be so radically different? Here in Europe, the men in the fields were killing each other while the women in the hospitals and clearing stations were keeping the wounded from dying. On the home front, women were worried sick about their loved ones in service while some men had no desire to serve at all. There were men like Geoffrey, who died and who, while alive, had wished to be higher than their lot in life. There were men like Father who were intellectuals and who brooded over everything and women like Mother who were educated and liked to be in control. There were men like the colonel who thought they were entitled to say whatever they pleased and men like Olive’s brother-in-law who thought they were entitled to do as they pleased. People like Olive’s brother-in-law have no right marrying. A wife is not a slave or a piece of cattle. Hettie knew fair well there were men like Olive’s brother-in-law, but she had never personally known one. Father did not believe in violence, a belief he ed on to his sons, and Geoffrey had always been kind. Then she ed the conversation the day the war began. Geoffrey had said, “He treated Mama badly and blamed her for all our problems.” Maybe Mrs. Bartlette was an abused wife. Geoffrey never did explain what he meant; he only insinuated it. It’s all very confusing. Father has no respect for wife beaters, yet Mr. Bartlette was a frequent guest in our home. So does that mean Mr. Bartlette did treat his wife well?

Olive seemed so casual about things. “He broke her ribs. I bandaged her torso and put a poultice on it.” She said it as if it were an everyday occurrence, something normal. What if next time something more serious happens? “Excuse me,” a male’s voice said. She didn’t recognize it. Startled, Hettie gasped as if Olive’s brother-in-law had manifested himself and was upset she was gossiping about him. Hettie looked up from her work and saw the lieutenant colonel standing in the threshold. For a moment, she went cold. That doorway was the only exit. Who would save her if he tried to harm her again? “Lieutenant Colonel.” He entered the room and removed his hat. Unlike Geoffrey who was always underweight, the colonel looked healthy, even if he did look a bit weary. If he wanted to hurt her, he certain could. “I’d like to apologize for my behavior earlier today. I haven’t slept in days, and I handled the situation badly. I let my impatience get the better of me. I keep telling them this is a futile effort, but they don’t listen to me. Sixteen years in the permanent force, but what do I know? I don’t have the right accent. I’m just a colonial who—” He stopped, censoring himself, and she noticed his uniform, which she assumed would be spotless, was splattered in both blood and dirt. Her nostrils flared, but when she spoke, her voice was calm. “Your words were more hurtful than your actions.” “I am well aware of that. Dr. Wakefield told me of your husband’s ing and how you have decided to stay on here in the face of adversity. I feel like an ass now.” “Perhaps that’s because you should.” He didn’t say anything for a moment then shook his head in agreement. “Yes, well, I am sorry.”

“I hope you’re aware of something, Colonel. We do more than mend bodies here. Small acts of kindness mean a lot when men are in pain and frightened and are moved from one strange location to another, always surrounded by unfamiliar faces. Acts of kindness could save a man from melancholy or feeling sorry for himself.” “I know that now. I sincerely apologize.” I should accept his apology because he outranks me, but it wouldn’t be sincere. Hettie said nothing and instead turned back to disinfecting instruments. The lieutenant colonel continued to stand there fidgeting with his hat. What if he doesn’t leave until I dismiss him?

Angry tears stinging her eyes, she said, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Colonel?” “I’d like to introduce myself officially before I go. My name is Lieutenant Colonel Taylor.” She blinked at him. Why are you doing this? Why are you making it worse by staying? What if I don’t want to tell you my name? But damn, you outrank me.

“I’m Mrs. Bartlette.” “Thank you for speaking with me.” He shook her hand before retreating. She breathed a sigh of relief, wiped her palm on her apron and returned to her task. Finally! At least I’ll never have to see him again. Olive, on the other hand, I need to get to know her better. What other secrets is she hiding?

Chapter 8

Dear Hettie, Oh, oh, oh, where do I begin? I literally just returned from Mother and Father’s house. I haven’t even fed the baby or removed my hat. This news is too urgent to wait. Had I pen and paper during my walk home, I would have written you then. Can you tell I’m eager to share with you what I learned, although it’s news you will not like? Brace yourself, please. Freddie has decided to enlist. In fact, he’s already done it. He’s requested to be a medic, to protect you, he says. It was but mere coincidence I was there to witness this announcement. He didn’t expect me to be there. In fact, at first, he didn’t even know I was there. He burst into the parlour, walked past me, and began his spiel. He was speaking loudly, gesturing as he went. I think, perhaps, he had his speech memorized and wanted to get it over with quickly before Father could say anything. By the time Freddie saw me, which caused him to pause, Father was so upset he began to yell. They had the largest quarrel I’ve ever seen. It was not an exercise in debate. No, they were going at it like a pair of drunken men who had no control of their senses. Father said he would not stand for two of his children being involved in this conflict that began because of people and places thousands of miles away. Freddie said it didn’t matter how far away these things occurred; our nation was already involved and Father should be proud his children are in the medical corps, saving lives not taking them. Father said it didn’t matter; it was still dangerous. Freddie told him what was done was done, then angrily left the room. In the meanwhile, while they were having their row, I sat there nervously awaiting the moment I could tell you. Mother was in the room as well, and I fully expected her to blow like a kettle, but she sat there and said nothing, her face ashen gray. I’m not certain why she said nothing. It was a role reversal worthy of fiction. Before I left, I wanted to speak to Freddie, but he had retreated upstairs to the boys’ room and, seeing as I don’t live there anymore, I felt uncomfortable going into the private section of the home. Perhaps I can speak to him later or tomorrow. I may go so far as to go to the police station and see if I can catch

him at work. Surely, he’s already given his notice, so I’ll need to be quick about it. I’ll send you another letter then. Yours, Mabel Hill

DARLING FREDDIE, I received an urgent and shocking letter from Mabel today. She related to me the details of a row she had witnessed between you and Father. She said you have decided to enlist as a medic to protect me. I’m unsure how you being here would protect me. I’m very confused as to why you would think so. Can you explain your rationale to me? I miss you, dear brother, but please, for the love of God, do not come here. Father was right to stop you. As a medic you will be closer to the front line than I am. You will be in danger of enemy fire. You will see things you would never wish your worst enemy to see. You cannot unsee these things once you have seen them. They stay with you forever. Men are horrible to each other, but you don’t realize the extent until you come to a place like this and see bodies in pieces. This is no time for foolhardy heroics. Do not get yourself involved in this. You don’t belong here. None of us belong here. I did not fully recognize this before I came, but now that I am here I must fulfill my obligations. But you have no obligations. Why make yourself obligated? Please. Freddie, I implore you. If we were in the same room, together, you would see in my eyes my sincerity, my fear. My heart is already broken. Please don’t make it break any further apart. Your sister, Hettie

DEAREST SISTER, I am hoping this letter finds you well. I would ask you if you’ve heard the latest familial news, but I know Mabel has already written you about Freddie. In a manner of speaking, you found out about it before I did. I did not find out about it for a full two days. Two days! Can you believe it? Freddie said nothing personally to me nor did anyone else. I saw no of the family and no one rang. I would have thought this was news worth sharing, but in any case ... Mother showed up at our door one morning. James had recently left for work, and the girls were in the breakfast room. Mother came in the foyer and immediately began complaining about Father. She was claiming Father gave us girls too much freedom during our childhood and that this was the consequence. I had no idea what she was referring and that was when she told me about Freddie. Mother blames you for everything. If it weren’t for you, Freddie would be staying home. She spoke as if you were to blame for the war itself. She also was saying something about Uncle Steven running for Parliament and how he never had any desire to leave Barrie before; she was speaking so quickly. The federal election is at least a year away, so I didn’t even bother to ask for clarification. I’ll find out at some point and when I do, I’ll let you know. It was the least of my concerns at that particular point in time. I was first in shock over Freddie’s news then I was trying to comprehend what Mother was saying, all the while worried the girls would hear her and begin asking questions about things I didn’t want to address. Be forewarned of Mother’s foul mood should she accost you long distance. I shall write you again soon. It seems something is always happening here for good or bad. Yours, Ida

DEAR IDA, Your letter has caused me much distress. How am I to be blamed for this insanity? I didn’t start this war nor did I make it the worst one anyone has ever seen. I don’t understand why Mother sees fit to blame me for everything. It was never this way before I came here. For some reason she cannot differentiate distain for my decision from distain for me. For the first time in my life, I am free to make my own decisions. Before my marriage, I was forced to have our parents’ approval before I could do what I wanted. They had to approve my courtship with Geoffrey. They had to approve my going to nursing school. After marriage, I couldn’t do as I pleased without thinking of how it would affect my husband’s image. Now, I am able to do as I wish without thought of anyone but myself. Please do not misconstrue my words. I am heartbroken Geoffrey is not here. He was my everything. But I value my freedom as well. I must answer to no one but my superiors. I cannot stop Freddie, although I can state my case as persuasively as possible, because Freddie is an adult and a man. He is going to do what he is going to do. Nonetheless, I don’t want him coming here. He has no idea what he is getting himself into and that frightens me. I hope my letter to him reached him in time. Have you heard anything more about Uncle Steven? Why would he run for Parliament? Whatever Mother’s worries, I’m pretty certain he wouldn’t be qualified anyway from only two as town councilor. Sometimes Mother treats her youngest sibling as if he were her eldest child. I feel sorry for him. But he is 39 years old. He’ll be fine with or without her “help.” I must end this letter although I really wish to continue this conversation with you. I am still quite upset, but I am due to report for work at any moment. Yours, Hettie

NO LETTER FROM FREDDIE had come. No letter had come, and day after day, post-delivery after post-delivery, Hettie felt her hopes dashed. Was he simply ignoring her because they disagreed, or had he already left home? Yesterday, the same routine. Hettie was the first in line for her mail, filled with such impatience she could barely stop squirming, and when only letters from her sisters came along with one from Mother that she threw away unopened, she felt as if she had aged twenty years instantaneously. ‘“Once upon a midnight dreary’,” Hettie said the next day, more to herself than anyone, ‘“while I pondered weak and weary ...’” “I feel weak and weary every day,” Charlotte said. She adjusted her veil in the small, wall mirror then turned to face Hettie and Bessie who were already dressed and waiting. “It could be worse,” Hettie said. “We could be in the midst of a major battle.” Bessie adjusted her apron and smirked. “Yes. I try to look on the bright side of life.” “Tell us, Bessie, what is the bright side of being here?” “Handsome, young men,” she said, her face aglow. Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Is that all you think about?” “No, I think about my work, but it just so happens all our patients are men.” “Yes,” Hettie said, “and a lot of them have venereal diseases. You don’t want to do something you’ll regret, do you?” Bessie’s cheeks flushed. “I think you know I enjoy flirtation but would have no idea what to do if one of the men actually wanted to be with me. Not like you would know.” “Stop that, Bessie,” Charlotte said. To Hettie, she said, “She’s just trying to embarrass you.”

Dressed for the day, the trio went to the canteen for breakfast. Olive, per usual, had gone on ahead without them and sat in a corner seat by herself. Not that she was missing any stimulating conversation. All Bessie talked about was men and how they were being introduced to new and interesting individuals on a daily basis, people the nurses would otherwise never meet. She rambled on to the point that Hettie found her ridiculous. “There,” Bessie said pointing with her fork at a young soldier who had just entered the room. “That’s a prime example. That’s someone whom we’ve never met. I wonder who he is and what story he has to tell.” Hettie, who had begun daydreaming mid-conversation, barely looked up, her mind occupied with nineteenth-century poetry. When she did, however, her heart nearly stopped. “That’s my brother,” Hettie said, a lump forming in her throat. “I’m surprised I didn’t recognize him from his photograph.” Bessie clapped her hands together. “Does he see you? I imagine he’s here looking for you.” “No. He sees a silly woman flailing her fork around,” Hettie said, her tone harsher than was necessary. Bessie, her face increasingly growing darker shades of crimson, set down her fork and mercifully was quiet. Hettie stood and began tugging on her clothing, suddenly feeling quite silly in uniform. What if Freddie didn’t recognize her, or worse, what if he teased her about her uniform? As she observed him, he wandered among the tables of nurses and doctors, all of whom were dressed alike, looking like a little boy lost in a crowd. She wondered if she should call out to him and cleared the lump out of her throat, but as she did, Freddie spotted her and waved. She sighed, either with relief or weariness or both, then met him in the aisle. They kissed on the cheek, and Hettie bit her lip, knowing if she didn’t, she’d burst into tears. “Will you be with us long?” she said then cringed at the morbid double meaning of her words. “I mean, how long will you be here at the clearing station?”

“I have three hours before I move to my post at the field ambulance. It’s not a long time, I know, but we’ll make the most of it.” Hettie didn’t blink. He sounds like he’s just stopping by for lunch. “Did you get my letter?” He shook his head. “Which letter? I believe the last one you sent me was after I begged you to come home and you refused. Was there another?” “No. Nothing of any importance.” So it wasn’t that he received her letter and chose to ignore it? It hadn’t arrived before he left, meaning he had no idea how she felt and now she couldn’t tell him. It would needlessly distract him, and I can’t have that. She smiled and introduced him to her friends as Private Frederick Steward although this sounded unnaturally formal. Freddie sat with them and proceeded to answer every single one of their questions, and Hettie, especially, had several. When did he arrive? What was he trained to do? Was he prepared? Would he be nearby? She listened to every response, knowing all the while that no matter what he said he was not prepared and had no idea what he was about to face. The only dead bodies he had ever seen were the ones neatly done up by the undertaker. The worst injury he had ever seen was Gilbert Bartlette’s burned hands and even that was years after the fire. In fact, Gilbert, Geoffrey’s eldest brother, was the reason Hettie became a nurse. She was 13 when Gilbert was working for the Ontario Simcoe and Huron Railway, and a boiler exploded while he was shoving coal into the engine. As flames shot up around him, he used his hands to shield his face, and they were badly burned. Hettie was at the Bartlette home on multiple occasions when a nurse came to treat the wound and change Gilbert’s bandages. She would watch everything the nurse was doing and would ask questions, sometimes jotting the answer down in a small notebook she kept in her pinafore. The nurse’s ability amazed Hettie and she swore that was what she wanted to dedicate her life to doing – helping and healing. Hettie’s thoughts shifted to her wedding reception and how crestfallen Freddie had been. He kept insisting life would never be the same and that he would be there for her if anything were to happen. Is that what he was attempting to do

now? Was his enlistment a loving act of kindness? Bessie smiled and said, “Tell us, Private Steward, do you have a girlfriend?” “Bessie!” Charlotte and Hettie said at the same time. Hettie jumped up, knocking the table in the process, and thought she would die of embarrassment. When she looked at Freddie, he was chuckling instead of being appalled. “No,” he answered, “not currently. I don’t suppose I want one worrying about me while I’m here.” “What happened to Posie?” Hettie said, sitting back down. “Posie? I wrote you about her. I dropped her a few months ago.” “Oh. I liked Posie.” “Well, I didn’t.” Freddie laughed again then grew serious. “Not enough anyway. You must know what I mean, surely. Not enough to spend a lifetime with her.” Hettie nodded slowly. “Yes, I think so. She was a silly girl.” “Very much so.” Freddie turned back to Charlotte and Bessie. “The women here are not silly.” “No, of course not, Private Steward,” Bessie said. “We are very dedicated to our work.” Hettie kept glancing at the clock and felt relieved when it was time to go on duty. At least then Bessie would leave Freddie alone, and Hettie could keep an eye on him. Moreover, during his visit, he would be able to see firsthand the reason he had come to Europe, and it wasn’t her. Hettie watched her brother from afar as she made her rounds. Freddie walked up the main aisle in evacuation, making a point to make eye with every man, and stopping to speak to some of them including a man with a broken leg who was known around the clearing station as Willie.

Every time she glanced at Freddie, she smiled. It is so hard to believe he’s here. Still, I hope he learns a lesson being here, even if there aren’t many patients right now.

But every smile was followed by a tightness in her chest. Once Freddie left, he would be headed to the front and no amount of knowledge could save him from a bullet. Nothing could save his character either. She knew many of the soldiers drank and caroused when they went on leave — that’s how they ended up at the clearing station with syphilis — but surely Freddie would associate himself with better people, after all Freddie was a constable with the Barrie Police Service. He spent plenty of time with drunks and alcoholics, breaking up fights at the taverns and getting vagrants off the road. He had seen the effects firsthand. He was trained to be suspicious. No, Freddie will be fine, she thought. I need to stop worrying. Of all her brothers, Freddie was the one she least wanted to lose, but then she shuddered. No, I can’t think such thoughts. They aren’t fair to Walter and Tommy. Bessie ed by at that moment and cast a long glance at Freddie. “Bessie, a word, please,” Hettie said, “I couldn’t believe you asked Freddie if he has a girlfriend.” “Now, don’t go getting all upset,” Bessie said, again looking Freddie’s way. “I wanted to bring levity to the conversation, so most of it was in jest, but he’s your brother so I know he’s a good man.” “Thank you,” Hettie said. Freddie is a good man. A sly smile crossed Bessie’s face. “Besides when I marry your brother, you’ll be my sister.” Hettie tried to stifle a giggle and failed. “You make me laugh.” “And sometimes when I’m not even trying,” Bessie said before bursting into giggles.

Hettie’s joviality soon subsided. “I’m happy to see Freddie today. I didn’t realize how much I missed seeing him and hearing his voice until now. But I wish he was home.” “Maybe he’ll be close enough to us that he’ll help bring in patients, and you’ll see him fairly often.” “Maybe.” Hettie paused. “Freddie being here is yet another change in my life I didn’t anticipate. I’m wondering how many more changes I’ll be forced to endure before it’s all said and done.” “That’s the thing with life, isn’t it? If we knew in advance the bad things that are going to happen, we’d never get out of bed.”

Chapter 9

Dearest Hettie, How are you? I hope this letter finds you well. As for me, I am sick with worry. None of us have heard from Freddie. We’re all hoping and praying he has arrived safely. Perhaps you have seen him or received word where he is. If you have, please let us know. We all check our mail obsessively for letters from him telling us he is on the Continent because we know enough time has ed for him to have trained both here and in England and then moved on. I understand he might still be angry at Father, but why make the rest of us suffer, sick with worry? If you do happen to be in communication, please remind him to, at the very least, write Mother and calm her. She thinks he’s dead and that the notification has somehow gotten lost. Meanwhile, I do have other, more pleasant, news. I think you will be interested to hear this. In fact it should make you happy. Tommy and Maeve are getting married – or least that is the plan. They are not officially engaged. Maeve is ill at the moment and unable to get out of bed. He’s already asked Mrs. Bartlette for her permission, however, and will ask Maeve when she is well enough. Alice and Adelaide say Tommy is very excited and talks about it endlessly. Unbeknownst to anyone, he had been planning this for months but wanted to wait until they had both celebrated their 19th birthdays. I haven’t been privy to the details of how he plans to propose, but whatever his plans I imagine Maeve will fancy them a great deal. I will let you know all the details when he finally asks her. So, please let me know if you have anything interesting going on at the clearing station. I enjoy hearing about all your friends and the people you meet. I hope to hear from you soon. Yours, Mabel

Hettie reread Mabel’s letter for the fifth time since it arrived then folded it along well-worn lines and tucked it into her pocket before returning to work and quietly going about her rounds. Every young man reminded her of Tommy, and in the course of her work here, there had been so many young men. The majority of the men they treated were younger than 25 years old with many much younger than that. It was the fresh-faced ones, the ones who looked like they should be university students and who seemed too eager to please that reminded her most of Tommy. It was rare that a young man reminded her of Geoffrey or Freddie or Walter; it was always Tommy. Did these young men have girlfriends like Tommy did? Did they have grand plans as he did? Did these men have sisters who worried about them or, as in his case, sisters who caused them worry? She moved on to Willie, her patient with the broken leg. Willie had somehow become the victim of an istrative oversight and had never been evacuated to a stationary hospital. As a consequence, he had been at the casualty clearing station for weeks, and this familiarity meant he chatted freely with the medical personnel. When Freddie had visited in August, he and Willie had talked at length. Later that day, when Willie had learned Freddie was Hettie’s brother, he told her he would have watched his language and toned down his story, but Hettie assured him no harm was done. She wanted her sibling to have a good scare before traveling to the front. “How are you, Willie?” she said, happy to see him that morning despite the fact Willie was one of those young men who reminded her of Tommy. Like Tommy, Willie was in his late teens, articulate and well read. That was where the similarities ended, but it was enough to remind her of home. “I hope to get up and dance,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “No trips to the dancehall today, I’m afraid.” “Tomorrow then.” She smiled to herself. “Perhaps.” Hettie sat on the chair next to his bed and listened while he told her of a letter he had received in that morning’s post. His father and stepmother were visiting an

ill aunt who was suffering from stomach ulcers. He wanted to know whether this condition was dangerous or not. Hettie was honest and told him that it could be, but reassured him he needn’t worry then she fell into silence. “You seem distracted, Sister,” he said when she had nothing else to add to the conversation. “My youngest brother is getting married.” “News to be happy about. With luck, the war will end in time for you to attend.” “Perhaps.” The corners of her lips turned up as she knew he was trying to be helpful, but it wasn’t a topic she wanted to go into detail about, so she excused herself to move onto to the next patient. As she started to rise, he put his put his hand on her arm, stopping her. “I’ve been feeling cold all morning, unusually so. Do you think I’m all right?” She felt his forehead and cheeks. His skin felt hot. “You have a slight fever. I’ll get you an Aspirin and come back with the thermometer.” When Hettie returned with the pill, Willie’s temperature was only slightly above normal. She gave him the Aspirin anyway. Willie expressed his gratitude then, after taking his medication, closed his eyes and drifted to sleep. Hum, how strange Willie can fall asleep so quickly. Oh well, at least I won’t have to talk about Tommy’s impending engagement.

She continued with her duties, but no matter what she did or whom she talked to, she couldn’t pry her thoughts away from Tommy. I always thought I would be ecstatic when Tommy and Maeve got engaged, but I also was hoping they would wait and become older and wiser before taking the plunge.

HOURS LATER, ON A BREAK, Hettie met Charlotte outside the clearing station. At first, they discussed trivial matters like the chilly weather. Charlotte made the offhanded comment that it was boring whenever there wasn’t a battle, then neither woman said anything. Hettie swallowed, wondering if she should she keep her family’s matters amongst family or confide in a friend? On one hand, it was not polite, proper or socially acceptable to air the family’s business in public. But on the other hand, except for Freddie, there were no family for thousands of miles. And Charlotte took good care of me after Geoffrey’s death. She’s like family. “A letter from one of my sisters arrived today,” Hettie said, deciding it was either say something or brood about it the rest of the day. “My brother Tommy is marrying Geoffrey’s sister Maeve. And as crazy as it sounds, I’m very unhappy.” “You don’t like Maeve?” “No, it’s not that. She’s always been like another sister. It’s because she’s a female Bartlette.” Charlotte wrinkled her brow. “I don’t understand.” “Well, it has to do with the Bartlette family.” Hettie paused, again unsure if she should proceed. “And this is in the strictest confidence.” “Of course.” Hettie lowered her voice. She was about to tell Charlotte something no one outside the family was aware of and even within the family it was never uttered. “The Bartlettes had all their children extremely close together, usually less than a year. This resulted in several miscarriages, stillborns and infants who died shortly after birth. No one talks about these things, but it is a wonder Mrs. Bartlette is alive now. There were at least 15 or 20 pregnancies. And the surviving Bartlette children were always ill. In fact, Maeve was ill at the time my sister was writing her letter. “My parents, meanwhile, were educated enough to know about family

limitation. Except for Freddie and me, their children are at least 22 months apart, and all were healthy. “Geoffrey and I had discussed this, and we had decided on a small number of children. He didn’t want me to experience the ill health and grief associated with losing all those babies. But if Tommy marries Maeve, I’m afraid of what might happen.” Charlotte listened to this then said, “So you’re frightened the same thing that happened to Mrs. Bartlette will happen to Maeve? But if you and Geoffrey discussed it before your wedding, perhaps they will, too.” “I’m guessing they won’t even think to,” Hettie shook her head. “Maeve doesn’t know anything about her body’s rhythms, and Tommy certainly isn’t going to think about it.” “I think I understand. I grew up in farm country. Many people came from large families. You know I do. But there were stories of families like the Bartlettes. I visited a few of them as a nurse. Women who had been pregnant the majority of their adult lives. Their bodies were weak and the children were, too. Often they both died. There is a woman in the U.S. named Margaret Sanger who writes a magazine column and started a newsletter last year about this very thing. She calls it birth control. Women here in Europe have better access to it apparently, but not back home. It’s obscene to even mention it, even for medical reasons, which I don’t understand.” Matron knocked on a window and yelled through the glass. The nurses jumped. Charlotte said. “We’ll continue this conversation later. I thought I was the only one concerned about maternal health.” “Bessie worked at children’s hospital for a while. She might have an interesting perspective.” “I’m sure. Don’t worry. Okay?” Hettie nodded, shivering slightly as she walked back into the building. She wished for a cup of tea but ed Willie and went to check his

temperature. In her short absence, his fever was now above 100 Fahrenheit. The flirtatious and talkative Willie barely muttered a thank you when she istered two more Aspirin. By dinner, Willie’s fever had reached 105º. His body shook profusely on a bed drenched with sweat. Hettie asked him multiple questions, but he seemed unwilling, or perhaps unable, to respond. “This is beyond me, Willie,” she said into his ear. “I’ll need to get a physician.” Hettie found Dr. Wakefield in his office, hunched over a pile of papers and looking pensive. She rapped quietly on the door, and tried not to acknowledge to herself how his posture reminded her of the day, more than a year ago now, that she visited Walter in his office. When Wakefield saw her, he motioned for her to come in and, before he could ask her what the urgent matter was, she explained the situation. “Private Wilfred’s fracture is most certainly infected,” the doctor said. “See if you can give him an ice bath – or as close to an ice bath as you can – to lower his body temperature. Meanwhile, I will need to correct this oversight. He needs more care than we are prepared to give him here, and it’s clear he won’t be going back to the trenches any time soon either.” She nodded, understanding what needed done, then rushed to recruit Charlotte and Bessie’s assistance. In the kitchen they found a container large enough to serve as a makeshift tub. The chef complained about having kitchen gear requisitioned for medical use but eventually relented and had the tub delivered to the aisle near Willie’s bed. Orderlies filled the tub, one bucket at a time, and Charlotte debated with the chef again, negotiating a bucketful of ice. When everything was ready, the orderlies slowly lowered Willie into the water, submerging half his body while keeping both his head and plastered leg dry. Hettie changed Willie’s sheets, happy to make his bed more comfortable. This is the worst part of the job, she thought as she fluffed his pillow, feeling absolutely powerless to do anything for a patient save superficial acts. Geoffrey came into her mind and for a brief moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Geoffrey soaking in the tub not Willie. She blinked and again the patient was Willie. She shook her head slightly. Just because I was powerless to do anything other than watch Geoffrey die does not mean I will lose this patient. After all, Willie is still

alive. Fever is common with many diseases. His body is doing what it is supposed to do, destroy the pathogen. Willie was pulled out of the water and his clothing changed before he was tucked back into bed. Hettie sat beside him and patted his hand through the blanket. “How are you feeling, Willie?” she said. He laughed weakly. “Never better.” “Listen to me, Willie. You need to fight this infection, and then when your leg is healed, you will go home and visit your aunt.” “Niagara Falls,” he said. “Pardon?” Oh, no, all that and he’s delirious from fever. “When I go home, I want to go to Niagara Falls. Come with me, Sister. Will you?” Oh, not delirium after all. Flirtation. He is feeling better. “I’ve been in the region, but I’ve never been to the Falls.” “Good.” He smiled and laughed again. “The gimp and the widow. We’ll be the talk of the town.” She did not respond but instead tucked his blanket under his chin and told him good night. It’s cute he flirts with me, but I hopes he knows it’s all in fun and I have no intention of fraternizing with him once he recovers. Her shift finished, Hettie went off duty. As she left the award unit, she slipped her hand into her apron pocket and felt the crisp sheet of Mabel’s stationery. Having forgotten what it was, Hettie pulled out the letter and ed Tommy’s wedding proposal. Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, what are we going to do with you? Why can’t you wait until you and Maeve are older and wiser?

ONCE BACK IN HER BEDROOM, Hettie pulled out pen, paper and ink and started writing:

Dearest Mabel,

Your letter announcing Tommy’s wedding to Maeve arrived this morning. I must confess that although I should feel happy about this event, I do not. I have every fear in the world they will turn into another Mr. and Mrs. Bartlette. I really don’t want –

“YOU’RE NOT WRITING your sister, are you?” Leave me alone, Charlotte. Now is not the time. “I always answer my letters promptly,” Hettie said, avoiding turning her head to acknowledge Charlotte’s presence. “For this, you had best wait until you’ve had a good night’s sleep.” Charlotte sat on her bed and made eye with Hettie. “I don’t want you to say something you otherwise would not.” “Tommy and Maeve will never see this letter. What does it matter what I say?” “Because once you say it, you cannot take it back. Some day, this war will end, and when it does, you will have the opportunity to tell Maeve all the information she needs to know to save her life. I know you. When something means enough to you, you fight for it. You don’t want Tommy to marry Maeve because you are fearful she’ll ruin her life, but you can fight for her future. You can educate her. You’re the only one who can.” Hettie sat back in her chair and folded her arms. A steady rain of ink drops fell off her nib and landed on the desktop. “You think that’s something I can do?” “Absolutely. She trusts you. She’s Geoffrey’s sister. She loves you.” “All right. I’ll give it one day. But tomorrow I’m writing Mabel.” “As well you should. Much can happen in one day, enough to change one’s mind.”

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Willie said, “That’s solved then. I’m going to sleep now,” closed his eyes, and those were the last words he ever spoke. As the day wore on, his condition worsened until, at nightfall, he died. At the time she would normally be wishing Willie good night, Hettie looked down at the empty bed and choked back tears. Why did he have to die? He had been doing so well until yesterday morning. There was no reason to believe he wouldn’t recover. Wakefield was arranging his evacuation orders. Willie was the one bright spot at the clearing station. His flirting flattered my ego and ... and it let me know that maybe, one day, I can live without Geoffrey after all. Now that’s gone. She inhaled deeply then carried the soiled linens to the laundry where she literally ran into Charlotte. “Walk with me,” Charlotte said. “How are you feeling?” “Empty.” “You became too attached, Hettie. Never become attached to a patient, especially here.” Hettie was silent for a moment. “I realize that now. I also realize I was being foolish in regards to Tommy marrying Maeve. Life is too short.” “I’m sorry. I truly am. We all learn the lesson the hard way. When I was working for the doctor in Carman, I went with him on house calls. There was a young woman at one of the houses who was ill with tuberculosis, and after a time the doctor allowed me to visit the patient without his supervision. We had much in common and became fast friends; I would visit her whenever time allowed. When the patient was worsening from consumption, I refused to see it, and when she died, I mourned, but I never again became friends with a patient.” “Thank you, Charlotte for sharing your story.” I still don’t feel better, but it’s nice knowing others have made this mistake. “Of course. I have something that will take your mind off of things. I have a strange question to ask you. Would you become an ambulance driver if you

were able?” “No, probably not. My brother Walter may be a mechanic, but I never learned to drive. That’s something Freddie should do, though.” “I grew up around machinery so it doesn’t bother me. But when I asked Bessie, she confessed that motor cars frighten her. She thinks they’re going to explode or not be able to stop or something.” “Why do you ask?” Charlotte smiled. “Because Olive volunteered to be an ambulance driver.” Hettie’s eyes widened. “And the medical corps is allowing her to do this?” “Well, nothing is official, but they didn’t tell her ‘no’ either.” “I’ll be curious to find out if we get a little more freedom.” “Don’t we all,” Charlotte said and laughed as they entered their room.

DEAREST MABEL, Your letter announcing Tommy’s probable impending engagement arrived two days ago. Once it is official, please let me know and I will send them both letters of congratulations. The day after your letter’s arrival, I suffered the loss of a patient whose company I enjoyed. His loss has affected me deeply. Miss Gates says I became too attached which is something nurses must never do. She is, of course, correct. However, I feel what is disturbing to me is not so much his death, although I am saddened by it, but the feelings it dredged up inside my soul about Geoffrey. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be normal again, if I will ever be happy. Meanwhile, the most remarkable thing has occurred. Miss Marshall volunteered to be an ambulance driver and after several days of considering it, the powers that be have agreed. You should be pleased to hear about this small victory for women, although the significance is sadly lost on Miss Marshall. I shall have to write Father, too. I think he would be interested in this story. Send Gardner and Charles my love. I am sorry this letter is not longer, but I am still feeling out of sorts. When I feel a bit better I will write you more. I promise. Yours, Hettie

Chapter 10

Hettie had been in the kitchen speaking to the cooks about a patient’s diet when she caught sight of a calendar and realized a year was gone, not wasted per se, but gone. It was October 28, which meant 14 months of war and one year in Europe. When the realization hit her, she could not pry her eyes away from the calendar. The war was supposed to be over by Christmas, Christmas 1914! she thought. But here we are. Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it. I so wished to return to work, and in the past year I’ve done nothing but work.

“Sister, Sister, are you all right?” a cook said, his head cocked. “Oh, yes, yes, sorry,” Hettie said, shifting her gaze to make eye . “I just ed something. Unrelated to what we’ve been discussing. So you can purée everything for this patient?” “If the man broke all his teeth, there’s not much choice, is there?” “Right. You know where to find me if you have any questions.” Hettie left the kitchen and began wandering through the halls of the building, making her way back to the evacuation and award wards. This latest building had once been an affluent family’s summer home. Reception was in their great reception hall, resuss was in their ballroom, and all the other wards and departments were located throughout the first and second floors. The medical staff slept in the old servants’ quarters. A month ago, military reinforcements from home arrived, and there was now a Second Canadian Division. The First Division, which the clearing station was part of, was under the command of Ontario-born Arthur Currie, its first Canadian-born commander. Together, the two divisions formed the Canadian Corps, under the command of a Brit, Edwin Alderson, the First Division’s former commander. The message had been received loud and clear: The Canadian government was prepared for an extended conflict. Another message also had been received: Great Britain didn’t trust Canadians to command themselves.

Hettie climbed the building’s extravagant staircase; the elaborate woodwork seemed ridiculous when men’s lives were at stake, and she focused straight ahead on the floral carpet speckled with patients’ blood and other bodily fluids. Before she reached the landing, she heard shouting coming from the direction of the award unit. There were a few men there for observation, but for the most part, the casualty clearing station had been quiet since Willie’s death. Hettie sighed. Now what is happening? Bessie was trying to give a patient an injection, but he was burly, and she couldn’t hold him down on her own. Without giving it a moment’s contemplation, Hettie ran to assist her. “Oh, look,” the patient said, “another bitch who thinks she can lay hands on me.” Hettie ignored the comment although she could feel her temperature rising. Her best revenge at this point would be to get him vaccinated and quiet. She attempted to hold down his legs, but he was kicking like a mad man. “Orderlies! We need some help here!” Hettie turned to Bessie. “Nurse Barrow, what is in the syringe?” “A vaccine. He’s been exposed to—” The patient began shouting obscenities and thrashing in his bed. His forearm hit Bessie’s hand, which sent the syringe flying through the air like a glass bird. It crashed onto the floor, shattering into pieces. Hettie slapped the patient on the foot. “That’s enough out of you. You’ve destroyed medical corps property, and you’ve wasted valuable resources. Be quiet.” “I will do no such thing, you meddlesome little bitch.” She slapped his foot again. “I said, enough out of you.” The commotion had attracted a crowd; two nurses and some of the other patients were gathered around, ogling. Finally, one of the orderlies arrived with ether and knocked the unruly patient unconscious. The crowd dispersed. Hettie put her arm around Bessie’s shoulders and felt her friend trembling. “It’s

over with now, Bessie. He can’t hurt you.” “Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.” “I know. It’s frightening.” Hettie used her foot to push all the glass shards into a pile so they could be removed easily. “What was he exposed to anyway?” “Rabies. He was bit by a stray dog.” “He seems rabid already.” “I can’t believe you stood up to him. Weren’t you frightened?” “Of course, but someone had to.” “What if he attacked you?” “But, he didn’t. I need to get back to work before Matron gets upset. We’ll talk about it more later.” Hettie moved to the other side of the building. Here the wealthy family’s old bedrooms had been transformed into the evacuation ward. The few dozen men who were being treated for illnesses and mild injuries were her charges today. She wasn’t working for long, however, when she heard more commotion. This time it sounded as if it was coming from downstairs. Hettie looked up briefly as she fluffed a patient’s pillow. I’m not getting myself involved this time. Let someone else handle it. The pillow belong to a patient who disliked that morning’s breakfast and was telling her tales of lumpy oatmeal. “Well,” Hettie said, feigning a smile, “at least you won’t have to eat dinner here tonight. The kitchen staff makes a horrible Shepherd’s Pie.” The soldier, who would be eating dinner at the front, wrinkled his brow. “You have Shepherd’s Pie here?” “Once a month, at least. It used to be one of my favorite foods but not anymore.

Lord knows, what type of meat they put in it. Probably goat or rat.” His eyes grew wide. “We don’t even eat those at the front. You’re right, Sister, I am grateful to be going back to my regiment tonight. Our cooks aren’t wonderful, but they’re better than that.” Hettie smiled again. Told him, didn’t I? Now he’ll go back and tell all the others how poorly the medical corps feeds its staff compared to the brave boys at the front. “Sister, Sergeant, pardon me,” Charlotte said, “but I need to speak to Sister Bartlette privately.” Hettie put the fluffed pillow behind the sergeant’s back then followed Charlotte into the corridor. “Do you the lieutenant colonel who insulted you?” “Yes. Why?” “Because he’s here again.” Hettie laughed. No one, aside from medical personnel, ever came through the casualty clearing station’s doors twice. “Charlotte, on a day like today, jokes like that are not funny.” “It’s not a joke. If you look downstairs, you’ll see him.” Hettie sighed. Still thinking it was a cruel joke, she marched to the railing and peered at the ground floor below. In the entrance hall, a small group had gathered and sure enough, the colonel was among them. That can’t be him? Hettie blinked. Maybe she had made a mistake, but it was no mistake. What?! Why? Does he cause arguments wherever he goes? “What is he doing here?” she said, quietly. “He brought in one of his men.” “Instead of an ambulance driver?”

Charlotte shrugged. “It’s odd, I agree, but I didn’t get myself involved. I know my place.” Everyone knew the military’s strict organizational structure. It didn’t matter if it was a slow period, a colonel didn’t abandon his post to deliver one man for medical treatment. At that moment, the colonel glanced up, removed his hat and held it in front of his chest. The women could tell, even from this distance, that he was looking directly at Hettie. “I think he’s smitten with you,” Charlotte said, “removing his hat like a gentleman.” “A gentleman? After he yanked on my arm the last time. Unlike some people, I’m not here to find a husband. I came here with one.” “All I said was he was smitten with you. That is all.” Charlotte walked away, and Hettie followed, both returning to their duties. Hettie tried to go back to making the soldiers in evacuation feel comfortable until they were shipped back to the front, but it was difficult. She could hear the sound of footsteps in the corridor as someone paced repeatedly in front of the ward. She knew she had spoken harshly to Charlotte. It was not her fault the colonel was there or that some of the nurses, realizing they would be in Europe for a long time, had struck up friendships with doctors and soldiers. She had no idea if they were looking for husbands or not; she only said what she did because of what the colonel had accused her of last time. I’ll apologize to Charlotte later, Hettie thought. I owe her that much.

Hettie’s stomach rumbled uneasily. Why was Taylor pacing? Was he watching her? Was he critiquing her every move? Was he expecting something? Was he smitten with her? She glanced into the corridor. Dammit, why does he keep staring at me?

No longer able to stand the scrutiny, her heart racing and palms sweaty, Hettie stood in the threshold of the room and faced her tormentor. “Lieutenant Colonel Taylor,” she said, trying to keep her voice professional. “May I help you with something?” “Mrs. Bartlette. Something serious happened to one of my men. He was near the breastwork and turned at the same moment a sniper’s bullet rang out. It grazed his face. Can you check on him?” Hettie inspected Taylor from head to toe before she responded. She had never seen such a fidgety person. He kept switching his weight from one foot to the other, and not for one second had he stopped spinning his hat between his hands. “I have been assigned to evacuation. There are nurses assigned to pre-op and the operating theatres who would be more than happy to assist you. Both departments are located downstairs, in the area you came from.” “I don’t know any of those people,” he said, grinding the heel of his shoe into the carpet. So what? You don’t know me either. She forced a smile. “We are equally competent. We were forced to an examination and specific criteria to be here.” “Yes, and someone bent the rules for you to be here. So I am asking the person who wanted to be here so badly she found a way to do it to check on my soldier.” Hettie swallowed. “I can get you a status report. If you want anything more specific, you’ll need to speak to someone in those departments.” “That’s acceptable.” Hettie nodded and hurried down the corridor and back to the extravagant staircase with the elaborate woodwork and bloodstains. Why am I doing this? Tell me why I’m doing this? Doing a favor for that man. If his soldier survived a sniper’s bullet then he is incredibly lucky and doesn’t need me. But I somehow doubt if that’s the case. I’ve never heard of someone being hit by a sniper and surviving. He probably shot himself accidently and made up some

story his stupid superiors believed. After asking her colleagues where she could find Taylor’s man, she entered Operating Theatre Two holding a mask over her mouth and nose. If the wound was as minor as Taylor said it was, she would find a soldier having his wound cleaned and stitched. They’d both be gone within the hour because a minor wound should have been treated at a dressing station anyway. But when she entered the room, she nearly dropped her mask. Instead, of a man sitting in a chair getting stiches, she saw a man lying on an operating table, and blood everywhere, absolutely everywhere. A surgeon and nurse were standing beside the operating table, and their aprons so soaked from blood, it looked as if they also had been shot. “Excuse me,” Hettie said, her voice much lower and scratchier than she would have liked. “I’ve come to check on this patient for Lieutenant Colonel Taylor.” “Taylor, eh?” The doctor said. “He’s a pain in the arse. Tell him it’s a lost cause. I don’t know what he was thinking bringing this man here. Anyone with basic first-aid knowledge would know it’s hopeless. I just pray for the patient’s sake that death comes quickly.” Hettie came closer to the table and wished immediately that she hadn’t. The entire left side of the man’s face was missing. Jawbone and teeth were visible along with the muscles in his neck. How is this man live? As Hettie observed, frozen, unable to process what she was seeing, gurgling noises emanated from his throat. She quickly retreated from the room. How exactly am I going to explain this? And I can’t tell him what the doctor said either. Taylor was waiting outside of evacuation. When she saw him, her chest tightened. He’s expecting good news, I suppose. What am I going to say? She forced a smile. “Before I give you a status report, I have a question for you. Did you see him prior to bringing him here?” “Yes. His cheek was grazed and there was bleeding.” “It’s more serious than that. There is a copious amount of blood. The

immediate danger is the bleeding,” she said, knowing the patient had probably bled out in the time it took her to come back upstairs. “That can’t be.” “Yes, sir. Are you certain you saw the wound before?” “Yes. I’m not blind. It— What operating theatre is he in?” “Two.” Taylor began heading in the direction of the staircase. Idiot, she thought as she ran after him. Why did you tell him which room it is? “No, no, where are you going?” “I know you know where I’m going, Mrs. Bartlette. I’ve told you before the bullet grazed him.” “You’ll have to wait until the procedure is over. Only medical personnel are allowed in the operating theatres. They must be kept sterile.” Taylor reached the staircase and began going down the stairs. Still behind him, Hettie pulled her skirt up to mid-calf and tried to descend faster than normal – medical personnel ing her and Taylor on both sides – and felt like she was going to fall at any moment. Damn you for being so much taller than Geoffrey or Freddie. I’m going to kill myself on these stairs. How am I going to stop you?

“Sir, listen to me,” she said. “You cannot go in there. You’ll regret it if you do.” Taylor finally stopped midway down and turned to look at her. “Why? What’s happened?” “As I said before. It’s more serious.” “How much more serious?” Hettie squinted at her colleagues, busily moving about their duties downstairs,

and hoped he wasn’t about to cause another scene. “Fatally.” “I have to see for myself.” Hettie sighed and rolled her eyes as Taylor resumed going down the stairs. She followed as quickly as she could and when she reached the bottom, she sighed, this time from the relief of having not fallen to the marble floor. An orderly gave Taylor directions, and he headed toward Operating Theatre Two with Hettie still in hot pursuit. She wanted to scream at him, “Listen to me. This is for your own good,” but instead all she could do was try to reason. “Why do you want to see the wound if it’s fatal?” “Because. Because I have to is all.” He stopped outside Theatre Two, and she grabbed his elbow. “I’m warning you. You’ll regret it.” He pulled his arm from her grasp and entered the room, returning almost immediately, pale and with his hand over his mouth. “You can see now, sir, why I tried to stop you,” she said. Taylor took several deep breaths before speaking. “What happened to him?” “I don’t know exactly. Best I can tell, the bullet entered near the nose and exited near his ear and when it did, it took the entire left side of his face with it.” “Thank you.” She nodded. “I need to get back to work now.” Hettie left him outside the operating room and went back to evacuation. Why do I let this man do this to me? Why do I let him aggravate me when there are more important things to worry about? She looked about the room. These men were lucky; they were alive and in one piece. A few were being evacuated to base hospitals, but most had recovered from their illnesses and injuries and were headed back to work, back to the

front. So, she told herself, maybe that didn’t make them that lucky after all. An illiterate soldier asked her to write a letter to his family, letting his parents know he was heading to a hospital. She smiled and sat beside his bed. It had never crossed her mind before, but she was grateful it was the commanding officers who wrote families their sympathies when the worst happened. I could never bring myself to start a letter with “it is my regret to inform you.” I’d have to have a use a boilerplate letter or something. She smiled at the soldier as he began his dictation. Hettie wrote his words down verbatim, trying to push thoughts of death out of her mind, but she kept thinking about Taylor’s man. After the letter was finished, she fabricated an excuse and left. I have to know what happened to the patient, even though I already do know. I just need confirmation. He couldn’t still be alive, could he? She stopped to ask Bessie if anyone new had been itted to the award unit. No one had, so she made another trip down the staircase, the staircase that she now hated because it mocked them with its pre-war optimism and beauty. There was no optimism and beauty in the world, not anymore and certainly not here. Taylor was still standing where she left him, outside the operating rooms, focusing on the wall. For a moment, she thought of herself on the night Geoffrey died, but why would Taylor be so shaken by the death of a subordinate? “Has anyone updated you, sir?” He jumped slightly when she spoke, as if he had had no idea she was even there. “No.” “Let me go check, and I’ll let you know.” Orderlies were cleaning Operating Theatre Two, but she found the surgeon, now in fresh clothing, in one of the supply rooms throwing a handful of medical instruments into a bag. “Pardon the interruption. I know you’re busy. What happened to Lieutenant Colonel Taylor’s man?”

The surgeon snapped his bag shut. “In the morgue. He died not long after you checked last time. The chaplain is down there now.” “Did anyone tell him?” “No, he already knew the man bled out and died.” Hettie’s face went white, and the surgeon chuckled. “Oh, you mean, Taylor. No, as I told you, he’s a pain the arse. I have five patients in the award unit whose wounds and vitals needed checked. Another is a nasty VD case, and then there’s that lunatic that attacked Sister Barrow. The two new doctors we’ve been promised haven’t arrived yet, and Wakefield is stuck in an istrative swamp. So Taylor is low on my priority list.” “Shall I tell him?” “That’s a good idea. Maybe then he’ll leave. Now, if you will excuse me.” The surgeon left, and Hettie noticed he purposefully took the servants’ stairs, so he would avoid Taylor. For an instant, she contemplated also returning upstairs that way, but she didn’t like going back on her word. I said I would let him know, so I will. Sure enough, Taylor was still waiting. She took a deep breath to steel her nerves. “I’m sorry, Colonel, but your man, he ed away.” “What?” “There is nothing anyone could do for an injury like that.” “Had I gotten him here faster—” “It wouldn’t have mattered.” Taylor said nothing else, but his face had turned an ashen gray. Why was he affected this way? Should I try to utter some comforting words or leave?

Before she could decide, he said, “Sergeant Wood and I have known each other for years. Long time. We trained together. We’ve known each other that long.

I outrank him now because of my education, but he was just as competent. But it was more than that. We were friends. We went to pubs together and flirted with girls. We laughed together and consulted each other for advice. He was like a brother to me. And now. ... From all the other men, I kept my distance, a detached distance like I’m supposed to do.” Hum, so he has a heart after all? “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Colonel Taylor, for your loss.” “Do you see wounds like that every day?” “No, not every day, but I have seen some horrific things, especially when casualties are high.” “And what happens when it’s someone you know?” She had a suspicion he was hinting around about Geoffrey. “Then you’re grateful for the opportunity to have been with that person during his final moments, that he didn’t die alone.” “Wood was alone. I wasn’t in that room.” “He knew you were here and that you did all you could.” The heavy front door to the former house opened, and the corridor shook slightly after it closed. A voice bellowed through the building. “Mail delivery. The post is here.” Hettie’s heart started racing. Maybe there was a letter from Freddie in her mail bundle. More than ever, after a day like today, she felt she needed to hear from him. “I must get back to work now,” Hettie said. “When everyone comes out to get their letters, Matron will discover I wasn’t at my post. I could get in trouble for fraternizing.” “I understand. But one more thing, Mrs. Bartlette. Thank you for listening to me today.” “It was nothing. Goodbye, Lieutenant Colonel.”

He nodded, and she retreated back to evacuation using the servants’ stairs.

DEAR DAUGHTER-IN-LAW, It has been weeks since I have written you and for this I apologize. I have not been myself in quite some time. Sometimes, when I stop to think about it, I wonder how you can continue to function. If I did not have to cook Gilbert and Maeve their meals, there are days I would be unable to rouse myself out of bed. There are other days when I sit for hours staring out the window. I do nothing but cry. Increasingly, as of late, I have become frustrated with many people. No one will tell me how exactly Geoffrey died. I don’t even know where he died. Was it on the field? In the hospital? Please, can you tell me? Do you know how Geoffrey ed? No one will tell me, and I am desperate for the truth. He is the only son I lost who was an adult upon his death. It is the most unbelievable pain I have ever felt in my life. I pray you never must feel as I feel now. Mama Bartlette

DEAR MAMA BARTLETTE, I pray every night that your pain may lessen. I have emotions that I must struggle with daily. Being here engaged in good work helps a great deal. In the six months since Geoffrey’s death I have seen death of all kinds, some quiet, others painful and drawn out. The stories I could tell you would prevent you from sleeping for weeks. It takes a strong constitution to be here. I do know how Geoffrey died. He was here with me at the casualty clearing station when it happened. I will tell you the truth, but you must not let it disturb you. Instead, knowing the truth must set you at ease and allow you to begin to accept his ing. There were two contributing factors: The first was a bullet wound to the side, making it difficult if not impossible, for him to escape the second contributing factor – exposure to chlorine gas. Gas destroys the lungs making it difficult to breathe. It also causes the nose, eyes and throat to burn, the eyes to water. In severe cases, the lungs fill up with fluid, suffocating the victim to death. Geoffrey was coughing significantly and was confused before he ed. I don’t know which factor caused him more pain. He seemed unaware he was shot, and the end came quickly. In a bizarre way it may be a blessing for although he may have survived the wound, he would have had damage to his lungs. He would have suffered greatly the rest of his life unable to breathe as he should. I hope knowing the truth gives you some peace. Yours, Hettie

1916

“He’s gone, and all our plans Are useless indeed.” ̶ From To His Love by Ivor Gurney

Chapter 11

On a crisp January evening, men with missing body parts were the farthest thing from anyone’s mind. Hettie, Bessie, Charlotte and Olive had been invited to their first social engagement since ing the medical corps, a dinner at brigade headquarters. It was astonishing to be invited. It was even more astonishing that Wakefield and Matron had both given their permission. “What do you think the party will be like?” Bessie said as the quartet rumbled down the road in Olive’s ambulance. “It’s not a party,” Charlotte said. “It’s a dinner. I’m expecting something formal and boring.” “Formal and boring? But think of the men that will be there.” “Yeah. Men who are old enough to be our fathers.” Hettie said, “My father is 64.” “See,” Charlotte said, “you want to court someone who probably met the Fathers of Confederation. No, thank you. If it’s excitement you want, we should take this ambulance to the nearest field ambulance and meet some young men” At that moment, the vehicle hit a bump and all four of the nurses flew up in their seats and landed with a thump. Everyone laughed but Olive. “It’s like an amusement park ride,” Hettie said. “I’d like to go to the field ambulance. Maybe we’d see Freddie.” Charlotte groaned. “I didn’t suggest it to visit your brother, God bless him. I suggested it so we could meet men our own age, men who were born after the invention of the telephone.” The ambulance slowed. “We’re here,” Olive said. The other three nurses wiped condensation off the windows and took a gander at brigade headquarters. It was an abandoned mansion, not much different from the one the clearing station was occupying, although this one had an imposing gate across the driveway.

“Definitely formal and boring,” Charlotte said, more to herself than anyone else. Olive drove through the open gates and stopped parallel to the portico. A private, taking on the role of the butler, escorted them inside to a vestibule, where they were able to hang their coats and hats and warm a bit, before entering the next room, a parlor situated off the entrance hall. Hettie gasped. It must be nice wintering here. This mansion looks untouched by war. Bessie leaned over and whispered, “It’s beautiful.” The parlor was decorated floor to ceiling with wallpaper featuring ferns and flowers, the pattern broken by portraits of austere aristocrats and an oval, gilded mirror the size of a bathtub. A stone fireplace divided the room in half, a crackling fire dancing in the firebox. On one side of the room, a seating area looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed since before the war, while on the other side of the room, a grand piano, much too large for the space, ominously stood, its lid appearing as if it might snap shut and trap someone at any moment. Standing next to a table in the seating area were three colonels talking among themselves and drinking aperitifs. Hettie spotted Taylor and felt suddenly very uncomfortable. She tugged on Charlotte’s sleeve and whispered, “You knew he was going to be here.” “How could I have known? He was stationed in the field whenever we saw him at the C.C.S.” “That man is all over the place.” It was a mistake to come here, Hettie thought, but now I have no choice but to endure the rest of the evening.

Their escort announced them as “the sisters of Casualty Clearing Station 100” before disappearing back into the entrance hall. Upon hearing their guests had arrived, the colonels set down their glasses and ambled over to acquaint themselves. Hettie gnawed on the inside of her lip hoping to control the urge to blurt out something inappropriate.

When the hallway clock tolled the half hour, the final member of their dinner party, General Jones, entered proceeded by a formal announcement. Hettie noticed immediately that Jones spoke with a British accent, and she thought of Father. Every day when Father awoke and read the headlines, he was infuriated, and she knew she’d make the situation worse by telling him that since arriving in Europe, she’d met more British-born Canadians than she ever had in Ontario. But she also knew that the location of soldiers’ birth wasn’t what would make Father upset. It was British commanders who had never set foot in North America telling Canadians what to do. Look at this oaf. He’s so haughty. He thinks he owns the place, not that he’s simply occupying it for the winter. Jones addressed his men and introduced himself to the nurses, kissing each on the hand. When he reached Hettie, she reluctantly held out hers and bit her lip harder, trying not to cringe as he kissed her chapped knuckles. With aperitifs over, the party moved into the dining room. Hettie counted the place settings. Oh, no, it looks like we’re in for a formal 11-course dinner. Dinners of this size could take as long as three hours. Bessie whispered to Hettie, “I don’t know which forks and spoons or plates or anything to use.” “Don’t worry. Neither do I. Well, not exactly. I know some of them. Follow my lead.” Hettie scanned the table for cards and learned the women were seated on one side of the table while the men were seated opposite, leaving the head and foot of the table vacant. Who arranged this table? A child? Even I know proper etiquette. If Mother were here, she’d take the cards from the table and make Jones redo it properly. Hettie held her tongue and took her place opposite the general who had Taylor on his right. It’s like a student sitting across from the heaster instead of the annoying boy in her class. During the fish course, which came after hors d’oeuvres and soup, Jones sat back in his chair and announced he wanted to know what had brought each of them to Europe. Hettie squinted her eyes. Breech of etiquette number two, leaning back in your chair during dinner, and breech number three, allowing conversation to drift to personal matters.

Olive answered first, lying and saying she had felt the urge to be patriotic when the real reason was to escape her abusive home. She was followed by Charlotte and Bessie. When it was her turn, Hettie said nothing. Jones said, “What about you, Miss Bartlette?” Hettie saw Taylor’s posture stiffen. “Mrs. Bartlette. I came here with my husband.” Hettie paused. “He was killed during the Second Battle of Ypres.” Jones cleared his throat. Breech of etiquette number four, Hettie thought. Instead of offering condolences, he said, “Well, good for him. If a man must die, then serving his country is the way to do it.” Hettie opened her mouth to respond but before she even uttered a syllable Jones began recounting his wartime experiences with zest. He finished by saying, “Taylor served in the South African War with distinction.” “That was a long time ago,” Taylor said. I am supposed to be impressed by this tirade? Hettie squinted again then made eye with Jones. “My father says that Laurier should never have let Canadians volunteer themselves in that war – or this one for that matter – that he was pandering to the Conservatives.” Jones chuckled. “Why does he say that?” “Because we’re Canadians first and of the empire second.” Jones laughed again, longer this time. “You’re Canadians first and Britons second, huh? The sun never sets on the British Empire. The British Empire! And the last time I checked Canada was a dominion of the British Empire.” Exhaling, Hettie let go of her fork, and it hit her china plate with a louder noise than she expected. Everyone else, who had been trying in vain to continue the conversations they had been engaged in, turned to glare at her. In their eyes, she saw everything from sympathy to anger.

“And how many generations has your family been in Canada?” Jones said. “Six. We arrived right after the Seven Years’ War.” Jones pointed his finger but did not turn his head. “And you, Taylor?” “Seven or eight,” he said. “I don’t see what difference—” The general laughed yet again and could barely control himself long enough to say, “You’re both from Ontario as well. You have much in common.” “Ontario is a large place,” Taylor said, but Jones waved his hand at him dismissively. No one said anything for what must have been five minutes then Colonels Pike and Harris began to tell their stories. The other women listened with bated breath asking questions they knew the answers to and giggling. Hettie folded her hands in her lap and waited for the remove, the main course in the meal, to be served. I refuse to make myself seem unintelligent for the sake of getting a man’s attention, but I didn’t take my point far enough. If Father were here, he would have started an intellectual debate, perhaps even an argument, with the pompous Jones. I wonder what Father is doing at this moment. It’s midafternoon back home. He’s no doubt in his study with his books waiting for Alice and Adelaide to finish their schoolwork so he can give them an assignment of his own. But it’s equally possible he and Mother are discussing what they should give Charles for his first birthday. Or perhaps Father is pacing, worrying about his two children on the Western Front. Taylor said, “Mrs. Bartlette, what part of Ontario are you from?” “Barrie.” “I’m from Niagara-on-the-Lake. My family runs a vineyard.” A vineyard? Bessie, who sat across from Taylor, heard this and was suddenly quite interested. Tonight Bessie was in her glory: four men with whom to socialize and fawn over. Hettie, again quiet, shook her head. Oh, Bessie, why do you do it? Don’t you realize you’re disrespecting yourself this way? The party retreated to the parlor for coffee after what was for Hettie an

excruciatingly long dinner but was for the others was quite enjoyable. Jones lit a cigar before sitting down with a plop into a brocade chair. Upon doing so he let out a hearty laugh, waved his hand and ordered music. Hettie, who had stopped counting the breeches in etiquette after she committed some of her own, sighed. Pike obeyed, putting a record on the phonograph, and the sound of popular waltzes wafted in the air. Seizing the opportunity to be the first to ask a woman to dance, Taylor extended his hand to Hettie. She inhaled sharply, not knowing exactly what to do. She didn’t want to dance, but knew it was inevitable, seeing as there was an equal number of men and women, and if it wasn’t with him, it would be one of the others. Biting her swollen inner lip, she accepted the invitation. They slowly made their way to the most open part of the room then positioned themselves in the dance’s traditional posture. Hettie felt her body tingle with nervousness as he placed his hand on her shoulder blade and she placed hers on his right arm. When they clenched hands and began to dance, she swallowed so hard her throat hurt. I’m still in mourning. I shouldn’t have accepted the invitation. Some other nurse could have come. It’s too much, too soon. What was I thinking? Why did I do it? I wish I could turn into a bird and fly away. “There is no need for you to feel obligated to dance with me,” she said. “I don’t,” he said. “The others would prefer to dance with someone impressed by their military service so they can gloat and feel important.” “You don’t care if I’m impressed by your service?” “I doubt very much you would be impressed by anything I say. No, the general may care, but I don’t. I wasn’t in the South African War because of some sense of patriotism or duty. I could have cared less what happened in South Africa. I was young and foolish, looking for adventure. I had already been in Africa once, on safari, and was itching to get back to that wild continent. That’s why I volunteered. Then I stayed in the permanent force because I was told I had a military mind, and that’s why I’m here.” “Your ancestors were Loyalists, weren’t they?”

“How do you know?” She cocked her head slightly. “Because Father taught us history, along with his political views. Your family has been in North America for seven or eight generations. We arrived in the late 1750s, and you’re older than I, so I need to subtract another 50 or 60 years to for that and two additional generations. That puts it at 1700 or so, possibly before. And you live in Niagara-on-the-Lake. That’s near Fort George. That’s how I know your ancestors were Loyalists.” He smiled. “Now it’s I who am impressed. My family were Loyalists from New York who settled there in the 17th century. But Fort George is from the War of 1812 not the American Revolution.” Hettie examined the room. The others were surprisingly boisterous. Somehow demure Olive, who seemed afraid of everything, had ended up with Jones and appeared to be enjoying the attention. Charlotte was with Pike, whose height matched hers, being spun in circles, while Bessie was laughing so hard her eyes were watering. Hettie turned back to Taylor and said, “I’ve had an easier life than they have. It was wonderful to invite them.” “I had nothing to do with the invitations. I’m hoping to go back to the front in the spring. I’m here for Jones’ amusement. I think he’s just as odious as you do.” The comment put a small smirk on Hettie’s lips. “Fate keeps thrusting us together,” he said before she could respond. “How so?” “This is the third time we’ve met. What are the odds?” “Indeed,” she said, not knowing how to respond. They fell into silence. Why did you have to go and ruin a perfectly fine conversation? I’ll discuss history with you, but I will not discuss fate. It makes me think of Geoffrey.

THE OTHERS CONTINUED with their raucous behavior for an additional hour before it was time to return to the clearing station. The nurses piled into the ambulance, which after the warmth of the fire seemed cold as a tomb, and the vehicle bounced down the rut-filled road. Bessie reviewed the entire evening, obsessing over little details, then turned to Hettie. “You had the handsomest one there.” “He’s old enough to be my father.” “But he’s not. ? You said your father is 60-something.” Bessie broke into giggles and began snorting like a pig. “Bessie, I think you’re slightly drunk.” Charlotte said, “You are definitely drunk. Still the evening wasn’t nearly as boring I expected.” “You didn’t find it at all boring,” Bessie finally composed herself enough to say. “But I am not drunk.” “There was a lot of wine and sherry.” “I couldn’t possibly be drunk. I wouldn’t know what it’s like. I’ve never had alcohol before.” “This much alcohol? “No, none ... before ... ever.” “Then you’re drunk,” Hettie and Charlotte said in unison. Olive stopped the ambulance. “We’re going to get into trouble once we return for not maintaining ladylike behavior.” “I don’t care if I’m reprimanded or not,” Hettie said. “As a widow, it was inappropriate for me to even go. I feel adulterous for dancing.” I shouldn’t have done it, she thought. I should think before I act. Father says no good comes

when you don’t think before you act. “Nonsense, both of you,” Charlotte said. “Hettie, there are so few opportunities for entertainment here, so few opportunities to get our minds off of death and dying, that even an uncomfortable night was worth it to get away from the clearing station for a few hours. Olive, please drive. If we get home before curfew, no one will question us. And, Bessie, you will be on time for your duties tomorrow, won’t you? Won’t you?” Bessie did not answer, and the others discovered she had fallen asleep.

DEAR MRS. BARTLETTE, I hope this note finds you well. You may be wondering why I am writing you. I debated for quite some time as to whether I should. On one hand, there were so many reasons why I shouldn’t; the fact you despise me being at the top of the list. On the other hand, I have never been a person to be doubtful of my own mind; when I decide to do something, I do it and damn the consequences. So this, you see, is why I am writing you. If I do not, I may regret not attempting to you. I have been stuck in this house with the droll Gen. Jones for several weeks now. Unlike you, I do not have pleasant company to associate with when off duty. It’s basically the men whom you met at the dinner along with a few others. Of all the places I’ve been in this war thus far, this place tests my patience. I would rather be on the front with my men, some of whom I’ve known for years, than here twiddling my thumbs and staring at maps. Since our most recent meeting, I cannot help but think of you and your visit. I know you are a widow but you are not a dowager by any stretch of the imagination. You have every right to live a full life, and I hope that you do have a life full of richness. If you find it in your heart to answer this note, you would make a bored man happy. Sincerely, Lt. Col. Alfred Taylor

DEAR COL. TAYLOR, Your note to me was quite a surprise, as I did not expect to hear from you. I am sorry your appointment at headquarters is less than desirable. Perhaps your fortunes will change at some point in the future. Please do not think I despise you, but you must understand it has been less than a year since my husband’s death and I have no intention of beginning anything with anyone. The traditional mourning period is two years and for me it has been ten months. I’m still in deep mourning. Even if I were in half-mourning, it would not be appropriate. You also must understand I knew Mr. Bartlette for literally my entire life. There has never been anyone else nor the want of anyone else. Unlike a few of the other nurses, I do not have the expectation of finding a boyfriend during my off time. It is the furthest thing from my mind. Instead, I’m concerned for my younger brother, who is here in the medical corps on the front line. His safety and happiness is paramount to mine. I hope you can somehow understand. I do appreciate your letter and wish you health and safety. Sincerely, Mrs. Bartlette

DEAR MRS. BARTLETTE, I fear my note has set the wrong mood and given you the wrong impression. Pardon me, but I do not wish to insult your sensibilities again. I am in no position to begin a courtship. Death and dying are everywhere around me; it is inescapable and someday may come to claim me. I want nothing more from you than a friendly exchange of letters. In all honesty, I am not on the best of with my family, and I don’t feel comfortable writing them. I left home for university and have not really been back since. Most of them have not forgiven me for this. As I told you the night of the party, I had a sense of adventure, regretfully perhaps, which eventually led me here. Nevertheless, no matter the reason, I abandoned the family business for my whims, and I cannot write my family without them questioning my motives. Lately, however, I have felt a sense of my own mortality and the need to converse with someone before the end comes, and you seem to keep crossing my path for reasons unknown. In any case, I’m hoping you will consent to be my pen friend. I was not lying when I said I think of you often. Perhaps I might cross your mind once or twice. I hope to hear from you again. Sincerely, Lt. Col. A. Taylor

Chapter 12

“D id you know he was coming?” Bessie said, eyes wide, cheeks rosy and lips upturned. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I think you missed your calling, Bessie. You have such a talent for expressions. You should have become an actress.” “That doesn’t answer my question.” “Dr. Wakefield only told me a few hours ago,” Hettie said. “You should have shared sooner. How could you keep such news to yourself?” Hettie smiled, amused at how excited Bessie had become concerning the news Freddie and a few of the men from the field ambulance would be visiting. The appointment was to last a few hours to educate the men on basic medical practices, helping them do their jobs more efficiently, yet Bessie was as pleased as she would have been if it were a social visit. Bessie was so man crazy that Charlotte and the others thought her immature for it. Well, everyone but Hettie. She felt she knew the cause: Bessie had grown up in an orphanage with no one but her brother to love her, and all she wanted was a family of her own. “Do you want to get married someday, Bessie?” Hettie said, looking up from her work. Bessie put her hand on her hip, as if she were thinking, and did not respond immediately. “I would like to, of course, but I’m realistic about it. I’m 27. I think that time may have ed.” “Oh, Bessie, don’t think that.” “Well, it’s true.” How could she allow insecurities to keep her from seeing her own value and self -worth? But as much as Hettie liked Bessie and ired her work ethic, when it came to marriage, Bessie was probably right. What did Bessie have to offer a man? She was an aging career woman with no breeding or inheritance. The best she could probably hope for was a working-class man who needed a wife to cook and clean for him. Hettie wrinkled her nose. A live-in maid is more like it.

He wouldn’t respect her education or life experiences at all. How sad. As they stood there, looking at one another over a pile of bedpans, they heard a rumbling. Freddie’s here! In an instant, as her heart began to beat faster, Hettie forgot all about feeling empathic for Bessie. How will Freddie look? Have his experiences over the past several months age him? Did he grow a moustache? Has he gain weight or lose it? Then she shivered when she realized she was starting to sound like Mother with all the questions. Freddie is fine, no matter what, because he is doing what he wants. “That must be them,” Hettie said and left to head outdoors into the early spring chill. Hettie had run out so quickly she had forgotten to fetch her cloak first and the cold air stung the inside of her nostrils, but she didn’t care. Freddie and his colleagues were here. There were four medics, the eldest of which couldn’t have been more than 23 years old, all with dark circles under their eyes and two of them looking extremely thin. Freddie appeared tired, but otherwise was exactly as she last saw him. Hettie ran to greet him. Freddie cracked a smile when he saw his sister and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. She wanted to pull him close and hang onto him tightly, but resisted the urge. There were too many onlookers, Dr. Wakefield included, so she let him go about his tasks without saying much of anything. A long conversation, however, would have been nice. Lately, there hadn’t been much to occupy the nurses’ time other than patients ill from communicable diseases. There was only so much high tea, reading and letter writing a person could do before wishing something more exciting would happen. Soon, Hettie found herself again with Bessie disinfecting the stack of bedpans. Now that Freddie was here, and she knew he was safe, Hettie could focus her attention back to her friend. Poor Bessie. It’s such a shame she believes her chances of marrying are long past. With an attitude like that, it might be a selffulfilling prophecy. Maybe I shouldn’t be so harsh on the girls who have found boyfriends. Bessie is forever meeting new people. So long as she doesn’t fall for one of the venereal-disease patients, she has a good chance of meeting someone who, who ... who sends her letters. She furrowed her brow.

“Bessie,” she said, “do you really think you’ll never get married?” Bessie glanced at Hettie then back to her work. “It isn’t something I like to think about, Hettie, but I have to resign myself to the fact it probably will never happen. What do I have to offer?” “You’re a caring, energetic person.” “Doesn’t matter. All anyone sees is my age and wonders what my deficiencies must be.” “But—” Bessie held up her hand, and Hettie stopped. Perhaps she wasn’t the right person to be having this conversation with Bessie. After all, she came here with a husband. Bessie had said at the time that it was romantic, but maybe she didn’t mean it. And now, Hettie was exchanging letters with Lieutenant Colonel Taylor and had consistently for two months. Hettie asserted to Bessie it was nothing but platonic, but did Bessie believe her? After all, what impression does it make when a man sends a woman a letter every day? Even Geoffrey had never sent letters with such regularity. “Has your brother said anything about the front?” Bessie asked after a few minutes. “No, we were barely able to say hello.” “I’m wondering if the war is ending.” “That would be nice,” Hettie said, her voice trailing off, knowing better. Bessie seemed suddenly upbeat and began rambling about her postwar plans. She would go back to living with her brother, Nathan, and working at the local hospital. Each spring, she’d plant a garden and nurture life, not death, and the vegetables would keep the siblings fed all year. She would buy herself a new wardrobe that included the finest dress she could afford and would go to the dance hall every Friday night even if no one asked her to dance simply for the pleasure of listening to laughter and live music. Life would be filled with wonder and amazement at nature and all of life’s blessings.

“What would you do, Hettie,” Bessie said and then her face went pale. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. How callous of me.” “No, it’s okay. I’ll have a future sooner or later, if everything works out.” Hettie paused. “I’d be lost if I went home now. It’s too soon. But I’d like the war to end so I can stop worrying about Freddie.” “That must be difficult. I’m glad my brother is home where nothing can happen to him.” Hettie nodded and forced a smirk. Now more than anything she yearned for five minutes of conversation with Freddie. How ironic, she told herself, when back home they would talk for hours, but now five minutes was a preciously long period of time. They certainly were far away from their parents’ home, delighting in a game of chess on rainy Saturday afternoons, so far away that it seemed like another lifetime. Their carefree childhood, playing with Mabel and the Bartlettes after school, felt as if it belonged to someone else. The earliest memories Hettie had were of Freddie. They had shared a pram and a nursery, Mother keeping them together until Tommy came along. Hettie could vividly see Freddie in her mind as a boy in his knickerbockers running up and down the street with Victor Bartlette as they pretended to be hunters and explorers. She then pictured him as a young man reciting in front of the family the speeches Father had made him memorize. He was always so proud of himself when he finished and everyone applauded. Who would have imagined war would erupt and they would end up treating wounded near the front?

A FEW HOURS LATER, Freddie’s official duty over, Hettie met him in the recently emptied evacuation. He told her about what he had learned, and they spoke about medical care for several minutes. “Freddie, Bessie was wondering something.” “It’s not if I have a girlfriend, is it?” “Not this time, I don’t believe. There haven’t been any hostilities in a while. Do you suppose the war is ending?” “No, not even close, sad to say. But don’t forget, Hettie, if you’re tired of being here, you could have gone home.” “I could have, I suppose, but I was never given the option. Besides, I don’t want to go back to Mother’s and Father’s house, to my old bed, and be their poor widowed daughter.” Freddie shrugged. “I thought women valued such things.” “What things?” “The comfort of family.” His response stunned her speechless. Freddie was one of the last people she suspected would make a sexist statement. So only women value the comfort of family? Men are meant to fight and kill, is that it, but women are expected to crawl back home whenever the slightest crisis happens? She scrunched her nose and instantly disliked the influence his comrades were having on him. She didn’t expect he’d be so impressionable given his pre-war profession, but perhaps being with the same people day in and day out with nothing to do on slow days did damage. “You’re starting to sound like Walter,” she said, “but at least he apologized for the stupidity of his ways and his gross overreaction.” “You’re right. He did apologize. I suppose you want the same from me? It was a simple observation.”

“I want to argue with you so badly right now, but that would be a waste of our short time together.” “I do have a knack for upsetting you, but it’s only because I know you so well.” “I know. You know me better than anyone else. But, Freddie, I can’t think about you anymore without worrying you’re going to get yourself killed.” “Well, the possibility is there. But if I were to die, at least I would die doing something good.” Tears swelled up in Hettie’s eyes. The mere thought of Freddie dying plunged her instantly into mourning. “I couldn’t bear losing two people I love.” “That may be, but at least the dead don’t suffer. Those of us who are left behind are the ones who suffer.” She swallowed and shook her head. “Father didn’t want either one of us to come here, but he would no doubt be proud of your astute analysis of human nature and the loyalty of your conviction.” Freddie pulled her close. “Please, don’t upset yourself. I am still very much alive and well, and I’d prefer to stay that way. And I’m sorry for what I said. We could all appreciate the comforts of home right about now.” Hettie nodded but couldn’t bring herself to say anything. “Let me tell you a little story,” he said, “it might ease your mind a bit. After you left for the nursing service, I was the one who was worried. There were weeks when communication was slow, and we had no idea where you were or if you were safe. Then the lists of the dead grew longer in the newspapers, Victor enlisted and Geoffrey was killed, and I couldn’t stand by and do nothing any longer. Of course, I had Father’s words in my mind and because of our upbringing I knew I shouldn’t be, couldn’t be a soldier, but I could do something.” Hettie looked up at her brother with unblinking eyes. So Freddie was a conscientious objector? The overwhelming feeling of melancholy was replaced with a new emotion that brought a smile to her lips and made her release herself from his hug.

“Does Father know?” she said. “What?” “The real reason why you’re here.” “No. I’d rather he thought I was some foolish boy who followed you over here to ‘protect’ you.” “Why would you want the family believing that?” “Makes for a better story, doesn’t it? I can see it in your eyes; you want to tell Mabel or Ida or somebody, but” he waved his finger in front of her face, “don’t go telling anyone because you are still partially to blame.” She shook her head in agreement. She would keep his secret, for she knew she did have some culpability in the situation. Had Freddie not personally known people affected by the war, he would have never have felt compelled to do anything about it. Instead, he would have sat back and criticized it the way Father does. But Freddie was compelled to help in the best way possible, by risking his life to save the lives of others.

DEAR MABEL, How are you, Gardner and baby Charles? I imagine your boy grows more and more each day, and I have yet to set eyes on his cubby, little face. For this I feel quite saddened, if I allow myself time to dwell on it. I cannot believe he is already a year old. I had the opportunity to see Freddie for a few hours the other day. You will be pleased to know he looks well and no worse for wear for his experiences. Unfortunately, because he was here so briefly, I was unable to really spend much time with him. In some ways, I detest seeing him here. It always seems as if we don’t know how to behave. Should we behave as soldiers or siblings? Are we to behave formally or informally? I miss the days when I never had to think about such things. Meanwhile, I have yet to tell you about a colonel whom I have met. He arrived initially last year with a group of his men. He insulted me but apologized, and I never thought about him after that until he showed up again. Then earlier this year, a dinner was held at the local brigade’s headquarters. He was there and in subsequent days he began to write me. I have made it perfectly clear I am widowed and have no intention of being wooed by anyone. To this he has responded he has no intention of doing any wooing but simply wants someone with whom to exchange letters. I don’t know what to make of the situation. Why does he keep appearing in my life? Perhaps more importantly, why does he want to converse with me? Oh, Mabel, I wish I were able to get your letters instantly the moment you write them. I wait with impatience for my mail to arrive and almost always answer your letters the day I receive them in order to post them quickly and, in turn, get your response quickly. Your sister, Hettie

DEAREST HETTIE, Oh my, how the war has changed you. I when, in the early days of the war, you wished we were close enough to spend time together and now you wait with anticipation for my written words instead of my spoken ones. I am sorry you must wait eagerly for the mail and how, other than a few, short, precious meetings with Freddie, that is your only connection to family and home. I cannot imagine what that must be like. Mother’s family and Gardner’s entire family are here in Barrie. It would be so lonely being elsewhere and away from them. You are very brave, and I ire that quality. I have news that may interest you. Maeve finally recovered from her illness to the point where Thomas felt he could propose and not overwhelm her with excitement. Maeve, of course, accepted, but she is worried her mother will not be able to pay for a nice wedding which, perhaps, means a small wedding and a formal afternoon lunch. Even more news that may interest you: Dorothea is finally expecting. I think it may have taken Walter off guard as well as delighted him for he literally giggled like a schoolboy when he told us. Well, it only took nearly four years of marriage for this to happen. I’m praying everything works out well as this may end up being Walter’s only child. Ida was telling me several months ago she wrote you about Uncle Steven. I’ve included a newspaper clipping for you about his latest political endeavour. I thought you might want to read it. Oh, and about the colonel you were speaking of: All I can say is war makes people do bizarre things. Yours, Mabel (Newspaper clipping) 12 January 1916 ̶ Town councilor Mr. Steven Goodwin, a Liberal, has made an important decision about the future of his career. Mr. Goodwin publicly stated

on Thursday of the proceeding week at 9 a.m. that he will make a bid for a parliamentary seat if the war continues past its second anniversary. Mr. Goodwin, a lifelong resident of Barrie, has prior to this never considered a move to Ottawa. He said his own family who are currently serving in Europe motivated his decision. Mr. Goodwin is the uncle of Mr. Frederick Steward and Mrs. Henrietta Bartlette, both of whom are serving in the medical corps. Their safety and wellbeing are of his uppermost concern. Mr. Goodwin said a speedy and peaceful resolution to the war must be found in order to ensure there are no more needless Canadian deaths. It is unclear how successful Mr. Goodwin’s bid for Parliament would be as we do not know how well-known he is in the parts of the riding which fall outside of Barrie. Mr. Goodwin declined to comment any further on the matter.

Dear Lt. Col. Taylor, I had the pleasure of seeing one of my younger brothers recently, very recently. It is because of my husband that I am here, but it is because of me that my brother is here. Before my husband’s ing he expressed the guilt he felt for being responsible for my being here. I must confess I am now experiencing the same feeling in regard to my brother. He would not be here if it weren’t for me. I feel responsible for anything that happens to him. I have not expressed this to him for fear it would harm his concentration. Instead it harms mine. I’m sorry. I began rambling about myself without even saying hello. I’m certain you have problems and concerns much more monumental than my own. I must be sensitive to that. You may be my pen friend, but this does not mean I can use you only as an outlet for saying the things I cannot say to anyone else. I do not know you well, so perhaps I cannot say these things to you either, although I hope that I can. Sincerely, Mrs. Bartlette Dear Mrs. Bartlette, I am here due to a series of choices I have made in my life. I have already related to you how I left home after university. At that time, I had no desire to stay home and run a vineyard — I can’t say I do now either — so I wanted to be anywhere but home. I traveled the world, went on safari in Africa and eventually found the army. That story you know as well. I thought of no one but myself. And I was no angel during that time; I had a series of girlfriends with no commitment to any of them, drank and fought. The philosophers would probably say we were destined to be here, and no matter what we did in our lives we would never have been able to change that fact. Or at least that is what I tell myself. If doing something different in my past could have prevented me from being here, I most certainly would have done it. None of us should be here, but most of all you. Sincerely,

Lt. Col. Taylor

DEAR LT. COL. TAYLOR, I am not going to begin to speculate on what your relationships with your girlfriends entailed or precisely what you mean when using that description. I am not naïve about what goes on here. The longer the war goes on the more I am noticing some of the nurses have begun relationships with soldiers. I also know the soldiers go and cavort when they go on leave. These sorts of things happened back home, too, I know, but they somehow appear more evident now. As I have stated in the past, Mr. Bartlette was in my life literally since birth. There has never been anyone else nor want of anyone else. My virtue does mean something to me, and unlike some of the women here in Europe I will not give it away to just anyone. It means too much. I am not telling you these things to upset you, only to be completely forthright with you. Something tells me I’m not the sort of woman you normally deal with and perhaps that’s a good thing. We shall find out. Sincerely, Mrs. Bartlette

Chapter 13

“H elp me, help me,” a young soldier said, repeatedly. “My legs are broken,” another said. “Broken.” The others said nothing although some moaned while suffering from fever dreams. Hettie walked slowly from bed to bed in the newly established quarantine unit, speaking softly to each patient in an effort to convey comfort with her voice. The trench fever cases had begun coming in a week ago, one case here and one case there, until several were coming per day, and now they filled an entire ward. The men were in various degrees of distress, everywhere from burning fever to intense bone pain, but once the initial five-day fever broke, they were evacuated to a base hospital. A year ago, the clearing station had survived its first test – its first major battle. Patient after patient had come into the station, swelling the population to the point where it seemed as if the influx would never end. Hettie ed vividly the warm splash of a patient’s blood flying onto her neck, so much so that, as she thought of it, she touched her neck expecting to find it wet. As her dress brushed against the foot of a patient’s bed, she ed how her clothing had been painted crimson and made stiff with dried blood and how it had happened many times since, but that battle was different because it was the first, the one that shocked everyone and changed everything. Today was April 24. One year ago, Geoffrey died. Hettie finished her rounds and went back into the award unit. The familiarity of the bullet wounds, broken limbs, cuts, amputations, infections and disfigurements was comforting. Hettie smiled to herself because, in that moment, she was happy. For months, she had been telling people going home would mean an unwanted return to Father’s house, but there was more to it than merely a sense of being idle. Her very freedom was at stake. Hettie had never been made to feel like a weak, helpless woman, but if she went home, defeated, that’s what she most certainly would be. I refuse to be like Mrs. Bartlette, worthless without a man. Amelia Bartlette has worn black since the day Gordon Bartlette, Geoffrey’s father, had died. In fact, ignoring the conventions of modern, polite society, she

had remained in mourning for most of her adult existence, but what was good enough for Queen Victoria, “the widow of Windsor,” was good for Amelia. It had begun with the loss of her infant children, but only grew worse upon Gordon’s death. Amelia frequented the cemetery daily, no matter the weather. She filled the role of the grieving widow to such an extent that she didn’t know how to be anyone else. What was worse, this mood wore off on friends, family and acquaintances. They expected her to be morose and sullen and treated her accordingly. Hettie had no intentions of being beholden to any man and especially not to a ghost. The nursing service provided Hettie with as much independence as she could expect to have; she answered to no one but Matron and the doctors, and their demands were by no means harsh or unreasonable. Geoffrey understood that nursing was something worthwhile and something that made her proud, and that’s why he had given her this gift of coming to Europe. And it was a gift. Once the war ends, I will quit working and go home, back to Father’s house. I will receive the sympathies of many people, and I will be forced to endure many an afternoon with the elder Mrs. Bartlette, the one who wants me to go into mourning with her and stay that way, but not yet. Placing her hands on her hips, she briefly surveyed the room. This was far from paradise, for sure, but it was her salvation. After a moment of reflection, Hettie grabbed several rolls of cloth bandages and a metal pan, and began her duties in this unit. She strolled confidently to the far side of the unit and stopped beside a patient whose bandages needed changed. His back was toward her with a leg in traction and his head partially hidden by his pillow. “Pardon me, Private,” Hettie said. “It’s time to clean your wound.” The patient did not stir immediately then slowly turned to examine her with piercing green eyes, strands of dark hair decorating his forehead. “Geoffrey?” Hettie said, her voice trailing off. Her breath quickened as did her heart rate. She swallowed, and her mouth was dry. For an instant she was paralyzed, then she blinked and when she did, she saw it wasn’t Geoffrey after all, but a man with a striking resemblance.

“Are you all right, Sister?” the patient said. “You turned suddenly pale.” “Um,” Hettie licked her lips and inhaled, “yes, I, uh, just ed something I mustn’t forget.” She held the bandages up. “Shall we get to it?” “If it gets me out of here faster,” he said, shifting his weight. “Every bit of care helps you heal properly.” She began her task, purposefully avoiding eye with him. The wound smelled strongly of pus, and she cleaned it first with water and then with carbolic acid. After a clean bandage was applied, she was forced to finally meet the patient’s gaze. “There,” she said, “depending on when you are sent to the base hospital, that may be the final bandage change you get from us.” “Thank you, Sister.” “You’re very welcome.” She smiled, but he had already turned and did not see her. She swallowed the lump in her throat that had formed at the thought of Geoffrey and gathered her supplies before moving on to the next patient. In an hour, she would head back to the trench fever patients.

THAT NIGHT, HETTIE sat silently on her bed while Charlotte and Bessie discussed Dr. Fitzpatrick, one of their former colleagues. He had worked with them at Canadian Casualty Clearing Station 100 since they were stationed on the Continent in March 1914, but last month the medical corps transferred him to a stationary hospital. It was after his transfer that he began writing Charlotte, something she was not-so-secretly happy about, but the women wondered why he hadn’t made his intentions known before this. Hettie listened for about ten minutes to this conversation that young women around the world have every day. In her youth, there had been many such conversations with Ida and Mabel when she had gushed about Geoffrey and how wonderful he was, and they had done the same about their future husbands. This felt different, though. Was she supposed to be happy that Charlotte had a boyfriend? Probably so, but listening to this conversation had grown tiresome. Nonetheless, she knew if Dr. Fitzpatrick brought Charlotte happiness, then what was the harm in it? Hettie ed the early days of her courtship with Geoffrey. She had been so young that the mere fact she had a boy walking her home from school who wasn’t her brother made her feel grown up and gave her a sense of selfimportance. Her older siblings were supposed to be her chaperones, but Ida had just gotten married, Walter had recently graduated high school and was focused on his career, and Mabel simply wanted to finish school. Their minds and attentions were elsewhere as were Geoffrey’s older siblings’. Gilbert’s burns still pained him terribly, and Teddy was courting Caroline and working as much as he could to save money for a house. As for their parents, Father and Mrs. Bartlette were working, and Mother had a full social calendar she had no intentions of abandoning for the whims of her middle daughter. All this meant Geoffrey and Hettie had a free and casual relationship. No one cared much what they did because they weren’t yet old enough to marry, and for some reason no one worried they might give into temptation. Giving in to temptation was difficult anyway; there was rarely any privacy. That is until that one day four years ago when Geoffrey impetuously boarded a train to visit her in Toronto. He had come alone, but because he had always visited with a chaperone, the nursing school gave her permission to see him without

question. She met him at his bed and breakfast and lied to the clerk, claiming she was Geoffrey’s sister, in order to gain access to his room. Hettie swallowed hard, not wanting to relive these memories and the emotions that went along with them because, she knew, they would be followed invariably by sadness. Hettie, who had been looking more at their shoes than she had been listening to their conversation, focused on a delighted Charlotte and Bessie. “Do you know what today is?” Bessie became instantly serious and nodded. Charlotte said, “We were waiting for you to mention it before we said anything. We didn’t want to upset you.” “I’ve been thinking about it all day,” Hettie said, “and I’ve made a decision. I’ve decided I don’t want to end up like my mother-in-law when she was widowed, seeing ghosts around every corner. Her spirit died when her husband’s body died. I want to live.” Hettie and Bessie glanced at each other. “Does this have anything to do with Lieutenant Colonel Taylor?” Charlotte said. Letters came almost daily. Even when there were delays in the mail service, she would receive letters dated on consecutive days. An unopened letter sat on her pillow now. His letters weren’t lengthy, a note was perhaps a better way to describe them, but it was enough for Hettie to get to know him slowly. In turn, she grew to rely on him as an outlet for her true feelings. She sometimes relieved herself of these feelings when she wrote Ida or Mabel and, more rarely, other family , but the length of time between correspondences meant she almost always felt differently by the time their responses arrived. With Taylor, the response was more immediate and did more to ease her mind. She kept a journal, as many of the others did, but she found it a poor substitute for human interaction and only sporadically made entries. This was in contrast to Olive who retreated every night to someplace quiet to record her daily entry. “I feel guilty exchanging letters with him,” Hettie said. “Then stop,” Charlotte said. “That’s the obvious solution.”

“I feel guilty doing that as well. It’s difficult saying no to a man who could die at any moment.” Charlotte shrugged. “Well, I suppose you will stay pen friends then.” “I wish I had a pen friend as handsome as yours,” Bessie said. Hettie ignored Bessie’s comment and took Geoffrey’s picture out of her steamer truck. “I cannot talk about Colonel Taylor tonight. It’s not the time nor the place.” She leaned back on her bed and looked fixedly at Geoffrey’s photograph. It was in autochrome, showing the color in his flesh and a twinkle in his green eyes. He was wearing a lovely, navy blue suit, the same suit he wore on their wedding day, and it flattered him unlike any garment he had ever owned. She closed her eyes and tried to the sound of his voice but failed. Countless times he had told her he loved her, yet she couldn’t make herself “hear” it one more time. Tears began to form, and she snapped her eyelids shut. Before that night a year ago, she had never imagined Geoffrey would come through the clearing station’s doors. That was something that happened to other men, men she had never met. She opened her eyes and squinted at the wall. They had such grand plans. They were going to grow old together, but not before that promised honeymoon on the Continent. It was naïve to think a war could end so quickly. But what reason had they to believe it would not?

DEAR LT. COL. TAYLOR, I hope this letter finds you well. The weather is warming, and I fear hostilities will begin in earnest again before long. This is about the time of year my mother begins to plan her garden. She enjoys her garden almost as much as giving her opinion. She enjoys creating plans and nurturing plants. For a number of years, before my mother-in-law and her sons paid off their mortgage, it was a not-sosecret secret our household provided theirs with vegetables. It gave Mother a sense of satisfaction to do such a good deed. Yesterday was the first anniversary of Mr. Bartlette’s death. He is gone, and I don’t even have so much as a snippet of his hair to put in a locket. Mourning jewelry is an old outdated custom, I know, but sometimes it’s the simple things one misses. All I have is our few possessions, now in the attic of my mother-inlaw’s house. They will be there for me when I finally go home. But it will no longer feel like home. It’s changed. I have been in mourning for a year now. I awaken some days in a blur and go about my day as if in a trance. Other days, I awaken and life seems as it has always been this way. I still sometimes think of Mr. Bartlette in the present tense as if he is only at the front and I will see him again soon. Someday the war will end, or the medical corps will send me home, and I will be forced to face reality. But I don’t feel like a traditional widow. I have been here for so long and have seen so many things that it feels longer than one year. It feels double that time at the very least. This war brought about an end to Mr. Bartlette’s physical life but I don’t want it to bring about an end to my life in a symbolic sense. I want this morose to end before it kills my spirit. I’m not sure where all this is coming from, but it propels me forward. I look forward to hearing from you soon. Truly, Mrs. Bartlette

DEAR MRS. BARTLETTE, I fear you are correct and hostilities will begin in earnest again. This war, it seems, is one without end. A year and a half I have been here and in another year and a half I will still be here. I am very sorry to hear of the anniversary of your husband’s death. It must have been a difficult day for you, and I am sorry you were forced to endure it. From what you have told me, however, you have numerous friends and family who will sustain you on difficult days. At least you had someone to call your own. Many never have that. I never had that. I can’t say I’ve ever truly been in love in my life. Maybe I was too selfish and too preoccupied with having fun and adventures to give my heart to another. We’ve all lost someone here. Do you the occasion of our second meeting, the man who was shot in the face? Do you recall me telling you how he was my friend and how the only reason I’m an officer and he was not is because I’m university educated? We had both mustered into the army at the same time, for the “grand” South African War that Gen. Jones went on about, and then we both stayed. I believe I also told you about going to the pub and having a good time. Those were carefree times. We were in the permanent force, but there was no danger in it. Of all the men I served with before the war, I am the only one left. All the others are dead or permanently injured, lives forever altered. A few were transferred elsewhere and I have no idea what became of them, but I’m sure they encountered the same fate. I always look forward to your letters. They brighten my days to read them. Thinking of you, Lt. Col. Taylor

Chapter 14

Screams echoed down the corridor. Hettie wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and rushed in the direction of the screams. Another patient was being brought into resuss. She elbowed her way through the crowded corridor until she made it to the foot of a stretcher. “Don’t worry,” she said to a man with his limbs half blown off. “We’re going to take good care of you. You won’t feel a thing.” She peeked at his ission tag and it confirmed what she already knew. The man was dying. In truth, he was already dead. His fate was cast the moment the battle begun. Still, he was not the patient who was screaming. No, he was in shock. It was the patient on the next stretcher who was screaming. Hettie moved to him as the dying patient was carried through the threshold to be lined up in resuss with the other hopeless cases. The screaming patient had a bandaged head, and his nose looked smashed to pieces. Hettie put her hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, soldier, our surgeons are the most skilled in all the realm. You’ll be good as new soon. We’ll get you something for the pain.” The soldier seemed not to comprehend at first, but then he nodded, sending blood streaming down his face. This man probably would survive. He needed only fluids and a warm blanket to raise his core temperature. Three more patients followed. She welcomed them also and then resumed her duties in resuss, making note of how many blood transfusions were needed before patients were stable enough for surgery. She jotted the number down on scrap paper. “Sister.” An orderly stopped her. “Your brother was here, driving an ambulance. He’s gone now, but I thought you should know he was here.” “Of course.” Hettie nodded. “Thank you.”

She took a deep breath and tried to clear her head. The air was filled with the repugnant smell of blood and death. She pinched the bridge of her nose without realizing it and went to search for the blood for the transfusions. The new patient with the busted nose and head wound began screaming again. She could see him from the corner of her eye, as well as the chaplain who was crouched over a stretcher not far from him, praying over the body of a teenage patient. Now is not a time to be reminded of Freddie. Why did the orderly have to tell me that? Why? During times like this, Hettie purposefully pushed thoughts of Freddie out of her mind. Since his arrival in Europe 10 months ago, he had gotten a promotion of sorts. His ability to drive meant he was transferred from an advanced field ambulance unit to a main field ambulance unit. This put him a bit farther from the front line and meant he was often pressed into service transporting patients to casualty clearing stations, including theirs, but it didn’t mean she had stopped worrying about him. Why? Why now when– She held the paper in her hand in front of her face and read the number 12 written on it. Where was she going to find 12 pints of blood? With everyone pressed into service, it would be difficult finding one able bodied man for blood donation. As she contemplated her nearly impossible task, an orderly said, “Oy, look out for that one!” A patient was convulsing. Two orderlies and the chaplain ran to his aid. –when death is all around us. Hettie shoved the note into her apron pocket, and she, too, sprinted to the patient’s side. His body was making short jerks while froth and grunts emanated from his mouth. “Take care to watch his head,” Hettie said instructing one of the orderlies to cradle the patient’s head. “Careful, careful.”

The patient lost bladder and bowel control and as the stench of excrement hit them, the chaplain began to read psalms. “Holy Jesus,” one of the orderlies said. “Pardon me, Sister.” Hettie said nothing, but instead loosened the patient’s collar. He continued to convulse several more times before the time between jerks slowed and stopped. Behind Hettie, the chaplain’s voice trailed off and he closed his Bible. “He’ll need a change of clothing,” she said, “and some protection for his head. I’ll return to check on him when I can. I have something more pressing I must attend to.” Now, those 12 pints of blood. She turned to the patients needing transfusions, having forgotten an important part in the process; she needed their blood types in order to round up the available donors. In her pockets, she carried glass vials and labels, and one at a time, she drew blood for sampling. One of the patients had died and another was near death, so she scribbled out the “12” on her note and replaced it with “10” then rushed the vials to the mobile laboratory. The distant echo of bombardments went off in tandem with the thump, thump, thump of her heart on the return trip back to ressus. Please, hurry, she had told the lab technicians as if her request could speed along the process. What a stupid thing to say. I might as well have said, “Men’s lives are at stake.” They know that already. “Sister, I’m happy you’re back,” the orderly who had alerted her to the patient having seizures said. “He’s convulsing again.” Hettie followed the orderly through the rows of patients that seemed to have multiplied in the few minutes she was gone until they reached the seizure patient. The orderlies and chaplain had ed her instructions and were cradling the patient’s head and keeping his throat clear. “Why is he doing this, Sister?” the chaplain said. “Brain injury.” The patient’s seizure ended, and Hettie tried to get him to focus his eyes without

much success. She sat back on her heels. He’s probably better off dead. What can the doctors do for him? However, to the others she said, “Do what you can for him until he can be moved to pre-op.” Hettie stood and surveyed the room. Some of the patients were being moved to pre-op, but many were also going in the opposite direction, to the yard to await burial. She smiled at the chaplain as another bombardment shook the ground, and the seizure patient ed the men being moved to the yard.

The following morning or two – Hettie couldn’t whether she had been awake for 24 hours or 48 – there was a strange calmness about the clearing station. Resuss was empty. So was reception, pre-op and the operating theatres. Only evacuation and the yard were busy. The chaplain, who seemed to sleep no more than the medical staff, was standing surrounded by bodies all covered in white sheets that looked like mounds of snow from a distance. He was praying. Hettie saw a young man wearing a red cross armband walking toward the chaplain. For a moment she thought it was Freddie and went into the yard. He turned out to be another ambulance driver, and she squeezed shut her dry and itchy eyes as they began to sting with tears of disappointment. The air was still, and she could almost hear the men’s conversation. As she struggled to eavesdrop, she heard her own name and jumped. “Mrs. Bartlette,” Wakefield said, “may I speak with you privately?” Hettie opened her eyes and saw the doctor standing a few feet behind her in the threshold. She swallowed, thinking he was about to discipline her for wandering outside. Instead he led her through the building to a locked door. That’s where they stopped. “Do you know a Victor Bartlette?” There was no possible way Wakefield could know the name Victor Bartlette unless, unless ... “Yes,” she said, her voice barely audible. “He’s here.” She blinked rapidly, her mind thinking back to childhood when Victor and Freddie were the best of friends. “Is he injured?” “Well, not in the traditional sense. He has some sort of mental exhaustion.” Wakefield offered no explanation. He unlocked the door and extended his hand

to urge Hettie to go inside. When she did, Wakefield closed the door behind her. Hettie swallowed, somehow frightened to see her former brother-in-law. He was sitting as if waiting for her, glaring out the window. Luckily, his view was of the dirt road leading up to the clearing station and not of the yard. “Victor, do you me?” She crouched beside his chair, and her nostrils flared slightly. His limbs were fidgety while his face was pale and his eyes unfamiliar. He turned his head slowly. “And I wouldn’t know you why?” “It’s been a while. I’ve aged, I’m sure.” His chair shook slightly as he fidgeted, and it reminded her of the seizure patient. “Has the screaming stopped?” “There hasn’t been any screaming for hours. The battle is over.” “There was screaming a few minutes ago.” “I heard nothing.” Feeling like she was going to hyperventilate, Hettie rested her left hand on the arm of the chair and stood, putting some space between herself and Victor. He looked at her through half-open eyes. “I see you’ve forgotten my brother already.” Hettie rubbed her ring finger with her thumb. “I have done no such thing. I wear my wedding ring on a chain around my neck so I don’t lose it.” “Liar.” “I can assure you I am not lying to you.” Victor stood and puffed his chest. “You’ve already forgotten him. He cared about you more than anything and you’ve forgotten him. If you were a dutiful wife, you’d be with him now.” “Are you saying I should be dead, Victor?”

“Well, you followed him everywhere else,” he said, arms flailing. “I took a vow until death do us part. I didn’t make a suicide pact.” “You’d have been better off if you did.” As Victor spoke, Hettie slowly walked backward toward the door, placing her hand on the doorknob when she reached her destination and quickly exiting. Wakefield was waiting in the corridor and locked the door behind her. “He’ll stay here overnight, but then we’re going to have to send him back to the front. Nothing is physically wrong with him.” “I understand,” Hettie said, although she didn’t.

DEAREST MABEL, I thought perhaps I should inform you of some distressing news. Victor has come through the clearing station. Now before I alarm you too much, let me tell you he is alive, still with all his limbs and senses, but something is wrong. I was told it was mental exhaustion, but it seems to me like aggression. I tried speaking to him on more than one occasion and every time he said harsh things to me, attacking my character. For the life of me, I wish I knew what the problem is. I’ve never seen anything like it. Victor was kept here overnight then sent back to the front. He should have been sent to England for observation or recovery or both. It dismays me to know someone who is behaving so obviously abnormally can be deemed healthy. If he should harm himself or end up killed because of incompetence, it will be on their conscience. I’m too upset to speak about this any further, but will write you again in a day or two when I have calmed down. Yours, Hettie

Dear Mrs. Bartlette, I thought you should know I am alive and well. The past several days have not been easy nor pleasant, but I made it through and am now preparing for the next engagement. You will pardon me for not giving you a second thought whilst the lives of my men and myself were at stake, but now that the battle is over, thoughts of you are beginning to again creep into my mind, and it comforts me. Over the past several months, I have been thinking about my actions and behaviours before the war and how, as best I can, I need to rectify them. As a consequence, I wrote my family and told them that if I survive, I will end my wanderings and return home. My parents, especially my mother, are happy to hear this news. My brothers, on the other hand, think it is all about greed. The winery has been successful for decades, and my homecoming would mean the fortune, upon my parents’ ing, would be split in thirds instead of in half. It is unfortunate they feel that way, but there is nothing I can do to change their minds. It will be an awkward homecoming. If I live long enough to step foot on Canadian soil ... I hope you have not had a strenuous fortnight. I am looking forward to your next letter. Yours, Col. Taylor

DEAR COL TAYLOR, Yes, my fortnight was indeed strenuous. My brother was here delivering patients, but I was engaged elsewhere and didn’t see him. I feel sorry for that as if it were somehow my fault. I did see one of my former brothers-in-law and he spoke to me dreadfully, so all in all I have been better. I can offer no words of advice, but I sympathize with your plight. I feel my own homecoming also will be strange. I now have in my consciousness sights, smells and emotions I would have otherwise never experienced. At the hospital back home, there would never be – with the exception of a severe injury – the need to assist an amputation. The only people I knew who were deafened or blinded were that way because of illness or because it was congenital. The only people who were maimed were involved in house fires or accidents. I never once saw a patient who sustained injury at the hands of another human being. This war was, by everyone’s estimation, supposed to end in three months. How hysterically funny. It feels as if we will never go home. We shall remain here, forever stuck in hell. I look forward to hearing from you again. Truly, Mrs. Bartlette

DEAREST HETTIE, I just received your disturbing letter about Victor. Had you not written me, we would have never heard about it. No official communication was sent to us. Seeing as he was not sent to England perhaps none will be. If you haven’t already shared it, I would suggest you keep this information to yourself. It could cause certain people undue psychological harm. Yesterday I had tea with Mrs. Bartlette. She is still heavily in mourning over Geoffrey. Most days she doesn’t even open her drapes because to allow light into the house somehow would be disrespectful to his memory. We are past the twelve-month mark, yet she still dresses head to toe in black. When she leaves the house, she continues to wear a veil over her face, seeming oblivious to warming temperatures. At tea, she spoke of Geoffrey the majority of the time, how he took his tea, his favourite finger sandwiches, how he would do this or that. The rest of the time she spoke of you with a mixture of praise and condemnation. I knew not what to make of it, and I scarcely knew what to say so I always agreed with whatever she said. Mother endures these teas on a semiweekly basis. Mother has never been known for her patience, but in this instance she has the patience of a saint, and God bless her for it. I am sorry you were feeling disconcerted when you last wrote. While at times, I get stacks of letters from you all at once, this time only one arrived. I hope you are well. I worry about your well-being and wish you could come home soon. Yours, Mabel

Chapter 15

“I have been hearing thunder all day, yet it isn’t the least bit overcast,” Bessie said from the window. Hettie glanced up from the linens they had been folding. “That’s not thunder. That’s the Somme.” Bessie laughed uneasily. “I should have known.” “That’s okay. You don’t want to think of what’s coming.” Bessie turned away from the window and, without responding, went back to her previous task. The bloody battle of the Somme was two and half months old. When the battle began July 1, the Canadian Corps was still in Ypres quietly commemorating Dominion Day. Meanwhile, their British compatriots were being slaughtered. That day, casualties were nearly 57,500 and the death toll sured 19,000, making it the bloodiest day in British history and even perhaps world history. The casualty clearing stations were overwhelmed, and many men lingered on the field for days before being rescued. Also, on that mournful day, a regiment from the Dominion of Newfoundland, attached to the British army, met its fate. Of the regiment’s 801 men, 710 were mowed down within half an hour, nearly half of whom died. During the first six or seven weeks of the battle, there had been around 300,000 causalities. The bombardments were so powerful and numerous, they could be heard across the English Channel. During those weeks, the men and women of Casualty Clearing Station 100 heard rumors and misinformation. The corps, including the newly arrived 4th Division, was moved into position near the villages of Flers and Courcelette preparing to attack, while C.C.S. 100 was moved into position behind them. As another bombardment could be heard Hettie shivered, steeling herself against the unseasonable cold. A tent city now served as the clearing station. Large tents had been erected for

the main wards and the operating rooms while smaller tents served as sleeping quarters, storage, the canteen, a laundry room and offices. As with previous locations, they were positioned off a main road but, unlike before, a train station was not within walking distance. The nurses finished in silence before moving into the evacuation ward. All the beds were empty. Wakefield had ordered the staff to evacuate all patients, even those not ready to be moved, or else they risked the clearing station being filled beyond capacity and hampering their efforts.

“I WONDER WHAT THE PEOPLE back home are thinking,” Bessie said. “They’re worrying.” “Just like we are.” Hettie and Bessie glanced at one another before they parted ways, each going in a different direction to complete the pre-battle preparations. Hettie thought about Freddie and Taylor for the first time that day and when, or if, she’d ever see them again.

BY NIGHTFALL, THE CLEARING station had gone from empty to overwhelmed, and it was unclear how many hours had ed. The air smelled of blood and bile while the tent was filled with the sounds of crying and the hurried footsteps of medical personnel on the plank floor. Hettie moved through reception, having a difficult time keeping track of which patients had been seen and which were waiting. “Let me see ission tags, please,” she said to the patients in her general vicinity. A few showed her their tags, but this method was useless. Too many patients were unable to respond, and the rest couldn’t hear her. Where are the damn orderlies? Taking a deep breath, she said as loud as she could muster, “Orderlies, please, I need your assistance now.” To her pleasure and surprise, several orderlies obeyed, and she was able to move patients who had already been itted to the proper departments, but then came the task of ushering in new patients. Outside, men were waiting. She could see them through the slightly agape tent flap, illuminated by lantern light. Occasionally, the whinny of horses also could be heard or the pop of a motorized ambulance’s engine. There were voices outside as well: patients, medics, orderlies. Hettie checked her pockets for pencils and ission tags, and was about to go outdoors, when a large shell exploded on the battlefield. The vibrations shook the ground like a mini earthquake. The lights inside the tent dimmed for a few moments before going out. There was a stunned moment of silence. “What the hell?” a male voice said. Something fell in the dark and landed with a thud. Another male voice said, “Grenade!” This announcement was followed by the shouts of several other men as they prepared for what they believed was an impending explosion. Hettie did not

move, even though she could see the lanterns flickering through the pie wedge that was the open tent flap, for fear of stepping on someone. Something crawled over her foot, and she imaged it was one of the countless rats that had fled the battlefield. The lights came back on. The men who had been screaming were quiet yet again, as if they had no idea where they were or what had just happened. The thud was a stack of bandages that had fallen from a cart when it was accidently bumped. Hettie ed through the tent flap and into the night. The air here was crisp and cool, and it hit her in the face, slapping her awake. Leading up to the clearing station was a long line of ambulances. Each would stop in front of reception, unload its patients, turn and head back for more. Patients arrived on foot as well, some alone, some with the assistance of others. As she maneuvered past a man being lifted out of the back of an ambulance on a stretcher, she tried to see the driver’s face. The odds of it being Freddie were remote, she knew, but she had to try. When she wasn’t tall enough to see into the vehicle, she stepped up onto the running board. The driver was blond with a mustache. Definitely not Freddie. She smiled when the driver spotted her then quickly stepped down. He probably thinks I’m flirting with him. I was silly to do that, but it could have been Freddie. It could have been, or he could be in one of the other ambulances. A medic’s voice reminded her her duty was to tend to the wounded not look for family . “Hey,” he said, “watch his head! Watch his head!” His words were aimed at the man holding the other end of the stretcher and not at Hettie, whom he didn’t seem to even see, but she began rifling through her pockets for her pencil and a blank tag. “Place him here,” she told the medics then turned her attention to the patient. “Can you hear me?” The patient moaned, sounding like a bagpipe letting out air when he breathed. He rolled his head from side to side as if it were on a pendulum. Hettie snapped her fingers in front of his face to attract his attention. His head stopped

wobbling and his eyes fluttered open. “Good. Good. Focus on my voice.” Hettie began asking questions and he would respond by either pointing or grunting, but it was enough to learn the information she needed for the ission tag. “Take him to resuss,” she said to the medics. By this time, more patients were waiting to be itted. Interspersed among the sounds of engines, horses and medical orders, arose the clamor of patients, a human train of men who had arrived by their own power. “Sister, help us,” they said like something out of a nightmare, ghouls emerging from the darkness. They kept coming, men bandaged and bleeding; others hobbling, using rifles or their fellow wounded for crutches, if they had anything to lean on at all. One man vomited and, even in the twilight, it was clear the ejecta was crimson. Another man collapsed the moment he reached the clearing station. His head collided with a wheelbarrow carrying another patient, and they heard a snap. “Jesus Christ,” one of the medics said, “we need some order here or else we’re all fu— Pardon me, Sister,” he said to Hettie. “It’s all right. But we do need help here. I’ll think of something. I’ll think of something. One moment. One moment.” Hettie ran in the opposite direction of the tents, and the never-ending stream of patients, until exhaustion caught the best of her and she fell to her knees. The coldness of the ground was a shock and her eyes began to sting. The horizon flashed in time with bombardments that sent shock waves rippling through the ground like an earthquake’s multiple aftershocks. The sight of this thunderstorm of human creation made her numb. Never overly religious, having been raised that all subjects were open to debate, even divinity, Hettie didn’t often think of a higher power, but in that moment she felt compelled to pray. “Dear God, please save my brother. Keep him alive and out of harm’s way.

Allow him to save as many lives as possible.” She clenched her hands to her chest. “And please keep Alfred out of harm’s way. Please do not allow him to befall the same fate as Geoffrey. He’s a good man.” She stopped and realized this was the first time she referred to Taylor by his given name as well as the first time she itted to herself that she would be bothered if something happened to him. I’m being selfish, she thought, because keeping him safe and alive means keeping him trapped in hell. But it also means keeping him here with me. Please God. A large blast heralded the sun as it began to warm the sky. The contrast between sunrise and the human drama around her made Hettie cry. She could discern ghostly shadows in the twilight. I need to get back to the C.C.S. before they realize I’m missing and neglecting my duty. Come along, Hettie, you must force herself to do this. They need you. They all need you. She jumped and ran toward reception.

DEAREST MABEL, This horrible battle continues. I’m certain you’ve heard of it in all the newspapers although how much information you are permitted to hear I do not know. Conditions here at the C.C.S. are deplorable. In the summer heat, we were besieged by insects. Now, rats and other small animals have fled the battlefield and taken refuge with us. Normally, they coexist with the soldiers in the trenches but have decided to “bless” us with their company. Mail delivery has slowed considerably. We are still receiving mail from home, but letters from the front have stopped. I have not heard from Freddie or Lt. Col. Taylor since the battle began. Miss Gates has similarly not heard from her beau, Dr. Fitzpatrick. I do not know what to think. I know they are in danger and I know they are doing their job — I also have a job to do — so I try not to worry. In this place, I cannot worry. It would be paralyzing, and I have come close on a few occasions. Instead I stifle my fears and suffer from stomach distress and headaches. I will be relieved when the whole campaign is over. Speaking of campaigns of a different sort, how is Uncle Steven? Has he made his decision yet on whether Parliament is in his future? I am grateful he has principles he sticks by, but I would certainly miss him were he to be gone when I finally get home. I miss our aunts and uncles and cousins terribly. Someday you’re going to have to write me about each and every one and tell what they’ve been doing since I left. But, I know, there are too many for you to do this. I must get back to my duties now, because we are still quite busy, but will write you when I can. Yours, Hettie

DEAREST HETTIE, I do not know when this letter will reach you, but I hope it finds you well. The battle has been reported on back home, most battles are, but I have no way of knowing how much or how little is true, accurate or complete. Reports are filled with political fervor and news the war will be over soon but not until the latest battle is complete. I try to read the articles in the newspapers and imagine where you are in relation to the battlefields. Thankfully, you are behind the line. Your letter arrived at its usual rate. We have not heard from Freddie either in some time, although he always did write infrequently. Part of it is him being a man and part of it is him asserting his independence. Mrs. Bartlette has not heard from Victor either. I have a suspicion their mail is not being collected regularly, if at all, and at some point we will all receive a large stack of letters. I’m certain as well that the censors are quite busy presently. You asked about Uncle Steven. Last I have heard a run for Parliament is something he is no longer considering. Aunt Bertha had a hard time after the birth of cousin Percy and has no desire to either move to Ottawa or be without her husband for months at a time. I can’t say I blame her. I wouldn’t want to move or be without Gardner; it’s too difficult when you have children. Still plenty of women do it. But the real reason is probably Steven’s political affiliations. No one wants to hear about peacefully ending the war. They want the Bosch crushed and humiliated. You have been away for a while, and I hope and pray you will be home soon. I miss you. Oh, and I will get to work on that letter updating you on the extending family. It’s the least I can do. Hugs and Kisses, Mabel

Chapter 16

“M en never like it when women are smarter than they are,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly. “My mother is fearful no farmer will ever want to marry me. Who said I want to marry a farmer?” “I was more educated than Geoffrey. It never seemed to bother him personally, but he was always fearful of what other people would think,” Hettie said, propping her chin on her hand. Of the Bartlettes, only Geoffrey and Maeve continued their education beyond the compulsory grade six, and even that was because they were too sickly to maintain steady employment. “My brother is just a laborer. He works on the docks,” Bessie said. “So I suppose I am more educated than he, but he encouraged me because it would mean a better life than I would otherwise have. He gave up his dreams so I could have mine.” Olive, whose complaints about lack of respect prompted this discussion, listened then added, “If I quit and come back to nursing full time, it will prove the naysayers right.” Hettie genuinely was interested in hearing everyone’s opinions, but found her mind drifting to Taylor. What did Alfred think of educated women? He was university educated, on par with Father, so he shouldn’t mind educated women, should he? There had been scant few letters between them in the weeks since the battle began and the ones that did come were little more than a short paragraph letting her know he was alive. She knew he had a great responsibility, greater than any she could imagine, and that his immediate plans didn’t involve her, but she missed the letters. She missed him, although no one knew this, not even Alfred. Charlotte opened her mouth to reply to Olive when Dr. Wakefield appeared in the canteen and began walking toward them. She snapped her mouth shut, and all the nurses gathered around the table rose and quickly dispersed, fearful of a reprimand. Hettie’s daydreaming caused her to be a bit slower to her feet, and, although she also attempted to escape she was too late. “Mrs. Bartlette, were you aware your brother-in-law is here again?”

Victor’s here again? Hettie bit her lip and held her breath. She hadn’t seen him come through reception, but that didn’t mean a thing; they were frequently inundated with patients. “No, sir.” Wakefield asked her to follow him to a secluded part of the tent city, away from the wounded. There, exactly like last time, Victor sat alone, back toward them. A few months ago it was mental exhaustion. Today what is it? What is wrong with him? “He has uncontrollable convulsions, complains his vision is coming and going,” Wakefield said, as if he had read her thoughts, “and he also complains he sometimes can’t move the muscles in his face. He has shell shock.” Shell shock? She felt sick. Why couldn’t it be a brain injury? At least people understand that. “Does he speak?” she said. “He does. You can try to start a conversation, but he’s wanted little to do with the staff.” Wakefield pulled back the door flap. Hettie called “Victor” but received no response. “He needs to get a grip!” Wakefield clenched his fists and stomped away, his boots making a slurp sound on the rain-soaked ground, and disappeared around the corner of the tent. Hettie waited until she could no longer hear the slurping, and entered the tent just as it began to again rain, the drops hitting the canvas like drumsticks tapping on a child’s toy. She swallowed. There was Geoffrey’s flesh and blood, impaired, and she could not help him. Slowly she approached Victor until she stood in front of him. He did not acknowledge anyone was in his company and instead focused his eyes on the far wall, looking through her as if she were not there. He’s going to get angry again, I just know it, but I need to say something. I can’t just stand here staring at him. “Victor? How are you?” He said nothing, merely sat, his leg twitching as if in time to some tune only he

could hear. She circled him and watched his eyes follow her, an expression approaching madness on his face. Bombardments could be heard echoing from the front. The noise was so frequent now, she had learned to stop paying attention to it, but now she heard it plainly and formed a hypothesis. Was his body here, but his mind was in the field? “Well, I hope you can hear me,” she said. “That you choose to hear me. The doctors say you have shell shock. They say you’re a coward and a malinger.” “I’m not a coward,” he said after a long period of seeming incomprehension. “You have to believe that.” “I don’t know what the doctors have told you, but your symptoms have no physical cause. But they’re bad enough they’re sending you to England and eventually home. This is your Blighty, Victor.” Again he did not immediately respond. Finally, he said, “Home?” She stopped circling and smiled. “Yes, home. You’ll soon get to see Mama and Barrie and everyone else we love.” Hettie’s smile faded as Victor made no further attempts at conversation, and once more it appeared as if he was looking through her instead of at her. She felt as if she was a ghost and Victor was existing on a different plain of reality. Then his arm and shoulder began to convulse. Is he reacting to what I just told him? she thought. Knowing he’s about to go home was supposed to be comforting. I didn’t know he’d react like this. I didn’t know. The convulsion worsened until Victor’s entire chair was shaking, two legs coming off the ground before returning to the earth with a thump. If he had a head injury, I would know what to do. If he were bleeding, I would know what to do. If he were maimed, I would know what to do. But I have no psychology training, none. I can’t. “I need to return back to work, Victor. I will see you again before your departure.” Hettie exited the tent and exhaled, unaware she had even been holding her breath. A raindrop hit her forehead and slid down her face. She looked up.

Geoffrey, I know you’re up there watching your brother deteriorate before us and that it breaks your heart. It does mine, too. You wanted so much more for him. I can only hope and pray you’re looking out for him. She blinked as rain pounded her face then began trudging away.

Sitting alone in the nurses’ tent with pen in hand, Hettie tried to compose a letter to Mother but was having difficulty. How can I put into words the past several days? As she mused, a drop of ink fell from the nib and made a mark. She grumbled, mumbling to herself some choice words she had learned from the orderlies, and bit her lip. Why can I not make myself write this?

Charlotte entered and laid down on her cot without bothering to remove her shoes. She groaned. “I am so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. What month is this?” “October.” “My birthday is in October.” “Well, happy birthday,” Hettie said without looking up and without controlling the sarcasm in her tone. What’s happy about it? Tommy’s birthday also is this month and I haven’t so much as sent him a note to acknowledge I even . “What are you writing?” Hettie turned and looked at Charlotte, still sprawled out on her bed, and wanted to scream, “Leave me alone.” Couldn’t Charlotte see she wasn’t in a mood to be bothered? Instead, she said, “I’m trying to write Mother. I’d like to tell her about Victor so she can warn Mrs. Bartlette, but I know my letter won’t make it in time.” Charlotte said nothing and appeared to be deep in thought or perhaps even asleep. Well, that was a waste of time, Hettie thought, and turned back to her blank paper. After a moment, Charlotte said, “What will Mrs. Bartlette do when she finds out?” Mrs. Bartlette had never really recovered from her husband’s death or Gilbert’s injury, and she was still mourning Geoffrey.

“I’m frightened it might kill her,” she said. “Well then, just explain to your mother what happened, and she will do whatever she sees fit to do. There is nothing you can do to control Mrs. Bartlette’s reaction.” Hettie nodded. Charlotte’s right. There isn’t anything else I can do. I’ve grown accustomed to this feeling of helpless, this lack of control. She returned to her pen and paper and, ignoring the ink spot, began to write.

DEAR MOTHER, I am writing you with urgent news in mind. I’m certain, by the time you read this, you’ll know all about Victor. He will be returned home tomorrow and no doubt will precede this message. Please know I would have warned you of this in advance if I could, but I didn’t have any notice myself. I can only imagine what going home will be like for Victor. I’m certain he’ll be happy to be home, but how will everyone treat him? Most of the doctors here acknowledge shell shock is a real condition; it is the cause that is in dispute. No one knows, but most think it is cowardice or a slip from reality. Victor claims he is suffering from neither of these. I do not know what to think. In my heart, I want to believe him, but I know nothing firsthand of his military service. Please try to assure Mrs. Bartlette that this is not her fault. She raised her children well. I’m sure she will be questioning herself and her abilities. Make certain she doesn’t grieve too much. I will be writing you again soon. Hopefully, with more information if I can get one of the doctors to speak to me about Victor’s condition. I am very confused and saddened by the entire situation. I’m just happy Geoffrey isn’t here to see this. Lord knows he would blame himself, and I could not stand that. I hope you and Father are well. I think of you often. I see Freddie from time to time. I know he doesn’t write as often as you would like, but his work is very important. He is many men’s hero because he saves their lives. You should be proud. Your daughter, Hettie

Chapter 17

“Y ou know, if we’re not waiting for battles to end, we’re waiting for them to begin,” one of the doctors said as a coffee pot was ed around the two long tables in the canteen. “Hoping for some action to warm you up, are you?” another responded. “Not at all,” the first doctor said, lighting a cigarette. “Making an observation about life, is all.” “That’s all we need is more observation. Maybe if the army would do some real observation, we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.” As the doctors debated, a group of nurses at the adjacent table began exchanging news from home. “Here’s a photo of my little nephew. Look how smart he looks in his sailor suit,” one of them said, and the others cooed in agreement. At the other end of their table, another group of nurses, Hettie among them, were discussing music and cinema stars. “My favorite is Mary Pickford. Whenever her pictures come to the nickelodeon in Toronto, I go. I last saw her in Caprice.” “Oh, well, then you must see A Good Little Devil. You’ll enjoy it.” Back at the men’s table, the dental surgeon stood on his seat and, using a fake British accent, pretended to be a British-born Canadian soldier, confusing his slang words and regional . Everyone laughed with the exception of Charlotte whose suitor Dr. Fitzpatrick was born in the British Isles and spoke with an Irish brogue. She sat, stoic, beside Hettie, and when Hettie saw the hurt in her eyes, she stopped laughing. How would I feel if they started making fun of officers? Well, real officers because we’re all officers in this room. I wouldn’t like it very much either. Or if they made fun of poor enlisted men like Geoffrey.

Hettie swallowed hard, but the group moved on to other topics before she could give the subject of stereotypes any more thought. Yet another doctor waved around his copy of The Dead Horse Corner Gazette, a newspaper published by the 4th Battalion, and it was ed around both tables, nurses and surgeons alike taking turns reading excerpts aloud, some acting out the satire with funny voices and exaggerated hand motions. Eventually, though, the conversation quieted and turned back to the trenches. One nurse said, “I wonder how many months the Somme had raged on?” “Too many,” another answered. The chain-smoking doctor snickered at them. “Is all you hens do is complain?” The nurses looked at one another, wondering who would be the one bold enough to refute the claim. They didn’t do anything other than complain? This coming from a man who himself had been complaining not that long ago? Didn’t nurses perform any number of duties, often without sleep or food, in all types of weather, contending with insects, rodents, and unruly patients; yet all they did was complain? He laughed. “You think this is difficult? This is nothing.” “Compared to what?” one of the nurses said. It was Olive. Hettie couldn’t believe it was Olive who had stood up to this ogre. Bong. Bong. The bell announcing the arrival of casualties sent everyone scurrying to their feet and out the door to their respective posts. Hettie’s temperature rose. Now he won’t answer. Why can’t he be forced to answer the question? What could be more difficult than this? It’s obvious that he has not sacrificed much by being here. He hasn’t lost a loved one or watched another family member become mentally impaired. He has no one to worry about but himself. She whispered to Charlotte, “Well, we’re off to do more complaining.”

“Yes, lots of complaining.” Hettie ran in the direction of reception where she would work until the steady river of patients slowed to a trickle and then she would move to evacuation with Bessie. When it was time to make the shift change, Hettie exited reception, yawned and stretched. The weather, even the color of the sky, looked suspiciously as it had 24 hours ago. In just a few more hours, everyone would retreat back to the canteen to finish their coffee and conversation, only this time breakfast also would be served. The thought of curling up under her blankets and falling asleep was more appealing to Hettie than stale coffee and unstimulating conversation. As soon as possible, she planned on skipping her meal and going to bed. “Are you ready?” Bessie said, her eyes bloodshot and eyelids slightly swollen. “Do I have a choice?” Hettie exhaled. “I don’t suppose the war cares I have letters to catch up on and Christmas notes I need to write so that they arrive in Barrie before the holiday.” “If the war has a mind of its own, then we’re all in big trouble.” Deep in their conversation, the nurses made their way down the corridor created between the rows of medical tents. The ground was often slick, thick with mud that had formed when rain rolled down the rooves, but the most direct route offered a unique perspective on the clearing station. Here, voices within the tents and huts mingle with voices from outside the structures. “It does have a mind of its own, can’t you tell? Who knows whom it’ll claim next,” Hettie said, running her hands along the heavy fabric walls that hung like theatre curtains on either side. “It’s claimed our freedom. It’s claimed the land. It’s claimed my husband, my brother-in-law’s mind, and all those patients we bury when the battles are over.” A horse whinnied, and a male voice said, “Calm down, girl, you’ve seen worse than this.” A loose tent flap, apparently what had startled the horse, blew back in the wind.

Bessie slipped in the mud and nearly fell. Somehow Hettie was able to stop her. “Did you lose your footing?” “Your brother is here,” Bessie said. What? Hettie wanted to form the question, but for some reason her lips and tongue wouldn’t form the words. She had looked for Freddie at every opportunity and hadn’t seen so much as a glimpse of him. What if there was a very good reason why? What if he were among the dead awaiting burial outside the clearing station now? What if.... Bessie freed her arm from Hettie’s grasp and pointed. At the end of the corridor was Freddie, chatting idly with one of the orderlies. “He’s right there.” “Frederick,” Hettie said loudly. Freddie stopped speaking midsentence and looked at the orderly as if Hettie’s voice had come out the man’s mouth. “Freddie,” she said again, this time pushing past Bessie and making her way up the remaining few feet of the corridor. In the clearing, several wagons and a few ambulances were waiting. So Freddie was part of the evacuation team? Hettie smiled when she saw this. What luck. Had she remained in reception or went back to the canteen, she’d have never seen him. Freddie excused himself from his previous conversation, and stifled a chuckle as he got an eyeful of Hettie and Bessie, their shoes and hems covered in mud and Bessie’s nurse’s veil crooked. “You’re safe and in one piece,” Hettie said. “And believe me, I plan on staying that way into the foreseeable future. Should be a little easier over the next few days. The Somme is over. These will be the last casualties you’ll see for a while, baring wastage, of course.”

Wastage was the name for injuries and deaths caused by shelling, snipers and land mines. Those were the types of wounded they treated the most between battles. “It’s over?” Hettie said, her voice wavering. “Yes. Conditions were horrible for weeks. Mud like I’ve never seen before in my life. The ground is all shot to hell. The roads nearly imable. I’m so relieved it’s over. I honestly thought it was never going to stop. The field ambulance units were inundated with wounded, many of whom we moved on to you, and they didn’t seem to want to stop.” Hettie’s heart was pounding. “Have you heard anything about the military mail delivery?” He didn’t say anything for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. I haven’t written you in quite some time.” “No, Freddie, I understand that. I meant from the soldiers.” Freddie crossed his arms. “Hettie, what are you up to?” Her cheeks felt hot. Believing her face to be red, she turning her head. “No mischief if that’s what you mean.” “It’s Lieutenant Colonel Taylor,” Bessie said. Hettie pursed her lips and shot Bessie a glance. For an educated woman Bessie could sometimes be quite stupid. Why did she mention Alfred? Didn’t she realize Freddie would be curious, maybe even upset, and would start to ask questions? Freddie raised his voice. “Who is Lieutenant Colonel Taylor, and why is this the first time I’m hearing of him?” Why did I have to make the mistake of asking about the mail? It was a simple question needing only a simple response until Bessie complicated matters. “I am the older sibling, not you. There’s no need to get all overprotective.”

“Okay hot shot, by 17 and a half months. Yippee. You’re so much older and wiser. How dare I care and worry about you?” “I don’t ask you what you do when you’re on leave, do I? I don’t question you about your French and Belgian girlfriends.” “What French and Belgian girlfriends?” Suddenly, Freddie’s face flushed. Hettie held up her finger. “You were always a bad liar, Freddie. You had better stop what you’re doing right now before you get syphilis.” “What?” Freddie looked back and forth to see if anyone had heard the comment. “You’re frightening me. You sound like Mother.” “Don’t be ridiculous. Mother doesn’t worry about you getting syphilis. But I’ve seen enough men treated for it around here to know what happens.” “Stop it. If you’re trying to embarrass me, it’s working. But what does any of this have to do with you receiving letters from a strange man?” “I have work to do, Freddie. I’m due in evacuation. You can be cross with me later.” Hettie turned on her heel, nearly slipping in the process, and began slogging through the mud toward evacuation. She heard Bessie say something and giggle awkwardly before following. I am not about to discuss men with Freddie. I’ve only mentioned Alfred to Mabel casually, so I will not discuss him. Freddie was supposed to find out when I was ready to tell him. And I shouldn’t have said those things around Bessie, or around anyone for that matter, but Bessie needs to learn Freddie is no angel. She holds him up on a pedestal, revering him as some sort of hero who came to the aid of his newly widowed sister while ignoring the fact he and Father nearly came to blows and haven’t communicated since. What a horrible day, just another in a long line of horrible days that began the day the CEF arrived in Europe.

HETTIE WAS STARTLED by fingers playing her ribs like an accordion. “Freddie,” she said, as she turned and hit him with a pillow, “what in the world?” He grabbed the pillow from her grasp, threw it to the floor and spun her around as if they were dancing. “I’m not cross with you, Hettie. But who is this person you’re awaiting mail?” “He’s a pen friend.” She stopped the spinning and turned back to her task, the laundress with her heaping cart looking on. “And has been for a year or so.” “Why didn’t you say that to begin with instead of making a scene and making me look like a disease-ridden scoundrel?” “I’m sorry. I should not have implied that. But I was very embarrassed and needed to change the subject.”

“WHY ARE YOU EMBARRASSED?” Simultaneously, Hettie and Freddie shot daggers at the laundress who was eavesdropping a little too obviously. She took the hint and moved her cart further down the aisle. Hettie lowered her voice. “There are so many reasons, but mostly because I don’t want everyone’s disapproval.” “By everyone, you mean Mother and Mama Bartlette?” She threw the rest of the bedding into the aisle and finally made eye . “Yes, exactly. Geoffrey has been dead less than two years.” Freddie tapped the back of one hand into the palm of the other for a few moments. When he stopped, he said, “I don’t disapprove of you. But please be careful. I don’t want you to make any foolhardy decisions.” “Like you did when you came here?” He exhaled loudly, furrowing his brow as he did then cocked his head. “You know they’re awarding me with a Distinguished Conduct Medal for my service.” “No. When did this happen?” “I rose up the ranks to sergeant quickly. I order a lot of other people around. I started at a field ambulance but now more often than not I drive an actual ambulance. And now I’m getting this medal. Do you suppose Father is proud of my accomplishments, of my ambition? Does it matter if he’s proud when I’m not? My most foolhardy decision was believing these were anything but killing fields and that I could make a difference here.” Before Hettie could answer, Matron appeared in the ward to inspect the nurses’ work and then dismissed them. Orderlies and hired hands would soon begin cleaning in preparation for the next wave of casualties. Bessie waved to Freddie from across the room, and Hettie sighed. Apparently her earlier comments had no effect.

“She loves you, you know?” Hettie said to her brother. “Let her. It flatters my ego, too. At least I know when I visit, someone will be happy to see me.” She slapped him in the arm. “I’m always happy to see you. Even when you’re my annoying little brother.” She paused. “I’m proud of you. Don’t ever think that you’re not making a difference. You’re not stopping the war, no, but you make a difference in individual lives. That’s all any of us in the medical corps can do. Come with me.” She took his hand by the pinkie and led him to the exit of the evacuation tent. As they stepped out into the mid-autumn air, raindrops began falling. Hettie shielded her eyes with her free hand then stepped back into the mud. They crossed the road and entered the hut where Wakefield, Matron and a few others had offices. “What are we doing in here?” Freddie said. “This is what I wanted to show you.” “An office?” “No, not the office. What’s in the office? These.” Hettie opened a cabinet and inside were files. “These are the medical records of every patient who has ed through C.C.S. 100. Well, from the time they were itted until evacuation, that is. The majority of the men who make it here in a timely manner live. These men owe you their lives.” Freddie took one of the documents and scrutinized it before handing it back to her. “That’s all well and good but, but that’s doesn’t mean I deserve a medal.” “Sure it does. I think so anyway.” Freddie shrugged. “I’ll take that under consideration. Now, can we get out of here? Let’s go have a picnic in the mud and rain.” “A picnic?” “Sure. Why not? It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I think the last time was Mother’s

birthday three years ago.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “We’ll ask Bessie to us so she can drool over my wonderfulness.” Hettie laughed. “I missed you.” “Wonderful.” He kissed her on the cheek and they headed for the door. “Now, tell me about your dear pen friend.”

A FEW DAYS LATER, THE mail Hettie had been so eager to receive arrived. Shivering as she waited for her stack, she nudged closer to Charlotte. After what seemed like an eternity, the postman yelled “Bartlette” and into her hands was placed a sizable stack of envelopes. She quickly glanced through the stack of letters – Mother, Ida, Mabel, Grandmother, Aunt Sadie, Alice, Dorothea, Maeve. Her heart sank. With the battle over, she had been expecting to hear from more than just the usual people, but then, at the bottom of the stack was the last letter she wanted. Hettie let out a sigh as tears instantaneously filled her eyes and blocked her vision. She waved a couple of letters in front of her face attempting to dry the tears before anyone saw them, but it was too late. Charlotte, who was reading a letter from Dr. Fitzgerald, bowed her head so they could have a tête-à-tête. “Missed him, did you?” she said quietly. “Perhaps.” Charlotte smirked. “It’s been a long year.” “It’s been a long two years,” Hettie said. “Or have you forgotten all about last year’s turmoil?” “I could never forget my dear friend’s mourning. But I also can celebrate her triumphs.” Hettie’s hand shaking slightly she opened the letter and read:

DEAR HETTIE, I am alive and well. Those are the most important words I felt I should say to you because I know there were probably weeks when that fact was in doubt. But the battle is over, blessedly. The past few weeks have been horrible, horrific. We have been mired in mud, blood and death. I shiver to think what is ahead. Once we all believed this war would be over quickly. Now no one believes it will end. Morale is low and keeping it out of despair is a neverending project. Once snow falls we will be out of the fray and perhaps nerves will calm. I thought of you often, whenever I could, and hope you did not worry much. I tried to imagine what the clearing station was like during the battle. I know you must have been inundated with patients. For this, I am truly sorry. I’ve been told I will be promoted to a full colonel tomorrow and that Gen. Jones has recommended I be awarded the Victoria Cross. I know he is much more impressed by medals than you are, but I was hoping, maybe, you might feel a bit of pride on hearing this news. When I say I have been thinking about you, that is an understatement. I cannot get my mind off of you. I would have written a poem dedicated to you if I were talented that way. Now that I know I’m not in immediate danger, I can scarcely think of anything else. At meal times, I stare at my plate and daydream, my appetite practically gone. When I try to sleep, I can’t because I keep wondering where you are and what you’ve done that day. I have never been in love before, but I think that I am, in fact, in love with you and that it took this great battle with all its senseless death for me to realize that. I know you have repeatedly told me you are not interested in a relationship so I risk never hearing from you again by confessing my feelings, but life is incredibly short so I take that risk. My time is still occupied with the duties of my position, but rest assured you have my heart. In love and iration, Alfred

Dearest Alfred, What relief came over me to see your letter arrive in the post. I was, at times, overcome with worry. I searched the faces of every man who came through the clearing station in fear I would see yours, and my heart soared with happiness when all the patients were tended to and you were not among them. Of course, I knew this didn’t mean you weren’t at another C.C.S but it temporarily put me at ease – until the next time. But I also felt guilt, for I knew the men who arrived here injured and dying belonged to someone who missed and cared about them. I only saw my brother, Freddie, for the first time in weeks this past Thursday. His job is incredibly trying, so we barely speak of it. I know he’s seen men mangled on the field not to mention the dead. I have conflicted feelings, for my husband has been dead less than two years. I visit his grave whenever the division is near Ypres. Two years is not a long time, yet – because of the war and everything that has happened since his ing – it feels like it has been much longer than it is in actuality. I still love my husband, but I also know he is not coming back and that I must go on or I will end up bitter and alone. I thought of you often, especially during the downtimes, and I missed hearing from you. I prayed nothing would happen to you, and it was then that I realized my feelings for you were deeper than I originally thought. So, yes, I do believe I love you in return if you will be patient with me and realize I still have emotional scars that must heal. I hope very much that I can be the woman you need in your life. Life back home marches on without us. My brother, Walter, is finally a father. His wife had a son whom they named Oliver. This is somewhat ironic as one of the nurses here is named Olive. I don’t believe Walter is aware of this, however. This brings me to two nephews I have yet to meet, and Mabel has another child on the way. It has been a long war and now a long winter is ahead. I can only hope good things also are ahead. We could use some good news. I eagerly look forward to your next letter. Your friend,

Hettie

Chapter 18

Hettie thumbed through a stack of Christmas cards she kept stashed in a shoebox under her bed, her fingers growing raw as she repeated this motion multiple times. The majority of the cards featured gleeful children with the message “Happy Christmas.” And how exactly , she thought, is this a happy Christmas? Will there ever be a happy Christmas again? As the thought drifted through her mind, Charlotte and Bessie entered carrying holiday care packages and sat on the bed on either side of Hettie. The thin mattress groaned under the weight of the trio, and Hettie scooted to the edge in case the bed frame snapped. Bessie opened her package first, a small box from her brother Nathan, which contained a tin of butter cookies. She took one, bit into it with a “ummmm” and then shared the cookies with her friends. For a split second, while tasting the goodness of the now stale cookie, Hettie was inside the Steward house, her nostrils tickled not only by the scents of pine, gingerbread and popcorn, but of candies, cakes and other holiday goodies. She was about to stand and make her way to the kitchen when Charlotte used her letter opener to pry open her package, a gift from her cousin Emma in England, and the sound snapped Hettie back to reality. Her eyes grew wet as the sweet scents were replaced with the aroma of mud and snow, and the warmth of the house was replaced with a drafty hut. A broad smile crossed Charlotte’s face as she slowly, dramatically, opened the box and pulled out a tin. “How in the world did she find chocolate?” Bessie said. “I thought they were rationing.” “Emma has her ways. She’s very resourceful.” As Charlotte took out each of her treasures, she held it up for inspection. There were tins of tea and shortbread cookies followed by eloquent stationery, a bottle of perfume wrapped in blotting paper and a few toiletry items. By the time she was finished, Charlotte had even Hettie laughing. As she had taken out each item, she had made comments in funny voices pretending to be

her mother, her cousin Emma, and Matron, even deepening her voice so St. Nickolas could comment, too. “Wait. There’s one more thing,” Charlotte said in her own voice and pulled out a newspaper. Her face went pale. “HMHS Britannic sank.” “What? Let me see.” “How could they sink a hospital ship?” Charlotte didn’t answer, simply handed them the month-old newspaper. Hettie and Bessie huddled together to read the details: The hospital ship, with a captain named Bartlett, was sunk off the coast of Greece. The modifications made after the sinking of RMS Titanic amounted to nothing because the ship took on water quickly, sinking in less than an hour. Thirty were dead; two lifeboats had been launched prematurely resulting in their occupants being killed by the ship’s stillmoving propeller. No patients were aboard the hospital ship at the time, however, which is probably why the majority of the ship’s occupants survived the sinking. “But, but,” Bessie said, letting go of her side of the newspaper and standing, “but medical ships are noncombatants.” “This is a dirty war. The old rules don’t apply,” Charlotte said. “They were at sea. They hit a mine. Their situation was different from ours.” Hettie said nothing and merely focused, unblinking, on the newspaper. What am I supposed to feel? Anger? Sorrow? Pity? Is it wrong not to feel anything? Bessie sat again with a plop. “Airships.” “Pardon?” Hettie said, startled out of her thoughts. “We’re closer to the front lines than most casualty clearing stations. They’ll bombard us with zeppelins!” “No, they won’t.” “Why not? They bombed England. Other clearing stations have been hit.”

“Yes, England has been hit. They’re trying to demoralize us. And other stations have been hit, but they weren’t the intended target. Bessie, the Huns don’t care about one little Canadian clearing station. Nobody cares but us.” “It’s not true.” “But it is. None of us will ever be famous. We’re not flying aces or generals. What we do will never sell newspapers,” Hettie said, tossing the newspaper aside as if it were rubbish and jumping to her feet. Charlotte held up a tin as high as she could reach. “Shall I see if the kitchen staff will boil us some water and we’ll have tea?” “What we do here is very important,” Bessie said to Hettie. “That’s why I want some tea,” Charlotte said. “Check the box. Perhaps Emma also sent some whiskey and I somehow overlooked it.” Bessie’s expression changed from annoyance at Hettie to something else, something best described as shock. Bessie said nothing, but her eyes spoke for her. “What would a respectable woman want with whiskey?” her eyes said. “Respectable women champion for temperance.” “I have had whiskey before,” Charlotte said, “because it’s what an educated woman is not supposed to do. I had to try this beverage that is supposedly so bad, but it isn’t bad. It’s the people who misuse it who make it bad. No one taught them better, told them that knowing when to stop is vitally important.” Bessie did not respond. Charlotte motioned for Hettie to sit, and when they were all together again, took the tone of a schoolteacher trying to catch a student in a lie. “You’ve never done anything you shouldn’t, Bessie? Ever?” “I, well, it’s too embarrassing.” Bessie avoided eye . “Go on.” Charlotte was laughing while Hettie sat looking on, not knowing what to make of this change in conversation. When Bessie finally answered, her voice was barely audible. “I once smoked a cigarette with my brother and his friends.”

Charlotte clapped her hands in glee. “See, there, I knew you were not perfect. But that’s quite all right. They say smoking is a male activity, but why need it be? Women can blow through a little tube just as well as men can. “What about you, Hettie? You must contribute. Who among us has the biggest sin? Confess now to start the new year with a clear conscience.” Hettie sighed and began squirming. Hers was by far the worst, but it also wasn’t something she wanted to clear her conscience of; it was memory as dear to her as those wonderful Christmases of old. “Well, come on, Hettie,” Charlotte said. “Why such shyness tonight?” “Before I was married, one time while I was way at nursing school, Geoffrey visited without a chaperone and we were alone and,” she paused. I can’t. I can’t tell even my closest friends. It’s not a sin if you love someone and later marry them. “I straddled a horse,” she said instead. “Instead of sitting side saddle?” Bessie said. “Women go riding like that all the time, I understand, just like the bicyclists.” “She doesn’t mean a horse,” Charlotte said. “She means something else.” “What else?” “Bessie!” Hettie and Charlotte exchanged glances. Bessie grew up poor in the city and she was a nurse. How did she not know? Charlotte, her eyes still shining with mischievousness, wrapped herself in a blanket and said, “I’ve never loved anyone enough to do anything remotely close to that.” “What about Dr. Fitzpatrick?” Hettie said. “Maybe, but only because we’re here and we know life is short and can end at any moment. If we were back home, he would have to marry me first. There would be no way around that; an engagement ring is not good enough. I know you trusted Geoffrey would marry you and keep his word, but I’ve known

women who had their hearts broken by men who changed their minds. Would you with Colonel Taylor?” Hettie did not answer immediately. In recent months, their letters had taken on the tone of a courting couple instead of platonic pen pals. It’s difficult to imagine today how much I truly despised him, felt he was rude and thoughtless and foolish. I truly believe he loves me now, but part of my heart still belongs to Geoffrey, even though I know he isn’t coming back. The corners of her lips upturned and she cleared her throat, deciding what to say. She wanted to tell Charlotte the truth but wasn’t ready. She said, “I’ve never been asked to, so I haven’t considered it.” “What are we talking about?” Bessie said. “It’s what you’d like Freddie to do with you instead of the Mademoiselles,” Hettie said and instantly regretted it. Bessie’s eyes grew wide. “Freddie actually does those things? He told me you were just trying to make him angry and that you worry about things beyond your control same as your mother does.” “Freddie says lots of things.” She paused, no longer feeling at all regretful. And if the Germans don’t kill him, I might. That’s twice now he’s said I sound like Mother! “Don’t worry, Bessie. Freddie was a policeman before the war. He doesn’t lie.” Much. Charlotte stopped smiling, and Bessie and Hettie fell into silence. During childhood, tonight was the most magical night of the year, but this was nothing like those wonderful Christmas Eves. Hettie clenched her jaw and almost wished the bell would start ringing announcing casualties had arrived. But that wouldn’t be right. I couldn’t do that to the men. To Alfred. To Freddie, even if he does like making me mad. Eventually, she said, “It is Christmas after all. Let’s find Olive and the others and sing some carols.” “Sing?” Charlotte and Bessie said in unison. “The patients will enjoy it,” Hettie said.

Charlotte held up her tin. “What about the tea?” “The tea can wait. Come along. Let’s go find her.” Hettie led the way, thinking about her childhood. As a delicate, sparkling layer of snow covered the ground, the family would decorate the Christmas tree with glass ornaments, gingerbread, popcorn and cranberry garland and lights. The lights, Hettie recalled, were originally small, lit candles, but in 1904, two years before Ida married, they were replaced with large colored, electric bulbs, much to the delight of the younger siblings who could now touch the lights. The Steward children would arrive back home from caroling through the neighborhood with Uncle Steven and burst through the door, their cheeks red and lungs burning from the winter chill, to gather around the fire. After warming up, they would go upstairs, too excited to sleep. In the morning, they would attend church, and the entire family would have dinner at their Grandfather and Grandmother Goodwin’s house. This is going to be enjoyable, Hettie thought. Not quite like old times, but a small semblance of it. Olive, however, was nowhere to be found, so Hettie left Bessie and Charlotte in the canteen to boil water for the tea and continued the search alone. After making several inquiries, she finally found Olive in one of the storage huts, hidden among crates and barrels, her Bible open on her lap. Hettie sat without invitation and explained her Christmas carol idea so quickly she stumbled over some of her words, but instead of Olive being keen on the idea as Hettie had expected, Olive did not look up from her reading. “I don’t sing,” she said. “For religious reasons?” Hettie said, hoping Olive belonged to one of those denominations that objected to things like singing and dancing and that it wasn’t that she hated the idea. “No.” Hettie’s shoulder’s slumped. Why is no one else enthused about caroling? Too bad Freddie’s stuck at the dressing station tonight. Even if I am annoyed at him, at least I know he’d sing with me. “That’s okay, Olive. I’ll leave you to your devotions. I was missing home, is all, thought it would help. I’m going to go have tea with Bessie and Charlotte if you’d like to us.”

“I don’t mean to spoil your fun. I understand you had a wonderful childhood, but you know I did not. Something terrible happened to my family on Christmas. I’ve heard it said people marry spouses who remind them of their parents, and I believe that is true. My sister married a man who lays hands on her. My father had a temper; for most of my life I thought this was normal. Five years ago, on Christmas, he threw my mother down the stairs. She hit her head on the marble landing and snapped her neck.” Hettie gasped. The worst thing that had ever happened to the Stewards on Christmas was a slightly overcooked goose. Olive said, “I’ll never forget it. I him chasing her down the hallway and the sound of their feet. He was yelling at her, ‘Wendy, I’m tired of your shite. I can’t take it anymore. I should have never married someone so feeble minded.’ I the sound of her body coming down the stairs and hitting the bottom. I returned to nursing school the next day. I was never so frightened as I was that day.” “Olive.” Hettie wanted to say something soothing, but nothing she could think of was appropriate. “You are a very caring person. Your mother would be proud of you and your accomplishments here.” “That may be. But you see now why I can’t come sing with you and the others. I’m going to sit here and pray.” Hettie nodded then stood. In Ontario, it was late afternoon; the festivities hadn’t even begun. She thought of her parents and her siblings. Do they miss Freddie and me and wish we were home just as much as we wish we were with them? Hettie pulled her cape snug around her shoulders and steeled herself against the impending cold. Just as she opened the door, Olive interrupted. “Never take anything for granted, Hettie. Cherish your loved ones while you have them. You could lose them without warning. You know that better than anyone else.” Hettie nodded. “Yes. Yes, I do. Thank you for the advice. I will tell Bessie and Charlotte that I couldn’t find you.” She exited the hut and squinted up at the dark, bleak sky, snowflakes stinging her

face and sticking to her eyelashes, and was reminded of James Joyce’s “The Dead”: “‘It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.’” when you bought me The Dubliners, Geoffrey, as a Christmas gift when we were in Salisbury? Little did we know that would be our last Christmas. Had I known I would have savored it more. I would have loved you more. I would have... I’m sorry I didn’t cherish our marriage. I complained and you didn’t know it. I’m sorry that in some fashion I love Alfred. I’m sorry. As tears began streaming, she broke her scan of the velvety, white pockmarked darkness and hurried toward the canteen.

1917

“My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. (It is a sweet and fitting thing to die for one’s country.)” —From Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Own

Chapter 19

Dear Hettie, I would wish you a Happy Christmas and a wonderful New Year but things are not wonderful. If they were, I’d be wishing you good tidings in person instead of in this letter. Christmas was spent with James family this past year. His family is more strict and traditional than ours. We spent a lot of our time in silent reflection and in church. I missed Mother and Father terribly and they were only half way across town. We saw them for Boxing Day, and the girls were pleased to see their jovial grandparents. Yes, I know, jovial is a strange way to describe Mother and Father but compared to James’ family they are. Holidays are not the same without you and Freddie here. Things will never be the same, will they? Walter, Mabel and I are all married and you’re widowed, and Alice has a beau. It will never be like the old days and, Lord knows, Mother and Father aren’t getting any younger. Father is using his cane almost every day now and Mother looks haggard. Has anyone let you know about Mrs. Bartlette? She is a wreck of a woman with one son maimed, another dead and now one insane. Ever since Victor arrived home she has been inconsolable. Poor Teddy can do nothing to comfort her. She angers at him for not being able to provide her with grandchildren, knowing all the while he suffered from mumps as a child. I felt I should inform you about this even though I know there is nothing you can do about it. There are times I wonder why she and Mother are such good friends. They are so radically different. Mother wants to control everything and Mrs. Bartlette thinks nothing can be controlled, that we are all helpless and doomed. Can you imagine living like that? Well, this is all for now. I know you don’t have a lot of time to spare so I won’t keep you longer. I hope to hear from you soon. Your sister, Ida

DEAR IDA, A Happy New Year to you because for you it is truly happy. You have your husband and children and you’re safe in Barrie near the rest of the family. Christmas here is as it has been for the last two years – finding things to occupy our time and enjoying care packages. I was unaware of Mrs. Bartlette’s condition and quite frankly it angers me. Why does she see fit to place blame on others? Her children cannot be blamed for what occurred to them. It is not Teddy’s fault he was ill as a child. It is not Gilbert’s fault the boiler exploded. It is not Geoffrey’s fault the Germans launched a gas attack. It is not Victor’s fault he is in emotional unbalance. It is not their fault. And they should not be put in the situation of defending what happened to them. Nor should she anger at things beyond her control, things she cannot change, things no one can change. I, too, wonder about the friendship between Mother and Mrs. Bartlette. Perhaps they were different as girls and young women. What must it have been like? They were born and raised during the birth of our nation, and how Canada has grown! Despite all the despicable things happening here, I truly believe we are doing our nation proud and that we will one day make Father proud. I hope that all is well back home and that 1917 shall be a better year than the one which ed. Yours, Hettie

“HOW ARE YOU FEELING today?” Hettie said bending over a pneumonia patient’s bed. “I wish I could stop coughing,” he said. “I know.” She bent closer and wiped his face. “This dampness isn’t helping.” “Maybe I’ll go to England soon.” “You’ll be moved to a stationary hospital once you’re able to travel safely, and they’ll make that determination.” She smiled under her medical mask, hoping he would see it in her eyes and feel some comfort. Of course, we don’t even know if you’ll live long enough to be transported to the base hospital yet alone England, but you will never hear that from me. From me, you will hear only hope, false, futile hope, but hope nonetheless.

Patting his shoulder lightly, she began moving on, the sound of his coughing echoing in her ears, but then something stopped her. When she set eyes on the patient again, he was Geoffrey, 19 years old and apparently dying, his breath making a distinctive wheeze. No, you’re not here. Just like all the other times, you’re in my imagination. You’re not here. You cannot possibly be here. Hettie closed her eyes and when she opened them, the patient appeared as he should. She shook her head and attended to the next patient, another soldier whose mortality was in question, before Bessie entered the ward. “Did you know Freddie is among the men repairing the ambulances?” Bessie said, without even stopping to say hello first. “Yes. He brought in a patient with a communicable disease and decided to help.” “Well, he’s soaked to the bone. He’ll catch his death.” And what does Bessie expect me to do about it? “Let me attend to the final

patient and then I’ll take a few moments to come see.” “I’ll wait for you outside, although it’s snowing as if it was the dead of winter instead of early spring. Olive is over there, too.” Hettie shrugged, and Bessie left the ward. People have too much time on their hands today. The final patient needed morphine in accordance to a set schedule. He was in pain, that she understood, but there seemed to be more going on here. He was always jumpy and irritable in advance of a dosage. Yes, I know what’s the problem, she thought as she istered the injection, you have the “soldier’s disease.” You don’t need morphine for pain relief. You need it because you can’t live without it. “Thank you, Sister,” he said, running his fingers over the injection site. “No, thank you. You’ve given me an idea.” “What, Sister?” “Nothing you need to concern yourself with. You’re being evacuated later today. It’s been a pleasure treating you, but we don’t want to see you back here again.” Hettie excused herself with the other nurse on duty, promising to be back momentarily, then walked with Bessie to the ambulance shed. Bessie was jabbering on about something, but Hettie was fleshing out her idea. This thing with Alfred will once the war is over and our lives are no longer in danger. We’re being consumed by ions that are exaggerated, no, caused by, the war. His feelings will dull come peacetime and so will mine; they already are more tepid. I’ll need something to do. I’ll open a clinic and try to help men overcome their addiction. At the rate this war is going, the need will be great. All I’ll need is money and a staff, but the family can help me sort that all out. A fundraiser or something. “Hettie, did you hear what I said?” Bessie said. “Ummm.” Hettie made eye contract. “I was concentrating on not slipping and

breaking an ankle. I’m sorry.” “I was saying that Olive is plum out of her mind to want to help in there.” “Why?” The nurses entered the shed. There sat the ambulance, a worthless piece of metal incapacitated by the nearly imable mess that was the landscape, a mangled, pockmarked land scarred during the Battle of the Somme. As the ground froze and thawed, ambulances, both mechanized and horse driven, experienced snapped axels from getting stuck in mud or falling in a ditch. To make matters worse, there was a shortage of mechanics in the corps, so the ambulance drivers and medics were attempting to make the repair themselves. “Don’t touch that, woman,” a man Hettie didn’t recognize was telling Olive. “We’ve jacked up the vehicle. Touch that and you’ll kill someone.” “But I have an idea,” Olive said. “I told you not to touch anything. Maybe you can run and get us something to eat in a bit. That’ll be more your speed.” Bessie said, “That’s why.” “I won’t be intimidated by some cranky men,” Hettie said. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Bessie said. Bessie retreated to Olive’s side while Hettie found Freddie examining the old axle. When she had seen him earlier, he had been wearing his waterproof coat but now she could see that his uniform was waterlogged from the thighs down. “Freddie, you’re going to become ill yourself if this continues,” Hettie said. “You need to change your clothing and warm up a bit.” “I’m fine. I’ve become used to being uncomfortable.” “You’re not fine. Your fingers are red and your face is pale. Try to warm up a bit at the very least.”

She put her hand on his lapel, but he brushed it away. “Stop worrying about me, Henrietta. I’ll be fine.” “Fine, Frederick. You will stop being any concern of mine. Even if you get frostbite, even if you lose all feeling in your limbs, I will not help you. I will let you suffer because, although you will be damaged for life, you’ll still have your pride.” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Sometimes I wish Walter were here instead of you,” “I very much doubt that.” “At least Walter knows how to fix a broken ambulance. He could do it himself. It wouldn’t take six of you.” He shook his wrench at her. “You got me there. He would be better at repair work than all of us put together. Walter is Father’s pride and joy because he fits the model of the eldest son so well, but it’s for that very reason that he couldn’t be here. Tommy couldn’t be here either because Tommy is Tommy and he’s frightened of his own shadow. Only I could be here. Please, Hettie, do me the honor letting the boys and me figure this out on our own. Okay.” “Okay. It’s just—” His face softened. “You worry about me because you love me, I get it. I worry about you, too. But this is work. You have duties of your own to do.” “Will you visit with me before you leave?” “Of course.” On the other side of the shed, there was a crash followed by a male voice. “Didn’t Jackson tell you not to touch anything? I don’t even know why you’re here. Get the hell out.” Bessie was holding Olive’s forearm and, shoulder to shoulder, they were edging toward the exit. Hettie snorted. “Hettie, don’t,” Freddie said.

“Do me the honor of letting me saying something.” She raised her voice. “Hey, you, whatever your name is. I know that Miss Marshall might not be much to look at – she is female after all – but she has access to catheters and knows how to use them. If you don’t behave, she might come around one night and show you.” Freddie held his forehead in his hand and shook his head. Whatever-his-name-is didn’t understand the reference until it was explained to him, and then he stood, agape, until Hettie instructed him to apologize. “There. Bully put in his place.” Hettie turned back to Freddie. “I will talk to you later. But until then, , I’m Mother’s favorite.” “Not unless your name is Mabel,” he said with a mischievous expression. Hettie smirked before strutting over to Bessie and Olive. “Come along. Let the boys stroke their manhoods by fixing a machine. We have ill men’s lives to save.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Freddie again hide his eyes with his hand. Once they were outside, Olive, whose face was nearly as pale as the snowdrifts they were trudging through, was on the verge of tears. This fact escaped Hettie as she led the way, holding her skirt off the ground with both hands. “See, all bullies have a motivation. You just have to find out what it is. In this case, they feel manly doing manly things. If something becomes the interest of women, it’s no longer manly.” “I can’t believe you said the things you did,” Bessie said. “I barely said anything. Simply quick on my feet. Father calls me an independent minded female.” “I’ve always heard that used as an insult.” “Not as Father uses it. He values cleverness and using one’s mind.” “I’m not sure your father would think it clever to talk about manhoods in front of your baby brother.”

“Baby brother?” Hettie chuckled and stopped walking, turning to face her companions. “We’re closer in age then any of our parents’ other children. We grew up together. He’s no more innocent and naïve than I am.” Olive sobbed and wiped her running nose on her glove. “Oh my, Olive, what is the matter? You look crestfallen,” Hettie said as Bessie rolled her eyes. Olive didn’t answer for a moment, but when she did, it all came out quickly, and she gestured wildly with her arms. “I thought I knew those men. I had fought months for their respect and thought I had finally won it. Apparently it wasn’t true. None of it was true. And then you say that when something becomes the interest of women, men lose interest in it. Well, women can vote in the provinces now. What if men stop having an interest in voting? What if it’s chaos?” Hettie almost burst into laughter at Olive but stifled her giggles. “Women can’t make any more of a mess of it than men have,” Bessie said. “It was all fine-voting men who sent us to war. But, not all of us can vote.” “Bessie’s right,” Hettie said. “We can’t all vote and even those who can, cannot vote in federal elections, only local and provincial ones. It’s only Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta. Although my uncle says women may soon be able to vote in BC and,” her eyes were twinkling, “Ontario. He says the decision might come as soon as Easter.” “But what does it mean?” Olive said, her eyes looking like a deer in headlights. I don’t understand. How is suffrage confusing? “I wouldn’t worry about it, Olive. It’s not something to fear. Besides, you’re from Quebec. Things operate a little differently there. It might be a while before—” Bessie gestured for her to stop, and Hettie snapped her mouth shut. She didn’t think Olive was Catholic, but Olive is so touchy that maybe it was best to leave the conversation at that. Hettie had lost all feeling in her toes and again began the trudge back to the evacuation hut. “Wait, wait,” Olive said. “That doesn’t help me feel any better. What does it all

mean?” Bessie said nothing, shrugging instead. Well, I suppose it’s up to me then. Hettie put her arm around Olive’s shoulders, just as she did years ago when Alice and Adelaide were upset. But even my younger sisters aren’t silly enough to fear the right to vote. “Let me explain it to you. Then you can ask me any questions you have. You can look at it this way: We live in the provinces so we should have a say in how they are run ...”

“You should have seen her, Freddie. Any new concept is completely unnerving.” “Not everyone grew up in a household like ours,” he said, refilling their teacups. “Father advocates intelligent reform and the social advancement of mankind. To him, and us, suffrage represents a step in the right direction. But in many households, suffrage represents the ruination of society and women’s reputations. To some people any little bit of freedom is frightening.” “You got that right. She didn’t grow up in a household like ours.” Hettie peered over the rim of her cup as she drank. “Do you ever think about what you’ll do when the war’s over?” “That’s a long way away, Hettie. I don’t think it’s right to make plans because —” “Because they can change. I know.” One of the local women who was serving in the canteen approached them with a tray of pastries. She mumbled something in French, but all Hettie understood was votre frère, your brother. The baker placed a pastry on each of their plates before moving on to another couple. “Merci,” Hettie said, saluting the woman with her cup. To Freddie, she said, “That was lovely of her, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying.” “She said something sweet for you and your brother on a cold day.” “Since when do you speak French?” “Well, I am around the locals more than you.” Hettie narrowed her eyes. “Indeed. You learned for a girl, no doubt.” “I meant to speak to wounded soldiers and to use at cafés and such. But, yes, I learned to communicate because of a girl. How is your Lieutenant Colonel Taylor?” “He’s a full colonel now and a VC recipient. But I was thinking about him

earlier and how I’m sure none of this would be happening if it wasn’t because of the war.” Freddie leaned back and crossed his arms. “None of what would be happening?” “Well, any of it. The war is creating and exaggerating feelings, because of death being so close and all. I’m sure you feel the same.” “I suppose that I do, but you’re a woman so you have to be more careful, because, well, the burden is on you if something happens. You can’t count on him marrying you if what you say is true.” “Funny you should mention that. I have leave next week for a few days and—” Freddie leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And he’s going with you.” “How did you know?” “You forget what I used to do for a living. So he is going with you?” “Not exactly. I didn’t promise anything.” “Well, thank goodness for that. I don’t really think I want to know any more details.” He shoved the pastry unceremoniously into his mouth, and Hettie sighed. So much for all the years of Mother’s etiquette training. “I just need to get away from death for a while,” she said. Suddenly feeling quite fidgety, she played with the napkin in her lap. “I need to, I need to—” “Feel alive.” “Yes, that’s it,” she said, nearly jumping out of her chair. “I need to feel alive and wanted. Wanted for something besides tending to patients and cleaning. It’s been a while since I felt wanted.” “I just hope he wants you for something honorable and not just a spot of fun.”

Chapter 20

Dear Hettie, With each dreary day that es, I find myself increasingly preoccupied. I know that winter is coming to an end and when it does, we’ll be back in the thick of things. It’s on these quiet days I ponder my mortality and what I’d much rather be doing with my time left on earth. I think of you often. I’m grateful you are safely behind the line. It is torturous knowing you are so close yet so far away. You might as well be in England for as often as we can see one another. Nonetheless, I have a proposition I would like to make. I have a few days of leave coming in late March and, as I recall, so do you. I would very much like to spend my entire leave with you. There is a small village I know of that is the right distance for both of us to visit and return in three days. I’m certain you would find it a delightful, quaint village and an excellent opportunity to form a pleasant memory here. I am eager to spend some time with you alone. Conversing via letter is a poor substitute to being in the same room, hearing your voice and seeing your beautiful face. As I have said, I think about you often and want nothing more than to be with you and feel your lips on mine. Do you feel the same way? Will you agree to take your leave with me? I will await your reply. With love and iration, Alfred

DEAR ALFRED. As usual, it is wonderful hearing from you. Things are fine here after Christmas’, well, disappointment and homesickness. You are correct in your recollection; I do have leave coming to me in March. I very much like the idea of going somewhere new. I am concerned, however, about how my reputation would weather the storm of criticism if my virtue were to be called into question. If that were to occur, it would make my life very difficult, if I were allowed to stay at all. I may be a widow but the rules for me are little changed from my maidenhood. You know this. Just as you think of me often, you also are not far from my thoughts. You have stirred up in me feelings I have not felt in some time. If one thinks about it, it is really quite silly. I have only seen you a handful of times yet through your letters I feel as if I know you well. I would very much like to see you. I’m just not certain how it would be possible to both spend time with you and keep myself scandal free. If you know of a way, I would be eager to know. Good night, my sweet. Your friend, Hettie

DEAR HETTIE, I am sorry to hear you have been feeling homesick. I can’t say that I have suffered much from the “disease” seeing as I left home at the earliest opportunity. I see, however, in your close-knit family how homesickness might be a problem. I hope the feeling ed quickly. To address your concerns: I, by no means, wish to harm your virtue or cause you scandal. I do, however, wish to spend time with you and I see no other way to do it. If I were to come there to visit you, we would be under even greater scrutiny. Whereas if we were to go away, we would not be under any one’s critical eye. No one need know where you are going, and I would not share my plans either. If you are fearful for your virtue, please know you are by no means obligated to give it to me and we would lodge in separate rooms. I must let you know, however, that I do very much want to be with you, but I am a gentleman and would never force myself upon you against your wishes. I think too highly of you to be a cad. I hope that helps to set your mind at ease. I don’t want to ruin what we have had so far. I don’t think it silly at all that we have grown to love one another through letters. In letters we are freer to speak our true feelings and bare our souls. I can’t imagine you saying in person a quarter of the things you have said in letters. Instead you would hold your tongue and keep it locked inside. I hope to hear from you soon. With love and iration. Alfred

DEAR ALFRED, I have reread your response numerous times. I understand what you have written, and I find it difficult to resist you, but as a woman there are things I must consider that a man need not. How I would love to throw caution to the wind. How I would love to be impetuous and reckless, but I can’t. I will, however, agree to go with you and enjoy your company, lodging in separate rooms. That is all I can give you at the moment, the promise of my good company. There is the possibility I may change my mind. I will not know until it happens. But I shall never come out and tell you. Instead I shall give you a sign. I will kiss you good night in the corridor. If I hold on to your hand, I want you to wait a few moments and then come discreetly to my room. If I do not hold your hand, it means I want you to stay at a respectful distance. Now that I have told you this, we shall not speak of it again, even once we arrive there. It took great bravery to tell you this now. I shall talk to Dr. Wakefield and Matron to get my leave straightened out. Keep me updated on when you are free. Your friend, Hettie

“AREN’T YOU NERVOUS?” her friend said, her face pale. “Of what, Bessie?” Hettie said, briefly glancing up as she rummaged through her small steamer truck. “Of traveling somewhere without the rest of us ̶ in a foreign country.” “Not particularly. We’ll be safely behind the line.” Hettie pulled out her civilian clothing from the bottom of the trunk. Her dress, skirt and shirtwaist were wrinkled. She frowned, but with no other alternative, shook and refolded them then put them in her valise. Charlotte said, “Isn’t that the dress you were wearing when we had dinner with Colonel Taylor and the others?” “It’s the only civilian dress I have with me, but I doubt he’ll it.” Hettie’s hands shook slightly as she packed her luggage, and she paused to steady herself. She hadn’t exactly wanted to tell her friends where she was going or with whom, but keeping straight a lie would have been a challenge; they kept asking her questions. The key now was not setting herself up for ridicule and judgment. I can’t exude anything but confidence in my decision or else they will begin to doubt it, too, and overthink things. “No, men don’t such things, do they?” Charlotte said. “All they care about is how much the dress costs.” “Did your father worry a lot about money when you were younger?” Bessie said. As Charlotte and Bessie discussed childhoods spent worrying about money, Hettie finished her packing, having nothing to contribute. Father’s inheritance had taken care of such concerns. “So this village we are going to,” Hettie said, “has an inn and a restaurant, and we’ll find out if there is anything else when we get there.” “What will you do to entertain yourselves if all there is a restaurant and an inn?” Bessie said.

Charlotte raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. “We’ll think of something,” Hettie said. She had not made eye the entire time she was packing for fear her eyes or expression might betray her true feelings, but now she stood and smiled. “I hope the action will not increase while I’m gone. I would hate for you to be overworked because of me.” Charlotte waved her hand in front of her face. “Don’t worry about it. You’re as entitled to your leave just as much as anyone else. Go. Have a good time.” Hettie nodded and examined herself in Charlotte’s hand mirror. Her dress uniform was a nice change of pace from her work uniform. She preferred its crisp navy to the “bluebird” dress but there was one thing she despised about it; she had worn it to Geoffrey’s funeral. Here she was about to meet her new beau and she was wearing her mourning dress. She sighed then quickly handed Charlotte the mirror before she started to cry. “Well, I’m running late and really must dash. I’ll miss you both,” she said and hurried out of their tent before they noticed the warble in her voice.

A few hours later, Hettie and Alfred exited the inn arm-in-arm and ambled onto the unpaved street intent on exploring the French village. Alfred, who had been to the village before with the military, played tour guide, pointing out landmarks. Hettie laughed as she maneuvered her shiny shoes around melting clumps of snow and muddy puddles. The anemic sun was casting shadows on the road before them while, on the opposite side of the street, it glistened off the windows of buildings which had stood since the Middle Ages. For a moment, the scene was reminiscent of her walks home from Royal Victoria through downtown Barrie with Geoffrey. This thought briefly removed the glee from the situation, and she furrowed her brow as she tried to focus intensely on his stories of knights and the Bubonic Plague. Soon it became readily apparent to Hettie that their presence was causing a bit of a disturbance. Wherever they went, the villagers scrutinized them, often coming out of their homes and establishments to gawk. Alfred seemed blind to this, but Hettie felt her heart flutter and her temperature rise. It’s blatantly obviously we’re not French, but why the fascination? Surely they must be used to strangers after nearly three years of war.

But that’s not it, is it? The villagers weren’t gawking at them, but at him. In the entire time they had been in the village, she had seen only seen two men, both bent crooked with age and looking decrepit enough to have participated in the February Revolution. Their innkeeper was a woman. The shopkeepers were all women. The cab drivers, the pedestrians, everyone. In that moment she realized the horrible truth. All the men of this village, from adolescent boys to ancient men, were either at the front or dead. She felt nauseous. “Would you like to eat something?” Alfred said. Hettie forced herself to smile. “I suppose so.” They stopped at a small café where Alfred ordered in perfect French. Thinking of Freddie, Hettie thought, Does everyone speak French now except for me? If I did, I could ask these women some questions. Hettie breathed deeply, scanning the room. All the café patrons were women with the exception of one little boy who was small enough to not yet be toilet

trained. “Alfred, do you notice something odd here?” “In what way?” “Well, if you look around, you’ll notice the populous is not as it should be.” Not even bothering to look, he said, “The French have sustained heavy losses.” She did not respond. I can’t imagine. What would Barrie be like if all the men were gone? Father, Uncle Steven, the rest of my uncles, my brothers, my brothers-in-law and my cousins, all of them.

“Hettie,” Alfred said, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She peered across the table into Alfred’s blue eyes. “I can’t imagine such loss even though I see it every day.” “That’s the price you pay when the war is in your backyard.” “Something like this could never happen back home, could it?” He shook his head. “I should think not, although there was that business with the Fenians a few decades back, but that didn’t amount to anything.” The Fenians were Irish-Americans who had invaded Canada on a handful of occasions bent on making Canada part of the United States to spite the British Empire. The Fenians were not spoken about in Hettie’s family. Grandmother was descended from Loyalists and the subject was taboo. “And the dispute over Alaska.” “Well, that didn’t end up in our best interest, but nevertheless it didn’t push us to the brink of war either.” “I just can’t get over the thought, the idea, that all the men are gone.” She shivered.

“It’s best to stop thinking about it. Men have lost their senses for less.” They fell into silence. If this is the way conversation is going to go, I don’t know how I’m going to manage three days.

“Alfred, may I ask you a prying question? Why do you want to be with me when there is a class difference between us?” His hand shook and a bit of coffee spilled over the rim. He set down his cup. “It is true that there is a class difference between us, but what is this difference if I haven’t lived in a great house for years? I don’t have servants at my beck and call. I don’t need a valet; I can dress my own damn self. I’ve spent much of my time on my own traveling the world and doing whatever I want, not what is expected of me.” “That only explains why you would want a woman of my position but not why you would want me.” “Oh, so you want to know why you’re special?” He took her hand. “Because you’re different. You’re not concerned with snagging an inheritance. You have your own money and can make your own way in the world. You have ambitions beyond marriage, and you’re willing to forgive my past indiscretions.” Mother constantly criticizes me for being so independent. I don’t see how this is a positive. “It takes someone with great patience to put up with me.” He laughed. “If you say so. Some may view your nontraditional nature as a fault. I find it a virtue.” He took a sip of coffee. “I could ask you the same question. Why do you want me?” Their meal arrived, offering Hettie an opportunity to think. “We did not get off to a good start, it’s true, but you have become a trusted friend and confidant. You’ve reminded me that I am a spirited woman not just a poor widow.” “You never lost your spirt, that’s for sure. But, see I was right. You didn’t once mention position.” “No, position doesn’t matter to me. It didn’t before and it doesn’t now.”

“You mean with Mr. Bartlette?” She nodded. “Our lives were always intertwined, but they were also very different. If the war hadn’t come, I’d be counting pennies and inheriting my sisters’ cast off dresses.” “I see. And this was displeasing to you?” “It was foreign. Second-hand knowledge felt different from first-hand knowledge. I wanted better, but I didn’t want him to—” “Hettie, your aspirations did not kill him.” “Didn’t they?” “No, they didn’t. Life is too short to entertain such thoughts. I plan on focusing solely on the moment while we’re here.” Hettie took her croissant and dipped it into her stew before taking a bite. Alfred was right; life was fragile. This could be the final time I see him. Even if he did not die, he could be horribly maimed, disfigured, blinded, deafened or lose his senses. Best make the most of it.

That evening, Hettie and Alfred sat by the fireplace in the inn’s library, reading French poetry and engaging in conversation, Hettie all but having forgotten the missing village men or the lunchtime conversation. He would read a line then translate it for her. “Here, look at this one.” He showed her the book and how the poem featured uneven lines, blank spaces and some lines in a larger font size than others. “It looks so—” “Chaotic.” “I was going to say ‘modern’ – the publication date is 1914 – but I suppose chaotic fits, too.” He closed the book and returned it to the shelf. “Well, my dear, we must retire.” “Now?” Hettie sat on the edge of her chair and clapped her hands in her lap. “It seems as if we’ve only just begun.” The clock in the lobby struck 11. “I don’t want to use up any more of the innkeeper’s precious resources. Besides, I haven’t slept in a real bed in ages. The thought of a down pillow and quilt is almost heaven.” “Oh.” Hettie smirked but said nothing else. She ed she had promised to give him a signal at bedtime. I have five minutes to decide, but perhaps he’s made the decision for me seeing as he’s happy we’ll soon be asleep. They exited the library and began to climb the staircase to their second-floor rooms. Her breathing became shallow and her palms began to sweat. Nice, well-bred women are not supposed to contemplate inviting men to their rooms. She peeked over her shoulder. Alfred had remained in uniform all day, and he did look distinguished in it. But it’s supposed to be so much more than just about appearance. I’m a woman. I’m not supposed to desire him at all. But I miss having Geoffrey with me. I know what it’s like to have a male companion and then be without.

They reached their floor. I shouldn’t be debating amorous congress with anyone. Men’s lives are so easy. They don’t need to worry about any of this.

They just act. I’m still a good woman even with an indiscretion. Why can a man could do whatever he wishes without fear of consequence but a woman cannot? But the war is changing lives for both good and bad. If Alfred does die, I’ll regret not taking the chance, one that won’t come around again for a very long time. They stopped in the corridor between their rooms and kissed good night. She felt the softness of his lips on hers and made a decision. As they parted ways, she squeezed his hand then entered her room. Once inside she exhaled sharply and leaned up against the closed door. Well, you’ve done it now, Hettie. At least with Geoffrey there was a guarantee of a future, of a marriage and a life together. Ah, but with Alfred it’s all just a spot of fun. The war will end and Alfred and I will part ways, and I’ll have a memory of the time I was adventurous and snubbed my nose at convention.

“Don’t you dare talk yourself out of this,” she said and rushed to the dresser where her valise sat, waiting. She rummaged through it, pulling out her hairbrush and nightgown, then nearly ripped a button off her sleeve as she undressed. Her heart palpitations increasing with every ing moment, she sat down at the vanity table, took her hair down and began brushing. There was a knock at the door. “Is that you?” she said. Stupid, who else would it be? “Henrietta,” Alfred said. She swallowed the lump in her throat and answered the door, unable to comprehend how her feet had taken her from the vanity to the door in what seemed like a second. Alfred looked as casual as she had ever seen him. He had removed his hat and jacket, and the sleeves of his untucked shirt were rolled up to his elbows. “Are you sure you want this?” he said.

“Yes, I’m sure.” She gestured for him to enter the room then locked the door behind him. They gazed at one another for a moment then slowly were drawn together. He pushed her hair off her shoulders and kissed her. The brush was still in her hand. He took it and threw it to the floor. “You don’t need this,” he said. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed her again, this time more ionately, and fumbled to remove the suspenders from his shoulders and to unbutton his tros. Should I help him? If I were with G—, someone else, I’d help, but this is new to me. Hettie did nothing and kept her hands on his lower back. He succeeded in his task and moved his attention to her nightgown, pulling it up to reveal her legs. His actions reminded Hettie of a sex-for-newlyweds advice book she had received as a wedding gift from one of her nursing school friends. It said a woman should never allow a man to lift her nightgown. Instead, she is to pull it down and declare loudly that nature is calling and she must use the toilet. Hettie nearly giggled at the advice. No, don’t laugh. He won’t understand the joke. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. She controlled herself and outstretched her arms, so he could pull her nightgown off. We’re breaking two more rules here. She thought again of the advice book. A woman should never let a man see her naked nor should a man allow a woman to see him naked. Oh, and the lamp is on. Make that three rules. He picked her up, maneuvered to the bed, and threw her playfully down. She let out her pent up laughter, and he smiled, reminding her of a child experiencing wonderment when seeing a new toy for the first time. I definitely think that breaks the rules. She laughed again but quieted as he laid beside her, his body pressed close to hers. They were both breathing heavily, and the kissing resumed, his hand slowly cares her thigh until she gasped. “Are you ready?” he said. She nodded, unable to force her tongue to speak and all thoughts of the silly advice book were forgotten.

When they were finished, Hettie snuggled close to Alfred and felt comfort in his arms, a feeling she had not experienced in two years. She smirked as he played with her disheveled hair with his free hand. “See, I told you you didn’t need your brush. Something tells me you’ve done this before.” She smacked his arm. “You know damn well I’ve done this before. Oh,” she said when she saw he was laughing at her, “you’re joking with me and I took you seriously.” “You should always take your love making seriously.” “That sounds like something Freddie would have said during our last conversation.” He furrowed his brow. “Pardon?” “Never mind. When the war is over, what will you go back to?” “A vineyard and an angry family. What will you go back to?” Alfred just proved what I’ve thought all along. Our love affair is one intended to last for the duration of the war, not forever. She smirked again and propped her head up with her arm. “I’d like to start a clinic.” “A clinic? Don’t you think when the war is over, you might want to try something else? Do something different?” “No, not at all. Nursing is the only way I can make a living for myself, and there are so many morphine addicts. I could really do some good. And I’m related by blood or marriage to probably half of Simcoe County. I have plenty of ers who could help me raise money.” “Indeed. I have no doubt you could be a great success at anything you set your mind to.” Alfred caressed her cheek. “Hettie, I know I said I would live moment-by-moment here, but I must confess something. Before I left, I found out an offensive is planned for next month at Vimy Ridge.”

Hettie looked away. “When next month?” “Easter probably. The corps’ entire reputation is dependent on the outcome.” She re-established eye . “Why would this one battle affect your reputation? You haven’t lost a battle yet. You’re tough, battle scarred veterans and everyone respects you.” “Because this will be the first time all four divisions will be fighting alone. The outcome will determine our ability to do it again in future offensives. If we fail, the British will think we really are nothing but backwater colonials incapable of doing anything without their help.” “Alfred, I can tell you are bothered by this. But you will succeed. I know you will.” Hettie could feel Father’s words flowing through her and was overcome with pride. “We do not need Britain’s help. We are Canadian born, bred and raised. We can determine our own destiny. We conquered a wild continent, enduring many hardships, and we can conquer that ridge.” He didn’t say anything for a minute. “You’re right, of course. I just thought you should know. The British and French have both tried to capture the ridge and failed spectacularly.” “I don’t want to hear any more about failure or capturing the heights or reputation.” She kissed him. “I want you to live in the moment again.” “Oh, you do, eh?” He smiled. “I love you. Have I told you that today? I love you.” “I love you, too,” she said as she stuck her hand under the covers. “Let me show you how much.” His eyes almost rolled back into his head. “Oh. The soft, steady hands of a nurse.” “Perhaps, but a little birdy told me you deserve special treatment.” “I’ll have to thank the little bird.” He put his hand behind her head and pulled her close for a kiss.

Chapter 21

“W hy must these officers receive preferential treatment? There is no logical reason why he should be here.” “I completely agree. He’s taking up a bed is what it is. Couldn’t his aid ensure he stays awake? I tried taking it up with Wakefield, but he’d have none of it.” “All for a concussion and some shrapnel wounds that need stitches. They couldn’t take care of him at the field ambulance? We’re about to have real casualties at any moment, hundreds of them, and they send him to us. It’s because he’s a VC. It’s preferential treatment!” Hettie, shivering from the cold, emerged from the corridor formed by two rows of huts, and the two complaining surgeons silenced themselves. Their eyes looked guilty as they realized she had overheard parts of their conversation. “Pardon me, sirs.” “Mrs. Bartlette, where are you assigned for tonight?” “Evacuation.” “You won’t be needed there for 12 hours at least. Would you like to be the one who stays awake with the colonel? Keep him awake at all costs. If he falls asleep and slips into a coma, we’ll never hear the end of it.” Hettie agreed and, biting her lip to control her eagerness, changed direction and headed toward the award hut where she found the officer sitting near the door, focusing on the bleak landscape. “Colonel Taylor,” she said. She didn’t have idea either why Alfred was here instead of being treated and released at the field ambulance, but perhaps it was some sort of divine intervention to keep him safe. Alfred turned and smiled. “Mrs. Bartlette, what a pleasure to see you again.” She returned the smile and wanted to run into his arms, but as she could not, she dug her heels into the floor as a reminder to stay put. I might be able to sneak a hug later, I hope. “Likewise.”

“Are you to take care of me tonight?” Alfred said, the smile somehow broader. “All night long.” Matron cleared her throat. “Mrs. Bartlette, what are you doing here?”

HETTIE FELT LIKE A schoolgirl being scolded for talking out of turn, and her cheeks flushed. “Dr. Fields asked me to look over the colonel. He said I wouldn’t be needed in evacuation for at least 12 hours.” “Well, this doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be helping the others with preparations. Run along.” “Yes, Matron.” Hettie turned to Alfred. “I’ll return later, Colonel. Please ask for any assistance should you feel lightheaded or ill.” As she hurried away, she could hear Matron say, “The men had best stop meddling in my department’s affairs. I’ll see what Wakefield has to say about this.”

HETTIE INHALED AND surveyed the hut. The ward was empty. This would not be the case in a few hours. Outside, as dawn neared, the familiar booms of explosions could be heard echoing in the night. For a moment, she thought of her brother, instead of the man beside her, and tried in vain to push the image of Freddie out of her mind. You can’t do this to yourself. He has a job to do, and you do, too. Think of something to say. “I finally wrote Mother about you,” she said. “She thinks I’m disrespecting Geoffrey’s memory by carrying on with you. She thinks my feelings stem from loneliness and homesickness.” Alfred was expressionless. “Is any of her assessment accurate?” “How could a pen friend be disrespectful?” Alfred took her hand and squeezed it. “When he’s more than a pen friend.” So he thinks we’re more than that? Lovers now, I suppose, but he never talks about a future. But who says I want a future? I want to go back to Barrie and start my clinic. “Well, I don’t plan on stopping. I’ll write Mabel and get it all sorted. I don’t want to be lectured long distance for the duration.” She finally made eye with Alfred but quickly looked away. Geoffrey was never far from her mind, yet their life in Barrie seemed long ago as if it were another woman’s life and not her own. Was it her feelings for Alfred that were not real or her feelings for Geoffrey? What if she had done nothing more than marry her schoolgirl crush? But isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? And as for falling for a soldier, isn’t that the biggest folly of all? He’s always away, and death is an ever present specter. Surely, if there was a future, there’d be talk of one, so in some ways Mother was right. One doesn’t just carry on with a stranger because of what? Excitement? To feel alive? To feel wanted and needed in a capacity that was not a professional one but a personal one? There were still consequences to actions, weren’t there, yet Hettie and Alfred thought nothing of them as they made carpe diem their motto and trusted little of tomorrow. “You look troubled,” Alfred said. “Rest assured I don’t expect to replace Mr. Bartlette. I don’t believe people are replaceable, although the army does.”

A large mortar shell exploded on the battlefield, causing the pendant lights in the hut to swing and the windows to rattle. Hettie let go of Alfred’s hand and placed her hand on her chest. “Goodness me, is it that time already?” “You know what they’re doing this morning? They’re going to capture ‘the Pimple.’ It’s the only objective left.” “See. And you were worried what this battle would do for the corps’ reputation. They are going to capture it.” “Am I to be stuck in this bed the entire time I’m here? It’s bad enough I’m missing the assault.” “I don’t think so. It’s the not falling asleep part that matters. They don’t want you to go into a coma.” “Falling into a coma is the least of my worries. My men, all the men, need to capture their objective. The Huns got me six times yesterday, all shrapnel wounds, and that doesn’t include the knock on the head. I don’t know how long I was unconscious before I came to or even what hit me. The medics washed and stitched my wounds. They suspected I had a concussion. I was sent here because all the other casualty clearing stations were already overwhelmed. Other than the worst headache I’ve had in my life and unconsciousness, it’s the shrapnel wounds which are the most bothersome.” Hettie tried focusing on the rest of what he had said, but “all the other casualty clearing stations were already overwhelmed” was the last thing she heard. When will we become overwhelmed, and I’ll be forced to leave Alfred to take up my post in evacuation? “May we go for a walk?” Alfred said. She did not answer. “Henrietta! May we go for a walk?” “Oh, yes, sorry. Tiredness is beginning to take its toll. I could use some fresh air to wake me up. Yes, let’s go, but we can’t be gone for long.” “Just watch where they sewed me up. It hurts like hell.”

Alfred stood and offered his hand to Hettie. She took it and whispered, “Let’s find a nice, dark, quiet place where no one will bother us.” “Lead on, my lady,” he said, grinning. Stepping out into a landscape illuminated white from the brightening sky, she led him through a series of huts, their feet crunching a fine layer of snow, until they reached the supply tent. She lifted back the tent flap and revealed a storage room filled nearly to the ceiling with crates, barrels and drums, each clearly labeled with its contents. “It’s far from perfect, but it’s all we have. We can’t stay here for long,” Hettie said, her breath a smoky vapor encircling her head. “I’m afraid the weather is ruining everything.” “Not everything.” Alfred pulled her close and kissed her before grimacing in pain. “Well, the weather and the war. Can you endure the cold for ten more minutes?” She nodded. “I think so if you can.” They kissed again, just as simultaneously the bell announcing wounded began to toll and another bombardment made the ground tremble. This time, however, they were too preoccupied to notice.

DEAREST HETTIE, Thank you for confiding in me about Mother. However, I wouldn’t worry much. Mother is a product of her experiences, as are you, and this colours your perceptions of the world. In Mother’s time, it would have been very inappropriate to establish a relationship with someone whom one wasn’t formally introduced and you, my dear sister, were never formally introduced to the colonel. In addition, your courtship is unsupervised and largely through letters. She disapproves because of the unconventionality of it. At the same time, I can see why an honourable courtship in your situation would be next to impossible. You would not behave this way if you were home. Mother will be all right given time. I know she frets about you, and this gives her another reason to worry. She is full of worry about Freddie, too. I think it has begun to keep her up at night; the dark circles under her eyes never fade. We are all thinking about you and want what is best for you. But set your mind at ease; you are not disrespecting Geoffrey’s memory. I should think he would want you to be happy and not live in mourning as his mother has done. Think of this instead of Mother’s words. Always in my thoughts, Mabel

Chapter 22

Dearest Hettie, How have you been? I have not heard from you since your last letter. I hope that the situation with Mother was able to come to a satisfactory conclusion and that it is no longer troubling you. I know it is easier said than done to ignore Mother’s comments but being away from her I should think it would make it easier for you. Just that whatever it is, she’ll no longer be angry by the time you come home. Oh, Hettie, no matter how much time has ed since the war began, I still think of you often. I wonder what you’re doing and where you are. I have no way of knowing and it pains my heart. You have missed so much, and again you missed something important. This past weekend Tommy and Maeve were married. Compared to our weddings it was very simple. This was partially because of the war and partially because of the lack of funds. Mrs. Bartlette could only afford the dress. Teddy says he paid for everything else, and Mrs. Bartlette is upset he shared this information. Mother did host a bridal shower in which she invited all of Maeve’s friends and all us Steward sisters. Some of Mrs. Bartlette’s nieces were there as well. The ceremony was late morning. I had seen both Maeve and Tommy the night before, separately, and they were both over the moon with excitement. They reminded me of you and Geoffrey, having been in love since childhood; there never having been anyone else. Maeve was blushing, giving her face a lovely glow. Tommy, meanwhile, I saw while at our parents’. He was pleased to be starting his life with Maeve. And can you believe this will make Mother and Father’s sixth child to leave home? Maeve’s dress, like the wedding, was simple but fit her well and was nonetheless beautiful. The bride most certainly made the dress, not the other way around. Tommy was all smiles. He looked so handsome waiting for her at the altar. The reception was nothing more than cake and punch and finger sandwiches. I took a few photographs of the day with my Brownie, and I promise to send you one when they are back from the developer. I sent for them to be developed straightaway, and I shudder to think what Gardner will say when he learns I

spent $3 for developing and that doesn’t even include the finishing fee, but I wanted to take as many snapshots as possible so I could send some to you and put the rest in an album. It was an enjoyable day. I am so happy Maeve is officially our sister – although she had been yours for years – but I’m sorry you had to miss it. As always I miss you, With love, Mabel

DEAREST MABEL, Sometimes it seems like I have been away from home for not very long at all while at other times it feels as if I have been gone forever. You are right. I have missed so much. I try not to think about it, though, because I will do nothing more than succumb into melancholy. My life here is filled with periods of frenzied activity along with periods of boredom. But it is very fulfilling and the best way I can contribute to the war effort. Perhaps the only way. I have not written much because we have had several consecutive battles. First it was the triumphant capture of Vimy, then it was the capture of Arleux and, finally, it was the capture of Oppy Wood. The latter two, though successful operations, had high causality rates. I’m not sure what else I can tell you before the censures black out parts of this letter, so I will change subjects. I have already taken the liberty of writing Tommy and Maeve myself. Not that it will matter to them, considering the circumstances, but I felt embarrassed I did not have the proper stationery. I could almost see Mother bristling as I used my everyday notepad. I know she is sometimes mortified by my behaviour, and this would probably be one of those instances. I am still troubled about Mother, but I had to tell her about my pen friend. I was constantly changing my mind about what to do. I kept asking myself: Should I tell her or should I not? Should I incur her temper now or later? But I eventually decided the longer this continues the more I should tell Mother. And, of course, she reacted the way I was frightened she might. Even though she believes that my emotions are the result of loneliness and homesickness, I don’t feel that way. The exchange of letters has helped me tremendously; you cannot imagine. Your advice is always valuable to me. Do you think Mother is right? I miss the family terribly. Send my love to everyone. I don’t write nearly often enough or write nearly long enough letters. I will get home when it is possible to do so. Your loving sister,

Hettie

DEAREST HETTIE, I understand your dilemma. Well, the best I am able. I have never had a male pen friend. I don’t believe I would be brave enough to have one, but I have never had your pluck. From what I have observed of Mother and Mrs. Bartlette, they are the product of their experiences and values, as are we. I have said this before. Times are changing, slowly, but even as they are, Mother does not have either the experiences or emotional understanding necessary to handle you corresponding with a man you have no prospects of marrying. I, however, feel that you can do as you please. You are in a war zone, after all. That is all the advice I can give you. I do hope you can take some benefit from it. I know it’s not much but it’s all I can give. We are all well here. Ida’s girls saw a photograph of you and Geoffrey the other day and had a number of questions. I answered them as best I could. I’m afraid they don’t as much as you would like. I’m not certain Cordelia re anything. I don’t tell you this to make you feel bad in any fashion, but because I want to keep you informed. When you return you will need to make their acquaintance again. I hope that you will. They are growing into wonderful girls. I hope to hear from you soon. Many kisses, Mabel

Chapter 23

Hettie covered a patient with a blanket, biting the inside of her cheeks to remind herself to stay stoic as the stench of necrotic tissue began emanating through the room. “Don’t worry too much,” she said. “You’ll be fine with proper treatment. Now that debridement, the removal of the dead tissues, is completed, Dakin’s Solution will be applied. That should prevent any future deterioration. A doctor will speak to you about specifics. You’ll be walking again in no time.” Although, I very much doubt it. Your case is the worst trench rot case I’ve ever seen. And what a shame, because it could have been prevented by simply changing your wet socks. Perhaps if I make myself convincing, he’ll believe he’ll be normal again. She smiled. “If you excuse me, I have business to attend to elsewhere.” Quietly, she left the hut and went next door to evacuation where one of the patients she had attended to was being moved to a stationary hospital. He was from Barrie, and had been a former classmate of Walter’s, and she promised she would see him off. “Howard, I’ll be sure to tell Walter I saw you. I’m not sure he even knew you were here.” The old school chum chuckled. “He knows, Hettie. We all know when someone’s left or,” he paused, “not coming back.” Hettie hung her head briefly. “Yes, well, I suppose that would be true.” “Don’t look so glum. I’m sorry if I upset you. Barrie is home regardless of this war. But first, I’m going to try and see the moors. I was born there but haven’t been back since.” “Have a speedy convalescence, and send my brother my love if you see him before I do.” “I certainly will,” Howard said as he was lifted onto the back of an ambulance headed to the train station. “Stay safe.”

Hettie waved good-bye as the ambulance doors were closed then plodded back to the award hut. Each patient left a piece of himself on her psyche. Each one had a story, and many were eager to share it. The majority were her brothers’ ages, but not all, and those men reminded her of Uncle Steven and Alfred. It was difficult to maintain a cold, professional distance when she was forced to smile and make idle chit chat. It’s just like when people live on a farm, she thought, and they’re told not to name an animal that’s destined for slaughter because they’ll grow attached and it will be too painful when the inevitable comes. She exhaled, wiping her forehead on her sleeve as she re-entered the award tent, and nearly collided with Charlotte. “Do you know him?” Charlotte said, without acknowledging the near collision. “Whom?” Charlotte indicated the trench rot patient. “I’m wondering if he is who I think he is.” Hettie scrunched her brow. “And you think he’s whom?” “I think it’s someone I attended school with in Manitoba. He wanted to become a nurse but was taunted and heckled because nursing is women’s work. He couldn’t afford university, so he couldn’t become a physician either, and he ended up farming like most others in the community.” She hung her head. “If that’s him, I feel sorry for him. I did then, too, but feel even worse now. If it is him, would you mind greatly if we switched patients?” Hettie shook her head. “No. By all means, if you know him.” “Thank you.” Charlotte went to introduce herself, and Hettie sighed. If Charlotte wants to look after those atrocious feet, all the better. I’d rather not do it anyway.

“Don’t touch me!” Hettie snapped her head to the right as a gruff male voice echoed through the hut. Charlotte was attempting to treat the patient’s feet with Dakin’s Solution, but he was thrashing and clawing at his sheets. “Don’t touch me, God damn you!” Hettie could not hear Charlotte’s response, but she was trying to calm him. “That doesn’t help,” he said. “You’re making it worse.” That’s curious, Hettie thought, trench rot affects the skin and the nerves and decreases sensation. His feet already were swollen and blistered, and smelt of rotting meat. He’s already in the advanced stages, and his condition will soon lead to gangrene, I’m sure of it, even with medical intervention. Maybe the pain was psychosomatic and not the slightest bit real.

CHARLOTTE’S FACE WAS flushed and her knuckles white as she tried to keep the bottle of solution from being knocked out of her hands. Hettie sighed and decided she needed to assist. After all, he was originally her patient before Charlotte volunteered to take over. The patient lunged for the bottle, and Hettie arrived just in time to grab his arm, somehow possessing the strength to keep him at bay. “Believe it or not,” Hettie said, “Miss Gates really is trying to help you. I already explained to you the procedure for your condition.” “I don’t care. ‘I will apply dietetic measures for the benefit of the sick. I will keep them from harm and injustice,’” he said quoting a line from the Hippocratic Oath. Hettie and Charlotte exchanged glances. So they’re trying to harm him, are they? Harming himself is more like it, Hettie thought. “You can refuse treatment if you choose,” Hettie said, “but it will be against doctor’s orders.” “I want to hear from the doctor himself.” Oh, so now it was because they were women? Hettie nodded. “Very well. We will attempt to find him, but he might be otherwise engaged with the men from the battlefield.” Men who know how to change their damn socks and maintain proper hygiene, she added to herself. If the patient wanted words of authority, these would resonate best if they came from Dr. Wakefield, but he was busy with the steady stream of wounded and couldn’t be bothered. Instead, the nurses went in search of the prescribing doctor, a man who was known to forget all politeness and etiquette when under stress. “This is a trivial matter,” he said, waving his hand at them to go. “Don’t bother me with it.” “This patient refuses orders unless he hears them from the prescribing

physician,” Charlotte said. “Tell him it’s not his place to question me,” he said. “If he doesn’t want treated, he should have stayed away and let his feet fall off. That is the treatment. You know that as well as I. He shouldn’t have to hear it from me.” Hettie and Charlotte began speaking at once but were stopped. “Take care of it. It shouldn’t take both of you to resolve this. We have wounded constantly arriving at our door. This is not only a waste of resources having you standing here, it’s a waste of resources treating a trench-rot patient. Have him released to a stationary hospital and free up the bed. Ridiculous.” “So what are we going to do,” Charlotte asked as they walked back to the patient. “You know this man. Can’t you reason with him?” “I don’t know.” Charlotte paused. “He knows about medicine.” “He thinks he knows about medicine, but you’re a ed nurse. You have experience with medicine.” “But he’s in pain.” “And you’re not in pain? You have endured insects, extreme weather, lack of sleep for days on end, ungrateful doctors and homesickness, and yet you do not complain. You do your job even though it’s unpleasant.” Charlotte shook her head. “It’s not the same thing.” “Damn it, Charlotte, it is the same.” The nurses stopped walking and looked at one another. Charlotte appeared perplexed. She didn’t understand. Of course not, Hettie thought, she knows this man so her judgment is clouded. “He is from Carman.” Hettie nodded. “, Charlotte, you are the one who told me never to

become attached to a patient. Do you ? I became attached to Private Wilfred and then he died and it was difficult. You told me never to become emotional. We can listen and we can empathize and , but we must never become emotional.” “I already am attached.” Looks like I’m going to have to find a solution to this mess. “Tell him he can apply the treatment himself with supervision. If he still complains, it’s his fault.” Hettie took a deep breath as Charlotte made her way back to the patient. Maybe Charlotte would somehow manage to calm his nerves and convince him to accept treatment. Then all their problems would be solved. But somehow I doubt it.

FRIDAY MORNING, HETTIE was awake but still in bed. She rolled over and squeezed her pillow to her cheek. Soon she would have to rise and dress for work, but for a few minutes longer, she would savor her rest. The Battle of chendaele kept raging, and rest was a precious treat. “It’s all my fault,” a female voice said, startling Hettie. She opened her eyes and saw Charlotte, fully dressed, standing over her. “What is your fault?” Hettie said. Charlotte swallowed and looked away. “I lied to him.” Hettie sat. “Whom?” “Jimmy.” “Whom?” “The trench-rot patient.” What did Charlotte mean she lied? About what? The nurses told patients all the time they would be fine when they wouldn’t, that treatment wouldn’t hurt when it would; it was all in the best interest of the patient and no one thought anything of it. “We lie to patients all the time,” Hettie said. “How is this different?” Charlotte’s face was pale. “Because I never dreamed – amputation. Gangrene.” The outcome wasn’t all that shocking, but Charlotte’s reaction was. Hettie rubbed her temple. “When did this come about?” “This morning. Early.” Charlotte left for work without providing any additional details, but the course of events wasn’t difficult to guess: The patient had had early signs of gangrene when he arrived. He had refused treatment, so of course the infection would get the better of him. Nonetheless, Charlotte seemed quite distressed by the entire

situation, so Hettie decided to investigate. She dressed, skipped breakfast and went directly to the award hut, but when she arrived, nothing seemed amiss. Jimmy was laying quietly in his bed, unnaturally calm considering his history of overreacting and losing his temper. And especially considering, he’s about to lose two body parts, Hettie thought. Something isn’t right. Perhaps Charlotte is mistaken. Why would the doctors make the determination to amputate and then wait hours to do it? As she watched, two orderlies entered the hut. They had been in the process of moving patients from the hut to evacuation. Six patients already had been moved, and the sixth one apparently was the last because this time they came for Jimmy. Oh, that’s why. Resources didn’t allow it until now. Hettie’s heart began beating faster as if she were about to witness some impending disaster. Jimmy seemed to have no idea why the orderlies were there. His face had gone pale, and he was asking questions. Had Charlotte neglected to inform him of the impending amputation? Hettie glanced at Charlotte who covered her face with a letter she was reading to another patient. So it is true. Charlotte hadn’t said anything! Hettie began walking toward Jimmy, but paused as he began shouting. “Damn you, both. You put me through torture for nothing. You said I would be all right. You said you knew what you were doing.” The orderlies had a stretcher and gurney, and it was their job to transport the patient to surgery. He, however, would have none of it. He lunged at one of the men then swung at another. It took five men to subdue him, and they were forced to tie him to the stretcher before he could be moved. All the while, he was screaming, yelling obscenities at the nurses and orderlies, until they gagged him. Hettie gritted her teeth. Charlotte should have obeyed orders. She should have seen to it that this patient was sent to a stationary hospital. Why didn’t she? Because she knew him, because her guilt made her want to burden herself with him. Hettie was weary of listening to soldiers’ stories. Between herself, Freddie, Alfred and everything going on back home, she had enough to worry about. She no longer wanted to know any of the soldiers’ hometowns or about their families or even how grateful they were to be well cared for; they all ended

up leaving either because they moved back to the front or to stationary hospitals or because they died. And many died: some violently, some of lingering illness, some of crippling infection and some by their own hand. As Jimmy was carried past Charlotte, he shot her a stern look. His eyes were cold, unfeeling, sneering through eyelids colored red from his temper and with veins throbbing in his forehead. His body was twitching, trying to break free from his restraints. And, what then, Hettie wondered, attack Charlotte? Hettie bit her lip as if it were toward her that Jimmy had showed his displeasure. Charlotte was still hiding behind the letter, but Hettie could tell she was fighting back tears. This, Hettie thought, is why it is getting burdensome to become involved in patients’ lives. I hope Charlotte learned a lesson, because I would like to start doing my job with the same clinical detachment the surgeons do. I’m here to fix broken bodies, nothing else. And when the war ends, if it ends, a long holiday is in order, one where I can think of no one but myself.

DEAR HETTIE, I must tell you about my civics project at school. Our teacher assigned us the task of doing something for our community. I decided to take it upon myself to organize a care package drive. I went door to door and informed all our neighbours of what I was doing. I asked them to bring to the church hall a nonperishable donation – items such as stationery or soap or food in a tin. Mother says I’m letting the right to vote go to my head by doing something so ambitious, but I don’t have any suffrage, only the hope of it, for I am not yet 21 and even then it is not full suffrage. Father, however, is delighted and proud of his little girl. Nevertheless, despite Mother’s criticism, my care package drive was a resounding success. Many more people came than I imagined would, and we were able to assemble a number of packages. I was even awarded with a small footnote in the newspapers for the efforts. Miss Dennis, my teacher, awarded me with high marks to finish out grade 11. I’m not sure if you received a care package or not. I’m not sure who was on the list because it was of the community who compiled it, not me. If you did, I hope you enjoyed it. If you did not, I’m sorry. I would have sent you and your friends the very first ones. Here’s to hoping you get home soon. I pray for you every day. Your sister, Adelaide

DEAR ADELAIDE, Thank you for your letter, informing me about your wonderful project. Congratulations on your creativity, organization and high marks. You are a very clever girl. I can see why Father is so proud. I’m pleased to hear you’re doing so well at school. What are your days like now? It must seem strange with only you and Alice in the house. I the house seemed very lonely on those few occasions when hardly anyone was there. It was not a nice feeling. Now I never get any time for myself. Well, I shouldn’t say never, but someone is always about. I can hear them through the thin walls. Privacy is a foreign word here. It will make me truly appreciate our lives at home whenever I get back. I hope you will continue to be well and continue to do well in school. I will be expecting a periodic report from you on your progress as you near matriculation. Your sister, Hettie

DEAR HETTIE, Thank you for your congratulations. It means a lot because I know you are preoccupied and school must seem like it was 100 years ago. I am deciding what to do once high school ends. I have no suitors, so I am free to either go straight to work or be trained in something, as you and Mother did, and contribute to the world. I also could do missionary work like Aunt Rebecca did, but I do not feel so called, and besides she died because of her efforts, and I have that in the back of my mind. It is wonderful to have choices, as limited as they might be. To answer your question, no, it is not particularly strange to have so few people in the house. Mother says that is what is supposed to happen. Children grow and move away. She mentions Grandmother often when she says this. I suppose that is whom we are supposed to aspire to be like and not end up like Mrs. Bartlette. What happened to Mrs. Bartlette anyway? Mother refuses to tell me. I have schoolwork to do and must get back to my lessons. Father is pounding on the bedroom door to remind me as he thinks I’ve forgotten and am wasting time. I wish you were here, because I really would love to have a long conversation with you about all of this. Well, all of this saves Father pounding on the door. Your advice and experience are an inspiration to me. I miss you. Your sister, Adelaide

Chapter 24

“D ecember 1917 has been one of the most important months in my life,” Hettie wrote in her journal on Christmas Eve, “and one I will not easily forget. “The Federal Election of 1917 was held at home on the 17th. Not only was it a wartime election, but it was dominated by two issues: the Military Service Act and the Wartime Elections Act. “Father cannot the Military Service Act because it requires all men between the ages 20 and 45 to for conscription. Last August, he feared its age would mean the possibility of losing Walter and Thomas to the war effort when call-ups begin in January ’18. Mechanics are desperately needed for the newest weapon of war, the Royal Flying Corps, which began training in January. Sensitive Tommy, who couldn’t kill a fly without praying for its soul, would find himself sent to the infantry if he were called up to learn to kill without question. “Most people ed the act but not everyone. There were anti-conscription riots in Quebec, and thousands of men either refused to or requested an exception. “Father also cannot parts of the Wartime Elections Act. It disenfranchises a number of people including conscientious objectors – if only Father knew Freddie was among them – and some naturalized citizens. He can, however, the part of the act that gives certain women the right to vote in federal elections. The spouses, mothers and sisters of all servicemen alive or dead can now vote. This means Mrs. Bartlette and Maeve can vote because of Geoffrey while Mother, Ida and Mabel can vote because of Freddie. Alice and Adelaide, who are not yet of age, are excluded. “Women involved in military service also are enfranchised. When military personnel came to Casualty Clearing Station 100 to record staff and patients’ votes, I could hardly contain my excitement. I was the first nurse in line and walked with a bounce in my step behind the curtain to place my vote. Despite knowing the Unionists were no doubt going to win, I thought of Father and Uncle Steven and voted Liberal. I handed my ballot back to the officer with a smile and tears of joy. It was one of my proudest moments. “I am off now to celebrate my fourth Christmas in Europe with Charlotte, Bessie

and Olive. We said we were here for the duration, and we meant it, no matter how long that may be. I just wish I could see Freddie and Alfred because...”

“COME ALONG, HETTIE. We’re waiting on you,” Charlotte said from the other side of the room where she, Bessie and Olive were reading letters and opening care packages. “Oh, yes, sorry.” Hettie shoved a bookmark in her journal and set her pen aside. She wanted to request five more minutes to finish her thoughts, but her friends had waited long enough. Hettie stood and sat down again beside Bessie who had ed Hettie’s love of Christmas caroling and had her brother mail them a book of carols. Bessie was drumming her fingers on the cover while humming, her nails hitting Santa Claus in the face to the bemusement, it appeared, of the happy children surrounding him in the illustration. “God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman has always been my favorite Christmas carol,” Bessie said. “‘To save us all from Satan’s power when we have gone astray,’” Hettie said. “Shall we decipher the hidden meaning in that line?” Charlotte laughed. “Sometimes you say the strangest things.” “You’ve never had to analyze poetry?” Hettie said, ing all those times when the Steward children had taken turns analyzing the poetry they had been forced to memorize. The others shook their heads “no.” “Father made us do it all the time,” she said. Charlotte said, “You forget your father is an intellectual. Ours are not. Mine can barely read.” “I barely mine,” Bessie said. Olive, sitting meekly off to the side, began squirming in her seat. Hettie gave her a sympathetic glance. As Olive was often aloof, no one other than Hettie

noticed Olive didn’t volunteer information on her own father. It had been a year ago since Hettie had learned Olive’s dark secret, and she hadn’t told anyone, not even her journal or her siblings, that Olive’s father was a murderer. There was no need for anyone else to know. The shame alone would be ruinous to Olive’s career, not to mention what it would do to Olive’s psyche. As the conversation around them continued, changing from fathers to flannel undergarments, Bessie began opening her mail, making a neat pile of letters on the bed behind her and Hettie. When it came time to open the final envelope, Bessie hesitated, her letter opener just tearing the paper. “You know,” she said, “I’m glad I asked Nathan to send us this book. It’s the little touches from home that mean the most.” She proceeded to open the final envelope, pulled out a newspaper clipping and then let out a scream before collapsing to the floor. Hettie, her ears ringing, sat motionless, seemingly unable to react. It was Charlotte who retrieved the clipping and, after she read it, gave it Hettie. The headline read, “HALIFAX DESTROYED.” The article went on to describe what had happened on the morning of December 6th. Not long after the busy harbor opened for the day, a Norwegian merchant ship, Imo, was leaving on its way to New York to pick up supplies for the beleaguered Belgians. In the narrowest part of the harbor, it encountered the French munitions ship MontBlanc which was arriving loaded with TNT and other explosives to a convoy headed to Europe. The Imo was moving too quickly and ing other ships on the left instead of the right. Mont-Blanc had the right of way. The two ships signaled to each other, but ultimately collided, resulting in the munitions catching fire. Mont-Blanc burned for 20 minutes before it exploded just past nine o’clock. The explosion killed many instantly including children on their way to school. Other victims were killed by flying glass and debris or from collapsing buildings. A railway dispatcher name Vincent Coleman may well have been the hero of the day. He stayed at his post until the end, sending telegrams to other stations attempting to stop trains from entering Halifax. One of the trains, scheduled to arrive just ten minutes prior to the explosion, carried nearly 300 engers from Saint John and would have been at the station when it was destroyed.

Hettie ed the article to Olive. “I don’t understand,” Olive said. “Halifax is Bessie’s hometown,” Hettie said. Bessie was crying and wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “It is more than that. Nathan works at the docks. I know in my heart he’s dead.” “You don’t know that,” Hettie said. “How could he not be dead? He was right there! Oh, Nathan.” Bessie began to sob hysterically, and Charlotte held her tightly. Hettie and Olive exchanged glances, and Olive handed the article back to her. Hettie reread the newspaper clipping. It said nothing about a death toll, but underneath the headline was a photo of a large cloud of smoke. Bessie was right; how could her brother be alive if the city was in flames? But, still, until his death was confirmed, there was hope. Even in the worst disasters there are usually survivors. Perhaps Nathan had been elsewhere that day and not at work, or maybe he survived the explosion and was in the hospital. “Who sent you this?” Hettie said, jumping to her feet. Bessie took the envelope and threw it at her. The return address was a Mrs. Walsh in Truro. “Who is Mrs. Walsh?” It took Bessie a while to catch her breath. “The woman who raised us at the orphanage.” “The orphanage?” Hettie shook her head in disbelief. Other than a few friends, Nathan was the only person back home Bessie ever talked about. Hettie knew the Barrow siblings were orphaned, but she didn’t realize they had never been adopted. “Bessie,” Hettie said.

Scowling, Charlotte waved her arm. “Leave her alone. Did you want to be interrogated when your husband died?” I’m just trying to make sense of the situation, Hettie thought, somehow unable to say it out loud. I don’t mean to make Bessie feel worse. Olive pressed on Hettie’s shoulder and nudged her toward the door. “Let’s go.” “See,” Olive said as they exited the hut, a frigid breeze in their faces, “this is why I don’t like Christmas. Something bad always happens.” Hettie did not reply and walked in the opposite direction of Olive, preferring the solitude to pessimism. Something bad happens every day, she thought, it’s simply a matter of whom it happens to, how and when. Of course, I understand Olive has reason to be pessimistic, but still. I don’t want to hear it. Not today.

Hettie took refuge in the laundry, the locals hired for this service enjoying a day off, and squeezed behind the washing tubs. Sitting on the ground, she closed her eyes. Geoffrey had known what it was like to lose a brother, but Hettie had never given any thought to what effect that had upon him; it had always been considered a normal part of life. Geoffrey had been paraded as a youth to one funeral after another of some Bartlette stillborn or premature birth. What would it have been like as a child to be in a house perpetually in mourning? Was that why the Bartlette children were always at the Steward house, because life there was light and airy by comparison? Father and Mother were strict, but they did allow their children to play and enjoy their youth. She thought then of her own brothers. She only had three, and no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t life without them. Her brothers had much to live for: Walter was finally a father, Tommy was a newlywed, and Freddie ... well, Freddie just had to survive until tomorrow. Nathan Barrow probably had much to live for, too. Hettie didn’t know much about him, only what Bessie had revealed. He was a bachelor and, before the war, he and Bessie lived together. He had worked long hours, seven days a week to send Bessie to Children’s Hospital School of Nursing in Halifax, and he continued to work those hours until she moved to Victoria General Hospital and began receiving a paycheck.

Bessie had one photo of Nathan, and she always kept it prominently displayed. He was about three years older than Bessie, but looked much older thanks to all his years of backbreaking work. Bessie adored him, that much was evident to Hettie and she knew she shouldn’t have questioned her roommate relentlessly and should have waited until an appropriate time. That was my fault. I’ve inherited Mother’s lack of patience. But I must make it right with one of my dearest friends. Hettie stood and dusted off her dress. When she returned to the hut serving as their room, Bessie was more composed and Charlotte was holding her like a protective mother. For a moment, Hettie was reminded of the day Geoffrey died. Charlotte had cradled her that night, and many subsequent nights, as she cried herself to sleep. She bit her lip, not knowing if Bessie was angry and unwilling to listen. “We’ve lost too many good people because of this war,” Hettie said, her voice sounding unnaturally loud as it shattered the silence. Bessie and Charlotte turned to her. Encouraged, Hettie continued, “I know I have just stated the obvious, but we have lost so many and not just because they were killed. We’ve lost so many to mutilation, to shell shock, to depression and suicide. And it must stop.” “How exactly will it stop?” Charlotte said. Hettie inhaled. She hadn’t anticipated the question but instead thought they would instantly agree. “We have to hope it will stop. It’ll be 1918 in a few days. A new year, a new start. It must stop.” Bessie looked confused, unable to comprehend what had happened in the last half hour. If she was still upset by Hettie’s questions, she didn’t show it but instead beckoned her closer. “Will you pray with me?” “Of course.” Hettie nodded and sat beside Bessie. The three nurses ed hands and recited the Lord’s Prayer.

1918

“Sorrows manifold Among the young, among the weak and old, And the pensive Spirit of Pity whispered, ‘Why?’” —From And There Was A Great Calm by Thomas Hardy

Chapter 25

When Hettie entered their hut, Bessie was lying in bed, covered by a blanket and propped up by pillows as if she was ill. Hettie stopped short and hid her letters behind her back. On the blanket was Bessie’s handkerchief and peeking out from underneath the corner was Bessie’s mail. That day’s post had been the first mail delivery of the new year; any messages from home probably contained news of the Halifax Explosion. Hettie still believed that Nathan potentially was alive and merely severely injured. She had had a reoccurring daydream since Christmas in which she imagined Bessie breathing a large sigh of relief when she learned the news. Still I must be practical, Hettie thought, and keep this hope to myself so I don’t falsely raise Bessie’s spirits, only to have them dashed. Charlotte, who also was in the hut, must have had the same idea as Hettie, at least in of hiding her mail. Charlotte was sitting on her letters while flipping randomly through a magazine. Both nurses waited for Bessie to open her letters first, not for any particular reason other than it seemed the polite thing to do under the circumstance. After what must have been half an hour, or at least it felt like it, Bessie read the first of her three letters. Hettie and Charlotte waited, watching Bessie’s face for clues as to what information it contained. The letter was quite lengthy and contained a number of newspaper clippings, many of which Bessie read multiple times before tossing them and the letter to the ground. “It’s official. What I’ve known all along is true,” Bessie said as the snippets of newsprint and the sheets of stationery floated to the floor. “If it wasn’t for you, my friends, I would be alone in this world.” Hettie picked up the mess and gleaned its contents. The envelope’s return addressed was from Mrs. Walsh, the orphanage , and in the letter Mrs. Walsh said she had spent several days in Halifax, aiding with relief efforts and making inquiries. Nathan and his coworkers had died instantly in the explosion and never knew what happened. Like others in the city, they were probably watching the oddity that was a ship ablaze in the harbor. “Bessie, I’m sorry, if—” Hettie said. “Oh my, Bessie, I’m—” Charlotte said simultaneously.

“No, I can’t have that. I can barely get out of bed as is. No, I’m not honoring Nathan this way.” Bessie wiped a tear with her sleeve and sat upright, avoiding eye . “It was diphtheria that took them, our parents, and left Nathan and me orphans. That’s why I became a nurse. I was helpless when they died, utterly helpless. We couldn’t afford to pay the doctor’s fees, see, and my parents never received the antitoxin. Nathan and I did. We were spared but they were so tired and malnourished they couldn’t fight. When we went to the orphanage, Mrs. Walsh looked after us. She never knew we had it better off at the orphanage than we did at home. I never wanted to feel helpless again, and she encouraged me to make the most of myself, yet now I am helpless again.” Charlotte said, “He was a casualty of war. You must think of it like that.” “But I’m the one in a war zone, not him. I can’t even help my neighbors, what’s left of them, rebuild their lives. I don’t know if the hospitals where I worked are still standing or if my friends are dead or alive. There is absolutely nothing I can do, but sit here and feel sorry for myself and for them.” “I know. It’s a cruel twist of fate.” Bessie cleared her throat. “Please go read your own mail. I’d like to be alone for a while.” Hettie removed the letters she had nervously been fidgeting with from behind her back as she waited for Bessie to finish. She felt badly for Bessie, but it was a relief when Bessie left and the gloom lifted from the room. Had I been like that when Geoffrey died, a mess unable to function? Were the others grateful when I left the room? I spending a great deal of time alone, either in reflection or wandering around the building. “Aren’t you going to read your mail?” Charlotte said while ripping open an envelope as if she had been waiting all day to get to whatever was inside. “Yes, something important must have happened.” “What do you mean?” “One of the letters is from Alice, and Alice rarely writes. I also have a letter from Adelaide, and she seems only to write when something interests her at school.”

“Oh, that’s good, I suppose. My brother Tobias has invested in a coal furnace for his house and says the thermostat is staying at a constant 70 degrees.” “I wish it were 70 degrees now,” Hettie said, not really caring. She sat and opened Alice’s letter first as it peaked her curiosity the most. She read:

DEAR HETTIE, I hope this letter finds you well. I know it must be dreadfully boring there at times and frightening at others. Do you see Freddie often? I have exciting news to share with you, dear sister. I’m proud to announce my engagement to Cedric Vines. We plan on marrying later this year, probably midautumn, after the leaves have fallen but before the snow flies. I just can’t see having a summer wedding because it is so terribly hot during those months, and I don’t want to perspire in the fanciest dress I will ever wear. Cedric came and asked Father’s permission at Christmas but did not ask me properly until yesterday. Looking back, he had perhaps hinted at it, asking me questions about home furnishings and what I had stashed away in my hope chest, but I didn’t understand the hints. For his proposal, Cedric took me into the sitting room after dinner. I thought it was a bit odd no one cared we had slipped away alone. He told me how much he loved me then got down on bent knee and proposed. I think I shrieked like a child when I said yes, and I don’t much else. I have always dreamed of a large wedding, but Mother says it’s inappropriate in war time. I understand this, I suppose, but it is my wedding and I will only get one. Why can’t I have as elaborate a wedding as Ida did? It’s all quite aggravating to have Mother be so controlling. Was she like that with you? Oh, my. I’m late for tea and must dash off. It seems I am forever running late for something. I’ll probably be late for my own wedding. I’ll keep you informed of my wedding plans. Your sister, Alice

DEAR HETTIE, How are you? I think of you often and hope you are well. A while back you asked me to keep you informed of my progress at school. You should be pleased to know I have been accepted to Toronto Normal School, the same teaching college Mother attended. The letter arrived this morning. I opened it in the privacy of the bathroom. I was fearful I had been rejected and if I had, I didn’t want anyone to see my tears. Instead, I opened it and was overjoyed. So I will be going to Toronto in the autumn. I’m excited and frightened all at once. The city is so large, and I won’t know anyone. Father says I shouldn’t worry about that; I’m there to get an education and nothing else. Mother did it, he says, and you went to nursing school, so it is obvious I can do it, too. But when Mother went to the college, the city was much smaller, and there was no such thing as motorcar traffic, and it wasn’t wartime. Can you tell I’m feeling overwhelmed and I don’t know what to do, yet I want to go so badly? Some words of wisdom would ease my mind. How did you feel when you went away? Were you homesick? Did you complete your studies with thoughts of when you would come home? I wish I could speak to you in person. I have a million questions. I miss you, dear sister. I’m not a little girl anymore and as I age I have more and more questions for my sisters, and Alice is no help. I will be writing you more often as it gets closer for advice. Your sister, Adelaide

Hettie set both letters down and shook her head. So Alice was getting married and Adelaide was going to teaching college in the fall? Wasn’t it just the other day that they were both little girls and had nothing more important to worry about than ing the next exam and getting novels read in time to complete their compositions? Wasn’t it just the other day Hettie was going away to school and planning a wedding? “Were you right?” Charlotte said. “Was it something important?” “It was something rather important to Alice. Adelaide has been accepted to the Toronto Normal School.” “Good for her. My mother has run out of apricot jam, or at least that’s what I think it says. Her spelling is atrocious.” “At least she tries to write you.” “Yes, that’s true. My father says that wheat doesn’t care whether you can read or write.” “I suppose not.” Hettie laughed slightly, relieved she didn’t receive letters about furnaces and jam, even if the letters she did receive didn’t always contain good news. She took out a piece of stationery and focused her eyes on its creamy whiteness. It reminded her of her of a wedding dress and of her nursing uniform at school. Alice’s future wedding dress or her own? Yes, her own. That dress that made her feel constricted and out of fashion, the one she argued with Mother about, it had been symbolic. She and Geoffrey were doomed from the start; they just didn’t know it. They thought they were going to be together for life, not 11 months. And her uniform from school. That was a happy time, a time of pride, of empowerment, without it she wouldn’t be here now. Hettie put pen to paper and wrote:

DEAR ALFRED, I wish you were here. I so need someone with whom I can share my innermost thoughts. My mind is a whirlpool of swirling emotions. Let me explain. In the span of one day, one mail delivery, I received letters from my two youngest sisters. Adelaide was accepted to teaching college and will be going away in the autumn and Alice ... Alice is engaged to a solicitor from the law firm where Mr. Bartlette worked as a clerk. She’s marrying my late husband’s boss! How am I supposed to react to that? I don’t even know if she realizes. I have been here much too long and have missed my family grow. I have nephews I have never met and nieces whom I wouldn’t recognize if I saw them. I have missed one wedding and will miss another. I have missed birthdays and holidays and now I will miss seeing my sister off to school. I lost my husband here. How much is one person supposed to take? Yet I know I shouldn’t complain. One of the nurses here, a close friend of mine (Miss Barrow, you’ve met her) recently lost her only relative, the only person who truly knew her, cared for her and loved her. There will be no one for her to go home to. When I think of her, I feel ashamed of myself for my frustration and pain. Oh, what am I to do? I do miss you terribly, and I hope you will be able to go on leave soon so we may rendezvous again. Your friend, Hettie

MY DARLING, HETTIE, Do not despair. We all thought the war would be over quickly, and we were all fools, but we are committed to be here. We are honourable and brave. We are here when so many others back home are protesting conscription or worrying about their finances or living life as if nothing has changed. We are here living in squalid conditions, in horrible weather, ready to die for some ideal. Whether we realize it or not, there is always someone worse off. Your friend is worse off than you. You may miss your family but at least you have a family to go home to. I am worse off than you also in that regard. I have a family but they don’t treat me well because I didn’t treat them well. It’s my lot in life and all my fault. I’ve ruined everything in my life that I’ve touched, everything except for this army job and, Lord help me, my relationship with you. I do not know when my next leave is coming but I will write you as soon as I know. I’m certain the others at the casualty clearing station are tired of seeing me and having to house me when I come to visit but I don’t care. I am there to see you and only you. If circumstances were different, you could come visit me, but I can never allow it. Not only would I be endangering your life, but I would be endangering your reputation. At least this way we are chaperoned and your reputation is safe. I look forward to your next letter. Love, Alfred

Chapter 26

“A re you immune?” Hettie opened her eyes and discovered she was too close for comfort with one of the clearing station’s orderlies. She could see only his eyes, and their critical glare; the rest of his face obscured by a medial mask and cap. “Pardon?” she said, realizing she had nodded off and had been startled awake by his voice. “They say you and your brother are immune because you were ill in the spring.” “I don’t know. Does it matter?” The orderly shook his head in disgust and walked away. Hettie followed him for a time with her eyes, before stretching and reapplying her own mask. It seemed so long ago now but in April, she had been ill for nearly a week. Although no one knew it at the time, her illness had been part of the first wave of the disease. It had begun with an intense headache, a cough, chills and a fever, the typical symptoms of grippe. Charlotte had taken care of her and had written Alfred and Freddie to inform them. Alfred stayed in constant communication with Charlotte via letters, letters that were now in Hettie’s possession as proof the entire exchanged happened, and Freddie had visited. Just like when they were children and illnesses ed from sibling to sibling, Freddie, too, fell ill. Hettie had no recollection of that week or the convalescence that followed. Both she and Freddie recovered and seemed no worse for the experience, but did that necessarily mean they were immune? What if they were immune? Did that change anything? Did it help anyone else? After recovery, life had reverted to normal. She returned to work and resumed writing relatives back home. She held her tongue and provided only positive words to Alice about her wedding and answered honestly all of Adelaide’s questions. She also spent many evenings with Bessie having conversations with her as she moved through the grieving process, and Hettie even provided a ive ear to Olive when her father wrote from prison. The second wave emerged in August and was much more deadly. It did not

discriminate. It attacked everyone and appeared particularly skilled at killing those who were otherwise very healthy. The way it killed baffled medical professionals worldwide. Victims suffocated to death from fluid in their lungs or from contracting pneumonia as a secondary infection. Hettie had been one of several people in the area who had fallen ill in the spring, but now the sick kept arriving on an unprecedented scale. Wakefield called the frequency of arrivals alarming when the ill outnumbered the wounded and ordered a special ward just for influenza cases. Everyone knew death was coming when a patient’s face began turning blue. Sometimes the faces of those about to die also had strange brown patches. I get interrupted from the first sleep I’ve had two days – or is it three – to be asked an asinine question? Hettie left the small alcove where she thought she was hidden and walked the halls of the building, the first building they had occupied since 1916. They were using the grounds of a public library, although it was no longer a library. All the bookcases and books had been removed, replaced by beds and medical equipment. Like many of the buildings they had occupied in the past, this one had a history, one she saw and felt as she moved about its century-old walls, but one which she could not enjoy. Its ambiance was ruined by dying and death. She entered the influenza ward, giving only a ing thought to the fact that more than a year ago she and Alfred had shared a pleasant evening in a much smaller and cozier library, and began pouring water for a patient. Volunteers or the newest nurse on staff often performed tasks like this, but the clearing station was so short staffed every job mattered equally. Holding his head and shoulders up with her arm, she helped him drink. He was well enough to thank her, and she blushed under her mask, feeling ridiculous wearing it. Hettie, don’t let vanity creep up now. Look at everything that must be done. She moved on to the next patient and repeated the task. Her mind began to wander, and she was again 17, Geoffrey barely older than 19. They were in the Bartlette house and Geoffrey was ill with pneumonia. The Bartlette children always had been prone to illness, but this time was somehow

different. Geoffrey was in danger of dying. He wasn’t recovering the way the doctor had anticipated. He wasn’t really recovering at all; he was lingering, hovering between life and death. Hettie, for her own safety, had been forbidden to see him, and the separation almost was unbearable. Finally, she was allowed to visit his bedside, to say goodbye. The memory was vivid. She ran up the stairs to the bedroom and threw herself on Geoffrey’s laboring chest, bursting into tears. He was dying, but still being an adolescent, she selfishly wanted control of the situation, wanted it her way. When, despite the doctor’s prediction, Geoffrey did not die, she attributed it to her love. She had saved him, and even as an adult, when she knew love was incapable of killing bacteria, she continued to believe that. But what good did saving him do if he was going to die from battlefield wounds? Tears began to well up in her eyes. She turned to hand the patient his cup when instead of a stranger coughing in the bed, it was Geoffrey, coughing up phlegm, his sheets red from blood. She gasped and dropped the tin cup. It landed on the bedside stand with a clang, spilling water on the stand and floor. When she looked back, Geoffrey was no longer there. Why? she thought, her hands shaking as she hastily cleaned up the spill. Why do I sometimes see him? Is it my tired mind playing tricks, or does he have a message for me? “I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said to herself. “I don’t believe in ghosts.” Hettie apologized to the patient as she poured him a fresh cup and helped him drink. Charlotte stumbled into the ward and made her way up the main aisle just as Hettie was easing the patient’s head to his pillow. Whatever did Charlotte do to herself? Hettie mused as she tucked the patient in. “Did you twist your ankle?” Hettie said when Charlotte reached her. “I don’t feel well at all,” Charlotte said, her face pale and her voice shaky. “Oh, no, not you, too, Charlotte. Have you said anything to Matron or Dr. Wakefield?”

“No time.” The words barely escaped Charlotte’s lips before she fainted, hitting the floor with a thud. Hettie stood immobilized for what felt like minutes before she could force herself into action. “Orderly! Help us!” As she waited for assistance, Hettie cradled Charlotte’s head. This cannot be happening. Charlotte cannot be dying. She can’t. But the possibility of losing her friend was very real. The disease worked quickly, in some cases people were healthy in the morning then collapsed and were dead by nightfall. A number of medical personnel had already fallen ill, and some had died, people they knew and respected. Bessie was one of the first of the staff to fall ill. High fever had made her delirious. She called out for Death to take her so she could Nathan, but eventually the fever broke. She was recovering nicely, convalescing away from the critical patients, but was still too weak to be on duty. Charlotte’s eyes fluttered open. “Please, write Dr. Fitzpatrick and let him know I’m ill,” she said, her voice barely audible. “In case something happens.” “Nothing is going to happen.” “Please. We both know.” Hettie nodded. “Yes. I’ll write him.” Is that why you wrote Alfred when I was ill? Because I could have died? Charlotte did not reply, but instead patted Hettie on the arm and closed her eyes.

ORDERLIES ARRIVED AND carried a still-dizzy Charlotte on a stretcher to the nearest free bed. The room seemed oddly quiet, the silence broken here and there by coughs and someone muttering “deliver us from evil” repeatedly. “For thine is the kingdom, and the power and glory. For ever and ever,” Hettie said, finishing the prayer. The clearing station’s bell began ringing. Hettie checked the window and saw the ambulances in the distance. She ran to reception, arriving just in time to see a train of 10 stretchers being brought into the lobby. “No, no,” Matron said to her, “you cannot come in here like this. You’ll be the death of those men. Change quickly. Make haste.” Hettie glanced down at her clothing and saw her apron was stained with yellow sputum. Whose is that? “Yes, Matron.” Hettie curtsied then made her way toward the operating rooms. There, she disposed of her mask and apron in a bin used for bloodstained articles, and returned to reception, hands washed and wearing a fresh apron. She grabbed a pencil and stack of medical tags. “That’s much better,” Matron said. “I will be helping out wherever I can. Just let me know where my assistance is needed.” “Yes, ma’am.” Hettie smirked at the thought of being able to order Matron wherever she wished, but then she ed Charlotte and the smirk faded. “Sister Gates fell ill. Someone will need to assist in surgery.” “Right. I had best get to it.” The older woman lingered for a moment, and Hettie sensed fear in her voice. Much had changed since Matron went to nursing school. “Do you want me to do it?” Hettie said, oddly wistful for the days when all the clearing station had to content with was bullet wounds and amputations.

“No, I am quite all right. I shall request Miss Marshall be pulled off ambulance duty for a while. And I’ll make certain Wakefield knows we need to move patients to a stationary hospital en masse.” Matron left reception, and Hettie began her duties. One of the patients was coughing, and Hettie heard the sound over a din comprised of moaning, orderlies’ boots and voices. They’re spreading it. The soldiers are moving from place to place and spreading the flu as they go. That’s it. She abandoned the patient she had been ing and followed the sound of the coughing, but when she found the source, he was not a flu victim. He was shot in several places, including the chest. On his medical tag she wrote “Diagnosis: Multiple bullet wounds. Grim.” To a ing orderly, she said, “Is the chaplain in resuss?” He nodded, and she realized it was the same orderly who had disturbed her break earlier in the day. “See to it that he sees this man before the end comes.” “I suppose it doesn’t matter if you’re immune if a bullet gets ya.” “No, I suppose not.” Hettie didn’t stay around long enough to engage in conversation. Instead she rushed outside and was relieved to see there were no patients waiting aside from the initial 10. Thank God for that. After the wounded had been attended to, Hettie found Charlotte’s sick bed and sat. “I brought your mail,” Hettie said, holding the envelopes so Charlotte could see. “Do you want me to read them to you? You’re a lucky girl. I only got one missive today. From Mabel.” “Don’t forget to write Dr. Fitzpatrick.” “I won’t. You have a letter from him, as a matter of fact. I’ll write him before I answer my own letters.” Charlotte closed her eyes. “When was the first time you encountered death?”

Hettie sighed and placed the letters in her lap. “Why are you talking like this?” “When was it?” “When my grandmother died. I was three.” “No. The first time you understood what death meant.” Hettie suddenly felt ill. “In grade one, my closest friend’s twin brother died of measles. I couldn’t comprehend it. Everyone else I knew who had measles survived. And I couldn’t comprehend losing a brother because it made me think of Freddie.” “For me, it was my eldest sister. She married young and died after a breech birth. The baby died, too. I’ve been thinking about her since I’ve been in this bed. Sometimes I see her.” “You see her?” I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in ghosts. “It’s the fever, surely. You know your sister is not here.” “Maybe that thin veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead that they talk about on Halloween is real.” With the exception of her head, every hair on Hettie’s body was standing at alert. “You’re frightening me, Charlotte. It’s the fever talking. Bessie’s rants about Nathan. It’s the same thing. Your sister cannot possibly be here.” Hettie paused. “Now, shall I read you your letters?” “You’ll want to write my mother.” “I will.” Hettie nodded and read each of Charlotte’s letters aloud except for Dr. Fitzpatrick’s because Charlotte said it could be romantic and hence embarrassing for Hettie to see. Hettie merely smiled and felt her heart ache a bit for Alfred. He was busy with the army trying to break the Drocourt-Quéant Line and didn’t have much time for letters, romantic or otherwise. Not that she had much time to answer even if he did. Charlotte’s pallor brightened slightly as she heard all the news about livestock

and faraway relatives. “That’s everything save the good doctor’s letter. Is there anything else you need before I go see to Bessie?” Charlotte did not immediately answer. “Read me your letter. I’ve heard so much about your family. I feel as if I know them.” “Well, all right.” Hettie took the letter from her pocket and had just broken the seal when the bell began tolling. “Do you hear that, Charlotte? Duty calls. I’ll be in the operating ward. I think Matron is uncertain of her technique. Isn’t that funny?” “What about your letter?” Hettie shoved the letter back in her pocket as she stood. “The letter will have to wait. I’m certain it’s nothing important. Probably about Alice’s wedding plans and I’ve had enough of that.” She made Charlotte comfortable by helping her drink and then tucked her in. “I’ll let you know all the boring details when I see you next. Your job now is to break your fever. Understood? That’s an order.” Charlotte was too ill to even force a chuckle. Hettie left her and reached the operating room just as the first patient was finished with pre-op. , Hettie, there are no such things as ghosts. The dead stay dead. They don’t visit or come back.

DEAR HETTIE, I am writing you today with terrible news. I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just come out with it. Maeve contracted the flu while on a trip to Boston and grew sick on the train ride home. A few days later she died. She was five months pregnant with a child both she and Tommy were eagerly awaiting. The doctor said that even if they took the baby immediately it would not have survived. Tommy is devastated. After the funeral, I overheard Mother tell Aunt Sadie, “Well, I don’t know why Maeve died. Hettie had the flu in the spring and she’s just fine.” If the comment wasn’t crass enough, Tommy overheard this and the look on his face was one of immense hurt. He retreated almost immediately upstairs. I felt the need to follow him and when I did, I found his bedroom door locked. His sobs were plainly audible through the door. I should have knocked or said something but instead I stood there silent as a mouse before turning around and going back downstairs. I don’t know why I didn’t try to comfort him; I just didn’t and I regret it. Tommy has been behaving strangely ever since. He doesn’t like when your name is brought up as if you have any control over Mother. Also, you cannot help you lived and Maeve didn’t. The association is ridiculous. Mrs. Bartlette is once again a mess. She has lost yet another child, and she went into a tirade about being cursed. Worse, she repeats it to anyone who will listen. The subject of the tirade is as follows: Someone in her youth must have thought ill of her and put a curse on her to have so many children taken from her. And then of the remaining children, one is a cripple, one is touched in the head and one has failed to provide her with grandchildren. She pointed her finger at Teddy and Caroline and said something embarrassing about the lack of children. Caroline flushed and hung her head. I felt overwhelming pity. Mother can often speak without thinking, but Mrs. Bartlette is delusional, I do believe. Ida, Mother and I had tea with her a couple of days later and she left the dining table to telephone Teddy and berate him. We could hear every word she was saying despite the telephone being two rooms away. I have written Freddie as well so you needn’t do it. I am truly sorry to burden you with all of this, but you must know.

Your sister, Mabel

DEAREST MABEL, Your most recent letter saddens me. Maeve was like a sister to us, both by marriage and by association. I will always her as the pesky little girl who would rather follow us about than play with Alice and Adelaide. Our little sisters were somehow not good enough for Maeve; she wanted to be a Steward. It was almost with the same zeal that I wanted to be a Bartlette. Tommy was not as brave as Geoffrey, however, , and it took him a bit longer to declare his intentions. He danced so nervously with Maeve at my wedding. My heart bleeds for Tommy. He will forever be my baby brother, the one reading flowery romantic prose while Walter and Freddie were reading mechanics and science books. He is a gentle soul, and I will need to take some time to craft him a letter. I cannot believe how painful it must be to lose a spouse and an unborn child all in one instant. I feel horrible for Teddy as well. He had the mumps as a child. Mrs. Bartlette knows this yet she tries to make him feel guilty ̶ I have never quite understood this ̶ but to do it publicly is shameful. From what Geoffrey once told me, his childhood was anything but happy, at least at home, so perhaps Teddy expects it. I don’t know. But why doesn’t he put her in her place? Some people say the war will be ending soon. I don’t know what to believe but I hope it is true. The war has gone on long enough and claimed too many lives. With love, Hettie

Chapter 27

The war continued uninterrupted despite the epidemic. A few weeks later, as the army pushed toward the Belgian town of Mons with the intention of liberating it, the clearing station was filled to capacity and had been forced to move influenza patients to base hospitals before the sick were ready. Bessie, however, had recovered and was in her old habit of gossiping and flirting with men, something she had not done since her brother’s death. She slowly carried a pan of bloodied bandages ahead of Hettie who lugged a pan of red water. As bombardments echoed in the distance, they made their way down the aisle dodging other medical personnel. “They say the war will be over soon,” Bessie said over her shoulder. “Who is ‘they’?” Hettie said, her eyes focused on the water as it rippled with each step. “Lots of people.” “Bessie, you couldn’t be vaguer if you tried.” “Soldiers who have come through, some of the doctors.” The cries of a patient who needed his next dosage of morphine were becoming more audible as they neared the exit of the ward. “If the war is going to end, it had best hurry up and do it before more people died needlessly.” “If it ends,” Bessie said, “then it won’t be necessary to invade .” “Invade ?” Hettie felt a shiver start at her neck and move down her spine. The ripples disappeared as she paused. “Don’t play ignorant,” Bessie said, continuing to walk and not noticing Hettie had stopped. “You must know that that’s the logical next step if they don’t surrender.” Hettie again began her task. “But why send the army? Couldn’t an aerial

bombardment from the zeppelins or airplanes do just as well? They’ve created plenty of destruction in other places.” “You’re asking the wrong person that question. I say send them the flu. They’ll all be dead in no time.” “I’m sure they’re just as ill as we are. those Bavarians—” The ground began to shake from a tremor, followed shortly by the boom of the military shell that caused it. Hettie struggled to both stay steady and keep the bloody water from slopping out of the pan. The morphine patient cried even louder, and another patient, his legs in traction, also cried out in pain. “Bloody Huns,” one of the patients said, sitting up in his bed. “I can’t even rest here without them disturbing me.” This was followed by several shouts of agreement. “Gentlemen,” Matron’s voice said from the other side of the hut, “need I remind you that stress is not beneficial to healing. Calm yourselves, please. There’s no point scolding someone who can’t even hear you.” Bessie turned to Hettie. “That was a little too close for comfort.” “I almost needed to change my apron and dress,” Hettie said. “I hope that was the last tremor.” “What does Colonel Taylor say?” “About tremors? Nothing.” “About the war ending?” “I don’t know,” Hettie said, not wanting to think of Alfred at that moment. “You don’t know? You just saw him. Whatever do you two talk about?” “Lots of things.” It was true she had seen Alfred about two weeks before, but he was only able to stay for a few hours, and they did not discuss war news. He had arrived via

army wagon to take her for a bumpy drive over the pockmarked terrain. They had arrived at their end destination too sore and too chilly to have the lunch they had brought along and ended up on blankets in the back of the wagon. When it was time to return to the clearing station, she insisted she could drive herself if necessary, and he made her laugh by making faces. “You’ll have to tell me later,” Bessie said as the nurses parted ways. No, I won’t, Hettie thought, as her hands had begun to shake. At the mere mention of Alfred, her pulse had quickened and her breath became shallow. Bessie went to dispose of the used bandages in the incinerator while Hettie hurried to the barrel that held the station’s wastewater. As she added her panful to the reeking black mess, she thought of Freddie, silhouetted by a muddy battlefield, trees stripped of every limb. “No, they are all right,” she said to herself. She slammed the barrel’s lid closed and threw down her pan. Leaning against the nearest hut, she closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. “They are all right.” When she opened her eyes, her hands were still trembling, although not as badly. It was time to get back to work. The bell was ringing, and she could already perceive the sound of approaching ambulances; the rumble of their engines was so distinctive she often dreamed of them. “I’m coming,” Hettie said to a ing colleague, although she did not move. She could not, her breath on the verge of hyperventilation, and the sounds of the clearing station suddenly overwhelming. In addition to the ambulance engines, there was the bell, posted outside Wakefield’s office and calling them to duty like a school bell announcing the start of the academic day. There was the sound of feet as the staff scampered into position, and the staff’s voices, shouting and acknowledging orders, as they prepared for the onslaught of casualties. They needed her, she knew, but Hettie could not move. All she could think about was Alfred and Freddie and how they were in danger.

Another shell echoed in the distance. Come along, Hettie, you have to do this. You must. Hettie! She took another deep breath and found her legs were carrying her forward. She found herself in resuss, the last place she wanted to be assigned today. Already, there were men being brought in, and the chaplain had arrived. His Bible was so worn, it opened to specific ages whenever he stood it on its spine. Hettie swallowed hard when she heard the ruffle of pages. And so it begins. The first two patients needed transfusions, but otherwise appeared as if they would make it through surgery. She prepared their IVs then suppressed a yawn. Over the past several days she had been showing signs of fatigue and hoped the influenza wasn’t catching her again. No, all I need is a good night’s sleep. I can’t be ill. There’s no time for that. The next patient had labored breathing and that explained the chaplain’s presence. There were four bullet wounds, puncturing both lungs. “We’ll make you comfortable,” she said to him. “You’ll be fine. You’re a fighter. I can see that. You survived this long.” He responded with a cough that shook his entire body. As his pale limbs flailed under the thin blanket, Hettie felt the building sway followed by a boom. “You’re going to drop him,” Hettie said to the orderlies and ordered the patient to the floor immediately. She knelt beside him, the room still feeling like it was spinning, and closed her eyes. When I open them, you will not be Geoffrey. You will not be Geoffrey. There are no ghosts. There are no ghosts. She opened her eyes and to her relief did not see Geoffrey but instead the patient, lying on his cot. That’s much better. Hettie smiled The patient sat upright. Hettie jerked, causing her rear to land on her heels and her toes to smart. His body again began to shake as he was racked with coughs. The force was reminiscent of the influenza patients, and she instinctually placed her arm around his shoulder. A moment later, something warm sprayed her face and began trickling down her cheek.

“Oh, Sister, here,” the chaplain said, handing her his handkerchief. Hettie wiped her face and the cloth came away stained red from blood. “Go clean yourself up,” the chaplain said. “You’ve done all you could for this man. Now it’s my turn.” Hettie stumbled to her feet, her ears ringing. A drop rolled off her cheek and hit her chest, followed by another and another, creating polka dots on her otherwise pristine apron. The chaplain had begun his prayer, and Hettie looked down at the patient, his entire chest splattered with blood as if it had been thrown on him. The patient’s chest heaved and, like a volcano coming to life, spewed its contents. A gurgling sound followed, and the patient was dead. The chaplain stopped mid-sentence, made the sign of the cross, and then continued his prayer in a barely audible whisper. Hettie’s lips parted and once again she stood motionless, seemingly frozen, until she felt a sharp pain. An orderly had stepped on her foot while carrying a stretcher. “Sorry, Doll,” he said. “Seen better days?” She ed her face and without replying, ran to expunge the stain on her skin as if it would remain permanent if she did not. She grabbed a flannel from the stack of cloths used to clean patients and scrubbed her face with hydrogen peroxide. This. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t go on like this. I can’t. Her eyes began to water, perhaps from the hydrogen peroxide, perhaps from tears. The population of resuss had increased by at least two dozen in the time she had taken to remove the filth from her visage. I can’t. Oh, but you must, Hettie. They need you. They need you. They need you. Hettie threw down the flannel and felt her feet, at last, induced into action.

Hours later, Hettie did not know how she had made it through. All she wanted to do was sleep, and her mind often wandered, forcing her to find ways to stay motivated, but at last the final patient was attended to and she began the walk to her hut. Bessie ed her, having spent the entire shift in surgery. Her eyes were puffy and she looked pale. “It’s going to rain,” she said instead of hello. Hettie inhaled. “I think you’re overly tired. You must have pushed yourself too much,” she said, knowing Bessie had not been ready to come back to work and could fall ill again. “No choice. Understaffed.” Hettie nodded in sympathy. “Olive will be able to ease the burden some.” Bessie shook her head. “Olive’s not back.” Olive had been pulled off of ambulance duty and had been temporarily reassigned to the regular nursing staff. She was expected back hours ago. “Where is Olive?” “I couldn’t tell you. All I know is she’s not back.” So I did hear that correctly? Where could Olive be? Bessie and Hettie both yawned. I’ll worry about Olive’s whereabouts tomorrow. Sleep is more enticing than the mystery. The nurses turned to trudge in the direction of their quarters, and their hut was tantalizingly within sight. The promise of a warm bed was not to be. Before they reached their destination, they were startled by a gruff voice amplified by a megaphone. “Dr. Wakefield is holding a mandatory staff meeting in his office. Please gather straightway.” Hettie and Bessie exchanged a silent glance as the message repeated. Wakefield rarely held staff meetings, and when he did, there generally was a very serious reason for it.

“What do you suppose it is?” Hettie said. “I don’t know. Maybe the Germans surrendered.” Hettie laughed, “He might as well announce he’s secretly a leprechaun.” “Now, I think you’re the one who is overly tired. Bulgaria signed an armistice less than a month ago, and the Ottoman Empire has requested one. I don’t know why you think it’s so funny.” “Because it feels like an impossibility, a figment of a fever dream.” “Sometimes dreams come true.” “I’m sure there is some nurse in German territory saying to her fellow nurse, ‘I hope the Tommies surrender soon.’” Bessie shook her head. “You’re incorrigible.” “I know.” Hettie followed Bessie into Wakefield’s office and tried not to laugh as they took their place with Matron and the other nurses. It took several minutes for Wakefield to make an appearance. He emerged from a backroom, his face drawn and looking older than he had earlier in the day. Crumpled in his hand was a sheet of paper, only the top of which stuck out of his fist. Instead of sitting behind his desk, as he did for every other staff meeting, he stood in front of the desk, focusing his gaze on the pine boards beneath his feet. After a moment of this, he cleared his throat. “As many of you know, Miss Marshall became an ambulance driver a couple of years ago. And, as you also may well know, a large explosion occurred near here today.” He paused. “I regret to inform you Miss Marshall was killed. We believe her ambulance struck a mine while on the way back to us. Please take comfort in knowing that death was probably instantaneous and did not cause her any suffering.”

Hettie felt her temperature rise. Olive is dead? What? How is it possible? And Freddie? What about Freddie? Just four months ago, a German U-boat attacked the hospital ship Llandovery Castle, on its return trip to Britain after taking patients home to Halifax, and 14 nurses were killed. Lifeboats were launched, but they, too, were torpedoed. Of the 258 people aboard, only 24 had survived, including six of the medical corps. The room started to spin. It felt increasingly hotter as the room grew darker. In Hettie’s mind she was in the ocean with the victims, drowning. The power of the ocean was overcoming her, sapping her energy, and making it more difficult to keep her head above water. A wave slapped her in the face, making it impossible to see and sending water into her lungs. She began to cough, arms flailing. Hettie opened her eyes. Bessie was cradling her head, and Matron was crouched over her. Everyone else was staring. “She’s awake,” Matron said. Bessie smiled weakly. “You fainted.” “Mrs. Bartlette, are you all right?” Matron said. “No, I’ve, I’m... I was caught off guard is all. What about my brother?” Matron looked at Wakefield. He said, “Miss Marshall was the only one in the ambulance at the time. I have heard nothing of your brother.” Hettie swallowed hard and said to Bessie, “Did I hit my head?” Bessie shook her head no. “Several of us caught you as you fell. We’ll help you to bed.” “Thank you.” Hettie stood and wanted to be anywhere but in that office surrounded by worried

faces. How could Olive be dead? That big boom was her death, Hettie thought. We heard her die.

DARLING FREDDIE, I don’t know when this letter will reach you. I know things are chaotic right now for you as well as for us. However, you have been on my mind quite a bit lately, so I felt compelled to write you. A tragic event occurred here at the clearing station. One of the nurses, the one granted permission to drive an ambulance, was killed. It was from a land mine or something; the reason is unclear, but the effect is the same. Her death has affected me greatly. It could have so easily been you. If something were to happen to you, I could never forgive myself. I don’t care that you had supplemental reasons; you are here because of me. I still . I cannot forget. You are the younger sibling so you are my responsibility, not the other way around. Mother would be furious if I didn’t take care of you. Please write me as soon as you are able and let me know you’re all right. I worry, and you must set my mind at ease. Your sister, Hettie

SWEET HETTIE, I appreciate your worry for me, but there is no need. This is a risk I took of my own free will. You were the inspiration, this is true, but it was purely my decision, and it’s one I’ve undertaken for the past three years because it is the right thing to do. In my time here, I’ve see a number of horrors, all manmade, and I’ve learned a lot about this world. If something were to happen to me, it is better for me to die as opposed to losing a limb or being disfigured. I would prefer it that way, so if that were to happen, know it was what I wanted, and that I have no regrets. Please don’t lose any sleep over me. I’m doing my job as you are doing yours. Mother would not be furious. Mother loves us in her own way, and she understands, too, even if she pretends she does not. You have another thing wrong, too. We take care of each other. I hope I have put your mind at ease. And I also hope to see you soon. Your brother, Freddie

Chapter 28

Olive had been dead for three weeks. Like with Geoffrey’s ing, it felt simultaneously recent and long ago. Thus was life at the clearing station. There was no time to stop and mourn, especially with the latest military push. Hettie did her job and, despite the airs she put on, she could not help thinking about Olive and the miserable life she led. What did Olive do to deserve such an unceremonious death? The Great War could have been the start of a new life. With experience as a military nurse, Olive could have gotten a hospital job anywhere and truly escaped her past. She could have become a successful career woman, something Hettie still hoped to achieve. She had not forgotten her idea of starting a clinic, but now somehow it seemed as if that dream might have to wait. Hettie sighed and tried to shake the feeling of exhaustion that never seemed to dissipate. Maybe someday I won’t be so overworked and can actually sleep. Hettie bent over a patient with a bandaged eye and began unwrapping the gauze in preparation for cleaning the wound. “How are you this afternoon, Captain?” she said and smiled, the dark circles under her eyes fading slightly as she did. “Very well,” he said, winking his good eye. “That’s good. Let me know if this hurts.” The old bandage peeled away to reveal an inflamed upper eyelid. Hettie cleaned both eyelids with a cloth dipped in antiseptic before prying the eyelids open and examining the empty socket. “You’re looking good, Captain. Healing well.” “Do you think I’ll be back with my men soon?” Hettie took a step backward, maintaining her smile. He apparently was unaware he had lost an eye. “I’ll have a doctor come speak with you. Only he can determine that.” “The sooner the better, I should think.”

“Yes, of course.” That poor man,. He’ll be moved to a stationary hospital before the night is out. He’ll never see the front again.

Wakefield entered the ward. “Excuse me,” he said through his megaphone. “Silence, please.” The sound of his magnified voice made the hair on Hettie’s neck stand on end. The last time someone had used the megaphone, it was the day Wakefield announced Olive’s death. Hettie turned from the patient to Wakefield unsure she wanted to hear what he had to say. Wakefield waited for everyone to quiet then cleared his throat. “Everyone, I have an announcement to make.” Hettie swallowed. Oh, no, here it comes. The bad news. “This morning the Germans signed an armistice agreement. At 11 a.m. all hostilities will cease. The war is over.” What? What did Wakefield say? Over? The war is over? For a moment, there was silence as if everyone else, too, could not understand what they had just heard. Then, as if on cue, cheers and applause erupted in the ward. Hettie found herself trembling and closed her tear-filled eyes. Thank you, she prayed. Alfred and Freddie are safe. She tried to imagine Freddie hearing the news, a goofy grin on his face. He would have something smart-aleck to say as if the past four and a half years had been nothing. She also tried to imagine Alfred learning the news perhaps through an official dispatch, examining the telegram in his tent while standing near a table full of maps. When she opened her eyes, Bessie was practically prostrate on the floor while Charlotte had collapsed on a patient’s bed. Doctors were exchanging hearty handshakes. Some of the nurses were crying. Smiles were everywhere. Patients who were able to get out of beds were walking around, mingling with their comrades. Is the news true? Is it really true?

Hettie sat beside Charlotte but was unable to say anything. Charlotte buried her face in Hettie’s shoulder and began sobbing. Hettie stroked her friend’s hair through her veil. “My dear Charlotte, you should be crying tears of joy.” Charlotte lifted her head before putting it back down. “I am. So many long suppressed emotions boiling to the surface.” “Very well said.” Why don’t I know what to feel? Should I be overcome like so many of the others? “Sister, Sister,” the voice came from the patient with the lost eye. “Fix me so I can the celebration.” Hettie’s eyes grew wide. Of course, how could I have forgotten. “Charlotte, I —” Charlotte moved her head and sobbed instead into her apron. Hettie returned to her patient and began applying a clean bandage. “I’m so sorry, Captain. The news—” He laughed. “It’s quite all right. It was shocking to be sure. But it is the best news any of us have had for a very long time.” Hettie finished her work and smiled. “I would agree with that assessment.” “Am I safe to get out of bed,” he said with a look in his eye that said he wasn’t going to obey if the answer was “no.” “Most certainly if you don’t exert yourself.” She turned and began heading toward Bessie who was again on her feet and seemed to be in a mood that was the complete opposite of Charlotte’s. “Oh, one more thing, Sister,” the patient said, stopping her mid-step. “Will you dance with me?”

The captain stood a few feet behind her, his hand outstretched. She nearly laughed – he looked so ridiculous – but felt it would be rude, considering it was a celebratory dance. “One dance, Captain, and then you must be fair and dance with someone else. Some of the nurses haven’t been dancing in ages.” “Agreed,” he said as he began dancing with her. “I have to it I used to be pretty good at this before the war began.” Hettie said nothing, her thoughts on Bessie and Charlotte and how she wanted to talk to them. “Answer me this,” the Captain said, “do you have someone waiting for you. That is to say—” Without thinking, she said, “Yes, I have a sweetheart, if that’s what you are implying.” I supposed that’s what Alfred is, at least for the purposes of this conversation. “Too bad.” “Hum.” Hettie smirked to herself. “I’d bet he outranks me, doesn’t he?” “He does.” “That’s a pity. You know captains also do fairly well for themselves. A woman would want for nothing.” Hettie felt her jaw tighten. “It has nothing to do with rank. It’s complicated.” “Oh, my, he put you in the pudding club, didn’t he?” Hettie let go of the patient’s hand and stormed out of the hut, fists clenched.

By evening, the atmosphere at Canadian Casualty Clearing Station 100 was that of a boisterous party. As many of the patients as possible, including the captain, had been moved to stationary hospitals. Hettie was relieved, unable to tell anyone what he had said to her and trying to push it out of her mind. Charlotte and Bessie had overcome their emotions from that morning, and she went outside with them. In the yard, a makeshift flagpole was being hoisted. The yard also was crowded with ambulance drivers and medics from nearby dressing stations who had arrived to celebrate. As Britain’s Union Jack and Canada’s red ensign were raised to the top of the pole, the crowd began cheering. Someone had brought along liquor, and a bottle was ed around, each person taking a swig before ing it to the next one. A lone voice began singing God Save the King and soon everyone was singing, not with the usual reverence but with the tone of a song sung in the pub, and when the line “send him victorious” was sung, the volume level rose. After the song ended, men waved their hats in the air. From across the yard, Hettie spotted Freddie, dancing drunk, and smiled. When was the last time she had seen him happy? Before she had much time to dwell on it, though, the song changed to a round of O Canada. Like with God Save the King, some lines were sung with particular emphasis. “... From far and wide, O Canada, “We stand on guard for thee. “God keep our land, glorious and free. ...” Hettie lost track of Freddie in the crowd as applause rang through the group and The Maple Leaf Forever began being sung. “... Our brave brothers, side by side, “For freedom, homes and loved ones dear, “Firmly stood and nobly died ...” Charlotte’s shoulder bumped Hettie as the song ended. Jarred, she glanced to her left and saw Charlotte was jumping. What in the world?

“I have the most wonderful idea,” Charlotte said, clapping her hands like an excited child. “Let’s go to Paris.” Hettie said, “How can we go there?” “The war is over. Patients will be taken to stationary hospitals. We won’t be needed anymore.” Bessie’s eyes were shining. “I want to go to Paris. It’ll be my only opportunity.” Charlotte and Bessie turned to Hettie as if it were up to her to make the decision. Hettie swallowed and again noticed Freddie. But I want to spent time with my brother and see Alfred soon. I don’t have time for these flights of fancy. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t we find out if we’re allowed to go first before making plans,” she said. “Let’s enjoy the party today.” Charlotte pursed her lips. “I would have thought you would love to go.” Hettie bit her lip and felt she might cry. “I’d like to see Alfred. He and I ... He means a lot to me.” “We know that. Maybe he could meet us there. Would you go then?” Hettie glanced at the ground before making eye with Charlotte. She opened her mouth to speak, but before uttering a word Wakefield made an appearance. He stood on a crate and cleared his throat. “As I’m the highest ranking officer around, I thought it was best to give some sort of speech to commemorate today’s momentous events. I’m only used to giving speeches at medical conferences, though, so please bear with me. “Never in the history of the world has there been such a bloody and horrific struggle. Mighty empires were locked in a stalemate.” As he spoke a truck approached. Wakefield wiped his forehead and chuckled, stepping off the crate. “Oh, look, Colonel Taylor is here. I’m sure he’s much

more adept at making speeches than I am.” Hettie’s face flushed over the fact Alfred had been at the clearing station so many times Wakefield recognized him, even from a distance. Alfred was barely out of the vehicle when Wakefield ambushed him to give a speech. He strode confidently to the crate and addressed the crowd. “In a train car in this morning, the Bosch signed the armistice agreement because they realized all was lost. They were beaten, and they trembled at the force of our might. In the course of the past four years, we have sacrificed and lost many friends and family , but they did not die in vain. They died so we could reach our objectives, and today we reached our ultimate objective, the war’s end. We fought bravely at Ypres and Mount Sorrel, at Vimy and chendaele, at Arras and Canal du Nord and countless other locations.” Cheers rose out of the crowd cheered at the mention of each battle. One of the men said, “And we won them all!” “That’s right,” Alfred said. “We achieved every objective set before us. Even the venerable British army can’t claim that.” This sent the crowd into a near frenzy, and Alfred gestured for them to quiet before he pointed toward the nurses. “And we must thank our sisters of mercy for they tended to us and ed us. They never stopped believing in us.” The men in the crowd cheered while the nursing sisters had a variety of reactions. Some turned their heads in embarrassment while others exchanged looks and smiled. “We are the proud men and women of the Canadian Corps.” Alfred stepped down from the crate as the crowd cheered once more. Hettie swallowed hard as she thought she might tear up yet again. It was a day of great joy and pride, and Alfred had reminded them of that. On a day like today, even Father could feel pride over the nation’s accomplishments. As Hettie watched, Alfred pushed his way through the crowd. “There you are, my angel of mercy. You saved me from myself.”

He pulled her close and kissed her ionately, despite the fact there were dozens of onlookers. “Hettie? Hettie? What’s going on here?” The lovers ended their embrace. A man with a furrowed brow was looking fixedly at them. Alfred took a step backward. “Happy 25th birthday, Freddie,” Hettie said, throwing her arms around her brother’s neck. “What a wonderful gift you were given today. May I introduce you to my,” Hettie paused not knowing what term to use, “to my suitor, Colonel Alfred Taylor.” She put her hand on Alfred’s arm. “Alfred, this is my brother, Sergeant Frederick Steward. Other than you and my father, no man alive loves me more.” The men shook hands. Hettie smirked. This is going better than I thought. Two of my favorite people getting along. And now I’ll get to spend precious time with both of them. Charlotte tugged on Hettie’s sleeve and said in her ear. “Ask him about Paris.” Hettie’s smirk faded. “Now does not seem like the best time.” “Why not? I think it’d be better to ask in person. You’ll receive an instant response, and he’ll see in your eyes how much you want to spend this time with him.” “But I can spend time with him here, too. And Freddie. I just want to enjoy the day and focus on the celebration.” Freddie said, “What are you two yammering about?” “Nothing,” Hettie said. “Oh, it’s not nothing,” Bessie said, “Charlotte wants to go to Paris and she wants Hettie and I to go, too.” “Paris?” Alfred stepped in front of Hettie.

“Oh, it’ll be perfectly safe, Colonel Taylor,” Charlotte said. “I’m going to ask my beau and his friend to meet us there. You are welcome to us there as well. And, of course, this all hinges on our superiors giving us permission.” Alfred said nothing for several moments. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. You ladies deserve a bit of fun after all you’ve been through.” Hettie sighed, and Freddie began laughing. Charlotte looked pleased with herself. “See now, Hettie, it’s all settled. We’ll ask Matron tomorrow and get all the details settled.” “Yes, okay.” Hettie nodded. “Great. You won’t regret it, Hettie. It’ll be one last grand memory before we all go our separate ways.” “Why would we be going our separate ways?” Freddie put his arm around Hettie. “Because we’ll be going home, silly. Have a good time today, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” Freddie walked away laughing, and Hettie wished they were still listening to Alfred’s speech and that this entire conversation hadn’t happened.

The party continued all throughout the evening and by nightfall bonfires had been built. The faces in the crowd changed slightly as some went inside for warmth and others, after the final patients had been evacuated and their duty was completed, came outside. On the edge of the camp, Hettie and Freddie stood alone, enjoying the first private conversation they had had in some time. “The police service has saved my position for me. I received a letter the other day,” Freddie said. “I have a number of bad habits I need to end before returning home and resuming my old job. And before facing certain people.” Freddie began listing his transgressions, counting them on his fingers as he went: “There’s the gambling. I’ve already sent $500 to James to put in the bank. The swearing. I need to make amends with Father. Social drinking and the occasional cigarette. Oh, yeah, and sca, Fife and the other one. Can’t forget them.” “Geez, Freddie, anything else?” Hettie said. Freddie put his arm around Hettie’s shoulder. “Yes, my dear, sweet sister, my favorite sibling. I need to treat you better. I haven’t always done that in our time here, and I’m sorry.” Freddie surveyed the distance. “You must break your bad habits as well.” Hettie followed Freddie’s gaze and spotted Alfred in the crowd. “It’s not possible at the moment.” “Why?” Before Hettie could answer, Freddie kissed her on the cheek. “Never mind. You can tell me another time. Today we celebrate life, peace. And my existence on this earth.” They broke out into laughter and began walking in the direction of the nearest bonfire. “You know, Freddie, I don’t really want to go to Paris. Geoffrey and I were supposed to go.”

“All the more reason why you should go. You have to visit there because he can’t.” “But I want to visit with you, too.” “I’m sure I’ll be busy. The medical corps still owns us until which time it sees fit to dismiss us. I can’t come over for tea and finger sandwiches.” “That wasn’t quite what I had in mind. If you don’t have the luxury of free time, why do you think I should go to Paris?” “Because it may not be an opportunity that comes again. And because you must do it for Geoffrey.” “For Geoffrey?” “Yes,” Freddie said, “you must do this for him because he cannot. You must live your life to the fullest because he has none left to live.”

Chapter 29

“L ook how tall it is ,” Bessie said as they ran up the Champs de Mars toward the base of the tallest building on earth. “We’re not going to the top, are we?” “Doubtful,” Charlotte said. “That’s something the men can do. I think I’d be afraid of heights.” “Who did Dr. Fitzpatrick bring for me?” Bessie said. “I don’t know. Someone nice.” Bessie’s cheeks turned red, and Hettie wondered for the countless time if Bessie still had a crush on Freddie. She felt sorry for Bessie if that were the case. Freddie obviously had his mind elsewhere during the entire course of the war and now he was dedicating himself to the elimination of his ridiculously long list of bad habits. Under the Eiffel Tower, they met Dr. Fitzpatrick and his friend. Charlotte and Fitzpatrick kissed one another gently on the cheek and, without exchanging any pleasantries, began discussing museums and leafing through the latest issue of Baedeker’s travel guide. The friend cleared his throat, and Fitzpatrick and Charlotte stopped talking only long enough to make introductions. The friend, Maxwell, politely shook Bessie’s hand. “How do you do?” he said, his accent betraying the fact he was British born. Maxwell was an orderly, meaning he technically was subordinate to Bessie ̶ at least in the medical corps. It was unclear how either one felt about it. Bessie merely smiled. Hettie felt sick. These were not the people she wanted to see. No, there was someone else she longed to see, but where was he? She bit her lip and tried not to sob but disappointment was starting to get the better of her. What’s happened? Where is he? Finally, Hettie heard the voice she was so eager to hear. “Imagine meeting you here.”

“How could I not?” she said. When Hettie turned, Alfred was standing behind her grinning. How could I have thought he wasn’t coming? He grabbed her by the waist and spun her around. “Glad to see you, Darling.” Hettie gave Alfred a tight hug while the others, barely noticing his presence, continued to chat about museums and tourist sites. “We only have a limited amount of time,” Charlotte was saying. “I want to see the Louvre.” “The what,” Bessie asked, looking perplexed. “What do you think, Hettie?” Charlotte said, ignoring Bessie. Alfred answered for her. “We plan on going to a café. There’s something the two of us need to discuss. We’ll meet you again at the edge of the park in two hours.” Charlotte’s expression changed, but she did nothing to stop them. As they walked away, Hettie could have breathed a sigh of relief. No Baedeker’s or watching Bessie and Maxwell’s awkwardly stiff exchanges. “Since when are we going to a café?” she said. “I wanted to spend some time alone, and here no one cares if we have a chaperone.” The couple strolled down the street and settled on a small café situated on a main street. Hettie entered and drank in the atmosphere. The air was sweet with the scent of pastry, and the décor was a contrast of colors. The walls and floor were dark wood, but the tables and chairs, were bright white. They picked a table near the large window so they could overlook traffic and pedestrians. After they ordered coffee and croissants, Alfred said, “What are you most looking forward to when it comes to civilian life?” “I’m looking forward to an indoor bathroom again and taking a long,

uninterrupted bath.” Alfred laughed. “That’s what you’re looking forward to?” “More or less. When I return to Barrie, it will still be home. But I will have changed, and everyone else will have stayed the same. They’re older and they’ve lived through events I’ve missed, but they’re still the same people on the inside. I’m not.” He chuckled again. “You think about things no one else does. You challenge me, and no woman has ever done that before.” He paused. “Come back to Niagara-on-the-Lake with me.” Hettie’s hand stopped midway as she reached for the cream, and her body felt tingly. “What are you saying?” “Well, that I enjoy your company and conversation with you, and I love you, and you’re a spirit that can’t be contained by convention or position or anything else.” She poured the cream into her coffee and avoided eye . “Is this a proposal?” “I suppose it is.” Hettie briefly touched her stomach and wondered if it might be a good time to share with Alfred the secret she had been keeping for the past five weeks, but when she lifted her head, she instead saw Geoffrey, not as she had seen him in her other visions but vital and happy. Years ago, when Geoffrey had convinced her to come to Europe with him, it was to have their dream honeymoon. It was supposed to be Geoffrey she met under the Eiffel Tower. It was supposed to be him that she shared a cup of coffee with at a French café, and it was supposed to be with him that she shared a secret. “What do you say?” Alfred said when Hettie fell silent. “Will you do me the honor?” She blinked, and it was once again Alfred sitting across the table. “Yes, I think I will.”

“Good.” Alfred laughed before taking a sip of coffee. “You had me nervous there for a moment. The first marriage proposal I’ve made in my life, and I thought you were about to say ‘no.’ We should try to get the wedding arranged quickly. Next month the First and Second Divisions are marching to the Rhine for occupation duty. I have no idea how long I’ll be there, and we have no idea how long it’ll be until we’re demobilized. I imagine you’ll be sent home first.” Hettie leaned forward. “Why would I go home first?” “The medical corps, not you specifically. I suppose you might be sent to England for a while before setting sail.” “You’re going to ,” she said, hand shaking “With me?” He took her hand, steading it. “I imagine some of the medical corps will follow, but I don’t know which ones. Don’t worry. If we’re separated, it won’t be for long. But that’s why we must have a quick wedding. It is almost December.” “A quick wedding. Yes, we absolutely need a quick wedding.” She sat back, trying her best to control her emotions. “I don’t want you to go away.” Alfred sighed. “Now, cheer up. I refuse to let this put a damper on the day. Hurry up and finish your coffee. This hand of yours looks bare. I think we need to find a ring to fit it. One that will make your friends jealous and will say to the world that you’ve found a man who loves you.” But I already had a man who loved me, and fate took him away from me. Hettie forced herself to smile. “I know we got off on the wrong foot when we first met, but you really are good to me.” Alfred laughed. “Well, glad to hear I’ve made some improvements.” Hettie imagined she was supposed to laugh as well but, unable to force herself to do so, picked up her mug and began drinking. Well, Hettie, this is your lot in life now. It could be worse, much worse. Alfred shouldn’t be punished because you were married once before. “You look sad,” he said.

“Sad? No, not at all. Overwhelmed perhaps. It’s a lot to take on all at once,” Hettie said, removing the mug from her lips only long enough to respond. She had left North America as a wife, and she would return to Canada as one. Like before, she would abandon her work to be taken care of by a man. She would abandon her dream of opening a post-war clinic and instead would run a household, swapping blood and bullets for beets and knitting needles. And, like before, would she yearn to be anything but a housekeeper? Would she regret her choice? But there was no choice. Hettie again touched her stomach. There were consequences to their actions after all.

1919

“No, no, not that, it’s bad to think of war, When thoughts you’ve gagged all day come back to scare you.” — From Repression of War Experience by Siegfried Sassoon

Chapter 30

Hettie was back in Barrie for the first time since August 1914. Every morning, she threw back the curtains in her parents’ guest bedroom and felt the sun on her face as if it were the first time. The warmth was encouraging, invigorating, and reminded her that the sun rose and sank everywhere in the world. With her face in the sun, she inhaled and the combinations of flowers and tree pollen mixing with a combination of vehicle exhaust and horse manure was calming and familiar. It was home, yet it was not the same home she had left. There were subtle changes, ones that no one else cared about or even noticed. In town, not long after Hettie left, the 35th Battalion Simcoe Forester moved from the military drill hall on Mulcaster to a new location. The following year, a public library opened. The year after that, Fair View Brewery was destroyed by fire, the Barrie Carriage Company began manufacturing the Barrie Bell automobile, and Camp Borden opened nearby. Things were different in the family as well. When everyone had gathered for a welcome home open house, she hadn’t recognized her nieces Agnes, Beatrice and Cordelia, and her nephews Oliver, Charles and William were absolute strangers. Grandmother, now 80, was also nearly unrecognizable, her wrinkles deeper with the ing years. Uncle Steven and Aunt Bertha’s house was decorated differently. The beloved foyer rug they had purchase while on their honeymoon in Berlin was gone, replaced with a domestic imitation. Many in the family thought her cousin, Alan, had purposely destroyed it by ink spilled during a fit of disobedience. Most importantly Maeve was in the graveyard, and Geoffrey, still under a Belgian field, was commemorated with a memorial stone. Hettie visited the cemetery often and spoke to them both. No one else understood the age of time while one’s own perceptions stood still. On the afternoon of her homecoming, even the sight of her relatives, always the closet people in her life, felt surreal as if they were phantoms from a fever dream or perhaps one of her exhausted brain’s visions. That particular day, Hettie was in her parents’ sitting room, having tea with

Mother, Ida, Mabel and Dorothea. Adelaide was away at school, and Alice was home ill. Alfred had been ushered away by Father, James, Gardner and Walter, probably to endure the same sort of interrogation she was experiencing. “I don’t understand why you had to wait in Halifax for three months instead of here while you were waiting for Mr. Taylor’s demobilization,” Mother said. “Especially in your condition.” “I’m not an invalid even in my condition. I was helping Miss Barrow get her life back in order,” Hettie said, her eyes hard. “And his name is Alfred.” “It doesn’t mean anything to me. Before you came home, I hadn’t so much as set eyes on him. I cannot be on such familiar with someone I do not know.” “Well, we were thousands of miles away, Mother. I’m sorry you couldn’t attend the wedding.” “I’m not cross with you, Henrietta. I simply do not think it’s appropriate to be on a first name basis yet.” Hettie said nothing in response, and Mother continued, “Before you leave for Niagara-on-the-Lake you must go see Mrs. Bartlette.” Dorothea set her teacup down and said in a tone reminiscent of Alice, “She wants to meet the man you replaced Geoffrey with.” Mother shot her an angry glance. “Dorothea!” “Well, that’s what Mrs. Bartlette believes, and I think Hettie deserves to know.” Feeling sick, Hettie placed her hand on her growing abdomen and felt the life inside her stir. Mother and Father were expecting their seventh, eighth and ninth grandchildren, excluding Tommy’s child, but only Hettie’s pregnancy was visible. Mabel and Alice were still enviably thin. A visit to Mrs. Bartlette’s seemed like the worst possible thing to do at the moment. Wouldn’t it make the situation worse? “Is that really why she wants to see me?” Hettie said.

“I wouldn’t say that exactly.” Mother glanced at the others. “Mrs. Bartlette is hurting. It seems she is forever mourning someone and—” “And she expected me to stay forever in mourning, too?” “Please, do not interrupt. No, she did not expect you to mourn forever, but she did expect you to wait until you came home to remarry.” Hettie’s hand began shaking, clanging her teacup against the saucer. “No one approves. I understand.” She set the china on the table and stood. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m going to Niagara-on-the-Lake; although, from what I hear, no one approves of my marriage there either.” Hettie swayed, having stood so quickly she felt faint. Mabel and Ida gasped, both jumping from their own seats to grab Hettie by the elbows and get her safely seated again. Ida tossed back her bobbed hair and looked daggers at Mother. “We’ve had enough of this topic, don’t you think?” “I think so, too,” Mabel said. “Something more pleasant, perhaps, something worthy of a homecoming.” Before Mother and Dorothea could respond, the housekeeper entered, carrying a fresh pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. She set the tray down, wiped her hands on her apron and retreated quickly. Hettie followed her with her eyes, not recognizing her. “Mrs. Norris retired and went to live with her nephew’s family,” Mother said as if reading Hettie’s thoughts. “When?” “Oh, a while ago. Three years maybe.” Mrs. Norris is the only housekeeper we have ever employed, and she retires and no one bothers to mention this to me? Was it that mundane and unimportant? Mabel smiled and ed Hettie the sandwiches. “Tommy is moving to Toronto, have you heard?”

Hettie shook her head. “No, he’s barely speaking to me.” “Oh.” Mabel’s cheeks flushed, and Hettie knew she ed Tommy was angry Hettie had survived the flu but Maeve had not. “Well, tell her why,” Mother said. “He’s going to university to study architecture. He’s gotten a job there as well. He says there is more opportunity there. And Freddie—” Hettie felt the old familiar, wartime feeling of dread overcome her. “What about Freddie?” “Please, do not interrupt, Henrietta. He’s made a career decision as well. He’d like to be a detective.” “He hasn’t mentioned anything to me.” “You have enough to worry about, dear. Besides I don’t think he quite knew how to get ahold of you while you were in Halifax. At least you’ll have a permanent mailing address again.” After their wedding, Alfred had marched to with the First and Second Divisions for occupation duty just as he had anticipated. It was a nervous time, with everyone wondering if hostilities would resume, but peace prevailed and in January the divisions returned to Belgium to wait. Hettie, being pregnant, was demobilize in February and selected Bessie as her chaperone for the trip home. Alfred had been demobilized in May, but Freddie and Charlotte and many others were still overseas. Mabel smiled again. “Freddie’s also taking classes at Khaki University. Subjects he says will help him later on.” Khaki University was a school set up in 1917 to help troops fight boredom by allowing them to take elementary through university classes. Since Freddie already had a high school diploma, he qualified to take the highest-level courses. “Good for him. Father must be proud.” Hettie shut her eyes, trying to imagine Freddie studying. “You know,” Mother said in a quiet tone, “Father is proud of you both. And

while he doesn’t think the ends justified the means, he’s proud of this country and what can be accomplished when we all work together. This nation is like our family. We don’t always agree, but we’re proud to be part of it.” Hettie opened her eyes. “Is that true?” “Of course. I wouldn’t tell you something simply to make you feel better. He’s a proud man. He probably won’t be able to bring himself to tell you on his own.” Hettie hung her head. “I don’t want to argue with you Mother.” “We have always argued, child. You know this household encourages debate.” Mother placed her hand on Hettie’s. “You’re home now, and you’re safe. That’s what’s important. We are very dissimilar people and probably always will be. I don’t expect our arguing to stop simply because we’ve had this conversation.” “I understand, Mother. When should I call on Mrs. Bartlette?” “Whenever you feel you can persuade that new husband of yours to visit your late husband’s mother.” Hettie wrinkled her brow. I know I need to see Mama, but I really am dreading it. I wish Mother could come along and act as mediator.

A FEW DAYS LATER, HETTIE found herself in the strange altar to the past that was Mrs. Bartlette’s sitting room. The faces of the deceased were everywhere, proudly displayed in wooden and tin frames. Above the mantle was a photograph of the family prior to Gordon Bartlette’s death. He was the only family member to be seated, looking very austere. Hettie ed what Geoffrey had said about his father, and although she had seen this photo dozens of times, now Gordon’s austerity took on a new meaning. It was as if he were ready to step out of the image and continue menacing this family. Mrs. Bartlette, very much the subservient wife, had her hand on his shoulder. She would never question Gordon, not then, not now, not ever. Their children surrounded them. Gilbert was probably only weeks or days away from his life-altering accident. Beside him stood Victor and Teddy. On the other side of their parents, stood Maeve and Geoffrey. Maeve was still a little girl wearing a short dress, a bow in her hair, while Geoffrey was a teenager. Hettie found herself riveted by a face she hadn’t seen in years. Aware of the fact that becoming transfixed by the photo was nearly as bad as Mrs. Bartlette displaying it, Hettie closed her eyes and moved her head, the effigy of Geoffrey burned onto the inside of her eyelids. When she opened her eyes, her head was near the mantle and its assemblage of infants death-photos. Hettie tried to examine their faces, but found most of them were either premature or appeared quite ill, and couldn’t force herself to do it. She turned to say something to Alfred, who was perched on the edge of the sofa fidgeting with his hat, when Mrs. Bartlette, dressed in black, entered the room. Mrs. Bartlette had worn black since 1906, but for some reason, this caught Hettie off guard and she gasped. The traditional mourning period for a child was 12 months, which meant Mother and Father had been dressed in black as well. Somehow this feels so different. Why? It was then that Hettie realized it was because her own dress was sky blue. Stupid, Hettie. The mourning period for a sibling is six months, but Mrs. Bartlette will think you haven’t mourned Maeve at all. You should have been mindful of your dress and worn something that obeys the rules of half-mourning. Mrs. Bartlette eyeballed Hettie. All Mrs. Bartlette wanted was grandchildren.

How would she take the sight of her former daughter-in-law pregnant by someone else’s son? Hettie swallowed hard. “Welcome, Hettie. I had been hoping you would come to visit me.” “Of course, Mama. How could I not?” Hettie rushed across the room and took Mrs. Bartlette’s hands in hers. “You’ve always been a second mother to me. Mrs. Bartlette, this is my husband Mr. Taylor.” Alfred placed his hat back on his head, stood and shook Mrs. Bartlette’s hand. “How do you do?” Mrs. Bartlette limply returned the handshake. “How do you do? Please, sit.” Hettie sat beside Alfred while Mrs. Bartlette sat in the arm chair. “Are Gilbert and Victor here?” Hettie said. “I’d love to see them.” “Gilbert will be home shortly. He still likes to go down to the bay for fresh air. Victor,” Mrs. Bartlette shook her head, “he’s in a room at the hospital.” “What’s wrong?” Hettie said, envisioning he needed surgery or suffered from some terminal illness. “Are we permitted to visit?” “It’s not at Royal Victoria. He’s in the insane asylum.” Hettie’s eyes grew wide. “He’s in the asylum? Why?” “There’s no such thing as shell shock.” Mrs. Bartlette wrung her hands. “He’s been there since he came home?” “He’s mad. I don’t know what he could have seen that would have affected him so.” Alfred said, “What he has seen are men living in barbaric conditions, slaughtering one another for weeks at a time for mere feet of ground and all in the name of king and country, or the Kaiser, or whomever. All in the name of men who start wars that other people fight and die in. Shell shock is quite real and can strike even the strongest constitution.”

Hettie’s heart was pounding. Other than “how do you do” Alfred has not spoken to Mrs. Bartlette, and this is what he decides to say? A delicate woman like that can’t take confrontation. Mrs. Bartlette stuck her nose in the air. “Indeed.” “Things were much worse than what was reported in the newspapers. Censorship—” “Geoffrey and Victor never complained to me.” Alfred raised his voice. “Then why am I here with Hettie instead of Geoffrey? I’m telling you. They were killing fields. Ask Hettie. She tended to the wounded. Ask Freddie. He helped collect the parts of men who were literally blown to pieces. They call those men basket cases because their pieces literally could be carried away in a basket. How about you ask me about the men I lost, about my dear friend who had his face blown off? Ask me about life in the trenches. Ask me about rats and fleas. Ask me about the mud, about the men who drowned in it. Ask me about the landscape, maimed beyond recognition. Your son was in the midst of all of that melee. He is not insane.” Bursting into tears, Mrs. Bartlette pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and unashamed sobbed into it. Hettie glared at Alfred. What am I supposed to do? Say something? Run over and comfort her? Apologize? Leave? Mother would know what to do. Mother would know what to do. I’ll call Mother. I’ll— Hettie began to stand when Mrs. Bartlette said in a low voice, “I was not meant to be happy. I cannot stand the fact my children were in pain.” “It wasn’t their fault,” Hettie said. “None of us were prepared for what we encountered.” “My babies were in hell.” “Mama, we all willingly went to hell. Those of us who survived, we’re scarred for life. We didn’t know what war meant, not really.” “I knew. I’m a veteran of two of these goddamn international conflicts,” Alfred

said under his breath, but Mrs. Bartlette didn’t hear him. Her chest was heaving, and she had not removed her handkerchief from her eyes. Hettie folded her hands in her lap, deciding she would remain silent until Mrs. Bartlette recovered. Of course, Mama is in perpetual deep mourning. This could go on for days. “I forgive you, Hettie,” a muffled voice said. “Pardon?” Mrs. Bartlette removed her handkerchief and said louder, “I forgive you.” “I don’t understand. Forgive me for what?” “When I learned you had remarried, I was very upset. I felt as if you had behaved irrationally and irresponsibly, that you had replaced Geoffrey with a stranger. But life is short, and I don’t want you to be miserable. I want you to be happy.” Hettie took Alfred’s hand. “Thank you.” “Geoffrey would want you to be happy. He loved you very much. As do I, and as the saying goes, if you love something, you must set it free.” “Thank you, Mama. I am eternally grateful to you for raising Geoffrey to be the man he became.” Mrs. Bartlette smiled. “You deserve all the happiness in the world. Now, let’s have tea. Gilbert will be home at any moment, and I want to hear all about Niagara-on-the-Lake.” She left to go into the kitchen. Hettie said to Alfred, “What just happened?” “I don’t know, but don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. She seems like she should be the one in the asylum.” “Alfred, she’s Mother’s best friend.”

“That doesn’t make it untrue.” Mrs. Bartlette returned with the tea and finger foods just as Gilbert came home. As Hettie embraced him, a strange feeling overcame her, the feeling that the ghosts of the past were watching, smiling down on her. They were not judging her choices, not reminiscing about the past or worrying about the future. There was a calmness in the present. When they were settled, Mrs. Bartlette said, “Have you selected a name for the baby yet.” Hettie hesitated then smiled. “Well, I have given it some thought. When Mother and Father named all of us, they selected a first name they liked and then our middle names came from our grandparents and great-grandparents. I’d like to modify that a bit. For a girl, I like the name Anne. I’m not settled on a middle name. For a son, I like the name Simon Geoffrey.” Mrs. Bartlette’s eyes twitched. “Shouldn’t you name your son after your husband’s family? After all, what will they think?” Hettie was about to answer, but Gilbert held up his hand. “I think it’s a fine name. Don’t you, Mama?” Mrs. Bartlette looked at Gilbert. “Yes, a fine name. Geoffrey would be proud.” “I want to honor him in some way,” Hettie said. “The war may be over, but we will never forget his sacrifice. We will never forget.”

Thank you for reading Angel of Mercy!

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Canada During World War I

Canada officially entered the Great War on Aug. 5, 1914, but the nation already had pledged men and resources to Great Britain. Canada had a permanent force of slightly more than 3,000 men and a militia. When the official declaration was made, recruitment posts were swamped with 600,000 men, nurses, surgeons, engineers, veterans and others who wished to . The characters in Angel of Mercy are of the 1st Division of the Canadian Expeditionary Force. The division trained in Valcartier Camp, Quebec, before leaving Canada in October 1914. The recruits received additional training in the Salisbury Plain, England, and then were moved to the front. For most men, their introduction to war was the Second Battle of Ypres in April 1915. Men with prior military experience, like Alfred, served in the Princess Patricia Regiment beginning in autumn 1914. The regiment was later dissolved, and its ed the Canadian Corps. The 2nd Division arrived in September 1915, the 3rd Division in December 1915, and the 4th Division in August 1916. A 5th Division was partially established before being broken up and its distributed to other divisions. These are the 1st Division’s battles that appear in Angel of Mercy: Nueve Chapelle (March 10-13, 1914): Canadians played a secondary role, instructed with preventing the Germans from reinforcing. Second Battle of Ypres (April 22-May 25, 1914): One thousand Canadian troops died during the battle along with nearly 5,000 wounded. The heaviest losses were sustained April 24th when 3,058 casualties were suffered. The battle is known for the use of chlorine gas. Battle of Festubert (May 15-27, 1915): The division participated alongside the British and lost 2,204 men for a few yards of ground. Battle of Mount Sorrel (June 2-14, 1916): For nearly two weeks, the Canadians fought in rain, mud and wind for a hill in the Ypres Salient. The battle eventually resulted in what the military powers considered a success, but it came at a great cost. When the attack came, the Canadian Corps only had begun to plan for the German assault they knew was coming. The first

two phases of the battle were a failure, the 3rd Division sustaining the brunt of it, one regiment suffering an 89 percent causality rate. Trench lines were destroyed by artillery and land mines. One general was killed while another was wounded and taken prisoner. On the morning of June 13th, the hill was captured, but the battle was not yet over; the Germans would counterattack twice the following day. When it was finally finished, the Corps sustained 8,430 causalities, including 1,100 fatalities and 2,000 missing in action. Battle of the Somme (July 1-Nov. 18, 1916): The bloody battle went on for two and half months without Canadian involvement with the Corps still in Ypres when the battle began July 1st. That day there were nearly 57,500 casualties, with the death toll suring 19,000, making it the bloodiest day in British history and perhaps world history. The casualty clearing stations were overwhelmed, and many men lingered on the field for days before being rescued. During the battle, there had been around 300,000 causalities. The bombardments were so powerful and numerous, they could be heard across the English Channel. The Battle of the Somme was a victory for the Allies in name only. They had won no more than a few miles of land at a cost of approximately 660,000 men killed, injured or missing, more than 24,000 of whom were Canadian. By year’s end, causalities on the Western Front numbered more than 1.6 million on both sides. Battle of Vimy Ridge (April 9-12, 1917): The battle began Easter Monday and ended when Hill 145 was captured. The Canadians became the first Allies to stand on the heights since 1914. For their efforts, they sustained 10,602 casualties, 3,598 of them fatal. The Canadian War Record Office stated the troops had again acquired merit, but they had achieved much more than that. They had worked together to achieve a common goal, an unprecedented victory and national pride. Battle of chendaele (July 31-Nov. 10, 1917): The 100,000 men of the corps had arrived in Ypres in mid-October, relieving the Australians and New Zealanders. The 1st Division occupied nearly the same territory it had in April 1915. The weather and previous phases of the engagement had conspired against them, making the terrain rough and nearly imable. The battle would rage until the corps’ attack on Hill 52 brought it to a close. Canadian casualties would total 15,654.

Battle of Amiens (Aug 8-12, 1918): The corps advanced eight miles, the most successful one-day advance of the war. It had, however, cost the corps 11,800 casualties. Second Battle of Arras (Aug. 9-May 16, 1918): The battle would mark the first time the Canadian Corp fought alongside of the American Expeditionary Force, some of whom were attached to the British Third Army during the battle. The objective was to break the Drocourt-Quéant Line and eventually German defenses at the Hindenburg Line. If the Hindenburg Line could be broken, it would send the Germans into retreat and the end of the war would be in sight. By the time the battle was over, the corps would suffer more than 11,000 causalities and capture 6,000 German prisoners. The D-Q line would be broken Sept. 2nd. Canal du Nord (Sept. 27-Oct. 1, 1918) and the Second Battle of Cambrai (Oct. 8-10, 1918): The British broke the Hindenburg Line, the last line of German fortifications, on Sept. 29th, quickly followed by Australians, French and American troops. The Canadians, after breaking the D-Q Line, assaulted Canal du Nord. The corps was assisted by noncombat troops: the corps of engineers, the signal corps, supply units, the veterinary corps and the medical corps, who’s behind the scenes work proved invaluable and kept the infantry and artillery on task, moving forward. When the battle ended, the eastern section of the Hindenburg Line had been smashed, and the Corps met up with the British and New Zealanders to capture the village of Cambrai. Hundred Days Offensive (Aug. 8-Nov. 11, 1918): During the final 100 days of the war, the Canadian Corps sustained 46,000 casualties. On the final day of the war, the corps liberated Mons, and the deaths would continue right up until Armistice on Nov. 11, 1918, at 11 a.m. The penultimate man to die in the war, George Price, was Canadian, killed by a sniper at 10:58 am. The official toll for four years of slaughter: The War to End All Wars killed 17 million people and brought about the end of three empires. AustriaHungary ceased to exist. The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo by a Yugoslav national on June 28, 1914, set off a chain of events that led to the start of the war. The Russian Empire, which had exited the war in 1917, also ceased to exist, having both abolished its

monarchy and assassinated its royal family, and was marred in civil war. And in , Kaiser Wilhelm II, with the end of the war in sight, abdicated and fled to the Netherlands. Canada’s Casualties: The war had come at a great cost to a nation of slightly more than seven million – 60,661 Canadians killed and 170,000 wounded. Khaki University: Originally called Khaki College, it was designed to keep soldiers occupied during their down time, steer them away from vice, and prepare them for post-war life. Initially, courses were taught by chaplains, but soon classes were instructed by professors, officers and men who held teaching degrees. In September 1918, the program was recognized as a formal educational institution by the Canadian government and became a university. Students could fill any gap in their skill set, from learning to how read to university-level courses. Credits earned could be applied to any educational institution back home. By Armistice, 20,000 men were taking classes. By the time all the soldiers returned home, 50,000 had attended classes, 1,000 at university level. Postwar study was divided into two semesters: October 1918-January 1919 and February-May 1919. The soldiers all had been demobilized by June 1919, and Khaki University closed.

On the Homefront: THE HALIFAX EXPLOSION (Dec. 6, 1917): The blast occurred just south of Pier 6 in the Richmond District. The shockwave was near the speed of sound, and the boom was heard throughout the Maritimes and off the coast of New England. Windows shattered up to 62 miles away. Victims’ internal organs exploded. Others were picked up and thrown against objects or sent flying through the air. Some were beheaded by flying glass. Others were blinded. A fireball and a tsunami added to the death toll and destruction. Mont-Blanc was partially vaporized by the fire’s heat. Its anchor ended up 2.5 miles away. All total, 1,611 people had been killed outright. An additional, 9,000 were injured, several fatally, 300 were blinded, 6,000 were left homeless, and 25,000 had their homes damaged. Seventeen thousand buildings were completely or partially destroyed. One and a half square miles of the city were destroyed, flattened by the shockwave and the ensuing tsunami. The city of Dartmouth, across the harbor, also sustained serious damage. The next day a blizzard hit the city, paralyzing it, but shipping convoys in and out of the harbor resumed the following week. The military as well as of the U.S. and British navies helped with rescue efforts. Supplies, firefighters and medical personnel were sent from all over Central and Eastern Canada as well as the United States. The first supply trains, however, were delayed by the blizzard. In the 21st century, the official death toll was revised up to 1,950. Halifax, being a port city and a city important to the war effort, had a number of transient residents, so the true death toll never may be known. The event cost an estimated $30 million to $35 million in damage. Relief efforts were funded by the Canadian and British governments, corporations and generous citizens, and istered by the Halifax Relief Commission. The

Massachusetts-Halifax Relief Committee also provided humanitarian assistance in the weeks and months that followed. No one was prosecuted for the explosion. It was the largest manmade explosion in history at the time.

Returning home: REPATRIATION: Getting soldiers and of the medical corps out of Europe was a logistical nightmare. The Canadian government and the military disagreed on the best method of repatriation. In the end, Corps commander Sir Arthur Currie got his way and repatriation occurred one unit at a time. Troops, however, grew restless waiting to go home. Halifax and Saint John were the only ports that could handle a high volume of troops. Canada Pacific had requisitioned its ships back for civilian use, and the railroads would only commit to 25,000 spaces monthly. In addition, the bureaucratic red tape was unbelievable, requiring solders to fill out 30 forms, totaling 360 questions. There were 13 incidents of unrest. The worst riot occurred at Kinmel Park in Wales in March 1919. The camp held 17,400 men, well past the point of overcrowding, and discord resulted from a combination of foul weather, British strikes which led to food shortages, ships being reallocated to take home Americans, late pay, and price gouging by local merchants taking advantage of the well-paid troops. Approximately, 1,000 troops rioted, destroying property and looting. Five men were killed, 23 wounded and 51 court-marshalled. The British media sensationalized the riots, marring the Canadians’ otherwise spotless record. Nonetheless, the riot did achieve what the men wanted; it got them sent home that month. By the end of August 1919, nearly all of the 267,813 troops serving overseas and 54,000 of their dependents were sent home. The troops returned to a nation in economic distress, fraught with high unemployment. The federal government was more than $2 billion in debt, most of that amount owed to citizens who had funded the war effort by buying victory bonds. A total of 619,636 people had enlisted and 424,000 had served. In 1919, 20 percent of the government’s federal reserves went toward veterans’ pensions. Returnees saw a nation that had undergone several social changes. Businesses and citizens were paying income tax for the first time in the nation’s history. Women had entered the workforce, taking jobs soldiers had left vacant. Government programs created several social services including taking care of soldiers’ families and the disabled and providing medical care.

The old world was gone, and a new, modern one had begun.

A Sneak Peek of Those Left Behind

Available October 2020 The Dress Fitting Aftermath “Your sister is incorrigible,” Lucretia Steward said to her second daughter, Mabel, as they tramped down the sidewalk. “I don’t understand Hettie at all.” Mabel resisted the urge to sigh. “Well, Mother, it seems to me she simply enjoys what she does.” “I enjoyed teaching, but I gladly gave it up to marry your father. You should talk to her, Mabel. Put some sense into her head.” “What?” Mabel turned her neck so quickly her massive hat bobbled. “Why me?” “Don’t sound so surprised. I know you still share secrets. She’d listen to you if you told her about the merits of marriage.” The merits of marriage? This wasn’t a subject Mabel was certain she knew anything about. She swallowed. “I’m sure she knows, Mother, or she wouldn’t be getting married.” “I hope Miss Fletcher wasn’t too embarrassed,” Lucretia said, referring to the dressmaker who had witnessed the family squabble scant minutes before. “I plan on talking to your father about all of this as soon as I return home.” “I’m sure Miss Fletcher deals with families all the time. Ours can’t be the only one with a strong-willed daughter.” Lucretia waved her hand in front of her face. “You will talk to Hettie, Mabel.” “Yes, Mother.” Mabel shrugged, wishing this conversation was over. “When is your dress fitting?” “Thursday.”

Mabel dreaded the idea of owning a dress she would wear only once. Her bridesmaid dress was a beautiful, light lilac, but it was not to her taste, and she knew it would linger for eternity in her closet. The dress was bold, like Hettie, whereas Mabel was more retiring. Perhaps the fabric could be repurposed into nice curtains for the little window above the kitchen sink. “Do you want to stop at the tea shop and see if anyone is there?” Lucretia said. The teashop was one of Lucretia’s favorite places. She often ran into her sisters and sisters-in-law there, and they could gossip for hours. Unlike her mother, Mabel was unable to quickly turn off her negative emotions, and social interaction at the moment sounded as appealing as enduring quarantine. “No, Mother, not today. I don’t feel well.” “You had best not feel ill for any wedding events lest you spoil them.” It didn’t escape Mabel’s attention that Lucretia didn’t ask about her symptoms or even about how long she had been ill. She was well aware that a Steward marrying a Bartlette was a momentous occasion that could not be interfered with for any reason – the families were as close as blood, and Hettie and Geoffrey’s marriage would permanently unite them – but she couldn’t help it if she felt ill. “No, Mother,” she said, shaking her head and opting not to argue. Mother and daughter kissed each other on the cheek and parted ways with the promise that they would see one another tomorrow. Mabel exhaled slowly, allowing the breath to through her parched lips with coolness, and savored this short period of tranquility between dealing with her mother and her husband’s arrival home from work.

MABEL AND GARDNER HILL had been married for a year and in that time they rarely disagreed. Of course, they rarely agreed either. They merely coexisted, speaking only when circumstances necessitated it. Wasn’t this something that was supposed to happen to couples who had been married for decades, who found they no longer had anything in common Mabel wondered? It wasn’t expected in a couple whom many still considered newlyweds. When they were courting, Gardner was sweet. He brought her flowers, quoted love poetry and took her on long walks. Mabel enjoyed his company and looked forward to seeing him. Those days were gone. Now she dreaded hearing the front door open. Every workday, it was the same routine. Gardner came home, replaced his shoes with slippers, petted the dog and gave his wife a kiss. If it could be labeled a kiss. There was nothing remotely romantic about it. It was more like a peck one might give a close family member. Some days it wasn’t even a peck but more of a lip grazing. This lack of spousal affection was followed by the short walk to the dining room as Gardner inquired about the menu for that night’s dinner. Once in the room, he took his place at the head of the table and looked about, overly pleased with himself as if he had done something worthy of her praise. “How was your day, darling?” Mabel said, standing with her hands firmly clasping the back of one of the chairs. “I’ll tell you once dinner is served.” “Very well.” Mabel turned on her heels. Gardner did thank her when she returned from the kitchen with the dishes, but his sincerity seemed faked, and she accepted it without a smile. It was like this every evening. It didn’t matter what she cooked, if he liked it or not, if something exciting had happened that day. Food was more important than conversation. Mabel slowly cut her meat and placed a dainty, overcooked piece into her mouth. Gardner, meanwhile, unceremoniously shoveled mashed potatoes into his own orifice while relating with some pride the tale of a bridge and his role in its construction. She merely nodded before they fell back into silence.

Gardner finished his potatoes, and Mabel perceived his eyes upon her. She tried to focus on her carrots, which she had no appetite for, when she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “The thing with Hettie and your mother was this morning?” Mabel set down her fork, and it clanged against her china plate. “The thing? Do you mean the dress fitting? Yes, that was this morning. Hettie despises the dress Mother picked and wants to continue working after she gets married. Mother is livid. She wants me to talk to her, to talk sense into her. Me?!”

The Medical Care in Angel of Mercy

Angel of Mercy is set in the Canadian Army Nursing Service and the Canadian Army Medical Corps; however, some artistic license was taken. For example:

Both Hettie and Charlotte would not have qualified for service with the CANS: Hettie because she was married and Charlotte because she was trained by a doctor and did not attend a nursing college. Hettie, Bessie, Charlotte and Olive stayed together for the entire duration of the war. In reality, medical personnel were moved from post to post, serving in casualty clearing stations and stationary hospitals in various locations throughout the Western Front and the Mediterranean. The nurses would have been assigned to a permanent hospital during the first years of the war. Casualty clearing stations did not yet exist. The odds of Hettie and Freddie being stationed near one another would have been very slim.

Slightly more than 3,141 nurses served, more than 60 percent of them overseas. The nurses were given the nickname “blue birds” because of their light blue dresses and “angels of mercy” because of their healing work. They all held the rank of lieutenant although they were more commonly referred to by their prewar title “nursing sister.” The medical corps was divided into different units.

The field ambulance, which despite its name was not a motorized vehicle, was the closest unit, treating patients as they were rescued from the battlefield. The next unit was the dressing station or first-aid post. These units still were close enough to the front to be under fire and were never intended to provide lifesaving treatment, although sometimes surgery there was necessary.

Casualty clearing stations (abbreviated C.C.S. and followed by the unit’s number) were close enough to the front to hear bombardments. Occasionally, they came under enemy fire. Triage was performed on all incoming patients. Patients arrived from the dressing stations and were either treated and sent back to the front or sent to other facilities for additional treatment. These units were often located near railway lines and either were temporary cities or were set up in existing buildings. The personnel here were exposed to weather, rats, fleas and other pests. C.C.S. were staffed with surgeons, a dentist, seven to nine nurses, six ambulance drivers and a chaplain. Stationary or permanent hospitals provided long-term care. These went by the designation [unit number] Canadian General Hospital.

The six areas in a casualty clearing station were:

Reception: Where triage was performed and patients were received and ed. Resuscitation (resuss): The area where the severely injured or dying were kept. Pre-op: Where those awaiting surgery were moved. Operating rooms Evacuation: The area where patients were sent after surgery but before being released. Award: The area where patients who needed to be watched for 24 hours before being evacuated were kept.

Other Medical Information World War I marked the first conflict in history where the death toll from battle was higher than that from disease. This has been attributed to mass vaccination,

particularly against typhoid, and to the development of antiseptics. Antiseptics made surgery safer by reducing infection and made it possible to keep wounds clean. “Blighty” was a slang term for a wound that wasn’t serious enough to cause death but was serious enough that it earned a soldier a trip home. Compound fractures had a death rate of up to 80 percent. However, the ice bath given to Private Wifred in Chapter 9 likely killed him. While once a common practice for high fevers, submerging the body in ice water actually causes the core temperature to rise by forcing the body to shiver. The ice will temporarily lower temperature, but the fever that follows the ice bath will be higher. Aspirin is capitalized because it was not yet a generic drug. The patent was held by Bayer. Throughout the course of the war, 10,000 Canadians were diagnosed with shell shock. Treatment was in its infancy and ranged from psychotherapy to electrocution of the nerves and limbs. Sixty-six percent of those diagnosed were returned to active service. Those who did return home usually received little or no treatment. “Pudding club” was a Victorian euphemism for pregnancy. Margaret Sanger coined the term “birth control” in the mid-1910s. It replaced many euphemisms for contraception. Access to birth control devices and education was limited in the early 20th century thanks to 19th century obscenity laws. Sanger did not let this stop her, and she was arrested on more than one occasion. Sanger believed that smaller families equaled healthier families and that every woman had the right to plan when and how often she had children. Sanger was inspired by her own work as a nurse tending to women who had had multiple births and miscarriages and those who had attempted self-abortions (with the aid of poison, falls, hangers and other objects) or endured abortions performed by unqualified people. Her mother whose 18 pregnancies, including seven miscarriages, contributed to ill health and a shortened lifespan also inspired her. The flu pandemic of 1918 was one of the worst disasters in human history, affecting 500 million people and killing 50 million, most between the ages of 20 and 40. Mortality was highest among pregnant women, up to 80 percent of

whom died. Older adults seemed to be immune to the pandemic, perhaps due to exposure to the virus during the 1890 Russian flu pandemic. Those who had fallen ill during the first wave of the virus also were immune and spared to watch the horror that would befall the rest of the population. Around 50,000 Canadians, both soldier and civilian, would die of Spanish flu by 1918’s end. The Corps’ Casualties: The medical corps saw 21,453 men and women serve selflessly as nurses, physicians, dentists, orderlies, stretcher bearers and ambulance drivers and suffered 1,325 casualties. Fifty-three nurses lost their lives including 14 on the hospital ship Llandovery Castle. The rest would die from enemy attack or disease.

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Did you love Angel of Mercy? Then you should read Those Left Behind by Melina Druga!

Change isn't always for the best. Just ask the Stewards.1914. The Steward family is eagerly preparing for the event that will forever bind them to the Bartlettes: the wedding of Hettie and Geoffrey. Little do the families know that the winds of war brewing in Europe soon will rip them apart.Hettie and her brother, Freddie, the Canadian Army Medical Corps. This decision is met with resistance and disapproval, causing a rift in the siblings' relationship with their parents.Meanwhile, a decades-long friendship is tested, two other daughters' marriages are in tatters, and the scourge of influenza sweeps through the civilian population.Will the Stewards bend under pressure or become stronger and more resilient?Those Left Behind is the second in a trilogy following Hettie and her family as they navigate the challenges and heartbreak World War 1 brings. Each novel is a standalone story. Those Left Behind is the home front story. It is a collection of slice-of-life pieces that collectively tell the story of what happened in Canada while the events in Angel of Mercy were occurring. They are based on Hettie's letters.Also available: Angel of Mercy, the warfront story. Adjustment Year, the homecoming story. Read more at Melina Druga’s site.

Also by Melina Druga

A Tale of Two Nations 1914 1915 1916 1917 (Coming Soon) 1918 (Coming Soon) A Tale of Two Nations: Canada, U.S. and WWI (Coming Soon)

Enterprising Women Enterprising Women: Practical Advice for First Time Entrepreneurs Enterprising Women: A Practical Guide to Starting Your First Business

WWI Trilogy Angel of Mercy (Coming Soon) Those Left Behind (Coming Soon)

Standalone Heinous: Forgotten Murders From the 1910s (Coming Soon)

Watch for more at Melina Druga’s site.

About the Author

Creating fictional people since 1989. Most kids have an active imagination. My imagination has stayed strong into adulthood, and I’ve funneled that creativity into a successful writing career. I write history, both fiction and nonfiction, because although your school history classes may have been boring, the past is not. My goal is to bring the past to life in all its myriad of colors. I write with the assistance of a furry writing buddy – AKA the family cat who often sits with me while I work. When not researching, writing or editing, I’m wife to a wonderful man who also is my copy editor and mother to a budding baker/guitarist/architect. The portion of my brain that isn’t filled with fictional people is filled with song lyrics. I listen to hard rock daily and find entertainment, inspiration and comfort in it. Namaste. I practice yoga daily for a balanced body and mind. But, no, I can’t do a headstand. Another way I express my creativity is through the camera lens. I especially enjoy nature and architecture photography. I cook most meals from scratch. I’m a healthy cooking advocate, much to my husband’s chagrin. Read more at Melina Druga’s site.

About the Publisher

Sun Up Press publishes both fiction and nonfiction titles.