Work Text:
July 20, 1916
My dear Holmes,
The package you posted three weeks ago has finally caught up with me, along with the enclosed note. I’m glad to hear that you are back in Sussex and that your bees have survived your absence. I know that you were concerned about the situation in Edinburgh, but judging from your acerbic commentary on that city’s amenities, I shall take the liberty of assuming that the matter did not seriously strain your deductive powers. Of course by now you may have written me another letter, but since it must be equally dilatory I will attempt to anticipate any questions you might theoretically have posed.
But first my thanks for the pot of honey and the bedsocks you knit yourself, and yes, they are long enough, if a bit too bulky to fit in my boots. Sister Trimble has promised to sew leather soles to them so they will last longer. I have been called from my bed once or twice a night for so long now I am in the habit of getting up to answer the call of nature and check on the status of the patients whether we have patients or not. And when I have no patients, like tonight, I sit up and read, or write a bit, like the French peasantry, who still keep the ancient practice of dorveiller between “ le premier sommei l,” and “ le deuxième sommeil .”
I shan’t bother to tell you where I am; the censor with his little scissors would snip away the line in any case. Suffice it to say that my unit has been given a few days rest at a commandeered chateau and we are glad of it. Today was one of the better days that I have had in many weeks. Breakfast as usual featured plum jam, but also eggs and sausage. And after breakfast, my officers and I were persuaded to join in on a game of football out upon the lower lawn, which has been transformed into a football pitch.
It has been raining every night so the pitch was both slippery and muddy. My own men are, of course, all too used to mud. Our opponents however are mostly from the logistics section and have spent most of the War at the rear. They quite outweighed us, man for man, but lacked our sincere desire to win the keg of good English beer that was standing in lieu of a trophy.
I’m not exactly the fastest man for any sport these days, so I took the job of being the goalie. You would think that that was the easy job as I did, and we both would be wrong. Come to think of it, it is a bit like the ambulance train service: quiet when all of the action is some distance away and quite frantic, when the conflict is nearby. I spent most of the game hoping that I would not be hit in the head — and that seems familiar too. Perhaps we should do what the Americans do and wear helmets. I forestalled two attempts at goal and let by two, but the goalie opposite of the opposing team let by three. Afterwards I doused myself with arnica without and beer within and then took to my bed to read and doze until Clarence came by with the evening mail and your package.
Have I told you about Clarence? He’s standing in for Johnson as my batman while Johnson is recuperating on furlough. A willing lad, but as thick as a London brick. I caught myself saying “You see, but you do not observe” to him the other day when he failed to notice that my boots not only needed polishing but new laces as well. And then I was hard put not to laugh when I said it, as my imagination provided me with the cock of your head and the twitch of your mouth as you enjoyed hearing me attempt to pass along one of your favorite dictums.
The wind has changed. I can hear the bitter thunder of the artillery now, even here, so close to the coast. Half the officers who share this long gallery with me as sleeping quarters roused to go and check out the windows and share soft colloquies but they have gone back to bed, snoring in counterpoint to the distant guns. But I still cannot sleep. I know I was optimistic in my last letter about my change in assignment, but the truth is that there is no place in this or any other war which is immune to terrors and drudgery.
Do you remember last year when I was transferred from working at the Field Dressing Station to the Casualty Clearing Station at L_____, that I wondered if I would be trading the frying pan for the fire? I was far less likely to be bombed, but instead of a handful of men at a time the CCS could hold nearly 200, and whilst the facilities were far better than you might expect, surgeries in a leak-prone tent are never going to be ideal. I had similar apprehensions last month when I was promoted into the Ambulance Train service. Fewer surgeries -- you cannot be accurate on a rocking train when a slip of the scalpel might mean someone’s death -- but the newest trains, like ours, can hold 500 patients, as well as the fifty of us who staff the cars. A command, yes, but not a sinecure.
It is late, but I am not ready to put aside my pen. My journal is missing from my kit bag, and I can only hope that Clarence has left it in the drawer of my desk. But I have paper here, and candlelight, and you, my old friend, have always been the most insightful of my readers. And some of it might interest you. So let me think back to the end of June, when the Allied barrage on the German lines was at its height, and I had finally been able to confirm the time and day of the arrival of Ambulance Train #___ and our new assignment to the twenty orderlies who I had selected to accompany me.
It was still high summer, not that you could tell anywhere near the front. None of the trees had leaves given the barrage. But the breeze on the morning of June 29th was sweet and from the west as we lined up with our kits at the train station. Sister Trimble I had sent ahead three days earlier to select two more nurses to join her, and they were there waving to us as our train pulled in, fresh from Derby railway works. The new levy disembarked smartly, their uniforms crisp and their faces determined. I could feel some of the weight coming off of the shoulders of the men and myself, knowing that we would not be leaving the clearing station shorthanded.
I was caught up in the formalities - e.g. introducing myself to the train crew, and the volunteer orderlies who would fill out my numbers, and bidding farewell to Colonel Earnshaw - as the newly arrived troops unloaded their supplies and my own orderlies ushered aboard the dozen patients whose injuries and illnesses required further care in hospitals miles away. It wasn’t until the train went into motion that I finally had time to explore. I had, of course, seen the ward cars of older trains during my time at L____, but those were older carriages adapted from standing stock, whereas here each carriage was built for its purpose. The cots are in tiers of three, but the builders have made it possible to fold up the central cot to allow more space between the upper and lower cots for the wounded whenever possible, or create additional seating for men who do not need to be prone. There are low gates along the perimeter so that a man with a mop and bucket can sluice down the entire car when they are opened to allow the water to fall out the sides of the train. (I thought perhaps the gates would allow for better ventilation, but they are too low, and collect smuts and dust if left open while we are in motion.) There are wards for lying down patients and sitting up patients, infectious patients, nine carriages in all. As well as the ward cars, the train has two kitchens, one in the middle and one near the end, two brake vans which accommodate the train crew, one at the very end with stores, and another near the engine which has the two isolation cubicles for the men who are sufficiently stricken by shell shock to require rest away from the general clamor. Two carriages, one for the officers and nurses, and one for the other personnel provide the staff with bunks and dining spaces. The pharmacy car includes a treatment area as well as the dispensary and office. Like a ship, everything has to have a place and yet somehow it has all been contrived so that a stretcher team can walk the entire length of the train at need. What an enormous improvement over the leaky tents in which I have lived and worked since I reached L____! Most CCS are as far as ten miles from the trenches, positioned as near as possible to the railways so that the trains can serve several of them on one journey. The spur line which ends at L____ was neglected before the war began, and the only fair space to set our tents alongside it is close enough to the front lines that we’d learned to sleep through the sound of the guns. But now I admit I gloated over fresh paint and bright white enamel everywhere in sight. In every car, electric lights shone, powered by the engine, the oil lamps positioned only as a precaution. Steam heat or electric fans available throughout and plentiful supplies of water! I couldn’t think of one more thing to wish for.
We made five stops to acquire more patients as we took our virgin journey to the base hospital, but only the infectious diseases ward was close to full by the time we switched to the main lines and made the run to the coast. I took the chance to retreat to my office and record the names and conditions of the patients. That being a chore I could do (and have done) in my sleep, I found myself looking out the window. Holmes, it was like travelling from winter to spring. My furloughs, as you know, have come in January, when there are no more leaves in England than there are near No Man’s Land. .But that afternoon I stared hungrily at all the shades of green, and the calves and lambs in fields beside their mothers. I had forgotten.
But I was telling you about the train, and my staff.
The engine driver, a Frenchman naturally, called LeCoq, is truly in charge of getting us from one place to another, and has his own crew of assistants, brakemen, and stokers. Technically I am in command of him, but the truth is that I have little to do but share my orders with him, and trust his skills to get us there safely, and so he said, with much gesticulation and twitching of his generous mustaches. He came back to speak to me whilst we were sidelined to allow another train passage, and passed me a schedule that he assured me was not worth the paper it was printed upon. Five hours to A____, and another two to the hospital at R____ is what the train can do without delays, but it can take much longer when troop trains or supply trains have priority.
Sister Trimble, our Matron, had recruited two VAD nurses, Sister Ogden and Sister Moriarty (no relation I’m sure) both of whom have been working on ambulance trains and hospitals in England since hostilities began. I made a better acquaintance of them when we reached A____ and took time for supper. Surgeon Lieutenant Barstow, who you’ll remember from my letters, and Surgeon Captain Wheaton who came aboard at our third stop, and is another old crock like myself, complete the medical staff. Wheaton served in South Africa, is my junior by four years, and has been working at a CCS since ‘15. He theorizes that the high command has seen fit to move all the oldest medical men away from the front lines now that there are enough younger volunteers who have completed their training to cover the work at the Front, but I expect him to request a transfer to a hospital at home before the year is out.
The three cooks assigned to us are old hands at cooking on trains, Quakers all, (two Browns and a Smith) who had not waited to be told to prepare sandwiches and stew. Of the twenty five men who had arrived with the train, ten are New Army, and new to France, and the rest are Quakers or conscientious objectors -- volunteers from the Friends Ambulance Unit -- and a third of them have been on A.T.s since the service began. I have known F.A.U. volunteers to walk into No Man’s Land to retrieve the wounded with nothing but the cross on their sleeves to defend them, so I know their courage, and met my two sergeants (Jenner and Dan) and their corporals (Harrow and Fields) with the respect due any soldier. They met respect with respect, and forbore to vaunt their longer experience of the trains than mine until I made it clear that I was counting on that experience to ensure that it would not be long before the unit was working well together. To that end we drew up the roster, assigned men to the ward watches, and planned an inspection for morning so I could meet the rest of the men and they could meet me.
We reached the base hospital at R____ well past midnight, and discharged our hundred patients into their care before being garaged at the railyard with two other A.T.s. I drew lots with Wheaton for the lower bunk and got it, while Barstow clambered to the uppermost of the three and we slept till sunrise, just before six, when the clamor of the railyard and the orderlies cleaning drew us out. I went to the hospital, to fetch back my orders and to give the men time to finish their work. Corporal Harrow came along to guide me to the right office. He is small, and dark, and reminds me of Lestrade when first we knew him. He unbent a little on the way back, to ask if I liked football, as the men of the train he’d been on before had made a habit of it when there was time. I said I did, which is probably why I have bruises now.
But I am procrastinating. June 30th was unremarkable. Our orders wanted us back to the end of the line again by the next dawn, but there was no hint to warn us of what was to come. I inspected my troops, exchanged words with the captains of the other trains about replenishing our supplies of coal and water, and agreed with LeCoq that it would be best to get an early start in the evening and sleep if we could near the CCS at L_____ before making the return trip to R_____ on July the first.
You’ve read the papers, Holmes. You know what happened. But I was not expecting it.
We were still at breakfast when the British attack along the Somme began. I swear to you, Holmes, no one had thought to warn the CCS that so many troops would be going over the top. Only two men were waiting to board at seven, sent down after morning sick call with conjunctivitis, but by nine the casualties were arriving by the dozens, and then by the hundreds. Most had had no more treatment than they could give themselves or each other. I told Barstow to prioritise the head injuries amongst the walking wounded, knowing how easily those can go sour, and to warn me when the train was half full. Wheaton and I jumped down to help with triage, but it was not even half an hour before we were called back. I apologized to the men near me, but I could not forget the five other CC stations on our route. At B__________ we traded ten corpses for another hundred patients, at C______, I lost count. The news came through at D_____ that Ambulance Trains were to be given priority over all other traffic, and that A.T. #__ had already stopped at E___. LeCoq opened up the throttle, and blew the whistle, and we blasted our way through A____ to the base hospital at R____ in record time. Barstow and Wheaton and I had managed by then to attach a casualty card to each man’s shirt buttons, and distribute anti-tetanus serum and morphine until our supplies were in danger of becoming depleted. I sent Harrow for more, but he came back empty handed. Sister Trimble did better, dumping our bloodstained linens onto the loading dock while a stream of VAD nurses came out of the hospital bearing stacks of fresh sheets and blankets for our use.
The train had been christened with mud and blood, and there was scarce time to clean while the coal store for the engine was loaded, but we did our best as the train rocketed back up the line to the L____ where we’d begun. If anything, LeCoq was driving faster, and we were loading men aboard by that afternoon. Again I tried to portion out our capacity, so that we could pick up more wounded as we worked our way back along the line. By E_____ I had men sitting three to a two-man seat, sometimes propping up a friend who should have been lying down. Again we went through, writing names, providing doses where we could or rebandaging wounds, and I was thanking God for the strength and compassion of my orderlies, and the warm food the cooks prepared. You would not credit it, Holmes, but after a time some of the men had begun to rally, to trade words, and names, and even smiles at the thought they might be on the way to England to heal.
Before sunset we had unloaded again at the base hospital. This time I went inside myself with a half dozen men, and demanded the supplies both we and the clearing stations needed before the pompous supply officer on duty could whine that their needs were greater with so many men arriving uninoculated and improperly bandaged. I rapped my cane across his desk, startling him back, his eyes bulging in their sockets, and repeated my request in terms that would have me court-martialed by any officer possessed of a spine. Instead he insisted that the supplies on hand for the hospital could not be breached, but conceded that I could draw from the general storehouse near the docks two miles away. With the letter of authorization in hand, I sent a man to warn LeCoq of the delay, and then commandeered a motor-ambulance to take me and the others to the docks.
The storehouse held a dragon’s hoard of supplies. All sorts, from uniform buttons and stretchers to surgical gear and medicines. The officer in charge there let us choose what we required, and I was wondering how to fit it all into the Motor Ambulance when a grimy stoker appeared and informed me that LeCoq had brought the train down to the docks, and it was but six lines away from us past other trains being loaded directly from the ships. He was followed by Harrow, and more than half my personnel, ready to carry everything back whilst dodging stevedores and shuttle engines.
I don’t remember anything about the return trip to L____ . Wheaton took charge of stowing the supplies, and seeing to it that everyone was fed, I learned afterwards. And Barstow finished up recording the names and conditions of the patients on that second trip. I sat down and closed my eyes for a moment, and woke tucked into my bunk with my boots off. The cook who’d shaken my shoulder had a sandwich and coffee waiting on the wardroom table, and told me I had perhaps fifteen minutes before I’d be needed. I looked out the window, but the sun was gone, and rain was falling.
And we were not at L_____. Not at any of the clearing stations I’d seen before. The train was moving slowly through the periphery of a settlement -- village or city I could not tell -- and passing over points and a low bridge. On the other side of the water I could see the bulky shapes of a long cavalcade of motor ambulance cars going the same direction.
Do you remember that night in Wales, the smell of the collieries and the rain that turned the ground underfoot into treacherous clay? I could think of nothing else as I reached the door of the van and the train came to a nearly noiseless halt. The dim glow of lanterns through the mottled roofs of rows of tents reminded me of L_____, but unlike there, the river was in the way. A wooden bridge over it lit up with an acetylene flare as I watched, and illuminated a tall cloaked man and a much smaller caped figure trying to protect a clipboard from the wind-driven rain.
I felt more than saw Barstow and Sister Trimble join me as two bearers brought a tarp covered stretcher into the blinding circle of light. The tall man flipped back the tarp to reveal the patient's face, the small man made a note, the tarp was put back in place, and the stretcher bearers walked on. No sooner had they cleared the light than a second stretcher was carried onto the bridge. Then a third. And a fourth. And more. Like clockwork, if clockwork could be done by men so tired their shoulders could no longer rise.
A more experienced train commander would have thought to limit how many train doors were open at the start, but it wasn’t until the mud and rain and smell of wounded men permeated the wards that I did. Six doors I allowed, with a doctor or nurse to check the casualty tag and direct the train orderlies where to settle the wounded before passing back the stretcher to be used again.
This time there were no walking wounded. We converted every space aboard, including the floors and our own beds, to holding the lying down patients, often still on their stretchers. A narrow path was all we left, just a foot wide at the most, and often narrower. The village clock was striking three when I was forced to run out to the bridge, to tell the Evacuation officer that we couldn’t take on another soul. He blinked at me, as if I had appeared out of a dream, and finally nodded and waved at his clerk and the line of stretcher bearers to return to the shelter of the tents.
I sent a runner to tell LeCoq we were ready and climbed back aboard. By the time the train began to move, I was already walking it, trying to think of what orders to give, which needs could not wait. Instead I found myself stopping to talk to the men who watched me instead of falling into restless sleep, trying to reassure them somehow, and keep my own despair from showing.
Once again I was fleeing from a battle, responsible for wounded who needed me, but this was worse, far worse than Maiwand. There were so many of them.
In the end it was the memory of my own dreadful thirst and hunger on that perilous journey that gave me a start. More of these men had been given anti-tetanus serum, and most had been given morphine, although hours before. But they hadn’t had anything to eat or drink. We began with water, and then, whenever we had to pull aside to allow another train pass (for the priority of the morning had vanished in the face of other needs) took the opportunity to move food from the kitchens to the other carriages with less spillage. I say we, but it was my orderlies who did most of the work, of feeding, and washing, and comforting the wounded. The medical staff attended to dressings and the like, but I promise you Holmes, food and soap and water are what was needed most.
We underestimate the men of the lower classes. I know you’ve always thought so just by the way you’ve treated them, but I cannot say that they are less clever than gentlemen I have known come through private schools and universities. I know I’ve mentioned Simpson, but he is not the only one of the men who has a gentle touch with the wounded who really need to be gentled along and a sharp eye for the malingerers who are treating the injuries they received as a blessing. A severe enough “Blighty” will take them back to England and perhaps keep them there you see, so they play up their hurts. I can’t blame them. Being wounded at Maiwand probably saved me years of heartache. I’d never have met you if it hadn’t been for that jezail bullet. And all I can do is hope that at least some of the men who were on the train that night, patients and orderlies alike, will find themselves somewhere they might not have been otherwise. Somewhere good.
I’ve had the time, now, to look at the numbers. On a train designed to carry 386 patients, with 64 of them sitting up, or 590 at when the majority are sitting up, we’d managed that night to bring in 629 lying down, even though it meant sacrificing our own beds. The papers talk of the battle as a baptism of fire, but for us it was a baptism of blood and exhaustion. I’ve learned since then to keep enough beds free that a third of us can sleep at a time, but it wasn’t until five days ago that constant effort by every AT that could stay in service finally brought away the last casualty from the first day. But that night was the worst of it.
It was dawn before we reached A____ and turned toward R_____ once again. It is dawn here, as well. And I think I can sleep now.
Perhaps in my next letter I will manage to stay cheerful.
Take care,
Watson