Chapter 1
Chapter One
Kantara, Egypt
Men never seemed to tire of finding the most idiotic ways to kill themselves. Even if by accident.
Ginger Whitman stepped back from the operating table, taking a pause from the gruesome work in front of her.
The accidents, like this one, stood out amongst the deliberate bloodshed.
Given the time she’d spent at operating tables, she may as well be a surgeon.
As it was, she wasn’t even assigned as a nurse for this train.
She wiped her hands on her apron, leaving streaks of blood.
The patient on the table wasn’t dead yet but would be soon if she didn’t work quickly.
He moaned, though his cries had lowered to a rolling boil of pain since she’d given him morphine.
However, any slight shift or touch was likely to cause an eruption of screams again …
and being on a train that jostled easily didn’t help.
The operating theater of the train was dimly lit. Windows on either side of the carriage reflected the fading light of the surrounding desert beyond the walls of the train. They’d stopped in the middle of the wilderness unexpectedly. The stillness also ushered in the stifling heat.
Whatever the reason for their stop, the poor soul in front of her had suffered for it.
And the men who had stopped the train on a slope had been the idiots—not him.
The manner of his injury had been horrific.
He was a brakeman for the railway and had been on top of a train car before they’d completely come to a stop.
His leg had slipped between two train cars, then got crushed when the cars had slammed together.
The bleeding tangle of bone and flesh below the knee no longer resembled a leg. Neither would it ever again function as one. If he survived. Poor man.
The soldiers she’d spoken with often feared this type of injury most of all.
She turned to the waiting stare of the nurse who oversaw patients on the train. Sister … Ginger blinked. What’s her name again?
The last few weeks had been such a blur of people. And when the nurse had come through the carriage reserved for the Queen Alexandra’s nurses, Ginger had been dozing. Weeks of fourteen-hour shifts at the front had caught up with her. They’d woken her since she was the most senior nurse.
“I think we’ll have to amputate.” Ginger kept her voice low. “The bleeding is too severe and the leg too mangled.”
“No!” the man cried. “No, please, not my leg! Sister, please … save my leg.” His eyes were dark and wild, his Australian accent like that of many other soldiers who served in this region.
The other nurse’s face paled. The operating theater was empty, most noticeably, of its surgeon.
Even during the transports, a surgeon was normally present on the train.
But in this case, they were nearing the end of the line and the surgeon had disembarked at the last stop, at Romani.
“It can’t wait until we reach Kantara?” the nurse asked.
More than anything, Ginger wished it could wait. Amputations weren’t usually in her purview. But she’d assisted in more than she could count. And if I do it wrong?
The man would end up suffering for it. The haste of field hospital amputations often resulted in several more surgeries to the same limb, trying to correct the lingering issues, including pain.
And there wouldn’t be the benefit of chloroform and ether. Bloody Royal Army Medical Corps. She’d trained as an anesthetist for a few months earlier in the summer. Then they’d forbidden it for English nurses. Because women shouldn’t do such things.
Bristling with irritation, Ginger shook her head.
“The train cars crushed his leg—it could lead to contracture and worse and his bleeding is too severe.” Her eyes went to the window on the opposite wall of the train car.
The horizon of the desert landscape was darkening, the fading light of the sun streaking the sky with blazing ochre and maroon.
Skylights on the roof of the car added more light, but that wouldn’t help now.
Once the sunlight was gone, they’d have to work by candlelight.
“Do you have any idea why we stopped here in the first place? Or when the train will start moving again?” Ginger asked. Unscheduled stops were rare, but perhaps the engineer had seen something on the tracks up ahead.
“None.”
“All right.” Ginger squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shake the fog of sleep lingering in her mind. If there was no one else and no time to waste, she didn’t have any options. She settled her shoulders back.
She could do this. He would die if she didn’t.
She cocked her head, indicating the nurse should follow her to the far side of the carriage, out of earshot. Their footsteps echoed across the wooden floor. “Can you get the guillotine? We’ll need an orderly to hold him down.”
The nurse’s eyes widened. “Are you going to perform the surgery?”
“Yes. We have to hurry.” It would be laborious if she wanted to leave the man as good of a stump as possible. Multiple surgeries on a stump were horrific—months, sometimes years of suffering. Some men would wake in the night screaming with the pain they felt in the limbs they no longer had.
How many times had she been at their sides during those times, helpless to relieve their agony?
As the nurse left, Ginger rushed across the room, looking for the anesthetic. Her pulse ticked faster.
RAMC be damned.
She wasn’t about to torture the man. Her hands trembled as she lifted the mask for the anesthetic.
Would she remember her training well enough?
A soft grumble from the patient steeled her resolve. Her fingertips grazed over the smooth glass bottles stored on shelves until she found the ether.
She checked over her shoulder. If she hurried while she was alone, she could administer the ether before anyone could stop her. There wouldn’t be time for a combination of ether and chloroform—the safer method. She found a clean towel in a supply cabinet, then folded it over the mask.
Nervous energy tingled up her spine as she hurried back to the patient. “This should help with the pain.” She placed the mask over his mouth. He stilled as she opened the ether.
A few drops and he’d be ready for surgery in minutes.
Ginger used her most soothing tone. “Breathe deeply with me and count. One … two … three …” As the patient’s breath steadied, Ginger surveyed the operating theater.
The car was sparse in its outfitting. Two sturdy metal operating tables.
Then, smaller tables holding basins and towels. Shelves of surgical equipment.
The car was peaceful as the patient drifted to sleep. Thank goodness. She needed a moment to think clearly. Her fingers felt dry and stiff, the skin on her hands rough with unending days of exposure to the solutions before her: iodide, alcohol, antiseptic, carbolic lotion.
Despite the heavy workload, the days after the third battle of Gaza had been thrilling—the British Army had pushed through the line at last, forcing the Ottoman Turks and Germans back to Jerusalem. The stalemate broken, the spirits of the troops and the medical staff had been high.
And during that time, Noah had found her, giving her the Claddagh ring she now wore on her left hand with the promise they’d be together soon. Learning Noah was still alive and loved her had been a singular bright spot in the most heartbreaking year of her life.
She pushed thoughts of him away. There would be time enough later for warm memories. Right now, she had a patient to tend to.
She’d assisted in surgeries on the trains before but never imagined she’d direct one. Back in Alexandria, her inquiry to the London School of Medicine for Women remained unsent. She’d resolved to move forward with it so many times, but something had always held her back.
To think if she’d had the gumption to do it ages ago. How differently she’d approach this situation. With confidence, certainty.
Now, the only thing she was certain of was the soldier would bleed out if she didn’t hurry. His leg was practically detached above the kneecap, and the hastily applied tourniquets were only doing so much.
The door to the room clicked open, and a medical orderly strode in. “Sister Wilson said you’d need me in here.” He eyed Ginger warily. He probably hadn’t expected her to be so young.
Sister Wilson. That must be the nurse who had fetched her.
Think clearly, Ginger. She ground her teeth. This was too important for her to be sluggish. “We need to amputate immediately. If you’ll wash up—”
Footsteps sounded, followed by the bold shove of the door. A stench came from the three men who entered: sweat and body odor of days spent in the hot, merciless sun, and stale cigarettes.
The men hauled a soldier between them who bled from a wound below his collarbone. The injured man’s head lolled—he was unconscious—a large dark bruise shadowed his face. His hands were bound in front of him.
Without ceremony, the three men dumped the patient on the empty operating table. One of them, a lieutenant, scanned the theater. His eyes settled on the orderly. “Who’s the surgeon here?”
“For the moment, I am.” Ginger frowned. “You can’t come bursting into thi—”
“I didn’t know they had lady doctors on the train.” The lieutenant wrinkled his nose. “But I guess you’ll have to do.” He laid a thick hand on the injured man. “Patch him up. Now.”
As though he’s not interrupting another surgery.
Without waiting for a response, he gestured to the other two men that they should follow him out of the operating theater.
She was used to men dismissing her but she rarely let it bother her as much as it should, used to orders.