Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Despite her shift being over, Ginger made her way to the patient ward at bedtime. She couldn’t sleep. She had to give Mr. Osborne an answer by tomorrow, and she still didn’t have one.
The ward’s familiar calm at night was comforting. No matter how weary or troubled she felt, being surrounded by the wounded helped her see her worries from a different perspective.
She approached Private Emerson’s bed. “I came to read to you.” She sat beside him. “Would that be all right?”
He tore his gaze from the darkness outside the window. “I thought there might be a sea view from here. I heard rumors you could see it.”
She smiled and dug in her bag. “You’re in the wrong hospital for that. The San Stefano is right on the waterfront. We’re a few miles from the Eastern Harbor. But the rooftop is quite nice. There’s a lovely view.”
“And how am I supposed to get up there, Sister?” Private Emerson glanced at the stump of his leg.
Ginger cringed. Her comment had been needlessly insensitive. She didn’t respond, knowing the route up three flights of steps would never be possible for him during his time here. She set the book on her lap. “As for a book, will Homer do?”
Private Emerson shrugged apathetically. Sometimes, with the more emotionally distant patients like him, Ginger wondered if her efforts were more of an attempt to make herself feel better.
She read to him until Private Emerson put a hand out to stop her.
“I think that’s all for now.” His look was thoughtful. “You read well. Where did you say you were from?”
“Somerset. In England.” She pulled the ribbon to her page, then closed it. “My family’s home was called Penmore.”
“Was called?” Private Emerson squinted. “Did something happen to it?”
She hesitated. She rarely discussed her home or family with patients, though some had commented that they could tell her breeding through her pronunciation.
“My father passed away. His estate was entailed away to a distant cousin.” Her hands tightened on the book.
“I had a brother, but he died in the war.” Her thumb ran over the gilded printing on the cover.
Private Emerson held her gaze. “I guess in the end we’re all human. War and death don’t discriminate between the rich and the poor. It doesn’t matter how good you are. How evil. If you’re in its path, you simply lose.”
The whimpers of nearby patients, their breath, caught her attention. The humanity. All these broken men—they weren’t like those in the malaria ward or other rooms. What they’d lost they couldn’t recover.
Had they all just been powerless to their fates?
Am I?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” Private Emerson’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
She gave him a taut smile. “No, not at all. I suppose I’ve always just felt that I could have done more to keep my family from all the destruction.”
“And I thought I was safer as a brakeman for the train than out on the battlefield.” Private Emerson let out a frustrated snort.
“And then an emergency stop going down a hill took my leg.” He settled further back against his pillow.
“I think you take too much on your shoulders, Sister Whitman. You’re here because you care for others.
That’s not the mark of a person who isn’t willing to sacrifice when called upon. ”
It wasn’t the first time she’d heard the chastisement. The pressure around her heart didn’t ease, but she felt strangely better at his words. “The truth is you probably were safer as a brakeman—and you’re alive. That’s more than many.”
His lips curled bitterly. “Did you know I opted to work for the engineers because I was scared? Almost blew myself up during training.”
She furrowed her brow. “How did that happen?”
“Erm”—Private Emerson shifted in his bed—“the hand bombs. They have a pin you pull at the top. But you can continue to hold them so long as you grip the lever on the side. The instructor wanted us to learn to hold down the lever, then pull out the pin—to show us that if that lever was down, we were safe. But I fumbled it. Let the lever go too soon.”
If that was the case, how had he survived? “Don’t the hand bombs explode right away, though?”
“No, there’s a delay of a few seconds. That’s what saved me.
The instructor snatched it and threw it.
But I went right from there and requested to go into the engineering corps after my training.
Thought I could spend my days in the army leaving the infantry work to others. So, you see? I’m a coward, really.”
Ginger smirked. “Now who’s the one taking too much on his shoulders? The railway and the engineering corps have been the lifeline of the entire Palestine campaign.”
He didn’t respond, but his expression softened.
She laid the book on the bed. “I’ll leave this in case you’d like to read it on your own when I’m not here. Thank you, Private. Good night.”
She headed back to her room. Still no closer to a decision, the time she’d spent reading to Private Emerson had been a much-needed distraction. More than that, it had reminded her how very much her work gave to her.
“Sister Whitman!” Miss Fitzgibbon’s voice sounded distant.
Ginger held onto the arm of the jaundiced soldier she’d taken for a walk on the grassy hill across the street from the hospital’s main entrance. She blinked in the harsh light, facing the hospital. Matron stood there, waving a handkerchief.
She glanced at her patient. “It looks like they may cut our outing short. Shall we head back?”
The serene blue cloudless sky felt like the wrong backdrop to the turmoil in her mind. The hospital, a group of three multistory rectangular brick buildings with a flat roof, had once served as the Abbassia secondary school of the Egyptian government.
When they reached the front entrance, Miss Fitzgibbons came toward her. “Sister … there’s an officer from the RAMC here to see you. A Captain Stowell.”
“Captain Stowell?” She’d never heard of him.
“In my office. If you don’t mind. Any more visitors there and I might have to start calling it your office.” Matron harrumphed as she took the patient’s arm. “I’ll see your patient to an orderly and meet you there.” She glanced at Ginger’s apron. “Tidy yourself first.”
Splatters of dried blood crusted the apron on the starched and ironed white cloth.
She’d spent the morning changing the dressings on her patients.
She chuckled at the difference between life at the front and life at the hospitals.
If her matron from the clearing station had ever seen her “this dirty,” she would have been impressed with how immaculate Ginger’s apron was.
In the desert, there was no escaping grime.
Once inside the hospital, her eyes adjusted to the relative dark inside the foyer. She removed the offending apron and started down the hallway.
The quick click of heels scurried toward her and then the matron was at her side. “I’m afraid it’s a rather serious matter, Sister Whitman, and I must insist on staying with you.”
Serious matter? Ginger’s heart dropped. What could it be now?
They arrived at the matron’s office together. The RAMC officer, an older gentleman of medium build with greying dark hair, stood. He offered Ginger a polite nod. “Is this the nurse?”
“Yes, Captain Stowell. May I present Sister Virginia Whitman?”
Captain Stowell held out an envelope to Ginger. “Sister Whitman, I regret to inform you that your service with the Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Nursing Service is at an end.”
Ginger gasped audibly. Her ears rang. What?
With a shaky hand, she lifted the envelope. She opened it and unfolded the message inside. Her thoughts were too unfocused to read.
Miss Fitzgibbon was at her side and clasped her free hand. “This is an outrage. Sister Whitman’s character and skill as a nurse are impeccable.”
“Unfortunately, Miss Whitman willfully defied the orders of Major General Hodson and refused to treat a deserter.” Captain Stowell’s face was void of expression.
“A lieutenant of the 4th Lighthouse Brigade took up a complaint against her. After looking at Sister Whitman’s history of breaking with protocol, it was determined she was incapable of continued service for the Queen Alexandra’s. ”
The letter in Ginger’s hand fluttered toward the ground, gracefully floating as though it were a bubble. Her eyes stung with tears.
“Isn’t there to be a hearing?” Miss Fitzgibbon asked.
“They deemed no hearing necessary. Sister Whitman’s record is against her, I’m afraid. The decision is irreversible.” Captain Stowell’s voice sounded distant as Ginger gripped Miss Fitzgibbon’s hand.
And this was how her service was to end? In disgrace. Because she’d chosen to treat Private Emerson.
She hardly heard Captain Stowell excuse himself. The matron offered a comforting hug, then left her alone, telling her she would be outside the door.
Ginger sat in the hard wooden chair across from the matron’s desk, numb.
No matter what she did, she always seemed to invite this fate. Maybe it was time for her to accept that it didn’t suit her to be a nurse anymore.
Maybe she was ready for something more.
She’d been praying for an answer to the offer Mr. Osborne had made her. She’d go find him. Accept it. Her hesitations seemed nonsensical now. Why wouldn’t she take a job and a way to get her family home?
And when the war ended, she and Noah would be reunited.
Wiping the moisture from her lashes, she released a breath. Whatever job Mr. Osborne had for her couldn’t be much worse than anything she’d undergone already. She just hoped Noah wouldn’t be angry at her for putting herself in the way of danger.
When she left the office, Miss Fitzgibbon gave her a gentle look. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear. You’re an excellent nurse. Whoever complained is a fool.”
“Thank you, Matron.” Ginger squeezed her hand. “I suppose I should go and gather my things.”
“I’ll make arrangements for your departure.
Most likely tomorrow. I must take you off your shift, I’m afraid, but you’re free to wander the hospital at your discretion.
Or perhaps go on a walk or into town. It may do you good.
In the meantime, that soldier you’ve been reading to—Emerson, is it? He’s asking for you.”
She would have normally felt more pleased to hear about Emerson. Maybe she was finally getting through to him. Despite it all, her heart thumped. She’d saved his life. Even if it had cost her dearly.
The sadness on her face must have showed as she reached Private Emerson’s bed. He gave her a quizzical look. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Sister.”
“Oh”—she smoothed her skirt—“no, it wasn’t you. It’s been a long day. Already. I’m sorry.”
“I can lend an ear. Not much more than that.”
She gave him the most genuine smile she could under the circumstances. “What can I help you with?”
“I just wanted to say good-bye.”
His words startled her. “I …” No, of course he couldn’t be referring to her dismissal. Stop being such a ninny. “Are you leaving?”
“I just got the word. They’re sending me back to Blighty.” He looked down at his hands. “And I know I haven’t been the easiest patient. So I wanted to thank you.”
“Save my leg, Sister.” Would he feel that way if he knew she’d taken his leg?
She’d also saved his life. She had to remind herself of facts like that as well. Why was she so hard on herself? “I’m happy for you. I hope home is a comfort to you.”
“They keep telling me I should be happy to go home.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’m going home half a man. And who knows if the home I left even exists anymore? So many have died.”
Their eyes met. It was a sentiment she understood well. She lifted the copy of The Odyssey she had left at his bedside table the night before. “I want you to have this. To remember me. I doubt our paths will cross again.”
He took it from her, focusing on the cover. “Do you think any of it is true?”
“The adventure of Odysseus?” She raised her brows at him.
“No, not that. I’m not the most learned, but I know that’s all fairy tales.” He jerked his chin up. “About his wife, Penelope. Do you think there are women like that? Who wait no matter what?” He stared at his hands.
“Is there supposed to be someone waiting for you?” In the moments she’d spent with him the last few days, they never spoke of that.
“Her name is Mary. I’ve loved her all my life. But who’s going to want a cripple?”
Ginger stared at the book’s spine. “Well, it wasn’t just Penelope who wanted him back.
Odysseus wanted to go back to her. And he had challenges to overcome.
He had to convince himself to leave a goddess who promised him immortality, to begin with.
” She smiled gently. “It was no easy journey he took to get back to her. But even when he failed, he kept trying.”
For the first time since she’d met him, Private Emerson’s eyes filled with tears. He blinked them back and cleared his throat. “Thank you, Sister Whitman. You’ve been a good friend. And don’t let anyone underestimate you. You’re a cut above.”
“It was an honor to have met you, Private.” As she passed the foot of his bed, she stared at his sick card.
Together with his health records, made in triplicate and stored in the secretary’s office, the sick card would determine his health history as he traveled.
It would condemn him to a life without a pension.
All because he hadn’t lost his leg to an enemy the British identified.
Discreetly, she grabbed the sick card and continued on her way. What was one more rule to be broken? She may not always be able to do much to help the people she cared about, but she’d be damned if she didn’t keep trying. Even if she lost the things she’d worked for.
She’d return a new card later that night and find a way to alter those records when the cover of darkness would shield her—records that wouldn’t keep Private Emerson from a pension.