Good news and bad news. Finally, Alan and I were given some leave. We had four days off, or that was the plan anyway. Originally, we were going to Paris but then we thought we would spend most of our time traveling there and back, so we decided instead to go to Reims, where I am writing this. We are staying in a hotel and, can you believe it, have two baths every day!!!
The French still manage to cook up a storm, despite everything that has happened and is happening, and we drank some great wines too. (We didn’t stint on the G&Ts either!) However, in the middle of all this food, wine, cleanliness, and G&Ts came the killer—literally. A telegram to Alan that his wife has tried to commit suicide!! Slit her wrists in a bath of warm water.
Now here’s the thing. This woman has two children, two young children. Why would she commit suicide—assuming she meant to do it and not get discovered at the last minute—and leave two lovely creatures to be brought up by God knows who? Does this mean that she loves her husband more than she loves her children? Does it mean that “love” for one’s husband—mate, spouse—is a different “love” from that for a child? Were I in the same situation, which way would I jump?
To my mind it all goes to show that I was right to begin with: given the danger we work in, there was no need for Alan to tell his wife about us, not for a while certainly.
Anyway, Alan was granted compassionate leave to rush home and be with his wife. She may have had an ulterior motive, of course. If she really did intend to kill herself, that’s one thing. On the other hand, if it was a gesture, to bring him home and get him away from me, then that’s another thing entirely and they need to talk it through. But he can’t really tell until he’s face-to-face with her.
Oh dear, Hal. What a state we are all in. There is no chance we will have a replacement for Alan in our unit, so I am going to have to run the show till he gets back. This was supposed to have been a relaxing break, but it has turned into a nightmare.
Much love xxx000
Izzy
Dear Hal,
I’m back now amid the mud and blood, the bodily fluids and broken bones, the screams in the night and the shivering bodies as they slip away to God knows where.
No word from Alan. In his absence, I have discovered something about myself. I have become bossy. I feel it. In a war, a great big messy war like this one, the army runs everything and you would think, therefore, that life is regimented, everyone knows their place, their rank, who is above them and who is below. That’s how it should be. But the chief fact of life, even this far into the war, the main characteristic, the dominant element of our existence, is confusion. No one has the faintest idea of what is going to happen. Most of the time we don’t even know what is happening right now.
And so, in these terrible times, in this awful, godforsaken place, I have found that what the people around me want is certainty, any kind of certainty. That’s why I have become bossy. I tell people what to do. I don’t necessarily know what’s best for anyone in any particular situation, but people seem to prefer my style to anyone else’s. No doubt being a nurse gives me some authority, but it’s more than that. I settle minor disputes. They come to me and they accept what I say. As I move about the trenches, I tell the men to tidy up this, clean up that, rearrange something else. They do it. Why do all these men obey a woman so easily? It’s weird.
Some out-of-date British papers came our way. I see you are getting zeppelin raids over London—thank God Ma and Pa are where they are. I read that Max Bremner was killed. The name may not mean much to you but he was one of the war correspondents I mentioned who visited our unit. A funny man and a good writer. He was forty-two and was gassed. What a waste.
I haven’t heard from you for a while. Are you all right? Let me know. That’s an order!