Be You Bravely

Chapter 2 ~ Faces As Pale As Snow

Cold, numb, chattering teeth. That's what I felt when I awoke this morning. The floors in our makeshift hospital is the grass floor, which can be comfy, that is if the knowledge that thousands of men had fought for their country, losing their lives in the place where you rest, and it is snowing outside our tent. That is literally the hospital, a flimsy tent. Before the war a hospital was a building, with blinding white walls, white sheets with blue blankets spread across the plump mattress and pillows. But this is not before the war, now a hospital, if you are a war nurse, is five poles, four forming a square and one in the middle, with some shaggy corn sack material stretched over it for a roof. I'm not complaining but we are all women here, excusing the wounded and dead men, there are only two other men in our hospital camp, and we have to move once a month too keep from being right in the heart of battle. No, that's wrong... if battle had a heart there would be none!

The beds for the solders are mostly stretchers or hammocks. We had to depart with the metal bed the first time we moved as it was too heavy for us. We couldn't afford to bring them. When we began our moving hospital I had been horrified at the sight of the bed linen, all of it was second hand, donated to us by charity, and there were even a few faded blood stains on them, now we are lucky if we can spot a white speck on a sheet. Often the men don't have sheets to rest under, they don't sleep, they wail, howl or cry out in agony most of their stay with us. We receive the men who were at the front, mostly we deal with men who have multiple gun shots criss-crossing across their bodies, others have been hit by a hand grenade and have parts missing. My heart cries for them. All these men are son's to their mother, it could be Frank, some are husbands, some are fathers, my heart cries, it aches. I constantly have to remind myself as to why I am here, or else I would just run away. 

Frank...

He is why I am here...

"Knock, Knock, Knock"

An urgent banging sounded from our front door. Mr Harold scowled at the hasty knocks. Muttering he placidly strode forward and unlatched the lock, then creaked the door open revealing a flustered, and red faced Mr. Glenn Rosemont, nervously turning his top hat round in his shaking hands. 

Stuttering he asked "I... Well...I I Is Miss Irene ....?"

Mr. Harold, being the darling gentleman he is, opened the door wider, and gave his most slightest smile to the dazed man in front of him, "Please, Mr. Rosemont, do come in, may I help you with your coat? Here, follow me, I'll take you to the receiving lounge." 

Mr. Rosemont muttered a few words of thanks and obediently followed our calm butler through the main hall, past a myriad of doors and into the lounge. If Mr. Rosemont hadn't been so pestered by what ever was making him so fretful, he would of noticed the water colour paintings of Clearly Lake, and the portraits of each member in our family hanging in a neat row one after another, with gold frames wrapped around them keeping them hanging on the velvet red wall.

After seating Mr. Rosemont on a floral blue and white paisley covered arm chair, Mr. Harold gently closed the door leaving Mr. Rosemont in peace as he fetched Irene.

Throughout our childhood, we had been well acquainted with the Rosemont's, that is what my mother would refer to us as, acquaintances. I rather, shall refer us as friends. Glenn, Mr. Rosemont, is a year older than Frank and I , and as the older siblings often do, we three used to tease Irene when we were younger, making her do what we wanted, and she willingly did it because she admired Glenn. Irene, my sweet naive Irene, she would be at Glenn's beck and call, and would do anything to win his affirmations. For many years Glenn referred Irene as a sister, and he was very protective over her, he was over both of us. Not as protective as Frank was, but he was close. Glenn was sent to boarding school when he was fifteen, we were all heart broken, but we kept in touch through letters. Soon though, his letters became less frequent until they stopped altogether.