HER HANDS #11

Installment 11

Chapter 5

Scenes 45-50

After their meal, the women returned to the damaged men and resumed the care that was to become a patterned routine over the next several weeks. Not only for Sarah and Joan but the other nurses and aides as well, observing which initiatives and responses succeeded or failed, sometimes miserably, while soon learning that previous experience was not determinative for any subsequent interaction. And yet, patterns could be discerned and the discernment was greatly aided by the women sharing their experiences with the others, reflecting on the significance and efficacy of their endeavors. They discussed what relief they were able to provide the suffering men but also how they were withstanding the grueling twelve hour shifts of tedium which ah been re-established, their frustration, dissonance, discord and occasional mayhem.

They quickly realized they needed each other. Their informal conversations at the end of supper after their shift became intentional, more structured, with Joan’s inadvertent guidance. In the first week, Sarah often led the conversation about her observations of the men’s needs and responses to care. Thereafter, each of the women on the day shift began to engage with their own experiences. Each contribution was valid – how could it be otherwise? Regarded as valid, each merited questioning, exploration. There was no lack of respect felt nor held by any of the women on this shift.

Mother Clothilde observed the discussions develop from her discreet distance. At the end of that first week, on a blustery Sunday, Joan quietly asked the women gathered at the plank dining tables if she might invite the Mother Superior to sit with them while they held their discussions. Each agreed; they had already begun to recognize the importance of their conversations and the value of sharing their information.

The nun was elated to have been invited to sit with the caregivers. It truly was a blessed Sunday, this moment of inclusion. She tamped down her enthusiasm when she accepted the invitation, and instructed herself it was essential for her to listen, primarily, to hear these women and learn. Before she seated herself at the space made for her at the table, she had the insight that it would not be helpful to impose herself and the hopelessly vague policies of her superiors. These women’s experiences, she realized, should and could inform those policies. For the men. For France.

The nurses and aides welcomed the Mother Superior’s subtle presence as many of their efforts required some manner of support or approval from her, such as arranging the cots locations to group together those men who responded well to their caregivers’ chants or soft singing, to remove to a safe distance the cots of those men who were undergoing extended periods of outward aggravation. Such as having at least two capable men on duty at all times to protect the staff and patients from any violent outbursts. They all fully agreed there was that potential for great harm by a man so deranged, Mother Clothilde responded she would immediately request that protection from the SSA.

The women also wanted to know how their journals were being used; whether their journals met expectations; how they could improve their reporting to meet the medical command’s needs and expectations. Mother Clothilde didn’t know the answers but did not say so. Instead she replied that all that was expected were honest observations to the best of their ability. Joan understood the answer; it said their reports were not yet determined to be important by the command but to continue. She understood that she and her fellow nurses and aides had been cast in the role of educators; that they carried that important weight for the wounded men and for those caring for similarly wounded men. Decisions may be made concerning these men’s treatment and consequently their fates, based upon the information contained in the journal reports her sisters handed in at the end of their shifts. Why else would medical command send a courier to gather the reports. Joan decided to keep this conjecture to herself, considering that it might taint the staff’s critically important insights.

Joan soon was leading discussions on journal report preparation as these women had a wide range of ability to write coherently. Many of them had little schooling, barely able to write. They were helped every day by those with more education who write what their colleagues dictated to them. Where had Sarah learned to express herself so clearly on the page? Joan wondered. She learned that Sarah’s father was determined that his children know how to read and write, fostering their hunger for learning beyond the few years they attended school. As a family they read aloud to each other second hand newspapers, and any books they gleaned. Then they discussed what had been read; the meaning of the words, the importance of what was meant. Sarah and her family loved those times.

A Medecin en Chef, a lieutenant colonel of the SSA, had explained to Mother Clothilde that the journals may help in finding a cure or an effective treatment for the men’s dementia, which explanation she had shared with the nurses and aides. What the colonel did not share with the hospital administrator was that the numbers of men so afflicted were growing alarmingly; that the ranks were being drastically depleted with the loss of these men; that the military command needed malingerers to be identified, with the help of the information contained in the nurses’ reports, and returned to the front; that those men who were cured or effectively treated, identified in the nurses’ reports, needed to be returned to the front. There was a war that must be won. Mother Clothilde did not suspect these reasons for her staff’s reports. None of the women ministering to the damaged men suspected they served the purpose of returning the men to combat. Their experience of these deranged men rendered the idea of such a purpose implausible, laughable if it were not so grim. The full measure of their days was dedicated to alleviating the wretched suffering the men barely endured.

After the first week, Mother Clothilde suggested the night shift set up a similar discussion time, The week after that Joan suggested to the mother superior that the shifts overlap so that the incoming group could benefit from the departing group’s experiences and observations. The mother superior easily understood the proffered benefit and approved, implementing overlapping shifts with rotating skeleton staff to provide coverage during the discussion periods.

Shell shocked men began arriving in greater numbers in mid-December, products of the incessant shelling and trench life squalor of what became known as the First Battle of Artois and the Trench Battles. The staff at the hospital was increased modestly. The caseload for each woman increased substantially, After four weeks of twelve hour shifts, the women with one voice, through Joan, informed Mother Clothilde that each of them needed one day off per week.

“We are at the breaking point.” Joan pleaded to the Mother Superior in the privacy of her office. The nun responded she would consider the request. Joan did not react to the fact that their urgent need had been reduced to a “request.” Other than to say. “Merci. This is very important. Not just for us but for the men. For France.”

The hospital administrator nodded her acknowledgment. That same day she tasked her administrative assistant with devising a schedule that would accommodate days off. By the end of that afternoon, the assistant and Mother Clothilde agreed that each nurse and aide could have every tenth day free. Most shifts would have one less person on duty than the current staffing level, with a few shifts having two less. Hopefully the impact would be manageable. Hopefully the benefit of rest would outweigh the burden of the increased caseloads, she reasoned.

If only the stream of arriving invalids would diminish. If only they could be sent along safely sooner. Very few of the men recovered sufficiently to be returned to the front. Almost all of the men, once stabilized at varying degrees of derangement. In these first months of the war the most severely impaired were sent to asylums; those barely functioning unfortunates were returned to their families. An alarming number were returned to battle. Who made these decisions as to where a man was to be sent and when? How were these decisions made? The medical command did not inform Mother Clothilde of their processes. The empty trucks arrived, the driver and attendant bearing a list of names of patients to be transported, nothing more. The named men were loaded onto the trucks with the assistance of the nurses’ aides, then driven away. Trucks arrived from the front not long after the departing trucks had cleared the village square, filled with blankly staring, silent, howling, rocking, motionless men.

“If only the war would end.” The prayer of every nun, nurse, aide, villager invoked several times a day by each, sometimes directed to a merciful Jesus. None dare imagine the war would continue, fully ferocious for several more years, as it did.

Later in the same day that Joan had implored the mother superior for respite for her colleagues, as the women were dispersing following supper, Mother Clothilde approached Joan and Sarah as they neared the dining hall exit. To Joan, “May I see you now? In my office.”

Joan’s heart raced, knowing the meeting had to do with the plea she presented at the noon hour. “Yes, Mother.” She was heading to bitter disaster or gratifying accomplishment, she could not foretell. Her mouth cotton dry, she rasped to Sarah. “I’ll meet you back at the dormitory.”

Sarah nodded, concerned, knowing what was at stake, knowing Joan’s passionate belief in the need and her felt responsibility to the others. Mother Clothilde’s tone did not reassure her. “Yes, I’ll wait for you.”

In the her austere office, the Mother Superior laid out the proposed schedule, allowing all of the nursing staff to have every tenth day off duty, explaining that one day off each week for each woman would stretch the staff too thin. Joan understood. “I am certain, for the reasons you have stated, that the nurses will agree to the need and be grateful for the indulgence.” Joan nodded her affirmation.

The nun was confident the young woman spoke truthfully and would convince the others that their wish for relief was being met as well as could be. “Well, yes. Sister Claire, I am truly grateful to you for bringing this concern to my attention.” Her voice trailed off, “We get lost sometimes in the horror.” Then sharpened again, “Is there anything else?”

“No, thank you, Mother.” Joan then realized this moment’s opportunity. “Well, actually, yes.” What words to choose? It only made sense to be direct. “May I be scheduled to have the same days off as nurse’s aide Sarah LaMontaigne?” There, she said it. She held her breath, dizzying, as she waited for the response.

Mother Clothilde regarded the young nun before her: yes she had noticed how comfortable the two young women were with each other; their familiarity, their shared concerns. They were a blessing in these difficult times but would the level of care suffer if they were both absent at the same time? She had detected a personal note in Sister Claire’s request, a plea carried on wings of desire. She hushed that thought; what was that to her? She would not dare diminish the brightness in anyone’s life. Certainly not in these times. She would not. “I will instruct Sister Marie to arrange the schedule as you have requested.”

The smile that cracked Joan’s face confirmed to the elder that she shared a personal joy with the aide Sarah. It is good. What good can there be? A shadow crossed the old woman’s mind. She deeply hoped she had not made a mistake. Her mind whispered for Jesus.

“Thank you, Mother.”

As Joan turned to leave the Mother Superior earnestly offered. “God bless you, Sister.”

***

“Yes!” Sarah unintentionally gave a small leap in her stride.

Joan had refused to share any news of her meeting with Mother Clothilde until they were on their evening walk. As they passed through the village gate she announced that days off would be scheduled, albeit every 10 days. She paused, then whispered loudly “And best of all we are going to be provided the same days off. Together…”

Sarah stopped abruptly, threw her arms around her companion and kissed her on the forehead. They held each other closely in the starlit country lane. The sounds of the exploding shells in the distance, often a sobering background to their thoughts and conversations, were unheard in that joyful moment.

“You are brilliant.” Sarah whispered into Joan’s ear.

The nun received the passionate compliment completely. She drew her head back enough to gaze at Sarah’s face, then kissed her fully with lips alive, desiring. Sarah’s lips, delighted, danced their welcome with the other woman’s mouth now open. Their tongues found each other and celebrated; roaming, coursing, sending, receiving, deepening, They kissed in the lane until the eventual waning. They then held each other, Joan’s head secure against Sarah’s wool clad shoulder, Sarah’s face pressed against the soft warmth of Joan’s neck. Each moment is eternal, is it not, in some way we barely understand. The two women touched that understanding. As one,

they heard the cannons’ muffled roar, felt the bite of the winter’s night.

Without a word they separated and began to walk, holding each other’s gloved hand. They continued in silence for a couple kilometers to the point where they usually turned around, all the while savoring the lasting remnants of their ardor as they strode through the night. Each held the thought; there was nothing more right in the world than this. Words were not necessary, just the touch of the other’s hand and the rhythm of their gait. As they approached the turning point they slowed, knowing soon they would return. They were returning together. They stopped, both searched the other’s eyes…for what? They did not know. Perhaps for significance? Assurance? No, that might be for another time, another place. No, under the expanse of the star-encrusted sky, each woman wanted no more than the simple satisfaction of their gazes met.

With that, Sarah softly. “I love you.”

Joan, softly. “I love you.”

They kissed gently, briefly. It was time to return.

They slowed their pace on the journey back to the village, as they always did. They entertained what might be possible with the time they would have together, but those were few and vague, It was enough to imagine just how decadent to not be working; to not be completely exhausted always; to be resting together; to rest elsewhere than their narrow, stiff cots; unrestrained, if only for a day, a full glorious day; together, even if exhausted. Where? As they neared the village, the two lovers began listing settings for their respite: the café, simple, nice for a fine afternoon; the silent, shadowed sanctuary of the church, empty; barns with haylofts. They giggled with the thought of exploring mouths, venturing hands. There were alcoves, doorways, alleys where they could find themselves alone which presented themselves to the two women as they passed by, nudging each other complicitly with each location noticed. Near the entrance to an alleyway, Joan stopped, jerked her head in its direction. Sarah’s tongue swelled and her vagina moistened. She laughed with it all. They ducked into the shadows a couple feet distant from the cobbled street, and kissed deeply, deliriously, briefly. The lovers stepped back into the lamplight, electrified.

It was time to return to their quarters, for Joan to share the news of the scheduled respite. Mother Clothilde had agreed that Joan could inform the others that evening – of course all of them would be wanting to know what had occurred in their meeting – and the mother superior would make it official at the breakfast gathering of the two shifts.

The uplift the dayshift women felt that evening, and the night shift women the next morning upon hearing the news of the permitted leave time, manifested clearly in their broad smiles, brimming eyes, throaty laughs and embraces, arms slung over shoulders as a group, bound together in joy and gratitude. Hearts swelled in each chest because each woman knew in her core that her wellbeing mattered, had been taken into account. After weeks of selfless dedication to the care and comfort of the first line victims of this brutal devastation, they were receiving recompense on the huge debt their nation owed them None of the women thought that consciously but, in their marrow, felt the shift, allowing their joy to release. Blessed be.

By the evening meal meeting of the shifts, Mother Clothilde’s assistant, Sister Marie, had prepared the schedule with the leave dates allocated, beginning the following week. The Mother Superior had a brief moment of hesitation when she saw her commitment to Sister Claire and Sarah take form on paper. What harm might come of the two of them off duty at the same time. She allayed her misgiving by placing them in the last slot – ten weeks out, the end of February. The loss of their combined services would be mitigated by the lessons they bestowed in the meantime. It was then that Mother Clothilde clearly recognized the skills and aptitudes of these two remarkable young women. She vaguely considered setting up meetings with them to glean their insights and wisdom. Yes, their wisdom.

At one point while reviewing the schedule, the hospital administrator questioned whether she should have reviewed this decision with SSA. Her gut had knotted when she considered she may be violating a specific protocol at worst, or at the least acting without authorization. But then she allowed herself to hear the voice within herself that clearly said this change was needed , was right for all concerned – the caregivers and the wounded, The knot in her gut loosened and she knew she would defend her decision against any who challenged it,

Mother Clothilde was firmly re-assured of her decision the next morning when the nursing staff who had heard the news the night before greeted her at breakfast warmly, smiling their “Bon jours”; then when the night shift arrived in the dining hall, responding to the feverishly shared news from their colleagues with squeals, chortles, clasps and tears. The old nun thanked God for guiding her in this decision, and thanked Him for wisely sending Sister Claire to her to make clear the need. His humble servant, Mother Superior Clothilde’s heart swelled along with the women she was observing.

The official announcement of the scheduled leaves became a celebratory event. Mother Clothilde held the parchment on which the schedule was written for all to see and announced she would post it at the rear of the dining hall at the end of their meal and explained how the slots were allotted; one day off for each woman, every ten days. She explained that all of this was subject to change, depending on the circumstances that the war imposed upon them. She noticed the sudden stillness, knew that all gathered were aware of the grim contingencies, The mother superior vowed, “I will do all in my power, God willing, to preserve these respites.” The women nodded their respect for that assurance, and the grave uncertainty that pervaded all of their lives.

Mother Clothilde then acknowledged Sister Claire for presenting the issue of their need for relief, In unison the nurses and aides cheered Sister Claire, stomped their feet and banged their mugs on the table. One nun, Sister Helene, stood and began to sing the Marseilles, and all joined her, singing through their tears.

The Mother Superior nodded to the galley boys, who brought out large servings of brandy-soaked bread pudding and placed them before their heroines, while singing with them. It was their honor to serve these women. It was a moment that each in that hall would remember to the day of their death.