Ardnish Was Home Episode 26

The voices moved off; the shooting became more distant. I could hear no one now. They were chasing the Turks, I guessed. The lads will guess we have been tortured, so there won’t be much quarter given for them, I thought.

Footsteps entered the steading, and then Sergeant Mcleod was saying: “We’ll soon have you home, young Gillies. I’ll just get the lads to make a stretcher.”

When he returned he asked what had happened to Sandy. I told him. I also told him about my shoulder, the beating I had undergone, and the boiling water thrown on my face.

He was horrified. I think if any Turks had been captured then, it would have been difficult to stop the soldiers from shooting them.

Soon the rest of the Scouts returned. None of them had been shot and they were very cheerful with their success in routing the Turks until Macleod told them about Sandy’s death and my torture. A stretcher was made by threading poles from the Turkish tents through their coat sleeves, and I was lifted onto it.

While this was happening, a grave was being dug for Sandy. They decided they couldn’t carry his body back to our own lines.

The trip back was hellish, even though I was drifting in and out of consciousness for most of it. My ribs were sore on the opposite side from my bloody shoulder, so whichever side I lay on, I was in real pain.

There is no doubt at that time that death would have been preferable. The Scouts took turns to carry the stretcher, cursing as they stumbled and fell. The trip took an eternity.

I was told later that Colonel Macdonald was nearly court-martialled for sending the rescue party in for Sandy and me, for exposing a whole troop to danger for the sake of two men who were almost certainly dead.

It was this sort of thing which made the other soldiers so envious of the Scouts, and I was profoundly grateful for his actions.

LOUISE’S JOURNAL

Earl Kitchener, the Secretary of State for War, has travelled here, and is based on the battleship Lord Nelson anchored beside our own Gloucester Castle. I saw him from a distance.

He seems very popular with the men. We’re experiencing strong winds and heavy rain every few days, and are preparing for winter.

Wriggly tin and wooden spars are being unloaded to reinforce the trenches. The horses and mules have blankets now.

Our rota’s working well, and the mixture of time at the Casualty Clearing Station and on ship makes everything bearable.

I was onshore, helping with an operation on a man’s foot, with the dreaded Dr Sheridan handling the scalpel.

As usual, he never looked me in the eye. I itched to take the knife from him. I just can’t trust him to use it properly.

The tent flap opened, and a Lovat Scout officer said that a good man was coming in, he was in a bad way, and that I was to look after him.

The stretcher bearers were exhausted, sweat pouring down their faces. They seemed to have carried the man a long way. He was laid on the floor of our operating tent and Dr Sheridan felt his pulse.

I looked over his shoulder and it was as if I had been punched. I recognised Donald Peter, my soldier from the train.

Unconscious

He was unconscious, with his red hair soaked with sweat, and a ghastly sheen on his face where he had been terribly burned.

I stood in shock, mouth open, as he was laid on the operating table. I felt faint and had to be helped to a chair by one of the soldiers.

I told him I’d be fine and composed myself as quickly as I could.

Dr Sheridan was cutting his shirt off. “I can feel his pulse, but only just,” he said.

DP was barely conscious. “I’m not sure if we can save this one,” Dr Sheridan said. I couldn’t disagree.

We’d had many on the operating table who’d looked a lot better and still died. My professional training took over and I was soon busy with boiling water and instruments.

DP’S shoulder was terribly swollen, with a hole so big in the scapula you could almost put your hand in it.

Bits of bone mixed with blood were flecked on his green shirt. Dr Sheridan decided to operate immediately.

Luckily, a senior doctor arrived and took charge of the operation.

I felt overwhelmed with relief that DP’S life would not lie in the hands of Dr Sheridan.

We feared that the shock of the operation would kill him, but we knew it wouldn’t be long before gangrene settled in if we didn’t, so there was no real choice. We had to act quickly.

“His heart’s too weak for morphine,” the doctor pronounced, to my horror. And so four male medics were called to hold him down while the cutting was done.

As the knife started to cut out the damaged flesh, he woke with a loud scream, bucking and twisting with amazing strength. We were terrified that he might throw us off and he would end up on the floor.

I had to turn my head away, so the medical staff wouldn’t see the tears pouring down my face.

A struggle

Mercifully, DP lapsed back into unconsciousness and, after quite a struggle with the forceps, a bullet was found and removed.

It had twisted and followed a bone down into a muscle alongside his spine.

Later on, I decided not to tell anyone but Prissie of my previous meeting with DP.

I knew I would not be allowed to nurse him if Matron discovered that I had already met him.

But I knew that I cared for this man – just a few hours on a train and yet I remembered every second.

Pity, and the yearning to help him, only compounded my wish to take him in my arms and hold him.

But I couldn’t. I was too scared. This was not how I had imagined our reunion.

I stood in shock, mouth open, as he was laid on the operating table. I felt faint and had to be helped to a chair by a soldier

Ardnish Was Home is published by Birlinn. The third novel in the series, Ardnish, was published in 2020. birlinn.co.uk