The Marne

September 1914.

It was a warm September day in Paris, and the Germans were inching closer. I stepped off the train, wearing my Royal Army Medical Corps uniform. I had arrived at the war as a young surgeon bursting with patriotism and naivety.

The air around me was alive with the songs of birds and punctuated by the distant thunder of artillery. History would initially call this event The Battle of the Marne. Later it would be renamed The First Battle of the Marne, as it seemingly required a sequel.

The streets outside the train station were bustling with taxis, all filled with soldiers on their way to the frontline. The French Military High Command, facing the possibility of losing Paris, enlisted all Parisian taxis to transport men to the frontline. And I had to compete with all of these soldiers for a taxi. 

I walked the street for several minutes until I finally eyed one that appeared to hold one passenger in the back. As I approached, I leaned in and noticed it was a lovely young lady, probably three years my junior. She wore a long blue dress with a white apron bearing a large red cross, the uniform of a British nurse in those early days of the war.

"Excuse me, sister!" I yelled into the window of the taxi. "Might I share this taxi with you?"

She glanced at the empty seat next to her and then back at me. The noise of the passing trucks and nearby trains was deafening. 

"Do you think it would be proper?" she yelled back.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, not knowing if this would be proper. "I imagine, in wartime, we may overlook some societal customs. A small sacrifice for king and country?" I couldn't believe I said that. But again, we all suffered from a patriotic fervor.  

She paused momentarily, looking around as if she was seeking someone she could ask for permission. There was only the driver, who beckoned me to get in, saying something I didn't understand in French. But I looked to her for permission."

Very well," she said and nodded.

I climbed in and sat beside her, our combined luggage building a small fortification between us. 

"I'm Mary," she said.

"Nice to meet you, sister." 

"Just Mary for now, please. I'm not a nun."

"Very well... Mary. I'm Captain William Maclure, Royal Army Medical Corps. And you may call me Will."

Our introductions were interrupted by four French soldiers that climbed onto the running boards and clung to the taxi, two on each side. They had their large rifles with enormous bayonettes strapped to their back. The driver yelled something in French, and the soldiers cheered. The taxi's engine wailed at the strain of the load it now carried and then joined the long caravan heading towards the front.

As I was getting comfortable in my seat for the ride, I turned and looked at her for a moment, and she glanced back shyly. She offered a small, uncomfortable smile, and I smiled back. For a moment, our eyes locked. I remember those eyes well. They were golden and complimented her dark chestnut hair that peeked out from under her nursing cap.

"Thank you, Mary, for allowing me to join you," I said.

"You are quite welcome, doctor. Or... or do I call you Captain? I'm not sure how that works."

"I'm a surgeon, so I am called 'mister' and not 'doctor.' But for now, call me Will. Later if we're working, we can resume the formalities."

"Very well... Willlll." She comically drew my name out. "I've never called a doctor by their first name before. It feels... Wrong?"

"I suppose war lets us discard some societal norms. Let's enjoy it while it lasts and just enjoy the ride to... to God-knows-what."

"Very well. Besides, I hear the war is going to be over by December. "

"Yes, I've heard. We should be that lucky."

"Oh, don't you want it to go on just a little longer?"

"The killing?" I asked, knowing she didn't mean this but hoping for another smile. 

"Oh, no. I'm ever so sorry," she said, embarrassed. That does sound terrible, doesn't it?" 

I chuckled, and she rewarded me with another of her smiles. "Yes. It does. But I know what you mean. You want the adventure of it all to go on longer."

"Yes, that's completely it." She looked at me and smiled again to ensure I wasn't cross. "There just isn't much opportunity for someone like myself to travel the world." 

"No, I suppose not," I said. 

"It is a grand adventure, though, isn't it."

"It is that." 

As if on cue, the soldiers started singing French songs and cheering.

I enjoyed talking with Mary, without all the pomp of the military and medical world. I didn't want the conversation to end. 

"So, how long have you been a nurse?" I asked.

"Four weeks." 

"Oh my, so you are very new."

"Quite new, yes. But I'm very eager to learn. All my teachers said I was a quick learner and would do well nursing our soldiers at the front."

"I have no doubt."

"How about you?" she asked. "How long have you been a surgeon?"

"About a year. I graduated from Kings College last year and was studying surgery when the war started." 

"Imagine that: a new doctor and a new nurse sharing a taxi together. Heading off to their first war."

"Yes, and with the meter running, at that" I said, nodding toward the driver and the visible meter.

"When did you enlist?" she asked.

"About two months ago. Me and most of the other surgeons I was studying with enlisted together."

Our conversation was interrupted as the taxi bounced in and out of a pit in the road. "Do you think that was a shell hole?" she asked, startled.

"I doubt it," I said, unsure whether it was a shell hole. "I doubt enemy shells are landing this far behind the line. That was probably just a pothole." 

She nodded. "So can I ask you..." She paused and trailed off.

"You can ask whatever you like," I invited. I was eager to continue our conversation and block out the world for a few more minutes.

"What is it like being around death?"

I pondered this question as I wasn't sure how to answer. She was visibly apprehensive about what lay ahead, so I wanted to offer comfort and reassurance.

"Well," I said. "Have you been to a funeral or helped prepare a body of a family member who passed?"

"Once. When my grandmother died. I was young, though." 

"Splendid," I said, smiling, then immediately regretted my words. "No, no... not splendid, your grandmother died. I am sorry." I shook my head in embarrassment. I felt so foolish. But we shared an uncomfortable chuckle. 

 "What I meant was," I continued. "When I think about death, the word that comes to mind is 'motionlessness.'"

"Motionless... ness?" she asked.

Yes," I said, turning to face her better. I so badly wanted to salvage this conversation. And to sound learned, despite my years. "You see, as we talk with each other, our bodies are in constant motion. For example: When you talk, I can see your eyes blink. I can also see the curve of your sternocleidomastoid muscle as it contracts when you look at me. So, you see... You, Mary, are in constant motion."

She smiled and nodded. I was so comforted by that smile. I wondered how many

Tommys would feel this comfort from her before the war. 

"So," I continued, " When I am with a dead body, what has always struck me most is the motionlessness. Completely and utter motionless... ness." She leaned into our conversation, but I wasn't sure if she was buying any of this. "Nothing moves. The eyes don't move. The lids don't move. Nothing moves. There is no motion anywhere."

"So it ceases to be a person," she said as she pondered my drivel. "When they were alive and talking with us, they were in motion. Now that they are dead and motionless, it doesn't really feel like them, does it?"

To this day, I still feel like she was just being kind to me and allowing me to feel experienced. Confident. 

I continued, "That's how I've thought about it. They aren't there. They aren't suffering. We humans are social creatures. The small smile, the biting of a lip, or batting of eye lashes. All these tiny cues communicate something without words. To be alive is to be social... to be engaged with another human being. So when I look at a body that was living only a few moments before, I don't feel any sense of that person any longer. They are gone." And just when I should have stopped, I added, "They can't hurt me."

We rode in silence for a moment. I, feeling a tad foolish. She contemplated my words. 

"Thank you, Will."

I don't know if anything I said was truly helpful. 

"I shall remember this and draw comfort from your words in the future, I am sure," she said, graciously allowing me to feel wise.

I smiled. "I think you will be just fine. No, Mary. In fact, I know you will be fine." And I did believe that. I sensed she was stronger than she knew. Nurses always are.

"Thank you," she said. "I must say, though, that I am worried about dealing with grizzly wounds." As she said this, she peered over at me and scrunched her nose up at the word grizzly. 

"Understandable."

"I imagine you have seen all manner of horrid wounds?"

"I have," I said, exaggerating my confidence. I had seen plenty of wounds during my training. The worst injuries always involved a factory worker who managed to lose a limb while operating some giant machine. I had seen a few gunshot and knife wounds, but they were less common. None of these injuries could compare to the wounds I would encounter in France. Those wounds that still haunt my dreams to this day.

"So, the wounds scare me a little," she said. "I fear how I will react at the sight of them."

"You will do fine," I said. But truthfully, I had no idea how she would do. I've seen grown men in medical school pass out at the site of a missing finger. None of us know how we will fare until we stare into the face of physical trauma.

"You have a lot of confidence in me," she said, smiling again.

"Well, think of it like this," I started, pausing momentarily. I wondered if I could muster another round of pseudo-profundity. "Don't think of it as a wound. Instead, think of it as a man with a wound. So whenever you find yourself treating a terrible wound, stop and engage the man with the wound. Talk to him. Ask him about his family back home. Focus on the person, not the trauma." I doubeted she was buying any of this. But I so wanted to inspire her. Reassure her. She deserves confidence.

"So if I find myself getting distressed by a wound," she said. "I will talk to the soldier and try to block out the horror of the wound. Yes, I think I will try that. It will probably do us both good, me and the patient."

"I know it will," I said, having never made this recommendation to anyone. I made all of this up.

"Thank you for that, Will." She turned and smiled again. That beautiful, amazing smile.  I remember thinking the world would never be at war if more smiles were like hers. 

"My pleasure, Mary," I said.

"What about you?" she asked. "Are you concerned about what you are about to encounter ahead?"

Inside I was was screaming, 'YES! YES! I WAS FOOLISH TO COME HERE AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING!' Instead, I replied, "Well, a little about, yes."

"Oh, do tell," she said. "That is... if you are comfortable."

"Yes, I'm fine," I replied. I wasn't fine. I was afraid of everything and everyone. I feared being shelled by the enemy in the hospital where I was trying to save some poor Tommy's life. I feared a sniper shooting me when I walked to the loo. I was absolutely terrified. But I couldn't tell her that. Besides, I think she knew already.

"I think..." I continued. "What I think I most fear is not knowing something that could save someone's life. And then some poor mother back at home gets a letter that her son died. And all because I wasn't enough of a surgeon to save him. That keeps me up at night." It did. But everything kept me up at night. The fears of shelling, the snipers, and my not knowing what I don't know.

"I can see that would be tremendous pressure," she said.

"Yes," I said. "But then I think about the Tommys out there fighting on the frontline. They have it much worse than me."

She just nodded silently, and we both glanced at the French soldiers still clinging and singing.

"But I sense tremendous skill in you," she said to me. I felt lifted. My confidence grew. In her eyes, I wanted to be someone who possessed tremendous skill. "The Tommys will be very fortunate to have you as their surgeon. I know you will save many lives."

I hoped she was right.

"Thank you, Mary," I said. "Truly, thank you."

Silence overtook us for a few moments, except for the engine and the songs of the soldiers. We both stared out the windows at the soldiers and I suspected we were both wondering the same thing: What did the future hold for these soldiers? And would we play a role in those futures?

"Good thing this will all be over by December," she said, staring ahead into the distance.

"Indeed," I replied.