From Brussels with Love

Excerpt from the journal of Matron Annabelle Rose FNM, QARANC:

Monday, 18th December 1944

            The ward was incredibly busy today. Yesterday we received the first of the critically injured from the bombing in Antwerp. Most should recover, under the proper care. A few are unlikely to last the night. The rest we’ll have to wait and see. Internal bleeding can be a silent killer, or infection may be their enemy, and we’ve only so much antibiotic to go around.

            Horrible business, the bombing. An entire cinema - over 100 servicemen - blown to pieces. They’re saying it will take days just to dig out all their corpses, God rest their souls. My mind can’t help but go to the wives and children. Strange to think it might be weeks before they hear.

            Of particular note among the casualties, at least for myself, was Major Freddie Holmes, with whom I served in this very ward until only a few months ago. I regret to say his condition is unstable, and we could lose him. I tried my best to find him a private room, but with the ward stretched thin, I’ve had to make do with a two-bed room.

            His new roommate, an officer from the Australian air force, seemed a good choice. I can’t say why, as I’ve never met the man, but for some reason I felt the two would get along. Their injuries and outlooks both look similar at first assessment, so at least that will simplify their treatment a little for us. I think I shall check in on them personally tomorrow, before the next lot arrive from the front.

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The high-pitched ring of an explosion still rung in John’s ears. It filled the darkness, broken only by the briefest flashes: A dark room, the unimpressed face of his date, the tight chested anxiety as he stood to leave, fresh air on the cobbled streets of Antwerp, a faint whistling growing louder until… more ringing.

At some point a throbbing began in his head. Not the greatest addition. Then something pierced through the ringing. A woman’s voice, no, a man’s. Perhaps both? A conversation, then. The voices were muffled, as though passing through water to reach him. Underwater, huh? Well then, John thought, I guess all I gotta do is surface.

So, he concentrated. In his mind, John pictured himself swimming up from some deep lake. He swam and he swam, and the voices got louder before, finally…

‘So, the place hasn’t fallen apart without me then?’ came the man’s voice.

The woman laughed a little. It had a sort of sweet melody to it, like tea with honey. ‘As much as you might wish it had, Freddie.’

‘Oh, well, that’s good to hear at least. And you, Annie? How’ve you been?’

Realising his breathing had been shallow and erratic, John slowed it down, taking longer, more even breaths. The smell of bleach and clean linens filled his nose. A hospital, then.

‘Now, now, don’t you worry about me. It’s my job to be worrying about you now, understand? Just you relax, alright?’ the woman said.

John’s eyes began to flutter open. To start with, the light was too much, leaving him blinking to try and get his bearings. He heard footsteps moving across the room as his eyes adjusted. By the time his vision cleared, he just barely glimpsed the fine profile and army issue uniform of an attractive blonde nurse matron taking her leave of the room.

Moving very little, John glanced around at the clean but simple, rendered brick hospital room. The harsh flicker of a fluorescent tube light failed to do the space any favours while somehow managing to spoil what little winter sunlight fought its way through the window by John’s bed.

After a time, he cleared his throat. The other man in the room jumped slightly, then cringed in pain.

‘She was quite the looker then, that sheila,’ John said, without turning his head.

‘Pardon?’ came the response.

‘That nurse. She was a looker. Y’know … easy on the eyes.’

‘I … I’d never really thought about it. I suppose you’re right.’

‘Hard to believe you hadn’t noticed. Sounded like you knew her.’

‘Well, I don’t exactly make a habit of noting my colleagues’ appearances.’

John finally looked over at his new conversation partner. ‘Colleagues? You’re a doctor then?’

The other man, perhaps in his thirties, with neat, dark, military-standard hair, beginning to grey, looked back at him with one thick, black eyebrow cocked.

‘Surgeon, actually. Major Frederick Holmes, RAMC, at your service,’ he said.

‘Oh Major, my apologies,’ John said with some sarcasm.

‘Flight Lieutenant John Keating, RAAF. A pleasure, sir,’ he added, offering a lazy salute and half-cocked grin, before grunting in pain from the motion.

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Excerpt from the journal of Major Frederick Holmes MD, RAMC:

Tuesday, 19th December 1944                                                                                      Brussels

(…)

            It feels strange to be back in these walls. Like returning to an old friend to find they’re not quite the same anymore … or perhaps it is you who has changed. Not the least of the strangeness, this Australian Air Lieutenant is an odd fellow. Seems to have difficulty with women. He couldn’t maintain a conversation with Annie whenever she came by, but would make comments after she’d gone about her appearance and how I should ‘try my luck’ with her since I seem to know her so well.

            When he wasn’t making such uncouth suggestions, though, he was rather good company. We chatted a long while about all sorts. He’s from Melbourne, and though he never went to the university there, it was still good to swap stories about that fine old city.

            Though unwelcome, his suggestions about Annie did make me think of home. I’ve resolved to send a telegram back to Bombay … just in case I don’t make it.

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Excerpt from the journal of Air Lieutenant John Hamish Keating, RAAF:

Tuesday, 19th December 1944                                                                                 Brussels

(…)

            Luckily, the guy I’ve been paired up with isn’t half as bad as I thought. I was worried he’d be duller than a bag of bricks to start off with. A stiff old pom. After a while though, I managed to loosen him up.

Bloke’s a doctor, and he knows the matron in charge of our ward. I overheard him asking her to send a telegram to his wife. Guess now it makes sense that he wasn’t keen on my ideas about him and the matron.

            Got me thinking though. The nurse says we could both go downhill from here. Explosions like that mean internal bleeding could get us, and shrapnel can sometimes cause infections they can’t see. Honestly, I’d be writing back to my wife too if I had one.

            All that thinking led to one thing after another, and before I knew it, I’d written my own telegram. The matron wasn’t around, so I asked one of the other nurses to send it for me. I hope a name and a city is enough to get it to her, then again, now I’m hoping it isn’t. I doubt Aileen wants to hear from me after all these years anyway.

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The familiar sound of tea pouring met Freddie’s ears. Stirring him from his slumber.

‘Theeeere he is,’ said Annie, ‘feeling alright?’

‘Only if I don’t move.’

Annie chuckled, then put the tea in his hand. ‘There you go then. Can’t have you reaching for it.’

‘Thanks, Annie. Would you like some, John?’

‘Aw, I wouldn’t mind a cuppa if you’ve got enough to go ‘round, love.’

Annie rolled her eyes and smiled. ‘If you won’t call me matron you can at least call me Annie.’

‘Sorry, ma’am, just a habit.’

‘Yes, well, you’d best be sorry,’ she scolded, pouring him a cup, nevertheless.

‘Any word from Mrs. Holmes, then, Freddie?’ she threw back over her shoulder.

He looked glum. ‘No, nothing yet.’

‘Well,’ she said, handing John his cup, ‘perhaps she’s on her way here as we speak.’

Freddie’s eyes brightened a little at that. ‘I hope not. Far too dangerous.’

‘We’ll see,’ she shrugged, ‘but for now I’ll leave you boys in peace. Plenty of tea to pour.’

‘Don’t pull my leg Annie. I know you’re not pouring tea for the whole ward.’

‘I wouldn’t know what you’re implying, Major. Anyway, must be off.’

With that, Annie and her tea cart, with its squeaky wheel, went rattling and squeaking off down the corridor.

‘There’s a Mrs. Holmes then?’ John asked before it got too quiet.

Freddy simply nodded, sipping his tea.

‘Lucky man,’ John said.

‘I gather there’s no Mrs…’

‘Keating… No. No, there’s not.’

‘Ah. A girlfriend then?’

‘No, no one.’

The pair sat in awkward silence for a moment, sipping their tea. Eventually, Freddie spoke, seeming to pick right up where he had left off.

‘I must say, I’m somewhat surprised. You seem to have somewhat of a … knack for, well, good conversation, let’s say. It strikes me as odd that this hasn’t carried over to your attempts to … charm the fairer sex, so to speak.’

‘Funny you think that. I s’pose you’re right. I’ve never had much luck with sheilas. I’m usually either up in the air or covered in engine oil, and neither option is really…’

‘Conducive to attracting a partner?’ Freddie suggested.

‘If that’s what you wanna call it, yeah.’

‘Surely there’s been someone though? Not even a childhood sweetheart?’

John thought for a time, then seemed to resign himself to sharing.

‘Well, there was one girl…’ he began.

‘Theeere it is.’

‘She was my best mate, really. Didn’t have many, growing up. She lived over the road.’

‘Ah, the girl next door. I see.’

‘Eventually, we even dated for a few years. It was nice, but I was so distracted, working on my engines and my flying - trying to get into the RAAF - by the time I looked up from the grindstone, she’d given up on me and run off to marry some fancy rich guy.’

Freddie looked pensive for a few moments, polished off his tea and grunted with the pain of reaching over to his bedside table.

Finally, he said ‘I’m sorry that happened to you, John. You seem like a good man.’

‘Ah don’t you be sorry. You didn’t marry her,’ he quipped, laughing then wincing at his own joke.

‘I think this pain is getting worse. The doc reckons I’ve got an infection somewhere, but he doesn’t have any penicillin left to give me. You?’

‘The doctor told me something similar, I think, yes. Annie says she’s trying her best to get more in, but with Christmas coming up … well, it could be up to chance.’

Freddie’s expression seemed to indicate those chances weren’t very good.

‘D’you think we’ll make it to Chrissy then?’ John asked.

‘Hard to say. If we do, and we do have internal bacterial infections, I doubt we’ll have the presence of mind to notice.’

‘I s’pose not.’

John finished his tea, opting to leave the cup in his lap rather than reach for the table. He looked out the window at the dull European sky.

‘Y’know, it’d be nice to see home again, one last time.’

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Excerpt from the journal of Major Frederick Holmes MD, RAMC:

Saturday, 23rd December 1944

            Both John’s and my condition is worsening by the day. The doctor is right, we’ve both got infections from shrapnel that hit us in the blast. If we’d been closer, it might’ve cauterised the wound on the way in, but then again, if we’d been closer, we might’ve been killed instantly. In any case, I doubt either of us will live to see 1945.

            On the positive, I must say that I’m glad to have met John. We’ve grown close this last week. Perhaps there’s something to be said for the bond two men share on their deathbed. We’ve had discussions deeper than I’d have cared to be having with an Australian airman, but here we are.

            Still no word from home. Annie keeps saying ‘Maybe Mrs. Holmes is on her way here right now. You just hold out hope, okay?’. Part of me desperately wants that to be true, but the rest of me - the part which wants to spare her the pain of my passing - hopes it is not.

            I asked John about it today. I asked, if he could have the girl he lost walk through those doors to say one last goodbye, would he, knowing she would have to watch him die? He said he would, because he’d give anything for one last chance to tell her how he feels. I suppose that makes sense.

            He asked me if I wanted my wife to arrive before I go. I told him she knows how I feel, and I’d rather she not suffer more than need be. I hope I’m right. I hope she knows.

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It was a cold and blustery Christmas morning in Brussels, when a distraught woman, freezing without her coat and barely keeping hold of a handful of papers, burst into Matron Annabelle Rose’s hospital ward.

Upon hearing her name, the Matron abandoned protocol. There was no time. She wrapped her own coat around the woman and rushed her to a room where one man lay dying and another lay dead.

Annie watched as the woman fell to her knees at her husband’s side. The papers she had clutched falling to the floor. Annie listened as they made their final goodbyes, as the woman promised to tell her daughter how much her father loved her.

Annie listened as, with his dying breath, Freddie Holmes asked his wife to remember John Keating, a friend, and to make sure that, if a woman came here looking for John, she would be told he was sorry, that he forgave her, and that he loved her.

Annie listened, but she did not watch. Instead, she stared down at the floor. She stared down at two telegrams, laying side by side. She stared at the address line, and she stared at the signatures.

Both were addressed to one Mrs. Aileen Holmes of Bombay, India.

One was signed by her husband, Major Frederick Holmes. Annie had sent that one herself.

The other was signed as follows:

From Brussels with love,

Your dearest John.

Acronyms Used in Characters' Names:

FNM - the Florence Nightingale Medal

The FNM is the highest international honour a nurse can be given for their service.

QARANC - Queen Alexandria's Royal Army Nursing Corps

Branch of the British Armed Forces for women nurses at the time of world war two.

RAMC - Royal Army Medical Corps

Branch of the British Armed Forces for all other medical personnel at the time of world war two.

MD - Medical Doctor

RAAF - Royal Australian Air Force