She continued walking quickly in the direction of the Army hospital, the long skirt of her nurse’s uniform swishing as she walked. Those who passed her on the street looked at her curiously and thought it was odd to see a nurse wearing such an expensive looking coat and a hat that had recently been seen in the best shops.
Sara Stanley hurried up the main staircase of the hospital. In the hallway, injured soldiers were lying on cots, crying out in pain. Nurses tried to comfort them. Sara rushed past them, hardly hearing their cries for help. The clamour in the hallway, the shouts in French and English, became a loud blur to Sara. She entered the main hospital ward and looked about her. As she did, she saw the windows shake as a bomb fell only a few miles from the hospital. Young men in uniform carried out three dead soldiers. “Excusez moi, mademoiselle,” one of the men said to her.
“Miss Stanley!” called a voice in English. “Miss Stanley, I need you now!”
Sara rushed into the operating room. The young man who spoke was Dr. Henri D’Aulaire, with whom Sara had been working with since she became a nurse. Sara quickly took her position and held a young soldier’s hands. “I need to remove the shrapnel from this soldier’s legs,” he told her. “I haven’t any more anaesthesia.”
Sara looked down at the young soldier who lay on the operating table. He was young, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. He was praying fervently in French. Before he would allow either of the nurses to touch him, he reached into his muddy tunic, pulled out a crucifix and kissed it.
Sara and another nurse held on to the young soldier’s hands while he cried out in pain. Henri successfully removed the shrapnel and Sara bandaged the soldier’s leg. When she had finished, she walked over to Henri, who was standing over the bed of another soldier, speaking to a nurse in French. The young soldier was wheezing, coughing and gasping for every breath.
“Give this soldier some pain medicine and place him in the recovery ward,” Henri instructed the French nurse.
Sara looked up at him in surprise. She grabbed his arm. “Henri, this man needs treatment.”
Henri looked at her as though she’d gone mad. “This man’s been gassed, Sara,” he explained to her. “We have no treatment. We need the bed for a soldier we can save.”
Surprised by his coldness, Sara released his arm and backed away from him. “It’s war, Sara,” he tried to explain.
Visibly upset, she shook her head slowly and hurried out of the room. “Sara!” Henri called after her. A bomb exploded violently near Paris and plaster began falling from the ceiling. “Sara!” Henri called again. Sara screamed and made her way out of the room unharmed.
Sara took herself to a secluded area of the hospital. She removed the blood-soaked apron she wore and sat on a wooden bench. She put her head in her hands and tried to compose herself. An incredible feeling of nausea swept over her. She had been working at the hospital continuously and had got very little sleep. She had become very thin and pale. Henri found her there, deep in thought. “I want you to leave, Sara,” he told her.
“No, really, Henri. I’m fine. Please let me stay.”
“I want you to leave Paris. It’s too dangerous here.”
“You’re staying,” she said obstinately.
“This hospital…this is where I am needed.”
“It’s dangerous to travel in France. You know that. I won’t leave. I won’t leave you.”
“You must. Here,” he handed her a small slip of paper. “I know this man. He can get you out of France…safely.”
“Don’t you want me here?”
“Of course I do. But I also want you to live. If Paris falls…”
“It’s over,” Sara finished.
“So you see you must. Paris…this war…this is not where you belong,” he kissed her lightly on the lips, “go home, Sara. Go back to your Avonlea.”
Sara looked up at him, pleadingly, tears falling from her eyes.
Close this window to return to the index