Battle Hymns Page 5

  “I don’t know if I can be a nurse.”

  “Well you wouldn’t be a nurse. You’d be a nurses’ aide. You don’t get paid, and you don’t have to go to nursing school. You’ll probably need some training. You said you’re good at studying, so you’ll pick it up quickly. You should do it.”

  “Sandra, how do you know so much about this?”

  The Number Twelve bus slowed to a stop in front of them. Men and women in smart suits and hats descended the stairs, and Sandra stood, the shopping bag hanging over her arm. “My mother was a nurse, and before that, an aide. She once told me it was her life’s calling. She loved her job until the day she died.” Sandra exhaled a sigh and squared her shoulders. “Call me next week. We can meet up.”

  Sandra’s bus departed, and Charlotte was left to her thoughts. She stared at the girl in the Red Cross poster. Her dark hair was neatly pulled back. Her lips were painted red. Like all girls in the posters, she was the epitome of style and glamour, even as she worked and did her part for the war effort. Did she also have a fiancé or a beau who trained for the war? The girl didn’t fear the uncertain future as Charlotte did. Instead, she looked forward bravely, her chin high.

  Charlotte wanted to be like that girl. She was determined to be.

  The Number Five bus pulled up, and Charlotte chuckled self-consciously. The girl in the poster was only a drawing, a figment of the imagination of the artist who drew her. The volunteer office wanted her to identify with the girl.

  And by golly, it worked.

  Seven

  The Civilian Defense Volunteer Office was located on the fourth floor of an administrative building in downtown D.C. The agency was part of the Office of Civilian Defense, which was established by President Roosevelt only a year earlier in order to protect American civilians should the enemy attack the United States. Its volunteers organized air raid drills, protected industrial plants from sabotage, and aided nurses in hospitals.

  For all its importance, the staff was smaller than Charlotte had expected. Three secretaries sat at a line of desks in front of three private offices. Even though they opened only fifteen minutes earlier at eight o’clock, the secretaries typed and collated a flurry of paperwork. Charlotte approached the nearest secretary who punched keys on a typewriter.

  The clicking stopped. The middle-aged woman stared at Charlotte over the top of her glasses, her eyebrows raised expectantly. “May I help you?”

  Charlotte smiled. “Good morning. I’m here to volunteer my services as a nurses’ aide with the Red Cross. The posters all said to come here.”

  The secretary nodded. “Your name?”

  “Charlotte Donahue.”

  The secretary scribbled Charlotte’s name onto a sheet of lined paper. Then she flipped open a file folder and fished out a sheet of paper. She handed it to Charlotte, along with a clipboard and pen. “This is an application to determine your eligibility. Take a seat and fill this out. We’ll call for you.”

  “Thank you.” Charlotte sat on one of the uncomfortable, wooden chairs in the waiting area. On the form she specified her full name, age, birth date, and occupation. She provided the name of her high school and her graduation year. She acknowledged she wouldn’t expect compensation for her time and services. Then she waited, staring at the wall clock and thinking about Nick.

  Twenty minutes passed before Charlotte was called by a heavyset man with black hair and beady eyes who emerged from one of the private offices. She stood, adjusted the skirt of her short-sleeved cotton dress, and approached him. He took her application and gestured for her to join him. He closed the office door behind her and took a seat behind a desk covered in white and yellow papers. A burning cigarette rested in an ashtray next to a chipped coffee mug. The black nameplate on his desk read Simon Bartkowski in capital letters. He signaled for her to sit in an armchair across from the desk.

  “As you may be aware, we’re experiencing a severe shortage of nurses to support the civilian population. To fill the gap, we’re recruiting aides to assist in unskilled medical duties to ease the burdens of our nurses.” He pointed a finger at Charlotte. “However, this does not mean we accept just anyone into the Corps. This is not a summertime diversion, Miss Donahue, and applicants must be aware of the required dedication. You will be expected to serve as necessary—wherever, whenever, and for however long. Is that understood?”

  Charlotte was unaware she was expected to make such a commitment. Nonetheless, she nodded. She couldn’t turn back now. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  Mr. Bartkowski leaned back in his chair and tented his hands under his chin. “Assuming you meet all the eligibility requirements, here is what will happen. I will approve your application, and we will send the approved application to your local Red Cross chapter. You will then be scheduled for the training course. Training consists of two units: Unit One will be an instructor-led demonstration and practice at the Red Cross chapter house, two hours a day, five days a week, for three and a half weeks. Unit Two will be supervised practice at an approved training hospital, three hours a day, five days a week, for three weeks. Afterward, there will be an examination. If you pass the examination, you will receive a certificate, and the Red Cross will assign you to another hospital. That’s almost two months of training.”

  Charlotte nodded.

  Mr. Bartkowski scanned her application. “You’re a student at Trinity College. Will you continue your studies in the fall?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’re willing and able to complete one hundred and fifty hours of service in each calendar year, in addition to your studies?”

  She calculated that completing the minimum hours in one year wasn’t a demanding commitment. “I am.”

  He laid the application onto his desk and made a note. Then he stared at Charlotte, his eyes moving from her hair to her bosom and down to her legs. “Are you physically active, Miss Donahue?”

  She shifted in her seat and nodded. “I enjoy playing tennis.” While he jotted down another note, she pulled the hem of her skirt further over her knees.

  “And do you have any injuries that would prevent you from doing your job?”

  “No, sir.”

  Mr. Bartkowski perused her application again and reached for a rubber stamp. He pounded it into the pad of black ink and onto her application. He held up the paper so she could see the stamp of approval. “Miss Donahue, you’re one step closer to helping your country in a time of crisis. Thank you for your time and commitment. You may leave.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She stood and exited his office.

  When Charlotte returned home, her mother was in the backyard, pulling weeds from her victory garden. She kneeled in the dirt on makeshift pads fashioned from oven mitts and ribbons. Upon seeing her daughter, she wiped away the sheen on her forehead with her arm. “How’d it go?”

  Charlotte sat at the patio table and squinted at her mother against the sunlight. “I got in. I have to wait for the Red Cross to accept me into a training course.”

  “What will they train you in?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know . . . whatever nurses’ aides do.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re getting involved with something this summer. It’ll keep your mind off Nick’s absence.” Her mother resumed her weeding. “Speaking of Nick, another letter came this morning.”

  Charlotte excused herself and hurried back into the house. A pile of mail sat on the table near the front door. She found Nick’s letter and read it in the entryway.

  June 1, 1942

  Little Creek, Virginia

  Dear Charlotte,

  Training, training, training, training, training. I’m confident in my abilities, but we’re doing the same thing over and over and over and over and over again. It feels like this big waiting game—we’re just waiting for our orders. God knows where we’ll be sent, but I want to leave already. Perhaps that’s why they’re taking so long. By the time we leave, we’ll be thrilled to be shipped o
ff to the war zone.

  Sometimes, I entertain hope that one morning one of my commanding officers will enter the mess hall and announce that the war is over. Hitler has been killed, the Nazis have surrendered, and we’re able to go home to our loved ones. This training would have all been in vain, but I wouldn’t care, because I’d get to see you again. However, I have a feeling this war won’t be over anytime in the near future. At least that means I’ll be able to do my part in the fight.

  The other night, I accompanied some of my buddies to the local USO. There was a big shindig with live music, dancing, and much better food than we normally eat. I admit I did dance with a few nice girls. Don’t worry, they didn’t hold a candle to you. But I sat out when they played our song. I couldn’t dance to that tune with anyone but you.

  Thinking of you, happy and smiling, is what gets me through each day. When I return, I promise, we’ll get married. There’s no way I could wait any longer.

  Love,

  Nick

  Charlotte didn’t compose her reply until later that night, when she was in the privacy of her bedroom.

  June 8, 1942

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  Dear Nick,

  This morning my application to become a volunteer nurses’ aide was accepted. I have to train and take courses for almost seven weeks before I can start working, but what else would I do this summer? I want to do my part in this war, even though my meager efforts don’t compare to yours.

  I’m glad you’re going out and having some fun every so often, even if it means you’re dancing with other girls. I trust you and I know you love me.

  My heart longs for the next time I can see you again, hold you in my arms, and kiss you. I’ve daydreamed of that moment every single day since you left. It’s almost worse you’re not far away from me. It’d only be a hop, skip, and a jump down to Virginia Beach, but I know you’re not allowed to leave and I’m not allowed to visit. I guess this has been good practice for when we’re continents apart from each other.

  I love you so much. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better fiancé. Keep up the good work and make all of us proud. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

  Love,

  Charlotte

  She scribbled the address in Little Creek, Virginia onto the envelope, folded the letter neatly, and sealed it inside. She attached a stamp in the upper right-hand corner and kissed it. After so many months, the process had become routine.

  Eight

  Paper certificates and wooden pins covered with the embroidered Red Cross emblem were distributed around the room at the chapter house. “Congratulations, ladies,” said the head of the Nurses’ Aide Committee. “You should be proud to call yourselves members of the Volunteer Nurses’ Aide Corps. Give yourselves a round of applause.”

  The new class of nurses’ aides, ranging in age from eighteen to fifty, clapped for each other.

  “Hospital assignments have been posted on the bulletin board in the hall. We did our best to accommodate your location. If there are any problems, please see me. Thank you.”

  The two dozen women rose from their seats and, in an excited chatter, beelined it to the hallway to find their assignments.

  Rachel Stern, a skinny girl with dark hair, pale skin, and wide-set eyes, linked her arm with Charlotte’s. “Maybe we’ll be assigned to the same hospital.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Maybe so.”

  Both young women completed their courses with the same instructors and in the same group at the training hospital. They developed a camaraderie over the past seven weeks, especially since they were both unprepared for the duties they faced on day one. Looking back, Charlotte could laugh at her naivety. She hadn’t expected some of the duties to be so labor-intensive. They scrubbed floors, cleaned bathrooms, and changed bed sheets. Sanitization helped prevent the spread of disease and was vital to the hospital environment. Thankfully, these responsibilities rotated among the nurses’ aides, and Charlotte only had to clean for one day every few weeks.

  Most of her time was spent interacting with patients. She cast fractures with wool and plaster, and later removed those casts with a handsaw. She took vital signs. She knew which areas of the body were best for palpating heart rate and how to calculate beats per minute. She cleaned shallow wounds and applied bandages. She even changed bedpans and bathed patients in bed, knowing how best to maintain privacy and dignity.

  In addition to practical training, the Nurses’ Aide Committee also stressed the importance of bedside manner and professional ethics. With the patient, nurses’ aides were always kind and courteous. They remembered the name of each patient and greeted him before any procedure so the patient was at ease. They kept conversations light and pleasant. And if the patient asked about his medical condition, they said they were unable to form an opinion and he should talk with his nurse or physician.

  The aides never questioned the authority of the doctor. The manual emphasized how many more years of higher learning and training physicians had completed compared to their seven weeks. The nurses’ aides stood in the presence of their doctors, both to revere the selflessness of their profession and to show their readiness to help in whatever possible way.

  Charlotte absorbed the instruction quickly, and she didn’t mind the tasks many other volunteers found repulsive. One of her supervising nurses said she was a natural and had a comforting bedside manner, a compliment that was a necessary esteem boost.

  A crowd had gathered around the bulletin board by the time Charlotte and Rachel arrived. Charlotte didn’t care which hospital she was assigned, so she stood in the back while Rachel pushed through the gathering to find their names. Rachel made her way to the front and ran her finger down the list. She jumped up and down and returned to Charlotte, clapping her hands excitedly.

  “You and I are assigned to the Army Medical Center here in D.C.! Do you know what that means?”

  Charlotte chuckled at Rachel’s enthusiasm. “No. What does it mean?”

  “No more baby spit up. Only brave, handsome soldiers!”

  ***

  Located at the northern end of the District of Columbia, the Army Medical Center was associated with the Walter Reed General Hospital as well as the Army Medical, Dental, and Veterinary Schools. The complex of rose-brick buildings from the colonial revival period resembled a college campus with open green lawns, large trees, and winding walkways. Instead of classrooms and dormitories, the structures housed hospital wards, barracks, nurses’ quarters, recreational centers, and operating rooms.

  Charlotte stood at the foot of the wide steps in front of the main building. The white, limestone portico, supported by four giant columns, towered overhead. She squinted at the inscription—Walter Reed General Hospital—in the bright August sun. Two doctors wearing white coats exited the building.

  Despite all her training, butterflies fluttered in her stomach like it was her first day at a new school. Charlotte stepped forward. She was only delaying the inevitable.

  She hurried up the steps and pulled open one of the doors. When she entered, the secretary at reception looked up from her paperwork.

  “First day?”

  “How could you tell?”

  The secretary gestured to Charlotte’s nurses’ aide uniform—a light blue and white cap, white blouse, and light blue pinafore dress with the Red Cross emblem on the chest. “Your uniform is still starched.”

  Charlotte ran her hands down the front of her dress, smoothing out the few wrinkles from her bus ride to the hospital.

  “Do you have your paperwork?”

  Charlotte handed her the papers she’d brought with her, and the secretary wrote her information on a white card. “This is your time card. It will be placed in the card file behind me alphabetically. When you arrive, you’ll sign in. When you leave, you’ll sign out.” The secretary jotted the time and filed away the card. Then she stood. “I’ll show you to the ward where you’ll work. By the way, you can call me Mrs. Farrell.”

>   Charlotte followed Mrs. Farrell through the lobby. As they strolled toward the East Wing of the building, the secretary gave a brief description of the property.

  “There are three auxiliary wings to this building. The East and West Wings are comprised mainly of detention, observation, and convalescent wards. The mess hall, library, rehabilitation wards, and a secondary entrance are in the North Wing. Most of the operating rooms are in the main building, as well as the administrative offices.”

  Mrs. Farrell led Charlotte into an elevator. The operator took them up to the second floor, and they exited into a nearly identical hallway.

  “Miss Donahue, I’ve assigned you to Convalescent Ward Fifteen. It’s one of our larger wards with twenty beds.” Mrs. Farrell stopped at a doorway. “And here we are.”

  Like the rest of the hospital, Convalescent Ward Fifteen was painted white. The long, rectangular room held rows of single beds on each side. Some beds had patients lying in them. Others were empty. Nurses wearing white dress uniforms and white caps made their rounds, and one doctor checked on his patients. Two other nurses’ aides were working on the ward this morning.

  Mrs. Farrell waved her hand to grab the attention of the charge nurse. “Nurse Parker, we have a new nurses’ aide. This is Miss Donahue.”

  Despite her station, Nurse Parker wasn’t much older than Charlotte—in her late twenties at the most. Her golden brown hair was pulled into a bun beneath her cap, and she wore minimal makeup on her round face.