Thanks so much for your critique. I appreciate knowing what an audience might think if at some time in the future I might want to publish it beyond my family. However, knowing that self-published family histories are one of those rather dismissed things, here's a wee snippet to give a "vibe" of the story...perhaps a clue to the style of the cover?
Chapter 5
Dulce et Decorum est
By the end of 1914, with the war in Europe gaining momentum, several more of the voluntary nurses had fled the hospital in tears of exhaustion or stress, in shock at the visions of Hell that were their lot.
These young women were simply unable to steel their delicate sensibilities to the job’s demands. Soothing the brow of a rather attractive young captain had initially been the limit of their idea of the role. Instead, they were tasked right from the start with the most menial of chores, traditionally the province of the lowliest probationer nurse. One of the most shocking experiences, however, was exposure to the sight of naked men for the first time in their lives. Far worse than that, they saw them, not as healthy and vital youths discovering the precious sensuality of first love, but as bloodied meat on a butcher’s slab. Then there were the distraught girls whose fiancés, brothers, friends had already made the ultimate sacrifice. The nurses’ resignations were construed as a lack of moral fibre, creating headaches for the Joint Committee, committed as they were to the provision of desperately needed staff for the growing number of hospitals.
Mary Somerville, a debutante of 1908 and a Colonel’s daughter, had begun her Red Cross training with Winifred in May of 1914. She had been filled with the zeal of doing something useful with her life but instead became one of the early casualties. Her two elder and one younger brother already held commissions in good County Regiments. Products of Sandhurst, naturally. Mary and Winifred had become great pals and were each other’s ‘patients’ in their wound-bandaging classes. Poor clumsy Mary could never quite grasp the principles. Three months into their training, the probationers installed in the new hospital, Mary was still struggling. “I say, Win, I simply can’t manage this ... how do you get this bit over that one? You make it all look so easy. Will you show me again?”
Win patiently demonstrated repeatedly the technique. Mary’s stubby fingers with their bitten nails never quite accomplished it. She became increasingly flustered. Had her father the Colonel been present, he would have barked at her in the manner poor Mary’s friends had overheard on his only visit to the hospital. Mary was terrified of the red-faced Colonel, with his piggy eyes, shiny bald pate and bristling nose hair, bullying his daughter as he did the lowliest private; terrified, too, of Matron and of the professional nurses who despised her incompetence.
Her youngest brother, Hugo, a handsome subaltern and very fond of his sister, occasionally visited her on his motorcycle. He called her Mollie and treated her with kindness, taking her out in his sidecar on some of her precious afternoons off. He was evidently quite taken with his sister’s redhaired chum too, always greeting her as a great pal, with a dazzling smile and a warm, firm handshake.
On the day before The Queen’s Own (West Surreys) embarked for France, he sped up to the hospital in his sister’s brief lunchtime to say goodbye. He embraced her warmly, tipped her chin gently to brush away the tears, and kissed the tip of her nose.
“Cheerio, Mollie darling, see you for Christmas. Buck up now, old thing, or you’ll have me blubbing too.”
Such gentle kindness was the cause of increased bullying among the more bitter professionals, having been encouraged by the Colonel’s treatment of his daughter. Mary became increasingly downhearted.
In early November, Mary received a brusque telephone call from her father. Twenty-year-old Second Lieutenant Hugo Somerville had been killed at Ypres on October 31st, leading his men from the front in a bold but futile attack. He had been recommended for a posthumous Military Cross. The Colonel displayed a remarkable public equanimity. The unkind described it as complacency. His son had done his duty as a man and had brought glory upon his family.
Dulce et decorum est pro Patria mori.
Mary, faced with such a loss, could find nothing sweet nor fitting in the death of her beloved young brother in such a way, before he had even become a legal adult. A few days later, she began to shake, her hands to tremble. The next day, she was simply not there.
The VADs’ quiet efficiency soon won the grudging respect of the trained nurses. They never flinched from any task, regardless of its degree of unpleasantness. The VADs worked a long daytime shift, not yet being sufficiently experienced nor trusted to take on the frequently solo night duties. There was yet time to whip these ninnies into shape to face the realities of the long and tedious night hours, said the professionals.