June 17th, 1916
I cannot cry. Two days ago Theodore was laughing and joking and lying bandaged in his bed, and now he is lying in a mortuary far from here. My sweet marigold is gone. This morning when I woke and walked to the hospital, I looked forward to seeing him again, and telling him of my strange dream in which he appeared. He loved it when I told him about my dreams, he found them strange and rather entertaining. I walked a few steps preparing how I would describe a certain portion of it before I remembered that Theodore would not be there to hear it.
He seemed so well the other day, but he fell ill, with infection and fever. He had been improving for so long, and then to be struck by illness and heartache at the same time. It’s too horrible. Knowing that he was younger than he should have been only makes all this worse. At least he did not suffer from a hemorrhage, I would not have been able to bear that. On the other hand, he might have died more quickly that way. The way he died, I had a chance to see him sweating and groaning and writhing in his bed. His sheets were twisted about his body as he struggled. It was a terrible sight. I see it every time I close my eyes. I did not sleep well last night, and I will not sleep much tonight. I leave tomorrow.
June 18th, 1916
Early this morning Dorothy the Daisy and I boarded a train. It was a nice train, which surprised me. The seats, while not exactly velvet, were comfortable. We spent many hours on that train talking, reading, and in my case, writing. It is so quiet here, travelling, the silence is almost louder than the artillery. I received a letter from Mother today, and one from Frederick yesterday. Both are well, and I am glad to hear from them. I did not tell Mother about Theodore, but Frederick knows. Next time I write I will have to recount Theodore’s death once more, for surely Frederick will ask after him . He always does that for his little sister’s friends.
The day has been uneventful so far, just Dorothy and I on a train. I will write letters, and maybe a sketch a bit. I do enjoy sketching. So, apparently, does Theodore. Did Theodore. I must remember that he is in the past-tense now. He drew a small picture of a garden, and left it on his nightstand with my name written on it, with a note of thanks for all I had done. That was the evening before he died.
I wonder what this new hospital will be like. Bigger, I think, and perhaps not as pleasant. At least Claire and her endless malice will not be chasing after me with scalding looks and remarks about my appearance. In spending and recounting all my time with Theodore, I have neglected to mention that Claire, who I thought might have been nicer once you got to know her, only gets worse. She is cruel, but I still believe that she has a heart in her somewhere, and it cannot be stone, for there are few people with hearts of stone. I am beginning to think that the people who started this bloody horror may have stone hearts. I concede that they cannot have known the carnage that they would cause, but if they felt sorry they should have stopped by now. Men are dying in droves, young and scared and innocent. It is not their fault that the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was killed, nor their fault that their country has allied itself with another. The people out on the Front, many of them are not even men yet. They are still boys, and it hurts me to think of how much they must suffer. War is terrible. It has taken from me a person that I loved, and I pray that he will be the last. God forbid that Frederick or Edwin should be the one twisted up and choking on his own vomit.
Speaking of Edwin, I haven’t heard anything from him in over a week and I am beginning to worry. I usually receive a letter from him every few days. My stomach fills with dread whenever I think of him. My sweet Edwin. What have they done to him?
June 20th, 1916
Julia, from the other hospital, is an orchid, Mary is a poppy, and I have finally decided upon myself. I am a peppermint carnation. Red and white around the edges, and frilly but a bit sharp, I think this flower will suit me quite well.
On another note, Dorothy and I arrived at the new hospital very late last night. It is near Étaples, France, and it is called St John’s Hospital. This area is known as the Somme. I imagine it was beautiful once, but now it is green and grey and brown, with the occasional crater in the ground. The noise here is the same, but the hospital is bigger and there are more patients and nurses. I have found the dormitory area where I will sleep with the other VADs, and it seems nice enough. Not very homely, but compared to the hospital it will seem much more like home once I am used to it. I hope that I shall make friends here, for if I am to end up here with only Dorothy to make conversation with (though she is sweet and kind she is not an intellectual), it shall be terribly unbearable. I believe that I have already met a future friend. She is a French girl who goes by the name of Sophie, and is very sharp, both of tongue and wit. She is still caring, and treats each soldier as if he were her own brother. Any brother of hers would be lucky to have such a wonderful sister. Sophie is brave, intelligent, and rather cheeky. I feel that we will be great friends soon enough, especially because I took French lessons when I was young and I am nearly fluent now, just as she is in English, so we can converse in any language of our choosing. We often convert to Pig Latin. It takes our minds of the grey, and keeps our hearts warm and our throats laughing.
As to the schedule here, it is not much changed, but the uniform is even more strictly enforced, if that is possible. Our corsets must be tighter (though I think it ridiculous that we wear them at all), our dresses and aprons ironed more often, and our hair pulled back so that it is nearly invisible beneath our immaculate white veils (Of course by the end of the day the veils are not so immaculate). Luckily I still have a bit of free time here at St John’s, so I shall be able to continue writing in this journal (I have found that Julia was right, writing everything down has helped me feel better).
The soldiers that we see walking about all seem very nervous, and some seem rather excited. In all of their faces I see Theodore, or Frederick, or Edwin. Now that Theodore has been taken from me I fear for all the soldiers I see more greatly. I think of the three of them every single day (And Mother and Beatrice too, of course). I sincerely and desperately hope that we will make it out of this horror soon enough.
Sophie is baby’s breath.
I cannot cry. Two days ago Theodore was laughing and joking and lying bandaged in his bed, and now he is lying in a mortuary far from here. My sweet marigold is gone. This morning when I woke and walked to the hospital, I looked forward to seeing him again, and telling him of my strange dream in which he appeared. He loved it when I told him about my dreams, he found them strange and rather entertaining. I walked a few steps preparing how I would describe a certain portion of it before I remembered that Theodore would not be there to hear it.
He seemed so well the other day, but he fell ill, with infection and fever. He had been improving for so long, and then to be struck by illness and heartache at the same time. It’s too horrible. Knowing that he was younger than he should have been only makes all this worse. At least he did not suffer from a hemorrhage, I would not have been able to bear that. On the other hand, he might have died more quickly that way. The way he died, I had a chance to see him sweating and groaning and writhing in his bed. His sheets were twisted about his body as he struggled. It was a terrible sight. I see it every time I close my eyes. I did not sleep well last night, and I will not sleep much tonight. I leave tomorrow.
June 18th, 1916
Early this morning Dorothy the Daisy and I boarded a train. It was a nice train, which surprised me. The seats, while not exactly velvet, were comfortable. We spent many hours on that train talking, reading, and in my case, writing. It is so quiet here, travelling, the silence is almost louder than the artillery. I received a letter from Mother today, and one from Frederick yesterday. Both are well, and I am glad to hear from them. I did not tell Mother about Theodore, but Frederick knows. Next time I write I will have to recount Theodore’s death once more, for surely Frederick will ask after him . He always does that for his little sister’s friends.
The day has been uneventful so far, just Dorothy and I on a train. I will write letters, and maybe a sketch a bit. I do enjoy sketching. So, apparently, does Theodore. Did Theodore. I must remember that he is in the past-tense now. He drew a small picture of a garden, and left it on his nightstand with my name written on it, with a note of thanks for all I had done. That was the evening before he died.
I wonder what this new hospital will be like. Bigger, I think, and perhaps not as pleasant. At least Claire and her endless malice will not be chasing after me with scalding looks and remarks about my appearance. In spending and recounting all my time with Theodore, I have neglected to mention that Claire, who I thought might have been nicer once you got to know her, only gets worse. She is cruel, but I still believe that she has a heart in her somewhere, and it cannot be stone, for there are few people with hearts of stone. I am beginning to think that the people who started this bloody horror may have stone hearts. I concede that they cannot have known the carnage that they would cause, but if they felt sorry they should have stopped by now. Men are dying in droves, young and scared and innocent. It is not their fault that the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was killed, nor their fault that their country has allied itself with another. The people out on the Front, many of them are not even men yet. They are still boys, and it hurts me to think of how much they must suffer. War is terrible. It has taken from me a person that I loved, and I pray that he will be the last. God forbid that Frederick or Edwin should be the one twisted up and choking on his own vomit.
Speaking of Edwin, I haven’t heard anything from him in over a week and I am beginning to worry. I usually receive a letter from him every few days. My stomach fills with dread whenever I think of him. My sweet Edwin. What have they done to him?
June 20th, 1916
Julia, from the other hospital, is an orchid, Mary is a poppy, and I have finally decided upon myself. I am a peppermint carnation. Red and white around the edges, and frilly but a bit sharp, I think this flower will suit me quite well.
On another note, Dorothy and I arrived at the new hospital very late last night. It is near Étaples, France, and it is called St John’s Hospital. This area is known as the Somme. I imagine it was beautiful once, but now it is green and grey and brown, with the occasional crater in the ground. The noise here is the same, but the hospital is bigger and there are more patients and nurses. I have found the dormitory area where I will sleep with the other VADs, and it seems nice enough. Not very homely, but compared to the hospital it will seem much more like home once I am used to it. I hope that I shall make friends here, for if I am to end up here with only Dorothy to make conversation with (though she is sweet and kind she is not an intellectual), it shall be terribly unbearable. I believe that I have already met a future friend. She is a French girl who goes by the name of Sophie, and is very sharp, both of tongue and wit. She is still caring, and treats each soldier as if he were her own brother. Any brother of hers would be lucky to have such a wonderful sister. Sophie is brave, intelligent, and rather cheeky. I feel that we will be great friends soon enough, especially because I took French lessons when I was young and I am nearly fluent now, just as she is in English, so we can converse in any language of our choosing. We often convert to Pig Latin. It takes our minds of the grey, and keeps our hearts warm and our throats laughing.
As to the schedule here, it is not much changed, but the uniform is even more strictly enforced, if that is possible. Our corsets must be tighter (though I think it ridiculous that we wear them at all), our dresses and aprons ironed more often, and our hair pulled back so that it is nearly invisible beneath our immaculate white veils (Of course by the end of the day the veils are not so immaculate). Luckily I still have a bit of free time here at St John’s, so I shall be able to continue writing in this journal (I have found that Julia was right, writing everything down has helped me feel better).
The soldiers that we see walking about all seem very nervous, and some seem rather excited. In all of their faces I see Theodore, or Frederick, or Edwin. Now that Theodore has been taken from me I fear for all the soldiers I see more greatly. I think of the three of them every single day (And Mother and Beatrice too, of course). I sincerely and desperately hope that we will make it out of this horror soon enough.
Sophie is baby’s breath.
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