Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined.
~ Henry David Thoreau ~
Spotlight
Lieutenant Robert Fitzgerald has managed to retain his sanity, his humanity, and his honor during the hell of WWI's trench warfare. Charlotte Braninov fled the shifting storm of the impending Russian Revolution for the less-threatening world of field camp medicine, serving as a nurse in the most hopeless of fronts. Their friendship creates a sanctuary both could cling to in the most desperate of times. Historical fiction about life, loss, and love, By the Hands of Men explores the power that lies within each of us to harm - or to heal - all those we touch.
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Excerpt
The new girl was peering about the tent when Charlotte and Kathleen stumbled in at the end of their shift that July day in 1917. The work itself was exhausting – twelve hours of standing, bending, folding, feeding, bandaging, debriding, cleaning, and sterilizing; only to repeat it all again. Add to that labor the effort of presenting cheerful countenances to the hundreds of wounded men they passed each day, and it may be understood that their labors were truly Herculean.
Giving a smile to men who might not live through the night, and who knew this to be a fact, was begrudged by none of the nurses. But after long hours of facing down death, with men who had not seen a woman’s smile or felt the gentle touch of a feminine hand in months, the most fervent desire to be of service could transmute into mere stoical endurance under the simple grinding toil, as if turning gold into lead. Know this, and understand the depth of the two nurses’ fatigue as they tramped into their temporary canvas-covered home.
The camp had been in place for over a year, and this was fortunate for the weary women. They were able to trudge directly to their tent without sparing it conscious thought. When the hospital was reorganized the previous spring to accommodate the ever-increasing flow of the wounded, the nurses’ tents and their few belongings were placed haphazardly around the new hospital location. The nightly blackout, would force the two girls to creep along, whispering for directions from equally worn-out nurses who were fortunate enough to already be abed. More than once, Charlotte and Kathleen had tumbled unknowing into strange cots, only to be awakened for their shifts by bemused nurses ready for their own beds.
“Hullo,” the new girl said politely as they entered the tent that had been their home for close to year.
“’Lo,” Kathleen the plain-faced nurse from America allowed, heading directly to her bunk. They’d been fed the infernal hospital soup along with the unexpected treat of fresh plums at the end of their short shift. There had been a lull in the continual contest over the same yards of churned, bloody French soil, and thus the number of causalities pouring into the hospital had slowed. A 12-hour day was a comparative luxury, compared to their experiences after the Battle of the Somme less than a year ago.
The American dove toward her pillow with almost lustful abandon. “Kathleen,” she said, indicating herself, and then flapped a weary hand toward Charlotte. “Cheri,” she added, giving the nickname the wounded French soldiers had bestowed on the other girl.
“Charlotte,” the other corrected, and observed on the new girl’s face an eyebrow flick, registering the faint accent her voice still carried.
The new girl extended her hand primly. “Alice.” Charlotte shook the offered hand. Alice had prominent bones in her hand, and very fine, pale skin, unlike the olive of Charlotte’s more foreign complexion. Alice’s English diction was precise, her speech dancing with the tones that only birth and wealth and High Church could provide.
“Take that cot,” Charlotte said, trying not to resent the time the new arrival kept her from her own waiting pillow and blankets. “We’ll get you sorted in the morning.”
“Oh, thanks, much!” Alice said. “I slipped over on a mail packet, and one of the boys driving the ambulance made some room for me in the back.”
Charlotte smiled wanly and grunted in a way that only indicated acknowledgement, not interest. Nurses came over in all kinds of ways now, so hopping one of the little boats that plied mail across the Channel was nothing special. Nor was catching the ambulance. Most of the drivers were boys, and they’d not turn down the opportunity to flirt, however shyly, with a young Miss in the horse-blanket ugly, dark blue serge uniform of a nurse.
Kathleen had already turned into her blankets, her back to the two of them. Charlotte sat on her wooden and canvas cot, eased off her boots. There was so much to tell this young slip of a Lady-to-be…but she’d learn it soon enough. “We’ll get you sorted out in the morning,” she repeated mechanically.
Alice looked at her blankly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” Charlotte replied. “Be a dear and try to get some sleep. We’re knackered. We’ll be woken before dawn with our breakfast.” Lord, she hated being so short with the girl, but it had been weeks since she’d been able to sleep more than 6 hours, and she fully intended to immerse herself in the opportunity now.
Even as fatigued as she was, Charlotte’s mind fretted first over the day that had passed, and then it roved to the duties that would be waiting in the day to come. After a time, much too long a time it seemed to her, she was warmed by the coarse wool blanket and she began to grow drowsy. She turned her head to the other cot, wondering why the new girl had not yet extinguished the lantern.
The new girl’s uniform was neatly folded and placed at the end of her bunk. The bulky, distinctive, ugly garment, with its large black buttons down the front and shoulder pleats giving it a wholly military appearance, would soon be Alice’s constant companion. The other nurse sighed inwardly, realizing another thing the new girl would need to be taught in the morning. Alice had tied her hair up in clean new ribbons, draped her feet in thick woolen socks, and buttoned up a nightdress to her throat. She didn’t look round at Charlotte or Kathleen as she did so. There was an air of an unexpressed sniff of distaste at her companion’s slovenly behavior of climbing into their rough cots still fully clothed save for their hats and shoes.
Her eyes burning from fatigue, Charlotte was too weary to give the girl’s hauteur much consideration, other than a brief stab of sympathy. What idiot is instructing these women? she thought in English as she descended toward sleep, unable to resist her body’s aching need for rest. She was thinking in English almost exclusively these days, a result of the long and blood-filled hours among the British doctors and nurses. She remembered to spare a glance at the floor of their tent, to ensure nothing cluttered the center, and then she closed her eyes.
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