Byrski - In Love and War: Nursing Heroes

In Love and War

Boundaries: that was the word I wanted boundaries. Mr McIndoe dissolved them all, that was the problem, and so some women were coerced into things they didnt want to do. But it was probably what saved those young mens lives, made them want to live. Gladys, a nurse

Having your face mashed up and burned does make you work out whats important. We were all in the same sort of shit, we all looked monstrous. We were all terrified of the future, being rejected by women, unable to work, treated as outcasts, packed off somewhere to be hidden away so we wouldnt frighten the children. Roger*, a Guinea Pig

You got very close to them because you thought you might be dead tomorrow. You saw them every day and you did things for them that no one had done before, things they used to be able to do for themselves. You wanted to make them happy and do something for the war and you felt proud when you did. So you fitted in even if it went against what you thought was right. Nancy*, a nurse

Some of the people interviewed for this book preferred not to be named. I have identified them with a first name only and indicated this with an asterisk. Liz Byrski, 2015

Liz Byrski is the author of a number of non-fiction books including Remember Me and Getting On: Some Thoughts on Women and Ageing, as well as eight novels including Gang of Four and Family Secrets. She has worked as a freelance journalist, a broadcaster with ABC Radio and an advisor to a minister in the Western Australian Government. Liz has a PhD from Curtin University where she lectures in writing. Visit the author at lizbyrski.com.

For the women who nursed, loved, married and danced with the Guinea Pigs

East Grinstead, Sussex

Its 1950, Im six years old and Im praying for peace. It began when Sister Walbert told the class that although The War ended years ago we must all pray very hard that there will never be another one. I dont know anything about The War. If people mention it, my parents glance anxiously in my direction, shake their heads and change the subject. But I know that my prayers arent working, because there are men here from The War, men with terrible faces. They get on the bus in the town and get off at the hospital, and Im sure they have a camp in Blackwell Hollow, a street bordered by steep walls of mossy rock and densely overhung with trees that keep it in a perpetual state of damp and mysterious darkness. One day, when Mum and I are waiting for the bus, the men will jump out from behind those rock walls and grab us. I screw up my face and ask God not to make another war. Most of all, I ask Him to take the men away or, as a last resort, to make Sister Walbert and my dad report them to the police. I ask God this every day but He continues to ignore me. Some days, in despair at my lack of success with silent prayer, I go out into the field at the back of our house and shout very loudly at Him, in the hope that He might hear.

After school on Wednesdays my mother takes me to Miss Perkinss dancing class. In white satin tunics we practise our plis and arabesques while Miss Perkins dark wavy hair, perfect Cupids bow shaped with crimson lipstick taps time with her stick. She wears high-heeled red shoes with ankle straps and red satin bows. I have seen Moira Shearer dance to her death on the railway lines in The Red Shoes and I fear an equally terrible end for Miss Perkins who, according to Mum, has already been forced to abandon her career as dancer due to a debilitating bone condition. After the dancing class Mum takes me out for tea and chocolate clairs in Clarendon House Caf, where no one speaks above a whisper and the waitresses are dressed in faded black with starched aprons and stiff white caps like little tiaras. We sit at a table by the diamond-pane, leadlight window. The air is heavy with the scent of tea-leaves, Coty face powder and 4711 Cologne. I love the hushed, elderly air of Clarendon House, the feathers and artificial flowers nodding on the customers hats, the promise of shared secrets in their whisperings.

You did very well today, Mum says, especially with your arms. Last week you were like a windmill, but today you were quite graceful.

My mother, herself a former teacher of dancing, has very high standards. I am in heaven: praise and chocolate clairs. This is my favourite time of the week until its time to catch the bus home.

The men with the terrible faces are sitting on the wall by the bus stop with their livid crimson and purple skin, bulbous lips, missing ears, shapeless noses, and hands without fingers. They are living, breathing manifestations of the men who lurk on the stairs outside my bedroom door, who hide under my bed, who fill my nightmares. They are war heroes. I dont know what a hero is but I know they have brought The War here to East Grinstead. I am appalled that they are allowed to wander the streets, catch the buses and chat to Mum at the bus stop.

No, silly! my mother laughs, when I tell her she should get Dad to report them to the police. Theyre heroes from World War II, and thats all over now.

I dont believe her. The men step aside to let us get on the bus first. They talk loudly and laugh a lot. One wears a leather flying jacket with a furry collar, another a cream ribbed cricket sweater, one has a silvery blue RAF greatcoat slung over his shoulder.

Dont stare, Mum whispers as the men get off the bus at the hospital. Its rude. You wouldnt like people to stare at you, would you?

Im not sure whether or not I would mind being stared at, but I both do and dont want to look at these men. Im terrified of their faces but my eyes are drawn to them like pins to a magnet. One has a huge misshapen lump instead of a nose, another has a hole where one of his eyes should be and he carries a white stick. They stroll away from the bus stop into the hospital grounds and as the bus moves off, one turns back, his attempted smile a distorted gash of a grin in his crimson face; its a grin that will haunt my dreams. He raises his bandaged hand to wave to me. I squeeze my eyes shut and yell silently to God to save me from the heroes. But God still isnt listening, not then and not later, because for years, the men with the terrible faces are still in town. Just when I think its safe I suddenly find one standing alongside me, spot a couple on the steps of The Rose and Crown or talking to the man who slices the bacon in Sainsburys.

East Grinstead, Sussex

Its late May 2007. Im sixty-three. Because Clarendon House has been converted into offices I am sitting in the caf section of The Bookshop from where I can see the High Street, the war memorial, the bus stop where we caught the 434 bus home from dancing class, and the wall where the men with the terrible faces sat waiting for the chance to kidnap Mum and me, or possibly just to get the bus back to the Queen Victoria Hospital where they were being treated for their chronic wartime burns. There are no war heroes here today, although there very easily could be, because the men of the RAF Fighter and Bomber Commands, of whom I was so scared as a child, have a long and affectionate relationship with this town. It was here that the casualties of the war in the air their faces burned beyond recognition, their hands fingerless and unusable, their self-esteem in tatters were reconstructed and rehabilitated by the pioneering plastic surgeon Sir Archibald McIndoe. They were his surgical guinea pigs and with him they formed a club with the most exclusive membership in the world. To qualify for membership of the Guinea Pig Club a man had to be mashed, fried or boiled by the war in the air, and to have been treated at East Grinstead.