Free Poppy by Mary Hooper Page B

jaunty and smiling, occasionally bursting into song or whistling cheerily, whereas those returning, apart from any obvious wounds, were tired and grey of face, with muddy, bloody uniforms. They might have looked awfully weary, but they didn’t look miserable, for they were back in Blighty and out of the war.
    ‘So many of them coming and going,’ Poppy mused. ‘Who actually decides where the injured ones should end up? Do you know?’
    ‘Well, my big sister’s a VAD at a hospital in Dover,’ Matthews said. ‘She told me that they assess the injured lads when they come in from the battlefield, and if they’re bad enough they get what they call a “Blighty ticket” and come back on the first ship. Some of these boys go to the local hospitals at the port they arrive at, particularly the really badly injured, because they might not survive a railway journey. Some get taken to London or one of the other big cities – anywhere they’ve got the space, and close to their families if possible.’ She sighed, and added in a low voice, ‘Some die on the journey over, of course . . .’
    Poppy was about to ask something else, but Sister Malcolm was gesturing to them from across the concourse. ‘Pearson, Matthews!’ she called. ‘Come with me.’
    She led the way to a platform where a long train waited, steam already belching out of its funnel and the red crosses on its sides showing that it was a hospital train and, as such, should not be attacked by the enemy or harmed in any way. As they walked along beside it, Poppy looked through the windows and was both gripped and appalled to see that the train had been converted and, instead of seats, a lot of the carriages contained what looked like narrow bunk beds, or racks to hold stretchers. One carriage was completely closed off, its blinds rolled down all the way along.
    ‘That’s a small operating theatre,’ Sister Malcolm said as they passed it. ‘Some poor chaps are bound to need stitching or warrant some other urgent attention before we get to Manchester.’
    ‘Manchester!’ Poppy said.
    Sister Malcolm nodded. ‘Though we’ll see next to nothing of it. We’ll get there, the boys will be taken off and our train will be loaded with supplies for our return to Southampton.’
    They passed another, smaller carriage with its blinds down, which Sister said was for men with facial injuries. ‘They don’t want to be stared at as we go through stations.’
    ‘Where will they be going, then?’ Matthews asked.
    ‘To one of the hospitals which specialise in helping men with that sort of injury,’ Sister Malcolm said. ‘They can rebuild noses and jaws and make false ears and so on. In fact, you’d be surprised at what they can do these days. The boys call them the tin noses shops.’
    Poppy and Matthews smiled, though Poppy thought it was one of the most tragic things she’d ever heard. Tin noses, tin ears, tin masks . . . How could anyone manage to live their life wearing a tin face?
    Almost at the end of the train, the little group came to a carriage which had been transformed into a buffet car, with a counter running most of its length and what appeared to be a long, narrow kitchen behind it.
    Sister Malcolm halted. ‘This is where you two girls will be for the next few hours.’
    ‘Working in the buffet?’ Poppy asked.
    ‘Yes indeed. The boys who are “up” patients – that is, those well enough to be on their feet – will come along here and queue for their cheese rolls and tea. Those who are confined to their bunks will be served by orderlies, who’ll come along with trays.’
    ‘And we’ll be handing out the food?’ Poppy asked, secretly thrilled at the thought of greeting, being terribly nice to and – who knew? – maybe even flirting a little with scores of young Tommies.
    ‘No, I’m afraid you’ll be slicing rolls,’ Sister said. ‘Slicing, buttering and putting a chunk of cheese inside, then passing them through the hatch to whoever is