Play@YSDC

Tuesday, 10 June 1918. 5.30pm.
Field Hospital No.5, Coupru, Northern France

“Here you go,” said the driver, a young Englishwoman working with the VAD, who had driven the ambulance up from the depot some ten miles behind the lines. She pulled up in the courtyard of a large French villa, then headed inside to get her orders, leaving Joe to rescue his kitbag from behind his seat.

When told he was being sent to a hospital, the scene in front of him was the furthest thing from his mind. He had expected an elegant building in peaceful surroundings, with crisp white sheets and calm but efficient staff. What he saw was a shabby building pockmarked with bullet holes and shrapnel, and with two men on the roof trying to fix a tarpaulin over a gaping hole. The ‘crump, crump’ of artillery fire from the front line couldn’t hide the cries of pain and the moans of the suffering, and he couldn’t help but notice in one of the barns off to the side, shrouded bodies awaited burial.

The guard by the front door looked at him curiously. “Are you lost, Father?” he enquired.

Studying the battered villa with world-weary eyes, Father Joe slings his kitbag over his shoulder with an ease that belies its weight. He sighs and, summoning inner-strength from depleted reserves, crosses himself and takes a step forward.

"We're all lost, my son..." he mutters in a deep Irish brogue, before forcing himself to smile.

"Father Joseph O'Toole, your new chaplain," he states, extending a calloused hand.

The guard snapped off a salute, then glanced around and shook Joe’s hand. “Always good to meet a fellow Irishman,” he said with a grin.

”If you head inside and ask for Major Parker. He’s the boss around here.”

“Major Parker it is then; go raibh maith agat my son.”

With a nod of thanks, Joe takes his leave of the sentry and, taking a deep breath, strides inside.

Inside the hospital, nursing staff and orderlies moved quickly from room to room. At first glance it seemed to Joe that everything was efficient and well-organised but there was definitely an air of nervousness around the place. Perhaps being just a few miles behind the front line, that wasn’t to be unexpected.

An orderly pointed him in the director of Major Parker’s office, where he found the Chief Surgeon sat behind a desk with a mound of paperwork. He was British, in his late 50’s, with grey, Brylcreemed hair doing its best to disguise a bald spot. He looked tired, with dark bags under his eyes.

He took Joe’s papers and read them carefully. “So, you’re our new chaplain,” he said, looking up at Joe. “Ask one of the orderlies to show you to your room. You can have this evening to get settled in but I expect you report for duty at oh six hundred hours.”

“I take it that you understand your duties?” Parker asked.

“My duties? Little different to how I administer to my flock in New York I assume. Attending to the spiritual needs of patients and staff alike,” Joe pronounces. “Though I’m not averse to rolling up my sleeves and mucking in.”

He pauses for a moment before continuing.

“Shall we start at the top? How are you?”

Major Parker gave Joe a flat look. “This is a field hospital,” he said shortly. “We have men here who are gravely injured, some of whom won’t survive. Their needs are somewhat more challenging than your average parishioner.”

He opened his mouth to say something else when there was a knock at the door. “Co…” he began to say, but the door was pushed open before he could finish and a nurse bustled into the room. With barely a glance at Joe, she snapped, “Major Parker! I must insist you speak to your doctors! My nurses have enough to do without chasing around after them!”

“Father O’Toole - this is Mrs Ogilvy, our Head Nurse,” said Parker. “She…”

“Major Parker!” she snapped, leaning forward with her hands on his desk. “Your doctors are making unreasonable requests upon my nursing staff. They have enough to do with running around after them as well.”

“I trust I’ve made myself clear,” she said, then turned about and stormed out of the office.

Psychology or Spot hidden check, please. Whichever skill is higher.

Both are at 60, so…
[75] = 75
Psychology or spot hidden 60 d%: [ 75 ] = 75
Heh, first roll a fail!

Despite his tough demeanour, Joe is as flustered as any man when confronted with an angry woman. Consequently he notices nothing out of the ordinary (relatively speaking).

“Saints preserve us…” he mutters, watching the nurse storming out.

“Major, if Mrs. Ogilvy needs help, perhaps that’s one way I can be of assistance?”

“I would leave well alone until she has calmed down,” replied Major Parker. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a mountain of paperwork to attend to…” He pointed to the door through which Mrs Ogilvy had stormed just moments before.

Outside of the Major’s office, the corridor was empty. Apart from the distant rumble of artillery from the front line, the hospital was quiet.

Thus dismissed, Joe looks for an orderly to show him to his quarters.

After a few long seconds, a head popped out of one of the doorways along the corridor. ”Can I help you, Sir? Are you lost?”

Joe smiles. “I’m the new chaplain; would you mind showing me to me quarters?”

”Good evening, Father,” replied the man with a bow. ”I am Gurdip Dal. I help the nurses here. Let me take your case.”

Dal trotted along the corridor towards Joe and as he got nearer, Joe could see that he was one of the many Indian sepoys fighting for the British and that he appeared to have lost his left arm below the elbow while doing so.

”Please follow me, Sir,” said Dal, setting a brisk pace as he carried Joe’s bags up to his room, which turned out to be up in the attic. Of some concern to Joe was the sound of men working on the roof nearby, suggesting that the shellfire that damaged the roof hadn’t landed too far away…

There was a window looking out into the courtyard, although the glass was broken and hessian sacking had been used for some makeshift curtains. The room was plainly furnished, with an army camp bed and a storage locker that doubled as a seat. Dal set down Joe’s bags and smiled at him. ”Will there be anything else, Father?” he asked.

“I gather the doctors are giving Mrs. Ogilvy’s nurses the runaround. What’s the story behind that?” asks Joe, reckoning that the sooner he knows what’s going on the better.

A puzzled look passed Gurdip Dal’s face. ”What gives you that impression?” he asked. ”Is that what Mrs Ogilvy said to you?”

“No, I’ve barely been introduced to the woman. You seem surprised; is it not the case then?” Joe asks. “I’m sure, as a porter, you know what’s what around here. As chaplain, knowing what’s what is very important.”

Dal shrugged. ”Everyone is always busy,” he said. ”Men are injured, in pain, dying. It is not an easy place to work, so people get angry, sometimes argue, but giving them ‘the runaround’?” He shrugged again.

“Maybe I’m looking for problems where there aren’t any: an occupational hazard perhaps.”

Joe grunts a brief chuckle.

“Thank you for showing me my quarters. Can I ask you to show me to the mess? I thought I’d get a bite to eat before taking a walk around: show my face a bit before I turn in for the night.”

”Of course,” replied Gurdip Dal and he led the way down to one of the cellars of the house where an urn of hot water was available to make drinks. Rough bench seats made of planks stretched between two barbed wire drums, with a similar arrangement for tables.

Dal showed Joe where the tea could be found, reminding him not to leave any food out lest it attract rats. Dal then asked to be excused, ”Excuse me, Sir,” he said. ”I hear an ambulance arriving and I may be of assistance.”

“Your hearing is better than mine,” Joe replies as he watches the Porter depart.

Sighing, he helps himself to a mug of tea and a little food, if there’s any available, before settling onto a bench. Once ensconced, he watches the comings and goings while waiting for an opportunity to make himself useful.