Maynard's War Chapter 4
A Fresh Start
Thank you for reading Maynard’s War. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter. Chapter 5 will be available next Sunday, 12th January at 11am. Please do share with anyone you think might be interested. Thanks, Mark.
October 1914
Keynes had been looking forward to his first shift at the military hospital, which comprised a huge number of huts erected on the cricket field behind King’s College. So enormous was the complex, and so replete with facilities, including a cinema for the entertainment of recovering casualties, it had the feel of a small town.
Having spent the morning emptying bed pans and assisting with the incineration of soiled dressings, during his lunch break he sought out the commanding officer, Colonel Griffiths, who, prior to the outbreak of war, had been a surgeon at nearby Addenbrooke’s Hospital.
Griffiths was an impressive character. It turned out that while nobody expected there actually to be a war, plans had been drawn up as long ago as 1908 to mobilize military hospitals in the event of one. The First Eastern General, at which Keynes was now a volunteer, was one of these. Under Griffiths’ leadership, it had taken just five weeks to build a seventeen hundred bed hospital using prefabricated wooden huts clad with asbestos.
Keynes asked Griffiths how they had managed to complete the task so quickly. “We had a plan,” came the reply. “The government committed the resources and gave us a deadline. We knew we’d have a flood of casualties as soon as things got serious across the channel, which rather helped to focus minds, and we were helped by the good weather, but it was very much a case of needs must.”
“And is there anything different about the way you run a hospital for the treatment of wounded military personnel?” Keynes asked as tea was brought in.
“Clean air and good light,” Griffiths replied.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You see, most of the chaps here have suffered a serious injury, many will have required surgery and much of that surgery will have been done in field hospitals in France. Quite major operations in some cases, and I must say the quality of the surgery is first class. How those fellows manage it in the conditions I really don’t know.”
“I see.”
“So by the time they get here, broadly speaking these lads fall into two categories: Those who have been injured too badly ever to fight again; we simply ensure their recuperation before they’re discharged. But the others need to be brought back to full health as quickly as possible so they can return to France. We’re not going to win the war if each time an experienced soldier is forced from the front line he’s replaced by a novice.”
“Yes, I understand,” Keynes said.
“So, recuperation needs to be effected as quickly as possible, and research has indicated that direct sunlight and clean fresh air can play a substantial role in this process.”
“So that’s why many of the huts have canvas walls that can be rolled up to let the light in?”
“Precisely. That was my personal contribution to the design of the hospital.”
“And is it working?”
“Too early to say, but we should have the numbers by Christmas. It’s my aim that the First Eastern General return more recovered casualties to the front, and more quickly, than any other hospital.”
As Keynes returned to the ward, he wondered about the motivation of a doctor whose objective was to send his patients back into the firing line as quickly as possible. But what most fascinated him was the remarkable achievement of completing the hospital in such a short space of time and with a budget of just twenty five thousand pounds.
How was it that in peacetime it could take years to complete a project of this size and complexity, but when war comes along it can be done in a matter of weeks? What would it take for people and resources to be mobilised to similar effect when minds weren’t focussed by the demands of war. And why should it take a war for the apparently insoluble problems of unemployment, homelessness and hunger suddenly to be addressed? He could only conclude that the cause of these blights on society were nothing to do with scarce resources, nor a shortage of money; they must be down to a failure of political will. If it was this easy to increase output simply by putting the economy on a war footing, why shouldn’t it be possible in peacetime?
He increasingly found himself pondering such questions of political economy. In the last couple of years he had taught more economics classes than mathematics, and he was beginning to think he might have found his vocation. But while he enjoyed teaching, and especially research, he found the detachment of the academic world frustrating. If he was going to come up with ideas for addressing the great problems facing the country, then he needed to be able to try them out.
“Oh do hurry up Leonard, it’s freezing out here.”
“Sorry darling. The agent gave me this enormous bunch of keys and I’m damned if I can find one that will actually open the front door.”
“If you ask me, the entire exercise is a waste of time. Who wants to live in Richmond anyway?”
“Virginia, you agreed, it’s a new start. It’ll be good for both of us. And I’ve a feeling this house will suit our purposes exactly.”
“Our purposes? Sometimes, Leonard, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“There,” he said, pushing open the door and stepping aside so she could enter first.
“Not going to carry me over the threshold?”
“Perhaps you should see if you like it first.”
He had high hopes and great plans for this new house. It had been Virginia’s doctor who had urged Leonard to find them a home outside London. He was concerned that life in the city was too much for her and wondered if a move to somewhere quieter might reduce the frequency of her episodes.
Leonard had agreed with the cure, though not entirely with the diagnosis. It wasn’t London that undermined his wife’s wellbeing, rather the company she kept when she was there. It was so important to Virginia to be near her friends, and especially her sister, but it had been clear to Leonard from the moment he returned from Ceylon and begun courting her, that it was unresolved issues in her relationships with her sister Vanessa and Vanessa’s husband, Clive, as well as several of their mutual friends, that often tipped her over the edge. He hoped that by placing themselves just far enough away in Richmond, the frequency of contacts would be reduced to a level at which Virginia could remain on an even keel. He knew it was a risk but could see no other way forward, especially with the added pressure of the war bearing down on them.
He could hear Virginia on the uncarpeted floor boards upstairs. He decided to let her make her own inspection. Downstairs there was plenty of room and the place had a homely feel. The decor wasn’t to his taste, but Vanessa would have some ideas for sprucing the place up without spending too much. Downstairs there was a large, partially converted cellar which had been used as a workshop. This will do perfectly, he thought, as he heard his wife clomping back down the stairs.
“I must say, it’s not all that bad. An interesting layout. Quite different to what I’m used to in Bloomsbury of course, but then I’ve already resigned myself to coming down in the world, as you move up.” She smiled at him, before snatching his hat and skimming it across the bare boards to the other side of the room.
“Oh really Virginia, must you do things like that?”
“I’m in a good mood. I like the house you’ve found for us. Even if it is the middle of nowhere.”
“Come downstairs for a moment,” he said, retrieving his hat.
“What am I looking at?” she asked as they emerged into the basement.
“This space. It’s ideal. Look, shelves up that wall, a desk over there, and the printing machine can go in the middle and leave plenty of room to work.”
“You’re quite serious about this printing business aren’t you?”
“It’s not a printing business, it’s a publishing house. And yes, I am serious. As you constantly remind me, I have no income and we are not going to be able to survive on your allowance.”
“Yes, I know all that, but working for a living. Is that really the future of civilisation?”
“It’s the future of our civilisation unless you can think of an alternative.”
“Well, I might make some money from my writing.”
“You very well might, but I still need an occupation and when you’re not writing this will give us something we can do together.”
“Oh, I suppose so. Alright, you can tell them we’ll take it.”
The ward sister had asked Keynes if he might spend some time with a patient who hadn’t had any visitors. “You don’t look like a doctor,” the man said as Keynes approached his bed.
“Quite right,” Keynes replied. “I’m a mathematician.”
“Why on earth do they need mathematicians in an hospital?”
“Ah, they don’t, at least I don’t think they do. I work over there,” he pointed through the open side of the hut in the direction of King’s, “only since the war started, most of the students have gone, so I’m volunteering here a couple of days a week.”
“Yes, I saw you this morning. You didn’t look very happy when you were carrying out the slops.”
“Well, it’s not the most pleasant of tasks, but I’ll endeavour better to hide my feelings the next time I’m assigned that particular duty.”
The soldier burst out laughing. “Don’t worry,” he said, “you can hardly be expected to go around smiling when you’re carrying buckets of shit.”
“No, I suppose not,” Keynes replied, smiling. “Do you mind if I sit down for a moment?” he asked.
“Be my guest,” the soldier replied
“Thank you. I’m Maynard,” Keynes said.
“Pleased to meet you Mr Maynard. My name’s Schofield.”
“Actually, Maynard’s my first name, in fact it’s my middle name, but it’s the one I go by.”
“Oh, sorry. Mine’s Fred. They only gave me one. Not much demand for middle names where I come from,” he smiled.
“And where is that?”
“Bradford. Yorkshire.”
“And how long were you in France?”
“Only about a month. I got blown up by a mortar. They reckoned I’d lose my leg, but the surgeon at the field hospital was bloody marvellous. The day after the operation he came to see how I was. The next day they shipped me out. I didn’t even think to ask his name. I imagine he’s still there, sewing up those that can be saved.”
“Did you lose many from your company?”
“Not by the time I left. The main action I saw was on the River Marne. The fighting only lasted a few days. We were struggling to hold back the Germans on our own, then the most amazing thing happened: reinforcements arrived from Paris in a fleet of taxis.”
“Really?”
“Yes, was it not in the newspapers? Six hundred taxi cabs, each one chock full of troops.”
“The French do have a funny way of doing things.”
“Made all the difference though. Once reinforcements arrived, not only did we hold off the Germans, we managed to push them back. Quite a victory for our side, it was.”
“So when did you get hit?”
“That’s what’s so bloody frustrating. We were advancing clear on their lines. There’d been no mortar fire for some time. Then, boom. Next thing I knew I was lying in a shell hole, deaf as a post, bloke I’d never seen before shaking me. I just wanted to go back to sleep. I would have happily stayed in that hole.”
“But they dragged you out?”
“I assume it was the man who woke me up. I never saw him again because I lost consciousness. Didn’t come round until I was in the clearing station. By that time I was screaming with the pain. They gave me morphine then I lost another day. I’m glad I was out of it to be honest, the pain were terrible. I’d like to have seen what went on mind, especially who helped me. I think a fair few people must have had a part in saving my life.”
“It seems that war brings out the best in people.”
“That’s true enough. Such a waste of life though. You’re an educated man. Do you think anyone actually wanted this war?”
“I don’t know,” Keynes said. This was one question he hadn’t really thought about.
“If you ask me, anyone who thinks war is a good thing should go out and have a look for their selves. It’s ghastly.”
“Do you have any family up in Bradford?” Keynes asked.
“I do yes, my lovely wife and two little rascals.”
“How old are your children?”
“They’re five and three, and quite an handful, I can tell you. They’re the reason my wife hasn’t been down to visit yet, that and the fact that she’s never been out of Yorkshire and is scared to death of the train journey.”
“So will she come to visit you?”
“She’s coming tomorrow as a matter of fact. That’s if she can find her way here. From what I remember when they brought me in, it’s quite a long way from the railway station.”
“It is, yes, although people will be happy to direct her if she asks.”
“You don’t know my Allison. Won’t say boo to a goose. No matter. I’m sure she’ll get here.”
“Do you know which train she’s on? I could meet her at the station and bring her to see you.”
That’s very kind, but are you sure you have the time? I believe the train arrives at twenty past eleven.”
“No problem at all. Now, do you have a photograph, so I can identify her in the crowd.”
“That I do, just pass me my wallet would you?”
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And if you’re interested in all things Bloomsbury, and specifically 20th century British art, do check out Victoria K. Walker’s Beyond Bloomsbury. It’s fabulous.
