𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 • 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜

25 • Yanks in York

Millie's boots sunk into the mud beneath her as she and all her fellow nurses piled out of the truck. The ride from London to York was long, damp, and quite terrifying.

The ship pulled into the docks at around 9pm, give it take. Millie was yet to fix her pocket watch to the correct time, and her body clock was completely screwed up. The city was in what seemed like a complete blackout, hardly any light at all. Even the street lamps weren't lit.

Without time to rest, the nurses were handed their suitcases and were told to walk in a single file line up to a big, rickety looking truck. The headlights were blacked out so only the smallest slits let any sort of light come out, barely enough to see.

Everyone was cold, wet, and many were still nauseas from the violent sea sickness they faced on the trip ride over– Sylvia included. She just couldn't keep anything down, and was up at all hours vomiting into any sort of bucket she could find...or sink...or one of Millie's shoes, unfortunately.

Now they were far away from the city, and more lights could be seen although not by much. This part of the country was clearly less at risk for bombs so they didn't need to worry as much.

The truck had pulled outside the gates of some huge fancy house, it looked like a small castle. And by small, it was still massive, just smaller than what you'd expect someone like the Queen to live in.

Apparently, these houses were turned into makeshift hospitals all the time. Many of Englands wealthier families were doing their part for the war effort by giving up their homes for soldiers to be nursed in.

Millie had a funny relationship with the rich, she herself grew up comfortable, and had more than many, especially throughout the depression, but she wasn't anywhere near this wealthy. In fact, wealth like this was a distant dream for someone like her. She didn't even know anyone who came close to living like Englands aristocratic families.

"Maybe we will get our own room..." Sylvia leant in and whispered as they all trudged up the long driveway.

"Hopefully, I'm sick of sharing with everyone else." Millie snarled. She felt guilty for how she spoke, knowing there were men in trenches, fighting for their lives. "But I mean, it could definitely be worse." She added.

Guilt had become second nature to her lately, there wasn't anything she could say or do that didn't leave her feeling some sort of way.

As the striking manor grew nearer, a line up of servants could be seen waiting out the front. They were all female, apart from the butler who looked well above the fighting age. The other men would no doubt be at war right now.

"I can't believe people still have servants." Sylvia muttered beneath her breath. "And at this time?"

Millie nodded, glancing at the women in aprons staring back at them. "The family that owns this house must be incredibly rich."

Rain had started to pour on the nurses as they all stood in a huddle before the house staff. "Good evening, nurses." The housekeeper greeted in a thick Yorkshire accent. "Or, should I say, good early-morning. It's about two-am as we speak."

Streams of tired "good mornings" from the nurses were mumbled out, with many of the nurses hunching over, nearly falling asleep on their feet.

"I am Mrs Holbrook, the housekeeper, and this  is Mr Eccles, the butler. Tonight, we will show you all to your quarters, which you will pair up with a fellow nurse and share with. Starting immediately, you will wake up at 5am sharp to start your duties. The matron on duty will give you your orders."

The nurses nodded and Sylvia raised her hand. "So, you're not our matron?"

The housekeeper smiled, she actually seemed quite sweet which was not what Millie was expecting of an old British woman. "No, miss. The only orders you will take from us are to keep your private quarters clean. Other than that, there's schedule in the kitchen for when meals are to be served, but the cook, Ms Bates will put your meals aside so you may eat whenever your duties are over."