Ambulance Girls Under Fire

by Deborah Burrows

  Because time was pressing, I took the shorter route, the one that took me along Guilford Street, past Caroline Place where David had died. I felt an immense sadness when I passed the ruins, but for the first time there was no nausea. Perhaps the wound caused by David’s death finally was growing a scab. His death had been inexpressibly sad, but in this war death plummeted out of the skies night after night. Here in London we were surrounded by death. I had lost my love, but there were so many other women who had lost as much and had had to find a way to get on with their lives.

  I was in no doubt that I had loved David. And yet, I had scarcely known him. We had been so wrapped up in physical passion during our tumultuous affair that there had been little opportunity to spend time in the simple, peaceful enjoyment of each other’s company. I realised with a jolt that in many ways I knew Simon so much better than I had ever known his brother.

  Soon I was at the entrance to Coram’s Fields, the former foundling home. It was where women who had loved unwisely used to leave their illegitimate babies to the charity of strangers. Charity. Miss Marshall, who had been the best of my inadequate governesses, had taught me about love. Actually, she had taught me about the words for love. Charity, she had informed me, came from the Latin word, caritas, which was itself a translation of the Greek word agape. And agape was one of the words used by the ancient Greeks to describe the types of love that humans could experience.

  ‘Agape,’ I murmured. I had always liked the idea of agape, love for mankind. It was the selflessness and willingness to care for strangers that I had been seeing every day in the Blitz. It was what Simon showed to those in need, including me on several occasions.

  I continued my trudge along Guilford Street and tried to remember the other words for love that Miss Marshall had taught. Eros was what David and I had shared. It referred to sexual passion and desire, love that leads to a sort of madness. Philia was the love that underpins deep friendship and shared goodwill, the deep, loving bond between comrades on the battlefield. Ludus described a playful and uncommitted love, such as was enjoyed by potential lovers before any real decision had been made about their future.

  David and I had bypassed ludus and gone straight to eros. My all-too-brief time with David had comprised brief rendezvous marked by feverish desire, followed by deep discussions about what David thought was important for me to know. I had been like a sponge, soaking up his knowledge while revelling in his desire for me and consumed by my desire for him. Would eros have transmuted to something deeper, stronger between us? Into pragma, the word used by the Greeks to describe longstanding love, based on patience and tolerance and deep understanding?

  I didn’t know. It’s not for nothing that Cupid is depicted as a blindfolded child. David had a particular brilliance that seemed to eclipse everything around him and the passion between us, once ignited, had indeed blinded me.

  I rounded the corner at Russell Square, still pondering the true meaning of love. And, as usual, thoughts of David became thoughts of Simon, whom I now liked and trusted. But he was David’s brother. There was no possibility of eros between us. My mind rebelled against the idea, and I recalled his look of loathing when I woke him after the Bank Station disaster. There was nothing lover-like in Simon’s dealings with me. But it seemed to me that Simon and I were developing a real friendship. Philia? It was the best I could hope for.

  I had by now reached Russell Court, where the ambulance station was located, and I headed directly to the common room to check the roster board. Moray had chalked the Ford sedan next to my name. I stretched out my fingers and felt the pain that came with any movement. Could I change gears? The cars were too valuable to trust them to an injured driver. Simon had said I should be sensible. I decided to tell Moray that I’d be on the phone tonight.

  Maisie was in the kitchen, where I went next for a cup of tea. She noticed my hand at once, of course.

  ‘Whatever have you done to it?’

  ‘Caught it in a car door. It’s badly bruised.’

  ‘Ashwin is injured,’ she said to Moray, as he walked into the room. ‘Her hand.’

  He looked at it, then at me and shook his head. ‘Do you think you’re able to drive?’

  ‘Probably not without difficulty.’

  ‘I’ll take the Ford,’ he said, as I had assumed he would, ‘and you’re on the phone tonight.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’re accident-prone, Ashwin,’ he went on. ‘To be frank, you look done up. Please take things more easily. Don’t forget you’re still not fully recovered from the incident with the parrot.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s one way to describe it.’

  ‘How is Bobby?’ asked Maisie.

  ‘Growing feathers. I think he’s getting better.’

  Nola Fripp came up to me as Maisie and Moray left the room. ‘How marvellous,’ she whispered, ‘that your husband is out of prison.’

  ‘Yes.’ I flexed my hand and felt pain. ‘Yes, he’s been released.’

  Her eyes shone. ‘He’s a great man. So many of us think it was outrageous that he was ever incarcerated. It was because of Churchill. He was jealous of Cedric Ashwin’s popular appeal. And now we’re facing invasion, all because of Churchill.’

  I murmured an excuse and left the kitchen. There was no point engaging in a discussion with Fripp about Cedric or the war. In the common room I began to leaf through an old magazine as the crew for the shift arrived. It wasn’t long before the conversation turned to the so-called lull in the Blitz that London had experienced over the past couple of weeks. There had been no heavy night raids on London since the one in mid-January that had caused the Bank Station disaster.

  ‘It’s the weather,’ said Harris. ‘Germany can’t risk its planes in the fog and snow and freezing weather.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Squire, ‘we’ve blown up all their airfields. You’ve seen the photos. We’re whacking them even harder than they’re whacking us.’

  Fripp reported in a low, thrilling tone, ‘We’ve not had big air raids because the Nazis are putting the final touches to their invasion plans.’

  She sounded like Cedric. I said, sharply, ‘You should know better than to spread such rot.’

  ‘It’s only what everyone has been saying,’ she said, with a sniff and shrug.

  Purvis shook his head. ‘That invasion rumour has been debunked.’ He glanced at Squire. ‘As has yours, mate. It’s in this morning’s Telegraph.’

  ‘As if they’d tell us the truth,’ said Sadler, with a sneer.

  ‘The Americans have warned our government to be prepared for invasion,’ said Fripp, again warming to her subject, ‘but Churchill is too arrogant to take any notice.’

  ‘Don’t you say a word against Winnie,’ said Squire, jutting out his jaw and glaring at Fripp. ‘If we get through this war it’ll be because of him.’

  ‘Churchill’s to blame for the mess we’re in,’ said Fripp defiantly. ‘The Americans know. They say the German invasion will begin with the resumption of daylight bombing. And guess what? Last week we had daylight bombing again.’ Her voice rose and broke. ‘We need to convince Churchill to begin peace negotiations now. We must—’

  ‘Fripp. Might I see you in my office, please?’ Moray’s cool voice cut through her outburst.

  She rose and stumbled past him into his office, but turned at the doorway saying, ‘The Germans don’t want to subjugate us, they want to be our friends. We should negotiate with Hitler.’

  Through the window I saw her collapse on to a chair, weeping.

  Moray followed her in and closed the door. I glanced around at the shocked faces and wondered if I looked as pale and if my eyes also were wide and staring.

  ‘Our friends?’ said Maisie. ‘She says the Nazis want to be our friends. That’s mad.’

  ‘She’s taken a dead set against Winnie.’ Squire was incredulous.

  ‘Her dad’s in the Defence Ministry,’ muttered Sadler. ‘Maybe she really knows something.’

>   Purvis glared at him. ‘If there is one thing we know about the Nazis it’s that they thrive on misinformation.’ He stared at each of us in turn. ‘This war will be lost if the Germans are able to destroy civilian morale. Invasion rumours sap morale badly and that’s why the enemy wants us to spread them. And it’s why we shouldn’t spread them, and why it’s a criminal offence to do so.’

  ‘Why’d we have those daylight raids last week then?’ muttered Sadler.

  To my surprise it was Harris who replied. Throughout the conversation she had been quietly knitting. ‘Just like I said before, you silly ass. It’s because of the British weather.’ She put down her knitting and gave a laugh. ‘How could any planes have flown at night with all that snow and stormy weather we’ve had since January? They’d have got lost and tipped into the sea. The Irish Sea, because they’d have overshot London completely.’

  ‘And they don’t do much harm in the daylight raids,’ said Armstrong. ‘A few dive-bombings and some bombs and incendiaries but it’s nothing like last year’s daylight raids.’

  ‘It’s all a lot of nonsense, this talk of invasion now,’ said Harris, pulling more wool off the skein on her lap. ‘But I agree that the incendiary attacks have been really annoying.’

  And, just like that, the conversation turned to less fraught subjects, such as the best way to deal with incendiary bombs, the war in Africa and what was likely to go under the ration next. And I had the sudden realisation of how peculiar small talk was in wartime.

  I saw Moray a little later in the kitchen when I was pouring myself another cup of tea.

  ‘Fripp had better watch out,’ I said. ‘Someone will report her to the authorities if she’s not careful.’

  ‘It’s not only that,’ said Purvis, who came in as we were talking. ‘She’s lost her nerve, Moray. I’m sorry to say it but I think she’s a liability to the station.’

  He nodded. ‘And that’s why Fripp and I have decided that her talents will best serve the nation in a capacity other than ambulance driving. She’ll be out of the station next week, maybe earlier.’

  ‘I think it’s wise,’ said Purvis. He picked up his tea and left.

  Moray said, as if it were of no consequence, ‘I met your husband last week. It was easy to see why he was so popular before the war.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ I said flatly. ‘But he’s not so popular now.’

  ‘Some people still think he has his finger on the pulse. Charismatic men like him will always attract followers. You must be pleased to have him back.’

  ‘Mmm.’ I tipped the remains of my cold tea into the sink. ‘I’d better return to the others.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Did you hear?’ Maisie said brightly, when I arrived at the station for a shift later that week. ‘Fripp’s left us to go to a cushy job in the Ministry of Food, the lucky duck. All arranged by her Dear Old Daddy. You know D.O.D., he’s the fellow who supplies Fripp with her seditious rumours. Whatever will we do for information now?’

  I smiled. ‘There’s always Powell’s Aunt Glad. And I loved the gas-beating knickers trick from Sadler’s Aunt Millie.’

  I followed Maisie into the common room, which was empty save for Purvis, whose head was deep in a book. He looked up as we entered and smiled.

  ‘Fripp’s not much of a loss,’ I said.

  ‘No, she’s not. I drove with her a few times last week and she screeched like a scorched cat when the raiders were overhead.’ Maisie laughed. ‘An ambulance attendant who’s scared of bombs – not much good in a Blitz.’

  ‘Are you really envious of Fripp? Would you rather be in a cushy job in a ministry?’

  Maisie’s smile broadened. ‘Of course not. I’d be bored to snores sitting at a desk. Give me a rip-roaring air raid any day of the week.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  Squire entered the common room. ‘It’s freezing out there. Too cold even for snow.’ He smiled at me. ‘Hullo, Duchess. How’s the hand? You’ve ditched the sling, I see.’

  ‘It’s much better.’

  The bruising was fading and I was able to use my hand without too much effort, which was just as well, because that night the weather cleared and a few raiders returned to bomb London. It was nowhere near the scale of what it had been in past months however, and we all wondered about the continuing lull in the Blitz.

  Powell’s Aunt Glad had a theory, of course. ‘I’ve heard a rumour why we’re having so few night attacks,’ Powell informed us, as we ate our lunch, two days later.

  ‘And why is that?’ asked Purvis in a suspiciously grave tone. He loved to encourage Powell’s more outrageous gossip.

  ‘What I’ve heard,’ she said, in a thrilling whisper, ‘is that some of the German pilots we’ve brought down are much too young to have had any real training. Some were only sixteen years old, or even younger.’

  ‘That’s old news,’ said Sadler, who was standing in the doorway.

  ‘This isn’t,’ said Powell. She lowered her voice. ‘These young pilots have been doped.’

  ‘Why would they dope them?’ asked Maisie.

  Powell frowned, obviously unsure. ‘To give them courage?’ she ventured.

  Maisie sat up straight. ‘That’s crazy. No one can fly properly if they’re doped.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Powell, as if Maisie had made a good point.

  ‘And why would the doping of boy pilots cause the lull in the Blitz?’ asked Purvis.

  Powell bit her lip and considered the question. ‘I think a lot of them must crash their planes before they get here to London. Because of the doping. And there’s more. They’re using girls. As pilots. It’s shocking. And they’re doping them, too. No wonder not many planes are getting through.’

  Maisie shook her head impatiently. ‘I don’t believe they’re doping their pilots and letting them crash. The Germans aren’t that stupid. And if they’re using girls as pilots I’m sure they’re just as good as any man or boy. What about Amy Johnson? She never needed to be doped for courage. And Amelia Earhart.’

  ‘The same Amelia Earhart who crashed somewhere in the Pacific a few years ago?’ said Sadler.

  ‘Amelia Earhart was a wonderful pilot. Anyone can have a bit of bad luck. It annoys me when people seem to think that women can’t learn to fly, or drive properly. Look at what women have been doing in this war – taking over lots of so-called male jobs, and doing them marvellously.’

  ‘Listen to the New Woman,’ said Sadler, with a sneer.

  Maisie rounded on him, ‘And what’s wrong with that? Give me a New Woman over an old man – over any man – any day of the week.’

  Sadler put up his hands in mock terror, laughing.

  Purvis looked up from his plate. ‘The forecast is for clear skies tonight. They’ll be back. Whatever pilots they’re using, the raiders will be over tonight.’

  I stood. ‘Cup of tea, Halliday?’

  In the kitchen she said, obviously annoyed, ‘What’s wrong with being a New Woman?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’ I handed her a cup of tea.

  She smiled. ‘Thanks, Ashwin. Sorry for the song and dance, but it really gives me the pip when men like Sadler go on about women. I happen to believe that women can do a lot of things that men think we’re too stupid or too fragile to do.’

  ‘I know for a certainty you’re not stupid or fragile,’ I said. ‘And I’ve seen you do a lot of things men would have been afraid to do.’

  ‘Fragile!’ She slammed the cup into its saucer. ‘I’d like to see Sadler dance for two hours straight, or learn a new tap piece. In the chorus line we practised for hours on end to learn a new dance and it’s jolly hard work, I’ll tell you. I’d lay odds that I’m a lot tougher than Sam Sadler. Where does he get off, acting so tough? Sometimes it’s a lot harder to be softer. I mean, it’s harder be kind and nice than to be rough and nasty.’ She paused. ‘If you know what I mean?’

  I smiled. ‘I think I do. Don’t let Sadler annoy you. He’s just a cynic
al spiv.’

  The Warning sounded at eight that evening. Moray told us it was an intensive incendiary attack and we were sent out to collect burns victims, which was ironic as it was the coldest night of the year so far.

  Another Warning sounded at ten o’clock. We all looked up as Moray appeared with a chit in his hand.

  ‘It’s not a heavy raid, five bombers so far. They’ve dropped high-explosive bombs behind High Holborn. Hit a shelter. Six casualties thus far, more expected. Ashwin, you’re attending Halliday. Purvis, you’ve got the Ford sedan. Sadler, you’re attending Harris.’

  Maisie and I were held up by a detour and arrived late at the incident. Several houses had suffered direct hits and were in ruins, together with a group of small shops. As well as the usual smashed glass and plaster and bricks and twisted steel and wooden beams, we had to pick our way through tattered bits of haberdashery, books and what looked like household goods. The rotting-food smell of gas competed with thick smoke and the scent of cordite. Fires had taken hold and the galloping flames were so fierce they took the chill out of the night.

  Maisie nudged me and I looked over towards the remains of what had been a large public house. All the bottles must have been smashed because alcohol was running into the gutter. A fireman crouched down, put a small tin cup into the liquid and drank.

  ‘Why waste it?’ whispered Maisie.

  ‘I could use a nip myself,’ I said, jokingly. ‘Think he’d share?’

  Maisie laughed. ‘If you don’t ask, you won’t get. It’s a wonder Sadler isn’t here with a few empty bottles to fill. Then he’d try to flog them tomorrow with the story that they fell off the back of a lorry, or a mate bought them from a bombed-out publican.’

  ‘Let’s find out where our casualties are.’

  We were walking towards the Incident Officer when we came across a figure standing still and somehow alone among the members of the rescue squads and the firemen who swarmed around the incident.

  ‘That’s Sadler,’ said Maisie. ‘Whatever is he doing?’