Our Last Goodbye: An absolutely gripping and emotional World War 2 historical novel

by Shirley Dickson

  Next morning after breakfast, a male voice of authority spoke over the loudspeaker, instructing those units departing in the next twenty-four hours to get ready for embarkation. Richard’s unit was one of them.

  This was it.

  He gathered his equipment: tin hat covered with net, rucksack, gas mask and water carrier.

  Early the next day, before the camp’s breakfast, Richard’s unit was transported to the nearest port, where he had the boyish pleasure of smelling the bracing salt sea air which reminded him of home and holidays. When he saw the port, however, crammed with grey and camouflaged ships lined up against the quayside, the reality hit hard – this was no holiday trip, by God, this was for real.

  Richard boarded a Landing Craft Tank at midday and as they sailed out of Southampton docks he wondered when, and if, his feet would touch British soil again. Soldiers, packed like sardines, smoked and joked with one another. But Richard saw behind their eyes the same fear and apprehension that he felt about what they’d find on the other side of the Channel.

  As a strong wind blew, the hours crawled by but then, as Richard looked out over the side, the first sighting came of a brown French coastline, littered with a surprising amount of ships of all sizes.

  The LCT found a gap between ships, coming closer to shore, and Richard saw figures in the water, and running across the sands. The occasional ear-splitting explosion of a shell came from the beach.

  His brother Jeff came to mind. A swell of pride for the kid gripped Richard.

  The LCT pulled alongside a large grey ship, then, pitching in the choppy waves towards the shore, it skirted a wrecked landing craft.

  As he waited to disembark by way of the gangway, Richard noticed figures floating in the water and was shocked to realise they were the bodies of dead soldiers.

  He peered towards the shore and the scene that met his eyes matched photographs he’d scrutinised in the information envelope: villas and houses along the sea front.

  His stomach beset with nervous anticipation, he put on his tin hat, checked his white armband with the red cross on it and disembarked from the LCT via the platform into the relatively warm waters of Sword Beach, the code name given to one of the five beaches for the Normandy landing areas.

  With his medical kit weighing him down, Richard waded through the waves with the others and made for the shore.

  All along the beach were long lines of soldiers and equipment snaking from ships.

  A lone shell screamed over and exploded on the beach, and everyone dived to the sand. A soldier running farther along dropped to his knees and then fell. Richard, running towards him, crouched and shrugged off his haversack to tend to the soldier’s wounds. But on closer inspection, he realised the soldier was beyond help – his war was over. He looked down at the young lad, the staring shocked eyes that had no life in them. This could be his brother, Jeff, he thought, a deep sadness overwhelming him.

  Following the others, Richard saw mangled tanks and bicycles. A line of German prisoners marched by. Christ, he thought, if this is a day after the Allied invasion when the beach head was taken, it must’ve been hell on earth yesterday.

  Reaching the top of the beach, he saw a white flag with a red cross sticking out of a trench dug out of sand and soil.

  It was here he found his commanding officer, Major Parkins, and the unit regrouped.

  Someone clapped him on the back and when Richard turned he was delighted to see Charlie Oakley.

  * * *

  Sweat ran from Major Parkins’ brow into his eyes, and his uniform was caked in mud and sand.

  He told the unit, ‘The plan to take Caen from Sword Beach yesterday by nightfall didn’t happen but the Allies have been successful and established four sizable beachheads.’ He turned to survey the wounded behind him in the trench and the dead, covered in blankets. ‘Not without considerable cost.’

  A shell screamed overhead and he waited until it had exploded further down the beach. ‘We’ll do what we can here and then move further inland.’

  It was crucial, Richard knew, that the wounded were treated as quickly as possible. A soldier’s life depended on it. The success rate, when hordes of casualties needed vital treatment at one time, depended on the speed with which the wounded were moved along a complex chain of medical units. He got to work at the Regimental Aid Post, the first stage where casualties were assessed and either patched up and sent back to the fighting or shuttled by stretcher to the next medical team.

  Later that afternoon, his unit moved inland towards the front line.

  27

  June 1944

  May intended to tell Matron about the baby as soon as her stint on the Maternity night shift finished. Her bump would be noticed soon and she’d rather leave of her own volition than be dismissed by Matron.

  Collecting the jugs of water from locker tops and placing them on a trolley, May thought about how her life had taken a turn for the better recently. What with Mr Newman agreeing she could live in with them till she found a place of her own and knowing Richard was, after all, the honest and morally decent man she’d given her heart to, she could find the courage to resign from the hospital.

  Richard had once told her, ‘With all the destruction I want to build houses for the future.’

  And so, when Richard came home from the war, he could go back to being an architect and they could start a home together.

  She thought, wryly, that with all the bombing that had left folk with nowhere to live, Richard would never be out of a job.

  She wheeled the trolley into the kitchen and put the jugs on the bench to fill, and a smile played on her lips as she recalled his last letter.

  My darling May,

  I have arrived safely and I’m somewhere

  The next paragraph was missing as it had been censored.

  This letter is difficult to write as there is so much I can’t say because of censorship, and so I shall be brief.

  I don’t know how much longer I can stay in contact but I want you to know I don’t regret my decision to join in with the war one bit – except for the fact of leaving you behind.

  I’m so glad I met you and that we will have the rest of our lives together – it’s what keeps me going, kiddo.

  You are with me always.

  Take care of yourself and that baby of ours.

  Your Richard XX

  Back in the ward, she wheeled the trolley to the first bed and replaced the filled water jug on the locker top. She pictured Richard’s face as he concentrated on writing the letter. She couldn’t believe her luck that she’d met him and that he wanted to grow old with her.

  ‘Eee, Nurse, I’m sorry to ask but can I have a bedpan please? I’m dying for a wee.’

  The young lass in the bed, newly delivered, had just come from the labour room onto the ward and was to be kept in bed because she’d confessed she felt rather faint.

  ‘Of course.’

  May hurried to the sluice.

  * * *

  Later, as May stood outside Matron’s office door nervously awaiting the conversation ahead, John, the head porter, passed.

  ‘What you been up to?’ He quipped, ‘I hope you’ve not been causin’ trouble.’

  If only he knew.

  She always made time to speak to John as she felt sorry for the man. Richard had told her that he had lost his son earlier in the war. John didn’t hold a grudge against Richard being a conchie but he did against the warmongers that caused his only child to die on the beaches of Dunkirk.

  She told him, ‘I suspect Richard might be over in Normandy.’

  ‘That’ll be a worry for yi’, all reet.’ John’s face flushed in annoyance. ‘That lad’s got guts and I hope the gossips are ashamed of themselves.’

  Before May could answer, the office door opened and Matron stood there.

  ‘You may enter, Nurse Robinson.’

  John winked and moved away.

  May stood in front of Matron’s desk wondering
how to broach the subject, then she decided simply to dive in.

  ‘I’ve come to hand in my resignation, Matron.’

  Matron leaned back in the swivelling captain’s chair. Lips a thin line, her sharp eyes considered May from beneath her grey hair and frilled cap.

  ‘I wondered when you’d decide to tell me.’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘A Sister on Maternity is no fool, Nurse Robinson. It is her job to recognise a new mother-to-be when she sees one.’ She sat upright. ‘Normally I would ask a nurse who makes this request to consider the money and the time her superiors have put into her training. But in this particular instance I can see no other option than to agree. You must resign. You may continue to work until the end of the month.’

  The meeting was over.

  May couldn’t help but feel a failure and that she’d let people down.

  ‘I understand, Matron.’

  She made to leave.

  ‘Nurse Robinson…’

  ‘Yes, Matron.’

  Matron’s expression stayed grim and May felt her knees wobble.

  ‘You have made, so far, an exemplary nurse. My wish is that someday you will find a way to return to us and finish your training.’

  May was speechless. It meant so much that Matron had found it in her heart not only to forgive her but to recommend she return to the profession.

  ‘It is my wish too, Matron.’

  Matron nodded. ‘And, Nurse, before you go’ – her eyes sparkled – ‘let us hope you make as good a mother as you do a nurse.’

  As May made her way to the Nurses’ Home for some precious sleep before night shift, she marvelled. She would never have guessed Matron capable of that level of warmth and kindness.

  The unit made their way along a track situated halfway between Caen and the landing beaches. Ahead was a village and beyond an airstrip held by the enemy. On either side of the track there was white tape marking an area cleared of mines. In the distance the sound of gunfire and screaming shells came from the front line but after Sword Beach it was a sight for sore eyes to see green fields and trample over sweet-smelling grass.

  As soon as the RAMC unit arrived at the site, they pitched tents and spent time familiarising themselves with their surroundings and readying the makeshift hospital for the wounded – for the front line was only a stretch up the road and close to a village.

  Starved, Richard brought out his ration pack of food and, sitting on his hunkers, devoured every morsel. All the while the distant artillery sounded from the front line.

  ‘How you doing, mate? Orders are to bring in the wounded.’ Charlie Oakley towered above him.

  Richard rose and clapped Charlie on the back. ‘Let’s get started.’

  Stretcher-bearers evacuating the wounded were always at risk because they were continually in the line of fire. And the job was made difficult when it was imperative they didn’t jolt the casualties.

  Richard, as a non-combatant, didn’t stop to think about his own safety – that he was at risk. All that registered were the fatigued, frightened eyes of wounded soldiers as they lay helpless after a bitter battle – some alongside the mortally wounded. After ferrying stretchers for hours, and especially soldiers that weighed a ton, Richard’s hands were bloodied and blistered. His arms ached like blazes and he couldn’t stand straight from his aching back. But as far as his tired mind could reason, this was his way of making amends for not doing his bit for all those years.

  * * *

  That night as Richard lay on the ground, scenes of the wounded disturbed his mind and he couldn’t sleep. He felt in the pocket of the battledress that covered him for the photograph of May that was folded in a letter she’d sent. As he touched the photograph he imagined her gorgeous, smiling face.

  ‘Night, my darling.’ Richard touched his fingertips to his lips and then pressed them against the photograph.

  As sleep finally overtook him, in his dreams he felt her snuggle up to him.

  He was awoken by Charlie tugging at his arm, ‘Come on, fella, bail out of bed. The battle for that bloody airfield starts at 0200 hours.’

  The enemy wanted to hang onto the airfield as the Allies would use it as a strategic position to refuel and repair aeroplanes and for emergency landings.

  To get to the airfield the troops had to go through the village, which was still occupied by the Allies.

  By the light of a star-studded sky, a squad of four stretcher-bearers marched with the infantry behind Churchill tanks towards the front line.

  Richard, teamed with Charlie, brought up the rear. Boots clattering, they approached the village, all shuttered up, its people in bed.

  Charlie whispered, ‘Wish it was me in—’ He stopped at the sound of gunfire.

  A sniper in one of the nearby trees, Richard thought. He fell to the ground to take cover.

  There were more shots, this time from the infantry and a body fell out of a poplar tree that lined the road.

  As the troops marched on behind the tanks, one soldier stayed on the ground. Richard hurried and crouched beside him, opening his haversack.

  The soldier reached up to his shoulder, then gazed up at Richard with surprised eyes. ‘The bloody thing whizzed past and I just dropped. Me shoulder hurts like hell.’

  Richard assessed for an entry wound but there wasn’t one, nor any blood. The soldier’s breathing, consciousness and pulse were stable and he didn’t appear in shock.

  After further investigation, he told the lad, ‘I’d say it’s a clavicle fracture.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Collarbone.’

  Richard made a sling to support the arm. ‘That’s you out of this skirmish.’

  ‘Aw, I’ll never live it down with the fellas.’

  ‘Back to camp, soldier. You’ll fight another day.’

  The soldier stood and, picking up his rifle, moved back along the road.

  All alone on the road, Richard reckoned Charlie must have gone on ahead.

  Shrugging the haversack onto his back, Richard was just about to move when he heard a sudden noise – a moan – that made the hairs on his neck stand on end.

  Another noise, grunting this time.

  Then a voice, ‘Anybody… out there…’

  Moving towards the sound, Richard made for the poplar trees at the side of the road.

  Another shell screamed and exploded down the road and the blast lit up the area.

  Richard noticed a gap in an overgrown hedge. Pushing through, he saw a silhouetted figure sitting on the ground, his back leaning against a tree. Beyond was a narrow track and in the distance was a farm, with black metal gates and shuttered windows.

  The figure was Charlie.

  ‘Bugger… they got me.’

  28

  Charlie had removed his battledress and in the stark moonlight Richard saw a dark wet stain spreading across the front of his friend’s shirt.

  Charlie told him, ‘Took a bullet in the chest.’

  Richard evaluated the situation. Charlie was able to talk so his airways were clear. He did a quick examination of his chest and looked for other wounds. He took a dressing out of his haversack.

  ‘Charlie… apply pressure with this.’ Richard put the dressing in Charlie’s hand and placed it over the wound.

  Charlie was in a bad way and his wound needed urgent attention.

  ‘I’ve got to get us out of here.’ Richard spoke to himself as much as to his friend. ‘There’s a farm not far from here but I’m worried it’s in occupied territory. I’ll have to take a chance.’

  ‘So cold. Took battledress off to check injury…’

  Hypovolaemic shock, Richard thought. Charlie probably needed a blood transfusion.

  Richard shrugged out of his battledress and covered Charlie with it. Another shell burst not far away and Richard was sure the earth shook. There was no time to lose. Richard fumbled in his haversack for the morphine.

  ‘Charlie I’m going to give you a—’


  Charlie’s hand slid to the ground and his head slumped to one side.

  Richard stared into his friend’s glazed, unseeing eyes.

  A shell screamed through the air and there was an almighty explosion, as a frisson of fear gripped Richard. The blast was the last thing he knew before his world went black.

  * * *

  Richard opened his eyes to a cold and dark world. Birds twittered above and a cow dung smell drifted on a soft breeze. He rubbed his eyes and opened them but in the pitch black, he couldn’t see. Where was he? He couldn’t remember. He wished the moon would shine. He tried to stand on shaky legs but the pain in his right thigh took his breath away and his right arm hung by his side and no matter how he tried, it wouldn’t work. He felt his chest and the flesh felt strangely loose. Pain throughout his body tortured him. He lay back on the ground in the foetal position and let blessed sleep claim him.

  When he awoke, a hot sun burned his exposed skin. Hellish pain still racked his body. To make matters worse, he couldn’t recall who he was. He opened his eyes but was unable to see the sun. He rubbed his eyes but still no sight came. He was blind, the voice of alarm cried in his head.

  He sensed he was in danger. It pained him to stand but instinct drove him to get away. He fell. Hauling his painful leg, he crawled over rough terrain. If only he could remember where he was. He felt, now and then, around the immediate area but his hand only touched the bark of trees. Still, he crawled on. The track he travelled didn’t seem to end and he had no way of telling the time of day. Unable to bear the pain, he rested for a while.

  He must have slept, for when he awoke it was raining. His mouth parched, he cupped his hands and slurped droplets from his palm. He couldn’t resist the urge to move, only this time his body refused. He lay on his back and felt rain patter on his cheeks.

  Voices came to him then… or was he dreaming? There they were again – and they spoke in a foreign tongue.