Girls of the Great War

by Freda Lightfoot

  A sickness came over Cecily. ‘Did their families receive a telegram saying “Missing, presumed dead” sent from the War Office?’

  He gave her a sorrowful smile. ‘Ah yes, they did. Fortunately, others escaped as walking wounded.’

  ‘All of this horrific mess makes travelling extremely difficult, the effect upon soldiers far worse. I can see the fear and tension, strain and anxiety in their faces as they fall into a grim silence the nearer we come to the battle zone.’

  ‘Their thoughts do turn inward. Younger, single men and hardened veterans manage to deal with such problems more easily. While many are marching here, some Tommies are coming by train, all prepared to try and block the German attempt to take over this area.’ At that moment, an aeroplane came flying over, more shrapnel shells bursting forth. ‘These planes have entered the war to drop bombs and attack the British or to check on what’s happening,’ Lewis muttered grimly and slowed down the wagon to avoid them being hit.

  Flying to and fro, the aircraft quickly came under attack from the Tommies and Cecily saw one of the plane’s wings blown off. Within minutes, it plunged down to earth where the enemy pilot must have been instantly killed. Thankfully, they remained safe. She could see men running around, then they would drop down into a trench before emerging to move on in a different direction. It couldn’t be easy for them in such muddy ground, which made movement extremely difficult. This must be an experience they’d endured many times before and Cecily worried over whether she could cope with such dangers as she might be about to face.

  Their next concert greatly cheered her up. As always, it was packed with soldiers who happily applauded whenever she sang to them. The entire area stank of smoke as so many of the men were puffing on their Woodbines, including Johnny while playing his drum. Cecily began with ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’, then went on to sing many more songs, encouraging the Tommies to join in with the chorus, which they so loved to do. How she enjoyed these performances, brightening her mind and dismissing all fear and worries over the drastic reality of war. It had that effect on these men too. Once it was over, some would hover around, begging Cecily for her autograph or, more daringly, inviting her to take supper with them. She discreetly declined, not wishing to succumb to their flattery. Queenie, however, cheerfully flirted with them, batting her eyelashes and kissing their cheeks, her fascination with men still very evident. Unlike her mother, Cecily felt not at all interested in courting any man, although her grief for Ewan had now reduced to sweet memories of his life. She did remember the slight attraction she’d felt for Boyd, Nan’s nephew, then blocked him from her mind too.

  As well as being attended by hundreds of able-bodied soldiers, the wounded, stuck in tents often overpacked with as many as twenty injured German prisoners instead of the usual eight Tommies, were also keen to watch their performance. Sentries bearing rifles stoutly guarded them. Once recovered from their injury, these prisoners would be moved on to an internment camp some distance away. Cecily was always surprised when some of the German PoWs joined in the singing, presumably those capable of understanding some English.

  She saw a young nurse calming a sick patient as she gently washed his swollen grey feet, which looked freezing cold, inflamed with blisters, ulcers and peeling skin. Cecily couldn’t resist going over to help. ‘You must be in a sorry state,’ she remarked softly, and holding his hand, began to sing to him.

  His expression, which had been locked in pain, now twisted into a small smile of appreciation.

  ‘We do our best for these boys and greatly enjoyed your performance.’ With a smile, the nurse washed his face with a sponge and combed his hair, then told him he must stay put until they were certain he wasn’t suffering from gangrene.

  When she moved outside, Cecily stayed with her as she introduced herself as Lena Finchley. She appeared most caring, smartly attired in a blue uniform dress, a bright red cross on the centre of her white apron and a firm white collar around her neck. Her dark brown hair with its centre parting was capped with a neat white hat. ‘These men suffer a great deal, not least from rats, lice, fleas, slugs and beetles, as well as scabies, trench-fever and trench foot – what this young man is plagued with. Boils too are very prevalent because of their poor diet,’ she said, her golden-brown eyes filled with warmth and compassion.

  ‘Goodness, how dreadful, and very brave of you, Lena, to be willing to help them.’

  With a little shrug of her shoulders, the pretty girl laughed. ‘We appreciate your support too. It’s brave of you too to come here and sing for the troops. It has lifted their morale and the memory of these concerts will fill their minds for days.’

  Cecily smiled. ‘Thank you. Having lost the man I loved, I felt the need to honour his memory by doing my bit for these Tommies. Grief never goes away completely but I wish to face reality and move forward in life.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that, but greatly admire your success with our patients.’ She then hurried to help a young man who was in complete agony. Cecily followed to hold his hand and began to sing quietly to him. Confined in bed, he’d missed the show. He blinked at her in surprise and when the song was over, she asked him his name.

  ‘Wilhelm Ackermann,’ he murmured.

  She instantly realised that he must be a German prisoner of war. Remembering what Lieutenant Trevain expected of her, in return for granting the necessary permission she’d asked for, a quiver of anxiety erupted in her chest. This man’s handsome face with its full round cheeks and a square chin was racked with pain and covered with bruises. Clumps of his fair hair fell over his blue-grey, staring eyes and she smoothed them back.

  ‘Danke,’ he murmured.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said with a smile. ‘I feel sorry for the suffering of all prisoners in this war, no matter what their nationality.’ He was wearing Blücher boots with no socks, his feet bound in rags, his leg having been injured as his trousers were ripped and soaked in blood. The smell of it was gruesome. Did that mean it would have to be amputated? ‘Would you like me to help you take these boots off ? Is it all right if I do that?’ she asked Lena.

  ‘So long as you take them off most carefully.’ Turning to the prisoner, she said something to him in German. ‘Hab’ keine Angst, hier bleibst du sicher.’

  Cecily was surprised, not understanding a word of the language. ‘That’s clever of you,’ she whispered.

  Lena smiled. ‘I know only a few obvious words such as – don’t worry, you’ll be safe – which is what I’ve just said to him. I do what is expected of me, no matter what nationality they are.’ At that point, she dashed away to see to someone else.

  Should she be asking this man questions? Because of the panic within her, Cecily couldn’t remember what she should speak of. Having so far failed to send any information to Lieutenant Trevain, she still had no confidence in fulfilling her role as a spy or agent, as they were supposedly called. But remembering her love for Ewan, she really must attempt to do what she had promised. Would this Wilhelm Ackermann be willing to reveal anything?

  ‘Have you been in France long?’ Cecily brightly asked, wondering how much English he really knew when he stared at her without answering. He must understand a little, having responded to her original question. Receiving no response, she tried again. ‘What about your comrades? Are they safe?’

  Noticing a slight darkening of his eyes as he stared at her, Cecily ploughed on as best she could, assuming he had little English. ‘No doubt you have an important role in this war. And I dare say you feel resentful at being arrested or captured. How did that come about?’

  His silence now was echoed with a glimmer of amusement and disapproval in his eyes, causing her to flush with embarrassment. Recalling how Lieutenant Trevain had made it clear that it was the gentleness and attractiveness of women that caused them to be the best at this job, she realised she must not sound as if she was interrogating him, but simply being caring and sympathetic. Giving him a charming smile, she said, ‘
Oh, your family must be most concerned about you being missing. I’m sure you feel isolated and are anxious to see an end to this war, escape and return home, as are we,’ she said with a soft smile.

  Lena appeared at that moment, to tell this man that he would soon be taken into the operating theatre.

  ‘Oh dear, what will he have to go through?’ Cecily asked, feeling a degree of pity for the possibility of him losing a limb.

  ‘We’ll check and see,’ Lena blandly stated.

  He lifted up his head to cast a smile at Cecily and grasping her hand gave it a small squeeze. ‘Hope to see you again,’ he said in perfect English, which greatly staggered her. His choice of words sent a chill echoing through her, so similar to what Boyd, a more pleasant man, had said to her when last she saw him, but a far worse proposition. Giving this fellow a brisk nod, Cecily scurried away, quickly moving on to another group of injured patients. Had she made the right decision to agree to act as a spy? Probably not. She was certainly no good at this task and felt a complete idiot.

  ‘Hello, have you come to join us?’ another young man asked, again in excellent English with a slightly foreign accent. Cecily merely smiled, feeling confused and inadequate, struggling to think of any relevant questions.

  This man’s handsome face was badly bruised, grubby and weather-beaten, one of his white teeth chipped behind swollen lips, his bleeding arm tucked in a sling. Feeling anxious not to make a complete fool of herself, she resolved to do better this time and made an attempt to be cheerful rather than ignorant. ‘Hopefully, you’ll feel well enough to come and watch our next performance. It will take place early this evening.’

  He met her gaze with a lopsided smile. ‘I wish that I could. However, I have to be seen by the doctor to have this damaged shoulder dealt with.’

  His ash-brown hair was a scraggy mess, while his matching eyes were lit with a resolute strength. Cecily felt herself unexpectedly captivated by this man’s good looks. ‘Sorry to hear that. How did you come by this injury?’

  ‘I was hit by a shell – a bit like being kicked by a horse, only worse,’ he grimly remarked.

  ‘Your English is so good I forgot you were – oh dear – you are a German prisoner of war on your way to an internment camp.’

  He burst out laughing. ‘I’m French Canadian and certainly not a prisoner, so will be occupied elsewhere once I’m taken to be treated.’

  Blushing with embarrassment, she was about to apologise when there came the sound of a barrage of shellfire. This happened fairly frequently and was always terrifying. Numerous hostile aeroplanes appeared overhead, being attacked by heavy anti-aircraft fire while bombs fell just a few feet away. The roaring sound was horrendous.

  ‘Come on, we need to go hide in a trench,’ he yelled.

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘No, it’s over there,’ the French Canadian said, pointing to the right. ‘Come on, we must hurry,’ he urged, grabbing her hand.

  As the pair of them ran across the field, she heard a cry. ‘I need help too!’ Turning, she saw Wilhelm Ackermann, the German PoW with whom she’d spoken earlier. Cecily felt startled to see him seated close by in his wheelchair, his expression a complete picture of agony. Would the sentries manage to protect all these prisoners, let alone the ones trapped in beds or wheelchairs? This camp was turning into a nightmare. It was then that more Hun planes came whirling overhead. Seconds later, a much greater explosion filled the air. Rushing over to him, Cecily grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and began to push it down the muddy path towards the trench. As she reached it, sturdily attempting to safely deposit his wheelchair, she must have pushed it too hard as her feet slipped and she fell. Her head bashing against the wooden framed arm rest, she knocked herself out.

  FOURTEEN

  CECILY CAME round slowly, the pain in her head so bad it caused her to vomit, her mind a blur of semi-conscious thoughts. The silence after the deafening noise of battle was almost too awful to bear. Staring up into the mist of dust and smoke that filled the air all around her, she could see nothing, not a soul around in the grim darkness of the trench. She feared the hospital might have been destroyed. Dear God, make sure my sister is safe, let alone my mother and Johnny. She prayed the nurses, doctors and Tommies were alive too. Oh, and where was that young French-Canadian chap who’d bravely saved her life? Cecily shuddered, as she could see no sign of him either. And where was the German prisoner who she’d attempted to rescue?

  ‘Danke,’ she heard a voice quietly say.

  Looking up, she felt startled and oddly relieved that he was beside her, alive and well, if jammed in his wheelchair. She tried to move and cried out as pain pounded within her. She too was trapped, her foot caught in the sodden trench beneath it. Why she’d risked her own life for this enemy was not something she cared to contemplate. As a prisoner, he could have called for help from the sentries and soldiers all around. And maybe he’d been aware that those Hun planes would come flying over. Something inside her froze at the thought. She would need to take care not to ask him any of those questions.

  ‘Ich verdanke Dir mein Leben. I owe you my life,’ he murmured, then seeing the tremor of anxiety in her face gave a wry smile. ‘I’d no wish to be left lined up with my comrades in danger of attack. Those of us who were captured and suffered injuries were brought to this hospital by train. Others came by road in most uncomfortable armoured vehicles. In answer to your earlier question, it was not my choice to come to France and fight. We were ordered to do so.’

  Cecily guessed he was revealing nothing of any relevance, only the obvious. She felt a certain appreciation for his attempt to console her. ‘That is the reality in today’s world. Not just for you Germans but British and French soldiers too. I’ve no wish to be stuck in a trench either.’

  ‘Let me help you,’ he said, and tried to shift away his wheelchair.

  ‘Keep still!’ she yelled as pain escalated within her, the weight of it far too heavy.

  ‘Tut mir leid !’ he apologised.

  They both fell silent. Cecily felt something scrambling over her leg and saw to her horror it was a rat. Knocking it away with her fist, she thanked God it hadn’t actually bitten her. She could also sense lice prowling over her. According to that young nurse Lena, there would be slugs and beetles all around too. The stink of this trench was too much to bear, causing her to gag. The odour of urine and faeces was coming from latrines in these trenches that had not been filled in. There was also the stench of gas, creosol, chloride of lime used in water, rotting sandbags, cigarette smoke and even corpses. Some soldiers frequently complained there was a shortage of ammunition, only being allowed to fire the odd round from their gun. As a consequence, many were shot and left buried in the trenches. It didn’t bear thinking about. She could catch trench fever, sink into the muddy depth of it and drown. A horrific prospect.

  Time passed. She’d no idea how long she’d lain there, drifting in and out of sleep. A gust of wind woke her. Dusk was falling with night almost upon them. Then with great relief, Cecily saw two sentries arrive and watched in awe as they began to lift Wilhelm Ackermann and his battered wheelchair out of the trench.

  He raised a hand to salute her. ‘Du bist ein wunderschönes junges Fräulein, charmant und unschuldig. Danke für Deine Hilfe.’

  The sentry laughed. ‘He says you’re a lovely young woman, charming and innocent, and thanks you for your help.’

  ‘Thank goodness you’ve been saved,’ she told him, wincing with relief as her foot was finally free. ‘I was trapped beneath the wheelchair and I can’t climb out of here either,’ she said wearily, as they successfully dragged him up over the ridge.

  ‘We’ll be back soon,’ they called. There was something about the way they were carrying this PoW away that troubled her. Were they taking him to some place out of revenge for the bomb attack by his German comrades? Don’t believe such a thing, she warned herself. They were evacuating patients as a priority, which was surely the right thing to do
.

  Realising that her legs had slipped deeper into the mud, the fear of sinking caused her to struggle to pull them out. Pain again shot through her and she cried out in agony. Didn’t soldiers sometimes get trapped like this and die as a consequence? The ridge was too high for her to climb out. Surely there must be a place of access somewhere along the line. Desperately attempting to cope with the anguish she was suffering, she pulled herself up with her arms and began to crawl on her belly through the mud, keeping an eye out for the duckboards that marked the way to safety. Cecily felt the urge not only to escape this bloody trench but also to find her sister, mother and friends. She could hear cries of injured men, and small whimpering sounds as she strove to keep calm in a blackness so profound it pressed upon her like a suffocating mask. Presumably the sentries were busy helping people in a worse situation or else could no longer find her.

  ‘Help!’ she cried, hoping this might alert them. It was then that she heard a strong voice call to her.

  ‘Is that you, girl? Where are you?’

  Looking up, to her delight, she saw the French Canadian rise out of the mist like a ghost, one arm outstretched as he searched the empty blackness.

  ‘I’m here, still trapped in this bloody trench.’

  As he stumbled towards her, once again Cecily struggled to drag herself out of the stinking mud. The pair of them were suddenly lit by the light from another exploding shell. It felt almost as if she was on stage in some macabre dance as he wrapped his one good arm around her, locked in the horror of a battery of explosions.

  Eventually the sentries did return and pulled her up out of the six-foot deep trench. Scrambling up to join her, he wiped a layer of mud from her cheeks, grinned and shook her hand. ‘I’m Louis Casey. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’