Road to War

by Valerie Wilding

  “Of course,” said the sister. “Upstairs, first left.”

  The captain saw me before I saw him. He was sitting on the window sill, where he’d been gazing out at the murky day. “How perfectly good of you to come,” he said.

  “That’s all right,” I told him. “I was passing anyway.”

  “Oh.”

  “So how are you?” I asked brightly. “The bandages look a little smaller – and a lot cleaner.”

  He laughed. “I’m fine. Just itching to get out of here.”

  We talked for a while, and when he was brought a cup of tea I helped him drink it.

  “Just like old times,” he said, and smiled his lovely smile.

  Then I asked, “If I come again, would you like to go outside for a stroll, if they’ll let you? I’m sure if you wrapped up warm they’d—”

  “Daffy, I’d love to.”

  He’s really very nice.

  31st October

  A German ship – a destroyer – fired shells into Calais tonight! More than 100. Maybe 200. We got one, right behind the cookhouse. Spent hours clearing up and getting over the shock. All I’ve had today is hot soup.

  1st November

  The army’s battling for control of a village called Passchendaele, which will help them in their push forward to the Belgian coast, so they can attack the German submarine bases. They’ve got troops from our allies with them at Passchendaele, too: Australians, New Zealanders, South Africans, Canadians and so on. It’ll soon be ours!

  Of course, the bigger the battle, the more casualties there are, and we’ve been working like billy-o. I did a long session on barges today. It was hellish getting up early after little more than an hour’s sleep. My first load were all destined for the hospital, and the orderly who saw them into my ambulance confided in me that not one of the four is expected to make it.

  It’s terribly upsetting. I was miserable for the whole of the rest of the day. I’ve been doing this for quite a while now, and I shouldn’t let it get to me. But under every brown blanket is a man – sometimes just a boy – who is loved by someone else. And on every small brown pillow is a face that a mother or brother or wife or sweetheart longs to see. Sometimes the poor faces are so damaged they won’t be recognized – that’s all part of the horror of this filthy war.

  It was lovely to get back to camp to find the post had been delivered. I saved mine until after supper, so I could read it in peace and quiet, but I’d reckoned without Meldrew practising her impressions of people. It was quite unnerving hearing voices I recognized!

  A sweet letter from Reggie (nothing from Elizabeth Baguley, I notice). He said he misses seeing me when he’s riding out, but has called on my mother and she is well, though busy. Bless him, he checked on Honeycomb, too, and says she’s looking fit and healthy, and Hawkins exercises her regularly. Billie just stuck his nose in the air and ignored Reggie. Reggie, sensibly, ignored Gulliver.

  I said it was a sweet letter, and it was, so far. Reggie went on to say he quite understands me joining the FANY, and doesn’t think any the less of me for it.

  I was so incensed by that last bit that I read it out to the other girls. Instead of getting annoyed, like me, they just hooted with laughter, and said they’d like to see that idiot doing barges at four o’clock on an icy winter morning – with no lights and no moon.

  I can imagine what Reggie will think of my hair.

  4th November

  There were no ambulance calls this morning, so at ten to eight the whistle went for parade and roll call, and then we settled down for a peaceful brekker. We have a French woman coming in to help now. She’s very willing, but she suffers from dropsy. Not the ailment known as dropsy – she just drops everything. I had to go outside to get my car shipshape with the stain from a whole fried egg on my polished leather boot.

  For once everything went right with my daily motor maintenance, then, before cleaning the car inside and out, two of us tidied our hut. I was hoping there’d be a call for someone to go down to the hospital, or at least near it, but nothing came. Then at nearly four o’clock, in the middle of a heavy hailstorm, an Army car screeched into camp, and a soldier jumped out.

  “Post for anyone as wants it,” he yelled, waving a bundle in the air. He made a dash for cover, but slipped and fell to his knees. The idiot dropped all our mail and down it sploshed into an icy puddle.

  There were cries of fury as the girls rushed out to rescue their precious letters and packages. I didn’t go. It wasn’t that I minded getting wet. I just felt so cross. I’d have liked to have gone down to the quay for the mail. I’d have liked to see Captain Wensley-Croft again.

  Jolliphant saw my long face when she bounced back. “Letters for you, Rowntree – hey, what’s wrong? You look pale. Are you lovesick or something?”

  Am I?

  7th November

  Wonderful news. The village of Passchendaele is ours! This means that the Germans are on the losing end and, soon, so will their U-boats be – we hope.

  We’ve all managed to get hold of gloriously warm fur coats. Some are goat, some are wolf, and some are most peculiar. I sent for mine from home, and it feels most odd to be wearing it in the middle of the night, in France, in the pitch black. They’re not proper uniform, but everyone turns a blind eye because driving without a windscreen is perishingly cold. We couldn’t do it if we didn’t have warm clothing.

  Tonight a group of us went out to dinner in the town, to celebrate Passchendaele. Afterwards, we found a dance and wheedled our way in. We had the jolliest time imaginable, but kept our coats with us all the time – it would never do to have those stolen, not now winter’s here. It’s freezing at night, waiting in line for trains or barges.

  8th November

  I volunteered to take some broken engine parts down to the mechanics this morning, so I could slip in to the hospital.

  “How are you, Captain?” I asked.

  He smiled. “I told you before, it’s Charles.”

  “Charles,” I said with a nod. “I can’t stop – I just wanted to see how you were.”

  He held up his hands. “I’ve had my bandages off all morning, but they put thick goo all over my hands, so I’m strapped up again. Mustn’t dirty the sheets, or I’ll have Sister after me.” He glanced over my shoulder and winked. “Won’t I, Sister?”

  I turned to see a pretty red-headed nurse smiling at him. I smiled, too, but inside I silently wished she’d go away. She must have got the message, because she did.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I said, and gripped his wrist instead of shaking hands.

  He looked down. “I wish I could hold your hand, Daffy. Maybe one day soon?”

  “Goodbye,” I said.

  As I left, my own hands were shaking. When I got into the car, I noticed that, as usual, my nails were lined with black oil. What must he have thought?

  Later

  When I got back, the Boss said, “Where the deuce have you been, Rowntree? There’s a job for you.”

  She gave me an address and told me I was to pick up some German prisoners and take them to a hospital about thirty kilometres away.

  “Yes, Boss,” I said, but she must have seen the expression on my face. I did not want to do it.

  “Rowntree,” she said. “Do you remember the FANY motto?”

  “Yes, Boss,” I said proudly. “It’s ‘Arduis invictus’.”

  “And what does it mean?”

  That was a difficult one. I’d never bothered to find out. “Er, something about unconquered, and, er, arduis – let me see. Something hard?”

  “Unconquered in hardship!” The Boss glared at me. “And that means what?”

  “Er, that means…”

  “It means you cope!” she snapped. “You may not like the job I’m giving you – your face made that perfectly clear – but you jolly well get on and do it!”

  I felt awful.

  I picked up the prisoners – there were only two and I had an armed g
uard with me. Both Germans had shaven heads and really shabby uniforms. They actually looked to be in quite a bad way. One had his eyes open, but his face was flushed and his breathing was shallow. I hope he didn’t have typhoid. I’ve had my typhoid jab – we all have – and I gargle like mad to keep my throat clear of germs, but it doesn’t do to take chances. The other man was out cold. His forehead was bandaged and there was blood where his ear was – at least I hope his ear was there.

  The guard was one of those absolute blighters who talk non-stop about themselves, but never ask you any questions about yourself. If I ventured anything like, “We’ve been very busy lately,” then he’d been busier. Or if I said, “We’re planning a concert,” he’d once put on a gala performance. I had a wicked impulse to tell him I’d got a new lace petticoat, just to see what he’d come out with!

  After a while he exhausted himself and fell asleep. I drove along in silence. I must admit I wasn’t quite so careful with holes in the road as I would have been if they were our British Tommies in the back.

  We were nearly at the hospital, and I was just congratulating myself for coping (yes, Boss, I remembered) with my first encounter with the enemy, when there was a movement behind me. I glanced round to see the man with the bandaged head sitting bolt upright, eyes wide, staring.

  He suddenly spouted a load of German. I don’t know if he was cursing me or not, but I don’t think he was being complimentary. I dug my elbow into the guard. “Wake up!”

  “Eh? Wassup?” he spluttered.

  I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “Him.”

  “What?”

  Looking swiftly over my shoulder I saw that the man was lying down again.

  The guard gave me a look, as if to say, “Women!”

  I was livid. Who’d have thought I’d end my first go at driving prisoners by disliking the guard more than the Germans?

  9th November

  Last night, lying on my bed, I relived that trip. It struck me that the Germans were no different from any of our regular blessés. They were injured men. Somebody’s son. Somebody’s brother.

  Oh, Papa! Oh, Archie! I cried myself to sleep.

  11th November

  Sutton and I took supplies up to the front yesterday. It seems so civilized here compared to what we find as we travel. Each time I’ve done this trip, or one like it, it’s been foul weather, and yesterday was no exception. It’s rained or sleeted almost non-stop for three days now, and the mud just gets worse and worse. We passed a woman walking with a child in ragged clothes. They stopped and waved, and the child’s little wet face shone when she smiled. I thought of my sister May. As we drove through villages, dogs barked at us. They were so thin and neglected. I wish I could take them all home.

  Whenever we pass Tommies walking back from the front to their well-earned rest, you can hardly believe they’ll ever get clean. Their boots and legs are absolutely caked and it’s not with dry mud – it’s wet. Even though the rain and wind blast on to my face, freezing my cheeks, I am so glad that I have my car to get about in.

  We were carrying a bumper load of knitted goods, so we slithered to a stop and doled out socks and mufflers and other goodies whenever we could. The men were so grateful. One said he only possessed one sock and that had rotted into holes. “I used the other one to clean out me rifle,” he said, “then I put it down and some blighter pinched it.”

  Poor brave souls.

  Sutton has a brother in the Army. She says the trenches stink and there’s absolutely nowhere dry. Every time it rains, the trenches flood again, and the men have to put up with it, wearing the same clothes day and night. They make dugouts, and huddle in them when they’re off watch, trying to keep warm. They take bundles of straw down in the trenches, to sit on, but the straw ends up being home for vermin. Ugh.

  I felt so pleased with myself because Sutton talked about her brother, and I didn’t go on about Archie, and I didn’t cry. Oh dear, I spoke too soon. Now the tears are leaking.

  13th November

  A full train day today. I did three complete runs with stretcher cases, then one load of sitters. After that we went back, picked up the stretcher-bearers and returned them to their camp. All I had to do after that was drop off a package of mail at the quay and then I was free. I told the other girls I’d be late for supper, and cut across to Charles’s hospital.

  He was delighted to see me. We chatted for a few moments, and I told him I could allow myself about half an hour before whizzing down to drop the mail off at the boat.

  The ward sister very kindly gave me a cup of tea when she brought Charles’s. It seemed so cosy, drinking tea together. He was even able to hold his cup if I put it between his bandaged hands.

  All too soon it was time to go. As I left the ward, I thanked the sister for the tea and she said, “Are you going near the quay?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m delivering mail.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “Could you take my patients’ letters and postcards, please? They’ll get back to Blighty that much more quickly than if we wait until tomorrow.”

  I took the mail gladly. Once down near the quay, I joined a queue, and sat wondering whether to park and continue on foot, or just wait my turn.

  Quicker to walk, I decided, and reached for the FANY post. I scooped up the hospital mail, and a couple of postcards slipped off. As I picked them up, I saw one was signed with a scrawled “Charles”. My Charles is the only one in the ward, and as the handwriting was very feminine, it had to be his. He would have got one of the nurses to write it for him.

  As someone else had written the card, I reasoned, it wasn’t exactly private. I squinted at it. Dear Mother, it began.

  Had he mentioned me? I wondered. And then I did a stupid thing, though looking back, I’m glad I did it. I read the card.

  Dear Mother,

  If this reaches you safely, you’ll know that I’m nearly well. I should rejoin my regiment soon, but I won’t be at the front line for a while, so don’t worry about me. I’m so relieved that Mabel has left London, but as I’m stuck down here in Calais, her letters haven’t reached me, and I don’t yet have her new address. Please drop her a line on my behalf – tell her I miss her terribly, that I love her with all my heart, and cannot wait for us to be together again.

  As the signature was scrawly, I assumed he’d had a stab at signing it himself. He might as well have stabbed my heart.

  I don’t remember any more until I got back to camp. I must have delivered the mail because it wasn’t on the seat beside me when I returned.

  I thought I’d found someone – someone who really cared for me. Not the me who wears hats and gloves and goes to tea with Elizabeth Baguley. Not the me who helps Mimi run the household. The real me.

  But he loves Mabel. His fiancée? His wife? Either way, he should have told me. He shouldn’t have pretended to care for me. That wasn’t fair.

  Jolliphant found me hiding in the cookhouse, snivelling in the dark over a plate of bread and jam. I told her. I told her all of it.

  “Maybe he wasn’t pretending,” she said. “I suppose it might be possible to care for two people at once. I know I care for all our horses.”

  That was true. I think I love Archie and Honeycomb both the same. But no! “This is different,” I said. “He’s married or, at the very least, engaged, and he’s been betraying his wife as well as – as…”

  “As well as leading you up the garden path,” said Jolliphant. “The blighter. Come on, Rowntree, everyone’s practising for the concert, and we haven’t heard your song yet.”

  “I don’t feel like singing.” But I got up and followed her.

  The girls were awfully nice and pretended not to notice my pink eyes and bunged-up nose.

  Later

  When the temperature drops below freezing, we have to take turns to sit up at night and start the motor engines every hour to warm them up. Otherwise they freeze, and they’re impossible to start in the mornings. We can’t have that.
When a FANY’s needed, she has to be ready. It’s my watch at the moment. I hate it. One minute I’m warm in my flea-bag, the next I’m out in this freezing weather struggling with starting handles. And I have too much time to think. I keep remembering poor Violet’s misery when Archie went missing. My thoughts towards her weren’t exactly charitable. I feel bad about that now.

  14th November

  I feel better today. Last night’s practice certainly took my mind off my sorrows. Meldrew was hilarious, and Jolliphant recited a poem she’d written herself. The last line of each verse was the same, and we were told to join in on that line, so the audience would join in, too.

  “It’s good to get the audience participating,” said Meldrew. “They’ll enjoy themselves so much more if they feel they’re part of the occasion.”

  Sutton is a dark horse. She must have spent hours in secret making a beautiful Arabian costume. Her performance was a mixture of Eastern dance movements and ballet, and was just the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. How could she be so light on her feet? I suppose I’ve only ever seen her in boots.

  Then it was my turn. I had to sing unaccompanied, of course, as we’ve no piano here. I began, and almost instantly, there was a hush. Once I’d finished, I closed my eyes for a moment, and laid a graceful hand across my chest, as I’ve seen professional singers do.

  I opened my eyes to find everyone staring at me.

  “That was – amazing,” said Meldrew.

  Everyone nodded furiously. “Amazing. Absolutely amazing!”

  Bless them, they’re so polite! I really must stop fooling about and tell them I know I’m not much of a singer.

  16th November

  Today I was collecting laundry in the town when I noticed a group of French people staring up at the sky and pointing. It was an aeroplane, a German one, they shouted, and it was in trouble. It fell for a few seconds like a sycamore wing, then plummeted, nose down, fast. The locals told me the pilot had probably been shot; they could see him clearly, slumped across the front of the aeroplane. I know he was the enemy, but I wouldn’t wish anyone to end up in crumpled wreckage in a foreign land.