Teardrops in the Moon

by Crosse, Tania

  ‘I can imagine!’ Albert chuckled in reply. ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘I join in the singing, and we do a version of the can-can. It looks quite funny with us wearing puttees and army boots.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you look quite fetching. And the short hair rather suits you, by the way.’

  ‘Oh.’ Marianne’s hand went up to her shorn curls, aware of the sudden blush in her cheeks. But she was saved any further embarrassment as their meal was served just then and she tucked in ravenously. ‘What about you, then?’ she asked. ‘Or is that a bit of a silly question?’

  ‘Not really,’ Albert answered, pouring out the wine and tasting it. ‘That’s good. Mmm.’ He raised his eyebrows in appreciation and then his face moved into a sombre mask. ‘I try to make sure that my men and myself stay alive. As I said the other day, we get pretty frustrated at not doing much in the way of fighting as a cavalry unit, but being constantly at the ready can be unbelievably wearing on the nerves. I reckon that’s sometimes worse than when we’re used as fighting infantry, and that can be indescribable. The Second Ypres was the worst, along the Menin Road. The liquid mud in the trenches was two foot deep in places, and then we had to push forward over an open plain in full view of the enemy. Altogether we lost nine killed or wounded officers and nearly a hundred and forty other ranks. But at least we felt we’d played an important part in the fighting. We didn’t let the Hun take an inch of ground from us.’

  ‘But you were wounded and didn’t see the end?’ Marianne asked, her forehead wrinkling into a concerned frown.

  ‘Oh, yes, I did.’ Albert’s voice took on a sudden vehemence. ‘I was wounded on the last day, and I held on to the bitter end. I was determined to see the German attack repelled, fired with revenge, if you like, after what they’d done to some of my men. I mean. . . .’ He broke off with a deep sigh. ‘I know it’s war, and most of the enemy are simply obeying orders in the same way we are, but you can’t help being sucked into the “him or me” syndrome. But anyway,’ he shook his head dismissively, ‘I caught two bullets, in my left shoulder and arm, so it wasn’t too bad and I was able to fight on to the end of the day.’

  Marianne’s face lengthened. ‘Sounds bad enough to me.’

  ‘Well, it took several months before I was fully fit again,’ Albert admitted. ‘I had Blighty leave. In fact, I wondered about going to visit a certain young lady down in Devon, but I thought it might be a little presumptuous of me.’

  ‘Oh, Albert, you should have done! You’d have been most welcome.’

  ‘Would I?’ Marianne noticed a spasm of pleasure twitch on Albert’s face and then his eyes deepened with intensity as he suddenly closed his hand on hers. ‘Marianne, I’ve thought of you so often, even before your brother joined the regiment. Do you think, when this dreadful war is over, that there could be some sort of future for us? You and me, I mean?’

  Marianne’s breath became trapped in her throat. This was all so sudden, and nothing could have been further from her thoughts. She had come out here to do a worthwhile job, and had proved herself as capable as any man. Had the time now come to abandon the vow she had made as a young girl? No. This was ridiculous, yet her heart was trying to escape from her chest as she answered evasively, ‘That might be difficult with you in the army.’

  But Albert was not to be put off and his expression grew even more serious. ‘No. I’ve decided that when this carnage is over, I’m going to resign. Assuming I survive to do so, of course.’

  ‘I sincerely hope you do.’ Marianne spoke with a conviction that astounded even herself.

  ‘And if I do, I could think of nothing I’d like better than to help you and your family run your stud farm. I have some money of my own and a small house in Surrey I could sell. And if I could just be near you, even if it were no more than that.’

  Marianne felt the blood rush from her head and she knew she groaned inside herself. Yes, of course she hoped Albert survived the war, but she hoped everyone did. Every time a broken, mangled body passed through her care she uttered a silent prayer for the victim. She liked Albert. More than liked him. But to feel so deeply for someone that every day became a tortured anxiety, she could do without. Her dear mother had been right in that.

  ‘Let’s just see how things go,’ she muttered.

  ‘I ask for no more than that. And,’ Albert hesitated, ‘may I write to you? And . . . make you my person to be informed? Since my aunt died, I’ve had no next of kin.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Marianne replied, feeling her emotions twist into a tangled knot.

  ‘Good. Then let’s celebrate with another glass of wine. And you can tell me everything about yourself. The first time you rode a horse. All the adventures you’ve had on your wonderful Dartmoor. Your friends. Everything.’

  He was smiling broadly now, making him look like a cheeky schoolboy, Marianne considered. She felt her taut nerves slacken and she began to relax again. And as the conversation continued, she knew that a faint light was dawning somewhere inside her so that she didn’t want the day to end.

  ‘Oh, listen round, troops!’ Tanky bellowed across the mess. ‘It’s just been announced on the radio. The United States of America has decided to join in the war!’

  A roaring cheer rippled through the hut and every conversation turned to a discussion of this momentous, welcome news.

  ‘About bally time,’ Phyllis pronounced.

  ‘Things are looking up, then!’ Stella said cheerily. ‘First the weather’s suddenly improved dramatically—’

  ‘At long last—’

  ‘And now this. With the Americans on our side, the war could soon be over.’

  ‘Sadly, I doubt that,’ Marianne reasoned. ‘If they’d come in earlier, perhaps. And they’ve got to get here first. Moving thousands of troops across the Atlantic will take time.’

  ‘That’s true. But this really is good news. We ought to celebrate.’

  ‘It’s enough for me that I’m not shivering like an icicle anymore. We’ll be swimming in the sea and sunbathing before too long at this rate!’

  ‘Letter for you, Trooper Warrington,’ Tanky interrupted their joviality as she passed Marianne an envelope from a pile in her hand. ‘And one for you, Trooper Ainsworth. Hope it’s all good news, what.’

  Marianne’s heart gave a little bound, but it wasn’t a letter from Albert. She recognized Mary Franfield’s handwriting at once. It was almost a relief as she wouldn’t have to face the confusion that tweaked at her every time Albert came to mind. She opened the letter, happy with anticipation as Mary always had a wealth of interesting things to relate, not just about her training that was nearing its completion, but also about London and the sights she saw in the capital. But as Marianne’s eyes scanned the unusually brief note, a crippling horror took hold of her.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she muttered under her breath.

  Her friends’ conversation at once came to a stop.

  ‘What’s the matter, Marianne?’ a chorus of anxious voices asked.

  ‘It’s . . . my friend in London,’ she stammered as a sharp pain seemed to tear through her chest. ‘Her fiancé – someone I know, too – he’s in the Merchant Navy and . . . and his ship’s been sunk.’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘That’s awful!’

  ‘Oh . . . poor Mary,’ Marianne choked as Michael’s handsome face floated into her mind. ‘And all his family, too. It’ll break them all. His parents. And Adam and Becky. And Richard and Beth. They’re all his grandparents. Oh, this is all too much. He’s . . . was such a lovely young man.’

  A storm of grief broke over her despite the sympathetic concern of all her pals who collectively put their arms about her. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and the tearing sorrow of her lost brother rushed to the surface and mingled with this new tragedy. Her heart cried out in despair, for who else would she lose before
this appalling, godless war came to an end?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  They drove like bats out of hell through the slumbering town to the railway station, always in convoy or at least in pairs. The air raids were almost nightly now and they might need to help each other in an emergency. The return journey was utterly different; slow, steady, using the heavy gears to make the passage as smooth as possible for the poor souls in the back who often cried out in agony. At least the snow and ice were things of the past, but the potholes were still there, gouged out by the severe winter weather or blasted out by exploding shells. As soon as the authorities filled them in, more appeared, a never-ending battle of a different kind from the one that had been raging first about the town of Arras, and then continuing in the surrounding area for weeks now.

  Marianne followed the vehicle in front, navigating the potholes and peering into the summer darkness. She glanced up at the sky, a balmy, moonlit night – perfect for a raid. They had become almost immune to the fear, to the sound of falling shells, the flash and thunder of explosions. Such things were just a nuisance now, leaving debris that was hard to spot without headlights until the last minute so that you had to swerve suddenly or slam on the brakes, sometimes reversing out if the way had been made impassable.

  It had all become so routine. Marianne’s gaze shifted briefly to Stella, sitting hunched beside her, tin hat firmly strapped under her chin. They rarely spoke on a run now. They were too exhausted to do anything but concentrate their strength on getting the job done. From the beginning of April when the big offensive had started, the hospital trains had been arriving almost nightly, bringing hundreds of wounded each time. No matter what hardships they endured, the young women of the FANY would not give up until every case had been safely transported, even though they were dropping with fatigue and their limbs screamed in pain from lifting stretchers and turning heavy steering wheels.

  ‘What’ve we got?’ Marianne asked the orderly as she reversed the ambulance up to the train door.

  ‘Eight walking gas cases for you, miss,’ came the answer.

  Marianne’s heart sank. Poor devils. Most would have their eyes bandaged, eyes that might never see again. Burnt skin turned green, rasping throats or lungs. It seemed to her one of the most cruel, inhuman injuries of the war to lose one’s sight, as dreadful as having half your face shot or burnt away and still being able to see your monstrous reflection in the mirror. Maybe it was better to drown in the fluid the gas made your scorched lungs exude. Was death the better option? Certainly she could understand why brave young men begged for death to release them from the excruciating pain of a blown-off limb or a gaping, gangrenous hole.

  ‘It’s all right, you’re safe now,’ she heard Stella’s soothing voice as she held the arm of the first blinded victim, and took some comfort herself from her friend’s gentle words. ‘One more step. Now you need to climb up into the ambulance. Lift your foot a bit more. That’s it. Let me take your hand. I’m going to guide it to a strap you can pull on. Now up we go.’

  Marianne turned her head away as angry frustration erupted inside her. The image of these poor devils would be seared into her brain forever. She would deal with the paperwork first, allowing herself time to take a hold on her emotions before she went to help Stella load their patients. Stella always knew what to say, a practical voice that nonetheless resonated with compassion, while Marianne wanted to burst out in a squall of rage against the perpetrators of such monstrosities.

  And so she did what she did best, drive, while Stella comforted the men in the back. After delivering them, then it was the mad dash back to the station. This time, their human cargo consisted of a bad case of trench-foot and three stretcher-wounded, at least one of whom had contracted gangrene. Marianne didn’t need to be told. The stench was overpowering. Nauseating.

  And rumbling always at the back of her mind as she clenched her jaw against the horrors was the thought that one night she could find Albert among the hundreds of victims. Her heart had shied away from the utter confusion he had brought her, filling her head until it felt ready to explode. He had written to her twice before she had given in to the temptation to reply. But soon her pulse beat joyously with every letter that arrived. His words made her both laugh and cry, but always assured her of his safety. The regiment had been regularly stood to its horses, even for the recent attack on the Messines Ridge, but yet again the cavalry had not been needed. It was the middle of June, but how long could this false sense of security last? The damning fear trundled in Marianne’s breast, ripping her soul to shreds, for with each letter they exchanged, she became more certain that, despite every rebellious fibre of her being, she was falling irrevocably in love. It was somehow so easy to express one’s deepest emotions on paper, perhaps easier than being in each other’s presence. With every word Albert wrote to her, he revealed a spirit that matched her own like a glove and set her heart beating in blissful rapture.

  ‘Stella, Marianne, meet Chuck and Travis.’

  It was their monthly day off, and the two girls were wandering together along the vast, sandy beach, enjoying the first lull in the stream of casualties since the conclusion of the disastrous attack on Arras and the success of Messines. Marianne had been squinting into the July sunshine when she spotted Lucy coming towards them positively glowing in the company of not just one but two big Americans. The pristine army uniforms they sported were so different from the mud-encrusted, lice-ridden, war-torn uniforms of the British Tommies the girls were used to, that these creatures seemed to belong to another planet. Marianne knew it was unkind, but she could almost feel her lip curl with distaste. They would soon learn that they weren’t there to form liaisons with impressionable young women. Marianne liked Lucy, and she was a good operative. But to say that she relished the company of the opposite sex was an understatement!

  ‘How do, ladies?’ the apparitions said in polite unison.

  ‘Well enough, thank you,’ Marianne replied tightly.

  One of the Americans in particular looked taken aback. ‘It sure is good to meet you young ladies of the FANY,’ he said hesitantly. ‘The most daring of the female forces out here, so I believe.’

  ‘We’re not part of any force,’ Marianne corrected him. ‘We work with the armies, not as part of them. And everyone out here risks his or her life all the time, including the civilians if you take the air-raids into consideration. When you’ve helped pull an injured old woman or a dead child from a bombed house, then you know you’re not being daring. Just doing a horribly necessary job.’

  ‘And I sincerely hope we Americans can help, ma’am.’ The fellow doffed his cap deferentially. ‘I’m Travis and this is Chuck. So which one of you beautiful ladies is which?’

  ‘I’m Marianne and this is Lady Stella.’

  ‘Wow, a real English lady?’

  Marianne noticed Stella flush to the roots of her hair. ‘I’m afraid so,’ the younger girl blushed.

  ‘My father’s the mayor of a small town in Connecticut if that counts at all.’ Travis directed what appeared a genuine smile at Stella, and Marianne felt herself soften towards him. She supposed she shouldn’t be so prickly. It wasn’t their fault the American government had delayed so long before joining the war.

  ‘No need for that sort of thing out here,’ Stella told the American with a rueful lift of her eyebrows. ‘If bits of you have been blown off, it doesn’t matter if you’re a general or a private.’

  ‘Come on, let’s not talk shop!’ Lucy urged them. ‘It’s our day off, all three of us. Why don’t we get permission for us all to go out to dinner tonight? Please?’ she cajoled, linking her arm through that of the other American, Chuck. ‘I need a chaperone.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ Stella smiled, starry-eyed, up at Travis.

  ‘Nothing personal, but count me out,’ Marianne put in, somewhat relieved that she had an excuse not to be the odd one out.
‘I need to write a letter to my family. My brother was killed at the Somme last year,’ she explained to the two men, ‘so you can imagine they worry about me so much and I like to put their minds at rest as often as possible.’

  ‘Sure, we understand,’ Travis nodded gravely.

  ‘And I’m sorry to hear about your brother,’ Chuck put in.

  ‘Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting back to camp. You four enjoy the beach. Make the most of the nice weather. It might not last.’

  ‘It’s true, then, that the English can’t hold a conversation without mentioning the weather!’ Travis teased, and like a true gentleman, he made a show of offering Stella his elbow – which she took with a shy smile.

  Marianne turned away, shaking her head. Stella appeared to have taken an instant liking to the American, and good luck to her. She ought to have some fun while she could, for who knew what tomorrow would bring? Marianne just hoped her friend would not become too romantically involved. She only wished her own heart had not become ensnared, since except for when she was driving the ambulance and doing her best to alleviate the unimaginable suffering of the thousands of soldiers who passed through the FANY’s care, her every waking moment was filled with her fears for dear Albert.

  They were calling it the Third Battle of Ypres. It had started on the final day of July, and all at once the horrors had begun afresh. Crushing fear circled constantly around Marianne’s heart for somewhere out there, she knew not exactly where, was Albert. Though she tried desperately to drive it to the very depths of her mind, the thought slashed regularly across her mind that he had been wounded at the Second Battle of Ypres. Perhaps he would be again at the Third. Or worse.

  The rain had returned, too. If it wasn’t falling in torrential thunderstorms, it filled the air with a warm, damp drizzle, stifling souls and bodies. Marianne felt as if she could hardly breathe as she swabbed out the ambulance one morning, sweltering in her heavy overalls and rubber boots. Her hands sweated inside their rubber gloves as she washed out the pools of vomit and faeces from some unfortunate souls who had contracted dysentery in the trenches. The stench was foul, trapped in the dank, oppressive air, and it was all Marianne could do not to retch, herself. To top it all, this new offensive had been going on for weeks now, and still she had not heard from Albert.