Ambulance Girls At War

by Deborah Burrows

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY DEBORAH BURROWS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  AUTHOR NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  FURTHER READING

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Deborah Burrows was raised in Perth, Western Australia, by a wonderful mother who was widowed in World War II and who loved to tell stories. As a child she always had a book in hand, even when watching her favourite classic movies on TV.

  She has several degrees in history including a post-graduate degree from Oxford University. She currently lives in Perth, though makes frequent visits to the UK. She is the author of Ambulance Girls.

  Also by Deborah Burrows

  Ambulance Girls

  Ambulance Girls Under Fire

  To the Burrows gang, Em, Lucy, Nigel; and to Jacob, Olive and Sunday, who are simply grand.

  AUTHOR NOTE

  Ambulance Girls At War is the third and final book in my Ambulance Girls series following on from Ambulance Girls and Ambulance Girls Under Fire.

  While each book stands on its own there is some overlap between characters and the timing of certain actions. The bombing incident of 9 March 1941 described in this book is a real event, and is seen from different characters’ perspectives in Ambulance Girls Under Fire.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thursday 23 January 1941

  ‘My God, Maisie,’ said Celia. ‘The whole world’s on fire.’

  I hit the brake hard and the ambulance shuddered to a stop in a cloud of bitter smoke that made my eyes sting. The buildings on both sides of Theobald’s Road had gone up like tinder in the incendiary attack earlier that night. Now they were vivid and pulsing pinnacles of fire flickering red and pink, lapped at the centre with tongues of gold and green and purple and blue. Fire hoses coiled and twisted over the road. A dozen or so firemen, black shapes silhouetted by the flames, held gushing hoses that writhed in their hands, as if trying to escape their grip and flee the inferno. The ground was awash with water, reflecting the scene as a shimmering melted-copper lake.

  A sheet of fire covered the narrow side street in front of us, cutting us off from the wounded men we’d been assigned to pick up. The chit that Jack Moray, our station leader, had handed to Celia before we left the ambulance station told us that there were four firemen to take to hospital, all badly wounded when a wall collapsed. Our patients were tantalisingly near, on the other side of the fire.

  ‘Bit of a sticky wicket, this,’ said Celia. Beautiful, upper-crust Celia Ashwin was acting as my attendant that night. She glanced at the chit, then back at the flames.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked. ‘Should we try to get through?’

  ‘We are in the Studebaker,’ she replied.

  I knew what Celia meant. The Studebaker was a tough, reliable ambulance. If anything could take us through that wall of fire, the Studebaker could.

  There were many dangers, though. The petrol tank might explode. A tyre might rupture in the heat. An unseen hazard could cause a puncture. The road was awash with water and dangerously slippery. We’d be driving blind through choking smoke. I could lose control of the ambulance and crash into a burning building.

  We were both well aware of the perils we faced.

  The fires around us roared like an express engine as the wind picked up, and a stream of sparks rose high into the sky and fell around the ambulance like shimmering fairy lights. Larger clumps of burning stuff, paper and rags floated past in the heated air.

  ‘Look at that,’ said Celia. She pointed to a fluttering pigeon vainly beating singed wings as it fell in a lurching descent. It landed in a puddle beside the ambulance and lay there, shuddering. Another singed pigeon soon joined it.

  ‘Should we ask the firemen how deep they think those flames across the road are?’ I suggested. ‘And if the ambulance could make it through?’

  Celia shook her head. ‘They’ll tell us not to do it. Say we’re girls and it’s too dangerous.’

  ‘They may be right,’ I replied.

  ‘We’re girls, certainly. But I think it’s up to us to decide if it’s too dangerous. I think we should risk it.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ I said, ‘but you quite like danger, Celia. I’ve seen you take ridiculous risks.’

  Celia gave me a smile. ‘That was the old me. Haven’t you noticed? I’ve changed. I’m very careful nowadays. One might even say cautious.’

  ‘Why the change of heart?’

  ‘I now own a parrot. The responsibility of parrot ownership makes me resist the temptation of stupid heroics.’ She gave a laugh. ‘And Dr Levy would be absolutely furious if I were to die stupidly, after he did so much to save my life the other day.’

  ‘You really think we could make it through?’

  ‘If we’re fast enough.’

  ‘So your plan – your only plan – is for me to drive through the fire really, really fast.’

  She eyed the galloping flames that blocked our path and gave me a wry smile. ‘The Studebaker’s a good girl. She’ll get us through. Back up a bit to get a run up, put your foot to the floor and go like the wind.’

  It was madness to attempt it. But beyond the flames lay injured firemen. I stood in awe of the Fire Service men, who risked their lives battling the infernos, even when they knew that the light of those fires made them an easy target for high-explosive bombs. You’d swear that they never heard the bombs whistling, thudding and exploding all around them as they stood firm, directing water from hissing hoses into the heart of the fiercest blaze. They had become my exemplar of bravery. And too many had paid the ultimate price.

  Not these ones, not if I could save them. I shoved the gearstick into reverse. The Studebaker complained with a shrill metallic shriek but she backed up smoothly enough. I stopped about a hundred feet from the fire we had to drive through. We hastily wound up our windows, although we knew there was no way to stop the smoke pouring in, because the box body that had been attached to the sedan had no doors, only curtains at the back.

  I shoved hard on the clutch, slammed the gearstick into position and pushed the accelerator pedal down. The Studebaker took off with a roar and I saw the horrified faces of firemen as we raced past them into the conflagration.

&nb
sp; By the time we entered the fire the accelerator pedal was flat on the floor. Thick smoke filled the cab and I prayed that the road didn’t bend as I was driving blind, acting on instinct. The engine screamed its protest at the speed, the air grew hotter, the smoke thicker. Debris banged on the roof, as if demanding entry. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks from my stinging eyes. I tried to take only shallow breaths of choking air, but my protesting lungs forced me into sharp painful coughs. Then the ambulance began to slide. My heart hammered painfully as we slewed to the right. I clung to the steering wheel, twisted it in the direction of the skid and prayed. The wheels gripped tarmac and I swung the ambulance to what I hoped was the centre of the road.

  And then we were through, into clear air. I eased my foot off the accelerator and slowed to a stop. I felt light, empty, shattered.

  Celia grinned and squeezed my arm. ‘Stout fella,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s not tell Moray about this,’ I replied, in a shaky voice. He would be furious that we had taken such a risk with one of our precious ambulances.

  ‘Quite,’ she said, nodding. ‘He’d just say we were showing off.’

  Fires raged in the narrow street, worse than those on Theobald’s Road. The leaping flames at times reached twice the height of the houses they devoured and all was bright as day and hot as summer in the French Riviera. Firemen were silhouetted against the roaring red and gold, rushing around with hoses that squirmed and wriggled as they spewed futile streams of water. The men’s steel helmets reflected the firelight gleam.

  Celia touched my arm and pointed to a small group huddled together in the portico of what had been an ornate building but was now a burned-out shell. Some lay on the ground, others sat with their heads in their hands, or rested on the wall behind. They all looked weary and some had obvious injuries.

  A warden ran up to the ambulance and peered in my window.

  ‘By God, you’re a pair of girls,’ he said. ‘That was brave, to drive through the fire.’

  ‘How many casualties?’ I asked.

  ‘How many can you fit?’

  ‘Four stretcher cases,’ said Celia, in her clear upper-class voice. ‘At a pinch we can squeeze in another three, if they’re willing to sit on the floor between the stretchers.’

  ‘Can you take five on the floor?’ He waved behind him, towards the huddle of wounded men. ‘That building is about to collapse and there’s no shelter once it does. And they want to dynamite the building opposite to try to stop the fires spreading.’

  Celia and I exchanged looks. ‘We’ll do it somehow,’ she said to the warden, and pushed open her door. ‘Let’s go and get them.’

  When I stepped out of the ambulance to join her, it was like entering a blast furnace. I mopped at the sweat on my forehead with my sleeve. Under her tin hat, Celia’s face was brick red, dripping with sweat and flicked with black smuts and ash. I assumed I looked as bad.

  Celia grabbed a stretcher to pull it out of its rack, gave a shrill yelp and shook her hand frantically, as if it were burnt.

  ‘What happened?’ I said.

  She rolled her eyes, annoyed. ‘The metal is too hot to handle. We’ll need to use our sleeves as mittens.’

  I pulled down the sleeves of my shirt and jumper to cover my hands and helped Celia to remove the stretcher. Even through a layer of cotton and wool, the metal was hot on my hands. We carried the stretcher to the injured men and laid it on the ground. I covered its metal frame with a blanket and we began to check our patients. A fireman groaned when I touched him. My quick examination revealed a penetrating stomach wound and quite severe burns.

  ‘Name?’ I asked. ‘Address?’

  His lips were tightly compressed, probably with pain, and his face was wet with perspiration, but he managed ‘John Breen’ and gave me an address. I wrote it on a tag that I tied to his wrist with some string. The tightness around his mouth eased as he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  We lifted him gently on to the stretcher, pulled our sleeves down again and picked it up. Once Mr Breen’s stretcher had been carefully slid into its rack, we got out another and went back for the next patient.

  It wasn’t long before all nine patients were in the ambulance. Celia sat on the floor with four men, who all had varying degrees of burns and abrasions. John Breen and the other three, more severely injured men lay on the stretchers. Our ninth patient was a big fireman called Ed Goshawk who had a broken collarbone and arm injuries along with the usual burns. He was so big that it was easier to put him beside me in the cab.

  The warden looked in at my window.

  ‘Get out of here quickly,’ he said, pointing at the ruin where the men had sheltered. ‘I think it’ll collapse soon.’

  ‘Will you be all right?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m getting a lift,’ he said, gesturing towards a fire truck that was parked nearby. ‘We’ll be right behind you.’

  The firemen had been working hard to reduce the fire that had blocked the roadway and the way was fairly clear. I turned the ambulance around carefully in the narrow street, put her into gear, let out the clutch, and pushed the accelerator. The Studebaker took us to Theobald’s Road with the fire engine close behind.

  ‘Are you all right in the back?’ I said loudly, over my left shoulder.

  ‘Tickety-boo,’ said Celia.

  The unmistakable sound of bricks crashing down competed with the noise of the flames. ‘There she goes,’ said Ed grimly.

  What remained of the building that had sheltered them was now a pile of debris.

  I turned into Southampton Row and headed for the hospital. Normally, the challenge for any ambulance driver in the Blitz was to get the casualties to hospital in the blackout, guided only by a beam of light the size of a shilling that shone through the masked headlights. Not tonight. Fires made all around us bright as daylight.

  As we drove away a loud explosion tore apart the air and a cloud of dust rose over the burning rooftops.

  ‘Dynamite, said Ed. ‘Sometimes all we can do is try to stop the fire by destroying what’s in its path. Seems a shame, though, for us to finish what Jerry started. Sort of like kicking an own goal.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Friday 7 March 1941

  When you are about to die, your past life is supposed to flash before your eyes. Only, when the car bore down on me I didn’t think of my mother, or my childhood in the Sheffield slums, or my dancing career, or my months spent driving ambulances in the Blitz. Oddly enough, I wished I was wearing nicer lingerie for the trip to the mortuary. (It was clean, you understand, but much darned and rather shabby.) And I thought how stupid I was to die like this, in a road accident.

  The incident was entirely my fault. I had rushed out on to Charing Cross Road without thinking, exhausted after a night when my rest had been measured in the short intervals between air raids. I knew perfectly well that road accidents in the blackout had caused thousands of deaths – I’d driven some of the injured in my ambulance – but all I had in my mind was the thought of a nice warm bed.

  The squeal of brakes alerted me but there was no time to think of anything (other than my shabby underwear and my stupidity) before I was on the ground, gasping from the pain of a skinned knee and hand, and scarcely able to take in that I was alive. The car door opened and a man tumbled out to kneel beside me. He put an arm around my shoulder.

  ‘You okay?’ he said, in a clipped, anxious tone. ‘Please tell me you’re okay.’

  I felt his sigh of relief when I shuddered and took another gasping breath.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I croaked. ‘Really. Please help me to stand up.’ He assisted me to my feet, keeping a firm arm around my shoulder. It was still too dark to see him clearly, but he was a couple of inches taller than me, slim, broad-shouldered and his arm was strong. As I was ridiculously shaky I leaned against him, feeling like a fool.

  ‘Let me get you to a hospital,’ he said.

  ‘I’m fine. Really I am. The hospitals are busy enough without me pus
hing in with a skinned knee and hand.’

  He blurted out, ‘I couldn’t avoid you. You appeared out of nowhere.’ There was a fierce intensity in his voice. ‘I tried to swerve, but there was no time.’

  It was then I realised he was American.

  ‘I’m entirely to blame,’ I said, with a smile he couldn’t see. ‘And you didn’t hit me. Actually, you must have remarkable reflexes not to have hit me. Well done. Jolly good. Just the ticket.’ I was blathering, so I shut up and concentrated on the pain in my knee.

  ‘I thought I hit you.’

  ‘No, you swerved away in time. I fell down out of blind terror.’ I gave a short laugh and said, ‘Idiotic of me to dash out like that. Please accept my apologies.’

  ‘You’re very cool about it all. Is this an example of English phlegm?’

  ‘I hate that word. Sounds like the symptom of a cold.’

  ‘The Blitz spirit, then?’

  I gave an unladylike snort, then smiled. ‘Pure embarrassment. I was a fool to race out on to the road when it’s so dark. It’s this bl – I mean, stupid – blackout. I’m entirely to blame. Really, I’m fine.’ I gently extracted myself from his arm and stood, still rather shaky, beside him.

  ‘At least let me buy you breakfast. Or a cup of tea. You English always drink tea in a crisis, don’t you? I’ve a flask of whisky in my pocket if it’d help. We could tip some hooch in the tea. You’re too damned calm, actually, and I suspect you’re in shock.’

  Shock indeed! I know all about shock, thank you very much, Mr arrogant American, and I am not in shock. His cool assumption of authority annoyed me, but I did feel rather unsteady on my feet, and my hand and knee were burning where they’d been scraped. The thought of walking to the club without at least a short rest was daunting. So I smiled at his dark form and said, ‘I’d love a cup of tea, thank you.’

  In Soho there’s always a tearoom or cafe open, even before eight in the morning. The little tearoom he found had just opened its doors, and he ushered me through the blackout curtain into a cheerful room filled with round tables covered by check tablecloths.