Ambulance Girls At War

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘You all right?’ It was a woman’s voice. I blinked the tears away and forced myself to become calm. I was down there to help, and help I would.

  ‘I’m fine.’ My voice was surprisingly even.

  ‘You a nurse in mufti?’

  ‘Ambulance officer in mufti.’ I turned my torch around to see who it was and a woman in nurse’s uniform was revealed. ‘Maisie Halliday,’ I said, ‘from Bloomsbury Auxiliary Station.’

  ‘I’m Sister Grant,’ she replied, ‘from Charing Cross Hospital.’ Her low voice was calming. ‘I was on duty in one of the shelters when I heard that something had happened at the Café de Paris. Never expected anything like this. Isn’t it ghastly? I’ve used up nearly all my dressings already and I haven’t any morphia. I’ve sent someone all the way to St Martin’s Crypt to get bandages. Don’t suppose you’ve got any?’

  ‘No. I was upstairs in the balcony and came down when I realised what had happened.’

  She sighed. ‘Do what you can for the poor souls. Help’s on its way.’ She moved across to the table of the dead and picked up their bottle of champagne.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I squeaked.

  Sister Grant gave a soft laugh and handed the bottle to me. ‘We’ve been improvising. There’s no water so we’ve been using champagne to clean the worst wounds. Matron would be horrified. Only, we’re running out of champagne, too. Make it last. It’s like holding back the tide. Surely help will arrive soon.’ This last sentence was said like a prayer, as she moved away into the darkness.

  I squared my shoulders and got to work, using champagne to wash out the wounds of a young woman with injuries caused by flying glass fragments. My pink scarf became her bandage.

  She was shivering and whimpering in pain. ‘Keep still,’ I told her. ‘Help will be here soon.’

  What remained of the champagne went on the next poor soul, whose nearly naked body was a mass of cuts and abrasions. ‘Help is coming,’ I whispered to him.

  I stumbled over an unopened bottle of champagne and grabbed it just as my torchlight picked out a human-sized shape in the darkness. Clutching the bottle firmly, I clambered over a pile of plaster to reach it. The man was unconscious and his left hand had been almost severed at the wrist. Blood was pooling on the ground and it was clear that he’d bleed out without a tourniquet. I had nothing left. My slacks were tough wool and anyway, I had no knife to cut them.

  I shone my torch around in desperation. A few feet away a fair-haired woman in a long frock was kneeling by the unmoving body of a man in naval uniform, weeping uncontrollably. I felt a sharp jab of pity for her, but it was the silk sash around her waist that took my eye.

  ‘Miss,’ I yelled, shining my torch on to her face. It was blast-blackened and her tears had left it strangely patterned, almost like a horror mask. She appeared to be uninjured.

  I tried again. ‘Miss.’ This time she looked up, blinking in the torchlight. I shone the torch on to the face of the man I was attending then flicked it back at her.

  ‘I need something to make a tourniquet or this man will die. Could I use your sash?’

  ‘What? Just a minute.’ She lurched across the debris-strewn floor in a sliding, scissoring movement. As she did so she held her left hand up, away from her body.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I asked.

  ‘Lost a finger,’ she said, and raised her hand. Torchlight revealed it was covered in a soiled and bloody handkerchief.

  ‘Middle one’s gone entirely,’ she said, ‘and most of my ring finger. Flying glass, I think. Otherwise I’m fine.’ She glanced back towards the man she’d been weeping over and sucked in a shaky breath before stating, in an utterly expressionless voice, as if remarking on the weather, ‘Robbie’s dead. He’s dead and we never …’

  She swallowed convulsively, her face working as if not to cry again. Then she turned back to me. ‘How can I help this chap? My right hand works perfectly well, but this one’s out of action.’

  ‘I need your sash,’ I said. ‘Is it silk?’

  A quick nod, and she murmured on a sigh, ‘It was Robbie’s favourite, this frock. He loved me to wear it.’ Her voice became brisk. ‘Of course you can have whatever will help.’

  Together we managed to undo the knot on her sash and she handed it over. I wrapped it around my patient’s arm as I’d been taught and pulled tight. The bleeding slowed, then ceased to a slow trickle. I quickly examined him. A nasty penetrating wound on his right shoulder needed further investigation, but it was difficult to see what I was dealing with. With shaky hands I tried to open the bottle of champagne that I’d found.

  ‘Good heavens, whatever are you doing?’ said the girl, in a shocked voice.

  ‘It’s to clean his wound.’

  My hands were slippery and it was hard to get a good grip. I steadied it between my legs and used my thumbs. Finally the cork flew out of the bottle with a loud pop and a gush of liquid. As I poured it on to his wrist and shoulder wound the patient moaned and shifted fitfully, then subsided again into unconsciousness. I felt around in his shoulder for any large pieces of glass with my fingers and dribbled more champagne over him, then over my own hand, now sticky with blood. I remembered the handkerchief in my pocket. It was clean, so I used it to pack the wound, but I had nothing to bandage it in place with.

  ‘You a nurse?’ the woman asked. She had been watching me closely.

  ‘Ambulance driver. Maisie Halliday.’

  ‘I’m Lucy,’ she said. ‘Lucy Evans.’ She gestured towards her frock. ‘If we could tear this material into strips, it would make reasonable bandages. It’s good quality silk.’

  We exchanged quick smiles and I nodded. I used a shard of glass to tear the material and with Lucy helping the best she could, we tore off three good-sized strips. I wrapped one around the man’s wrist and used another to bind his shoulder. He woke again as we were doing this, and cried out in pain.

  ‘Hush,’ said Lucy. ‘You’re alive. Be glad of that. The pain means you’re alive.’

  ‘Let me see your hand, Lucy,’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘Save your champagne. I’ll have it seen to later. It can wait.’

  Help was arriving at the nightclub. There were heavy steps on the stairs and in the darkness I heard a warden calling orders to his men. Powerful flashlights and arc lights were turning on, revealing the extent of the tragedy that the explosion had caused. I stifled a sigh. There were so many injured.

  ‘Could you bear to stay with him?’ I asked Lucy. ‘Stretcher-bearers will be here very soon. Grab one for him. And do be sure to have your hand seen to.’

  ‘Will do,’ she said. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To see if I can help any others.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I stumbled on until I was checked by an overturned table. Something soft lay beside it and my torchlight revealed a man who was bleeding from a head wound. Kneeling, I supported his head and dribbled champagne into the wound. The pain caused him to jerk against my hand and his eyes opened.

  ‘What happened,’ he muttered. His words were strangled, but his accent was American. ‘There was a bomb and then … Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Mr Harker?’ I said, shocked. It looked like Michael Harker, but I couldn’t be sure in the darkness. I looked again. It was Michael Harker.

  He squinted up at me. After a second or so he said, ‘Who is it?’

  I turned the torch on to my face. ‘Maisie Halliday. We met a couple of days ago. You bought me a book. Are you injured?’

  His face lightened, almost into a smile. ‘Bess,’ he murmured.

  ‘No. Maisie.’

  He shook his head as if to clear it, as if he were confused. ‘I remember, the chorus girl. What are you doing down here?’

  ‘Trying to help. I know first aid.’

  ‘Help me up, will you, kid?’ I helped him to sit up. He touched the wound on his forehead. ‘What did you wash it with? Booze?’

  ‘Champagne. There’s no water.’


  He gave a quick laugh, and winced. ‘I hope it was a good vintage. I’m fine. Just this bump on my head. Got any bandages?’

  I held up the last strip of Lucy’s dress. ‘The women are tearing their evening gowns. If you have a handkerchief I’ll fix you up, Mr Harker.’

  He handed me a folded handkerchief. I mopped the wound with it and bound his forehead with the silk strip.

  ‘So you’re checking to see if anyone needs help?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s the idea, but I’ve run out of bandages. Still got a little champers left.’

  ‘I’m looking for a friend,’ he said. ‘He’s somewhere in this mess. Mind if I tag along with you? I’ve got a torch.’ As if to prove it, he turned it on. The stronger light illuminated, more clearly than my little torch, the extent of the devastation. ‘And for pity’s sake,’ he said, ‘call me Michael.’

  He found another bottle of champagne, and after he had expertly opened it we followed the sound of groans to find a woman whose face was a mess of cuts from flying glass. Michael had a penknife and used it to cut strips from her long frock for bandages. I washed her bloodied face and he helped me to bind it with pieces of her silk dress.

  The extra lights the rescue crews had brought helped us to negotiate the wreckage, but it was still quite dark in the area under the first-floor balcony where the arc lights couldn’t reach.

  Mr Harker’s torchlight picked up an unconscious figure a few feet away.

  ‘Better see how that guy’s doing,’ he said.

  I scrambled across to the unconscious man, knelt down and put my fingers on his neck. His pulse was faint and unsteady. As I did so, his eyes opened and they widened when they saw me in the half light. He tried to speak, clutched at me, grabbing my arm in a hard, convulsive grip.

  ‘What happened,’ he muttered. His breath was catching in his throat and his words were strangled. His accent was American. ‘There was a bomb and then—’

  ‘He okay?’ Michael knelt beside me.

  The man’s eyes widened. ‘Harker?’ He struggled, trying to rise. ‘What the—’

  I pushed him down gently. ‘Try to relax,’ I said. ‘A bomb exploded in here. I’ll check you over, see if I can help. What’s your name?’

  ‘Egan, Harry Egan. I feel so cold. Oh God, I’m dying. Am I dying?’

  I used my fingertips and torchlight to examine him. His laboured breathing and the rattle in his chest gave me grave concerns. It probably meant blast lung, which was often fatal. The table of the dead was proof of that. The man needed oxygen and I could only hope that the stretcher-bearers arrived quickly.

  He grabbed at me again, his hands scrabbling for my arm and grabbing the material of my slacks instead.

  ‘Shhh. Lie still, Mr Egan,’ I said. ‘The stretcher-bearers will be here soon.’

  He coughed wetly and the rattle in his breathing became more pronounced as he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  ‘What’s the problem with him?’ asked Mr Harker.

  ‘I think it’s blast lung, although he may also have internal injuries. He’s very unwell.’

  ‘He going to die?’

  ‘Perhaps. I can’t tell.’

  Behind me a woman moaned loudly. ‘I can’t do anything for him and I have to see to her now,’ I said.

  I crawled across to the woman. Her arm was at an unnatural angle, obviously broken. I set to work, first cleaning the wound with champagne. I needed a splint, so I felt around in the wreckage, looking for a likely piece of debris. A bit of broken wood came to hand, perhaps part of a chair leg. It would do. I placed it carefully on her arm and began to wrap it, when a movement caught my eye.

  Michael Harker was rummaging around in Mr Egan’s clothing. At first I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but then realised he was being very thorough. First he checked the front breast pockets, then the inside pockets of his jacket. He pulled out a wallet and a watch, which he pocketed. Then he felt in each trouser pocket. He even removed the man’s shoes and shone his torch inside.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ I said, through gritted teeth.

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Michael. ‘Slipped away just now.’

  ‘You can’t—’

  ‘I have to. It’s not what it seems.’

  Torchlight flashed in my face. I turned away from him to blink up into the light, tense and ready to defend this patient at least from any looters.

  ‘Hello, ambulance girl,’ said a female voice. She turned the torch on to her face and it was Sister Grant.

  I looked towards Mr Egan. Michael Harker had disappeared.

  ‘I’ve got some more bandages,’ said Sister Grant, handing me a couple of rolls.

  ‘Where did these come from?’ I asked.

  ‘Scots Guards have formed a cordon around the entrance. The nice men gave me their field dressings and I’m distributing them.’

  ‘Good for you. Any more champagne? I’ve just run out.’

  ‘Sorry, no. But I’m pleased to say that stretcher-bearers and rescue parties have arrived. With too few ambulances, but it’s a start.’ She hesitated. ‘Be wary. There are men down here ransacking corpses for valuables. Soho thugs, probably, after easy pickings. The police are on to it, but it’s too dark to see much. They think it’s the Hoxton Mob.’

  That was the biggest of the London crime gangs in Soho, with long tentacles that reached out into all parts of Soho life, especially black marketeering. Most of the girls on the street paid a proportion of their earnings to the Hoxton Mob as ‘protection’ from the other gangs.

  The Café de Paris might be a swanky nightclub, but it was in Soho, and gangs were a part of life in the poorer areas of any city. Not only German bombs, but Soho gangs, had crashed into the privileged lives of these Café de Paris revellers. But why had Michael Harker dropped to their level? What was he looking for in the pockets of his supposed friend? He’d said he had to do it. Why?

  Sister Grant reached out to pat my shoulder. ‘You’re doing a splendid job, my dear.’

  The calm kindness in her voice made me feel teary, but I managed to hold myself together. Sister Grant disappeared into the darkness.

  I placed my torch carefully on the floor beside me and began to unroll one of the bandages Sister Grant had given me. My patient’s figure suddenly sharpened. Something was throwing more light into the room, revealing the restaurant floor to be a hive of busy people treating the injured, loading them on to stretchers and carrying them upstairs. Surprised, I looked up to see that rescue workers had set more and stronger arc lights along the balcony and on the stairs.

  I finished splinting my unconscious patient’s arm. When I’d tied off the bandage ends I lowered the arm gently on to her chest and turned my torchlight on my own upstretched arm to call a stretcher-bearer. Across the room, one nodded at me as he hoisted the stretcher he was dealing with, to indicate he’d seen my signal. Less than a minute later a couple of stretcher-bearers arrived, put my patient on a stretcher and carried her off.

  Rescue workers, doctors, nurses were doing their jobs around me, and doing a better job than I could. I was no longer needed. So I stood and stretched weary muscles and imagined a warm, comfortable bed. I remembered to search the cloakroom on the way out to retrieve my raincoat. I shone my torch over a pile of very expensive fur coats that didn’t tempt me at all, and sighed with relief when my own tatty raincoat was revealed.

  I pulled it on over my filthy and bloodied clothes, pushed through the blackout curtain and emerged into a world of thick smoke and flickering red shadows. Monstrous fires lit the sky over to the north. Their light, allied to the moonlight, revealed the crowd that had gathered around the doorway to the restaurant and the ring of soldiers that kept them back.

  I fought an almost overwhelming urge to rage at the crowd of sightseers, call them ghouls, take out my anger at what I’d seen on them. Instead, I thrust through the crowd in silence. When I was in relative solitude further along Coventry Street I sucked in a shaky breath and
looked back at the onlookers. They huddled together, held back by the soldiers, calling out questions to anyone who emerged, muttering amongst themselves.

  My anger receded. Some of them probably wanted to help, others were fascinated by the horror, or were relieved that it had happened to someone else. Some might feel a perverse pleasure in the knowledge that most of the victims were young and beautiful, the wealthy and privileged. A few, I now knew, were hoping to slip inside to steal wallets and jewellery, take easy pickings from the dead. The crowd was undoubtedly as diverse as London itself.

  I sighed and turned away from them to walk towards Leicester Square. Ahead of me was a couple – a woman in a tattered evening gown and a man in uniform – locked in a passionate embrace. When they drew apart I saw, to my surprise and no small amusement, who they were. The woman was Celia Ashwin and the man was Dr Simon Levy, an army doctor stationed in London who often helped out in the Blitz. They were a surprising couple indeed. Dr Levy was Jewish, the brother of an ambulance officer from the Bloomsbury station who had died last year and whom I had liked very much.

  Celia Ashwin and Simon Levy! I smiled as they walked away arm in arm. They had obviously been down in the Café de Paris and, knowing them both, they would have been helping the wounded. I’d been so sure that they disliked each other. As they rounded the corner I sent them a good-luck wish. Falling in love in wartime was definitely a mug’s game, but it was also a vote of confidence in a future where lovers no longer needed to fear they would be torn apart by death.

  And then I remembered Lucy in the wreckage of the Café de Paris, weeping over the body of her Robbie, who had liked her to wear the evening gown we had torn up for bandages. So many bodies were down there. How many tears would be shed for those who had died tonight? I grimaced at the moon.

  ‘It’s absolutely true, you know,’ I said. ‘Falling in love in wartime is a mug’s game.’

  And then I laughed at myself for talking to the moon. I had more important things to think about, such as Michael Harker looting the dead body of Mr Egan. He’d said he had to do it. Why? I couldn’t work it out. Just who was Mr Michael Harker?