Goodnight from London

by Jennifer Robson

  “You are, but we both know the War Office has been refusing to accredit women as war correspondents. And without a pass you can’t go to France.”

  “Promise you’ll let me go if they do start accrediting women.”

  “Fine. I’ll send you—but only if you can get a pass, and not until I think it’s safe for you to go.”

  AS JULY GAVE way to August, and as resistance from Axis forces was steadily if bloodily quelled across France, Kaz’s opposition melted into resigned acceptance.

  “So I ran into an editor at the Evening Standard yesterday,” he mentioned one morning. “He said they’ve applied for a war correspondent’s pass for Evelyn Irons.”

  “Did she get it?” Ruby asked eagerly.

  “Not yet. Apparently the War Office is still thinking about it. But it might be worth starting your application now. God knows how long it’ll take for them to make a decision.”

  “May I go to Macmillan Hall now?”

  “Let me talk to Frank first. You can’t go to France on your own—don’t even think about fighting me on this—and there’s no point in getting stories without photographs to accompany them. But you know Frank. He hates being away from home, so I know he’s going to kick up a fuss.”

  It was hard to imagine mild-mannered Frank being difficult about anything, and in the end he couldn’t have protested all that much, for Kaz gave them permission to head over to Macmillan Hall later that morning. By eleven o’clock she and Frank were sitting across the desk of Captain Tuttle, Ruby’s favorite among the information officers at the MOI’s London headquarters, and the same man who had given her the runaround when she’d asked for information on Bennett’s mysterious employer.

  “Getting you a pass for the European theater of operations, Mr. Gossage, is no trouble at all,” he said after they’d made their case for accreditation. “But regretfully I can’t do the same for you, Miss Sutton.”

  “Surely I’m not the only woman correspondent to ask,” she protested. “You can’t be turning all of us down.”

  “We aren’t. A few, a very select few, are being considered, but only for work well behind the lines. And even then, I have to tell you, my superiors are not at all enamored of the idea.”

  “So what am I meant to do? Just sit out the rest of the war in England?”

  Captain Tuttle leaned forward, his voice thinning to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are you asking me what would I do, hypothetically speaking, were I in your shoes?”

  “Yes. Hypothetically speaking,” she hissed back.

  “In that case, as an American, I would speak to someone in press relations at SHAEF. I would ask for Captain Zielinski. That’s what I would do, if I wanted to get to France before the end of the month.”

  “Aren’t the SHAEF offices all the way out in Bushy Park?” Frank asked. “That’s past Twickenham. More than an hour on the train one way.”

  Captain Tuttle shook his head. “Fortunately, they have a satellite office here at Macmillan Hall. I believe Captain Zielinski is here today.” He sat back and, speaking at a normal volume again, gathered together the forms he had filled out for Frank. “I’ll have your photographer’s pass ready for the end of the week, Mr. Gossage. Is there anything else I can do for the two of you? No? In that case, have a pleasant day—and good luck, Miss Sutton.”

  Half an hour later they were speaking with Captain Zielinksi, who listened intently as Ruby described her credentials and experience.

  “That all sounds fine to me. I can accredit you for thirty days, beginning on the date you sail for France. Do you know when you want to leave?”

  “That’s it? Don’t you need anything else? Don’t I have to fill out some forms?”

  “Nope. You’ll have to sign your war correspondent’s pass, but that’s all. And I do know who you are, Miss Sutton. I’ve been reading your column in The American for years. You might actually send back some stories worth reading—unlike some of the sausage makers we’ve got over in France already. At any rate, when do you want to leave?”

  “I don’t know. Kaz didn’t say.”

  “Let’s check with him. What’s your number at PW?”

  “Central 1971.”

  The captain began to dial even before she’d finished reciting the number. A few seconds later he was talking to Kaz.

  “Mr. Kaczmarek? Tim Zielinski here, calling from SHAEF press relations. I’ve got your Miss Sutton here. Wondering when you’d like me to date her press pass. Yeah . . . yeah. Uh-huh. Thirty days. There is that, I agree. No, I doubt they’ll open the press camps to women. Yeah, got it. Good. Thanks. I’ll get on it now.”

  He hung up the receiver and grinned at Ruby. “You’re all set. We agreed on August twentieth as your departure date. Come along with me and we’ll get your picture taken for your pass. I’ll grab your insignia, too. Pins for your collar and cap, a shoulder badge, and we’ll get some dog tags made up. You’ll have to supply your own uniform, though—one of the girls here can tell you where to find an outfitter. And I think that’s about it. Oh, hold on—you’ll need a field manual, too. Spells out all the rules and regs.”

  RUBY WAS IN a triumphant mood when she returned to PW late that afternoon.

  “See?” she told Kaz, handing over her war correspondent’s pass so he might inspect it. “Accredited for thirty days. And here are my insignia and dog tags. I just have to get a uniform jacket and skirt, but apparently there’s a tailor—”

  “We can talk about that later. Did Zielinski say where he’s sending you?”

  “Yes. I can’t stay at any of the official press camps, since they’re still closed to women, so they’re sending me to an evacuation hospital. It’s the hundred and twenty-eighth, about halfway between the landing sites and Paris. And then, when Paris is liberated—he said it’s sure to be anytime now—we can go there. Can you believe it? Paris!”

  “But only once I give the go-ahead, and only if it’s safe to do so.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course, only once it’s safe.”

  “No heroics. No venturing off the beaten path. Don’t even think about going out after dark, and make sure Frank sticks to you like glue. Understood?”

  “Understood. Thank you, Kaz.”

  “Make me proud, Ruby.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Vanessa had received the news of Ruby’s forthcoming journey to France stoically enough, but when the time came to say farewell, she was unable to hide her misgivings.

  “How shall I bear it if anything happens to you? Already I can’t sleep at night because I’m so worried about Bennett, and now you’re going there, with goodness knows how many Nazis still on the loose . . .”

  “Vanessa. Listen to me. I am going to an evacuation hospital that is well out of the way of the fighting. Miles and miles away from it. And I will only go into Paris after it’s been liberated and made safe. I’ll have Frank with me all the time.”

  “He’s a sweet fellow, but I can’t think he’ll do much to protect you.”

  “I can protect myself. Remember how I grew up. I’m as tough as nails, and you know it.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Now—you haven’t said what you think of my uniform.” Ruby had been sitting with Vanessa on the sofa, but now she stood and took a few steps back. “Do I look the part?”

  The tailor, recommended by one of the WACs who worked with Captain Zielinski, had supplied her with a woman’s khaki jacket and matching skirt, a pair of trousers for cold and rainy days, and two men’s-issue uniform shirts, size extra small, together with a men’s khaki tie. Once her insignia had been pinned to her jacket, and her cap badge had been added to her smart little uniform hat, Ruby had felt every bit the accredited war correspondent.

  She was traveling light, taking only a single musette bag packed with clothes and toiletries, and her typewriter in its hard-shell case. The folding model was so much lighter and easier to carry than her old one had been, although she did think of
Bennett and worry about him every time she looked at it.

  A knock sounded at the door; her taxi to the station had arrived.

  “Promise to write as often as you can,” Vanessa said, enveloping Ruby in one final hug.

  “I will. Please say goodbye to Jessie. I hope she isn’t too upset.” Jessie had retreated to the kitchen, too distressed to stay and see Ruby leave. Nor had Simon ventured inside to say farewell, although he had carefully inspected her packed bag and even tried to crawl inside.

  And then she was out the door and into the taxi, with hardly enough time to roll down the window and wave a final goodbye to the woman who had become the mother she’d never realized she needed.

  Frank was waiting for her at Waterloo Station; together they took the train to Southampton, arriving in the late afternoon. The ship that was ferrying them over to France, the Duke of Argyll, had just docked and was off-loading patients into ambulances that had been driven right onto the wide quay. Ruby soon lost count of the men on stretchers, but there were at least several hundred and possibly even more.

  Their ship was an older steamer, probably a ferry before the war, now painted white and emblazoned with red crosses to indicate its status as a hospital vessel. Ruby and Frank were escorted inside, to the officers’ mess, and were cautioned to stay there for the voyage, as the ship’s crew would be busy cleaning and refitting it for their next complement of patients.

  Ruby had eaten nothing at lunch, wary of being sick, and though she did feel rather uncomfortable once they set sail, she was able to push back the nausea by fixing her attention on the view from the room’s large window. Six hours later, she woke from a fitful doze—it was past midnight—to discover they had docked at the Mulberry harbor at Gold Beach in Normandy.

  “We’re here, Ruby,” Frank said, shaking her awake. “Best be getting off the ship before they turn her around and head back home.”

  They stayed by the harbor overnight, sleeping in tents alongside the ship’s medical staff, and at first light were roused for their ride to the 128th evacuation hospital. A truck had been loaded with medical supplies for the hospital and the driver was willing to take them—but not if he had to wait. So into the truck they climbed, hungry and tired, and began the long journey to Senonches.

  “Takes about four hours,” their driver said. “That’s assuming we don’t have to make any detours because the road’s been hit or the krauts have started lobbing shells in our direction again.”

  The roads they took were cratered and potholed, enough to rattle Ruby’s teeth out of her head, and traced a depressing path through countryside laid waste by war. The first ruined town they drove through nearly brought her to tears; by the tenth, she hardly blinked.

  In one muddy field they passed, British soldiers were digging holes to bury a herd of cattle that had been killed. The animals, about a dozen of them, lay on their backs with their legs pointed straight up, their bodies bloated but otherwise intact.

  “Blast force from a shell,” their driver said. “Waste of good meat, that.”

  On and on they drove, hour after hour, stopping only once so they might relieve themselves by the side of the road. Wary of land mines or other surprises left for the unwary by retreating German troops, Ruby positioned herself by the truck’s rear wheels and prayed that no one would come along and catch her in the act.

  They arrived at the hospital as the sun was setting, at which point Ruby’s stomach was so empty it had given up on growling at her. But food had to wait: their first order of business was Colonel Wiley, who’d left orders that they be brought to see him as soon as they arrived.

  “You’re not the first journalists to pay us a visit,” he said, his tone affable enough, “and you won’t be the last. I don’t mind you being here, since it helps with the war effort and all that, but if you get in my way, or in the way of anyone else here, I’ll have you back in England by the next morning. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We don’t have the time or patience to coddle you, so here’s a few rules. Don’t bother my staff when they’re working. If they aren’t on duty, don’t bother them if they say they don’t want to talk. Don’t talk to patients without permission from the doctor on duty. Don’t leave the hospital. And, no, I can’t spare a jeep to take you to Paris, so don’t piss me off by asking again.”

  Ruby was given a spare cot in one of the nurses’ tents, while Frank was quartered with the junior officers. It had been easy to make friends with the nurses, who were friendly and open and curious about Ruby’s work, and they had been quick to invite her to join them for meals in the canteen that everyone shared, soldiers and officers alike.

  Three days in, she was sitting with them, listening as they talked about home and the things they missed most.

  “What about you, Ruby?”

  “Me? I guess I’d say it’s coffee. The stuff you have here isn’t bad, though. And anything is better than tea. Plain hot water, even. There were times I—”

  “Hey there! Ruby Sutton!”

  She swiveled around, searching for the owner of the voice, and was taken aback to see it belonged to Dan Mazur. “Oh, boy,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Friend of yours?” one of the nurses asked.

  “That’s stretching it. He’s not a bad guy, just—Dan! How are you?”

  “Well enough. Surprised to see you here. I thought the Brits weren’t keen on girl correspondents.”

  “They’re not,” she said, and pointed to the U.S. war correspondent shoulder patch on her jacket. “Did you just get here?”

  “Here, meaning the one twenty-eighth? Yeah. I landed on D-day plus ten,” he said, evidently a point of pride for him. “Been all over since then. Just back from Falaise. Was there with the Canadians for a while, but when it got quiet I decided to spend a day or so getting some softer pieces while I wait for the go-ahead for Paris.”

  The most senior of the nurses, a captain in the Army Nursing Corps who had been overseas since the summer of 1942, arched an eyebrow at him. “‘Softer’? Is that what you think it’s like here?”

  “I’m forgetting my manners,” Ruby said, hoping to cut Dan off before he irritated the nurses any further. “Let me introduce everyone. Ladies, this is Dan Mazur from The American magazine. We used to work together before I moved to London. Dan, these are some of the nurses who’ve been showing me around and answering my questions. Captain Gladys Kaye, First Lieutenant Sally Greene, and First Lieutenant Edith Geller. They’re veterans of the campaigns in North Africa and Sicily, just so you know. And they were the first nurses to arrive in Normandy. What day was it again?”

  “D-day plus six,” Gladys answered, her expression coldly daunting.

  “Well, uh, good for you,” Dan said. “I’m sure you all have a lot of stories to share.”

  “Colonel Wiley has given permission for Miss Sutton to observe one of the surgeons at work,” Gladys told him. “If you want to join us, I doubt he’ll object.”

  Dan swallowed uneasily, but nodded all the same. “Sure thing. What time?”

  Gladys looked at her wristwatch. “Right about now. All set, Ruby?”

  “All set.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  They followed Gladys, Sally, and Edith to the foyer of the operating tent, where sinks had been set up for the nurses and surgeons to scrub up. Following the nurses’ instructions, Ruby washed her hands and forearms with carbolic soap so strong that it made her eyes water, and held them in front of her, still wet, as she’d been told.

  Gladys, who had already scrubbed up, dried Ruby’s hands and forearms with a clean towel, then carefully opened a fresh gown from a neatly folded stack and directed her to slide her arms into the sleeves. After fastening the gown, she slid gloves onto Ruby’s hands, covered her hair with a cap, and placed a surgical mask over her nose and mouth.

  “Stand right there and don’t touch anything,” Gladys warned. “If you do, we have to start from the beginning. I n
eed to wash my hands again and get Mr. Mazur gowned, then Mr. Gossage.”

  Gladys repeated the procedure for Dan and Frank and then, after washing her hands yet again, she swabbed down Frank’s camera and tripod with cotton lint dipped in rubbing alcohol. He would be standing at a distance, so his camera might come into the operating room; but Ruby and Dan, who were going to be much closer to the patient, would have to work without their notebooks.

  “Can’t sterilize paper,” Gladys explained, “and pencils and pens are just filthy. Mr. Gossage, remember that you need to stay well clear of the surgeons.”

  “I’ll remember. No point in coming closer, anyways. The censors will never let us use anything that shows blood and guts.”

  “Good. Now wait here while I scrub up for surgery.”

  The three of them stood like statues as Gladys went through the routine of washing her hands and gowning herself with the help of another nurse. She was joined at the sinks by Major Ewing, one of the hospital’s surgeons, and the man they’d be watching today.

  “Major Ewing, sir, these are the journalists who are joining us. Ruby Sutton and Frank Gossage from Picture Weekly, and Dan Mazur from The American.”

  “Welcome. I believe Captain Kaye has read you the riot act?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ruby answered promptly.

  “Then let’s get started.” They followed him into the operating tent, which was large enough to hold four tables at a decent distance from one another. Doctors and nurses were already busy at three of the tables.

  “Here we are,” Major Ewing said as he approached the nearest table. Another surgeon was waiting at the table, and an anesthesiologist was seated on a stool by the patient’s head. Gladys, who was assisting, took up her position at the major’s side. “Miss Sutton, Mr. Mazur, you can come and stand at my patient’s feet. A little ways back—yes, that’s good.”

  The patient, who was already asleep, was covered with sheets that left only his right leg exposed from the knee down. Thick pads of gauze covered an area from a few inches below his knee to just above his ankle. His foot was so close to Ruby that she could see the fine, fair hairs on his toes.