* * *
Brigitte lifted a box of sterile gauze dressings and added them to the bottles of Ringer’s solution in her arms. The danger of infection was great with burn patients and she wanted to make sure she had enough supplies on hand for the trip. She walked behind the stretcher as an orderly wheeled the patient, who was medicated for pain and almost unconscious, down the ramp to the emergency room receiving area.
The ambulance bays were always busy and this winter evening was no exception. Patient transfers like this one were done at night so as not to interfere with daytime traffic. The driver was waiting in the chaos of arrivals and departures with his clipboard. Brigitte handed him the hospital transfer papers and he gave her his form to sign. Their business concluded, they waited while the orderly put the patient into the back of the ambulance.
Brigitte looked around nervously for Kurt, who should have been there by now. Their plan hinged on replacing the driver with one of their own men. If this one took off behind the wheel he was going to think it mighty strange to be stopped in the middle of the road and sent packing. It was not unusual for the Germans to reroute people and make substitutions, but their mania for order always demanded that it be done in a precise and disciplined fashion. If Kurt didn’t show soon the opportunity to get Harris out would be lost.
“Ready?” the driver said to the orderly, who was backing out of the white vehicle. It had a large red cross emblazoned on its back and top, visible from the air.
“All set,” the orderly replied. He jumped to the ground and held one of the double doors open for Brigitte.
“I forgot something,” Brigitte said suddenly. “I’ll be right back.”
Both men stared at her as she fled, returning inside to buy some time. She was breaking out in a sweat and she could feel her heart fluttering under her ribs. No matter how many times she did this sort of thing she never lost the stage fright. She tried to think of it as a benefit which kept her alert.
Hospital staff hurried past her without a second glance. She positioned herself at a window and watched the street, waiting for Kurt’s staff car to materialize. When it did she went limp with relief and grabbed a bottle of glycerin soap standing on a shelf. She ran back outside holding the item aloft as if it had been the object of her search.
She and Kurt arrived at the ambulance at the same time. He didn’t even glance at her as he handed the driver a forged communiqué, supposedly from Becker, telling the man to report to the emergency room for standby duty.
“Why the change in plans?” the man asked.
“There’s been an accident in Vitry,” Hesse said curtly. “We’re expecting a heavy night.”
The man looked puzzled, but he recognized Becker’s signature and didn’t argue. He walked off as Kurt motioned for the new man, a maqui he’d brought with him, to jump into the cab.
“What happened to you?” Brigitte hissed as the orderly left. Kurt took her hand and helped her into the back of the ambulance.
“This guy took his time in showing up,” Kurt muttered, nodding toward the substitute driver. “Your friends down south wanted to send the same man who’d done this run before so he’d know the routine, and he ran into some roadblocks on the trip.”
“What about that note?” she asked anxiously.
“Don’t worry,” Hesse replied. “It’s on Becker’s official stationery, and after all this time I write his name better than he does.”
“Have you got Becker’s safe conduct pass?”
He patted his breast pocket. “Relax, I have everything under control. I’ll be right behind you all the way and if you’re stopped I’ll answer their questions.”
Brigitte grabbed his hand as he turned away.
“Kurt, I...”
He waited.
“Thank you.”
He winked. “I’ll collect on the debt later,” he said. He jumped down to the floor and pulled the doors of the ambulance closed. She heard him say something to the driver and seconds later they were backing out of the bay and onto the road.
Brigitte’s eyes filmed with tears and she rubbed them away. Don’t think, she said to herself, don’t think about the risk he’s taking for you. Don’t think about how much he must care. Just do what you have to do. She turned around and saw the lights of the Mercedes behind her, trailing the ambulance at a safe distance.
He was back there as he’d said he would be.
Kurt was always as good as his word.
* * *
“Where are they picking me up?” Harris asked Laura, pulling the second sweater over his head.
“Right at the end of the lane near the clump of trees by the road. The usual ambulance route goes past this house.”
“Door-to-door service,” Harris said, sitting to lace his boots.
“We try to think of everything.”
“What time?”
She glanced at her watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
“What about the curfew?”
“Kurt took care of it. He’s timed it between staff rounds so you should be the only vehicles on the road.”
“What about Henri?”
“Today he thinks his wife is alive. When I gave him his lunch he mistook me for Brigitte and asked me to send ‘Maman’ up to him.”
Harris shook his head. “Jesus, that must be hard to live with every day.”
“I have discovered that you can get used to almost anything,” Laura replied flatly.
“How long to the border?” Harris asked, resuming the inquisition.
“A couple of hours, more or less.”
“How many checkpoints along the route?”
“Two, one on the way and one at the crossing. But Kurt will be along in the car behind you to smooth your passage if you get stopped.”
“What about your sister-in-law?”
“She’ll go there and back to accompany the patient, just as she ordinarily would.” Laura felt like she was taking her oral exams all over again. She was beginning to understand why Harris got so much done. He had a mind like a ticker tape machine; it clicked and clicked and clicked and rolled over everything.
“And once I get there?”
“Switzerland is neutral territory. The driver will give you the name and address of a contact in Bern, but you’ll have nothing to fear from the authorities. You’ll be home free.”
Harris patted his pockets and secured his cigarettes. “I guess that’s it, then,” he said.
“Not quite.” Laura retrieved her pistol from the bottom of the stove and handed it to him. “Just in case.”
He looked at the .38. “You might need it.”
She smiled sadly. “We have a lot more weapons now.”
“Remember when I gave this to you?” he said, sticking it in his belt.
“I remember.”
“I wanted you so much that night I could barely keep my hands off you. Everybody in the barn was standing around watching us and I felt like tossing you over my shoulder and telling them all to go fishin’.”
“That seems like such a long time ago now,” Laura said quietly.
He nodded. “A lot has happened.”
“What will you do once you reach the Swiss contact?”
“Try to get back to England and reach my unit.”
“And start flying again,” she said.
“That’s what I do,” he said simply, picking up a pair of Thierry’s gloves.
“Don’t they give you a break for the time you’ve put in already, getting shot down, winding up in a camp?”
“R and R maybe, but then it’s back to the routine,” he said philosophically.
“R and R?”
“Rest and relaxation.”
“Where?”
“Brighton, Bournemouth, Skegness. A seaside resort usually.”
“I wish I could go with you,” she said wistfully.
He embraced her and kissed her hair. “I wish you could too,” he said.
“We had such a good time in Lon
don,” she said into his collar.
“We’ll have times like that again.”
Laura didn’t answer.
He held her off and lifted her arm, looking at her watch. “Time to go,” he said briskly. He was trying to behave dispassionately; he wanted to avoid getting into the kind of conversation that would cause her to break down again.
“All right.” Laura pulled on her coat and stood waiting for him.
He stared at her. “What are you doing? You’re not going with me.”
“Yes, I am. I can walk you to the road.”
“No.”
Laura planted her feet. “Dan, you have been handling me very carefully for the last hour to prevent me from making a scene. But I’m telling you right now that if you try to stop me from doing this I will have raging hysterics right under your nose.”
His mouth fell open.
“Shall we go?” she asked him.
“Laura, it’s too dangerous,” he answered, recovering.
She rounded on him fiercely. “In case your memory is slipping, mister, I have been doing very dangerous things on my own for quite some time. I am perfectly capable of handling this. Now are we leaving or what?”
He gave in, bowing to the iron will that had sustained her in worse crises than the current one. “We’re leaving,” he said.
It was snowing, as it had been on and off for several days.
“I came in the snow and I’ll go in the snow,” he said lightly, as she locked the door behind them.
Laura trudged along beside him, trying not to think about the empty days and nights stretching ahead of her. He took her mittened fingers in his gloved ones. After they reached the little copse where they were to wait they stood hand in hand, surrounded by the falling snow, like children in a Grimm’s illustration.
Minutes later the lights of the two vehicles appeared, the gray bulk of the ambulance followed by the dark staff car, flags flying.
Harris turned to Laura and took her face between his hands.
“Chin up,” he said.
She lifted her chin obediently.
“Who’s the best pilot in the Flying Leathernecks?”
“Daniel Patrick Harris.”
“Who’s the best lover in the Marine Corps?”
“You are,” she replied, her smile trembling on her lips.
“Good girl.” He bent and kissed her gently on the mouth.
“Take care of yourself,” she said.
“I’ll be back,” he said, as the ambulance glided to a stop in front of them. The doors flew open and they could see Brigitte kneeling inside next to the blanketed form of her patient. The Mercedes idled behind them.
“Get in,” Brigitte called.
Harris jumped in and turned immediately to face Laura.
“I’ll be back,” he said again, holding her gaze with his.
Laura nodded as he leaned forward and grabbed the handles on the doors.
“See ya, Boston,” he said, and closed the doors.
The ambulance took off immediately. As the car passed behind her Laura could see Kurt Hesse, his blond hair almost covered by the cap he wore, behind the wheel.
She stood looking after the Mercedes for a long while after it had vanished into the storm and then walked back to the house.
Inside the ambulance Brigitte wrapped Harris in a pile of blankets and hid him from sight, not pausing for conversation.
“Everything okay so far?” he asked her in French, his voice muffled by the woolen pall over his head.
“Everything is fine,” she replied. “Don’t talk unless I speak to you. The first checkpoint is in about twenty minutes.”
He subsided into silence next to the patient, who was moaning as his shot began to wear off. Brigitte quickly filled a hypodermic with morphine and swabbed the man’s arm, injecting him with enough of the drug to keep him quiet until they reached the hospital in Bern. Then she sat back and tried to rest.
When she saw the guard station come into view through the little curtained window she said to Harris, “Be still now and be quiet. We’re coming up to the checkpoint. They always look inside so get ready for the lights, the search. I’ll answer all their questions.”
“Okeydoke,” came the reply.
Brigitte smiled to herself. Americans. They were always so casual even when their lives were on the line.
The ambulance ground to halt before the lowered bar attached to the guardhouse. The uniformed sentry came out and spoke to the driver. Brigitte could hear the murmur of conversation but not what they were saying.
There followed a silence, and then the double doors flew open abruptly. The sentry looked in and trained his flashlight on Brigitte’s face.
“You there,” he said in German. “You’re the nurse?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied in the same language. She was fluent in it now. They all were.
“What’s wrong with your patient?” he asked.
“Third degree burns.”
“Where are you taking him?”
“Hôpital Miséricorde in Bern,” she said, repeating the same story he had already heard from the driver. This was the standard German tactic: they always made everyone involved in any situation recite the facts over and over while they compared versions and looked for discrepancies.
“The corporal in the car behind us has our safe conduct from Commandant Becker,” she said, and then regretted it as the sentry examined her more closely. The cardinal rule of dealing with the Germans was never to volunteer information. Individual initiative made them nervous. Speak only when spoken to and furnish only the requested information, she reminded herself. They felt comfortable with that. They expected everyone to respond as they did.
The sentry trained his torch on the patient and took in the ointment and bandages covering his legs, the distinct odor of camphor. He wrinkled his nose and slammed the doors of the ambulance closed. Brigitte hunched forward to look out the window and saw him hold a brief conference with Hesse before he went into his little hut and raised the bar. Both vehicles passed through and they were once again on their way.
Spiritless bastards, Brigitte thought disgustedly. They were all so damned careful.
“It’s all right,” she said to Harris. “We made it through.”
He poked his head out and grinned at her. The skin around his eyes crinkled and his teeth showed white and strong in his boyish face.
No wonder Laura has fallen for him, Brigitte thought. He was graceful under pressure and with his collegiate good looks he really was attractive.
“One down, one to go,” he said.
“Next will be the real test, at the border,” she said. “Try to get some sleep.”
Harris pulled the blanket back over his head, thinking that everybody was always telling him to go to sleep. He had managed it in the hay wagon but anybody who could sleep under these circumstances was a narcoleptic.
He finally did fall into a fitful doze.
Brigitte’s voice roused him.
“The border,” she said. “Can you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Lie very still.”
Kurt had instructed the driver to pace himself to arrive at the border at midnight when the shifts were changing. Brigitte glanced at her watch. They were right on time.
Harris heard the driver downshift and the ambulance slowed to a halt. Voices traveled over his head and he tried to relax as he felt for the gun at his belt. If they found him he would be ready. At least he would take some of them with him.
There were only two sentries on duty, and one of them was leaving. The remaining man went through the same procedure as the previous one had, but paused to talk with Hesse before opening the back of the ambulance.
“Papers, please,” he said.
Kurt furnished them.
“You are escorting this ambulance?”
“Yes. Just to this point.”
The sentry nodded, but something in his manner caused Hesse t
o get out of the car and go with him. He stood in back of the guard as he opened the doors and looked inside.
Brigitte’s white face stared back at them. She was trying not to look terrified but Hesse could tell that she was trembling inwardly.
“Why couldn’t this man be treated at Bar-le-Duc?” the sentry asked Brigitte, looking at the patient.
“Hôpital Miséricorde has better facilities for this type of injury,” she answered, avoiding Kurt’s eyes. Why did they always have to ask such stupid, obvious questions?
The sentry slipped his rifle from his shoulder, removed the bayonet, and poked her patient with the end of it. Brigitte stiffened as the man groaned.
Kurt warned her with his eyes.
The sentry noticed the other bundle of blankets and poked that. Flesh resisted but no sound emerged.
His eyes shot from Brigitte to Kurt. Before the latter could react Harris threw off his blankets and lunged to his knees, firing as he did so.
The noise in the enclosed space was deafening. The sentry’s chest blossomed into a scarlet flower of blood. Brigitte screamed and then fell back, silenced with shock, as carmine droplets spattered onto her white hose. The guard collapsed like a pricked balloon and slid to the ground.
Kurt stared down at him in horror, then fell to his knees and grabbed the man’s wrist. Under his fingers he felt the pulse flicker, twitch like a live wire, and then die. He dropped the sentry’s arm as realization flooded through him.
“Christ, man, did you have to kill him?” Kurt gasped in French.
“How else was I supposed to shut him up?” Harris replied grimly. He surged past Brigitte, who was still dumbstruck with revulsion, and leaped to the ground.
The driver, alerted by the sound of gunshots, appeared on a dead run and stopped short, riveted by the sight that met his eyes.
“Help me move him,” Harris said to the driver, grunting as he hoisted the dead sentry to his shoulder. Gore smeared his sweater and the sickening coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils, reminding him of things he would rather forget.
Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama) Page 27
