Jumbo bit her lip. ‘Mustard or phosgene?’
Captain Nancy shrugged. ‘You’ll find out when you get there.’
Boadicea was in the courtyard, ready to go. (Midge’s last task before bed was to check her oil and petrol and cover her bonnet with a rug.) Jumbo cranked while Midge pressed the starter. When the engine turned over, she ran around to the passenger’s seat and climbed in.
The grey skies grew lower as they drove along the muddy road at a steady twenty miles an hour. By the time they reached the cluster of tents that was the casualty station the mist hung just above the trees.
Guns grumbled in the distance, punctuated by the whine of rockets. They sounded closer than they had yesterday. But sound travelled further in the mist, thought Midge. Probably the battle lines were no closer really than they had been before.
Midge shivered as she drew-up behind a horse-drawn ambulance—slowly, so she didn’t startle the horse. If only the Duchess had issued her drivers with thick sheepskin coats like the regular ambulance drivers had, instead of lady-like capes and cloaks. She watched as the stretchers were loaded onto the ambulance in front, then hopped out to help Jumbo with the stretchers destined for Boadicea. They could only fit two today, instead of four. Gas cases needed a tent of dampened sheets above them; bedclothes or even bandages would stick to their burnt skin.
Both men were unconscious, to Midge’s relief, either from pain or chloroform. She and Jumbo secured the stretchers, both marked with the red line that meant ‘priority’, then Jumbo climbed in next to them.
‘Go easy, old girl,’ she warned.
Midge nodded. Any jolting would be agony once the men regained consciousness. But it was hard to keep Boadicea steady on the rutted roads. Now to get them to the hospital train before they came to.
Two hours and three flat tyres later, her arms ached from the awkward hand pump. Her hands were numb with cold
—except for the blister on her thumb. Jumbo peered out of the back of the ambulance. ‘How are you going?’
Midge gritted her teeth as the tyre expanded to its full size and sat itself back on the seat of the rim. ‘Nearly there. Every dratted horse that used this road in the last hundred years must have dropped a nail.’
Jumbo spoke softly. ‘I think we need to hurry. One of them doesn’t look so good.’
‘Oh, heck. I’ll do my best.’
Surely nothing else could go wrong tonight, she thought. The mist drifted down as she pumped the crank again. Not the thick yellow peasoupers she had known at her aunt’s, but a grey mist that curled like smoke between the branches. Darkness gathered around them as Boadicea rumbled forward again towards the station and the hospital train. One mile, two…
Suddenly the headlights failed. Midge braked again.
Jumbo called from the back. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t believe it! The headlights have gone now. The damp must have spoiled the carbide.’
‘All Greek to me, Midget.’
‘The carbide fuels the lights. Jumbo, I’m sorry, I can’t drive without lights. You’ll have to walk in front with the lantern.’
She expected Jumbo to object. But instead there was the sound of her sensible shoes hitting the roadway, then the feeble gleam of light in the fog in front of them.
‘I’ll go as fast as I can,’ she said. ‘Just try not to run me down.’
‘I won’t,’ Midge promised.
Boadicea crept along the road. At last a light struggled through the darkness—the first of the village houses. Midge suddenly realised her hands were trembling with tension. But not far now to the station. She glanced down at the watch pinned to her cape. The men would make the midnight hospital train.
If they were still alive.
They were. One was conscious, muttering and shuddering beneath his tent. The other’s breath came in long hoarse pants.
She wanted to ask Jumbo, ‘Do you think they’ll make it?’ But the men might hear. Midge forced the smile onto her face, just in case they glimpsed her from their tents.
Someone called from an ambulance on the other side of the station courtyard. ‘Cooee! Jumbo, old girl, could you lend a hand?’
It was Kanga. Jumbo ran over, then hurried back to Midge. ‘Kanga’s got a shell-shock case in with her others. Poor chap tried to throw himself out back there. Shrapnel wounds too. Must have shipped him before they realised he was out of it. Can you cope without me? Don’t think Kanga and Spangles can manage alone. He’s upsetting the others.’
Midge nodded. The shell-shock cases were supposed to travel by themselves, with a male orderly. Sometimes the men were quiet, staring out at nothing. But other times they attacked anyone nearby—or themselves.
‘I’ll ask one of the girls at the canteen to give me a hand with these,’ she said.
‘Thanks, old thing. Look, I’ll head back with the others if you want to chew the fat with your friends for a few minutes. I’ll meet you back at the casualty station.’
‘Midge!’
Midge grinned. Anne wore her usual skirt and fitted jacket under her long apron. She looked taller, and thinner. But it suited her. And her skin was…
‘Still spotless, darling,’ said Anne happily. She looked around the platform. ‘No Horrid Hound with you today?’
Midge raised her voice as the train clattered into the station. ‘In Belgium, thank goodness.’
‘As if poor Belgium didn’t have enough to cope with! The Boche and Dolores too!’
‘Look, could you give me a hand with the stretchers?’
‘Of course, darling. It’s going to be a quiet night once this lot are gone—unless you’ve heard otherwise?’
‘No big push on that I know of. Oh, it’s good to see you!’
‘You too! Do you have time to come back to the hotel? I’m sure Madame would love to make you one of her omelettes.’
Midge shook her head regretfully. ‘I need to do another run tonight for the morning train. Damn and hell…’ She gazed across the courtyard, but Kanga and Spangles’ van had left.
‘Darling, you are swearing wonderfully! One is quite, quite proud of you.’
‘No, really, I’ve just realised. My headlights went and Jumbo’s driven off with Kanga. We only made it because she walked in front with a lantern. I’m stuck here till the fog lifts. Or morning. Damn, damn, damn.’
‘I don’t suppose it’s all that hard to carry a lantern,’ said Anne drily. ‘I suppose one can get a lift back tomorrow?’
‘Easily. But, Anne, it’ll take hours to get back to the casualty station. That’s three hours’ walking, at least. And it’s cold. And wet. And—’
‘And we can enjoy sprightly conversation as we go, yelling to each over the engine noise. No, really, darling, I’m glad to help.’
Midge hugged her quickly. ‘You are an utter, utter brick. Come on, we’d better unload my poor chaps before the train goes without them.’
Midge watched Anne trudge along the road, the mist like flour sifting about her head. Boadicea’s engine grumbled. She didn’t like low gear. Somewhere across the fields the guns rumbled too. They were closer, Midge thought suddenly. One or both of the armies must have decided to make a move.
Trucks passed them coming the other way, their headlights vanishing too quickly to be much use. A rocket screamed across the night and then exploded somewhere in the darkness, so strong the windscreen rattled.
What was happening out there, wondered Midge.
The fog thinned, and finally vanished, leaving a moon sailing like an orange above the fields. A hunter’s moon, she thought involuntarily, remembering the night Gordon died. The sort of night when officers safe in their dugouts ordered men to creep across no-man’s-land with wire cutters, trying to slip through the barbed-wire entanglements to surprise the enemy.
‘Anne?’
Anne’s voice floated back. ‘Yes, darling?’
‘I think I can see enough by moonlight now if we go slowly.’
‘T
hank goodness. Any slower and all the snails in France would have overtaken us. And one’s feet are—’ She stopped. ‘What’s that noise?’ she added sharply.
‘Aircraft.’
‘Ours or theirs?’
‘Don’t know. Blow the lantern out. Now!’
Midge gazed around at the shadowed fields. Surely there was somewhere they could shelter? Never a ditch when you needed one.
The aircraft was almost above them now. Midge could just make out the markings beneath the wings.
Enemy.
She started to scramble out of the car. Suddenly she knew what animals must feel: the terror of the moonlight that showed up hunted things.
The shock wave hit her before her feet touched the ground, pushing her back onto the seat. She heard Anne scream, from shock or pain she didn’t know. The world went black as debris rained down onto the windscreen. Dimly she heard the plane’s engine die away.
Had the pilot tried to hit them? Or was the plane damaged, trying to get rid of its explosive cargo before it ditched? But what mattered was it had missed. Boadicea was safe. And her, and Anne…
‘Anne? Anne, are you all right?’
No answer.
Midge peered into the moonlit shadows. ‘Anne! Speak to me!’
‘I’m all right.’ Anne’s voice was faint.
‘Are you sure?’
Midge struggled from the truck. Boadicea’s windscreen was cracked, she noticed vaguely. There were new scratches on her paint.
‘Where are you?’
‘Here.’ The voice was coming from just beyond the bonnet. ‘Darling, it’s cold. Cold and damp. Is it raining?’
‘No…Anne, I can’t see you—’
Midge stopped as something rose from the road in front of her. Something black. But it wasn’t black. It was blood.
Anne put a hand on Boadicea’s bonnet, as though to steady herself. ‘I’m wet,’ she complained faintly.
Midge stared, speechless, at the ruin of Anne’s face.
Chapter 10
Norfolk
England
31 March 1917
Dearest Midge,
Well, one’s home and surviving. Just. They got all the shrapnel out except a little behind my ear. A souvenir, so to speak, like those hideous Toby jugs that say ‘A Present from Bournemouth’. The doctor said you probably saved my life. Just now one isn’t quite able to be glad that it’s been saved. Does that sound too, too ungrateful?
Everyone is being very tactful. My old room is full of amputees but Mummy settled me in the old tower. One needs two good legs and sound wind to climb up to the old tower. But at least one can be quiet there.
Mummy has put me to nursing the burns cases down in the ballroom. I think she decided that they were so used to grotesqueries they wouldn’t be shocked by my face. One would think they’d rather see a classic English rose complexion that would remind them of what life was once and might be again, not a mirror of what they face themselves. But the men are very kind, and very grateful for any kindness done for them.
Wilkins, our old butler, feels it worst. He nearly cried when he first saw the scars. Well, he did cry, but being Wilkins he couldn’t wipe the tears so they just trickled down his nose. I try to keep out of his way so I don’t upset him too much.
It’s funny, I just don’t care about anything any more. The revolt in Russia and the win at Gaza and the poor people sunk in that hospital ship—I make all the right noises at the breakfast table. But the war has just gone on too long. Or I’ve gone on too long. What use am I anyhow? No, don’t mind me. I am destined to be ‘good old Auntie Anne, a rock to her nieces and nephews’. Unless this war goes on forever and gets them too.
Don’t mind me. I’ve just got the pip, that’s all.
Well, that’s all now, my dear. Keep the cocoa pouring and all that now that Slogger is coming back to reclaim her beloved Boadicea.
Your loving friend,
Anne
15 APRIL 1917
Slogger ran an affectionate hand down the dusty side of Boadicea. ‘You’ve looked after the old girl then?’ Her fingers were still red and shiny with scar tissue, but at least the hand no longer oozed pus.
‘She’s done us proud.’
Midge was surprised to realise how much she’d miss driving the ambulance. Slogger had been supposed to go on holiday with her family in Scotland, and hadn’t been due back for another fortnight. But ‘Three months of playing the dutiful daughter was two months too many,’ Slogger had said. ‘And when Mother started telling me “how lovely you look, dear, now your hair is longer”—well, that was the last straw. A girl can stand just so much tea and scones and bandage-rolling.’
So now Slogger was back, and her driving job was gone, thought Midge, as she wandered from the courtyard into the entrance hall office. She needed to give the uniform back. And send a telegram to Ethel, to make sure there was a bed for her at the hotel and a place on the canteen roster again. The trees in the courtyard were covered in green. Spring was here.
It would have been good to stay. Each ambulance journey might be a short trip into hell, but it was also a slap in the face for the devil. The ambulances and their drivers brought a glimpse of hope and comfort into a world of mud and death.
How could she ever have thought war glorious—that necessary battle against the Hun—back in those impossibly far-off days at school? Midge wearily tucked strands of hair back into her bun.
Captain Nancy was on the phone. She held up a finger to indicate she’d only be a minute. ‘No, I’m sorry, sir. Yes, sir, I do realise. But we just don’t have any spare drivers. Yes, sir. No, sir. No, I can’t take a driver off one of the ambulances. Yes, I do know who you are, sir, but I just don’t have a driver free…’
‘I’m free,’ said Midge. ‘Slogger got a lift back with Dimples and Char ten minutes ago.’
Suddenly she couldn’t face going back to the canteen again, having her life bounded night after day by the hundred yards of hotel, station and its courtyard. It was spring! At least in the ambulance you got to drive through the fields, see trees and hills.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ Captain Nancy put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Believe me, ducky,’ she said, ‘you don’t want this job.’
‘What is it?’
‘Driving Colonel Mannix over to Number 15 Casualty Station. He’s going to inspect the medical facilities down there. His regular driver’s sick.’
‘Number 15? My aunt’s down there!’
‘The nursing sister? Gawd help her if she’s under Colonel M’s command. He can very well get one of his men to drive, you know. He’s one of the wandering hand brigade.’ The phone emitted a tinny yapping. Captain Nancy sighed. ‘On your head be it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, ducky.’ She uncovered the mouthpiece. ‘Sir? I seem to have found a driver for the colonel.’
Midge had expected a military vehicle. But the car was a burgundy Ford, its controls and engine thankfully familiar to her, the upholstery a matching shade of wine-coloured leather. There was even a small silver vase on the back of the driver’s seat, though it was empty.
She stood by the car uncertainly. Her bag was on the roof rack. Captain Nancy had warned her that she would need to stay overnight, at least. She’d cleaned out her room at the chateau, but still wore the grey serge skirt, cape and jacket. It didn’t seem right, somehow, to wear her own, all too obviously civilian clothes.
The air thickened around her, not quite rain but not dry either. Midge shivered, then slid into the driver’s seat. Where was he?
An hour passed. Midge was beginning to wish she’d filled her thermos and grabbed some sandwiches from the kitchen. The rain grew heavier. No spring shower, this. Soldiers marched along the road, then vanished into the mist. A rooster crowed in the distance. It was strange to think of farm lives going on despite the war around them.
Finally a door slammed. A man approached: the colonel, Midge assumed. He was in his fifties, perhaps, red-faced, with
a neat grey moustache and what Tim called a port-and-cigars nose. A young lieutenant scurried at his heels, holding an umbrella over the colonel’s head. A man with a captain’s insignia strode a pace behind.
The colonel stopped by the passenger’s door. ‘Ahem.’
‘What? Oh, sorry, sir.’
Midge hurried out of the driver’s seat and round to the other door. Her shoes squelched in the mud. She opened the door, and held it while the colonel climbed in.
‘Sorry, sir,’ she said again.
The colonel chuckled amiably. ‘Never driven an officer before?’
‘Only as patients, sir.’
‘You’ll soon get the hang of it, Miss Er…’
‘Macpherson, sir.’
The other two were waiting expectantly. She opened the back door for them to get in too, then trudged back to her side. The rain dripped down her collar as she be`gan the start-up process. She glanced behind. Were any of them going to offer to turn the crank for her? But the colonel was looking impatient and the captain and lieutenant were checking a list. She sighed, and squished back through the mud again.
The rain meant she had to concentrate. It was market day too. Even with the war, produce still must be bought and sold. The Ford edged around carts, an elderly man with a sack of potatoes on his shoulders, two old women tottering under a crate of chickens. If she’d been alone or with Jumbo she’d have offered them a lift, even if it left them cramped. But you couldn’t do that with a colonel.
She let the conversation flow over and around her while she focused on her driving. To begin with it was about the movement of supplies—exactly what she didn’t know. Bandages? Medicines? It was all shipments, dates and numbers.
A couple of pigs loomed out of the rain, herded by a small girl in a faded and wet blue dress. By the time she’d guided the car around them (the pigs staring, unimpressed; the girl waving shyly, disappointed that none of the men waved back) the conversation had changed.
‘Most important thing,’ declared the colonel, ‘is to stop all this shell shock tommyrot. Have to put a stop to these doctors putting “shell shock” on the field medical cards.’
A Rose for the Anzac Boys Page 10
