Among the Poppies

by J'nell Ciesielski

  “I’m sure his orders will leave him little time for picnics or frolicking.” Gwyn’s lips twisted. What other hospitals were on his list to visit?

  Cecelia huffed. “That’s exactly what he said. You would think after months in the filth with hairy men, he might appreciate an afternoon strolling about with a girl.”

  “Don’t be so put out with him. Military men take their duties very seriously, and I’m sure he doesn’t mean to slight you.” Gwyn grabbed her clipboard and pencil, checking off the boxes. Franklin needed his legs stretched.

  “He didn’t slight you in your hour of need.”

  “I was stuck under a car. It’s hardly the same thing.”

  Cecelia’s chin dropped. “Of course, you’re right. I should not say something so tactless.”

  Gwyn squeezed Cecelia’s arm. “Will you help me for a moment with Franklin? It’s much easier if you distract him while I ready his legs.”

  Cecelia followed Gwyn across the ward. With a brilliant smile, she recited lyrics to his favorite song while Gwyn pulled the sheet back and gingerly wrapped her arm around one of his footless legs. As she slowly bent the knee, he jerked away.

  “No!”

  “It’s all right Mr. Franklin.” Cecelia patted his shoulder. “She’s just trying to—”

  “You’re hurting my foot!”

  Gwyn clamped onto his leg. “Private Franklin, please calm down.”

  Franklin twisted and dug his fingers into the bed. “You’re hurting me. My foot. You’re cutting off the blood. I can’t feel it.”

  “It’s not there, soldier.” William’s words cut through the air. Standing on the opposite side of the bed, he gazed down at Franklin with unblinking honesty. “You lost them both. Do you remember what happened?”

  Gwyn shook her head, trying to catch William’s attention. Was he really so thick-headed to ask such a horrible question? The doctors and sisters always told the nurses not to ask questions that might drum up painful memories. To Gwyn’s astonishment, the panic faded from Franklin’s eyes.

  His body stilled, and his leg fell limp in her arm. “It was near Vimy Ridge. Orders came to flatten a small artillery near the south wall. Jerries destroyed most of the wall while taking aim at us.” He swallowed and grazed a finger across his lap. “Mum always said I had feet like tree trunks. Guess that’s why they got caught when the wall blasted down.”

  “Your own mum said that?” William laughed with a shake of his head. Gently, he took Franklin’s other footless leg in his hand and began to bend it back and forth at the knee. “I shouldn’t mock too much. Mine always complained that my head was too large for a proper hat.”

  Back and forth the men went, as easy as school chums. Gwyn kept her silence as she and William worked each leg in an alternating push-pull rhythm.

  “Let’s see, I started off in Normandy,” William said, “then on to Paris, and from there Brussels.”

  Franklin swung his gaze to Gwyn. “Last week, you said that’s where you would like to go, isn’t that right, Miss Gwyn?”

  Gwyn stopped, suspending his leg in the air. “I believe so, but you know how I ramble.”

  “I’m afraid the Continent is hardly the place for a relaxing retreat right now,” William said. “Unless you think bunkers are first-class accommodations.”

  “I don’t.” She lowered Franklin’s leg to the bed. “But I would still like to see the Continent. And Africa, and the Far East, just like Jules Verne described.”

  “I’m afraid the world right now is hardly as exciting and adventurous as he described. Why else would it be called a novel?”

  “Do you not care for novels, Captain?”

  “I do, but not so much when I know they are fantasies. To me, you cannot beat a biography and a well-cushioned chair in the late afternoon light.”

  Predictable. Straightforward biographies and war journals always appealed to his kind. And Sister. There wasn’t a biography on great women she had yet to tackle.

  “My father has a well-stocked library of every biography you can imagine.” Unaccustomed to being left out, Cecelia swerved the attention back to where it belonged. “You must stop by soon to see it. He’s always eager to discuss such things with other enthusiasts.”

  “If my schedule allows the time, that should be delightful.” He tucked Franklin’s leg back under the cover and turned his blue eyes across the bed. “And you, Miss Gwyn? Does your schedule allow for reading?”

  “My work at the hospital and in my father’s garage keep me occupied most days.”

  “That’s a lie.” Cecelia pointed a finger at her. “Your nose is usually so far stuck in a book or a pamphlet on war efforts that I have to keep you from falling into ditches and mud pits.”

  Gwyn fluffed the blanket over Franklin’s legs and grabbed her clipboard. “That’s a tad exaggerated.”

  Cecelia crossed her arms. “Hardly. The other day you shoved a flyer under my nose about the rising need for ambulance drivers.”

  “Someone needs to carry those poor boys off the field. The Red Cross is training people to drive. Why not take volunteers who can already drive?”

  William’s eyebrows raised. “Such as you?”

  “Such as me.”

  “As much as I hate to expose our womenfolk to the horrors over there, we are in desperate need of transportation. Not just for medics and the wounded, but for supplies.” He took in a deep breath. The belt creaked around his trim waist. “A unit formed not too many years ago—all female—to administer first aid on the field and transport the wounded back to the dressing stations. The First Aid Nursing … something.”

  “Yeomanry.”

  His lips twisted. “I see you’ve heard of them.”

  “I have an appointment with them at ten a.m. this Thursday in London.”

  “You sly minx!” A nearby patient startled at Cecelia’s cry. “You never told me.”

  “I only received the confirmation yesterday.”

  “Have you told your father?”

  “He doesn’t like it, but he didn’t refuse to allow me to go.” Tears had filled Papa’s eyes, which he’d dashed away with the oily rag from his back pocket. He’d gently pinched her chin and said how she was like her mum. And mum would never have said no to such an adventure.

  William clamped his arms behind his back. The skin around his mouth pinched white.

  “Is everything all right, Captain?” she asked

  “Quite.” He didn’t look at her, though.

  “You don’t approve?”

  “As I said before, I do not wish to subject ladies to the carnage of war.” His gaze hooked back to pierce her. “And that is exactly what will happen if you go there. You cannot imagine the horrors that await you. I would spare you, and the souls of every man or woman, from such a black fate.”

  “But you also said how badly our troops need supplies and support. Someone must do this. I may not lift a gun to aid, but I can use what limited skills I do have.”

  His gaze softened as one corner of his mouth flickered up. “With courage like that, you won’t need a gun.”

  Heat rushed all the way from her toes to the tips of her ears. Other than her father, no man had ever given her such credit. And no man had ever tripped her heart over like a spinning crankshaft the way William did.

  Gwyn ground that spinning crank to a halt. Fine men with three-star captain’s insignia lining their shoulders didn’t bother with insignificant girls like her. They needed socialites like Cecelia on their arms for officer balls and bidding them farewell from the train station while waving lacy handkerchiefs. William would only get grease marks on his trousers standing next to a chauffeur’s daughter.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to check on the bed linens,” Gwyn said, making for the door. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your tour, Captain.”

  Needing to find a moment’s peace from the heart-tripping presence of Captain William Crawford, she pushed through the double doors and burst into the
side garden thick with the scent of warm green grass.

  “Get a hold of yourself.” She pressed her hands to her warm cheeks. Allowing a man to have such an effect could only derail her plans.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  Gwyn nearly jumped out of her shoes at William’s voice.

  “I’m terribly sorry to startle you,” he said.

  She pressed a hand to her chest to calm her battering heart. “I needed a little fresh air. Sometimes the tincture and bleach mix together for a ferocious headache.”

  He fiddled with the buckle of the belt slanting across his chest. “I didn’t wish to sound high handed in there. It’s just that some lads touch foot in a war zone with grand ideals and heroic aspirations, seeing through rose-colored glasses painted with propaganda, if you will.”

  “Did roses ever tint your glasses, Captain?”

  “Hardly. My father is a retired colonel from the South African War, my grandfather the War of 1812, and so forth back to the dawn of time. There hasn’t been a generation of Crawfords not born for marching orders.” Resignation clipped his words. “No roses for me, I’m afraid.”

  “At all?”

  “Nothing but hard facts and expectations.”

  Gwyn sighed, the statement weighing her down like a sinking rock. “How dreary.”

  “You must have facts to navigate this life. Otherwise, you are lost with nothing solid to cling to.”

  “But they give you nothing to soar toward. What is life without a dream to strive for?”

  His lips quirked. Heat rushed back to her face as she caught herself staring at their broad fullness. “Forgive me. Sometimes my mouth runs without permission from my brain.”

  “Miss Ruthers, you are by far the most interesting girl I have ever met.”

  “Captain Crawford, you have no idea.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Gwyn smothered a yawn behind her gloved hand. Shifting on the uncomfortable chair, she focused on the posters lining the taupe halls of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry’s headquarters.

  SACRIFICE LUXURY FOR VICTORY

  A NEW HAT FOUR STEEL HELMETS

  A NEW DRESS FOUR SERVICE RIFLES

  A NEW FUR COAT ONE MACHINE GUN

  Somehow, she doubted a fur coat could cover the cost of a machine gun. According to the men back home, the cold was more likely to do them in than the Kaiser’s guns. A large mink stole or rabbit coat would smother winter’s bite. Add the Russian ushanka hat, once so popular, and the men would be toasty warm during those long cold nights. She giggled at the image.

  The clacking typewriter stopped as the secretary glanced up with a frown. Gwyn covered her laughter with a cough. The bespectacled woman gave her one last glare before turning back to her work.

  If these women didn’t know how to laugh at themselves, being crammed together in tents and ambulances on foreign soil would be more of a challenge than Gwyn first thought.

  She ran a hand over the soft wool and crepe burgundy dress Cecelia had loaned her for the interview. It was supposed to make her feel confident and look professional, but it did nothing to calm her jittering nerves. Neither did Captain Crawford’s comment from the other day. Gwyn shook her head to clear the memory of his words and his persistent blue eyes.

  They have to like me. Who is better qualified to drive an ambulance than a chauffeur’s daughter?

  The telephone on the secretary’s desk jingled, startling Gwyn from her chair. Someday she might grow accustomed to those noisy oddities.

  A voice crackled from the other end of the line. The secretary nodded and returned the receiver to its cradle. “She’ll see you now.”

  “Thank you.” Gwyn stood and passed a hand over her skirt and hair, ensuring they were wrinkle and flyaway-free.

  “She won’t care.” The secretary watched her over the rim of her glasses.

  “I do.” Gathering her folder of papers, Gwyn swept down the long hallway lined with pictures of uniformed women atop horses and behind steering wheels. The thumping of her heart echoed louder and louder in her ears until she stopped at the last door. Taking a deep breath, she knocked.

  “Enter.”

  Grace Ashley-Smith, Commandant of the FANY, sat hunched over a stack of papers behind a heavy, dark wood desk. “Close the door and take a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

  Gwyn shut the door and perched on the edge of the chair squared in front of the desk. It creaked as she maneuvered her feet to keep from hitting them against the desk’s solid front panel.

  Bookshelves filled with worn leather volumes lined the office. A large window stood behind the desk, bathing the room in grayness from the drizzle outside. In the corner next to the door stood a wilting plant in desperate need of water and a floor lamp that glowed soft yellow.

  Ashley-Smith scratched a note on the top paper, slipped it in a folder, and pushed it to the side. Folding her hands, her dark eyes locked on Gwyn’s.

  “You’re here to apply to the FANY?” she asked in a soft Scottish burr.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “No ma’am. Lieutenant. Do you have a resume?”

  “Yes, m—Lieutenant.” Gwyn drew the crisp copy from her folder and slid it across the desk. Relief rippled through her that Cecelia had forced her to wear gloves. If not, Lieutenant Ashley-Smith would be reading a sweat-smeared resume.

  A clock on the bookshelves ticked the ten o’clock hour. Tick, tick, tick. The seconds passed as Ashley-Smith scanned the paper. Gwyn leaned forward, eager to see a flicker of hope, but the woman’s face was unreadable.

  Finally, she looked up and folded her hands over the resume. “I’m sorry, Miss Ruthers, but you simply do not qualify.”

  Shock poured over Gwyn like a bucket of icy water. Not qualify? “I’m not sure I understand.” She swallowed hard to keep her voice under control. “Did you see that my father is a chauffeur? I have been driving longer than I could walk.”

  “Yes, your qualifications for driving are unquestionable and quite impressive, but as a chauffeur’s daughter … how may I phrase this?” She spread her hands wide. “As the daughter of a professional, could you afford the expenses? A FANY is responsible for the cost of her own uniform, beginning supplies, haversack, training, and, of course, travel.”

  “I didn’t realize.” Desperation bolted through Gwyn’s mind. “What if I found a sponsor?”

  Ashley-Smith shook her head. “I’m sorry, but even if you did manage the funds, you do not meet our age specifications.”

  “But I thought with the war and the desperate need for drivers—”

  “That we would relax our requirements? Our standards of excellence are what set the FANY apart from any other rag-tag group.” Ashley-Smith’s serious, dark eyes softened around the corners. “I am very sorry, Miss Ruthers. We need good women like you.”

  Gwyn crushed the folds of her skirt as grief rattled through her. She sucked in a deep breath to numb its effects. Self-pity would get her nowhere. Standing, she turned for the door. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  Ashley-Smith came around her desk and offered her hand. “Should your situation change, come back in three years, war or not. As I said, we need more good women in our ranks.”

  No matter which way William tilted the umbrella, raindrops drizzled their way down his neck. He checked his watch. Ten forty. Surely he hadn’t missed her.

  He glanced up and down Earl’s Court. Black brollies dotted the footpaths as people hurried about their business with shoulders hunched forward to ward off the wet splatters of awnings and drain pipes. Taxis didn’t bother dodging potholes as their thin wheels slipped over the cobblestones, spraying unsuspecting walkers with muddy water.

  Ten forty-one. Gwyn did say her appointment was at ten, did she not? Or was it ten thirty? Served him right. A proper fool waiting in the rain unannounced like a common stalker.

  The brick and white trim building across the street stood silently against the falling wetness, its stern façade daring the el
ements to do their worst as it refused to bow. He imagined the women inside as much the same. What new breed were these women who forfeited the safety and comfort of home to slug in the trenches with bullets racing overhead? They cut their hair, wore uniforms much like his, used military rank, and, most insulting of all, considered themselves capable of performing the same duties as men.

  Why did he find himself fascinated by a woman who climbed under automobiles with wrench in hand, and who now sat in the office across the street signing away her life to drive ambulances in a war zone? A woman whom he had jogged through the soggy streets of London to see before she hopped on the next train back to Great Malvern.

  Ten forty-four. What if she’d canceled the appointment?

  He yanked up the collar of his coat, wishing he’d brought his sketchbook to keep busy. The clean lines of the buildings would flow smoothly beneath his pencil. Smooth and orderly, that’s what he needed. Not a woman spun with complications. He had enough responsibilities without worrying about someone else’s grand expectations of him.

  Ten forty-five.

  The white door opened and out stepped a tall woman dressed in deep red. A matching hat shielded her face as she looked up and down the street. She shot a look over her shoulder to the closed door, squared her slim shoulders, and marched away into the rain. One glimpse of those lopsided brown curls sent William’s heart clipping. He hadn’t missed her after all.

  He dashed across the street. “Miss Ruthers!”

  She kept walking, the drizzle leaving dark spots on her shoulders.

  “Miss Ruthers!”

  He jogged behind her and grasped her elbow. She spun around, her handbag poised midair. “Unhand—oh. Captain Crawford.” The shock on her face faded into bewilderment. She dropped her swinging arm to her side.

  William tilted his brolly over her head, though it was too late to save her wilted hat feathers. “My commander’s office summoned me to London, and I remembered you would be in town. I thought it would be nice to see a friendly face after reporting to old craggy war dogs for two days.”