“Fire!”
Muzzle tips exploded, spraying bullets at the unsuspecting German units. The heated fragments tore through packs and clothing, pop pop popp-ing as they ripped into flesh and bone. Shouts rippled down the line as the Germans turned to retaliate. The element of surprise gone, Brits and Canadians began to fall.
William aimed his pistol and squeezed the trigger. “Fire at will!”
Digging in and aiming across unprotected ground, his men picked off the Jerries faster than tin cans on a rail. Fear boiled in the Germans’ eyes as they scrambled to reload.
“Bayonets at ready! Up! Charge!” William was first out, his men right behind him. He didn’t think as he pushed down every ounce of crippling emotion. The trained soldier inside led the charge.
Men fell at his feet, gurgling their last words in a bloody froth. He kept running, tossing his spent pistol aside and drawing a fresh one from his holster. His pulse thundered in his ears louder than the cracking of rifles, the rush of adrenaline shaking all the way down to his fingertips. But his bullets never missed.
The Germans turned and fled. William raced to keep up. Thunder pounded in the distance. He tripped and crashed to his knees. Pain shot up his legs. His men had the Krauts on the run, but uncertainty coiled in his belly like a snake readying to strike. Then he heard the shrill whistling.
“Fall back!” He jumped to his feet. Pain ricocheted down his legs. “Incoming! Fall back!”
Shells burst overhead like deadly silver stars raining shrapnel. Red streamed between the dead grass patches, joining together and pooling in dried gaping cracks.
Up ahead, Roland weaved his way around the dead and retreating. The whites of his eyes flashed round beneath his helmet rim. “No! This way!” He waved his arm at the enemy line like a madman. “We’ve got them on the run, lads! Don’t lose heart now. Forward!”
Cursing, William veered towards him. Men stumbled, heads swiveling between Roland and William and the conflicting orders. Of all the times the stupid man chose that moment to take charge. What idiotic scene of heroics was he playing at?
A shell blasted to William’s left, throwing men and dirt sky high. His ears rang with the metallic blow and curdling screams. Dazed, his vision tilted as he rolled his head around. Roland stood in the middle of the field beating his revolver against his thigh to push open the cylinder. Jammed.
“You idiot! You trying to get yourself killed?”
Machine guns tattooed from the far side of the field, spitting into the ground. Roland went rigid, tiny pricks of red splattering across his chest. The pistol tumbled from his hand. He crashed to the ground.
The air seized in William’s lungs as he sprinted to Roland’s side. Taking in the exit wounds dotting his back, William rolled him over. Roland’s face was chalky white. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. His eyes fluttered, staring at the sky.
“They got me, Will.”
“Not yet they don’t.” William slung Roland over his shoulder and turned toward the British line. Hot wetness seeped through his jacket. Roland’s arms and hands banged against the back of William’s legs as each step jarred his entire body.
Sliding over the embankment and into the ditch, William eased Roland to the ground and ripped open his jacket. His once white shirt was muddied with blood and holes. Bile scored the back of William’s throat.
“Sir, you’re hit.” A hand shook William’s shoulder. “Sir, you’re covered in blood.”
William shoved him away. “It’s not me. Find the medic.”
Roland raised a shaking hand and grasped William’s lapel. “Don’t … don’t waste his … time. I’m … gone.”
William’s hands hovered over the wounds. He needed to staunch them, but there were too many. “Keep your mouth shut and focus on breathing.”
“Breathing isn’t … isn’t a problem when you’ve g-got a hundred holes in your l-lungs.” Roland tried to smile, but a cough spewed out pink froth.
William swiped the edge of his sleeve over Roland’s lips. “Quiet, Morrison, or so help me, I’ll have you court-martialed for insubordination as soon as we get back to Blighty.”
Roland wheezed as he tried to move his head. William lifted it and cradled it on his thigh. His fingers stuck together as he combed away the matted hair from his friend’s forehead.
“Tell my m-mother I want to be b-buried with a large headstone with my full rank-k. C-can’t have anyone thinking I was a n-nobody when they come to lay the wreath.” He clawed his fingers into William’s chest. “Tell her-r, tell her I was a good s-soldier. That I didn’t run. T-tell her for me, Will? Please.”
William nodded as the bile gave way to tears. He grasped Roland’s hand. “You’ll have a new uniform, too, I promise.”
“G-good. Hate d-dirty clothes.”
“I know you do.” William tucked his nose against his shoulder and blotted the runaway tear. “I remember the first time in training they made us crawl through the mud. You were awake until o’three hundred scrubbing out the stains on your trouser knees.”
“Should’ve had-d me a good woman t-to do the scrubbing. O-one like Miss Cecelia.”
Blood trickled from Roland’s nose. William wiped it with his thumb as his heart drowned in sorrow. “She’d have them clean in no time flat.”
“My laundress a-angel.” Roland’s eyes glazed over as he looked from William’s face to the sky. Roland’s back arched. Sharp breaths hissed from the holes in his chest. He slumped back, his chest still and eyes unseeing.
Weight like a fifty-ton mortar pressed on William’s lungs. He bit off the howl of rage spiraling in his chest and willed it into fighting anger. “I’ll beat them back, Roland. I swear I will.”
Gently lowering his mate’s head onto the sand, he closed Roland’s glassy eyes and tucked his hands safely across his chest so no errant boot could trample them. Jumping to his feet, William grabbed the man nearest him.
“Where’s the medic?”
“Dead, sir. We ain’t got no one else.”
“Then I want you and you—”—he snagged a Canadian private by his collar—“—to start carrying off the wounded. We need a firing position, and these bodies are in the way. Get to it.”
They grabbed Roland first, hauling him to the other side of the road. William turned away as his friend’s head lolled back.
“Fall in and move forward. We’re going to outflank them before they can take us all out.” Motioning his men toward the protection of the embankment, William marched up and down to wave them on. Shells shrieked closer, detonating the earth within feet all around. “Keep it moving. Don’t give Fritz a sitting target.”
The sound of something like a woman screaming pierced William’s ears, drowning out the rat-a-tat machine guns. A silvery flare burst at his feet, cleaving into his skull. Burning metal tore into his flesh, lifting him off his feet and charring him from the inside out. He hurtled through the air, higher and higher until the dead weight of his arms and legs pulled him down. Slamming into the ground, dizzying red dots whirled in his head. And then blackness.
CHAPTER 26
Gwyn rolled the mug of hot chocolate between her hands as she stared past the open flap of her tent. A light drizzle had turned the afternoon sky to dull gray and the ground to a muddy mess. Though she’d patched every hole and tear in the tent, the tiny drops managed to slip under the thin floorboards and warp the wood until nails poked out, catching her shoe more than once when she forgot to light the lantern after an all-night drive. Like last night’s.
They’d lost seven men on the way back, suffered two blown tires, a missing first aid kit, and a busted crankshaft. And, of course, rain. What the summer offered in heat and sweat, late September matched in cold wetness.
Gwyn inhaled the delicious brew and took a deep sip. It coated her throat with its velvety texture, slipping down to curl into her belly. But all too soon the rich scent disappeared behind the mustiness of her tent. If not for the chocolate to keep her o
ccupied, she might claw through the thin walls that seemed ever ready to close in on her. She needed to occupy her hands and thoughts before they turned against her. Again. Buried memories found stillness the perfect stage to emerge with their terror on full display, and she their sole audience. Around and around the performers went, all staring at her with lifeless eyes. Except Eugenie, who pointed a skeletal finger at Gwyn.
Raising her cup, she swallowed too fast. Hot liquid scalded the back of her throat. She choked and sputtered, wiping the burning dribble from her lip. The taste buds were gone from the tip of her tongue, but she’d lost the nightmarish images.
Slamming the cup down on the folding table, Gwyn grabbed her leather cap off the bed and stuffed her frizzing hair underneath it. Flinging the oil skin trench over her shoulders, she sloshed into the rain.
Her feet took her straight to the garage, or what they considered a garage, as it was once home to pigs and cows.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.” Alice didn’t look up from the tire she was patching.
Gwyn stamped the mud from her boots and peeled off her wet coat. The familiar scent of grease calmed her headache. “How did you know it was me?”
“Who else would be in here when they’re not on shift? Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Too restless. That itchy cot doesn’t help.” Gwyn selected one of the empty field kits and sat down on a low stool near the supply box. “Don’t mind the company, do you?”
“As long as you’re not one of those Yanks. I’m tired of them asking me to repeat words just so they can hear what a Blimey girl sounds like. A Blimey girl. Have you ever been called that?”
Gwyn shook her head and reached into the box for ointment. “Can’t say that I have, though I’ve gotten ‘grease monkey’ a time or two. Any proposals?”
Alice snorted. “They save those for the nurses. Not that I’m complaining, I’ve got more important things to do than worry about men batting their wandering eyes at me, unless one of them was handsome like that captain of yours. Then I might bat right back at him.”
An ache twisted in Gwyn’s heart. She hadn’t heard from William since she’d sent that letter about Eugenie over two weeks ago. No news was supposed to mean good news. People who touted that message needed a slap upside the head.
“I’m sure he’s safe.” Alice’s voice softened.
Gwyn wrestled what she hoped was a smile to her lips. “I’m sure you’re right, but the worrier in me has a hard time going down without a fight.”
“Maybe you should inform him that our boys are nearly untouchable now with those newfangled dragon machines they got.”
“The tanks?”
“Dragon machine is more accurate. Metal bodies with dragging bellies rolling around on chains and belching smoke.” Alice shuddered. “I’d hate to be Fritz and see one of those coming over the hill.”
The first time Gwyn had seen one was three days ago on her way to a field station. The monstrous beasts chugged over a wooden bridge. She watched with mouth open as the simple structure wobbled under the massive weight. A honk from behind had swerved her back onto the road and away from plunging into the river.
She fingered the edge of the box, recalling the tremble of the earth as they roared by, their metal snouts glinting deadly in the sun. They plowed over ruts and mud as easily as gliding over glass. “I wonder if they’re difficult to drive.”
Alice rolled her eyes and turned back to the tire. “You would think of that.”
“Why not? If those things are as invincible as the boys claim, then the driver must be snug as lug nut in there. Why not give one of us a go and free up a muscled man to shoulder a rifle?”
“Because they’re the newest toys. Don’t waste your breath trying to convince a man to give it up. They’re just now getting used to the idea of us driving at all, and you want to jump right back into all that mess.”
“But you love driving.”
“Yes, and I’m finally able to shift gears without a single stall. Eugenie taught me a trick to—oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring her up.”
Heaviness dropped on Gwyn’s shoulders and wound around her in cruel knots. “Eugenie had a lot of tricks. We’re all better drivers for it. Remember the time she lifted the back wheels on her car and tied a rope around them to spin that fan around? It worked for about fifteen seconds.”
“Until she pressed the pedal too hard and the rope broke. Lady Dowling almost suffered the fate of Marie Antoinette.”
Cecelia flew through the door, face red and chest heaving. “There you are, G! Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?”
Alice frowned. She hated nurses in the workshop. “Was the garage really that mystifying a guess?”
Ignoring her, Cecelia grabbed Gwyn’s arm and yanked her up. Supplies spilled from Gwyn’s lap to all over the floor. “You have to come with me. Now.”
“Do you know how long it’s going to take to reroll all these bandages?” Gwyn started to bend over but stopped when she saw Cecelia’s filthy backside. “Have you been playing in the mud?”
“I skidded on a patch just outside your tent because I was running like a deranged woman. Come on.” She shoved Gwyn from behind.
“Wait. My coat.” Gwyn barely had a second to grab it before Cecelia had her out the door. “I’ll be back soon, Alice.”
“No, she won’t.”
Her hat deserted in the haste, Gwyn flung the coat over her head. “The garage is the last place you need to get high and mighty in.”
“I don’t care what people think.”
“Well, I’m the one who has to continue working in there, so please—for my sake—the next time don’t come storming in like it’s your private parlor.”
“This is for your sake.” Cecelia’s lips flattened into a colorless line.
A shiver ran across Gwyn’s skin. “What’s happened?”
“Lady Dowling received a telegram.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know. She wouldn’t say.”
The shiver sharpened to icicles, stabbing Gwyn with each step she took.
Lady Dowling waited for them in the tiny church office. She stood with her back to the large-paned window, her tall figure erect against the gray sky. The only crisp color was a small white envelope in her hand. “I won’t say this any way but the plain truth. Captain Crawford has been injured. It’s bad, I’m afraid.”
Gwyn’s knees gave out. Cecelia caught her elbow and guided her into the room’s spare chair. Gwyn dropped her head into her hands, willing the words to say something different, but they pounded loud and clear. “How? Is he …?” The words stuck on the sandpaper in her throat.
“An explosion during the assistance of another unit in the field. Almost two weeks ago. Lieutenant MacDonald has outlined a few more details in his letter.” Lady Dowling held out the envelope. “He was assured that I would deliver it to you.”
Gwyn took the letter in her shaking fingers. Desire to know warred with the safety of ignorance. Black scrawled letters shone through the water spoiled envelope, taunting her. “I wonder why it was not Captain Morrison to write you.” The catch in Lady Dowling’s breath brought Gwyn’s head up. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
Numbness seeped over Gwyn’s body until all emotion ceased. A clock ticking somewhere in the room noted the passing of minutes, but it was a lie. The entire world seemed to have stopped spinning. Gwyn knew without a doubt that William had been with Roland.
“It’s all in the letter.” Lady Dowling walked around to the front of her desk. Her heavy taffeta skirt rustled with each step. “Would you like some privacy to read it?”
Gwyn shook her head. No point in hiding her terror behind a closed door. Pulling the single sheet from its envelope, she scanned the scratched contents. Once, then twice to make sure she understood each word. Summoning courage she didn’t quite feel, she stood. “I’m going.”
Lady Dowling nodded.
“I thought you might. Pack a light bag, and I’ll have one of the drivers take you to the nearest clearing station. You should reach Calais before night tomorrow if the trains are running.”
“I’m going too.” Cecelia sniffed, tucking her hand into Gwyn’s arm.
“You’ll stay here.” Lady Dowling’s sharp eyes glinted, calling a paleness to Cecelia’s cheek. “There’s work to be done, and the men need you. Captain Crawford and Miss Ruthers will manage on their own.”
“But what if there aren’t enough nurses in Calais? What if Gwyn can’t do it alone? She needs a shoulder at a time like this.” Tears streaked down Cecelia’s face and plopped onto her lacy blouse.
Sighing, Lady Dowling pulled a starched handkerchief from her belt and handed it to Cecelia. “There, there, my girl. No need to get in a tizzy. Miss Ruthers is perfectly capable, but you have a job to do here.”
“Oh, G!”
Gwyn stumbled back as a sobbing Cecelia launched herself at her. As Cecelia continued to cry, Gwyn patted her back. “It’ll be all right.” Her calm words belied the sickening throb in her chest. Would it truly be all right? The tragedy waiting for her stole the breath from her body, but William didn’t need a quivering woman right now.
Her mind reeled with the items needed for the trip, should the hospital have limited supplies. “If I need anything, I shall write to you immediately.”
“Yes, and then Mother can send over extra supplies.”
“This came for you as well.” Lady Dowling picked up a worn envelope from the corner of her desk and handed it to Gwyn, this one—forwarded from Great Malvern—featured Papa’s firm print.
Pulling away from Cecelia, Gwyn ran a light finger over her father’s writing and flipped the envelope over for the return address. Stinson School of Flying, San Antonio, Texas. A jumble of emotion passed through her. She creased the envelope to steady her shaking fingers as she slid the long-awaited letter into her pocket. There would be time to think of all that later. She had a train to catch.
Among the Poppies Page 25
