CHAPTER 27
The port of Calais was flooded with a sea of khaki and stained white. The wounded had arrived any way they could—train, auto, wagon, stretcher, and walking—to take over every inch of space as they awaited their turns to be loaded and shipped home.
Stepping off the train platform, Gwyn stretched her aching legs. Two long days crammed into a cattle car loaded wall-to-wall with crying and moaning wounded had left more than just her bones hurting.
A massive dockside warehouse with a large red cross painted on its side stood in the center of chaos with smaller tents sprouting around it. All over the country, the most unusual buildings were being converted into hospitals and operating rooms. And somewhere, in one of them, lay William.
A cold vise squeezed around her heart. Had he regained consciousness? Had the burns destroyed … She pressed a hand over her mouth. It didn’t matter what had been destroyed. She wasn’t one of those women who screamed and ran the other way. This was William.
“Excuse me,” she said, stopping a stretcher bearer. “Can you tell me where the burn unit is?”
The man shook his head. “Head over to that tent, and the nurses can point you.”
Gwyn found the tent and marched up to a nurse sitting at a desk with a clipboard and stack of papers in front of her. “Name and rank.” The nurse didn’t bother looking up.
“Gwyn Ruthers, an ambulance driver for Lady Dowling.”
The nurse’s head lifted. She took in Gwyn’s rumpled clothes in one long sweep. “A driver, you say?
“Yes, for Lady Dowling’s private unit, but I’m here in regards to a patient.”
“We don’t allow family members, friends, or special friends in to see the patients. Hospital rules.”
Dropping her bag, Gwyn leaned both hands on the desk, casting a shadow over the neat marks on the nurse’s clipboard. “I am the lead driver for the Marchioness of Dowling’s private ambulance fleet, and I have received first aid training from the Sisters of the Holy Mercy, which I used extensively on the Front and behind enemy lines as a POW. By the looks of your neat nails and pretty white hat, you’ve never been. I’m looking for Captain William Crawford of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry. Where might I find him?”
The nurse’s pale lips parted. Pink darted up her neck. “I’m sorry, we just get so many different types of ladies at the port. I just thought—”
“I’m sure you did. Captain Crawford?”
“We don’t keep an entire roster here. There are too many going in and out, which I’m sure you know from your post on the Front. Inside the hospital, ask for Sister Paulette. She should be able to help you.”
“Thank you.”
Gwyn forced her feet into a steady march to calm her heart as each step took her closer to William and the unknown. Inside, she was directed down a long hall and up a flight of stairs. Stopping at a door with a frosted glass window, she smoothed her hair. Loose tangles caught between her fingers. No wonder that nurse confused her for some dockside doxie. Why didn’t I bother with a mirror? Pulling the small canteen from her bag, she poured a few drops of water on her fingers and smoothed down the wild hairs as best she could, tucking the rest into the braided twist at the back of her head. She took a fortifying breath and knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
Gwyn stepped in the office and fixed her eyes on the white habit sitting erectly behind the center desk. The sister laid down her pen and laced her thick fingers together on top of her desk. Soft laugh lines creased her round face, but the glint in her eye suggested intolerance for nonsense. “May I help you?”
“I’m Gwyn Ruthers. I received a letter that Captain William Crawford is here, and I’ve come to see him.”
“Your relation to Captain Crawford?”
“An acquaintance from Great Malvern. We’ve also served together on the Front.”
The sister’s eyebrows lifted. “I did not realize women were allowed on the front lines.”
Gwyn grinned. “They’re not, ma’am, but drivers don’t adhere to lines.”
“A female driver? How astonishing. And good for you, but I’m sorry to inform you that you’ve come a long way for nothing. We simply do not allow visitors to come in and out of hospital. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m not here to visit. I’ve been in country long enough to know that the medics have their hands full, and there aren’t enough nurses to spread between patients. I have training, and I’d like to offer it.”
The sister rose from her desk and moved to a file cabinet, her long habit floating behind her stout frame. Pulling the second drawer up, she rifled through the brown folders. “Captain Crawford, you said?”
“Of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry.”
Passing a few more folders, she plucked one out and scanned the contents before closing it again. Serious gray eyes pinned Gwyn to the floor. “What do you know of Captain Crawford’s injuries?”
“Only that he was caught in an explosion and suffered a head injury and burns.” Gwyn swallowed the lump in her throat. If she cracked now, then she’d never be allowed through any door except the exit. “At the time the letter was written, he had not gained consciousness.”
The sister nodded, and for one agonizing moment, Gwyn feared the letter still held true. Or worse. “You will be happy to know that Captain Crawford has awakened,” the sister said. “Though brief, it is a good sign.”
“Thank God.” Joy rushed through Gwyn’s veins. “And the rest of his injuries?”
The soft lines around the sister’s mouth eased. She tapped the corner of William’s file against her robed leg. “How well is your acquaintance with the captain?”
The gray eyes penetrated to find Gwyn’s crack like a blacksmith testing the worth of his metal in the fire. Gwyn’s back stiffened at the challenge. “Well enough that I left my own post to come to him. Well enough that I cannot breathe again until I see him.”
“Are you certain he wishes to see you?”
“Not entirely. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he put up a fight, but I’m not leaving. I’ve been told no before, and if I’d listened to it then, I’d still be stuck over my father’s garage and not here in France pulling men from out of the rubble. The men here need help.” She spread her hands wide. “Here I am.”
“Quite a determined thing, aren’t you?”
“Driving a Rolls Royce in the middle of no man’s land, you have to be.”
Studying her for several long minutes, the sister replaced William’s folder in the file cabinet. “Under ordinary circumstances, I would never allow this, but I have a feeling that if I said no, you’d find a way back in somehow.”
“You’re probably right, ma’am.”
“Sister Paulette. I trust you know how to cleanse and wrap a bandage? In bed bath? Check for infection and hemorrhaging?”
“Yes, ma’am, I mean, Sister Paulette.”
“Good. I don’t have time to teach the basics. They send us so many girls who’ve never seen a splinter in the finger.” Her brow creased in frustration then smoothed back. “You should know that Captain Crawford’s wounds are extensive. How much experience have you had with close range shell explosions?”
“More than enough to fill my nightmares.”
“Your nightmares have been tame compared to what some of these men come in with. The atrocities that human beings can inflict upon each other … Captain Crawford is blessed that he still draws breath.”
Gwyn gripped her hands behind her back, her fingertips tingling. “Please tell me. I’d rather not wait until I see him.”
“Burns cover the entire left side of his body. The MO was able to remove most of the shrapnel, but some of the openings may never heal properly because of where they pierced. He has several fractures and bruises from when he was launched into the air and landed on his back, which—blessedly—did not break. Miss Ruthers, I caution you. It is a miracle of our Lord that he is still alive.”
&n
bsp; William was alive. God had answered her prayer. “May I see him?”
Sister Paulette led Gwyn down curtained-off sections of the ground floor. The stench of battle, festering wounds, and disinfectant assault Gwyn in one quick punch. She’d smelled it before in the field, but here it collided with molding wood and stale sea air.
“This was once a storage warehouse,” said Sister Paulette. “We are fortunate to have secured such a large facility for a hospital. My sisters in the field tell me they often have to operate in dugout shelters of earth and tent. We aren’t sufficiently prepared for the amount of wounded coming in daily. Especially after the Somme. I fear we shall see the remnants of that offense for some time to come.
“To your left are our operating rooms, and just past is our immediate recovery room. Everything to the rear of the building is for special cases. Every man here is a special case, Miss Ruthers, make no mistake, but there are some who need a little more care.”
She didn’t need to go on. Gwyn knew exactly who she meant. Hushed tones echoed off the bare walls, punctuated with whimpers of pain so lonely one might fear the heart was torn in two. For some, it was.
Pulling back the curtain, they entered the back corner section. Three nurses moved between the double row of beds, tucking a blanket in here, pouring a glass of water there, checking bandages, and offering a cool cloth to burning foreheads of the nearly motionless patients. Gwyn’s eyes roved among the beds, desperate for a familiar glimpse, but the swath of bandages made it impossible to tell them apart from a distance. Her legs ached to race from one bed to the next until she found him. Only Sister Paulette’s whispered greetings to each man kept her sedate.
She smiled at each man they passed, but hollow eyes stared back. She wiped her clammy hands on her skirt as nerves collided in her stomach. Unwilling to restrain her frantic heart any longer, Gwyn scanned the remaining beds. There, next to the last cot, she found him. Stripped to the waist and wrapped in wet gauze, she saw no part of his face, but it was him. It was William. Motionless and scorched.
“William? William, it’s me. It’s Gwyn.”
“He can’t hear you, my dear.” Sister Paulette. “He’s slipped back to sleep.”
But William heard. Her lovely voice, so near, made him want to weep. How many nights had he dreamed of hearing her, of feeling the warmth of her presence, of smelling the sweet scent of flowers blooming through all the death? But how many days had brought the harshness that she would never want him now? And yet, she was here. How had she found him? Why did she come to see him when he was nothing more than a butchered piece of meat?
He forced his breathing to remain even despite the burn clawing up his side. He wasn’t ready to see her, not yet. Not when he could still imagine her in his perfect dream. If he dared to open his eyes now, the illusion would be shattered. He would see the horror on her face as she took in his mangled body, seared from the outside and flayed open with shrapnel. He wasn’t ready for that yet. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would summon the strength to face her terror and the loneliness it would seal for him.
“It’s best to let him rest when he can.” The soft rustling folds of Sister Paulette’s robe scratched his ears like nails on metal. “Perhaps tomorrow he’ll feel more like entertaining visitors.”
“Sister, I told you I’m here to help,” Gwyn said. Something heavy settled on the floor. “I won’t leave his side even if he takes all month to wake up.”
William’s heart pounded, stretching the bandages over his chest which burned him like flaming serpents. A cool hand touched his bruised right cheek, killing the serpents of pain.
“He’s having nightmares,” Gwyn whispered, moving her feathery touch to the unharmed area of his forehead. “The burns, they torment the mind as much as the body.”
Torment. Night and day to day and night, lashing him to a body that he no longer controlled. It burned as if scratched by the devil himself. His fingers longed to claw at the skin and tear it from his bones, to rid himself of the blistering pain, but even the slightest twitch ignited white-hot sparks. He could do nothing but lie still during the torture.
“Sleep now, my dear William. Nothing will harm you tonight, and I shall be here when you wake.”
Wetness slipped from the corner of his closed eye and swerved down his cheek. A kiss, softer than air, brushed the corner of his mouth where the tear pooled. “Rest in peace now.”
CHAPTER 28
A wheezing cough snapped Gwyn’s head up. Fuzziness swirled through her sleepy mind as she glanced around the ward and found the source of the noise. A soldier in one of the first beds. A nurse rushed to his side, water pitcher in hand, and wetted his lips and brow.
Gwyn rubbed the back of her hand over her bleary eyes and looked to the window high against the wall. Darkness with pinpricks of stars. How long had she been asleep? Standing, she stretched her arms over her head, letting all the kinks work out from her fingers to her toes. It might take weeks to ease the ache from sitting on that hard, wooden chair for so long. A cup of hot chocolate would do wonders for the late-night pains.
With warm thoughts of rich chocolate on her lips, she leaned over to check William’s forehead. Two eyes stared back at her.
“Hello, Will.” Heart tripping over itself, she pulled her chair close and sat back down, chocolate forgotten.
He blinked, catching the low lantern light in the center of his eyes.
Gwyn shifted in her chair. She’d waited all day for him to awaken, had ridden miles and miles just to see him, and now that the time was there, a sudden bout of nerves sprang within her stomach. “Are you thirsty?”
At his slight nod, she grabbed the pitcher from the stand and poured a small amount into a glass. Slipping her hand behind his head, she cradled him and lifted the glass to his lips. The water trickled over his lips and down his chin. She lowered him to the pillow and wiped the water running down his neck. Air hissed through his teeth.
“I’m sorry. I know that hurts, but the flesh is pink. A good sign. We don’t want to see black, green, blue, purple, or angry red. I’m not sure if there’s a proper color called angry red. Probably something a doctor invented. They’re always giving things a funny name, or one that ordinary people can’t pronounce. I suppose people may say the same thing about mechanics.” The nerves prattled her tongue. Golly molly, if she didn’t get a hold of herself, she’d drive him right back to unconsciousness. “Are you cold? Hot?”
He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her face.
“Were you watching me sleep?” She raised a hand to her mouth, praying not to find remnants of drool. “What a pretty sight that must have been.”
“It was.”
The rust in his voice threatened her undoing. She smiled, straightening the side of his dog hair-blanket with shaking fingers. “I bet you say that to all the nurses.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come for you.”
“But how?”
“MacDonald wrote me. At the time, you had yet to regain consciousness.”
“He told you of Roland.”
“I’m so sorry, William.” She wished she had thought to sit on the other side of his bed. She needed to hold his hand, to press comfort into his mind, but the bandages covering his left side from the ear down prevented it. As soon as he fell asleep again, she would rearrange.
A tear slipped down his scarred cheek. “I lost too many men that day, yet I survived.”
“God watched over you.”
“And now He’s sent an angel to watch over me.”
She shook her head. “No. Just a simple girl who prayed for you every day.”
“You’re hardly a simple girl, Gwynevere Ruthers.”
Heat rushed over her cheeks. “A few wounds and bandages and you’ve turned into quite the flatterer. Perhaps I should have knocked you over the head a long time ago.”
“Perhaps if you had, it would have saved me the experience of getting blown apart by a kaiser shell
.” Another hiss rushed over his lips as his eyes pinched closed. His whole body seized.
Gwyn reached for her bag. “I have morphine.”
“No,” he gasped. “It’s not that bad.”
“You’re about to grind your teeth into dust. Let me give you something.”
“No. I need to feel it.”
Feel the martyrdom, more like it. She’d seen it time and time again. Men needed to feel the rush of pain as a sacrifice to their survival while their mates lay buried in the mud. Survivor’s guilt. Yes, she knew a little about that.
“Here.” She pulled up the Pekinese blanket that had slipped to expose the raw skin of his chest. “Don’t want you catching cold in this drafty warehouse. Who would have thought combed dog hair makes the softest cover for sensitive skin?”
“Seems to work well for the dogs.” His body eased, relaxing his face. “I see the irony in that.”
“No irony in wanting to keep our brave boys warm and taken care of.”
The corners of his mouth dipped. He ran his good hand over his bandaged one, picking at the edge. “Haven’t you been in the field long enough to see that bravery isn’t always there? Most of the time it’s stupidity and blind orders.”
“Two things you’ll never be accused of because bravery and loyalty run too deep in your veins to allow for anything else.” She leaned forward, combing her fingers into the fine hairs around his temple. Heat leaped from the darkness of his eyes and seared into her pulse. “If you were any other kind of man, William, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
He cupped her cheek with his good hand. So warm, so strong, his touch reached down and plucked the shards of loneliness from her soul. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he rasped.
She turned her face, pressing a kiss into his palm. “All those nights lying awake wondering and waiting. It was the worst fear I’ve ever known.”
“Even worse than being forced to stay in one place your entire life? Chained to monotony?”
She smiled. “Yes, even worse than that.”
Among the Poppies Page 26
