Somewhere in France

by Jennifer Robson

  The tent was busy, its tables crowded, but there was no sign of him. Lilly swallowed her disappointment and turned her attention to breakfast, a nourishing but bland meal of salted porridge, applesauce, and lukewarm tea. No sooner had she begun than Miss Jeffries bustled up, brimming with vim and vigor.

  “Good morning, ladies! I trust you slept well?”

  “Yes, Miss Jeffries,” they replied.

  “Do your best to finish, then I’ll take you over to your ambulances. Eat up, now. You have a long day ahead of you.”

  Chapter 20

  Miss Jeffries returned in short order to escort them to the group of ambulances they’d seen last night. Waiting for them was a private, about Lilly’s age, whose neatly clipped mustache lent maturity to his young face. He smiled shyly as the women approached.

  “This is Private Gillespie,” Miss Jeffries explained, “one of our ASC drivers. I’ve asked him to answer any questions you may have about your ambulances and the routes you’ll be driving.”

  As Miss Jeffries took her leave, silence fell as the WAACs contemplated Private Gillespie and he, blushing furiously, examined his boots. He cleared his throat once, then twice, but seemed at a loss for words.

  Constance spoke first. “Could you tell us a bit about our ambulances, Private Gillespie? We’ve been driving lorries for the past few months.”

  “What kind of lorries, ma’am?”

  The women giggled, and Constance reached out and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “They were Crossleys, in the main. But please don’t call me ma’am. I’m the same rank as you. Just call me Miss Evans. I’m Constance Evans. And these are my friends.” One by one, they introduced themselves, shaking Private Gillespie’s hand, and Lilly was relieved to see the hectic color begin to fade from his face.

  “These here ambulances are Fords, straight from America,” he began. “They’re built on a Model T chassis with a wood-and-canvas frame, so they’re nice and light. Easy to push or hoist if you get bogged down. Top speed is forty-five miles an hour, but you’ll never get close to that here.”

  He approached the nearest ambulance and pulled up one side of the hinged bonnet so they could see inside. “Engine is four cylinders. Water-cooled, so you’d best keep an eye on that radiator. Oil needs topping up often; do it every morning, or at least check the levels.” He reached across to the engine, pulled out a spark plug, and inspected it closely. “Four spark plugs; make sure you check they aren’t bunged up with carbon.”

  “That sounds straightforward enough, doesn’t it, girls?” Constance commented. Private Gillespie closed the bonnet and walked to the driver’s seat, hoisting himself into it easily.

  “This shouldn’t be much different from the Crossley. Same setup for your clutch, throttle, brakes, and gearshift. Go easy on the brakes at first; she’s apt to skid.” He paused, considering the group looking up at him. “Did they give you any cold-weather gear? Not that you need it now,” he clarified, blushing again, “but you’ll freeze solid in winter without a decent greatcoat and gloves.” He waved his arm, indicating the open sides of the driver’s compartment, and the women shivered despite the warmth of the July morning.

  He jumped down and walked to the rear of the ambulance. “You’ve got room for three stretcher cases, or six seated, plus you can usually cram one extra man up front between the two of you. You won’t be expected to lift the stretchers into the ambulances; there’ll be orderlies to help with that. But you will have to help the walking wounded. And you’ll also have to swab out the ambulance after each run.” He broke off, and Lilly realized he was considering how honest he ought to be with them.

  “Go ahead,” she encouraged him. “We volunteered for this work.”

  “That’s good of you, miss. It’s just that . . . well, some of the men, once they’ve been wounded, can’t control their, ah . . .”

  “Bodily functions?” Constance interjected gently.

  “Yes, ah, that’s it. So it’s a right midden back here sometimes. Blood, of course, and sometimes they’re sick to their stomach, or worse. But if you put off cleaning it up, the smell only gets worse.

  “Now I’d best show you the route you’ll take, and all of that. When you come back from the ADS—that’s the advanced dressing station—you’ll pull up there,” he told them, pointing to an open area in front of an especially large tent. “Facing it is the reception marquee. The orderlies will unload the stretcher cases and you’ll be left to help the men who can walk. Don’t give them anything to eat or drink; that’s for the doctors and nurses to decide. Once they’re inside, the doctors will look them over and decide where they go next.

  “Next to the marquee is the pre-op tent. That’s where men who are strong enough for surgery are prepped. There’s a wooden building just beyond—can you see it from here? That’s the operating hut. On the other side of it is the resuss tent. That’s where they stabilize the men who are too weak for surgery. Sometimes all they need is a warm blanket around them. It’s also where they take the men who are, well . . .”

  Lilly touched his arm, lightly. “We know. It’s for the men who are dying.”

  He looked at her gratefully. “Thank you, miss. Seems wrong, somehow, saying it. But it’s true enough.” He rubbed the back of his neck, as if weary already, then continued his explanation. “Beyond it is the ward tent. That’s where the men go after surgery, until they’re strong enough for the trip to a base hospital.”

  “How many wounded men are here now?” Lilly asked.

  “About a hundred and fifty, give or take a few, I reckon. We’ve fifty ward beds, plus room for another hundred and fifty stretcher cases. That puts us almost at capacity. When that happens, any new casualties will go to the Fifty-Fourth, just down the road, and we’ll have a few days to catch up. Then, once we’ve moved most of the wounded on to Saint-Omer, the Fifty-Fourth will close and we’ll be open again.”

  Bridget found her voice at last. “So how are the men moved to the base hospitals?”

  “There’s a railhead about five hundred yards from here. Didn’t you come here on one of the hospital trains?”

  “No, we were driven here from Saint-Omer,” explained Constance.

  “Hmm. Might’ve been a problem with the line somewhere between here and Saint-Omer. At any rate, when we have any men who are ready to be moved, you’ll be taking them. I’ll show you the way today or tomorrow.

  “Now, if you don’t have any other questions, we’d best be heading off. I’ll drive in the lead, with two of you up front with me. Which of you wants to drive the second ambulance?”

  “It should be Lilly,” Constance answered. “She’s the best driver among us.”

  “Right, then. Just give me a minute to fetch some cans of water for the radiators. We don’t want to use any of their water up at the ADS if we run low.”

  Annie and Bridget took their seats in the lead ambulance, leaving Lilly and Constance to perch on its running boards. The minutes dragged by and Lilly began to feel rather warm in her woolen jacket and skirt. She loosened her tie a fraction, which seemed to help, and wiggled a finger under her too-tight collar.

  On the far side of the clearing, the door to the operating hut opened and a group of men appeared, blinking in the morning light, their surgeon’s gowns splattered with blood. As the last man emerged from the hut’s darkened interior, he paused in the doorway, his fair hair gleaming in the sunshine, and directed a curious glance at the group of women by the ambulances.

  It was Robbie. Even at this distance, she knew it was him.

  Heedless of what her friends might think, she stood, took a step forward, another, another. She opened her mouth, tried to call out his name, but no sound emerged.

  She’d drawn his attention. He began to walk toward her, his expression of stunned recognition transmuting into a grimace of stricken realization. He stopped short when they were only an arm’s length apart.

  “It can’t be . . . Lilly, what on earth . . . ?”
<
br />   “I know, I know. Robbie, I’m so sorry to surprise you like this. They told us two days ago that we were being transferred. That is, they asked us to volunteer, and I said yes.”

  “Are you insane?” he countered. “Didn’t you listen to a word I said? When I told you just how god-awful it is here?”

  “I did, of course I did. I know it will be difficult, and not just the driving. But I’m sure I can do it.”

  He reached out and grasped her shoulders, and she was taken aback by the torment in his eyes. “I’m not talking about that; I don’t doubt for a moment that you can manage. Lilly, it’s too dangerous. The road between here and the ADS has been shelled any number of times. Even the Fifty-Fourth, just down the road, was hit a few weeks ago.”

  “But those are just stray shells, falling wide. That’s what everyone says—”

  “Bugger what everyone says,” he replied, truly angry now. “That red cross on the side of your ambulance—do you honestly think it’ll protect you if the Germans decide to play target practice with this hospital?”

  “Robbie,” she pleaded, aghast at his reaction, “please understand. I had to come. Not because I think it’s some kind of adventure, or for . . . for personal reasons. I’m here so I can make a difference. Just like you promised I would.”

  With that, the anger seemed to drain out of him, and he stepped back, his arms falling to his sides. She felt transfixed by the naked anguish in his eyes, bluer than any remembered July sky.

  Looking beyond Lilly, he noticed their audience for the first time. “Splendid,” he muttered. “Any chance that your friends didn’t hear our disagreement just now?”

  “They won’t say anything, I’m sure they won’t.”

  He smiled at her, briefly, then covered his mouth as he suppressed a yawn. “Lilly, I must get some sleep before the next lot of wounded arrive. And you clearly need to be on your way as well.”

  “Promise you’ll come and find me when you have a chance?”

  “I promise. And in the meantime, please take care of yourself. I’ve more than my fair share of nightmares to cope with already.”

  Looking past her, he jabbed a finger at Private Gillespie, who had returned with his water cans and was standing, slack-jawed with astonishment, next to Constance. “Gillespie, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, Captain Fraser, sir.”

  “Miss Ashford is the sister of my dearest friend. If anything happens to her on the road today, there’ll be hell to pay. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Robbie now directed a weary smile at Lilly’s friends. “For my lack of courtesy, ladies, I beg your pardon, and I hope you’ll excuse me now.” With a final nod to Lilly, he walked away.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Constance asked Lilly, concern shading her voice. “Your brother’s friend from school. The one—”

  “Yes,” Lilly interrupted, loath to share any more details with Annie and Bridget, not to mention Private Gillespie. “Yes, it’s him. Edward’s friend. I meant to say something, earlier, but I wasn’t sure how he would feel about my coming here.”

  “None too pleased, by the look of it,” Annie commented. “He took a right turn, he did, the minute he saw you.”

  “I know,” Lilly admitted. “I feel wretched about that. But there was no time to send word ahead. I just hope he’ll change his mind about my being here.”

  “Of course he will,” Constance promised. “But none of us will be here for very long if Miss Jeffries decides we’re slacking off. So let’s be on our way. Lilly, do you want to drive or shall I?”

  “I will, but thank you for offering.”

  Lilly walked to the second ambulance and heaved herself into the driver’s seat. She’d never driven a Ford before, and although Private Gillespie had said it was similar to the Crossley, from where she sat, everything about the vehicle looked and felt different. Driving it, for the first time, she would have to muster every ounce of concentration she possessed. Today there would be no time to think about anything else.

  Or anyone.

  Chapter 21

  Private Gillespie set a measured pace for their first trip to the ADS, tracing a painstaking course around the mud-filled potholes that had left the road a stippled ruin. Lilly saw very little of the surrounding landscape, so intent was she on following in his wake, but several times she was obliged to bring her ambulance to a halt as his Ford inched past an especially large crater. In those moments, Lilly was able to survey the devastation that war had visited upon the countryside.

  The farmhouses they passed were abandoned, tiled roofs shattered, shutters swinging wide, their vegetable gardens choked with weeds. Fields and hedgerows, once green and lush, had been drained of color and life, the skies above empty of birdsong. Where trees once towered, only jagged stumps now remained, marking the graves of vanished groves and thickets.

  The lead ambulance was slowing; they had arrived at the ADS. She parked her vehicle carefully, taking care to turn around, as Private Gillespie was doing, so the ambulance was ready for the return journey.

  The ADS was unmarked and, from the roadside, appeared to be little more than an embankment of sandbags, not especially high, with a gap in their middle about a yard wide. The women now followed Private Gillespie through the gap, stepping down into a crude, poorly lit dugout, where men sat silently on wooden benches as medics worked to bandage their wounds. At the far end of the chamber, stretchers crowded the dirt floor. A crude field dressing, already soaked with blood, was wrapped around one soldier’s head, covering his eyes and much of his face; another man, now mercifully unconscious, seemed to have been wounded in the abdomen. His dressings, too, were stained rust red.

  “Where the fuck have you been?”

  Lilly turned, her heart pounding, and attempted to formulate a reply. The man who had approached them seemed to be a sergeant, although it was hard to be certain in the chamber’s dim light.

  Before she could say anything, Private Gillespie slipped past her, once again crimson with embarrassment. “These are the WAACs who’ll be our new drivers. We meant to set off earlier, but I had to show them around first. Sorry we’re late.”

  “WAACs? Women drivers?” The sergeant’s face was, if possible, even redder than Private Gillespie’s. He sighed, heavily, and Lilly’s toes curled in her boots as she waited for the inevitable. “Bugger it, Gillespie, you could have warned me. Now I’ve gone and said ‘fuck’ in front of them.”

  “That’s twice now,” Bridget pointed out.

  The sergeant sighed loudly, then held out his hand for them to shake. “Sorry about that. I’m Sergeant Barnes, ladies, but you can call me Bill. Now let’s get these men loaded and on their way.” He walked to the door and whistled loudly. “Just calling for some help with these stretcher cases. Who’s going to take them?”

  “I will,” answered Private Gillespie. “The ladies haven’t driven the route before, so—”

  “Well, they’ll be driving it soon enough. And better now than in the rain, or in the middle of the night. It’s just the two ambulances, right?”

  Muttering under his breath, Bill walked to the back of the dugout and surveyed the men who lay on its rough floor, their only cushion the thin canvas of their stretchers. “Him . . . and him . . . those two in the corner . . . the head wound there . . . and this one. Gutshot, but Captain Fraser might be able to pull him through. Do you have room for anyone up front?”

  “We do,” Lilly offered.

  “Then take this one. Shell fragments in the arm.”

  Constance had already taken the uninjured arm of the soldier and was gingerly leading him out of the dugout. Before Lilly could follow, she was brushed aside by two stretcher-bearers, who carried their patient up the rough-hewn steps with surprising grace. First one stretcher, then another, was loaded into the back of her ambulance, the wounded men groaning a little as they were deposited on the thinly padded benches. Last of all was the man, hardly more than a boy, with the frightfu
l abdominal wounds. Tellingly, he made no noise as the stretcher-bearers placed him on the floor between the other two stretchers.

  Lilly began to pull the ambulance’s canvas covers into place, but a shout from the dugout stopped her. It was Bill, who for some reason was carrying a pair of battered tin canteens.

  “They’re filled with hot water,” he explained, tucking the canteens under the blanket that covered the boy. “He’s gone into shock. They’ll keep him warm. And mind you bring them back—they’re as scarce as hen’s teeth.”

  Blinking hard, Lilly looked away, hoping she would not shame herself, here, by shedding tears. Her vision clearing, she saw that Constance was waiting for her; clearly their passenger needed some assistance to climb into the ambulance.

  Together they settled him in the center of the front seat, and then Lilly sat behind the steering wheel as Constance cranked the engine to life. She put the ambulance into gear as gently as possible, and it rewarded her by rolling forward without so much as a hiccup. So far, so good.

  If the drive to the dressing station had been challenging, their return to the CCS was doubly so. Try as she might, Lilly was unable to avoid all of the potholes, for it seemed as if there were more of them than actual road. With every lurch and bounce of the chassis, a chorus of groans could be heard from the back, a daunting reminder of the urgency of her task.

  “How far, do you think?” she asked Constance after many long minutes, praying the man hunched on the seat between them would not notice the anxiety percolating behind her words. But he made no sign of having heard.

  “It’s so hard to tell. There’s no odometer on this thing, is there?”