There was a good chance now that they might secure the trenches ahead. As they ran forwards towards the enemy position there were explosions from shells and occasional shots. Edmond ran on, breathless, until suddenly an explosion threw him off his feet and nearly deafened him.
Is this it? he thought. He had landed heavily on his arm and his right wrist was agony. His whole body was jarred from the fall, but he realised gradually that only his arm was injured.
‘You all right, Derwent?’ Frank helped him shakily to his feet. There was no enemy fire now, and the artillery had fallen silent.
‘It’s my wrist.’
‘I think the enemy are retreating back up their line,’ Frank said. ‘Let’s have a look at your arm.’
‘It feels as though my wrist is broken.’
‘Keep supporting it like that with your other hand while I prepare a sling. We’ll have the medics look at it as soon as they’ve dealt with the serious cases.’
Deftly, he applied the sling to Edmond’s arm. ‘Sit down and take it easy,’ he said, handing him his water bottle.
* * *
Once they were certain the enemy were in retreat, Frank Bentley prepared to lead their men on towards the German trenches. He begged Edmond to seek medical help, so he accompanied the orderlies carrying Sam Clark on a stretcher. They had given the man morphia and splinted and bandaged his leg as best they could. Retracing their steps across the churned up area of No Man’s Land was particularly challenging.
The clearing station was a basic one under canvas. As they arrived, they found the wounded waiting outside on their stretchers, for there had been a rush of casualties earlier in the day. Edmond sat on the warm grass next to Sam and passed him a cigarette. Before long, a doctor came out to examine the fresh arrivals.
He instructed the orderlies to move Sam inside. ‘We’ll dress his wound better and prepare him to travel,’ he said. They were positioned next to the railway and the wounded would be sent on by train to the nearest military hospital.
Eventually, they looked at Edmond’s wrist.
‘It’s broken,’ the doctor said. ‘I’ll send you on the ambulance train too. You might even get the damage examined properly with one of those X-ray machines. There’s a woman scientist who drives round with a machine in her ambulance. The injury will probably take a few weeks to mend.’
So he would be out of the fray for a while. Relief surged through him, followed by guilt at his reaction.
‘Sounds as though your battalion advanced well today,’ the doctor remarked.
‘Yes.’ His men were taking over trenches recently occupied by the enemy.
* * *
News of Edmond’s injury reached Amy two days later. There was an official notification from a nursing sister that he had a minor injury, and a note to her in unfamiliar handwriting that he had dictated to an orderly, being unable to write himself for the moment.
Our advance went well, it said. My wrist is broken and in plaster but otherwise I’m unhurt. I shan’t be able to fight for a while. Still struggling to get leave.
‘It’s such a relief to know he isn’t fighting for now,’ she told Katherine.
Their wards were full of men who had returned from the great offensive with ‘Blighty wounds,’ injuries severe enough to require them to be sent back to Britain. The operating theatre was in practically constant use. The gangrenous wounds were particularly distressing, because the limbs needed to be amputated. If the surgeons were not drastic enough, the gangrene might return, requiring further amputation. She and Katherine were not senior enough to be required to help in the theatre, but they followed the progress of their patients, behaving professionally but unable to avoid agonising about the plight of the worst injured.
‘Have you heard from your brother?’ Katherine asked.
Amy wrote to him regularly with her own trivial items of news, in the hope that he would write back, but he seldom did. ‘My friend Florence heard earlier this week,’ she said. ‘He’s been in action too. He doesn’t tell us much in his letters.’
If only there could be some end in sight.
* * *
Edmond was staying in the convalescent ward of the French hospital. Until the plaster was removed he could not rejoin his unit, and, impatient for his return, his superior officer would not let him go on leave either. He asked recent arrivals in his ward for news of the offensive. Accounts varied, according to the part of the line where they were positioned. Early claims of a great advance seemed exaggerated.
One day he saw a face which looked familiar. It took him a while to recognise the tall, thick-set figure as George, their former gardener. He must have been around twenty but looked older now, with shadows under his eyes. His shoulder was heavily bandaged.
Edmond told him how much his work was missed at The Beeches. In the background ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ was playing on someone’s gramophone.
‘You making good progress?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, Sir. They’ll send me back to my unit soon.’
‘You joined up with your school friends, I remember.’
His once cheerful face clouded. ‘They’re dead now, Sir. It won’t be the same without my comrades.’
‘Dead – what – both of them?’ They were village lads who Edmond had known.
‘We all went over the top together, and the artillery got the three of us, only I got off lightly.’
Edmond gave him a cigarette and took one himself. He could just about light them with his stiff wrist. As they smoked, George told him of the friend who had died instantly of his wounds, and the one who had had severe abdominal injuries.
‘They got him on a stretcher and tried to ease his pain with morphia. I was walking with him as they carried him off towards the ambulance, but he died before they reached it.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that, George.’ Edmond tried to control his dismay. It was sometimes a relief for soldiers to talk of the horrors they had witnessed.
He remembered the merry group who had set off from Larchbury. They were young men from poor families, and at home some of them had had to share a bedroom with a brother or two. Life in the trenches, and the unappetising food, had not struck them as much of a hardship. The opportunity for them to leave their village and travel to France had seemed a once in a lifetime opportunity.
George grabbed his arm, his eyes wide. ‘You won’t tell his family how he died, will you?’
‘No, of course not.’
* * *
The stream of casualties reaching London scarcely diminished as July and August passed, and the VADs were allowed little leave. One weekend in September Amy was granted twenty-four hours away. She reached The Beeches on Friday evening, managing to arrive in time to change for dinner.
Her in-laws were anxious about Edmond. It seemed they had received a similar letter to her own earlier in the week, reassuring them of his progress.
‘Someone else had to write it for him,’ Mr Derwent said.
‘Mine too,’ Amy told them, ‘but he wrote a couple of lines at the end. His writing was very poor, but I could tell it was his own hand.’
Peter was still busy at the War Office in London, so he was relatively safe.
‘Have you heard about George, our gardener, and his friends?’ Mr Derwent asked.
‘No,’ she said warily.
‘Must you talk constantly of the bad news from the Front?’ his wife complained, as Janet served them blancmange. Beatrice excused herself from the table.
‘Amy will hear soon enough – the whole town is talking of the casualties,’ he said. ‘George has been injured, though he should recover, I understand. His friends from school have been killed, both of them.’
Amy set down her spoon, sick at heart.
‘At least you’re working to save our wounded,’ he tried to comfort her.
* * *
Next morning, she walked over to Sebastopol Terrace to see her parents.
‘We
’ve time for a cup of tea before I get lunch,’ Mother said, and went on to complain about the price of sugar and tea now that there were shortages.
‘James is away training,’ Father said as they settled in the parlour. ‘They say he’ll be sent to France in a few weeks.’
‘Good. As an orderly he’ll be doing vital work but he won’t be actually fighting.’
Mother came in with their tea things on a tray. ‘You don’t need to serve me in the parlour,’ Amy said, for they treated her as though their back room was not smart enough now she was a Derwent.
‘It’s sunnier in here in the morning.’ Mother poured her a cup of tea.
Just then, a boy came riding along the street on a bicycle and stopped outside their house. She watched as he opened their gate and came up the path and suddenly she felt the blood drain from her face. He was one of the young men who delivered telegrams.
Her father was on his feet before the man knocked at the door. Mother gasped as she too realised the significance of the visitor. She and Amy followed Father into the hall.
Father snatched the telegram and tore it open. ‘No reply,’ he said bleakly. He turned and faced the others, his face drooping. ‘Bertie,’ he said. ‘It’s Bertie…’ He shook his head.
Amy seized the sheet of paper. Regret to inform you second lieutenant Albert Fletcher killed in action, she read.
Her mother, who had read it over her shoulder, let out an unearthly cry. Amy turned to catch her arm and steadied her. She led her back into the front room and helped her into a chair. Now Amy felt dizzy herself. She could keep steady while seeing grim sights on the wards but was still unprepared for family tragedy. She grabbed the nearest chair and lowered herself into it.
Mother began to sob while Amy and her father sat, unable to find words for their loss. Amy was so frightened of losing Edmond that she had been less aware of Bertie’s part in the fighting. Now she suddenly realised how much he had meant to her. For several minutes none of them could speak coherently. In one moment all their lives were changed.
From the mantelpiece Bertie’s photograph smiled out at them, reminding Amy of his cheeky good humour. When she had been involved in the incident at the cricket pavilion he had understood and kept quiet for her. How was it possible that she would not see him again?
‘Florence has to be told,’ she said desperately, placing her teacup back on the tray. She went and drew the curtains.
‘Will it be their lunchtime?’ Father asked.
All thought of lunch had left her mind. ‘I don’t think they’ll be eating yet. I’ll change into my mauve frock.’ A few dresses remained in her old room and mauve was an acceptable colour for mourning.
She set out through the sunshine which seemed to mock her mood. At the end of the High Street, she turned off onto the drive leading to Florence’s family’s substantial house. Mr Clifford, her father, opened the door to her and must have been able to tell from her face that there was bad news.
Florence was summoned, in her dainty floral dress, not unlike the one Amy had been wearing.
She looked at Amy’s face and her usual composure faded. ‘Just tell me,’ she said, trembling.
Amy told her and her friend crumpled into her arms. As Florence’s tears began to flow Amy too began sobbing.
After a few minutes, Florence’s parents brought them glasses of sherry, as though that might revive them, but they sat in complete dejection.
‘Tell me if there is anything I can do,’ Mr Clifford begged.
‘Might I use your telephone?’ Amy asked. ‘I want to phone Matron and ask to extend my leave.’
Matron took some time to come to the phone. She was sympathetic but reminded Amy that she was not the only one to have been bereaved. She might stay for an extra day before returning to work, and of course she would be allowed time off to attend the memorial service.
‘I suppose I’d better go home to be with my parents,’ Amy said, hugging Florence.
When she reached home, Father set out for the vicarage to tell Uncle Arthur the news.
* * *
Next day they endured the Sunday service as best they could. There were other families in mourning now and nothing Uncle Arthur said in his sermon seemed to make sense. Afterwards, he invited Amy and Florence back to the vicarage.
They refused the offer of sherry and Aunt Sophie brought them cups of tea.
Florence was pale and her hair tousled. ‘I wrote to Bertie early last week,’ she told them. ‘Do you think he got my letter before he was killed?’
‘Probably,’ Amy said.
‘It’s as though God hates us,’ Florence cried out suddenly. ‘Our young men are so brave and yet they’re getting killed or mutilated. What’s the purpose of it all?’
Amy had never known her friend so outspoken, yet her words chimed with her own thoughts.
‘It wasn’t God who started the war,’ Uncle Arthur pointed out.
‘Why doesn’t He listen to our prayers?’ Amy asked. Never had her faith been so challenged.
‘I can’t explain it,’ Uncle Arthur said, his usual smile missing, ‘but we must keep our trust in Him.’
* * *
The memorial service for Bertie took place just over two weeks later. The church was packed. Amy stood, disconsolate, beside Florence. She had hoped Edmond might manage to get leave to attend but it had not been granted. His letter to her had been full of regret and commiseration.
News had arrived eventually from Bertie’s unit that he and some of his comrades had been killed by enemy shelling while taking part in a major offensive. The notification gave Morval as the nearest town to where he had been buried in a temporary grave. There was also an official document signed by the king in gratitude for the officer’s sacrifice. A letter came from Bertie’s superior officer, saying how much his contribution had been valued and commending his bravery. His wounds had been severe, and he had died almost immediately, they were told. Amy hoped that part was true.
Since first hearing of his death she had woken each morning with a feeling of dread at the back of her mind before recalling what had happened. She tried to spare herself the torture of imagining what his last moments might have been like but could not always banish this concern from her thoughts.
As the service began, the music and words which were supposed to bring consolation swirled around her. She remembered the wicked twinkle in Bertie’s eyes as he had encouraged her in childhood mischief. This was not what was supposed to happen to him, snuffed out before his twenty-third birthday.
The Derwents attended the service. Peter had managed to get leave from the War Office. Father’s eulogy, recalling their bright, merry son and brother who had set out bravely to fight for his country, brought tears to Amy’s eyes and those of others close to him.
Afterwards, Mrs Derwent and Beatrice went home but Edmond’s father and brother came back to Sebastopol Terrace with them and expressed their regrets.
Florence sat there, a slight figure dressed in black. She had kept asking Amy if there were any details about how Bertie had died, so Amy had shown her the correspondence.
‘He was so proud to be in the army and serve his country,’ she said, as though still pondering his sacrifice.
James was there too, on leave from his training to be a medical orderly. ‘I’ll miss Bertie so much,’ he told Amy. ‘He was like a brother to me.’
Florence stared at him, as though questioning his courage, critical of his decision to be an orderly rather than fight. Amy was sorry to see her friend so disapproving, but today was not the day to challenge her views.
By late afternoon, Amy had to set out for the station to return to the hospital. She hugged Florence and promised to write between visits.
It’s worse for me, she thought as the train steamed off noisily. My husband is still in France. I could lose him too: other people have lost two or more close relatives. We’ve been married for ten months but we’ve only spent a day and a night together and I
don’t know when I’ll see him again.
She scarcely slept that night. When she got up at first light and looked outside the London street was shrouded in mist. Trees were ghostly shapes and the traffic barely visible.
My life’s like that now, she thought. I can’t see the way ahead. I know what I want – a life with Edmond. But there’s no signpost telling me what lies ahead. I have to grope my way forward, through the thick mist, longing for the time we can be together.
When she eventually reached the hospital, Matron wanted to see her. It seemed Amy would shortly be sent to work at a hospital in France.
Chapter Fifteen
France, Autumn 1916
After the Channel crossing, Amy stood waiting with a group of VADs for transport to the hospital. She was not being sent to the Somme region, where Edmond was stationed, but further north near Arras. The harbour area was teeming with a variety of forms of transport. Trains were often used now to bring casualties for evacuation, but there were also motor ambulances and old-fashioned horse-drawn wagons.
An officer approached her. She had passed him on the ship and seen him staring at her. The tall, florid captain looked familiar. ‘You’re from Larchbury, aren’t you?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Oh, heavens, it was Wilfrid Fairlawn, the colonel’s son. She remembered him from the recruiting station at the fête at The Beeches, two years earlier.
‘Might I drive you to your hospital? I have a motor car here.’
‘No, thank you. We have transport arranged for us.’ She took a step towards the nearest VAD, whom she had only just met.
At that moment, an ancient omnibus drove up nearby and she picked up her luggage and headed for it. By the time she had discovered it was not the right one for her hospital the captain had gone on his way.
Until We Meet Again Page 15