Ambulance Girls Under Fire

by Deborah Burrows

  Moray’s gaze flickered to me, and passed on. He handed out the rest of the chits, but gave no duties to me. I suspected that he wanted to let me rest until the inevitable night raid. Daylight raids had almost ceased because the RAF was so efficient at bringing down the bombers. It was a different story when the sun went down. The RAF had lost too many pilots and planes trying to find and then fight the Luftwaffe at night. Now it was rarely attempted. German bombers came in the darkness, when London and the other cities were wide open to them, protected only by the barrage balloons and ack-ack guns. And the English weather.

  After checking my ambulance’s engine yet again and making the old machine shine, I revised my first-aid training. Next I volunteered to mop the floor of the common room. I did so whilst listening to the Harry Engleman Quintet on the forces radio. They were belting out ‘The Desert Song’, which pepped me up. I needed pepping up, because I was beginning to flag.

  And so, at around three o’clock I went to one of the uncomfortable bunks that had been put in once the station moved to twenty-four-hour shifts. I had a feeling it was going to be a bad night, and I’d need my wits about me. I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The banshee wail of the Warning jerked me awake at five o’clock, pulling me into an unwilling consciousness of my throbbing head wound. My entire body felt prickly and sore and cold, but my face was burning. I went to the washroom and splashed cold water on my cheeks before I entered the common room.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ said Armstrong, looking up from the book he was reading as I entered. ‘They’re only lighting up the raid.’

  He meant that planes had come over to drop incendiary bombs, hoping to start fires that would guide the bombers to their targets when the real action began later that night. I spared a thought for the fire-watchers. All over London men and women were up on roofs, waiting in the dark, unprotected except for their tin hats, watching for the first signs of fire and then having to deal with it using stirrup pumps or sand.

  When the Warning sounded again at nine o’clock my heart thumped painfully. I wondered if anyone had suffered a heart attack just from hearing the long drawn out wailing of the siren.

  The boom of ack-ack guns was followed by the throb of aeroplane engines. We could all now tell the difference between an English and a German plane. The German Dorniers and Heinkels were two-motored planes that hummed loudly then faded and then hummed loudly again, almost as if the motors were pushing forward, taking a breath and then pushing forward again. These were definitely German bombers and it was clear that they were flying very low. Wave after wave of planes flew over and soon the basement shook with each thudding vibration of exploding bombs.

  ‘They’ll be after Euston Station,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ snarled Sadler, throwing his cards down in disgust on to a rocking table, ‘they always are. Only they tend to miss, don’t they, mate? And they hit houses instead.’

  Moray appeared in the doorway, and looked around. ‘I’ve been told Jerry’s going to put on quite a show tonight. Observers reckon planes are coming over hot and strong.’

  ‘We’re ready for them,’ said Harris. Her resolute voice and firm expression was at odds with her clicking knitting needles and the fluffy mass of wool on her lap.

  ‘Ashwin, you’re teamed with Halliday in the Studebaker,’ said Moray. ‘She’s driving. I don’t want you behind the wheel with that head wound. Next week will be soon enough.’ He turned to look at Harris. ‘You’ll be driving the Buick, with Squire attending. I’ll take the older Ford with Purvis. Sadler and Powell, you’re in the other Ford. Armstrong, you choose one of the cars.’

  The telephone rang in the office. Moray turned and went in to pick it up.

  My stomach clenched painfully. Please don’t let me be buried alive again. If I have to die out there, please let it be quick. And now there was a new prayer. Please stop Simon Levy being recklessly brave. His parents cannot lose another son.

  Moray had said it was a major incident. That was obvious as soon as Maisie pulled into the devastated street and we saw the trucks, cars and heavy machinery that had been brought in. A mobile canteen was off to the side, serving tea and soup. The rescue gangs were already at work, combing through the rubble, ignoring the flash of explosions that lit the sky like summer lightning.

  Raiders skimmed above us like black bats, dodging the quarter moon. The drone of their engines filled the air in a continuous maddening roar that competed with the frenzied whoosh of a broken water main and the roaring inferno of the ruptured gas pipe in the next block. Great gaps had been blasted into the terraces. The remaining buildings were licked by flames that lit the scene in a flickering red-and-gold light. Men were busy, spraying water on the fires and looking for survivors. The usual bomb-site smell of cordite, brick dust, gas and smoke hung in the icy air.

  It was bitterly cold. Frost lay thick on the ground, shimmering white and treacherously slippery. More so was the black ice, and my feet slid underneath me as I followed Maisie to where the burly warden was standing. I managed to keep my balance by concentrating on the white-painted ‘W’ on his helmet, which was clearly visible in the firelight. He stood in front of an avalanche of roof tiles, walls, floorboards, pitiful odds and ends of furniture, battered beds, pictures, toys and books, bricks and mortar and broken beams, the remains of a four-storey house that until an hour ago had stood in this Pimlico terrace for a hundred years.

  ‘Those we found alive have been taken away already,’ he said, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise around us, ‘but you’ll need to wait. They’re still looking for other survivors. Might have heard something out back, they think, and at the moment they’re trying to work out what it is without bringing the rest of the house down.’ He raised his voice. ‘Trouble is hearing anything in this din.’

  ‘What do they think they’ve heard?’ asked Maisie. In the ruddy glow of the flames her face was gaunt and shadowed.

  ‘A man is missing in that house. They’re hoping it’s his voice calling out from the cellar, but it’s a fearful mess.’

  My steel helmet hid the bandage around my head, but the wound underneath throbbed. It was hard to concentrate on my steps as I followed Maisie and the warden on to the bomb site. The ruins were in a parlous state and we had to negotiate the litter of twisted steel and piled heaps of rubble. Each step I took caused glass and board and slate tiles to crack under my feet.

  Without warning something gave way and my leg sank, almost gracefully, into the mess of debris. Unable to keep my balance I keeled over so that the rest of my body was sprawled uncomfortably on the wreckage. When I tried to pull my leg free, I could gain no purchase.

  Maisie wheeled around and choked back laughter.

  ‘Sorry, Ashwin,’ she said. ‘But you do look a sight.’

  ‘You all right?’ The warden asked.

  ‘I seem to be wedged in tight.’

  ‘Let’s see what we can do.’ He knelt behind me, put his hands under my arms and pulled. As my leg dislodged, he tumbled backwards, carrying me with him and we landed together in a jumble of limbs and torsos. The warden gave a roar of laughter, and the men around us joined in. After a few seconds of embarrassment, I laughed also.

  ‘It’s like Laurel and Hardy.’

  ‘Oi, hands off the ambulance girls, Bert.’

  ‘Don’t you put up with his liberties, love. He’s a right one, that Bert.’

  ‘Cheeky beggars,’ said Bert.

  We stood up shakily, clinging to each other for support, but immediately lost purchase on the slippery ground to fall in an ungainly tangle. Again there was laughter. Although it was a strange sound on a bomb site with people trapped in the wreckage and raiders still in the sky, I thought it wasn’t so bad to be the cause of a light-hearted moment among such misery. Only, I wished my head hurt less. The fall had exacerbated the pain.

  A voice I recognised cut through the frivolit
y.

  ‘Is medical assistance required? Or am I interrupting a moonlight tryst?’

  Bert squinted into the gloom. ‘That you, Doc Levy?’ He chuckled. ‘Moonlight tryst indeed.’ His voice rose. ‘Ee, you lot. Don’t stand round gawping. Help us up.’

  My arm was encircled in a tight grip and I was hauled upright, but it was almost impossible to keep my balance on the icy ground. Again I felt myself slipping, and my rescuer’s grip tightened to hold me steady. I grabbed at his shoulder and clenched the rough wool of a military greatcoat. It was Simon, of course. I wondered if I was destined to meet him now at every incident I attended, as some sort of uncanny punishment for my affair with his brother.

  ‘Thank you, but I can stand by myself.’

  ‘I doubt that, it’s like an ice rink.’

  ‘I’m perfectly able to stand.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He released my arm. Almost immediately I slipped and began to fall. Again I was caught in his hard grip.

  There was no point in being ungracious. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Lean on me and I’ll get you across.’

  Slipping and sliding and clinging together, we stumbled over to an area of asphalt, where he released my arm.

  ‘You shouldn’t be back at work.’ His voice was accusing. ‘It’s too early.’

  ‘I felt well enough. I prefer to be busy. Useful.’

  He touched my helmet. ‘Let me know if it begins to bleed again. Or if you feel nauseous or dizzy.’

  We walked carefully across to join Maisie, the warden and a group of heavy-rescue workers, who were standing under a great ragged length of wall that loomed at least twenty feet above them. It was all that remained of the house and it shook with each percussion of gun or bomb.

  ‘What’s the situation?’ asked Simon.

  ‘We’ve a man trapped down here.’

  The warden gestured towards a narrow hole in the bomb debris, from which smoke was rising into the freezing air. Simon walked across to lean over it and peer inside. I joined him, coughing a little at the reek of wood smoke. A network of bricks and beams underneath was revealed by the red glow of burning timbers.

  Suddenly, I was almost overwhelmed by the vivid memory of my own ordeal, trapped and immobile, buried in similar deep pit of debris. I began to sway. Again it was Simon’s firm grip on my arm that held me upright.

  ‘Sit down and put your head between your knees,’ Simon hissed into my ear. Then, to Maisie, dismissively, ‘She’s faint – look after her.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I protested. ‘Really, I’m perfectly all right. It was the smoke.’

  Simon regarded me for a second or two. I met his examination steadily, determined to remain, daring him to try to send me away. He turned away from me to crouch at the edge of the hole and peer in again.

  ‘Any idea who it might be?’ he asked the warden.

  ‘Joe Gardiner lived in the house and he’s missing.’

  I knelt beside Simon and squinted into the narrow hole. By the light of a burning jagged beam inside I could make out a man’s head, twelve to fifteen feet down, surrounded by debris.

  ‘Joe Gardiner,’ Simon shouted. ‘Are you conscious? How are you?’

  A voice floated out, weak, but steady. ‘I’m trapped down here. God help me, I can’t move hand or foot.’

  All the weakness and terror that had so consumed me a moment before had now disappeared. Feeling alert, excited, I moved closer to Simon.

  ‘Are you injured?’ he called down.

  Again the voice floated out of the darkness. ‘Something’s gone through my leg and I’ve been bleeding, I think. Hurt like hell at first, but now it’s becoming numb.’

  ‘Can’t do much for him, I’m afraid, sir,’ someone behind us said. ‘It’s too risky with that wall hanging over. It’s about to topple.’

  There was a loud explosion some distance away and the ground shook. A man standing nearby called out in alarm. ‘Watch out, sir – it’s coming down.’

  As those nearby moved quickly to stand out of harm’s way, I looked up. The wall stood black and jagged against the leaping flames behind it and its dark bricks were rippling. I felt a moment’s panic and glanced at Simon, who was asking Joe more questions about his leg. I looked up again at the wall. The bricks had become still, but it was clearly only a matter of time before it fell to pieces.

  Simon reached into his bag, took out a morphia syringe and filled it.

  ‘I’m going down there,’ he shouted to the warden, who threw a wary glance at the wall and joined us by the hole.

  ‘You’ll never do it,’ the warden replied. ‘It’s too narrow.’

  The warden was right, I thought. Even if Simon managed to get in he would not have the slightest chance of bending down to attend to his patient. He wouldn’t even be able to gain a foothold at the bottom without setting his feet on the trapped man’s head.

  ‘I’ll have to go in headfirst.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ someone shouted. ‘Just look at that bit of wall, won’t you? It’s about to fall.’

  ‘Shut up about the damned wall,’ muttered Simon. He gestured to his right and raised his voice. ‘Bring that crane here, please.’

  It was not a request.

  The warden looked at me. I shrugged and nodded, wondering why they thought I had any say in it, when Simon was so obviously determined to risk his life to help a man he’d never met before and who was likely to die anyway. If the wall toppled, then Simon would die too, down there in the darkness.

  They wheeled the crane over.

  Simon took off his greatcoat and laid it on the ground by the opening. Next he removed his tunic, folded it, and handed it to me.

  ‘Would you mind standing away over there,’ he said. ‘They’re right about the wall.’

  ‘And you’re rather partial to this tunic?’

  ‘It’s the pipe in the inner pocket, actually,’ he replied, his voice deadpan. ‘My favourite. I’d hate it to be smashed.’

  You don’t need to do this, I wanted to say. Please, think of your mother, she can’t lose another son. There’s no need to be so reckless.

  Instead, I gestured to the hole. ‘It’ll be a snug fit. Good thing you’re slim.’

  He almost smiled. ‘Despite my mother’s best endeavours.’

  I hugged his tunic to my chest and walked away to stand out of reach of the tottering wall.

  Simon rolled up his sleeves and lay on his greatcoat.

  ‘Fasten it on my feet,’ he said quietly.

  They hooked the chain around his feet and turned the wheel so that he was drawn, feet upwards, into the air. Presently his head was clear of the ground and he dangled upside down, a slim figure silhouetted against the light of the burning buildings behind him.

  ‘Right, swing me round and lower away,’ he said.

  Steadily, spinning a little on the end of the chain, he was lowered head first into the hole until he had disappeared entirely.

  ‘Stop,’ he called abruptly.

  I couldn’t stand the suspense. I glanced at the warden, who gave a quick nod, and we both walked over to peer into the hole. The top of Simon’s head was poised above Joe Gardiner and the burning beam that lit the scene was close enough to frizzle Simon’s hair and singe the shoulder of his shirt. Simon paid it no mind and was engaged in conversation with Joe. Then he extended his arm to place his left index finger on Joe’s neck.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ whispered the warden.

  ‘Feeling for the jugular vein.’

  Simon lowered his right arm, which held the syringe. He eased the needle into the flesh of Joe’s neck and with even, unhurried pressure, drove the plunger home.

  The warden looked at me. ‘Why hasn’t he extinguished that ruddy beam? His shirt’ll be up in flames soon.’

  ‘I think he needs the light to work by,’ I said.

  Simon withdrew the syringe and swung himself around towards the burning wood. With his bare hand he steadily crushed out the fl
ame and the scene fell into darkness.

  ‘Right,’ he called out. ‘You can pull me up now.’

  I moved back to stand by the crane. Relief, or something, was making me dizzy. I leant against the machine for support as the short nuggety man who drove it turned the wheel to wind up the chain and pull Simon out.

  ‘By God,’ muttered the crane driver as he did so, ‘I’ve seen some heroes. But he takes the cake.’ His voice became indulgent. ‘Ruddy madman, is young Doc Levy.’

  At last Simon emerged, spinning a little on the end of the chain, and the onlookers gave a subdued cheer. He was lowered to the ground and once the chains around his ankles had been released the warden helped him to his feet.

  I took his tunic across to him. ‘How’s the patient?’

  ‘He’ll do, for a while.’ Simon thanked me and put on the tunic. He glanced up at the wall before bending to pick up his greatcoat.

  ‘Allow me, sir,’ said the warden, and held it for Simon as he shrugged himself into it.

  ‘Thanks. He’ll need a top-up in four hours. I’ll be back unless I get word that he’s already out.’

  Simon walked away. I watched until he disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘Right, lads,’ said the warden, ‘we’ve got four hours to get Joe there out of the hole before Doc Levy has to do that all over again. Let’s save the doc the trouble, shall we?’

  ‘What about that wall?’ asked one, gesturing to the mass of masonry. ‘One decent shake and down comes the whole lot.’

  The warden looked at the wall for a moment, then called over a young man who was with the squad. He handed him a whistle.

  ‘Now look here, Charlie Pratt,’ said the warden, ‘I want you to watch that wall as we work. Don’t you take your eyes off it. First sign you see of it shifting you blow the whistle. The lads’ll get clear if they’re nippy.’

  On the sharp eyes of Charlie Pratt, I thought, rested the lives of a dozen rescue workers.