Ambulance Girls Under Fire

by Deborah Burrows

  The men in the rescue team nodded, picked up their tools and set to work. They were digging and levering and shovelling dirt as I left to find the mobile canteen for a cup of tea to warm me, settle my stomach and perhaps help the headache.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Two talkative, cheery young London women ran the mobile canteen that night, one with a head of frizzy blonde hair, the other a red-lipped brunette. They were there to serve tea and sandwiches and soup to ARP workers, but as I approached it was clear that at the moment they were serving one British army doctor. Simon was leaning against the counter, chaffing the women as they poured tea into a thick brown mug. I lurked in the shadows to watch.

  Scarlet lips handed him a plate with a piece of cake. ‘Have some cake, too,’ she said, in an attractively husky voice. ‘It’s little enough for a hero like you.’

  ‘Just doing my job.’

  ‘That’s not what I hear. You’re getting quite the reputation.’

  He laughed and it transformed his face. I was watching an entirely different Simon to the one who had just been talking to me.

  ‘As a mad fool? I only do it to impress pretty girls, you know.’

  Frizzy blonde emitted a high-pitched giggle that set my teeth on edge, but the brunette’s low chuckle was infectious. ‘Go on with you.’

  She pushed a mug of steaming tea towards him. He downed it in a few gulps.

  ‘That one didn’t touch the sides, did it?’ she said. ‘Here, let me pour you another.’

  Simon smiled his thanks and took the tea, lingering over the second cup, and eating his cake in quick, neat bites.

  When he pulled out some coins to pay for the tea and cake, the brunette said, ‘Just a penny for the tea. The cake’s on us. I’m Kitty and this is Joan.’

  ‘Thanks. It hit the spot, Kitty,’ he said. ‘Just what I needed.’

  ‘You know how sailors have a rum ration issued to them,’ Kitty replied musingly, ‘well, it seems to me that civilians are the soldiers of this war – at least in London – and their ration is tea. Hot, strong and sweet tea.’

  ‘Provided by Kitty and Joan in the tea car,’ he said, still smiling.

  ‘Do you like to dance, Doc?’ asked Joan.

  ‘When I can. I used to go to the dance halls every week when I was younger.’

  That surprised me. I found it hard to imagine Simon Levy at a dance hall.

  ‘Jitterbug? Swing? Kitty may look like butter wouldn’t melt, but you should see her on the dance floor. It’s a treat.’

  ‘Joan,’ said Kitty warningly.

  Simon took another mouthful of tea. ‘I bet Kitty looks simply lovely on the dance floor. Where do you go?’

  Kitty had recovered her poise and her smile was an invitation as she smoothed her dark hair. ‘The Paramount Dance Hall. I’ll be there Friday night.’

  Simon smiled again. ‘The Paramount? Tottenham Court Road? I used to go there before the war.’

  Kitty threw him a sly smile. ‘I know you did. I remember you.’

  ‘So we’ll look out for you, shall we?’ asked Joan.

  ‘Can’t make Fridays, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Saturday, then. Or Thursday. Let us know and we’ll be there.’

  He drained the mug and put it back on the counter. ‘What’s the band like nowadays?’

  ‘The band is brilliant. And if there’s a raid on you can rent a bunk for the night for a shilling.’

  ‘We’ll be waiting,’ said Joan.

  Simon smiled again. ‘I’ve a tight schedule, but I’ll see if I can make it one day soon.’

  He turned around, gave me a brief nod and walked off. My face became even hotter as I realised he had known I was there, spying on him, like a schoolgirl with a crush. I gave a mocking smile to the darkness. I had thought Simon’s frowning intensity could be off-putting, but apparently his frowns were only for Celia Ashwin. He might no longer hate me, but it seemed clear he did not like me either.

  Kitty gave Joan a shove. ‘I can look after my own love life, thank you very much.’

  Joan giggled. ‘No point just gazing adoringly.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Whenever you catch sight of the doc, it’s like this.’ She opened her eyes wide and let her mouth drop open.

  For that she got another shove from Kitty.

  ‘I admire him. He’s brave. Nice.’ Kitty smiled as she swiped a cloth over the counter in front of her. ‘And nice-looking.’

  ‘You’d better hope he doesn’t turn up at the Paramount,’ said Joan. ‘Your dad’ll flay you alive if you take up with a Jew, even if he is a posh one and a doctor to boot.’

  Kitty shrugged theatrically. ‘Dad doesn’t rule my life. Anyway, I’d not be looking to marry him. Just to have a bit of fun. Dance. Have a laugh. You know, that’s the best thing about the Paramount, it accepts everyone, black, white, yellow, Christian, Jew or whatever. There’s no prejudice there, and there should be more of that, I say. We’re all the same deep down.’ She sighed. ‘He always turned up at the Paramount in a group, and they only danced with each other.’

  Joan turned away to get something from the back and I only caught the words ‘broken heart’.

  ‘You can talk,’ said Kitty. Then she caught sight of me. ‘Sorry, miss. Didn’t see you there. It’s a nasty night, isn’t it? Care for a cup of tea? Bovril? Or some nice vegetable soup?’

  Just under four hours later, I was back at the bomb site. It was even colder than before. Maisie, swathed in rugs, had refused to leave the ambulance, telling me to call her when we had a patient who was above ground. Charlie Pratt was still on watch, staring at the wall with the whistle in his mouth, ready to blow a shrieking warning if the bricks began to move. The men had been working without respite, and were now using mobile cranes to shift large pieces of masonry and steel. An enormous girder swung up and over my head. The warden shone his torch into the hole, turned and grinned at the men with a ‘thumbs-up’ sign.

  ‘Got him, mates.’

  Joe Gardiner was eased out of the hole and on to a stretcher. He lay there, gazing upwards with a weary smile, as if he’d never seen anything as beautiful as a sky leaden with low cloud. The men had let out a cheer as his head appeared, but they were so exhausted that most of them were sitting or lying on the frozen ground while Kitty and Joan moved around them handing out yet more mugs of tea. The All Clear had not yet sounded because the Luftwaffe had not disappeared, but the drone of their engines was some distance away. It seemed that they were bothering another part of Greater London.

  They’d done enough damage here, I reflected. Fires lit the scene with a fierce red glow as rescue workers desperately tried to locate other survivors in the street behind us. They were using dogs now, but no one else had been found alive.

  It was bitingly cold. My feet were numb, but my hands tingled with the heat of the mug of tea I held. I felt queasy, which I ascribed to drinking too much tea made with chlorinated water and dried milk. Worst of all, the pounding in my head was almost overwhelming. I consoled myself with the thought that it was only another five hours before I was off-duty and perhaps I could snatch some sleep at the station.

  Two men, who introduced themselves as Bob and Noel, brought Joe Gardiner over to me on a stretcher and laid him at my feet like a trophy. I quickly checked the man’s vital signs, which were not bad, considering his ordeal. The main problem was the severe penetrating wound to his right thigh, which needed bandaging to ready him for the journey to hospital. He groaned as I did so.

  ‘Doc’s right on time,’ said Bob, smiling at something behind me.

  I twisted around to see Simon walking towards us. I checked my watch. It had been exactly four hours since he had hung like a bat above Joe’s head and administered morphine to him.

  ‘No need for acrobatics this time, Doc,’ called Noel. ‘We got him out to save you the trouble.’

  Simon flashed him a smile and his voice was warm with approval. ‘You all did a splendid job.’
>
  He barely spared me a glance as he knelt beside the stretcher and took hold of Joe’s wrist to check his pulse. The impression Simon gave was one of friendly competence, and Joe visibly relaxed.

  ‘Good morning, Joe,’ he said. ‘I’m very pleased to be able examine you in more comfortable circumstances.’

  ‘I owe you a pint, Doc,’ he said, and Simon rewarded him with a quick grin.

  ‘I’ll hold you to that.’ At last he looked at me, and asked in the pleasantly professional voice I remembered from our time together in the dark, ‘How’s the patient, Mrs Ashwin?’

  ‘Tired. He has a nasty leg injury and appears to have lost a fair amount of blood.’

  Simon drew up a dose of morphine. ‘This’ll make you feel more comfortable, Joe.’ He had just lifted the needle when a tremendous roar sounded behind me.

  ‘There she goes,’ Joe whispered.

  I swung around as the wall collapsed, shifting down heavily like some bricked monster lumbering to its knees and thickening the frosty air with a cloud of brick dust that made me cough. A ten-foot-high mound of rubble and smashed wood filled the hole from which Joe had been plucked only fifteen minutes before, and where Simon would have been at that moment if Joe had not been rescued.

  ‘You’re a lucky one, Joe,’ said Simon. He administered the morphine with a steady hand and checked the man’s pulse. ‘He’s fit to be transferred to hospital,’ he said to me.

  I nodded and pushed myself up, ignoring the nausea roiling in my stomach as I did so. Once on my feet, the scene seemed to sway and the sick feeling increased. Thankful for the concealing gloom, I stood still to allow the dizziness to dissipate and my stomach to settle.

  ‘I should get Halliday – my driver – to help with the stretcher,’ I said.

  ‘Allow us, princess,’ said Noel. ‘I hear she’s asleep in the ambulance.’

  He and Bob hoisted Joe on the stretcher between them and began walking. I followed behind with Simon.

  ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Better,’ I lied. ‘Really, I’m perfectly fine.’

  He seemed to consider this, but as we reached the mobile canteen he halted abruptly and put his hand on my arm to stop me walking. He gave me a look, slow and appraising.

  ‘I think you’ve come back to duty too early. I’d like to take a look at the wound, if you don’t mind.’

  I said, with an attempt at levity, ‘I’m a shade tougher than Dresden china, you know. I swear, I’m fine.’

  The girls leaned over the canteen counter to call out greetings.

  ‘Hello, Doc,’ said Kitty.

  ‘Another cuppa?’ asked Joan.

  Simon smiled at them in response. ‘Are you able to help me?’ he asked. ‘I need somewhere under cover, but with good light. I want to take a quick look at this ambulance officer’s head wound.’

  ‘Come into the tea car if you like,’ said Kitty. ‘There’s plenty of room and lots of hot water.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Dr Levy,’ I said. It was my hoity-toity voice, borrowed from my mother for the occasion. ‘But I haven’t the time for this. I must get my patient to hospital.’

  He ignored me and spoke to someone over my shoulder, presumably to Joe. ‘Can you wait five minutes, old man? Good.’ His glance shifted to the right. ‘Would you put him in the ambulance, please? I want to check her head wound. Won’t be a minute.’

  I twisted around to see Bob and Noel heading away with Joe and made a move to follow, but was stayed by Simon’s hand on my arm.

  ‘Celia, I’ve seen you almost faint three times now.’ His voice was calm, infuriatingly reasonable. ‘To be frank, you look terrible. I want to check the wound for infection.’

  My indignation disappeared. I felt deflated, like a balloon that had lost its air. Small and ill and helpless. Although my face seemed to radiate heat, I was suddenly cold and shivery. I clutched at my coat and clenched my teeth. And all the while Simon watched me.

  When the shivering fit had passed, he ushered me into the van, which was larger inside than it looked. Counters ran along both sides. The front counter lay behind the hatch from where tea and soup were served, and on the back counter was the urn with hot water for the tea and a couple of spirit stoves. A large kettle steamed gently on one; the other held a large saucepan of what looked like vegetable soup. I took one look at the bubbling mess in the saucepan and gagged. A small canvas stool had been unfolded for me to sit on. I moved it closer to the doorway, away from the soup, and sat down, ignoring Kitty and Joan, who stood outside, watching. I removed my helmet.

  Simon washed his hands, then unwound the bandage that swathed my head. He made a small grunting sound when the wound was revealed.

  ‘Ooh, that looks nasty,’ said Joan.

  ‘Who’s been looking after you?’ he asked.

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  He placed a cool hand on my forehead. ‘It’s clear the wound’s become infected. What did they tell you at the hospital? I’m surprised they said you could go back to work this quickly.’

  ‘I felt well enough to return to the station. I prefer to work.’

  He rebandaged my head swiftly, competently. ‘I can’t clean the wound properly here. When do you go off-duty?’

  ‘Seven-thirty this morning.’

  ‘You work twenty-four-hour shifts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He turned away to wash his hands again, then glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost three now. That wound needs to be cleaned and disinfected and you need to rest. It’s too long until you’re off-duty. I’ll see if Noel or Bob can go with your driver in the ambulance.’

  ‘I can’t just slope off in the middle of a shift.’

  ‘I’ll fix it with the station officer. Right now you need to rest more than they need you to work. I’ll see you home, I’ve—’

  ‘There’s not the slightest need to see me home.’

  ‘—got a car. I can clean the wound at your flat.’

  I picked up my satchel and stood, carefully. My head throbbed and the nausea had returned, but I managed a smile. Nanny’s voice was ever in my ear: ‘Never show you are annoyed, no matter how tiresome anyone may be. It’s ill-bred.’

  ‘You’ve been most kind, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll return to the ambulance, now. The wound can be bathed and re-dressed at the station.’ My voice hardened. ‘I will finish my shift.’

  His eyes, amused, met mine. ‘It hurts like hell, doesn’t it? And how were you intending to get from the station to your digs at the end of the shift?’

  ‘Bicycle.’

  His eyes flickered and he frowned. ‘You can’t ride a bicycle in this weather and certainly not with an infected head wound. I’ll drive you home now.’

  Kitty had joined Joan at the doorway. Joan’s look at me was calculating, but her voice was honey as she said to Simon, ‘So, you’ll drop by the Paramount Saturday night? Kitty’s always there by eight.’

  ‘I’ll be there, unless I’m on duty,’ said Simon, smiling at them both. ‘Save me a dance. Thanks for the tea and cake earlier, and for the use of the van. Goodnight.’

  We emerged to find that snow had begun to fall steadily. Thick low clouds pressed down on us and an eerie yellow light lit the scene as rescue efforts continued. The throb of plane engines was faint and far away, over to the north.

  When I stumbled on the icy ground, Simon’s grip on my arm was hard, steadying and annoying. It was all I could do not to shake off his hand. I knew my reaction was childish and ungrateful, but he had been officious and intrusive. Even if the wound was infected, I did not need a high-handed doctor telling me what to do. Even if he was David’s brother. Especially if he was David’s brother.

  The ambulance was in sight. Maisie had already started the engine and Bob and Noel stood at the rear, presumably chatting to Joe. Smoke from the exhaust swirled around them, lending a gothic feel to the scene.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said
to Simon, as graciously as I could manage. ‘I will get some rest, I promise. Someone at the station can easily deal with the wound tonight, and I – I will ask my friend, Lily Brennan, to check it when I return to my flat. She drives ambulances also, and she knows first aid.’

  ‘Vassy’s girl?’

  ‘Yes. She has a flat in my building.’

  Lily Brennan was an Australian who had worked with me at Bloomsbury until a few weeks before, when she had transferred to the big Berkeley Square Station. I was surprised Simon knew her, until I remembered that Jim Vassilikov, Lily’s fiancé, had been at school with David and presumably with Simon also.

  I steadied myself, drew in a breath, and raised my chin. ‘So, although it’s kind of you to offer, please don’t bother. I live only a quarter of a mile or so from the station. Really, there’s no need to see me home.’

  ‘Really,’ he replied calmly, ‘there is every need.’

  ‘I will ask someone from the station to see me home at the end of the shift,’ I replied, with equal calmness.

  ‘Except you will be going home now.’

  My composure – usually so reliable – faltered, and broke. ‘You are infuriating,’ I hissed. ‘Lily is perfectly capable of looking after me. Why are you doing this? To prove you don’t hate me any more?’

  He gave a short bark of laughter. ‘No, I don’t hate you any more. I’m not sure I like you much, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let you die. A few days ago you told me you don’t care if you live or die, and the way you’ve been acting proves that.’

  I tried to speak, but he ignored me, listing my infractions in a hard, cold voice. ‘You’ve come back to work too early, you’ve let your wound become infected and now you insist on refusing medical care. Although it’s obvious you have a fever, you say you’ll walk or bicycle home. In a snowstorm—’

  Again I began to interrupt but this time was silenced by a sharp cutting gesture. There was a pause as we glared at each other. He shut his eyes, but almost immediately opened them again and continued more calmly.

  ‘I don’t have to prove anything to you, Celia Ashwin. But continuing on in this way could have serious consequences. I’ve seen too many people die in the past year and I do not intend to allow any patient of mine to die needlessly through stubborn bloody stupidity. So, I’ll drive you home. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make you well.’ The cool ironic smile returned. ‘Whether you like it or not.’