by Erica Nyden
She halted, her heart a thumping racket. The periodic nausea that’d plagued her since she disembarked in Plymouth—perhaps it wasn’t motion sickness. And her chronic sleepiness as of late. No, she couldn’t be pregnant. They’d been careful—hadn’t they?
Visions of William holding their little one set butterflies flapping in her belly. She resumed her course at a faster pace. They’d be together the day after tomorrow. She couldn’t wait.
A giggle burst from her throat just as the first siren sounded.
She hadn’t forgotten the inconvenience of being caught in an air raid, especially in a strange place. She’d survived many, and though her brother had died in one, they didn’t frighten her like they used to, but she needed shelter, and fast. The meager light produced by her pocket torch made it impossible to see where the scurrying feet she heard were headed.
“Hello?” she called. “Can you help me?”
Another piercing alarm drowned her voice. She was still ten minutes from Aunt Hilda’s; it wasn’t likely she could make it there unscathed. Perhaps she should return to the pub; she’d only gone a few blocks.
The ground beneath her feet vibrated. The planes were coming. She couldn’t stay here; a sudden explosion ten doors down told her as much. Was this how Henry had felt the day he died, trapped in uncertainty and short of time?
The pub would have to do. Fixed on the luminous paint lining the pavement, Olivia ran. As she reached the intersection, she could scarcely make out the silhouette of the pub’s signpost yards ahead. Close to victory, she darted across the broad street, clinging to the stout wall on the other side to hide from the demons above. She clutched her ears to protect them from their high-pitched whine.
A hard blast rocked the area. The next heaved her across the deserted street. She landed face down, her body seesawing against the high curb.
Scenes of her life flickered through her mind like film clips:
John tattling on her for sticking her tongue out at Mother.
Tea in Grandmother’s garden, just the two of them.
Her interview at St. Mary Abbot’s.
Henry’s funeral.
William.
In the shadow of a burning market and a decimated pub she lay still, unconscious. Alone.
Chapter 24
“Mr. William! Mr. William!”
The shouts shot William upright.
“What is it?” he asked, struggling to wake.
A breathless Mrs. Pollard hugged her dressing gown tightly across her large bosom. A thin cotton cap crowned her head, and a long gray braid draped her shoulder. “It’s Plymouth. The city’s been bombed, like. My sister phoned from Saltash saying they heard blasts for close to four hours.”
Jasper jumped down from the bed as William pushed past Mrs. Pollard to his wardrobe.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to Plymouth,” he replied, pulling up his woolen uniform trousers.
“You can’t go to Plymouth. It’s one in the morning. The ferries won’t be running at this hour. You’ll have to drive all the way to Gunnislake, and light regulations won’t let you drive safely. You’ll be stopped and charged a fine.”
“I’ll use the slit masks and go slowly. No one else will be on the road at this hour.”
“And we’re almost out of petrol, William.” She only called him “William” when she expected to get her way, and yet here she came toward him, hands out to help with his necktie.
“My father kept spare liters. Not even James knows about them.”
“And your sight. Blind men don’t drive. What if you’re found out? What about James, when he wakes and sees you and your father’s car missing?”
She tugged at his tie. Her breath was warm and smelled mildly of port. He was six again, being scolded by his loving nanny for being awake and playing with army men when he ought to have been sleeping.
“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”
He slipped his arms into his satin-lined olive tunic. His reflection in the mirror showed a tired man who’d aged considerably. He placed a peaked cap on his head and straightened the visor, noting the shadow it cast about his eyes. The lines of his face had become deep ravines compared to the last time he’d worn this uniform. Though fuller than they’d been in October, his cheeks resembled those of an emaciated street urchin. How Olivia found him attractive, he hardly knew.
“William!” Mrs. Pollard stepped further between him and the mirror, irritated at being ignored.
He hardly noticed. He cinched his leather belt over one more hole than he liked.
“This is a bad idea. The city is a burning war zone. Dorothy said she’d never seen flames so high.”
“That’s exactly why I need to go. How do I look? The uniform might help get questions answered. The more official I look, the better.”
She stepped back, recognizing defeat. “I’m sure she’s safe, hunkered down in a shelter waiting for the phones to turn back on so she can call you. She’s used to this sort of thing, coming from London. Do you even know where you be going? There aren’t signposts on the roads anymore. Home Guard’s taken them all down.”
“I know Plymouth. Her aunt lives on Greenbank Avenue. I’ll start there.”
She’d never been so hot. Olivia blinked her stinging eyes open and hoisted herself up. Pain stretched down her right side and sliced into her stomach as if she’d been filleted from breast to belly button.
As excruciating as it was, the agony was a passing consideration compared to the horror surrounding her. Smoke from the charred remains of town houses and businesses thickened the air. Flames sneered overhead. Massive beams, once powerful enough to support walls, lay scattered like Tinkertoys. Sirens blared between the buzzing of low-flying aircraft.
Another blast. A wall of fire toppled, smothering her with dirty heat. Olivia high-stepped between window frames and chimneys, looking for any place to take shelter. She gathered her might and cried for help. Her calls, though shrill in her own ears, couldn’t cut through the sirens. The pain in her side was unbearable. She pressed her hands onto it, as if important parts might fall out if she didn’t.
She finally sat on a portion of ground that wasn’t burning, stooped like a beggar woman, her silhouette flickering in the glow of hell. She could escape this. She needed to find the pub. But was the pub still there? Had Katie got off all right? What was hurting so badly inside her?
Was she moving?
The ground grew farther away. Someone gripped her arms until she was turned and tossed over someone’s shoulder. She screamed as her rib cage slammed against it. After an eternity of flopping like a rag doll, she was set down.
An explosion rattled the earth as soon as her feet met it. A stout woman in a nurse’s uniform steadied her flailing arms. “You’ll be all right. You’re safe now, miss.”
“She’s bleeding all over the place,” a deeper voice said. An old man with gray hair and wrinkles lining his grimy face shook his head with worry. “I think she’s been hit.”
She stood in what looked like an above-ground bunker, where mothers and grandmothers tended to children and each other, shushing fears and calming nerves. Scrapes marked their dirty faces and peeked through their tattered clothing, but no one appeared to have been struck by anything other than shards of glass or metal. If she weren’t so ill, she’d help. And if the air weren’t so stifling … Was there no window?
“She hasn’t been hit,” said the nurse gravely, as if this were bad news. “And I can’t help her here. She needs a hospital straightaway.”
Vertigo swept across her vision. She might faint. She latched onto the nurse and prayed she wouldn’t vomit; the pressure would shatter her rib cage. The grime in her eyes stung, producing tears that blurred her surroundings. Why were her legs and feet wet?
The nurse must have read her thoughts. Olivia followed the woman’s uneasy gaze to the splotches of red that covered her skirt and shoes.
Her grip on the nu
rse’s forearm slackened and like a drunkard, she tumbled to the ground.
Chapter 25
“Blast!”
William slammed his fists into the steering wheel. There were at least two miles to go, but the car hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. A line of emergency vehicles snaked in front of him, their lights just bright enough to keep them from running into one another. He was glad to see aid pouring in from neighboring towns, but wished he wasn’t caught in their traffic. In the opposite lane, cars sped by, no doubt filled with families anxious to leave the burning city. Ahead, the horizon glowed.
Polly was right. Olivia and her mother dealt with this sort of thing regularly in London. But he couldn’t help worrying. Not knowing her situation drove him mad. Plymouth wasn’t used to this kind of attack, and even if Olivia was safe, her family would somehow be affected.
And once he arrived, then what? He’d never manage to drive or park the motorcar in town. At this rate, he’d never get there. To his right lay a pasture bordered by a short wall of stone. He dodged the oncoming traffic, crossed the road, and parked his father’s Daimler along the shoulder.
The decision was whether to stay on the road or cut across the field. He wasn’t the only one on foot. Silhouetted against the bonfire of destruction behind them, throngs of people filled the meadow: elderly men and women, mothers with their children and pets. In an exhausted daze they moved to safety, away from their shattered homes, businesses, and lives. William searched their faces. Could one of them be Olivia or her mother or aunt? If Olivia was amongst this crowd, he would eventually find her. But if not …
A new urgency set him jogging over the uneven ground.
At the edge of the city, the streets looked unfamiliar. He asked passersby how to get to Greenbank Avenue, but their directions proved difficult to follow. Landmarks had been blown apart or burnt to the ground. He followed a path of disappearing breadcrumbs down lanes no longer bordered by tall buildings, bright awnings, or painted doors. Narrow passageways had become main thoroughfares, whilst wider streets lay cluttered with rubble.
Finally he found Greenbank, where the first neighbor he encountered directed him to Hilda Thornton’s house. Still standing, thank God. He rapped upon the door, and his heart leapt at the sound of footsteps within. A young woman in a Wren uniform greeted him, her starched white blouse a sharp contrast to her open navy jacket and the dark hair pulled back from her pale face.
Nervously, he removed his hat. “Is Olivia here?”
“No, she’s not.” She raised a torch in her left hand. “Do I know you?”
As he explained, her confusion melted in the reflected light. “Ah, you’re Olivia’s William! I’m Katie, her cousin. But how on earth did you get here?” She looked behind him for a possible companion. “Olivia told me—”
“Ah, yes, my vision—it returned a short time ago. The doctors said it might, and—do you know where she is?”
“Sorry, yes. She was injured in the raid, just after it started, we think. She was brought to City Hospital. By whom, we haven’t the foggiest. My aunt’s on her way there with a change of clothes. We’re told she’ll be all right, but she’s rather banged up and was still unconscious when her mum first got to her.”
“City Hospital. Do you know the fastest route in this mess?”
She began giving directions, then stopped herself. “Never mind. I’ll take you.” She withdrew briefly into the house before emerging again with her hat and greatcoat. “Come. It’s about a mile.”
Torch in hand, she locked the door behind them and led him down the hazy, littered streets. Greenbank Avenue writhed with activity. By the light of burning debris, people hefted buckets of water or flagged fire engines that weaved round the wreckage. Everywhere someone called for a missing loved one or pet. Those who weren’t crying were valiantly escorting others to the nearest First Aid Post or helping dig through the impenetrable rubble.
Each new sad situation lent extra weight to his. “You say she was hurt right after the attack? But she’ll be all right? Did Olivia’s mum say anything else? Where was she? Why was she alone?”
“We’d been together at a pub down the way. We’d just parted. I’m not certain of her injuries; Aunt Jeanie said they’d stitched up her face, and something about bruised ribs. We didn’t talk long.”
He quickened his pace. “How much further?”
“A few more blocks. Am I going too slowly for you?”
They marched down the middle of a dark street until footsteps scampered toward them.
“Help me!” A young girl in a dirty dressing gown entered their torchlight. She tugged William’s arm. “This way, please!” The child’s desperation stirred memories of a Norwegian girl he’d met in Narvik nearly one year ago.
At that time the Nazi’s claim to the city had been inevitable. Civilians hid in their homes whilst British soldiers dodged enemy fire from above; their attempts to protect them, futile. William was delivering new orders for Private Curtis, and after an hour of searching, still couldn’t find him. Then, stealing down an alley, he did. At the feet of a girl he lay, shot in the neck by a sniper.
“He was helping me,” the girl whispered in perfect English. “My brother’s run off. I can’t find him.” Eyes averted from the soldier toppled at her ankles, she hovered her hands above his body as if attempting to move it. There’d been no time to mourn the loss of his comrade. William rushed at the girl, pushing her away from the sniper’s line of fire. He’d helped her look for her brother before leaving her in the arms of her sobbing mother who was stricken with dread over what had likely happened to her son.
Katie had taken the child’s hand. The pain on her face told him she’d never seen such despair.
Olivia was safe at City Hospital and being cared for by doctors. Her mother was with her. Here, another life could be saved. He crouched down. “What can we do?”
“It’s mummy. She’s stuck. She left the shelter to get the kitty and then it hit, and she got stuck.”
By the light of Katie’s torch, the two followed the child to a nearby house. They stepped over shards of glass and entered what used to be a kitchen. A table lay on its side and pantry contents were scattered beside the remnants of a brick wall.
“Out here. I’m out here,” a tired voice called from the dark.
William grabbed the torch. Its light found a dusty hand at the base of the doorjamb. Beyond that, a heap of bricks covered the woman like a blanket, short of her head. Her eyes were open and her panic was evident despite her immobility. These breaths she took would be her last.
“Katie, take the child away from here.”
“Away? But where?”
“Anywhere but here!” he barked.
The girls melted into the darkness and William got to work. Each brick he removed was tossed, making a new pile feet away.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Angela.”
“Tell me where we can take your daughter, Angela.”
“Her grandparents, my husband’s family. They live two streets over.” The woman’s speech was labored, yet she continued. “I went to get the cat. For Millie. She was crying for the bloody animal and then I heard it—”
“Quiet, now.” If they were careful, she still might make it. “No need to agitate yourself.”
Finally, he could see her clothing—a few more armfuls should do it.
He hefted another load then stopped. The dim light was playing tricks on him. He picked up the torch. The woman’s legs were impossibly twisted. She’d never walk again, but at least she was still alive.
“Is that feeling better?” he asked.
The woman did not answer.
“Ma’am?” He placed a light hand on her shoulder, careful not to move her. “Angela.”
“Mummy! Mummy!” Millie had returned pulling the hand of an older woman who stopped abruptly at the sight before her. She held the girl’s shoulders. “Stay here, pet.”
Katie emerged from
behind them. “These are Millie’s grandparents. We’ve flagged an ambulance.”
The family’s grief was too much to bear. William stood and drew Katie away by the arm. “It’s too late for that, I’m afraid.”
Her eyes glistened. She nodded silently, as though she too knew their rescue mission had been doomed from the start.
A man with tired eyes and thinning hair approached with his hand out. “Thank you for your help, ah—?”
“Morgan. Major William Morgan.” William shook the man’s hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her.”
“Taylor’s the name, and you did what you could. We’ll not forget it.”
Millie hid her face in her grandmother’s greatcoat. “There, there,” the woman said, rocking the child as two men appeared and hefted Angela’s broken body onto a stretcher.
Mr. Taylor joined his wife. Hand-in-hand they walked the girl away, promising they’d come back once the sun rose to look for her kitty.
Pandemonium reigned outside City Hospital. An incendiary had hit the maternity wing, and a skeleton crew of firefighters struggled to extinguish it. Fresh flames and flashing red lights bathed the flocks of weary victims. Wounded men, women, and children were rushed through the main entrance, either in the arms of others or carried on planks of plywood or damaged doors. Those well enough to leave did so in varied states of rehabilitation. Somber figures carried the dead of all sizes.
Inside, the waiting rooms and corridors were littered with war victims, some on beds, some in wheelchairs, some on the floor. William and Katie followed the stream of traffic to a large ward. At least fifty beds had been packed into the room, and the smell of disinfectant had been overcome by blood and charred flesh. Blackout curtains hung floor to ceiling, and the flickering emergency lighting—hurricane lamps and dripping candles—made the job of discerning faces incredibly difficult. The motionless bundles on each bed could have been corpses or they could have been living, recovering patients. In this wretched light, it was hard to tell.