by Jane Peart
They drove through the night, in convoy, following the other three ambulances in front of theirs. Kitty felt her palms grow sweaty inside the woolen gloves. She squinted through the grimy windshield at the narrow winding road ahead.
When the signal came to stop, Cara slid into low gear and braked. The dull thud of bombs could be heard constantly in the distance now. Then came the whine followed by an explosion, and the sky lighted up for a split-second.
Kitty's stomach cramped, her heart banging against her ribs. I'll neverget used to it, she thought, wondering how many men had been hit by that last shell.
They remained parked, waiting for another signal to move forward. Sitting in tense silence, they heard the dull shuffling sound of marching boots.
As the men in the trenches were relieved, columns of weary soldiers trudged by on either side of the road. They moved like sleepwalkers, shoulders bent beneath heavy packs and guns, not talking, not looking to right or left. Their faces—haggard and gray, eyes glazed-—mirrored the horror and hopelessness of all they had endured.
Kitty had never felt so frightened, so filled with defeat. Were the Allies losing the war?
Hearing a rustling noise, she turned to see several of the men leaving the ranks and falling wearily to the ground. Where were their officers? Was the whole army in retreat?
Just then Kitty heard Cara mumble something under her breath. She could not make out the words but knew that her sister was echoing her own reaction. What was it all for? She reached over and pressed Cara's hand. There was no need for words.
They waited tensely. There was a stirring of activity, felt rather than observed. A soldier moved alongside the l i ne o f ambulances, motioning them forward. Kitty felt her stomach muscles contract as Cara moved her foot alternately from accelerator to brake, struggling to steer the vehicle straight ahead, fearful that one of the men, blinded by exhaustion, might stumble under the wheels.
At a short blast from a whisle, Cara jammed on the brakes and the ambulance came to an abrupt stop. There was movement, low voices. Through the murky darkness, they could see figures emerging from the woods—medical corpsmen bringing out stretchers bearing wounded men.
Kitty jumped out, aware that Cara's orders were to remain at the wheel, ready to get going at a moment's notice if the bombardment started again.
Amid the cries of the injured, Kitty helped the stretcher-bearers load the ambulance. Quickly, and as gently as possible, they laid the men on the double layer of benches inside. Kitty spoke soothingly, assuring those who were conscious enough to understand, that they were on their way to help.
The ride back to the chateau was a nightmare. Every rut and bump and shell hole in the road brought fresh cries from the wounded men. Kitty bit her lip, holding onto the railing of the back door as the vehicle rocked back and forth.
When the torturous ride ended at the chateau, the waiting staff helped unload the men and made quick judgments as to which wards they should go for treatment. Kitty had no time to speak again to Cara but went directly on duty, helping with those assigned to her ward.
The activity was frantic. Uniforms had to be removed or cut away, the wounds washed and loosely bandaged, at least until the doctors could make their own examinations.
It was early morning before Kitty was relieved. Numb with fatigue, she staggered dizzily into the staff dining room to gulp down some strong, sweet tea.
When she asked about the ambulance drivers, she was told they had gone back for another run. But she knew the chateau had reached its capacity, and that the next load would be taken to another field hospital. Kitty felt a wave of sadness.She had not even had a chance to tell Cara good-bye. Nor did she know when . . . or i f . . . they would see each other again.
chapter
17
WITH THE ADVENT o f spring, the German flyers became more daring. Even in daytime, they flew so low over the chateau that the black cross on each wing was clearly visible. But it was at night when the moon was cruelly bright that they returned to dispatch their deadly bombs. Able to find their targets in its cold light, the pilots flew low. First, there would be a roar of engines, then a whistling whine, followed by a deafening explosion.
On such nights Kitty wondered why she had ever loved the moonlight, thought it romantic! For at last she was beginning to understand war, the wanton waste of it—the dead or damaged, the destruction of homes and land, the women and children deprived of husbands and fathers. When would it all end?
One afternoon while she was out for a rare breath of fresh air, Kitty saw a German plane meet its fate. It must have been returning after dropping its load of bombs, she decided, since the sound of its engine was different from those on the way to a bombing raid.
On the edge of the woods, she stopped to listen, looked up at the sky, and saw the plane with its recognizable insignia come into sight. Then she heard the rackety sound of anti aircraft artillery. A minute later a red flame cut through the clouds almost directly above. The plane spiraled down in a spinning rocket of fire and disappeared. She held her breath, waiting for the muffled explosion.
Rooted to the ground, Kitty began to shake. She could picture the young man pinned in the horrible inferno of the crash. What if that had been Kip instead of the German pilot?
In the next few weeks, a shocking rumor began to circulate that the Germans were using poison gas. At first, no one believed it. Then the rumor was verified. Against all international law, the Germans had sent clouds o f poison against the Allied troops with no other purpose than to inflict cruel suffering and death. Kitty was stunned.
At first, the only protection against the noxious fumes was primitive—squares of folded gauze, soaked in some sort of solution and tied with tapes around mouth and nose. Since these had to be kept moist to fit, the soldiers were forced to use polluted water from the trenches. Even then, the gas could seep in around the contrived masks. It was the ultimate in the war's degradation.
When the first victims came pouring into the hospital, writhing in pain, their lungs seared from the exploding fumes they had inhaled, Kitty's rage knew no bounds. When she was assigned to the German prisoner ward, going on duty became a daily test of will.
Kitty fought her anger for a government that would conceive and implement such a demonic weapon. As a nurse, however, her compassion extended to any soldier whose wounds she dressed. It was difficult to know when one emotion left off and another took its place. They were, after all, the enemy. Men who if, given the chance, were pledged to kill those she loved—Kip and all the others.
Not only that, but Kitty could see the ongoing questions in the eyes of her fellow nurses. Why didn't America—rich, powerful, strong—come in and help before it was too late?
She buried her own wondering. As a Christian, she must not hate. She must somehow forgive her own country for their failures, and she must learn to love her enemies, "do good" to those who persecuted her. So she surrendered to backbreaking work, stumbling exhaustion, and sleepless nights until she was too numb to feel.
In April America declared war on Germany. Shortly after that Kitty learned that Scott was in England, had seen Aunt Garnet and would soon be in France. Daily she expected some words from him.
One afternoon, just as she was finishing her shift, the matron sent for her. "You have a visitor, Cameron."
"It must be my brother!" Kitty exclaimed.
"Oh?" Matron lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "Most say they're cousins"
Kitty tried not to laugh, wondering how many times her supervisor had heard that likely story.
"Well, take the rest of the afternoon off, Cameron," she was told and rushed off before Matron could change her mind.
At the main entrance she saw Scott, looking fit and trim in a natty United States Army officer's uniform.
"Scott!" she cried and was caught up in a bear hug. "How marvelous to see you!"
"You, too, little sister!" He held her at arm's length. "Just look at you! How professional you look, but much too
thin and pale. I'm going to kidnap you and make sure you have a square meal. Can you get some time off?"
"Only a few hours—"
"Try for longer. I've requisitioned a vehicle. We can drive up to Paris. I'd planned to take you to one of the finest restaurants, force some of those delectable French pastries on you. Surely your commanding officer would allow you to spend some time with a long-lost brother!"
Kitty was dubious. "I'll see, but you don't know Matron—"
"Shall I pull rank?" Scott struck a Napoleonic stance.
She grinned in spite of her fatigue. All at once, she felt younger, freer than she had in ages. It would be good to get away, catch up on old times. "I'll ask. All she can do is say no, right?"
When Kitty returned to her ward, Matron looked up from a batch of reports on her office desk and gave Kitty a long thoughtful look. "I realize this is a special occasion, Cameron, but I can only grant you a short leave. You know the situation here." She made a notation on a chart, then said brusquely, "Twenty-four hours—no more."
Paris, even in wartime, still held its legendary magic. Driving up the tree-lined boulevard into the center of the city, Kitty's spirits lifted. Although damp and cold at this time of year, the city was all she had imagined it would be—the Champs Elysees, the Eiffel Tower soaring against the gray sky, the Arc de Triomphe, reminding her of a victorious ending of another war.
They left the requisitioned vehicle at army headquarters, once a luxury hotel, and started off on foot. There was so much to see. The sidewalks were filled with people strolling, most of them in uniform. Many were Americans, looking healthy and vigorous in comparison to some of the British and French officers. After all, she realized with a pang of guilt, the Americans had not been fighting a seemingly invincible enemy for four long years.
To Kitty's amazement, the shop windows were filled with all sorts of items. There seemed no shortages or lack o f any kind. Upon closer inspection, however, she could see that the displays consisted mostly of luxuries—"haute couture" fashions, beaded purses, feathered hats, jewelry, leather goods.
Still, it was fun to see all the lovely things. Kitty could almost forget why she and Scott were in this city, so far from home.
"Tired?" he asked when they had spent an hour sight-seeing and window shopping.
"Not really!"
"I'm sure you've worked up an appetite by now. You're way too thin, you know, Kit," he commented in a concerned, big-brotherly tone. "Shall we find that restaurant now?"
"I'm not about to turn you down. Not after my steady diet of hospital food." She took Scott's arm. "Ready any time you are."
"One of the attaches in our unit gave me the name of a place he says offers the epitome in French cuisine. So I think we should head in that direction." Scott paused to study a street sign. "It's quite near here, I think."
"Fine. We can do some more touristing after we eat."
They had just crossed the street and were walking down the sidewalk when Kitty stopped abruptly. Her hand tightened on Scott's arm. Puzzled, he halted, glancing at his sister, who had turned suddenly pale. Then he looked in the direction she was staring.
Kip Montrose! Scott almost called his name until he saw that Kip was not alone. He was coming out of a hotel, arm in arm with a young woman wearing the gray-blue uniform of a French ambulance driver. They were laughing, her face turned up toward his. Scott turned to look at Kitty and saw his sisters stricken expression.
Kitty stood motionless, unable to believe her eyes. At a glance, she took in the woman's dark sparkling eyes, the rosy-red mouth, the dark hair cut in a straight bang across her forehead. But it was the radiant look on her face rather than her beauty that struck Kitty. She recognized that look. It was the look of a woman in love.
For a minute Kitty couldn't breathe. Her fingers dug into Scott's arm. Instinctively, she stepped back so that her brother's body shielded her from view in case Kip should turn and see them.
But Kip was much too involved in his conversation with the girl on his arm to be aware that anyone else existed. Still laughing, he hailed a taxi and, when it drew up at the curb, he handed his companion inside and hopped in after her. Then the cab pulled away and rolled down the street.
Kitty remained transfixed, her face chalk-white, her eyes reflecting her bewilderment and hurt.
"I'm sorry, Kitty—" Scott began.
"Don't," she ordered from between clenched teeth. "Don't. Please just don't say anything."
Slowly they resumed walking down the street and into the first cafe.
The Cafe D'Auberge was bustling with activity. Nurses were identifiable by their white veils, the red cross emblazoned on the headband. They sat at tables across from aviators in leather jackets. Mixed with the sound of voices and laughter was their determined air of seizing this moment.
Other couples in various types of uniforms were enjoying a brief respite from wartime danger and anxiety. Scott found a table for two in the corner.
Kitty stared fixedly into space. Scott's attempts at conversation failed miserably, and they sat in numbed silence until a mustachioed waiter came to take their order.
"Two brandies."
When Kitty protested, Scott said firmly, "For medicinal purposes. You're in shock." He put his hand over her small one. "Kitty, it's wartime. A man like Kip—"
She stopped him with an upraised hand. "Don't make excuses for him, Scott. I don't need that. I just need some time to absorb what's happened—"
Kitty was in shock. But the brandy did not help. Nor did the genuine sympathy in Scott's eyes or his insistence that she eat every bite of the succulent coque au vin the waiter set before her.
Afterward they drove from Paris back through the dark countryside. Sitting beside her brother, still unable to speak, Kitty looked up at the stars and at the tall trees that lined the road like sentinels. She wondered if, when the numbness wore off, would she feel unbearable pain? How long would it take her to get over Kip?
When they reached the chateau, Scott got out of the car, came around and helped Kitty out. Then he put his arms around her, cradling her head against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, little sister."
Kitty shook her head. "No, Scott. I knew . . . I felt something was wrong. I have for weeks. I just wouldn't admit it to myself. It's been ages since I heard from Kip even though he knew I was here. If he could get leave to go to Paris . . . he could have come here, if he'd wanted to. No, I've just been denying it."
Scott tried again. "Maybe there's some explanation—"
A rush o f emotion threatened to overwhelm Kitty, but she managed to say, "I'm only sorry it spoiled our day together."
"It didn't, not really. It was wonderful to be with you, Kitty." Scott's voice was husky. "I'll try to get another leave.I'm not sure where the colonel will be sent, but o f course, I'll have to go with him. So good-bye for now. And . . . take care."
He hugged Kitty hard, wishing with all his heart he could have spared her today's heartbreak, wishing also that he could keep her safe from the horrors to which she was returning.
The letter that Kitty had anticipated but dreaded came a few weeks later. She recognized Kip's familiar scrawl immediately but sat holding the envelope, postponing the inevitable. Even so, it was a shock to see the truth in writing.
"I would give anything not to have to write this, Kitty," Kip began.
I know this is going to hurt. . . . But I've fallen in love with a wonderful French girl. Her name is Etienette Boulanger. She's an ambulance driver and, strangely enough, thinks she has met Cara. Small world, eh?
If circumstances were different, I know you'd like her. She's everything we've always admired—courageous, fun-loving, good. We've know each other only a short time, but we're very sure it's right. We're going to be married in her village church. She's at home now telling her family, and I'll follow in a few days as soon as my leave is approved.
For a long, desolate time, Kitty sat immobilized. Then the letter dropped from her fi
ngers, and she buried her face in her hands.
She was still sitting on the edge of her bed when Dora came into the room from her shift. "You're due on the ward, Kitty. Better hurry. Matron's in a foul mood." She hardly glanced in Kitty's direction, but flopped wearily onto her cot, dragged up her blanket, and closed her eyes.
With effort, Kitty got to her feet. She reached for her apron, buttoned it, put on her headband and veil and left the room. She moved along the corridor and down the steps like an automaton. Signing in on the duty chart, she made her rounds, attending to her patients, all the time trying to make some sense of what had happened.
It all seemed so pointless now. Despite her growing nursing skill, Kip was the reason she had come here in the first place. He was the reason for everything, the driving force that made it possible to put up with all this hellish life—the blood, the mud, the never-ending cold, the boom of guns. I f it were not for her love for Kip, she would be safely home in Virginia right now—
Now everything had come crashing in around her. After everything she had hoped and dreamed all these years, Kip loved someone else, someone he had just met, a stranger. And he was going to marry her—
But in her heart Kitty knew that there were other reasons she had come to this place. There must be! She was becoming a better nurse. She was doing some good, wasn't she? In spite of what had happened, in spite of Kip, she had to believe that.
Work was Kitty's anesthetic. Still, she dreaded the moment it would wear off, no longer able to kill the pain. In her nursing duties with the amputees, she had heard the doctors talk about "phantom pain," the kind suffered after amputation. Even when a damaged limb was removed, patients complained of feeling pain in it and begged for something to stop it. But there was no one, nothing to stop the pain for Kitty.
After that day in Paris, after Kip's letter, Kitty moved through her days relying on her training, her instincts to do her job. But a part of her mind was always preoccupied with what had happened to her dreams. Ever since Kip had left to join the French Flying Corps, Kitty's thoughts were after the war, when Kip and I will do this or that. Now there was only the "I." She had no idea what she would do with the rest of her life.