“Ypres Salient. Whizbang came over the top. We were frying sausages for breakfast, me and three other chaps. They were almost ready, nice and golden brown, when—” He took another puff, then coughed, grimacing at the pain. Eleanor grimaced as well. “My mates were killed instantly,” he said when he could speak again, his voice a harsh gasp. “The back of Stokes’s head was gone. Partridge lost most of his face. Kelso . . . well, he simply vanished—except for one foot, still in his boot, left behind, right where he’d been sitting a minute before.” He met their eyes boldly, his expression cold, distant. “Worst of all, the goddamned sausages were blown to kingdom come.”
For a moment, there was silence. Eleanor swallowed, watching the sharp intake of skin and sinew in the wounded man’s cheeks and neck as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. Every breath crackled and gurgled, was obvious agony.
“ ’S’truth! That’s not funny, mate,” someone muttered.
The patient looked at them all. “Isn’t it? Three men dead, one only half-dead?” Still no one laughed, and the man shut his eyes. “You’ll see. You’ll understand soon enough. Half of you will be dead this time next week.” He began to cough again, his face white with pain.
Eleanor moved in as the others drew back. She slipped an arm behind him and raised his head to ease his breathing. She took the cigarette and tossed it away. The cough racked his body, and he met her gaze. Fear replaced the coldness in his eyes as he fought for breath. He clutched her hand fiercely.
Someone tugged on her arm. “Here now, that will do. Let him be.”
Eleanor ignored the gruff command. “He’s choking. He needs a fresh dressing—”
“I just wanted a fag, in case it’s my last.” The patient gasped. “Just one last fag . . .”
The hand on her arm tightened, dug in, pulled her sharply away from the patient. “Ye shouldn’t have given him a bloody cigarette, ye fool,” said someone with a thick Scottish brogue. “He’s a gas case. It’ll kill him.”
He meant her, thought she’d given the soldier the fag. She shook him off and turned. “I did no such thing. He’s—” She met a pair of eyes as gray and cold and forbidding as the North Sea, and the rest of the rebuke died on her lips. The chill took her breath away, made her shiver, and she stared, her gaze locked with his, unable to look away.
“She says she’s a doctor,” someone told him, and she watched dark brows rise and disappear under his cap.
“A doctor?” His gaze roamed over her. She held her breath and waited. Waited for what? A scolding, laughter? He offered neither. He was silent. She read curiosity in his eyes, and deep exhaustion, and a guarded flatness that made her want to look inside him, to know what he’d seen, what he knew. Or perhaps she didn’t. She sensed he was assessing her as well, reading her, dissecting her, gauging her reason for being here, her honesty. No one had ever looked at her that way, so deeply, as if knowing everything about her was the most important thing in the world. Her heart thumped against her ribs in surprise.
He looked away when the soldier began to cough. He turned his back to her and gave his attention to the patient. She studied his profile, still breathless, saw a well-shaped jaw, high cheekbones, long lashes. There were deep lines around his mouth, and his skin was gray with fatigue. He needed rest, and certainly a bath, but he moved with easy grace, his movements sure, even crouched on the platform in mud-caked boots that must have weighed a ton and a filthy, ragged greatcoat that enveloped and hid his body. She could see only that he was long limbed and tall. She noted the bony wrists and long fingers as he flicked the paper tag tied to the man’s tunic and read it. “Private McKie.”
“Aye, Sergeant,” the man grated.
“A Scot?”
“Aye—from Clydebank.”
“Near to Glasgow. Did ye work at the shipyard there?” Eleanor noted that as the sergeant was talking, his brogue grew as rich as warm whisky, the tone just as soothing, and as he spoke, he fixed the dressing, adding a fresh pad of clean gauze he’d gotten from—somewhere. She looked around, but he had no medical bag, no kit. McKie’s eyes brightened, and his breathing grew a little easier. The big Scot kept on talking to his countryman, his hands moving, checking, adjusting. He prattled on in a Scots-English patois about ships, a particular pub on Sauchiehall Street, and a married cousin who lived in Paisley. Eleanor listened, familiar with the speech because of her time in Edinburgh. McKie listened, too, his face softening as the sound of a voice from home took him away from pain to happier thoughts for a moment.
It was like magic.
When a pair of uniformed orderlies with Red Cross armbands came to collect the stretcher, the sergeant glanced up at them and nodded before turning to McKie again.
“There now, laddie, all ready to go. Ye’ll be in Scotland afore ye know it. Have a wee dram for me when ye get home, aye?”
“Aye,” McKie sighed. “Goodbye, Sergeant.”
The sergeant rose to his feet as the bearers lifted the stretcher. He towered over Eleanor, tall and broad shouldered. He looked at her again, as if he was surprised to see her still there. His eyes moved over her once more, top to toe. This time he regarded her with a purely male interest that heated her skin despite the cold.
Then he turned on his heel and marched down the platform without a word. She stared after him, breathless, feeling as if she’d been struck by lightning.
She saw a red cross brassard on the sleeve of his greatcoat, so dirty it was nearly invisible. Was he a doctor? In a few brief moments he’d offered comfort, care, and reassurance, here, surrounded by so much suffering and pain. It seemed miraculous. She realized her hand had tightened on the side of her skirt so she could pick it up, run after him, reach him before he disappeared, but others stepped between them, oblivious and busy, unaware of her or him.
She let the wool drop, smoothed her hand over it, and watched as he paused to take one end of another stretcher, helped carry another patient away, and disappeared through the doors at the end of the platform.
“Arras,” a laconic voice called in French. “The train for Arras is next. Please board at once.”
CHAPTER TEN
Eleanor stood back as the hospital train pulled away and another chuffed into the station behind it, and the noise and bustle renewed itself as the station filled with a rush of passengers, both military and civilian. Sergeants yelled orders, men called to one another, and bodies pressed toward the open doors of the carriages. Eleanor found a conductor and caught his sleeve. “Pardon, is this the right train? I need to get to Sainte-Croix, to the Casualty Clearing Station there.”
“Oui, mademoiselle, the train goes to Arras. From there—” He shrugged and turned away. She filled in the blank for herself.
There is a war on . . .
A group of young women passed her, and she recognized the smart uniforms of the Voluntary Aid Detachment they proudly wore. One of them paused in her rush for the train, obviously having overheard Eleanor’s exchange with the conductor. “You’re not by chance going to 46/CCS, are you?” she asked. “Casualty Clearing Station forty-six?”
Eleanor looked at her with relief. “Yes, I—”
The young woman smiled, her eyes widening with delighted surprise. “I say, you’re not Colonel Bellford’s wife, are you? Have you come to surprise him? He’s a canny one! Hasn’t said a word to anyone about it, but he did mention to one of the docs that he has an anniversary coming up. I bet that’s why you’re here. Am I right?”
“No,” Eleanor said, confused. “I’m not—I’m not married.” The young woman was pretty, her hair neatly cut fashionably short and curled, the white cap and veil that was part of her uniform left off for the moment. She wore the plain blue VAD dress with a white collar and cuffs under a dark blue cape, but her garments were tailored, cut to fit her perfectly. She had the accent and forthright manners of the upper class, Louis’s class. There were many ex
amples of the determined sort of titled ladies who volunteered to do their bit at home or overseas, to use their spare time and money—or their family’s money—to help the cause. Perhaps this woman was one of those, the daughter of an earl or the granddaughter of a duke.
Her haughty smile faded to bafflement, and she flicked an assessing glance over Eleanor’s clothing. “Not Mrs. Bellford? You’re not a new VAD or a nursing sister, are you? You shouldn’t be out of uniform. It’s not safe or proper. Matron Connolly is a stickler, and she’ll skin you alive for traveling in civvies, even that terribly dull and respectable suit.”
Her sensible, practical, professional suit. Eleanor suddenly felt dreadfully frumpy. “Actually, I’m a doctor. It’s been hours since I had a chance to rest, or—”
“A doctor? You?” The VAD’s friendly manner iced over, her pert nose shot skyward, and she glared at Eleanor down the narrow length of it. “I suppose you’re one of those do-gooders who’s come to show all the male medical officers how it’s supposed to be done, are you?” She was shouting, and people were turning to stare.
“I— No, of course not. Please excuse me,” Eleanor said. She tried to step back, but hit the wall of rushing bodies behind her. She glanced about for a dignified exit. She should be used to this by now, being scorned for being a doctor and a woman, but she’d been grateful for the VAD’s friendly words, her offer of assistance, the momentary sense of comradeship. She reached into her pocket for her ticket as she moved toward the first-class carriage.
The young woman stepped in front of her. “No, you don’t— You can’t ride in here.” Her tone grew plummier still, dripping with aristocratic disdain. “These carriages are for officers and female military personnel and volunteers only. Civilians must travel in third class—if there’s room. If not, you’ll have to take the next train, or the one after that. So busy today.”
“But I have a ticket for first class!” Eleanor exclaimed.
“So? There’s a war on!” the VAD said as she swished away. She nimbly climbed the steps into the first-class carriage, not an easy thing to do with her nose so high in the air. Other uniformed nurses and a few officers followed, passing Eleanor without a single glance, though some of them must have heard the exchange.
Eleanor gritted her teeth. She couldn’t wait for another train. She wanted sleep, and food, and a bath. Louis was waiting for her, in pain, possibly even— No. She wouldn’t think of that. She’d agreed to come here, to get him home. Turning back or failing were not options. She could do this, would see it through, would prove to her parents, and the countess, and even the haughty VAD, that she could do this.
She picked up her case and hurried along the length of the train before it left without her, looking for space. Every car was full. As the whistle blew again, she jumped into an open door in the last third-class carriage.
And wished she hadn’t.
A sea of male faces stared back at her. Her stomach tensed as she realized she was the only woman, and the only civilian, in the carriage. Every seat was crowded with soldiers. She tightened her grip on her medical bag, and the conductor took charge of her suitcase and stowed it among the military packs. She began to walk along the length of the carriage, looking for an empty seat. Whispers and whistles followed her. Her knees trembled, and she closed her ears to lewd suggestions. “You can sit on my lap, mam’zelle” and “Nice cozy space here” or “Over ’ere—we’ll keep you warm, luv.”
Embarrassment heated her cheeks and anxiety closed her throat. She gripped the handle of her bag tighter. She forced herself to look at the soldiers, meet their eyes, let them see how unaffected she was, how brave.
How out of place.
It reminded her of the day she’d walked into the exam room in Edinburgh and met a hundred pairs of male eyes full of curiosity or affrontery, mockery, or surprise, or just plain male interest in an unfamiliar female who had arrived unexpectedly and was decidedly out of place.
“Here, miss,” said a blond soldier, rising from his seat. His smile was kind and respectful, a Yorkshire kind of smile, open and honest. It made her pause before him. He grinned. “Come on, lads, shift over and make space,” he said to his companions, and they moved at once, opened up a small square of space for her.
Eleanor slid onto the seat, her back stiff, her eyes fixed on the door at the far end of the carriage. The blond soldier slung his arm across the top of the seat behind her and slid closer until his thigh touched hers. “There, now. This is fine and dandy, ain’t it?” His voice was different now, a slow drawl, a cad’s tone. She pulled away, sent him a look of warning, narrowing her eyes and pinching her lips to prim censure, the way she looked at Edward when he teased her, but it simply made the soldier laugh. It never worked with Edward, either. In fact, it made him meaner, more determined to make her cry, or shout, or flee. She couldn’t do any of those things here. Someone was looming over her shoulder, and another man leaned in from the opposite side, and she realized she was trapped. She fixed her gaze on the medical bag on her lap, her only barrier. She imagined opening it, reaching inside for a scalpel. She’d leap up onto the seat like a pirate, brandish it, and warn them all back. But she wasn’t a pirate. She was a respectable woman, a dignified, fully trained doctor. She schooled her features to placid indifference and ignored them.
The man behind her laughed, so close that she could feel his warm breath on her ear, smell stale tobacco when he spoke. “They said war would be hard and lonely, that we’d not see a pretty face for the duration, lads. If they lied about that, what else did they lie about?” He made a kissing sound beside her ear, and Eleanor flinched, then righted herself, her chin still high. “Perhaps it won’t be so bad after all,” he said cheerily. The others laughed, their eyes bright, smiles wide.
“Cat got your tongue, love?” The blond soldier leaned nearer and put his hand under her chin, trying to pry open her mouth to look. She swatted his hand away. He only laughed. “Are you French? No English, is that it?”
The men around her crowed with delight. “Parlee-voo?” someone yelled at her. “Couchee?”
Eleanor thought of Private McKie, of all he’d seen, of the old man’s gaze peering out of his young and battered face. You’ll see. You’ll understand soon enough. Half of you will be dead this time next week. She swallowed the tight edge of fear, considered that instead.
“I’m English,” she said tightly.
The blond tilted his head and grinned, looking her over again. “English, eh? What’s an Englishwoman doing here, then?”
“I’ve heard they send performers from the music halls to entertain the lads at the front. Are you famous, ducks? Do you know Gertie Gitana? I saw her at the Palace. Sing ‘Nellie Dean’ for us?” the man behind her said.
“No—” she began, but a hopeful cheer drowned her objection.
“Sing ‘Tipperary,’ or ‘Lili Marlene,’ or ‘Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty,’ ” they screamed at her. They crowded closer, took up all the air and every inch of space and pressed in on her. She smelled sweat and fried onions and wool as well as tobacco now.
“Wait, lads, maybe she’s not a singer after all. What’s in that black case of yours? Is it some kind of musical instrument?” the blond man asked. Now he reminded her of Edward at his worst, his teasing turned to torment, cruel-witted and determined to make her cry.
The soldier reached for her bag, and she held tight. “Don’t—it’s medical supplies!” She was beginning to feel breathless, claustrophobic, and overwhelmed instead of determined and brave.
The blond frowned. “Medical supplies? Are you a nurse, then?” His blue eyes narrowed. “How come you’re not dressed like one?”
“I’m not—” she began, but someone caught a strand of her hair and wound it around his finger, tugging it playfully. She pulled away, and it hurt, but he held on to the errant lock. When she turned to frown at him, he grinned at her. “
Will ye give me a sponge bath if I end up on your ward, Sister?”
She gave him a sharp glare. “I’m not a nurse. I’m a doctor!”
Stunned silence fell. Teasing smiles faded like sugar in the rain.
The man who held her hair yanked it. “You? A doctor? Are they sending bloody women to cut us open, to chop off our arms and legs? I’ve heard the stories—the cures are worse than the bloody wounds, and the damned doctors kill us faster than the bloody Huns.” He slapped his forehead. “Let me guess—they’re saving the real doctors for the bloody officers and sending us coldhearted, vicious spinsters.” He pulled her hair again, hard this time, and she winced at the pain.
“I’m not—” she protested again, but the laughter had turned to snarls and growls and felt dangerous.
“If you want to practice your needlework, go home and stitch a sampler. You shouldn’t be here, torturing good men!”
Grumbles of agreement filled the space. She heard whispered insults, barbaric suggestions about cutting her legs off. She was trapped, unable to move, couldn’t get up. The blond soldier pushed his face close to hers, hard and cold and mean now, all the flirtatious teasing gone from his eyes. “Seems to me that you don’t know your place.”
He ran his eyes over her again, and his gaze fell on the black bag in her lap. “Let’s see what you’ve got in here.”
Eleanor held tight, but he tore the case out of her grip. She struggled to rise to her feet, to reach for her property, but someone gripped her shoulder, holding her back. “Return that at once, if you please,” she ordered sharply. Showing fear or tears would only make the teasing worse. The male students at medical school had taught her that.
She looked at the fierce faces around her, smelled the sweat rising from male bodies, felt tobacco-scented breath on her cheeks. This was still just teasing, wasn’t it? She looked around for a friendly face, but didn’t find one. Hands gripped her shoulders, held her back as they tossed the bag from hand to hand, laughing at her, mocking her. Sawbones, spinster, pill pusher . . .
The Woman at the Front Page 8