The Woman at the Front

by Lecia Cornwall

  He got up and washed his face, then pulled his clothes carefully over the bandages. His ribs were still tender, and his arm felt heavy with the weight of the wound and the binding linen. The rest of his body felt light, his skin comfortable again.

  He slipped out of the hut into the bright light of day. It was warmer, and the ice was melting and dripping. She was probably halfway to Calais by now. He remembered her trip here, the soldiers who thought she’d be easy prey. He wondered how that young private had explained his black eye. He silently wished her an easier journey home as he walked along the duckboards, tried to picture her in her wee village, Thorndale, waiting for him. He pushed the idea out of his mind. That way lay madness and obsession. He wished she’d never told him the name of the place, made it possible to even think of going there, of finding her again. He wouldn’t, of course.

  He came around the front of the tents, and the cold wind hit him like good sense. He needed something to do to occupy his hands and his mind and keep him from dwelling on things he couldn’t have, to help him forget that he felt soothed and raw, replete and ravenous all at once.

  Swiftwood passed him with a load of dressing trays, and Fraser held his breath, bunched his fist, waited for the smirk, the knowing look, the crude quip, but the corporal continued on with just a crisp nod.

  Gibbons came out of the supply tent. “Hello, Sergeant,” he said. “How’s your arm?”

  “I’m well, Tom. Is Reverend Strong around? I need something useful to do.”

  “He’s gone to the station with the wounded.”

  Fraser scanned the empty road. “Did he . . . Did he take Dr. Atherton with him?”

  “No, she was already gone.”

  “But how did she— She didn’t walk, did she?” The thought struck him, the image of a tearful Eleanor hurrying down the road on foot, filled with regret.

  “No, a Canadian sergeant took her to the front.”

  “The front?” Fraser asked.

  Gibbons nodded. “Aye, to the aid post to see Captain Blair.”

  “Captain Blair?” The explosion of jealousy hit him first, followed by concussive waves of concern for her. Of all the dim-witted, harebrained things she could do, going to the front was the dimmest. He cursed, first in Gaelic, then in English, and added a few words of French for good measure while Gibbons patiently watched him.

  “When did she go, Gibbons?”

  “A few hours ago.”

  Fraser gritted his teeth. “Why? Did the Canadians ask for a doctor?”

  “No, they just wanted Captain Blair. His brother was wounded. He’s at the Canadian hospital at Doullens, dying. He asked for Captain Blair to come before—” He paused. “Of course, our captain couldn’t leave his post, so Miss Atherton decided she’d go up herself and let him go to his brother.”

  Fraser stopped listening. “Ye let her go? Did Bellford approve it? What about the chaplain? They let a woman go alone to the front? What the devil were ye thinking?”

  Gibbons shook his head. “Not a woman. She borrowed a uniform.”

  Fraser looked around in a panic. “Get me a truck, or an ambulance—some way to get to the bloody aid post.”

  “There isn’t anything right now, Sergeant. There’s wounded coming in, and the ambulances are out.”

  “What units? Where’s the attack?” he asked.

  “South, near Bapaume. Gas. Chap with a broken arm says the Huns are testing the lines, looking for soft spots.”

  “But that’s close to the aid station!” Fraser turned away, staring at the road and listening to the guns. He had to get to her, to bring her back. An attack was coming, and she was right in the line of fire.

  And all he could do was wait.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Another patient was carried down the stairs into the cellar. “Leg wound, critical!” the bearer called to Eleanor, setting the stretcher on supports and positioning a small brazier under it to keep the patient warm. The cellar was already full of wounded, and more kept coming. Two bearers were doing their best to assist her, but there was too much work, too much blood, and every patient needed urgent, immediate care.

  “Just patch ’em up and send them back to the CCS,” David had instructed her before he left. When she’d walked into the aid post, newly moved to a ruined farm, he’d been surprised to see her, amused by her uniform—until his eyes had fallen on the Canadian soldier behind her.

  “It’s your brother, sir.”

  “Go,” she’d said as his smile melted to sorrow. “I’ll be fine.”

  How long ago was that? Hours? Days? Deep in a cellar, she couldn’t see the sky to know if it was day or night. Barrages came at dawn, didn’t they? Like everyone else, she’d learned to tell time by the sound of the guns.

  She flinched as another shell exploded, a direct hit on the already shattered farm above them. She stifled the urge to scream as the beams over her head shuddered, and she folded herself over a patient’s open wound.

  She blinked dust out of her eyes, gulped air that tasted of dirt, smoke, blood, and sweat, and carried on, pulling a long shard of shrapnel from a soldier’s leg. Another bomb exploded nearby, and the patient moaned. She grabbed his hand, squeezed tight. “It’s all right,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as anyone else. “Bandage him and send him on,” she said, and the orderlies moved the stretcher and the bearers set another in its place.

  Another bomb shook the cellar.

  “Ha—missed me again, even if it was a close one,” the patient said in a broad Yorkshire accent.

  She barely recognized his face under the mud and soot and blood that covered it, but his voice was the sound of home. “Charlie? Charlie Nevins?”

  He lay on the stretcher staring at the ceiling and sucking on a cigarette, waiting for her to undo what the guns had done and make a torn, broken, ruined man whole again. Not a man, a boy—someone she’d grown up with in Thorndale, had known all her life. She’d played on the village green with him on market days, had seen him in church on Sundays. He was sweet on Daisy Blenkin . . . She thought of his mother, and the fear his father had expressed for his youngest son that day at Chesscroft. No, not this . . .

  Charlie gave her a faint smile. “Is it really you, Eleanor? Funny meeting you here like this. I took one in the leg—just like Da that day.” She flinched again as another shell landed. “Have you been here long? No, of course not, not any longer than me. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it,” he said, trying to console her. He coughed, and grimaced in pain, but drew harder on the fag, his hand shaking, and bore it. She looked at his leg. The bone was shattered below the knee, his foot hanging on by a mere scrap of sinew. Her stomach climbed into her throat.

  The bearer who’d brought Charlie in cleared his throat to get her attention. His face was grim as he met her eyes. He gave a small shake of his head. “The leg’s not the worst of it. He’s got a belly wound,” he said through tight lips. Eleanor’s heart clenched.

  “Never mind, Ellie,” Charlie said, consoling her. “There’s no need to whisper. I already know.”

  “No,” she said. “You hang on. We’ll get you patched up, send you back to the CCS—”

  “Will you tell my parents you saw me, that I was brave? I saw my brother Will last month. He’s a gunner, y’know. Fred’s dead, like Matt—he was killed near Ypres. His face crumpled. “Ma will be grieved. And Da . . .” He looked at her. “Who’ll help him on the farm now? Tell him to hire one or two of Joss Knaggs’s sons. They’re dumb as oxen, but they’re all big, strong lads, and they know sheep. They’ll do.”

  Her hands were busy, trying to find the damage and stop the bleeding. “You can tell them yourself, Charlie. You’ll be home again in no time.”

  “Nah. It’s no Blighty,” he said. “It’s nice to see someone from home, although you shouldn’t be here. You should be somewhere safe
and clean.”

  “We should all be somewhere safe and clean,” Eleanor replied. He needed surgery. There wasn’t enough light here. They were low on antiseptic and time. He needed Bellford and a sterile theater.

  She turned to the bearer. “Corporal Chilcott, I need your help. It won’t take long—I’ll amputate his leg here, get him back to the CCS—” She saw the pity in the corporal’s eyes, and he shook his head. “It’s no use, Doc, and I’m needed out there. The yard is full, and there are a hundred others, men with a better chance—” She silenced him with a furious glare.

  Charlie brushed her hand with the back of his own, careful not to touch her with the cigarette. His skin was slick with blood and mud, and it marked her. “Don’t take on, Ellie. There’s no need for it now. Let me die in one piece, aye? I knew when I was hit that I was done. Just unlucky, I guess. I thought maybe when they brought me here . . . Well. Will you tell Da that I was brave?” he asked again. “He’ll want to know that. Tell Ma—” He swallowed. “I promised her I’d stay alive and come home safe. I promised.” He shut his eyes, and a tear leaked through his lashes, rolled down his cheek. “Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my word. I’m glad you’re here, someone from home. You’re a fine doctor, and I couldn’t ask for better. Tell Da I said that, too.”

  She grasped his hand, squeezed tight. “Hold on, Charlie,” she said. But he scanned the beams of the ceiling as he took another puff, determined to finish his last smoke. She watched as the tip of the cigarette flared red between his dirty fingers, glowed briefly in the dim light of the dugout, then faded to black.

  He gave a long exhale and watched the thin plume of smoke rise above him. “Been a good life, all things considered. I would have liked to wed Daisy, but I was too shy to ask her. Wish I’d . . . stolen a . . . kiss at least.” Then Charlie’s fingers slackened in hers, and the end of the cigarette fell to the dirt floor. She watched the light fade from his eyes.

  Her body was numb. She was exhausted—beyond exhausted—after unknowable hours of tending an endless stream of wounded, and now Charlie Nevins— She was crying, tears rolling down her face, and she swiped them away with the back of her hand.

  “Eleanor.”

  She turned to see Fraser standing behind her. He was so tall his head nearly touched the ceiling. She stared at him, wondering if he was real or if she’d wished him here, if she was hallucinating. His brow crumpled, and he gripped her arm, and she knew he was waiting to see if she’d fall apart and stood ready to catch her if she did. “Lass?” he said softly.

  “Charlie Nevins, from home,” she murmured, looking at Charlie’s body again.

  “I’m sorry.” Fraser reached out to close Charlie’s eyes, and he nodded to the bearers. She watched as they carried him out, making room for the next patient. She shivered, and Fraser reached into his pocket and handed her a flask.

  “Whisky?” she asked, taking it.

  “Rum, now.”

  She sipped, letting it burn her tongue and throat, explode in her belly, heat her fingers and toes. It was raw and harsh, like everything about this bloody war. “I prefer whisky.”

  “When did ye last eat, or take a break?”

  “There’s too many, more outside, and all of them—” She looked around the cellar. So many. She fought back grief and fatigue, suddenly heavy with it, overwhelmed.

  “Bellford knows you’re here. He said he’d find someone to come as soon as he can.”

  “Uh-oh,” Eleanor said softly.

  “Aye. He isn’t pleased.”

  She scanned his face, looking for his own feelings on the matter, but his expression was flat and unreadable.

  “I’ll help ye where I can. Go outside for a few minutes, get some fresh air,” he said gruffly. “Keep your head down.”

  She longed to be taken into his arms, held, kissed again, but the bearers carried another stretcher between them, and she jumped back, schooled her face to dead calm so he couldn’t read her feelings in her eyes, and squared her shoulders. She looked at the patient instead. “Shock. Warm him up, get him on the next ambulance.”

  She moved on, lifting the temporary dressing on a shattered shoulder. “Fresh bandage, tetanus shot, send him back to the CCS.”

  She was all efficiency, all determination, her emotions in hard check like a bottle of foaming beer that was stopped too tight and ready to blow. She didn’t look at Fraser, couldn’t, though he didn’t leave her side, and he obeyed every order she issued. She worked and worked and worked, ignoring the ache in her legs and back, her body’s demands for food and rest. There wasn’t time.

  “The guns have moved off,” Fraser said, hours later.

  She looked up in surprise. She swayed and bumped against a table, light-headed.

  He caught her elbow before she fell. “Sit down for a moment.” He handed her a cup of water, since there was no time to make tea and the coffee had all but run out, having been fed to men in shock by the spoonful, mixed with rum. She sipped the water and scratched her temples, then frowned. It was unladylike to scratch, but she couldn’t help it.

  “I’m itchy all over. It must be the dust. I want a bath, and—”

  “It isn’t dust. It’s lice,” Fraser said.

  She looked at him in horror. “Lice? But lice cause typhus!”

  She picked up the long, thick braid that hung over her shoulder and examined it. The russet glow of her hair was dimmed by dust, and the loose strands around her face felt sweat-stiff.

  “They like long hair best,” Fraser said. “That’s why so many VADs and nurses cut their hair short. They get infested by the wounded.”

  In dismay, she gaped at her hair, her crowning glory, her pride and joy. It was ugly now, crawling with vermin.

  She saw the heavy shears on the table and reached for them with shaking hands. She grabbed hold of the braid, but she couldn’t make herself do it. Her hands shook, and tears blurred her vision.

  Fraser gently took the shears. “Ye did a dozen amputations today, pulled shrapnel out of a hundred men. You’re covered with dirt and blood and vomit, but ye can’t cut your own hair.” He ran his hand over her braid. “Turn around. I’ll do it for ye.”

  She turned her back to him and closed her eyes. She heard the muted click of the scissors and felt the weight of her hair suddenly gone. Short locks fell around her face.

  “It’s done,” he said, and he held up the long braid, the end still tied with ribbon. It reminded her of severed heads and tales of unwanted Tudor wives. She still felt her scalp creeping with lice. She’d have to wait to wash them away with carbolic.

  She reached up a hand to touch her neck, bared now. The cut ends of her hair were sharp, and her head felt too light, like it belonged to someone else. She took the braid and stared at it, her own amputation. Tears welled, spilling over, and her shoulders shook. She watched them splash on her hand and on the long locks of infested hair.

  He wiped her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “All this fuss over hair?” he said softly.

  His eyes were warm, soft as a bed, and he was her Fraser again, her lover. “I must look dreadful.”

  “Nay, ye look fine. It will be easier to wash now.”

  “My hair was— It was what made me pretty.”

  “Nay, it isn’t. It’s your courage that makes ye beautiful, your spirit and your skill, and your wits, all the things inside ye. And now ye look—” He paused, took in her ill-fitting uniform, the baggy trousers, and the blood on the tunic, and stopped on her short hair. “Ye look even more beautiful, lass.” He reached out and coiled his finger in one of the springy curls that lay against her cheek. “I’ve never met a woman as beautiful, or as fine, or as brave as you, Eleanor Atherton. I wish—” He stopped.

  “Fraser,” she whispered. She let all the love in her heart show in her eyes.

  A dozen emotions crossed his face. S
he read surprise and regret, fear, and even, for a brief instant, an answering love, but he shut his eyes and stepped back with a soft groan. “We can’t do this. Ye can’t feel this, not for me, not here.”

  There was a lump in her throat. “Fraser,” she said again, a plea.

  She heard boots on the stairs, cries of pain, and a call for help, and an exhausted team of bearers carried in two new patients. For a moment she stood still, her eyes locked on Fraser, and he stared back. “More outside,” one of the men said to him, and he looked away and left the cellar.

  “Doc?” Someone spoke to her, and she turned, saw the patient and the blood, and moved toward him. Somewhere close—too close—another shell landed, shaking the earth, and the war went on.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  March 16, 1918

  Louis tried not to limp as he got out of the car and walked across the small airfield. He was healed, mostly, the crutches replaced with a cane—a silver-topped one that Fanny had purchased for him, bearing the image of a winged woman, like the masthead of a ship, an angel of protection, a winged Athena. To Budgie from Fanny was engraved on it. It was a gaudy thing, but he needed it for now. He wondered how long it would be before he could throw it away, walk across the field with long, sure strides the way he used to. At least he could leave the cane on the ground when he flew. Up there he wasn’t a cripple, crawling over the earth, feeling the sickening ache and pull of every halting step.

  He scanned the airplanes on the grass—Sopwiths, Nieuports, and Bristols—and felt his breath catch the way it always did when he thought of flying.

  “Squadron Leader Lord Somerton?” a corporal asked, approaching him and saluting smartly.

  “Yes,” Louis replied, still gritting his teeth at the title and the salute, but determined that Squadron Leader Lord Somerton would be a better hero than Lieutenant Louis Chastaine. A true hero. He’d bribed Fanny’s fancy French doctors to let him go the day after he’d proposed to her. He’d left the morning after that, leaving Fanny a fond note of farewell and a single red rose.