The Woman at the Front

by Lecia Cornwall

  He inhaled the sharp smell of new varnish on the wings of the planes and listened to the wind singing through the struts—his siren song, calling to him. It felt like coming home, free, renewed, himself again, no one’s heir or fiancé.

  “I’ll see the commander first,” he said to the waiting corporal. “Take my things to my quarters.”

  The lad saluted again and hurried to obey.

  Ah, but it was good to be back.

  He stroked the shining wingtip of a Sopwith Camel, exactly like the one he’d crashed. It was like an extension of his own body—his own wings. “I’ll do better by you,” he promised the plane. “We’ll fly into history together, eh?”

  The plane didn’t answer, but he noticed the bullet holes in the fuselage and wondered what had happened to her last pilot.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Good afternoon, lads. Who’s in charge here?”

  Eleanor looked up from the wound she was bandaging. An officer stood in the doorway of the cellar. His face crumpled into a frown as he looked around. “Am I in the right place?” He was young, and the RAMC badges on his crisp uniform were so new and bright that the glitter of them hurt her eyes. He looked like he’d arrived straight from his tailor in London. He was freshly shaved, his hair neatly trimmed, and she could smell his cologne over the darker smells of the cellar. It made her wonder what she smelled like after being at the aid post for six days.

  “Hand me those forceps,” she said to him without bothering with an introduction.

  He crossed to place them in her bloody hand, and she concentrated on removing a bullet. He leaned in to watch, and she dropped the bullet into the bucket under the table and pressed a clean pad over the wound to stem the bleeding.

  “Good work, lad. What are you, a private or a corporal?” Eleanor looked up at him, and he started. “Good Lord, you’re a woman!”

  “I’m Dr. Atherton,” she said, and she reached for a blank wound tag, filling it out with quick efficiency. “This is Private Kerr. Bullet wound, left thigh,” she said, introducing the patient as well. Kerr didn’t bother to salute. He took a drag on his fag and nodded.

  “I’m Captain Angus Dalrymple, RAMC, the new MO,” the newcomer murmured, still staring at her. She must indeed look a fright. “I’m not sure if I should salute you or kiss your hand.”

  “My hands are rather bloody, I’m afraid, and I’m a civilian. The uniform is borrowed, though I doubt anyone will want it back now.”

  “What the dev— I mean, what are you doing here?” he asked, checking his language for her sake. She supposed she should be flattered.

  “Waiting for you, or for Captain Blair’s return. What day is it?”

  “It’s Thursday.”

  Then she’d been at the Regimental Aid Post for only five days, not six. It felt more like a month, or a year. She glanced at Fraser, who was bandaging one of the walking wounded for transport. They hadn’t spoken since he cut her hair. There hadn’t been time.

  Dalrymple was still staring at her in astonishment.

  But another stretcher arrived. “Dawn attack,” one of the bearers said. “Shot through the jaw and the upper arm. Morphine in the field.” They left the dugout as quickly as they’d come, going back for more wounded. Eleanor moved toward the patient, but Dalrymple held up his hand. “I’ll do it. Got to start somewhere.”

  Eleanor nodded and washed her hands in the basin. She’d done it so often that the carbolic soap was rubbing her skin off. She now had the hands of a stable boy to go with her shorn hair. Dalrymple had taken off his coat and folded it and was looking for somewhere clean and safe to set it down. She almost laughed. “It’s going to get busy,” she warned him like an old hand. “I’ll go out and do triage in the yard and send the ones who can travel directly back to the CCS.”

  He blinked at her as if she’d said it in a foreign language.

  It was the first time she’d been outside in days. There were signs of spring at last, and it was milder now. At home, the air would smell of thawing earth and green shoots and resound with birdsong as returning flocks sought mates and built nests. Here, the thawing mud blowing off the battlefield stank, carrying the fug of decay, the bitterness of smoke, and the terrible smell of the unburied dead at the front.

  Here in front of her the farmyard was choked with dozens of wounded men, fresh off the line. They rested against the stone wall, or sat on piles of debris, or leaned against the old well, waiting for a doctor to tend their wounds. Some smoked, their hands shaking. Others slept, sprawled on the ground. Some silently clutched at their makeshift bandages, their eyes flickering back and forth as they stared at ghosts, or at nothing at all.

  Someone caught her arm, and she turned. A lieutenant stood behind her. His face was stark white, the front of his uniform soaked with blood from his chest to his boots. He held his hand over his belly, and more blood oozed between his fingers. “If it’s no trouble, might I have some water? I must get back,” he said politely.

  She wondered how he was able to stand upright, to talk. She caught his arm and tried to guide him toward the door. “Come and sit down, Lieutenant. Let me have a look at you.”

  He sighed. “I dare not, or I fear I won’t get back up. Rather tired at the moment. Just some water, if you please. My men will be looking for me. Our captain was killed yesterday, and they need—” He swayed, and Eleanor put her arm around him.

  “Come inside,” she said, but he steadied himself, his eyes on the not-so-distant front lines.

  “No, thank you, I must get back,” he said again. There was a pail on the lip of the well, and he took the dipper out of the pail and drank deeply. “There, now. That’s better,” he murmured. He straightened his helmet and began to limp back toward the gate.

  “Wait—” But a shell landed nearby, and Eleanor flinched. When the smoke cleared, the lieutenant was gone. Then a hail of bullets ricocheted off the stone wall next to her, sending dust and chips of rock into the air. Someone grabbed her arm and hauled her to the ground.

  “Get down before they shoot you, you bloody fool!” She looked at the soldiers who surrounded her. They were used to being shot at, had fallen to the ground at the first bullet, made themselves small. Another streak of bullets hit the wall above her, and she shrieked as she clapped her hands over her head and cringed behind the stones.

  “What’s happening?” she asked the nearest man.

  “Fritz has our number,” he muttered. “He won’t stop until he’s killed the lot of us or he’s out of bullets.”

  “But this is an aid post!”

  “Maybe he don’t know that. Maybe he’s color-blind, can’t see the red cross,” the soldier snapped.

  “What do we do?” Eleanor asked.

  “Unless you’ve got a rifle or a Mills bomb and good aim, there’s nuthin’ to do but sit tight and hope our side gets him.”

  “Help me,” a voice moaned, and Eleanor looked around her. Despite the enemy fire, men still needed care and medical aid.

  “I’m coming,” she called, and she began to crawl toward the patient.

  “Wait a half a mo’—you’d best take this chap’s tin hat before a bullet goes through your napper,” he said, nodding toward the man beside him.

  The lad looked peaceful, appearing to be fast asleep despite the gunfire. “But I can’t take his helmet,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Don’t matter a whit to ’im. He’s turned up his toes and gone west.” She stared at the blank eyes of the dead man and accepted the helmet, putting it on her head. It was heavy. “Now you look like a proper soldier,” he said. He held out his wounded arm, and she looked at the long graze. “Is it a Blighty one?” he asked hopefully.

  She swallowed. “I don’t think so.”

  He frowned. Another burst of machine-gun fire sounded, and he howled as he took a bullet in the ankle, just inches from Elea
nor’s own foot.

  He forced a grin through gritted teeth as he stared at the shattered bone. “Now, that’s a Blighty!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Louis looked down at the battlefield below from the front cockpit of the Bristol two-seater. The wind was ice-cold, making his cheeks burn and his teeth ache, but he didn’t care. He was glad to be airborne, giddy with it. He’d been assigned to fly reconnaissance missions for now, until his commander was sure he could manage with his gamy leg.

  He grinned and leaned over the side. He had a bird’s-eye view of the scarred earth below, raw and ugly, but off in the distance, he could see green grass, a bit of hope, a place the war hadn’t destroyed.

  “We’ll fly over C sector first, Cosgrove,” he said to the observer seated behind him, holding the heavy camera steady, taking photos for the chaps at HQ. What they made of them Louis didn’t know. The ground below was churned to soup, any landmarks blown away by nearly three and a half years of war. The trenches meandered across the blighted land like Frankenstein scars, haphazardly sewn. He thought of all the green, manicured, productive acres at Chesscroft and wondered if the farmland here would ever recover, if the picturesque villages would rise again.

  “A little lower, if you please, sir,” Cosgrove called. “Toward that farm.”

  Louis saw the place he meant, just a chimney and a heap of charred rubble. He saw men in the stone-fenced farmyard, wounded men, bandaged and bleeding and lying on the ground. There was a flag planted at the gate, and he could see from here the red cross on it that marked it as an aid post—a busy one, poor blighters, but they were so close to the front that they could spit and hit the trenches from here. A long row of stretchers lay like railway tracks across the yard, the lads on them staring up at him. He swooped down in a graceful dive and waggled the wings, gave them a salute and a cheery wave. Such stunting was forbidden, but if giving the poor wounded buggers a bit of a show would brighten their mood, then he’d happily break the rules. He knew what it felt like to be in pain, to wonder if you were going to live or die or lose your leg. He dropped lower still, ignoring Cosgrove’s yelp of objection until it was too late.

  He saw the puffs of dust kicked up by the bullets as they traced a dotted line across the farmyard. Those who could cower behind the stone wall did so, or took what cover they could behind the well in the center. Another stream of bullets hit the wall, shattering the top row of stone.

  Louis climbed and looked around, seeking the source of the bullets. He spotted the ruins of an army truck, then the red flare of muzzle beneath it as the gunner fired again, giving his hiding place away. It was a scant twenty-five yards out from the farm, close enough to see that it was an aid post, that the soldiers here could do them no harm. “Filthy cowards,” Louis muttered.

  Cosgrove screeched as the German gun spun, turned in the direction of the plane, and fired.

  A bullet whizzed past Louis’s face and lodged itself in the wing above his head. Another hit the edge of the cockpit, sending splinters of wood into the air. “There’s a gun behind that truck. The bastards are firing at us!” Cosgrove informed him unnecessarily.

  “I see him,” Louis replied tersely. “But better us than the wounded.”

  “Sir, are you trying to draw his fire?” Cosgrove squawked in horror.

  Was he? He thought of the wounded men he’d seen at the CCS, at the destruction of life by distant guns. He thought of Eleanor Atherton and David Blair and all the other doctors and nurses trying to put the wounded back together.

  He looked down again. He could see a medic below, crawling around the farmyard on hands and knees like a beetle, head down, rump in the air, tending to the wounded under fire, risking his own bloody life for theirs. The man fell flat as another line of bullets hit the dirt a few feet in front of him. Another minute and they’d have him, Louis thought.

  “Yes,” he answered Cosgrove. “I’m trying to draw their fire.”

  He watched the slight figure of the medic rise again and scurry toward a wounded man lying in the open. Now, there was a hero, he thought. Would he let himself be outdone now? “No,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

  He turned the plane, banked back over the aid post, and flew straight toward the gun, diving as he went. More bullets struck the fuselage of the plane, rocking it, but he kept it steady.

  “What the devil are you doing?” Cosgrove screeched. “I mean, what the devil are you doing, sir?”

  “I’m going to take out that gun,” Louis replied calmly.

  “What? Sir, with all respect, that’s not our mission. We’re on reconnaissance only. We can go back and give the lads on the ground the coordinates, let the artillery take care of it.”

  “Not good enough,” Louis said. “They’ll all be dead by then, or the damned artillery might miscalculate and take out the aid post. We can take care of it ourselves, do some good. Please, take all the pictures you want, old boy. The farm makes a good landmark.”

  Cosgrove let out a whimper of objection.

  Louis concentrated on the machine gun. It was pointed straight at him now, and he saw the deadly staccato flashes as they fired. At least the aid station was being spared. He hoped they’d take the respite to find better shelter. He had just one bomb strapped under the fuselage in case of emergency, one single chance to hit the truck and the gun. He unbuckled the pistol at his hip as well. He’d shoot the bastard’s eye out as he flew past if he had to. He focused on his target, ignoring the bullets that sang as they went by, whining. He kept the plane steady, his fingers tight on the lever, waiting for the right moment. Cosgrove was cursing now, wailing, pleading. “This is bloody suicide!”

  Was it? No Fanny, no earldom. The medal would be awarded posthumously. But this time, he’d deserve the honor. It would mean something. He gritted his teeth. He was twenty-five, then twenty, then a dozen yards away from the gun, still diving. Bullets checkered the left wing, and he used that to correct his course, knew he was in the crosshairs of the gun.

  Five yards. He could see the Germans below, three of them, their mouths gaping black holes of surprise and fear, and he grinned.

  Three yards. He pulled the lever, felt the plane lighten as the weight of the bomb dropped away. He pulled up, heading skyward, waiting to hear the explosion, hoping he’d be out of range by then.

  It was almost deafening when it came. Cosgrove screeched as a chunk of metal hit the tail, nearly tearing the controls out of Louis’s grip. He concentrated on keeping it steady, forcing the nose back up, getting the hell out of there. “How’d we do, Cosgrove?” he asked when he’d gained a little altitude. He had no time to look behind him.

  “You got him, sir!” Cosgrove said, his tone filled with disbelief. “You got him!” Louis grinned, hard, sharp, and fast. His leg ached, and he straightened it gingerly.

  “One more look,” he said, and turned the plane. The controls were sluggish, the tail sloppy. The mechanics would curse him when he got back.

  He flew over the farmyard. The medic was on his feet now, hand shading his eyes as he looked skyward. Then he waved, and his helmet fell off. Louis caught a flash of red hair, a white face smeared with dust. He blinked. It couldn’t be . . . He was imagining things. She was no doubt safely home in Yorkshire by now, angry as hell at him.

  He grinned. At least imagining Eleanor was a damned sight better than seeing a dog flash through his mind.

  The engine spluttered, and there was no more time for sightseeing if he wanted to make it back in one piece. With a jaunty salute to the men below, he turned the battered plane back toward the airfield.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Eleanor watched the airplane fly away. “Cheeky bastards, those pilots, but good on him,” one of the wounded soldiers said. “Deserves a medal.”

  “Yes, he does,” Eleanor agreed. She wrote the patient’s diagnosis on the ticket and pinned it to his tunic.
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  “Eleanor?”

  She turned to see Fraser crossing the yard from the gate, the arm of a wounded man over his shoulders. He lowered the man gently to the ground. “We were pinned down outside the gate. Are ye all right?” He put his finger through a bullet hole in the loose fabric of her shirt. “Christ, lass—”

  “I’m fine,” she said quickly.

  “Was that your pilot?” Fraser asked.

  Was it? Impossible. “I doubt it. Louis is probably still in Paris.”

  She turned to the wounded man and recognized him as the lieutenant who’d wanted a drink of water so he could return to his men. He peered up at her now, his eyes glazed and heavy lidded. “Must be hurt worse than I thought,” he murmured.

  She moved his hand away from his wounded belly. The ragged hole went straight through. She could see his ribs and spine, and she wondered how he’d managed to keep going, to walk in off the line. She met Fraser’s eyes for a split second. There was nothing to be done.

  “Tell my men—” Red bubbles frothed on the lieutenant’s lips. “Tell them—” She took a vial of morphine from Fraser and injected the patient, then clasped his hand in hers as it took effect, easing his pain.

  “Lie still, Lieutenant,” she said gently.

  Fraser reached for the metal disk around his neck and read his name. “Joseph Williams,” he said. She swallowed and nodded.

  “Lie still, Joseph. I’ll tell your men you died a hero.”

  He smiled faintly, and then he was gone, and there was nothing to do but hurry on and try to save the next man, for Joseph Williams’s sake, for the sakes of all the ones who couldn’t be saved.

  When the flood of wounded let up at last and three ambulances were full and ready to go back to the CCS, Captain Dalrymple handed her a sheaf of papers. “I’ve saved you a place on one of the ambulances,” he said. “Go while it’s still quiet.” He looked her over from head to toe and shook his head. She knew she was muddy, bloody, and filthy and that she stank. And her hair— She didn’t want to think about that.