The Woman at the Front

by Lecia Cornwall

  “And good riddance,” Swiftwood whispered under his breath, just loud enough for Eleanor to hear, before he followed his commander.

  Reverend Strong touched her arm. “The colonel was worried about you. Fortunately, you’re back safe and sound, and we’ll have Captain Blair back shortly as well. Go and get cleaned up, my dear, have a hot meal, and get some rest.” He turned back to his gas cases. “Come along, lads. We’ll bathe your poor eyes, and get you washed and fed, too. You’ll feel better in no time at all.”

  Eleanor stood beside the ambulances and looked up at the darkening sky, watched the stars come out one by one. She listened to the wind, to the sounds from inside the tents—the moans of pain, the bark of medical orders, the soothing whispers. She heard the sluice of water as the orderlies and drivers washed out the backs of the ambulances. But something was different. She cocked her head.

  The guns had fallen silent.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  4:45 a.m., March 21, 1918

  The first shell exploded before dawn. Eleanor woke with a cry, and for a moment she thought she was back at the aid post, under fire.

  She took in the walls of the visitor’s quarters at the CCS. She saw her suitcase and her black doctor’s bag by the door, ready for her departure. It was just a dream—or a nightmare, perhaps.

  But another shell howled overhead before landing in the field somewhere beyond the triage tent, or perhaps closer. The concussion shook the walls of the hut and knocked the wind from her lungs, replacing it with stark terror.

  She forced herself up, searched the dark with shaking fingers, found her clothes, and dressed. She shoved her feet into her shoes and hurried out to find someone who might know what was happening, why they were shelling a hospital.

  The next bomb came closer still, and clods of dirt rained down on the duckboards, on the ward tents, and on her. She ducked into the first tent she came to, but another explosion ripped the canvas wall, and a chunk of shrapnel soared past her face and buried itself in the floor a few feet away, sending up a hail of splinters. Around her, the clean and orderly ward was suddenly in chaos.

  A nurse rushed past her, fleeing in terror. Others were struggling to control wounded men who were climbing out of their beds to find cover. So many people were screaming, calling for help, shouting orders. The next shell drowned it all out. The acrid smell of smoke and hot metal hung in the air, and the lamps swung on their hooks, casting swirling shadows, illuminating faces white with fear, the slick red ooze of fresh blood, the semaphore wave of torn canvas flapping in the wind. She knew there must be screaming, but Eleanor could only hear the pounding of her own heart and the ringing in her ears. The explosions were endless now, one after the other, making the earth shudder. She stumbled against a bed and pushed her way along the ward.

  Someone caught her sleeve, and she spun. Private Gibbons stood behind her, his face placid, even now, in all this. Dumb as a sheep, David Blair called him. Not a sheep, but a lamb of God, the chaplain said.

  He leaned close and shouted, “The colonel said to find somebody in charge. Is that you, miss? I’m to say the Huns are advancing and we’re to evacuate as many wounded as possible, and the nurses are to go with them. What are your orders?”

  Her orders? She gaped at him. She wasn’t in charge. She was leaving. “Where’s the colonel? Where’s Captain Wilmot?” she asked. She cried out and ducked instinctively as another shell exploded, but Gibbons didn’t even flinch. “It’s all right, miss. They’re shelling the artillery posts behind us. They’ll get the range in a minute or two and we’ll be safe.”

  Safe? She looked at the madness around her. They didn’t have a minute or two. She heard the whine of another incoming shell and grabbed hold of the nearest bed frame. She saw the little table in the middle of the ward begin to topple, watched as the cracked vase on it slid toward destruction. It was a piece of Limoges, something Gibbons had found in the ruins of a farmhouse. It had probably been a treasured heirloom once, but it was badly chipped now, almost worthless. Gibbons had rescued it anyway, brought it back, and filled it with paper flowers to add a bit of cheer to the ward. “A symbol of hope and survival,” Reverend Strong had said with a smile when he saw it. Eleanor leaped forward, caught the vase before it could hit the floor, and cradled it in her hands.

  “Where is Colonel Bellford?” she asked Gibbons again.

  His smile faded. “He’s hurt, miss. Shrapnel in his back.”

  “And Captain Wilmot?”

  “Dead, miss. I saw the chaplain cover his face.”

  She stared at him. Bellford was the commander, a surgeon. The only surgeon, if Wilmot was— She swallowed. Was there no one else—a major, a captain, any medical officer at all? But she knew the answer to that. They needed someone in charge, a doctor. If the colonel was wounded, then there was no one to see to all this, to manage. As the head nurse, the matron held an officer’s rank. Surely she could take command. Eleanor looked around again at the panic. Where was the matron? She saw nurses struggling and crying and cringing at every shell, but Matron Connolly wasn’t among them. Patients wailed, afraid that this time, here where it was supposed to be safe, death had found them after all. They needed order, a calm, steady hand, someone to take charge, to manage all of this. Was it even possible? She was afraid, too, terrified. But Gibbons was still next to her, still waiting.

  “Where are we to go?” she asked him. “Did the colonel say?”

  “Aye, miss, to the railhead.”

  Four miles away.

  “Wounded coming in!” Corporal Swiftwood shouted from the doorway.

  “We can’t!” a nurse sobbed, wringing her hands. Another shell soared overhead, and she screamed and dropped to her knees with her hands over her ears. The tent shuddered, and the nurse screamed again.

  No, they couldn’t manage any of this. And yet they had to. The wounded were coming, counting on them.

  Eleanor looked at the shaking, crying nurse, at Swiftwood’s frown as he surveyed the chaos in the tent, at Gibbons’s placid expression.

  “There are at least fifty wounded men outside already, and more coming,” Swiftwood said. “There’ll be a counterattack, hundreds more . . .”

  Hundreds? Eleanor swallowed.

  She turned to Gibbons first. “Organize the walking cases and get them on the road to the station at once. Ask Reverend Strong to divert the ambulances to another CCS if possible, tell them we can only take those who can’t be transported any farther. Send as many as possible directly to the railhead,” she ordered. She grabbed the sobbing nurse still curled on the floor and hauled her to her feet. “Go and gather supplies—bandages and morphine and surgical instruments, anything we might need. I need a nurse and an orderly here, but everyone else must go to the railhead. Set up a dressing station there. The rest—” She stopped and looked around, feeling hopelessness threaten to cave her in. She took a deep breath, gathering herself. “We’ll have to do our best.”

  She looked at Swiftwood. For once the orderly wasn’t sneering at her because she was a woman and a civilian. He was listening, nodding, ready to obey, glad to have someone in charge—even her.

  She needed to speak to the colonel. She hurried toward his quarters, skirted a shell hole in the middle of the camp, ran past walking wounded and men lying on stretchers. One man was screaming, fighting the nurses, and she paused to check. “Morphine,” she ordered, and hurried on.

  One wall of Bellford’s hut was gone. She saw the commander lying on the floor, facedown, his back slick with blood. Matron Connolly was beside him, pressing a dressing to his torn flesh, trying to stop the bleeding, her face gray. Eleanor knelt beside her, took the cloth, and looked underneath. Shards of shrapnel stuck out of Bellford’s back like quills.

  “He needs surgery.”

  “And who’s to do it?” Connolly snapped. “Captain Wilmot is dead and the colonel won’t l
ive to see the nearest hospital. We’ve no surgeon, and we’re under fire.”

  Eleanor held her breath for an instant. “I’ll do it.”

  Connolly looked up, her lips curled back in disdain. “You?”

  Eleanor felt calm determination fill her. She’d been at the aid post and managed. She’d saved lives, had stayed steady, sure, and competent through all of it. There was no one else; no choice. She met the nurse’s glare with one of her own.

  “Me,” she said firmly. She held the nurse’s icy stare until the matron looked away first, knowing what would happen if the commander was sent on without treatment. Infection would set in, gangrene, and he’d die in agony. Surgery was his only chance.

  “Then I’ll assist,” the matron said. “You’ll need someone to give anesthesia.” Eleanor began to rise to make ready, but Matron Connolly caught her wrist. “You will not let him die,” she said fiercely.

  Eleanor stared down at the nurse’s hand on her skin, staining her with the colonel’s blood, marking her. Like a blood oath she’d once seen Louis and Edward perform. “I won’t let him die,” she promised. “Now help me get him into the theater.”

  The matron nodded and got to her feet.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Reverend Strong pushed aside the curtain and peered into the operating theater. Matron Connolly looked up from the anesthesia mask.

  “How’s the colonel?” the chaplain asked.

  “Holding his own. Nearly done,” Eleanor said. “Is there news?”

  “It’s a major offensive. The Germans are advancing fast. Our troops are retreating. We haven’t much time. We’ve got orders to gather what supplies and equipment we can and leave at once.” His eyes fell to the unconscious man on the table. “The orders say the wounded must be divided into two groups—those who can walk to the railhead, and . . . and those who can’t.”

  “When will transport arrive for them?” Eleanor asked.

  The chaplain’s brow furrowed. “It won’t. There’s no time. The poor lads who can’t walk are to be left behind. We must trust that the Germans will behave decently and care for our wounded.”

  Eleanor’s heart kicked, but she kept her hands steady and took a breath behind the surgical mask. She met Matron Connolly’s eyes. The nurse had held the ether mask for nearly two hours, watching Eleanor like a hawk watches prey.

  “How much time have we got?” Eleanor asked the chaplain.

  “None at all. There’s an officer outside, a major, insisting we go at once. He wants us to leave the colonel if he’s—” The chaplain’s eyes flicked toward the man on the table.

  Eleanor shook her head. “I won’t leave him.” She glanced at Matron Connolly and saw the same determination in her eyes. “Ten minutes more. Tell the major that,” Eleanor said.

  The chaplain nodded and left.

  An hour later, Eleanor emerged from the operating theater to find the CCS in an uproar. Reverend Strong was trying to sort the patients into two groups—the walking wounded and the ones who’d have to stay—but they refused to allow it. “We’re not leaving anyone behind,” a soldier called to the red-faced major in charge.

  “That’s insubordination! Orders are orders. There’s nothing else for it. We’ll all suffer. Can you not see that?” the major bellowed. “The Huns are coming!”

  The guns had shifted, and the noise was coming from the other direction. It meant the Germans were bombarding the forward trenches. Fraser . . . Panic tightened her throat and made her tremble. No. He was lucky, smart—he couldn’t die. She couldn’t bear that. She looked around her at the men waiting for someone to fix this. Fraser would if he were here. He wouldn’t leave anyone behind.

  She looked at the lightly wounded soldiers supporting their bleeding chums, or carrying badly wounded comrades in their arms, or crouched beside men lying on the ground, barely conscious.

  “The Germans have already taken our front lines,” the major bellowed. He stabbed a finger toward the front. “Any moment they’ll come up that road and capture us all.”

  “We’re not leaving our mates!” one man insisted again, even as he looked along the road, following the major’s point, looking for Germans. Nurses and orderlies stood silent, wide-eyed and grim.

  Eleanor looked at the wounded and saw fear as well as brave determination. They needed an officer, and hope, in the face of disaster. They hadn’t fled, they’d stayed for their comrades. Eleanor felt fierce pride course through her tired body, giving her strength. What would Fraser do? What could she do? “There are stretchers and gurneys in the supply closets,” she called out. “We’ll take everyone. There’s an aid post at the railhead.” It wouldn’t be easy.

  “You’ll what?” the major bellowed at her, but everyone was moving, jumping to, flowing around the officer like a river, ignoring him, going to gather equipment.

  A soldier grinned at her. “I can carry my mate, Sister,” he said. “There’s a bullet in his leg, but I’ll get him there.”

  “Not ‘Sister,’ Private. This is Dr. Atherton,” the chaplain told him proudly.

  He helped two men lift a semiconscious soldier onto a stretcher. They were both wounded as well, and tired, but they carried their friend gently.

  “How many men can your lorries take?” Eleanor asked the major.

  He gaped at her. “Those trucks are to take supplies so they don’t fall into German hands, and for transporting the nurses and VADs—and you.”

  Eleanor raised her chin. “I can walk.”

  “So can I,” a VAD said, coming to stand behind her. “You can give my place to one of the lads.”

  “And mine,” a nurse said. “If Dr. Atherton can walk, then I can, too.”

  “We could be overrun on the road,” the major spluttered. “Do you know what the Huns do to women? Do you remember Edith Cavell? It didn’t matter to them that she was a woman and a nurse. They executed her as a spy. A spy!”

  The women stayed where they were.

  The major stared at Eleanor, his face red with fury. “This is mutiny!”

  “This is honor, and courage,” Eleanor replied. She looked at the VADs. “The colonel will need to be taken in the first vehicle. Tell the orderlies—”

  “You can tell us what you need, miss,” a soldier said, crowding forward eagerly with a dozen others. “We’ll do whatever you say.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Then we’d better get on. I’ll gather a few supplies—”

  “Only what you can carry,” the major snapped.

  “I have pockets, miss, and my pack,” a soldier offered.

  “So have I.”

  “Load me up with boxes, heavy as you please, and I’ll haul ’em for ye,” another said. “I’m used to carryin’ boxes of ammunition.”

  Half an hour later, the little convoy of trucks was on the way up the road, leaving the CCS behind, the tattered tents and broken huts sitting forlornly in the field, waiting for the Germans. Eleanor took only her medical bag and walked behind the ambulance that carried the colonel, who was still unconscious, but alive. Matron Connolly sat beside him, monitoring his vital signs. Three other badly wounded men lay beside the colonel, well dosed with morphine so they wouldn’t feel the terrible jolting of the rough road.

  The major marched up beside her, walking with the rest of the able-bodied. “I don’t know how you managed to do this. It’s against orders, and regulations. Damn the RAMC.”

  “But every man is safe,” she said. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “We’ve left the tents. I had orders to bring the tents,” he said fretfully.

  “Were you at the front, Major? The 51st Highlanders—”

  She stopped at the look on his face. “The Germans came through their part of the line first, poor blighters.”

  She felt her stomach tense. “There’s an aid post there, near Sauvigny, in an old fa
rm. Do you know if they’re safe, if they got out?”

  The officer sighed and shook his head. “It’s chaos all along the front. There’s no way to know. Bloody bad business. Field ambulances and aid posts move with the troops. If not—”

  She stumbled, and he caught her arm. “Don’t you dare faint on me now, not after all the trouble you’ve caused. We haven’t got time for an attack of the vapors. This is precisely why I was ordered to get women out first.”

  “She won’t faint,” Matron Connolly called down to him from the back of the ambulance. “She’s a doctor, and a good surgeon. My rank is equivalent to that of a lieutenant colonel. I outrank you in medical matters. You will address her with respect, Major.”

  For a moment the major frowned at them both. Then he strode away, bellowing orders to move faster.

  “Colonel Bellford is in pain. Will you come up and check on him?” Matron Connolly said calmly, though her brow was furrowed with concern.

  Eleanor climbed into the back of the truck and bent over the colonel. His pulse was fast and thin under her fingers. He flinched at her touch. “He needs a transfusion,” Connolly muttered. “Are you certain you got all the fragments? Of course you did. I didn’t mean—” She looked at Eleanor. “I meant what I told the major. You’re a good doctor. I was perhaps . . .” She let the rest of the apology trail away. Every line of the matron’s body was stiff with pride and duty. Her veil was askew, and locks of salt-and-pepper hair straggled over a tired face streaked with dust. Her usually pristine uniform was smudged and bloody, but her eyes were alive, burning like brands, determined and brave—the coldness had thawed for a moment. “Thank you,” Matron Connolly finished. “I was wrong.”

  Eleanor gaped at her, wondering for a moment if it was sarcasm or a true compliment, or an olive branch. She suddenly felt the weight of everything press in on her. All the horror and exhaustion of the aid station, the dying faces, Charlie Nevins, the soldier with the Blighty ankle, Wilmot, and Captain Greaves all filled her mind and overwhelmed her with crushing grief. And worry for Fraser—was he alive, safe, or was he lying somewhere on the battlefield, wounded and alone, possibly dying? She couldn’t bear that.