All Clear

by Connie Willis

  “No, it was nearer than that.”

  It was. The rocket had fallen just off the high street they’d driven through only minutes before, smashing shops and stores. At the near end, an estate agent’s was still recognizable, and at the other the marquee of a cinema stood at an awkward angle. Fires burned here and there among the wreckage.

  Good, Mary thought. At least we’ll have light to see by. She wished she’d worn her coveralls and boots instead of her skirted uniform, since it looked like they were the first ones here and were going to have to clamber over the wreckage looking for victims.

  Fairchild drove the ambulance as close to the wreckage as she could and parked, and they scrambled out. “At least we’ve plenty of bandages,” she said. “I’ll go find a telephone and ring the post.”

  “Good, though I should imagine the post heard the explosion.” Mary put on her helmet and fastened the strap. “I’ll go see if there are casualties in the cinema.”

  “It doesn’t show films on Wednesday,” Fairchild said. “I know because Reed and I came down to see Random Harvest Wednesday last, and it was shut. And none of these shops would have been open at this time of night, so perhaps there won’t have been any casualties.” She ran off to find a phone box, and Mary pulled on her gumboots and started through the wreckage, hoping Fairchild was right.

  Halfway down the street she thought she heard a voice. She stopped, listening, but she couldn’t hear anything for Fairchild’s hurrying back toward her, dislodging bricks and chunks of mortar as she came. “I notified Croydon,” she reported. “Have you found any—?”

  “Shh. I thought I heard something.”

  They listened.

  “Jeppers!” Mary heard a man’s voice call from somewhere at the other end of the destroyed area.

  “It came from over there,” Fairchild said, pointing, and began picking her way through the rubble.

  Mary followed, stopping every few feet to look about her. She’d been wrong about the fires. They gave off only enough light to maneuver by, not enough to see the hazards in her way or to make out more than silhouettes, and the flickering flames made her think she saw movement where there wasn’t any.

  Midway across, Mary thought she heard the man again. She stopped, listening, and then called, “Where are you?”

  “Over here.” The voice was so faint she could scarcely hear it.

  “Keep talking.”

  “Over …” He went off into a spasm of coughing.

  Which she could hear. “Fairchild, he’s this way!” she called, and set off toward the sound, picking her way over the tangle of bricks and broken wood.

  The coughing stopped. “Where are you?” she called again.

  “Here he is!” Fairchild called from several yards off, and then, as Mary clambered over to her, “I found him.”

  She was bending over a dark form, but she straightened as Mary reached her. “He’s dead.”

  “Are you certain?” Mary said. It was so dark, Fairchild might have made a mistake. She squatted down next to the body.

  Not body. Half a body. The man had been sliced in two. Which meant he couldn’t have been the one coughing. “There’s another one here somewhere,” she told Fairchild. “You take that area over there, and I’ll look over here.” She walked back the way she’d come, calling, “Where are you? If you can hear us, make a sound,” and then waiting, listening for the slightest sound before moving on again.

  She stepped carefully over a broken window. A large black object lay on its side next to it. What is that? Mary wondered. A piano? No, it was far too large, and there was paper tangled in it and lying in drifts all round it. It’s a printing press, she thought. This must have been a newspaper office, and saw an arm.

  Let’s hope it isn’t only an arm, she thought, scrambling over to it. Or that the rest of him isn’t under that printing press.

  It wasn’t. The man lay next to it, and the reason she hadn’t been able to see him was that he was covered in newspapers, and his face was so white and so spattered with blood—which looked black in the orange light from the fires—that it was barely recognizable as a face.

  He’s dead as well, she thought, squatting down next to him, but his chest was rising and falling. And as she bent closer, she saw that the white was from plaster dust, which he was caked with. “Are you all right?” she asked, but he didn’t respond. “You mustn’t worry. We’ll get you out of here straightaway. Fairchild!” she called into the darkness. “Over here!”

  She tried to see what the blood was from, wishing she had her pocket torch. She could scarcely see him in the reddish firelight. But she could see the blood. It was all over his coat and the newspapers covering him. “I need a light!” she shouted, and began brushing the newspapers aside, looking for the wound that had to be there. She opened his coat. There was no blood on his shirt.

  It’s someone else’s blood, she thought, and then remembered the printing press. She touched the black on his coat and then brought her fingers up to her nose. Ink. It must have splattered on him when the V-1 hit.

  But even if it wasn’t blood, he was clearly injured. Perhaps the blast only knocked him unconscious, she thought hopefully, but when she moved the remaining newspapers off, he was buried from his waist down in bricks and chunks of plaster. She dug through them with both hands. His left leg was covered in blood, and this time it wasn’t printer’s ink. All the blood and the darkness made it difficult to see just how bad the injury was, but the lower half of the leg looked like it was badly mangled, and his foot had been severed.

  Mary fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief and tied it round his leg just below his knee. She broke off a short length of wood, tied it into the knot, and twisted the tourniquet till it was tight.

  “Is he alive?” Fairchild asked, appearing out of the darkness to kneel down next to him and peer into his face.

  “Yes,” Mary said, trying to see if the bleeding from his leg had stopped. “Did you bring the torch?”

  “No, I’ll go fetch one. How bad is he?”

  “He’s unconscious and his leg’s crushed. His foot’s been cut off,” she said, and the man murmured something.

  “What is it?” Mary asked, bending over him, putting her ear close to his lips.

  “Wasn’t…,” he said, and his voice was hoarse and rasping.

  From the plaster dust, she thought.

  “Done …” His eyes closed again.

  Done for. “You’re going to be all right,” she said, patting his chest. “I’ll get you out of here, I promise. I’ve tied a tourniquet,” she told Fairchild. “Is Croydon here yet?”

  “No,” Fairchild said, looking off toward where their ambulance was parked. “I thought I heard a motor a moment ago, but I must have been mistaken.”

  “We’ll have to get him to the ambulance ourselves then,” Mary said. “Go and fetch the stretcher.” Fairchild nodded and ran off.

  “Don’t forget the torch!” Mary called after her, and went back to uncovering his other leg, shifting bricks and a metal case of type, which was impossibly heavy. “You mustn’t worry. We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

  He seemed to flinch at the sound of her voice. “No,” he murmured. “Oh, no … no …”

  “You mustn’t be frightened. You’re going to be all right.”

  “No.” He shook his head feebly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” Poor man. “It’s not your fault. You’ve been injured by a flying bomb,” but her words had no effect on him.

  “Still been here …,” he said, his hoarse voice anguished, “… dead …”

  “Shh. Don’t try to talk.”

  “I thought I could … not supposed to be here …”

  “Just lie still. I need to look at your leg.”

  She went back to uncovering his other leg and his foot, which, thank God, wasn’t cut off, but it was bleeding badly, and she didn’t have another handkerchief for a tourniquet. She pressed on it wi
th both hands. “Fairchild!” she called. “Paige! I need the medical kit.”

  “Dulwich …” the man murmured. He must be asking where they were going to take him.

  “We’ll take you to Norbury,” she said. “It’s quicker. You mustn’t worry about that. That’s our job.”

  “I can’t get the stretcher out!” Fairchild called from the ambulance. “It’s stuck!”

  “Leave it! Just bring the medical kit!”

  “What?” Fairchild called back. “I can’t hear you, Mary!”

  The man made a sound, part moan, part gasp. “Mary?” he murmured.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m here.” She pressed down as hard as she could.

  This wasn’t working. Blood was still oozing through her hands. It would have to be a tourniquet. “Paige!” she called. “Bring the kit! Hurry!”

  “Mary,” the man said urgently. “You mustn’t go.”

  “I’m not leaving. I’m right here,” she reassured him.

  He’d been wearing a tie. If she could get it off, she could use that for a tourniquet. She opened his coat and began to untie the knot.

  “Something wrong …,” he said, and the rest of his words were lost in a spasm of coughing.

  The knot wouldn’t come undone. She dug at the fabric with her fingernails, trying to loosen it.

  “Don’t,” he said, distressed.

  “I need to untie your tie so I can use it for a bandage. I’m going to tie a tourniquet to stop your leg from bleeding.” Where is Fairchild? And Croydon’s ambulance?

  The knot finally came loose. Mary untied it quickly. “I’ll get you out of here,” the man murmured, repeating what she’d said. “I promise.”

  She pulled the tie from his collar and began to crawl back down to his foot.

  He grabbed hold of her wrist. “Mary,” he said urgently, choked, and began to cough again. “Don’t go …”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m only going to bind your foot up. I won’t leave you. I promise.”

  “No,” he said, and caught hold of her wrist. “You can’t go!”

  “I won’t,” she said. “I promise.”

  “No,” he said furiously. “Don’t go. It won’t …” And the world went white and then black, splattering them with printer’s ink, with blood, and she bent over him to tackle him, to push him into the gutter, but it was too late. It had already gone off.

  Once more into the breach, dear friends.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, HENRY V

  London—Winter 1941

  EILEEN HURRIED DOWN THE ESCALATOR STEPS TOWARD them in her new green coat, calling, “Mike, I got you a coat!” She waved the dark blue hat. “Polly, look, a hat!”

  She reached the bottom. “And it matches your coat—” She stopped short. “What’s wrong?” She looked anxiously at Polly and then at Mike. “Has something happened?”

  Yes, Polly thought, feeling sick.

  “What’s wrong?” Eileen said.

  I’ve got to keep this from them, Polly thought. Just now, it will kill them if they find out. I’ve got to look as though nothing’s happened. But it was impossible, like trying to stand up after being kicked in the stomach. She couldn’t even think what excuse …

  “Are you ill?” Eileen was saying, alarmed. “You’re white as a sheet.” Mike turned to look questioningly at her.

  “No, I’m fine,” Polly managed to say. “I was afraid something had happened to you. You’re so late. Where have you been?”

  “The Assistance Board hadn’t any coats at all,” Eileen said. “The woman in charge there said they’ve had an absolute run on them since these last attacks and with the cold weather and everything, so I had to go to the one near St. Pancras, and then I had difficulty getting a bus back. I’m sorry I worried you.”

  Mike was still looking suspiciously at Polly.

  “It’s this not knowing when the raids are,” Polly said. “It’s got me a bit nervy, that’s all. When the sirens went, and you still weren’t here—”

  “I am sorry, but I did get you a hat.” Eileen handed it to Polly. “And most importantly, I got you a coat, Mike. I’m afraid it’s a bit too large,” she said, helping him try it on, “but I thought it would prove easier to take in a large one than to let out one which was too small. Mine’s not really warm enough for winter, but it was such a bright, hopeful color that I couldn’t resist. I was so sick of black and brown. This cheered me just to look at it. Doesn’t it make you think of spring, Polly?”

  No.

  “Yes, it’s very pretty,” she said.

  Mike was still watching her.

  “And what a lovely hat!” Polly said. She tried it on and made Eileen hold up her compact so she could see how it looked in the tiny mirror, and when she saw her own image, she was relieved to see that some of the color had come back into her cheeks. “Thank you so much. You’re a miracle worker, Eileen. Mike, hold out your arm.” She turned his cuff inside out to look at the lining. “This should be easy to turn up. Now, take it off and let me see the seams.”

  “We can do that later,” he said. “The three of us need to talk.”

  Oh, no, Polly thought. He’s guessed.

  But when they got to the emergency staircase, he only wanted to know if she’d made a list of the raids she could remember. “Yes,” she said, relieved to change the subject. “I’m afraid it’s rather spotty. The only two I know of in January are the ones on the nights of the eleventh and the twenty-ninth.”

  Mike wrote the dates down. “Do you know which parts of London were hit?”

  “The East End was hit on January twenty-ninth, and central London on Saturday the eleventh. The Liverpool Street and Bank Underground stations were both hit—”

  “Bank?” Eileen interrupted.

  “Yes, and several hospitals—I don’t know which ones.”

  “And you don’t know about any other January raids?”

  “No. I do know the weather was bad enough during January and February to keep the Luftwaffe grounded part of the time,” she said, “and some nights they were bombing outside London—Portsmouth and Manchester and Bristol.”

  “Were people killed at Bank Station?” Eileen asked.

  “Yes, and at Liverpool Street,” Polly said. “I’m not sure exactly how many. Over a hundred. But the raids weren’t over this part of London, and this station was never hit.”

  She told them the February and March raids she remembered. Buckingham Palace had been bombed again, and the shelter at London Bridge Station and a popular nightclub, the Café de Paris, had been hit. She was starting on April when Eileen said, “Before we do any more, can we go to the canteen? I’m starving. What with getting the coats and all, I hadn’t any supper.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Polly said, and got to her feet, but Mike said, “We’ll catch up with you. I want to ask Polly about something first.”

  Eileen nodded and clattered down the steps. The door clanged shut, and Polly braced herself.

  “What happened back there at the escalator?” Mike asked.

  “Nothing,” Polly said. “I told you, I was worried because she was so late. Not knowing when the raids are has—”

  “It was the coat, wasn’t it?” Mike said. “Is that what she was wearing on VE-Day?”

  “No. I told you—”

  He grabbed her by the arms and shook her. “Don’t lie to me. It’s too important. That green coat was the one she was wearing on VE-Day.” He shook her again. “Wasn’t it?”

  It was no use. He knew.

  “Tell me,” he said, tightening his grip. “It’s important. Is that what she was wearing?”

  “Yes,” she said, and his grip slackened, as if all the strength had gone out of his arms.

  “I kept hoping the fact that she didn’t own a coat like that meant she was there on a different assignment,” Polly said, “that we’d got out after all, and she’d talked Mr. Dunworthy into letting her go to VE-Day later.”

  “It could s
till mean that,” Mike said. “The coat’s obviously the correct period. Wardrobe could have had one just like it. They could have had that coat, for that matter. Or it could have been someone else you saw. You said yourself you were too far away to be sure it was Eileen. She could have left it behind when we went back through, and it ended up at the Assistance Board again, and they gave it to someone else.”

  Or it might have found its way to an applecart upset, Polly thought, wishing she could believe that was what had happened.

  “And if she was there at VE-Day because we didn’t get out,” Mike said, “I’d have been there, too.”

  Unless you’d been killed, Polly thought.

  “If something had happened to us, she’d hardly have been there celebrating.”

  “That’s not true. Everyone there that night knew someone who’d died in the war. And you and I could both have been killed a long time before—”

  “Or we could all have been pulled out, and she was back to do the assignment she’d always wanted to do. Or maybe she decided not to go back after our drops opened. You know how she’s always wanted to see VE-Day—”

  “So she stayed on through four more years of air raids and National Service and rationing to see one day of people waving flags and singing, ‘Rule, Britannia’?” Polly asked incredulously. “She hates it here. And she’s terrified of the bombs. Do you honestly believe she’d be willing to go through an entire year of V-1s and V-2s for any reason?”

  “Okay, okay. I agree that’s not very likely. I’m just saying there are all kinds of explanations for why she—or her coat—was there besides our not getting out. We missed contacting Bartholomew, but it’s not like we’re out of options. There’s still the St. John’s Wood drop, and Dunworthy will be here in May, right? And there are bound to have been historians who were here in 1942 and 1943. And if we can’t find them, we’ve still got Denys Atherton.”

  Denys Atherton.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. The shock of seeing the coat just unnerved me for a moment.” She started quickly down the steps. “Eileen will wonder what’s become of us, and I’m starving, too. Mrs. Rickett outdid herself tonight. She made a sort of dishwater soup—”