‘All my love, Jack.’
‘He’s safe, Jessie. Don’t you fret, your son is safe and well.’
A smile was breaking through Jessie’s tears as she dabbed at them with her handkerchief. ‘And what about this other letter then?’ she asked, pulling a second scrap of paper from her capacious pocket. ‘This came yesterday. A young lad on a bike fetched it.’
Ella’s heart sank to her boots as she took the yellow telegram from the old woman’s shaking hand. ‘Oh, Jessie.’
‘They’re coming!’ The gunner fired off two hundred rounds with the machine-gun, shouting to his loader for more ammo. The lad was yelling that he didn’t have any left, then found a box, dropping it in the mud in his panic. Finally, he shoved the belt into the gun’s feed block. Tack-tack-tack! Then it stopped.
‘Christ, it’s jammed. The ammo’s wet, dammit!’
The pair flung themselves, and the gun, into the dugout sited alongside, wanting the mud to swallow them up as enemy fire screamed overhead.
It felt as if they’d fallen into hell. Bombs exploding, the whine of shrapnel, the crash and roar of shell raining down all around them. Men screaming and weeping for their mothers, a barrage of gunfire ripping the air. White flares shot up everywhere, briefly illuminating the black night, silhouetting men in a last macabre dance as they fell.
When a lull finally descended, the sergeant muttered, ‘How the bleedin’ hell are we supposed to defend ourselves now with no bloody machine-gun? We’ll be mown down like rabbits in a trap.’
‘Has anyone any hand grenades left?’ Matthew calmly asked, a dreadful sensation of inevitability creeping over him.
‘Not a friggin’ one.’
He was crouching in the foul-smelling shelter, euphemistically called the ‘rest room’ but little more than a funk hole. The smell of overflowing latrines in the trench outside mingled with the lingering odour of poison gas and cordite. Add to that the stink of male sweat, dirty feet that hadn’t been washed in weeks, cigarette smoke and stale food and you had quite a cocktail. Fortunately, the men were too accustomed to the malodorous mix to notice.
One had been asleep on a make-shift bed when the firing had started but was now wide awake and shaking, another was crouched beside him. In a space meant to accommodate no more than two or three men, the dugout afforded some respite from the weather and from enemy fire. Five was an uncomfortable squash.
‘The front line must have been decimated,’ the sergeant murmured.
‘Looks that way,’ Matthew agreed, and the two men exchanged a speaking glance, both aware what this could mean.
They’d protected themselves as best they could with a sheet of corrugated iron wedged between two wooden posts at the dugout’s entrance, and had draped a groundsheet over it to guard against flying shrapnel and gas. They’d even plugged up most of the ventilation shafts. But Matthew knew they were slowly being surrounded by the enemy, and he could think of no way to get these men safely out, let alone face the next wave of gunfire.
They were already in a sorry state, their long exposure to constant shelling at the front in atrocious weather conditions having taken its toll. They’d been put back in the reserve line for a spell, but with only rifles either jammed by the clay and mud, or short of ammunition, he was reluctant to order them back out into the rat-infested trenches to face almost certain death.
The other three men huddled together, eyes closed. Whether they were snatching five minutes’ shut-eye before the next onslaught, or silently praying, he couldn’t rightly say. Someone asked for water and was refused. Despite this being the wettest September anyone could ever recall, the rain still sheeting down outside, they were running out.
Matthew almost smiled. ‘Water, water, everywhere but not a drop to drink.’
‘Aye, pity you can’t drink mud,’ the sergeant quipped.
‘My feet must have grown webs between the toes from all this rain.’ More likely rotting away inside his soaking boots, he thought. Trench foot was a constant worry. Army boots rarely fitted correctly and if socks weren’t changed regularly and kept dry, feet would swell causing men to sob and scream in agony. At worst they could even turn gangrenous and result in amputation. But now wasn’t the moment to be thinking of such problems.
‘We’ll let the men rest for half an hour, then check ammunition and—’
The explosion took them by surprise. The entire dugout seemed to shake, sending them all falling on top of each other like skittles. A rumble of earth and wood and stone, the grinding of metal. Something slammed into Matthew’s chest, and he knew with a dreadful certainty that the entrance was blocked.
They’d been buried alive!
‘Can you help with this blood transfusion, please, Simpson?’ While the doctor operated the syringe, Mercy held the jug that contained the blood, no doubt donated by one of the nurses or VADs.
‘Just keep that blood moving. We don’t want it to coagulate or go cold.’
She stood the jug in a bowl of warm water and stirred it carefully with a glass rod.
‘And don’t fall asleep on the job, will you?’ The doctor softened his words with a grin, knowing this girl was one of the most conscientious of the VADs, always ready to lend a hand without a word of complaint. ‘Glad to see you’ve fully recovered from that bout of pneumonia. Pretty nasty, eh?’
‘I seem to have survived,’ Mercy agreed. ‘Wouldn’t recommend it though.’
The doctor refilled the syringe. ‘Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be stuck in this camp the whole time. Do you ever get any time off?’
‘Yes, that’s when I sleep.’ She was flattered by his obvious interest but there was only one man for her. ‘And I write to my boyfriend, of course. He’s at the front somewhere.’
The doctor cast her a wry glance and sighed, his expression clearly revealing his disappointment. ‘All the best girls seem to be taken. He’s a lucky man. What about your sister?’
‘She’s not available either.’
‘A bloke could be driven mad for the lack of female company here,’ he ruefully remarked, ‘even though I’m surrounded by women. Look but don’t touch, eh?’
Mercy giggled. ‘My heart bleeds for you.’
‘Right, Simpson, if you’re not going to be suitably sympathetic let’s move on. This one is done. Who’s next for the ice cream cart?’
Mercy’s next patient was a young soldier who’d been blinded by a bomb blast. ‘How are you this fine morning?’ she asked, helping him to take a drink of water.
‘I can hear the birds singing, Nurse. Is the sun shining?’
‘It is. Would you like to sit out in it for a bit?’
His young face lit up. ‘Oh, I would like that very much.’
Once she’d got him settled in a chair with the sun right on his face, he smiled at her. He was no more than nineteen and a fine-looking young man, except for not having any eyes. ‘Is that all right for you?’ Mercy asked, handing him the water bottle.
‘Perfect. Will you marry me, Nurse?’
‘You know me, I can never resist a good-looking fella. I’m booked up for two ceremonies already this week and three next, so it’ll have to be the one after that. Will that do?’ She knew the lad was fearful that his girl would no longer want him, so made every effort to bolster his morale with a bit of flirting.
‘I don’t mind being the last in line, so long as you know that I adore you.’
‘I shall keep that knowledge close to my heart,’ Mercy said, letting her smile show in her voice as she moved on to the next patient.
It had taken weeks for Mercy to fully recover from the pneumonia. Even then it had left her feeling low, and she was again worrying about not having heard from Jack, which did nothing to lift her spirits. Only last week Livia had got a letter from Matthew, which made Jack’s silence all the harder to bear. Mercy knew there must be something wrong. It was autumn now, weeks since his last letter, and he wouldn’t stop writing if he were still fit and well.
Her one consolation was the job itself. She loved it. Mercy felt as if she had found her forte, perhaps because she could empathise with their pain. She was eager to learn as much as she could to help her patients, whom she loved dearly, just as she had cared for those poor boys at the workhouse. And there was nothing a Tommy liked better than to engage in a bit of light banter and flirting.
She just wanted to hear that Jack was all right. Livia was so lucky to get so many letters from Matthew telling her he was fine.
It was impossible to say how long they lay there. It could have been an hour or half a day as Matthew drifted in and out of consciousness. Time became meaningless. His head was ringing from the explosion, and the air so thick with fumes he was finding it difficult to breathe.
When the smoke eventually cleared he could see by the dim light that filtered in through the cracks of fallen beams that men were shouting and screaming, hammering on the corrugated iron that now imprisoned them in the dugout. But no sound came out of their mouths. The silence was profound. He couldn’t hear a thing.
The young loader sat slumped on the bed under a pile of debris. When he was dragged out, the burnt skin peeling from his face and arms, a shudder passed through his body and his lips murmured a name as he died.
The sergeant was lying like a rag doll over his beloved gun. Matthew shook him and his hand came away wet with blood. There was nothing he could do for him either.
As darkness closed in on them, one man snatched up a shovel and began to dig. His comrade tore at the earth, desperately trying to widen the cracks between the heavy beams. Matthew pulled himself up on shaking limbs and went to help, taking turns with the one shovel. Little by little they prised the fallen beams apart sufficiently for more air to filter through, which at least allowed them to breathe fresh air. There was a faint sliver of daylight, so it must be almost dawn.
Matthew’s hearing was slowly returning but they were making little progress at shifting the rubble that blocked the entrance. He didn’t know how much longer they could hold on as exhaustion threatened, could only hope and pray that relief would come soon.
The hours dragged by at a snail’s pace. Their fear was palpable, the men’s courage indisputable. Is this how it feels to face death? Matthew wondered. Is this how it will all end, in a muddy dugout somewhere in France? Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Livia and to happier days. Their walks by the lake, those spirited discussions over how the store should best be run, which all seemed so trivial now. He recalled the touch of her lips on his, the warm curves of her body in his arms.
Livia, my darling. I hope you are safe from this hell, safe and warm in England, even if it is in a military hospital some place.
They were woken from their exhausted sleep by the sound of heavy beams being dragged away, the scrape of metal. Thank God! Rescue was at hand. He could hear men talking as they dug. And then Matthew realised that the voices weren’t English.
Mercy was making her way back to their tent at the end of her shift, slipping and sliding in the mud as usual. Livia had spent the morning having a driving lesson. They were apparently short of ambulance drivers so she’d immediately volunteered, even though she’d never driven a vehicle in her life. But then, that was Livia all over. Say yes first, then work out how she could do it.
‘Oh, I’ll soon get the knack,’ she’d said. ‘A couple of hours behind the wheel and I’ll be ready to go.’
Mercy cast a quick glance over the parked ambulances, hoping none of them looked as if they’d recently suffered a crash, when she spotted Livia hurrying towards her. She was calling out to her, waving something in her hand.
Dear God, she was holding a letter.
Mercy began to run, almost falling over in her anxiety to reach Livia just as fast as she could. The two girls grabbed hold of each other, partly in excitement, and partly as support to keep upright in the quagmire of mud.
‘It’s from Ella,’ Livia gasped. ‘Jack has been wounded but is apparently OK. That’s why we haven’t heard from him for weeks.’
‘Oh, thank God. How is he? Where is he?’
‘I don’t know any more as I haven’t finished the letter yet. Come on, let’s get inside the tent and read it quickly before we go in to supper.’
They sat together on Mercy’s camp bed while Livia read the letter out loud. Watching, Mercy could see the news wasn’t good by the way her face suddenly paled and her voice began to shake slightly. She quickly explained how Jessie had held on to the letter for at least a week before asking Ella to read it for her.
‘Jack apparently told his mother he’d been bombed but was OK. Then Ella says, “The only problem is that Jessie also got a letter from his commanding officer. It seems that the emergency station they sent him to got bombed. Jack wasn’t killed, thank God, but he suffered further injuries. In the confusion no one can quite say what those are or how badly he is hurt. It’s all a bit vague, I’m afraid.” She ends by promising that if she hears anything more from Jessie, she’ll let me know. Are you all right?’
Livia looked across at Mercy, and on seeing the tears roll down her sister’s cheeks, grasped her hand and gave it a little squeeze. ‘He’ll be fine. Jack is a fighter. He’ll get through this, believe me.’
‘I know, but how cruel to be on the mend and then hit a second time. How many bomb attacks is one man able to withstand? What if he dies of an infection, as the boys here do all the time? How will I even hear about it? It takes so long to get news he might be dead already.’
‘Don’t think such things. You know we don’t allow such talk in this tent. Negative thinking is out of bounds, remember? No grumbles, no complaints, no misery. That was our agreement. Chin up and soldier on, right?’ Livia put her arms about Mercy and enveloped her in a warm hug.
Mercy clung equally hard to Livia, swallowing her tears with all the courage she could muster. ‘Thanks, Livvy. How would I cope without you?’
‘Ditto. So what kind of a day have you had?’
‘Marvellous fun dishing out blood. And you?’
‘Terrific. Nearly crashed twice!’
‘Jolly good.’
‘Now wipe those tears, dearest, and let’s go and eat. We’ll hear better news soon, I’m sure of it.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
As yet another winter approached, the snow ran red with blood and the number of casualties seemed limitless. The emergency post was now stationed closer to the front, and coping with the cold was the least of their worries. The Battle of the Somme had been raging on the western front since the end of June with scarcely any let-up. After two years of trench warfare, the British, along with her French Allies, were hoping to break the deadlock. But no such victory was in sight. The sound of the great artillery bombardment could be heard for miles around, and when it stopped, the VADs’ work began.
Nearly two hundred casualties had been brought in the first time the Tommies went ‘over the top’, almost all needing surgery. Once a patient had been stabilised they were shipped out, back to Blighty. But as fast as they were dispatched more came in to take their place. It was relentless.
The daily battle with hygiene and sanitation was also growing worse, and infection could suddenly carry off a patient who’d seemed well on the road to recovery. Trench fever was another problem. No one knew why but it would come on suddenly, a severe pain followed by high fever, and it would take a patient weeks to recover.
Thankfully a doctor was now available in the reception tent to make those life and death decisions. He would put a special mark on patients not likely to survive. Livia always felt as if the red dot pierced her own heart every time she saw it. She would never grow immune to the suffering.
And the stink of death permeated everything. Most injuries were sustained in the trenches, in particular excited new recruits who would stupidly peer over the parapet. Rotting corpses lay everywhere, not only in the craters that pitted the terrain, but right there in the trenches. Often, by the time bodies were collected,
they’d been half eaten by rats. The men feared these more than anything, and when the rats evacuated their holes they knew they were about to come under attack. Whether it was by pure instinct or vibrations through the ground, the animals somehow sensed the enemy’s advance.
‘The rats are running!’ The cry would go up, putting everyone instantly on the alert.
This morning Livia woke, as she often did, to the sound of gunfire. She could hardly open her eyes she was so exhausted, and daren’t begin to contemplate the day ahead, yet another filled with death and destruction. Their silly jokes were wearing thin and they struggled at times to fight the onset of depression.
‘Is that another wave starting?’ she groaned. It was barely dawn, but raids were known to often start early.
Both girls paused in their hasty dressing to listen, but Mercy shook her head. ‘No, I think it’s the stand-to. They’re out on the fire step firing to warn off the enemy. It won’t last long.’
She was proved right as silence instantly fell, and the girls knew the men would be cleaning their rifles then grabbing some breakfast. After that they’d refill sandbags, repair the duckboards that were meant to protect their feet from the wet, and attempt to drain off the trench with a hand pump, or a bucket if they didn’t have such a thing. But the unacknowledged truce that took place while Allies and enemy alike took this time to eat and do essential chores, wouldn’t last long. For the rest of the day the Tommies must be on the alert for attack, unable to move about freely until darkness fell. Only then could they get some rest, write, or read letters from loved ones.
Angels at War Page 27