by Mary Hooper
Poppy, looking at him, felt a great welling-up of indignation and couldn’t speak.
‘I was a complete cad, I know that,’ he said. ‘You’ve every right to hate me. You see,’ he went on, ignoring Dot and Tilly, who had walked on a little way, ‘I went home on leave and found that my mother had arranged it all – everything, down to the wedding rings and cake. There was just no escape.’
‘But you didn’t have to go through with it,’ Poppy said.
‘I know. I was a coward, but Miss Cardew and everyone else seemed to think it was what I’d wanted all along, so I made up my mind that I’d go through with it and it would be my sacrifice for the war.’
‘How very noble of you,’ she said stiffly.
‘Please believe me. I did care for you, Poppy. I used to treasure those –’
Summoning all the self-control she could muster, Poppy raised her hand to indicate she didn’t want to hear any more. ‘Goodbye, Second Lieutenant de Vere. May I offer my congratulations on your marriage,’ she said, and then turned on her heel and went to join the other two.
‘Jolly well done!’ Tilly whispered as they walked down the street.
‘Poise maintained, dignity preserved,’ Dot said.
‘Has he gone back inside?’ Poppy asked, and getting the nod that he had, was at last free to burst into tears.
A couple of hours later, Poppy was feeling a little better. The three girls had found a restaurant selling Belgian specialities and had consumed hearty portions of chicken stew whilst dissecting the whole business of Freddie de Vere. Poppy didn’t think it was likely that Dot and Tilly could appreciate the class distinctions between her and Freddie, because it wasn’t the same in America, but they certainly all came to the same conclusion: Freddie de Vere was a mother’s boy, a cad and a bounder. What was more, they all felt extremely sorry for Miss Cardew, who knew nothing of what had gone on.
‘You’re better off out of it,’ Tilly said.
‘Handsome men never make good husbands,’ said Dot darkly.
After eating, they did a tour of the shops and Poppy bought some pieces of Belgian lace for her mother and aunt, and a chocolate chicken each for her sisters. She couldn’t afford to buy one for herself, but was cheered by the thought that it could be months before she got a week’s leave and she would almost certainly have eaten both of her sisters’ chickens by then.
And so the day improved, with all three girls pretending not to enjoy the whistles and waves they received from the Tommies wherever they went. The officers were a little more subtle about showing their appreciation, but most were just out of the trenches and hadn’t set eyes on a girl for several weeks, so were very keen to make an impression. Poppy couldn’t really relax because she was too concerned about bumping into Freddie, so Dot or Tilly would go into shops and cafés beforehand and give them a once-over to make sure he wasn’t there.
They went into the yard of Poperinge Town Hall and Dot told her about the condemned cell, which was just out of view. ‘Prisoners have their last meal brought to them, then they confess their sins before being tied to that post over there . . .’ she pointed, ‘and shot.’
‘That’s a terrible business,’ Tilly said.
‘Do you mean German prisoners are shot here?’ Poppy asked.
Dot shook her head. ‘No. It’s Allied soldiers who’ve deserted and been recaptured, or refused to carry out an order, or simply can’t face another day of fighting.’
Poppy shook her head, hardly able to believe it. It was hard to imagine this happening so close to hand, in the centre of such a normal, popular little town.
‘As if enough boys aren’t being killed by the enemy,’ Tilly said incredulously. ‘Can you believe we shoot our own soldiers?’
Poppy thought of her brother Billy, who’d risked the firing squad to shoot himself rather than go over the top. ‘It doesn’t seem right. Just because someone’s scared half out of their wits . . .’
‘Do you think there’s anyone in the condemned cell now?’ Tilly asked.
‘Bound to be,’ Dot said. ‘It’s a horrible little hole – I’ve seen it. Stinking, freezing cold and running with rats.’ Then she added, ‘And afterwards, the commanding officers add to the all-round wrongness of it by writing to the boy’s family and telling them that their son died a dishonourable death.’
‘I call that putting the boot in,’ Tilly said.
The girls stood in silence, contemplating the execution post, then Poppy said, ‘Don’t you think we ought to start for home soon, in case it takes us a while to get the car going?’
Dot nodded. ‘So let’s look around for a handsome and muscular man now . . .’
Chapter Fifteen
Poppy closed her eyes in the back of the car going back to Boulogne, tried to breathe evenly and told herself sternly that she did not feel sick.
Going over the meeting with Freddie in her mind, she covered first the fainting (oh, how foolish!), then the snatching away of her hands (terribly childish), and finally the aloof farewell at the door, which was the only part of seeing him that, though she did not feel good about it, she was reasonably content to recall. Yes, she’d concentrate on that and forget about the other parts. And at least their first meeting after his wedding had happened now, so any subsequent occasions would be easier. Perhaps.
Dot and Tilly were in the front seat of the car and singing at the tops of their voices as they drove along, so for perhaps half a minute none of the girls noticed that the engine had cut out. The car went slower and slower, however, and finally, spluttering, came to a halt.
‘It’s quite all right,’ Dot said airily. ‘It just wants water in the radiator. I should have put it in before we left Pop.’ She got out, went into the boot and got a full can of water, then tried to undo the radiator cap. It was very hot to the touch, though, and she burned her hand and swore at it.
While this was going on, Poppy climbed out of the car and walked around it a few times to stretch her legs. No travel-sickness this time . . . maybe because she’d had her eyes shut. They must be about halfway home, she thought, and had ended up on a quiet stretch of road which was heavily wooded on both sides. Towards the east, sporadic bursts of shellfire could be seen and heard, each side trying to get in a final flurry of killing before sunset. The sky wasn’t yet dark, but it was gloomy under the trees. How far did German snipers venture? she wondered. Who might be in those woods waiting for unwary travellers?
The radiator cap cooled enough to be removed and Dot poured the water into the radiator then screwed the cap back on.
This little job done, Tilly rummaged around on the floor of the car then held up the starting handle. ‘Who’s going to do this? Where’s a Tommy when you want one?’
‘Give it here,’ Dot said, and she cranked the handle six or seven times without success.
Tilly tried, then Poppy, then Dot again.
Finally, Dot gave a squeal. ‘It’s the gas!’ she cried. ‘They told me I’d have enough to get to Pop and back, but we’ve run out!’
‘Petrol? Isn’t there a spare can of that in the boot, too?’ Poppy asked.
They searched, but there wasn’t.
Getting back in the car and sitting there in the gathering gloom, Poppy began to fear that they were all going to meet horrific ends: that a Zeppelin would come along and spot them, or a stray incendiary would burn up the woods all around them and they’d be trapped within walls of fire. The very best scenario she could think of was that they’d have to wait half the night to be rescued, then she’d get back to hospital to find herself charged for being Absent Without Leave – an offence that could lead to instant dismissal and an immediate return to the UK.
‘I guess we’ll just have to wait for an army lorry to come by and give us a tow,’ Tilly said. ‘But I’m surprised at you, Dorothy Manning, I really am. Fancy coming out here in the middle of a war and not making sure there was a spare can of gas in the back.’
‘There are two of us in this
front seat,’ Dot retorted. ‘You’ve got to take some of the responsibility.’
‘If only you’d let me! You always insist on being in charge and going first . . .’ Poppy leaned back on the seat and closed her eyes again.
Ten minutes or so went by. Poppy was wondering why the road was so much quieter than when they’d come along that morning – could it really be the same one? – and Tilly and Dot had argued themselves into an injured silence when, suddenly, behind them there came the sound of a thudding engine.
‘Quick!’ Dot said, the row forgotten.
‘Stop that car!’ said Tilly, scrambling out.
All three girls stood behind the car, arms poised ready to wave – and round the corner came a motorcycle and sidecar. Their arms drooped, disappointed, but the motorcycle pulled up and came to rest just beside them, its driver kitted out in a black leather motoring coat and boots, flying helmet and goggles.
‘Can I help you at all?’ asked a breathy and well-modulated female voice.
The girls were stunned into silence for a moment, then Dot said, ‘Thank you, but not unless you’re carrying a can of gas? Petrol, that is.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not,’ said the young woman, pushing the goggles back over her head.
‘Oh!’ said Tilly. ‘I’ve seen photographs of you in the newspapers! You’re part of Mairi and Elsie, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m the Mairi part.’
The four girls shook hands. Poppy had heard of Mairi and Elsie and their famous first-aid post – had even read a book about them, and admired them very much. Mairi had come over from England at the start of the war when she was eighteen. Between them, she and Elsie Knocker, a trained nurse, had set up their own little day hospital, as close as they could get to the front line. The men of the Belgian Army Third Division were stationed nearby and would come to them to be treated for minor conditions – boils and lesions, scrapes, toothache and twisted ankles – anything which might not be a battle wound but which was causing them pain or discomfort. The girls, with the help of some drivers, also ran two ambulance cars, picking up soldiers from all units who were badly injured and taking them to clearing stations.
‘And where are you all from?’ Mairi asked. ‘You two are Americans, of course!’ she added immediately. ‘How marvellous that you’re here working alongside us.’
The four of them briefly exchanged news and views, and Mairi asked where they were heading.
‘Back to Boulogne,’ said Dot.
Mairi pulled a rueful face. ‘Not only have you run out of gas, but you’re on the wrong road, I’m afraid. This is the road to Pervyse, where Elsie and I have our little outpost.’
Dot and Tilly glared at each other, and Poppy almost said she’d thought it wasn’t the right road.
‘Are we very far out of our way?’ she asked instead, still worrying about being AWOL and getting bumped back to England.
‘Not too far. I can lead you back to the crossroads and put you right. That is, I could if your car had any fuel.’ She hesitated. ‘I have some full cans back at the post. I could spare you a gallon, if you like.’
‘That would be terrific, thank you,’ Tilly said. ‘We’d replace it, of course.’
‘So, who’s going to come with me in the sidecar to get it?’
‘Me!’ the three girls said together, and Poppy thought it was because Mairi didn’t want to have to choose between the two American girls that she was picked.
As Poppy wriggled into the sidecar, Mairi consulted the small gold watch on her wrist. ‘We’ll be about half an hour,’ she said, pulling her goggles down. ‘Don’t go away!’
Poppy found riding in the sidecar of a motorcycle more frightening, yet also more exhilarating, than being in a car. It was rather like a carousel ride, but a lot more fun. While she bounced up and down, hair flying everywhere and not in the least bit travel-sick, she thought about how much she would enjoy telling the boys in the ward about meeting Mairi Chisholm. There were always articles in the newspapers about the two famous young women, the only females allowed anywhere near the fighting.
They arrived at what had once been a small town, but which had been bombed into piles of rubble, with half-fallen houses and flattened walls. Trees were reduced to nothing more than sticks and there was barely a blade of grass to be seen. Mairi carefully drove into a building which was just two standing walls and a few steps leading down to a cellar.
‘This is us,’ she said. ‘This is where we live.’
‘Oh.’ Poppy, shocked at the dilapidation and shabbiness of the place, didn’t know what to say. She had heard of the girls’ little hospital and pictured it as being clean and shiny, like a real one but in miniature. This was just a wreck.
‘Sad, isn’t it?’ Mairi said. ‘A few shells, a grenade or two and the whole place is flattened. It does well enough for us, though.’
Hearing Mairi’s motorcycle arrive, a small collection of cats and kittens ran over the rubble to greet her.
‘All yours?’ Poppy asked, counting twelve.
Mairi nodded. ‘They got left behind when their owners fled and we adopted them. Or they adopted us.’ She bent down to ruffle tabby fur. ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s fed them all day, because Elsie’s gone to London to try and raise more money for bandages and medicines. We’re frightfully hard up here, you see.’ She smiled at Poppy, who, despite being surprised at the paucity of the place, was still a little star-struck at meeting her. ‘I know you’re anxious to get back with the petrol, but would you like to see inside our little sanctuary?’
‘Oh, yes please!’ Poppy said.
As she spoke, there was an almighty bang as a shell exploded and, quite close to, a cloud of smoke rose into the air and slowly dissipated, leaving the distinct smell of cordite.
‘Aren’t you very near the front line?’ Poppy asked rather anxiously.
‘Quite near. Occasionally we get a rogue shell close to us, but not often.’
There were two men in Belgian Army uniform waiting on a bench by the front door. Mairi looked at a bad cut on the forehead of one of them and said, translating to Poppy afterwards, that she wouldn’t keep them too long. ‘They’ll wait all night if they have to,’ she said to her. ‘We’re open all hours.’
They walked down a dozen steps into the cellar. Here there was more order. Crates provided storage for plasters, bandages, iodine and basic medical essentials. There were further crates and pallets doing a turn as tables, stools, and (with cushions on top) chairs. In the room beyond, two single hospital-style beds could be seen, and there was also a padlocked steel cabinet containing, Poppy supposed, drugs and medication.
‘It’s all very basic, I’m afraid, but it’s bombproof,’ Mairi said. ‘Periodically we try and tidy up, but there’s no space to put anything, and the men come in and out all day treading mud, and the cats cause havoc.’ She picked up a small black and white cat. ‘This one, Maisie, is in charge. She teaches the others to sit on the beam above the door and jump on the head of whoever comes in.’
Poppy laughed.
‘Luckily the King was very good about it.’
‘The King?’ Poppy asked, astonished.
‘King Albert of the Belgians – he came to visit and thank us for the work we’re doing.’
‘Oh!’
‘Such a terribly nice man, and he didn’t seem to mind a bit about Maisie.’
‘Gosh! And what d’you do with yourselves when there are no patients to look after?’
‘We make soup for the boys, and take it down the lines,’ Mairi said. ‘Or if there are no vegetables to make soup with, we make vats of cocoa. Sometimes we go out and collect bodies. Or name tags from bodies, I should say,’ she added, seeing Poppy’s face. ‘Sometimes families have only heard that their boys are missing, so they keep hoping that they’re still alive. If we find a dead Tommy with a name tag then we let his people know what’s happened to him. It’s terribly sad, but finding out the truth can c
ome as a relief.’
‘But don’t you get shot at by the Germans?’
Mairi smiled. ‘We have an arrangement. When Elsie and I go out to the trenches we wear red headscarves, and that shows the German commander that it’s us and means they mustn’t fire.’
‘And can you trust them?’ Poppy asked incredulously.
‘Yes, we really can. It even gets quite jolly when we give out presents to our boys at Christmas or Easter. First we send over a nice message, tucked into the collar of our little dog, to say we’re coming, and we go out carrying a placard saying, All Germans are daft or something silly. And the Germans put out a notice saying, The English are bloody fools or some such thing. Then someone will write, Let’s all go home! or Make mine a pint! This makes everyone laugh and we’re all good chums. For a little while, at least,’ she added rather sadly.
‘And do you treat everything here?’
‘More or less.’ Mairi nodded. ‘Elsie’s a fully trained nurse, so we can deal with everything from boils to broken limbs. Mostly, though, we treat the everyday things that don’t quite merit a chap going into hospital.’ She bent down to pick up a kitten who was climbing up her leather-clad leg and smiled at Poppy. ‘But we’d better be getting on our way . . .’
Casino Hospital,
Nr Boulogne-sur-Mer,
France
23rd May 1916
Dearest Ma,
I think you must have read in the newspapers about those brave girls Elsie and Mairi and their little hospital. Well, I met Mairi today and I think it was even more of a thrill to see her than the Prince of Wales!
My next job is to find a moment to write to Billy. When I last heard from him he said he was waiting for a letter from you; have you written recently? I think he was concerned not to have had any word.
We are as busy as ever here with casualties from the front. Every man, every illness and every injury is different from the one that went before. You can have twenty men, each with a smashed-up leg, and they are all different types of injuries in different places, and so will differ in severity and subsequent treatment. In some cases the leg will have to come off up to the thigh, in others up to the knee will be enough, and in lucky ones the leg can be saved. It’s just a case of the doctors making the right decision in the time available.