The Glory Girls

by June Gadsby

  Gaston’s forehead creased slightly, then a wide grin spread over his face and he laughed.

  ‘I think I’m going to enjoy the journey, mesdames.’

  It wasn’t such a long journey in terms of miles, but it was slow because of the narrow, winding country roads and the fact that they could only drive with tiny slits in the heavily masked headlights. At one point Iris stopped the van at a crossroads and frowned at Gaston, who had instructed her to go straight on.

  ‘No, we go right here, surely,’ she said confidently. ‘Right, left, then straight on until we reach Rennes.’

  ‘You could be mistaken,’ Gaston said, a half quizzical smile showing beneath his moustache.

  ‘But she’s not,’ said Mary. ‘Is she?’

  There was a short hesitation, then the Frenchman shook his head. ‘Well done. I thought I might catch you out. They told me you were good, Ensign Morrison. I just didn’t appreciate how good. Right it is.’

  After a few miles they had to stop when one of the vans ended nose first in a roadside ditch, having skidded on a patch of mud. It took a while to locate the local farmer, who came to their rescue with a team of Percherons and a handful of farm workers. While they waited, the farmer’s wife gave them all a taste of home made red wine. It was so rough it almost stripped their tonsils, but they appreciated the gesture and the woman’s tears as she pleaded with them to help keep France free.

  ‘Mary?’ Gaston came to chat to her while they waited for the toppled van to be pulled back on to the road. ‘I may call you Mary?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Are you French or English, Gaston?’

  ‘We have to be adaptable in this job,’ he said, without really answering her question.

  ‘The Resistance?’

  ‘You know better than to ask.’

  ‘I don’t need to. I was told to expect contact from you as soon as we arrived in France.’

  ‘I see. Your French is excellent, by the way. Only a slight accent that could be taken for Belgian. Where did you learn the language?’

  ‘I had a private tutor,’ Mary told him, ‘and I spent a lot of time in France with her and a friend when we were children.’

  ‘Very convenient. And you speak German, too, I hear.’

  ‘Not fluently, but I can get along all right.’

  ‘That’s good, because the Poles tend to speak either Russian or German. I imagine you will be very popular with them. They don’t understand much English, yet they are destined for England, when we can get them out.’

  ‘How long will that take, do you know?’

  ‘Hard to tell. It could be weeks. On the other hand, if we’re unlucky, it might only be a matter of days.’

  ‘Always nice to hear good news!’ The words were muttered behind them and they spun around to find Effie standing there, her shoulders slumped and her hands deep in her pockets. ‘Couldn’t you think of anything better to greet us with?’

  Without waiting for a response, she marched off down the line of ambulances looking for her usual handout of cigarettes.

  ‘What a strange creature,’ said Gaston, himself drawing deeply on a strong-smelling Gauloise.

  ‘Effie’s all right,’ Mary told him, smiling fondly after the other girl. ‘I’d trust her with my life.’

  ‘She is so full of anger, that petite garce!’

  ‘That’s just her way. I suspect there’s a soft place deep down somewhere inside her heart. She just doesn’t like it to show. I suppose it makes her feel vulnerable.’

  ‘Are you always so understanding, Mary?’ He flicked the ash from his cigarette and picked a shred of tobacco from his tongue.

  Mary blinked at him, surprised at his words. ‘I didn’t realize I was being particularly understanding,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you are. I know now why they sent you.’

  ‘I’m trained in communications,’ she said with a little laugh. ‘There’s not much call for understanding when you’re dealing with dots and dashes.’

  ‘I think you’ll find you’ll be deployed among the refugees rather than wasting your talents behind a machine. I assume there are others in this unit who can handle Morse code?’

  ‘All of us, to some extent,’ she said and he looked impressed. ‘That, and driving and a bit of mechanical engineering. It was all very hurried, so we’re not what you might call experts, but we muddle through.’

  ‘And what about your friend?’ He was watching Iris through half-closed eyes. ‘Does she muddle through?’

  ‘Iris passed muster with higher grades than the rest of us when it came to driving and orienteering, as you’ve already noticed. She can’t add two and two, but she has a photographic memory.’

  ‘She’s afraid, but she copes with it well.’

  ‘We’re all scared, Gaston.’ Mary was beginning to get irritated with the mysterious man from the French Resistance. ‘We’d be fools if we weren’t. It’s what keeps us on our toes.’

  ‘But you’re not scared,’ Gaston flashed her a look, then turned back to study Iris. ‘Neither is the little spitfire you call Effie … but Ensign Iris …’

  He sucked air through his teeth and shook his head. Mary felt her hackles rise slightly.

  ‘As you yourself indicated,’ she said quickly, ‘people aren’t always what they seem. Don’t worry about Iris. She can function, even through her fear.’

  ‘Well, we shall see.’ Gaston threw his cigarette down and extinguished it with his heel. ‘Come on. The van has been returned to the road.’

  The small column of vans and ambulances bearing the sign of the Red Cross as well as the insignia of the FANYs, set off once again. This time, Gaston placed himself between Mary and Iris, which might have been coincidental, or strategic planning on his part. Mary wasn’t sure, but when he placed an arm behind Iris’s back, she saw her friend’s cheeks glow surprisingly pink as the dawn light crept over the land.

  The Polish holding camp south of Rennes, just outside the town of Coetquidan, was one of several based in Brittany. There were, nevertheless, over a hundred Polish refugees housed there. At first sight of the fragile, emaciated creatures who stood or sat outside their Army issue huts, the FANY unit felt profound shock.

  ‘Eeh, gawd, look at them,’ Effie exclaimed in a horrified whisper, for it would have been unseemly to speak out loud about the state of these men who watched them with gaping mouths and staring, haunted eyes.

  ‘We’ve heard about their suffering,’ Mary said, her voice hoarse with emotion, ‘but I never thought it would be as bad as this.’

  ‘Are they sick?’ Iris asked and Gaston shook his head.

  ‘Not in the way you mean,’ he said. ‘They are sick with fear and exhaustion and loneliness, just like every soldier who has been removed from his homeland and dropped behind enemy lines. That goes for the German soldiers too. They are not all Nazis, you know. Don’t ever forget that.’

  ‘What will happen to these men?’

  ‘They will stay here until Britain decides to move them. They have refused to retreat and give themselves up to the Germans. They would rather die first.’

  ‘Brave men,’ Mary said.

  Gaston gave a nod. ‘Yes. Britain can make use of them, if we can get them over the Channel.’

  Mary gulped back the question that rose like a lump in her throat. Did that mean, she wondered, that there was a risk that the Poles would not make it to England? And if that were so, what of the FANY units that were now here, supposedly to make things better for them? Would they, too, be trapped like rats in a cage?

  The girls were shown to a long, corrugated-iron shack that would have housed ten comfortably, but they were nearer to twenty women and beds had been pushed together so closely that there was hardly any room to walk around them.

  There was a Major Moorcroft in charge, who welcomed them apologetically to their cramped quarters, then handed them over to a sergeant who explained the workings of the camp, where everything was to be found and, lastly, instructed t
hem on how to light the wood-burning stove that stood in the centre of the building.

  ‘She’s a temperamental bitch, this one, but a good kick in the arse … beggin’ yer pardon, ladies … usually does the trick.’

  ‘That works with men, too,’ Effie said, which raised a laugh, especially when the sergeant’s mouth dropped open as he took a good look at who had spoken.

  ‘Gawd luv us! I ain’t seen no FANY like you, luv. They usually talks posh like a lot of Princess Elizabeths.’

  ‘Well, if Princess Elizabeth had been born in Gateshead, she might talk like me an’ all.’

  ‘You, I’ve got to get to know.’ The soldier rocked on his heavy boots and grinned from ear to ear.

  ‘Don’t bank on that, hinny,’ Effie said, two rosy spots appearing on her cheeks, but there was the hint of a smile. ‘Cheeky bugger.’

  ‘So, Sergeant,’ Iris had stepped forward before Effie could start a slanging match, ‘now that we’re here, what do you want us to do?’

  ‘Basically, it’s household stuff. And a bit of social life for the Poles. You know what I mean…?’

  ‘If he means what I think he means, I’m off.’ Effie’s smile had been replaced by a thunderous expression and her bony elbow was digging into Mary’s ribs. ‘I might be common as muck, me, but I’m no flamin’ whore.’

  The sergeant looked taken aback, then embarrassed as he realized how his words had been misconstrued.

  ‘Nah, I didn’t mean that kind of thing! ’Course I didn’t. We’ve got a gramophone and a few records, but fellas dancing wiv other fellas isn’t kosher, like. Not even where the Poles are concerned. The major … it was his idea, so don’t go blamin’ me … thought it might be a good idea to organize some kind of dance … or concert. Boost morale, sort of thing. Does anybody here speak Polish?’

  There was a deathly hush as Iris looked at each girl in turn and they all shook their heads.

  ‘German’s not my favourite language at the moment,’ said the sergeant, ‘but some of these soldiers speak it. And Russian.’

  ‘Well, I can speak some German.’ Mary spoke out and three others said they could too, but no one spoke Russian.

  ‘Right,’ said Iris, squaring her shoulders and looking as if she meant business; she was obviously enjoying her new role as the acting CO. ‘Let’s split ourselves up into groups. Some of you on the domestics … cleaning and cooking and the likes. Others, like West here, and you three … Hart, Marshall and Waring … conversation, writing of letters etc., We were all briefed on what would be required before we left England, so let’s get to it.’

  ‘Hang about a bit.’ The sergeant held up his hands, then pointed at Effie. ‘You … the poisoned dwarf. What can you do, eh?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I do a good job of laying out dead bodies,’ Effie answered him and he did a double take.

  ‘Yes, well …’ The soldier’s face twisted and he scratched his head as he stared at Effie in disbelief. ‘That could come in handy, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, but make sure you don’t lie down when she’s around,’ shouted out one of the girls. ‘She’ll have you embalmed quicker than you can say “cor blimey”.’

  ‘Might improve his looks,’ said another.

  ‘All right, all right, that’s enough!’ Iris clapped her hands and her unit jumped smartly to attention, but the smiles were still evident; Iris Morrison was well-liked, despite her northern accent. ‘We have our work cut out. I suggest we start straight away by going around and getting to know the Polish soldiers. Shut up, Donaldson!’

  ‘I nivvor said a word, me!’ Effie’s eyes widened to their full innocence.

  ‘No, but you were going to,’ Iris said, her mouth twitching at the corners. ‘I could hear the rust stirring in your brain.’

  ‘Eeh, I don’t know,’ Effie said with a grumpy sniff. ‘She’s always gettin’ at us, that one.’

  ‘Just say “Yes, Morrison”, Effie,’ Mary said, prodding her from behind.

  ‘Wot? Oh, aye …. I mean, yes, Morrison. I’ll go and give Joe a bit of spit and polish.’ Effie looked at the sergeant, who was scratching his head and looking perplexed. ‘That’s me bike, just so you don’t get any wrong ideas.’

  It was to be Effie’s job to transport messages between camps, by far the most reliable method of communication. The old Norton was still going strong, despite its delapidated state. She couldn’t bear to be parted from it, and had even named it after her dead brother who had owned it before her. Joe had been her favourite brother. A bit of a rough diamond, by all accounts, but as gentle as a lamb with Effie, which was more than could be said for the other men in the family, including her father, who treated the corpses he encountered with more respect than the women in his life.

  Mary and the three other girls who spoke some German divided the soldiers between them, which meant they had, on average, twenty-five men each. She found, disappointingly, that most of the men spoke Russian, but only a handful were fluent in German.

  One, a major, spoke some English, though it was with difficulty because he had a bad stammer and seemed inordinately shy. The unit had been in the camp only a few days when he approached Mary’s table, where she had set up a kind of outdoor office, the weather being so warm and fine.

  Jan Berwinski was thirty years old and came from a small town called Poznan. He had pale blond hair and clear blue eyes and was the tallest of all the Polish soldiers in the camp. He must have been handsome once, but the war had taken its toll, lining his face and giving him that terrible, haunted regard that all the men here had, even when they smiled. Laughter was rare. Somehow, they didn’t seem to have the strength for it.

  Although Major Berwinski was not in Mary’s section, coming from the opposite end of the camp, he gravitated towards her on every possible occasion. He even found enough courage to dance with her when the FANYs organized a social gathering on the first Saturday after their arrival. She had felt him shaking like a leaf against her through his heavy uniform, his face red, his brow glistening. At first, he didn’t even try to speak to her, but as the evening wore on his nervousness abated. When the dance came to an end, the major introduced himself and asked, with the utmost politeness, if he could come and see her sometime.

  She had been a little hesitant, not wishing to offend Waring, in whose section he was. However, Elizabeth Waring seemed to have her hands full with soldiers who spoke neither English nor German, so Mary agreed, and the young Pole looked very relieved.

  Mary looked up now from her letter writing at the sound of a throat being cleared. It was a small, self-conscious sound, so it was no surprise to her to find Major Berwinski standing a few yards from her table. She had set up her station beneath the spreading branches of a huge oak-tree since the sun was particularly hot that afternoon.

  ‘Hello, Major Berwinski.’ She smiled at him. ‘Did you want to see me about something?’

  ‘I … I … yes … I …’ He took a couple of faltering steps forward, then stopped. ‘You have w-work … yes? M-m-much w-work?’

  Mary put down her pen and pushed the pile of papers she was working on aside. She had been transcribing her own notes, taken down from the soldiers, and turning them into official documents so that the Poles could be more easily assessed and registered when they were eventually transferred to England. It had been a slow and exacting task, extracting the required information from the men in order to trace their families and their military and medical backgrounds.

  ‘I’m not too busy to talk to you, Major,’ she said, beckoning to him. ‘Please … sit down.’

  He nodded and slid thankfully into a rickety, farmhouse chair that creaked beneath his weight. Mary smiled and waited. She knew better than to try and force these men to speak about their problems. Already it was painfully obvious that even the fittest among them were psychologically bruised; a condition that was as debilitating as any physical injury.

  ‘I talk with you … Miss…?’ He spread his ha
nds, indicating with embarrassment that he had forgotten her name, which wasn’t surprising, given the number of new English people they had been thrown together with over the last few days.

  ‘My name is Mary,’ she said and saw his eyes light up.

  ‘Mary? Ja! Is name of my woman in Poznan. Maria she is called. Look!’

  The inevitable wallet full of photographs from home came out and, with hands that shook somewhat, Jan Berwinski spread his life in black-and-white images on the table before her. Mary picked up one photograph of a pretty young woman with fair hair, which hung over her shoulder in a long plait.

  ‘Is this your wife?’ she asked. ‘Maria?’

  ‘Ja … and this … my … how you say … kinder…?’

  ‘Children.’

  ‘Ja … children. Danke.’

  He pushed a small snapshot towards her. It showed two small children playing in the sunlight by a twinkling river. They were smiling happily up into the camera. The little girl was barely two years old.

  ‘Oh, they’re lovely, Jan. You must miss them a lot.’

  ‘I wait to hear news, but n-nothing …’ He swallowed with difficulty and gazed off into the distance. ‘I fear for them.’

  ‘How long is it since you saw them, Jan?’

  ‘Is eight months. If I go to England … I do not know when I see them again.’ He sucked in a great gulping breath and wiped a hand over his eyes. ‘I go now. You work …’

  ‘Jan, no … just a minute …’ Mary stood with him, went around the table and took hold of his hand, squeezing it and trying to give this poor man some of her own inner strength. ‘Why did you come to talk to me?’

  He shook his head. With a brief sweep of his arm he indicated the whole camp stretching out before them.

  ‘I s-speak badly …. I cannot speak with them … the others. With you, Mary, I do not speak badly. With you I speak like normal person.’

  Mary gave him a warm smile and dropped his hand. She had noticed how his stammer had quickly abated each time they had spoken together.

  ‘You can come and talk to me any time, Jan.’