The Glory Girls
Page 18
‘What the hell…?’ Alex was half out of the car, but Grundy jumped down before him.
‘I’ll see what’s going on, shall I, sir?’
Before Alex could stop him, the orderly was running down the column to the leading vehicles. Beside him, Alex felt Grace give an involuntary shudder. Throughout the whole journey she had remained silent, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap. He reached out and gripped her wrist, noticing how cold she was, despite the warmth of the summer night.
‘Are you all right, Grace?’
‘Yes … yes, I’m fine.’ It was such a small, weak voice and not at all the voice of the strong-willed, efficient nursing sister he had come to know.
‘We’re all a bit jittery,’ he said with a sympathetic smile. ‘Soon be over now.’
He could see Grundy sprinting back to the car. The orderly was breathless by the time he skidded to a halt, but he looked excited, so it had to be good news rather than the bad they had expected.
‘It’s all right, sir. The fires are ours. Brits and Canadian, so I’m told. They’re demobilizing all the lorries and the cars and setting fire to the fuel. The Jerries are just behind us, but the beaches are only a mile away. Anyway, we’ve got orders from the Beach Master to get the ambulances through to the wharf. Most of the troops have gone ahead on foot. They say there are columns of them stretching right up from the water’s edge.’
‘All right, Grundy.’ Alex nodded with a wry smile. ‘Let’s not waste time. Get these ambulances moving.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The orderly grinned broadly and did his mock salute, which he had picked up from a Canadian airman they had treated for burns. The airman had had one good finger remaining on his right hand, with which he insisted on saluting as best he could.
It was a matter of minutes before they reached the quay where the wounded were to be picked up by the bigger rescue ships. There were good-hearted grumbles and a few groans as the walking wounded stepped down from the ambulances, some of them supporting or carrying the more severely wounded.
‘Come on, you lazy lot.’ Grundy’s voice could be heard over the mumble of hushed voices. ‘On yer feet, them as can. Them as can’t … crawl! You’re used to that, aren’t you?’
‘He’s a good man,’ Grace Forsyth said at Alex’s side.
‘None better,’ Alex replied, then gave her a curious look. ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’
‘Maybe I’ve had reason to change my mind,’ Grace said, then rubbed her hands up and down her arms with a shiver.
Alex nodded and studied the lines and the shadows on her face. She had become very thin over the last few weeks, and yet she had never fallen down on her duties. He liked her a lot, but there was always something he felt she was hiding from him, something mysterious lurking in those dreamy, faraway eyes of hers.
‘Organize your nurses, Sister.’ He gave the order, but the tone of his voice was gentle.
‘Yes, Captain Craig.’
By the time the command came down the line to start towards a grey hospital ship cagily docking, they were ready. And none too soon, for there was a growl of plane engines and a squadron of German Stukas came screaming over their heads, strafing the beaches and the quay with bullets.
Whole columns of men dived for cover as sand and sea were scuffed up in explosive bursts. Some of the men did not get up again. All Alex could do was watch helplessly and thank God for those who remained unharmed. He could see, mirrored on every face, the turbulent emotions that were going on in his own heart. The hopes, the fears of the men around him, and excitement mingled with terror.
‘I’ll bring up the rear, Captain Craig, sir,’ Grundy shouted in his ear.
‘What about the vehicles?’
‘The lads from the RACO will see to all that as soon as we’re clear. By all accounts the Jerries aren’t far behind. Either that or they’re using ruddy cannons to shoot the sparrows.’
‘Let’s hope our boys have a few cannons to keep them at bay until we get everybody on to the boat.’
‘Yes, sir.’ They both ducked as the Stukas turned and strafed the wharf and the beaches yet again, but this time there was return fire from the ground and two of the aircraft burst into flames, coming down a few miles inshore.
‘I hate to think what chance the men on the beaches have in this,’ Alex said.
Grundy blinked and gave a huge gulp. ‘It’s every man for himself, sir, once they get into the water. The boats don’t have time to hang about. It’s going to be tough, sir.’
‘Medic! We need a medic back here!’ The cry echoed out from a hundred yards up the beach as the sound of the remaining aircraft engines faded.
Alex looked about him and decided that he was probably the only qualified doctor within range of the group of men gathered about a prostrate figure.
‘You can’t go back there now,’ Grundy complained, seeing what was going through Alex’s mind. ‘Come on, Captain Craig, sir. If you miss this chance you might never get out of this bloody country.’
‘I don’t like it any more than you, Grundy, but I have no choice,’ said Alex, then he thumped the orderly on the shoulder in a friendly gesture. ‘And Grundy … in case I don’t make it in time, I want you to know that I couldn’t have got through all this without you. Thank you, for everything.’
‘Oh, gawd, sir, don’t say that!’ Grundy’s eyes glistened in the dark, lit up by the distant fires. ‘You’ll make it, Captain. We’ll all make it. Even him.’
Alex looked over his shoulder to see the staggering figure of Private Walter Morgan wandering past with arms outstretched like a sleepwalker, mumbling things about the seaside, his mother and his bucket and spade. And then he cried out a name and a ghostly hand traced an icy line down Alex’s spine.
‘Mary! I’m coming, Mary.’
Grundy grabbed hold of the confused soldier and guided him back on to the breakwater.
‘Go on, sunshine,’ he shouted, giving Walter a push in the right direction. ‘Straight ahead.’
‘Look after yourself, Grundy,’ Alex called out.
‘See you on the other side, sir,’ came Grundy’s voice from behind as he now made his way to the rear of the line.
Alex headed off towards the men calling for a medic and found them grouped around a young private with a gaping wound in his stomach.
‘You got to save him, sir,’ one of the men said. ‘He’s me brother.’
There was little that Alex could do but close the lad’s eyes and watch as a group of grown men cried real tears over their comrade-in-arms.
As he walked back to the wharf, he could see Grace struggling beneath the weight of a soldier walking with one leg and a crutch. Alex was about to go to her aid, thinking she would never make it, but at that moment she was joined by a bulky soldier with only one arm, who still had enough strength to take the weight of his compatriot.
Despite the number of troops still clambering up and over the dunes in front of him, Alex was aware that an uncanny silence had fallen. Between him and the oily black sea, there was little movement as men crouched together in organized columns, ready to get into the water the minute the boats came into view. Through the darkness, he could hear groans and coughs and vague mutterings. The next few hours were going to be the longest of all their lives, he was sure, but there was little choice. He would do what he could to help and direct the newly wounded to the wharf where they could join the long queue slowly moving on to the boats.
An hour or two later – he had lost track of time – there was a change in the atmosphere. There were subdued cheers and a surge forward as the last remaining men on the beaches saw the heartening sight of a small flotilla of boats approaching with the first silvery rays of morning light. At the same time the hospital ship was sliding slowly out into the Channel with its precious cargo.
Moving carefully along the lines, carrying out basic first aid where it was necessary, Alex was suddenly aware of a familiar figure stumbling down the beach towards h
im. It was Grundy. The idiot had stayed behind after all. He was carrying on his back a young soldier bigger than himself with bandaged eyes and bandaged stumps where his feet should have been.
‘You’ll never make it, Grundy,’ Alex said, striding alongside the younger man. ‘Save yourself, man!’
‘We don’t know that we won’t make it until it’s all over, sir,’ Grundy replied, his face and neck running with perspiration from the effort he was having to put into his impossible task.
‘There are others. You can’t save them all.’
‘Yes, sir, I know. I had to make a decision. This fellow got my vote. He lied about his age. I’d like to think we could help him see his eighteenth birthday, even if he won’t be able to see or dance to celebrate it.’
‘Grundy, has anybody told you that you’re one crazy fool?’
Grundy gave a sheepish grin and nodded. ‘Aye, sir. More times than I care to remember.’
‘I don’t want to lose you, Grundy.’
‘Don’t you bother yourself none about me, Captain Craig. Only the good die young, as my old granny used to say. She said that as she buried me grandad. He was ninety-five and I take after him, apparently.’
Alex smiled and saluted Grundy smartly, his throat too tight to speak. He watched the private struggle down to the shoreline where columns of men were wading out into the water towards the boats that looked as if they weren’t fit for anything more than hauling fish.
The evacuation had been quite orderly, until it became obvious that there would not be sufficient space in the boats for all the troops who were left. Panic was breaking out in pockets all along the beaches. It was a heartbreaking sight that would have moved any man to tears, but there was no time to stop and weep. Alex looked about him frantically, his eyes searching for Grace Forsyth, sure that she must still be there somewhere. She, like Grundy, had stayed behind and was not, he was sure, on the hospital boat with her patients. He couldn’t afford to spend time looking for her. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
He could see men wading out into the water, swimming towards the first boats where helping hands were waiting to drag them aboard. Grundy passed him at a lunging gallop, the young injured soldier still riding on his back.
‘Come on, sir,’ the orderly shouted. ‘It’s now or never.’
Alex took one last look around him. Men were still streaming over the sand-dunes, heading for the beaches and the lapping waves. They wouldn’t all make it. They would have to stay behind and take their chances with the Germans. He started forward, his natural instinct to save his own life, even while he felt guilty for doing so.
He plunged into the briny water, feeling the thrust and suck of the waves rising to his knees, dragging him into the surging tide. He collided with a figure that was floundering up to his waist in water and shouting that he couldn’t swim. Alex recognized Mary’s fiancé, Walter Morgan.
‘What the hell are you doing back here, Morgan?’
Walter stared at him vaguely, but his eyes no longer seemed to register anything. He kept shaking his head and beating the water with his fists.
‘Can’t s-swim! C-can’t swim!’
‘If you’d stayed with the rest of the unit you wouldn’t have had to swim, you idiot!’ Alex bellowed in the private’s ear. ‘Why the blazes didn’t you stay in line?’
He knew that anything he said to the man was useless. Morgan was beyond comprehension of any kind. Alex took hold of the man’s shoulders and gave him a shake, then pushed him towards the milling broth of bodies in the water just as more German aircraft started strafing the beach. ‘Go, go, go!’
Walter clung to him as they advanced further into the sea, his face stricken with terror. Alex could feel the man trembling as if he had an engine inside him running on full throttle. If he weren’t careful, Morgan would drown them both.
With one hand clasping the private’s collar, Alex struck out, heading for what appeared to be the last boat, a fishing-smack by the look of it, with men on board calling urgently that they could wait no longer. A net was thrown down for them to haul themselves up. He saw Grundy up ahead trying to climb it with his heavy cargo clinging around his neck. Arms stretched out to reach him, but as the orderly reached the boat’s undulating rail, a shell sang past Alex’s ear and found its target. Grundy and the young boy fell backward without a sound and Alex knew they were already dead before they hit the water.
Private Morgan was still clinging on, restricting Alex’s movements. Alex kicked out with his feet, holding on to the man with both hands now. Walter was swallowing water and gagging, and when he wasn’t doing that he was mumbling incoherently, all the effects of his shellshock rushing back to take him in its grip.
Alex’s strength was waning, but the boat was within reach and he heaved Walter towards it. A fisherman leaned over and pulled the semi-conscious soldier on board, then was coming back for Alex, but Alex felt himself pushed aside and felt a fist drive itself into his midriff.
Winded, Alex sank down and swallowed a mouthful of the choppy sea before fighting his way back to the surface in time to see the boat drift away out of his reach. The last man on board the fishing-smack, the one who had fought to take his place, was hanging over the rail, and as he lifted his head, Alex saw that it was Forbes, who had murdered the young German soldier in his care.
The man pulled back his lips in an evil sneer, then something exploded very close. Alex felt an indescribable pain, and the world retreated.
CHAPTER NINE
IT was the middle of June when the order came for the Polish soldiers to be moved north and on to England. It was no longer safe to remain where they were. Thousands of troops had already been rescued from the Dunkirk beaches. Now it was their turn to be taken off from St Malo.
With the vans and ambulances loaded up with the displaced Poles, the cortège made its way quickly in the direction of the sea, taking the shortest route possible. Almost at the outset, the Army contingent of officers in charge found themselves in trouble. A bomb from a lone Stuka hit the rear vehicle, killing all on board. Then the leading truck, carrying the CO and his driver, broke an axle and went off the road. Both men were badly injured as a result. It was therefore down to the FANYs, led by Iris and Mary, to find a way through on their own, leading a band of men who, if captured, would almost certainly be shot or incarcerated in Nazi concentration camps.
Mary didn’t like to think what could happen to the twenty FANYs in the unit if capture did come about. She knew that all the girls must be doing their best to think positive. It was what they did best when there was nothing left to do.
Beside her, Iris was shedding perspiration like water as she took the lead, manoeuvring her vehicle over rough terrain and narrow, winding roads. Mary put her trust in Iris’s ability to remember the network of French roads she had been required to memorize, but even Iris’s photographic memory was beginning to flag in such stressful conditions.
‘We’re not lost, are we?’
Effie leaned over the back of Mary’s seat and peered out through the mud-spattered windscreen. The wipers were almost impotent against the driving rain, and the road they were on had turned into a river of mud some miles back, so that the worn tyres of the ambulances were in danger of skidding if they did not progress with care.
Iris slowed down to a stop and applied the handbrake with both hands as though she had no strength left. Exhausted or not they all knew that they couldn’t afford to waste time. Their orders were to get to a small fleet of fishing boats just off St Malo, and time was of the essence.
Gaston Frébus had told them that the German lines were closing in fast. He escorted them as far as Rennes, then reluctantly said goodbye.
‘I can’t go any further with you,’ he had said, speaking softly, his eyes fixed on Iris. ‘I’m needed elsewhere.’
‘But Gaston …’ Iris started to speak, but the Frenchman touched a finger to his lips, his eyes wandering fleetingly over to Mary.
He kissed the tips of his fingers and touched them to Iris’s trembling lips. Mary saw tears form and glisten on Iris’s eyelashes, saw the tensing of her cheek muscles. She looked away and when she looked back, Gaston was gone, blending with the darkness that enveloped them. Iris’s wretchedness at their separation was like a palpable aura all around her.
Mary wanted to say something comforting, but what could she say that would make Iris feel better? Gaston was going back underground with his Resistance fighters. His chances of coming out of the war alive were minimal. Come to that, Mary thought, their own chances weren’t all that good if they messed up and didn’t reach St Malo in time. Or, worse, got captured by the Germans.
‘Hey, what’s up with her?’ Effie demanded with an unaccustomed anxious edge to her voice.
Mary looked at Iris, who had slumped in her seat, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she wept copiously. It was the first time she had ever seen Iris in tears, but love, as she well knew, did strange things to the emotions. Things that very often ran out of control, even in the coldest of hearts.
‘I’m sorry,’ Iris sobbed. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just … I just can’t go on …’
Mary put an arm about her shoulders and hugged briefly. Her throat contracted and her heart squeezed and wanted to break. On the outside, however, Mary knew that she had to be strong enough for all of them.
‘Come on, Iris. This is not the time to go soft on us. Plenty time for that when we get back to England.’
‘I can’t help it, Mary.’ Iris swiped frantically at her tears and blinked through red-rimmed eyes at the dark road ahead. ‘I can’t remember any of it. It … it’s all gone. All the roads … they look the same. I don’t know whether we’re going north or south or … or in any direction. I’m sorry!’
‘Aw, gawd,’ growled Effie. ‘This is a fine pickle we’re in and no mistake.’