by June Gadsby
Mary jumped out, aware of eyes watching curiously as the drivers of the vehicles behind pulled up and waited anxiously.
‘Move over, Iris.’ She barked out the order and, after a small hesitation, Iris slid into the passenger seat and Mary took the wheel.
She started the motor, glancing up at the dark, velvety sky with its sprinkling of stars. Directly overhead, the Milky Way could be clearly seen, like a powdery, muslin veil.
‘Gaston said it was a straight route from here, so that’s what we’re going to take.’
‘Just a minute,’ Effie said. ‘What if I get on me bike and ride on ahead. If I come up against a problem I can double back.’
‘Do you have sufficient fuel, Effie?’ Mary asked, not at all sure whether it was a good idea or a bad one, but she was open to any suggestion, since her navigational prowess was not terribly sound.
‘Aye.’ Effie nodded, already clambering through the van at the back and unchaining her beloved motorbike where it was fixed for safety. ‘Enough until it runs out, anyway. By then we should be where we’re headed.’
‘You’re a brick, Effie!’
‘Aye. Bricks for brains, me ma used to say. Just like our poor Joe. A lot of good it did him, didn’t it?’
‘Be careful, Effie.’
‘Aw, gan on. It’ll give us something to do. Better than sittin’ here bitin’ me nails while you two twiddle yer thumbs.’
They saw her cheeky grin as she rode past the van, the sound of the motorbike engine disappearing into the distance. Mary followed, keeping in a straight line, heading due north. Twenty minutes later, Effie appeared again, giving the thumbs up.
‘We’re all right for the next ten miles,’ she said and was off again.
And that was how the unit managed to find its way to the harbour of St Malo. It wasn’t too difficult a journey after all, though later, all the girls admitted that they hardly breathed the whole way.
On Effie’s last trip she arrived back breathless, her eyes shining with hope and enthusiasm. ‘I’ve seen the sea!’
‘Marvellous, Effie! How far, would you say?’
‘Only a few minutes. The moon came out just as I got there and I could see small boats just sitting there, bobbing in the water.’
‘Let’s get going then,’ Mary said. ‘Effie, pass the word back that we’re almost through. It’ll be good for morale.’
‘Aye.’ Effie touched a finger to her forehead and revved up her bike. ‘Then I’ll ride on and make sure they know we’re coming. I’d hate to have them go without us.’
It was the typical, fatal last ride. They drove up over a rise, then started down the other side where the road was clogged with mud. Mary saw Effie veer off to the left, taking a short cut down on to the beach. She was halfway there and men were beginning to appear, emerging from the dinghies and rowing boats that were lined up at the water’s edge. A couple of them waved. Then it happened.
Effie must have hit something. She and her bike were thrown high into the air before coming crashing back to earth. The explosion that followed lit up the beach and shook the ground beneath the vehicles following, their wheels sinking into the soft sand. Mary, her heart heavy and hollow, sat behind her wheel and watched the scene, not believing what she had just witnessed. Iris whimpered uncontrollably beside her.
The fishermen had things under control by the time the FANY unit and the Polish soldiers assembled around their vehicles. One of them called out in French and it was some time before Mary could bring herself to answer him.
‘All right, everybody,’ she shouted after a brief discourse; pale faces turned her way, eyes wide and staring, mouths trembling. ‘Make your way to the boats as quickly as possible.’
‘Oh, Mary!’ Iris said, her voice a hoarse whisper. ‘Poor Effie! What happened? What was it?’
‘They have no idea, but he says she’s still alive,’ Mary told her, desperately trying to keep her emotions under control. ‘She’s badly hurt, but she’s still alive. Come on. Let’s get her.’
‘Get her? But how badly is she hurt?’
‘I don’t care, Iris. I’m not leaving Effie behind.’
‘I will help!’
Mary hadn’t seen him in the confusion, but there was Major Jan Berwinski and two of his comrades beside her, looking in the direction of the heap of smouldering black metal that had once been so much a part of Effie. They ran forward to where the fishermen were staring down at Effie’s still body. Using a fisherman’s waterproof jacket as a makeshift stretcher, they carried the injured girl carefully.
‘Bloody Nora!’ Effie’s pain-racked cry could be heard half-way along the beach, but it had strength and instilled hope in all of them.
‘Vite, vite!’ The Frenchmen urged, beckoning and herding everybody in the direction of the boats.
No one needed to be told a second time. Dinghies were already filling up and setting off towards larger vessels lying further out to sea. Mary pushed Iris towards the nearest boat where an elderly fisherman pulled them aboard and sat them down amidst ropes and nets stinking of fish. Jan and his companion gently passed Effie over into Mary’s arms and pushed the boat off, jumping in themselves at the very last minute.
Effie groaned slightly and Mary could see that she was in a lot of pain. She held her close and saw Effie’s eyes flicker open.
‘Gawd, what a fuckin’ awful smell! I hate fish, me!’
‘Effie Donaldson, stop complaining and watch your language. For once in your life just lie still and let us get you safely home.’
‘What about me bike?’ Effie was so traumatized she had forgotten to swear.
‘Never mind your bike. What about you?’
‘It hurts, Mary,’ Effie whispered back through clenched teeth. ‘Eeh, dear God, it hurts.’
‘I know, Effie.’ Mary held the girl as best she could, trying not to cause her more pain than was necessary. ‘I know. This is going to be rough, but you’ve got to hold on.’
‘Aye, Mary. I’ll hold on …’
Effie gripped Mary’s hand. Her eyes closed, she gave a grimace of pain and her head dropped back as she lost consciousness. It was best that way.
Alex was aware of being in a different place at a different time. Things were a little confused in his head, as if he were walking through the blurry veils of a bad dream. A dream he was anxious to be rid of, yet he was afraid of what he would wake up to. He remembered the thud of the bullets that had hit him, recalled the pain, then the salt water washing over him, his body being carried this way and that by the surging tide.
Before he passed out completely, there was the sensation of hands grappling with his clothing, pulling him out of the water, through the clinging sand. Then there was nothing. Only a black, mindless floating with hollow, distant voices, first loud, then fading into nothingness.
He was unaware of how long this state had lasted, but now there was movement beneath him, and all around. The air went from warm and stale to cool and fresh. There was the purring of an engine and a vibrating that rattled his bones. There was pain, but it was masked by his half-conscious state. He held on to the dream as long as he could, slipping in and out of it over a long period of time that could have been hours or days, or even weeks.
He awoke at last to muffled voices that echoed strangely in his ears. The air was now cold and dank and he was shivering convulsively beneath a thin, coarse covering, lying on a hard surface. There were men’s voices, low and mumbling, then a woman spoke his name.
‘Can you hear me, Alex?’
‘Mary?’
He called out her name, thinking that he was still dreaming that he was back in England, walking hand in hand with Mary West, and his heart was light and happy and full of love. It wasn’t the first time he had dreamed of Mary. Sometimes, though, someone else was there in the dream with him, walking away, never looking back, fading into the distance.
Please don’t leave me, Mary!
Someone was gripping his shoulder, shaking it
slightly. He heard himself groan, though the sound seemed to come from another world. His hand, when he lifted it to his forehead, weighed a ton, while his head was light and spinning dizzily.
‘Where am I?’
‘Oh, Alex, thank God!’
His eyelids were sticky. They didn’t want to open. He rubbed at them with fingers that seemed only vaguely his. At last his eyes were open, but all he could see was shadowy darkness. He turned his head and was blinded by a light coming down a long tunnel, bringing with it a cool breeze and the smell of the countryside.
His eyes closed again and he drifted off, but awoke to someone taking his pulse. Alex squinted through slits and saw an oil lamp on a rustic oak table. It was shedding amber light into a rustic room that was largely wattle and daub and smelled of generations of country living. He tried to rise on his elbows, but a firm hand pressed him back into his pillow.
‘You must rest for now,’ the voice belonging to the cool fingers said, then he turned his head to look at her, knowing now who she was.
‘Grace! What’s happening? What are you doing here? Where are we?’
‘Later. Go to sleep now.’
‘Sleep? I feel as if I’ve been asleep for a hundred years.’
‘Well, not quite as long as that.’ Grace smiled sadly. ‘You’ve been in a coma, Alex. We dug two bullets out of you. One in your hip and another in your shoulder, but the real damage was done by the shrapnel that got awfully close to your brain.’
‘In that case, I’m lucky to be alive, but …’ Once more Grace held him down as he tried to rise, the look on her face telling him that she didn’t exactly agree with what he had just said.
Someone spoke from the shadows and Grace glanced over her shoulder, but she didn’t reply. She touched the back of her hand to Alex’s cheek, then started bathing his face.
‘I persuaded them to bring you with us,’ she was saying in a low voice. ‘They didn’t want the responsibility, but when I told them you were a doctor, they agreed to get you to a safe house where your medical skills will be much needed. That’s the best I can do, Alex.’
Alex frowned, trying to make sense of what she was saying, then the truth dawned on him.
‘They are Resistance fighters?’ he asked and saw a glint in her eyes as she started sponging down his body. ‘If that’s the case, then you must be…?’
‘I’m nobody, Alex,’ she said. ‘And tomorrow you must forget that you ever saw me. Lives depend upon it. I was your nursing sister and perished on the beach at Dunkirk, along with so many others.’
It was another few days before Alex felt some strength seeping back into his body. On the fourth day, Grace bade him farewell.
‘Tomorrow, they will take you to a safe house,’ she said. ‘I can’t come with you, Alex.’
‘Where will you go?’ he asked, watching her restless movements as she paced the earthen floor in front of him.
For reply, she gave a small shake of her head and rubbed her upper arms as if she were cold, though the room was hot and airless.
The next morning she was gone and Alex was on the move again, lying beneath a dirty tarpaulin that smelled of pigs or sheep. He was wedged in among sacks of vegetables. There was the clip-clop sound of a plodding horse and a low rumble of French conversation. He stirred, but heard a quick warning.
‘Non, monsieur. C’est trop dangereux. Restez là.’ It was a deep, male voice, thick with a regional accent that he did not recognize.
They stopped the cart some miles down the road at the edge of a forest and allowed him to sit up. Which was when he realized he had been stripped of his uniform and dressed in rough country clothes that gave off as much smell as the tarpaulin. The men driving the cart in which he was riding looked like farmers, but he guessed they were members of the newly formed French underground movement.
One of them gave a wide grin and pointed across the valley that was opening up before them. In the distance there was a chateau. The man nodded, then indicated that Alex should hunker back down out of sight. He gave a click of his tongue and the old horse started up again.
Alex was surprised to find that they had brought him right up to the chateau, where they were greeted loudly by an elderly French couple and a group of excitedly yapping dogs. There was a loud conversation, but there were also a few words conducted in guarded whispers. Suddenly the tarpaulin was whipped off and one of the Frenchmen pointed to a sack of cabbages and jerked his head towards a large shed to the side of the chateau.
Alex wasn’t sure that his legs would support him, but he lost no time in grabbing the sack, limping, staggering with it to the shed, where another man was waiting.
‘Take off your clothes,’ the man ordered in perfect English and Alex blinked at him, seeing that the fellow was already scrambling out of his own outer garments. ‘Go on and be quick about it.’
They exchanged clothes. Alex was pleased that he got the best of the bargain, for the clothes the young man had given him were at least clean, even if they were not very comfortable, being on the small side.
‘What happens now?’ Alex asked.
‘You’ll find out. Stay out of sight. There are collaborators everywhere.’
The man sauntered out into the sunlight, whistling. He joined the other two men at the cart and they began carrying in the other sacks of vegetables, but before they reached the shed, Alex felt a light touch on his shoulder and an old Frenchwoman indicated that he should go through a gaping trap-door in the ground. As the trap-door shut above his head, Alex heard the sacks of vegetables being placed over it.
‘Welcome to our hospital, sir!’
He had come through a long passageway that opened up into a large, vaulted cellar. There were makeshift beds, some of them occupied, a table with basic surgical instruments and a Primus stove on which bubbled a large cauldron full of onion soup, a plate of grey-looking bread and strong-smelling cheese on a stool beside it.
The young man who spoke was bare to the waist and wore only a pair of bloodstained shorts. He appeared to be in mid-surgical procedure.
‘What the hell is this place?’ Alex asked, wavering about like a drunkard and wishing he could sit down, but he couldn’t see a vacant chair, just vacant-eyed airmen, some of them wearing the Canadian Army insignia.
‘Underground hospital, sir. Men get shot down. The Resistance chappies bring them here to be patched up. We keep them until they’re well enough to make their own way to the Pyrenees, then they have to walk over the passes into Spain. Some of them actually make it.’
‘Where are we, exactly?’
‘It’s a safe house. Just outside Toulouse.’
‘I see. And you are a doctor? A surgeon?’ The lad didn’t look old enough to be either.
‘A medic, sir. Trained in the field, you might say. Needs must when the devil drives and all that. You any good with the needle, sir? This man needs stitching up. I think I got all the shrapnel out, but stitching isn’t my forte. Never could stand the sight of a needle.’
Alex looked down at the young medic’s hands and saw that they were shaking so much it was unlikely he would be able to hold the needle, let alone stitch up the wounds.
‘It’s been a long night, sir,’ the young soldier said by way of explanation. ‘I’ve been on my own since the last doctor went out for a smoke and never came back. Don’t know what happened to him, sir.’
‘If I could sit down to it, I’ll manage,’ Alex said, flexing his stiff fingers. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Jenkins, sir. Private Arthur Jenkins. They tell me you’re the real thing.’
Alex gave a weak laugh as the young man pushed a broken chair behind his knees and he sank down on it. ‘Right now, I’m more patient than doctor. Name’s Captain Alex Craig. I was a general practitioner back in England, but since I’ve been in France I’ve done everything but deliver babies and pull teeth.’
Jenkins nodded, then his boyish grin became serious. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this, si
r, but we’re up the spout, so to speak. You see, the chateau’s just been commandeered by the Gestapo. They tend to come and go a bit and never stay too long. Word has it that a party of them are arriving tomorrow.
‘So what are we supposed to do?’
‘We carry on pretty much as before, sir, but even more in secret. With a bit of luck they won’t stay too long. It’s pretty isolated out here.’
‘What if somebody gives us away?’
‘You don’t have to worry about that. Old Monsieur Laroque and his wife are on our side, and so are all their staff. Most of them work for the Resistance.’
Alex gave a resigned sigh.
‘It looks like we’re in for an interesting time, then,’ he said, rolling up his sleeves and making a start on stitching up the cleaned wounds of the man lying face down on the bunk in front of him.
Private Jenkins placed a brown paper parcel down at his feet. ‘That arrived for you yesterday, sir. You might be needing it if we get caught.’
Alex frowned as he fingered the coarse string holding the package together. He couldn’t imagine what it might be, or who could have sent it.
‘Open it, would you, Jenkins?’
It turned out to be Alex’s own uniform, cleaned and pressed. Where there had been bullet holes they were carefully darned. Grace Forsyth, he thought. It had to be her handiwork. She had already saved his life once. It looked as though she was continuing to be his guardian angel. Without his captain’s uniform he would quite likely be shot as a spy.
‘It won’t be the same without Effie, somehow,’ Iris said, staring through the train window at the passing scenery.
‘Poor Effie,’ Mary said. ‘This war has destroyed so many lives already. I hate to think where we’ll all be by the time it’s finished.’
None of them liked to contemplate the future too much. The girls had been allowed a home visit before going to their new postings. This time they would be looking after Polish soldiers in special holding camps up in the north-west of Scotland, prior to retraining in the British Army. The place was, reportedly, as bleak as Siberia in winter, but at least it was safe. Despite its still being summer, Mary made a mental note to pack some winter clothes.