Among the Poppies

by J'nell Ciesielski

  Cecelia tilted her head, a smile spreading across her face. “Captain William Crawford, who else?”

  Gwyn pressed her hands into her lap. Why should she care who Cecelia set her cap for? Or who set their cap for Cecelia? The quiver turned to a tremor. “Please tell me you are not crossing the Channel for a man.”

  “No. His presence is merely a perk, and I only know where he is because he made mention of it while asking me to talk you out of coming. As if that would do any good.” She blanched as the ship lurched to the side. “Will this boat never stop trying to kill me?”

  A knock sounded, and, without waiting for a reply, the door opened. “Ruthers, you in here?”

  “I’m here, Eugenie,” Gwyn said.

  Eugenie, a short, stout girl with cropped black hair and broad hands, filled the doorway. “Captain says we’re sixth in line to dock. Lady Dowling wants us all on deck to watch the process.”

  “What for? It’s not as if we’ve never seen boats disembarking before.” Cecelia moaned from her bunk.

  “Lady Hale.” Eugenie squatted into a wobbly curtsy. She ran a hand down the brown and black fur coat draping her body. A soft blush bloomed across her chapped cheeks. “Thank you ever so for the coats, all lovely and warm. All the girls say so.”

  “I was glad to put them to good use. Every woman deserves to look beautiful, even if they are last season. The Jerries will never know such dictates of fashion, of course.” Cecelia propped herself back on one elbow, a frown puckering her brow. “Are you sure Lady Dowling meant all of us?”

  “It’s just what she said, ma’am. Ten minutes, Ruthers.”

  Cecelia swung her legs off the bunk and pressed a hand over her eyes as the door clicked shut. “Have I suddenly earned a new noble title that I’m unaware of?”

  “I don’t think she’s had much opportunity to learn forms of address in Liverpool, so she overcompensates by using the only title she knows. You should feel honored.”

  “I suppose it’s better than undercompensating. Why must she call you Ruthers? Every time she says it, I look for your father.”

  Gwyn shrugged. “She tried joining the FANY but discovered the same trouble I did. I believe she thinks all units over here are militarized.”

  “If she thinks I’m getting up to the sound of a bugle every morning, she’d better not be within throwing distance when she blasts it.”

  Gwyn grinned at the idea of Cecelia cramming her new corset down Eugenie’s bugle, but the laughter died in her throat. Most likely they would awaken to the blasting of shells.

  Precisely ten minutes later, Lady Dowling’s entire crew assembled on deck and hung over the rails, pointing at the whale-sized Red Cross ships and whispering amongst each other. Gwyn clutched the rail as doubt, fear, and excitement mixed in her stomach like a bubbling stew.

  They waited quietly in a snaking line of ships as a bloated Red Cross ship and two smaller ships glided past them to make the narrow crossing home. Their decks were full with men swathed in bandages, most stained through with dried blood. Mud caked the tattered clothing and haunted faces, but their eyes searched heavenward as if for a glimpse of pure beauty and relief from the misery behind them.

  Moving her gaze inland, Gwyn’s breath caught as she counted the rows of men stretched out along the docks. At least seven deep with barely space between them for the white-aproned nurses to carry supplies and buckets of water. Red trickled between the wharf ’s wooden boards and spread into the chopping water like feathered fingers. Even from a distance, she could hear the moans as more ambulances rumbled over the roads to deposit new loads of wounded.

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?” Cecelia breathed next to her.

  Gwyn’s fingers curled around the rail as plumes of dark gray and black billowed into the sky far back over the hills. The immensity of it all pierced her heart. “God help us.”

  “Do you think we’re nearly there?” Cecelia shouted over the rumbling engine.

  Gwyn shrugged, though it was doubtful Cecelia could see it. Nothing could be seen on the pitch-black road, if that’s what one could call it. Lady Dowling had told them repeatedly that headlights were not used because it attracted the enemy. Same with the windscreens which were removed to avoid reflecting light, but now the drivers sat bared to flying rocks and chafing windburn.

  Hunching over the steering wheel, Gwyn tried to follow the pale moon’s glint off the bumper in front of her, but it was near useless. Lady Dowling’s French chauffeur had no respect for driving in a straight line or warning his following motorcade of potholes. A welcome present for the English, no doubt.

  “We’ve been crawling for nearly three hours.” Gwyn dodged a rut. “Surely it’s close.” The car behind her squealed in the rut and bounced back. First thing tomorrow, she’d have the drivers check their axles.

  “Do you think they’ll have lovely soft beds and a warm fire waiting for us?”

  “Lady Dowling sent a telegram informing her staff that we would arrive today, so I hope the house is somewhat ready. As for me, I’ll be happy with any bed that doesn’t bounce.”

  “And preferably one that doesn’t smell.”

  “It’s not that bad. Just a little paint and oil.” Gwyn sniffed carefully. “And maybe a bit of upholstery left in the rain too long, but that’s probably how she got the autos at such a bargain.”

  Cecelia scoffed. “A bargain? Two bits is overpriced for this rust bucket.”

  “She’s not a rust bucket, she’s just not what you’re used to. What’s the point in sending a newly minted Rolls Royce into war?”

  The tires rumbled over a stretch of ruts like claw marks in the frozen ground. Gwyn’s bottom teeth bit into her upper lip as the tires jumped and slammed into each cut of earth. Gripping the lever for dear life, she shifted into low gear. The cylinders whined, but she kept the wheel straight until they finally rolled free.

  She patted the dashboard. “Good girl.”

  “Good, my hatpin.” Cecelia scooted back to her corner of the seat from where she’d been jostled. “She’s certainly the most cantankerous one in the lot.”

  Smugness curved Gwyn’s lips. “None of the other girls could handle her.”

  “Ah, yes. And so the Great Gwynevere rushed to the rescue, proving her motor skills and abilities far superior to mere mortals.”

  “Take care who you mock, Lady Cecelia. One turn of my steering wheel, and you’ll fly right out that door and into a pile of mud.”

  “Ugh, the mud. It’s everywhere. I thought the French countryside was filled with green hills and red poppy fields. Did you see those porters drop my trunks in that bog when we disembarked? I doubt it’ll ever scrub free.”

  Gwyn veered and dropped the right front tire into a hole. Cecelia flew up and hit her head. “Sorry.” Gwyn flattened her lips to keep from smiling. “Soon you’ll see many things more disturbing than dirt, so I suggest you stop complaining now.”

  “I wasn’t complaining. Much.” Cecelia huffed and settled into her corner. “Do you think it will be horrible?”

  “It won’t be pleasant.”

  “But it won’t be like hospital at Malvern. The men there are always bandaged before we get them. And Sister always takes the difficult cases.” Long minutes passed. “I’ve never seen a man die before.” Her voice was eerily quiet.

  Gwyn’s numb fingers slipped over the wheel. She’d never seen a man die before either. Never seen one with his insides hanging out, or burned beyond recognition. All this time she’d focused on driving, on saving lives, and going to a foreign country. She never stopped to realize what her work truly meant. Her work was to save dying men. How short-sighted she’d been. “We won’t think of that,” Gwyn said. “We’ll think of them each as another life pulled from the brink.”

  “Do you think it’s as easy as that?”

  “No, but we can’t dwell on the negative. It’ll claim us faster than a bullet if we allow it to.”

  “G, you’re the only p
erson I know who can find a pinprick of light in the dead of night.”

  “Speaking of light, do you see that?” Gwyn pointed straight ahead. Tiny yellow dots flickered through the trees.

  “Troops?” Cecelia clawed Gwyn’s arm. “Do you think they’re ours or theirs?”

  The lead car turned onto a private drive bordered by a low stone wall. A three-story house sat regally at the end of the circular drive. Gwyn smiled with relief. “Neither. I think we’re here.”

  Cecelia’s nails remained entrenched. “Are you sure? I’ve heard the Germans are quite tricky.”

  “Then they’ve learned how to disguise themselves as a house.” Gwyn pried off her captor’s hand. “Those are lights coming from the windows.”

  Two maids hurried through the double front doors as the motorcade rambled in. Hopping back and forth on their feet, the maids dashed to Lady Dowling’s car before the engine even turned off. Mr. Whiteson would never approve of such a lack of decorum.

  Lady Dowling bounced out of her car, spry as a rabbit, and began talking in rapid French as her maids rattled on while gesturing wildly.

  Gwyn leaned over to Cecelia. “What are they saying?”

  Cecelia scrunched her nose. “Something about wounded soldiers and open doors. Their accents are too thick to understand completely.”

  The maids ran back inside as Lady Dowling marched to their car. With her gray hat and cape, she looked like a general. “They’ve started arriving. One of the gardeners told a medic in town that we’re ready for patients. He forgot to mention we had yet to arrive. Come on, girls. This is why we’re here. Gwyn, tell the drivers to park on the other side of the house while the nurses get to work.”

  Cecelia didn’t budge.

  Gwyn nudged her in the ribs. “That means you.”

  Turning with wide eyes, Cecelia shook her head. “I can’t. What if I don’t know what to do?”

  “Just take a deep breath and remember your training.” Gwyn patted her hand. “You can do this.”

  Cecelia eased out the door and joined the nurses rushing inside. The drivers pulled their cars around, parking them in a perfect row for an organized exit when the time came. Gwyn had the drivers unload all the personal trunks and suitcases and pile them against the house.

  In a nearby building filled with oil cans, spare tires, and all manner of tools, Gwyn found several lanterns that she dragged outside and set around the cars. For the next four hours, the drivers checked each ambulance from top to bottom and back to front. Two broken wheel spokes, one loose axle, and three stretchers not properly mounted were the only casualties.

  “How are we supposed to fix this?” Eugenie clambered out from under a Model T’s chassis. “It’s three in the morning, freezing, and the lanterns aren’t enough to do repairs by.”

  Gwyn toed the front tire. She hated to admit it, but the truth was unavoidable. “We’ll wait until morning when I can do a complete inventory of what’s in the garage. If something happens between now and daybreak, we have three good ambulances to take. Pray it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Keep your prayers.” Eugenie spat on the ground. “God ain’t in war.”

  Uneasiness pricked Gwyn’s heart. She never considered God picked and chose what He was a part of.

  “Well, we are. And the more power on our side, the better.” She turned to the other drivers huddled together in front of the lanterns. Her mental checklist hosted a hundred things to do, but none of it could be done with frozen fingers and muddled heads. “I think we’ve done all we can for now. Let’s get this luggage inside and see if the nurses need any help.”

  Eugenie groaned, shivering in her coat. “We’re not their mules. Let them get their own bags. We need sleep.”

  “Don’t you think they’re tired, too? They’re binding up men in there, so the least we can do is carry in their bags.” Gwyn took a deep breath before she climbed on a soapbox. “We’re a team now.”

  The grumbling turned into grunts as they moved trunk after trunk into the main hall. Long after sunrise, Gwyn stumbled into an upstairs room set aside for staff. She shuffled across the floor until the tips of her boots bumped into a metal bed frame. With one last blink of exhaustion, she crashed onto the thick mattress, asleep before her head hit the pillow.

  CHAPTER 7

  William squinted through his field glasses and scanned the horizon from his position in the trench. Nothing but blasted earth, charred tree stumps, and gaping holes as far as the eye could see. Good. Maybe the Jerries would stay in their pits today and give them a respite from last week’s bombardment.

  Intelligence reports said otherwise.

  While General Allenby stretched the Third Army from Ransart to Curlu, the German army buried themselves further into secure defenses. They’d be snug as bugs in their dugouts come winter.

  “Like rats, they are. Building little nests to wait us out.” Captain Roland Morrison dropped his field glasses into the case hanging from his belt and tugged his gloves on. “I hope they rot with frost during the night.”

  “They’ll give one last push before winter hits,” William said. “According to our sources, that is.”

  “And you believe that?”

  William’s lips twitched. “I believe whatever the Army tells me.”

  “Go on with you now, Will.” Roland laughed and slapped him on the back. “That kind of thinking is what got us here in the first place.”

  “I thought the call to honor and glory for Britain is what got us here.”

  “That’s what they tell me, but then I wasn’t about to be labeled a coward for not signing up. Have you seen the white feathers they’re giving chaps who refuse to put on the uniform? My best mate from university, first man in his class to enlist, was walking down the Mall without his uniform on and those madwomen threw a fistful of feathers into his face. Can you imagine?” Roland shook his head, his tin hat wobbling back and forth over his sandy blond hair. “He was killed last month. Jerries shot him off the top of his horse.”

  William lowered his field glasses. Numb and cold, he flexed his fingers from their stiffened grip. Another man gone. How many would they lose before this hell was over? “I’m sorry.”

  “He was never a good rider.” Roland stomped his feet, clearing his throat loudly. “Speaking of things to see. Have you taken an eyeful of the new tenants over the hill? Bunch of nurses setting up shop in that chateau. Dowling’s Darlings, the boys are calling them.”

  “They have female ambulance drivers as well. That should come in handy. Extra drivers, I mean.”

  “Who cares about them? Dog-faced girls who belong under a bonnet.”

  “I know one of them.” The memory of shapely legs protruding from under a car curled through William’s thoughts. “And she’s anything but dog-faced.”

  “You can keep your wrench monkeys. I’ll take me a nurse. One with pretty blonde hair to shine in the candlelight as she nurses me back to health.”

  “I don’t care for blondes.” Biting his tongue for the slip in control, William shoved gloves on his hands.

  “Well, I do. Especially if she’s got a title to go with it, which I hear a few of them do.” Roland’s boyish face scrunched up. “Or at least their fathers do.”

  “Titles aren’t everything. It gives you a lot to aspire to and not much room for failure.”

  “You’re thinking much too hard about this one, old chap. Not everything is about success and failure, though in my case, success will be snagging the right woman to adore me night and day. You’ve already managed that.”

  Poised to jump down from the fire step, William froze. “I what?”

  “Come off it, Will. No need to play shy.” Dimples pierced Roland’s smooth cheeks as he grinned. “All the chaps know. Cecelia Hale, daughter of Lord Somerset. Convenient she’s so near, eh?”

  Roland jabbed him in the ribs, but William shoved him off. “You’re hearing false reports. I’ve met Miss Hale several times, and she was kind enough to
escort me around the hospital wing in Malvern. Nothing more.”

  “Letters rubbed with rose oil are a little more than nothing. Why don’t you ever reply to them?”

  William groaned. “Because they make my hands smell when I open them, and she’s the daughter of a baron who deserves better than a soldier.”

  “She doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “War makes for lonely people. Once back on home soil, surrounded by properly titled gentlemen, she will realize there are more suitable matches to make.” William stepped down from the fire step. “I’m not one of them. At least not for her.”

  He stomped off, his heavy boots thudding down the dirty duckboards lining the bottom of the trench. Each step squished mud over the edges of the planks. Two months back in country, and already the rumors buzzed as rampant as flies on stale meat.

  Roland’s steps echoed behind his. “Then you won’t mind if I have a go?”

  “If you can get past Lady Dowling, then Miss Hale is ripe for the picking.”

  “I’m not worried about the old battle-axe. I’ll just wait until the girls have a day off and go into town.”

  “Glad to hear you have a tactical plan.”

  “Have to with the competition.”

  Green eyes rimmed with dirt danced in William’s mind. There was no competition.

  Rounding a curve to a new bay, his toe caught the edge of a warped plank. Blast it all. This was war, not some garden party where he could chase skirts. If he didn’t keep his wits about him, he’d end up with a face full of mud, or worse—a bullet to the head.

  “Sir.” Dormer, his company’s sergeant major, popped out of a dugout like a gopher and offered a full salute. “Morning report is available at your convenience.”

  William ducked into the tiny shelter and angled himself around the stack of crates that served as an impromptu table. In practiced routine, his eyes fell down the list of occurrences, upcoming drills, and the incoming units to relieve the frontline troops. A week at the front on constant alert, and his men could finally fall back to the reserve line for a breather.