‘Aye, I do,’ said Willie. ‘But I’ll tell the rest of the squad to stand back.’
Twenty minutes later they brushed the thick grey dust from Lucy’s hair and face. She opened her eyes.
‘My sister,’ she said distinctly. ‘My sister was beside me. Will you look for her, please?’
Kezzie was easier to find. Slumped in a sitting position, she was tucked right down into the cavity made by the steel piping which had bent under the force of the explosion to form a protective ring around both her and Lucy. She was unconscious.
The two men didn’t like to question the younger child but she was the only person alive and able to speak.
‘Anyone else, pet?’ they asked her as they carried her and Kezzie towards the stretchers. ‘Did any other person come down the stairs? Was there anyone with you at the end of the close?’
Lucy turned her big blue eyes on them both and thought hard. She shook her head. ‘They were just about to,’ she said, ‘Mrs Sweeney and Mary. We heard them talking on the landing above, with my three wee cousins …’ She stopped. ‘But they didn’t actually come down. They were still on the stairs. Kezzie said not to wait. That we’d meet them at the shelter. We went to the end of the close to step outside …’ Her voice faltered. ‘I don’t remember anything else.’
George Murdoch and his deputy exchanged looks. The tenement staircase had been completely obliterated.
‘We’ll move on,’ said George to his team, ‘and send a clearing squad in.’
‘Could I have my dolly?’ said a small voice.
George Murdoch regarded Lucy gravely. The neck and shoulders of the little girl he had just rescued were badly gashed, and he was sure that her wrist was broken. Yet she had not made a murmur as he had worked to free her.
One of the stretcher-bearers tutted in exasperation. ‘We’ve got more important things to do than look for a doll.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said George. ‘That seemed like a very important dolly to me. Just give us a minute here, mate.’ He passed Kezzie on to the next person in the line, then moving very slowly he went back across the rubble and reached down into the hole.
He lifted Lucy’s doll and held it up high for her to see.
‘Got it!’ he cried triumphantly.
‘George! Watch out! The wall’s going!’ yelled Willie.
The ARP warden tucked the rag doll swiftly into his belt and then raced for his life across the debris. He jumped clear just as the gable end of the building crashed behind him.
CHAPTER 17
Buried alive
KEZZIE FELT AS if she had toothache in each separate part of her body. There was a throbbing pain at the back of her skull, and there seemed to be a weight pressing on her chest. She opened her eyes very slowly. She could remember going to bed last night … but after that … nothing. She looked around her. She seemed to be in school. There were benches and desks piled up at one end of the drill hall, and when she raised her head she could see that she was lying on the floor along with a long line of other people. Suddenly she was aware of the noise. Women sobbing, children shouting, babies crying. She gave a moan and lay back down again.
‘Kezzie,’ said a voice beside her.
She turned her head.
‘Lucy,’ she whispered. ‘What has happened?’
‘We’ve been blitzed,’ said Lucy. ‘A bomb dropped right in our street. A big one,’ she added.
‘What time is it?’
‘Morning-time. They said they’d give us breakfast soon, if we waited.’
‘Waited?’ Kezzie repeated the word stupidly.
‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘After they fixed my wrist and bandaged me up, the lady said we could be sent on somewhere else, or wait until later. I said we’d wait here.’ She looked at Kezzie. ‘I made the decision,’ she said importantly, ‘because you were knocked out. I thought we’d best find out about Grandad before we went anywhere else.’
Kezzie reached over and took Lucy’s hand. ‘You’re a very clever girl,’ she said. ‘We’ll go home now and get some clean clothes and wait for Grandad there.’
‘You don’t understand, Kezzie,’ said Lucy patiently. ‘It’s all gone. Our house, everybody’s house. They’ve been crunched up in the explosions. All of them.’
‘Everything gone?’ asked Kezzie. ‘Everything?’ She suddenly remembered that she’d been carrying the Gladstone bag. ‘My bag?’
Lucy nodded.
‘We have absolutely nothing left?’ Kezzie asked again.
‘Just this.’ Lucy grinned at her sister. She held up her rag doll.
The next moment Kezzie didn’t know whether she was laughing or crying.
The nurse in charge told Kezzie that no-one else from the tenement building had survived. Despite being numb with shock, Kezzie left the first-aid post and set out for Casella’s café. She knew that her grandad would be wild with worry and the café seemed the most sensible place to go … if it was still standing.
She held Lucy close to her as they made their way through the stricken town. There were great piles of rubble where there had once been rows of tenements. Ruins of homes stood stark in the lightening sky, wedge ends of buildings with their insides ripped out. They came across a trolley bus which had its roof torn off. There were dead bodies still sitting on their seats, while some had been flung into the road. Huge bomb craters made the roads impassable in places, and many streets had been cordoned off as the police and rescue teams discovered more and more delayed action bombs. The tram rails were twisted out of shape and corkscrewed into the air. Pathetic groups of people huddled around mobile canteens set up to distribute cups of tea. Kezzie pulled Lucy in against her coat and tucked her head under her arm. They stumbled on.
The little café, jammed in between the tall tenement blocks, had survived. They’d just turned the corner into the street when they saw their grandad. He ran and gathered both of them in his arms.
‘I’ve been back and forwards to Dalmuir a dozen times,’ he said ‘checking every church hall and first-aid post in between.’
‘How are you?’ Kezzie asked him.
‘One bomb,’ he said bitterly. ‘One bomb dropped inside the perimeter of the yard. All the rest …’ He stopped speaking, and looked at Kezzie. ‘It’s very bad,’ he said. ‘The town’s almost completely gone.’
‘We know,’ said a small voice beside them. They looked down at Lucy. ‘We saw it, Grandad,’ she said.
He took them quickly into the café and sat them down. All the windows had been blown out, but the Biagis had swept up the mess, and hung out a sign saying ‘Free Tea and Sandwiches.’
They had spent the night in their Anderson shelter.
‘A beautiful shelter,’ proclaimed Signora Biagi. ‘A wonderful shelter. There is none other like it in all of Clydebank.’
‘Well, perhaps just one,’ laughed Ricardo. ‘I built another for Peg and the baby in her back garden, and dug it twice as deep.’ He looked anxiously at the café clock. ‘I thought she would have arrived by now. I think I’ll go and see if all is well with them.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Kezzie, ‘and then afterwards I’ll go to the first aid post. There must be something I can do to help. You wait here until one of us comes back,’ she told Lucy.
‘I can look after myself,’ said Lucy primly. ‘After all,’ she reminded Kezzie, ‘it was me who got you rescued.’
The area where Peg lived was badly damaged. Each and every street had been hit. Second Avenue, Radnor Street, Granville Street, all were destroyed. Schools and churches were burned out, the fire station and the pub completely gutted. There was hardly a wall intact anywhere. As they progressed further and further, Ricardo became more and more silent. Instinctively both of them began to hurry. By the time they reached the end of Peg’s road they were running. They scrambled around the deep crater which marked the beginning of her street and climbed over a mountain of debris.
Ricardo clutched Kezzie’s arm. ‘Jesu Mar
ia!’ he whispered.
He took a few paces forward and then stepped back. He looked around hopelessly. ‘What do we do? What do we do?’ he cried.
Kezzie herself was trying to come to terms with what was in front of her. There was no part of the building left standing, and the ruins were charred and black. It must have taken a direct hit.
Kezzie thought Ricardo was about to start running in circles. He bent over, doubling up, holding his stomach, as though someone had given him a violent blow. He stayed almost on his knees for a moment and then he straightened and began walking up and down, running his fingers through his hair, moaning and crying.
‘Peg, Peg.’ He turned beseeching eyes on Kezzie. ‘Do you think she is alive? Could they still live, under that?’
Kezzie didn’t know what to say to him.
‘Where was the Anderson shelter exactly?’ she asked.
But Ricardo was not listening to her. He was striking his head with his hands and sobbing.
‘Ricardo!’ she shouted at him. ‘Tell me where the Anderson shelter should be.’
Suddenly a fierce yelling voice sounded behind them. ‘What are you doing here? This area has been cleared.’ An ARP warden was running towards them.
‘We knew … know,’ Kezzie corrected herself, ‘someone in that building. A young woman and a baby.’
‘The building took a direct hit. No one came out of it, nor are they likely to now,’ said the warden. ‘We searched that area thoroughly.’ He looked at the boy in front of him. ‘Sorry,’ he added. ‘Now I’m going to have to ask you to leave. There’s an unexploded bomb in the street.’
‘No,’ wailed Ricardo. He fell to his knees. ‘No, no. I beg you.’
The warden spread his hands. ‘Look, son, I’m sorry. Truly I am. At the moment there’s nothing else anybody can do.’
‘Well, there might just be,’ said a voice behind them.
Kezzie turned. It was her grandfather.
‘I guessed you might need help here,’ he said. He turned and surveyed the remains of the tenement. ‘This is not good,’ he said slowly, ‘not good at all.’ He went over to Ricardo and shook the boy roughly by the shoulder. ‘There’s work to be done here,’ he said. ‘If you can pinpoint the exact location of the shelter then we’ll try tunnelling in.’
The ARP warden touched his sleeve. ‘I can’t ask anyone to help you do that. That’s above and beyond. You’ll need to get volunteers.’
‘I only need the one,’ said Kezzie’s grandad. He nodded at Ricardo. ‘An’ I think I’ve got him here already.’
Ricardo dragged his jacket off and handed it to Kezzie. He rolled up his sleeves. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we dig now.’
‘No,’ said John Munro. ‘We prepare properly first.’ He took his pipe from his pocket and sucked on the dry stem for a minute or two as he surveyed the job. ‘I need a pick and shovel and some stout props.’ He spoke to Kezzie. ‘This will take hours. You’d be better helpin’ somewhere else, lass.’
Kezzie knew that part of the reason that he advised her to leave was that he wanted her out of danger. She gripped Ricardo’s hand.
‘Be calm,’ she said, ‘and hope. My grandad was the best mining engineer in the west of Scotland. If they’re alive under that then he’ll get them out.’
CHAPTER 18
Evacuation
KEZZIE CALLED IN at the nearest first aid post, which was operating out of the local primary school, to see if there was anything she could do. The warden noted her name and details.
‘We need help with everything,’ he said. ‘You can make tea, dress wounds, take names and addresses, whatever.’ He paused and licked the end of his pencil. ‘Anything in particular you’re good at?’ he enquired.
‘I worked as an assistant in a doctor’s surgery in Canada,’ she said, ‘and I’ve driven an ambulance a few times.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘we don’t have an ambulance. Though there are folk here who certainly could do with being in hospital.’
Suddenly Kezzie remembered Casella’s old van.
‘I don’t know whether it would be of any use,’ she said, ‘but …’
She thought the man was going to kiss her. Within half an hour Kezzie had returned to the café, told Ricardo’s mother and aunt what was happening and checked that Lucy was all right.
‘Of course I’m all right,’ said Lucy scornfully.
She had on an apron which was several sizes too large for her and was standing in the kitchen making sandwiches. Her face turned pale when Kezzie told her that Peg and Alec were missing, but glancing quickly at Ricardo’s mother she said confidently, ‘If Grandad’s there, then we shouldn’t worry.’
When Kezzie returned to the first aid post the warden had two patients ready for her. He handed her some notes. ‘We’ve no doctor here, so I’ve done my best. One of them’s right poorly. I think he needs a blood transfusion. We can’t give you an attendant, so you’ll have to stop at least twice on the way and check his wound’s not leaking too badly. Take him to the Glasgow Western, and pick up anything you can by way of medical supplies. Mind what I say now, anything. Steal it if you have to,’ he called out after her as she set off.
As she drove the long hazardous road to Glasgow, Kezzie was glad that she had something on which to concentrate her mind to stop her thinking of Peg and baby Alec buried under tons of brick and stone. The roads out of town were still being cleared and she was diverted many times. The van jolted and juddered over ruts and around craters, but eventually she managed to get onto the Boulevard. There she was able to increase speed, and after checking her patients one last time she put her foot down on the accelerator pedal and didn’t stop until she reached the hospital.
Casualties had been coming in all night, from Hillhead and Hyndland in the west end of the city. Kezzie checked her patients in, managed to beg some supplies, and set out on the return journey to Clydebank.
And as she worked on through that day Kezzie knew that she would never forget the sight of the rows of covered bodies lying in lines by the side of the road. Those who had not survived, children, babies, rich and poor, wrapped in any available covering, blanket, table cover, curtain and carpet rug. Nor would she forget the rescue workers and relatives, as they dug in the rubble, many with their bare hands, their faces grey with dust, grey with fatigue and grey with grief.
In the early afternoon while queuing at a mobile canteen she found herself standing with Mr Sweeney and his son. They were part of a team working with the Royal Engineers trying to repair one of the burst water mains. Kezzie knew that Mrs Sweeney’s body had been found, and she now lay in the emergency mortuary at the High School in Janetta Street.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Kezzie.
The son nodded quickly and looked away. Mr Sweeney said, ‘She liked you, Kezzie. Not many folk got on with her. She had a sharp tongue,’ he said, ‘but it was just her way. She liked you though.’ He studied her more closely. ‘You look a bit peaky, hen. Take a rest sometime.’ Then he picked up his tea and sandwiches.
It was so inadequate, thought Kezzie, as she watched the two men walk away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she had said. What good did that do? How did her ‘being sorry’ help them, or Mary Price, or the three little boys and their parents? Why was she alive and they weren’t?
Around half past three, she parked her ambulance in the school yard and was taking stretchers from it and folding blankets, when the warden came to speak to her.
‘There’s someone here to see you,’ he said. ‘Take an hour’s break,’ he added, ‘and that’s an order.’
Kezzie walked around the side of her van into unexpected sunlight. Her grandfather was standing there. He had his cap pushed to the back of his head and he looked mighty pleased with himself.
‘You found them?’ Kezzie hardly dared breathe the words.
He nodded. ‘They were a bit battered about, but we got to Peg and the baby. No sign of her brother and his wife, though.’
Kezzie leaned against the ambulance door, her senses swimming with relief. ‘Are they safe?’ she asked. ‘The baby … how is he?’
‘Yelling like a soldier,’ said her grandad. ‘It was his bawling that made us realise that we were digging in the right direction. It was a difficult one. There were a few times when I thought the whole lot was coming down on us.’ He looked at his hands. ‘I never thought I’d be doing anything like that again.’
Kezzie could imagine her grandad working away under the ground. The mining skills gained over half a century proving useful in circumstances no one could have foreseen. His ear sensitive to every sound, every little creak or groan above alerting him to secure a prop, or shore up some more earth before moving on.
‘I’d say that, in some cases, it might be a better way of rescuing folk that are trapped. Safer than clearing the rubble from the top, I reckon. Anyway, the chief warden for the area came to take a look, and he wants to see me later.’
Kezzie and her grandad went to the café. Peg was not well at all. She’d tried to get her brother and his wife to go to the shelter but they had refused so she knew they were dead. Her clothes were torn and her face and arms were bleeding from a dozen different scratches and cuts. Sitting in the kitchen, dazed and covered in bruises, she was scarcely able to hold a spoon to her mouth.
‘We need to get her out of here,’ Ricardo whispered to Kezzie. ‘But my mother and my aunt won’t leave the café now. And, even if they did …’ He paused, then pointed through the open door to where a weary line of people were waiting for a hot drink and some food. ‘I couldn’t go away knowing that I’m needed here. I don’t know what to do.’
Kezzie touched his arm. ‘I think I may know the best solution,’ she said.
All day special buses had been taking refugees out of the town to emergency centres in the surrounding areas. Kezzie knew that they’d been going to places as far away as central Scotland. Relief had been offered by many towns, including the ones near her home village, Kirkintilloch and Shawcross.
She took Lucy by the hand and led her outside where they could speak without interruption. Kezzie sat her sister down beside the Anderson shelter and knelt beside her.
Kezzie at War Page 22