Heronfield

by Dorinda Balchin

  105

  It was such a hot summer’s day that Sarah and Jane decided to walk down to the river. The weeping willows leant low over the bank, the tip of their branches trailing in the slow-moving water; there was a rustling in the reeds to their right and a heron took to the air, long legs stretched out behind it, neck tucked in. As Sarah drank in the beauty of the scene, she sighed. Why had she been sent to Heronfield? It was true that if she had been sent to a different hospital she would never have grown to love the countryside as she had, to feel at one with the peace and beauty of the Heronfield Estate; but also she would never have met and grown to love Tony. Where one of the loves brought peace and tranquility to her soul, the other brought nothing but pain. She was resigned to the fact that although she loved Tony and always would, he, despite his assurances to the contrary, cared little for her. It puzzled her. From what she had come to know of the young man who was now heir to the Kemshall fortune, he was kind and considerate; he was aware of other people’s feelings and tried hard not to upset them. So why had he not written to her from America? Even if her letters had not reached him, he had no excuse not to write to her; after all, the address was his own home. If he had not written, it was because he did not want to. Either his relationship with her had been nothing but a sham, a pretence of love to fill the empty hours of his leave, or he had cared for her but had now found someone else to take her place. However much it might hurt to know that he had found someone he loved more than her, it would be nothing to the pain of knowing that he had used her, that he had never cared at all, never meant any of the things he said. With a sigh she tried to put it all to the back of her mind. The reasons for his not writing were irrelevant. She knew that their relationship was over. She would have to come to terms with that, though it would not be easy living and working in his home, surrounded by memories of their time together.

  The two friends walked on in companionable silence. Jane realised the direction of Sarah’s thoughts and did not want to intrude, content to be there as moral support. She felt sorry for Sarah. To have loved two men, only to have one killed and the other leave her, was a pain she hoped she would never have to contend with. She knew little of love. She was still waiting for her 'mister right' to come into her life. But she knew she would be careful in her relationships, after seeing the heartache her friend had endured.

  The quiet of their walk was disturbed by a shout, and the two girls turned to see another nurse running down the grassy slope from Heronfield House, waving as she ran. The friends waited for the nurse to approach. When she arrived she stood breathlessly for a moment before beginning to speak.

  "Sister wants you back at the hospital."

  "But we're off duty. What does she want?"

  The nurse shrugged at Jane’s question. "I don't know exactly. All I can tell you is that there’s some sort of emergency. Everyone who’s off duty is to get back into uniform, then report to the entrance hall where we’ll be briefed."

  Sarah frowned. "Has there been some bombing in the area? I haven't heard any planes."

  "I don't know. All I know is that you’re to report immediately. Sister will be giving her briefing in half an hour."

  A little over twenty-five minutes later, the two young women made their way down the curving staircase into the crowded hall. They had just had time to change into their uniforms, though they could see from the odd splash of colour that some people had not. As they joined their colleagues, there was intense speculation about what was happening. A few minutes later Sister Freeman appeared, and an expectant hush fell on the assembled nurses. After perusing them for a moment she began to speak.

  "I’m sorry to call you all here, but it’s an emergency. There’s been an Allied landing somewhere on the northern coast of France." Murmurs of astonishment swept through the assembled nurses. They were soon silenced by a wave of the sister’s hand. “I’m sorry to have to report that it was a failure. Thousands of wounded are expected back here in the next few hours. I’m afraid it will be a little like Dunkirk all over again. Most of the wounded will have received little or no treatment before they reach us." There was silence as the sister’s sad eyes scanned the upturned faces. "We’re moving all of our convalescing patients to hospitals further north. It will only be hospitals like ours in the south of England who will be taking the wounded. You’re to help transfer the convalescing patients, prepare beds and operating theatres, then get what rest you can. We expect the first wounded in three or four hours. Any questions?"

  There were none, and Sister Freeman dismissed them. Those who had seen the wounded from Dunkirk moved silently, aware of what was coming, while those who had not been at Heronfield during the evacuation were chattering excitedly. Sarah frowned grimly. Little did they know how harrowing the next few hours would be.

  To those who had no experience of treating the wounded who had come directly from the battlefield, the following twenty-four hours were like a nightmare. Bloodstained bandages were wrapped around bullet and shrapnel wounds in arms, legs, torsos, heads. Uniforms had to be carefully cut away and the wounds of the suffering casualties washed, before they were sent down to the operating theatre where the doctors worked to repair flesh torn by the stupidity of man. Yet for those who had treated the evacuees from Dunkirk, the situation was not as dreadful as they had anticipated. This time there were no filthy uniforms of men who had spent days on the beaches and in sea water; no bandages stuck to wounds with an encrusting film of sand, dirt and blood; no weakness from lack of food and water; no smell of rotting flesh and putrescence from wounds left too long without medical attention. This time the nurses were able to deal with fresh wounds, and patients whose strength had not been sapped by days and nights of fear.

  It was the late afternoon of the following day when Sarah finally had time to sit back for a moment and take stock of the situation. All of the beds in her ward were occupied by soldiers now cleaned of the grime of battle, wounds dressed, bodies finally sedated and at rest. She still did not know exactly what had happened at Dieppe, no one did. But from what many of the wounded had said, or screamed, in their pain wracked beds, it had been a shambles. No cover from sea or air! How could they have been expected to make progress?

  Sarah was seated at the desk in the small ward. She leant back in her chair, closing her eyes and massaging her temples as though to drive away the tiredness and pain. It had been so like the days she had spent in Coventry after the bombing, only this time there were enough medical supplies, beds and food. Yet the pain and suffering of recent injuries were still the same. As she sat, her mind on the edge of sleep, she again saw Tony lying in a hospital bed while his injuries from the bombing raid were treated, accidental wounds rather than wounds caused in the heat of battle. Opening her tired eyes, she looked from one patient to the next. Each individual was suffering because he had laid his life on the line for his country. Unexpectedly, she felt a deep up welling of anger. Not only had Tony failed to keep in touch with her while he was in America, but it seemed to her that he had spent the entire war trying to avoid action. Maybe his father was right. Maybe Tony was a coward. Perhaps his experiences at Dunkirk and the loss of his brother had driven him to seek out a safe job for the duration. How could a healthy young man like him not take his place beside the brave young men who had stormed the beaches of Dieppe?

  For the first time, Sarah believed that at last she saw Tony for what he really was, a shallow young man who did not take his relationships seriously, who was not willing to make sacrifices for his country but was prepared to let others fight, and die, for him. A coward of the worst kind. Deep inside her a voice whispered, 'No, you're wrong. That's not the Tony you know. You're just tired.' But she determined to ignore the voice, ruthlessly burying her true feelings for Tony and in her mind, though not in her heart, finally making her break from him. Tears flowed down her cheeks and she brushed them away, blaming it on tiredness after twenty-four hours on her feet, determined not to relate it to the crushing
pain she felt deep in her heart.

  106

  Whilst the disastrous assault on the beaches of Dieppe were still in the planning stages, Tony Kemshall was taken from the alleyway where he had been taken prisoner. The German soldiers pushed him roughly into the back of an armoured car, and climbed in beside him before closing the doors. The engine was already running. It was revved up and the vehicle shot forward taking back streets to avoid the crowds gathered at the scene of the shooting. Within twenty minutes it pulled up outside the Headquarters of the SS. As the car drew to a halt, the rear doors were flung open and the soldiers jumped down, dragging Tony behind them by the collar of his jacket. He fell to the road. His hands were grazed by the rough surface, and he grimaced. The pain was slight, but he saw it as a forerunner of what was in store for him in the huge building in front of him. As he knelt in the road a rifle butt descended. It caught him a crushing blow in the side which caused him to fall prostrate, biting his lip to keep from crying out. Tony struggled for breath as a hand grabbed him by the arm and began to drag him towards the steps.

  "Schnell! Schnell!"

  At the harsh cry, Tony hauled himself painfully to his feet. He stumbled across the pavement and up the steps which led into the dark interior of the building. As the door closed behind him, Tony felt as though the world he had known had been closed to him forever. All he had to look forward to was here in this dark, depressing building. He had no misconceptions about what lay ahead. The SS would do all that they could to force him to divulge information on his group, and he knew that if they ever found out that he was British he would be severely tortured before they executed him. Offering a silent prayer that he would be able to stand up to the interrogation, he allowed himself to be marched away, an armed soldier on either side, along corridors and up stairs until they halted outside the office of Major Steinhauser. The door was open, and Tony could see the major sitting at his desk. At the sound of their footsteps the officer looked up from the papers he had been signing, a broad grin on his face.

  "Ah, Karl, see what we have here."

  Sergeant Dresner, who stood behind the Majors chair, grinned too.

  "It seems that you plan worked, Herr Major."

  "Dismiss the guards, Karl, and bring the prisoner in."

  Dresner withdrew his gun from its holster and held it pointing directly at Tony, before ordering the guards to wait outside. He waved his hand with the gun in it, indicating that Tony should enter. The young Englishman took a deep breath and stepped forward into the room. Dresner closed the door behind him.

  "Name?"

  Tony boldly held the gaze of the SS major.

  "Albert Fouqet."

  Address?"

  "22 Rue Blanc Saint Nazaire."

  The major leant back in his chair, a thin-lipped smile on his face which did not reach the icy cold depths of his blue eyes.

  "I don’t suppose for one minute that that is true. Do you wish to elaborate?"

  Tony said nothing, standing straight, tall, defiant.

  "From your demeanour,” continued Steinhauser "I would guess that you are a soldier." He waited for a moment, but Tony said nothing. "Are you a soldier of the French army or from another country?"

  "I am not a soldier. My name is Albert Fouqet. I live at 22 Rue Blanc, Saint Nazaire."

  "Do you believe him, Karl?"

  Dresner shook his head.

  "Neither do I. Take him down to the cells. He’s to have no food, water or sleep until I see him again at this time tomorrow." His eyes bored into Tony’s. "While you’re down there, young man, I suggest that you think carefully about your situation. You have attacked an officer of the Third Reich, and you must pay the consequences. You could make it easier for yourself if you tell me all there is to know about your Resistance group." He looked across at his sergeant. "Get him out of here, Karl. Once he’s locked up safely, we must find out what has happened to General Wolffe."

  Tony sat on the cold stone floor of what had once been a cellar, but which now served as a prison for the SS who had commandeered the building above. He was cold, hungry and thirsty, but most of all he was tired, so very, very tired. He had been in the room for twenty-four hours, it had been thirty six hours since he last slept, and the guards would not allow him to sleep. He was not even allowed to sit down. As soon as the key was turned in the lock, he would have to leap to his feet and look as though he had not sat down at all. He knew that the door would be opened any moment now. The guards rarely left him alone for more than two or three minutes. There had been someone with him almost continuously since he had been taken, and although the guards were able to get their rest and food at regular intervals, there were no such luxuries for him. The cold of the cellar had crept into his bones, and he found it painful to move. His feet had gone through a period of icy painfulness, but now were mercifully numb. His hands, tied behind his back, had lost all feeling, as had his lower arms, and he wondered if he would ever be able to move them again. His eyes were dry and itched terribly, the eyelids heavy and continuously falling as his body sought to find relief in sleep. He licked his dry lips and tried to swallow. The welcoming arms of sleep were reaching out to him, and his head began to fall forwards onto his chest. The sudden harsh grating of the key in the lock caused him to jerk fully awake once more. He climbed painfully to his feet as the door opened, to admit two guards who pointed their guns menacingly at his chest.

  "Come. Schnell."

  Tony stumbled towards the door at the order. He was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been before. His experiences on the road to Dunkirk and on the beaches had been frightening, but then the destruction and hate had not been directed towards him as an individual, merely as one of a heaving mass of humanity. Those thousands of men suffering the same fears as him had helped him to remain strong, had supported him in his hour of need. Now he was alone. There were no soldiers to help him. Indeed he had to try to conceal the very fact that he was a soldier, to pretend to be someone and something he was not. This time the hatred and the violence were aimed directly at him. Upstairs a major in the infamous SS was awaiting him, ready to use any means within his power to make him talk, and Tony was not unaware that his means and his malice were great. Tony’s face remained impassive, betraying nothing of the fear which filled his heart and his mind. Head held high, he marched between the two soldiers and up the cold stone stairs to the third floor where he had met Major Steinhauser for the first time twenty-four hours before. That had been a brief encounter, but he knew that today’s would be longer and far more painful. As the two soldiers marched him through the open door, he focussed his mind on his cover story, determined he would give nothing away under interrogation. 'I am Albert Fouqet. I am Albert Fouqet. I am Albert Fouqet.' The mantra whirled round and round in his mind, and, as he faced the figure across the desk, he felt he was ready.

  The door closed behind him with an ominous thud. Tony was conscious of the two soldiers standing behind him as Steinhauser rose from his seat and walked round to the front of the desk. He leant back, sitting on the edge of the polished wood and stretching his long legs, encased in shiny leather boots, out in front of him. Folding his arms across his chest, he surveyed the prisoner in his French peasant clothing. Finally he spoke.

  "What is your name?"

  "Albert Fouqet."

  "You still insist on using that name? Never mind." His lips twisted into an evil smile. "Well, Monsieur Fouqet, General Wolffe is dead." He waited to see if there was a response, but Tony said nothing. The expression on his face did not change, but his mind was racing. He would be executed for the assassination, but at least it had been successful. Steinhauser watched him closely

  "You fired the fatal shot, did you not?"

  "It would be pointless to deny it. Your men followed me from the ambush and took the gun from me."

  "Just so. Didn’t you wonder how they got to you so quickly?"

  Tony said nothing.

  "We knew that you would try it. So
we set up our own little ambush at all the places where you might make the attempt."

  Tony still did not respond, and Steinhauser’s temper began to rise. He wanted the prisoner to admit that he had been outwitted, but he refused to talk. The major stood up and took a step forward, so that he was separated from Tony by only a few inches.

  "You see that we know who you are." His voice was icy, full of malice, and Tony had to fight hard to remain calm before the direct gaze. "We guessed that whoever was leading the local Resistance must be a foreign spy, and we knew that you would have to try for the General. Now tell me about your Resistance group. I promise that your death will be swift and relatively painless."

  "My name is Albert Fouqet. I shot the General, but I know nothing of the Resistance or foreign spies."

  Steinhauser stepped back and signalled one of the soldiers, who stepped forward and turned to face the prisoner. Tony blanched at the sight of the rubber truncheon.

  "I warn you, this is going to be very painful. You will tell me what I want to know in the end, they all do. Make it easier on yourself, Monsieur Fouqet. Answer my questions now."

  "I have nothing to say."

  The soldier turned an enquiring look at Steinhauser, who nodded. With a malicious grin the soldier raised the truncheon and brought it down across the Englishman’s ribs. Tony’s body jerked, and he stumbled, his tied hands making it difficult for his tired body to retain its balance. The soldier raised the truncheon again and brought it down methodically, each blow landing with a sickening thud. The implement was well designed. It was hard but had enough flexibility to prevent it from breaking bones. The poor soul who was on the receiving end would be severely bruised, but bruises heal quicker than breaks, and he would soon be well enough to undergo a similar treatment once more. The soldier carried out the beating slowly, steadily, as though he were striking a piece of wood, caring nothing for the pain he was inflicting. Tony stood straight, staring directly at Steinhauser as the beating began, his lips tight and a frown furrowing his brow as he fought desperately against the need to cry out at the agony flooding his body. Every inch of his upper body was subjected to a blow; the sensations of pain filled his mind, and his body, weakened from lack of food, water and sleep began to succumb to the terrifying treatment. Slowly his head fell forward onto his chest, jerking up again at each blow. His eyes were closed and his legs weak and shaking, but he still refused to cry out. Finally he could take no more and slumped to his knees. As his breath came in ragged gasps, his head bowed low upon his chest, he gradually became aware that the blows had ceased. He raised his head and opened his eyes, to see Major Steinhauser standing above him.