by Mary Arden
‘Where is the dance floor, Marcus?’ I whispered, as we descended the stairs into a small dark interior, ‘There isn’t room to swing a cat in here.’
‘People don’t dance at night clubs, Mary,’ he laughed, ‘they smooch.’ I wasn’t quite sure what smooching was, so he explained to me that smooching consisted of holding one’s partner very close and kissing them almost continuously, while shuffling around slowly on the dance floor in the dark.
I could tell that Marcus was keen on the idea of smooching with Belinda, but I wasn’t interested in Tommy in a romantic way, and to my relief he obviously wasn’t interested in me either, so we just danced closely together and talked.
Later that evening there was a floorshow followed by a sing-song where everyone sang some rather rude songs, which went over my head, but reduced all the men to shouts of mirth like silly school boys. Two hours later I felt very tired and was quite relieved when the boys agreed that it was time to go home.
It was after two in the morning before our taxi came to halt outside Aunt Beth’s flat. Marcus asked the taxi driver to wait for him, while he made sure I was able to get into the flat, and then once I was safely inside he went home.
‘Tell me all about it,’ Aunt Beth insisted, as she came out of her bedroom pulling on her dressing gown.
‘I will,’ I replied, ‘but first, I must soak my feet in a bowl of hot water, as they’re killing me. I have been dancing non-stop all night.’
I must have looked a funny sight with my beautiful white Ball gown now pulled up to my knees and both my feet soaking in the washing-up bowl. I did my best to describe the Ball to her, and to remember all the names of the other people that had been there, but Aunt Beth was far more interested in what the other girls were wearing, and how my dress had compared to theirs. I told her that many of the girls had complimented me on my dress and asked me who my dressmaker was, as it looked ‘unbelievably expensive’, so I had said that I couldn’t tell them, as I had promised to keep her name a secret. Aunt Beth roared with laughter, as she had created my dress from two different second-hand wedding dresses, which had cost her less than ten pounds.
I returned to Woking the following afternoon and an hour later Charles telephoned to ask me how the Ball went and to tell me that he was about to go on a reconnaissance trip in Exeter to ensure that the city would be safe for the King’s visit, which was due to take place later in the year.
‘As soon as I get back to London, will you come back to town and join me?’ he asked, ‘I am really missing you darling.’
‘How much?’ I joked.
‘My arms ache to hold you!’ he teased.
‘That sounds like the sort of soppy thing I used to write for the soldiers in their letters to their sweethearts,’ I giggled.
‘Well maybe I am not saying it properly but I will try to come up with something a bit more romantic when I am alone with you again,’ he promised.
‘So when will that be?’
‘The day after tomorrow,’ he told me. ‘So why don’t you see if you can stay at Aunt Beth’s for a few nights again, and then, as soon as I’m free, I will call you.’
‘That sounds like a good plan,’ I replied, ‘I look forward to it.’
‘That’s settled then, see you very soon my darling girl,’ Charles said before he rang off.
I promptly rang Aunt Beth and asked if she would put me up yet again and she was delighted to hear that I would be seeing Charles again.
When my mother arrived home, I told her about my plans, and she asked me if I would take some fresh eggs with me to give to Aunt Beth and that she would also give me some pork sausages and a few extra rashers of bacon, which she had persuaded her butcher to sell to her that morning.
I arrived at Aunt Beth’s flat the following evening, and she gratefully took the extra rations, ‘This is a real treat, let’s save them for when Charles comes to supper and then we can eat the lot together!’
Later that evening, Aunt Beth announced that she had a surprise for me, ‘My brother John has offered to hold a luncheon party for you and Charles at the Savoy when you officially announce your engagement, and he wants you both to invite whoever you like.’ She also told me that she’d found a very pretty dress that would be perfect for me to wear at the party, and that she would take me to see it in the morning so that I could try it on.
The following morning, I heard the newspaper flop through the letterbox onto the floor, but as I was in no hurry to get up, I stayed in bed and went back to sleep. When I woke up again about an hour later, I was surprised to see both Aunt Beth and Marcus standing at the foot of my bed. They were both as white as sheets and were looking at me in a very strange way. Aunt Beth was crying.
‘What is it?’ I asked them. ‘What’s happened?’
When neither of them answered me straightaway, I immediately knew that something was terribly wrong.
‘What’s happened?’ I repeated.
‘Exeter has been bombed,’ Marcus said.
‘Oh, no, that’s where Charles is. Has he been hurt?’ I asked fearfully.
‘Yes he has, Mary,’ Marcus said, and then sat down on the bed and took my hand in his. ‘It’s the worst kind of news, I’m afraid.’
Aunt Beth then burst into tears and ran out of the room.
‘No, please no!’ I screamed.
‘I am sorry, Mary, but it’s in the papers this morning,’ Marcus said.
He then told me that when Aunt Beth had picked up her newspaper this morning and read the headline ‘Hero killed whilst rescuing bomb victims in Exeter’, she had immediately thought of Charles and when she finished reading the full story, her worst fears had been confirmed. Charles was dead. She had then phoned Marcus and told him to drop everything and to come over to her flat at once.
When Aunt Beth came back into my bedroom, she hugged me tightly, and started rocking me in her arms. I then heard a strange howling sound, like a wolf in the night, and it was a few minutes before I realised that the sound was coming from me.
Marcus then explained that Charles had been killed while trying to rescue a family who had been trapped in their house after a bombing raid. He had managed to save a young child, but when he went back in to look for any other survivors, the building had suddenly collapsed and everyone inside had been killed.
‘He was a real hero, Mary,’ Marcus said, as he injected something into my arm, which made me fall straight to sleep.
When I regained consciousness, I could see my father’s tear-stained face looking down at me. I remembered that something terrible had happened, but couldn’t quite remember what, and I felt very disorientated. My father quietly told me to get out of bed, and as I tried to stand up I felt my legs give way, a bit like a puppet with no strings, but my father helped me stay upright. Someone wrapped a blanket around me, and then I saw Marcus was now by my side. He guided me down the stairs, out of the building and then into the back seat of my father’s car. I felt a sharp prick in my arm and then must have gone back to sleep.
When I next woke up, I was in my own bed at home, in Woking. My mother was standing by the bed, and when she saw that I was awake, she put her arms around me, which made me start to cry, and once the tears started, I wondered if they would ever stop.
Charles’s funeral service was held a week later in their family village church, in Gloucestershire, but I was still in too much of a state of shock to feel well enough to attend. My mother told me that she had spoken to Charles’ parents on the phone to offer our condolences and that they had told her there would be a memorial service for the rest of their family and Charles’s friends the following week.
‘We have all been invited.’
‘I can’t go,’ I told her, hugging myself tightly for protection.
‘Not even for Charles?’ my mother asked, ‘I think he would want you to be there to help his parents get through this awful tragedy. Try to think about how they are feeling right now, darling. I know its not easy but you are
going to have to try to pull yourself together quickly and put on a brave face.’
I don’t remember much about the memorial service, as it all seemed so unreal. Charles’ mother approached me after the service was over and put her arms around me, ‘Thank you for making Charles so happy,’ which made me burst into tears.
When Charles’ father came over to join us, he looked ten years older than when I’d last seen him, and after we had hugged each other I told him that I would come and see them again soon, ‘Please do Mary,’ Lord Walbrooke said, ‘and know that you will always be part of our family and welcome anytime.’
As we left to go home, I vowed that I would come back to visit Charles’s grave one day, but didn’t know when that would be. Life felt so uncertain. I was frightened to make any plans for the future, because it seemed to me that every time I tried to, something terrible happened.
After a few weeks of alternating between sadness, self-pity and anger, I finally began to recover and decided it was time to get on with my life, so told my mother that I was ready to go back to doing my bit to help the war.
‘I’m very glad to hear that darling, as you still have your life to live,’ she said.
‘But I don’t just want to empty bedpans and change dressings, I want to do something that will really make a difference,’ I told her.
‘Well then I think that I might have had a good idea.’
‘What?’ I replied without showing much interest.
‘I am going to give Archibald McIndoe a call,’ my mother said, ‘you remember ‘Uncle Archie’ don’t you Mary? He’s that charming man we met with his family on holiday in France before the war, and since then he’s set up a specialist unit at the Queen Victoria Cottage Hospital in East Grinstead to re-build the faces of pilots who have been badly burnt, so I want to ask him whether you could work there and train, as a voluntary aid detachment nurse.’
I perked up immediately. I had forgotten all about ‘Uncle Archie’, but now remembered telling him, that when I grew up I wanted to work as one of his nurses.
Later that evening I overheard my mother talking to him on the phone, arranging a date for me to visit him. When she got off the phone she told me that ‘Uncle Archie’, had asked her to warn me that most of his patients were very badly disfigured, so it was important that I try not to show any reaction when I saw them, as that could do more harm than good. Apparently he was attempting to give these poor men ‘new faces’, but the reality was that they would never look normal again.
When I arrived at the Cottage Hospital, I nearly told the sister who greeted me that I had come to see ‘Uncle Archie’, but fortunately stopped myself in time, and instead said that I had a meeting with Archibald McIndoe. She took me to his office, and told me to wait there until he was free to see me. I gratefully accepted her offer of a cup of coffee and sat down, while the nurse went to fetch it. While I waited, I thumbed through one of the magazines and to my surprise suddenly saw a photograph of myself staring back, which must have been taken at the Queen Charlotte’s Ball. It was so unexpected to see a photograph of myself that I burst out laughing, just as Archie McIndoe opened the door and walked into his office.
‘Uncle Archie!’ I cried out, jumping up and leaping into his arms, still laughing.
‘Dear me! Is that really you Mary? If I hadn’t known you were coming to see me I wouldn’t have recognised you. Last time I saw you, you were still a schoolgirl.’
He then took my hands in his and looking directly into my eyes, said how sorry he was to hear about my recent loss, which my mother must have told him about, and then he told me how delighted he was that I still wanted to help him.
‘I know you must feel that your plans for the future have been turned upside down Mary, but when you see my poor boys, you’ll realise that they must feel even worse than you do, because the impact of their disfiguring injuries has made them very depressed and believe that they have no future at all,’ he said seriously.
I asked him how their families coped with such a situation, and Uncle Archie replied that, sadly, very often, some of them found it impossible to come to terms with the situation. ‘I’ve seen wives and sweethearts shun the boys, unable to face the rest of their lives looking at someone they no longer recognized. It is utterly cruel, and yet quite understandable,’ he sighed.
He then warned me that I would see some horrifically disfigured faces, when he took me round the wards, and that some of the men’s hands looked like claws.
‘The worst thing about their hands is that they are unable to feed themselves because they cannot hold a knife and fork any longer, and find it humiliating to be fed like babies. I’ve seen some of them put up with unbearable pain very bravely, and then weep when someone offers to help them have a drink of water. My job is not only to rebuild their burnt faces and hands, but also to give them the courage to carry on, so if you feel that you really wish to work here, you will have to do the same.’
Uncle Archie then explained that the scale of his work was so large that it meant that he needed to find people who didn’t mind taking on more than just one role, so if I was to do any nursing for him, that wouldn’t be all he wanted me to do.
‘It will all be rather different here, Mary,’ he warned.
We then left his office and went through to a room where he told me that his ‘guinea pigs’ were recuperating. When I looked a bit shocked by his remark, he explained that some time ago one of his patients, who was being wheeled into surgery for the umpteenth time, had shouted out as a joke, ‘We’re nothing but a plastic surgeon’s guinea pigs!’ and the nickname had stuck.
Most of his patients were pilots, who had been caught in the inferno of a crashed plane, often trapped in the cockpit, as the fuel tank exploded with them still inside. Archie told me that some time ago he had noticed that many of the airmen who had ditched into the sea, had appeared to be in less pain and in better shape than those who had crashed on land, so he quickly realised that the salt water must have benefited them in some way. It had also made it easier for him to graft on new skin, so he had then come up with the idea of giving all his patients saline baths, which would give them the same benefit as being in the ocean. After a few experiments, mainly with the water temperature, the saline baths had now become common practice.
Uncle Archie went on to tell me how he used skin from one part of the body, as a graft to repair another. The men had to be very brave, and cope with having an arm attached to their face while the graft was taking. When we finally went into one of the wards, I was shocked to see such terrible disfigurements, far worse than I could have imagined, but did my best to look at the men square in the face, as instructed but it was one of the hardest things I had ever had to do.
Archie told me that getting the men used to showing their faces in public, was a real challenge but something they would have to get used to doing, if they were to ever have any chance of a ‘normal’ life, so he had gone into East Grinstead and had a word with the local publicans, about the work he was doing and asked them all for their help and support. He had pleaded with them to talk to his boys and make them feel welcome in the pubs, so that they felt like they were being treated as ‘normal people’ and he even asked the locals to take them into their homes. Fortunately many people showed kindness to McIndoe’s ‘guinea pigs’, and opened their houses to the wounded airmen.
Uncle Archie then surprised me by telling me that he not only allowed the men to drink beer with their meals in the hospital but that he also arranged regular outings to the local pubs. I couldn’t believe it!
‘The chaps were used to going out for a drink and flirting with girls before this damn war,’ he said smiling, ‘and scarred or unscarred, boys still enjoy looking at a pretty face like yours Mary!’
As he said this, I noticed that some of the men were looking at me, so I smiled back at them thinking that if I was kind and joked along with them perhaps they might start feeling better about themselves. I think it must have w
orked, as it didn’t take long before a couple of them began flirting with me.
I marvelled at how courageous these men were to even attempt to ‘carry on as usual’, as though nothing had happened to them. I was full of respect for them.
I couldn’t help but smile, when one of the pilots complained that his moustache wouldn’t grow anymore, so Uncle Archie offered to graft on a new one for him, but using his pubic hair, which made all the men laugh. Then he asked one of the other men whether he’d decided on whether to have a snub nose or a big long one, telling him to hurry up and make up his mind as his decision would affect the amount of skin he’d need to take from his backside.
Despite the very good-natured banter and humorous remarks, the reality that most of the skin for the grafts came from one, or both, of the individual’s inside legs or arms could not be ignored.
Uncle Archie seemed to be pleased that I was taking it all in my stride, and excused himself saying that he had work to do. ‘I’ll send one of my nurses to show you round the recovery ward before lunch, Mary, after which I’ll be free again for a while.’
When the nurse arrived to take me on my tour, she suggested that I leave my jacket in the office, explaining that as many of the men had to lie naked to help their burns heal, all the wards were well heated. Noticing my look of concern and embarrassment, the nurse smiled and said that they did try to cover them up whenever possible to respect their modesty.
When she took me into the recovery ward, I smiled at one of the patients whose bed I was passing, but he didn’t smile back. It took me a while to realise that he couldn’t smile back, because he no longer had any lips to smile with.
As the nurse led me from bed to bed, I found it was difficult not to express shock on my face, when I saw a patient with an arm attached to his face, or a strange-shaped nose that looked more like an elephant’s trunk. I began to understand how the wives and girlfriends of these men must have felt when they first saw the men that they had once found so attractive, as they were now. I blew my nose in an attempt to cover the fact that I was crying, and then asked the nurse whether I could go outside for a while.