by Danni Roan
She knew that many of the Salvationists worked to nurse the wounded, and once she found them some form of even relative safety, she would stop to think. Now was the time for action, she determined as the Ambulance skidded sideways over the pocked and rutted road.
Increasing her speed as she dodged horse drawn artillery and damaged vehicles her eyes fell on the distant outline of the Red Cross painted on a tent and she mashed down harder on the throttle, wrenching the gears once more as the heavy ambulance bucked and tumbled along the road.
“Please God let me get them there before it’s too late,” Mary pleaded her eyes set on the goal. “It’s not far, just let me get there.”
As she made a turn on the muddy road her back wheels spinning to grain traction, a gray shadow caught her eye as a French plane plunged toward the fray. For what seemed like minutes the plane drove forward then exploded in a halo of gold as a red bi-plane raked its wings with fire.
Mary watched in horror as the gray hawk like structure tipped, dropping nose first to the ground with a deafening crash.
Without any thought at all she turned the ambulance toward the smoking carnage, sprang from the seat and dashed into the wreckage in search of the pilot.
Chapter 5
Flames flickered in the periphery of Mary’s vision as she grasped the pilot’s heavy sheep skin coat and tugged, but he wouldn’t budge.
Black smoke blew from the mangled engine into the cockpit making Mary cough but she continued searching for the buckle that held the man fast.
A low groan told her the pilot was alive but sparks sizzled over the engine flickering to life in a stream of red flame.
“Come on,” Mary growled slinging the man’s arm over her shoulder as the belt fell free. The pilot’s head rolled toward her, his body limp, as she pulled him from the wreckage moments before flames engulfed the plane.
Mary pulled harder dragging the body with her across the cold mud. A harsh hiss snapped her head up as the engine exploded throwing her to the ground amidst the debris.
***
Mary Bridgette blinked feeling the dirt and mud crumble from her face. Something warm and sticky was running down her face and her ears rang. The heat from the burning plane radiated toward her and as she gathered her senses she looked at the man she had dragged from the crash.
His blue eyes were wide but instead of the dull gleam of death she saw a spark within them that drew her and for a moment something passed between them that she couldn’t name.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” she said looking away and searching for the ambulance she’d left on the road. “Where is it?” she mumbled trying to find the connivance. The ambulance was completely gone.
The pilot pushed himself up on his elbow the cried out in pain as his leg twisted at an odd angle.
“Your leg is broken,” Mary said looking back at him. “Try not to move.” To her surprise the man offered a grin through the pain. “I’ll get you out of here.”
Above them the angry buzz of the planes slipped further down field and the barrage of artillery fire seemed to lessen.
“I’m not going anywhere fast,” the man spoke, his voice was warm and rich with a hint of North Carolina in it.
Mary scanned the area looking for materials and soon found bits of wood and scraps of fabric to make a splint. She was never so thankful for her uncle’s gift than now. She had read his notes so often that the diary had become bent with use even as the instructions had become second nature.
“I’m going to splint your leg then I’ll find us some way to get to the hospital,” she said with determination. Again, their eyes met and deep warmth seemed to fill Mary, even as mortar exploded along the line.
Setting the leg was the hardest part of what came next and the young Salvationist cringed when the pilot cried out in pain, but soon she had the leg wrapped, two thick pieces of wood holding it tight. “Do you think you can make it to that hut?” Mary asked offering her shoulder.
“I’ll do it,” the man replied. It was only a few yards to the ramshackle hut but it seemed so much further as Mary half carried half dragged her patient to the dusty and decaying shack.
Inside the dark interior Mary settled the pilot on the floor then gazed around looking for some means of help. Perhaps she should go back to the road and try to get a passing ambulance or truck or even a wagon to come for the pilot.
The soft gleam of metal in the dim interior caught Mary’s eye as she settled the pilot on the straw covered floor.
“I’m Mary Bridgette,” she said in way of introduction.
“Barrister Abrams,” the man said. “Pleased to meet you,” he added with a rakish grin, “thought I might have been happier under different circumstances.”
Mary smiled despite herself. How the man could grin at time like this was beyond her. The battle seemed to be ebbing, but she still needed to get them both to the hospital at least two miles away.
“What is this?” Mr. Abrams asked rapping his knuckles on what sounded like hard steel. The structure was cold where he pressed his back into it and he wondered if it might be a cart or old auto.
Mary rose and made a turn around the machine they’d been rested against, pulling a dusty trap from the big frame. “It’s a tractor,” she replied excitedly. “A steam tractor just like back home.”
“Steam. That’s no use,” Mr. Abrams said.
“That’s where you are wrong sir,” Mary said a bit of sass entering her tone. “Just you watch and see.”
Mary hustled around the tractor checking the water tanks, and then pulled the oil valve. “Everything seems to be in working order,” she called. “I’m afraid you are going to have to steer though. Do you think you can manage?”
“If I must,” the droll reply came through the darkness making Mary shake her head at the man’s humor.
Mary opened the fire box looking around for anything she could burn. Soon she had stuffed the box with straw and a few old boards and other heavier chunks of wood. “I need a match,” she called down to the pilot who still sat on the cold floor his head lulling against a wheel.
“Here,” he called back and she hurried to retrieve the packet of matches he’d pulled from a pocket, taking them from his fingers.
Moments later the fire sprang to life and Mary began pulling levers to start the boiler. The tractor was massive, but she had helped during harvest and threshing at the Broken J. The big steam engine could work all day then be braked to run the threshing machine as well. As long as it had a good head of steam the thing was virtually unstoppable.
“It will take about ten minutes before we have steam,” Mary said climbing down and reaching for Mr. Abrams. “Do you think you can get into the seat?”
Instead of answering Barrister lifted his hand letting Mary pull him up on his good leg. Climbing into the cabin of the old tractor with only one useful leg was difficult and painful, but with Mary’s help, he was soon seated on a small stool while she explained how to steer using the chains that moved the front wheels.
“Don’t pull too hard or you’ll bend the pins,” she explained. “If we have to turn we’ll go wide but this monster should be able to rumble over almost any obstacle.”
“Just point me in the right direction,” the man replied. He smiled and despite the mud and blood that mingled on his face, and the dark smudges of soot that marred his hands he seemed to shine.
Mary hurried to the door of the hut pushing it open and bracing it as the big engine hissed and spat. Swinging aboard she opened the throttles pushed it into forward gear and let it slowly roll from the shed.
It took two people to drive a steam tractor like this. Not only did the one at the Broken J serve as workhorse there, it was often moved from farm to farm to help with the wheat harvest. In some areas of the States whole teams traveled in a caravan along with tractors just like this one working seasonally to harvest and thresh wheat.
***
Barrister Abrams braced his good leg aga
inst the floor and moved the wheel slightly to make their way into the open air.
The big flywheel next to him was spinning as steam billowed from jets at the bottom of the machine and a light on the front of the engine flickered to life.
Beside him the young woman in the Salvation Army dress pulled another lever and eased them into daylight. It was a crazy way to travel, but if it got them to safety, he didn’t care how they went.
“How do you know how to work this thing?” he called over the noise of belts and spinning wheels.
“We have one back home on the Broken J Ranch in Wyoming?” Mary said. “If we didn’t grow wheat and have a sawmill, I think the thing would have been gobbled up for scrap. All of us kids dreamed of driving the thing growing up and my uncle Taylor taught us. He also put us to work.”
Again she shifted the level forward working the clutch and the forward gear as the engine picked up speed its massive steel tires digging in to the earth and pushing it forward effortlessly.
“Keep an eye on that gage,” Mary called again, opening the fire box and tossing in more wood. She’d gathered everything she could find in the shack and hoped it would get them to where they needed to go.
The heavy tractor churned over debris as they swung toward the Red Cross emblazoned on a tent in the distance.
“Wait, wait!” the girl next to him cried pulling back on the opposite lever and bringing the engine to a stop by pushing it into reverse. In a moment she had scrabbled down off the narrow floor and half lifted a wounded soldier toward the contraption. Using his arms as he clung to the rail Barrister helped pull the dazed and disoriented man aboard.
Again Mary climbed in, jimmied the clutch and put the engine in gear, only to repeat the process three more times before they reached the hospital.
Soldiers stumbling toward the tent their wounds hastily bandaged found themselves hefted into the boiling tractor as it made a slow but steady bee line to the hospital tent.
“Mary!” another woman cried out as they pulled to a stop. “I thought you were dead,” she wailed. “A man jumped into and drove the ambulance here. He said the explosion must have killed you.”
Barrister watched as the two girls embraced. “I was thrown clear,” Mary said. “So was the pilot.” She turned indicating Barrister sitting on the seat and holding fast to the wheel of the tractor as the other soldiers were carried away.
“How about the men we were bringing here,” Mary asked Celeste as she helped Barrister down. The young pilot wrapped an arm around the girl who had pulled him from the wreckage of the plane and determined that when all this mess was over he was going to track her down and thank her properly.
The noise and bustle of the hospital tent soon separated Barrister from his saving angel, but he hoped that he would see her at least once more before he was rehabilitated and back in the air. He was taking the fight back to the red wings who had already taken too many of his friends.
It had been nearly two years since he had volunteered as a pilot, joining the French air force before America had even joined the fight. Now he was out for revenge and restitution.
A broken leg would heal. In a few weeks he would be back in the air carrying the fight across the land. Sooner or later the tide would turn and the allies would win. He only had to survive long enough to even the score.
Chapter 6
“Did everyone get out?” Mary asked as Celeste carried her away to report in to those in charge of the Salvation Army workers.
“We won’t be able to go back for a day maybe two but yes everyone got out. I hate that those men out there are fighting and dying and we had to retreat,” the other girl said. “But right now let’s get you looked at,” she added pointing to the cut on Mary’s head.
Mary wrapped an arm around her friend’s shoulder but twisted to see the pilot being carried away. He lifted a hand in parting and she tried to smile. Perhaps she would see him before he was sent on to a rehabilitation center. There was something about Mr. Abrams that she couldn’t quite name and she was intrigued.
Perhaps it was the way they were thrown together in a dangerous situation. Perhaps it was that moment of a near death experience that had linked them but Mary could feel something tangible, a connection stronger than a steel cable that bound them.
“I can’t believe you jumped into a burning airplane,” Celeste was saying as she walked Mary to a triage table and grabbed a cotton swab and alcohol. “You could have been killed you know. We weren’t sent out here to blow ourselves up. We’re just supposed to help out where we can.”
“I was helping,” Mary said. “Mr. Abrams needed help didn’t he?”
“Well yes I suppose so,” Celeste admitted. “Still I think Mrs. Baker would be very upset with you if you’d been killed.”
Mary smiled grimacing as Celeste tended the cut on her temple.
“Who in thunder has parked a blinking huge tractor in front of my hospital?” A doctor in a once white coat barked out from the entrance.
Blushing Mary stood looking the man squarely in the eye. “That was me,” she replied. “I used it to transport wounded.”
“A bit of girl like you drove that massive monstrosity?” the doctor said striding toward her.
“Yes,” Mary said her voice soft but firm.
“Alone?” the man stepped up to her his dark eyes unbelieving.
“No, an injured pilot did the steering while I worked the gears.”
“Would you kindly remove it from the entrance then?” the man asked looking down his straight nose at her as he lifted a wisp of hair to see the cut on her head.
“Of course,” Mary said and rose from her chair, but the man waved her back.
“First let me take care of that for you,” he spoke taking the gauze from Celeste and dressing the injury. “There,” he said offering her his hand. “Now shall we,” he turned escorting her to the door.
The field was quiet again as Mary stepped back into the gray light of day approaching the engine that still puffed softly next to the road.
“You drivin’ that?” a young doughboy called hurrying toward them.
“I am if I can get some help,” Mary replied.
“We got an amb’lance stuck in the mud over the way,” the man said. “You think you can pull it with that?”
“I’ll be happy to help if I can,” Mary said.
“Yes, let’s see you work your magic,” the doctor said helping Mary up into the cage and climbing up with her.
“I need more wood or coal,” Mary said opening the fire box and checking the gears.
“You, bring some wood from the kitchen,” the doctor barked and a man jumped to comply. “I’m Dr. Niven,” he said and I’m in charge of this outpost.”
Mary looked at the man, who though several years older than her was young to be in charge of the entire hospital.
The men brought wood and together she and the doughboy fired the burner building a good head of steam and topping up the water before shifting it in reverse and backing toward the crippled ambulance.
“You really can drive this thing,” Dr. Niven said, his eyes wide. “For a little chit, you’re rather handy.”
Mary cast her eyes in the doctor’s direction but was too busy showing the other man how to steer to comment.
She had been raised on a ranch, and though most of the women of the Broken J no longer rode the range with the men, her mother still expected her girls to know how to do anything on the ranch and the doctor’s haughty attitude chafed.
“I’ll leave you two to carry on,” Dr. Niven said looking at Mary one more time. “Please do not leave this monstrosity in front of my hospital again,” he continued, “but I would like to see you when you return.”
With a too familiar wink he leapt lightly from the slowly moving tractor and trotted back toward the tent.
“Looks like you got yerself and admirer,” the man at the wheel said.
“That would not be appropriate,” Mary chided. “I am
a Salvationist, and we keep ourselves to ourselves.”
The doughboy chuckled turning the wheel and aiming the tractor on a path parallel with the ambulance.
“Straighten it out, and I’ll bring it to a stop,” Mary said pulling the clutch and dragging the gear handle into reverse as they passed the automobile.
“You stay here,” the man said. “I’ll get a chain on the amb’lance.”
Mary gazed around her at the mud, sandbags, and broken remains of the war machine. Dead horses and shattered wagons could be seen if you were unwise enough to let your mind really look, and the smell of decay, damp, and shattered earth permeated the air.
Her heart stuttered as she watched a team of six heavy draft horses, spattered with mud and weighed down in the sludge and slime of the battle field dragging a heavy gun from the edge of the no-man’s land.
Even as she watched one of the horses slipped his matted legs folding as he fell to the ground bringing the painstaking progress to a stop.
A tear spilled down Mary’s face, burning past the scratches from her earlier encounter as the men at the lead pulled and yelled getting the horse back to his feet and the weapon into motion once more. The troubles of men seemed to pull all living things into their fight.
“Let’s move,” the doughboy called jumping back into the cab of the tractor and grabbing the wheel while Mary shifted into gear once more easily pulling the mired wagon from the mud and onto solid ground.
Once it was unhooked Mary shifted gears once more, insisting her partner stay with her as she chugged toward the weary mud spattered horses.
“Whoa, whoa!” she called waving at the men who had just made the edge of the ridge. “Hold up and we’ll pull for you,” she urged.
A large form broke away from the team hurrying to set the break on the gun and easing the strain on the horses.
“Bring it around,” another man barked as the big fellow unhitched the horses leading them away and finding them a place to catch their breath. Moments later the long gun was attached to the tractor, but before Mary could slip the gears the large man swung up opening the fire box and adding wood.