Suffragette Girl (28 page)

It was a question not one of them could answer.

But there was something that Florrie wanted to ask Ernst. She leaned across the table and touched his hand. ‘Why are you here, Ernst? In a war that’s nothing to do with your
country?’

His expression was wary. He glanced away and didn’t answer immediately.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry. I was just curious, that’s all. I never thought about it myself. It wasn’t until that sentry said . . .’ Her voice faded into
silence.

With obvious reluctance, he said stiffly, ‘My mother was French and I have cousins fighting with the French army. I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. Not when my skills could do
so much good, even though . . .’ He pressed his lips together as if to stop himself saying any more.

‘Even though?’ Florrie prompted gently, but Ernst shook his head. ‘Oh, nothing.’ His attitude made it quite clear he was not going to say anything more about his family
or his life back in Switzerland.

They drove back as the light began to fade.

‘The guns have never stopped,’ Florrie murmured.

‘Stop. Pull up here,’ Ernst said suddenly.

‘What? Why? What’s the matter?’ Alarmed, Florrie pulled to a halt.

‘Switch the engine off.’

‘Why? I don’t understand—’

‘Just do as I say. Now, get out and put one side of the bonnet up.’

‘Whatever for?’

He turned and leaned towards her. Running his finger gently down her cheek, he whispered, ‘You do want me to make love to you, don’t you?’

Her heart thumped and her body tingled ‘Yes, oh yes, but why do I have to put the bonnet up?’

‘If anyone should come along, we’ll hear them. You’ll have to get out and play the “damsel in distress”. Make out the engine’s stopped and you can’t
restart it.’

Now Florrie giggled. ‘You think of everything.’

‘Naturally,’ he said.

She did as he said and then they climbed into the back of the vehicle. They spread the blankets, which Florrie carried for her patients, on the floor of the lorry and lay down.

Slowly, Ernst unbuttoned the blouse of her uniform. He kissed her shoulders, her neck and, at last, her lips, his fingers struggling with the laces and buttons of her under-garments. They did
not undress fully, not this time, for fear someone might come along the road. His hands explored her gently, arousing her to heights of longing. She groaned and writhed beneath him, willing him to
enter her quickly, so urgent was her need of him.

She cried out in sheer joy, her fingers digging into his back as he buried his face in the softness of her breasts. He shuddered and groaned and lay still on top of her, panting. Florrie lay
back, smiling and stroking his hair. She closed her eyes.

And all the time the pounding of the distant guns never ceased.

‘Quick! Someone’s coming. I hear marching feet and – and singing.’

Bleary-eyed, Florrie scrambled to find her clothes in the darkness.

‘I’ll stay here. Pretend I’m a patient,’ Ernst suggested, pulling the blankets over him.

‘I can’t find my shoes. Ernst, you must help me.’

‘Get out of the back. Be quick!’

She felt around in panic. ‘Oh, fiddlesticks! I’ll have to leave them.’

She stepped down into the road in her stockinged feet.

The squad of soldiers was only yards away, their voices filling the night air with the strains of ‘Who were you with last night, out in the pale moonlight’. How appropriate, Florrie
thought, suppressing a nervous giggle. Seeing her, the sergeant called a halt and came across to her.

‘You in trouble, miss?’

‘It – it just stopped. The engine and I – I don’t know how to start it again,’ she finished lamely. She hated herself for sounding like a weak and ineffectual
female, when in truth she’d probably learned far more about the internal workings of her vehicle during the last few weeks than any of these soldiers knew.

‘No trouble, miss. We’ll take a look for you.’ He turned and yelled, ‘Martindale – Robinson – at the double—’

‘Please, not so loud. I have a patient in the back. I – I think he’s sleeping.’

‘We’ll be as quiet as we can, miss.’

The soldiers he’d called out for stuck their heads under the bonnet.

‘Can’t see anything wrong, sir. We’ll try an’ start it up for you, miss.’

Seconds later the engine fired into life.

‘Oh, how silly of me,’ she said, finding it quite easy to feign embarrassment as she blushed furiously at her deception. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘Think nothing of it, miss. It’s us that should be thanking you nurses for being out here.’ The two soldiers saluted her once again. As they turned and began to walk back to
their comrades, Florrie distinctly heard one say, ‘I wonder why she’s got no shoes on?’

‘Best not to ask, mate. Mebbe that patient in the back ain’t as sick as he’s mekin’ out.’

Their laughter filled the air until the voice of their sergeant called them to order. But Florrie, left standing by the lorry, felt even more foolish.

She waited until they’d marched a good distance down the road before she whispered, ‘They’ve gone. You can come out now.’ And seeing Ernst emerging from the back of the
lorry, half-undressed and with his smooth hair decidedly ruffled, Florrie was overcome by a fit of the giggles she could no longer quell.

‘The engine stalled and Nurse Maltby didn’t know what was wrong,’ Ernst explained smoothly to Sister Blackstock, who’d been watching out for them, her
anxiety growing with every passing minute. ‘But we were lucky. Some soldiers were marching,’ he waved his hand airily, ‘somewhere – and stopped to help. So, all is well.
Goodnight, Nurse Maltby.’ He didn’t smile at her, didn’t even glance at her as he strode away towards the house and his bed in the cellar.

Stiffly, Sister Blackstock said, ‘You can see to the lorry in the morning. You’d better get to bed too.’

‘Yes, Sister,’ Florrie said meekly. ‘Goodnight.’

Sister Blackstock watched her go, a worried expression in her eyes. There was something different about the girl. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was definitely
something.

She hoped it had nothing to do with the handsome Dr Hartmann. She didn’t want to have to send this particular nurse home in disgrace.

‘There’s someone asking for you, Nurse Maltby.’

Surprised, Florrie said, ‘For me?’

‘He was brought in half an hour ago,’ Sister Blackstock said. ‘He’s very badly injured. I don’t think he’s going to make it.’

The colour drained from Florrie’s face. Her eyes widened. If someone was asking for her by name, it must be someone she knew. Oh, Tim! Was it Tim? Knowing he was somewhere in the area,
she’d dreaded seeing him brought in on a stretcher.

‘Don’t faint on me, Nurse,’ Ernst snapped. ‘Don’t let go of that clamp or this boy will die. Get a hold of yourself.’

‘I – I’m sorry.’ Florrie swallowed and took a deep breath to calm her trembling hands. She struggled to concentrate on holding the instrument whilst Ernst stitched with
expert fingers.

‘He didn’t say his name, but I think he’s one of the boys who helped you clean out the cellar. He’s insistent he wants to see you. So, Nurse, as soon as you
can.’

A few moments later Ernst said tersely, ‘You can go.’

‘I—’

‘Don’t argue. I said you can go.’

Florrie took a last look at the patient. He was a good colour and seemed to be breathing normally. It was amazing after the trauma his young body had suffered. But, thanks to Ernst’s
skill, he would live. Not to ‘fight another day’, but this soldier would certainly get home to Blighty and his family. Though, without his right arm, she doubted he would ever work
again. She hoped he’d a loving family who’d care for him.

‘Ben!’ she whispered. ‘Oh no!’

She knelt beside him and took his hand. The boy – for, despite everything, he was still no more than a boy doing a man’s job – was white-faced and shaking with sobs.

‘I can’t see,’ Ben struggled to say. ‘It’s got me eyes.’

His breath was a rasping, laboured sound. He sounded as if he was drowning and there was the stench of gas about him. But that was not all: his right leg was a bleeding, mangled mess and, though
Sister Blackstock was doing her best to clean the horrific wound, she glanced at Florrie with wordless despair. Even Ernst Hartmann, with all his skill, would be able to do no more than chop it off
above the knee.

‘I want me mam, Miss Florrie. I want me mam.’

‘I know, Ben, I know. I’ll write to her for you. What do you want me to say?’

‘Tell ’er to come. I want ’er. I want to tell ’er I’m sorry. Sorry I went against her wishes and joined up. She were right. I should’ve listened. Tell
’er I’m sorry – sorry – Mam – oh, Mam . . .’ He drifted off into blessed unconsciousness. Florrie sat beside him, holding his hand to her cheek. How was she ever
going to write to tell Mrs Atkinson that her only son – her beloved boy – had been killed?

What an appalling waste this war was! There were no words to describe the ghastly carnage to those waiting back home. Though they read the casualty lists and mourned in their thousands, they
still wouldn’t be aware of the full horror of it all.

If she got home, Florrie vowed, she’d make sure they knew. She’d tell the world. A war like this must never again be allowed to happen.

Ben woke once more and seemed calmer. ‘Miss Florrie?’

‘I’m here, Ben. I’m here.’ She’d remained sitting beside him into the early hours of the morning, knowing the boy did not have long. Ernst had been to examine him
and shaken his head sadly at her. Then he’d left them alone.

‘I’ve seen Master James, miss.’

‘James!’ Her heart contracted in fear. ‘Here? Are you sure, Ben?’

‘Oh yes, miss. Him and that other chap what married Miss Richards. He’s a captain now, miss. Did you know?’

‘No, Ben, I didn’t.’ She was about to ask more questions, but she saw that he’d drifted away again. He died at three in the morning without regaining consciousness. But
all the while, Florrie sat holding his hand.

Ben was laid to rest at Poperinghe and, though they couldn’t often attend the funerals of their patients – there wasn’t time to spare – Ernst allowed Florrie to attend
the burial of the young boy she’d known since childhood. She remembered walking across the fields to the Atkinsons’ farm with her grandmother, taking a basket of goodies on the day that
they’d heard Mrs Atkinson had given birth to her baby boy. Florrie had been four years old and had skipped alongside Augusta in the spring sunshine. And now she was standing beside his grave,
with the rain pouring down and the incessant sound of pounding guns. Dead at just seventeen.

And all the while she couldn’t help thinking: It could have been James.

Although she tried to make enquiries, she couldn’t find out where James was. She began to think that perhaps Ben, in his delirium, had been mistaken. Perhaps he’d
been dreaming of home and thought he’d seen him in reality.

But then came a letter from Augusta telling her the news she’d most feared to hear.

My dear girl, How dreadful for you to be with Ben when he died but, though the news has devastated the Atkinson family, the fact that you were at his side and were able to reassure Mrs
Atkinson that he did not suffer, has been of great comfort to them. Though I wonder, privately of course, if you have not told us the whole truth. The number of telegrams that relatives are
receiving saying ‘He died instantly and did not suffer’ seems incredible. I expect, for once, it is the War Office trying to be kind.

Florrie smiled sadly. Her grandmother was as shrewd as ever. But, as she read the next words, her smile faded.

I’m sorry to have to tell you, my dear, that James has been posted abroad. Where, we don’t know, but if the action is where you are, then I fear that is where he might well be
also. We have not heard from him since he went, so if you do have news, please, Florrie dear, let us know. Gervase has written – he sends his love. He says he’s still moving about a
lot. Your father is well, and your mother, poor dear, stays in bed most of the day now . . .

Florrie glanced at the top of the letter. The date in Augusta’s scrawling handwriting was already a month old. She folded the letter slowly and tucked it away amongst her belongings. So,
she thought, James had already been out here in France or Belgium for over a month. Perhaps Ben had been right after all. Maybe James was here somewhere quite close. And Gervase and Tim? Where were
they?

As she lay down to sleep, she prayed fervently that she would not see any of them, for the only way that might come about was if they were wounded.

No one seemed to guess about the love affair between Florrie and the doctor. Their snatched moments of privacy were few, but their lovemaking was passionate, heightened by the
danger all around them. Ernst couldn’t even come to where she slept, for it was one of the rooms in the cellar, with the patients sleeping on the other side of the wall, and the room was
shared with any other nurse or sister not on night duty.

Late at night, when the orderlies had carried away the last patient and the other nurses had stumbled wearily to their beds, they made love in the operating room, where earlier men had screamed
in agony and even died.

There was no time for sentiment or squeamishness, no time for guilt or remorse. There was only this moment of passion – for there might never be another. Every day they lived with death:
the death of those all around them and the knowledge of their own fleeting mortality. There was no thought for family or friends or loved ones.

Marooned in a world of carnage and horror, they hungered only for each other. They gave of themselves to others for many hours every day, so when they could snatch a few minutes, they were
completely selfish and self-centred. For those few precious moments, nothing and no one else mattered. Not Tim. Not Gervase. Not even James.

By day they worked side by side the same as always, professional and efficient. Only when they’d done all they could for the wounded and dying did they fall into each other’s arms
and, for a brief moment of bliss, blot out the world around them.