A Girl in Wartime (36 page)

In her mind she sought to heal those young men; she took herself through endless scenes in her head, talking to those blinded by bursting shells or choking from creeping poison gas; trying to comfort, endlessly telling the blinded that they'd never have to see that look of pity in the eyes of others: a ghastly play inside her head that she seemed never able to escape.

In her womb the baby kicked, bringing her awake. It was not as hard as it usually was, and quickly settled down. There came a small but nagging pain too as if she should be visiting the toilet, but she didn't. Getting up, she crept downstairs to her lovely kitchen and began making herself a cup of tea. So long as she kept busy the scenes that played out in her head would be given no room. But she felt she was going slowly mad. There was no other way to see it. And she felt helpless for it.

As she waited for the kettle to boil she sank down on one of the chairs in her lovely big kitchen, her chin in her cupped hands, and stared at the pale blue walls. Instantly the things in her head began again to conjure up deplorable scenes. What in God's name was wrong with her? In anger, part fear, part frustration, she leaped up to scream at the top of her voice.

Instantly the scene vanished. But she had awoken Stephen. He was downstairs in seconds, holding her to him as she broke down in a flood of tears. She let herself collapse against his firm body. ‘Stephen – I think I'm going mad!'

‘You're not going mad, darling,' he whispered against her cheek. ‘I have been consulting certain medical people and they think it could be a form of shell shock.'

‘Shell shock?' She leaned away to stare at him. ‘I was nowhere near the fighting.'

‘I know, but—'

‘And what were you doing discussing me with some stranger?'

‘The man's a doctor, a psychiatrist.'

‘A psychiatrist?' she stormed, furious now. ‘Whatever he is, he's still a stranger, nothing to do with this family. How dare you, Stephen!'

He remained calm. ‘I feel we should consult someone who is familiar with the affliction. We've got to get you cured, my love.'

‘I'm not going to anyone like that. It never did Ronnie any good.' It was she who helped him, no one else.

‘Well you can't go on like this, my darling, tearing yourself apart,' he soothed, holding her to him again.

Of course she couldn't go on like this. She was tearing the both of them apart, even possibly ruining her marriage.

‘All right, I'll see this … whoever he is,' she consented in a small voice.

Seconds later she was calling out from a sudden sharp pain, an urgent wish to visit the toilet, but instinct told her it was not that.

‘Stephen, I think it's started,' she gasped. ‘The baby, I think it's on its way!'

Two days of sheer agony. She had never felt such pain. Such an effort to push, gasping, wanting only to give up, bullied by the nurses not to. But finally in the early hours, the baby was born, the pain it had caused her in coming into the world seeming to fly away as if by magic.

‘You've a lovely little girl,' the midwife said proudly. A girl! And she had so wanted to given Stephen a son.

Connie had intended to call her baby Stephen after his father. Instead she decided to compromise and name the baby Stephanie, and he was in complete agreement with that.

‘I'm sorry it's a girl,' she said when he came in the following morning after the birth.

He'd paid for the best care; private hospital, the luxury of a private room with attentive nurses and the best doctor he could find. She couldn't have felt better treated, and all she could do was present him with a daughter who, when she grew up and married, wouldn't even carry on his name. Maybe the next time she would give him a boy?

He smiled down at her. ‘I'm glad it's a girl, my darling,' he said gently. ‘She will never have to be sent off to war, like your brothers.'

She knew he was thinking of Albert, who was home on seven days' leave, his arm still in a sling.

His features were pale and drawn and he looked old. He saw himself as fortunate to be alive but after his leave he'd be sent back to France to finish recuperating in some hospital there, readying him to be sent back to the trenches, possibly to receive an even more serious wound or maybe even worse – a mortal one.

She could see it written on Albert's face when he and Edie came to see her and the baby. He had come to the hospital to say goodbye as he was off to France the next day. She wanted to cry for him but all she could say was, ‘I'm so glad you were home for the birth of your little niece. It's so lovely to see you. And Bertie, take good care of yourself – very good care.'

‘Don't worry, I will,' he answered with what she knew was forced cheerfulness as she kissed him farewell, Edie at his side pushing back her tears. The two bent down to kiss the baby, then straightened up to shake Stephen's hand and be wished good luck, Edie to peck her brother-in-law's cheek and be told to keep her chin up.

Watching, Connie felt a small surge of guilt. Her three brothers had all been in the thick of it, George even going against his so-called religion, yet Stephen was still a civilian, kept out of the forces by a mere stone-deaf right ear and a responsible job. Did he ever feel the weight of it?

In all honesty she had never given it thought before, merely thanked her lucky stars that she'd never had to go through what Edie and Dolly had to, or what her sisters were going through, Lillian seeing herself a widow.

His last leave three months behind him, Albert was glad his wound had healed nicely. It had been good to see Edie and his family, visit Connie and Stephen and their baby, and he had been overjoyed to hear she had asked him to be godfather to little Stephanie.

But this made it all the more hellish to have to come back to the muck and the mud – it rained here constantly – and the horrific slaughter, all over again.

It was the first day of November. The war seemed to be going on for ever. As fast as they got the enemy on the run, things would turn to begin all over again. They tried to advance in yet another attack across rain-soaked, bomb-cratered ground, through a fog of choking smoke from bomb and shell, hoping not to fall into one of the many craters that were everywhere, to be swallowed up, never to be found. Most of what was in front of them was so obliterated that one occasionally tripped over an unseen dead body, or would hear a moan of pain as a boot unavoidably connected with the still conscious wounded. They had been warned against pausing to help as they'd become a target themselves. It was enough to make a man feel he might go suddenly berserk.

Except being weighed down by full kit and rifle, boots sinking to the ankles in soft mud to impede every step, gave one little chance to go berserk and run off. All a man could do was trudge on.

His lungs filled with smoke and the foul air of rotting corpses; he hoped it wasn't also heavy with gas. He had his mask at the ready just in case.

Hand-to-hand combat was raging as he finally reached the enemy lines. Moments later, hands were being lifted into the air and from those around him came cheers.

And around him there were exultant shouts: ‘It's ours!' ‘We got the buggers!' ‘Come on – keep your bloody 'ands up, you bleedin' Gerry swinehund!'

Standing ineffectually to one side, rifle levelled though there seemed little need for it now with the few they'd captured – the rest having fled with their hands above their head – all Albert could think about was the men he'd seen fall on the way.

Who were they? Someone's sweetheart, husband, son, father – all of them comrades of his. There came a strange thought. He might have known some of them, some of them quite closely. But in a few days, when the roll was called, he probably wouldn't recall a single one of their names. Or if he did, there'd be a moment of sorrow, then it would pass. Rather like being at a gathering, making the acquaintance of some of them, feeling close for a while, then as everyone began to leave, the party over, unable to recall any one of them, much less wonder who they were or where they came from. Death here was for him something like that. And suddenly he felt ashamed.

But this was no time to feel ashamed. When he went to what passed for a bed, he'd slept like a log. This morning his section, along with several other sections, stood by in readiness to go over the top to push Gerry even further back towards his homeland. It was twelve midday, the sun was still trying to come out – one could just glimpse it through thin cloud – helping to lift their spirits, although behind that was the knowledge that by tomorrow they could be pushed back again, especially if Gerry had a weight of extra numbers behind them. Intelligence said not. But who trusted intelligence?

They waited. The sun finally broke through. The waiting continued. Still nothing happened. Breakfast had been doled out ages ago. Would they get a midday meal? Albert thought. He felt hungry. Then came the idiotic prayer: don't let me die feeling hungry. He almost laughed but felt too keyed up to.

Officers were pushing their way along the crumbling trench, easing themselves between clustered soldiers. In their wake was an odd sound. Cheering? What was there to cheer about?

Two officers had reached where Albert stood. ‘At ease, men.' They were smiling. ‘You can all grin if you want, lads. At eleven o'clock this morning, Germany agreed to an armistice, signed, sealed and delivered. We are at peace. The war is over.'

‘Who won?' come a shout, half insolent, half stunned.

‘We did,' replied the major.

‘Can't you 'ear the cheering, you daft soldier?' Their sergeant bawled, but no one heard him, his parade ground voice drowned out by their own outburst of cheering.

But there were some who didn't cheer, who stood in reflective silence, remembering lost comrades, good comrades, close comrades; others were silent in a prayer of relief, thanksgiving, sadness for those who'd gone, but glad not to have been one of them. Albert too felt himself go through a depth of reaction like a fist slowly burying itself in his diaphragm.

Yet self-awareness had begun to surface: he would be going home. He and Edie would be together. He would go back to his milk round, they would rent a nice little house and they would live happily ever after. There'd never again be a war like this – the war to end all wars, someone had said – and he believed it. The whole world fighting each other, fighting itself to a standstill; such a war could never be allowed to happen again. He felt suddenly very philosophical as he stared at the quiet faces around him. It was all over.

In another part of France, George was listening to the same news.

Standing with the others in the hospital tent as the news was given out, there was no cheering, no singing. All around him lay the wounded on their beds, each one in need of attention. There was no time for celebrating, though he suspected each doctor, nurse, orderly, was offering up quiet thanks.

Some patients took the wonderful news silently, no doubt weighing up their relief against the life they would lead from now on, seeing themselves as no good for anything. But some cheerfully lifted a thumb into the air, grinning like Cheshire cats, trusting to be cured enough to go home and begin living again.

As for George going home, he didn't think so. He had another destination in mind and was beginning to feel that life for him would be taking a wonderful turn.

No, he wouldn't be going home. As soon as he was out of this RAMC uniform, he'd be straight off to Paris to a future he'd never have dreamed of having, had there not been a war.

The whole of London, the whole country in fact, was going wild with relief and excitement at the wonderful news of an armistice having been signed. It had more or less taken everyone by surprise. The war was over. After four years of combat, the fighting had stopped. Joy was uncontrollable. People – in places, a great crush of people – were dancing in the streets, clutching at each other with joy. Soldiers who had been brought home earlier were being kissed and cuddled by outright strangers, others lifted shoulder-high to be borne along, laughing down at their handlers.

Flags, banners, streamers and Union Jacks had appeared as if from nowhere, to be waved, hung up on washing lines, nailed to windows and door frames; beer too seemed to have appeared as if by magic, mugs of it being drank, spilling down shirt fronts every time someone knocked into someone else, almost every working man and woman having downed tools to join in the celebrations.

Yet there were windows that had curtains drawn, street doors that had not opened, windows and doors behind which grieving families sat mourning the loss of a son, a father, a husband, like Mrs Daly, Mum's next-door neighbour.

Connie would bet her Mum would have gone in there to be with her for a while, unless Mrs Daly had preferred to mourn alone. But Connie's first thought had been for Lillian. Her Jim was still missing assumed killed, nothing yet to confirm or deny it. ‘I ought to try and get round there to see how she is,' Connie told Stephen.

Monday, he had been at work, but as the wonderful news spread most of the newspaper's staff left the premises, some to gather news, others to be with their families. Most shops and businesses had closed, the streets jam-packed.

Connie would have gone to comfort her sister earlier but had held back in case Stephen might come home. She was glad when she heard his key turn in the lock, having struggled through the madness on the streets.

‘I didn't think I'd ever get through,' Stephen said, surveying the scene below from an upstairs window, just below them a new crush of people already dancing and singing in this normally quiet avenue. ‘They're going wild,' he went on as he took off his coat and trilby. ‘Sheer strangers, dancing, singing, kissing, going completely mad.' There was a lot of drinking going on, he told her. ‘Seems the pubs decided to stay open. They know where the money is. You've no idea what it was like in all the main thoroughfare. You'd stand no chance of getting to your sister's.'