CHAPTER 1
1915. Belgium. The Western Front.
‘Bloody, bloody thing!’ Sylvie Montague slammed her fists down onto the steering wheel and inwardly cursed the overworked, battered hunk of metal that made up this particular field ambulance. She’d known just by looking at it that its days were undoubtedly numbered.
Jumping down from the driver’s seat, she walked round to the front and her heart sank. Plumes of smoke were billowing out from under the bonnet. She thrust her hands into her pockets and looked up and down the dirt road before her. There was no one in sight. In different circumstances she could have fixed the damn thing well enough to at least get to her desired destination, but now the moon was covered by such a dense blanket of cloud that it was hard to see even a few feet in front of her, let alone the internal workings of this particularly unreliable vehicle.
Sylvie sighed. Closed her eyes. And took a deep breath. She shivered slightly as the cold night air filled her lungs. She could hear the low rumbling of the guns in the distance. The lads on the front line were in for another long, sleepless night; the barrage had been ongoing for three days with no obvious end in sight. It was a sound she had grown accustomed to, but not used to; a constant melodic symphony that rang repetitively in one’s ears.
The darkness that surrounded her at least offered some form of protection from the ever-present threat of an unseen enemy patrol. Sylvie knew all too well that being in Allied territory didn’t mitigate the risk of a covert mission, by the opposing side, when night had fallen. But the dark sky would offer little protection from a shell attack, and sitting in the midst of one of those was not something Sylvie relished the idea of. However, there was no time to worry about such things, she needed to concentrate on the task ahead.
Sylvie walked round to the back of the ambulance and pulled open the doors.
‘Hello, soldier.’
The young man in the back heaved himself up, grasping onto his bandaged arm as he did so. He looked up at her, his eyes full of the haunted look Sylvie had come to know all too well. One filled with exhaustion, fear and an unconscious acceptance of the fact that his young life had been uprooted and his body propelled into the very depths of hell.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked, wincing.
Sylvie wrinkled her nose and thrust her hands into her pockets. ‘The engine’s had it. And though I might be able to drive one of these in the dark, unluckily for us I cannot fix one in the dark.’ She ran a hand through her hair before pulling her coat about her. ‘We could wait here and see who comes by, but if I’m honest I don’t fancy chancing it. So, as far as I can tell, there’s only one thing for it.’ She forced a smile, which she hoped was more reassuring than it felt. ‘We’re going to have to walk.’
He looked at her as though she were mad. ‘I don’t know if I can,’ he whispered, pulling the blankets away to reveal another blood-stained bandage wrapped tightly around his left thigh.
That was certainly going to make things more difficult.
‘I don’t know if you can either,’ Sylvie replied honestly. ‘But I’m not leaving you here.’
She looked at the crates packed around him. She’d been sent to collect supplies from one of the other British casualty clearing stations, a fair drive from her own secluded medical outpost, and just as she was about to depart an anxious looking orderly had asked if she could take this man with her as well, due to a sudden influx of soldiers. Sylvie had agreed without hesitation. She’d never have refused such a request.
‘We’re not too far from the next clearing station. I’ve got crutches in here somewhere that can take some of your weight and I’ll support your right side. Don’t argue,’ she said, holding up a hand to silence him. ‘It’s my job to look after you and that’s bloody well what I’m going to do.’
With a decisive nod, Sylvie retrieved her army-issue kit bag and filled it to the brim with medical supplies from the surrounding crates, unwilling to leave it all behind for some unknown entity to claim.
‘You’ll never manage all that and me,’ the soldier said, looking on in astonishment.
‘You need to have more faith… What is your name?’
‘Walters. Private Geordie Walters.’
‘Well, Geordie,’ she said as she pulled one of the crutches from the floor and stood it upright, holding a hand out to Geordie as she did so. ‘Let’s get you out of here, shall we?’
He clasped her hand in his and, with gritted teeth and grim determination, pulled himself upwards. It wasn’t long before he was standing on the ground beside her. She knew how much pain he must be in, but continuing on foot was their only option.
Geordie put the crutch under his good arm and Sylvie carefully took his bandaged one and draped it about her shoulders. She had to steady herself as she took his weight but, she reminded herself, she’d carried heavier men than Geordie in more precarious circumstances, and failure, as Sylvie’s father had vehemently told her until the day he died, laid out on a cold gurney before her, was never an option.
‘This isn’t going to be easy,’ Sylvie admitted, trying to ignore the stab of betrayal she felt at the mere memory of her father. ‘But soldier, you’ve been through worse than this.’
Geordie smiled and gave a wink. ‘And in less attractive company.’
Sylvie laughed. ‘With humour like that you’ll be just fine.’
Tentatively, they headed off into the darkness. For a little while, neither spoke. Both were concentrating on the task at hand, namely reaching the next field hospital without being killed or captured. Geordie’s breathing was sharp and shallow, and Sylvie wished there was more she could do for him. There were a few bottles of morphine in her bag, but she needed to keep him awake and lucid, and even a few drops had put men larger than him into a deep state of oblivion.
It was then that she remembered the flask in her pocket, filled with fiery whisky, meant as a preventative measure against the cold.
‘Stop for a moment,’ she said in hushed tones. Geordie came to an unsteady stop and Sylvie thrust a hand into the depths of her coat, pulling out a dented silver flask with a degree of triumph. ‘Take a couple of swigs of this.’ She held it up to Geordie’s lips. ‘It might take the edge off slightly.’
‘I think it might take more than a few sips,’ Geordie replied with the faintest of smiles. But he did as instructed, coughing as the strong liquor hit the back of his throat. In mere minutes, they were on their way again.
‘Have you been out here long?’ Sylvie asked, hoping to take Geordie’s mind off the immense amount of pain he was surely feeling.
‘Few months,’ Geordie hissed through gritted teeth. ‘I was sent out with my brothers. All signed up together.’
‘I imagine your parents were proud.’
‘As much as they could be. We didn’t tell them we were doing it, just went down to the recruiting office on our lunch break. In no time at all, we were his majesty’s newest recruits. When we returned home, our father didn’t say much; he just shook each of our hands and gave a brief nod of approval. And our mother…’ Geordie paused and took a sharp intake of breath. ‘She tried to hide how she truly felt, but I think the thought of us leaving broke something inside of her. It was my eldest brother, Pete, who talked us into signing up. He’s always been… he… he always was our leader.’ The twinge of sadness in his voice was painfully familiar; how many siblings had she already seen torn apart by the chaos that surrounded them?
‘I’m so sorry,’ Sylvie said softly.
‘It was quick at least; he took a bullet straight through the head while trying to protect our youngest brother Joe during a skirmish over the top. Funny thing was, the bullet Pete was trying to protect him from had already found its mark. In less than a minute, I was the only one left.’
Sylvie felt a sudden pang of sorrow, not just for Geordie but also for his mother, who within a single moment had lost two sons. Two sons whom she had grown and nurtured, only for their lives to be ripped from them under a foreign, darkened sky. She pulled her shoulders back, determined that Geordie would not succumb to a similar fate and that Mrs Walters would at least have one son returned to her alive.
‘Anyway,’ Geordie asked with a faint smile, ‘what’s a high-born English woman like yerself doing in a hellish place like this?’
Before she could answer, the air around them exploded in a cacophony of noise and confusion. Sylvie and Geordie threw themselves onto the sodden ground. Sylvie pressed her face into the cold, sticky mud and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Fists clenched, she wrapped her arms protectively around her head and lay waiting, wondering if this was going to be the end. Even as the debris from the blast fell down upon her, she didn’t move, her body remaining tense and rigid.
But as quickly as it had begun, the barrage ended. After a little while, Sylvie slowly raised her head and looked about them. They were quite alone. She became acutely aware of how loud her breathing was, and of her hands, which were shaking far more than she would have liked.
Reaching down, she helped Geordie to his feet.
‘Bloody thing,’ Geordie hissed. ‘Does that happen often, rogue shells landing this far behind the lines?’
‘More often than it probably should,’ Sylvie replied, trying to steady her breathing as she spoke. ‘Now, we’d better get moving. If you lean on me again, we can carry on.’
Geordie did as he was told, and they set off once more into the dark. They walked in silence, both reeling from their narrow escape, while focussing on the blackened landscape that lay ahead.
‘My leg feels strange,’ Geordie suddenly said, in a barely audible whisper.
Sylvie looked down, but it was too dark to see. There was only one thing for it. She pulled a box of matches from her pocket and hastily lit one, crouching as she did so to inspect his leg.
Her heart sank as her eyes fell on the illuminated bandage; it was saturated in fresh, crimson blood. Clearly, the impact when they’d flung themselves onto the ground had exacerbated the wound that lay beneath the swathes of bandages. They were still a few hundred metres from their destination, and Sylvie knew that getting him there was his only chance of survival.
Suddenly, she heard her father’s voice. ‘Don’t dawdle, Sylvie! Hesitation is the difference between success and failure, and your patients deserve you at your best, young lady. Snap to it, or that boy will surely die. His blood is already staining your hands the way mine did.’
Silently cursing, she forcefully pushed all thoughts of her father from her mind and undid the belt around her waist. Within moments she was strapping it tightly around Private Walters’ thigh, praying it would be enough to staunch the bleeding until someone could take proper care of him.
‘Right soldier, that should hold for now. Rest as much of your weight on me as you can. That’s it. Now, we haven’t very far to go, so I need you to hold on in there. Alright?’
Geordie nodded and, straining under his weight, Sylvie led them off into the darkness once more.
Yet as they went, time slowed down and every step she took felt monumentally painful. The void that sprawled before her was akin to a vast plain with no obvious end.
Sylvie couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when she finally caught sight of the hospital in the distance. She looked over towards Geordie. In the slivers of light that illuminated them, she could see he’d turned an ashen shade of grey, and drops of perspiration glistened across his face. His head had slumped down onto his chest, and his eyes were mere slits as he fought off pangs of sleep.
Sylvie knew from experience that they didn’t have much time left. ‘We need help!’ she shouted as they approached the gates.
The sentries stepped forward, staring at Sylvie with evident distrust.
‘This soldier is injured and he needs help NOW!’
Sylvie’s voice reverberated through the air, but the two sentries merely looked at one another, eyebrows raised.
‘Oh, bloody hell! Look, my name is Sylvie Montague, I’m a doctor…’
‘Ladies can’t be doctors!’ scoffed the youngest of the pair, who had a thin, pinched face and beady eyes.
Sylvie rolled her eyes. How many times had she heard those words?
‘Look, you’re clearly new as almost everyone behind that gate knows who I am. So, will you please just let me through?’
‘Can’t let you do that, miss, not without seeing your documents first,’ the other sentry replied, shuffling from one foot to the other as he spoke.
‘Well, if I had a spare hand, I’d happily show my papers to you. But, as you can see, I’m currently not in a position to do so, due to the wounded soldier I’m carrying, who, if you’re not careful, is going to die right here in front of you because you imbeciles won’t let me PASS!’
‘Let her in, Jessop!’
The two sentries turned with a start and stood to attention. Sylvie looked up to see a stocky, middle-aged man walking with haste towards them, and a flood of relief washed over her.
‘I’ll vouch for her. Now, step aside.’ Then, turning to Sylvie, he added, ‘I can take him from here.’
‘I can manage. Let’s just get him in, shall we?’ she replied, knowing that Geordie was keeping her upright as much as she was supporting him.
The man nodded and led them through, shouting orders left and right as he did so. Within moments, three orderlies and a nurse appeared before them.
‘Tend to his leg first, I’ve stemmed the bleeding as much as I can but—’ Sylvie began to say.
‘We’ve got him,’ said a young nurse, interrupting Sylvie while covering Geordie with a blanket, before the stretcher bearers hurriedly whisked him away.
Sylvie took a deep breath of cool night air and slung the bag off her back and onto the ground. What a night it had been. An immense wave of tiredness hit her, and she became painfully aware of her sore, aching limbs.
‘You made quite an entrance,’ the man who had come to her rescue said, coming to stand beside her.
‘Don’t I always, Sergeant Dawlish?’ Sylvie smiled.
‘Can’t disagree with that!’ He winked. ‘Not seen you about for a while. Everything alright where you are?’
‘As well as it can be. Though my ambulance broke down about a mile up the road.’
‘Leave it with me, I’ll get some of the lads to fetch it back here and we’ll take a look.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’ Sylvie stifled a yawn. ‘I can’t be here long; they’ll be expecting me back.’
‘You’ll be here as long as it takes for us to fix that damn machine of yours. You’d best get some rest, won’t be long now until sunrise. There’s a spare bed in the nurses’ quarters, and no one’s going to notice if you make use of it for a few hours.’
Sylvie knew better than to argue and with a nod of resignation and a wave of thanks in Sergeant Dawlish’s direction, she headed towards the nurses’ tent. Quietly, she slipped inside.
Two lines of beds faced one another. There were at least ten on each side, with almost half already occupied. Sylvie flung herself down on the nearest one. Sleep came quickly, though didn’t last long. For, when the first rays of weak February sunshine appeared through the doorway, Sylvie’s eyes sprang open.
She lay for a moment, staring at the canvas roof above her, as the events of the previous evening flooded through her mind. She desperately hoped that she’d done enough, and that Mrs Walters wouldn’t have to grieve the loss of all her sons.
A fleeting memory, of a wooden box being lowered into the cold, hard ground, appeared before Sylvie; at least she’d been able to say goodbye. True, it had been a farewell filled with guilt and a hollow acceptance that she must now face a future without the man she’d feared and idolised in equal measure, but she’d been luckier than most. Luckier than Mrs Walters, who would never be able to lay to rest at least two of her beloved boys, whose earthly forms would be slowly claimed by the land upon which they died.
With a shudder, Sylvie pulled off the blankets and after hurriedly dressing, headed outside into the cold morning air. Closing her eyes as the soft breeze hit her face, she momentarily stilled her restless mind.
Wrapping her large coat around herself, and thrusting her hands deep inside the pockets, she walked towards the makeshift stable block. The horses were standing silently, looking out at the strange, upside-down world before them. Helpless pawns in the man-made hell that surrounded them. Sylvie felt as sad for these poor creatures as she did for every man who’d put his name forward to serve for king and country. More so, perhaps, for they had no idea of the horrors that lay in wait for them.
She reached out and lovingly stroked the neck of the closest horse, a sturdy cob with large brown eyes. Sylvie rested her head against his and breathed in his comforting smell.
‘I heard you’d come back.’
Slowly, Sylvie turned, her pulse quickening while a flurry of happiness flooded over her.
‘Hello, McTavish,’ Sylvie said, unable to hide the smile that had spread across her face at the sight of this undeniably handsome Scot.
Alistair McTavish was strikingly tall and broad, with dark untamed locks and a deep pensive gaze. Though his eyes, as they fell upon her, were full of a reassuring warmth that put Sylvie instantly at ease.
‘Long night?’ she enquired.
‘Aren’t they all?’ he said, taking a seat on an upturned crate and pulling a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his coat. He lit two and passed one to Sylvie. She took it and, without invitation, sat down beside him.
‘That chap you brought in last night is going to be alright. Though I removed an unholy amount of shrapnel from his thigh; God knows how he managed to walk here. Even with your help, he must have been in agony. You did well, strapping his leg up, probably saved his life.’
Sylvie felt a rush of relief at this news. How wonderful it was to know that she hadn’t failed him, and that he’d be able to return home to his mother. ‘Well, my father would be delighted to know that you approve of the years of medical training I undertook, McTavish!’
Alistair smiled at this. ‘But it’s not every young woman who’d be happy to walk alone, at night, in a war-torn land with a wounded soldier for company.’
‘You should know me well enough by now to know that I’m not like most young women!’
‘I realised that on the first day I met you.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll never forget the sight of you straddling that soldier, your hands pushing down onto that rather gnarly chest wound to try and stem the bleeding. You were shouting orders to anyone who’d listen and using language that would make even the brashest sailor blush!’
Sylvie winked. ‘Well at least I made a memorable impression!’
She too remembered their first meeting as though it were yesterday. Alistair had appeared beside her and instead of chastising her and asking why a woman was interfering with his next patient, he’d listened as Sylvie explained what had happened. Within moments, Alistair had whisked Sylvie and her patient into his rudimentary operating theatre, not letting Sylvie remove her hands until he was in a position to take over and try to save the man’s life. But, sadly, it had been too late.
‘I like what you’ve done to your hair,’ Alistair added, his words tinged with light-hearted sarcasm.
Reaching up and running a hand through her short, uneven locks, Sylvie laughed. ‘Don’t jest, McTavish, I know how awful it must look. But long hair just isn’t suited to the life I’m currently living. So, before I set off the other day, I lopped it off with a rather blunt bayonet.’
Just then, Sergeant Dawlish appeared from around the corner, carrying two steaming mugs of tea. He passed one to each of them, with a nod of acknowledgement in Alistair’s direction.
‘Your presence has been requested at the commander’s hut,’ Sergeant Dawlish said to Sylvie. ‘But I reckon you’ve got enough time to finish that brew before I have to take you.’
‘Have you been demoted to messenger boy now, Dawlish?’ Alistair asked, with a jovial nod at the sergeant.
‘Make my life easier if I was. But, no, I volunteered to find you. I thought you’d be here more likely than not.’
‘And why have they sent for me?’ Sylvie asked, raising a quizzical brow.
Sergeant Dawlish shrugged. ‘I’m just the messenger.’
Sylvie sighed and reluctantly stood up. ‘No point in putting it off, I’d better go and see what this is all about.’ She passed her mug back to Sergeant Dawlish. ‘You have this. I can find my own way. Oh, and did they manage to retrieve my ambulance?’
He nodded. ‘It’s here. There’s a couple of our chaps working on it now. Reckon you’ll be all set to leave at about midday.’
Sergeant Dawlish, without invitation, happily settled himself down on the nearest vacant crate.
‘Thank you. I really appreciate your help,’ Sylvie said.
Sergeant Dawlish waved a hand, as if batting the compliment away. ‘Don’t be daft, always happy to help, you know that!’
Sylvie gave a grateful smile and turned to leave, wondering who on earth could have sent for her. She wasn’t under the command of anyone here, and those she did report to had no idea of her current whereabouts.
Before she could go, Alistair put out a hand to stop her.
‘Come and find me before you leave,’ he said with a meaningful look.
Sylvie smiled and nodded in response, then walked off, hands buried deep in her pockets, towards the commander’s hut.
Upon reaching it, she could hear muffled voices coming from inside. Without pausing to listen to what was being said, she knocked firmly on the door.
‘Enter.’
Sylvie turned the handle and pushed it open.
Before her stood the hospital commander, who fixed Sylvie with a curious, questioning stare. Sitting to his right and wearing a large army overcoat over his equally sizeable frame, was a man Sylvie knew all too well and was tremendously pleased to see. A wide smile spread across her face as her eyes fell upon him, and the unease she’d felt only moments before vanished in a single breath.
With a twinkle in his eye, Hector Munro removed the pipe which protruded from underneath his impressive moustache. ‘Well, young lady, I’ve been told quite the tale about your night-time exploits!’ He stood up and came to peer down at her, fixing her with his chestnut brown eyes that shone mischievously as he did so.
‘I’m sure it wasn’t as astonishing as it may sound, we made it back in one piece, and despite everything, I’ve been told that Private Walters is doing rather well.’ Sylvie couldn’t help but add, ‘Sir, what are you doing here?’
The man let out a deep booming laugh. ‘Straight to the point, as always, Montague. Major Jenkins and I have known each other for years. I was actually on my way to see all of you, but stopped off here to say a quick hello first, get the lie of the land, that sort of thing. And then I hear this extraordinary tale about a young woman appearing in the dead of night with a wounded soldier, making quite the ruckus, and I knew as they spoke exactly who that young woman must be. And I was right, wasn’t I?’
‘This is all very unorthodox, Munro,’ Major Jenkins cut in.
‘My little unit has always been a little unorthodox, old boy. You know that. But they get the job done.’
Major Jenkins threw a sceptical look at Sylvie, taking in her khaki culottes and oversized army-issue coat. From the look of disdain that passed across his face, Sylvie deduced that he didn’t approve.
‘Honestly, Munro, you’ll make us a laughing stock!’
‘Quite the contrary, I’m afraid. Sylvie here is part of a rather intrepid group of women, whose names, I’d wager, have been mentioned in dispatches more times than yours! They’re doing what many men couldn’t, and they’re doing it admirably.’
Sylvie’s chest swelled with pride as Munro spoke. It was true, though; their unit, within the Munro Ambulance corps, had defied the odds on more than one occasion and each member of this rather unorthodox outfit had fully embraced the roles that they had been entrusted with. Sylvie often wondered how different her life would have been if it hadn’t been for Munro’s belief in what she and the others could do, despite the fact that they were women in a world ruled by men.
‘Now, I’m going to borrow Doctor Montague here for a little while, and I’ll be back to finish our conversation before I go.’ With that, Munro gestured towards the door and Sylvie happily made her exit.
***
Munro didn’t speak at first, but led Sylvie away from the camp towards the woods that ran behind it. They walked past the wash tents, where piles of blood-stained bandages lay in heaps on the floor while their freshly washed counterparts hung from the washing lines that were suspended between the nearby trees.
‘Though it’s a lovely surprise to see you, sir, I really need to be getting back,’ Sylvie finally said.
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ Munro came to a sudden stop and turned to face her. ‘You’re not going back.’
Sylvie merely blinked, as her brow furrowed with confusion. ‘What do you mean, I’m not going back?’
‘I’m sending you home. I need you to deliver a message for me and plead our case to—’
‘I know what you’re going to say, and I won’t do it,’ Sylvie retorted, folding her arms. She could feel the hot furls of anger rising like a serpent within her. How dare he ask this of her?
‘You will do it; it’s a direct order and you’re the only one who can do this.’
Sylvie stood glaring at him, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Munro ran a hand through his hair and Sylvie noticed for the first time the streaks of grey that had appeared there. He wasn’t a young man, but he had the enthusiasm and vigour of one much more youthful than he. But this was the first time Sylvie had noticed the lines engrained in his brow, and the dark shadows etched beneath his eyes. The result, she presumed, of the immense burden that he had placed upon himself.
‘There’s a rumour that they’re trying to pass a decree, banning women from being anywhere near the line of fire, meaning that your little outfit would be forced further back.’
‘They can’t do that!’ Sylvie protested. ‘We work twice as hard as the men!’
‘They bloody well can,’ Munro replied sharply. ‘And that’s why you need to go and speak with him. We need to ensure that you’re granted a special dispensation that will allow you all to carry on with the work you’ve been doing. I’ve done as much as I can, but there’s nothing else that I can do now. You know that you’re the only one who can do this, Montague. I wouldn’t be asking this of you if there was any other way.’
Though Sylvie hated to admit it, even to herself, she knew that he was right. But it didn’t make the task ahead of her any easier. Escaping England had given her the distraction she’d been desperately searching for, and she’d been quite prepared to stay away until this whole bloody affair had drawn to a close. On the other hand, Sylvie thought with a slight sigh, she was many things, but a coward wasn’t one of them, and if Munro was asking this of her, then surely it was her duty to push personal grievances aside and face the task head on.
‘Very well,’ she finally replied. ‘I’ll do it. But not before I go back and explain to the others where I’m going. I also need to collect a few of my belongings. Will you grant me permission to do that, at least?’
Munro nodded. ‘You have three days, and then you’re to catch the first boat home. After that, you’re not to return until that old bastard has said yes!’
Despite herself, Sylvie smiled. She’d often referred to her grandfather with a similar refrain. Though, much to her surprise, over the past few weeks she’d found herself thinking more about the regimented, stoic man who’d overseen her upbringing, and the sprawling lands surrounding their ancestral home, missing the peace and beauty of the place that would be forever imprinted in her mind’s eye.
‘You’ll need to find someone to take my place while I’m gone.’
‘I have it all in hand,’ Munro assured her. ‘I’ve strong-armed an acquaintance of mine, a doctor with surgical experience, to oversee proceedings while you’re away. But never fear, he’ll be gone as soon as you return. I’ve told him in no uncertain terms who’s in charge.’
Sylvie raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘How did you know I’d say yes?’
‘How could you not? We both know that you believe in this unconventional endeavour of ours as much, if not more, than I do. There was never any question in my mind that you would refuse. And before I forget, take this.’ Munro pulled an envelope from his inside pocket. ‘Give it to your grandfather; everything’s laid out in there.’
‘I can’t guarantee that he will help us,’ Sylvie said, taking the letter and tucking it inside her coat.
‘I know that, but it’s better to try and fail than not try at all! Come on, I’ll walk back with you.’ Munro turned, and they fell into step once more. ‘I’ve a few more things to discuss with the major before I leave. I’m not sure if I’ll make it to you all before you depart, so for now this is goodbye. I know I don’t need to stress to you the importance of the task ahead. Regardless of your sex, your skills are paramount to the work we’re doing. It’s the reason I chose you; despite your blatant disregard for the rules and your somewhat fiery temperament, you are exactly who we need out here. I’m very proud of what you and the others have achieved.’
‘Thank you,’ Sylvie said, feeling a sudden rush of gratitude towards this eccentric man who had, single-handedly, changed the course of her life.
Suddenly, shouting filled the air. Sylvie looked towards Munro. A strange shadow had fallen across his face, an expression of sorrow mixed with bitter resignation towards the world they now found themselves living in.
‘Go,’ he said. ‘Whatever that’s about, I’d warrant they’ll be grateful for your help. And Sylvie’ – he held out a hand to stop her – ‘good luck. I look forward to seeing you upon your return.’
With a nod and a smile, Sylvie ran off towards the field hospital’s main entrance.
***
A chaotic scene greeted her. Wounded men were being ushered out of four large vehicles, nurses and orderlies hurrying about around them. Those who could walk were being led through to the nearest medical tent, while those on stretchers were hastily assessed. Sylvie spied Alistair in their midst, barking orders and giving instructions before marching off towards the makeshift operating theatre. He was in for a long, exhausting day.
Over and over, day after day, the same scene of chaotic destruction greeted them. In just a few short months, they’d treated so many men, it seemed impossible that there could be any more. But still they arrived, and Sylvie was unsure whether the constant tide of wounded souls would ever end.
‘Sylvie!’ A young, buxom nurse with a mop of curly blonde hair came rushing towards her. ‘Heard you were back.’
‘Hello, Kitty,’ Sylvie said, pulling off her heavy overcoat. ‘Not for long, but do you need a hand?’
‘Always!’ Kitty said. ‘Let me take that and I’ll find you an apron.’ She took Sylvie’s coat from her and disappeared out of sight.
‘Montague, over here,’ Sergeant Dawlish called, and without hesitation Sylvie headed towards him, crouching down beside the soldier who lay at his feet. Superficial cuts covered his face, but as Sylvie glanced down his torso and carefully drew back the blankets that covered him, her eyes fell on the bloody, bandaged stump where his right leg should have been. She slowly pulled the blanket back up and took his clay-caked hand in hers. ‘Hello,’ she said softly. ‘I’m Sylvie. Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?’
Several hours later, Sylvie slumped wearily onto a bench in the mess tent and someone – she wasn’t sure who – placed a steaming mug of tea before her, which she gratefully clutched with both hands. What a day it had been, and it wasn’t over yet, for she still had to undertake the long drive back to her own unit – and, she thought with a weary sigh, would the situation there be any different to the one she’d just been in the midst of? However, succumbing to the exhaustion was not an option. How could she rest when there were those who so desperately needed her help?
With a sigh, she finished the last dregs of sugar-laced tea and headed back outside in search of Sergeant Dawlish. Luckily, he was easily found, still barking orders at those around him, as he moved the last of the wounded from the swathe of ground that sprawled out in front of the tents and huts that made up this rudimentary hospital complex.
The remaining soldiers who’d arrived earlier that morning were those with minor wounds and lacerations; the ones, Sylvie thought wryly, who were deemed ‘lucky’. They’d be treated and allowed to enjoy a few days of respite before being sent back to the front lines.
Sergeant Dawlish, upon seeing Sylvie, walked over to meet her. ‘You leaving us?’
‘Yes… well, in a moment. I have a few things to do first, but I wanted to check that everything was set for my departure.’
‘Everything’s ready and waiting for you,’ Sergeant Dawlish said with a nod. ‘No man, not there, take him to tent B1!’ he yelled at a nearby orderly and then turned back to Sylvie with a shake of his head. ‘Imbeciles, the lot of them!’
‘You’ll soon straighten them out,’ Sylvie said, and smiled.
‘That I will, young lady! Now, is there anything else I can do for you before you go?’
‘If you could point me in the direction of Private Walters, I’d be most grateful. I don’t want to leave without saying goodbye.’
He nodded. ‘He’s in A1, right-hand side at the back. And I imagine you’ll find our friend McTavish somewhere near there as well,’ Sergeant Dawlish said with a wink.
Sylvie threw him a wry look and, without saying anything else, headed off in search of Private Walters.
Tent A1 was, due to that morning’s arrivals, packed full of soldiers. Some were conscious, though the majority were not lucid enough to comprehend where they were or what had happened to them. Nurses bustled between the beds, tending to every man’s needs. Sylvie quickly caught sight of Private Walters, propped up on a bed towards the back, just where Sergeant Dawlish had said he’d be.
His eyes were closed, so Sylvie knelt down next to his bed, carefully taking his unbandaged hand in hers as she did so. Due to the near darkness of the previous night, and the mud and blood that had been caked on his face, she hadn’t really seen him properly. Now, as the late-afternoon sunshine fell across him, Sylvie was surprised to see how youthful Private Walters looked. His thick auburn hair was tousled, and a smattering of freckles covered his cheeks. He was no age at all and, Sylvie thought with a pang of sadness, look at what his young soul has already had to endure.
Very slowly, he turned his head towards her, a smile flickering across his face as his eyes met hers.
‘Hello, soldier,’ she said softly. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Like I’ve been hit by a train,’ he said with a wince. ‘Twice.’
Sylvie couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I told you you’d be alright with a sense of humour like that.’
‘It’s thanks to you that I’m here at all,’ Geordie said, his tone becoming more solemn. ‘Thank you, for all you did for me.’
‘There’s no need for thanks…’ Sylvie’s voice trailed off. How could she adequately put into words how much smaller the part she’d played in his story was, compared to the sacrifices that he’d made for the freedoms of those he didn’t even know? ‘I’m just pleased that you’re alright.’
‘Just about. The surgeon who pulled the shrapnel out of my leg said that when it’s healed, I’m likely to walk with a limp. But he did say he’ll be sending me home. I’m no use to anyone now.’ There was a note of relief in his voice, edged with a slight twinge of sadness.
‘Well, I’m glad, and I expect your mother will be, too! You’ll be doted on upon your return.’
Geordie nodded. ‘I expect you’re right, though I’m dreading seeing her. It won’t be the same returning on my own. Too many ghosts.’
Sylvie squeezed his hand, but before she could offer any words of reassurance a large, red-faced matron bustled over to them.
‘He needs rest,’ she snapped, scowling at Sylvie whilst she rearranged the blankets on Geordie’s bed.
‘Well, soldier, I suppose this is goodbye. Good luck with everything.’ Sylvie stood up; Geordie’s hand was still in hers.
‘Thank you again for everything. Perhaps we’ll meet again one day,’ Geordie replied.
Sylvie smiled. ‘I hope we do.’ And she truly meant it. She hoped that maybe one day, years from now, they’d meet in the most unlikely of places and reminisce for a few uninterrupted moments about the night they met. Geordie would tell her that he was happy, that he had a wife and two little boys, reminders of the brothers taken so cruelly from him, and Sylvie would tell him… something trivial, most likely, for who knew what her future had in store for her?
Then, even with the burly matron still watching, Sylvie bent down and kissed Geordie’s cheek.
‘That’s quite enough!’ the matron scolded, her face turning a striking shade of beetroot.
Sylvie winked at Geordie, and after saying one final goodbye, headed out of the tent. There was still one person she needed to say farewell to before her departure.
Alistair was exactly where Sylvie had thought he’d be, sitting behind the large desk in the canvas tent he called home. Staring tiredly at the papers before him, a glass of whisky clutched tightly in one hand, a cigarette burning slowly in the other.
For the briefest of moments, Sylvie quietly watched him. Despite Sergeant Dawlish’s insinuations, the relationship she shared with Captain McTavish was one of mutually agreed friendship because – as Sylvie recalled with a dull pang of longing – they’d agreed that anything else, in the midst of all the uncertainty around them, was a complication and a distraction that neither could afford. They hadn’t discussed the matter since, and Sylvie wondered, not for the first time, whether they would ever have the chance to do so again.
‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ Sylvie said, breaking the silence.
Alistair looked up, and a fleeting look of surprise appeared in his eyes, before a large smile spread across his face.
‘Montague, sorry, I didn’t realise you were there. Leaving us already, are you?’
‘I shouldn’t have been here at all, but fate evidently had a different plan,’ Sylvie replied.
‘Well, I’m pleased that I had the chance to see you, even under circumstances such as these.’ Alistair stood up and came to perch before her on the edge of the desk. ‘Your help today was greatly appreciated. I know it delayed your leaving, but we’d have lost more men if it hadn’t been for you.’
Sylvie waved a dismissive hand. ‘You’d have done the exact same thing if our roles had been reversed. But I didn’t come to see you in search of thanks. As I said, I’ve come to say goodbye and to tell you that we won’t see one another for a while. I’m being sent home.’
Alistair’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘Since when?’
‘I was given the order this morning.’
‘Order? That sounds very official.’
Sylvie shrugged. ‘I suppose, in a way, it is. Though I’m not relishing the thought of returning home and leaving everyone behind.’ Leaving you behind, Sylvie wanted to add.
‘I’m sure if they’ve decided to send you home it’s for a good cause. And anyway, knowing you and your stubbornness, you’ll do everything in your power to return here as quickly as possible. Though for the life of me I can’t imagine why you would.’
Thrusting her hands into her pockets, Sylvie laughed. ‘Yes, you can. We both know that if it were you being sent home, you’d either refuse or jump on the first boat back!’
‘Captain McTavish, you’re needed!’
They both looked round to see a young nurse standing a few feet away from Sylvie.
‘I’ll be there in a moment,’ Alistair snapped. The nurse’s eyes widened, and her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink, but she stayed exactly where she was.
‘I should let you go,’ Sylvie said, a little disappointed that their brief conversation had been forced to end. ‘Take care of yourself, McTavish.’
He nodded, and Sylvie had the distinct impression, from the way his dark eyes fixed firmly upon her, that there was more he wanted to say.
‘Captain, you’re needed urgently,’ the nurse said again, and from the tremor in her voice, Sylvie deduced that she was trying to sound more confident than she felt. ‘I was told by matron not to return without you!’
‘Alright! Alright! Bloody woman,’ Alistair cursed. He stood up and he was about to walk past Sylvie, when he came to a sudden stop beside her, their arms almost touching. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he said, softly enough so that only she could hear, then without another word he strode away, the young nurse rushing along behind him.
Within the next half an hour, Sylvie was sitting behind the wheel of her temperamental ambulance, driving straight out of the camp and back onto the dirt road she’d left the previous evening. All the while, Alistair’s parting words were replaying in her mind.
CHAPTER 2
It was almost dusk when Sylvie arrived back at the small Belgian village that, over the last few months, she’d come to consider home. Most of the residents had evacuated when the fighting began, though there were still a few who’d refused to leave and sat steadfastly in their war-ravaged homes. Once, this peaceful spot had been inconsequential, a quiet farming hamlet whose inhabitants led lives not dissimilar to those led by their ancestors. But now, all that remained were the crumbling ruins of once loved homes.
Sylvie came to a stop in front of a large stone house, its roof caved in, the glass in every pane blown out by one of the shells that occasionally fell behind the lines. To a casual bystander it would appear derelict but underneath lay the sanctum that Sylvie and her colleagues had built. A hidden outpost for any wounded man who needed their help.
‘You’re back!’ called a young woman with red, rosy cheeks and a mop of mousy-coloured and untameable curls protruding from under her cap. ‘We were about to send out a search party.’
‘Hello, Gypsy,’ Sylvie said with a smile, jumping down from the cab. ‘The bloody thing broke down. There’s a whole story that follows that. But right now, we don’t have much time and there are more important things to discuss.’
Gypsy’s brow furrowed and she raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Does it, perhaps, have something to do with the aged Doctor Clarkson, who’s currently downstairs tending to our most recent cohort of patients?’
‘He’s here already?’ Sylvie exclaimed.
‘Yes, he arrived this morning. Nice chap, a little eccentric perhaps, but he didn’t seem at all fazed by our rather unusual set-up.’
‘Well, that’s a good start, I suppose,’ Sylvie replied, slinging her bag over her shoulder. ‘And I suppose it makes sense that he’s a little eccentric. After all, he is friends with Munro!’
Gypsy laughed. ‘Very true. Come on, you’d best say hello.’
Sylvie followed Gypsy down a set of worn stone steps that led into the cellar of the house. It wasn’t particularly spacious, but Sylvie was proud of what they’d created with the little space available to them. The walls had been whitewashed and furniture had been salvaged from the rooms above, with cupboards being used for medical supplies and a rough wooden table repurposed as a makeshift surgical gurney. None of it was ideal, but this was war, and one had to learn to be adaptable. Camp beds lined the walls, housing those they couldn’t immediately transfer to a more appropriate location. Sylvie and her colleagues had a mound of straw at the far end, on which lay the straw-filled palliasses that they used as their beds. These were preferable to the cold floor and Sylvie had grown rather fond of them.
‘Look who’s returned to us!’ Gypsy called across the room to another woman, who was bending over a bandaged soldier.
The woman looked up, her deep blue eyes radiating warmth. ‘Hello, Sylv,’ she said, a motherly smile spreading across her face. ‘We thought you’d got lost.’
Sylvie rolled her eyes in mock amusement. ‘Lost, Mary? When have I ever got lost?’ A sudden pang of gratitude coursed through her as she stood with the two women, for whom she had nothing but the utmost respect. Gypsy, the youngest of the trio, was, Sylvie thought with a smile, as headstrong and obstinate as Sylvie herself, while Mary, the eldest by three years, though caring and knowledgeable, was forthright – she didn’t mince her words. If you made a mistake, she would tell you, and Sylvie loved her all the more for it.
‘There’s a first time for everything,’ Mary replied with a knowing look. ‘Now, before you tell us where you’ve been, can you assess Private Fletcher here? He arrived from the front line yesterday. We’ve done all we can, but he needs your attention. Dr Clarkson,’ she nodded towards the man tending to a patient a few feet away from them, ‘who arrived unannounced, I might add, was due to look at him next.’
Sylvie nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Let me wash and I’ll see to him straight away. Gypsy, can you fetch my bag?’
Gypsy hurried away, and Sylvie went and washed in the bowl of warm water that was being continuously replaced and refilled. After dousing her hands in pure alcohol to stave off the threat of infection, Sylvie crouched down beside Private Fletcher and set to work.
It was a relief to see that his wounds were fairly inconsequential. They were undoubtedly painful, Sylvie surmised as she focussed on lacerating the rather inflamed ulcer on his leg, but compared to the tide of wounded she had tended to earlier that day, rather minor and could be managed with relative ease.
‘Anything I can do to help?’
Sylvie looked around to see Dr Clarkson standing behind her. Something about him instantly made her think of her grandfather – whether this was due to his stature or his mop of thick white hair, Sylvie couldn’t be sure – and there was a twinkling warmth in his grey eyes that made him instantly likeable.
‘I think,’ Sylvie replied, tying a clean bandage around Private Fletcher’s leg, ‘that I’ve finished. Though this will need looking at again tomorrow.’
‘Agreed. Leg ulcers can be rather temperamental things to treat,’ Dr Clarkson commented.
Sylvie stood. ‘They can – and we’ve seen more than one soldier arrive here seeking help for such an ailment. But I suppose it’s to be expected, the weather and damp living conditions seem to exacerbate things.’
‘Very true. I must say it’s good to finally meet you. Munro certainly speaks very highly of you, of all of you in fact.’
‘Well, we’re very grateful to him for the opportunities he has provided us with.’ Sylvie washed her hands and leant against the large wooden table. ‘Few men would have fought for us the way he has.’
‘He’s certainly a visionary. I’ve known him a long time,’ Dr Clarkson explained, ‘and he’s always been the same. But there again, that’s probably why we get along so well, both he and I have rather unorthodox views on how the world should be run.’
A moment of quiet contemplation fell between them. ‘Such as allowing women to have a place within the medical profession?’ Sylvie remarked with a knowing smile.
Dr Clarkson pulled a pipe from his pocket. ‘Just so. There are documents speaking of the work women surgeons did throughout history – why, there are mentions of women physicians in the 12th century, and if they were that progressive then, what’s stopping us from behaving in a similar vein?’
‘I think, Dr Clarkson,’ Sylvie said, holding out a welcoming hand, ‘that you and I are going to become great friends.’
***
An hour later, Sylvie sat in the cold evening air with Gypsy and Mary, enjoying a few peaceful moments before they were needed once again. Dr Clarkson had kindly said that he’d watch over their patients to allow Sylvie the chance to relay, in detail, what had happened over the previous two days.
‘So, you have to go back?’ Gypsy said slowly, her brows knitted together.
Sylvie nodded. ‘I do. It was a direct order from Munro. I couldn’t refuse—’
‘Of course you couldn’t,’ Mary cut in, pointing her glowing cigarette in Sylvie’s direction. ‘If they’re trying to move us away from the front lines, and he believes you can change the outcome in some way, then you have to go back.’
Sylvie knew she was right, but it didn’t make it any easier. ‘I won’t be away long, a week or two at most. And then I’ll be back here with you both.’
‘Oh, don’t rush, Sylv,’ Gypsy exclaimed, leaning back on her elbows. ‘Think – you’ll get to sleep in a proper bed and have an actual bath. What I wouldn’t give for that! You must promise me that you will bathe at least twice a day, once for you and once for me.’
Sylvie laughed. ‘I’ll return to you all shrivelled up if I do that, but I’ll see if our cook at home will make something delicious to bring back here for you both.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say no to a slice of her fruit cake,’ Mary said longingly, before her tone became more serious. ‘But you cannot come back until your grandfather says yes. I won’t sit back and allow them to take all of this away from us, we’ve worked too bloody hard for that.’
‘I know and I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to get the answer we need,’ Sylvie assured her.
She only hoped it was a promise she was going to be able to keep.