The Glory Girls (19 page)

‘What about the vehicles?’

‘The lads from the RACO will see to all that as soon as we’re clear. By
all accounts the Jerries aren’t far behind. Either that or they’re using ruddy cannons to shoot the sparrows.’

‘Let’s hope our boys have a few cannons to keep them at bay until we get everybody on to the boat.’

‘Yes, sir.’ They both ducked as the Stukas turned and strafed the wharf and the beaches yet again, but this time there was return fire from the ground and two of the aircraft burst into flames, coming down a few miles inshore.

‘I hate to think what chance the men on the beaches have in this,’ Alex said.

Grundy blinked and gave a huge gulp. ‘It’s every man for himself, sir, once they get into the water. The boats don’t have time to hang about. It’s going to be tough, sir.’

‘Medic! We need a medic back here!’ The cry echoed out from a hundred yards up the beach as the sound of the remaining aircraft engines faded.

Alex looked about him and decided that he was probably the only qualified doctor within range of the group of men gathered about a
prostrate
figure.

‘You can’t go back there now,’ Grundy complained, seeing what was going through Alex’s mind. ‘Come on, Captain Craig, sir. If you miss this chance you might never get out of this bloody country.’

‘I don’t like it any more than you, Grundy, but I have no choice,’ said Alex, then he thumped the orderly on the shoulder in a friendly gesture. ‘And Grundy … in case I don’t make it in time, I want you to know that I couldn’t have got through all this without you. Thank you, for
everything
.’

‘Oh, gawd, sir, don’t say that!’ Grundy’s eyes glistened in the dark, lit up by the distant fires. ‘You’ll make it, Captain. We’ll all make it. Even him.’

Alex looked over his shoulder to see the staggering figure of Private Walter Morgan wandering past with arms outstretched like a sleepwalker, mumbling things about the seaside, his mother and his bucket and spade. And then he cried out a name and a ghostly hand traced an icy line down Alex’s spine.

‘Mary! I’m coming, Mary.’

Grundy grabbed hold of the confused soldier and guided him back on to the breakwater.

‘Go on, sunshine,’ he shouted, giving Walter a push in the right
direction
. ‘Straight ahead.’

‘Look after yourself, Grundy,’ Alex called out.

‘See you on the other side, sir,’ came Grundy’s voice from behind as he now made his way to the rear of the line.

Alex headed off towards the men calling for a medic and found them grouped around a young private with a gaping wound in his stomach.

‘You got to save him, sir,’ one of the men said. ‘He’s me brother.’

There was little that Alex could do but close the lad’s eyes and watch as a group of grown men cried real tears over their comrade-in-arms.

As he walked back to the wharf, he could see Grace struggling beneath the weight of a soldier walking with one leg and a crutch. Alex was about to go to her aid, thinking she would never make it, but at that moment she was joined by a bulky soldier with only one arm, who still had enough strength to take the weight of his compatriot.

Despite the number of troops still clambering up and over the dunes in front of him, Alex was aware that an uncanny silence had fallen. Between him and the oily black sea, there was little movement as men crouched together in organized columns, ready to get into the water the minute the boats came into view. Through the darkness, he could hear groans and coughs and vague mutterings. The next few hours were going to be the longest of all their lives, he was sure, but there was little choice. He would do what he could to help and direct the newly wounded to the wharf where they could join the long queue slowly moving on to the boats.

An hour or two later – he had lost track of time – there was a change in the atmosphere. There were subdued cheers and a surge forward as the last remaining men on the beaches saw the heartening sight of a small flotilla of boats approaching with the first silvery rays of morning light. At the same time the hospital ship was sliding slowly out into the Channel with its precious cargo.

Moving carefully along the lines, carrying out basic first aid where it was necessary, Alex was suddenly aware of a familiar figure stumbling down the beach towards him. It was Grundy. The idiot had stayed behind after all. He was carrying on his back a young soldier bigger than himself with bandaged eyes and bandaged stumps where his feet should have been.

‘You’ll never make it, Grundy,’ Alex said, striding alongside the younger man. ‘Save yourself, man!’

‘We don’t know that we won’t make it until it’s all over, sir,’ Grundy replied, his face and neck running with perspiration from the effort he was having to put into his impossible task.

‘There are others. You can’t save them all.’

‘Yes, sir, I know. I had to make a decision. This fellow got my vote. He lied about his age. I’d like to think we could help him see his eighteenth birthday, even if he won’t be able to see or dance to celebrate it.’

‘Grundy, has anybody told you that you’re one crazy fool?’

Grundy gave a sheepish grin and nodded. ‘Aye, sir. More times than I care to remember.’

‘I don’t want to lose you, Grundy.’

‘Don’t you bother yourself none about me, Captain Craig. Only the good die young, as my old granny used to say. She said that as she buried me grandad. He was ninety-five and I take after him, apparently.’

Alex smiled and saluted Grundy smartly, his throat too tight to speak. He watched the private struggle down to the shoreline where columns of men were wading out into the water towards the boats that looked as if they weren’t fit for anything more than hauling fish.

The evacuation had been quite orderly, until it became obvious that there would not be sufficient space in the boats for all the troops who were left. Panic was breaking out in pockets all along the beaches. It was a heartbreaking sight that would have moved any man to tears, but there was no time to stop and weep. Alex looked about him frantically, his eyes searching for Grace Forsyth, sure that she must still be there somewhere. She, like Grundy, had stayed behind and was not, he was sure, on the hospital boat with her patients. He couldn’t afford to spend time looking for her. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

He could see men wading out into the water, swimming towards the first boats where helping hands were waiting to drag them aboard. Grundy passed him at a lunging gallop, the young injured soldier still riding on his back.

‘Come on, sir,’ the orderly shouted. ‘It’s now or never.’

Alex took one last look around him. Men were still streaming over the sand-dunes, heading for the beaches and the lapping waves. They
wouldn
’t
all make it. They would have to stay behind and take their chances with the Germans. He started forward, his natural instinct to save his own life, even while he felt guilty for doing so.

He plunged into the briny water, feeling the thrust and suck of the waves rising to his knees, dragging him into the surging tide. He collided with a figure that was floundering up to his waist in water and shouting that he couldn’t swim. Alex recognized Mary’s fiancé, Walter Morgan.

‘What the hell are you doing back here, Morgan?’ 

Walter stared at him vaguely, but his eyes no longer seemed to register anything. He kept shaking his head and beating the water with his fists.

‘Can’t s-swim! C-can’t swim!’

‘If you’d stayed with the rest of the unit you wouldn’t have had to swim, you idiot!’ Alex bellowed in the private’s ear. ‘Why the blazes didn’t you stay in line?’

He knew that anything he said to the man was useless. Morgan was beyond comprehension of any kind. Alex took hold of the man’s
shoulders
and gave him a shake, then pushed him towards the milling broth of bodies in the water just as more German aircraft started strafing the beach. ‘Go, go, go!’

Walter clung to him as they advanced further into the sea, his face stricken with terror. Alex could feel the man trembling as if he had an engine inside him running on full throttle. If he weren’t careful, Morgan would drown them both.

With one hand clasping the private’s collar, Alex struck out, heading for what appeared to be the last boat, a fishing-smack by the look of it, with men on board calling urgently that they could wait no longer. A net was thrown down for them to haul themselves up. He saw Grundy up ahead trying to climb it with his heavy cargo clinging around his neck. Arms stretched out to reach him, but as the orderly reached the boat’s undulating rail, a shell sang past Alex’s ear and found its target. Grundy and the young boy fell backward without a sound and Alex knew they were already dead before they hit the water.

Private Morgan was still clinging on, restricting Alex’s movements. Alex kicked out with his feet, holding on to the man with both hands now. Walter was swallowing water and gagging, and when he wasn’t doing that he was mumbling incoherently, all the effects of his shellshock rushing back to take him in its grip.

Alex’s strength was waning, but the boat was within reach and he heaved Walter towards it. A fisherman leaned over and pulled the
semi-conscious
soldier on board, then was coming back for Alex, but Alex felt himself pushed aside and felt a fist drive itself into his midriff.

Winded, Alex sank down and swallowed a mouthful of the choppy sea before fighting his way back to the surface in time to see the boat drift away out of his reach. The last man on board the fishing-smack, the one who had fought to take his place, was hanging over the rail, and as he lifted his head, Alex saw that it was Forbes, who had murdered the young German soldier in his care.

The man pulled back his lips in an evil sneer, then something exploded very close. Alex felt an indescribable pain, and the world retreated.

I
T
was the middle of June when the order came for the Polish soldiers to be moved north and on to England. It was no longer safe to remain where they were. Thousands of troops had already been rescued from the Dunkirk beaches. Now it was their turn to be taken off from St Malo.

With the vans and ambulances loaded up with the displaced Poles, the cortège made its way quickly in the direction of the sea, taking the
shortest
route possible. Almost at the outset, the Army contingent of officers in charge found themselves in trouble. A bomb from a lone Stuka hit the rear vehicle, killing all on board. Then the leading truck, carrying the CO and his driver, broke an axle and went off the road. Both men were badly injured as a result. It was therefore down to the FANYs, led by Iris and Mary, to find a way through on their own, leading a band of men who, if captured, would almost certainly be shot or incarcerated in Nazi concentration camps.

Mary didn’t like to think what could happen to the twenty FANYs in the unit if capture did come about. She knew that all the girls must be doing their best to think positive. It was what they did best when there was nothing left to do.

Beside her, Iris was shedding perspiration like water as she took the lead, manoeuvring her vehicle over rough terrain and narrow, winding roads. Mary put her trust in Iris’s ability to remember the network of French roads she had been required to memorize, but even Iris’s
photographic
memory was beginning to flag in such stressful conditions.

‘We’re not lost, are we?’

Effie leaned over the back of Mary’s seat and peered out through the mud-spattered windscreen. The wipers were almost impotent against the driving rain, and the road they were on had turned into a river of mud some miles back, so that the worn tyres of the ambulances were in danger of skidding if they did not progress with care.

Iris slowed down to a stop and applied the handbrake with both hands
as though she had no strength left. Exhausted or not they all knew that they couldn’t afford to waste time. Their orders were to get to a small fleet of fishing boats just off St Malo, and time was of the essence.

Gaston Frébus had told them that the German lines were closing in fast. He escorted them as far as Rennes, then reluctantly said goodbye.

‘I can’t go any further with you,’ he had said, speaking softly, his eyes fixed on Iris. ‘I’m needed elsewhere.’

‘But Gaston …’ Iris started to speak, but the Frenchman touched a finger to his lips, his eyes wandering fleetingly over to Mary.

‘I must leave you. You know I must. Keep heading north on this road and it will take you to St Malo. There, the boats will be waiting. Go with God, my dear brave FANYs.’

He kissed the tips of his fingers and touched them to Iris’s trembling lips. Mary saw tears form and glisten on Iris’s eyelashes, saw the tensing of her cheek muscles. She looked away and when she looked back, Gaston was gone, blending with the darkness that enveloped them. Iris’s wretchedness at their separation was like a palpable aura all around her.

Mary wanted to say something comforting, but what could she say that would make Iris feel better? Gaston was going back underground with his Resistance fighters. His chances of coming out of the war alive were minimal. Come to that, Mary thought, their own chances weren’t all that good if they messed up and didn’t reach St Malo in time. Or, worse, got captured by the Germans.

‘Hey, what’s up with her?’ Effie demanded with an unaccustomed anxious edge to her voice.

Mary looked at Iris, who had slumped in her seat, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she wept copiously. It was the first time she had ever seen Iris in tears, but love, as she well knew, did strange things to the emotions. Things that very often ran out of control, even in the coldest of hearts.

‘I’m sorry,’ Iris sobbed. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just … I just can’t go on …’

Mary put an arm about her shoulders and hugged briefly. Her throat contracted and her heart squeezed and wanted to break. On the outside, however, Mary knew that she had to be strong enough for all of them.

‘Come on, Iris. This is not the time to go soft on us. Plenty time for that when we get back to England.’

‘I can’t help it, Mary.’ Iris swiped frantically at her tears and blinked through red-rimmed eyes at the dark road ahead. ‘I can’t remember any of it. It … it’s all gone. All the roads … they look the same. I don’t
know whether we’re going north or south or … or in any direction. I’m sorry!’

‘Aw, gawd,’ growled Effie. ‘This is a fine pickle we’re in and no mistake.’

Mary jumped out, aware of eyes watching curiously as the drivers of the vehicles behind pulled up and waited anxiously.

‘Move over, Iris.’ She barked out the order and, after a small
hesitation
, Iris slid into the passenger seat and Mary took the wheel.

She started the motor, glancing up at the dark, velvety sky with its sprinkling of stars. Directly overhead, the Milky Way could be clearly seen, like a powdery, muslin veil.

‘Gaston said it was a straight route from here, so that’s what we’re going to take.’

‘Just a minute,’ Effie said. ‘What if I get on me bike and ride on ahead. If I come up against a problem I can double back.’

‘Do you have sufficient fuel, Effie?’ Mary asked, not at all sure whether it was a good idea or a bad one, but she was open to any
suggestion
, since her navigational prowess was not terribly sound.

‘Aye.’ Effie nodded, already clambering through the van at the back and unchaining her beloved motorbike where it was fixed for safety. ‘Enough until it runs out, anyway. By then we should be where we’re headed.’

‘You’re a brick, Effie!’

‘Aye. Bricks for brains, me ma used to say. Just like our poor Joe. A lot of good it did him, didn’t it?’

‘Be careful, Effie.’

‘Aw, gan on. It’ll give us something to do. Better than sittin’ here bitin’ me nails while you two twiddle yer thumbs.’

They saw her cheeky grin as she rode past the van, the sound of the motorbike engine disappearing into the distance. Mary followed, keeping in a straight line, heading due north. Twenty minutes later, Effie appeared again, giving the thumbs up.

‘We’re all right for the next ten miles,’ she said and was off again.

And that was how the unit managed to find its way to the harbour of St Malo. It wasn’t too difficult a journey after all, though later, all the girls admitted that they hardly breathed the whole way.

On Effie’s last trip she arrived back breathless, her eyes shining with hope and enthusiasm. ‘I’ve seen the sea!’

‘Marvellous, Effie! How far, would you say?’

‘Only a few minutes. The moon came out just as I got there and I
could see small boats just sitting there, bobbing in the water.’

‘Let’s get going then,’ Mary said. ‘Effie, pass the word back that we’re almost through. It’ll be good for morale.’

‘Aye.’ Effie touched a finger to her forehead and revved up her bike. ‘Then I’ll ride on and make sure they know we’re coming. I’d hate to have them go without us.’

It was the typical, fatal last ride. They drove up over a rise, then started down the other side where the road was clogged with mud. Mary saw Effie veer off to the left, taking a short cut down on to the beach. She was halfway there and men were beginning to appear, emerging from the dinghies and rowing boats that were lined up at the water’s edge. A couple of them waved. Then it happened.

Effie must have hit something. She and her bike were thrown high into the air before coming crashing back to earth. The explosion that followed lit up the beach and shook the ground beneath the vehicles following, their wheels sinking into the soft sand. Mary, her heart heavy and hollow, sat behind her wheel and watched the scene, not believing what she had just witnessed. Iris whimpered uncontrollably beside her.

The fishermen had things under control by the time the FANY unit and the Polish soldiers assembled around their vehicles. One of them called out in French and it was some time before Mary could bring herself to answer him.

‘All right, everybody,’ she shouted after a brief discourse; pale faces turned her way, eyes wide and staring, mouths trembling. ‘Make your way to the boats as quickly as possible.’

‘Oh, Mary!’ Iris said, her voice a hoarse whisper. ‘Poor Effie! What happened? What was it?’

‘They have no idea, but he says she’s still alive,’ Mary told her,
desperately
trying to keep her emotions under control. ‘She’s badly hurt, but she’s still alive. Come on. Let’s get her.’

‘Get her? But how badly is she hurt?’

‘I don’t care, Iris. I’m not leaving Effie behind.’

‘I will help!’

Mary hadn’t seen him in the confusion, but there was Major Jan Berwinski and two of his comrades beside her, looking in the direction of the heap of smouldering black metal that had once been so much a part of Effie. They ran forward to where the fishermen were staring down at Effie’s still body. Using a fisherman’s waterproof jacket as a makeshift stretcher, they carried the injured girl carefully.

‘Bloody Nora!’ Effie’s pain-racked cry could be heard half-way along
the beach, but it had strength and instilled hope in all of them.

‘
Vite,
vite
!’ The Frenchmen urged, beckoning and herding everybody in the direction of the boats.

No one needed to be told a second time. Dinghies were already filling up and setting off towards larger vessels lying further out to sea. Mary pushed Iris towards the nearest boat where an elderly fisherman pulled them aboard and sat them down amidst ropes and nets stinking of fish. Jan and his companion gently passed Effie over into Mary’s arms and pushed the boat off, jumping in themselves at the very last minute.

Effie groaned slightly and Mary could see that she was in a lot of pain. She held her close and saw Effie’s eyes flicker open.

‘Gawd, what a fuckin’ awful smell! I hate fish, me!’

‘Effie Donaldson, stop complaining and watch your language. For once in your life just lie still and let us get you safely home.’

‘What about me bike?’ Effie was so traumatized she had forgotten to swear.

‘Never mind your bike. What about you?’

‘It hurts, Mary,’ Effie whispered back through clenched teeth. ‘Eeh, dear God, it hurts.’

‘I know, Effie.’ Mary held the girl as best she could, trying not to cause her more pain than was necessary. ‘I know. This is going to be rough, but you’ve got to hold on.’

‘Aye, Mary. I’ll hold on …’

Effie gripped Mary’s hand. Her eyes closed, she gave a grimace of pain and her head dropped back as she lost consciousness. It was best that way.

Alex was aware of being in a different place at a different time. Things were a little confused in his head, as if he were walking through the blurry veils of a bad dream. A dream he was anxious to be rid of, yet he was afraid of what he would wake up to. He remembered the thud of the bullets that had hit him, recalled the pain, then the salt water washing over him, his body being carried this way and that by the surging tide.

Before he passed out completely, there was the sensation of hands grappling with his clothing, pulling him out of the water, through the clinging sand. Then there was nothing. Only a black, mindless floating with hollow, distant voices, first loud, then fading into nothingness.

He was unaware of how long this state had lasted, but now there was movement beneath him, and all around. The air went from warm and stale to cool and fresh. There was the purring of an engine and a
vibrating
that rattled his bones. There was pain, but it was masked by his
half-conscious
state. He held on to the dream as long as he could, slipping in and out of it over a long period of time that could have been hours or days, or even weeks.

He awoke at last to muffled voices that echoed strangely in his ears. The air was now cold and dank and he was shivering convulsively beneath a thin, coarse covering, lying on a hard surface. There were men’s voices, low and mumbling, then a woman spoke his name.

‘Can you hear me, Alex?’

‘Mary?’

He called out her name, thinking that he was still dreaming that he was back in England, walking hand in hand with Mary West, and his heart was light and happy and full of love. It wasn’t the first time he had dreamed of Mary. Sometimes, though, someone else was there in the dream with him, walking away, never looking back, fading into the distance.

Please don’t leave me, Mary!

Someone was gripping his shoulder, shaking it slightly. He heard himself groan, though the sound seemed to come from another world. His hand, when he lifted it to his forehead, weighed a ton, while his head was light and spinning dizzily.

‘Where am I?’

‘Oh, Alex, thank God!’

His eyelids were sticky. They didn’t want to open. He rubbed at them with fingers that seemed only vaguely his. At last his eyes were open, but all he could see was shadowy darkness. He turned his head and was blinded by a light coming down a long tunnel, bringing with it a cool breeze and the smell of the countryside.

His eyes closed again and he drifted off, but awoke to someone taking his pulse. Alex squinted through slits and saw an oil lamp on a rustic oak table. It was shedding amber light into a rustic room that was largely wattle and daub and smelled of generations of country living. He tried to rise on his elbows, but a firm hand pressed him back into his pillow.

‘You must rest for now,’ the voice belonging to the cool fingers said, then he turned his head to look at her, knowing now who she was.

‘Grace! What’s happening? What are you doing here? Where are we?’

‘Later. Go to sleep now.’

‘Sleep? I feel as if I’ve been asleep for a hundred years.’

‘Well, not quite as long as that.’ Grace smiled sadly. ‘You’ve been in a coma, Alex. We dug two bullets out of you. One in your hip and another in your shoulder, but the real damage was done by the shrapnel that got
awfully close to your brain.’