The Lost World

Another Time, Another Place . . .

Part Two

This positively couldn't be happening. Not now, when her mission was so desperate. She regarded the shattered vehicle with nothing short of dismay. Damn the bloody ambulance, damn the stupid Boche … and chiefly damn her filthy rotten luck.

She was expected to reach Dunkirk by noon tomorrow and embark on a troop-ship to Dover. Instead, she was in big trouble and marooned in a German push. She bit her lip with frustration and regarded the stricken ambulance. Her only means of transport had been well and truly disabled, put out of action by a stray Moaning Minnie, or German Minnenwerfer shell. She should, she supposed, thank her lucky stars it hadn't been a direct hit. The damned thing had exploded at the side of the road and sprayed her with a hail of flying shrapnel. A piece had skewered the vehicle's bonnet and cleft right through to the engine's casing, and now the sadly listing ambulance was as dead as the proverbial dodo.

She reached into the breast pocket of her serge jacket and pulled forth a map, grey eyes narrowing as she peered through the gloom and tried to determine her position. She was stranded somewhere near the Yser canal, roughly between Ypres and St. Eloi. If she was lucky, then maybe she could hitch a lift with another ambulance on its way up to the coast. Due to the day's escalation in fighting, one was bound to pass by sooner or later.

The roar of the guns sounded closer now. Sighing, she looked out across the desolate landscape with a shudder and supposed it could have been worse. To her right were the abandoned ruins of a small settlement. Once a farmhouse and a couple of labourer's cottages, the shell-ridden walls were now scarred and pock-marked by a previous onslaught of artillery. Some of the barn roof was still intact so at least she would have some basic shelter. It wasn't exactly the Ritz, but a girl in her position might do worse. When she got back across the Channel, she was due some serious pampering. A few nights of unadulterated luxury, and by god, she meant to have them.

Clean clothes, top quality bed sheets, and an honest to goodness hot bath…

As for tonight, she pulled a face… tonight it looked like she was stuck here in the tumbledown ruins with some coarse blankets salvaged from the ambulance. A cold earthy floor and a draughty barn – perhaps some hay bales if she was lucky.

"Are you all right there, Sister?"

She cursed under her breath at her negligence. She hadn't heard anyone approaching. She couldn't afford to take chances with the vital information she'd compiled. Her hand reached automatically for her revolver but it was a bedraggled British Sergeant who confronted her. His uniform was blackened by cordite and filthy with dried-in mud.

The man leant heavily on a makeshift crutch, and in-spite of his own apparent injury, appeared to be guiding another man with a heavily bandaged shoulder. She relaxed and left the gun where it was. There was no need for self-defence this time. These men were Allied walking wounded on their way back down the lines.

Nodding ruefully, she gestured across at the useless vehicle. "A Moaning Minnie - the engine's had it."

The Sergeant made a sympathetic face. "There's a few of us taken shelter in those buildings over there. Mostly wounded, but a couple of ambulance drivers who lost their own wagon back along the road. We'd be glad of an extra pair of hands, Ma'am."

She managed to hide her grimace in time. Things just kept getting better and better. Her chance of grabbing a few welcome – albeit uncomfortable - hours of sleep had almost certainly gone up in smoke. Instead she could now look forward to a long and decidedly difficult night spent ministering to the unwashed British wounded. It served her right for wearing the QAIMNS uniform again, however useful it might be. The famous grey serge was a like a talisman and afforded her a great degree of freedom, an almost certain guarantee of access along the length of the Allied lines. The men treated the army nurses with reverence and a huge degree of respect.

Considering the options, she nodded her head. What the hell, it was only one night. Besides, there was a better chance of picking up a ride to the coast if she threw in her lot with these men. There was also safety in numbers if they should come under German attack.

"Thank you, Sergeant. You look as though you could do with a hand yourself. I hear it was bad today?"

She reached inside the wagon for her kitbag and followed the injured Tommies over the rubble. They were clearly from the same infantry regiment, both of them cheerful West-Countrymen with a broad rural burr to their speech. The accent brought back a slew of memories and she was surprised to feel a slight pang of nostalgia. It had been a long time since she'd thought of those far-away days or that particular time during her childhood. She recalled the rolling slopes of Wiltshire and the heat-haze on the chalk-downs in summer, and most especially the patchwork of meadows that lay around Avebury and Marlborough.

She had been left to her own devices, and for a while, had been almost happy there. It was so ancient and full of mystery. What a lifetime ago it seemed…

The Sergeant shook a weary head. "Proper nightmare it was, Sister. The blasted… begging your pardon, Ma'am," he cleared his throat apologetically. "The Boche fired another round of gas at us. Proper choking, a real pea-souper. Twas chlorine, or so they tell me, like great green clouds of fog. We was quite lucky in our section and it drifted out over no-man's-land, but the Frenchies nearby copped it good and hard, and some of ours down the line, so I heard."

She closed her eyes briefly. She had warned Command this was imminent and they had assured her the troops would be issued with protective equipment in good time. In 'good time' had not been time enough. She knew the toll of dead and disabled would probably be horrendous.

"Were you gassed, Sergeant - I'm sorry, your name is?"

He shook his head dismissively, "Billings, Ma'am. Like I said, we was lucky. The wind was pretty brisk at our end of the line and it blew the bloody… beg pardon, stuff, further down. Makes your eyes sting something fierce though."

They had reached the doorway of the battered building and she slipped her shoulder under the arm of the other wounded man and followed them into the gloom.

"Who goes there?"

"Keep your hair on, mate. It's me, Alf. Got another one here and ran into a bit of luck as well. A Q.A - her ambulance was hit by a Minnie."

Another soldier stepped out of the shadows and saluted her with a grimy smile. "Evening Ma'am. It's a proper sight for sore eyes you are. Everyone's down in the grain cellar. There's a couple that look pretty bad."

She felt her way down the narrow stone steps. The smell of grain and malt was so damned strong that the whole place stank like a brewery. That was the trouble with Belgians; she wrinkled her nose at the thought of it. Unlike their next-door neighbours, the French, they preferred drinking beer to wine. So much so, it was becoming hard to get hold of a bottle of the good stuff. Anything decent had already been looted in this bloody part of the Salient.

The cellar was lit by some kerosene lamps and she counted ten or so wounded. There was a male ambulance driver hard at work and an RAMC stretcher bearer assisting him. Most of the men seemed conscious and alert. The RAMC Corporal spotted her uniform and his eyes brightened at once.

"Good evening Ma'am, it's nice to see you. I'm Corporal Starling and this here's Private Brady, RAMC. Our ambulance lost a wheel in a shell-hole a while back down the road."

Nodding briskly, she unshouldered her heavy kitbag and opened the clasps, before taking stock of her equipment. She might as well get this over with and perhaps she could get some sleep.

"Sister King," her introduction was perfunctory. "I've come from the hospital at Poperinghe and was on my way up to Dunkirk. Now, where shall we get started?"

She didn't care if they thought she was aloof. There was too much at stake to risk familiarity, but she was still human enough to feel a grain of regret as a veil dropped down across the friendly cockney's face.

"Yes, Ma'am." He was instantly formal, showing her over to the corner of the cellar where two men lay prone on the floor. "Private Macey… took a bullet to the right lung and lost a lot of blood. His breathing's very poor as you can hear." He met her gaze honestly with an infinitesimal shake of his head. "I'd really like to give 'im a dose of morphine, but it'll make his breathing much worse."

The truth lay unspoken between them and she knew what was being asked of her. The morphine would help to control his pain whilst suppressing his tortured breathing. The opiate was a respiratory depressant and would hasten a premature death. Her stomach clenched but she didn't hesitate, getting down on her knees beside the stretcher. She smiled kindly at the soldier who opened his eyes when she placed a tender hand upon his brow.

"Hello there, soldier, no need to worry. I'm just going to take a quick look at your wound. Starling - " she nodded across to the waiting corporal. "I'll require some help raising him up."

Starling held the Private forward as she eased the khaki jacket aside and lifted the blood-soaked pad. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth when she saw the extent of his injury. It was a flapping, flail chest wound, the white gleam of ribs clearly visible. The lower lobe of the right lung was shredded and Private Macey would not last the night. In fact, it was truly a miracle he had hung on up until now.

Replacing the dressing gently, she reached across for her kitbag, as Starling settled the whey-faced Private back against the pile of blankets. It took seconds to snap the neck of the glass ampoule and draw the morphine into the syringe. Her hand shook slightly as she laid it to one side and carefully rolled up Macey's sleeve.

"I'm going to give you something for the pain." She met Starling's sombre gaze across the top of the boy's head and jabbed the needle expertly under the skin. "There we are now, just relax and let it work. We'll soon have you feeling better. Let me get you another blanket. We have to make sure you're warm enough."

She drew the blanket high up to his chin, looking into his face for the first time and seeing he was no more than eighteen. Somewhere over in England, his mother was probably praying, perhaps a sad-eyed sweetheart was crying…

She forced herself to push such thoughts aside. There would be many other Private Macey's before this bloody war was over, but the vital knowledge she had in her head might save a few thousand more lives. She smiled down at him gently and brushed the fair hair off his brow.

"Sweet dreams, laddie. Close your eyes and go to sleep."

Bracing herself, she turned to the second man, slightly surprised to see the officer's brevets on his sleeves and epaulets. A genuine full-blown Major no less, out here slumming it in the mud and squalor. It was unusual to see anyone of such high rank and insignia without the red tabs to indicate he was a Staff Officer. She raised a quick eyebrow at Starling and he gave a corroboratory nod.

"Nasty shrapnel wound to the skull. They dug 'im out of a shell crater. According to the medic at the Field Centre, he's been in and out of consciousness ever since. Took a good dose of gas an' all. Possible lung damage, blindness…" the rest of his words trailed miserably off, leaving the remainder unsaid.

Right now, the Major was restive, but unconscious and non-responsive. There was a blood-soaked wad of bandage obscuring his head and eyes. She reached automatically for his ankle tag and then noticed it wasn't there.

"What's his name?"

"We're not quite sure, Ma'am. The ankle tag got lost on the way down the line and he's having some trouble remembering. We think his name might be Avebury - Major John Avebury – but there's no letters or personal effects."

"Major John Avebury," her words faltered, a cold frisson of shock running like ice down her spine.

Avebury.

How strange it was to hear the name. Coincidence, or more perhaps, that she should hear it now. She hadn't thought about Wiltshire for years until tonight but now the bloody place had come back to haunt her. First the soft West-Country accents of the soldiers and now this Major's uncanny name.

"No Identity disc?"

"There was nothing left of one, and his jacket's been pretty much shredded. No proper means of identification, just a broken leather cord around his neck."

She took a closer look at him and tried to ignore the odd sense of destiny prickling along her spine. Shivering, she wiped a hand across her forehead. Of all the times for her unwanted gift to surface… she had no time for such rank self-indulgence and intuition was unwanted here. He was a big man, that much was certain, broad-shouldered and well-proportioned. His long legs seemed to sprawl on forever in their mud-caked, hand-tooled leather boots. She reached down and pulled his blanket up higher but it still didn't cover the length of him. He had the height and build of a rugger player, at the very least, six foot two.

Starling had him propped up on several rucksacks but the worrying effects of chlorine gas were evident. His lungs hitched with each inspiration and the breath caught and rasped in his throat.

"Damn it, he needs some oxygen." The words were out of her mouth before she could bite them back and Starling looked up, startled at her unladylike blasphemy. She met his eyes wryly and gave a small smile, "Shocked, Corporal? I'm sorry, I suppose it must be the surroundings."

He grinned back at her lop-sidedly, "I never 'eard a word, Ma'am, and I 'appen to agree. The Major needs some decent air in 'is lungs, and the sooner the blasted better."

"I've got some atropine in my bag. It should help to diminish his bronchial spasm and dry up the secretions."

She administered it quickly. The dose had been for her private use in the eventuality of exposure to chlorine gas, but the large Major's need was obvious and immediate if he hoped to avoid a bronchial pneumonia. She took his pulse and felt more optimistic. It was fast but surprisingly strong. With any luck, death would only claim one victim down in the cellar tonight.

What little she could see of his face was flushed. Almost black with gunpowder and blood. "What about his eyes?" She was loathe to remove the bandages, knowing that her own facilities to treat the inevitable conjunctivitis were non-existent.

Starling helped her ease the man back down on his makeshift pillows. "The Field Surgeon irrigated them at the Dressing Post, Ma'am. Best leave 'em covered for now."

She let her hand linger briefly against the Major's cheek. It was lean and dark with stubble, the facial bones well-defined and strong.

"Most definitely an obstinate man," she murmured. "You can tell by the set of his jaw."

Private Macey died just before midnight without regaining consciousness. The large dose of morphine had done its job and carried him off beyond the veil. Starling and Brady lifted him across to a darkened corner of the cellar and covered his body with malt sacks. Blankets were a precious commodity and could be utilised for those still alive.

Other than Major Avebury, the rest of the wounded were stable. Most were suffering disabling but relatively minor limb injuries apart from one other man who'd been gassed.

With any luck, she thought sardonically, she would be able to get some sleep. She picked up one of the dead man's blankets and huddled down in the corner next to the Major's stretcher. His breathing seemed easier and not quite so laboured. Perhaps the atropine had done a little good after all.

She was dozing in minutes, although one hand remained curved comfortingly around the smooth wooden handle of the pistol concealed within her skirts. Her dreams were bizarre and badly disturbed - a nightmare of twisted images. There were painful memories from her childhood interspersed with her more deadly present. The continuous knife edge she balanced along must be taking its toll on her nerves.

The sun was rising bright like a blade and casting eerie shadows through the standing stones. She was dancing barefoot on dewy grass, spinning round to the music in her head. The mist hung in bands across the sward like tendrils of ghostly fog. She sensed him walking towards her, just as she always did.

He was an indistinct figure, tall and upright, and proud of posture and bearing. At any other time, he might be menacing, but in him, she knew she was safe.

She was home.

As he drew closer, the mist began parting until she could almost see his face. She stepped forwards, stretching out yearningly as she tried to reach the safety of his arms.

The scenery changed dramatically and the shadows rose all around her. She was trapped in a dim twisted landscape and a Minnenwerfer went screaming overhead. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, she swerved to the side of the road. It exploded in a hail of rubble close by and showered her with mud and debris. A jagged piece of shrapnel wrought like a double-headed snake was embedded in the bonnet of the ambulance.

The man was gone and this was reality. The world around her was shattered and ugly. She was back on the shell-damaged road to Ypres, all alone and marooned in the dark.

"Will…William…"

She jerked up out of her dreams. The Major was rambling, either delirious or talking in his sleep. She moved stiffly, clutching the blanket round her shoulders as she placed her hand on his cheek.

"Shh - it's all right. Just relax, Major Avebury. You're quite safe now."

He reached up and grasped her wrist with surprising strength. "Who are you?"

His poor voice was barely a croak, strangled and raspy with pain. She grimaced at the sound of it and gently pried his fingers from her arm.

"Save your breath, Major," she shook her head. "I'm just another stranded traveller. Here," she held her flask of water up to his lips. "Drink it slowly; it'll ease your throat."

She supported his head gently whilst he swallowed, her touch feather-light so as not to place much pressure on his wound. His hair, she noticed, was soft and dark where it curled into the nape of his neck, and despite the fact it was the regulation two inches above his collar, she had a sudden impression of unruliness, of what it might look like if it were longer. At the moment it was stiff, caked with dried mud and blood, but her fingers still wanted to linger.

"Thank you," he paused in some confusion. "Am I in a hospital, I thought the ambulance got stuck?"

"It did and you're not," She eased him back on the knapsack. "We've taken shelter off the road between St Eloi and Ypres. Don't worry, they'll come and get you tomorrow. You'll be going home before you know it."

He was quiet for a moment, digesting her words. "And you? I thought when I heard a woman's voice…"

She smiled with wry understanding. "No, I had the bad luck to get stuck too. I was on my way up to Dunkirk for supplies but my ambulance got struck by a stray Minnie."

His shaky hand moved up to touch the swathe of grubby bandages around his head. "There was a shell - I was hit. The mud buried me."

"Yes," she said, matter-of-factly, "Corporal Starling says you were fortunate. They pulled you out almost at once."

It was impossible not to miss the shudder that ran through him at the thought of being buried alive. It was a common enough phobia out here in these execrable conditions, occurring as it did all too often in the muddy trenches and shell holes. She guessed he had seen it happen more than once.

"Fortunate," he turned away, jaw tense and rigid with pain. "I must have been fortunate, indeed."

Her gut caved unexpectedly and she reached for his big square hand. It was an out of character attempt to comfort him. She thrust away the need to analyse it and sought to find the right words.

"The blindness is probably temporary. Once they get you to a hospital, they can irrigate your eyes and then I'm sure you'll be fine."

He squeezed her fingers with gratitude and she sensed he was glad of her touch. "Thank you… I'm sorry, how remiss of me. I should have asked for your name?"

She gave him the name on the papers she carried. Not her own, it was just one of many. A false name used for ease and expediency and to accompany this particular disguise. It couldn't do any harm, she reasoned. It was unlikely she'd ever come across him again.

"It's Sister King. Monique King."

"A QA?" He rasped croakily, shapely lips curving into a boyish smile. "How very fortunate indeed."

The clumsy attempt at gallantry amused her and she knew she'd caught a glimpse of the man beneath the khaki. Clearly a charmer, she thought to herself, if he could flirt when so hurt and afraid.

She pulled her fingers coolly away. "Don't push that good fortune too far, Major Avebury."

TBC

Lisa Paris - 2003