Content warning: this one and the next chapter will be war heavy. Nothing graphic, but lots of drama and action. We entered the time of German Spring Offensive of 1918 and the British forces did not have an easy time of it in those months, with Matthew and Mary caught in the middle of it all. I hope the eventual payoff will be worth it for you though.
Sybil stares at her in horror mixed with amusement.
"I am not sure whether to be glad I wasn't caught in the crossfire or regret I missed the show," she says finally.
Mary gives her a sour look.
"I take it you would not be in any hurry to actually help?"
Sybil laughs.
"Oh, you know I would help. I would probably be louder than Papa if I was there! But seriously, what was Matthew thinking, telling them like that?"
"That having the family gang up on me might get me to reconsider," answers Mary drily. "Not his brightest moment."
Two of the Crawley sisters look at each other and roll their eyes in unison.
xxx
Sybil does not look amused the very next day when Mary comes back from her first, thankfully uneventful shift. In fact, she is pale and her eyes are red.
"Darling, whatever has happened?" exclaims Mary in alarm, dropping her things on the kitchen table. Sybil is one of the last people on Earth to be so upset by a trifle, so bad news of some kind is likely. Mary's first thought goes instantly to Matthew. Surely nothing could have happened to him on the very first day he was properly back at the front?
Oh, who is she attempting to fool! Of course something could have happened on the very first day. It did to many others.
But Sybil answers and it turns out it's not Matthew who is the reason behind her tears.
"Tom has been reassigned to the front ambulance unit. He's going away in the morning."
Mary has to stifle a sigh of relief before she can speak.
"I have news of my own," she says gently. "My unit is going to be reassigned too. We are leaving next week."
Sybil's eyes widen.
"Where to?"
"A casualty clearing station which is expanding."
"Expanding?" Sybil frowns in surprise. "Now, when everybody has evacuation plans in place?"
Mary shrugs.
"Apparently not CCS no.37," she looks at Sybil seriously. "Do you know where Tom is going?"
Sybil smirks.
"He was not supposed to tell anyone, but of course he did. He's going to be near St Quentin."
Mary nods, finding nothing to say. With the place where the Germans decide to attack unknown, who is to say which part of the front is a good place to be in the coming weeks?
xxx
She makes her own quick farewells with Tom the next morning as she makes him scrambled eggs for the last time.
"I still think that Sybil is mad to plan to marry you," she says, stirring the eggs viciously. "But since she does care about you, please be careful out there."
She takes some satisfaction in his astonished look at her words.
"Careful, milady. I might start to think you care too," he says finally, making her glare at him over the plate she is handing him.
"Don't flatter yourself, Branson," she says, deliberately refusing to use his first name which she caught herself increasingly slipping into ever since Christmas. Apparently drinking hot chocolate with your former chauffeur breeds familiarity. "Just do your best to not die."
He salutes her cheekily as she leaves the kitchen to give him and Sybil privacy to make their own goodbyes.
xxx
Mary's day doesn't get better. There is an air raid at the British army camp and the neighbouring town and she races there as soon as the bombs stop falling, only to be caught in the second wave of them just after she delivered the first batch of wounded to the hospital and turned to go back for more.
She stops the ambulance after the first bomb lands several dozen yards ahead of her, strewing the street with rubble from the house it hit. She looks around in panic, trying to find any kind of reasonable shelter, but there isn't any – the street is on the outskirts of the town, lined with houses surrounded by small gardens. None of them looks promising enough to make her want to abandon her ambulance and run for it.
Before she can make a decision, she sees in horror as the next bomb destroys a utility pole and sends the torn live wires straight at her unprotected, open driver seat. Without a thought, by sheer instinct, she leaps out of the ambulance, a queer serpent-like thing coiling up and a flash of flame wrapping around her. It's only thanks to her rubber boots and a leather coat that she doesn't end up electrocuted before the wires finally collapse harmlessly on the ground as she scrambles frantically to get away from them.
For a long moment, all Mary can do is to lean against the stone wall of a nearby house and try to remember how to breathe, her eyes wide and wild with awareness how close of a call it was.
xxx
After that air raid, Mary sleeps through the whole of the next day. She blames her exhaustion and frazzled nerves for failing to spot that Sybil is definitely up to something and thus preventing her from acting. But it's only at breakfast the next morning when Sybil calmly tells her that she successfully applied for the transfer to the very CCS Mary is going to.
Mary stares at Sybil, aghast.
"Have you taken a leave of your senses?" she asks finally in a choked voice.
Sybil shrugs flippantly, but her gaze on Mary is steadfast and resolute.
"You went to war for me. You nearly died here. How can you be surprised that I want to be with you? That I want to do the same for you what you've done for me?"
"I have whole new compassion for Matthew's feelings when he tried to keep me at Downton," mutters Mary in utter frustration. Inside, she is terrified. She has already been for herself – she has no desire to get anywhere near the front after her last experience – and for Matthew, who is somewhere there already, but to hear now that Sybil requested to leave her relatively safe posting for the one so very near to whatever fighting is going to happen any day now… where Mary is going to be serving… It's the whole other level.
And there is nothing she can do now to stop it from happening. Whatever is going to happen, they will be facing it together.
As terrified and furious as she is, a small part of her is grateful to Sybil for not making her do it alone.
xxx
"My darling,
I hope you are warm and safe, wherever you are. If it's near my town, after all, and you have some free hours, don't come to visit me – I've been reassigned to Casualty Clearing Station No 37, which is being expanded. I am sure going to miss my billet here, since from everything I hear about accommodation so near the front it's going to be a tent or a Nissen hut shared with other women. I don't think it will surprise you, darling, that I am not used to sharing my space and am rather disgruntled at the prospect. It's probably too much to hope they will at least put Sybil with me; as far as I know VADs and FANY drivers are housed separately there.
Yes, Sybil is reassigned as well. She volunteered to accompany me. I will not say I owe you an apology for the way I acted during our last quarrel back at home, but her stubbornness and disregard for her own welfare and safety has shown me the other side of the coin very starkly. I am sorry, darling, that I wasn't more understanding of your fears. I'm afraid though that Crawley stubbornness runs strong in all of us.
As we are packing the remnants of our life here – how could we have gathered so many things during mere months?! – and trying to decide what to take with us and what to sell, give away or ship home, I find myself in grips of most unexpected nostalgia. If you told me I would ever feel any positive feelings regarding this ramshackle house back in August when I first arrived, I would have laughed in your face. But now, as I am writing this letter in our kitchen (a kitchen! There are moments when I still cannot believe I am actually doing anything in a kitchen), all I can see is you. Your face as you were sitting at the table with me, talking about all kinds of topics. The stove where you brushed my hair and where we had our slumber party at Christmas. The spot where you knelt as you asked me to be your wife. As stupidly sentimental as it makes me sound, I will always think of this house with fondness. Although on cold winter nights I sure hope to do it somewhere with a proper heating!
With the way things look now, it seems too much to hope that this warm and comfortable place is going to be our own bedroom back home, with us married and the world at peace – and yet this is exactly what I'm imagining right now, darling. There is nowhere I want to be more than in your arms, with none of us forced to go anywhere and nothing to fear.
Your loving fiancée,
Mary"
Matthew finishes reading Mary's letter and curses heartily. His fingers tremble slightly as he folds it and puts it securely in his pocket.
"Bad news, sir?" asks William, raising his eyes from Matthew's coat which he was industriously brushing. Matthew wipes his face tiredly before he responds.
"Mary and Sybil have been reassigned to a CCS," he says bitterly. "One which is under expansion."
William's eyebrows rise in surprise.
"Under expansion? Now?"
"Yes," spits out Matthew angrily. "It must be one under General Skinner. He must be the only man on the whole bloody Western Front who is right now making plans both for the retreat and for advance. Simultaneously."
"Well," answers William, obviously trying to find words which are not disparaging of the general and coming up short. "That's mighty optimistics of him."
Matthew snorts.
"Never took you for a diplomat, Mason."
"I have hidden depths, sir," returns William cheerfully, making Matthew laugh.
"That you do, Mason," he says fondly. "That you do."
They sit in companionable silence, Matthew reaching back into his pocket to reread Mary's letter again and William finishing brushing his coat.
"If she is going to one of the CCS under General Skinner, it might be that she will be near us," says William after some thought and Matthew's grip on the letter gets so tight he nearly tears the paper.
"That's what I am afraid of, Mason," he says quietly, thinking with desperation how thinly their line is stretched; how poor their defences. "It's not a good place to be at."
William just swallows hard and focuses on the coat even though it is spotless by now.
xxx
"My darling,
As you can imagine, I've read your news with not a small amount of trepidation. I pray that God will keep you safe, whatever is coming, and that next winter you and I can reminisce about the cold French weather safely wrapped in blankets in front of our very own warm fire, just as you envisioned.
It seems tempting fate to ask it now, darling, but where would you want that home to be? I somehow assume you don't have the Crawley House in mind when you imagine us like that, at least not with Mother to share it with us, and I could hardly evict her when she lived there years longer than I. Don't worry, I don't want to live with Mother either, not when we're married. As much as I love her, I dream of a home of our own, where we can have privacy to build a life and a family together, without everybody else there. But for this reason, I can't imagine us living at Downton either. So where would it be? Would you prefer to live in London or find some house on the estate, close to our family?
Oh darling, I would so love to be by your side now to discuss such matters with you in person instead of facing the very real prospect of never seeing you again. I know I am being morbid and pessimistic, and that I should have more faith, but as I sit here and wait for the Germans to come, my heart and mind are heavy. If only I could know that you are safe! You apologised to me for not understanding my fears well enough – I realise now that I owe you one for dismissing yours. I have no idea how you have endured years of worrying for me, or how Mother has. I have only been forced to deal with the worry for you for mere months and already I feel I am past my endurance. The thoughts of you in danger drive me mad, and my inability to even be there and protect you as much as I can even more so. Please write to me as often as you can. I need to know that you're alright.
I am not sure if I should post this letter, so rambling and so little cheerful, but I am not sure I am able to write a better one at the moment. If I will, I want you to know that I love you so terribly much, my darling, and that I will love you until the last breath leaves my body, whenever that's going to be.
Your loving fiancé,
Matthew"
xxx
It's William who runs into Tom first and comes instantly to give Matthew the news.
"Branson is here, sir! He's part of the RAMC ambulance unit assigned to us."
As usual with news of that kind, Matthew is not sure whether he should be happy to see a familiar face or dread unpleasant possibilities. He gets up eagerly from his rickety field desk and walks to the field ambulance position to greet the man he has surprisingly started to consider his friend – and even more surprisingly, his future brother-in-law if they all get out of this alive.
"I'm happy to see you," he says when they meet. "Although not sure how lucky you are to end up here. Who have you pissed off?"
Branson smiles wryly.
"My new superior officer, of course. Bastard served in Ireland before."
Matthew looks at Tom chidingly.
"He's RAMC. It's highly unlikely he shot anybody there."
"Not for the lack of will," mutters Tom darkly. "He made his opinion of the Irish clear enough, in my hearing. He's lucky I did not want to end up in court martial for punching an officer."
Matthew's mouth twitches.
"So you just mouthed off?"
"Nothing he could make an official complaint of," Tom says defensively and Matthew sighs.
"But enough to be sent here to be in a better position to be shot at?"
Tom shrugs, but Matthew can see that he is not as fearless as he pretends to be. Which, in Matthew's estimation, just shows that he has a brain in his head.
"You will be delivering the wounded from here to the field dressing station," he explains. "Then, if the enemy is advancing, you will help to evacuate the wounded and the personnel to the CCS. With any luck, nobody will shoot directly at you."
"With any luck," mutters Branson. "Just what I haven't suffered much from recently."
Matthew has to bite his tongue from lashing out at him and spelling out for him how lucky he actually has been on multiple counts, starting from the fact that he didn't end up here years earlier and that the woman of his dreams loved him enough to follow him to war.
He repeats the last part of this sentence in his head and rethinks the matter.
If either he or Branson were truly lucky men, the women of their dreams would be nowhere near here.
xxx
The meeting at the command tent is a grim affair. The situation is stark. The British forces are stretched and depleted after last year's losses and with no significant reinforcements coming; the French are not much better, so there is not much hope for help from them. The Germans, on the other hand, are getting more and more divisions coming from the east after signing peace with Russia and chomping at the teeth to finally start an offensive of their own, after three years of defending their positions from 1914. To anyone with a scrap of strategic reasoning it is perfectly obvious that Germany must and will strike in the west – and strike soon, before the full might of American wealth and manpower can cross over the Atlantic. Quarter of a million of soldiers of the American Expeditionary Force are already in France, but several times as many are still stuck in training camps across the USA. The Germans won't wait for them to come.
Major Summers looks at the officers gathered around the table covered with maps of the area.
"The first line is not intended to be held," he says seriously. "We wouldn't be able to do so anyway, not as it is. It is meant to hold up the enemy, to delay his advance and to inflict such damage that his attack will falter and be weakened. It is meant to buy time. The battle zone, the main line of resistance, will be further back, and here, it is hoped, the enemy will be stopped. Even if they are not, even if a certain amount of ground has to be sacrificed, there will be another line a mile or so beyond it. If all else fails, that would be the final insurance."
Matthew bites his lip, but cannot help voicing the question on his mind. He and his men were involved in constructing that last desperate line of defence – every available man who was not actually on duty in the line was rounded up into a working party – and he is not encouraged by the memory of what he saw.
"Sir," he asks. "How much of those trenches have we managed to finish?"
Summers gives him a hopeless look.
"As much as was possible during three winter months, Crawley," he answers darkly.
Which clearly means not enough.
"The ground behind us is the old battlefield from the Battle of Somme," points out Captain Wenthworth woodenly. Matthew remembers that he was there as well although they didn't know each other yet. "It's a bloody wasteland now. What the shelling didn't destroy, the Boche did before they retreated. There's no way we can stop them there."
"And you're not going to," says Major Summers sharply. "Let the Germans keep it if they want. If we cannot mount proper defence here – and it's likely – our objective is to retreat and save as many of our men and equipment as we can, because God knows we won't be getting much in the way of replacement. Speaking of, we need to oversee that the field dressing stations and CCS are evacuated as well if the need arises."
"Don't they have the plans in place?" asks Matthew, dreading the answer. Summers looks like he wants to throw something.
"Most of them do," he snaps. "But as it happens, the plan for CCS 37, which is the closest to us, is to demand 100 vehicles to get everybody and their shit out on the day of evacuation."
Matthew's hands curl into fists. He is desperately trying not to think about the fact that Mary is there or is very soon going to be, not here, in the middle of the meeting where he needs to remain calm and composed.
"What can we do to help them?" he asks, marvelling at his ability to speak rationally when his brain is barely able to focus, the fear for her choking him. "We don't have vehicles to lend them."
"We will cover them and delay the enemy as much as possible," explained Summers, wiping his face tiredly. "Buy them time. With full understanding that when our position becomes unattainable, we will have to abandon whoever is left to their fate."
Matthew swallows heavily.
"You mean to be captured."
Summers nods.
"Yes. We can and will try to give them as much time as possible, but in the circumstances, it might be unavoidable that not everyone will get out."
"May I volunteer myself and my men for this task?" Matthew finds himself asking and waits with bated breath for Summers's answer, praying that nobody here will probe too deeply into his motives. It's unlikely they would be deemed rational or well thought out. Summers is the most dangerous, both as the person in charge and the one who knows or may suspect where Matthew's interest in the CCS no 37 comes from, but Summers was there at the collapsed dugout, he helped to get Mary out, if anybody is likely to understand, it will be him too.
He probably does, because he gives Matthew just one sharp look before he agrees.
Matthew slumps in his seat, weak with relief. If shit hits the fan – and it most likely will – at least he should be positioned to get Mary the hell out of here.
If he is not killed before he can get to her.
xxx
As soon as darkness falls across the long and straggling front, men are on the move, and roads on which hardly a mouse would stir by day are suddenly alive with the rumble of wheels and the rattle of wagons. Deep in rural France, where motor cars were seldom seen in peacetime, all but arterial roads are narrow tracks strung between farms and villages. The transportation of supplies to the line poses a thousand problems for friend and foe alike, for the guns of both sides have the roads perfectly registered. They are easy targets for them, and, knowing that wheeled traffic is obliged to use them, both sides frequently shell them after dark, confident of hitting something.
Mary looks wearily at the congested mass of trucks and troops in front of her, barely visible in the darkness – nobody dares to use lights and risk bringing the enemy's attention to themselves. A stray shell did fall, actually, just some hundred yards ahead, hitting an unlucky convoy, and now all traffic is blocked until the wrecked vehicles and the wounded are cleared. Just like the rest of them, she throws a suspicious look at the horizon, trying to gauge whether another is going to follow and land straight on their own heads.
At least her mission is not an urgent one tonight. Her task is to deliver medical supplies, two VAD nurses and four orderlies to Casualty Clearing Station no 37, where she herself is supposed to remain until told otherwise. The orderlies sit in the back, the nurses, one of them Sybil, at the front with Mary. Phryne drives behind her, with Ivy following, their ambulances loaded full as well.
She would just really prefer to be there already. Despite the cover of darkness, she feels terribly exposed here, on this congested rural road.
"How far are we?" asks Sybil and even though her voice is steady and her face – at least what's visible of it in near complete darkness – resolute, Mary can sense that she is uneasy as well.
"Not far," she answers. "About ten miles. But how long it will take us to get there…" she shakes her head, eyeing the mess in front of them and willing them to hurry up.
Finally, they do, and the congestion slowly clears enough for them to get back on their way.
CCS no 37 is a group of a dozen or so of big white tents, equipped to handle up to a thousand casualties. The girls, exhausted after travelling through most of the night, are led by a matron to a smaller one on the side of the camp, which they are told they will share.
As accommodation goes, this is basic. There are ten foldable cots, a washstand and a foldable shelf on which they are supposed to put their bags. The matron cheerfully informs them about the location of the nearest outhouse and leaves them to settle and rest. Since the weather is typical for mid-March, the air is too cold to imagine undressing to sleep.
For a moment, Mary closes her eyes and imagines herself declaring that she has had enough of the war and is going back home, to her own private room with a roaring fire and a proper bathroom.
"Well," says Phryne philosophically, throwing herself at one of the cots. "It's going to be an adventure, isn't it?"
Sybil grins at her and puts her bag on the rickety shelf.
"At least we didn't come here in January! Can you imagine how bad it must have been then?"
Mary lies down on her own cot, pulls a scratchy woollen blanket over herself and closes her eyes again.
She really wants to go home.
She wants Matthew. She wants him so much it hurts.
She wonders where he sleeps. Is he stationed somewhere nearby or in a totally different part of France? Is he cold? Does he think of her?
She thinks back to all the nights she has spent in his arms at Downton and feels certain that he does.
Her own arms wrapped around her feel woefully inadequate in comparison to his as she finally falls into a fitful sleep.
xxx
Major Summers comes personally bearing the news they were all expecting and fearing of.
"Colonel Frizell is on leave, so I am temporarily in charge of the whole battalion," he says with just a hint of his usual smirk. "Just my luck, isn't it, Crawley? Anyway, I am going round all four companies to make sure every officer and man knows what the fuck they are supposed to do tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" asks Matthew, his throat dry. Summers nods grimly.
"A German aeroplane was brought down and the pilot and observer were sent to HQ for interrogation. They disclosed, after some persuasion, that the Boche are coming for us at 4.40 Berlin time."
Matthew swallows or at least attempts to.
"We will be ready then," he says roughly.
"No other choice," answers Summers and Matthew thinks that he looks a bit green. "Tomorrow is likely to be a trying day, so I advise you to turn in early and get what sleep you can. Make sure your men will do it too. Hell only knows when we are all going to get some sleep next."
He gets up and shakes Matthew's hand.
"For what it's worth, good luck. It's been fun knowing you, Crawley. And I want you to know that if I don't make it, my gramophone is yours. Heavens know that Cynthia never appreciated music properly."
As soon as he is gone, Matthew conveys his message and advice to his company. After he and his lieutenants inspect the rifles and see the men settled, they quietly pack their own gear, check their revolvers, and change into their shabbiest uniforms before lying down to rest, and to sleep if they can, as they were told.
Matthew falls asleep with his hand in his pocket, his fist tight around a little toy dog.
xxx
Four hours later a single white rocket soars into the air above St Quentin and, as if it were a signal for the whole German line, the bombardment begins.
More than 6,000 guns take part, and there has never been a bombardment like it. The earth trembles. Even the air shakes. The noise numbs the senses.
It lasts for hours. Many of the shells contain gas, turning the foggy air into a toxic mix of gas and cordite powder from the explosions. Matthew sits in the officers' dugout, twenty feet underground, and tries not to be afraid of what is coming.
At least this time Mary is several miles away from the front.
Desperate for a distraction, Matthew goes for a long familiar routine of losing himself in memories and visions of her, their weeks at Downton supplying his mind with so many new wonderful images and sensations. He closes his eyes, recalling the feel of her breasts in his hands – so soft and shapely even through the cotton of her nightdress – and the sounds she made when he caressed her nipple with his thumb, only to follow it with his mouth. He bites his lip to suppress his own groan at the power of this memory, so vivid he barely remembers the dugout, the shells and the men sitting next to him, all finding their own ways to deal with their fear. In his mind, he is back at Downton, the door safely locked, and the most wonderful, beautiful woman on Earth lying trustingly in his arms, caressing his body, and whispering passionately that she loves him.
The shelling ends, the silence ringing in their ears nearly as loudly as the noise of explosions, but is soon replaced by sounds of shooting and yelling.
The enemy is here.
xxx
The start of shelling wakes them all up at 4.40.
Mary thought she has been long used to the constant noise of it, but she has never heard anything like that. They are five miles from the front, but the deafening explosions are so loud as if they were right behind their tent. She wonders if they can be heard in England, as the shelling before the Battle of Somme supposedly was.
The matron comes over and tells them to sleep if they can.
"We can't help anyone while they're going like that," she explains, her face worn and gloomy from memories and grim expectations. "But we will be flooded with casualties as soon as it will be safe to bring them here, and they won't stop coming for days on end. Drivers, you will go to the dressing station as soon as the shelling stops. Nurses, you gather at the reception area; you'll be assigned to wards when we see what we are dealing with."
She leaves to give orders to nurses and volunteers in other tents. They try to sleep, but how can they possibly with that earth-shattering noise?
Mary stares numbly into the darkness of the tent. She catches herself rubbing her engagement ring and shivers.
Matthew is somewhere there. She doesn't know where, exactly, but wherever he is, he is likely under fire and there is no way to tell if he is going to come through it.
She squeezes her eyes shut, fighting tears, then startles at the light touch of Sybil's hand on her shoulder.
"Scoop over," she whispers, getting next to Mary on the narrow army cot. "We can wait together."
They cuddle under the blanket, wincing at the constant noise, and for a moment Mary forgets that she's the older one of them and is supposed to be the brave and supportive one.
"Do you think they will be alright?" she asks in a small voice, realising of course that Sybil has no way of knowing anymore than she does, but seeking reassurance anyway.
Sybil's arms tighten around her.
"They must," she answers fiercely. "Otherwise we would kill them ourselves and they know it."
Mary laughs, despite the terror coursing through her veins.
xxx
The Germans come in the morning fog and they seem countless, row after row of grey uniforms and steel helmets – at least from what Matthew and his men are able to see. The visibility is awful, the thick fog mixed with the smoke and lingering gas, and the glass of their gas masks fogged so badly they would have barely been able to see anything even in better conditions. But they see enough to aim and shoot, and with such a mass of people approaching them they are bound to hit something. Their machine gun fire soon disturbs the orderly lines of the enemy and makes them retreat and duck for cover, but Matthew has no illusions that it's going to last. There are too many of them and his own position too vulnerable, too weak, to hold them off for long. They have already lost contact with the front outposts; only the distant sounds of fighting gives him any hope that some of his men posted there survived the onslaught so far.
Matthew grinds his teeth, his mouth turning downwards in determined grimace.
There might be no way for them to win this fight, but by God, they will make the Germans work for their victory.
xxx
What she finds when she reaches the field dressing station is something Mary has never seen before. She did work on trains bringing casualties from the Battle of Passchendaele and she thought nothing could be worse – but then she saw only a trainload of them at the time. What she sees now is the field hospital completely overrun with the wounded. There are hundreds of them – thousands, probably – and Mary's heart goes into her throat when she realises that some of them are from Matthew's regiment.
She is waiting for the newest load of wounded to be loaded into her ambulance when another, transporting them from the front, pulls next to hers.
The driver is Tom.
"Mary!" he exclaims, his eyes widening. "You're here as well?"
Mary ignores the informality of his address for the time being. The orderlies are going to be done in minutes with the loading and she will have to be on her way, and she needs to get the information first.
"I'm at CCS, and so is Sybil," she says urgently, barely paying attention to Tom's dismayed look at the news. "Tom, do you know if Matthew is here as well?"
"Yes, he is," he answers quickly. "But I haven't seen him since it all started."
Her ambulance is fully loaded and there is no time for anything else other than a quick nod before she is on her way to the CCS, her attention divided between navigating the uneven country road and Matthew. She yearns for news of him, but surely the fact that Tom hasn't seen him is a good thing? It must mean that whatever he is doing out there he has not been in need of medical attention…
She refuses to consider any other scenario. Instead, she bites her lip in concentration and drives faster.
xxx
Matthew takes assessment of the situation and decides that it is high time to get out. They have been firing now for more than twelve hours, and for almost eight of them they have been face to face with the approaching Germans, beating them off, falling back bit by bit as one by one the guns have been lost, resorting to rifles to protect the final position and the one remaining weapon. They have kept it firing until the last glimmer of daylight, they have accomplished miracles – but it is pointless to continue. It is too dark now to detect a target, and too dark to see the Germans closing in on them in the gloom. Matthew's immediate concern is to get his men out before they are entirely surrounded. He is all too aware that the enemy is closing in and, without so much as a strand of wire to protect their position, there is no chance of holding back a force which outnumbered them many times.
He gives the order calmly, but he is very much afraid that he might have left it too late.
"The only way left open to us is up the slope behind us," he says in a measured tone, feeling the weight of his men's stares on him. "Yes, it is open to the enemy's view as well, and their machine gun fire, but we have no other choice unless we want to surrender, and I don't know about you, lads, but I would rather not end this war as a Kaiser's guest."
He waits for confirmations and laughter to die out before he continues seriously.
"We will go two at the time and run as fast as we can. If somebody gets wounded, grab him and help him along, as much as you can, but the priority is to get as many of us out of here as possible. The Germans will take care of the wounded – they are not complete barbarians – and there are too few of us left to afford losing more than absolutely unavoidable. We still have a job to do."
He sees that this part of his speech pleases no one – hell, it doesn't please him! – but the men answer with grim nods and fierce expressions, and a line is forming as the first pair runs out of the trench and up the slope for their lives, the enemy's machine gun starting to fire immediately.
To Matthew's extreme relief, only three of his men are hit. He goes last, with William who refused to go earlier, and when they reach relative safety on the other side of the slope Matthew can scarcely believe it.
They did it. They got out.
For now, at least.
xxx
Exhausted as they are after being on their feet since 4.40 in the morning and fighting the whole day, they cannot sleep yet. They are too close to the Germans, their position too precarious. So after a short time to catch their breath and patch up the wounded, they start retreating through the dark forest. It is a deliberate and disciplined retreat. Only the rearguard is left to oppose the Germans' passage through the wood, and they do oppose them bitterly every yard of the way – lying in ambush in dense undergrowth, firing Lewis guns from makeshift positions behind uprooted trees, fighting hand to hand in clearings, denying the progress of the enemy along rough forest tracks, and, at last, fighting to exhaust the enemy and gain time for their comrades to take up the position where they are to stand fast behind the battle zone. The position was clearly drawn on the Army map and etched in Matthew's brain. It was shown as 'the Green Line', the last line of defence.
When they finally get there, two days later, swaying on their feet from sheer exhaustion and in much smaller numbers than they started, it is clear that it is not much of a line. The trenches are sketchy and shallow, in places they are only a few inches deep, and, even if much more time was available, even if the situation was less critical, they are not equipped with enough spades and pickaxes to improve them. Matthew swallows hard, his better judgement telling him that the Green Line is no place to stand and fight, and if his men remained there, weakened as they are, his line would soon be broken and overwhelmed.
Major Summers, who looks overjoyed to see Matthew and his men again, agrees with him.
"I expect we will receive the orders to swing back in a south-westerly direction and to take up a line on the banks of the Somme. With any luck, the reserves will reach us there. They must be now on their way."
Matthew nods, his tired brain trying to picture the route they would have to take and the land to give up. The loop of the Somme does not run parallel to the original line, and the front would be a long one for their depleted forces to hold. But it cannot be helped.
He stiffens when he realises what lies between their current position and the river.
"The CCS will have to be evacuated."
Summers gives him a look, but nods.
"Rest now. As soon as the order comes, you will go to make sure they get out in time. I've already sent a runner to alert them and requisition transport and a special train."
xxx
By the time the order to evacuate the CCS comes, Mary is practically ready to collapse, and so is everyone else.
She can't say how many times she made the route between the field dressing station and the CCS, bringing more and more people. The CCS, designed to hold a thousand wounded, is swamped with at least twice that number, despite sending many of them further down the line on ambulance trains. Stretchers filled with moaning, bleeding men are everywhere, taking any available space, with exhausted nurses and doctors going from one to the other in desperate attempts at triage. And now all of those people need to be transported further and fast.
The dressing station no. 25 is already overrun; the personnel and the last of the wounded pouring in, and the front moves towards them as they speak. They are desperately loading people into any available vehicle – the ambulances, the horse drawn carts, the lorries, even a requisitioned sports car – and taking them to the train. Two trains already went and Mary brings back the news that the third is going to be the last. There is no more time for the fourth to come before they are overrun themselves.
Captain Hodges, the RAMC officer in charge of the CCS, is accompanied by another one when she goes to him to relay the news. Her eyes widen in shock when she realises that the officer is Matthew, but there is no time for their private reunion at the moment beyond exchanging looks.
Captain Hodges accepts Mary's words as if he expected them, and calls the meeting of the CCS' personnel. As they gather, Matthew manages to stand by Mary, their hands brushing.
"There will be one last train in about two hours," he says, his voice rough from lack of sleep. "It can carry up to 500 passengers. We still have over 700 patients here. We have no way to evacuate all of them."
There is silence as they all realise what that means.
"Captain Crawley and his men will do their utmost to protect us and to stop the enemy while we conduct the evacuation. I have requested any available vehicle in the area to be sent to us and to transport as many of those who won't get the spot on the train as possible, but there is no way to tell how many will arrive in time. We will decide which of the patients have the best chance of survival and those will be brought to the train depot, as will fifty of the personnel. Those patients who won't fit into either the train or alternative transport will have to be abandoned. They will be eventually taken care of by the Germans, but they will require care to survive until then. I will need about ten volunteers."
There are murmured conversations all around them, people considering what to do. Mary sees Sybil taking a deep breath and grasps her arm viciously.
"No, you won't!" she hisses immediately. "There is no way I'm going to let you do that!"
Sybil looks at her wildly.
"Someone has to stay!"
"Yes," agrees Mary, "but it won't be you! I'm not going to leave my sister to the Germans. You will get out of here if I have to hit you on the head and drag you to my car. Matthew, tell her!"
She realises it is a risky gambit, to apply for help to him – for all she knows Matthew might decide that Sybil's noble sacrifice is the right thing to do – but to her relief, he picks her side.
"Don't do it, Sybil," he says quietly but firmly, careful not to be overheard. "It's too risky. You never know what kind of men will come here, and in what frame of mind, after days of fighting. Better if male orderlies stay."
Sybil blanches, obviously catching Matthew's meaning. Mary feels bile coming up, catching it as well, but she still sends him a thankful look.
"See?" she asks urgently. "Don't be so damn stupid! If you stay, I will have to stay with you, and I don't want to!"
She sees Matthew gaping at her in horror, but for now her whole attention is focused on Sybil, noble, idealistic, stubborn Sybil, and she nearly weeps in relief when she finally nods her head and agrees to go.
With everyone dispersing to their duties, Mary allows herself to lean briefly against Matthew before they both have to run as well.
"Have you meant it?" he asks hoarsely. "Would you have stayed, if she insisted?"
"What choice would I have?" answers Mary, shuddering in horror at the prospect. "Although I would keep trying to change her mind until the very end."
She raises her eyes to look into Matthew's.
"I would have thought you would admire such a selfless act as hers."
Matthew shakes his head.
"I would have," he says. "But not from either of you."
xxx
Matthew places his men in a wide crescent around the CCS. It has been built on a hill, giving them a good vantage point and not a bad spot to organise a defence line.
What he sees, does not fill him with confidence though.
The ground in front of them is filled with approaching Germans. To his further dismay, he can see the artillery guns getting transported towards them; this place is going to be a target in the matter of hours, if not sooner, although hopefully not soon enough to interfere with the evacuation. The red crosses clearly displayed on white tents should, in theory, stop the Germans from firing on them, but in Matthew's bitter experience it hasn't always been a given and he's not counting on it.
He remembers that he is buying time for Mary and Sybil, and addresses his men with renewed determination.
"Every minute we stop the Germans from climbing this hill means another of our wounded transported out of here to safety. We don't have to hold them back forever, just long enough to fill that last train with our comrades and people who try to save them. Let's give it our best, alright?"
They all nod and go to their assigned spots.
Matthew takes a deep breath and grabs a Lewis gun himself.
xxx
The train is nearly full when the first shells start falling down on them.
"Last call!" yells the officer overlooking the loading to ambulance drivers. "Go and get the last people you want, there's no time to wait for more or we will risk the train being hit!"
Mary nods, stiff with fear, and jumps into her ambulance. She needs to get Sybil out. If only she could take Matthew with her as well! Everything in her screams in protest at the prospect of leaving him here while she goes to safety, but there is nothing to be done about it. He has his orders and she will be lucky if she even gets to say goodbye to him.
She does. He is there by the gate of the camp, waiting for her with Sybil, his face sagging in relief when he recognises her as she parks her ambulance in front of him.
"You have to go, now!" he says urgently, pushing Sybil towards the car, much to her displeasure.
"We should load more wounded into the ambulance first!" she quarrels, and Mary sees that Matthew is ready to tear his hair out. She's so grateful to him for locating and dragging her stubborn sister here she nearly burst into tears.
"We will!" she says impatiently, grabbing Sybil's arm and pointing at the orderlies running towards them with the stretchers. "Now get into the damn car before something hits us!"
Another shell falls nearby, highlighting her point, and thank God, Sybil finally does what she is told.
Mary crosses the short distance separating her from Matthew and this time it is she who doesn't care who's looking, she kisses him desperately.
"You must come back to me," she whispers fervently between kisses. "You must!"
"And you must be careful, darling," he answers, clutching her desperately to himself and kissing her just as fiercely. "God bless and protect you!"
Another shell falls, its deafening noise making them jump and pull apart, and with the last desperate look, Mary gets into the ambulance, the last wounded loaded in the back and Sybil waiting in the passenger seat, and drives off.
xxx
Matthew looks after Mary's ambulance, one of several pulling away from the abandoned CCS, and takes a deep breath.
His task here is done. As awful as it is to leave the remaining wounded and the personnel volunteering to stay with them to their fate, they have no other choice. He's beyond grateful that he and his men managed to help in saving so many others, including Mary and Sybil, now barely visible. His men are gathering nearby, tired, but getting ready for the retreat to their new positions.
In the distance, he sees a shell landing on one of the last two ambulances and his heart stops.
Which one was it?! Was it hers?!
He runs, there is no way he would not run there, he runs faster than he ever did, even when chased by the Huns. His heart is beating again, wildly, but he feels it in his throat, what little he can feel at least, his whole mind and body overwhelmed with choking terror. He sees the other ambulance stopping, the occupants, at least the ones not wounded, jumping out and reaching the wreckage of the other to check for survivors, but it was a direct hit, there are unlikely to be any. The figures are too far for him to see their faces, he still doesn't know, he cannot be sure, if the woman in the driver's uniform is Mary, or if he is going to find her mangled body strewn around the barren landscape. He nearly retches at the thought.
When he reaches them finally, when he sees her kneeling there, holding the body of her fallen colleague, his knees nearly buckle; he is not sure whether from exertion or relief that she is alive, that it's not her corpse on the ground.
"Mary," he gasps, trying to get his breath back after what must be the fastest run of his life, his mind sending grateful prayers with the rhythm of his racing heart. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
She barely notices him, her trembling hand petting the hair of the dead woman Matthew finally recognises as Ivy Pierce.
"Mary, she is dead," he says gently but insistently, "you must leave her and go. The last train, remember?"
"They are all dead," says Sybil woodenly, coming over from checking the wreckage. "Matthew's right, Mary. Come."
Mary nods, putting Ivy delicately on the ground and accepting Matthew's hand to get up. For a moment, they can just stare at each other, before Matthew hugs her tightly.
"Thank God," he whispers fiercely. "Thank God it wasn't you."
He feels her shudder and hugs her even tighter. How can he let her go after this?
But how can he not?! She must get away, as far from here as possible, before she is stuck here as well, with bombs and shells and the enemy – and him, but as much as he wants her by his side, he needs her to be safe more, so he kisses her desperately one last time and loosens his arms.
"Go, darling. You must get yourself and Sybil out of here."
She kisses him back, her eyes wild.
"Only if you promise to be careful and come find me as soon as you can," she says fervently, and it's only when he whispers his promise to do so when she finally goes back to her ambulance and drives off.
Neither of them knows that this is the last time they will see each other for months.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Descriptions of the battle from "To the Last Man: Spring 1918" by Lyn MacDonald.
Tens of thousands of British soldiers were captured by the Germans during the Spring Offensive, including multiple wounded and personnel in field hospitals and casualty clearing stations. For the first time since 1914 the front moved so rapidly that proper evacuation often turned impossible to organise.