A Regimental Affair (11 page)

‘Finnegan,’ he yelled. ‘Get the extinguisher from the car.’ Finnegan hesitated. ‘Now!’ Bob roared. Finnegan set off like a greyhound from a trap. Then Bob raced to the front of the truck. ‘You,’ he said to the shocked lorry driver. ‘You’re going to help me, now.’

‘Uh?’ said the trucker. Bob grabbed the bloke by his collar and dragged him to the back of his truck, ‘Your bloody pallets. Now you are going to help shift them.’ There was no hint of a request in Bob’s voice and the lorry driver was so stunned at being given orders by a complete stranger that he pulled himself together and began to haul the shattered wood off the Volkswagen.

A flicker of movement caught Bob’s eye. The bloke with the cut head was trying to light a cigarette. Bob ran round the car and leaned in through the broken window. He grabbed the matches and the cigarette.

‘Oi,’ said the man. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘I can,’ said Bob, grinding the cigarette into fragments. ‘Petrol,’ he added by way of explanation as he returned to the pallets. But, even as he returned, a tongue of flame began to lick out from the rear of the little Golf.

‘Finnegan!’ he yelled.

‘Here, sir,’ panted his driver.

‘Deal with that,’ he ordered, pointing at the fire.

Finnegan hit the button on the extinguisher and a jet of foam squirted out. He bent down to get near the seat of the blaze. He could see a pool of petrol that spread from the rear of the Golf, under the car behind and which was trickling under other vehicles towards the hard shoulder.

‘Get everyone out, Colonel,’ he yelled. ‘If this really goes, this extinguisher’ll be useless.’

The man with the bleeding head understood the implications of what Finnegan was saying and put his shoulder to his own door. It burst open and he scrambled clear.

‘Hey, you,’ yelled Bob, ‘give me a hand.’ But the bloke pretended not to hear and headed for the embankment at the side. ‘Bastard,’ muttered Bob under his breath as he redoubled his efforts to free the trapped woman. He tore at the pallets, the rough wood ripping skin from his fingers, knuckles and palms as he did so. As he worked he ignored the fact that his hands were becoming wet with blood. Beside him Finnegan seemed to be keeping the fire under control. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked his driver.

‘It’s fine. I just don’t know how long this extinguisher will hold out.’

Shit, Finnegan was right. It wasn’t a big one. ‘Have you got one?’ he asked the truckie.

‘Yeah, in my cab.’

‘Well, get it, man. Get it!’

The lorry driver didn’t need to be told twice – he was already gone. Bob pulled the last of the pallets off the bonnet of the car and slung himself on to it, reaching in through the window to check on the woman inside. He managed to reach her wrist. Yes, there was a pulse. Faint but steady.

‘Sir,’ called Finnegan. ‘I’m running out.’

Bob looked to his left and saw the flames appear level with the rear window of the car. He slid back so his head was out of the car again. ‘Where’s that bloody truckie with his extinguisher?’

‘He’s disappeared.’

God, another coward doing a runner
, thought Bob. ‘We’ve got to get this bird out,’ he said. ‘I know we shouldn’t move her but she’ll burn if we don’t. Give us a hand.’

Finnegan threw his extinguisher away and ran to the front of the car.

‘We’re going to have to drag her out through the windscreen.’ Bob slid over the bonnet again to the passenger side. He tried the door. It opened a few inches, enough for him to be able to squeeze his upper body inside. He disregarded the ripping noise he heard from the sleeve of his jacket. He pushed in as far as he could, then he levered the woman upright and undid the safety belt. ‘Here,’ he said as he lifted her arms and shoved them forward to where Finnegan could reach them. As he did so, he glanced up. The flames were really getting a grip now and the smell of burning rubber and fuel was nauseating. Finnegan, leaning in through the front of the car, grabbed her wrists and pulled. Her bottom left the seat and her body moved upwards and tipped forward. Bob slid further into the car and grasped her by her waist. He pushed while Finnegan pulled. She came to a stop. Her knees were stuck under the steering wheel.

‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Bob. It didn’t help that he was beginning to panic. The fire was getting stronger. He knew that, in the main, cars didn’t blow up like they did in films, but there was always the exception that proved the rule. And if this one went up he was not in a position to be able to extricate himself with any speed. He forced himself to think calmly.

‘Come on, sir,’ called Finnegan. ‘I can’t hold her much longer.’

Bob pushed himself another few inches into the car and felt at the base of the seat with his left hand. There, that was it. He pulled the lever up sharply and the driver’s seat shot back about six inches. With a final heave, Finnegan got the woman far enough through the windscreen that he no longer had to support her weight.

Relieved, Bob wriggled back out of the passenger door and clambered over the front of the bonnet so he could help Finnegan carry her away from the Golf. Just as they were laying the young woman on the ground there was a dull crack and the passenger compartment filled with flame and smoke.

‘Blimey, mate,’ said the lorry driver. ‘You were lucky. I thought you were a goner there.’

‘Where the fuck did you get to?’ Bob’s relief at his escape now translated into anger.

‘Looking for this,’ said the driver, aggrieved. The last pillock who drove this truck didn’t put it back in the right place.’

‘Oh.’ Bob wasn’t sure he believed him.

The woman on the ground began to stir.

‘Thank God,’ he murmured. He stared at the mess that her face had become. He hoped that it was mostly superficial but her pretty looks were now an ugly mask of blood. He patted her hand abstractedly. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t do anything, but he felt it would be wrong to leave her. She was injured, possibly badly, and she didn’t need to be abandoned too.

She opened her eyes. She looked groggy and dazed but Bob knew it was a positive sign that she was conscious.

‘Hi,’ said Bob. ‘How do you feel? You’ve been in a bit of a crash.’ She nodded and winced. ‘Lie still. There’s an ambulance on the way,’ he said confidently. He hoped to God there was, although how they were going to get through the tailback was anybody’s guess.

She kept her eyes on him. Then she said, ‘You tried to warn me.’

‘Didn’t do a very good job, did I? You thought I was some sort of weirdo.’ It was a poor effort at humour, he knew, but he wanted to do something to make her feel a little better.

It was difficult to tell if she was smiling with all the blood on her face but her eyes seemed to. Her gaze moved from his face to his hands which were holding one of hers. ‘Were you in the crash too?’

In the distance Bob could hear the approaching wail of sirens. ‘No. I came back to help.’

‘But your hands …’ she said.

He turned his battered, bloody hands over and examined them and thought they looked in no worse a state than her face. Although, if his hands ended up with scars it wouldn’t matter much. ‘They’re just scratches really. No permanent damage,’ he said, hoping the same was going to be true for her. He could see blue lights making their way along the hard shoulder. It was an ambulance.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m going to leave you to the professionals now. I’m sure you’re going to be fine.’

The woman looked backwards to see what Bob was looking at and saw her car. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.

‘It’s OK,’ said Bob. ‘We got you out of it. The main thing to remember is that you are all right. It doesn’t matter about your car. What matters is you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I don’t even know your name.’

‘It’s Bob,’ he said as he stood up. ‘Come on, Finnegan,’ he said quietly to his driver. ‘We’re late enough as it is. There are plenty of witnesses. If we slip away now we might still make that meeting.’

‘Shouldn’t we stay?’

‘I think we’ve done our bit.’ The two men slipped away just as an ambulance crew arrived.

The motorway was amazingly clear for much of the remainder of the journey up to London, as the majority of the traffic was stuck behind the accident. They arrived in Whitehall with a couple of minutes to spare. Bob used them to clean himself up and, with the exception of his hands and a rip in the sleeve of his jacket, there was little to show for his involvement in the incident.

Ginny was organising her kit for Kosovo in her room. There was a pile of military gear in one corner, which she had to take, and in another one was a pile of things she would like to take. The problem was she only had a large rucksack, her webbing and a kitbag to pack it all in. The accommodation would be spartan and cramped, with very little room for the personnel, let alone their possessions, and if the soldiers were being restricted to taking the bare minimum then the least the officers could do was set an example. Ginny sighed and gave up. She’d have another go at weeding it in the morning. Right now she was too pooped to think straight. She flopped on her bed and pressed the remote for her television. The news was on. She watched the images of world events, reporters spouting meaningful commentaries, pictures of the great and the good and the not-so-good and the downright bad, and forgot about her own worries and problems. The lack of a man in her life hardly rated a mention in the greater scheme of things. The national news ended and it was time for the local news. Ginny looked at her watch – six-thirty. She decided she’d watch it then go down to the bar for a drink before dinner. It was the usual round-up of stories about school kids raising funds for some worthy cause, a shop that had won a national award for being the best butcher in the country and a report from the pile-up on the motorway because one of their camera crews had been caught up in the ensuing traffic jam. They had filmed the chaos – the dozens of wrecked cars, the broken pallets, the burnt vehicle from which, according to the reporter, ‘one woman had a miraculous escape’. Ginny thought it was like an episode of
Casualty
as she watched the shots of the woman being lifted into the back of an ambulance. Her face was a mess but she was conscious and she smiled wanly at the camera.

The camera turned to the reporter for her to do her piece. She wittered on about the police charging the lorry driver, the length of the hold-up, the number of cars damaged and any other statistics she could think of. Finally she said, ‘But if there is any good to come out of this horrific incident it is that it seems there was a modern-day Good Samaritan passing. The woman who was dragged from her burning car, moments before it was engulfed in flame, would like to thank the man who rescued her. She doesn’t know who he is beyond his first name, which is Bob. Other witnesses at the scene say his action was truly heroic and he risked his life to save her. So, if you are watching, Bob, please get in touch with our studios so she can thank you personally. This is Sheila Manners, reporting for
Midlands Tonight
.’

Ginny hit the ‘Off’ button, and hauled herself off her bed. She could do with a Good Samaritan herself, to rescue her from spinsterhood, she thought. Preferably one on a white charger who would come galloping up to carry her off and ravish her. Fat chance! She dragged a comb through her curls, checked her make-up, touched up her lipstick and went down to the bar.

There were half a dozen officers already there when she arrived. But she didn’t feel especially sociable so she remained by the bar, mulling over her own thoughts rather than joining them at their table. She leaned against it, both elbows resting on its mahogany counter and twiddled the stem of her glass.

‘Penny for them,’ said a familiar voice.

She felt her heart dance. ‘Colonel.’ She turned and smiled at him. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘No thanks. I’ve just dropped in for some cigarettes on my way home. I’m already late and Alice will give me hell if I stop here to gossip. Besides which, Finnegan’s waiting outside.’ As he spoke he pulled a pad of bar chits over and began writing.

‘What on earth have you done?’ gasped Ginny, catching sight of his mangled hands.

‘You should see the other guy,’ joked the colonel. ‘It looks worse than it is. Just a few scratches.’

‘Doesn’t look like that to me.’

Bob handed the chit to the barman who already had the cigarettes ready for the CO.

‘You’ve just been to London, haven’t you? Were you involved in that pile-up?’ said Ginny, a suspicion forming in her mind.

‘Yes, to the first. No, to the second. Finnegan and I were very lucky. We were just ahead of it.’

‘So is it you?’

‘Is it me, what?’

‘The Good Samaritan. You were all over the local TV news.’ Ginny recounted the story she had just seen and how the injured woman had described her rescuer and his injured hands and how she wanted to thank him.

Bob groaned. ‘Well, for God’s sake don’t you ring in. Going to Kosovo in a few days is all I can cope with right now. I haven’t the time to make hospital visits so some bird can say thanks.’

By the next day, the news that it was the CO who was the Good Samaritan was fairly common knowledge around the regiment, as was the injunction not to contact the TV studio. Not that anyone had time to give it much thought. The CO was off to Kosovo with the advance party at the end of the week and most of the regiment was going a week later. Everything was far too hectic and everyone was far too busy for it to be an issue.

Debbie took Danielle to the toddler group as usual. Despite everything, she wanted life to continue to be as normal as possible. She was pleased to see Taz there. With Ginny going away she had decided that Taz would be a great replacement. The children played happily as Debbie collected coffees for herself and Taz and filled beakers with squash for the two toddlers, and then she settled herself down for a good gossip. For a while they chatted about their daughters, then Taz asked Debbie about Richard going to Kosovo.

‘We’ll cope. I mean, not that we’ve been separated since Danny was born, but it’ll be the third time since we got married. And that’s not counting the courses and all the rest of it.’