Passions of War (25 page)

Victoria had been patient long enough. ‘We need it back by the end of the day, Captain. Tomorrow we have to collect more wounded from the train and we have barely enough vehicles for the job as it is. A man nearly died in my ambulance today. If it had broken down on the way to the hospital, instead of on the way back, he would have done. So, if you care about the lives of our boys, please do your best to get the repairs done quickly.'

Goff looked at her, nostrils quivering. Then he turned away. ‘I'll see what can be done but I make no promises. Come back later on this afternoon.'

When they returned, the Napier was standing ready and Goff's face bore a grudging smile. ‘Well, I'll have to give you credit. I've never seen an engine so well maintained.' He patted the Napier's bonnet. ‘She'll give you no more trouble, I'll guarantee it. And I'll see all your vehicles get priority treatment in future.'

Once in the cab and away from the depot, Victoria and Hutchinson gave way to a fit of giggling that lasted all the way back to the camp.

Later, in the mess tent, someone came in waving a newspaper. ‘I say, chaps, has anyone else seen this?'

‘Seen what?' several voices enquired.

‘This article. It's about women who drive cars. Hang on, I'll read you a bit. “The uncongenial atmosphere of the garage, yard and workshops, the alien companionship of mechanics and chauffeurs, the ceaseless days and dull monotony of labour will not only rob her of much feminine charm but will instil into her mind bitterness that will eat from her heart all capacity for joy”. How about it, girls? Have we lost all capacity for joy?'

A roar of laughter gave her her answer, but when it died down a plaintive voice remarked, ‘I can see his point in one way. I don't think I shall ever be presentable enough to show my face in a London drawing room again. Driving around in the snow and the rain and the wind, I'm going to have a complexion like an old washerwoman by the time we're finished.'

Victoria rubbed her cheeks and recognized the truth of the comment. None of the vehicles had windscreens and as a result her face was chapped and her lips were cracked, and she had run out of cold cream to put on them.

‘Never mind faces,' someone said. ‘Look at my hands!'

‘Snap!' Victoria said, holding out her own. ‘I've scrubbed and scrubbed but I can't get the grease out of my fingernails.'

‘Never mind,' Hutchinson said, ‘when the war is over we'll start a new fashion. We'll call it
washerwoman chic
!'

Next evening, coming into the mess tent, Victoria found a small group standing in front of the noticeboard, on which was pinned a sheet of paper torn from a notebook. Over their shoulders she read:

I wish my mother could see me now, with a grease-gun under my car,

Filling my differential 'ere I start for the camp afar,

Atop a sheet of frozen iron, in cold that would make you cry.

‘Why do we do it?' you ask.

‘Why? We're the F.A.N.Y.'

I used to be in society once;

Danced and hunted and flirted once;

Had white hands and complexion – once.

Now I'm F.A.N.Y.

The daily routine continued: the hospital train convoy went out every morning and often, later in the day, the cry would go up, ‘Barges!' and everyone would drop what they were doing and run for the ambulances. Barges were used to convey the most seriously wounded along the canals, because they caused less jolting than the train journey. But there were lighter moments. Calais was always full of troops, either passing through or based there as part of the garrison, and the officers were glad to have female company – even with ‘washerwoman' complexions. There were frequent invitations to dinners and dances and a number of flirtatious liaisons were begun. Victoria's first impulse was to steer clear of all such involvements. Her affair with Luke was still a very present memory and she had no intention of letting anything similar happen now. What changed her mind was the realization that these officers had horses at their disposal and were happy to lend them. A good gallop along the sands was second only to driving a racing car flat out in her estimation and so she began to accept the invitations, though she was careful to make it clear that all she was offering in return was a cheerful comradeship.

When she started work at Lamarck she had sometimes wondered how long it would be before she found herself treating someone she recognized. She had had a wide circle of friends in London before the war and many of the men were now serving in the army. It was something she dreaded, but as the days passed she forgot about it and now the blanket shrouded figures she loaded into her ambulance had acquired a kind of anonymity. They were patients, some more seriously wounded than others, some noisy, some quiet – but just patients. One morning, stooping to pick up a stretcher, she suddenly found herself looking down at a face she knew. As she stared, momentarily caught off-guard, the man opened his eyes.

‘Oh, bloody hell! Not you, of all people!' said Ralph, and shut his eyes again.

Seventeen

As the overloaded ship ploughed southwards towards Corfu Leo convinced herself that all their troubles were over. There was no food on the ship, and very little drinking water, but once they reached Corfu they would be on friendly territory and their allies would provide for all their needs. In her imagination the island was a paradise, bathed in constant sunshine.

When they eventually docked it was dark and still raining and there was no one on the quayside to welcome them or to tell them where to go. The warehouses were closed and the streets deserted. For eight hours the pathetic remnants of the Serbian army sat huddled on the dock without food or shelter. Eventually, when it grew light, a French officer appeared and asked to speak to the senior officer.

It seemed that in all the confusion of the journey most of the units had lost their officers and Malkovic was the most senior of those that remained. He stepped forward, saying to Leo, ‘Come and translate for me. Ask him why we have been left sitting like this all night.'

It seemed that their ship had not been expected. Others had arrived, in the last few days, but it had been assumed that they carried the only survivors. However, a camp had been prepared for them, some twelve kilometres outside the town.

Sasha looked around at the empty dockside. ‘How are we to get there? Where is the transport?'

Leo translated the question and turned back to him with bitter resignation. ‘There is no transport. We have to walk.'

So they set off again, not marching but shuffling and limping, the stronger among them supporting their weaker comrades, a rag-tag army of ghosts plodding through the rain. The camp, when they reached it, was another collection of tents in another muddy field and there was neither food nor firewood. Sasha called the junior officers and NCOs from the other units together and told them to take a roll-call. Each one reported back that less than a third of their men had survived. Of his own regiment, two more had died on the ship and three others were too weak to stand. He dispersed them to find what shelter they could and disappeared into one of the tents. Leo followed and found him huddled on the ground with his head buried in his arms. When she touched his shoulder he turned a haggard face towards her.

‘We were one thousand strong when we left Prizren. Now there are just over three hundred left. How many others have died from other battalions? And what have we struggled for? So we can die here, instead of on the mountains? Where are our so-called allies? Where are the British?'

Unable to answer, Leo turned away. She had never seen him like this and his despair dragged at her heart. She left the tent and as she stood gazing around her in a desperate search for inspiration she saw a lorry pass along the road, heading for the city. It was quickly followed by another. She wiped her hand across her eyes and went to find Janachko, Sasha's orderly.

‘I am going into the town to look for help. Don't tell the colonel, unless he asks for me. He is resting, so don't disturb him.'

She did not have long to wait at the roadside before another truck came into sight and she saw that it was flying a small union jack from the bonnet. She stepped into the road and held up her hand. The driver sounded the horn and made to drive past but she stood resolutely in his path so that he had to skid to a halt.

‘What the hell are you playing at, boy?' he demanded. ‘Bugger off out of it! Go on! Imshi! Vamoose!'

Leo summoned her most ladylike tones. ‘I don't know who you think you are addressing, Corporal, but you shouldn't be deceived by appearances. My name is Leonora Malham Brown. I am an officer in the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry and I require immediate transport into Corfu Town.' Then, ignoring his half-throttled exclamation of ‘Blimey', she swung herself up on to the seat beside him.

‘Beg pardon, ma'am,' he mumbled. ‘I thought you was one of them peasant boys. I didn't mean no offence.'

‘And I have taken none,' Leo assured him. ‘I quite understand that I don't look as you might expect. But I have had a very long and difficult journey and now I must see someone in authority. Who is in control here?'

The driver gave her a sideways glance as he put the engine into gear. ‘That's a very good question, ma'am, if you don't mind my saying so. Officially it's the French. They've taken over the island for the duration and we're here as back-up. But then there's the Greek government and the Eyeties. If you ask me, nobody knows who's in charge.'

‘But there is a British military mission here?'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘Then please take me to the British attaché.'

Ten minutes later she was dropped outside the building housing the British military mission. The sentry at the gate was not as easily persuaded as the lorry driver so Leo produced what she regarded as her trump card. Fortunately, before leaving England the previous April she had obtained one of the new passports, with a photograph and a description. She had kept it securely buttoned in a pocket of her tunic all through her journey and held it out to the man with a flourish. He peered at it, and then at her, and turned his head towards a small building just inside the gates.

‘Sarge! Something here I think you'd better see.'

The sergeant appeared, chewing and clearly annoyed at having his lunch disturbed.

‘Lad here trying to pass himself off as the owner of this document,' the sentry said.

The sergeant examined the passport and then looked at Leo. ‘How did you come by this, eh? Did you steal it? Where's the owner?'

Leo drew a long breath. She was almost at the end of her strength. ‘I am the owner. I am Leonora Malham Brown and I must see the attaché immediately. If you don't believe me I'm quite prepared to take off my clothes here in the street, so you can see that I am a woman.'

She began to fumble with the buttons of her tunic and saw the sergeant's face turn red.

‘Now then, that's enough of that! You'd better come with me and get this sorted out inside.' Leo followed him into the house, where they were met by a Greek in civilian clothes who appeared to be the butler. ‘Someone here to see the major,' the sergeant said, neatly bypassing the question of Leo's sex.

‘Major Frobisher is at lunch,' the butler responded. ‘You will have to wait.'

‘I can't wait,' Leo said. ‘I am an English woman and I have some vital information which the major must hear at once.' The statement was not exactly accurate but she judged that it was an approach that would strike a chord with the military mind.

At that moment a servant passed through the hallway where they stood carrying a tray and disappeared through one of the doors. Guessing that this was the door of the dining room Leo marched across to it and went in. The major was having lunch with a lady, but Leo paid no attention to her. Instead her eyes went to the plates on the table, which bore the remains of their meal. Beyond them, on a sideboard, was what was left of a chicken and a joint of beef.

Frobisher looked up sharply. ‘What the . . . ? What do you mean by barging in like this? Sergeant, who is this ragamuffin?'

‘Lady says she has vital information,' the sergeant mumbled.

‘Lady? What lady?'

Leo found she was unable to withdraw her eyes from the food on the sideboard. ‘I am Leonora Malham Brown,' she intoned, addressing the joint of beef. ‘I have just walked through the mountains of Albania with the Serbian army and I haven't had anything to eat since . . .' She tried to remember when she had last eaten and found that she could not. ‘We need your help. You must give us some food.' The floor seemed to be rocking under her feet. She groped around her for support, found nothing and lost consciousness.

She came round to a pungent smell and the sensation of being supported on someone's arm. The major's companion was kneeling by her and holding a phial of smelling salts under her nose, murmuring in Greek, ‘Oh, the poor child! Poor little thing.' Then, in English: ‘Don't worry, my dear, you are quite safe now.'

‘Here, give her this.' A glass of red wine was held to Leo's lips. She sipped, choked, and sat up, struggling against the urge to sink back into oblivion.

‘Please, Major Frobisher, we need your help. We arrived last night and we were sent to a camp, but there is no food. Nothing! Men are dying, Major, dying by the dozens. You must send food, at once.'

‘We?' he queried. ‘Who are you talking about?'

‘I came with a shipload of men from the Serbian army. Other ships have come, too. So many died in the mountains and the rest are starving. Why is there no food for them?'

She staggered to her feet and the major's lady friend caught her by the arm. ‘Sergeant, a chair, quickly!'

Leo sat and Frobisher seated himself at the table again. ‘I'm sorry, but I can't answer that question. The French are officially in charge here. I know a supply ship docked yesterday and I assumed that the food was being transported to the camps, but that is not part of my remit.'