Liverpool Angels Read online

  Sister Harper, having heard the circumstances from Lizzie, gave her permission for Eddie to be allowed to say his farewells in the comparative privacy of the billet her three nurses shared.

  ‘It’s extremely irregular, Nurse, but under such circumstances I will allow it. There will be the other nurses present but at least it’s better than having to stand at the gate of the compound.’

  Lizzie thanked her and as the girl left, Sister felt a frisson of resentment run through her. She knew he wasn’t the only one – but was it absolutely necessary to send the lad back? she thought. Hadn’t he been through enough already? There was only so much stress the mind could endure. Surely he was better deployed in the supply lines where he was familiar with the work and routine? But then, like Mae, she knew that the brass were expecting a major offensive and very soon.

  By scrounging and begging from both the other nurses and some of their patients they’d managed to scrape together a few things for Eddie to take with him. A small bar of chocolate, five cigarettes and some matches, half a dozen humbugs wrapped in a twist of greaseproof paper, an extra pair of woollen gloves and a very small flask of brandy, donated – surreptitiously – by Sister Harper herself, with the instruction that if a single word was said about it they would all find themselves in dire trouble.

  Lizzie and Mae had carefully packed the items into a small canvas bag, Mae hoping they would help lift Eddie’s spirits a little and Lizzie praying silently that they would be a reminder of the love and affection they had for him.

  Alice paced restlessly up and down, wondering how she was going to tell her mam that they’d sent him back again, and feeling apprehensive and miserable that their last meeting had ended in such harsh, angry words.

  A middle-aged orderly escorted Eddie to their tent, remarking tersely that this was usually strictly forbidden and advising him not to take advantage of Sister’s generosity. ‘I’ve to come back for you in half an hour,’ was his parting comment.

  He’d hardly changed since she’d last seen him seven months ago, Alice thought as he entered. But then what had she expected? she asked herself. Had she expected him to have put on weight, to look healthier and stronger? They all had to put up with far from comfortable conditions but at least he was clean and tidy, his uniform looked smart and his boots polished.

  ‘Eddie, come on in and sit down, luv. We’ve had a bit of a whip-round and managed to get you a few comforts to take with you,’ Lizzie informed him, trying her best to inject a note of cheer into the occasion although she felt her heart was breaking.

  ‘Everyone was very generous,’ Mae added, handing him the canvas bag and lowering her voice to a whisper, ‘even Sister Harper.’

  Eddie smiled at them both as he delved into the bag. ‘Tell everyone thanks. You know I appreciate it.’

  ‘Eddie, I’ll … let Mam know …’ Alice said quietly. ‘And I’m sorry we … don’t agree.’

  Eddie nodded grimly. ‘I don’t think we’ll ever agree on that subject, Alice,’ he said coldly.

  ‘But we don’t have to fall out over it, Eddie, do we?’

  Eddie looked away. He didn’t answer.

  Mae realised that the situation was deteriorating fast and could see that Lizzie was getting upset. ‘Let’s not spend what time we have dwelling on past … differences. Let’s all have a cup of tea – I begged a few biscuits to have with it. Eddie, did you manage to get a lift back too? It’s bitterly cold tonight.’

  ‘I did, Mae. There were some supplies to be delivered here so I’ll go back with the driver,’ Eddie replied, gratefully taking the mug Mae offered.

  The precious minutes seemed to fly past, Lizzie thought as they drank their tea and Eddie exclaimed over the generosity of the comforts, particularly the brandy. The tea tasted even more bitter than usual and it was as if a lump of lead had settled in her stomach. She was very grateful to Mae and the other two nurses who were off duty as they tried to keep the atmosphere light and cheerful. Mae would know exactly how she was feeling, wondering when she would see Eddie again, praying nothing would happen to him. Pip had been away so long and all Mae had to depend on were his letters. She’d made Eddie promise faithfully he would write.

  All too soon the orderly poked his head through the flap and Eddie stood up.

  ‘I’ll walk to the gate with you,’ Lizzie said firmly, grabbing her cape from the bed where she’d placed it, determined to stay with him until the very last minute.

  ‘Thanks for the tea and biscuits and everything else,’ Eddie said, glancing round. ‘Mae, you look after yourself.’

  Mae hugged him. ‘I will. Good luck, Eddie.’

  Alice bit her lip, wondering what to do, for his attitude towards her still seemed chilly and formal. ‘Try and write, Eddie, please? You know how worried we all will be about you,’ she said.

  Eddie nodded and turned to leave but then turned back, his expression changing. ‘Alice … I’m sorry …’

  Alice hurled herself at him, tears trickling down her cheeks. ‘Oh, take care, Eddie! We can sort it all out. Just … just come back safely.’

  Eddie felt a lump come into his throat as the memory of the day he’d brought Jimmy into this hospital to her returned; the old terrors were closing in on him. ‘If … if I don’t come back, Alice, tell Mam … tell her … I’m sorry,’ he choked.

  And then Lizzie was beside him, her hand firmly on his arm, her eyes full of love and a quiet determination. ‘You’ll come back, Eddie. I’m convinced this is third time lucky for you. Now, we’d better go before we’re all reported to Sister.’

  Mae put her arms around Alice as they left. ‘I think Lizzie is right, Alice. He’ll come through it safely this time.’

  ‘I hope you’re both right, Mae, but at least he didn’t go with bad feelings still between us. I’ll write and tell Mam that.’

  The bombardment had started on 18 March, the day after he’d rejoined the 18th Battalion, Eddie remembered now as he searched his pockets for a cigarette, but it was a battalion of strangers, all Liverpool men but none whose faces were remotely familiar. The lads he’d joined with, trained with and fought with were gone, just memories. He’d stoically endured the constant thundering of the guns and the explosions of bursting shells; even though the dugout was thirty feet deep the blasts had shaken the ground, cracked the wooden support posts and sent earth trickling down on their heads. And then after forty-eight hours, as suddenly as it had started, it had ceased and he’d felt the familiar twisting of his guts as he knew what they faced.

  Dawn of the twenty-first had been chilly with a thick, swirling fog, a mixture of smoke, gas and low cloud, but none of them had been prepared for what had faced them: the sheer speed and ferocity of the German advance. By mid-morning the crack troops from the Russian front had smashed through the front lines. The men in those lines had died to buy time for those who followed them but still they’d been forced to retreat, and from then on the nightmare had begun in earnest. He’d estimated that the enemy was a bare half an hour behind them and those who hadn’t been wounded had had to run until they were gasping for breath and forced to slow their pace. Field dressing stations and casualty clearing stations had been overrun; most had managed to get their nurses away safely but doctors, orderlies and wounded alike had been taken prisoner. For fifteen chaotic and terrifying days it had been retreat, retreat, retreat, he thought bitterly, finding at last a butt end of a cigarette. The roads had been clogged with lines of withdrawing men and equipment, ambulances, refugees and reinforcements being rushed forward to try to stop the German advance. At times they’d been ordered to stop and fight but had suffered such heavy casualties that they’d inevitably had to fall back. Roiglise, Rouvrel, Roupy, Ham and now they were entrenched at Elverdinghe on the Ypres Salient.

  He looked dully around at the group of lads he was with – those that were left, he thought bitterly. They were all filthy, exhausted, hungry and thirsty; nearly all had flesh wounds. He couldn’t remember when he’d
eaten the last of his bread ration or taken a swig of water from his canteen, which he knew was now virtually empty, but what was far worse than any of these privations was the terrible sense of defeat and despair that enveloped everyone. All the ground gained in the past years of fighting, ground paid for dearly in blood and loss of life, was now in enemy hands. He was so tired and utterly demoralised that he no longer cared what happened to him; he couldn’t think straight and he didn’t even feel fear any more. His hands were shaking with fatigue as he attempted to strike the match.

  ‘’Ere, mate. I’ll do it. Yer shaking that much yer’ll set yerself alight.’ A match was struck and he drew deeply on the butt end. He nodded his thanks to the lad beside him, whose name, he thought, was Evans.

  ‘Eh, up! Here comes trouble,’ the lad muttered, digging Eddie in the ribs as Captain Pitman appeared. He at least wasn’t as filthy as the rest of them, Eddie thought vaguely, in fact he looked almost clean and tidy, but then he hadn’t been with them for very long.

  ‘At ease, men,’ the captain started and then cleared his throat. ‘We’ve been ordered to join the eighty-ninth brigade tomorrow. Regretfully, there are so few of us left from all the Pals Battalions that it’s the only sensible option. We’ll be moving into the front line between the towns of Hazebrouck and Bailleul. The enemy has commenced an offensive in the Lys Valley and another towards Ypres and we have to stop them.’ Again he cleared his throat. ‘And I have received an Order of the Day from General Headquarters, issued this morning by Field Marshal Haig to all military personnel.’

  This news was received in silence. You could see and feel their lack of interest, he thought, their hopelessness and despair, and although it unsettled him he could understand in part how they felt; however, it was up to him to rally them, for the situation was now desperate. He had no intention of reading it all, it definitely wouldn’t raise morale for them to know that over 150,000 men had been killed, wounded or taken prisoner in the past three weeks or that all the reserves had been exhausted and the German line now stretched beyond Bapaume and Albert in the south and Armentières here in the north, putting the Channel ports in imminent danger.

  ‘I will now read the concluding paragraph of that order. “There is no other cause open to us but to fight it out. Every position must be held to the last man. There must be no retirement. With our backs to the wall and believing in the justice of our cause, each one must fight on to the end. The safety of our homes and the freedom of mankind alike depend on the conduct of each one of us at this critical moment.” Signed, Field Marshal Haig. That’s it, lads. No more retreating. We stand and fight to the last man.’

  No one broke the silence but you could feel the change in the atmosphere, he thought with some relief as he turned away. He’d leave them to digest Haig’s orders, just as he’d taken the time to contemplate their dire meaning.

  Eddie felt his mood shift; it was as if everything had suddenly become crystal clear to him. They were fighting not for some vague concept loosely defined by the words ‘King and Country’. He realised now that what that really meant, and had in fact always meant, was they were fighting for their homes and their freedom. He was fighting now for Lizzie and their life together, their children as yet unborn and future generations. For Alice and Jimmy, Mae and Pip Middlehurst, Mam and even his father: the man who had walked out on them, but in the end hadn’t he fought for them all at Jutland? Eddie’s opinion of him was gradually changing: yes, he was fighting for Billy too. He was fighting for Harry and Tommy Mitford and all the other lads who had made the ultimate sacrifice. As Haig had said, their backs were to the wall, there was no other option open to them if they were to save their homes and families. If they were to stop the Channel ports from being overrun, leaving only that narrow stretch of water as the last bastion between oppression and freedom, they would fight to the last. He felt the weariness and the hopelessness of defeat fall away. Tomorrow he knew he would experience again the gut-twisting fear before the battle, but he also knew it wouldn’t overwhelm him or stop him. This time it would be different because now he knew what he was really fighting for.

  The first indication the girls had had that the offensive was under way was the steady stream of ambulances moving slowly down the road towards the hospital. Rumours had surged through the hospital all morning, terrible tales of the German advances, of medical staff and wounded being taken prisoner, but it appeared that no one actually knew what was happening or exactly where the enemy were.

  There had then been no time to dwell on the situation as the wounded and dying were brought in.

  They should all have been stretcher cases, Alice heard Sister Harper declare bitterly as she helped a man from the first ambulance who was using his rifle as a crutch for a mangled foot. They were all ragged and filthy, some with wounds that had not even been dressed, their faces grey and haggard with fatigue, eyes dull and glassy from lack of sleep, shock and despair. They hobbled on feet swollen and black from advanced trench foot, some crying openly and pitifully from the pain of gaping wounds and shattered bones.

  ‘There are five hundred in this convoy and more on the way, God help us all!’ Sister Harper informed them as she quickly and curtly issued orders. ‘Nurses Strickland, McEvoy and Lawson to the dressing lines. Platt, Livesey and Stanford to the surgical assessment. The rest of you stay here to help these men.’

  Alice, Mae and Lizzie ran across to the tent where tables stood piled with bandages, swabs, splints, sponges, boric ointment, gentian violet and two basins full of Dakin’s solution for wet dressings. A medical officer followed them and took up his position at a small table, orderlies with stretchers awaiting his instructions.

  ‘Nurse, let them in half a dozen at a time, please. Do whatever you can with their wounds, those you deem more serious pass on to me.’

  Grabbing a pair of scissors each, Lizzie, Mae and Alice went to help the first of the walking casualties. Within minutes they were overwhelmed, surrounded by men and boys with bloody bandages that had dried and were stuck to their wounds.

  ‘There’s no easy way to do this, I’m really very sorry,’ Lizzie apologised to a ragged corporal as she cut away his tunic to reveal a deep jagged shoulder wound covered with a filthy lint pad. He screamed in agony as she quickly ripped off the pad and then directed him on to the medical officer.

  It was the Somme all over again, Alice thought, but she thanked God that she had not seen Eddie amongst the wounded – yet. They worked on all through the day, the evening and into the early hours of the morning, until they were on the point of dropping from exhaustion. During the late afternoon they’d been joined by staff nurses and sisters, equally as exhausted as themselves, who’d escaped from the clearing stations – now behind enemy lines – and whose experiences had at first sent shivers of terror running through them until tiredness had overcome the fear.

  It was almost dawn before the hospital was declared totally unable to take any further casualties and the Chief Medical Officer sent orders that subsequent convoys were to be shipped straight across the Channel.

  ‘I can hardly put one foot in front of the other I’m so tired,’ Mae sighed as they finally made their way to their billet.

  ‘I feel awful. I’m filthy, I’m sure I’ve picked up some greybacks and my head is throbbing,’ Alice said, pulling her grubby short veil off in a weary gesture of exasperation.

  ‘We’ll have to share our billet and beds too. Those poor nurses who escaped have nowhere to go, they had to leave everything behind,’ Mae reminded her.

  ‘It must have been terrifying. I do feel so sorry for them but all I want to do is sleep,’ Lizzie yawned.

  ‘Look, it’s dawn!’ Mae exclaimed and they stopped and stood gazing at the sky, which was gradually lightening from the east. Slowly the first fingers of light crept over the horizon and spread in ribbons of gold across the pale misty-blue and pink-tinged sky, giving promise of a beautiful spring morning after a night filled with darkness, pain and
death.

  Lizzie watched the dawn with mixed emotions. Thankfulness that the long, exhausting and traumatic night was over. Relief that although for days to come they would have to work long hours, there would be no more convoys of wounded brought to the hospital. The gnawing fear and anxiety for Eddie’s safety and the knowledge that in the east where the sun was now rising was the battle line. Suddenly she shivered; it wasn’t all that far away, she realised, and no one knew if that line could be held.

  Exhausted though she was, Mae could still marvel at the sunrise. ‘It’s beautiful and it makes you feel that somewhere there’s peace, that somewhere the dawn is breaking on a place where there’s no suffering and death. Let’s hope it’s an omen – a good omen,’ she said quietly.

  ‘And judging by what we’ve seen and heard we desperately need a good omen and some good luck,’ Alice added as they resumed picking their way carefully between the stretchers laid in rows across the compound, which was now bathed in glorious sunlight.

  That sunlight fell on Pip, warming the back of his neck as he lay at the top of a small hill overlooking the village of Cantigny on the German front line, the field telephone on the ground beside him. Below him to the south of the village he could see the American front line and he smiled grimly. His countrymen were about to go into action for the first time as a wholly American unit. They were full of enthusiasm, eager at last to have a pop at the Hun, despite the fact that their old Springfield rifles and Hotchkiss machine guns had been virtually worn out in training. He’d been both astounded and somewhat appalled when he’d learned that the United States Army was short of weapons, for they hadn’t been engaged in conflict since the Spanish-American War twenty years ago and before that the Civil War over fifty years ago – and what weapons they did have were old-fashioned compared to those of the French, British and Germans. It hadn’t even been considered worthwhile to ship the four hundred or so field guns across the Atlantic, they were so antiquated, and until new artillery pieces and munitions could be manufactured in America their weaponry had to be supplied by the British and the French. But none of that mattered to them today, he thought. They had a saying: ‘Heaven, Hell or Hoboken by Christmas’. He wondered how many of them would still believe that by the end of today.