Chapter 11

The Front. May 1940

I rammed the gear stick into first, and with a loud crunch, the old truck lurched forward, rolling off down the bank and jolting me around as I navigated the rough, hole-ridden track. My mind flicked to Henri. His last letter had sounded grim—not so much in the details of the war, but in the tone, an underlying current of worry that gnawed at me.

I sighed, glancing down at the bloodstain on my trouser leg, gritting my teeth. The last casualty—a young boy—had brushed my thigh with his bloodied hand as he took his final breath in my arms at the roadside. I could still feel the weight of him, the fragile warmth of his small body turning cold too quickly. The road ahead swam again, and I rubbed my eyes, muttering curses under my breath. ‘Just a child. Damn the Boches.’

I couldn’t stop replaying the scene in my head, the boy’s innocent face, the terror in his mother’s eyes as she tried to protect him. They were just two among countless others who trudged the road like a great army of ants, fleeing the only home they’d ever known. And then, the Stuka dive bomber—its wail still ringing in my ears, that monstrous screaming bird of prey. I remembered the flash of its yellow-tipped nose, the black swastika on its belly as it roared overhead, strafing the road with bullets that tore through the air and shattered lives. His mother had tried to drag him into a ditch, her desperation palpable, but it was futile. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, willing the images to fade, but they clung to me, stubborn and unrelenting.

When I opened them again, I looked down at my hands—knuckles white from gripping the wheel, sweat forming on my palms, skin tinged reddish-brown, nails caked in dried blood. The gruesome irony struck me: these were the hands that had once delicately held a paintbrush, that had turned pages of beloved books, that had traced the curve of Henri’s jaw. Now, they were stained with the remnants of a world falling apart. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: maybe I’d get a manicure if I made it back in one piece. A hollow laugh escaped me at the absurdity of it all. Then a wave of nausea hit, and I swallowed hard, forcing it down.

‘We were only supposed to deliver supplies today,’ Louise Beaumont said in a flat voice, her frown deepening as she glanced at me from the passenger seat. The disapproval in her eyes was unmistakable, but I could also see the unease, the way her fingers nervously picked at the edge of her sleeve.

‘I know, but we can’t ignore the wounded if we come across them.’ I shot a glance at her, knowing she wasn’t cut out for this part of the job. Louise was squeamish, and delivering supplies, clothing, and blankets suited her perfectly. Stopping to help the injured was not on her to-do list. But this war didn’t care about lists or preferences. It demanded everything from everyone, and I wasn’t about to turn away from those who needed us.

‘It’s all right for you, Nancy. You were a nurse.’ She sighed, crossing her arms as we bounced along the uneven road, swerving to avoid debris from the latest air raid.

A film of dust coated the windscreen, like the smog that clouded my mind. I’d been determined to do my bit, but Henri had known what I would face, and he was right. Even with my nursing training, I felt ill-prepared. If anything, my journalism career had prepared me more for the harsh realities. The enemy was merciless, fighting dirty, and seemed hell-bent on annihilation.

‘Welcome to hell,’ Louise said in a sing-song voice as we hit another pothole, the truck lurching us both forward. ‘Please, God, let this be the last trip today.’ She raised her chin, fixing her gaze on the burning blue sky. Her blonde hair, still immaculate, was curled and pinned at the nape of her neck, tucked neatly under her tin hat. I think she had imagined the Red Cross would be glamorous, that she’d spend her days pouring tea and coffee for injured soldiers, looking pretty in her clean, starched uniform. Huge mistake. At least she still had some makeup on. My face hadn’t seen a hint of colour in weeks, not even a touch of ruby on my lips. I grew more exhausted with each passing day.

As the road levelled out, we passed several people wandering towards the next town. I pressed the brake and slowly navigated around the bodies lying in the road, picking my way through scattered belongings. I swerved around one man, then around an elderly woman, her grey hair poking out from beneath a black hat, stray strands tugged by the breeze. There was no blood on her, but I knew she was dead, her body twisted in unnatural angles, her blank eyes staring into the burning blue sky. I stamped on the brake, pulled the handbrake, and jumped out.

‘No, not again, Nancy. Mon Dieu! You’re determined to get us both killed.’ Louise’s face paled, and she buried her head in her hands.

She could be so dramatic. ‘Just a minute,’ I snapped. ‘We have to check. Come on.’ It was the Stukas that terrified her—skilled hunters, their high-pitched wails screaming through the air, relentlessly closing in. The late afternoon sun beat down on my neck, my head roasting under my tin hat as I wandered along the road, checking for signs of life. A faint sound stopped me in my tracks. I held my breath, listening. The wind puffed at my ear, my heart pounding. Maybe it was just the wind. But then I heard it again—a soft cry, almost lost in the breeze. Someone was alive. My heart raced as I scanned the edges of the road, searching desperately. I stooped over the bodies, one by one, checking for any signs of life. A woman about my age—no wedding ring. A middle-aged man. An elderly lady. Anger flared within me like wildfire. What had they done to deserve this? ‘Bastards!’ I clenched my jaw. The cry rang out again, louder this time. I was close. A violet-coloured scarf fluttered in the breeze across the road. I darted over and peered into the shallow ditch. A woman lay there, a woollen bundle on her chest—a baby.

‘Please, help,’ she whispered, her face deathly pale.

‘Over here, Louise!’ I dropped to my knees beside her and gently took the baby. I unwrapped the blanket and slipped my hand under the child’s clothing. Warm. A steady heartbeat drummed beneath my palm. No sign of injury. Thank God. I exhaled in relief, wrapped the baby back up, and laid them safely by the roadside. Then I turned my attention to the mother—young, probably in her twenties. I grabbed her wrist. Weak pulse, but steady. Blood glistened on her thigh and left shoulder.

‘We need the stretcher,’ I called out, scrambling back to the truck. Louise helped me carry the woman to the ambulance. While she fetched the baby, I grabbed my medical supplies and made a tourniquet from the woman’s scarf, binding it tight around her thigh to slow the bleeding. Then I dressed her wounds as best I could. Louise tucked the baby next to its mother, and we set off for the field hospital, passing crumpled corpses, abandoned prams, cars, and carts. My jaw tightened like steel, and I felt an iron fist closing around my heart. I would never forgive the Germans. They’d gone too far with their senseless brutality, and I was going to do whatever it took to bring them down.

* * *

By the time I returned to my lodgings, exhaustion had numbed me, eliminating hunger and thirst. I slumped onto my bed, pulling the blankets over me to fend off the cold. I had joined a voluntary ambulance unit in northern France, at Saint-Jean-de-Basel, which had a mobile hospital unit. Louise and I were drivers, primarily tasked with delivering supplies to clearance stations and field hospitals. I also offered rides to refugees out of kindness, and often ferried locals into town for shopping. With most buses requisitioned for ambulances, getting around was difficult. We worked like mules, and any time off was spent catching up on sleep. My clothes hung off me, my eyes were dark, my skin pale. The food was dreadful, mostly tinned—bully beef and biscuits, day in, day out.

The phoney war was over. The German army had attacked Luxembourg, the Netherlands, and Belgium on 10 May. For two weeks, there had been minimal military activity, but now the Germans were drawing closer. The Dutch surrendered on 14 May. We heard that the first Germans had emerged from the Ardennes the day before and crossed the River Meuse. They had done what the French believed impossible. Many of the Allies were caught fighting in Belgium. France was in jeopardy, our forces retreating.

On a better note, Britain had experienced a political shake-up. Chamberlain had resigned, and Churchill had stepped in—a military man through and through. His speech to Parliament was inspiring and had given me hope. He had opened with, ‘I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat.’ Then he had said, ‘You ask, what is our policy? It is to wage war by sea, land, and air. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: It is victory, victory at all costs... for without victory, there is no survival.’

On 28 May, Belgium capitulated, and the Allies retreated towards Dunkirk, the Germans and their mighty Panzers nipping at their heels. The British sent ships to evacuate their troops, but the Germans bombarded them with artillery and bombs as they waited. Carnage reigned in Dunkirk. Raging fires painted the night sky crimson, as houses burned, and people fled. Lines of troops stretched out into the sea, waiting to board boats, not knowing if they would live or die as the Stukas screamed overhead, firing mercilessly. Abandoned vehicles smouldered in the summer haze while horses and troops lay dead among the dunes.

Paris bore the brunt, its hospitals overflowing with injured soldiers and civilians. Panic gripped the people who dared not go anywhere without their gas masks. I prayed for Henri because, for once, prayer was all I had to comfort me as I dug deep for hope. I thought of Mum at home with her Bible, and a deep ache filled my heart. Please, God, keep Stanley safe too.