‘Edwin, you don’t mean to tell me that Pips is in that lot?’ Henrietta held out the newspaper to her husband and jabbed at the picture on the front page of seven stretcher bearers struggling to carry one casualty through mud almost up to their knees. ‘Haig’s talking about successful operations and the capture of various fortified locations, but then concedes that the actual ground gained is only a few hundred yards. Edwin, if my schoolgirl arithmetic serves me correctly, that’s less than a mile. And according to this report, there are air battles going on overhead now and several British aircraft have been lost.’
‘It’s a bad business,’ he murmured, folding his newspaper. ‘Hetty, my love, I have tickets for a concert tonight. Why don’t we . . .?’
‘Edwin, how can you even think of going out when our daughter is in such danger? I couldn’t settle – I can’t settle – until I know she’s safe.’
It wasn’t until the beginning of November that the long, weary battle, the third near the town of Ypres, but which would always be known as Passchendaele – a name that would become synonymous with the mud, blood and carnage of Flanders fields – seemed to be coming to an end. For over three months, Dr Hazelwood’s team had worked non-stop, without anyone taking so much as a whole day off. In early November, the British and the Canadians captured the devastated village of Passchendaele and drove the Germans back.
‘This has been the worst one yet, hasn’t it?’ Pips said to William as they made their way yet again into the trenches and through the winding, water-logged channels to reach the front line.
‘It’s the mud,’ William muttered, as he splashed through the brackish water, leading the way. ‘We must have lost hundreds of men who drowned in it. And the number of horses they’ve lost that way, well, I reckon they’ve lost count.’
Pips shuddered. She’d seen one poor creature perish that way, thrashing helplessly in the mud and sinking further with each desperate effort. No one could help him, though one or two men tried to put a rope round him and haul him out. But the mud had sucked him down and threatened to take his would-be rescuers with him.
But there was still spasmodic gunfire, still men being injured. They reached the front-line trenches and passed behind the men standing to on the fire steps. No one took any notice of them; they were the faceless stretcher bearers, whom no one wanted to acknowledge.
There was a faint buzzing in the sky. Everyone glanced up and watched as a lone aircraft flew down the length of no-man’s-land, between the two lines of trenches. He was only thirty or forty feet above the ground. As he came closer, they heard his engine splutter and then die. The nose of the aircraft dipped.
‘Oh my, he’s coming down,’ Pips breathed and watched in horror as the aircraft hit the ground, bounced twice and then settled into the mud almost level with where Pips and William were standing.
‘Come on,’ Pips said, grasping the nearest ladder. ‘We’ve got to get to him before the Germans do.’
‘Wait, Pips. It might go up if he was carrying a bomb.’
‘If he had been, it’d’ve blown up before now.’
‘You can’t go up there, miss,’ a sergeant said. ‘They’ll start firing.’
‘Just watch me, sunshine,’ Pips muttered as she climbed almost to the top, dragged her nurse’s cap from her hair and waved it above her head.
‘Stretcher bearers,’ she yelled, but there was no response this time from the enemy line. ‘Oh phooey,’ she muttered and climbed over the top.
‘I’m right behind you, Pips, but for God’s sake, keep low.’
Pips glanced back briefly at William. ‘There’s a break in the wire with a plank over it, just to the left. I’ll make for that.’
Without waiting for any further objection from anyone, Pips climbed over the edge of the parapet and, stooping as low as she could, ran to the gap in the barbed wire. A shot zapped close by her.
‘Bastards,’ she muttered and yelled again. ‘Stretcher bearers,’ but yet another bullet buried itself in the mud close by. She was through the wire and running zig-zag across the ground towards the aircraft lying drunkenly on one buckled wing. Close behind her, she could hear splashing footsteps and knew William was following. She reached the aircraft and ducked down beside it to shield herself from the enemy’s gunfire. William threw himself down beside her, panting heavily.
‘Right, let’s get him out, if we can, before they get here.’
‘Sergeant said our lads’ll cover us.’
She glanced back quickly and could see a line of soldiers, their helmets just above the top of the trench, their rifles pointing at the enemy. Already they were firing consecutively to stop the Germans leaving the safety of their trenches. Cautiously, they moved to the cockpit. The pilot was leaning to one side, his head against the side of the aircraft. His eyes were closed. Pips wriggled her fingers beneath his flying helmet and scarf until she could feel a pulse in his neck.
‘He’s still alive. Let’s get him out.’
Together they stood up, leaned into the cockpit and struggled to release his straps.
‘Ease him out steadily, William. We don’t know what injuries he’s got yet . . .’
The pilot groaned and moved.
‘What – where . . .?’ he moaned.
‘Are you hurt?’
A bullet pinged against the far side of the aircraft and Pips and William’s reflex action was to duck down.
‘It’s my right leg, I think.’
‘Can you lever yourself up, so we can pull you out?’
Another bullet hit the aircraft.
‘Hell fire!’ the pilot muttered and pushed himself up.
With their help, he toppled sideways out of the plane and lay on the ground.
‘My plates,’ he gasped. ‘You must get my plates.’
‘Can’t worry about that . . .’ Pips began, but he was insistent.
‘They mustn’t get their hands on my box of plates. They’re photographs of their lines – and ours.’ He winced in pain, but persisted. ‘It’s on the floor of the cockpit on the left-hand side, beneath where the camera is mounted.’
‘William, can you carry him on your back and I’ll look for this damned box? It’s obviously very important to him.’
William was doubtful, but he knew Pips couldn’t carry the casualty on her own. Reluctantly, he agreed; he had no choice. ‘All right, but don’t hang about. If you can’t find it, leave it.’
She helped hoist the pilot onto William’s broad back, then turned back to the aircraft. Reaching into the cockpit, her fingers found a box shape. ‘This must be it,’ she muttered. It was heavier than she’d thought.
Hearing a shout behind her, she looked back at the British lines to see several of the soldiers waving frantically. William had almost reached the barbed wire and two soldiers had climbed out of the trench to help him cover the last few yards.
‘They’re coming, they’re coming. Hurry, nurse, hurry!’
She glanced over her shoulder and saw three Germans climbing out of their trenches. One fell immediately, shot by a Tommy, but the other two began firing at the crashed aircraft – and her. Hugging the box to her chest, she began to run back towards the British line, still remembering to zig-zag. Through the barbed wire and towards the trench. She was almost there when she felt a searing pain in her leg and knew she’d been shot.
Pips pitched forward, face down in the mud.