Charles Todd - An Impartial Witness

I saw one of the wounded with a rifle in his hand, and he stood there, in full view, carefully taking his aim, firing and then waiting for death to come. But the pilot hadn't seen him and fired at the barn instead. I could see Dr. Buckley standing there, his mouth opened wide in a wordless shout, his fists raised above his head, cursing the pilot.

I realized he was trying to distract the German at the stick, and just as the pilot veered, a tiny plume of white smoke showed beneath the aircraft, turning black quickly and growing larger by the second, until it was a column trailing the aircraft like the shadow of death. I knew what was coming-I'd seen Lieutenant Evanson's burns and those of other fliers.

Dr. Buckley and the barn were forgotten as the pilot pulled up sharply and turned away in a frantic dash for his own lines.

By some marvel of aim, that soldier must have hit the German.

I was already at the barn, climbing into one of the other ambulances, ramming the burning one to one side, where it could do no harm to the barn's wooden doors. Just at that moment, the German Albatross exploded into flames, spiraling toward the earth. A cheer went up, and then Sister Benning was pointing, saying something to me that I couldn't hear over the explosive sound of the crash.

I closed my eyes for a second against the sound, then turned in the direction she'd indicated, and there was Dr. Buckley on the ground in a heap. All I could think of was that he'd been hit.

I ran to him as Sister Davis asked, "Isn't anyone going to see if that pilot survived?" No one stopped to tell her that he'd burned alive in that conflagration.

Bending over Dr. Buckley, I searched for blood, a wound, then felt for his pulse. It was slow, labored. An orderly was there, and I told him to put Dr. Buckley into one of the ambulances. "We ought to be going," I added. "If that Albatross got through our lines, the rest of the German army may be on its heels."

Sister Williams caught my own alarm and called, "Hurry!"

We got Dr. Buckley into the nearest ambulance. There was no room, with one ambulance destroyed, for six of us, and Sister Benning said, "Well, it's shank's mare, then."

The lorry with the dead was already pulling out, and the ambulances followed. We began to march in its wake, and I thought that all we needed now was for one of us to twist an ankle in the ruts and pits of the road. I was concerned as well for the wounded, bounced and shaken in spite of the care their drivers took to spare them the worst of the ride.

Sister Davis was saying, "They're getting ahead of us. What if the Germans are closer than we know?"

"Keep walking," Sister Williams answered her sternly. "And pay attention to where you're putting your feet. There's no one to carry you if you stumble or fall."

I looked over my shoulder. The black plume that marked where the German flier had gone down was dwindling, as the fire had consumed the wooden body of the Albatross and there was less and less fuel to feed on. I tried to put it out of my mind and did as Sister Williams had asked-silently concentrating on each step.

My main worry was that another pilot from the same squadron, seeing the telltale black smoke, might come to investigate. We could still be spotted.

We'd marched nearly three miles through desolation and the French summer sun, thirsty and wishing for nothing more than an hour's rest. Sister Benning had already asked if we needed to find some shade for five minutes of respite from the heat, but we all knew it would be the height of foolishness.

And then a lorry came barreling toward us, crashing about like an erratic monster, and it slowed in a shower of dust and loose stones.

"Get in," the sergeant at the wheel shouted to us, standing on no ceremony. "We lost this round, and the Hun will be at La Fleurette in twenty minutes."

We didn't need a second invitation. We scrambled into the back of the lorry and held on tight as the driver swung it in a wide circle to make his turn. Then we were heading back the way he'd come, gripping whatever we could find to keep ourselves from being thrown about. I could feel the bruises accumulating. But we were safe, and that was all that mattered.

The driver slowed after what seemed to be hours of torture, and he called back to us, "We should be in the clear. Sorry about the rough ride."

I asked if there was news of Dr. Buckley, but the driver shook his head. "No idea, Sister. But not to worry. We'll be back in La Fleurette soon enough. Word is the Huns can't hold what they've gained today."

And then he turned back to the wheel, and Sister Benning said, "Well. I know what it feels like to be on the rack, now," as we gathered speed again.

But I wasn't fated to return to La Fleurette, although later I was told that we'd regained the lost ground, just as the sergeant had predicted, and a dozen yards beyond it. But at the cost of how many lives, how many wounded who would never be whole again?

Dr. Buckley was being sent back to England. He resisted going at first, and then relented finally, asking if I could escort him-"She doesn't fuss," he had told the worried doctors who had examined him. At the same time I was informed that I was to be given leave, although I knew very well that in the rotation, I had weeks to go.

I never knew-although I had my suspicions-if my leave had to do with Dr. Buckley, or if Inspector Herbert had had some say in it. That was rather far-fetched, but stranger things, I'd learned in dealing with the Army, could happen. It was entirely possible that Simon Brandon had pulled some strings. Between them, he and my father knew everyone from General Haig to the lowliest subaltern down the line of command.

It was Simon who met my train as it came into London, and I'd sent no telegram.

Simon greeted me, took my satchel away from me, and walked with me to the motorcar that was waiting outside the station.

My father's motorcar, in fact.

Simon smiled. "It's home for you, Miss Crawford. Orders from the Colonel-in-Chief."

That was my mother. None of us disobeyed her when she issued a command.

I had delivered Dr. Buckley to a doctor waiting for him in the hospital in Portsmouth. Once he'd been settled and the papers I'd been carrying about his condition were handed over to Matron, who took charge of them and Dr. Buckley with quiet efficiency, I had been free to leave.

I was just as glad to be going home again. Standing at the rail of the ship bringing us into Portsmouth, I'd watched the smooth waters of The Solent and the irregular shape of the Isle of Wight rise out of the darkness like some fantastical place in dreams-quiet and peaceful. At the back of my mind, unbidden, were the sounds of that Spandau machine gun firing round after round. And then an officer of the Wiltshire Fusiliers came to stand beside me, looking out toward the busy harbor.

"I miss the lights," he said without turning. "I could pick out the villages by their lights as we came into port."

They had been turned off to make the enemy blind. Portsmouth, across The Solent, was a major port and a tempting target for submarines.

I looked up at him, but it wasn't the face I'd hoped to see.

And that encounter had brought Marjorie Evanson back to mind. I still had her photograph.

Turning to Simon as we drove toward Somerset, I said, "What did you learn about Lieutenant Fordham's death?"

"It's still under wraps. A police matter. How did you come to hear about his death? Your letter was brief."

"I was worried about the censors. Scotland Yard wanted to know if he was the man I'd seen with Marjorie Evanson at the railway station, the day she died."

"And was he?"

"No. I can't even be sure he knew Mrs. Evanson. He was just in the same regiment as the officer the Yard is looking for. To help with their inquiries, as they say. Scotland Yard might even have asked me just on the off chance it would connect the two cases. Apparently they haven't made much progress in finding her murderer."