Connie Willis - All Clear

“Fairchild!” She’d forgotten about Fairchild. Mary groped for her in the darkness and found her hand. “Are you all right?”

“I can’t … breathe,” Fairchild gasped, clutching her hand. “… can’t catch …”

“You’ve only had the breath knocked out of you,” Mary said. “Breathe out.” She pursed her lips and exhaled, showing her how to do it. Which was ridiculous.

Fairchild couldn’t see her. “Exhale. Blow out.”

“Can’t,” Fairchild said. “There’s something on me.”

“It only feels that way,” Mary reassured her, but when she patted around her, feeling to see if Fairchild was intact, she encountered splintered wood. She tried to lift it, but Fairchild cried out.

Mary stopped. “Where are you hurt?”

“What happened?” Fairchild asked. “Did a gas main blow up?”

“No, it was a V-2,” she said, and tried to move the piece of wood to the side.

Fairchild cried out again.

She didn’t dare try to do anything when she couldn’t see. She might make things worse. She’d have to wait for the ambulance.

But the ambulance was already here. She’d seen it pulling up. She turned to look over at it, silhouetted against the fire, and could see the driver’s door opening and someone in a helmet getting out. “Injury over here!” she shouted, and the driver started toward them and then, inexplicably, moved away across the rubble.

someone in a helmet getting out. “Injury over here!” she shouted, and the driver started toward them and then, inexplicably, moved away across the rubble.

“No, over here!”

“I don’t think the ambulance is here yet,” Fairchild said. “Listen.”

Mary listened. She could hear more ambulance bells in the distance. Another unit, from Woodside or Norbury, must be coming. “Croydon’s already here,” she told Fairchild, “but they can’t hear us. We need to signal them. Is there a torch in the ambulance?”

“There’s one in the medical kit.”

“Where’s the kit? In the ambulance?”

“No, you sent me to fetch the kit. I was bringing it to you when …”

Mary had no memory of sending her to fetch anything. She must still be a bit dazed from the blast. “Where is it?”

“I think it must have been knocked out of my hand,” Fairchild said.

And I’ll never find it in the darkness, Mary thought, but she put her hand on it, and on the torch, almost immediately. And, amazingly, it wasn’t broken. When she pushed the switch, it lit up. She held it up and waved it back and forth so the ambulance driver would see it.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” Fairchild said. “The blackout. The jerries will …”

Will what? Hit us with a V-2? She stripped off the tape shielding the lens.

“It’s a good thing we had our … talk when we did, isn’t it?” Fairchild said.

Oh, God. “Shh. You mustn’t talk like that.” Mary shone the torch on her, afraid of what she’d see, but there didn’t seem to be any blood except for a cut on Fairchild’s arm where a broken-off slat was jabbing it. It and several planks lay crisscrossed over her chest and stomach, but there was no blood on them and nothing lying on her legs or feet.

I need to fetch the ambulance, she thought, and—

“I told you things could happen just like that, with no warning,” Fairchild said. “If anything happens to me—”

“Shh, Paige, you’ll be fine.” Mary attempted to move the pieces of wood, but they were too entangled. She needed both hands. She propped the torch against a heap of bricks so that it shone on Fairchild and set to work.

“If anything happens,” Fairchild repeated, “I want you to—oh! You’re hurt! You’re bleeding!”

“It’s printer’s ink,” Mary said, trying to extract her from the strips of wood.

It was like a child’s game. She had to carefully pull one piece out at a time, all the while not disturbing the slat stabbing into Fairchild’s arm.

There was a sudden whoosh and boom, and orange flames boiled up behind the silhouetted ambulance. “Was that another V-2?” Fairchild asked.

“No, I think that was the gas main,” Mary said, looking over at the flames. She saw two ambulances and a fire engine pull up. “The rescue squad’s here. Over here!” and heard the slamming of several doors and some voices. “Casualty here!” She stood up and waved the torch, sweeping it back and forth like a searchlight, and then knelt back down next to Fairchild. “They’ll be here in a moment.”

Fairchild nodded. “If anything happens to me—”

“Nothing’s—” she began, and thought with horror, It wasn’t Stephen who was killed. It was Paige. That’s why I was allowed to come through the net, to come between them, because nothing I did made any difference. Because Paige was killed by a V-2.

But she wouldn’t have been here in the rubble if I hadn’t come between them. She wouldn’t have switched with Camberley, she wouldn’t have stopped the car to talk to me.

And if she hadn’t stopped the car, they wouldn’t have heard the V-1—

“No, listen, Mary,” Fairchild said. “If anything happens to me, I want you to take care of Stephen. He—”

There was the sound of running feet, and a girl in a St. John’s Ambulance coverall ran up and knelt over her.

“Not me,” Mary said, “she’s the one who’s hurt. Her arm—”

“I’ll need a stretcher!” the girl shouted, and someone else raced up to them.

“Oh, heavens, is that Fairchild?” the new arrival said, and Mary saw that it was Camberley. “It’s Fairchild and Douglas! Get over here quickly!” and instantly Reed was there with the first-aid kit, and Parrish and the stretcher were right behind her.

“What are you doing here, DeHavilland?” Reed asked, bending down beside Mary. “I thought you’d gone to Streatham.”

She was right, they were supposed to have gone to Streatham. Why hadn’t they? She couldn’t remember.

“You’re supposed to go to the incident after the flying bomb hits, Douglas, not before,” Camberley said cheerfully, squatting down next to Mary.

“We did,” she said. “There was a V-1, and then—”

“I was joking, dear,” Camberley said. “Here, let me have a look at your temple.”

“Don’t bother about me. Paige’s arm—” she said, trying to see past her to where Parrish and the St. John’s girl were working on Fairchild, lifting the wood off her, lifting her onto the stretcher, covering her with a blanket.

“Is she all right?” Mary asked. “Her arm—”

“You let us worry about her,” Camberley said, holding Mary’s chin and turning her head to the side. “I need iodine,” she said to Reed, “and bandages.”

“They’re in the ambulance,” Mary said, and Camberley and Reed exchanged glances.

“What is it?” Mary asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Let me see that head.”

Parrish and the St. John’s girl lifted Fairchild’s stretcher and started across the rubble with it.

Mary attempted to go with her, but Reed wouldn’t let her. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s not blood,” she said, but Reed ignored her and began to bandage her head.

“It’s not blood,” she repeated. “It’s printer’s ink.” And remembered the man whose leg she’d tied the tourniquet on. “You need to go fetch him,” she said.

“Hold still,” Reed ordered.

“Hold still,” Reed ordered.

“He’s bleeding,” Mary said, attempting to get to her feet.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Camberley said, pushing her back down to sitting. “We need a stretcher over here!” she called.

“No, he’s over there,” Mary said, pointing across the dark rubble.