stay there. Truth be told, we were delighted that she’d come to us. To witness a birth in that place of death and misery…even the surgeons couldn’t stay away.”
“Not all would think a birth beautiful.”
“Oh, but it is!” Etna protests.
“Two cows. A baby girl. Both signs of life as it should be. But yes, you win this round.”
Pieces of pavement appear to float here and there on the muddy road beneath them. Etna regards her duties in the war as a test of endurance. “We occasionally work twenty-four hours straight,” she tells Phillip. “It’s not at all unusual to get only four hours of sleep three nights in a row. Sometimes, when I walk into the operating theater, the physicians look more dreadful than the patients.”
Phillip concentrates on the road ahead. “My job is a little different. Hours of boredom punctuated by episodes of pure fear. I heard you got caught in the bombardment on Wednesday.”
“How did you know?”
“I ask about you.”
“Are you trying to look out for me?”
“Something like that,” he says and smiles.
During a midmorning return from the aid post, Etna, as part of a three-ambulance convoy, came under bombardment. She chose to leave the road and, for ten or fifteen wild minutes, bounced and careened along the rock-strewn fields before rejoining the convoy, which by then had only one ambulance left—the other having been destroyed.
Officially an adjunct to ambulance unit 3, Etna wears her boots with puttees now, as the men do. Just when she thinks the unit no longer needs her, another driver is wounded or dies. She is always last to be called up, even though a few of the orderlies have told her they would rather be in her truck than with some of the other drivers.
In Étaples, Phillip parks on a back street, the houses dark silhouettes against the moon-sparkle of the Channel.
“I’ve never been to Étaples,” Etna says.
Underground, in the club, the lights dazzle. No wonder men and women take great pains to get here on their nights off. There is a long bar, tables with plum leather chairs, cigarette smoke collecting at the ceiling. Even a small orchestra plays on a stage. Though barely half past six, dancers cover the floor. Most, she guesses, will get only a few hours of sleep before their shifts begin in the morning.
Phillip has on a dress uniform: a British officer-style jacket, white shirt, dark tie, and wide leather belt. In this room of decorated officers, Phillip has little rank. What a waste, she thinks when she remembers his exalted academic reputation. She has to remind herself that he has chosen to be an ambulance driver. That he is a pacifist. The war has been hard on pacifists.
“I can’t tell you what’s in the drink, except to go easy. A pair of them can make a woman drunk.”
“And not a man?” she says teasingly.
“That takes at least three.” He presents her with a silver case filled with cigarettes.
“No thank you.”
“Do you mind?”
“No, not at all.”
Etna has borrowed a dress for the evening, a red gabardine shirtwaist with a ruffled skirt, cut looser than she is used to. How strange that she can have worn, in the past twenty-four hours, the wool skirt of an ambulance driver, the demure headdress of the VAD, and now this red dress that seems to have been made for dancing. “Do you have friends here?”
“Well, none here. Acquaintances, yes. Fortunately, this place isn’t exclusive. I’d be thrown out of most clubs officers frequent.” He paused. “Would you like to dance?”
Phillip takes her hand and leads her onto the dance floor. He twirls her into a dance embrace.
The orchestra plays “By the Beautiful Sea.” Her hand fits smoothly into his. The skirt of the red dress swirls dangerously high when Phillip whips her around.
As the music changes to a ragtime beat and changes again to a melody she’s never heard before, Phillip dips her and deftly makes her feel light on her feet. He, so unlike
“Not all would think a birth beautiful.”
“Oh, but it is!” Etna protests.
“Two cows. A baby girl. Both signs of life as it should be. But yes, you win this round.”
Pieces of pavement appear to float here and there on the muddy road beneath them. Etna regards her duties in the war as a test of endurance. “We occasionally work twenty-four hours straight,” she tells Phillip. “It’s not at all unusual to get only four hours of sleep three nights in a row. Sometimes, when I walk into the operating theater, the physicians look more dreadful than the patients.”
Phillip concentrates on the road ahead. “My job is a little different. Hours of boredom punctuated by episodes of pure fear. I heard you got caught in the bombardment on Wednesday.”
“How did you know?”
“I ask about you.”
“Are you trying to look out for me?”
“Something like that,” he says and smiles.
During a midmorning return from the aid post, Etna, as part of a three-ambulance convoy, came under bombardment. She chose to leave the road and, for ten or fifteen wild minutes, bounced and careened along the rock-strewn fields before rejoining the convoy, which by then had only one ambulance left—the other having been destroyed.
Officially an adjunct to ambulance unit 3, Etna wears her boots with puttees now, as the men do. Just when she thinks the unit no longer needs her, another driver is wounded or dies. She is always last to be called up, even though a few of the orderlies have told her they would rather be in her truck than with some of the other drivers.
In Étaples, Phillip parks on a back street, the houses dark silhouettes against the moon-sparkle of the Channel.
“I’ve never been to Étaples,” Etna says.
Underground, in the club, the lights dazzle. No wonder men and women take great pains to get here on their nights off. There is a long bar, tables with plum leather chairs, cigarette smoke collecting at the ceiling. Even a small orchestra plays on a stage. Though barely half past six, dancers cover the floor. Most, she guesses, will get only a few hours of sleep before their shifts begin in the morning.
Phillip has on a dress uniform: a British officer-style jacket, white shirt, dark tie, and wide leather belt. In this room of decorated officers, Phillip has little rank. What a waste, she thinks when she remembers his exalted academic reputation. She has to remind herself that he has chosen to be an ambulance driver. That he is a pacifist. The war has been hard on pacifists.
“I can’t tell you what’s in the drink, except to go easy. A pair of them can make a woman drunk.”
“And not a man?” she says teasingly.
“That takes at least three.” He presents her with a silver case filled with cigarettes.
“No thank you.”
“Do you mind?”
“No, not at all.”
Etna has borrowed a dress for the evening, a red gabardine shirtwaist with a ruffled skirt, cut looser than she is used to. How strange that she can have worn, in the past twenty-four hours, the wool skirt of an ambulance driver, the demure headdress of the VAD, and now this red dress that seems to have been made for dancing. “Do you have friends here?”
“Well, none here. Acquaintances, yes. Fortunately, this place isn’t exclusive. I’d be thrown out of most clubs officers frequent.” He paused. “Would you like to dance?”
Phillip takes her hand and leads her onto the dance floor. He twirls her into a dance embrace.
The orchestra plays “By the Beautiful Sea.” Her hand fits smoothly into his. The skirt of the red dress swirls dangerously high when Phillip whips her around.
As the music changes to a ragtime beat and changes again to a melody she’s never heard before, Phillip dips her and deftly makes her feel light on her feet. He, so unlike
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