“Look at those searchlights,” said Hilda. “I hope they’ll keep them, after the war. Just think, ordinary people don’t get to see this. I wonder if . . .”
Mary looked to the sky. Perhaps it was true that the searchlights were beautiful. With the night chill, and the endless deadening concussions of the ack-ack, she felt flat. Hilda babbled on, her observations neither irritating nor illuminating. This was how Tom had talked, in that awful raid. She wished now that she had known how to comfort him. How miserable Tom must have been, close to the end. She had tried with a willing heart to love him—to smile as brightly as she ever had. But of course he had known that it was ending. He had been so thoroughly good about it, so careful not to make a scene. This was how a kind heart broke, after all: inward, making no shrapnel. Dear Tom. Without the war they might have finished as friends.
Now the rescue crew had their A-frame assembled to lift the collapsed upper floor. When they had made enough of a gap, a man crawled under. After a minute he shouted out. Huw and Clive ran to the van and lifted a stretcher off the roof.
“There’s a man in there. They’re going to bring him out.”
Mary and Hilda ran across the road, Hilda carrying the medical bag.
Hilda called out, “Tell them not to move his head!”
Clive said, “Well they’re hardly going to leave it in there.”
They waited. The drone of bombers continued and the blasts still came, seeming farther away for the moment: the constant nasty crack of the 250-kilo bombs and the occasional punch of a 1000-kilo brute that shook the earth.
The man was brought out after a few minutes, on his back on a pine door that four men carried between them. They set him down in the road. One of the rescue men held up a battery lamp with a blackout shade, casting a slim cone of light. The casualty’s eyes were open.
Hilda knelt. “Was anyone in there with you?”
He shook his head. Hilda felt along his arms and legs, and the man groaned. She cut a trouser leg away.
“You’ve a badly broken ankle, I’m afraid. Does anything else hurt?”
He shook his head again.
“I’ll splint your ankle, then we’ll get you to a doctor. You’ll be fine.”
She administered a syrette of morphine, and in a minute the man’s face relaxed. She worked fast, and soon had him ready to move. She marked a baggage tag with the letters T and M and tied it to the man’s wrist. Huw and Clive strapped the man into the stretcher, secured him on the roof of the Hillman and jumped into the back. In the passenger seat Hilda called out the turns while Mary drove to St. Bart’s Hospital. They delivered the patient and Mary drove the four of them back to St. Helen’s church.
Down in the crypt, in the dim orange light from the bulbs, Huw made them all tea. Hilda shook so badly that she couldn’t hold her cups.
“The state of me!” she said.
“You did a marvellous job,” Mary said.
“Was I all right? I hardly remember a thing.”
“I had no idea a splint could be put on so thoroughly. In another minute you’d have bandaged him up to the eyes, like Tutankhamen.”
Hilda smiled. “I didn’t think we should hang around, with the bombs.”
“What were the T and the M for, by the way?”
“Oh, the tag is for the triage nurse. T is ‘trauma,’ X is ‘internal injury,’ M is ‘morphine given.’ In training we practised on the porters. They feigned injury and we tagged them. We invented codes too. We had D for ‘dishy,’ P for ‘possibly,’ and N for ‘not if I was fat and this was the last man on earth.’ ”
Mary told the others she had to check something on the van. She sat in the cold with her knees drawn up and her back against the wall of the church. The raid droned on, the explosions sometimes close, and she hardly flinched anymore. She thought about the X they had drawn on Tom. When she pictured his face, the X wouldn’t leave it. It was even there in her memory of their walk on Hampstead Heath, when she had tried to get them lost in the mist. It was as if he had always been marked—as if he had known the ending.
When she went back down into the crypt, someone had opened rum. From who knew where, one of the ARP girls had turned up some sugar. It was after eleven, and cloud had rolled in from the estuary to blind the bombers to their targets. The crypt was filling up and becoming more convivial as the raid died away and the stretcher crews returned.
“To the Nazis!” said Clive. “May their Reich indeed come third.”
“May their gentlemen’s nylons never ladder.”
“The Nazis!” they all shouted, but Mary wouldn’t join the toast.
When their mugs were empty Clive filled them again. A dash of tea was added for the sake of decorum, in case the King should walk in.
By three in the morning the raid was as good as over. There was no more ack-ack fire, no more detonations, and just an occasional thin droning overhead as a last, lost bomber sought its way home. In the crypt the conversation had fallen to a murmur. People slept rolled up in their coats.