On Renfrew Street, Day 32 By Katharine Swartz

At one point a bomb fell so close they ran for shelter in a falling-down barn...

On May 27 the Germans began a massive bombardment and the little hospital’s few weeks of near tranquillity were shattered. Ellen had experienced nothing like it, not even during Royaumont’s worst days. The wounded and refugees poured into the hospital, the patients spilling out of the wards.

The continuous bombing had cut the electricity, and the doctors operated in the dark; Ellen held a candle over Dr Logan’s head, her arm trembling, as she amputated a man’s leg and the sirens wailed.

At noon the next day the Medecin Principal told Miss Ivens, who had come up to Villers-Cotterêts the previous week, they would be required to evacuate, taking as many patients as they could back to Royaumont. “And how are we to get there?” Miss Ivens demanded. “Every car and ambulance has been commandeered, and our telephone has been cut.”

Ellen felt a strange shiver of apprehension. It was odd that in her four years of service, she had never truly been afraid for her own life. But now, with the bombs falling all around them, with the windowpanes and roof rattling and too many wounded to move, she felt a terrible surge of fear for both herself and the patients. “There is a train,” the Medecin Principal said, “for the wounded. The staff may go in cars as you find them. Be ready to move tonight.”

Evening came and the train did not arrive. Someone said the Germans were only 10 kilometres away, and moving fast. What would happen, Ellen wondered, when the Germans arrived? ‘They won’t come back’ At eight o’clock the train finally pulled into the station. Miss Ivens discovered there was only room for half of the hospital’s patients.

A few minutes later several cars from the American base pulled up to the station. Miss Ivens managed to find places in cars or lorries for all the patients, and the Americans promised they would come back for the staff. As the sky lit up with air raids in every direction, several of the staff began to walk.

“They won’t come back,” Letitia said matter of factly.

With her heart feeling as if it were thudding up her throat, Ellen fell into step with Letitia. “Where are we going?” she asked. “Miss Ivens says to make for Royaumont. There might be a train at Crépy.” “But that’s miles away!” Ellen exclaimed. They walked in silence, the sky lit up all around them, the air filled with the scream of sirens and the boom of bombs falling. They were not alone on the road. Along with many of the staff of Villers-Cotterêts, refugees from the surrounding villages streamed towards whatever safety they could find.

At one point a bomb fell so close they ran for shelter in a falling-down barn on the side of the road, putting their arms over their heads as the dust and dirt rained upon them. Jed Several hours later Ellen was hungry, filthy and too tired to feel fear any longer. They were still miles from the train station at Crépy.

“Someone’s coming,” Letitia hissed. There could be no telling if the lorry that was hurtling down the dirt road was friend or foe.

“It’s Canadian,” Ellen said with relief, for she’d seen the markings on the lorry.

Letitia stepped out and attempted to wave the vehicle down, and it stopped about 50 yards past them. “We’re going to Crépy,” she cried at the driver. The soldier in the passenger’s seat jumped out and opened up the back of the lorry.

“Don’t know if there’s room, ladies, but you’re welcome to cram in.”

Ellen and Letitia scrambled into the lorry that was crowded with evacuating soldiers. Ellen fell flat on her face, bruising her cheek, before she scrambled up to a seated position. She blinked around in the gloom. She was surrounded by soldiers. “Ellen?” The voice she heard was wondering and utterly, achingly familiar.

Ellen whirled around, searching for the soldier who spoke. “Jed!” Jed grabbed her arm, and she blinked up at him, noting his dirt-streaked face and his tired eyes.

“Jed.” Tears spilled from her eyes and he pulled her into a hug.

Ellen was conscious only of his arms around her as a sudden whistling rent the air, and then an explosion lit the world around them and she and everyone else was thrown from the lorry.

She felt herself flying through the air, and then she landed on the ground. She stared up at the sky, thinking distantly how bright the stars were, before the darkness claimed her. “DRINK this.” Ellen blinked up at the vaulted stone ceiling above her as someone raised a glass to her lips. She choked on the single sip, the water dribbling down her chin.

“There, now. You’re all right. Nothing broken, thank goodness.”

Ellen tried to raise her head but she felt exhausted. Memories came trickling in: the madness of the last days at Villers-Cotterêts, the evacuation from the hospital as the bombs fell over Paris, the sky lit up like a firework, Jed...

At the memory of Jed, she struggled to sit up again, but fell back against the pillow with a groan.

“Where...” Her voice came out hoarse and scratchy. “Where am I?”

“At Royaumont.” The woman who was speaking to her leaned closer, and Ellen saw it was her fellow auxiliary nurse, Marjorie. “You got struck on the head, but surely not that badly?”

“I don’t know.” Ellen lifted one trembling hand to her head. She could feel a large lump by her ear. Badly injured She was at Royaumont. She should have known by the view of the stonework above her. But everything was so muddled in her mind and she didn’t know how long she’d been abed. She took a few even breaths and tried to order her thoughts.

“How did they find us?” she asked at last. Her voice came out as a whisper.

“Thank goodness you remember me, at least,” Marjorie answered with a little laugh. “The cars were travelling in convoy behind you. The Americans had come back for the staff. They stopped when they saw the lorry had been hit.”

Marjorie fell silent and Ellen closed her eyes, everything in her straining in denial as she remembered the thud of the shell, the debris raining down as she’d been hurled from the truck as if by a giant hand. “And the soldiers?” she asked. “The Canadians? Are they all right?”

“Some of them,” Marjorie allowed. “Some were badly injured, and a few... a few died. The shell hit the front of the lorry, Ellen. The driver and the man next to him didn’t have a chance.”

Ellen thought of the driver who had stopped for her and Letitia, the soldier in the passenger’s seat who had helped them in the back. They had given their lives for her and Letitia. More on Monday. On Renfrew Street was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. For more great fiction, get The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Dave Young