As they passed through the small French villages, Clara noticed the eerie quiet. Shops were shuttered, streets were empty except for the occasional German patrol. The few civilians she glimpsed moved quickly, eyes downcast, carrying market baskets or leading children by the hand.
They continued, village after village, town after town, all with the same sense of defeat and fear. As they reached the outskirts of one such village, the truck slowed down in the narrow road. She could hear the voice of a woman calling out in French, with obvious distress.
Clara leaned over, looking around the side of the cab. There was a young woman, roughly her own age, carrying a small child of no more than about two years old in her arms. The child was wrapped in a blanket but appeared limp and lifeless. Clara knew enough French to understand what the woman was saying.
She was begging for help. Her child was injured and she needed medical attention. With the slowing of the truck, Clara assumed they were going to stop to help the woman. But to her horror, the driver swore at the mother and child and steered the vehicle around them. Clara looked down at the woman and child. As they drew alongside, she could see the blanket was bloodstained. She jumped to her feet, banging on the rear window to the cab.
‘Stop! Halt!’ she shouted. She banged again. The soldier in the passenger seat turned to look at her. ‘Halt the truck!’
The vehicle lurched a stop. The momentum hurtled Clara forwards. She didn’t care, she snatched up one of the medical bags from under the seat.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Alma, grabbing hold of her arm.
‘Helping that woman and her child!’
‘But she’s French.’
‘I don’t care what she is. The child needs medical attention.’ She shrugged off Alma’s hand and rushed to the rear of the truck, throwing the bag out and jumping out after it, before rushing back towards the woman.
‘Merci. Merci,’ sobbed the woman. She laid her child on the grass verge, which was churned up by tanks and military vehicles.
Clara spoke to her in French. ‘Tell me what happened?’
The woman pulled back the blanket and immediately Clara could see the extent of the injury. There was a deep gash in the child’s thigh, still bleeding. ‘My daughter. She fell on some broken glass. Our window was shattered from the fighting. I came back to see what I could salvage from our home. I had to put her down for just a moment and she fell. There’s so much rubble and debris everywhere. It’s my fault. I should never have come back.’
The words rattled out at speed, full of anguish.
‘Shush, now. It’s not your fault,’ Clara reassured her, hoping her limited French was being understood. She might not be using all the right conjunctions and tenses, but she prayed her meaning was clear.
Clara opened the bag and took out a small bottle of saline solution and a clean cloth. ‘I’m going to clean it first,’ she said. ‘What’s your daughter’s name?’
‘Mathilde,’ said the mother, her voice trembling.
‘And yours?’
‘Agatha.’
‘All right, Agatha. You need to hold Mathilde very still now,’ Clara instructed. She glanced back towards the truck, but to her dismay none of the others were coming to help. They were merely observing from the rear of the vehicle like spectators at a show. The two soldiers had walked around to the back, taking the opportunity to smoke while they watch with detached curiosity.
How could Alma and the other nurses just sit there? Why wouldn’t they help another woman and her child? It was unthinkable that simply because Agatha was French, they would refuse to help.
She turned her attention back to the child. ‘Bonjour, Mathilde,’ she said softly. ‘Alors.?.?.’ She wiped the damp cloth over the wound. The child flinched but didn’t resist. Clara continued to clean around the injury, the reddish-brown streaks of blood smearing across the pale skin. Tenderly, she wiped at the edges of the gash. Mathilde flinched again and gave a little whimper of protest. ‘Ça va alter, ma petite.’ It’s going to be all right, little one.
Now that the skin around the area was clean, Clara could see the gash was indeed deep – deeper than she’d initially thought. ‘I need to check there’s no glass left inside,’ she told Agatha. ‘It’s going to be very painful for her.’
Agatha nodded her consent, holding her daughter even tighter, trapping the child’s injured leg under her arm so Clara could examine it properly.
Mathilde screamed and tried to thrash around as Clara poked the wound. She couldn’t blame the child. It must be excruciating. She used a small amount of iodine once she was satisfied there was no glass remaining inside. ‘Let’s have a rest for a moment,’ she said. ‘Give Mathilde a cuddle. In a minute, I’m going to have to stitch up the wound.’
Mathilde continued to sob as her mother tried desperately to comfort her. Clara took out the needle and surgical thread she would need.
‘Hurry up!’ called one of the soldiers impatiently.
‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ Clara called back, her voice tight with frustration. ‘I could work quicker if someone actually helped me.’ She looked pointedly at the three nurses, but none of them moved. She sighed heavily. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Agatha, ‘but I’m going to have to stitch her leg now. This is going to hurt but I’ll be as quick as possible.’
She could see the fear and helplessness in the Frenchwoman’s eyes, but Agatha held her child tighter, nonetheless. This time Mathilde seemed to sense what was coming and began thrashing her arms and legs wildly. Just as Agatha secured one limb, another would start kicking, or an arm would flail and strike out.
Clara felt panic rising in her chest. There was no way she could suture the wound if Mathilde was this agitated. The bleeding was getting worse, and time was running out.
