Enticing the Spymaster (War Girls) (9 page)

Chapter Eleven

Jude couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave Michael unconscious, possibly concussed and certainly at the mercy of anyone who happened along.
Anyone
.

She put her hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We have to go back.”

“We can’t. The Germans will catch you.”

“There’s something more important than me back there.” Two brave men, one of whom she was in love with. “Turn around.”

Grumbling, the old man turned the boat around.

Halfway back, she heard a shot. The old man added more coal to the fire. Then she heard another shot and started shovelling coal herself. It seemed to take three times as long to get back as it did to go the distance they had, but finally they arrived at the dock. Dusk had transformed the world into shades of grey, making it impossible to determine what was living and what was dead.

“Who goes?” a man called out.

“The nurse. I left here a short while ago.”

A man materialised out of the gloom. “They need you at the house.”

She climbed onto the dock and ran towards the boathouse, but she tripped on something and nearly fell.

A body. In a German uniform.

“Michael?” Horror kept her frozen for only a moment, then she turned him over to see his face. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

But the dead man wasn’t Michael.

“That one’s dead, ma’am,” someone said behind her.

She turned to find several men standing about, all fishermen or boatmen from the look of them.

“The live one’s in the boathouse.”

“Live one?”

“Yes, the bloke in the German uniform who isn’t German.”

She stared at them for a moment, relief making her dizzy. Michael wasn’t dead.

She ran to the boathouse, forcing open the door when it didn’t give way immediately. “Michael?”

“Your husband’s been shot.”

She turned towards the bearer of this news. The blacksmith.

“This way,” he said, motioning with one hand for her to follow.

She discovered Michael, pale and sweating, lying on a table, the dead body of another man a few feet away.

A circle of blood saturated the cloth covering his upper chest left of centre. She attempted to unbutton his coat, but her fingers couldn’t seem to grip them properly.

The blacksmith nudged her out of the way, gripped the two sides of the uniform and tore it open.

She peeled the shirt away from the wound carefully, but pressed it back down on it when the bleeding started again. “I need bandages, hot water and alcohol. Quickly, please.”

The blacksmith didn’t move from her side, but someone hurried off.

“What happened?” she asked. “Is this the only wound?”

“Yes, just the one,” he replied. “We were surprised by a soldier. The bastard was about to shoot me, but your man pushed me out of the way. Took the bullet meant for me.”

“Stupid,” she muttered. Where were those bandages?

“Yes, ma’am. That’s what he said you’d say.”

The running feet returned, attached to a young man who held more cloth than a mummy would require.

“Tear me a strip off that.”

The blacksmith grabbed what looked to be a shirt, tore some off and handed it to her. She wadded it up, pulled the bits of Michael’s shirt away and replaced it with the fresh bandage. “You.” She pointed at the bandage carrier. “Hold this down like I’m doing now.”

His eyes grew wide, but he didn’t protest or back away. He took her place next to Michael.

“Hot water?”

“Should be ready soon.” The blacksmith’s looked a little pale. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I have to see where the blood is coming from. He’s not bleeding as badly as he could be.” She dug around in her bag and found the bundle she was looking for. It wasn’t large, the size of her palm, composed of a silky strip of cloth wound around a pouch containing several needles, a scalpel and tweezers.

“Ma’am.” A woman’s voice. “The water is hot.”

“Can you bring some in a large bowl?”

The bowl arrived a minute later. Jude washed her hands with a sliver of soap and asked for a small bowl and some alcohol, any kind, which she poured into the small bowl. She added her surgical tools to the alcohol and brought it to the table where Michael was laid out like a corpse to be prepared for burial.

Next, she needed thread to sew the wound closed. She took the length of silk and with the tweezers dripping wine picked a thread apart from the fabric. She stripped it off, threaded one of the needles with it, then placed the needle thread and tweezers back into the alcohol.

“All right, here’s what we’re going to do,” she said to the young man holding down the bandage. “You’re going to take the bandage away, but stay close in case we need to stop the bleeding again.” She looked around for the blacksmith. “What’s your name?”

“Roeland.”

“Roeland, can you stand ready to hold him down if he regains consciousness?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sucked in a deep breath. “Take the bandage away.”

The young man lifted it and Jude examined the wound. Blood welled up, but not enough to make her want to put it back on.

The wound itself wasn’t large. A hole at the edge of a rib, the bullet still lodged in it. She grabbed the tweezers, steadied her hand and was about to pluck it out when she noticed it vibrating ever so slightly. There was a rhythm to it, a one-two beat that had her backing away. She nodded at her helper and he put the bandage back on the wound.

“What’s wrong?” Roeland asked.

“The bullet is pulsing in time with his heartbeat.”

“What does that mean?”

“It could mean nothing or it could indicate that it’s lodged in the wall of an artery.”

“That’s bad?”

“If it’s in the artery and we take it out, he could bleed to death. The bullet could be the only thing saving him from that now.”

“What do we do?”

“He needs a surgeon.”

Roeland lifted both hands. “Where are we going to find one?”

“We aren’t. There’s no surgeon we could take him to.”

No one said anything, leaving her to make the decision alone.

How many surgeries had she attended, watched and assisted? Hundreds? She’d seen every procedure multiple times, held retractors and even sewn up incisions on her own. How much different could an artery be?

Most likely a great deal.

“He can’t travel. If an artery has been punctured, any jostling and the bullet could move or tear open the wound.” She looked at her meagre supply of instruments, bandages and help. The two men stared at her with empty eyes and downturned mouths. They’d already decided Michael was dead.

That she could not accept.

“I’m going to remove the bullet. Then I’ll check for further damage and sew up whatever I find. If we move fast, it’ll work.”

“How will you find any other damage?”

How indeed. “I need a couple of retractors.”

“What are those?” the young man asked.

“Tools to hold the ribs apart so I can get in and sew up the damage.”

“Like two forks?”

“Yes, but they shouldn’t be sharp. We don’t want to puncture something else while we’re in there.”

“If we bend a couple of spoons?”

“Yes, that would work.”

Roeland disappeared, but came back only a half minute later with two bent spoons.

Jude took them and dropped them into the bowl of alcohol. She waited several seconds then took out the tweezers. “Be ready with fresh bandages.”

The young man nodded.

To delay would only mean further blood loss. She sucked in a deep breath and, with trembling hands, plucked the bullet out.

Blood welled up, faster than before, but not the geyser she feared. She dropped the bullet and tweezers into the alcohol and grabbed the spoons, using them to pull the ribs apart ever so slightly. The muscle was torn where the bullet lodged, but the artery underneath wasn’t punctured. At least not badly.

“Roeland, can you hold the ribs apart while I sew?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took over while she picked up the threaded needle and began to close the small tear with tiny stitches. The flow of blood slowed and after the third stitch, reduced significantly. She sewed up the hole in the muscle where the bullet penetrated then stitched the skin closed.

“Another bandage, please.”

The woman handed her one and she placed it over the wound. “Hold this here,” she instructed Roeland. While he pressed the cloth to the wound, Jude took a second bandage, dipped it into the alcohol.

“I’ll need another like this, then a long one.” She wrung out the wet bandage, removing as much of the alcohol as possible. She wanted the alcohol to slowly seep to the skin and act as a barrier against infection, not bathe it. That would cause the wound to bleed too much.

She stacked the bandages so the one in saturated in alcohol was sandwiched between two dry ones. Then she took the long bandage and wrapped it around Michael’s torso to hold everything in place.

“Are you done?” Roeland asked.

“The surgery is done.” She took a deep breath. “But we can’t stay here. More Germans are sure to come. Do you have any clothing we could put him in?”

The woman disappeared and returned with a shirt and a worn coat. Roeland helped her dress Michael.

Bert walked in but came to an abrupt stop. “What happened?”

“He was shot,” Jude answered. “Where have you been?”

“Finding a bolt-hole to stash two German soldiers in. How is he?”

“Alive.” She didn’t have a better answer than that. She turned to Roeland.

“Can we all fit on the boat? There’s no other way I’m going to get both these men away from here.”

He sighed and she thought he would refuse. “Yes.”

A few minutes later, they were in the boat and headed for the Netherlands. Again.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I
will
return,” she promised Roeland. “I’ll try to bring some supplies with me. Thank you, my friend, for all you’ve done for us.”

“Please don’t put yourself in danger, ma’am.”

Danger was all around her and that wasn’t going to change. “You are all in my prayers,” she said instead of mouthing some empty platitude.

She nodded at the old man manning the wheel and they moved away from the dock, down the river.

It was late afternoon, but the air felt thick and heavy, as if someone had thrown a wool blanket over them.

Michael lay on the longest plank bench, while she and Bert sat on the floor of the boat.

Hours passed. Michael hadn’t regained full consciousness, though he’d groaned off and on since they’d left.

“How long it will take to get there?” Bert asked her.

“I don’t know.”

Silence for a moment. “Will we have trouble crossing?”

“I don’t know that either.”

They both looked at the old man and Jude asked him their questions in French. He shrugged.

“Do you only speak French?” Bert asked.

“
Oui
,” the old man said.

Bert nodded, looked at Michael and switched to English. “Is he going to make it?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t, but I have faith in him. He’s the most stubborn, headstrong, amazing man I’ve ever met. When he sets out to do something, he does it.”

“What’s his real rank?”

She allowed one side of her mouth to rise. “You don’t need to know that.”

“I don’t?”

“Bert, this is not the time to discuss it. I won’t tell you anything he wouldn’t. If he thinks you need to know, he’ll tell you.”

“He’s unconscious now.”

“Yes, and unfortunately, that won’t last.”

“Unfortunately?”

“He’ll be in a great deal of pain when he wakes up.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Don’t worry, you’re dealing with your own discomfort. How do your ribs feel?”

“Same as before.”

“If your breathing becomes difficult or your pain gets worse, do let me know.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bert was silent for a while, then said, “You’re no ordinary nurse. You speak at least three languages and you’re used to giving orders. Who are you?”

“My name isn’t important.” She smiled. “My parents raised me with a strong sense of duty.”

“Perhaps too strong.”

“Michael?” She turned. His eyes were open, his mouth twisted into a grimace.

“What happened?” He tried to sit up, but fell back onto the bench. “Where are we?”

“You were shot in the chest. Luckily the bullet lodged itself in one of your ribs. I removed it and sewed up the wound. We left the dock in Liege some hours ago.”

“You were supposed to be across the border by now.”

“If I hadn’t come back you would be dead by now.”

“I don’t matter,” he growled. “You do.”

“What? You—I...” Anger rose like a fast tide inside her, making her hands shake. “That is absolute
rubbish.
We are all going to get out of this insanity together. I will accept nothing less.”

“The Allied Armies need to be warned.”

“They will be, by someone who knows something about military strategy and tactics. That’s certainly not me.”

“Jude, I’m not going to argue with you. I’m telling you. If we get stopped, leave Bert and me behind. Get out and go.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, I won’t trade your life or Bert’s for mine, and you’re in no position to force the issue.”

“Enough. You’ve done your part. I need you to trust me and do as you’re told.”

“I do trust you. It’s
you
who doesn’t trust me.”

“I have the deepest respect for you.” He was angry now, she could hear it in the growl his voice had become.

“How can you respect me when you don’t trust me to do the right thing, make the right decisions or take care of myself?”

“Because you keep putting yourself in harm’s way.”

“Coming from a man who spent days in an enemy trench, in an enemy uniform, suffered a wound and now a second one, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“How’s this for ridiculous? When we get home, I’ll ensure that you’re never allowed to leave your home again.”

She snorted. “How are you going to do that? You’re not my husband.”