Promise Me This (40 page)

“Your smiles will mean more than your words to those poor soldiers in hospital,” Karen advised. “Men with no faces or shrapnel in their neck need to see that you see them as men—as human beings—and not their deformity. Remember that. It may be the best thing you can do for them.”

Over the next few weeks Mr. Sprague sifted the contents of Eleanor Hargrave’s will, her papers, her house, with a fine-toothed comb. Through private investigation, the government, the war office, and by offering payment for information, he did his best to trace Annie’s whereabouts—in France, in England, on every British front.

Michael and Connie combed street after street, site after site of London and even Southampton as they waited for Mr. Sprague to receive word. They searched every place that either of them had ever known Annie to visit in the belief that Eleanor Hargrave might have lied with her dying breath—in the hope that Annie was tucked away somewhere they had not looked.

Newspapers were hawked on every street corner, all with the devastating war news of the slaughter at Verdun. Connie pulled a sickened Michael away, reminding him that any thought given to the war was a thought stolen from finding Annie.

Mr. Sprague rubbed his temples after weeks of fruitless searching. “It comes down to the fact that she has gone. If the stories are to be believed, of her own free will, asserting that she is twenty-three years old, and thereby absolving every government worker of responsibility in any form.”

“But we know that’s rot!” Connie exploded.

“Please, Constance,” her mother began, “do not use slang.”

“It only matters that we find her and bring her home,” Michael insisted.

Mr. Sprague looked up. “Yes. If there is a way. But if she is truly in France . . .” He shook his head. “The conditions there are horrible. They desperately need every nurse, every doctor, every man or woman able to fight or fetch or carry. They will not send her home because we ask.”

“She sent her to die,” Connie said quietly.

“Constance!” her mother admonished, but without conviction.

“Mother, we know it’s true. We should say it. I don’t know what that woman said to compel Annie to go, but she sent her to the place of greatest danger and instilled every ounce of fear possible in her mind by having her nurse the worst of the wounded here before going! Annie needed to be in peak mental and physical form for the rigors of nursing in battle zones in France—Eleanor Hargrave made sure she was a wreck! It was a long and devious plan! Annie never wanted to go overseas and could not have known how to go without someone setting it all in motion.” Connie looked at Michael. “You know that, don’t you?”

Michael nodded, the pain of weeks of fear and worry lining his face.

“There is nothing for us to do but pray,” Mrs. Sprague said.

Michael stood and stared at the three Spragues as if they had all lost their minds. “That is not all there is to do. We’ve done all we can here. Now I must go and find her.”

“You’ve no hope of finding her, son,” Mr. Sprague argued halfheartedly. “My sources say she is not listed in any of the British hospitals. If she is working with a French field hospital somewhere in the area of the front . . .” He threw his hands up. “We don’t even know which front, and where is but a guess!”

“But you said France—”

“I have sent word to every French field hospital of which we have any record. There is no Annie Allen or Elisabeth Anne Allen listed.” Mr. Sprague ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “That information came from Eleanor Hargrave in her last moments—how reliable can we expect it to be? She could be anywhere on the Continent. With the funds Eleanor had at her disposal, she could have had Annie sent anywhere in the world!”

“I will find her, and I will bring her back.” Michael stood his ground. “What can you do, Mr. Sprague, to get me to France?”

“Short of enlisting, I do not believe—”

“Then I’ll believe for us both!” Michael leaned across Mr. Sprague’s desk, within a breath of his face. “Get me there as an ambulance driver. It will allow me to search the field hospitals, the churches, the schools, the halls—anywhere they might have set up a medical facility. I can drive. I learned before I came!”

“You must understand,” Mr. Sprague explained wearily, patiently, “no one will allow you to run willy-nilly through the hills and dales of France unmolested! If you go out of uniform, you will be shot as a spy. If you go in uniform, you will have to follow orders that will not allow you the freedom you seek.”

“Father, listen to—”

“You cannot have it both ways!” Mr. Sprague’s temper rose.

“Then talk to those government officials you know,” Michael insisted. “Get me to the Red Cross or a private, citizen-led convalescent home in a way that allows me the needed freedom.”

“I do not have the rank and pull you seem to think, young man.”

“Then use whatever you have,” Michael shouted. “I beg you!”

“Edwin.” Mrs. Sprague gently laid her hand upon her husband’s arm. “What about that young American who gave the speech to raise funds for medical volunteers—the ones who drive those American Model T cars he was so very fond of?”

“The American Ambulance Field Service.” He shook his head. “They’ve virtually become part of the French military.”

“I heard about him, Father—A. Piatt Andrew, a powerhouse of a man in the face of all our blasted bureaucracy and red tape!”

“Constance, do not swear in this house!” Her mother fumed.

Connie ignored her. “Where was he stationed, Father?”

“Alsace.” Her mother spoke authoritatively, surprising everyone. “He was setting up his ambulance service in Alsace at the time. Do you remember how he said those little cars could fly up and down the steep Vosges mountains—how they make better ambulances than our large touring cars? So very odd.”

They all turned to look at her.

“Tin Lizzies,” Connie said.

“Yes, Tin Lizzies, he called them—funny little name. He was working in Alsace. But he said there were field service sections in many places and more spreading all the time.”

Mr. Sprague studied his wife’s face, his brow wrinkled in thought.

Mrs. Sprague cocked her head and smiled. “I imagine that a sizable financial donation and the pledge of a qualified Irish-American driver would be of some assistance in helping Mr. Andrew respond agreeably to our request.”

Mr. Sprague frowned and turned to Michael, who vigorously nodded.

Mr. Sprague considered, nodding slowly in return. He stood and pressed his wife’s fingers to his lips. “I’ll wire Sir—I’ll wire my colleague in Dover. He will know where Mr. Andrew may be reached.”

Mr. Sprague’s sources revealed that sixteen units of VADs had departed from England’s shores in the space of two days—the two days in which they first believed Annie had disappeared. Ships had departed from Folkestone, Dover, Plymouth, and Southampton. There was no Annie Allen, nor an Elisabeth Anne Allen, listed among the passengers.

Michael scribbled, as best he could on the wave-tossed ferry, a letter to Aunt Maggie and Uncle Daniel, telling them all he knew of Annie and all he hoped might come from his joining A. Piatt Andrew in the American Ambulance Field Service in Paris.

Before she died, Annie’s aunt Eleanor told the authorities that her niece had gone to do her sacred duty at the front. The Spragues and I can only believe that means she sent her to nurse in France. But which front? There is no record of her going anywhere.

Within the AAFS I will have the greatest freedom of movement between field hospitals and private hospitals. Mr. Andrew has agreed to give me every opportunity to search for Annie within the limitations of the ambulance service as long as I perform adequately in the role of driver.

I report tomorrow to the American Military Hospital in Paris and then go for training. I’m hoping for my assignment within the month.

All of this I owe to the kindness and connections of Mr. Sprague. I do not understand his work in this war, but I am grateful that he holds whatever position of authority he does. I would have no hope of finding Annie without him.

I’ve left some of my belongings with the Spragues. Mr. Andrew advised Mr. Sprague that ambulance drivers must travel lightly.

Do not lose heart, Aunt Maggie. I will find our Annie. Keep Owen’s bridal roses wrapped until April, Uncle Daniel, then tend them with care. We’ll be needing those blooms by and by for Annie’s welcome-home bouquet.

I love you both.

Michael

A. Piatt Andrew, head of the American Ambulance Field Service, drummed his fingers across Michael’s file. “You are searching for a needle in a haystack. You know that, don’t you, young man?”

“She’s a bright needle, sir. I’ll find her—I will, sir.” Michael stood at attention.

Andrew sighed. If he did not owe his benefactors so many favors, he would never have taken on this bold Irishman or his harebrained venture. He leaned back in his chair. “They tell me you can take a Ford apart and put her back together again.”

“From the ground up, sir. In record time.” Michael lifted his chin.

Andrew stood and, turning his back on the cocky young man, looked out the window at his fleet of ambulances, a row of well-oiled Fords, precious Tin Lizzies, ready for deployment. The man was not so different from himself, Andrew conceded—brazen, confident, determined—and his driving and mechanic experience exceeded that of most of his new recruits.

“You have your assignment?”

“Yes, sir! The Vosges.”

“There is a field hospital west of Guebwiller.” Andrew did not turn to look at Michael again. “See that you report there in two days.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Dismissed.”

“Sir!” Michael turned to go.

“Dunnagan! Take care of the old girl.”

“Her name is Annie Allen, sir,” Michael contradicted.

“Her name, Dunnagan, is Tin Lizzie.”

In three months Michael knew every back road and narrow mule trail through the forests of Alsace. His nose grazed his knees more times than he could count maneuvering up and down the steep, slippery mountains of the Vosges through forests so dense and green he could not see the winding road behind him—a far cry from the flat fields of New Jersey and the seaside of Belfast.