Noble's Savior

by Jerry Sacher

  Colonel Dyson leaned forward, his lips only a fraction of an inch away from Benjamin’s; everything felt as if it were standing motionless. Benjamin waited for the kiss to happen.

  The rumble of a truck slipping over stones and mud drove them apart. A tall man wrapped in a heavy military coat and helmet burst into the ward, calling out the colonel’s name. Colonel Dyson stood.

  “I’m glad to have found you at last, Colonel. I have a message for you from division headquarters.”

  BENJAMIN WATCHED the truck drive around the bend in the road and disappear. He was silently relieved Edward Dyson was called back to duty and didn’t press him for an answer. He wanted to say yes. After all, it was only dinner, wasn’t it? That was the question he asked himself while he went about his duties the rest of that day.

  The bombardment brought an increase of casualties to the hospital, and for the next twenty-four hours Benjamin put the incident out of his mind. It wasn’t until he fell into his narrow camp bed that he was able to think about Edward Dyson. He regretted he hadn’t stayed around long enough, because he wanted to ask Edward exactly how he found out he was here, and why did he seek him out? Benjamin had not thought about Colonel Edward Dyson since the short time they spent together at Dyson’s flat—quick, unfulfilling sex without so much as a kiss. He was glad Colonel Dyson got called back to his duties without pressing him for a date. He wouldn’t have to think about it, for now anyway.

  The next morning Benjamin received a message to report to the surgeon’s office at ten o’clock sharp. He stood at attention in front of the chief Army surgeon’s desk while the doctor shuffled a stack of papers—not once but three times—before he even noticed Benjamin. He finally looked up through wire-rimmed glasses with heavy lenses, reminding Benjamin of an owl, but a scowl from the man instantly wiped away the smile on Benjamin’s face.

  “Major Benjamin Carter, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve sent for you?”

  Standing at attention, Benjamin relaxed slightly and then replied, “I’m sorry, sir, but I have no idea.”

  “Well, I’ll enlighten you. We’re evacuating casualties from this sector, and even though it may leave us frightfully short-staffed here, you’re to report at once to HMHS Pendennis to assist in the evacuation. Then you’ll return to Le Havre aboard the same ship.”

  The surgeon spoke stiffly, and Benjamin felt suddenly cold, even though the office was extremely warm.

  “May I ask, sir, how this transfer came about?”

  “No, Major Carter. That’s a matter that’s been handed down from the division headquarters. Well, you’d better be off. You leave tomorrow morning.” Then the doctor ended the conversation by looking down at the papers in front of him and muttering, “Carry on, Major.”

  Benjamin came to attention, saluted, turned around, and left the surgeon’s office. When he closed the door behind him, he leaned against the doorframe for a brief moment. He had asked more than once for a posting to a hospital ship, but staffing levels in trench field hospitals prevented his repeated requests to transfer. He wanted to go back into the chief surgeon’s office and inquire what had happened to change his mind. He even considered getting a ride to HQ and asking Colonel Dyson, but at the last minute he changed his mind.

  “What’s the use in asking the chief surgeon? I wouldn’t get an answer anyway,” Benjamin said out loud, causing a passing orderly to ask if Benjamin had spoken to him. Benjamin straightened and told him that he hadn’t spoken, and the orderly went back to his duties.

  Alone in his room at last, Benjamin found letters from his parents and one from a friend in London that he would read and answer after tea, but nothing from Sergei. Again he played over in his head the last time he had seen and spoken to Sergei, but he could not find one clue in their last conversation that hinted that Sergei would not write. His mother had written a couple of weeks before and told him not to worry; the revolution in Russia, she had written to him, must have played havoc with the postal system. Benjamin rose to begin packing his cases, and he wished he could follow his mother’s advice.

  Chapter 20

  Petrograd, Russia

  Late-October 1917

  IN HIS dark cell inside Kresty prison, Sergei lay on the icy floor covered only by a thin blanket. He heard the boom of a ship’s cannons but only as a faint rumble. He didn’t have the strength to lift his head. Hours before, the door to his cell had opened, and instead of one lone guard, four men entered, and Sergei saw their ragged military uniforms in the light from the hall outside before one of them, a tall muscular man, pulled Sergei to his feet.

  “Come with us!”

  Sergei was shoved out, where he fell on the floor. He was pulled upright again and dragged through a maze of passages to a large barracks. Then the beating began.

  Sergei knew he must have passed out because when he regained consciousness he was back in his cell with the wool blanket over him. He couldn’t remember whether he had done it himself, or one of the men had done it in a rare act of kindness. All he could feel at the moment was pain in every part of his body. He tried to let his eyes focus on the sliver of window, but his vision was fuzzy, and he couldn’t tell if it was morning or evening, so he shut his eyes.

  “What did I do to deserve a beating?” he asked, his voice cracking from thirst.

  Then Sergei felt as if he was falling from a great height, and on the way down, he saw Benjamin reaching out his hand toward him, and that was the last thing he remembered before he passed out.

  When he woke and opened his eyes, he saw a thin strip of light under the door. He crawled across the stone floor, and using the cold iron bolt, he pulled himself upright and balanced himself against the door, and he suddenly fell into the arms of a guard who opened the door.

  “Water…,” Sergei whispered. It was five minutes later that someone brought him some water. His hand was shaking so badly that the guard had to hold the dented tin cup to his lips. It burned like vodka, and he almost choked, but he was thankful even for the brief kindness in this dark prison.

  HIS MOST recent memory had been of a dark confined space. He remembered beatings, uniformed men watching him and talking, weak tea and stale crusts, more confined spaces, and then one day several pairs of rough hands throwing him into a pile of debris outside a gloomy stone building with a high wall. He lay in the pile of junk until a man in a soldier’s uniform kicked him and told him to get away. All he could do was nod and obligingly start walking away.

  He had other flashes too—somewhere in his mind he saw water, a large gray ship, and a man with a fair face. He didn’t understand. Was he supposed to know that face? He must know it from somewhere.

  Something in that face brought him images of love and warmth, but every time the face came close, it would suddenly draw away and become indistinct. Other images flashed through his mind, too unclear to make out: a large mansion and a woman who was very kind to him. They were somewhere in the city, and all he knew was he had to go to them.

  He spent two days trudging on ragged boots, searching for the house pictured in his cloudy memory. Toward evening on the second day, he found the house and used the last of his strength to knock on the heavy oak, praying that the friendly faces in his mind would answer the door and give him a clue as to who he was and where he had been. Nobody answered.

  He crouched down in the doorway and finally fell asleep.

  A pair of heavy boots kicked his rump as he huddled in the doorway of the abandoned mansion. Mumbling, he stirred, rubbed his eyes, and looked up to see who had kicked him. A pair of armed soldiers towered above him, ready to strike him with the toe of their boots again, or perhaps even the butts of their rifles. One of the soldiers, in an act of rare kindness, helped him to stand, which he did on unsteady feet. The light of a street lamp shone on the man’s face, and the two soldiers looked at him with silent contempt. He was exhausted from lack of sleep, and his head felt heavy, as if he were in a dream. He knew his face and long ragged beard we
re as unwashed as his clothing, which was torn in several places. He looked up into the face of one of the soldiers, who picked up his rifle in threat.

  “You can’t sleep here! This house has been appropriated in the name of the revolution, so don’t even think of trying to break in—it’ll go worse for you,” the guard warned as he grasped him by the arm and nearly shoved him down the steps. “Move on, and don’t let us catch you back here again.”

  While the soldier was speaking, a truck turned the corner and almost ran him over as he stumbled across the wet street. He sat down on a bench across from the house. He was light-headed from lack of food and proper rest. The soldiers couldn’t move him away from a public bench. Looking up from where he sat, he saw the truck had stopped and several men and women had climbed out of the back and stomped up the limestone steps of the mansion. The double doors swung open, exposing a darkened interior.

  He dozed off for what felt like hours, until voices and footsteps roused him. He opened his heavy eyelids and focused on the house across the street. A procession of people back and forth from the house carried rugs, furniture, paintings, and even clothing and piled them into the back of another truck that had pulled up.

  On instinct, he wanted to defend the house, but reaching into his pocket, he found his weapon gone. He sank back on the bench, defeated. He felt the sting of rain on his face, and he prayed the people would leave soon.

  It was starting to grow dark and the rain was forming puddles around him by the time the trucks rumbled away. Staggering across the street and back up the stairs, he found the handles of the door bound with heavy chain and a padlock. He leaned against the oak in what might have been either a faint or a gesture of despair. Then he went around the side of the building and found a window banging open in the wind. It nearly sapped the last of his strength, but he climbed through the broken window.

  Inside, he let his eyes adjust. He stood in what was once the dining room. Only one chair remained, its seat torn to shreds, but he sat down anyway and leaned against the fireplace, watching the curtains rise and fall in the wind.

  Using the remaining outside light, he searched the house for food, but he found nothing. He hadn’t eaten in so long that his stomach rumbled. Exploring the vacant house further, he found a mattress and torn wool blanket on the third floor. It was the first time in months he’d felt a comfortable bed under his body. He tried to keep alert if anyone should return to the house and discover him, but he fell into a deep sleep.

  Bright sunlight coming in through a window made him squint when he at last opened his eyes. He got up from the old mattress and stretched. On unsteady feet, he sat down on the top of the stairway landing and pulled out a crust of bread he’d saved—he remembered now, someone had given it to him as he’d huddled by the doorway before he’d fallen asleep. He ate slowly to savor every bite until it was gone. Feeling better, he stood up, and grasping the handrail, he went down to the next floor.

  He used the daylight to explore the rest of house for anything left behind he might use, or perhaps even sell for food. The rooms were empty except for broken pieces of furniture, torn papers, books, and broken china scattered over the marble floors. He stopped and leaned against a paneled wall to steady himself. This building felt familiar, but his mind was so fuzzy he couldn’t explain why he was acquainted with it. Using the wall, he let himself slide to the floor, holding his head and trying to remember.

  The house stood empty now, but someone had lived here recently. No sign was left as to where they had gone. He suddenly became distracted when he spotted something shiny on the floor at the end of the hall. Slowly he walked over and bent down to look: it was a shattered mirror surrounded by the fragments of an art nouveau frame. Picking up a broken piece of glass, he looked down but didn’t recognize the reflection staring back at him. It looked like someone he knew in some distant past, underneath the dirty beard and dull eyes. He had hoped the people who lived here would help him know his name—that hope was gone.

  He dropped the piece of glass and sank down on the floor. He sat, rocking on his knees, hot tears running down his dirty face, unsure how to respond to the call deep within himself. All he knew was he had to get to a train or a boat, and then head west to a place called France or England.

  Climbing slowly back to the third floor and the mattress, he pulled the blanket over his shivering body and dreamed. In the dream he saw a handsome fair-haired young man smiling and stretching out a hand to him; the man looked just like an angel. He asked the young man, “Who are you, and who am I?”

  To which the angelic man replied, “You know who you are. Why have you forgotten?”

  He felt ashamed that he couldn’t answer, and he looked down at the holes in his boots. The angel seemed to be on the verge of mentioning his name, when he was jolted awake by a sound from somewhere in the house.

  Throwing the blanket aside, he jumped up with surprising strength. He walked to the landing at the top of the stairs and strained to listen. Several voices drifted up from the main floor. An image flashed through his brain of the fair-haired angel and a house, with soldiers riding up a long road. Funny I should remember that.

  He leaned on the banister. Three, perhaps four separate voices sounded from below, all men, their heavy shoes clomping on the main floor. They were on the stairs, coming up, but what they were doing there he couldn’t determine. It sounded as if they were disappointed to find the house empty. They were coming closer to the third floor, where he was standing.

  He removed his boots and crept to a narrow door at the farthest end of the hall. He didn’t know why, but he knew that this door led to a staircase used by the servants. He opened it, ducked behind, and shut it just as the footsteps came up to his floor. He turned the lock on the door in time to hear the men walking up and down the hall. He put his ear to the thin door and listened. They were looking for bourgeois valuables and were disappointed to discover someone had been there before them. They talked angrily among themselves for several minutes, and finally they stomped out of the house, slamming the heavy door behind them.

  The sound of his exhaling breath echoed in the dusty servants’ staircase. He shut the door behind him, and was grateful for his close shave. He searched the rest of the house, and in a bedroom wardrobe he found clothing hanging overlooked in a corner. He didn’t know why, but a soldier’s uniform felt more comfortable to him than this ill-fitting suit.

  Was he a soldier at one time?

  HE LIVED in the abandoned mansion for several days, only once venturing out to obtain a bit of food, for which he’d traded an unbroken china cup he’d found in the servant’s quarters. Finally, after days of hiding and thinking, he trudged across the street and stopped to take a last look at the house in which he was sure so much had happened. One thought stayed in his mind since he had been there, and that was finding a train to the west. Somehow he knew the fair-haired angel was waiting for him.

  Several blocks away from the house, he stood in front of the Hotel Europe. This was another place he felt he should know, and maybe someone inside would know his identity. He was mistaken; his presence was unwelcome, and he was asked to leave the premises.

  On worn soles, he shuffled outside to the street and stopped to watch a group of men gathered on the corner with rifles in hand. He stood still to look at one of them, a handsome and outspoken young man in an Army cap. He knew the man’s name, but like everything else it was shrouded in a fog. The young man was facing him, and the twinkle in his eyes showed a flicker of recognition, but then the man laughed and continued his conversation with his comrades on the corner.

  Shuffling away, he was stopped by a light hand on his shoulder. The tension in his body melted away when a well-dressed young woman pressed a ten-ruble note into his hand.

  “Spasibo… spasibo…,” he whispered. The young woman smiled warmly and got into an automobile waiting at the curb. Clutching the money, he walked away toward the sound of a distant train whistle.


  Ten rubles wasn’t quite enough to purchase a ticket westward, so he hid himself under a canvas sheet among the crates and luggage in the rear coach. He was dreaming about his fair-haired angel, when he was jolted awake by the jerking motion of the train as it began moving. Through a crack in the car’s siding, he watched Petrograd recede into the distance as the train began picking up speed. He crawled back under the canvas and tried to sleep.

  When he opened his eyes and lifted the canvas back, he found the light through the cracks in the boxcar was growing dimmer. Again through the same crack in the wall he saw nothing but gray clouds, trees, and endless countryside. He was hungry, and in a sack propped up in a corner, he found several loaves of bread. He looked to the right and left. They wouldn’t miss one loaf.

  Chapter 21

  BENJAMIN LEANED on the rail of the hospital ship, his face into the wind as the ship plowed forward. He turned up the collar of his overcoat, and a young doctor standing near him on the rail remarked, “I was led to believe that this part of the world was warm, even at this time of year.”

  “That’s a line that Baedeker’s uses to fool the tourists who buy their guidebooks.”

  The doctor laughed and moved to stand next to Benjamin. He offered Benjamin a cigarette from an ivory case, which he accepted. The doctor, who introduced himself as John Mason, made endless small talk while Benjamin watched the waves whipped up by the weather in the Channel as they neared Le Havre.

  “I’ve always been a good sailor,” he remarked to the wind, not facing John Mason.

  “Is this your first trip through the strait?”

  “No, I’ve made two or three so far. What about you, Mason?”

  “It’s my first time. I worked at an Army convalescent hospital in London, but the Army sent me here,” Mason said before the bow took a plunge into the trough of a wave that threw the two men together. Mason’s hand lingered, but Benjamin moved away. His thoughts still strayed thousands of miles away to the east. His mother’s last letter informed him that she had heard nothing from Sergei.