by Charles Todd
And then there were the men under the Major. What had they been told?
I was to have my answer to that a few days later.
We had been busy all morning and well into the afternoon. Then there were a few blessed minutes of grace, and I went to my quarters to change my bloody apron for a fresh one when a woman’s voice called my name. I turned to see Diana hurrying toward me.
Because our own homes were scattered across England, four other nurses and I had taken a flat together in Mrs. Hennessey’s London house, converted to flats for the duration of the war. A widow, Mrs. Hennessey was strict with her young ladies, and it was a comfort to know that we were in good hands when one of us arrived late at night, tired and thankful not to have to find an hotel or face a longer journey elsewhere when we had scarcely twenty-four hours of leave.
Diana threw her arms around me, crying, “I can’t believe it’s you! Bess? We were so worried. When your mother wrote to say you were recovering, I was afraid to open the letter for two days.” She scanned my face. “Still a little tired, I see. I was afraid you might come back too soon.”
I held her at arm’s length. “You’re absolutely blooming yourself.”
She blushed a little. “Bess, wish me happy! I’ll be married this time next year. I wasn’t sure you’d seen the announcement in the Times.”
“But that’s tremendous news. I wish you both a glorious life together. You deserve it.”
“Thank you. I’m so grateful you didn’t want him for yourself. You could have had him, you know.”
I laughed. “Diana. The instant he saw you, I was forgotten. Love at first sight, if ever I witnessed such a thing. And how are the others? Mrs. Hennessey?”
“She is flourishing, Mary is back in France after her bout with influenza, and the others are due for leave any day now.”
“I’m so glad.”
“Your family? My dearest Simon?”
It was a long-standing joke between us. Simon sometimes took her to dinner when I wasn’t in London, and Diana swore he did it to make me jealous. And I could see that she thoroughly enjoyed those invitations. Perhaps more so than she had been willing to admit until another man had come into her life. “They’re well, thank goodness.” I hoped it was true in Simon’s case. I was still waiting for word.
We exchanged news of other friends, and then Diana said, “Wasn’t Major Carson in your father’s regiment?”
Surprised to hear her bring up his name, I replied warily, “Yes, indeed. In fact, I called on Julia Carson, just before I returned to France.”
“What I’m about to tell you won’t be for her ears, but the Colonel might wish to know. There’s a whisper going around. That he’s deserted.”
She was using the present tense. As if she hadn’t heard that Vincent Carson was dead. My shock must have been reflected in my face. “I—I can’t imagine such a thing. Major Carson? No, there must be some mistake . . .” I let my voice trail off, encouraging her to go on.
“The story I overheard was that he was pulled from his sector for a special assignment and never made his rendezvous.”
“Good heavens.” It was all I could think to say. Collecting my wits, I added, “He—he’s such a very conscientious man. There’s even talk that one day he’ll follow my father as Colonel. I can’t think what would cause him to desert.”
“Yes, well, you know how gossip is. The only thing I could think of was shell shock, and that he has no idea who or where he is. I met him at that dinner party your mother gave just after war was declared. If he hadn’t already been married to Julia, I’d have set my cap at him.”
“The two of you would never suit,” I said drily, grateful she’d changed the subject.
“True. Well, I must drive an ambulance to Rouen. The man who should be doing it collapsed two hours ago. Pneumonia. And then I have ten days’ leave. I could fly to Dover at the very thought.”
I said quickly, “Could you carry a message for me? If I was quick about it? I don’t want it going through the censors.”
“A love letter? Bess, who is the lucky man? I’d heard there was an Australian in your life. Is he history now?”
“This is to Simon. I have to get information to him and have been racking my brain to find a way.”
“I have less than two minutes.”
“Yes, of course.” I ran to my quarters, scrabbled in my valise for pen and paper and an envelope, then scribbled what Diana had told me on the sheet. There was no time to reread it. I sealed it in the envelope and wrote the direction on it, praying that he would be at his cottage to receive it. If he wasn’t, my parents always collected his post in his absences, so that no one would realize he was away so often.
Breathless, I hurried back to Diana, gave her the letter, and watched her drive off with her usual care for the patients in the back, one of them the regular driver.
Quickly changing, I went back to my duties, regretting only that Diana and I had had so little time together. I’d have liked to hear more about her wedding plans and remind her that I would like to be included in the wedding party.
I was dazed with fatigue when I finished my shift, and collapsed on my cot, falling into a deep sleep.
Toward morning I dreamed that I had gone into the shed where the dead were taken to look for Major Carson, anxious to find his body before the charge of desertion was brought against him. Certain that if I could show his broken neck to his commanding officer, I could clear his name. But what I found instead was Private Wilson hanging there, his body already limp in death, his face gorged with blood, making him nearly unrecognizable. I’d had to peer at him, and as the corpse swung at the end of the rope, his hand touched me and I screamed.
Sister Colter said, “Really, Bess, you told me to wake you at six.”
I came awake with a start, looking up at her. “I’m so sorry,” I managed to say. “I must not have heard you calling me.”
“You were so deeply asleep you wouldn’t have heard a cavalry charge,” she agreed, and was gone, leaving me to wash my face and put on my uniform.
I was still shaken by the dream as I gulped a cup of tea, then hurried to deal with the line of men waiting for attention.
There was still no response from Simon by the end of the week, and I wasn’t sure where he was. A letter had come from my mother, letting me know that everyone was well, and there had been no mention of Simon being away so long. Either he was at home and safe, or she was being circumspect.
And then the next morning as I walked into the surgical tent, I saw his tall figure just ahead of me.
Simon was making his way down the row of severely wounded men, stopping at each cot, speaking quietly to the men who were conscious, simply looking down at the ones who were not. When he reached the end of the line, he turned back and saw me.
According to my mother, both Simon and my father visited the wounded often, and without fanfare, wherever they happened to be.
There was something about both men that made them popular wherever they went, and their compassion for the ill and the dying was infinite. They had been soldiers with impressive records themselves, but it went beyond that. War seemed to forge a brotherhood that made someone like Captain Barclay claim he was healing even when it was a lie. Even when he knew that going back to France might well end in his own death.
I watched as Simon had a word for each man, making one or two of them smile, and he offered comfort to those who were suffering in grim silence.
I waited until he came up to me. Nodding, he said, “Outside?”
I followed him into a dusk lit by artillery flashes. Once or twice, I could see bursts of machine-gun fire. He turned his back to that, saying, “I must be brief. I’m supposed to be in Dover. I got your message. It seems that orders came down from HQ to send Carson as liaison to the French forces. He must never have reached the meeting with his opposite number—but the odd thing is, whoever that was, he never reported Carson missing. What’s more, no one can be certain
where the order originated. The signature is a scrawl.”
“That explains how his murderer got to him, doesn’t it?” I responded softly. “Once out of the lines, following a guide he didn’t know, he could have been lured to his death. But why? Why kill Major Carson?”
“There are bodies and wounded men everywhere. No one notices one more.”
“Private Wilson did. And was killed because of it.”
“I want you to make a list, as comprehensive as you can, of everyone who was in and out of that aid station.”
“Simon, do you realize how impossible that is?” I expostulated.
“I don’t mean the dead and dying. Orderlies who were there for a week or more are not likely candidates either, and a Sister couldn’t break Carson’s neck. He was too strong, too tall.”
“Private Wilson would have known such things.” I shut my eyes. Searching faces in my memory. After a moment I shook my head. “I may not have seen him. This killer has no face so far,” I said finally. “I’ll keep trying, but it’s a needle in the proverbial haystack.”
“And possibly the only lead we’ll have.”
He touched my shoulder in a comradely gesture. “Take care, Bess, whatever you do. I don’t want to have to explain to your mother how it was you got hurt.”
And then he was gone, disappearing into the night.
When the next ambulances went south with wounded who could be moved, I asked if I could be the nurse in charge. Dr. Hicks looked at me, said, “You could use a few hours of respite,” and it was arranged.
I rode in the last ambulance, prepared to do what I could if we were forced to stop and attend to one of the men. It was a hard, jolting ride through mud and craters and ruts deeper than most axles, and was warm enough for the miasma to rise and envelop us with the unforgiving smells of the battlefield. I held on for dear life to avoid being shaken to death. But we reached our destination without mishap, blessedly everyone still alive.
Here was where I’d fallen so ill. Here was where Private Wilson had died. Had the staff changed? How many of them had survived?
I felt a wave of relief when I saw that Matron was the same woman I’d served with. She would be able to tell me about Private Wilson. After I’d turned my charges over to her, she invited me to her room for a cup of tea.
I hadn’t expected the rush of emotion that I’d felt as the aid station had come into view. I couldn’t help but wonder if matters would have been very different if my collapse had come an hour, even two, later and I’d had an opportunity to speak to her about what Private Wilson had shown me in the shed. Would he be alive now? Or would I simply have put Matron at risk too?
I tapped at her door, was admitted, and offered a chair.
“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you healthy once more,” she said warmly. “You gave us a terrible fright, you know.” In the lamp’s light I could see how worn she looked, and how tired.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’ve read about the great plagues of history,” she said. “I never dreamed I would experience one. We lost so many good people.”
“Did Private Wilson survive?” I asked, and immediately felt a surge of guilt for letting her assume I knew nothing about his death. “He handled so many bodies. I often wondered.”
“Haven’t you heard, my dear? He’s dead.”
“I wasn’t told,” I answered, which was true—I’d asked Simon to find out what had become of him. “He was always ready to do whatever we asked. Such a good man. Was it a lingering death or a kind one?”
Frowning, she said, “Odd that you should ask.” She looked down at the chart in front of her, then raised her eyes to meet mine. “After you were taken ill, he came looking for you, but you were too feverish to answer whatever question he had intended to ask. Instead he left a message for me. I’d been awakened early—there was an emergency, you see—and before I was free to speak to him, one of his stretcher bearers came rushing into my office to say that Private Wilson had hanged himself in the shed. Dr. Harrison suggested that he’d begun to feel ill, that’s why he’d sought a nurse. Then as his symptoms progressed, and he realized what lay in store, he decided to end it while he was still able. I was there when he was cut down, and I myself closed his eyes.”
“Did you agree with Dr. Harrison’s view?” A surgeon, he’d worked mainly with the wounded.
Looking away toward the door, she said, “I must say, as far as anyone knew, he didn’t appear to be presenting symptoms. No fever, no aches, no dizziness. And so I’ve wondered, you know, if I’d been available, rather than having to put him off, perhaps I could have done something for him—given him an opportunity to tell me what was on his mind. I don’t know if I could have helped, but I’d have tried. I did wonder if there was a problem at home. Several people asked for compassionate leave when their wives or a child died of the influenza.”
But there had been no problem at home. I’d spoken to Mrs. Wilson.
“I don’t know that anyone could have helped him,” I said gently.
“Do you remember the onset of your symptoms?” she asked, turning back to me.
“Not really. Great fatigue, but we were all unbelievably tired, weren’t we? A headache, I think. Dizziness.”
“You told Sister Burrows that you felt cold, unable to warm yourself. And then you fainted. Your temperature climbed rapidly.”
Surprised, I said, “I don’t remember fainting. Or being so cold. But perhaps Dr. Harrison is right. Private Wilson knew what was coming and that he had to act quickly.”
“I’ve tried to comfort myself with that thought. But there will always be that little niggling doubt.”
There was no way I could assuage that sense of guilt. Not without telling her the whole truth. I could only agree that he was the last person I could imagine doing such a thing.
“We can’t read minds, can we?” She took a deep breath. “I was glad it was not my duty to write to his wife. Dr. Bennett broke the news as gently as he could. “
“I don’t remember Dr. Bennett,” I said.
“No? He’d hardly arrived here when he was ordered to another station. Three of their doctors died in the epidemic.” She finished her tea. “I must make my rounds,” she said. “And you are needed elsewhere. It was good of you to come and see me, Sister Crawford.”
And five minutes later, the ambulance, washed down and ready to go back the way we’d come, was there at the ward door.
I had remembered nothing useful by coming here, I thought as we bounced and skidded over the broken ground. All I had confirmed was that Private Wilson had indeed killed himself. Or so it appeared. And perhaps he had, after all.
And then as if once I’d stopped trying, the memories crowded in, memories I hadn’t looked for because I hadn’t remembered they were there.
The man with the bandaged shoulder. I’d been standing outside the ward for a moment on that last evening before I fell ill. Another Sister had joined me there, both of us struggling with exhaustion and hoping to find in the fresh air, away from the odors of death and disease, a brief, desperately needed renewal. Yes, and I could almost see again how stained and frayed the bandaging was. The man had gone into the small, makeshift canteen, and I’d wanted to stop him and tell him to see to that wound before it turned septic beneath the filthy dressing.
Had he?
For that matter, was it truly a hasty field dressing? Or was it a disguise? There were so many men coming and going, all of them wounded, that one more hardly warranted notice.
With two sisters standing not twenty feet away, why hadn’t he come to either of us to ask for help?
Sister, I’ve been waiting two hours or more, and nobody’s had a look at this shoulder. I’m fair famished for my tea, but it’s hurting like the very devil—begging your pardon, Sister—and I’m that light-headed from the pain . . .
We could have brought him his tea while the wound was being seen to. Why had he turned away?
Th
ere had been two officers passing by, limping.
Were they the reason he’d turned aside? Because he wasn’t wounded after all and had just put a dead man in the shed, where he should never have been found by Private Wilson or seen by me?
It was a shocking possibility.
“Stop!” I said to the driver of the ambulance. “We must go back. I—I’ve forgot to pick up something for Dr. Hicks.”
We had not come so great a distance that we couldn’t turn back, but ambulances were badly needed at the Front, and as the driver was reminding me, I ought not be using one for personal errands. But the question I needed to ask Matron would only take a moment, no more. Unless, of course, the Sister was still there.
Grumbling, my driver did as he was told, motioning the remainder of the convoy to continue on its way and reversing as soon as he could. I sat there, trying to recall which sister I’d been talking with. So much of those last few hours before my collapse seemed to be shrouded in a haze.
Sister Burrows, that was it. I’d liked her. We’d worked very well together.
The driver stopped not far from the ward where Matron had her office, and said, “I shan’t turn off the motor.”
A reminder that time was passing. I splashed through the muddy, torn yard and scraped my shoes before knocking at her door.
“Come,” she called, and I stepped in.
“Sister Crawford?” she said, surprised to see me. “Is there an emergency?”
“I had forgot—I have a message for Sister Burrows.” It was the only thing I could think of to explain my returning so impetuously.
Matron frowned, emphasizing how much these last weeks had aged her. “Didn’t you know? She died of the influenza not a week after you left us.”
