‘Can you kiss me farewell too, madame? I am a little scared of dying.’
She bent and kissed his damp hair, which smelled of cordite. ‘Adieu, my proud little champenois.’
‘Adieu,’ he whispered, and she felt the tension leave his slim frame and his body leaned lifeless against her.
Sophie believed that in the next moment she had made a silent plea to the heavens to forgive this carnage. Instead, fully unaware in her despair, she had turned her face to the heavens and issued a guttural cry of anguish that made the tendons of her neck strain and her throat turn raw. The noise of despair, however, was lost to the roar of the guns and a different form of desperation as the German army made a last massive push to claim Marne and open the way to Paris.
The explosions all around her attested that no vineyard, no innocents, no conscience mattered any more . . . only winning.
As he lurched through the mud, which was at least crusty in parts at this time of the year, Charlie’s vision was compromised by smoke, dust and especially his state of mind. He was not scared – he knew that much; he welcomed the killing explosion or the flying piece of shrapnel. But while both legs still moved and his mind remained active, albeit blurred, he was obliged to keep moving. It was his duty to do so. He had no helmet, but he now had a rifle, which he didn’t remember picking up from a fallen soldier who would not miss it. He already missed his own.
As he tried to piece together the jigsaw of this day so far, from images and vague recollections of being in and out of consciousness, he felt the land disappear. Charlie was sure it was another mortar shell exploding, but when he felt the shock of water it took him a moment or two to understand that he had slipped down the canal’s muddied bank and into the filth and freeze of the Aisne. Though unpleasant, the sensations brought him some clarity and a tiny prick of elation that he knew where he was. His mind felt as though it was clearing; he could hear voices in the near distance, all speaking German. He had to presume he was surrounded by the enemy now and the canal was his only chance of survival, slim though it may be. Debris bumped around him – mostly floating timber that he presumed to be the remains of boats. He wished he knew where on the canal he was. It was no use staggering around in the shallow water and hoping not to be noticed; the best cover, he reasoned, was hugging the bank, and so he paddled towards it, only now noticing that his left hand was not working; it looked mauled. He couldn’t remember how it had happened, and that was likely, he decided, because he couldn’t feel it just now.
The Germans were definitely closer, almost at the canal’s edge, and the water – only as high as his knees – was not deep enough for him to disappear beneath. The canal after years of warfare was now almost dry, littered with muck and the occasional rotting barge hulk. They would surely spot him if they looked into the river. His rifle was wet, he had no mask, and his only other weapon was his bayonet, which so far had enjoyed its most use opening cans and killing rats in the trenches. Charlie turned and then glanced back to where he saw what remained of one of those abandoned barges once used for floating goods down the canal. It was smashed up in parts but still upright, if leaning badly in the shallows. He needed to make a decision, and without trying to think through his options he quickly launched back into the water and half paddled, half lurched to its blind side. Around the hull he spotted a small enemy group emerging from the murk of the battlefield. Far too close for comfort.
Again, without trying to second-guess himself, Charlie moved as far away from the group as possible, behind the cover of the barge, and with difficulty, hauled himself slowly onto its flat, shallow deck. Crawling inch by inch he located the manhole and lowered himself into the small hold.
As he took a silent, shallow breath he turned to find himself face to face with a soldier. He was German.
11
Sophie was uncharacteristically teary as morning arrived but she forgave herself for it. The death of young Henri had affected her deeply; his loss seemed to represent this war in the most poignant way. Innocence, hope, patriotism – it all felt useless. Henri had possessed all of those and none had saved him from the enemy’s death blow, which others now believed had been a stray mortar, not aimed at the vineyard. There had been no other explosions in the field, but that single blast had taken with it all her faith. Why Henri? Why then? Why would a stray mortar find him when he was trying to help save her vines? Why did Jerome have to disappear? Why? was the worst question to ask during this war because there was never an answer.
She was back underground, tending to those in the hospital. She’d tried to distract herself by making a fresh inventory of stock with some of the other nurses, working out what would need to be rationed. Most of the seriously wounded would be taken to the battalion doctor, who was located near Gaston’s post. There they would be tagged and assessed. Those chosen to be sent back to the city would go by divisional ambulance to the underground hospital in the hope that they could be further cared for, or at least kept as comfortable as possible until they passed away.
Gaston had scribbled a note, sent with his runner, to her personally to ensure she understood that the number of casualties would be large and the wounds horrific. The youth who had brought it was wide-eyed and exhausted. Apparently, he was emotional, not because of the battle, but because he couldn’t remember how to say her name. He had no French, but a passer-by had helped him and recognised the name on the note.
‘Are you all right, madame?’
‘Yes, I shall be fine,’ she told one of the senior volunteer nurses. ‘Where’s that Algerian?’
‘Eating breakfast, I’m told. Eating our tunnels out of food, apparently. He’s only seventeen.’ It was said kindly and both women found sad, silent smiles that were gone in a blink.
‘Don’t send him back too fast. I can’t have another lad on my conscience.’
The woman nodded sympathetically. Everyone had lost dear ones.
‘Henri was a very sweet, if a little serious, child. I think if he could hear you now, then what you say, even with his tender years, would make him proud.’
She shook her head. ‘He should not have been in that vineyard with me; he insisted but I should have said no.’
The nurse said no more but gestured towards some fresh bandages. ‘May I, madame?’
‘Of course. But —’
‘I know. I shall be sparing . . . and selective.’
Sophie swallowed, hating herself for being forced to choose between lives. ‘Have we heard from the Curies?’
‘Yes. They wish to stay a little longer after the shock of the bombings.’
She sighed. ‘They know we’ll be getting so many desperate casualties.’
The woman nodded and reached for a pen to record the dressings she was removing from the storeroom. ‘Perhaps Madame Curie could telephone Paris for us?’
‘I’ll ask. If anyone can get us more equipment, she can.’
Moving through the tunnels, Sophie made a point of stopping at various points along the way. She visited the two small schoolrooms; as she passed by she lifted a hand to the woman behind the counter of the café she regularly frequented, and then called by a couple of the older people whose men had been favourite workers of hers. It struck Sophie as incredible that people could still be so cheerful in these circumstances. Of course, they had not just held a brave child in their arms as he died, and nor would she make them suffer the knowledge that she had, but even so, she took some inspiration from their resilience and lack of complaint.
‘You need some fresh air,’ she advised old Madame Dellaport.
‘I have no desire to breathe in the cordite,’ the old girl grumbled but without any real rancour. ‘I prefer the damp chalk of our beloved cellars, madame.’
‘I think I do too.’ Sophie smiled, squeezing her elder’s arm. She risked it. ‘Any news from Jean-Paul?’
The woman’s eyes lit up and she drew a letter from her apron pocket. ‘Yes. He is managing to stay alive. This is dated from
nine days ago. I hold on to hope, Madame Delancré.’
‘As you should,’ she urged her. ‘I’m glad his letter got through so fast.’
‘I told him in my last one about your concert.’
Sophie waved a dismissive hand as though it were the last thing on her mind.
‘Oh, please tell me we shall still go ahead. We are all counting down the hours. The musicians are already here, are they not?’
‘They are, but I was thinking of cancelling out of —’
‘Oh, no, madame! Please! It will cheer us all.’
She frowned. ‘Let me ask the others who are involved. So long as it’s not disrespectful.’
‘To whom?’ The woman shrugged. ‘The dead don’t care. The living will have their spirits lifted to hear music.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it that way.’
‘Well, do!’ her elder admonished her. ‘I’ve washed out my dress,’ she added.
Sophie left. She’d better find the mayor and ask his opinion on the concert. Perhaps bright music was precisely the sort of defiance that was required. And the orchestra had already arrived. She would dedicate the concert to Henri and she would not sleep . . . not until every last wounded soldier had been cared for.
Charlie rolled over swiftly and instinctively covered the German’s mouth with his hand. The soldier’s eyes bulged behind their lids and Charlie noted the pain in them. He glanced across the man’s body and could see, even in this dull light, that the German was bleeding. He put a finger to his lips and stared at the man, who nodded with understanding. Gradually, testing him first, he eased the pressure of his hand on his enemy’s mouth. All the man did was sigh softly as he was released.
‘My name is Charlie,’ he murmured in German, once again glad of his grammar education and his ability with languages.
The man’s eyes widened. ‘Willi,’ he responded softly. ‘I have no English,’ he admitted.
‘Let me see to your leg,’ Charlie offered, continuing in German.
The man didn’t have the strength to be impressed. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m tired of killing.’
‘Me too.’
Charlie frowned. ‘How old are you?’
‘I shall be forty tomorrow.’
Charlie nodded sadly. The man looked older to him. ‘Not much of a birthday.’
‘This will be my fourth in this war if I survive until then.’
‘Why wouldn’t you?’
‘Because we both know you have to kill me.’
‘I’m not going to kill you. I told you —’
‘You must. I would kill you.’
‘I doubt that, Willi. We know each other now.’ He couldn’t believe he actually winked. ‘That would be rude.’
Charlie found an old rag nearby and used his teeth to rip it in half to make a tourniquet. Together they tied it above Willi’s knee and Charlie covered the man’s mouth when he sensed the injured German might cry out. Again, Willi nodded, and when released he breathed out the pain.
‘The tourniquet will slow it, but won’t stop it. You need help,’ Charlie said.
‘Shall I call for it?’ Willi whispered, finding a grin. They could both hear German voices nearby.
Charlie returned the amusement, amazed that he could. ‘I’d rather you didn’t. Are you hurt anywhere else?’
Willi nodded and pulled back his jacket where another hole had been blown in his side, also bleeding wetly. ‘I’m not for this world any more, you see, Charlie.’
‘Try harder so I’m not wasting my time while your friends look for me.’
‘Are they?’
He shook his head. ‘No. But I’m the last one left, I think. Everyone’s disappeared or dead.’
‘I wish we could all just stop.’
‘Every soldier feels the same way, I’m sure.’
‘I have a daughter I’ve never seen.’
Charlie ignored his own wound and got busy trying to staunch the bleeding of his new friend. ‘You have to help me, Willi, because my hand is suddenly useless.’ He began to suspect his efforts were hopeless but he banished the thought and worked on anyway. ‘Tell me about her.’
‘We called her Agnes, after my grandmother.’
‘Agnes,’ he repeated with a smile. ‘Well, you think of your little girl and stay alive for her.’ Willi winced as Charlie bound him as best he could.
‘Why aren’t you married? You’re a good-looking man.’
Charlie gave a mirthless murmur of a laugh. ‘I’ve enjoyed women. Never met “the one”.’
‘You haven’t looked hard enough.’
‘Probably not.’ He’d not admitted such a thought to himself, let alone out loud to a stranger. Somehow with Willi it didn’t matter being so frank.
‘If you survive, you must find her.’
‘I promise.’ He grinned.
‘What now, Charlie? The voices are getting closer.’
He was right. The men sounded as though they were right next to the barge. He listened closely to their conversation and worked out that one was wondering aloud whether they should check inside.
‘Still feeling like you must call them?’
Willi shook his head. ‘But go, or you will be shot. They are not in the mood to take prisoners and I’m sure they’ll feel obliged to look in here.’
He nodded, bent down and kissed both of Willi’s cheeks. ‘Stay alive, my friend. I’ll look you up after the war. My name is Charles Nash.’
‘Wilhelm Becker from Bavaria. My town is Freising, a pretty place not far from Munich . . . best beer in the world. It’s called Weihenstephaner. Can you remember that?’ Charlie dutifully repeated it. ‘Good. We shall drink together in peacetime.’
They clasped hands. It seemed so ridiculous that he felt closer to Willi, his enemy, in this moment than any other person, living or dead, from his life. ‘Think of Agnes,’ he reiterated. ‘Give me two minutes to get away and then call to your fellow soldiers. They’ll get help for you.’
‘I’ll distract them for you too,’ Willi grinned and winced again. His breathing was laboured. ‘Charlie?’
He looked back.
Willi pointed over his left shoulder. ‘There’s a hole back there. If they’re on the bank, they won’t be able to see you. Head in that direction down the canal —’ he pointed — ‘towards Courtine Basse. The French snatched it back earlier. There’s a culvert . . . use that.’
Charlie didn’t understand all the words – his schoolboy German wasn’t that sophisticated – but he grasped enough and nodded his thanks before gingerly standing up. He let go of Willi’s hand and moved towards escape.
Gaston had watched as gas and explosives raged through the dark hours, and when dawn began its creep across the sky, the German infantry began its move. He had looked on with increasing horror as the Germans made rapid progress towards the canal, destroying the British lines as they roared through.
By midday the British had fallen back, lines broken, men dying, whole units lost. As Gaston picked up his field glasses yet again, one of his men arrived, breathless.
‘What now?’ he asked in Arabic. The terse tone was unavoidable today.
‘The sous-officier sent me to fetch you, sir. We have pulled a strange man from the water.’
‘What strange man?’
The soldier pointed to his temple. ‘He has lost his mind, sir.’ He shrugged. ‘Dressed in an English uniform, we think, but not speaking English . . . or French.’
‘British uniform? You realise that’s impossible?’
‘Come, sir, please.’
They’d got it wrong, Gaston was convinced, because the Germans had cut off the English; he would have had to break past their lines to reach this position, but he followed his soldier to where a man, who was indeed wearing a British uniform, was babbling in German. Fluent in the language, Gaston could tell this man was using very basic words that suggested he had only a bare knowledge of it; he was not the enemy. He was, however, wounde
d, and was slumped on the ground between Gaston’s men, who had encircled him and were watching him warily.
‘Who are you?’ he said in French, shaking the man’s shoulder.
‘Err . . .’ He shook his head.
‘Regiment?’
The familiar command seemed to snap him into focus somewhat. ‘Tigers. Everyone’s dead,’ he said. The wounded man fell forward and Gaston caught him, sighing at the blood that spilled all over his mustard-green sleeve.
He called for the salts. One of his Tirailleurs ran off. Gaston held on to the wounded soldier, who leaned his head against him. He thought the man said ‘thank you’, but he couldn’t be sure. His runner returned with a small blue bottle. He waved the salts beneath the man’s nostrils and waited for the inevitable kickback of the fellow’s head. It came soon enough.
‘Try again. What’s your name, soldier?’
The wounded fellow remained silent but frowned as though trying to remember. ‘Charlie, I think.’
Gaston ran out of patience. ‘Any ambulances?’ he snapped, exasperated, but this time in Arabic to the men gathered around. They shook heads.
‘Another couple of hours, sir, perhaps,’ one replied.
‘I want a tourniquet onto that arm above the elbow, and then this man is to be taken to the toubib. Get him gone. He’s the battalion hospital’s problem now.’
12
REIMS
9 p.m.
Sophie glanced across the largest of the caves and saw Gaston.
All day it had seemed as though a balloon was inflating within her chest, pressing against her ribs and crowding her organs. She hadn’t realised how tightly she was holding her body: everything clenching instinctively, with despair over Henri and worry for her cousin. And now to see his crooked smile over the heads of the audience, it felt as though the balloon had been punctured. All the air rushed out of it, returning her insides to their rightful positions and forcing her to inwardly slump and bend her head as her anxiety was released. Sophie heard sighs of pleasure and soft claps of congratulations from other guests, who too were relieved to see the commandant safely back in the city. His Algerian troops were popular simply due to the collective appreciation that people from far away had come to France’s aid. But that these men were led by one of their own – not just French, but a man of Reims – well, Gaston could always raise a cheer . . . from women especially, she thought.
The Champagne War Page 15
