The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

  She could hear him apologising to people as he manoeuvred his way past their seats to where she stood, her back against the cool limestone wall, its familiar chalky smell giving her a sense of security she clung to. The German offensive was not yet twenty-four hours old, but this day had felt like a lifetime. The ignorance of what was happening above them, the shaking of the earth, the unrelenting sounds of weaponry. She couldn’t remember a fiercer day and she dared not dwell on the casualties that had begun to flow in as Gaston had predicted. She’d had to welcome the musicians into war instead of the quiet she’d promised.

  All that aside, the fact that Gaston was here, alive, grinning at her, was a balm.

  ‘Sophie? Are you unwell?’ He leaned an arm against the wall, searching her face, and she felt the space between them close – it was nearly an embrace. It was so welcome.

  She looked up, teary with relief, seeing him as though he stood on the other side of a rain-pelted window. ‘No . . . no, I shall be fine. It’s been . . .’ She couldn’t find the words to describe the loss of Henri, especially to a man who was having to see people he cared for die all too often. No, Henri was her ghost and his memory was hers alone to live with and grieve for . . . like Jerome’s. ‘I’m just glad you’re here.’

  Gaston pecked each cheek gently as people began to glance their way. ‘I told you, I won’t die if you promise to stay safe.’

  ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

  ‘And still you held the recital,’ he jested.

  ‘Gaston, don’t. I couldn’t —’

  ‘I know,’ he whispered, making her look straight at him again. ‘I know, Sophie. And I’m proud you have.’

  ‘Then don’t make light of it. Of course, you’ve missed the first half. Vivaldi. After intermission it’s all Mozart.’

  ‘I hate to tell you I was busy,’ he began, still in an ironic tone.

  She sighed. ‘You don’t have to explain anything. This is relief talking.’

  People moved to congratulate Gaston and speak with him about the battle above them. Sophie let him talk to the eager cave-dwellers, not really paying attention, focusing instead on the musicians who were returning for second-half tuning up . . . easier than thinking about a little boy. She listened to the tuneless, haphazard sounds that seemed to echo how she felt in her mind at present. There was no song. There was noise but no rhythm . . . just anxiety.

  ‘It’s been the bloodiest, most brutal fighting I’ve experienced in nearly four years,’ she heard Gaston admit to the mayor.

  ‘The Curies are not here for this splendid evening because they felt they could be more help at the hospital, given the casualties. For the rest of us, we feel helpless, and Madame Delancré insisted we press ahead.’

  ‘She was right to, Mayor.’

  There was more small talk and then the few musicians began to clear their throats, taking their formal positions as the pianist arrived. Sophie shook her head to think that they’d managed to set up a piano in the cellars. It sounded glorious, too.

  It was only now that she saw the telltale stains on his uniform. ‘Oh, Gaston, you’re hurt,’ she said, anxiously looking for a wound.

  He shook his head. ‘None of it is mine,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to do much more than use a flannel and brush my hair. I was eager to see you, to let you know I was alive, because I figured not knowing might ruin your evening.’ She glared at his grin. ‘All right, I’ll stop. Most of this,’ he said, looking at a large stain on his sleeve, ‘belongs to a curious fellow we dragged out of the canal.’

  ‘Curious? How?’

  ‘Because we don’t know how he came to be where he was. Anyway, he’s injured, not saying much, and from an English company, but he has excellent French.’

  The orchestra stopped its tuning notes and the mayor arrived on the makeshift stage. He apologised for interrupting proceedings and began to explain what Gaston had told him about the battle that had raged; no one minded because the fighting was in everyone’s thoughts.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman. I know we were all using the recital as a distraction for those of us who couldn’t offer assistance on the battlefield, and . . .’

  She couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘Gaston, can we leave?’

  She didn’t wait for an answer, threading a path around the back of the cave, making gentle apologies that she was feeling light-headed. Gaston obediently followed until they were in a dark, lonely part of the crayères.

  At his worried glance she shrugged. ‘I’m fine.’ The thinnest of watery light stole its way to where they stood as their eyes adjusted to the dim tunnel. ‘Tell me what happened.’ And for the first time since Gaston had shouldered his senior responsibilities when this war began, she watched the bravado leak out of him. He leaned back against the wall, steadying himself with the hand that emerged from the blood-soaked sleeve. She couldn’t stop staring at the drenched uniform, wondering at the man’s life that had leaked onto Gaston and which woman’s or child’s life – or both – had irrevocably changed because of it.

  ‘I’ve never experienced anything like it, Sophie, and I pray I never do again. It was carnage. It was as though the land outside Reims had become a special hell on earth. The devil was among us, killing gleefully and at random. I’m sure as many Germans lost their lives as our side. On the ridges, no one could see for the explosions; I’m sure most of the men were lost because they ran the wrong way, and who could blame them?’ He shook his head. ‘It began with German bombardment —’ and Sophie nodded, remembering it, and determined not to speak of Henri or her vineyard — ‘but they soon realised we’d set up a line of false trenches manned by only a few.’

  ‘A deception?’

  ‘Yes, our commander-in-chief put the strategy in place to buy time while the Germans emptied their artillery and their gas into the forward battle zone of cleared trenches. By the time it dawned on them and they reached our real front lines, we met them with ferocity. Our enemy suffered heavy casualties and this helped us to set up for a major counterattack.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘The Germans haven’t surrendered. They’re fighting on but they’re making only minor gains. I am anticipating a call from my superiors to confirm what we all suspect.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That we thought we were clever. Meanwhile, their whole offensive was a blind.’

  She frowned.

  ‘A bluff to distract our armies,’ he explained.

  Sophie looked back at him, horrified that any general would fling men like chopped wood into a fire in order to trick their enemy. ‘Distract us from where?’

  ‘Flanders,’ he answered, sounding weary. ‘We think the Germans have now decided the only effective way to Paris is via Belgium, and so they threw a big effort down here to distract us, because they knew we believed they wanted the easiest access to Paris. But they’re retreating now, back to trenches between the Aisne and Vesle rivers.’

  ‘Bon sang!’ Sophie covered her mouth in despair, words about Henri, killed through trickery, dying on her tongue. She sucked in a breath and finished her thought. ‘How many are now dead for the sake of a ruse?’

  ‘Thousands . . . on both sides. One lucky Englishman, though.’ He pointed to the blood on his sleeve.

  ‘So the real war is elsewhere.’

  He nodded. ‘The Germans are massing now for a final push out of Belgium.’

  She groaned. ‘It doesn’t feel pretend.’

  ‘No, and I can assure you that it doesn’t look make-believe either. I’ve recently sent another two dozen to the underground hospital, the Englishman among them.’ Sophie gave Gaston a fresh look of frustration. ‘What am I to do? They need care. Useless on the field, a burden to their company. Just do what you can to patch them up and send them out again. Some, of course, won’t make it through tonight, others we may just have to send home.’

  ‘Why can’t you send this English fellow to his own field hospital?’


  He gave a soft snort of bafflement. ‘Sophie, to be truthful, I don’t even know how he got as far into our territory as he did. He was with a regiment called the Leicesters, who were to our left. They’ve been obliterated from what I can tell. It is a miracle that he got through. Actually, he swam – or I should say half paddled, half waded – through waters considered enemy territory. He used the canal but don’t ask me how, because at some stage he would have needed to get out and run alongside Germans. No wonder he was muttering in that language. I realise now it was his only defence – his clever use of German and the misty weather helped him.’ He shook his head as if in awe.

  ‘What do you want us to do?’

  He shrugged. ‘Our medical facility at the front line is little more than a parcel force. Wrap, label, post,’ he quoted, with a shrug. ‘I sent him to the battalion doctor at our field hospital, and I presume he was tagged.’

  She nodded. ‘Probably red.’

  ‘I would have thought blue for surgery, but who am I to say? We couldn’t send him back to the British.’ He gave a helpless shrug. ‘The line was so badly crushed, no one knows where anyone else is . . . as it is, I’ve had to have some strings pulled just to be here but I have to go; I need to be with my men a few kilometres from here.’

  ‘I know. I asked a lot of you to be here.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay for the second half of the concert. Every man is needed at his post.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. I’d rather be useful too – I’ll go over and see this English soldier. Maybe my language skills can be of help.’ They wearily hugged farewell. ‘Please stay safe, Gaston,’ she whispered as he pulled away. He cut her a jaunty smile and disappeared into the dimly lit corridor, while she headed in the opposite direction.

  They’d all made the effort for the orchestral recital but now she imagined appearing foolish as she hurried through the corridors having to lift her skirt; although she wore no jewellery but her wedding ring, she was certainly in an outfit that caught attention. Normally she kept her clothes dark and plain, for mourning and modesty. This crimson she was dressed in, though appropriate for the concert, felt far too loud all of a sudden.

  Unlike Gaston’s uniform, it would have masked the blood though, and she now went in search of the man who had bled it.

  He would not talk. It had been two days since his arrival. The Curies had left, the musicians with them, and he had been among those X-rayed, with damaged bones in that mangled arm. Men had died around him with regularity in the hospital, but he had not shifted from his position on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The nursing team had tried to get him to speak. Even Gaston had tried again but the English soldier – their only British wounded – may not have been aware that all around him men had called out, taken final breaths, groaned in their morphine-induced sleep, while he made no sound.

  ‘He never closes his eyes,’ a volunteer admitted. ‘It’s unsettling.’

  ‘Maybe he does not dare, with all that he’s seen,’ Sophie said sympathetically.

  ‘Why is he any different to our boys?’ the woman asked, instantly offended.

  ‘He’s not. He’s hurt, that’s all, Jeanette. And he’s in shock, clearly. We have to be patient with him.’

  Gaston squeezed her shoulder. ‘I’ll make enquiries about getting him across to his own people, but I’m not holding out much hope at the minute.’

  They said farewell. For the rest of the day and night Sophie kept a watch over the unknown soldier. He was an enigma simply because he was English and had dodged the German army. Just like her concert, this man’s survival was a defiance against the odds, and she couldn’t help but hold a private admiration for him.

  It was deep into the night when the French Red Cross sister, who was in charge of the hospital for the next twenty hours, came to her side with a mug of coffee. ‘Madame Delancré, you are in danger of putting the rest of us to shame with your dedication.’

  Sophie smiled. ‘I wish you’d all call me Sophie.’

  The woman, only slightly older than her, grinned. ‘Nursing is a bit like the army, madame. It needs structure. It’s not that we’re not friendly, but the hierarchy gives confidence. You are intrigued by this Englishman, no?’

  She shrugged. ‘I would love to know what he’s thinking. He’s in there. Perhaps he’s frightened, surrounded by people speaking a strange language.’

  The sister shook her head. ‘Tenderness can never be mistaken. He could not believe he is among anyone but those who care.’

  Sophie nodded. ‘I think I am intrigued by his story. I hope we’ll learn it.’

  ‘I gather his arm will need to be amputated in the next few hours.’

  Sophie raised her hand to her mask with alarm. ‘Oh no!’

  ‘You’re not surprised, surely? Sepsis waits for no one. Best it’s removed and then he gets on with healing.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to imagine what he did before he came to the war. What if he was a musician like those marvellous players we’ve just enjoyed? What if he is an artist and paints with his left hand? What if —?’

  ‘What if he lives? That’s all that should matter to us,’ the senior nurse admonished her gently. ‘That’s our role: to comfort, to care, to ensure survival. The rest is up to him.’

  ‘How does one treat this shock from the shells if he doesn’t speak?’

  The senior nurse sighed. ‘There’s no right way. We’re still learning about how the war affects the mental state of soldiers, but I’m assured there are sanatoriums to take the men returning who are no longer sound of mind. Many are intact, not showing physical injuries, but here —’ she tapped her temple — ‘they are like an open, bleeding wound.’

  Sophie frowned. ‘Sanatoriums?’

  ‘Fresh air, simple good food, quiet days, walks, visits from other soldiers rather than family, they say, because only other soldiers know what they’ve seen, what they’ve experienced. The routine is about anything peaceful and safe that prompts a return to their normal mindset . . . not that life is ever going to be normal for any of us again.’

  ‘What if I took him back to Épernay with me?’

  ‘Madame Delancré, why would you suggest such a thing?’

  ‘Because all of those elements you mention can be provided there.’ Sophie lifted one shoulder in a defensive gesture. ‘Maybe we can start the healing process so that when he can be repatriated, he is more attuned to the present.’

  ‘But what about his hand?’

  ‘What else can be done for him after that dramatic surgery except changing dressings and making sure he’s comfortable? I do that here anyway. I know how to take care of him, and we have a full-time doctor and two nurses. We’re registered now as a hospital.’

  The woman’s gaze softened. ‘I didn’t know that. How many patients are at your home there?’

  Sophie frowned. ‘Oh, I think there are about twenty men now.’

  ‘Twenty!’ she repeated. ‘That’s impressive.’ Sophie shrugged. ‘I see no reason for you not to take him if you wish to. We need every bed we can get.’

  ‘That’s my thinking. He’s able to move and he will be easy to care for, and you may want this bed for another soldier with serious wounds needing nursing care around the clock.’

  ‘Oh, I think our Englishman will be getting that, all right. He’s handsome enough.’ She winked.

  13

  It was the early hours and so long since she’d slept that Sophie couldn’t remember the last time she’d lain in a bed. She should return to Épernay, where soft pillows beckoned and there was plenty of work in and around the vineyards that needed to be attended to. And yet she felt somehow closer to Jerome here in Reims – probably because it was under constant threat from the guns that had killed him. It also felt nearer to Gaston, whom she worried about daily. And now an English soldier for whom she suddenly felt responsible.

  Sophie was alone on the ward and had done the rounds as she’d been instructed. It was
nearing three, perhaps the loneliest hour of the night, when even nocturnal creatures were silent. Everyone was asleep. It was uncharacteristically quiet with no groans or soft snores from the patients. Even the soldier who never closed his eyes was properly asleep now, but that had been forced upon him by the anaesthetic.

  She walked over to his cot and stared at his heavily bandaged arm. Miraculously, his hand had been saved. How useful it might end up being was still to be seen, but he appeared whole and that meant saving his dignity and perhaps even his life down the track. The surgeon was always under enormous pressure to save lives, to get to the next patient, to just patch up and move on. And she had chosen to create a fuss over this man? Why?

  She would never speak it aloud but the first trill about saving his limb had sounded when she began to clean him hours after the concert. He’d arrived filthy with blood, some his, but there was too much of it to be all his own. She tried not to imagine what he’d experienced two nights ago when she was cradling a dying child: this captain had dodged bullets, artillery fire, mortars, bayonets and who knew what else.

  He was hurriedly wiped over for surgery. Langevin said his quick thank you for her assistance, given with a look that glanced off her and back to the mangled hand. ‘Immediate amputation surgery, please, Matron.’

  She looked desperately in the direction of Matron, who turned away. It wasn’t cruel . . . she was simply being realistic. Sophie understood, but that didn’t mean she would give in without a fight.

  ‘Dr Langevin, please, the Curies are still here,’ she interrupted as he began speaking to Matron.

  ‘And?’ He was clearly in a hurry.

  ‘Could we not do an X-ray?’