“I knocked it getting down from the train, Doctor. It doesn’t feel bad.”
“Better to take a look at it, even so, sir.”
The doctor called an attendant to him and they uncovered the wound and decided that it would benefit from a redressing and anointing with an antiseptic cream.
“Not such a worry for your sort, Captain. Fliers do not have to contend with mud and rat-contaminated standing water like the men in the front lines. Or so I must imagine, not having met with any fliers before.”
“No. We live cleaner, I would think. We don’t get wounded very often, either. If you are hit, or if the machine lets you down at a thousand feet or more, then the result is very rarely a mere injury.”
“I had not considered that, I will admit. This is a bullet wound, is it not?”
“Ground fire while bombarding a railway yard, Doctor. My companion did not survive.”
“But you flew home?”
“I was lucky. I fainted after I landed rather than before.”
The doctor laughed and signalled to a steward.
“Eat another sandwich, Captain. My name is McFarlane, by the way.”
“Stark, sir.”
“I believe that name should be familiar, Captain Stark?”
“My father crashed at Brooklands last year, Doctor, and achieved a degree of posthumous fame.”
“Ah, yes! Tactless of me. My apologies!”
“Unnecessary, sir. It is inevitable that such things will partly stick in the memory.”
“Even so, Captain Stark, medical men should know better. Have you baggage with you?”
“A trunk, sir, in the cargo net.”
“I will see that it is sent to your home address rather than left to languish in a warehouse at the docks in Dover.”
“Thank you, sir, I had wondered what was to be done with it. My servant sent it down from the field without giving consideration to the practicalities.”
The hospital in Dover was over-burdened by the steady flow of wounded men coming from the French and Belgian ports. A nurse was waiting at the dock to perform an elementary triage, assisted by a single porter. The navy sent its passengers ashore in rank order, never considering any other possibility; Tommy was fifth in line in front of the porter.
“Name?”
“Captain Thomas Stark, Three Squadron, RFC.”
“Where are you currently resident in England, sir?”
“At Long Benchley, in the north of Hampshire, within reason close to Winchester or Reading or Aldershot, whichever is most convenient.”
“The RFC mostly uses its own hospital in London, sir, but that can be arranged at a later date. Have you a note from the hospital in France, sir?”
“The Doctor on the ship gave me a short letter to say that he had redressed the wound as it had started bleeding again.”
The porter glanced at the note.
“Flesh wound that could not be stitched, must be bandaged only. Takes weeks to heal, sir, a thorough nuisance. Are you fit to travel, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Then I shall suggest to Nurse that you need not be admitted – we are very short of beds, sir. I hope you will be sent off on the early train.”
Nurse was a large and remarkably competent lady in her forties, presumably chosen for her ability to make and enforce decisions.
“Captain Stark, RFC. We do not see many fliers here, sir.”
“That is because very few of our sort are so fortunate as to be wounded, ma’am. Aeroplanes normally crash before the impaired pilot can bring them to earth.”
“How very unpleasant! Obviously true, when one considers the matter, of course! Let me see… You believe that you will be able to travel, sir. Unaccompanied?”
“It is, or should be, a simple journey, ma’am. To Waterloo Station and then to Farnborough and a taxi.”
“Some of the trains from Dover go to Charing Cross, others to Victoria, which would require a cab for a mile or two across London… Let me see.”
A Marine was acting as messenger, unofficially detached from the gate detachment; he dashed to the station where the first train was getting up steam, discovered that it was for Waterloo East, grabbed the crutch that Nurse handed him from the pile at her side and pointed Tommy in the correct direction. Seeing that the patient was moving only slowly, he ran for a baggage trolley and bundled Tommy onto it, irrespective of his dignity as an officer, and legged it towards the First Class carriages.
He sat Tommy down, leaning into a corner, then ran to the W H Smiths kiosk, came back with a copy of the Times.
“Reading matter, sir, for the journey.”
“Thank you! I haven’t got any money on me; we don’t use it when we are flying! So I can’t pay for the paper.”
“No need to sir. I pinched it anyway! They turn the blind eye, sir, for the wounded. At Waterloo, sir, you need to go to the Provost party – they know what happens at Dover. They’ll see to tickets and things.”
“My thanks again; you do the Marines credit!”
It was not a boat train, one of the non-stopping expresses, but the journey was over in little more than an hour, sufficient for Tommy to read a couple of pages of the paper and discover that Britain was winning the war and that the Kaiser would certainly be forced to abdicate before Christmas, by which time all of the boys would be home again. The Brave Heroes of the Army were organising themselves for the great march to the Rhine, led by General French, the new Wellington, and confidently expected for next week. It was reported that the plucky fliers of the RFC were roaming at will over Belgium, unopposed for the most part, and were raining death and destruction from the skies, bringing the railways to a halt.
The First Class compartment was empty – few of those who could afford luxury chose to travel before five o’clock in the morning – and Tommy dropped the paper and stretched out, though not, of course, putting his feet up on a seat, a dreadfully underbred act which no gentleman could consider. He dozed for half an hour, uncomfortable but in no great pain.
He opened his door at Waterloo East and then tried to work out how to negotiate the single step down to the platform. A porter spotted his difficulties and hobbled across to him, offering an arm.
“Sorry, sir, ain’t many of us about nowadays, sir. They all gone for a soldier, sir.”
He was close to seventy, Tommy guessed, pulled out of retirement.
“I’m sorry, I have no money on me.”
“Don’t you worry about that, sir. Don’t take tips from the hospital trains, sir. Not what this is one of them, but it’s the same sort of thing, ain’t it?”
Tommy found the provosts at the end of the platform, proffered his papers, such as he had.
“Wounded in action, sir?”
“Bullet across the leg, Corporal. While flying. Walking wounded, they tell me, but I don’t fancy walking very much further. These are long platforms.”
“They are that, sir. You must report to the office beside Platform Four in the main station, sir, for a warrant for your further travel. Private Huggins will accompany you, sir.”
Private Huggins was little more than five feet tall, must have stretched to pass as tall enough to be a soldier, but he was almost equally wide, a block of solid muscle; obviously he had been chosen for the task for the ability to pick Tommy up, probably in one hand, and carry him if he fell.
“Farnborough, sir? Certainly, sir. Not organised yet, sir. The intention is, sir, for there to be a receiving hospital with its own discharge department, what will despatch the wounded to their best locations, sir, but it ain’t ‘appened yet, sir. For the while, sir, what ‘appens, is what we writes out warrants ‘ere, sir, what you takes to the Ticket Office, sir, what gives you tickets, as you might expect, what will take you where you is to go. Private ‘Uggins, sir, knows the ropes, sir, bein’ as ‘ow ‘e is the soldier what accompanies officers.”
Private Huggins led Tommy silently to the Ticket Office, his simple presence being, it seem
ed, proof that Tommy was a bona fide wounded officer.
“Don’t want to change trains, sir, not with that leg. Got to be a stopping train, sir, because the express trains to Southampton don’t stop at Farnborough. Be slower, sir, on a local, but it won’t take an hour. Be there before nine, sir. Best you sticks be’ind me, sir, being as ‘ow it’s rush hour now. ‘City gents’, they calls ‘emselves, sir, but they buggers’ll tread on anybody when they’s running to get to work of a morning, and they’re bloody worse going ‘ome again!”
Private Huggins acted as a sort of moving breakwater, the flood of scurrying bowler-hatted, umbrella-carrying office workers splitting apart before him.
“Just looking at the board, sir. Next one out for you’s in ten minutes, sir, off of Six, what is convenient close. First Class at this end, sir, so you don’t ‘ave far to walk.”
“Do you see many wounded soldiers each day, Private Huggins?”
“Walking, sir? Not a dozen a day, sir. Mostly they get sent up on the special trains what comes in out of rush hour times. Met by ambulances, they are. Not many of them, either. They normally gets sent to ‘ospitals out of London, so they tells me. The big ‘ospital ships, what are being set up special for the soldiers from the ‘ospitals in France, they’re going into Southampton, so they says.”
It seemed sufficiently efficient to Tommy – the trickle of a thousand or so a week of wounded was being dealt with quickly and quietly so that the ordinary population probably hardly saw them. It was a huge number, admittedly – if the war lasted that long there would be fifty thousands of maimed men to accommodate, somehow – but there was no need to frighten the people of the country.
He was again the sole passenger in his compartment; at this time of day the great bulk of traffic was into London and he was one of very few leaving the capital.
Farnborough station presented him with an unexpected problem – no taxis. The sole porter informed him that the two motor cabs and the three horse-drawn had all been taken off the road, their drivers gone off to the wars.
“Not many drivers about, sir, so the Army takes ‘em older than most, and they all went, and pleased to, sir. Best thing, sir, is if I has a word about, see if old Abblet the undertaker is using is motor car today.”
“No. I don’t think the Squire would be amused to see me brought to the house in a funeral car, and I am sure his wife and daughter would be most upset.”
“Squire out at Long Benchley, sir, be one of those gents what ‘as got a telephone, they tells I, sir. My missus, sir, do work in the Post Office, what has got the Exchange.”
The Post Office was located in the centre of the town, some three hundred yards from the railway station; it took Tommy nearly ten minutes to hobble that far.
The chauffeur arrived in Squire’s Panhard within the half of an hour.
“There is fresh blood on your bandage, Tommy! I shall call the doctor to you.”
Squire was proud of his new telephone and used it most days.
“Have you been discharged from the RFC, Tommy?”
Monkey was hopeful that he was home for good.
“Lord, no! I am back for a few weeks while this heals, that is all. What is the date now?”
“November the second, Tommy.”
“I am not to fly for eight weeks, to give the leg a chance to heal fully, so I shall not go back until early in January.”
“Well, that is all to the good! The war will be over by Christmas, will it not?”
Tommy caught the Squire’s eye, shook his head.
“No, Monkey. Not this Christmas, and quite possibly not next either.”
“But, the newspapers all say that we have almost won, that it requires just one attack to drive the Hun back home!”
“Perhaps it does, but we will not be strong enough to make that attack for a very long time. This will not be over quickly.”
“Then, what is to be done? What are we to do?”
“We must live our lives, while we can, Monkey. I am here in England, and you are almost seventeen – it would be a very good thing, I think, if we were to be wed, very soon.”
Squire had no desire to see his daughter married at seventeen and widowed before her next birthday; he had less wish to oppose her chance of happiness.
“You have my blessing. Your mother is in the kitchens, is she not, Grace? I do not believe she even knows Tommy is here. Go to her and seek her approval, if you would.”
Monkey ran out of the room, all smiles; the prospect of Tommy dying had not occurred to her.
“The world is changing, Tommy, and not, I suspect, for the better. You had eighteen thousand in your Trust Fund, Tommy. Mr Knatchbull and I together have turned that into fifty. I have done as well with my own monies. We shall do better in the coming twelve months, I doubt not. Financially, you are very sound indeed, Tommy. You will write your Will, of course, on marriage, leaving all to Grace in the nature of things. I shall also ensure that she is well provided for. Lavinia is married into wealth, so I need give less concern to her well-being. Do not worry about money, Tommy! I have not rented out your house, thinking it might be useful to you at an early date.”
“Thank you, sir. You set my mind at ease. I wish I could do the same for you, sir. But I think you do not hear the truth of this war in England.”
Squire shook his head.
“I am busy in London for two and three days of every week, Tommy. I speak to people who do know the facts. A two-year war seems highly probable.”
“It does, sir. What of your son George, sir? What do you know of him?”
“Almost nothing, Tommy. The Territorials are in France and I hear in London that they are engaged in the fighting at this Salient place. I know nothing else. I hear, though, that it is producing more casualties than the whole of the rest of the conflict.”
Tommy knew that the fighting was hard but could give no facts – the RFC saw much, but only from afar.
“Mr Joseph Stark, sir? Is he well?”
“He is said to be seeking a commission still. I know nothing else of him, Tommy.”
“No doubt we shall hear more, sir.”
Monkey and her mother appeared and the conversation turned to happy consideration of the earliest possible wedding.
Tommy sat back, holding his lady’s hand. He had seen the worst of war, he thought. Now he could relax before he had to go back to the fray.
# # #
Thank you for reading When Empires Collide. If you get a spare moment, please consider leaving a short online review for the book wherever you can. The second book in the series is expected to be released in early-mid 2017. In the meantime, please take look at the author’s other books listed on the following pages.
By the Same Author
A Poor Man at the Gate Series: Book One: The Privateersman is FREE on Kindle -Escaping the hangman’s noose in England, commoner Tom Andrews finds himself aboard a privateering ship before fleeing to New York at the time of the Revolutionary War. It is a place where opportunities abound for the unscrupulous. Hastily forced to return to England, he ruthlessly chases riches in the early industrial boom. But will wealth buy him love and social respectability?
Kindle links to the whole series:
US/worldwide
http://tinyurl.com/A-Poor-Man
UK only
http://tinyurl.com/A-Poor-Man-UK
The Duty and Destiny Series: These superbly-crafted novel length sea/land stories are set in the period of the French Revolutionary War (1793 – 1802). The series follows the naval career and love-life of Frederick Harris, the second son of a middling Hampshire landowner, a brave but somewhat reluctant mariner. (Book One was first published in 2014.)
Please note: This series is currently available to Kindle Unlimited subscribers.
Kindle links to the whole series:
US/worldwide:
http://tinyurl.com/Duty-and-Destiny-Series
UK only:
http://tinyurl.com/Duty-and-Des
tiny-Series-UK
Man of Conflict Series: Youngest son of a wealthy English merchant, Septimus Pearce is an utterly spoiled brat whose disgraceful conduct threatens his family’s good name. His father forces him to join the army in an attempt to reform him, but even the disciplines of army life where he sees bloody action in three countries fail to exorcise his nastier character traits.
Book One Kindle Link http://getBook.at/Conflict-1
Born in a home for fallen women, at the age of eight the barefooted and waiflike Harry is sent out to work. After years of unpaid toil and hunger, he runs away and is cajoled into believing that the Army is his only option. He joins a battalion that is sent to Africa’s Slave Coast where disease is the biggest killer of men. When the much-thinned battalion returns to England and is disbanded, he drifts into smuggling in order to survive. All goes well until he is betrayed and forced back on the run. Leaving the West Country behind, he enlists in a Sussex regiment which is sent to quell rioting in the north where he faces danger from the angry Mob, and from the rage of a sadistic young ensign who is out for Harry’s blood.
Universal Kindle Link
http://viewbook.at/Harry-One
Book One: Long Way Place
In the early 1900s gutter rat, Ned Hawkins aims to rise from the grinding poverty of an English slum, but is forced to flee the country and ends up in Papua. It is a dangerous place where cannibalism and cannibals are never far away. Despite this menacing backdrop, he prospers and almost by accident, finds love. However, there are ominous stirrings in the land that bode ill for the future. Note: Book Two is now available on Kindle.
Universal Kindle Link: http://getbook.at/Cannibal-One
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