by Sam Angus
How long would it be before someone rescued them?
Crazy flashes slashed the plain. The wild onslaught ran onward. The town flared up under a shell like an evil pyre, making of the moon a ball of fire, of the plain a field of blood, bathing the slope in ghastly crimson.
Stanley’s aching fingers released their grip on the crumbling bank. His bad arm was throbbing and pulsing from shoulder to fingertip. He was shivery, with fits of hot and cold, so tired he neither knew nor cared where he was. The ground was falling away beneath him. They might be buried alive, he and Soldier, while Amiens was saved, while Paris was saved.
There was a new, stabbing pain in Stanley’s chest, knives in his throat. Why were the sky and the earth darker than before? Was it the darkness that was burning his eyes, blistering his throat? If only he could pull down the woolly sky, wrench fistfuls of it over him to muffle the groans and wails of wounded men, the faint despairing moans that pierced the night. He must let his streaming eyes close. Sleep, sleep would ease his pain.
Stanley drifted in and out of wakefulness.
He was forced out of sleep by violent choking. Did someone have a hand down his throat? Stanley’s empty body convulsed and he retched until there was nothing left inside except darkness and needles. Now there was poisoned water too, rising, flooding his chest, forcing its way up, brackish and vile into his throat, his mouth. Darkness and needles and poisoned water filled the burning space behind his eyes and pressed him into oblivion.
Before Dawn, 25 April 1918
Aquenne Wood
Cool fingers held Stanley’s wrist, then rested on his forehead.
‘Half dead. No more ’n a child.’
Stanley tilted his face towards the voice and tried to open his gluey eyes. His right arm jerked to his eyes and rubbed them.
‘Don’t touch or you’ll make them worse.’
Stanley’s arm was restrained and moved to his side.
‘These drops will dim your sight till you can see nothing, and that will be a blessing to you.’
Amidst the fog of pain and nausea, there were paws scrabbling at his shirt, quick panting animal breath on his face.
‘Orderly! Over here! Get the dog off him.’
Stanley’s chest tightened with panic.
‘Off. Off!’
Soldier’s paws tore at his chest but Stanley’s arms were pinned down, his head raised, a bandage wrapped around his eyes. He must hold Soldier, keep him close, but he couldn’t move his own head, his arms, couldn’t make them do his bidding. His clothes were on fire, searing him.
‘I said, get that animal off him.’
There was a snarl as the tremulous body on Stanley’s chest was wrenched away.
‘Get the dog off.’
Where were they taking Soldier? Stanley had to summon some strength, had to tell the man that he couldn’t take Soldier away, but his clothes were searing his skin, burning thorns were pricking his raw flesh. He swayed and fell back.
‘Here you – stretcher-bearer!’ another voice shouted.
Someone was cleaning the wound on Stanley’s arm. Now he was being hauled up but his legs were buckling beneath him. Stanley’s good arm was hooked around someone’s shoulder, a sling was hooped around his neck, and his bad arm eased in. Stanley must fight the needles in his throat, must ask the man holding him – Soldier, where was Soldier?
‘You can count yourself lucky you can’t see what I can see. There’s bits and pieces of men all over and nothing we can do for ’em . . .’
One single thought filled Stanley’s entire being, one longing: he must commandeer his useless limbs, must ask, ‘My dog? Where’s my dog?’
He’d made only a feeble gurgling sound, must lift his head, and try again.
‘Soldier!’ But he made no sound and his chest was racked with screaming, throbbing pain.
‘He wants the dog.’
‘Well, I’m not carrying every dead quadruped out of this swamp – there’s tops and tails of ’em all over and these are Medical Corps not veterinary stretchers.’
‘Keep moving.’
Stanley felt the sharp prick of what might be a bayonet.
‘Move on. Hop it.’ There was the click of a rifle loading.
‘I’ll keep the tip of this little toothpick to your backside to speed you along. Now hop it. We’re taking you to the Casualty Clearing Station.’
Stanley was forced forward, crumpling into the arms which held him, legs buckling beneath him, head straining to where he thought Soldier might have been.
Stanley’s good arm rested on the shoulder of the man in front, his left on the handle of a crutch, another man’s hand on his own shoulder. They’d come out of the trenches, there were no duckboards beneath his feet, just cobbles. Around him, men whimpered and moaned. There was something over his shoulders, a blanket perhaps, pressing on his burning skin. His lungs tore at every breath. His bandaged eyes were weeping and clogged. Darkness pressed against his eyes, filling his head, suffocating him. The line shuffled forward, and gentle hands pushed Stanley on, his legs moving without any volition of his own, each buckling step taking him further from Soldier. If only he could let go, sink down, numb to fear and pain and grief.
Somewhere to Stanley’s left there was a shout and a clattering, the rattling of iron on stone, the snorting and whinnying of a horse. Stanley smelt dung and sweat and the thick breath of horses. There were pounding hoofs, a startled whinny, a horse out of control.
‘Squadron Leader Ryder, sir!’ a young voice called out. There was another frightened whinny.
Stanley’s heart vaulted, throttled guttering noises came from his mouth. Tom! That would be Tom. Stanley must get to him, must get the bandage off his eyes. Dropping his crutch, he tore at the blindfold with his good arm – where was that voice? He must stop his legs from bending, must get to Tom.
There were running footsteps again to Stanley’s left. He reached out, but his hand caught only empty air and the footsteps ran on past.
‘Squadron Leader Ryder!’ that first voice cried out, and there was another whinny. Stanley felt a light hand on his shoulder, pushing him forward. Another voice drifted to him through the thick sea of fever.
‘Fifty light draught horses, sir, and twenty draught mules, all properly branded and shod, sir.’
Stanley stopped and swung his head towards that voice. The man behind him shuffled forward, caught the back of Stanley’s right boot and Stanley fell. Lying doubled up with pain, he called out, ‘Tom!’
Gentle hands raised him to his feet. Stanley shook himself free.
‘Tom! Tom!’ Stanley’s throat was tearing; he’d called out but his words had been no more than a strangled, guttering sound. His right hand scrabbled in his pocket. With shaky fingers, he pushed open the matchbox, pulled out the whistle and blew. Notes, too faint for anyone to hear but him, dissolved before they’d risen. He had no breath, there were knives in his throat, no breath in his constricted, gurgling chest.
Stanley must try one last time. Again he blew and the notes were clean and bright but officious hands took his shoulders, pulled him back, pushed him on.
The line shuffled forward, then paused and Stanley waited, head hanging.
Somewhere someone was running, now stopping, now running again. Every muscle tense, amidst the sounds of wheels and hoofs and shuffling boots, Stanley strained to hear those running feet. Nothing. They’d stopped – but there was a new sound – powerful, rippling notes that soared and bubbled in a bright fountain. A whistle – a reed whistle – the notes of the moors, of sunlit uplands and drystone walls, the sound of his boyhood. Stanley’s heart vaulted. His urgent, shaking hand, fumbled for his whistle. Needles jabbed his throat, but with the last of his strength and the last of his breath, he blew. Clear strong notes were rising, floating upward. A trembling second passed, then someone was running, stopping, running again. Stanley stretched his arm out, blind, in the empty air, turning and turning in the darkness. His hand was taken, lo
wered to his side and he was turned, wrapped in strong arms, was dissolving against a broad chest, feeling the damp on his Da’s cheeks, Da’s hand stroking his own head.
‘Son . . .’
Stanley’s right arm rose, his fingers clawed at the bandages on his eyes; he wanted to see Da’s face.
‘Squadron Leader Ryder! At the double!’
‘He’s here, son, your dog is here. I’m here to find him, to find him, to return him to you.’
Stanley nodded and made a choking sound. Da put his forehead to Stanley’s and they stayed there a second, temple to temple.
‘Messenger Dog 2176. They told me he’s here.’
An immense sob rose within Stanley’s chest and he raised his bandaged eyes, nodding urgently in the direction from which he thought he’d come. He heard Da’s sharp intake of breath.
‘What happened, son? Where is he?’
If Stanley talked with his mouth only, not his throat, perhaps he could just form the words with his lips.
‘I couldn’t see him, Da.’ Stanley’s voice was a desperate whisper but he wasn’t stuttering, his words were forming as he wanted them to. ‘They took me away . . . left him out there.’ He could feel Da’s breath against his face, then felt Da’s lips on his forehead. He clawed again at the bandages on his eyes; he had to see Da – the bandage was in his mouth but his hand caught air as he tried to touch Da.
‘I can’t see you, Da.’
‘Squadron Leader Ryder! At the double!’
Da lifted the bandage and put it back over Stanley’s eyes. He took Stanley’s hands in his own, touching his temple again to Stanley’s, then turning him forward.
‘Go on, Stanley, go on to the hospital. I’m to take the horses up to the Front for the Artillery. Go on, son, and I’ll come for you as soon as I come down the line.’
Guided on by orderlies, the queue shuffled forward into a hushed, tented area. There were whispering, bustling voices. A nurse was snipping through Stanley’s uniform, unwinding his field dressing, cleaning his wound.
‘Pre-op tent,’ she said. Stanley’s boots were unlaced and he was lowered on to a bed.
His pain unravelled, and he slid away.
27 April 1918
Casualty Clearing Station, Crouay
Everything was quiet. The men around Stanley were sleeping. He’d been moved to an evacuation tent. He knew he had a sign above his bed, that it said ‘GAS CASE, MODERATE’. Pain pounded the front of his head. His every breath was quick and forced, every cough a knife wound. Nurse said his eyelids were swollen and sticky, the eyelashes burned away. Nurse’s voice was always tired and sad. She said they had beds for three hundred and fifty men, but there were thousands here, more wounded streaming in, that in corridors, in the spaces between beds, men lay unattended, dying.
How long had Stanley been here? He must go and find Soldier. Soldier would be hungry now, his wounds must be treated. Stanley mustn’t be evacuated, not till he’d found Soldier. When Nurse came round Stanley would ask for help but now he was too drugged, his limbs drowsy and leaden. He must let himself drift away.
‘Now, keep still. I’ll put some drops in your eyes. There, keep still.’
Twice a day the goggles on his eyes were removed.
‘Well done, now the other one. It’s been three days now and your arm’s healing ever so well. Today we’ll take the goggles off for good, put bandages on instead, and we’ll hope for the best.’
When Nurse came round again, she put him in fresh flannelette pyjamas. She gave him a bowl of milk and rice and told him that his lungs would recover, but said nothing about his eyes. Stanley didn’t want milk and rice. He wasn’t hungry unless it was for soft toast and honey, but the pyjamas felt cool against his burning skin.
‘Stay with me a little,’ he whispered. They were the first words he’d spoken since arriving here but he hadn’t tripped over them, they’d come out as he wanted them to. ‘Will you take my bandages off?’ Nurse was silent. ‘My dog is out there, Nurse, Dog number 2176. I must go and get him. Will you take the bandages off my eyes?’
Nurse didn’t answer, but she sat by Stanley for a while in silence, holding his hand in hers.
‘When will you take away the bandages so that I can see?’
Still Nurse didn’t answer. After a while she kissed his forehead and Stanley felt what may or may not have been a tear falling beside the kiss.
In the morning the Medical Orderly told Stanley that he was quite blind, that there was only a small chance of his eyes recovering.
‘How small?’ Stanley’s voice wobbled and frayed like a child’s. He didn’t hear the orderly’s answer, if there was one.
Outside shells were falling somewhere. Were they falling where Tom was? Where Soldier was? Where Da was? It was, thought Stanley, after all, easier not to see in such a world. He lay awake dreading the night which came and gave him back his day, for when he slept, he’d dream as though he had his sight again and he’d see only what he’d already seen, the breakneck run, the torn and sprawling limbs.
Nurse came and stood by him and put a good, cold sponge on his forehead. She told Stanley she was changing the sign above his bed, that it said ‘BLIGHTY’, that he’d be going home, and she sounded pleased for him.
‘Did they find him? Did they bring my dog back?’
Stanley felt the cold sponge on his forehead again, but heard no answer.
‘Dog number 2176. I have to find my dog—’
‘There, there . . . You’ll feel better in the morning.’
Home meant nothing without Soldier, without Da, without Tom. Stanley couldn’t leave France without Soldier. He’d come so far, but had caused nothing but harm. He’d led his own innocent dog into an inferno, his own elderly father into a world of senseless death.
On the third day his bandages were removed and replaced with a thin layer of gauze. Stanley opened his eyes. He saw shapes and shadows but he thought only of Soldier, of Da, of Tom. The wound on his arm was healing but he must try to keep it still. That afternoon, still as weak and blind as a newborn puppy, Stanley was moved, by hospital train, further from the Front, from Soldier, to the General Hospital at Etaples.
On her night-time round, a nurse called Queenie washed Stanley’s eyes and applied ointment.
‘There’s a brand new moon out there, just there, in the window above your head. You must turn your money and wish. Wish, Stanley, that you’re lucky and your eyes keep getting better.’
She went on down the ward, with a hopeful thought for each man. She reached the door and paused. Stanley could see movement – she’d be buttoning her coat perhaps? Queenie called out a cheery goodnight. There was another movement somewhere along the row of beds, between the door and Stanley. Someone was standing up on his bed, had begun to sing in a good baritone.
‘Come on now – altogether, boys.’
The whole ward joined in an enthusiastic chorus. Queenie helped her troubadour from his bed and – were they dancing? Stanley heard the soft patter of his bare feet, her shoes, on the boards, saw her dark coat, his pale pyjamas – they were! They were dancing, twirling up and down between the beds, as lightly as though they’d never seen a war. Stanley would never be able to do that, would never dance like that, with so light a heart.
The next night there was a concert. There was lemonade, biscuits, sweets, cigarettes. Queenie sat beside Stanley on an upturned crate. Catcalls, whistles and applause greeted each act. Stanley’s left arm was still bandaged so Queenie joined her left hand to Stanley’s right to make two to clap with. A group of men came on stage. Stanley could see them, see the shapes of them – it was true what Queenie said, that his eyes were getting better.
When the audience was finally silent, the men on stage began to sing, ‘Hush, here comes a whizz-bang . . .’
There was a pause, an expectant silence. Then the ear-piercing screech of an approaching shell, growing louder, mad confusion as men dived for cover under chairs, tables, crates. The scre
ech curved away and died without an explosion. There was a loud, stagey whisper: ‘Where did that one go to, ’Erbert?’
Roaring with laughter, men crawled out, laughing at their own fear, laughing that they’d been so fooled by a recording.
Alone amidst the clattering of chairs and the relieved laughter, Stanley was numb with fear, glued to his chair, his knuckles white where they gripped his knees. He saw Soldier’s joyous, weightless gallop, his laughing jaws and narrowed, smiling eyes. He saw too a spume of earth erupting and the shattered, sprawling limbs.
Jagged convulsions rattled Stanley’s body. He whimpered helplessly. Queenie wrapped him in his blanket and led him from the room.
PART III
8 June 1918
St Dunstan’s Hostel for the Blinded, Regent’s Park, London
Stanley smelt fresh-cut grass. He heard breeze in the rustling acacia and he heard birdsong, but the birdsong and the breeze were muffled and dislocated, like distant memories from far beyond or below the din of a war, which screeched still in his ears.
There was a burst of laughter from the hazy group playing dominoes under the mulberry tree. Stanley shrank away, pulling the blanket tighter round him. He could see well enough now, Matron had said that his eyes would make a full recovery, but Stanley knew, too, that his sight would be forever haunted by the slender, silver head of the dog he’d loved, the dog he’d left to die in a poisoned runnel. No, Da hadn’t drowned Soldier: in the end it had been he himself who’d taken the dog to his death. When he’d run away from home, how little he’d thought that he’d turn his world inside out, that it would all end like this, himself in England, Da in France.
Stanley’s shoulders slumped and he withdrew into his chair. Yes, he thought, yes, this is how Da had used to sit, hunched in his red chair, unseeing and far beyond the world. Stanley had so misunderstood the depth of Da’s fear and grief that he’d accused him of a terrible cruelty, of a crime he’d never committed. Yes, he thought, remembering Da’s letter. Yes, Da, a full circle has been turned. I understand now. Your heart was so wrung by Ma’s death that you locked it up.
