‘Now Guy is a fine young man,’ his father replies. ‘He’s a war hero and we need our war heroes.’
Guy too is there at the party somewhere, hovering in the background, his presence unnoticed. He hears his father’s words and brims with pride. But then his father adds: ‘But a legless war hero doesn’t put bread on the table, now does he? Whereas Jack here...’ Everyone turns to look admiringly at Jack standing with his companion talking to a gathering of admirers. ‘Jack here was a war hero too, but more importantly, look at him now.’
‘No, no,’ says Guy. But no one hears him.
His father continues: ‘Poor Guy, what can he do? He won’t be able to provide me with any grandchildren, will he, for no one will want him now?’
‘No!’ bellows Guy. ‘I did it for you, Father; I did it for my country. You can’t just dismiss me now, I gave my legs for you.’ This time they hear him but they try to pretend he’s not there; he’s become an embarrassment. They want to forget the war, not be reminded of it by such an obvious demonstration of its impact. They ignore him and turn their backs.
‘Jack, Jack, you still need me, don’t you?’
Jack at least acknowledges him. He smiles at Guy. ‘No, not any more, there’s no Albert Carrs left now. Please, you must excuse me.’ He returns his attention to his friends. Guy catches sight of his lady companion – it is Josephine. He wonders where Mary is.
Guy doesn’t know what to do, it seems like a lifetime has passed him by and he’s only just noticed. He sees a German face in front of him, the silvery blade slicing through his boyish looks. ‘Mother, mother,’ the boy pleads. He is the enemy; Guy is killing him, yet he understands Guy more than anyone else, including his own brother. Guy hands the German a handkerchief to wipe away the blood, but it is too late. There is no one else to turn to. Guy is a war-hero; his father had said it, but a legless war hero. But no, it’s not true, he still has his legs, he is still a man and he’ll give his father as many grandchildren as he wants. But Guy glances down at himself – just to make sure. He is wearing a full-length khaki gown and suddenly he feels awkward. He hitches up the gown and stares in disbelief at the two wooden legs below. Attached to the left leg is a label. In large stark lettering, it reads, ‘Property of the British Army’.
*
‘Guy, you awake, Guy?’ A familiar, friendly voice stirred Guy back into consciousness. He opened his eyes, but it took a few seconds to focus on the face looming above him. Guy blinked and the smiling face came into view. It was Jack, of course. What was he doing here?
‘Jack, you still need me, don’t you?’
‘What are you talking about?’
Guy’s throat was dry, his head ached.
‘Guy, are you OK?’
‘Yeah, I’m sorry, I feel, I don’t know, a bit odd, it’s so damn hot in here. What time is it?’
Jack looked at his wrist but there was no watch. ‘Don’t know, I’ve lost my watch somewhere. Must be about four. You sound hung-over, what have they been giving you, eh? Spicing up your tea with a bit of rum?’
Guy tried to move but he felt numb, he seemed to have no control over his body. ‘I feel as if I’ve been asleep for days. God, I feel thirsty – and hungry.’
There was a glass of water on his bedside table. Jack handed it to Guy, who drank it eagerly, dribbles of water dripping down his chin, cooling his sweat-drenched chest.
‘What’s this doing here?’ asked Jack, picking up a bullet from his bedside table.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You’ve not seen it before?’ he said passing it to his brother.
‘No.’
Jack laughed. ‘You know what it is, don’t you? It’s the bullet that got you. They must’ve removed it for you and left it here as a little souvenir.’
‘How thoughtful.’
‘But it is, that’s exactly what it is. You have to keep it, Guy, keep it forever.’
Guy rolled it around in his fingers. From a bed nearby, a soldier started singing: Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag... His voice sounded strained as if singing through gritted teeth. And smile, smile, smile. A nurse was changing his dressing. Guy realised the poor chap was singing in an attempt to distract his mind from the pain. Smile, boys, that’s the style...
‘So how are you feeling?’ asked Jack.
‘Bloody leg hurts still, but I s’pose there’s worse than me.’
‘Telling me.’ He leant towards his brother. ‘Have you seen some of ’em in here, it’s bloody grim stuff, and I just think of Father who still thinks of all this as a bit of fun, you know, maketh the man and all that stuff.’
‘I know, Jack, I know, but there’s no point getting all hot about it.’
‘I feel like dragging him here, show him what war’s like now.’
Guy didn’t want to talk about his father. ‘Listen, I don’t know how to say this, but –’
‘Then don’t say it, there’s no need.’
‘You should have left me, y’know, you could’ve got yourself killed.’
‘You would’ve done the same.’
‘Perhaps. How did you get the sergeant out there?’
Jack laughed. ‘Ha, he had no choice, Lieutenant Lafferty ordered him out with me. He was furious, reckoned I’d showed him up in front of the lieutenant. He’s still sore about it.’
Guy shook his head. ‘Be careful of that bugger, he’s all talk, reckons he’s been through it all, but it’s just bullshit, he gets as scared as the rest of us. Seriously, Jack, be careful, I saw the look in his eyes, he was more petrified out there than you were, and he knows it; he knows we’ve seen it.’
Jack produced a packet of Gold Flakes, offered one to Guy, and took one himself. The brothers sat in silence, smoking. After a while, Jack spoke: ‘It’s getting to me, you know, Guy.’
‘It does.’
‘I can stand the sight of death and the work, the cold and the rest of it; it’s the bloody noise, it drives you mad. Afterwards, I’m shaking so much; I’m like a gibbering idiot. It’s like having a low ceiling above you, so low you can’t stand up properly. I sometimes think I could reach up and touch it. The heavy guns, the field guns, the machine guns, the rifles, and then you got our side throwing the same stuff back, it’s... well, I don’t know why I’m telling you, you know what it’s like. You saw how I was that time.’
‘I know. Everyone has something, like a pet hate, something that gets to them.’ He threw his cigarette to the floor.
‘Knowing what to expect doesn’t make it any easier ’cos each time it just gets worse. I’ve only been here nine weeks and I’m a wreck. I didn’t know it was going to be like this, not this bad. When that noise starts up, I can’t help it, Guy, I just start trembling, I can’t control it. Look at me now, just the thought of it and I go all shaky. It’s horrible, I start slavering and I can hardly talk. It’s like when I was a kid, y’know, with the thunderstorms and that.’ He smoked the rest of his cigarette quickly, hoping to be calmed by the rush of nicotine. ‘I’m having nightmares too. There’s all this noise and I’m surrounded by bodies lying on the ground, pointing at me and grinning. You warned me, didn’t you? You tried to tell me what to expect.’
‘Let’s not worry about that now, eh? Have you tried seeing the MO about it?’
‘No. Bloody doctors, wouldn’t make any difference, would it?’
‘Perhaps not, but it’s worth a try, surely.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Listen, I need to go to the loo,’ said Guy. ‘God knows how long I’ve been flat out, but my back is stiff as hell.’ He tried to move, but a sharp convulsion of pain in his leg pinned him back to the bed.
‘There’s a bedpan here.’
‘No, I need a toilet.’
‘Oh,’ said Jack. ‘Here, let me help you.’ Jack took Guy underneath the armpits and helped pull his brother upright. It reminded him of rescuing Guy from no-man’s-land. He waited for Guy to catch his breath. ‘You ready?’
‘
It’s bloody difficult.’ Guy swung his right leg from beneath the bedding and onto the floor. With Jack steadying him by the shoulders, Guy cupped both his hands around his left thigh and clenched his eyes as he endured the pain of manoeuvring his leg out of the bed. With all his weight on his right leg, Guy pulled himself up to his full height, while holding onto Jack. He saw the look of panic in Jack’s eyes for a split second before losing balance. As he fell to his left, Guy tried to clasp Jack’s arms, but he was too unbalanced and he collapsed onto the floor shrieking in pain as he hit the wooden deck. The initial shock of pain receded. ‘Bugger, that hurt,’ he said looking up and reaching his arm out for Jack to help him back up. But Jack’s face wore an expression of horror; his eyes focussed on Guy’s leg. Guy followed his brother’s gaze. It took a moment for it to register. But then with horrifying clarity he saw what Jack was staring at. He quickly turned away, his head spinning, his fingernails gripping into the wooden floor as he vomited on an empty stomach.
The lower left leg was gone. It had been amputated slightly above the knee, the stump wrapped in a blood-stained bandage.
Chapter 12: The Doctor – 1 November 1917
Jack had had enough. He feared he was going mad and had asked Lieutenant Lafferty’s permission to see the battalion’s Medical Officer, a Captain Butler. Jack was waiting in a silent queue outside the MO’s tent in the reserve trench, shivering from exhaustion and cold. He looked around at his fellow patients. These were not wounded men or at least not seriously wounded. There were a few bandages and dressings evident, but most, like himself, seemed to carry no outside sign of their malaise. Jack wondered what sort of reception he could expect from the MO. All the men in front of him seemed to be in and out within two minutes. Perhaps the MO had a secret potion he could prescribe and perhaps God would answer his prayers and pluck Sergeant Wilkins off the planet. Since his rescue of Guy, the sergeant had seen to it that Jack went out on every working party, on numerous night-patrols and more than his fair share of sentry duty. The worse was sentry duty in a sap, a forward trench that jutted out from the main trench on the frontline. There you were, in the pitch black, stuck half way out into no-man’s-land, totally by yourself, your ears out on stalks, listening for the slightest movement or a snatch of enemy conversation. It played havoc on one’s imagination – the bits of debris and litter blowing around, a rat scurrying about, the wind gusting in the barbed wire. Jack had never realised that silence could be so noisy, so frightening. The experience reminded him of the Albert Carr night, but at least then, he had his brother around.
He was at the front of the queue now, another few minutes. He stamped his feet and wrapped his arms around himself. He hadn’t slept well for days and when he did sleep, he had tremendous nightmares. Always the same one. He was advancing alone across no-man’s-land under a wall of noise that seemed so intense he feared walking into it. But he kept going, trudging on, wondering why he was out here all alone. Eventually, he would come across a crater filled with corpses. Then, under the illumination of a Very light, he would see the dead all looking up at him, their arms outstretched, beckoning him, their expressions fixed with mischievous grins. That horrible supercilious grinning, the unceasing noise which would wake him up with a start, shivering and drenched in sweat.
The more he thought about it the more he envied Guy. OK, he may have lost a leg but he was out of it now; he was safe. What Jack would do for such a wound – anything to get a Blighty ticket back home.
‘Next!’ The voice bellowed out from within the Nissan hut. Jack stepped in, closed the metal door behind him and stood to attention. The MO was sitting behind a table, scribbling down some notes. ‘Number, rank and name,’ he asked in a sharp staccato voice, without looking up from his papers.
‘Eight one one two, Private Jack Searight, sir.’
Captain Butler jotted down the name. ‘At ease, Private. So, what’s t’matter with you then?’ Jack noticed the curly tufts of hair swirling out from beneath the captain’s cap.
Jack coughed. ‘Erm, I feel in a bad way, sir. I had weeks of patrols and sentry duty and...’
‘So what’s so unusual about that?’ Captain Butler was an older man, short and plump with small eyes and saggy jowls and a bushy moustache.
‘I think my nerve’s gone. I just need a rest, that’s all, a few days out of it and I’ll be as right as rain again.’
‘Hmm, they all say that.’
Jack looked at him. Did the MO really think he was making it up? ‘No, really, sir, I have these awful nightmares and some days my vision becomes blurred and I have these terrible headaches, and other days I lose all sense of taste and smell.’
The Captain laughed. ‘Count your blessings, I’d say. The rot they serve up here! Well, let’s have a look at you then.’ The Captain examined Jack. He shone a light into his eyes and ears, placed a stethoscope to his chest, asked Jack to poke his tongue out and felt his pulse. ‘Hmm, have you sustained any injuries?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Any illnesses recently?’
Jack shook his head.
‘Any instances of ill-discipline you need to tell me about?’
‘No, sir,’ said Jack incredulously.
‘How are your feet, got any trench foot?’
‘No, had them checked over recently.’
The Captain tutted, removed his cap and scratched his head. Jack was surprised to see that above the circle of curling hair, the Captain was bald. ‘Can’t see anything wrong with you.’
‘No, sir, it’s not my –’
‘How are your bowel movements?’
Jack was taken aback by the question. ‘Well, I haven’t been, erm... for days.’
‘Well, that’s it then. What you need is a good dose of laxatives, that’ll see you right.’ The Captain reached to a pile of wrapped tablets ready to hand on his table. ‘Here we are, take two of these and if it doesn’t work, take another two tomorrow morning. Works wonders this stuff, you’ll see.’ Jack stood still; staring at the little packets the MO had given him. The captain returned to his seat behind his table and scribbled down a few notes. ‘Oh, and take a couple of these as well.’ He handed Jack two white pills.
‘Aspirin?’
‘Well, you said you get headaches.’
‘Yes but...’
‘Anything else, Private?’
‘Erm...’
‘Well, if that’s all,’ he said standing up again, ‘I’ve got many more to see to. Good morning.’ Captain Butler led Jack to the door. ‘Now, pull yourself together, man, and you’ll be OK.’ And with that, Jack found himself back outside, clutching his tablets. He glanced back to see another private enter the Nissan hut. He hadn’t known what to expect, but he expected more than this. Much more.
Chapter 13: Nurses
Two days had passed since Guy’s left leg had been amputated from just above the knee. The day after the operation, he had received a blood transfusion to prevent post-operative shock. As he was getting ready, Major Cartwright, the surgeon, told Guy in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘Had the leg been sterilised and drained a bit earlier, we could’ve saved it but it’d become infected with gas gangrene.’
‘Gas gangrene?’
‘’Fraid so, Private, a gas-forming bacilli, which, once it infects a wound, can only be treated by amputation. What can do you, eh?’ Guy took this as a vague apology but he knew this wasn’t the place where surgeons had the luxury to worry about what might have been. They concerned themselves only with the here and now, and if a surgeon believed an amputation was needed, off it came, no time to seek a second opinion. Guy’s leg would have been chucked into a bucket, along with numerous other limbs, and some poor nurse detailed to take it away and throw the grim contents into the furnace. In the meantime, Guy had had a bath – his first proper bath in over two months. The water had to be almost cold so as to not cause further pain to the stump. The water turned black as soon as he lay down in the metal tub, sparing Guy the trial of staring at hi
s shorn leg. Once finished, he found it impossible to drag himself out and, much to his embarrassment, had to call for assistance.
Within those two days, Guy had almost come to terms with the loss of his leg. How long would it have taken under normal circumstances? But these were far from normal circumstances. Here, mangled men with wounds severe and life-threatening surrounded him. What was a leg to a jaw or charred skin or the poisonous effects of inhaled gas? Guy’s leg ached – a dull, incessant pain which served as a constant reminder of its absence. Guy lay on his bed for two full days, barely acknowledging his fellow patients. He needed to be left alone, allowed time to absorb his new self, his new being. At least his war was over, but it was a high price to pay, one hell of a Blighty. How long would it take to be strong enough to go back to England? he wondered. And once home, what would he do then? He had no concern for his financial future – he could simply slot in with the family millenary business. With Jack at his side, they could take over and allow their father to enjoy his long sought-after retirement. His sniggered at the thought of his father being unable to resist offering his advice and being incapable of relaxing for fear his sons were cocking it up. No, Guy’s concern was more for his personal future. He was considered a good-looking chap and he had had the pleasure of a few short-term acquaintances, but never a serious girlfriend, with, perhaps, the exception of Mary. But who would be interested in him now – an incomplete ex-soldier? What woman would want to share his bed, to have his children, to provide his father with a grandchild, the grandchild he was so looking forward to? He remembered his dream; his scathing father complaining about his legless war hero of a son. In removing his leg, the surgeon had cut off his future; the women he could have had, the bride that would never be.
At least now, in this hospital, Guy felt safe, cocooned from the outside world, his wound like a membership card to a unique club of contorted and mutilated men. Here, he was one of many, they were all one of the same, victims to the same cause. They understood him and Guy understood them. They’d all seen, felt, smelt and experienced the same emotions of fear, boredom, hatred, deprivation, apathy, love, comradeship, pity and self-pity. A generation of young men, just like himself, united by the experience of war. Surely, their sons and grandsons would never have to experience or suffer as they had experienced and suffered?
This Time Tomorrow Page 11
