A Casualty of War: A Bess Crawford Mystery (Bess Crawford Mysteries)

by Charles Todd

  “I appreciate your desire to help me, Sister. I’ll wait until morning. But no longer than morning.”

  I said nothing for a moment, waiting for him to speak again. Instead he lay there looking at the stonework over his head. I rose to my feet.

  I was just turning away when he said, “I’ll find him. If it’s the last thing I do. What if you’re right, and he is different—if he’s a danger to himself and everyone around him? Someone has to stop him before he kills again.”

  I hadn’t meant it in that sense, when I said he might be a different person. But Captain Travis heard what he wanted to hear.

  Chapter 3

  I don’t remember falling asleep. I had crawled into my cot and taken out my brush to comb my hair after long hours under my cap, and the next thing I knew, it was dawn and the brush was under my left shoulder, pressing into it. I retrieved it and set it on the makeshift table by my cot, and lay there for two or three minutes, summoning the energy to rise and dress. It was cold in my quarters—we had no fires or small stoves to keep us warm. It was a trial bathing and then putting on my uniform. Even my shoes were cold as I shoved my stockinged feet into them. I hurried through my breakfast but held the cup in my hands for several minutes for its warmth before I finished my tea.

  I was just handing my tray to the orderly when I heard a commotion in the part of the crypt where we kept patients who were destined to go back to a base hospital. And there I found Captain Travis shouting at the night Sister, demanding to be released.

  “What’s this?” I asked, in no frame of mind to deal with his mood. There were four other men resting there, including one suspected appendicitis case we were watching and another with an arm wound that wasn’t clotting properly. “You’re waking up the Germans as well as all of us.”

  “You told me last night I’d be free to leave this morning.”

  “I did no such thing. I told you we’d reevaluate your condition in the morning.”

  I knelt by his cot to straighten out the blanket that he’d thrown aside as he struggled against the straps that held him down. When I pulled it up to his chin, I could feel the warmth of his body. An unnatural warmth. Moving my hand to his face, I realized that he was running a fever. We’d cleaned his wound very carefully, but it was deep, and infection was always a worry. Any temporary dressing that had been put on in the field to stop the bleeding couldn’t have been as clean as ours, and men chasing the Germans through northern France had very little opportunity to bathe or change their clothing. The only thing keeping the lice population down, according to Dr. Weatherby, was the cold weather.

  The Captain jerked his head away from my hand, but I had already identified the problem, and as an orderly brought another lamp for me, I could just see that my patient’s blue eyes were far too bright.

  “The doctor will have to decide whether you can go or not,” I told the Captain, “and it will do no good shouting. So please be a little more considerate of your neighbors.”

  He lay back on the cot, his mouth a tight line of repressed anger. But he had quieted.

  I looked at the other patients. The bleeding had stopped in the Sergeant’s arm, the padding beneath his bandaging mostly dry save for the inner wad of cotton wool. Still, I didn’t care for the look of the arm, and I thought it best to send him back to Base Hospital to be observed. The possible appendix case seemed much improved this morning, greeting me with a smile and no signs of fever or pain in his abdomen. Still, he too would go back. The remaining two, one with a long cut on his shoulder and the other with a sprained ankle, were much better as well, although the ankle had swollen more than I’d have liked during the night.

  Leaving to find Dr. Weatherby, I discovered him shaving with cold water. Men at the Front shaved often, so that the gas masks they carried fit more tightly. My own mask lay on my cot, ready to catch up at any sign of that telltale mist. There had been an increase in gas attacks, another rearguard action.

  “Sister Medford reported a quiet night,” he said, “only the usual problems. How are our other patients?” His voice was muffled as he lifted his nose with one hand and shaved under it with sure strokes.

  “The head wound is feverish. I think he should be sent back. And both the arm and the appendix as well.”

  I gave him the rest of my report, and he nodded. “Very well. Oh, damn.”

  The barrage of shelling from the German guns had stopped suddenly. That could only mean an assault was imminent. And in the sudden quiet, I could hear the approach of ambulances.

  “They’re early,” Dr. Weatherby said, wiping off the remnants of shaving soap and reaching for his cap.

  But there were only two ambulances, and we loaded our patients quickly, before the lines of new wounded started to appear.

  Captain Travis was livid. “I tell you, I have to go back to my men. If he shot me, he’ll shoot someone else. Damn it, they aren’t expecting trouble. They didn’t see him as I did. The bastard has to be mad. He’s a danger to himself and everyone around him. Don’t you understand? Get these straps off me, do you hear?”

  I said, “Let Base Hospital have a look at that wound, and you’ll be back before you know it. I promise you.”

  He turned to Sister Medford. “Can’t you hear? Machine guns. Damn it, you aren’t deaf! Get me back on my feet.”

  But he was safely stowed in the ambulance over his objections. I was settling the man across from him as Captain Travis continued to rail at me. But there was an overtone of feverishness now in his demands.

  I could understand, I knew why he was so adamant. If he was right, if there was nothing personal between the two men, and the Lieutenant from the other sector had actually fired at him, as Captain Travis claimed he had done, then the man needed to be stopped. He was a threat to everyone around him. Fear alone could make a man fire at shadows, see an enemy where there was none. Men broke in different ways, and some recovered quickly. Others didn’t. And the next man might not be as lucky as the Captain.

  If it was true, that the other officer had picked up a rifle instead of using his revolver, that might well have saved the Captain’s life. Officers weren’t trained with rifles, and that unfamiliarity might have thrown off his aim. The next time it might be his revolver, and that could easily mean murder.

  I turned back to Captain Travis. He was struggling against his straps and I was afraid he’d do himself a hurt long before he reached Base Hospital.

  “Listen to me. If you will be quiet, I’ll do what I can to send word back to your sector. Will that do?”

  He couldn’t reach my hand. But he clutched at my skirts. “Lieutenant James Travis. I’m sure of it. Find him, if you can. Don’t let him shoot someone else.”

  Both of us could hear the drone of a reconnaissance aircraft coming nearer.

  The driver was ready to close the rear doors. “Time to go, Sister.”

  “Yes, all right,” I told him. Then, turning back to Captain Travis, I said, “I will do my best. I give you my word.”

  He nodded. “Colonel Crawford’s daughter. Yes, all right, I believe you.”

  But I thought it was the exhaustion of fighting so hard to have his way and not my promise that caused him to close his eyes. As I turned to leave, he said, his eyes still shut, “On your head if someone else is killed.”

  The driver gave me a hand jumping down from the ambulance. “What’s wrong with the head wound?”

  “Fever,” I said. “Tell them to watch him when he’s put into a bed. He might walk.”

  The driver shut the doors and turned the handle to secure them. “Right you are, Sister.”

  And then he was climbing in his door, letting in the clutch, and starting on his journey.

  I watched him out of sight, then hurried back to the tent where Dr. Weatherby was already examining a new patient.

  I intended to keep my promise to Captain Travis. In all good conscience I had to try, whether he remembered events truly or was confused about how he was wounded.
But how? Whether I believed him or not, it had to be done.

  And then we were brought three patients from the Captain’s company. One of them was severely wounded and would be sent back by ambulance. But the Corporal and the Private had shell splinters that needed cleaning and bandaging.

  When I had a private moment with the Corporal while Dr. Weatherby looked for forceps, I asked if he’d carry a message to his Lieutenant for me.

  “It’s a matter that was on Captain Travis’s mind just before he was sent back. He asked me to write it down for him and see that the Lieutenant got it as soon as possible.” I’d done that myself, because it would carry more weight if this man believed it had come directly from his Captain.

  “Yes, glad to, Sister.” He took it from me—and turned in time to see what Dr. Weatherby was holding in his hand. “God help me,” he breathed, and closed his eyes. But we got the fragment out without too much difficulty, and once bandaged and given a cup of tea, Corporal Meeker thanked us and started back.

  I had worded the message with care.

  Captain Travis had some concerns that he was unable to set down before the ambulance arrived to carry him back to Base Hospital Seven. He asked me to do this for him. In the retreat during which he was wounded, he was disturbed by the behavior of a Lieutenant Travis in the next sector. There was no time to look into this matter before he was carried to the aid station. He felt that Lieutenant Travis was exhausted and required rotation behind the lines to rest. Although the Lieutenant’s courage is not in question, his level of fatigue could be a danger to himself and to his men, and he might not be the best judge of that.

  Most of the men following the German retreat had had no time to rest, and to suggest that this officer had reached a point where he couldn’t be trusted to carry out his duties to the best of his ability was merely an observation. If Captain Travis was wrong, no harm done. If he was right, this officer would be relieved and sent back for twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The Lieutenant might not like it, if he was innocent of any wrongdoing, but if he was guilty, it would take him out of the fray before someone was killed.

  I felt a sense of relief, duty done to both men.

  Some hours later, a casualty from the Captain’s regiment brought me an answering message.

  The Corporal bringing it had obviously been told what was in the message and to wait for a reply.

  I opened it and read:

  There is no Lieutenant Travis in the company in question. Lieutenant Anderson is a good man and steady. Are you sure you have the name right?

  My surprise was evident.

  The Corporal said, “I’d not heard of this man myself. Are you sure, Sister?”

  “I don’t know what to say. The Captain asked me to take down his message and be sure that it was sent.” Thinking fast, I asked, “Were you there when the Captain was shot?”

  “Indeed I was, Sister. If it weren’t for him, there’d have been even more casualties. It was brilliant, how he managed. He’s a good man, the Captain. I’m happy to serve under him.”

  Oh, dear.

  I said, “Did you see who shot him?”

  “It was utter chaos, Sister. I’d not be able to swear to that. The man next to me saw him stumble, but we thought it was the Sergeant’s weight. And then we were diving headfirst into a ditch. The Captain came after me, with Willard, and I took the Sergeant’s weight while Private Goode caught the Captain. I saw they were both hit and bleeding like a— like they’d bought it, and we dragged them back to the barn wall. We sent him and the Sergeant and three others back to an aid station, then began to sort ourselves out.”

  Oh, dear!

  “We’ve been taking heavy casualties. We sorely miss the Captain. I’m to ask, is it likely he’ll be back?”

  “Yes, I should think so. You didn’t see this Lieutenant Travis, then?”

  “We were caught out, and it was every man for himself. It seemed like half the regiment was running with us. The Germans we were charging were front line troops, no old men or boys in that lot. They knew what they were about, and we didn’t see the machine gun until it was too late. I’m not saying that this Lieutenant Travis wasn’t present in the mêlée, mind you, but Haig himself could have been there, and we’d not have noticed. I could put out word you’re looking for him.”

  And that would never do.

  “I’m sure Captain Travis must have known where he came from, if he named him. Perhaps it was my mistake, writing that he was in the next sector.” I smiled, making light of it. “I was asked to pass on a message, and that’s what I’ve done. If the Lieutenant is at the point of extreme exhaustion, his own men will do something about it, don’t you think?”

  “We’re all past that point, truth be told,” he said with a grimace. “I can’t remember when last I slept. Really slept.”

  I could see that in his face. Deep pouches under his eyes, lines around his mouth, and a blink that told me he was fighting to keep up a good front.

  “This man Travis, the Lieutenant. Any relation to our Captain?” he went on.

  “You’ll have to ask him.” That was a question the Captain ought to answer, I thought to myself. In case he was wrong about the connection. “It’s not an unusual name.”

  “Aye, and the Captain’s from Barbados. They make rum on his plantation, and grow bananas and coconuts and sugarcane. I’ve seen a photograph. Well then, I’ll be off, Sister, and tell our Lieutenant what you’ve told me.”

  “I wish I could be more helpful, Corporal. Captain Travis had a thundering headache from his wound. And he didn’t want to go back to hospital. But it wasn’t his choice.”

  “Aye, he doesn’t give up easily. I’ll say that for him.”

  And he was gone.

  I stood there watching him go, grateful that I’d worded that original message with care.

  Who then had shot Captain Travis? Or had it been a German rifle and not an English one that had brought him down?

  A patient in the afternoon looked to be asleep on his feet, hardly aware of Dr. Weatherby sewing up the gash on his forearm.

  I was speaking to him as we worked, as I often did with cases like this, where the wound wasn’t as serious. I’d asked how his men were faring in their sector.

  “We’re all holding on as best we can,” he said. “Silly to die before the end. I’ve got my eye on marching down to Buckingham Palace with flags flying and bands playing, to wave to the King. He won’t see me in all that throng, but I’ll see him.”

  I smiled and we sent him on his way, hoping he got his wish.

  The rains came in the night, and we were hard-pressed to keep the wounded dry. Many of them were wet to the skin and shivering violently, but we couldn’t risk a fire here in the undercroft with no real ventilation. We wrapped them in blankets and gave them bricks from the ruins above us, heated at a fire outside. Fevers were our worry now.

  I was tending a case of trench foot when a shadow cast by the light of my shaded lamp made me look up.

  “Bess,” Simon said with a nod, as if he’d just seen me at tea, instead of days ago.

  I excused myself to my patient, and we stepped a little apart. His uniform was muddy where it wasn’t wet, and I put out a hand to brush some of the caked mud from his sleeve. “You wouldn’t be allowed in the house, looking like this,” I said teasingly, and he laughed.

  “I’ve just been to the front lines with a message. Not that anyone is certain where that is now, it changes so rapidly. How are you? You look tired.”

  “It’s only the lamplight,” I said.

  “It isn’t that,” he answered, reaching out to turn my chin toward him. “Your mother would be worried if she saw you now.”

  “Men are still dying.”

  “Yes, I know, but you’ll be ill if you aren’t careful. Get some rest, if you can. I must go. I only stopped because I saw the aid station and I was hoping I might find you here. Your father will be glad to know I’ve spoken to you.”

 
“Give my love to everyone at home,” I told him, and then as he was about to turn away, I said, “Simon—could you find out something for me? There’s a Lieutenant Travis, first name James. English, from Suffolk, I’m told. I don’t know his regiment—but it could be one of the Suffolk ones. What can you find out about him? I’ve been told—I can’t say how true it is—that he’s possibly breaking under fire. It could be a problem for those under him. You never know.”

  “I’ll see what I can discover. The Suffolks aren’t near here. I can tell you that much now.”

  Surprised, I asked, “Are you sure? I’ve been told that the fighting is so fluid that no one knows who his neighbor is.”

  “True enough—to some extent. But it isn’t quite that mad out there.”

  “This is important, Simon. Could you get word back to me as soon as you discover where the Lieutenant is at the moment?”

  “I’ll do my best. Take care. This war is nearly finished. There’s nothing left but the arguing over date and time and place. Stay safe.”

  “And you,” I told him. “Tell everyone how much I miss them.” I walked with him to the crypt stairs and climbed them with him. He was a brief breath of home, so far away just now. I suddenly felt a wave of homesickness.

  Simon must have sensed what I was feeling, for as we stepped into the ruined nave, he turned and put an arm around my shoulders for a moment.

  Then he was gone, vanishing into the night. I saw a party of six men materialize out of the darkness to join him as he disappeared. I turned back to my work, still feeling the emptiness even that brief a touch of home left behind.

  Simon Brandon was all but a part of my family. I’d known him since I was very young, when he’d joined my father’s regiment out in India, too young himself and rebellious and headstrong. The Colonel Sahib—only he wasn’t yet a Colonel—had seen something in the raw recruit that he liked, and kept an eye on him by making him his batman, his military servant. There had been much hilarity over that, because the prevailing view was that he would find his new batman more trouble than the unruly tribes along the border with Afghanistan. But to everyone’s surprise, even my father’s, Simon settled down and became a proper soldier. He had gifts, that wild boy who had lied about his age to enlist, and these had made him rise in the ranks. Clearly well educated, he discovered an affinity for languages, and was often used in secret missions. In the end he’d become the youngest Regimental Sergeant-Major in the history of the Army. An honor conferred on few at any age. He’d also become a friend of my father’s, he was devoted to my mother—and he was often assigned to keeping an eye on me. I still remembered any number of times when he’d helped me out of a scrape. He’d taught me to ride and to shoot and to fend for myself in a country where we were not always certain who was a friend and who was a foe.