Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

strength.

  “No. Your arms look thin and weak. I will do it: you drive.”

  “I don’t really know how to, but I guess it’s easy.” I think to myself: you’ve tried untried things before, Agnes: let’s give it a go. I step up into the cab, Dr Bernard shows me what to do, and as the engine roars I let the clutch out slowly. I can feel the motor ambulance straining its way out of the pothole, but then in the mud it slips back down again. I push the clutch in again to stop the wheels spinning in the mud.

  “Agh!” I hear the frustration in her cry as she pushes. But then I see something else. A light in the gloom ahead of us, like a tiny moving glow-worm. Out here, in the loneliness of the night and the knowledge that the battle lines are close, and my only company this harsh, critical woman, I peer at the moving light and feel a stab of fear.

  “Dr Bernard! There’s a light out there. Someone is coming towards us.”

  “What of it? Probably a farmer. Operate the clutch again, Miss Frocester.” I think to myself: we’re near a battlefield: there are no farmers left around here. But I follow her instructions, and I can hear, above the engine, Dr Bernard’s strained gasps of effort. The ambulance gives a jolt and moves forward.

  “We’re on the road again! Miss Frocester, push the clutch back in. And – well done.” A moment later I see her face looking at mine in the cab window. There is almost a smile in her eyes. “I’ll take over the driving again.”

  As she settles into the driver’s seat, we both look forward at the road, lit by our headlamps. The spot of light is closer and clearer now. Then two feet, thickly clagged with mud, come into the lowered beam of our lights: then two legs, then the body of a uniformed figure, spattered everywhere with dirt. In one hand the figure holds a dim, shaded lamp. Moments later, our headlights shine whitely onto the dirty, haggard face of a man. He stands in the road in front of us, blocking the way, and calls to us.

  “Ahoy there! Are you medical staff?”

  “Yes. Red Cross.”

  The man steps forward and comes up to the side window of the cab. “You’ve been sent from Ypres?”

  Dr Bernard looks into the man’s eyes, which, I see, are not just tired but bloodshot. His face is not only dirty, but scuffed and grazed: there are spots of blood under the mud.

  “We have indeed been dispatched from Ypres.” Her words are curt, with an edge of doubt – even fear, maybe. She looks doubtfully at the soldier.

  “Do you have identification, young man?”

  “Yes of course.” Then he adds “Ma’am.” He fishes some papers out of a pocket, hands them to the doctor. She looks at him, her eyes still shaded with suspicion.

  “Corporal Tasker. So, why do you come alone, to accost us on this road in the middle of the night?”

  “I came here, ma’am, to find you.”

  “You will guide us to St Julien?”

  “More than that, Dr –”

  “Bernard. My name is Bernard. This is Miss Frocester, a volunteer auxiliary.”

  “Dr Bernard. I came to find you. I have been instructed to give the medical staff this.”

  The soldier holds out an envelope, sealed like an old-fashioned letter with a blob of wax. It looks like a love-letter from a Victorian novel. The rectangle of white paper looks oddly small and out of place in this lonely darkness.

  Dr Bernard opens the envelope and reads aloud.

  “Classified: Top Secret

  Issuing office: British Army central command, Chateau Niobe, Flanders

  To the chief of medical staff, St Julien Advance Dressing Station:

  You will be given these instructions by one of our regular troops. Please accompany him. He will lead you to your casualty.

  Please treat the casualty with your utmost care and skill. It is strictly forbidden to speak to the casualty. The extent of his injuries is not known and he may appear to be perfectly well. Please give him, and only him, your medical attention, even if others are severely injured.

  Your only tasks are to make sure the casualty is well enough to travel, and to transport him to Essex Farm Casualty Clearing Station on the Diksmuide road north of Ypres. At Essex Farm you must ask for a Professor Felix Axelson, and the casualty must be transferred to his care. Ensure you personally hand the casualty to Professor Axelson, who will conduct the initial interrogation of the casualty.

  A pass contained in the glove compartment of the dashboard of your motor ambulance will enable you to pass all military checkpoints.

  You must proceed with all haste.

  General Douglas Haig.”

  While she’s been reading, Dr Bernard’s face has been changing: from puzzlement to surprise, and now, to rage. She looks at the soldier as if she would like to hit him.

  “What on earth, Corporal, is this?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. I was given that sealed envelope this afternoon and told to give it to the medical staff, when they arrived.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “A dispatch courier, ma’am. He said he was not at liberty to say who had instructed him.”

  “I can’t obey this, Corporal. It goes against my Hippocratic oath to follow these absurd instructions. According to this, we are to treat only one person at St Julien, this so-called ‘casualty’. What if scores of men are badly injured? Do we leave them to die, and simply drive to the Essex Farm Clearing Station with a single soldier? This must be a joke, Corporal.”

  “I’m afraid it can be no joke, ma’am. You’ll see that that is General Haig’s signature, and – see this stamp here. This has been issued by British Army central command. You must follow these instructions.”

  “Well I won’t. We won’t.” She glances at me. “I’m not a British citizen, and neither is my assistant. Most of all, I make my own medical judgements. I’m a doctor, not some mindless foot soldier. Now, stop this nonsense, and let us go on our way to St Julien. We can offer you a lift there in the ambulance, if you wish.” She smiles faintly, as if to show Corporal Tasker that her anger isn’t personal against him. But he ignores her expression, and carries on explaining.

  “You can’t get to St Julien, ma’am. Shell craters in the road, a hundred yards further on. You must leave the ambulance here, I’m afraid, and accompany me on foot. Our troops are not in the village of St Julien, you see. We are dug into defensive positions, about two hundred yards’ walk from here.”

  “No. Absolutely not. This is wrong, Corporal! I will complain to your stupid General Haig, if necessary.”

  “Ma’am, please – you don’t understand the situation. You have no choice. The road ahead is blocked, so you must leave the ambulance here and walk with me to our position over there.” He points to the horizon, and in the moonlight I see, like a low black reef, a patch of rough woodland standing up against the sky. Corporal Tasker looks back into Dr Bernard’s face. “Your only other option, ma’am, is to drive back to Ypres, and explain your actions to Major Jardine.”

  There’s a pause. I sense that Dr Bernard is realising that we indeed have no choice.

  “Despite what you say, the instructions are nonsense. We can’t carry them out. How would we identify this single ‘casualty’?”

  “There’s no need to identify him, ma’am. We’ve already captured him.”

  Against the night sky, Dr Bernard’s face is white, her eyes wide and confused.

  “Captured?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We captured him. The casualty referred to in General Haig’s orders is Oberleutnant Walther Seydlitz, Prussian Guards. A German soldier.”

  4.Into the trenches

  Tonight I’ve done two things for the first time. I’ve driven a motor vehicle, even if only for a yard or so. And now, I’m carrying a military haversack. It’s full of medical supplies: I gathered every single item that was in the back of the poorly-equipped ambulance. I glance back along the rough track at our vehicle, sitting there in the moonlight. And I think: after only one month in France, I’m nearing an actual battlefield. I recall my
reassuring letters to my parents. ‘I will see nothing of the War, of course: the Stationary Hospitals are miles behind the front lines.’

  I try to concentrate on each step. My shoes are hopelessly unsuitable: they’ll be ruined. Such a trivial thought – but it’s something to focus on, stepping along in the darkness and the deepening mire.

  “Here”. Tasker indicates a set of muddy, descending steps, carved in the earth beside us. They lead down into a grave-like slot in the soil. My feet slip on slimy surfaces as I step down into blackness. After the last step down, the sides of the trench are well above my head: the moonlit night that was all around us is replaced by utter darkness, except for Tasker’s shaded lamp, which lights only his immediate footsteps. We walk along for two, three minutes. Then, in the light of the lamp, I see his hand raised.

  “Halt here.” He turns around, whispers to us.

  “Yesterday morning, we occupied these trenches. We’re in a supply trench running directly towards our front line. It’s like the stem of a letter T. Ahead of us, the front line trench branches out to either side. These are not well constructed trenches: they were dug some months ago by French troops who used them only occasionally. Dr Bernard – and Miss Frocester, especially – please do not go along to the trench leading off to the right. When the French captured this area a few months ago, the German casualties from that fighting were stacked there, and have not been buried.”

  I’m hardly believing what I’m hearing. I