Dr Colonel Richard Travers glanced at his watch and shook his head. It was nine thirty-five in the evening.
“He won’t last the evening. God, I’ve never seen anybody in such a condition and still remain alive. How the devil can you be sure of his identity, he doesn’t have a square inch of skin on his body, best all round if he were left in the fire to perish,” he said to a white-faced Sergeant Bull. “Who managed to pull him out?”
“It were the locals that pulled him to safety before the building collapsed, but we reckon it’s him all right. He’s a tough little bugger so I wouldn’t write him off just yet,” Sergeant Bull answered quietly, wincing at the form twitching on the table.
Nurse Rose began by using a pair of metal tweezers to gently tease away the charred fabric, but it was useless, a complete waste of time. With the burned skin still attached, his flesh fell away in small pieces leaving small blisters of blood. He tried to call out as the pain suddenly became unbearable, but no sound came from his mouth, only short rasping gasps interspersed with primitive groans. The nurse pulled back, unable to halt the flow of tears trickling from her once bonny blue eyes. Now with eyes that were just a short step from lifelessness, she looked at the blistered flesh and knew that slowly but surely she was killing him. She put down the tweezers and called for the doctor.
“He needs to be immersed in a saline bath to remove the cloth and fabric burned into his flesh. If I continue as I am for much longer, he will die of shock,” she said, clasping her hands tightly together and lifting them to her lips.
“Yes, I understand, nurse, do whatever you deem necessary,” the doctor told her.
He turned away, glad he possessed the seniority to pass on the case for someone else to treat, yet his gladness came tainted with a deep unnerving guilt. Since first casting his eyes on the charred body he had wanted him to die as quickly and painlessly as possible. Even if he survived and healed, he would never again resemble a man.
Hours later, with the help of an unwilling assistant, they lowered him slowly into a harness made of white canvas, a little at a time – they were in no hurry. Even if he should survive, they could only offer minimal treatment and, in all probability, he would never walk, talk or see again.
When he was half-submerged she tried desperately to gauge the amount of pain he suffered. It was impossible and she quickly realised he was in agony each time his body came into contact with anything of a solid nature. Her hand closed over her mouth and she swore a silent oath to herself that she would keep him alive no matter what. Aware he’d received his injuries saving his friends, she assured herself he was man deserving of the gift of life.
He felt the rising pain engulf him in a closed corridor of agony setting his bones on fire and slash through his veins, igniting the craving for death. He wanted to die but couldn’t tell them. If he could they wouldn’t listen to him. In their innocence they would prolong his agony in ignorance of his mindful pleading. Leave me to die, leave me to die, please, his mind screamed.
“I suggest we spend a period of fifteen minutes each removing the debris from his body. That way no one will lose patience and begin hurrying. We must assume that he is in great pain at all times and act accordingly, is that clear?” she said to the three volunteer nurses before rendering a sedative much stronger than recommended.
It took three heartbreaking days by the angels of mercy to remove the black crust from his body. Off-duty nurses gladly dedicated themselves to his well-being and instantly surrendered their rest periods to assist in any way they could, cheered by his gradual recovery. Over the following weeks his condition improved slowly, and careful treatments of antiseptic oils and paste promoted a slight healing of the skin.
“In his condition he might easily suffer a relapse and the body would then cease to function. It’s going to be touch and go for some time,” the doctor said.
Stan Banks stood shaking outside the tented field hospital and clasped his hands together to control the intermittent trembling. He had changed inwardly, perhaps more than other people might notice. Gone was the fast backfire of banter and rapid repartee for which he was famous, and no more did his voice reverberate down the lines with quick-fire jokes and nuances of the day. It wasn’t the scourge of guilt that had moved him to a new existence. It was the encumbering hang of shame. Through the canvas of the tented hospital he could hear the sharp rasp of breathing and he felt afraid to enter, afraid of what he might see. His own injuries were minor and had responded rapidly to treatment, leaving just a few almost invisible scars to fade away with the erasure of time.
Inhaling deeply through his nose, he plucked up the courage to raise the flap and stepped inside. Unprepared for the shock he staggered back, groping for support to prevent him from slipping to the bloodstained bare grass floor. With eyes tight shut he turned, fighting against the darkness clouding his senses. The bile rushing into his mouth tasted sour, like vinegar, and he thought that he might lose control and retch. The stumpy body laid bright pink, devoid of skin, and surely couldn’t be living. Nurse Rose ignored his response at the sight of her charge. She had witnessed the scene on many occasions and understood. She applied a thick layer of cream to the twitching body, and glanced up with a knowing smile.
“He’s sleeping, it’s a good sign,” she said.
Stan opened his mouth to speak and his breath came heavy and fast, leaving no room for words. Frenziedly, he raised his hands to his forehead and squeezed the skin as though trying to erase the sight from his troubled mind. But it remained and he felt trapped in a flush of self-inflicted pain.
“How do you know, how can you tell?” he mumbled.
“Oh, we can tell,” she said, widening her smile. “Do you know him?”
“Know him? Yes, I know him. I owe my life to him, perhaps even more. We came over together from Blighty and have been friends ever since. He was best man at my wedding, did you know that? We were best friends, we were. Yeah, the best of friends, that’s what we were. We lost Atlas, bloody good bloke he was, I can tell you. Les Hill’s in a poor way too, but he’ll pull through,” Stan Banks said jerkily, clenching his fists and gripping his hands together to stop the violent shaking.
“Well, that’s good news,” she said, gently laying a piece of muslin over her patient’s eyes.
“He won’t be able to see me now when he wakes up, miss. He’ll want to see me, you can bet on that. We’re best friends, miss, didn’t I tell you?” Banks said on the verge of vomiting.
“Yes, I believe you did,” she nodded with a knowing smile. “I thought you knew – he’ll never see again, his eyes were burned out in the fire.”
As though he was made up of loose bones and spongy flesh, Stan sagged and knew he had to get out, away from the sight and sound that turned his legs to smoke and choked the very existence of his body. With trembling hands he clumsily exited the doorway, lurched outside into the fresh air and threw up. A young lieutenant on crutches hesitated and asked if he needed help, reeling away without answering Banks made for the rear of the hospital and with his head in his hands wept.
It was his fault – if he hadn’t gone into the inn when he did this would never have happened. If he’d shown more consideration and remained outside with Thomas he might have been in a position to help. Somehow it was always the story of the simple man – if this, if that. The light in his heart dimmed leaving only the shadow of what might have been, and he promised himself he would repay his friend, and vowed solemnly he would never again leave his friend’s side.
Weeks turned to months and gradually the charred body improved. Better still, parts of his skin re-grew, and with the help of skin grafts a red blotchy form of crinkled skin formed over his body. Still unrecognisable and unable to hear or speak, they dressed him in pyjama bottoms and a baggy cotton shirt. Sergeant Bull visited on a regular basis, as did Stan.
“Jesus Christ,” Leslie Hill mumbled through quivering lips. “How can he be alive? I won’t be coming again. I prefer to
remember him how he was.”
Even Major Billy made the effort. A few pilots reluctantly turned up, but horrified at the unrecognisable body they vowed never to come again. It was nothing personal, they said. Each day they risked fire and burns from crashed aircraft and maybe it was superstition that kept them away.
The moment the doctors agreed to the release of Moses from a hospital further down the lines, he made his way to see Thomas. Late one evening, accompanied by the never-ending cacophony of croaking frogs, he stood outside the field hospital and stared at the silhouette beneath the flickering acetylene gas lanterns inside the tent. He felt no warmth in his body. The disintegrating sand of his being slipped through his fingers and his hands felt frozen and were tinged white around the knuckles. He had to confront him. Yet he shivered in the harsh coldness of what he might see. His heart shrivelled hard like a walnut and he loathed himself for his cowardice.
“Stay as long as you wish, but do not cause him any stress, he is weak and needs rest. If you do you will suffer the wrath of the nurses. They say once he was quite a handsome young man,” Nurse Rose said.
“Handsome? Yes, ma’am, he was handsome, inside as well as outside.”
“I shall convey your words to the nurses,” she said in a soothing voice and left.
Moses listened to the hoarse rhythmical breathing forcing air from scorched lungs.
“Hello, Thomas,” he said softly, leaning closer to Thomas’s ear.
For a moment the body twitched slowly, then more pronounced than before as though it had something to say. Moses turned away as the mists of emotion swept like a tidal wave of affection into his breast, the words in his heart choked before they could be uttered. He wanted to stay, he wanted to leave, and he wanted to tell the poor wretch before him he loved him like a man loves his brother, so he did.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Armistice
It was November 1918 and the Great War finished as abruptly as it had started. German troops made their way back to Germany with the knowledge they hadn’t won the war, yet still denied they had lost. Stan Banks stood in the fantasy of quietness on the empty battlefields and thought the silence might turn him insane. The deafening absence of field guns, fused with the heart chilling memory of screams of the dying pulverised his senses. In a daze he lost all idea of time and direction and wondered if he could ever live in a world of normality again. It was widely rumoured that many men lost their grip on reality at the silence and, turned into trembling hulks forever unable to lead a normal life. Alone, he stood grim-faced and bent, surveying all he had fought for, and he sighed. A few miles of blackened fields in a foreign country full of rotting flesh, stinking shit and bloated, satisfied rats. Mary would soothe him when his hands shook and his eyes shrunk into their sockets in fear of pain and mutilation, but the feeling refused to go away and always returned. Like Monday following Sunday.
Stan and the indestructible Leslie Hill were the only two remaining men left alive from the original group who had left Catterick a million years ago in 1916. Between them they shared the considerable sum that had accumulated in the death pool, the money pooled by the snipers before each battle.
The doctor and Nurse Rose pondered on the best way forward for their patient. Maybe it might be best if he were repatriated back to Blighty to convalesce when he grew stronger.
The doctor thought it a wonderful idea and readily agreed for an ambulance to take his patient to the airfield at Droglandt to receive DCM, the Distinguished Conduct Medal for the bravery displayed while trying to save his comrades during the fire. Major Billy agreed to make the presentation. If the doctor could spare the time he promised he would be honoured to attend. In any case, Nurse Rose promised to attend regardless. Darkness hid the shameful vista of the barren wastelands from the reproaching eyes of Mother Nature waiting to heal and change the dirty brown to a rich vibrant green. As always, she would shortly appear in her eagerness to repair man’s foolish mistakes and ease away the scars of stupidity. Perhaps one day she wouldn’t, and would leave mankind to boil in its juices.
When the weather blew wet and cold the ceremony was cancelled until the following day, at ten in the morning.
When he woke Nurse Rose helped him dress in his simple makeshift clothes and fixed the leather mask over his face to hide the horrific distortion and scars. Late that morning, under a cool sun, she placed the charred body in the wheelchair and allowed Stan to propel him slowly to the presentation point. Major Billy and those pilots not on essential duties stood in line, waiting to come to attention in honour of Private Archie Elkin MM. Stan walked proud and erect, his hair neatly combed and wetted tight to his skull, his uniform full of its complement of buttons and freshly sponged for the occasion. He stopped before the station commander. Beneath the mask he could hear the breath coming in short, loud gasps, each sounding as if it might be his last. The leather mask bare of eyelets meant the mouthpiece puffed and fell as he fought for air. A young pilot new to the squadron closed his eyes tight and refused to watch the ceremony for fear of being sick.
“Aircraft approaching, aircraft approaching,” the warning drifted across the airfield, accompanied by the tolling of the bell. Shocked eyes quickly shifted skyward at the solitary German aircraft skimming low over the treetops about to make Germany’s final attack in defiance of defeat. Years of habit mixed with an instantaneous reaction flowed into man’s automatic act of self-preservation, and each ran and dived for cover. Stan Banks left his charge unattended and like the rest ran for survival. Alone and exposed in the abandoned wheelchair the body twitched and jerked in spasms. Overhead the aircraft passed like a silent black bird. Still the warning bell tolled.
Death came in a gentle manner. Painless and all-consuming like a man might have wanted. The bomb landed with a muted ‘crump’ and blew the body into the air as though lifted by an invisible hand, and smashed it against the wooden walls of the operations hut. A broken rib delivered the fatal blow, piercing the heart.
Moses clung hopelessly to his senses, stunned by the intensity of the moment. Frightened by the glimpse of what lay before him, he shook his head and waited for the pain. It came, as he knew it would, and he closed his eyes against it seeking not answers but questions. With a gasp he sank to his knees, and looked up at the sky.
“Why? You evil bastard, why? You are no God. You are wicked, and they should have nailed you to the cross with your son. Why do you always punish the innocent?” he roared, reaching out with his arms and breaking down into gut-wrenching sobs.
Stan Banks backed away. Each black particle of coal dust ingrained on his shocked face glistened in the paleness of his skin and his blood shrivelled and dried in his veins. He recalled the soft voice, a shy glance, a warm smile, and still he felt the presence of his young friend who had given all and asked for nothing in return. The same young friend he’d deserted when he needed him most. He turned and shuffled away. Some might say at least he had survived the war. Bent and broken he made his way from the airfield and was never seen again, just another faceless casualty in the magnificence of war, just another name chiselled into cold marble and soon indistinct from memory.
The sight of the red flesh splattered against the wooden sides of the operations hut turned Moses from a normal level-headed man into a physically trembling wreck with a scrambled brain. He allowed no one to touch the remains and buried what was left in a makeshift grave beneath a group of swaying beech trees. Alone, in a spot where nightingales sang and waited for nature to heal the squalor and degradation of the trenches. he knelt in stunned silence, his eyes dead and hopeless and his breath quick, like a panting dog. Days later, he was diagnosed as a victim of mild shell shock.
Finally, it was over and all hostilities ceased until man made ready for his next folly, and Moses struggled to find a valid reason to return to a broken England. Instead he gained part-time employment with the Commonwealth War Graves Commission assisting to find and bury the dead. He remained, cared for by a y
oung French nurse called Bernadette in a small two-bedroom cottage with a red-tiled roof and running water next to a bombed-out church. Over the passing months, he slowly recovered to his normal mental state and at last toyed with the idea of returning to England with Bernadette as his wife.
Leslie Hill returned to the small village of Duston on the outskirts of Northampton. On the sweeping bend of the main road, next to St Luke’s church he stood in his unbuttoned uniform with his feet apart and watched his wife step from the bakery. His eyes welled and he felt the heave of his chest. She stopped and turned, and the anxiety fled from her face, and a long absent light shone in her eyes. She did not swoon or faint. Yet relief and happiness sapped the strength from her limbs and she sank to her knees. She had never looked so beautiful.
Early one wet winter morning in the year 1920, a smartly dressed official from the War Graves Commission in London made a surprise visit to Moses’s small cottage with an unusual request. It had been proposed that the body of an unidentified soldier from World War One be exhumed and returned to London for burial in Westminster Abbey to symbolise those who gave their lives in battle and whose bodies were never recovered. He was charged to exhume the bodies of six men from the cemeteries of the Western Front, transport them to France and lay them to rest at the chapel at St Pol.
Armed with a shovel he diligently searched beneath the swaying beech trees for the spot he felt certain he’d laid the remains of the charred body of Thomas, until his hands blistered. For a time, he stood alone beneath a cloud of despair and questioned the very reliability of his memory when his efforts unearthed no sign of the remains. Moving to another group of trees he frantically began his search one more time, thinking perhaps his mind played tricks. Overcome by fear for his sanity, he moved from spot to spot in the hope of discovering his friend’s burial site, until his mind began to deteriorate and he sunk into a deep depression. When Bernadette found him he was on his knees with his face upturned to a grey sky, cursing God in heaven for the multitude of sins he had committed in the name of Christianity. He refused her pleadings to return to the comfort of the cottage.
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