In Distant Fields

by Charlotte Bingham

‘They look as if they don’t know where they are.’

  ‘That is probably because they don’t,’ Nurse Rose replied crisply. ‘They know nothing of where they are, at any time. They will hardly be able to eat, or talk, or light a cigarette, or write a letter, nothing.’ She paused. ‘My mother has been nursing some of these cases in a home in Norfolk. She wrote to warn me that they are more difficult to nurse than the openly wounded. Limbs heal faster than minds, Nurse Rolfe. So –’ she nodded briskly towards what looked like a sea of crippled men staggering towards them – ‘time to roll up our sleeves, and get going.’

  ‘Have you both taken leave of your senses?’ The Duke stared from his wife’s face to that of his daughter. ‘What are you all thinking? One simply cannot interfere with this sort of thing in this sort of way, d’you understand me?’

  ‘No, Papa,’ Partita replied. ‘I think we have an absolute duty to our patients. We must stand by them in the same way that you would stand by your men. It is no different.’

  Circe felt quite proud of Partita at that moment, if only because she looked every inch the daughter of her father; but also because she could see that John was looking at her as if he was seeing her as a formidably strong character, perhaps even as a young woman at last.

  ‘Hmm.’ Her father paused. ‘So you are standing by your men, are you? You don’t say.’

  ‘I do say, as it happens, Papa. You know the last thing any of us wants is to take advantage of your authority and your position. What we want is for you to see what we’re trying to do, and when you do, we know what your feelings will be because we know you are the sort of person who, in our place, would be just as unflinching in your determination. Michael Bradley is a victim of a terrible atrocity, but we have helped him, and we can help him further. What we cannot do is turn him back to those who will take ruthless advantage of his mental state, perhaps use him as a guinea pig, only to throw him into a mental institution where he will languish for the rest of his days.’

  ‘That will not necessarily be his fate.’

  ‘Not necessarily, no, but it could well be his fate, Papa.’

  ‘You couldn’t let them do that, John,’ Circe put in, turning to him. ‘Not if you knew the poor man.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ John replied, his defences weakening, ‘this is a matter for the medics. We can think what we like and feel what we like, but in the end this is a matter for the experts who must be allowed to do what they think best, surely?’

  ‘No, please, it is you who will do what is best, surely, John?’

  The Duke, seeing the steely look in both wife and daughter’s eyes, realised that for once he was being outgunned.

  ‘Very well. I will see what I can do. If the matter comes up—’

  ‘But the matter will not come up!’ Partita protested. ‘Not unless you bring it up, Papa. Don’t you see?’

  ‘I do see. But I also see this is just one chap – albeit a soldier who has been subjected to an appalling atrocity, which, if proved to be true, will be dealt with officially. But it is just one soldier – one soldier who is part of a vast army of millions of men who are all being exposed to the greatest brutalities that man has ever inflicted on man. Now if we were to examine each and every one of these cases to ensure that no one was being exploited or used in any way that might upset them, where would we be? Every single one of those men who every day and every night are being ordered over the top are being exploited, if you look at it that way. They’re certainly not doing these things because they enjoy it. They might believe in the greater good, and they might have volunteered to fight the good fight, but believe me every man jack of them would rather the whistle didn’t blow for them to climb the ladders out of their trenches and go over the top, but that’s how it is. In a fight like this there are bound to be sacrifices, and this is something to which we must all get used. Something we all of us must learn to expect to happen – or, if not to us, then to someone close to us. If we start trying to protect everyone who comes to Bauders – why, that’ll never do, never do at all. We don’t have the time for it and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘But if the matter does arise,’ Partita persisted quietly, although by now feeling more than a little forlorn, ‘you will do what you can?’

  ‘If the matter arises, Partita, I shall see what, if anything, I can do. And if it is for the best then I shall do it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But you are not to become engaged to this man. Is that understood? It would be the most terrible thing to lead him on in such a way, and I can’t think what took possession of you to think up such a scheme, or for you to persuade your poor mamma to go along with it.’

  ‘I do see your father is right,’ Circe agreed, turning to Partita with a warning look, and then back to her husband. ‘We must all be a little overwrought. Really, we must be, John.’

  ‘Understandably so.’ The Duke straightened his shoulders. ‘I will do what I can, when I can, believe me, I will.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa.’

  ‘Good,’ her father said to her with a nod. ‘And don’t think for a moment that your work here is going unappreciated, because it ain’t.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You are all as much at the party as the men. Hearts and souls and wills, we will win. It is just taking a little longer than we all thought, that’s all. A little longer.’

  Although nothing was said again by anyone in reference to Michael, he was still in residence at Bauders at the beginning of June. The fact that his continued presence was not even remarked upon by any of the family, was as if they all believed any mention of him or his salvation might break the spell.

  Plenty was said between Partita and Kitty, however, when next they received word from the Front. Kitty was the first to get a letter, a long, loving and intimate screed from Almeric from somewhere in Flanders. He wrote: It seems to be so odd to be here as summer breaks. All I think of is home, of all Mamma’s beloved flowers, especially her roses, and the fresh green of the trees – and now the most beautiful of all the flowers of home – you, my darling Kitty. How I would love to be sitting by the lake with you, or going on one of our famously long hikes. Do you remember the last walk we took when we got absolutely drenched in that sudden squally shower and I don’t think either of us noticed?! I suppose we must have done so sooner or later because the next picture I have is of you and me in the folly, with you in my arms and me kissing you and kissing you. How I love you, darling Kitty! If I didn’t love you so much I don’t really think I could manage this very well at all. Yesterday we buried two young men killed by shell-fire while out mending cables for the telephones. That in itself is a terrible job but a necessary one because good communications are absolutely vital and practically nonexistent. Rumours abound concerning some of our recent fatalities not so far down the line – that they were killed by our own guns because of incorrect information. It could have happened, I suppose, but it simply does not bear thinking about. These young men were two particularly jolly types – never a moan or a grumble from either of them, and they both went about their dangerous tasks as if they were out gardening. Only three nights ago we were at a dance in the village just behind our lines where the locals all carry on as if whatever war is happening is happening in some other country! This in spite of the constant noise of the guns clearly audible from everywhere in the village – yet no reference is ever made. Drink and food are willingly fetched and carried as if we are all here on a holiday – hence the dance. They held it for us in the little hall with a typically French band – endless accordions, a fiddle, drums and a trumpet – and everyone danced with such exuberance you would think we were celebrating peace instead of preparing for yet another battle. I didn’t dance – have no fear! Well, that isn’t strictly true – there were many pretty – or rather jolie young ladies present but the only dance I had was with Madame who runs the café with her husband, a huge, sanguine man with a moustache like a walrus and a great capacity for le bon vin rouge. The two young
men we have just buried danced all night. I can see them now, well and truly lit up and prancing and galloping round the smoke-filled hall like lads at a village hop. I was going to say, as if their lives depended on it, and I suppose in a way that would be true. They say people here get a sense of their destiny and act accordingly. I don’t know what that sense is, dearest – but if I get it I shall look out!

  It was only the briefest of funerals because any gathering attracts the eye of the enemy, but we did get the chance to read something over them while another of the boys produced his harmonica and played ‘Greensleeves’. I have to say it was all rather moving. It’s so very odd – while we hurried through the briefest of services the guns suddenly stopped as if orchestrated to do so. When they did, after only a few moments, the air was filled with a chorus of birdsong. There we were, deafened by the barrage one moment and the next we were all standing in a summer garden at first light (because it wasn’t long after dawn) – serenaded by the sweetest sound you could imagine. Poor old Flanders – there really doesn’t seem to be very much left of her – and you do have to wonder why.

  Anyway, there’s talk of a bit of activity soon so I’m not sure when I shall be able to write again. If has been fairly quiet here for the last week, besides the sound of the bombardment, which thankfully is not directed anywhere near our position, although a couple of stray shells dropped about five hundred yards behind us, killing a woman, so they say, who was out walking with her two young children. That is what is so hard to fathom, Kitty – we who wear the uniforms of our country’s regiments are legitimate targets, but women and little children being blown to pieces? What sort of world have we made?

  As I lie here at night or at day, whenever it is possible to snatch some sleep in my fughole, I think of you. I think of our times together, I think of your laugh, I think of your gentle smile, I think of your sweet kisses. Most of all I think of your love and I think of you and I expressing our love for each other when this war is at last over and we are reunited properly. It is that thought – the thought of you and how much I love you – that keeps me sane and inspires me to try to lead my men safely through the battles to come and to do my bit to get sanity restored to this mad world of ours. You are not just in my thoughts, darling Kitty – you are my thoughts – entirely, even when sleeping when all I see is your beautiful angelic face. How I long to be in your loving arms once more! Sitting by the fire in the library with the dark night enfolding us while I enfold you in my arms, kiss your hair, your face, your soft cheeks and your sweet, sweet mouth. Love me as I love you, which shall be for –

  Always, as ever, yours,

  Almeric

  Kitty wrote back to Al at once, almost as if she knew she had to catch him before he moved on, before the push to which he had referred began and her letter might not reach him at his new position. She had no idea how the postal services worked as efficiently as they did, under such duress. Every time she sat down to write to Almeric, she wondered how her letters ever reached him, how letters from home ever reached any of the soldiers to whom they were addressed and yet they did. Somehow those bags of mail containing letters marked to hundreds of thousands of different men serving in different regiments, subdivided into battalions, subdivided yet again and yet again until they were platoons, until they were units, until they were individuals, the very individuals to whom the letters had been written at desks, at kitchen tables, by firesides, under blossoming apple trees, besides lakes, rivers or ponds, on knees, in railway stations, hotels, houses, cottages, flats, hospitals, wherever a loved one could sit and put pen to paper – to write to their lover, their brother, their father, uncle, cousin, lover or just friend, before dropping that small carefully written missive into a post box, trusting it to a mail service that somehow miraculously managed to put that letter – finally – into hands all too eager to tear open the envelope. And having found a quiet place to read, the recipient would sit, smoke a cigarette or light a pipe, shut off the seemingly interminable noise of war and read all the news from home.

  But this letter of Kitty’s seemed to have a different urgency. It was as if the words that Almeric had so lovingly and carefully written to her had made her even more aware of the necessity of writing the right words. Because of this she found herself hesitant, searching, always searching, for the absolutely right thing to say to the man she was to marry.

  Because of the genuine depth of her feelings for him, finally she was able to write a letter to him that she hoped conveyed adequately everything she felt. She wrote that she thought of him always, that she remembered their walks, their talks and their kisses, and that all she could think of was his safe return and of their being finally united. Then she kissed the envelope and posted it in the box that stood in the castle hall.

  The letter that was delivered to Partita several days later had a very different effect indeed on the receiver.

  Partita saved it up to read in bed. It was the end of a particularly difficult day, which had been spent tending to a number of patients who had just been sent on up to Bauders to recover from the effects of inhaling chlorine gas, the chlorine deeply affecting their respiratory and digestive systems. Bauders had been forwarded the first few cases in the forlorn hope that recuperation in the fresh summer air of the English countryside would do the trick. But the first of the arrivals were still so dreadfully distressed when they arrived that they had to be sequestered away from the other patients.

  It was yet another harrowing experience, and one from which Partita had not had time to recover when she opened the letter and started to read.

  ‘What on earth do you mean by this, Kitty?’ she demanded, bursting into her room, waving the letter dementedly. ‘What on earth – can you have been thinking? Are you shell shocked now? What did you mean by this?’

  Kitty, worn out by the disturbing events of the day, had been fast asleep, so she now sat up startled, trying to make out who was in her room and why, putting her feet to the floor, thinking that it might be a patient, before realising it was Partita.

  ‘This is a letter from Peregrine! And it appears – it appears that what it contains is all your doing! How could you write to him like that? How could you?’

  ‘Just calm down, Partita,’ Kitty replied, picking up her gown and pulling it on, ‘and tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘Going on? Going on! I’ll tell you what’s going on, you interfering little fool!’ Partita was at her bedside now, flapping the letter at Kitty like a mad woman. ‘I’ve just had this letter from Peregrine congratulating me on my engagement, that’s what’s going on! And all thanks to you, apparently! You wrote to him and told him I was getting engaged to Michael! And he’s taken it to be the gospel truth! What did you think you were doing?’

  ‘Try to calm yourself, Partita. If you don’t calm down you’ll do yourself harm, really you will – particularly after everything you and I have been through today.’

  ‘Today has nothing to do with anything! This is what matters! This letter! Don’t you realise what you’ve done?’ She sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed. ‘You have finally managed to put Perry off me completely!’

  ‘You’re not making sense – it’s because you’re exhausted.’

  ‘He will never see me as anything but a piece of thistledown now,’ Partita continued, brushing away Kitty’s conciliatory hand.

  ‘No – think sensibly, Tita – and do try and calm yourself,’ Kitty advised, now managing to get hold of Partita by her shoulders and guiding her back to her own room. ‘Why should I try and do something like that? No – no, don’t say anything for a moment, please? Not until you’ve heard me out. I admit, yes, I did write to Peregrine, but only because he asked me to do so as a friend, that’s all – and I admit I mentioned the fact that you were thinking about becoming engaged to Michael – that this was how far you were prepared to go for your patients. It was a joke, in the letter, that’s all, a joke.’

  ‘What sort of humour is there in tha
t, may I ask?’

  ‘No – listen, please? I only did that for your sake.’

  ‘For my sake?’

  ‘Yes, for your sake.’

  ‘How for my sake?’

  ‘So that Peregrine will see you in a different way. See you as you are. I was praising you to him. And I also hoped—’

  ‘Hoped?’

  ‘Yes, I really hoped that it might make him a little – well, I must be honest – jealous.’

  For once Partita kept quiet. ‘Jealous?’ she asked eventually, frowning. Peregrine had always seemed so far removed from petty matters, she could not even imagine him entertaining such a petty feeling.

  ‘You should have seen the look in his eyes when he saw the attention you were giving Michael.’

  ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Of course it is! Why should I lie to you? I’m engaged to your brother so why should I try and spoil things for you? I don’t think Peregrine quite understands his real feelings himself. Nor does he understand just what a golden girl you really are.’

  ‘But all he says here is that he must send me his congratulations. He blithely congratulates me on being such an angel and hopes we’ll be very happy.’

  ‘That’s Peregrine all over.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  Partita looked pensive, so Kitty continued, ‘if you ask me, half the trouble – no, the whole trouble – with you and Peregrine is that he’s always been determined to see you just as a little sister, Almeric’s little sister. But you have grown up, you’ve changed, and maybe when he was here, seeing how sweet you were being with your patients, maybe he suddenly saw you in a different light.’

  ‘Maybe so, but – I hardly think so. Oh, why did you have to write to him?’

  ‘You’re tired, Tita,’ Kitty said, sitting down on the bed beside Partita and putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘We both are.’

  ‘Oh God, oh God, Kitty, will this war never be over? It seems that it will never, ever end.’ Partita sighed in misery. ‘Oh, for it to be all over and everything to be back just as it was.’