by Hilary Green
‘Isn’t that too late to start a new campaign?’ Leo asked when Sasha told her. ‘Winter comes early in the mountains. You don’t want to be caught up in the sort of conditions we suffered last year.’
‘If we don’t go then we shall have to wait until spring,’ he said. ‘And who knows what might have happened? We have to take our chance. With any luck we shall be through the mountains before the bad weather comes.’
As September the twelfth loomed closer it occurred to Leo for the first time that she might be pregnant. Her periods had stopped after the privations of the winter retreat and, although they had restarted while they were on Corfu they had been irregular, so she had not paid much attention to when the next one was due. But one morning she woke feeling queasy and all day she was aware of a tightness in her breasts. Thinking back, she realized that she had not had a period since the night when she had first slept with Sasha. He had taken precautions since then but in that first passionate encounter neither of them had thought of the risk. She wondered whether to tell him of her suspicions but immediately decided against it. If he thought she was carrying his child it would only add to his burdens. He would have enough to contend with, without worrying about her. He would probably forbid her to join the field ambulance, assuming she had the opportunity. Worse still, he might insist on her going back to England, where she could be sure of better medical attention. She had no intention of obeying such an order, but she did not want to quarrel just as they were about to part. She decided to say nothing until winter brought an end to the fighting, at least for the time being.
On the night of the eleventh they made love with an aching tenderness and in the morning she watched him mount Flame and said goodbye to him with all the courage and optimism she could muster. Then she reported for duty and was told to make ready to leave with the field hospital the following day.
In Wellington, the capital of New Zealand, Luke attended a medical board and was passed fit for active service.
‘Congratulations!’ the chubby doctor in charge said to him. ‘I’ll bet you’re itching to get back to your mates and give the Boches what for.’
Luke restrained an impulse to punch his self-satisfied face. ‘Not if it’s going to be anything like the last shambles,’ he said bitterly. ‘Besides, I’d been hoping for a few months longer. My wife’s pregnant. I’d like to have been around for the birth.’
Six
Tom spent the first two days of his leave sitting in Notre Dame, absorbing the atmosphere of indestructible peace. From time to time he got up and wandered round, gazing at the windows, the statues, the works of art of all kinds that adorned the cathedral, but most of the time he sat and let his mind go blank. On the third day, he got out his sketch book and began to draw, filling the pages with details of soaring columns and intricate carvings. When he felt stronger, he made his way to the Louvre and stood for a long time in front of the Winged Victory, contemplating the product of another warrior society and wondering if anything of beauty could result from the brutal conflict he had just left behind him. A few days later he summoned the energy to climb up to Montmartre and stroll through the narrow streets where every shop front, it seemed, exhibited the work of another painter. It reminded him of his first visit, four years earlier, in pursuit of Leo; a visit which had opened his eyes to so many possibilities.
He did not think about what awaited him at the end of his leave. He had learned to live in the moment, whether of joy or terror. But from time to time he did allow himself to contemplate Ralph’s final, enigmatic words: ‘Don’t worry about the future. You’re too valuable to be wasted.’ Too valuable to whom? To the world in general? That was patently nonsense. To his country? Only in a very marginal sense. To Ralph himself, then? Perhaps. He held the thought close, like a child clinging to a favourite toy.
At the end of two weeks, stronger in body from eating well, as it was still possible to do in Paris in spite of the war, and sleeping as long as he needed to, he took the train back to Amiens and from there managed to get a lift back to battalion HQ. He headed straight for the room where he had found Ralph on the previous occasion, but it was occupied by a stranger.
‘I’m looking for Malham Brown,’ he explained.
‘Not here, I’m afraid,’ was the answer. ‘He went back to his company two days ago.’
‘Back to the trenches?’
‘Yes. They are somewhere near Morval, I believe.’
‘Thanks.’ Tom turned away. It had not occurred to him that Ralph might have gone back to active duty and the disappointment left him feeling chilled and empty. He made his way to the office of the adjutant and reported.
‘Ah, Devenish! I’ve got news for you. You’re being posted.’
‘Posted? Where to?’
‘They want you back at GHQ.’
‘Why?’
‘No idea. No doubt you’ll find out when you get there. I’ll make out the necessary travel documents for you. You can leave tomorrow.’
The British Fourth Army had taken over as its headquarters the Chateau de Querrieu, an elegant rose-coloured building lying in the gentle valley of the River Hallue. When Tom reported he was told that none other than the C-in-C, General Rawlinson, wanted to see him. He found the general with several junior officers in the ornate salon, which had been converted to serve as operations centre for the army, its walls hung with maps and much of the furniture shrouded in dust sheets. When Tom saluted and introduced himself Rawlinson dismissed the others with a courteous, ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ and led him over to a table by one of the windows. There, among the piles of papers and diagrams, Tom was astonished to see one of his own sketch books. He recognized it as one he had left behind when he was transferred to the First Battalion, after that disastrous encounter with Ralph. Ralph must have found it, he guessed, but how it had come into the general’s possession he could not imagine.
‘So, you’re Devenish,’ Rawlinson said. ‘And I gather this is your work.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tom wondered if he was about to be reprimanded for wasting his time when he should have been devoting himself to military matters.
‘You have a remarkable talent,’ the general went on. ‘I have been told that on several occasions your sketches of the battlefield have been of considerable use to your commanding officers.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, sir,’ Tom mumbled, wondering where this conversation might be leading.
‘I’m also informed that you volunteered for officer training and elected to go on active service and have put up a very good show in the recent fighting. But now I have a new commission for you.’
‘A commission, sir?’
‘Yes. I’m withdrawing you from front-line duties. I want you to paint a series of pictures – pictures that will show future generations what we lived through. I’m not laying down any specific requirements, only that your pictures should tell the truth about conditions in the trenches and about the courage and determination of the troops. You can have a room here as a studio, put in a requisition for whatever materials you need, and I will see that you have a pass allowing you to travel to any area of the conflict you may wish to record. Any questions?’
Tom stared at him wordlessly for a moment. The prospect of being reprieved from the horror of battle and allowed to spend his days doing the thing he loved most was almost too dazzling to contemplate, but at the same time his conscience told him it was cowardice.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I can’t accept.’
The general glared at him. ‘What do you mean, “can’t accept”? I’ve given you an order, dammit! You either obey it or you go before a court martial.’
‘I’m not trying to be insubordinate, sir,’ Tom said. ‘It’s just that it doesn’t feel right for me to be painting pictures while other men are dying out there.’
The general’s expression softened. ‘It does you credit. But consider this: when this war is over, what are we going to be left with? Isn’t it right that some good things should c
ome out of it? You are an artist. Isn’t it the role of the artist to transmute experience into something beautiful, even if the experience itself is . . . very far from beautiful?’
Tom remembered the Winged Victory in the Louvre and how his thoughts had run along exactly the same lines. After a moment he said, ‘If you put it like that, sir, I can’t argue. I’ll do my best to fulfil the brief you have set out. But can I ask one thing?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I’d like to make it a limited commitment, as far as time is concerned. When I feel I’ve done all I can do – or when I feel that I no longer have the necessary inspiration – will you let me return to my regiment?’
‘Agreed. And I respect your scruples. I shan’t come and look over your shoulder, but I’ll look forward to seeing the results in a month or two. You might do worse than begin by painting this place.’
‘I should like to do that,’ Tom agreed. ‘But I’m afraid very few of the pictures will be as . . . as pastoral as this.’
‘I’ll leave that to you,’ Rawlinson said. ‘You’d better have this sketch pad back, and I’ll get someone to show you your room and you can get down to work.’
Halfway to the door, Tom turned back. ‘Excuse me, sir. May I ask how you came by my sketch book?’
‘It was passed on by your colonel. But I believe the originator of the idea was a friend of yours. Malham Brown, was that the name?’
Seven
Winter came early to the mountains of Macedonia, as Leo had predicted. There was no rapid breakthrough of the kind Sasha had envisaged. The Bulgarians and their Austrian allies held the high ground and were determined to defend it, but the Serbs were not going to be denied this time. Ridge by ridge and mountain peak by mountain peak they forced the occupiers back. Supported by their French and British allies they hauled their guns up icy slopes and along snow-choked valleys, and at night they dug holes in the snow for shelter. And as they pressed forward, the Red Cross field hospital followed, setting up tents where they could find level ground or taking over the remains of buildings in the shattered villages. The personnel were a mixture of nationalities. The doctor in charge was a Frenchman named Pierre Leseaux; the chief nurse was a Scot, and under her were a Canadian, an Australian, two French girls and Leo.
As the weeks passed Leo was left in no doubt about her pregnancy. She was forced to let out the waistbands of her skirt and breeches and her uniform tunic no longer met over her stomach. Fortunately, she had equipped herself with a voluminous sheepskin coat before leaving Salonika and as she was huddled into that against the biting cold for most of the time her condition passed unnoticed for a while. She suffered very few of the ailments common in pregnancy, apart from a mild nausea first thing in the morning – a fact that she put down to having far too much to do to think about her own health. But this state of affairs could not last and one evening Patty, the Canadian, laid a hand on her arm.
‘Leo, I know it’s none of my business but you can’t hide it any longer. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘You shouldn’t be here, working like this, in your condition.’
‘I don’t see why not. I’m perfectly healthy.’
‘But suppose you had a fall or something. You could miscarry.’
‘Well, I’m sure if that happened Doctor Pierre would be perfectly capable of dealing with it.’
‘That isn’t the point, is it? Or don’t you want this baby? I mean, please don’t think I’m judging you, but you’re not married. Is that what this is all about?’
‘No, it isn’t!’ Leo exclaimed, stung out of her calm. ‘I want this baby very much – and so will its father, when he finds out.’
‘When he finds out? Leo, is he out here, fighting? Is that why you’re here?’
‘Yes. But the fighting can’t go on much longer. Not in the depths of winter.’
‘I hope you’re right. But I still think you should go back to Salonika.’
The following day Leo had a very similar conversation with Dr Leseaux, but nothing could persuade her to go back. Even to herself she could not explain why. She knew that for the sake of the child the safest place for her to be was in Salonika, and if Sasha knew what was happening he would certainly order her to go back; but some obstinate streak in her make-up made her determined to carry on and at the back of her mind always was the thought that if he were to be wounded she would be on hand to care for him.
On November the ninth the allied forces took the heights above the town of Bitola, forcing the Bulgarians to evacuate it. Leseaux’s first action was to take over the hospital, where they found Bulgarian casualties, who had been too weak to go with the retreating army, left to fend for themselves. There were a few local nurses who had stayed at their posts during the occupation and others who came forward to volunteer as soon as they heard that the Bulgarians had gone, but with their own casualties to care for as well as the Bulgars the medical team was stretched to the limit. For several days Leo had no opportunity to enquire after Sasha, though she knew from reports brought by their own wounded that he was still alive and unhurt, somewhere in the mountains that surrounded the city. On some barely conscious level, she was relieved that their meeting was delayed. When she first realized she was pregnant she had looked forward to telling him and imagined that his delight and excitement would mirror her own, but now she recognized that the timing was far from opportune.
She had little time or energy to explore, but what she saw during brief forays in search of supplies surprised her. She had expected to find a small, dusty provincial town but now discovered a city of remarkable contrasts. North of the River Draga, the old Turkish town was a jumble of narrow streets crowding round two impressive mosques and a traditional covered market. To the south were broad boulevards lined with elegant houses, whose classical façades were ornamented with pretty balconies. Many of them bore plaques proclaiming that they housed the consulates of various foreign nations.
When Leo remarked on that fact to Leseaux he looked up with a smile. ‘I know. Like you, I had never heard of Bitola but I have been talking to one of our Serbian friends. He told me that not so long ago this was the third largest city in southern Europe, after Constantinople and Salonika. It was an important crossroad for trade, you see. The Roman Via Egnatia passed through on its way to northern Europe, and another important route going from the Adriatic to Constantinople crossed it here. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries it was so important that many nations felt it necessary to have consulates here – hence the elegant buildings. And it was a cradle of Orthodox Christianity. When the Turks arrived there were so many monasteries in the surrounding hills that they gave it the name Monastir.’
‘And now it’s almost deserted, and being smashed to pieces,’ Leo said. ‘I wonder if it will ever recover.’
Bitola was under constant bombardment from Bulgarian artillery and from German planes. By Christmas there was scarcely a building in the city undamaged and even the hospital had been hit. With snow blocking the mountain passes it was impossible for supplies to get through from the south and rations began to run short. Working twelve-hour shifts on inadequate food, Leo’s health began to suffer. Looking at herself in the mirror, on the rare occasions when she had time, she saw a haggard face with hollow cheeks, and sticklike arms and legs protruding from her swollen belly. She began to dread her encounter with Sasha more than ever.
Christmas passed, both the Western one and the Orthodox. Then one evening she was folding sheets in the tiny storeroom when she heard his voice behind her.
‘Leo! Here you are! I’ve been searching for you.’
She put down the sheet she was holding and turned slowly to face him. For a split second she saw the happy anticipation on his face, then it faded to consternation and finally to anger.
‘My God! What are you doing here in that condition?’
Leo took a deep breath. She longed to throw herself into his arms but the expression
on his face froze her to the spot. ‘My job,’ she replied quietly. ‘Like you.’
‘Like me? The difference is I am not carrying a child!’ They gazed at each other in silence for a few seconds. Then he went on: ‘How long have you known?’
‘Since . . . since just after you left Salonika.’ It was only a small lie.
‘And the child is due when?’
‘I’m not sure. A month, six weeks . . .’
He made a gesture of incomprehension. ‘What were you thinking of? How could you risk yourself, and the baby?’
‘I wanted to be near you.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘And I hoped the campaign would be over much sooner . . . before the worst of the winter. I thought by now we would either be in Belgrade, or back in Salonika.’
He shook his head in disbelief. Then, at last, he came close to her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘You must go back.’
‘I can’t. Not until the spring comes. All the roads are closed. But I am in the right place, you see. This is a hospital, and Doctor Pierre is very competent . . . if he should be needed.’
‘A hospital in a town that is being shelled every day! In a town that is running out of food! How could you be so stupid?’
Tears scalded her eyes. She moved to him and laid her head against his shoulder. ‘Don’t be angry, Sasha. I want you to be glad, for both of us. We are going to have a child . . . our child.’
‘A child born out of wedlock,’ he said. He did not draw back, but neither did he fold her in the embrace she craved.
She looked up at him. ‘What does that matter? We are going to be married, one day.’
‘One day. But that could be months, even years away. And the child is due long before that.’
‘Why should we care? It doesn’t matter to us.’
‘But it will to other people. Even when we are married, to some people it will still be a bastard.’
The word struck her like a blow in the face. She drew back and stared at him.
