Harvest of War

by Hilary Green

  How long she hung there she did not know, but when she was almost at the end of her strength and beginning to slip in and out of consciousness she became aware of a regular crunching sound getting closer and closer. It took a moment for her to realize that it was the sound of army boots marching through snow. She summoned her last strength and shouted for help. The boots came closer and she could hear whistling. She shouted again, but the boots kept marching without a break in the rhythm. In desperation she thrashed at the water with arms that were almost too numb to move and screamed again.

  Then, at last, she heard the regular steps break. Voices approached and a face peered down at her. ‘Cor blimey! It’s a woman. How long you been down there? Hold on, luv. We’ll have you out of there in two ticks. Come on, lads. Lay hold! Heave! Heave!’

  A dozen hands hauled at the body of the ambulance and others gripped Victoria’s shoulders. She screamed with pain as the weight was lifted from her leg and she was dragged out of the ditch. The concerned faces surrounding her blurred and she lost consciousness.

  Victoria came round in the familiar surroundings of the Casino Hospital. Beryl Hutchinson was sitting by her bed.

  ‘Hello, old thing. I say, you have been in the wars! What happened?’

  ‘I was going to ask you that,’ Victoria mumbled.

  ‘All I know is you were found in a ditch underneath Nellie, up to your neck in cold water.’

  Victoria searched her memory. ‘Oh, Lord! I was supposed to pick up some top-notch brass hats. What happened to them?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about them. From what I’ve heard they were picked up by an army convoy heading in this direction and were back in Calais soon after you set out. You must have passed them on the way.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Victoria muttered. ‘They might have given me a wave.’ Her chest hurt every time she drew a breath and her leg was throbbing as if someone was hitting it with a large hammer. She lifted her head and peered down the bed. A cage had been placed under the blankets to keep them off her legs and a sudden dreadful thought struck her. ‘Is it still there?’

  ‘Is what still there?’

  ‘My leg. Both my legs?’

  Hutchinson gave a little gasp. ‘Bless you! Of course they are. Can’t you feel them?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I can feel them all right,’ Victoria responded grimly. ‘But that’s what happens when . . . when they take them off, isn’t it? It feels as if they are still there.’

  ‘All right. To set your mind at rest, I’ll take a look.’ Hutchinson went to the end of the bed and lifted the blankets. ‘All present and correct. Do you want me to count your toes?’

  Victoria sank back on her pillows with a sigh of relief. ‘No, thanks. I’ll take the toes on trust.’

  An hour or two later the same doctor who had set her arm came to examine her. ‘Not you again!’ he said. ‘I patched you up last time. You’re a glutton for punishment, and no mistake.’

  ‘How bad is it?’ Victoria asked.

  ‘It’s a nasty break. We had to operate and there was a moment when we thought we might not be able to save the leg, but it should heal satisfactorily, given time. You’re going to be out of action for quite a while, though. Are you in much pain? Do you want a shot of morphine?’

  ‘It’s not the leg, so much,’ Victoria wheezed. ‘My chest hurts.’

  The doctor took out his stethoscope and listened to her chest for some time. When he removed the instrument from his ears his face was grave.

  ‘Yes, I’m not surprised it’s painful. We’re going to have to look after you very carefully, young lady.’

  By which Victoria understood that she was seriously ill.

  Luke Pavel watched the coast of France materialize slowly out of the grey mist of sky and sea.

  ‘Bit of a change after Gallipoli,’ commented the man standing next to him.

  ‘Don’t think we’re going to have to worry about sunburn,’ Luke agreed.

  ‘Or flies. That’s what really got me down on the last show. Bloody flies over everything. You couldn’t put a bite of food in your mouth without getting flies in with it.’

  ‘You don’t have to remind me,’ Luke said with a shudder.

  ‘Let’s hope the natives are friendly,’ his companion said.

  ‘Well, I don’t think they’ll be taking pot shots at us when we land this time,’ Luke said. ‘But don’t let’s get too optimistic. This isn’t going to be a picnic.’

  ‘It can’t be as bad as Gallipoli.’

  ‘You want to bet?’

  After a night in barracks in Calais the Wellingtons were ordered to form fours and marched out of the city and down the long, straight road towards Ypres. The snow had melted, the ditches at each side were overflowing and the Flemish polders were underwater.

  Luke’s friend looked around him. ‘People actually live here?’

  ‘Reckon so.’

  ‘Guess they must be born with webbed feet, then.’

  At the end of the third day’s march they reached their allotted position. For miles they had tramped through the carnage of earlier battles. The landscape was a sea of mud, churned up by tank tracks and pitted with shell-holes. Here and there the skeletal remains of a tree stuck up, or the crumbling walls of a building. They had heard the guns as a distant, background rumble from the moment they disembarked, but now it was a constant, ear-shattering cacophony, punctuated by the whistle of the smaller shells and the express-train thunder of the big ones.

  An English sergeant directed them off the road and down some steps into a communications trench, where they were up to their knees in water. They squelched along for almost a mile until they reached the reserve trench, where an Australian battalion, waiting to be relieved, greeted them with grim humour and welcomed them to the dugouts they had been inhabiting. Later, on sentry duty, Luke found himself standing next to his company lieutenant, who was examining the surroundings through a periscope. ‘Anything to see out there, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Sod all, except mud,’ the officer replied. ‘Have a look for yourself.’

  Luke peered through the periscope, swinging it in a slow arc from west to east. Away across the level plain he saw a low, curving ridge and the outlines of a small village. ‘What’s that place called?’ he asked.

  The lieutenant consulted his map.

  ‘Not sure how you pronounce it. ‘Pass . . . Passchysomething . . . See for yourself.’

  Luke looked over his shoulder. Passchendaele, he read.

  Leo was watching a thin line of sunlight moving across the ceiling above her bed. It moved slowly from right to left and then back again, and as it did so she felt the weight of her own body shift from one side to the other. The sensation puzzled her. The ox-carts never swayed with this gentle, rocking motion – and anyway, she had been on horseback. She had been riding . . . riding where? It was important. She had been on an important mission. Where was she going? She must remember.

  She moved and a stab of pain in her lower body stopped her short. She was hurt. Why? Something had happened . . . Then memory flooded back, with the same two agonizing thoughts. Sasha was dead, and their child had been abandoned. She had to find her child! She sat up and cracked her head on something immediately above her. She was lying in a bunk, and suddenly she understood why the light kept moving. She was on a ship. But a ship would not take her to where her child was. How had she come here? Was she a prisoner?

  She sat up again, more cautiously, and was about to slide out of the bunk when the door opened and Patty came in, carrying a tray.

  ‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’ she exclaimed. ‘Come on, now. Back into bed. You’ve been very ill. Just lie back and take it easy. I’ll get you anything you want.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Leo demanded, her voice a husky whisper. ‘Why are we on a ship?’

  ‘You’re going home,’ Patty said. ‘And I’m coming with you. I’ve always wanted to see England.’

  ‘England?’ Leo repeat
ed. ‘What do you mean? I don’t want to go to England.’

  ‘It’s the best place for you, believe me,’ Patty said gently. ‘You are going to need a long period of rest and recuperation. And you need to be with your own people, your own family.’

  ‘I don’t have a family!’ Leo protested. ‘I have a brother, but he’s fighting in France, if he’s still alive. My family is in Serbia. Sasha was my family. Now that he’s dead all I have left is my child. I have to find her. Patty, you must tell them to turn the ship round. I have to go back to Salonika.’

  Patty laughed, but there were tears in her eyes. ‘You don’t understand, my dear. This isn’t a private yacht. It’s a Royal Naval hospital ship, taking casualties back to England. The captain isn’t going to turn around on your say-so. Anyway, we’ve been at sea for two days now. It’s too far to go back.’

  ‘Two days?’ Leo murmured. ‘How can that be? I was at Bitola yesterday. I was going to find my baby.’

  ‘Not yesterday, sweetheart. It’s a week since we found you half-buried in a snow drift. We wouldn’t have had any idea where to look if your little mare hadn’t come cantering back into the yard. I can’t believe you actually got up on her and stayed on that long, after what you had been through with the birth! We thought you were dead when we found you, but there was still just a little spark. Doctor Pierre wrapped you in his own cloak and carried you in his arms all the way back to the hospital. The next day the thaw started – you know how sudden this can be in the mountains – and when the road was open it was decided that you would be better off back in Salonika. We got there just in time to catch this ship and I got the job of taking care of you. The doctors agreed it would be better for you to have one familiar face around.’

  ‘And I’ve been unconscious all this time?’

  ‘Not completely. You’ve surfaced from time to time, but never really been aware of where you were. I guess our bodies, or our minds maybe, know when we just need some time out, time for the healing process to begin.’

  ‘But my child . . .’ Leo said.

  ‘Listen to me. The woman who took your baby in is a good person. Everyone in the village vouched for that. She was grieving for her stillborn baby and she was happy to be given yours to care for. She will look after her, I promise you that. And Doctor Pierre left some money to help with her expenses. But it was made absolutely clear that it was only a temporary arrangement, that one day you would come to claim the child. When you are stronger, and when circumstances allow, you can go back and find her.’

  ‘What is her name – the woman who took my child?’

  ‘Popovic. That’s the family name. I never heard her first name.’

  ‘What did you mean, “when circumstances allow”?’

  Patty hesitated. ‘That was one reason why it was decided that you should go home. The day after we found you we heard that the village had been retaken by the Bulgarians. You may have to wait for the war to be over before you can go back.’

  Leo closed her eyes. ‘Wait for the war to be over . . .’ she murmured. ‘I feel as if I have spent most of my life waiting for that.’

  Patty was silent for a moment, then Leo heard a rustle as she took something from her pocket.

  ‘Leo, you said that you and Sasha parted on bad terms . . .’

  ‘He was angry with me for letting myself get pregnant. No, not really that . . . For not staying in Salonika. For putting myself and the child at risk . . . He was right, of course. I’ve only myself to blame.’

  ‘I’m not sure if this is the right moment . . .’ Patty hesitated, then held out an envelope. ‘A messenger brought this to the hospital on the day we found you in the snow. Apparently Sasha wrote it just before he was killed.’ She laid the envelope on the bed. ‘I’ll leave you alone to read it. If you want anything, just call. I won’t be far away.’

  Leo took up the envelope. It was creased and stained, but the writing was unmistakable. Had he written to reinforce the criticisms he had made on their last meeting? Was this a letter of rejection, informing her that he had changed his mind and wanted nothing more to do with her? For a moment she was tempted to tear it up, unread. But whatever it said, it was his last word to her. However painful, she must read it. With fingers that shook uncontrollably, she slit the envelope and read:

  My dearest love,

  I am writing this in case I am not able to come to you in person to apologize for my cruel and selfish behaviour. How can I begin? The way I treated you was unforgivable. In my defence I can only say that I was in a state of shock – not at the fact of your pregnancy but at the sight of you, my dearest one, so thin and worn. All I could think of was the terrible risk you were taking with your health and I was terrified that the birth of the child might be too much for you. I could not bear to lose you, my heart’s companion.

  Of course, I rejoice in the thought that we are to have a child and, as you said yourself, what does it matter that we are not married? Let people think what they will – we know that we have been wedded to each other in our hearts since the day an improbably beautiful ‘boy’ saved my life at Chataldzha. I have rewritten my will in the last few hours and had it duly witnessed. In it, I repudiate my marriage to Eudoxie on the grounds of non-consummation and declare you to be my affianced bride. If I should die here, my estate is to go to our son, or daughter. I have made due provision for Eudoxie so that she will not suffer financially through my action and I truly believe it will come as a relief to her. We could never have made a successful marriage.

  All this may be unnecessary. God willing, I shall be back in Bitola before the child is born and able to beg your forgiveness in person. If you can bring yourself to accept my abject apology we can rejoice together in the birth and look forward to the time when we can take our child home to Belgrade. But you must take care of yourself. You are more fragile than you know. I have written to Dr Leseaux, begging him to persuade you to rest.

  I pray that you may never read this letter. But if it should happen, know that I love you more than all the world. I would give the whole of Serbia to assure your safety, and that of our child.

  Take care of yourself, wife of my heart.

  Your loving husband,

  Sasha

  Ten

  Tom came to attention in front of the general’s desk and saluted. ‘I have a request, sir.’

  Rawlinson pushed back his chair and removed his pipe from his mouth. ‘I think I can guess what it is. You want me to keep my promise and send you back to the front line.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve finished the last painting and I feel that there is no more I can say in the form of pictures, at least for the time being. And now that spring is here there is bound to be a new campaign. I can’t lurk here while other men are fighting and dying.’

  ‘From what I hear you haven’t exactly been lurking, as you put it,’ the general said with a quiet smile. ‘You seem to have spent as much time up at the front as you have in your studio. Not that I am criticizing. The results speak for themselves.’

  ‘But I’ve been there as an observer,’ Tom said. ‘I haven’t shared the danger, or the discomfort, for more than a few days at a time.’

  ‘Well, your desire to return to that danger and discomfort does you credit, and I’m not going to break my promise. But there is one thing I want you to do first.’

  ‘What is that, sir?’

  ‘I want people back home to see your pictures. I want them to know the reality of the conditions out here and what is being done and suffered in their names. I’ve spoken to one or two people who have more expertise in this area than I do and as a result I have been able to arrange for your work to be exhibited at the Albemarle Gallery. I want you to go back to London with the paintings and make sure they are hung to their best advantage. After that, you will be free to return to your unit. Happy with that?’

  Happy! Tom struggled to find words. To have a one-man show at a prestigious London gallery was something he had never even dreamed of
. He swallowed hard. ‘Yes, sir. Very happy indeed. Thank you.’

  ‘Good.’ Rawlinson got up and stretched himself. ‘There’s a train leaving for Calais the day after tomorrow. I’ve arranged for a special truck to be attached to accommodate your paintings. After that, I’ve organized onward transport to London. That gives you two days to get all the work crated up ready. All except one picture. I want to buy that from you. It’s the painting of this place. I’d like to have that as a souvenir. I don’t know what you normally price your work at, but I’ve made out a cheque.’ He took out his pocket book and handed Tom the slip of paper, made out for a sum that almost made him gasp aloud. ‘Is that acceptable?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir! Very acceptable. More than generous, in fact.’

  ‘Good. And once the exhibition is over you will be free to sell the rest of the work at whatever price you and the gallery owner feel is appropriate. Now, can you be ready in time? Have a word with the quartermaster. I’m sure he can find you a couple of chippies to do the work and provide whatever you need in the way of timber, etc. Can you do it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Tom had a feeling that it would be a close thing, but it must be done somehow. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Right. You can travel with the pictures. I’ll get the adjutant to make out the necessary dockets. Take a bit of leave while you’re over there. Will two weeks be enough for what you need?’

  Once again, Tom was at a loss. He had no idea how long it took to set up an exhibition, but he felt he could not ask for more.

  ‘That’s settled, then.’ Rawlinson nodded affably. ‘Send my picture down to me, will you? I shall enjoy looking at it in moments of stress. Nice to feel that something worthwhile has come out of this shambles.’

  Two days later the crates containing the pictures were loaded on to a lorry to be taken to the railhead. Tom looked back as they drove away and experienced a sudden flood of gratitude. For nearly six months he had been spared the worst horrors of the war, but it had been a time when his emotions had swung from one extreme to the other. There had been days, painting in the airy room at the top of the chateau which had been given to him as a studio, when he had ceased to hear the distant, perpetual thunder of the guns and had been possessed by a sense of the rightness of his situation; that he was at last doing what nature, or God, intended him to do. Then there had been times, venturing up to the front to sketch new images of the conflict, when he was consumed with guilt. Once, when he was packing up his gear to return to the chateau, a fellow officer had remarked scathingly, ‘Off back to your funkhole, are you?’ The remark had stung and lingered in Tom’s mind long after he had forgotten who said it.