Tomorrow, Jerusalem

by Tomorrow, Jerusalem (retail) (epub)

  Mercy shot her a glance of such utter disbelief at that that she had to laugh.

  ‘No, really. She – well, she doesn’t understand, I suppose. Doesn’t realize how much she can hurt.’

  ‘She laughs at everything. It’s awful.’

  ‘It’s her way of coping. And not a bad way when you come to think of it. If you’d only try not to rise to her bait every single time – if she didn’t get any reaction she’d stop doing it.’ Echoes of a past Hannah in a past time – finger raised in admonition, one or other of the Bear’s small inhabitants weeping at her knee – she straightened. ‘Now – I’m on in half an hour. Anything new?’

  The outer door banged. Sharp footsteps sounded in the hall.

  ‘There’s been a new intake. Not many – a couple of legs, another bad head wound and an abdominal that’s being operated on now. Casualties from this morning’s Hate.’ Though this part of the line had been unusually quiet for a couple of days the ritual shelling, morning and evening, still went on. As always, the moment Mercy talked of the business of the Station it was as if her whole being changed, the small, helpless girl banished, the composed and efficient Sister taking her place. She barely looked up as Fiona strode, muttering, into the room, crossed to the windowsill and snatched up the forgotten riding crop that lay there. ‘Oh, and there’s a new chest wound in Officers’. Matron seemed a little worried about it, though it seemed quite straightforward to me.’

  ‘In Officers’? Perhaps I’d better keep a special eye. Which bed is he?’

  ‘The one by the window. A Captain Angleton—'

  Fiona, half-way back to the door, turned, her face suddenly still. ‘Angleton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh yes. I copied his label on to his card. You know I’ve a good memory for—’

  ‘Of the Suffolks?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. Do you know him?’

  Elaborately casual Fiona tapped the crop against her boots. ‘Could be. Derry? Or Michael?’

  ‘The initial is “D”.’

  Fiona nodded. ‘Ah. Well, Rolly of the Mounted Middlesex calls. I’ll see you later.’

  * * *

  Hannah got ten precious minutes alone in her billet in a small house in the lane leading to the main square to read her letters before she went on duty. Ben’s letter, short, affectionate and to the point informed her, in spare form and with much less pride and pleasure than the news actually warranted, that he had been taken on to the staff of Sir Brian Bix-Arnold, a respected specialist in the field of gas gangrene, the scourge that claimed so many victims from the Field Hospitals. Sir Brian, it seemed, had sought him out, his name known from some papers he had written before the war on the causes and treatment of gangrene. ‘I swear we could cut our casualties by twenty per cent if we could contain it. If only this damned war were not being fought in such filthy conditions! Perhaps I should put a docket in to the Almighty – in triplicate of course – to make sure the next one is fought in conditions of complete asepsis?’ The small, dry joke, so like Ben, made her smile. The two letters from her suffragette friends she tucked into her pocket for later reading, knowing if not their contents at least their style; newsy, amusing, encouraging – the very stuff of friendship.

  The last envelope she sat and looked at, turning it in her fingers for a full minute before opening.

  Ralph.

  He had come to see her three weeks ago, on a twenty-four-hour pass. Thin and unsmiling, a shadow of the man she had known, his appearance had shocked her. For twenty of his twenty-four hours he had parried her concern with shrugs and dismissively self-deprecating words. Then, in the stuffy darkness of a dugout on the edge of the hospital compound, as high explosive shells whistled overhead and the ground around them shook, he had told her.

  She tore open the envelope. The first words were hopes for her own well-being. Then, ‘—The friend we spoke of is getting better off by the day. There are jackals everywhere, he tells me, growing fat – and why should he not be one? Our Tom is in no better state than he was, I fear. Question is – and it haunts him – should he keep mum or should he split? Problem is that there’s no doubt that the Head Boy knows what’s going on – and no lowly first year is going to get the Housemaster to listen to him, is he? The roastings go on. Poor Tom. I don’t know how much longer he can stand it.’

  Hannah lifted her head. Outside, the rain had stopped. A sharp French voice called, scolding. Poor Tom. Poor Ralph. She saw him now, in the half-light of the bunker, his face anguished. ‘They rob the dead, Hannah! And – not just the dead! Men they’re supposed to be saving! God help an officer with a fine watch, wounded and left by his men if Bully Foster gets to him first!’ He had buried his head in his cupped hands, his voice muffled, ‘I saw him – saw him with his foot on a man’s head – a boy’s head – a boy subaltern – drowning him in mud – oh God—!’

  She had sat, sickened by what she was hearing, wanting to deny that it happened, that it could happen. Knowing that she could not. There were always whispers. The greater percentage of the men who risked their own lives to save the wounded in this war that was already proving itself a slaughterhouse were as brave, often braver, than those who fought, and as dedicated as any. Their heroism under fire, their tough determination to get the battered wrecks they dug out of the mud or cut from the wire to help and safety were a byword. Very many died themselves helping their comrades. But, inevitably, there were other stories. Stories of corpse-stripping and worse. Stories of ruthlessness and self-interest. Stories of horror. Stories such as Ralph was telling.

  Hannah sighed now, folding the letter. What in God’s name had ever possessed Ralph, who had always abhorred the very thought of this war, who had argued passionately and unpopularly in the early days against it, suddenly to volunteer for the Medical Corps was a puzzle totally unfathomable to her. And now – the awful luck to find himself in a unit dominated by a brute of a man, bullied and intimidated into keeping a secret that was driving him, she feared to the edge of collapse. ‘Tell someone!’ she had said. ‘In God’s name – report them!’

  His despair had been written on his face. ‘Hannah, you don’t understand. No one would listen to me. I’m already branded a Conshie—’ his voice was bitter, ‘an intellectual Conshie at that. A murderer would have been better received. A good kick up the arse is what the sergeant-major thinks I need. And that’s what Bully Foster administers, quite frequently. Tom Brown’s Schooldays, remember?’

  ‘I should think I do. Brute of a book.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t accuse Bully of having read it,’ his voice was wry. ‘I wouldn’t accuse him of having read anything beyond the King’s Regulations – he’s a barrack-room lawyer of the sharpest sort, wouldn’t you know it? – but somewhere along the line he’s picked up Flashman’s methods.’

  Poor Tom. Poor Ralph. She wondered what the censor had made of the references. Certain it was, as Ralph had well known, that had he spoken more openly the letter would never have reached her.

  She picked up her cape, swung it about her shoulders. There was nothing – absolutely nothing – that she could do. It had to come from Ralph. Meanwhile, she had her own problems – a sudden vision of a pale, freckled, smiling face lifted in her mind – and her own small joys. Perhaps later she would have a word with Matron; Matron, it was becoming clear, was connected to some very big Brass hats – perhaps a word in the right ear?

  * * *

  The Clearing Station was quiet, very calm, very warm. As she toured the almost empty wards, she noticed with pleasure that someone had put small vases of snowdrops on tables and windowsills. The few men propped comfortably upon their pillows smiled a greeting to her. Most were the survivors of the men who had been in too bad a way to be moved when the last evacuation train had left a couple of days before; in the last two days perhaps a dozen or so had come in from the trenches. But there had been no attack for four days now, and so the atmosphere was quiet, the m
en happy to be spoiled and petted, the staff happy to stop for a word, write letters, hand out cigarettes, read papers and magazines to those unable to do for themselves. Resuscitation Ward was empty – the beds were made up, the stoves lit just in case, but the blinds were open, the pillows smooth, the air smelled clean and antiseptic. She stood at the door for a moment. A week or so before, she and two juniors together with half a dozen orderlies, amidst the crash and blaze of a bombardment that had destroyed the church next door and all but flattened the railway station two streets away, had fought here to keep men alive, indeed in one or two cases to bring them back to life, in order that they might stand the slenderest of chances on the operating table. A fight as tough, as dirty, as exhausting as any that went on in the line. Men blasted, frozen, drowned into shock so deep that it slowed their blood and stopped their hearts before ever their wounds or the terrible complications of gangrene could kill them.

  She moved on. Preparation Ward too was empty, and in the theatres the operating tables were bare, scrubbed and clean. Waiting. In Acute Ward the two abdominals lay, almost certainly dying. One, so Matron had told her, had admitted to being sixteen years old, ‘Army Age, nineteen,’ he had grinned painfully. In Evacuation, awaiting the next train, several men sat about the window, smoking and playing cards. As she joined them, one held up a fan of cards; two out of the five were of a different pack. ‘Found any new packs yet, Sister? This lot are cheatin’ me blind – they’ve all got better memories than I ’ave!’ The bandage that covered one of his eyes and the missing part of his head was clean and white. His companions chuckled.

  ‘Sorry, Seth. I’ve looked everywhere,’ nothing but the plain truth, ‘there isn’t a pack of cards to be had in France! P’raps you’ll send us some when you get back to Blighty?’

  ‘Sure will, Sister.’

  Medical Ward was quiet; again most of the beds were empty. She checked on a couple of charts, passed a few words with the Sister in charge. In Surgical, a bed she had expected to find occupied was empty.

  ‘Went this morning.’ Sister Drews rubbed her eyes with long fingers. ‘Bloody shame. I was so sure he was going to do – he had the second amputation yesterday. Really thought we’d saved him.’

  ‘Gas gangrene.’ It was not a question.

  Sister Drews nodded.

  ‘Sister—’ Hannah said gently, ‘how long have you been on duty?’

  The other girl flushed a little guiltily, shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to leave him. When – when we saw the signs – I thought—’ she made a weary gesture with her hands, ‘I don’t know what I thought. But anyway, Sister Warren needed a few hours off, so I stayed.’

  Hannah shook her head. ‘Time enough when we have to do that,’ she said as severely as she could manage. ‘First rule out here, Sister – when you can sleep – sleep!’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  ‘Matron’s Ass speaking,’ Hannah said, her plain face twitching to a smile.

  The other girl was surprised into an abrupt giggle, hastily stifled. Hannah glanced around the ward; two beds occupied, both stable, both sleeping. ‘Off you go – I’ll keep an eye here.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Next door, in Officers’, a captain and a young lieutenant – Hannah automatically classified them as an Arm and Legs – were sitting at a table, smoking and reading the newspapers.

  ‘Sister Patten,’ gallantly, the captain stood. The empty arm of his dressing gown was pinned neatly across his chest. He executed an almost graceful half-bow.

  ‘Captain Brittain. Lieutenant,’ Hannah smiled.

  The other young man, having no legs to stand on, shifted his wheelchair a little in salute, grinning.

  ‘Stop press,’ Hannah said. ‘There’s a train due tomorrow.’ She hesitated, pulled a funny, doubtful face. ‘Or perhaps the day after.’

  The two men smiled acknowledgement. Hannah passed the time of day with two bed cases, glancing swiftly at the notes on the end of the bed, smiling, satisfied at their content.

  ‘He’s a bit quiet today,’ said one, jerking his head in the direction in which they all knew the front line lay. ‘Think he’s planning something? Any gossip come down the line?’

  ‘None that I know of.’

  Briskly and efficiently Hannah smoothed and tucked in the bedclothes, plumped the pillows. All the time aware of a smile, of a pale, broad-boned face dusted with faded freckles, a pair of warm, green-brown eyes.

  ‘They’ve given up and gone home.’ The boy in the next bed, eyes bandaged, one leg slung from a pulley in the ceiling grinned widely, ‘And HQ haven’t noticed. They were all at a garden party at the time.’

  ‘That’s what Sister MacAdam thinks,’ Hannah agreed. ‘And she’s gone off riding to prove it.’

  ‘Now there’s a lady who knows what she’s about,’ said a small, approving voice amidst the general laughter.

  Hannah had arrived at a bed in which lay a dark-haired young man whose wide, spare shoulders all but filled the narrow bed and whose brown eyes, set beneath flaring dark brows, were full of humour.

  ‘Well—’ She studied the charts at the foot of the bed, looked up with a smile, ‘The new boy. Welcome.’

  ‘Captain Angleton, ma’am.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Captain Angleton. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Oh, right as ninepence.’

  With a hole in his chest the size of a child’s football. Hannah smiled. ‘Captain Derry Angleton?’

  The eyes widened a little. ‘That’s right.’

  She patted the bedclothes lightly, a gesture only, careful not to jog or pain. ‘You have a friend here already—’

  He smiled. ‘I just heard it. MacAdam? Fiona MacAdam? She’s here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His face was warm and guileless, a face, Hannah found herself thinking suddenly, that she had seen a thousand times before in these last months. Open and gallant, the pain concealed, the questions buried under generations of unquestioning. The marked face of youth, still smiling. ‘Fiona! I’d heard she was up here somewhere – what luck – good old Fiona!’

  ‘She’ll be in later on. You’re comfortable?’

  ‘As a bug in a rug. Thank you, Sister.’

  She smiled, moved on. To the one she had left till last. Had she really done that? Done it deliberately?

  Yes. She could not deny it. Did not want to deny it.

  ‘Lieutenant Redfern. You’re looking better.’

  ‘Sister Patten.’ He smiled, nodded on the pillows. ‘Yes.’

  He was propped up, half sitting. The broad face was still unnaturally pale, the freckles, normally warmly assimilated into the fine skin, stood out like scars. On his knees rested a sheet of paper upon a board, in his hand a pencil.

  ‘You certainly gave us a bad few minutes.’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry about that.’

  The look that passed between them was warm far beyond the cool, polite words. He had been here a week, brought in with a chest wound, badly shocked. At first he had been just another bloody wreck to be cut from his stretcher and from his clothes, just another drained and bloodless face upon a pillow, just another cold, shocked body to bring to life, just another wound to dress, another case to watch for the dreaded signs of gangrene. Two days after admittance he had smiled at her, thanked her for her care – many, oh so many of them did that – and something in the soft voice, something in the broad, bony face had caught her attention – caught her heart? – and she had stayed perhaps longer than she should. His progress apparently steady she had visited him often, dropping in on her way to duty, on her way to rest. As time went on, looking forward to it. He was a great favourite with everyone; what Matron would call ‘a pet’. And he was an artist. With him into Resuscitation had come a battered leather folder, clutched to him, prised from resistant fingers long after he should have been dead. ‘Keep it for me.’ Those had been the only words he had said in those first critical hours, looking at her with eyes that already had had
the glaze of unreality. But he had remembered that. ‘Keep it for me.’ And so she had. It lay beside him now, that precious, battered catalogue of death, destruction and – amazingly – laughter. He had, absurdly shyly, shown it to her as he lay recovering, watching for her visits. ‘They’re wonderful,’ she had said simply.

  He had shaken his head. ‘No. Not good enough. But – I try—’

  She never tired of leafing through those sketches – terrible, some of them, records of an insanity, a Dante’s Inferno, but real this, not imagined; shattered buildings and shattered bodies, mud-filled trenches and the awful beauty of high explosive. A dance of death. And then again – laughter. A jaunty figure, a subversive grin; smoke from a cigarette drifting across a relaxed, battle-hardened face that anyone who had been at the front for more than a week would have recognized. The unbelievable perfection of a wild flower. Woodland reduced uniformly to two-foot-high stumps.

  For five days he had progressed well. The train was coming; he would leave with the rest.

  Two hours before he was due to be evacuated he had collapsed with pneumonia.

  She moved now to look at what he had been drawing. His fellow patients lounged upon the paper; splints and eye patches, cards and newspapers, empty sleeves, crutches – all the paraphernalia of a casualty clearing station. The faces all real, almost more human than life. A fierce-faced orderly, readily recognizable. Matron, with her firm, schoolma’am’s face. The wounded – smiling, sleeping, introspective.

  ‘You sat with me last night. Was it last night?’ His voice was very quiet, meant for no one but her.

  She hesitated. ‘The night before last.’

  He nodded.

  ‘You should be resting,’ she said.

  ‘I am resting. I promise you.’ He smiled a little, lifting the pencil. ‘Life’s too short to do nothing.’

  The crisis had come quickly. She had watched him through it. Why? It was a question she had not dared to ask herself.