A Pattern of Lies (29 page)

“Yes, of course, Sister Crawford. I'll keep that in mind.” And she went on her way.

Frustrated by my missed opportunity, I sought out Dr. Browning, and asked him what had happened to our patient before he'd been brought in.

Dr. Browning shook his head. “I was told he was found in that condition and we were the nearest facility that could deal with that leg.”

It was later in the day, almost dusk, when I heard the sound of the kookaburra bird.

Sergeant Lassiter.

I had a number of questions to put to him. And I was worried about the answers I was going to receive.

I was just crossing to the tree where I'd first seen Simon when a line of ambulances appeared in the distance, and I heard an orderly call out for a Sister to evaluate the incoming patients.

There was nothing I could do but turn and await their arrival.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sergeant Lassiter just stepping into the meager shelter of the leafless branches. I could only hope that he'd wait.

 

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

I
T WAS WELL
after dark before I'd finished, and rain was coming down in buckets as we got the last of the new arrivals settled in cots. Three of them were critical, another five were in the early stages of contagion, and ten of them were already showing signs of heavy lung congestion.

I washed my hands, settled my cap into place, and walked toward the hospital's main door. I could see the tree from the doorway, and there was no one standing beneath it.

Where was Sergeant Lassiter?

I considered crossing over to the canteen, but one look at the heavy rain, and I decided against it. Where then would he go, if not the canteen? The small chapel?

I went there to look, and found him asleep on one of the benches.

Waking him with a light touch, I said, “Sergeant?”

He leapt to his feet, ready for action, then relaxed when he realized who it was. I had seen more than one soldier come out of a deep sleep in just this way.

“I'm sorry,” I began, but he shook his head.

“I didn't intend to nod off. Not here. But it was warm and dry, and nobody about.”

“Have you come about Corporal Britton?”

“Aye, I have. Where is he? Word was, he'd been brought here.”

“Someone gave him a nasty beating, Sergeant. There was surgery on his leg, for one thing, and worry about concussion for another.”

“Well, I'm not feeling sorry for the bas—­ for the bloke. Not after what he did. I reckon he thought it was near enough to the end of the war for it not to matter if our best tank man was killed. But it hurt morale, Bess. Rollins had been at Cambrai. The Old Man.”

It was a common term in the trenches for someone who had survived impossible battles and charges and hand-­to-­hand fighting, used with reverence. Whether he was barely twenty or pressing forty didn't matter.

“Is that what you're telling me, that Britton was beaten senseless for shooting Sergeant Rollins?”

“He swore it was a mistake. That's what I was told. But of course it wasn't. You know that as well as I do.”

“But was it you and your mates who taught him a sharp lesson?”

Sergeant Lassiter drew himself up to his full height, his face suddenly stern.

“Lass. You surely aren't thinking that I had a hand in this business.”

“London has sent someone out to look into what happened. I have to ask,” I said soberly, hoping he would understand. “It's Simon Brandon, Sergeant. He won't stop until he knows the full story. And he knows I've turned to you for help, that I told you about Sister Morris. I have to ask. For my sake and yours.”

“You must ask Britton.”

“I can't.”

“Is he dead?”

“Not dead. They moved him to Rouen, because this is an influenza hospital.”

He relented. “I can see your dilemma.”

“I don't want to see you and Simon clash. Not over something like this. Not if it's not needed.”

“Word has it that when the rumor spread about who shot Rollins—­that it was one of us, not a sniper—­some of the men in the tank corps went looking for answers when they were taken out of the line for a rest. They looked up to Sergeant Rollins. He kept them safe, and when they weren't safe, he pulled them out of their burning tanks. I don't know how they got on to Britton. Someone claimed Rollins himself had seen who shot him and told his mates. Another story was, his mates recognized the man and cursed him all the way to hospital. I also heard that his own company turned Britton in. However it was, I expect Agatha's crew wanted to teach him a lesson, as you said, and got carried away. They saw that he got medical attention afterward. Someone had a conscience.”

I'd witnessed, over and over again, the odd way information made the rounds of the Front. I'd used this bush telegraph myself to find ­people. Britton had pushed his luck too far, and somehow word had got out.

More relieved than I wanted to admit, I said, “Then what do we do now?”

“Find Brandon and tell him where to look for Britton. He'll have learned the rest by the time he reaches Rouen.”

Simon was very good at putting two and two together.

“Can you put out the word?”

“If that's what you want.”

I realized what he was saying.

“How did you come here, Sergeant?”

“I borrowed a motorcycle.”

“How far is it to Rouen?”

“We could make it tonight. If we started now.”

“I'll speak to Matron. Stay here.”

“Lass, I should stay with the motorcycle, not here. Out beyond the ambulance lines there's what's left of a cattle byre. I'll be there.”

I knew the place. The roof was gone, but part of the wall still stood, an ugly reminder of what war did to ­people and places. This had been someone's farmhouse, stone built and old, but sturdy and good for another hundred years. A ranging shell had put paid to that.

“Give me a quarter of an hour.”

He nodded as we made our way from the chapel toward the outer door.

Apparently my question still rankled. As we were parting company, Sergeant Lassiter put a hand on my shoulder. “Did you seriously believe I'd done that to Britton?”

“I could think of only two reasons for such a beating. His killing Sergeant Rollins, and the fact that you knew he'd tried to kill me. I had to ask.”

It was the third time I'd said that. And he looked off into the distance, as if weighing the words.

After a moment he turned back to me. “I think I understand. And I'm grateful you cared enough to ask.”

I didn't want him to mistake my intentions. I tried for lightness. “You're far too tall for a firing squad, and you're too big to hang. Neither would be a pretty sight.”

He laughed then and, without another word, walked away.

But as he disappeared behind the ambulance lines, I heard that cheeky call of the kookaburra bird. It sounded quite pleased with itself.

I had only minutes to think of an excuse to ask for a brief leave. I knew several of the nurses at the American Base Hospital, and I knew a houseful of nuns and orphaned children. Neither would weigh very heavily with Matron, faced with wards full of ill and dying men and only half the staff she truly needed to cope with all of them.

In the end, I decided on honesty.

Running her to earth in her office, I simply asked if I might have the day off.

She looked at me for a moment, and then to my astonishment, she said, “That surgery was long and exhausting. You need a break before resuming your duties, Sister. We can't have you collapsing with this influenza. It would be bad for morale and it would prove that immunity isn't very lasting.” But she smiled as she said the words. A tired smile, and I found myself thinking that if anyone needed or deserved a day of rest, it was this woman. I felt a surge of guilt for even asking.

“Go on, take your holiday. And come back refreshed.”

It was hardly going to be refreshing to ride a motorcycle through this rain as far as Rouen, but I returned the smile and promised that I would do just that.

Another few minutes I spent digging out my winter boots and a jumper to go under my coat. I found a knitted cap as well, took off my uniform cap, and carefully folded it before putting it into my apron pocket. I looked at myself in the mirror. With my hair hidden, no one would mistake me for Sister Crawford now. I didn't want word getting back to Matron that one of her supposedly exhausted staff was on the back of a motorcycle with a man from the ranks flying down the Rouen road. And then I went to find Sergeant Lassiter.

From somewhere he'd liberated a length of canvas, which he fashioned like a cloak around me, to keep out the worst of the rain and the mud.

“I wish I had a sidecar, but this was the best I could do at the time, and the need for a lady's carriage hadn't occurred to me.”

He got into the saddle in front of me, and asked, “Are you set, lass? Then hold on tight. I don't want to lose you on the road somewhere.”

I was chuckling to myself as I put my arms around his middle and hooked my fingers together as best I could. I could feel his body shaking with his own laughter.

And then we were off in a shower of muddy rainwater. If Sergeant Lassiter hadn't been as good as he was with this machine, I was sure we'd have skidded into the nearest puddle. He steadied us with practiced ease, and soon we were indeed flying down the Rouen road.

We arrived in Rouen with my arms aching from holding on as tightly as I could, and my fingers permanently turned into claws from attaching themselves to the sergeant's coat.

We stopped at a small café not far from the cathedral to have a coffee and to give me a chance to restore a more respectable appearance. And then we went to the gates of the American Base Hospital.

It had been set up in the famous Rouen racetrack, and had put the space to good use. The man at the gate looked me up and down and demanded my pass.

“I don't need one,” I said firmly. “A patient of ours was brought in here and I have come to inspect his quarters. He shouldn't have been brought here in the first place. We intended to invalid him back to England.”

It was the best excuse I could think of, and it worked.

“Patient's name and rank?”

“Britton. Corporal. Buffs.”

“Says here he's with a Wiltshire regiment now.”

“I'm sorry. I was given the most recent data we had. He was unconscious when he was brought in.”

“It happens. All right, Sister, you'll find him in the surgical ward.”

“Yes, I know where that is,” I said briskly, and marched past him. The sergeant waited for me at the gate. I found the tent, looked for the Sister in charge, and once more explained my errand.

“The doctors are with him now. You'll have to wait. There's tea in the canteen, if you'd like a cup. Or coffee, if you'd prefer it.” She smiled. “I've grown quite fond of the coffee here. My parents will be shocked.”

I went to the canteen and was surprised to find sugar for my tea and fresh milk in a pitcher. Such luxury. But the Americans hadn't been at war for four long years; they still had all the necessities we lacked. I even chose a small raisin bun, for the pleasure of it.

Ten minutes later I was back at the surgical ward.

Corporal Britton was barely awake. And he'd just been prodded and examined by a phalanx of doctors. He looked up at me with pain-­ridden eyes. “I've had my powders,” he said. “They aren't working yet. So if there's more?” His voice was thick from the swelling in his face and around his nose.

“Not this soon, I'm afraid,” I told him. “I must complete your chart. Where were you attacked, and by whom?”

“None of your business, Sister, begging your pardon.”

“Was it for shooting one Sergeant Rollins of the tank corps?”

He scowled at me. “Who says it was?”

“That's the rumor,” I said. “The Army will be here shortly to confirm it. And I need to complete your chart.”

He turned his head away. I didn't think he recalled my questioning him in the middle of the night. He had more on his mind than one Sister Crawford. And I thought his sight was still blurred. His eyelids were still thick and purple.

“Please, I'll be in trouble with Matron, if I don't fill out this chart,” I said, a whining note in my voice. “I've seven more patients to speak to.”

He turned back to face me. “I'm alive, and I intend to stay that way. I fell into a trench, Sister, and nobody caught me.”

Men did take flying leaps into trench lines, during a retreat across No Man's Land, to avoid getting shot. And it was common practice for those already safely out of harm's way to catch those still inbound.

It could be true. But the extent of his injuries belied his story.

What's more, he persisted in his refusal to say more than that.

I couldn't stay much longer. The ward Sister would come to see why I was still with this patient, or an orderly would come by and tell me not to badger him.

I tried one final time. “I can't just write down that you fell into a trench. I can see for myself that you have two black eyes today, swollen lips, and what appears to be a broken nose. Not to overlook that leg. And your chart indicates there is additional bruising on your body as well. It speaks of fisticuffs, Corporal. Tell me again how you got those falling into a trench?”

“You've never been in a trench, have you, Sister? You can't tell me what happened when I was there.”

But I had been in trenches, both German and British. When I told him as much, he stared at me, his gaze intensifying.

“I've seen you before,” he said, his voice beginning to rise.

“Of course you have. Who do you think sat with you the better part of the night? And now I'm on record duty.”

He turned his face away and this time ignored me completely. The ward Sister was coming this way, and so I had no choice but to leave. Smiling at her as we passed in the aisle between beds, I said, “Number Eleven is sleeping. I expect he's had a long night.”

“Yes, I had a look at that leg when the bandages were changed. Poor man.”

“Indeed,” I replied dryly, but she had already stepped in to speak to a patient with bandaged eyes. A gas case, I thought as he coughed as if his lungs were on fire.

Outside the gate I found Sergeant Lassiter waiting in the rain.

“Any luck?” he asked quietly.

“None. He tells everyone he'd taken a flying leap into a trench. Not true, of course, but he refuses to say more.” As the sergeant helped me back on the motorcycle and draped the canvas over me once more, I added, “No one will believe him, not the way he looks.” I described what I'd seen. “But if he tells that story long enough, after a while, when he's begun to heal, ­people will have forgot what he looked like when he came in.”