Megiddo's Shadow (8 page)

The room was a choir of coughs and moans. I wished I could stuff cotton in my ears, as some of the screams were horrific. But worse was the smell: antiseptic, rotting flesh, and urine. My dinner bubbled in my guts. I'd never seen or heard men in such agony.

“My arm! My arm! Give it back!” a man screamed from the surgery ward.

God help them
, I thought. It was horrible. All these soldiers, broken, as if some giant machine had ground them up and spat them out. I prayed for them. How could anyone have stood by and watched Christ as he was crucified? Surely he would have experienced something as terrible as these fine men.

The next man I covered had his eyes closed. A bullet had caught him near the heart, judging by where the blood stained his dressing. Just like Hector. And maybe this man was dead, too, his skin was so waxy and pale. But his chest slowly rose.
Good
. I carefully laid the blanket up to his wound, then noticed a glint at his collar. Two maple leaves. He was Canadian.

“Edward,” came a hoarse whisper from behind me. “Edward.”

I turned and looked down at the next cot. A man stared
up, a bandage over his left eye. His face was one big bruise, his lips swollen and cracked.

“How do you know my name?”

“It's me,” he coughed, “Paul.”

“Paul?” The voice was familiar. “Paul Oster?”

His bloated lips attempted to smile. “Yes, that Paul.”

“My Lord, what happened?”

“A
shell. Got the sergeant beside me, blew off his legs and took two pals. I'd just gone to piss. Didn't ever think that'd save my life. Mom always said I was lucky.”

I had trouble believing it was Paul. I'd just received a letter from him, for heaven's sake. “You're not hurt real bad, are you? I mean, just a rest and you'll be back at it, right?”

Paul made a crackly noise, a kind of laughter. “Yes, yes, I'm gonna live. But they'll be calling me One-Eyed Hopping Paul from now on.”

“Hopping?”

He motioned with a bandaged hand toward his feet.

My eyes followed his gesture to the bottom of the blanket. “What?”

“Don't be stupid, Edward,” he rasped. “My right foot was blown off. A shoe salesman with only one foot. That's the punch line to a bad joke.”

I felt my guts twisting into a giant knot and I bent down to say, “The doctor'll do something for you really soon, I'm sure.”

Paul, suddenly strong, clutched my collar and pulled me close. His breath reeked of blood. “They lied to us, Edward. We're all fighting for mud and piss.”

“You don't know what you're saying.”

“A man isn't worth anything there. We're just meat, ravens picking at our eyes, rats feasting on our flesh. Good men are shooting themselves in the foot or the arm just to get out.” I tried to pull myself away but he held on tight, his mangled lips only a few inches from my face. Two of his teeth were missing. “Don't go to France. Break your leg or crush your trigger finger. Use a hammer, or better yet, a gun to shoot it off. Make it look like an accident.”

“I can't do that!” I pried at Paul's fingers, loosening them one at a time. “You're in too much pain. You're … angry.”

“I mean it, Edward.”

I pried away the last finger and pushed his hand back onto his chest. “You'll be all right,” I whispered. “Hang on, pal. The doctor'll be along soon. He's a good doctor.”

Paul wheezed laughter.

I slowly backed away from him and bumped into a cot. The soldier in the cot released an angry moan. I had to get away from Paul's laughter and the smell of death. I stumbled over a patient and pushed my way out the door and into the open.

The stink followed me, clinging to my clothes and my skin. I threw up again and again, until I was exhausted.

What I needed was sleep. Then I'd go back. I staggered toward Remount.

I
shot out of bed to the realization that everyone from my section was gone, their cots neatly made. I'd slept through reveille! I scrambled to find my pocket watch. Six forty-five!

I dressed clumsily, my limbs numb. I pulled on my shirt and caught a whiff of antiseptic and blood. I broke into a cold sweat and vomited, leaning against the bed.

“Mom. Mother,” I whispered; I had no control over what I was saying. “I'm sick, I'm so sick.”

I recalled my dream quite suddenly. The wounded had moaned and grabbed at me, trying to drag me into a wet, muddy hole, their broken limbs scratching me like branches. Somehow Hector was there, but Paul's face was clearer, shattered and bruised.

I shook my head. Such weakness! I'd always known people
lost limbs and died in war. The Huns could smash our bodies, but not our spirits.

Except for Paul. “Don't go to France. Break your leg or crush your trigger finger …. Make it look like an accident.” His desperate breath had reeked and he was missing teeth. What would his wife think when she saw him? His kids?

I wiped up the vomit with an old sheet, something I couldn't have done if I were missing a hand.

No
morel
I told myself. I'd be up for field punishment if I was late. There was no time to eat, so I went straight to the stables and started forking hay. The more I sweated, the more my uniform stank of death.

I became weaker as the hours passed. At noon I could swallow only a couple of mouthfuls of stew. I clutched my cup of tea in shaky hands, taking advantage of every ounce of warmth.

In the evening when I closed my eyes I still saw the inside of the aid post. Would the images ever go away? Was this like what my father saw every night after Mom spent her last terrible hours coughing out the final bits of her life? Would I become just like him, my will defeated?

The next day I dragged myself around the depot, limbs still heavy, sickness and dread eating a hole in my guts. I accidentally hammered my fingers twice while fixing the fence and later wrapped the reins around my hand and nearly had my arm ripped off by a gelding. Dad had told me never to tie reins around my hand. What was I thinking?

I should have visited Paul, but I couldn't look at him
while he was missing so much of himself. Maybe the following day I'd go. There wouldn't be time that afternoon.

I was lucky, maybe, that my transfer had been refused. To think such a thing made me feel like a traitor.

A few days later I began to feel better. When I passed by the HQ hut, the post corporal darted out, shoved a telegram in my hand, and walked back inside.
Your presence is requested at 1900 hours on the fourth day of January 1918 at the residence of Colonel Nixon Hilts, Hilts Estate, Laceby
.

I stared at it. Uncle Nix wanted to dine with me. I read the date again. Today! It was today!

With pass in hand I walked to Gnmsby and hailed a taxi, an electric brougham two-seater driven by an old man in a moth-eaten greatcoat. His white hair poked out the bottom of his cap. I climbed m, and the two of us sat shoulder to shoulder.

“The Hilts Estate, please.”

“I know it well, lad,” he said, putting the car in gear. Soon we were bouncing down the streets, the vehicle surprisingly swift and the motor nearly silent. Gnmsby and its dead-fish smell was behind us as we rolled down a country lane. The grass was a soft green, a light mist blanketing the hills.

We passed several dairy farms, and I thought of Emily I ached to think that some yeomanry trooper might sweep her off her feet. She might even become engaged; marriage happened fast these days. I hadn't had the chance to see her
since the night all the wounded had arrived, because I still hadn't mustered the courage to visit Paul. I was a rotten pal, but every time I thought of him my guts pinched.

The driver stopped at a set of iron gates. No one appeared to be at the guard station, so I pushed the gates open and entered the courtyard to find a majestic three-story stone house, with lights on in several rooms. Vines trailed up the sides and around the windows.

As I stood at the front door I wondered if Dad had ever been in this very spot to lift the brass knocker.

A well-dressed servant opened the door—an Indian, like Gunga Dm. His eyes were steady. “I presume you are Monsieur Bathe.” He had an accent I didn't recognize. Perhaps he had been raised in France.

“Yes, that's me.”

“Monsieur Hilts is expecting you.”

The man took my greatcoat and, limping slightly, led me into the study. Rows of books filled oak shelves, and a large ticking clock showed the time to be 7:12. Above it was a black bear's head, mounted with its mouth open in a roar, flanked by a wolf and a tiger. A tiger!

A banner hung over the fireplace with the image of a lion standing firmly on a crown, below which was a ribbon with the words THE ROYAL DRAGOONS and the motto SPECTEMUR AGENDO. My father had once translated it for me: “Let us be judged by our actions.” He had charged into battle with those words on his lips.

“Ah, the old glorious regimental flag.”

I spun around. Colonel Hilts stood there in his uniform. Even though I'd spent extra time shining my buttons and
badges, the colonel outshone me. “Once a dragoon, always a dragoon. How are you keeping, Edward?”

“Good, sir. You have a grand house.”

“Thank you. It's been in the family for years. Would you like some brandy? I know it's traditionally an evening drink, but I find it invigorates me before a meal.”

“Yes, I'd appreciate having some.” I hoped I sounded mature.

The servant appeared with two snifters and poured us each a drink.

“Thank you, Kulbir.” Hilts raised his glass. “To the King.” I mirrored the gesture, then sipped the brandy, startled by its burning sweetness. The smell reminded me of the time Hector and I had crouched in the stairwell, listening to Dad and Hilts. A hundred years earlier.

Kulbir replaced the lid on the carafe and limped away.

“Kulbir is the heart of this household. He was my batman; one of the greatest Gurkha fighters ever.”

“He's a Gurkha?” I whispered. They were the deadliest soldiers in the British Indian army.

“He had the necessary killer instinct and was a great horseman, too, until a saber severed his foot. He has a wooden one now. We used it to smuggle papers out of Syria.”

“Really!” This was the kind of derring-do I'd read about in
Boy's Own Paper
. Perhaps Paul could get himself a wooden foot. If an Indian could overcome such a loss, Paul could, too.

“Ah, it was all in a day's work.” Hilts waved his hand. “So, what are your impressions of England?”

“I quite like it, sir.”

“Please, Edward, don't call me sir, call me Uncle. I'd appreciate it, and I'm sure your father would, too.”

“I will, uh … Uncle Nix.”

“Thank you.” He smiled. “So what do you think of the war effort so far?”

“According to the papers we're doing well.”

“Hard to separate fact from fiction, isn't it? The newspaper lords are doing their bit with their heroic stories. My favorite headline is still
The Great and Glorious Retreat from Gallipoli
. When can a retreat be called great? The navy botched the operation from the beginning. And the army should have known that the Turks would be tough nuts to crack.”

I listened intently because someone like Uncle Nix knew the real reasons for victories or defeats.

The door swung open. “Sahib, dinner is served.”

“Ah, good, come along, Edward.”

In the dining room was a table that could seat at least forty, polished so that it reflected several golden candles. Tureens, china plates, and silver cutlery were set out in perfect order. We sat, and Kulbir splashed a bit of wine into the goblet in front of Uncle Nix, who tested it and nodded his approval. Kulbir filled our goblets.

“The gramophone, please, Kulbir.”

Kulbir crossed the room and wound up the gramophone, and Clara Butt began to sing “Land of Hope and Glory.” She sounded like an angel.

“Even when I was in Africa poor Kulbir had to lug my gramophone around.” Kulbir lifted a silver lid to reveal a cooked bird. “I bagged this pheasant myself on Friday.”

“Much better than what I'm used to!”

“An army marches on its stomach, Edward. Napoleon loved saying that.”

“He certainly was right.” It had been ages since I'd had to march anywhere.

We filled our plates and began to eat. “Why are we at war?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I want your view on it.”

“Well, they killed that duke, right? And the Germans invaded Belgium and France, so we had to defend our allies. It was our duty.”

“Good. Good.” I felt as if I'd passed a test. “That's part of it. The Germans think like clockwork, and we British are freethinkers. That's why we must triumph. Do you understand?”

“We think in better ways than them.”

“Exactly! Picture the world as a hedge.” He made a cutting motion with his knife. “Trimming the German branches was inevitable. A new order will grow out of this war.”

“It needs doing.” For a moment I thought of Paul and wished he could be here to listen. Uncle Nix would straighten him out.

“It's a heavy price we're paying,” he admitted. “The Russians aren't holding up their end now, so that'll make it a close one. The Germans might even win.”

“Win?” I nearly choked on some potato. “But how?”

“Sheer numbers. We need more advanced armaments, better plans, and more capital. Every man, woman, and
child in the Empire has to dig in and give. The Americans may have arrived, but they're still far from having the manpower they really need to contribute properly. It'll take several months. Don't look so worried, Edward. Resolute men will win the day.” He sipped from his goblet. “What do you think of our grand army?”

“It's grand!” I said, and immediately wanted to kick myself. “That is to say, it's well trained, and efficient, too.”

“Are you happy in Remount?”

I paused. “I'm doing my job.”

Hilts wagged his finger at me. “Ah, you're as reticent as your father. Do you enjoy what you're doing?”

“Yes, but I want to go to the front.” Where had that come from? Just hours before, I hadn't wanted to transfer at all.