Scorpion Sunset (40 page)

Rebeka crept inside and closed the door quietly after her.

‘I thought you'd be fast asleep by now.'

‘I couldn't sleep and I wanted to be with you.' She walked over to him. He left the chair, folded his arms around her, and kissed her.

‘Can I sleep here, with you?' she asked when he released her.

‘You could, but I doubt I'd be able to keep my hands off you so that isn't a very good idea. And Mrs Gulbenkian …'

‘Mrs Gulbenkian knows how much time I spend with you, so it won't be a surprise for her to know that I've spent all night here.' She hesitated, before continuing and he realised she was summoning up courage to say something important. ‘My grandmother used to say that love between a man and a woman can be the most beautiful thing in the world. I've never seen the beauty. Only the ugliness. Can you show me the beauty, John?'

‘Rebeka, you know I love you …'

‘And you keep telling me that you will wait for me until I ask you to make love to me.'

‘I told you when it happened it would have to come from you.'

She left him and folded back the bedclothes.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Quite sure.' She dropped her robe and the breath caught in his throat. She stood before him naked before slipping between the sheets. He blew out the candle, undressed, and lay beside her.

He reached out to her. It was comforting to be with someone, to know that he wasn't alone, and he blessed the impulse that had led her to seek him tonight of all nights.

He lifted her on top of him. She felt light, fragile, reminding him of a fledging bird. Slowly, infinitely slowly, he explored her body with his fingertips and then his lips. When he finally entered her, it was gently, unhurriedly. But then they had all the time in the world. And after the war – an entire future they could spend living and loving together and neither of them need ever be alone again.

British Relief Force, Shumrun

February 1917

Peter stepped down from the trench's firing step, where he'd been monitoring the advance of his troops, and squelched ankle deep in rainwater. He beckoned to Sweeney.

‘Bring that lantern over here,' he ordered.

The subaltern did as Peter asked. Peter fished his note book from his pocket opened it, held it to the light, and tried to make sense of the scribbles he'd made at the last briefing. At the time his orders had sounded simple enough.

‘Supervise one of the three ferry crossings on the river to the opposite bank held by the Turks. Ensure sufficient men sail over in ten pontoons to seize a firm foothold on the enemy-held bank, while covering two identical operations further upstream in case supporting fire is required.

As soon as a foothold is established, order the pontoons brought back to the bank on the British side of the river bank, fill the pontoons with the second wave of troops, and cross again. Repeat the operation until the entire battalion is on Turkish ground.

Then order the battalion to rush Turkish trenches and dugouts, scupper the Turkish riflemen and machine-gun teams, and hold our ground on the opposite bank to give our engineers time to build a permanent bridge that can be used to ferry more of our troops and artillery across to Turkish ground.'

It had sounded simple. But the heavens hadn't been open at the briefing, they hadn't been ankle deep in water or soaked to the skin, or on duty for sixteen straight hours.

‘Sir,' a lieutenant ran up to him. ‘Orders have come through. Ferries 2 and 3 are being abandoned because of because of unsustainable casualties. They're running at fifty per cent.'

Peter stepped back up on the firing step and lifted his field glasses again.

‘We're holding but we won't be for long unless we get cover from the artillery. As soon as all the men manning Ferries 2 and 3 are back on this side ask command to give the order to our guns to open fire in the area where Ferries 2 and 3 were operating.'

‘Shall I tell command you'll hold, sir?'

‘You can tell them we're doing our damnedest.'

The runner raced past Perry, Cleck-Heaton, and Brooke who were striding towards him.

‘Smythe,' Perry barked.

‘Sir,' Peter stepped up back on the firing step and renewed his monitoring of the river crossing, partly because he was anxious to do so and partly to remind Perry he was no longer under his command.

‘What the hell is delaying the river crossings?' Perry demanded. ‘My men are chafing at the bit. Can't wait to get across and start clearing Johnny Turks out of their trenches.'

‘The delay is down to heavy casualties, over fifty per cent in the other two crossings … sir.' Smythe was careful to leave a noticeable pause before the ‘sir' a trick he'd learned from Harry.

‘There are a solid line of Hampshires close to the bank who could supply supporting fire to all three ferry crossings. They haven't moved in an hour. I've kept the idle bastards in sight of my field glasses,' Cleck-Heaton raged. ‘Why haven't you sent them orders, Smythe?'

‘Because they're all dead … Major.'

‘Don't be ridiculous …'

‘Please, feel free to go down there and check for yourself. But if you do keep low because you'll be within the sights of the Turkish guns.'

A runner came up. ‘Major Iles compliments, Major Smythe. Ferries 2 and 3 have retreated and retrenched, sir …'

‘Bloody cowards,' Perry railed. ‘I suppose you're set to continue sitting your arse here, Smythe, so you can get back to your wife. The baby must be born by now …'

‘Baby …'

Before Peter could say another word a shell burst in the trench. Afterwards there was only a blanketing silence and a vague consciousness of sinking down, deep down, into an all-enveloping sticky wetness that closed, warm and comforting around and over him.

Chapter Twenty-seven

British Field Aid Station, Shumrun

January 1917

‘Bring the lamp down lower. Hold it steady.' David felt as though he'd been operating for eternity, not days. His legs were leaden. He was having problems focusing and was too weary to expend an ounce more energy than he absolutely had to.

Every time he raised his head, it was only to see more wounded men piling in at the mouth of the trench. Those unable to sit or stand had been dropped onto tarpaulins to free the stretchers for yet more wounded. And because of the unrelenting rain every tarpaulin was under at least an inch of standing water, which made for soaking wet patients who, when it came to their turn to be operated on, drenched his trestle table. The ‘walking wounded' sat or crouched alongside the tarpaulins, the majority uncomplainingly in the face of those with more serious injuries.

David brushed the water from his eyes with his sleeve and continued to saw through a corporal's thigh bone. He loathed carrying out amputations in the field because of the increased risk of infection but the man's leg was shattered into so many shards of bone and flesh he'd had no choice but to cut into the healthy leg above the injury to stop the haemorrhaging.

‘Make way there. Make way! Wounded senior officers coming through.' A shadow loomed across the trestle table. ‘Remove that man immediately, medic. There's an injured colonel here.'

‘Get out of my light,' David snapped.

‘Didn't you hear me, major? I said there's an injured colonel …'

‘I don't care if you have an injured general. Move out of my light and take him to the orderlies.' David kept his head down and his attention fixed on his patient's leg.

‘You don't understand …'

‘Get out of my light before I give the order to shoot you and your bloody colonel. You're putting this man's life at risk.'

‘You ridiculous medic, you're not even a real military man …'

‘Singh!' David shouted to his orderly. ‘Remove this officer from the surgical area.'

Cleck-Heaton drew himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. ‘Do you know who I am?'

‘You're a bloody pain in the arse.' David sawed through the last inch of bone, set the saw aside, and reached for a scalpel.

‘I'll have you for insubordination!'

Without thinking, David handed Cleck-Heaton the remains of the leg he'd severed.

Cleck-Heaton dropped in alarm and shrank back in disgust. ‘What the hell do you think you're doing, man?'

‘Tying off this man's blood vessels. Singh!'

‘Here, sir.' Singh appeared with four Gurkhas.

‘Escort Major Cleck-Heaton and his companions from here while I get out of this man's leg.'

One of the Gurkhas gripped Cleck-Heaton's arm. The major pushed the Gurkha aside. ‘That man on the table is a corporal …'

‘And I'm a surgeon,' David snapped. ‘Move!'

‘I'm Colonel Perry's adjutant …'

Colonel Allan finished operating on the next table, and walked over to join them. ‘What the hell's the ruckus here, Knight? Cleck-Heaton, I can hear you above the noise of the guns.'

‘Colonel Perry and Major Brooke are injured, sir. This medic point blank refuses to give their treatment precedence over that of the ranks.'

‘Amputation,' David explained succinctly when Colonel Allan glanced at his table.

Colonel Allan looked over Cleck-Heaton's shoulder at Brooke and Perry, who were leaning against the side of the trench. Perry's shoulder was blood-stained and he was breathing heavily. The lower sleeve of Brooke's greatcoat was bloody but he appeared otherwise unharmed.

‘Arm wound?' he shouted to Brooke.

Brooke nodded.

‘Shoulder?' Allan shouted to Perry.

‘Yes.'

‘As you can both walk, the wounds can't be that serious. Go to the walking wounded section. An orderly will take out the bullets if they haven't passed through.'

‘These officers need treatment from a doctor …'

‘Treatment is administered according to need, not rank, Cleck-Heaton. Knight and I could have ministered to a dozen men in the time we've spent arguing with you. Take Perry and Brooke to the area set aside for the walking wounded, Cleck-Heaton, and return to your post. That's an order.' Colonel Allan turned his back on Cleck-Heaton. ‘Need help with that, Knight?'

‘Nearly done, sir. Just the blood vessels to tie off. Singh, clear the leg from the floor and pass me catgut and needle.'

‘Badly wounded coming through.' Two stretcher-bearers charged up with a mound of muddy, blood-soaked body.

‘On my table,' Allan shouted. The man was plastered in so much detritus it was difficult to make out his rank, features, or figure.

‘Bastard! You'd see to this man …'

Allan motioned to the Gurkhas. Before they reached Cleck-Heaton a burly sepoy orderly stepped from the side of the trench and hit Cleck-Heaton on the jaw. He went down instantly, splashing into the standing water in the bottom of the trench.

Allan gazed at the mess on his operating table. ‘I can't make head or tail of this. Give us a hand, Knight.'

David joined him. ‘Kill or cure. Singh, bring up buckets of water.'

The orderly brought two over. David tipped one over the stretcher. The mud and blood washed away to reveal an arm and two severed legs lying on top of a body.

‘I've seen some sights … but this …' Allan picked up the legs and handed them to Singh who threw them into the medical waste container.

‘I think they're dead, sir, as is this arm.' David passed the limb to Singh before tipping the second bucket of water over the stretcher to reveal Peter Smythe's face. Peter opened his eyes and glared up at him.

‘This, however, is alive, sir,' David grinned.

Peter struggled to sit up.

Allan shouted for more water.

‘Anything hurt, Smythe?' David asked.

‘I can see your lips moving but I can't hear you.'

‘Anything hurt?' David shouted.

Peter swung his legs over the side of the table, and ran his hands down his arms and legs.

‘Only his hearing by the look of it,' Allan shouted when Peter didn't reply.

David smiled. ‘Clean the blood off him, Singh. See if you can find his bearer and a clean uniform. A couple of hours' rest and Major Smythe can go back and get all muddied and bloodied up again.'

Smythes' Bungalow

February 1917

‘Why didn't anyone tell me how painful labour is?' Angela muffled her moans in her pillow lest she disturb Hasmik or Robin.

‘Because if women knew what childbirth was really like beforehand there'd be no more babies – ever – and the supply of people would dry up.'

‘That might make the world a better place. There'd be no men to wage war and the animals could take over …' The rest of Angela's sentence dissolved in a tight-lipped, restrained cry.

Georgiana took a towel she'd soaked in lavender water and wiped Angela's forehead. ‘You're doing fine. Not long to go.' She called to the maid, ‘bring more clean towels please, and prepare the baby's cot.'

‘Yes, Dr Downe.'

Georgiana glanced at the clock on the dressing table. It was four in the morning. Angela's labour had begun at midday. She'd sent a message to Theo, who sent a note back by return informing her that he and Dr Picard were dealing with an unexpected influx of Turkish wounded, but if she needed help to she should send again. She'd managed to resist the impulse to write back to him asking if he could assist by enlarging his sister's hips.

‘This is taking so long. The baby will be all right, won't it?' Angela panted in between pains.

‘The baby will be fine,' Georgiana reassured. ‘It's you I'm concerned about. You must be exhausted. The problem is I rather suspect this child is built like his father and you're the size of a gnome.'

Angela didn't smile at the poor joke.