Sunset Ridge (35 page)

Luther lit a cigarette and spat a shred of tobacco from his mouth. ‘I th-think he said,' he answered softly, ‘th-that he w-wanted to go home.'

 

When the last of the injured and the dead were carried off the scarred dirt to await stretcher-bearers, the men collapsed into the trench. For long minutes they simply sat, arms dangling by their sides, smokes clinging to dry lips as stretcher-bearers moved to and fro. One damaged digger, laid out on a canvas stretcher, was set down for a moment by Luther's side. With difficulty he lifted a bloody hand. Luther clasped it strongly.

‘I knew you wouldn't forget me, cobber,' he muttered before being carted away.

Thaddeus took a sip of water and ran the edge of his harmonica across his tongue. When he placed it to his mouth, the first few strains were shaky but recognisable. It was ‘My Darling Clementine'.

Luther arched his neck so that the earth wall of the trench was firm against his skull. Very slowly he rocked to and fro. ‘Hey, Dave. You got th-that p-picture on you? You know, th-the one of the river?'

Dave fumbled about in his uniform. The sketch was dog-eared and torn in places but it clearly depicted the four of them in their old fishing spots by the Banyan River.

Harold cleared his throat. ‘Jeez, that's a beauty. Good on you, Dave.'

The men were silent as the sketch was passed around to the strains of the harmonica.

‘Do you have more of these?' Thorny asked.

‘He's drawn half the battalion,' Thaddeus elaborated, ‘and everything in between.'

Luther ran the blade of his tomahawk against a sharpening stone. ‘Regular ar-artist, he is. He'll go w-without rations t-to carry his sketchbook.'

‘You know,' Harold began, ‘you're like a big bush spider.' He studied the drawing. ‘You wind us up in your sticky web and hold us fast. I can almost imagine we're back there.'

‘Put me in your drawing, will you, Dave?' Thorny asked quietly. ‘I'd like to be there too.'

‘Sure thing,' Dave agreed.

‘Pipe down with that music,' Captain Egan called from the mound that was his dug-out. ‘We don't need a whizz-bang landing on our heads.'

Thaddeus gave a defiant squeal on the mouth organ and hunkered down to rest.

In no-man's land the strains of an answering harmonica floated unexpectedly across the barren landscape. Then it too was silenced. Dave closed his mind to the morning's images and narrowed his thoughts to the only things worth remembering: Luther's bravery and a great mangy dog named Antoine.

 

Thaddeus waited at the entrance to the dug-out. Unlike the men's cramped hole in the ground, it was reinforced with timber and spacious enough to accommodate a table and chairs. Two camp bunks were pushed hard against a rear wall; dirt fell onto them intermittently from the low ceiling. At the table a seated Captain Egan read the note the messenger had presented and ran a finger across what appeared to be a map. Above him a kerosene lantern hung from a timber beam. The vibrations from the intermittent shelling caused the lantern to swing to and fro.

‘Very well, tell the brass we'll move out after dark.'

The messenger saluted, leaving Thaddeus alone with the captain.

‘Drink?' Captain Egan asked, beckoning him forwards.

Two rats were fighting on top of one of the cots. With barely a glance in their direction the captain flung a book at the rodents, which quickly took flight. ‘That's about the best use I've found for the rule book.' He poured rum into stubby glasses and offered one to Thaddeus. ‘Sit, Harrow.' He took a sip and then, placing the glass down, folded the map of the battlefield and tucked it into a leather compendium. ‘Well, we're to be relieved tonight.'

‘What, already?'

Captain Egan drained the glass of rum. ‘Five days, Harrow; we've been in the front-line for five days – nine if you count the time in the support trench. Although we've little to show for our efforts, the Germans have been constant in their defence.'

‘They are well dug in, sir.' Thaddeus studied the contents of the glass in his hand. The days were blurring together, broken only by a tin of bully beef and the endless monotony of sitting uselessly in their trench until the next engagement with the enemy. And still the guns fired, shuddering both man and land until Thaddeus doubted he would ever again sit tranquilly without expecting some type of torment to rage down on him.

‘Harrow?' the captain frowned.

‘Sorry, sir.'

‘I said that I'm promoting you to sergeant.'

Thaddeus accepted the grimy envelope and enclosed stripes and saluted Captain Egan. ‘Thank you, sir.' His advancement came at a cost. The previous sergeant was dead.

‘At ease, Harrow. Have a seat. You've a cool head in battle, which is more than can be said for your brother Luther.'

‘He's a damn good soldier, sir.'

‘Relax, Sergeant, I'm not disputing his fighting qualities, merely making an observation.'

‘The men would follow him anywhere, sir.'

Captain Egan nodded. ‘You as well, Harrow.' The chair squeaked as he crossed his legs. ‘We're on furlough for a week. I asked for two but it appears we've been drafted for a work detail.' Pouring a splash more rum for both of them, the captain slid the platoon mail across the desk. ‘I've also received orders that Harold Lawrence is to be transferred across to us, as well as the three other men that were part of the temporary relief.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good.' Captain Egan sat forward. ‘We don't bring petty arguments to war, Sergeant.'

‘No, sir,' Thaddeus agreed, swallowing the remains of the rum. He gathered up the mail, unsurprised that the captain knew that he and Harold were barely on speaking terms. War hadn't changed Harold. He was just as arrogant. Thaddeus could have forgiven him for his attitude regarding Corally, but they had fought twice and while Thaddeus had been prepared to right the situation, Harold wasn't. It was as if they were kids again, bickering over who had the best sling-shot or who could run faster. The competitiveness that had always marked their friendship now served to pull them apart. The worst of it was that Thaddeus was not one to be beaten either, but now they were in the thick of things he simply wasn't interested in confronting his old friend. There were other things to worry about. All Thaddeus wanted was to survive the war and make it home to Sunset Ridge with his brothers.

Dismissed, he left the dug-out and passed the word along that they were to be relieved at dark. It was quiet this morning and the men were lined up along the wall of the trench. Some wrote letters home, others cleaned equipment. Dave sat sketching the mongrel dog that had sniffed out the wounded digger. The animal was depicted sitting in the trench, the identity discs dangling from his neck. Luther, airing his bare feet in the sun, was heating a tin of bully beef over a small makeshift fire, careful to fan the smoke so as not to give away their position. Thaddeus passed the mail to Trip, who quickly sorted through it and began to hand the letters out. Dave was the first recipient.

‘Let's hope they don't get lost,' Harold quipped in reply to Thaddeus's information. He sat on a munitions crate cleaning the Lewis gun. Beside him, Thorny set lice alight on his arms with a cigarette. ‘A month or so back we waited eighteen hours for our relief to show. Got lost, didn't they, Thorny?'

Thorny rolled his eyes. ‘Bloody new chum officer, couldn't find his way to a whore-house, that one.'

‘You lot are being transferred across permanently,' Thaddeus continued through the men's sniggering.

‘W-what? Joining us?' Luther punched Harold in the arm. Dave added his approval to the chorus of voices.

‘Well, looks like you won't be getting rid of me so quickly, eh, Thaddeus?' Harold's words had an edge to them.

‘War isn't the place for petty grievances, Harold,' Thaddeus replied.

‘You're right, mate. A man should know when he's bested,' Harold retaliated. Accepting a letter from Trip, he brandished the envelope for all to see before making a show of smelling the paper as if it were scented.

Thorny gave a low, appreciative whistle.

‘That's enough,' Captain Egan interrupted, singling each man out with a hard stare. ‘And put that blasted fire out, Harrow, before you have Fritz on top of us. Now, you've heard the orders: we will be moving out tonight, and not before time.' He gestured to Thaddeus. ‘Harrow has made sergeant.' The announcement brought enthusiastic as well as ribald comments, soon silenced by a wave from the captain. ‘Keep your heads down, men, and we'll be out by nightfall. Post your sentries, Sergeant.'

Thaddeus accepted the men's congratulations, aware of a new wedge between him and Harold. He now outranked his old friend.

‘Can I have your boots, Luther, if you get knocked?'

Luther stopped wiggling his toes and considered Trip's request. In comparison to Trip's regulation issue, his boots were well cared for.

Trip squatted opposite in anticipation. ‘Oh, and this is yours.'

Luther stared at the letter before tucking it inside his uniform. ‘I t-tell you w-what,' Luther replied, ‘you give me t-ten quid and a p-packet of smokes now and th-they'll b-be yours.'

Trip searched his pockets for the money and cigarettes and was about to hand them across when a thought came to him. ‘But what if you don't get knocked?'

‘Don't be b-bloody silly,' Luther replied, taking the bartered goods. ‘Of course I w-will.'

 

 

Temporary field hospital, France
July 1917

Sister Valois directed the walking wounded up the creaking stairs of the chateau. The least able were assisted by volunteer orderlies who also offered words of encouragement. At the end of the line a soldier faltered on the first step. Placing a hand on his elbow, she urged him onwards. The blind always proved difficult to accommodate but at least the worst of this young man's injuries were nearly healed. The men moved stiffly, grateful for the support the age-smoothed banister provided. On the landing above, framed by a six-foot-high tapestry of seventeenth-century huntsmen on horseback, three nurses in their pristine uniforms waited to take the men to their respective wards. Sister Valois lingered a little longer than necessary at the foot of the stairs until the last of the men reached the second level. The receipt and care of the wounded may have given her greater satisfaction if she did not have to send them back to the hell from which they had only recently escaped.

Yesterday nine men had been released from her care only to be returned to the front following their allotted leave time. Although Sister Valois's emotions never overtook the professional and some­what aloof attitude she had so carefully cultivated since the beginning of the war, she found it increasingly difficult to feign indifference. The soldiers had been driven away in a civilian bus, and one of them, a Parisian, had pressed a palm against the rear window, his narrow face staring coldly at the chateau until the bus turned out of the long driveway.

The soldier had taken part in General Nivelle's April offensive at the battle of Aisne and complained bitterly of having to return to the battlefield. Nearly all of his friends were dead, he had told the occupants of the ward upon his discharge, and following the failed April attack – which was supposed to have ended the war within forty-eight hours – thousands of his fellow French soldiers had mutinied. Waiting at the end of the ward with clipboard in hand, Sister Valois had been stunned by the news. It was the first she had heard of such cowardly behaviour, and she worried for the men listening to such dispiriting tales. When on the Parisian's leaving she protested at the impromptu address, he cited the continuing high French casualties. They only wished for a decent amount of leave, the Parisian claimed, as they were being forced to stay at the front-line for weeks on end.

‘Excuse me, Sister Valois, the other ambulances have arrived.'

Thanking the male orderly, she crossed the parquet floor and walked through the interconnecting reception rooms. In the main salon, with its mirrored doors and gilt chandeliers, she surveyed the neat rows of cots housing the convalescing soldiers. Those who were able wrote to loved ones or played cards, while a curtained section at the far end of the room provided a wounded junior French officer privacy from the enlisted men and access out onto the chateau's grounds.

The entrance hall bustled with the arrival of stretchers. Red Cross staff, American medics and French drivers were being disgorged from the ambulances, which were reversed up under the portico to escape the light rain. A French orderly was doing his best to stop the forward movement of the wounded until Sister Valois's arrival, and he smiled in relief at her approach. As the queue grew, so did the mutterings of discontent from the ambulance staff. Joining the throng were a number of volunteer aides, while a handful of junior nurses assembled quietly and awaited instruction.

‘We cannot possibly accommodate all these patients.' Sister Valois counted five more wounded than space allowed. Her complaint, addressed to the head of the ambulance convoy, was met with apology.

‘I have my orders, Sister, and to be frank, where else would I take them?'

The stretcher-bearers waited patiently, their arms taut with the strain of the injured they carried.

‘Very well.' They could hardly be turned away. ‘We will make do.' Her orders were quick and precise. The volunteers were assigned to bring extra cots from storage and squeeze them into the already cramped converted bedrooms upstairs while the incoming patients were assessed. The worst of the injured would be assigned to Ward A, the dining room, with those patients not expected to survive. It was against Sister Valois's rules – she firmly believed that placing a wounded man next to another with little chance of survival did nothing for recovery – but Ward A contained spare cots, and bed space had to take priority over mental-health concerns.

When the last of the wounded had streamed into the chateau, Sister Valois stood in the entrance hall, arching her right foot. Hours walking across the chateau's parquet floors gave her aching cramps in both ankles and all toes, a condition heightened by sheer exhaustion. The rattling of cots and the steady clomp of boots echoed through the old building, occasionally interspersed by a female voice of complaint. She wondered if the ghosts the junior nurses and volunteers spoke off would finally be evicted from the building with this latest influx of wounded. Certainly there was barely a corner unused. Next on the agenda would be to inform the kitchen staff of the extra mouths to feed, and she would have to cancel all leave for this coming weekend now they were at capacity again.

‘Are you the nurse in charge?'

Already thinking of the extra sheets required, she stared blankly at the man standing in the doorway of the chateau. Behind him ambulance drivers leaned on their vehicles, smoking and laughing.

‘I said, are you the –'

‘Yes, Captain, I am Sister Valois. I speak English.'

‘Good, because my schoolboy French is limited.' He strode towards her. A freckle-skinned, sandy-haired man of middling height and weight and a cautious smile, he introduced himself as Captain Harrison of the American Field Ambulance.

‘We have seen very few Americans here.' Sister Valois ushered him forward, noticing the thick lashes framing pale kindly eyes. ‘You will have to walk with me, I'm afraid, Captain, we are rather busy today.'

They arrived in the first of the reception rooms in which volunteers were placing clean linen on a number of cots. Captain Harrison gave a low, appreciative whistle as his gaze travelled beyond the occupants of the makeshift ward to the frescos on the ceiling and the gilt-framed portraits of unknown men and women hanging on the buttercup-yellow walls. ‘Very nice.'

Sister Valois checked the contents of a clipboard passed to her by a junior nurse and inspected an ulcerated leg belonging to a Frenchman aged in his forties. ‘It needs to be lanced and drained,' she advised the nurse in French.

The owner of the leg winced. ‘Not again, Sister.'

‘What is a little scratch compared to what you have already endured?' she reminded him kindly. The soldier nodded reluctantly and she turned to the captain, who was observing her with interest.

‘I won't hold you up,' he began. ‘Although it is a rather long story. I'm currently on leave and I thought I would pay you a visit.'

‘Me?' Sister Valois queried in English before moving to the next new arrival and switching back to French. ‘A saline drip and, Nurse, redress this wound.' She pointed at the bloody head bandage.

‘Well, a patient of yours, actually,' the captain said almost sheepishly. ‘This is going to sound a little strange, but –'

‘I assure you, Captain,' she interrupted, ‘I have heard and seen many strange things. Please excuse me.' Scanning another clipboard, she turned to the nurse hovering at her side and addressed her in French. ‘This soldier should be in Ward A.' She tapped the clipboard. ‘Can you not read? He has been burned by gas. Call the orderlies and tell the nurse on duty in Ward A to exchange one of the lesser cases with this young man.'

The chastised nurse nodded. ‘Yes, Sister.'

Captain Harrison cleared his throat. ‘As I was saying, Sister, the reason for my visit today . . . it's about a dog.'

Sister Valois stopped prodding at a distended abdomen. ‘Did you say a
dog
?'

‘Yes.' Captain Harrison waited until the examination had been completed and then drew her aside.

She found herself remembering what it was like to be touched by a man. A single word came to mind: comforting.

Captain Harrison continued: ‘A dog and a French soldier by the name of –'

‘Francois Chessy.' Sister Valois raised a hand to her throat. ‘He is here.'

‘So, he's still alive? I have to say, it was some task tracking him down.'

‘Francois is strong in the mind, stubbornly strong. This strength may yet be his saving, for he has been in hospital since his wounding last year at Verdun.'

Captain Harrison considered this piece of information. ‘And he had a brother, Antoine?'

‘Yes. Antoine died at Verdun. But the dog you speak of, Captain, have you seen him? Have you seen the war dog they call Roland?'

‘Roland,' Captain Harrison repeated. ‘I didn't know his name. Some orderlies at a field hospital near Amiens asked if I would take the animal, and for some reason I agreed. But, you know this animal, this “war dog” as you call him?' He thought of the great mangy dog and found it difficult to equate such a lofty description with the wolf-like mongrel he knew.

‘Yes,' the woman replied.

He could sense the expectation bubbling up within her. Perhaps the rumours were true, Captain Harrison thought. Certainly the animal was graced with an uncanny sixth sense when it came to differentiating between the wounded and the dead, but dragging soldiers to safety in no-man's land? That was a stretch.

Sister Valois touched his sleeve. ‘You have not answered my question, Captain. Have you seen Roland?'

‘Yes,' the captain answered slowly. ‘Yes, I have.'