The Furies (13 page)

‘Not that you'd notice if it did,' Sylvia said with a grin. ‘It's not such a strange thing you know. It's only
l'amour
. We are in Paris, after all.'

***

One morning towards the end of November, as Elspeth and Sylvia were about to start their shift, the hotel concierge brought a letter up to their room. It was addressed to Sylvia and bore a London postmark.

‘I think it might be from Vera,' Sylvia said, tearing the envelope open. ‘It is,' she said excitedly and then began to read aloud.

Sylvia lowered the letter and looked up at Elspeth with a wry smile. ‘I imagine a lot of people back home are wondering what a hospital inside Claridges must look like.'

‘Keep reading, please,' Elspeth replied, impatient for news of home. Sylvie lifted the letter and again began to read.

Sylvia fell silent while she read to herself, but then began to read aloud again. ‘Then she writes about her parents…her father's emphysema…a bit about her mother…' She paused again. ‘Ah, this is a bit more interesting:

She stopped speaking and lowered the letter to her lap, and Elspeth saw the look of surprise on her face. ‘What is it?'

Sylvia took a deep a breath and lifted the letter to read again. ‘“— checked with the French Railway authorities”,' she repeated, ‘“and learnt that Anya caught a train to Paris.”'

Paris
? Elspeth sat bolt upright in her chair, but a look of relief had already returned to Sylvia's face.

‘“From Paris, she was reported to have a bought a ticket for Marseille.”' Sylvia continued, and then lowered the letter to her lap once more. ‘How odd,' she said.

‘Strange to think she might have been here in Paris, at much the same time as us,' Elspeth replied. ‘I wonder why she's gone to Marseille…Perhaps she's trying to make her way back to wherever she came from originally?'

Sylvia nodded thoughtfully and lifted the letter again. She read silently for a moment and then suddenly her eyes opened wide. ‘Vera's joined the Scottish Women's Unit!' she exclaimed, quickly turning the letter over, her eyes flicking to and fro as she hurriedly read the words. ‘She's been accepted as a driver and is going to join us for the Serbian expedition!'

‘Oh, let me see!' Elspeth said, snatching the letter away from Sylvia. She quickly read the relevant sentences. And then, as she moved on to the next paragraph, her face broke into a smile.

‘What?' Sylvia asked, seeing the amused look on Elspeth's face.

‘Vera goes on to write that everybody going to Serbia will have to wear a uniform.'

‘
Uniforms
?' Sylvia said with obvious dismay. ‘What sort of uniforms?'

‘Tartan, apparently,' Elspeth said, trying not to laugh at the look of horror that appeared on Sylvia's face.

‘
Tartan
?' Sylvia groaned, shook her head ‘I can't
wait
to see what we look like in those.'

Klaus knelt beside the soldier's bed and peeled away the bandage covering the wounded soldier's abdomen. ‘Nice job, Captain,' he said.

Gabriel looked down at the line of stitches, gently palpated the wound edge, and then bent forward to sniff: Good, he thought, no visible signs or smell of infection. He nodded, satisfied with his work. ‘Alright, dress the wound, Klaus, and see if you can find space on a wagon to take him back to Bosnia later today.' He stepped away from the patient and stretched the stiffness out of his spine. ‘Any more to see?'

‘No, Captain, that's everybody you operated on last night.'

Gabriel yawned. ‘Good, I need some time to write up my notes.' A low growl – like thunder from a distant summer storm – came through the canvas wall of the post-operative tent. Gabriel exchanged an alarmed glance with Klaus, wrapped himself in his greatcoat and went outside.

The Divisional Aid Station was now situated in the middle of a farmer's paddock deep in Serbian territory. They had arrived here three days ago, following in the footsteps of the Austrian vanguard that had launched another offensive two weeks earlier. Surprisingly the Serbians had put up very little resistance this time, and within ten days the Austrians had crossed the mountains deep into the central Serbian plain and taken Kragujevac, their objective since the war began. However, information gleaned from interrogated prisoners indicated that the reason for the Serbian retreat was that they had run out of ammunition for their fast-firing French howitzers. Field Marshall Potiorek increased the pace of advance, ordering his army even deeper into enemy territory. But the Austrian supply lines were already overstretched and vital supplies of food and ammunition failed to make it through to the front-line troops. The Field Marshall had been warned the lines were dangerously thin, but he insisted they press their advantage over the Serbs and push on.

The speed of advance meant that Gabriel's medical column struggled to keep up with the forward dressing stations. But keep up it did, and his wagons continued to trundle through the countryside, through shattered villages and towns. And in these devastated areas Gabriel saw the smoking ruins of buildings, the scattered possessions of fleeing civilians, the carcasses of cattle rotting in the fields, and the dead of both armies sprawled in the streets. Finally, at the end of the first week of December, the medical column had come to a halt at a farm only six kilometres west of Kragujevac.

The farmer's paddock was enclosed by hedgerows, which sheltered the hospital tents from the wind. On the western side of the field there was a cluster of disused stables, which Gabriel had considered using, but the leaky roof and manure-soiled floors made them unsuitable for casualties. In the middle of the hedge on the opposite side of the field was a cattle gate, and Gabriel could see several of his orderlies standing by the gatepost, staring east towards the horizon, at clouds that flickered from the light of reflected shell bursts. Even at this distance from the front Gabriel could feel the air hum and the earth tremble with each explosion. Christ, he thought – something big was happening. Klaus appeared at his shoulder.

‘Doesn't sound good, Captain.'

‘Is Trauber back yet?'

Klaus looked over Gabriel's shoulder, at a horse tethered outside the stables. ‘That's his horse over there, Captain. He must have got back while you were doing your ward round. He'll be stabling his horse – I'll tell him to come and speak to you.'

As Klaus went off to fetch Trauber, Gabriel hugged his arms around him for warmth and looked up at the sky: the ochre-tinged bellies of clouds drifted low overhead, pregnant with snow. There were a lot of things playing on his mind: as well as the dropping temperatures and impending snow there was also the re-supply problem. They had run out of paraffin, almost all food, and now were critically short of medical supplies, including basics like bandages and dressings. Yesterday a number of newly arrived casualties had brought rumours of a Serbian counteroffensive. There had been no formal communication from 6
^th
Army command as to what exactly was happening, so Gabriel had sent Corporal Trauber, one of his orderlies, forward to find out what was going on.

‘Sorry, Captain, I was just making sure my horse was secure.' Trauber looked tired, his eyes red-rimmed, his coat covered in a layer of dust, as he arrived at Gabriel's side, Klaus a little way behind him. ‘I only got back a few minutes ago.'

‘Did you find out what's happening?' Gabriel asked.

‘There
is
a strong counteroffensive under way.' Trauber replied. ‘The Serbs have been resupplied with shells for their French howitzers.'

‘That's what I feared,' said Gabriel, glancing eastwards again and seeing another flash of light in the clouds on the horizon. He turned back to Trauber. ‘How is Lieutenant Flieger getting on?'

‘He's struggling to cope, Captain. They're sited on the eastern side of Kragujevac, where there's fierce fighting, and their dressing station is swamped with casualties. Some of the more seriously wounded have already started the journey back and should be arriving shortly. For the time being our lines appear to be holding, although there are rumours that some of our units have surrendered as they've run out of ammunition.'

‘Alright, thank you, Trauber. Get yourself cleaned up and try and find some breakfast – if you can.' He turned to Klaus. ‘Tell the other orderlies to prepare for the imminent arrival of casualties.'

***

The wounded began to arrive later that morning, carried in the back of ox carts or in straw panniers strapped to the sides of mules. Working with Berger and Schwann in the resuscitation tent, Gabriel triaged the casualties to decide who should live and who should die. Those with untreatable wounds were sent to the comfort tent, where the dwindling supply of morphine was used to ease their passing, while those with a chance of survival were prepared for surgery. Then Gabriel went to work in the operating tent.

All afternoon and evening, Gabriel – with Berger anaesthetising the patients – struggled to deal with the tide of wrecked bodies. It was the surgery of the Napoleonic era: amputating limbs, ligating arteries, cauterising stumps, trepanning skulls, opening abdomens to stop bleeding and search for bullets or winkle out shards of shrapnel. But the wounded kept coming and so he worked on into the night, the operating tent illuminated by smoky candlelight as the paraffin for the oil lamps had run out. In the gloomy, sooty, sleep-deprived atmosphere of the tent, Gabriel toiled as if in a dream, in that state that occurs just before waking. His eyes were filled with images of broken bodies; his nose, with the sweet smell of chloroform and blood; his ears, with the sounds of men in pain. He worked through midnight and on into the early hours of the morning. Finally, shortly before dawn, he finished the last case.

Berger removed the ether mask from the patient's face and then supervised the orderlies, who hefted the patient off the operating table onto a stretcher and carried him out to the overfilled recovery tent. Gabriel peeled off his rubber gloves, dropped them into a bucket by the tent entrance, and walked outside. He felt completely spent, his body numb, his mind blank after such a period of continuous mental and physical activity.

Sweet Jesus, he thought; that was a night he would rather forget. To function amidst such carnage yesterday – to have been able to work effectively – he had suppressed his empathic nature and focussed only on the mechanics of saving lives. But now he thought about the poor young men whose legs and arms he had amputated and whose lives would be forever changed. For a moment he felt their pain, and then immediately regretted it: empathy would not help them now, and an effective surgeon must control his emotions and not allow it to interfere with his decision-making, a skill he knew was almost as important as controlling a scalpel.

He stretched his arms and sniffed the clean, cold air, and then walked over to the morgue tent to stare at the pile of amputated limbs stacked beside it, the result of yesterday's handiwork. He saw a rat nibbling at a bloody half-leg; angrily he picked up a clod of earth and threw it at the animal. As the rat scuttled away into the hedgerow, Gabriel made a mental note to remind Klaus and the other orderlies that all body parts must be placed inside the tent in future.

The fresh air was invigorating and the tension fell away from Gabriel's body. A powerful urge to sit down and close his eyes came upon him, but he dared not do so because there was a ward round to do on the post-op cases. Then his stomach growled and a cramp of hunger clutched his belly, and he suddenly remembered he hadn't eaten anything since yesterday morning. He sniffed the air again, and now could smell wood smoke, coffee, burnt toast. Squinting across the encampment he saw Klaus sitting on an upturned wooden crate outside the mess tent, a small campfire in front of him. As he walked towards him, Gabriel saw he was toasting a piece of bread over the fire whilst stirring a scorched pot of coffee that swung from a tripod in the flames.

‘Where did you get the bread from?' Gabriel said as he sat on the edge of the crate next to Klaus.

‘From the farmer.' Klaus nodded towards the farmhouse in the next field. ‘Don't worry, Captain, I asked him very nicely,' he said with a reassuring smile.

Gabriel stared into the fire. It was extremely comforting to listen to the wood crackle and hiss, to feel the heat and watch the flames dance. The feeling of exhaustion was now overwhelming and for a moment he allowed his eyes to close…then he suddenly jerked awake as his head fell forward onto his chest and he almost slipped off the wooden crate. Klaus chuckled as Gabriel re-seated himself and took several deep breaths, forcing his eyes to stay open.

‘You need coffee, Captain,' Klaus said, removing the pot from the flames and pouring some of the black liquid into a tin cup. Gabriel took the hot cup, holding it with the lower less-bloodstained part of his surgical gown. He took a sip and then smiled with surprise.

‘Real coffee, Klaus. I'm impressed.'

‘This is not a time for roast acorns, Captain. I'm sick of that ersatz stuff.'

‘Where did you get it from?'

‘Best not ask, Captain.'

Gabriel smiled, enjoying the heat of the cup on his hands and the bitter warmth of the coffee in his chest, the chance to let his mind idle. Then he realised how quiet it was: no gunfire, no explosions, no fighting. He tilted his head to one side, straining to listen.

‘I noticed it, too,' Klaus said, watching Gabriel. ‘I've been out here nearly an hour and heard no noise of battle. No more casualties have come in since midnight. Maybe the Serbs have run out of shells again? Maybe we've pushed them back, stabilised the line?'

‘Or maybe our own front line has folded,' Gabriel replied, ‘but wouldn't we have seen our men in retreat?'

Klaus shook his head. ‘I haven't seen anybody coming back from the front.' He took a bite from the toasted bread and thoughtfully began to chew. ‘I hope we have held the line. We badly need resupply.'

‘How bad?'

‘We have no oil and almost no food. And dressings and drugs are very low.'

‘Let's hope they come today.'

‘Phaw!' Klaus exclaimed. ‘Forgive me for saying so, Captain, but our supply division is really bloody useless.'

Gabriel smiled. ‘I think the problem is the lack of horses. We lost so many during the battle for the Cer heights.'

‘Well they shouldn't have pushed us so deep, should they? We haven't been resupplied for days now. We can chop wood for heating, but food is another matter.' Klaus looked up at the sky. ‘And I'm sure it will snow today. If supplies don't arrive soon, we will have no choice but to take it from the farms again.'

Gabriel scowled with frustration as he thought about his lot as an army surgeon. Operating on the wounded and putting his surgical skills to good use was one thing. But sitting in a muddy field with snow about to fall and no idea what was happening in front, or behind, was a completely different matter.

And he hated taking food from civilians. The Serbian peasant farmers had very little to spare, and killing their animals for meat and looting their winter stores felt wrong. In fact the whole war seemed wrong. Gabriel didn't normally bother himself with politics – surgery was his all-consuming passion – but now he questioned the invasion of Serbia: was it really justified by the Archduke's killing? Did his murder also excuse the violent deaths and maiming of so many thousands of Austrian and Serbian soldiers, the slaying of civilians? Gabriel was supposed to have pride in the Austrian army, and he still felt a strong sense of duty towards his comrades. But having witnessed the execution of the Serbian villagers, he was ashamed at the way the war was being conducted, and now he realised he had also lost his conviction this was a just fight…

‘Damn this stupid war,' he said, and then without thinking swallowed the rest of the coffee, wincing as the hot liquid burned his gullet. He grimaced: served him right – he needed to stay composed whatever the circumstances.

A wry smile played on Klaus's face. ‘More coffee, Captain? There's no milk to take the heat out of it, but some schnapps might cool it a little.'

‘A drop of schnapps would be wonderful,' Gabriel said, stretching the mug over to Klaus, who refilled it with coffee and a generous slug from a small hipflask he produced from his greatcoat. Gabriel pulled the mug back, took another sip and sighed. He felt calmer now, more relaxed, the caffeine finally waking him. His mind was active again. Why was it so quiet? What was it that Corporal Trauber had said yesterday? That some of the advance units had run out of ammunition and surrendered? So what should he do – stay or break camp? And if he did re-deploy, which way should he go? Forwards? To the rear?