It’s the matter of moments to dress and bind the still-shrieking Beddowes’ hand. Danny works gently, despite being cursed throughout the whole process. Meanwhile Jackson and I stand a little way off with Gallagher, who tuts disgustedly.
‘What a fuss over a flesh wound. No backbone. And yet he’s got the gall to throw around revolting accusations at front line soldiers like yourself and Private McCormick. Please accept my apologies, Wraxall. I’d have the chap up on charges if his typing wasn’t so good. Although I suppose it might be a little sloppier now he’s a couple of digits short, what?’
‘Could be a Blighty wound, sir,’ Jackson says, glancing back down the trench to where Beddowes continues to bawl.
‘Nonsense,’ Gallagher snorts. ‘It’s not like he’s got to fire a pistol or do anything useful. Oh, by the way, Lieutenant, while I dismiss all his other wild talk concerning you – after all, you got the MC; you’re as manly as they come – I do share Beddowes’ doubts about your reports. I’m not saying you fabricated anything. That’s pure nonsense. But perhaps you let your imagination run away with you.’
‘I assure you, sir, everything we saw is accurately represented and our conclusions about the German defences—’
Gallagher butts in, ‘All too late now anyway. The push will happen on the twenty-ninth and it will be a great victory, mark my words. The end of this glorious war is in sight.’
Jackson tries one last time. ‘If I may, Colonel, I believe the lieutenant’s observations should be taken seriously.’
‘Taken most seriously, I assure you,’ Gallagher nods, casting his mewling adjutant a withering glance. ‘Now, perhaps one of your men could escort me back to HQ, Captain. And maybe you could see to it that Beddowes gets to a half-decent medic before he returns to us.’
In the end it’s decided that Danny and I will take Beddowes out of the line and to the nearest field dressing station so that his wounds can be properly attended to. Before we leave, Jackson takes me to one side.
‘Get that nasty little rat out of my trench,’ he says. ‘Then you and Private McCormick can enjoy a couple of days away from the Front. I’ll join you with the rest of the platoon tomorrow.’
‘There’s no need, sir,’ I say. ‘We can easily come back after dropping off Captain Beddowes.’
Jackson gives me a long look. ‘You’ve had a rough time of it lately, Lieutenant. Getting buried in that tunnel and then the hard slog of the past week, and all apparently for nothing.’ He throws the retreating Gallagher a grim look. ‘We all need to recharge our batteries for a few days before the push. See if that old villa in Albert is still empty and we’ll make our base there. Oh, and Wraxall?’ I’d turned to go but Jackson calls me back. ‘Tread softly. That old buzzard has nothing but contempt for Beddowes, but that doesn’t mean the captain isn’t a danger, even now.’
I nod my thanks and head off to tell Danny the plan, all the while wondering if the shrewd Captain Jackson has guessed the bond that exists between me and my squire. If so, unlike the rest of the world, it doesn’t appear that he judges us for it.
It takes only minutes to pack our kitbags and begin the long trek out of the trenches. Beddowes walks between us, hunched over like an old woman saying her rosary at church. He cradles his injured hand close to his chest and glares at anyone who might jostle him. Every few yards we hear a sob or whimper, but whenever he’s asked if he feels light-headed or nauseous a waspish voice snaps back at us.
‘Of course I’m light-headed, you idiots. Now get me to a doctor as quickly as you can.’
Danny nods and says pointedly, ‘Just thank your lucky stars that injury of yours isn’t infected and that no one is ordering you to march on it, sir.’
Beddowes lowers his head and says no more. It takes us most of the afternoon to find a field dressing station that has space to treat the captain. Located in the cellar of a demolished house not far from Albert, it is surrounded by a herd of walking wounded, who mill about the entrance in various states of shock and suffering. One soldier trails a dislocated arm, another holds a grimy rag to his bloodied cheek, a third sits smoking on a step and looks down in silent wonder at his right palm, from which a rusty nail stands proud. After waiting a while in the glorious afternoon sun, we’re asked to bring Beddowes down to the cellar, where we find a rough deal table illuminated by a hurricane lamp strung from the ceiling. A nurse is scrubbing the table with carbolic soap while two doctors with tunics off and sleeves rolled up gesture for us to bring the captain forward.
‘You’re... you’re not going to leave me here, are you?’ Beddowes squeaks as we turn to go. ‘How will I get back to HQ?’
Danny shrugs. ‘I’m sure you’ll find your way, sir.’
The captain winces as the no-nonsense nurse finishes her scrubbing and bustles him to the table, where one of the doctors glances down unsympathetically at his injured hand.
‘Go then,’ Beddowes snarls, then whimpers as his wrist is gripped and the bandages roughly unfurled. ‘And damn you both.’
It’s a quiet onward walk to Albert. The changeable weather of the past weeks continues to surprise as the mild afternoon switches to a stormy twilight, billows of purple cloud streaming in from the north. There’s the freshness of rain on the breeze and all at once great gusts start to lash the broken pavements and hollow-eyed houses. Behind a shimmering veil of it, we see the hulk of the ruined basilica in the square, the statue of the falling Virgin and her child hanging as if frozen inside a waterfall.
There’s no sign of the quartermaster we met when we first entered the town nor anyone else to ask permission and so, heads down, we make our way directly to the villa. By the time we arrive, the storm has turned twilight to full night. Not a hint of the dying sun nor the risen moon, only those heavy-bellied clouds lit up occasionally by a distant flare. Gasping against the downpour, we shoulder our way through the unlocked door and into the echoing hallway. There we wipe the rain from our faces, blink and smile at each other in the gloom, pause only a moment before pressing our mouths together and, like innocents, like lovers, race upstairs to the attic room.
30
21st June
It’s past midnight and the sparrows sleep in the rafters. Finally, the storm has broken and beyond where Danny stands at the attic window, stars are beginning to emerge from between the teeth of clouds. Moonlight silvers his bare shoulders as he turns to me.
‘What are you doing, Stephen?’
I sit cross-legged on the narrow bed, the still-warm sheets pooled around me. ‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ I say.
My gaze flicks between him and the sheet of paper resting against my knee. The light isn’t ideal, and I’d give anything for a proper sketchpad and a half-decent pencil, but all things considered the image taking shape is almost as beautiful as its subject. He pads naked across the room and only stops when I hold up my hand.
‘Not yet. I’ll show you once it’s ready.’
