Soldier of the Horse (28 page)

“Then no surgery. I'll not go back a legless man. You'll have to fight me to get me under.”

“Let me explain things to you, soldier. When you get shot on the battlefield, the bullets carry with them bits of clothing that get left in your body. Your uniform is caked with mud and animal and human excrement—shit, Sergeant—that carries with it the bacteria that cause gas gangrene. Those bacteria are multiplying in your legs even as we speak. The only way to beat it is to expose it to air—to cut into your legs and debride—gouge out the infection.”

“What if it's in deep?”

“Doesn't matter—the procedure's the same. We make a hole right through the limb if we have to, keep it open for days to try to kill the bacteria. Then we cut out the infection and try to heal the wound. Amputation is a last resort, but it might be the only choice. We'll decide once we're in there. You're lucky,” he added. “If your wounds were in your torso you'd be dead, because then we can't cut out the infection without doing more harm than good.”

“You'll not take my legs.”

The doctor turned to the nurse, who looked tired. “He knows the score. Surgery this afternoon. If he fights it, put someone else in his place. We have plenty more where he came from.” Turning on his heel he left the room, the nurse trailing him.

♦  ♦  ♦

Tom was adamant. They had him in the operating room, the surgeon had his mask on, and an anaesthetist waited with his bottle of ether and pad of gauze. But Tom wouldn't let anyone near him, for fear they'd put him out and he'd wake up a legless man.

The surgeon's eyes narrowed. “All right. We'll do this the hard way.” He spoke to two orderlies who stood with arms folded. “Strap him down. Can't have you jumping around, can we, Sergeant?”

They strapped him down, securing his torso, feet, and arms with wide canvas strips and leather cinches. The surgeon sliced Tom's bandages from ankle to crotch, then peeled them back, first one leg and then the other. Tom groaned, teeth clamped, lips apart in a grimace.

“Give him something to chew on, or he'll break his teeth.” The doctor nodded at a nurse.

The nurse put a hand on Tom's brow, calming him. “Open wide,” she said, reminding Tom of his mother when she fed his younger brothers. She put a short piece of thick rubber tubing between his teeth.

Tom's body jerked, muscles seizing up, as the doctor cut away at green flesh. “The sooner he passes out, the quicker we can be done,” the surgeon commented.

But Tom didn't pass out. He tried to concentrate on dots on the ceiling, anything other than the reality of the present: the smell—blood, ether, rotting flesh; the doctor's monosyllabic demands—scalpel, suture, gauze; his teeth—making the rubber tubing squeak; his grinding jaw muscles, which spasmed with a pain that was like a flea bite compared to the pain in his legs. That felt as though a bear was tearing at his living flesh.

It was an hour before he was back on the ward. A nurse gave him a shot of morphine, and he slept.

♦  ♦  ♦

Tom had a second surgery, and a third. He accepted anaesthetic, for the last one, because the surgeon, Smythe, told him he thought the infection was beaten and they were trying to promote healing of the wounds themselves. For now, at least, amputation was not part of the equation. Tom had skin grafts. A new technique, he was told. He couldn't tell where the skin came from, although a nurse told him it looked like pigskin, which made him wonder if in fact it had come from a pig. That would make a good story, if he ever made it out of there.

A wound on his right thigh up near his hip would not heal. They put him out again, and when he came to he was in agony, which became unbearable over the next four hours. Dr. Smythe was summoned, and he pulled back the dressing.

“Thought I'd try something different,” he explained in his clipped fashion. “Gunshot wound, debrided earlier. Insufficient skin. Used catgut to stretch the remaining skin to cover the gap. Long stitches, then pulled tight. Much like lacing up a boot, really.” He ran his fingers over the area where he had operated. Tom's pale skin was as hard as a drumhead. The surgeon flicked it with a forefinger; Tom jumped.

“Infection's back, and that's not going to work.” Smythe grasped a loose end of the catgut, wrapped it around his middle finger, and pulled sharply. Tom's hip lifted two inches off the bed; infected skin and surrounding flesh tore loose. Sweat popped out on his forehead, and he fell back, quivering, lips clamped.

“Tough guy, eh?” said the surgeon. He peered at the mass of yellow pus and red flesh that dangled from the catgut in his hand. “We'll do what we can for the infection. This got some of it,” he said, and looked approvingly at the oozing gap in Tom's hip.

♦  ♦  ♦

Ellen sat in front of her dressing table and regarded the face that looked back from the mirror. No longer a girl, but a young woman in her early twenties. Blue eyes, brown hair with golden highlights when the sun shone on it, pleasant features, if she did say so herself. Good posture, healthy as a horse. She should be happy.

She sat, irresolute. Her father was pushing her to make a decision about Harry. Harry was persistent, insisting they had a future together. She had held him at bay for months now but wondered if she had it in her to continue to do so. Tom's letters had nearly stopped, once she had told him she didn't know what to do. And she truly didn't; she was only trying to be honest with him. They had had such a brief time together. Her one photo of him, taken in uniform just before he left for England, was right in front of her, tucked into the frame of her mirror. Even with that to help, after nearly four years she had trouble conjuring up the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on hers. The right upper drawer of the table was open, and in it she could see Harry's ring, still lying where she had placed it.

Male voices drifted up from the ground floor where Ned, Ellen's brother, was grumbling at his wife, Joan, and their infant daughter. It was late afternoon but even so, his voice was already slurred. The little girl started to cry, then fell silent. Ellen could picture Joan comforting the child.

A few moments later she heard footsteps approach, followed by a tentative knock on the half-open door.

“Come in,” she called, closing the drawer as Joan entered. Her sister-in-law walked over to put a hand on Ellen's shoulder. Ellen moved over on her bench, patting the seat beside her. “Sit down, Joan. Am I holding everyone up?”

“Not so anyone would notice.” Joan's face was prematurely etched with deep lines, her often-grave mien even more pronounced than usual.

Now what, wondered Ellen, just as she noticed Joan had a folded newspaper in her hand. “What's that?”

“Not good news, I'm afraid.” Joan handed the paper to Ellen, who hesitated but took it in her hands. The paper had been folded to the second page, displaying a photo of Tom, a copy of the one on her mirror. The caption screamed at her:

WINNIPEG SOLDIER WOUNDED

Mr. and Mrs. Wm. Macrae of East Kildonan have been informed their son Thomas has been severely wounded in France. Sergeant Macrae, pictured above, was injured at Moreuil Wood while serving with the Canadian Cavalry Brigade.

Ellen gasped as she clenched the paper in her hand, shaking it angrily. “It can't be true. It can't.” She flung it from her, knocking bottles and jars from her dressing table. Joan put her arms around her.

Ellen let herself be held for a moment, then broke loose and stood to pace the room. The anger eased, and guilt rocked her. My God, how could I lose faith in Tom, how could I think about not waiting for him? I haven't written, I've left him alone. Now he may be dying. She stopped her pacing and stared out the window, where a late spring threatened snow.

Joan rose, once again putting an arm around the younger woman. “I'm sure Tom can fight his own battles, Ellen. There's nothing you can do for him, so far away. You may not want to hear this, but really, you should think about yourself. Your father has your best interests at heart. He jokes and says he wants you to settle down before he's too old to enjoy grandchildren. God knows he won't get any more from Ned and me.”

Joan walked to the door, then stopped and turned back. “I'm going downstairs, Ellen, and I'll just say this once. Before this damned war, I saw a world-beater of a man off to England. You remember what Ned was like. But it wasn't Ned who came home to me, it was a shadow. Don't let that happen to you.” She left, softly closing the door behind her.

Ellen knew Joan was right about Ned: he was not the man he had been. He had not been able to work once his wounds healed, nor had he adapted to the fact that he could no longer walk. An air of self-pity pervaded all his thoughts and conversations. Wheelchair-bound, he was less than a man in his own mind and he was drinking far too much for his own good. The family's efforts to make him face up to his problems with alcohol had been shrugged off.

Ellen resumed her pacing. She had to decide. She thought she had done the right thing, telling Tom about her indecision, but perhaps that had been wrong. She simply must face up to the decision that only she could make. Harry was everything she could want: handsome, good prospects, as her father reminded her on numerous occasions, up-and-coming in society. He'd be good to her. So would Tom, if he was able, if he was the same man, in spite of his wounds. Assuming he survived.

She walked absently to her window, where she saw bright crystals of snow floating from a partly blue sky. Unconsciously clasping her hands, she stared at the falling flakes, lit from the side by late rays of sunshine. She smiled, her mind turning to a nearly forgotten earlier snow shower, just before Belle had unceremoniously dumped her, face down in the snow.

Her brother's querulous voice, expressing some complaint that she could not make out, was enough to distract her. She frowned, then, purposefully returning to her dressing table, she picked up her fountain pen, placed her stationery squarely in front of her, and began to write. She didn't stop until she had completed two letters, which she sealed in envelopes and addressed, one to Harry and one to Tom.

♦  ♦  ♦

Through the window, Tom saw larches waving in the Hampshire breeze. He looked around the ward and counted twenty beds, mostly men with missing limbs or other severe wounds. The man on his left, who was named Sykes, had no right arm. Sykes would sit, if the orderlies propped him up, but he wouldn't respond to questions and would not feed himself.

In charge of the ward was Clara Duncan, an English girl, although most of the nurses were Canadian. Clara was only twenty, a young woman with an open, freckled face who did her best to be reserved with the men.

Tom asked Clara about Sykes, and she told him Sykes, who was from rural Ontario, had been wounded in an artillery barrage. “He's only spoken once since he's been here,” Clara whispered. “Said, ‘How am I going to milk the cows?'”

Tom thought back to Sergeant Grey, who had lost both arms. “Maybe he could do something else.”

“We get a lot of them,” said Clara. “Sometimes they're not even wounded. ‘Shellshock' they're calling it, from all the explosions. It's almost as if they're not here anymore.”

She looked around, leaned close to Tom, and said, in such a low voice that he could hardly hear her, “It drives some of the senior officers crazy. They think the men are faking.”

Tom remembered his first time in the trenches, when the artillery pounded without letup, the terror that blossomed like a poison, clinging even after the barrage had lifted. Sykes reminded him of some of the troops they had replaced, men who had been under constant shelling for days. He had wondered at the time if they'd be able to force themselves back into the front lines when their turn came up again; he had wondered if he himself would be able to face it again.

Clara told Tom what she had read in the newspapers about the Canadian cavalry during the days and weeks he had been convalescing. Moreuil Wood had changed hands several times after the Canadians had fought the Germans to a standstill; the area was still the scene of heavy fighting days after Flowerdew's charge. Flowerdew had been awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross, the Empire's highest award for bravery. It was said he would not leave the field of battle until his men were looked after. Tom remembered his last sight of the lieutenant, waving off assistance that might have saved him, grieving over the staggering number of men killed or wounded in the charge he had led.

Tom had never aspired to a commission, had always identified with the common soldier, but at times he felt a grudging respect for the commanders at all levels, who accepted their role in this ugly war, leading or pushing men to their deaths. “Generals die in bed” was the common expression, but junior officers seldom did.

When Tom arrived on the ward the soldier in the bed to his right had moaned constantly. The nurses were feeding him morphine like there was no tomorrow, and maybe for him there wasn't. After a few days the moaning eased off. The soldier told Tom his name was Romeo, home town Toronto. He talked as if his mouth was wired shut.

“You don't look much like a Romeo,” remarked Clara Duncan, who happened to be walking by.

“You want to try me out? Want to play Juliet?” Romeo had mumbled.

“Now, soldier, don't get yourself excited,” Clara laughed as she left the room.

Romeo's head was bandaged. Only his right eye peeped out and he seemed to have a stiff neck. When he sat up he swung his whole body hard left so he could see Tom. “Don't get any smart ideas, Macrae. I been asked ‘How is Juliet?' more times than you've been to the can. Hey—where you wounded?”

“The legs.”

“Lucky. Damn Fritz got me in the left side of the head. Bullet went in my earhole and out my eye. Could have been worse—could have been my asshole.” Romeo shook with laughter, then groaned. “Hurts when I laugh,” he said, his voice pinched between gritted teeth. “Where's that nurse gone? Nurse!”