The Shadow of War (35 page)

Men are helped to sit on the floor all around the farmhouse. Young boys, all bright-eyed and smiling with bravado this morning, are not boys any more; they are broken men. Lieutenant Orme is not in the farmhouse, neither are Geraint and Morgan. Hywel begins to cry again.

An arm wraps itself around his shoulders while the hand of the other arm proffers a mug of tea. It is CSM John Hughes, a face Hywel has not seen since Wrexham.

‘Colour Serjeant, what are you doing here?'

‘What do ya think, son?'

‘But I thought you stayed behind in Wrexham –'

‘I did, but I arrived yesterday with another three hundred likely lads. How's your hand?'

‘Got
a bullet through it; it's not a lot of use any more.'

‘Well, it's your passport home, then. It could be a lot worse. Where're your brothers?'

‘In the bottom of a German trench.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Think so.'

‘Come on, let's get you into an ambulance and have the medics sort out that hand. By the way, one of the officers back here had his field glasses on you during the day. He said he'd never seen marksmanship like it. Well done, lad.'

‘Thanks, Colour Serjeant.'

Hywel's polite words belie the desolation he feels at the end of a day that has changed his life.

Of the 109 Royal Welch Fusilier reservists who took part in the attack at Zwarteleen, only seventeen have made it back unharmed. Eight more are wounded, but managed to get out alive. The rest are assumed to have perished. Of the six recent volunteers to the regiment who were chosen to accompany the reservists, only Hywel has made it back. Lieutenant Francis Orme, the eldest son of an old Anglo-Irish landowning family from County Mayo, was killed right at the end of the day's fighting. He fought courageously all day, organizing his dwindling numbers with calm authority and encouraging any who faltered. Having decided to use the gloom of dusk to fall back, he was the last man to leave the trench. As he did so, he was shot in the back by a single sniper's bullet. He was twenty-three years old.

No one could recall seeing either Morgan or Geraint Thomas fall, but it was thought that no one was left alive when the trench was evacuated. Morgan was eighteen, Geraint seventeen. Today would have been Morgan's nineteenth birthday. Hywel has a packet of five Wild Woodbine cigarettes in his knapsack. It was to be Morgan's birthday present.

The
British Army's main field hospital in Flanders occupies all three floors of the old Provoost Lace Mill in Poperinghe. It houses over 600 men in beds so close together that there is only just room to pass between them. Matron-General Emma McCarthy visited the hospital yesterday and declared that she was very satisfied with the way it is being run.

Margaret Killingbeck, one of three ward sisters, is in charge of Ward 1 on the ground floor. She is mightily relieved, knowing what a tartar McCarthy can be. British sappers have been able to restore the mill's ancient steam-powered lifts so that the worst cases, those who have no need of the ground floor operating theatres and who are likely soon to die from their wounds, can be kept in the relative calm of the top floor.

It is a relief to the medics, nurses and orderlies that they have a relatively permanent base in Pop, given that they have moved all their patients and equipment five times since arriving at the Front.

Despite the immaculate cleanliness and organizational efficiency of the hospital, and the elevated tranquillity of the top floor, it is a grim place. It is, after all, an old lace mill, not a hospital. Painkilling drugs are in short supply, there are not enough surgeons, and sheets and blankets are hard to keep clean. On Ward 3, at the top, although there is mostly silence from the men slowly losing the struggle for life in semi or total unconsciousness, some are fighting their battle noisily,
unable to deal with the dreadful ordeal of their pain, or unable to accept that death is close.

Hywel Thomas is allocated a bed on the ground floor, the area reserved for men who may not need to be sent home to Britain and could go back to active service. He is a borderline case. The injury to his palm has badly damaged his right hand, but he is still mobile. And his state of mind has improved. The desire for revenge has overcome the self-pity he felt in the coppice at Zwarteleen.

When the senior surgeon, Surgeon-Captain Noel Chavasse, a man just twenty-nine years old, examines Hywel's mangled right hand, he concludes that the bullet has shattered metacarpals two and three, the bones that control his two central fingers – the middle finger and the ring finger.

Hywel's first question is to ask whether he will still be able to anchor his rifle. The surgeon furrows his brow.

‘You won't be using a rifle any more, Fusilier. You're going home. Your regiment won't take you back in your condition.'

‘But, sir, I'm the best shot in the battalion. They've made me a sniper.'

‘But it's your right hand –'

‘I'm left-handed, sir.'

‘I see, let me have another look.'

Chavasse spends several minutes carefully examining the wound and talking to his juniors, who are gathered around Hywel's bed.

‘It's a clean hole, but the metacarps are beyond repair. There will be extensive nerve damage, and the healing time will be months.'

‘Please, sir, I have no family to go home to. My parents are dead, and both my brothers were killed yesterday.'

Captain Chavasse is stunned. He can see the desperation on Hywel's face.

‘I'm sorry … that's very unfortunate. Please accept my
condolences.' The surgeon examines the hand once more. ‘What is your name, Fusilier Thomas?'

‘Hywel, sir.'

‘Look, Hywel, it could take three or four months to heal. To be blunt, the army is not going to feed and house you for that length of time in the unlikely hope that you are going to be able to shoot again.'

‘Sir, I only need my right hand to rest my rifle on. I'm a quick healer, and while it's getting better I can work here at the hospital.'

‘With one hand?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Doing what?'

Hywel looks around at the frantic activity of the nurses and orderlies.

‘Most of what they're doing, sir. I have a strong left hand.'

Chavasse smiles.

‘Let me talk to your CO.'

‘He doesn't know me, sir. I only arrived from Wales last week. Our officer was killed yesterday; the only one who knows how good I am is Colour Serjeant Hughes.'

‘Very well, where is he?'

‘At the Front, I think, sir – the other side of
Wipers
.'

‘Well, I think he may be a little preoccupied at the moment.'

Chavasse smiles again and looks at his juniors next to him. They stand in respectful silence, waiting to see what he will decide to do. His smile breaks into a mischievous grin.

‘Very well, I'll take your word for it that you're a top marksman. I'll operate this afternoon and will see what we can do. You'll need a reinforced glove, but I know where we can get one.'

Chavasse's juniors look puzzled; this is the first they've heard of such a thing.

‘
Desoutter Brothers
in London, a new company set up by Marcel Desoutter. Eighteen months ago, he was badly injured in a flying accident. I had to take his leg off. Not satisfied
with the wooden leg he was fitted with, he and his brother designed a new artificial limb made out of duralumin, an alloy of aluminium. They have now started a new company making artificial limbs.'

One of Chavasse's juniors cannot resist making an acerbic quip.

‘From what we've seen in the last three months, sir, they'll soon be rich men.'

‘Quite! I'll get them to make a reinforced glove for Fusilier Thomas, designed to help the hand in supporting a rifle. It'll be a good challenge for them and an interesting case for us.' He then turns to Hywel. ‘You make sure you bag plenty of the Hun to justify all this.'

‘Don't worry about that, sir. There is a German sniper I need to nail for Lieutenant Orme and for popping my hand. He may as well pay for my brothers too.'

‘That's the spirit! I should warn you, you'll have no flexibility from your middle fingers, but your little finger, your index finger and your thumb should, with a bit of luck, hard work and a following wind, function as they do now.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘You will be in pain for several weeks and should only undertake light duties for three months after that. Then we'll put you on the range and see how you get on.'

‘Don't worry, sir, I'll take the eye out of a sparrow at three hundred yards.'

‘I'm sure you will. Nurse, would you tell Sister Killingbeck to get this man ready for surgery after lunch?'

Hywel's euphoria at the news about his hand is dramatically dissipated on hearing Margaret's name. His eyes follow the nurse. As they do, he sees a nursing auxiliary appear from the sluice room, where the bedpans and urine bottles are dealt with. It is another blow to his elation of only moments ago. The auxiliary is the sister he has disowned.

Bronwyn looks pristine in her pale-blue uniform, white
apron and cap. In fact, Hywel thinks she looks even prettier than the sweet Welsh lass he remembers from happier days at Pentry before the trauma of the summer. Bronwyn does not notice Hywel as she walks past the end of his bed.

He is distraught; his eyes begin to fill with tears. He does not know what to say or do. His instincts tell him to run away, anywhere, but he has no clothes, bar the hospital gown they have given him. He also wants to have his operation so that he can fulfil his newly found purpose in life: to avenge Lieutenant Orme and his brothers by killing more Germans.

Bronwyn has gone out of sight, further down the ward, but she soon appears again, carrying a bedpan, and walks back past Hywel's bed. He calls out in Welsh, wishing her a happy birthday.

‘
Penblwydd
hapus
,
cariad
.'

Bronwyn lets out a squeal and drops the enamel bedpan and its contents all over the ward floor. She turns towards Hywel, screams again and rushes out of the ward. As she does so, she pushes past Margaret, who is carrying the notes of ‘Fusilier Thomas, Royal Welch Fusiliers'.

Guessing immediately what has happened, Margaret brings to bear all the discipline and self-control of her training.

‘Nurse Henderson, sort out that bedpan.' She then calmly walks over to Hywel's bed. ‘Good morning, Fusilier Thomas. How are you feeling?'

‘I've felt worse, Sister, but only just.'

‘Well, let's get you operated on so that you can start to get better.'

Then, as she goes around his bed tucking in his sheets and arranging his pillows as nurses do, she speaks again, but in a whispered tone that no one else can hear.

‘You are looking a lot better than when I saw you at Pentry.'

‘Thank you … Can I call you Margaret?'

‘Of course, but only in private.'

‘How
did you find Bron?'

‘It wasn't difficult. She was where you said she would be.'

‘Doing what I told you?'

‘Yes.'

‘And?'

‘She's fine. Can't you see that?'

‘How did you do it?'

‘I'm a nurse … and a woman. She saw you in Pop when you arrived.'

‘I saw you, but not Bron. Was she with you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then she saw Geraint and Morgan as well?'

‘Of course; it was quite a shock for her.'

‘Not as big as the one she's got coming. I don't know how I'm going to tell her.'

Margaret stops fiddling with Hywel's bedding, a look of horror forming on her face as she sees the pained expression on Hywel's.

‘They're both dead. We got cut to pieces yesterday. I was lucky; I was sniping behind the attack. So few of the boys came back.'

Margaret cannot hold the tears in check. Despite all her resolve, they begin to spill down her cheeks and her chest heaves involuntarily.

‘Look, Hywel, I must go and find Bron. I'll get a staff nurse to cover for me for an hour, she'll get you ready for the op …' She pauses, remembering her duty. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes, you go. I'm not feeling like I did when we met before. I've found something I'm good at, and I want to recover for my brothers' sake. I also want to make it up to Bron for not looking after her.'

Margaret puts her hand on Hywel's shoulder and then rushes away to the nurses' quarters, where she finds Bronwyn curled on her bed, sobbing. Margaret sits on the edge of the bed, pulls Bronwyn towards her and cradles the girl's
head in her lap. She begins to stroke her hair, but does not say anything.

Several minutes pass before Bronwyn speaks.

‘What's wrong with him?'

‘He's been shot in the hand.'

‘Which one?'

‘The right.'

‘Thank God for that small mercy; he's left-handed.'

‘Don't worry, they're going to patch him up. He'll be fine.'

‘He said “happy birthday, lovely girl”.'

‘Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday?'

‘I'd forgotten. And besides, I can't remember what day it is, let alone the date.' Bronwyn sits up and shakes her head, as if to clear her thoughts. ‘Do you think he's forgiven me?'

‘Yes, I think he has.'

‘I'm sorry I dropped the bedpan; he gave me such a fright.'

‘Don't worry about that.' Margaret takes a deep breath. ‘Bron, you know I said I would tell you my dark secret one day?'

‘I remember; I've been hoping you'll tell me ever since we got to France.'

‘Well, I think I should tell you now. But I want to say something first …' She takes another deliberate breath. ‘I love you, Bron.'

Bronwyn smiles, her tears gone.

‘And I love you, Margaret; you have saved my life and been so kind to me.'

‘But it is more than that; I
really
love you.'

Bronwyn looks puzzled.

‘That is my dark secret. I like women; I'm ashamed to say I'm physically attracted to my own sex.'

Bronwyn is shocked, motionless. Margaret stands up and straightens her crumpled uniform.

‘There, I've said it. I've wanted to tell you for weeks, but I was terrified that you would reject me. I don't want us to be lovers, but I wanted you to know. I think you are so brave,
dealing with everything you've had to endure. I watch you every day, putting up with all the drudgery on the ward, and you never complain; you are so strong.'

Bronwyn has regained a little of her composure.

‘Margaret, I don't know what to say –'

‘Don't say anything. I just wanted you to know so that we can be honest with one another. I know all your secrets, and now you know mine.'

‘Have you had many lovers?'

‘Just two. A girl back home – you know, in the village I told you about in Swaledale? She was the vicar's daughter, from two villages away, down in the valley. She was full of life, very clever; they were happy days together.'

‘What happened?'

‘We got caught in her bed by her mother. She told her parents that we were in love and she was going to run away with me. All hell broke out. She was sent to her mother's sister somewhere – they wouldn't tell me where, for obvious reasons – and my parents threw me out on the street.'

‘What did you do?'

‘Worked in pubs, did cleaning; whatever I could, just to get by.'

‘You didn't do what I … ?' Bronwyn cannot bring herself to put it into words.

‘No, but I sank pretty low. I tried men, lots of them, looking for the one that would release me from my “illness”. That's what they say, you know, that it's an “illness”. That's why I said that I understood what you were going through.'

‘How did you become a nurse?'

‘Study, hard work, just like you're doing now.'

‘What about your other lover?'

‘A nurse, like me, at Guy's, where I trained. She was very precocious and very sexually aware, which is why I understood what happened between you and Philip. And why I am so certain there is nothing peculiar about you.'