Angel of the Somme: The Great War, Book 1 (4 page)

Sam nodded, but cautiously, as though his head was packed with china. Not wanting to wear him out in one go, she fed him the rest of the porridge in silence. She figured that if he could remember what Gordy had told him, his short term memory was already returning. A good sign.

Once he finished the porridge, she held the plum to his lips and he took a bite. He closed his eyes as he chewed. When he swallowed, she heard him sigh a little and she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Tastes that good, does it? And you thought you weren’t hungry.”

“Plums on my…” He paused for a long moment, biting his bottom lip in concentration. She waited. “Farm,” he finished at last. A flash of victory shone in his eyes.

“Well, now that you’ve woken up, you should be back to your farm and dining on your very own plums in no time.”

Once Sam had finished the fruit, she turned to his neighbor. “And how did you fare, Gordy?”

Gordy gave her a wide grin. He’d collected a small porridge-goatee on his chin.

She wiped it off with a quick swipe of his napkin to spare him his pride. “Very good! Fit to dine with the King, you are!”

“I’d have a few words for King George. A bit of advice regarding the shooting gallery he’s sent us to, actually.”

“I would almost pity the King,” Lily said. She turned back to Sam. “After I collect the breakfast trays, I can return and read your mail if you’re feeling up to it. You’ve got quite a stack here.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She gathered up their trays and loaded them onto her cart. “Very well. I’ll be back in a moment. Try not to get into any trouble while I’m away, Lieutenant Robbins.”

“Gordy.” He tried to shake his head, but with the wobble, it looked as if he was trying to duck a projectile. “I’m always good, Bluebird. You know that.”

“Miss Curtis,” she corrected with a smile as she wheeled her cart down the aisle.

Chapter Five

As soon as Bluebird left, Gordy turned to Sam. “So, you not feeling so chin-strapped?”

“Better today.” Sam thought for a moment to gather the words. “Blasted head. Talking difficult.”

“Ah, that’ll get better in no time. Just you wait and see. Bluebird and the docs will set you to rights.” Gordy readjusted his leg. It was only then that Sam noticed it was in a cast. How could he be only noticing this now? His headache gave a kick.

“A noggin can take all manner of abuse, you know,” Gordy continued. “There was a fellow from America who lived for years with a metal spike driven straight through his head. Phineas Gage was his name. Carried on as cushy as you please. Though I imagine wearing a hat would be a bit of trouble, what with a big chunk of metal sticking out the top of your head. To say nothing of kissing a girl.” Gordy paused, then gave an embarrassed shrug. “Damned if I’m not talking too much again.”

“Not too much.” Sam took a few moments to gather the correct words before speaking again. “How long…sleeping?”

“I don’t rightly know how long you’ve been out. I joined you two weeks past and you’ve been gone since then.”

“Today?”

“Today would be July the eighteenth.”

Sam shook his head in amazement. He immediately regretted the action and winced. “Are Allies in…” His blasted thoughts seemed to move like a river thick with ice. “Berlin yet?”

Gordy looked at the floor.

“How far?” Damn his tongue. Was this to be his lot now? To have his words tangle inside his mouth so that he sounded more child than man?

It was a few moments before Gordy replied. “We’re at a bloody standstill.”

“Standstill?” No. It couldn’t be. They’d worked so long, so hard for this final push.

“We gained about a mile, give or take.” Gordy stared out the window. “The official count from the first day of battle is sixteen thousand casualties, but I reckon it’ll be a lot higher than that when the dust settles. It was the worst day of the whole bloody war. The Eighty-eighth had had seven hundred and eighty men on July first. On July the second, we only had seventy-eight reporting for duty.”

Sam could only sit there dumbly. How could it be that after all the artillery bombardment and the lives they’d laid down—that they were no closer to victory? Haig had assured them this would be the final drive.

“Fritz doesn’t appear to be any closer to giving this up than we are.” Gordy’s head wobble looked like he was shaking his head in pity.

“My men?” Sam asked, trying and failing to keep emotion from his voice.

“Sorry, I don’t know the particulars of your unit. The Thirty-second, isn’t it?”

Sam nodded and winced.

Footsteps approached and the men fell silent.

Miss Curtis pulled the chair out and settled in. A stray lock of auburn hair escaped her scarf, and she tucked it back inside in an almost furtive movement. She reached over to his small bedside table and retrieved the wicker basket.

“Where in this mighty pile of correspondence should we begin?” she asked, placing the basket on her lap.

Are there any letters from my battalion? From Corporal Moncur?
he longed to inquire.
Could you please let me know what’s happened to Ellis? To my lieutenants? My men?

His useless, bruised mind couldn’t find a path to the words.

“I’ve already read some of these to you, but you likely don’t remember,” she said. “You were deeply asleep.”

Of course I remember, Bluebird,
he wanted to say.
Yours was the voice I heard when I was lost. You called me out of slumber.
Instead, he blurted out “Evie.” He sounded more like a sheep than a man.

“Yes, I read some letters from your sister, Evie. You do remember.” A kind of glow lit her face and her green eyes crinkled as she smiled at him. He nodded slightly in response, accepting the wave of nausea that accompanied his head movement.

“There are several letters from Evelyn Dwight, I believe.” She sorted through a few missives on top of the pile and settled on a letter which bore his sister’s distinctive script. She tore the envelope and unfolded the letter.

“‘My dear brother,” she began. “We still haven’t heard from you. I don’t like to complain, I really don’t, but I hope so much that you will write. It would ease Mum terribly.

“‘How are you? Getting well? Coming home to join us soon? I hope so. We miss you. I think even Molly senses something has gone amiss. The past two days, she’s been sleeping in your old bed and Mum hasn’t even bothered to complain about all her shedding. It’s dear, but, I’ll be honest, it makes me miss you even more.

“‘The farm is looking well. You needn’t worry about having to do anything once you get back to us. We weren’t able to do anything with the bottomland this year. The barley crop in the main fields has kept us busy enough. With school out for the summer, I’m able to put the McCarty boys to work. They’re almost old enough to enlist now, but I’m sure the war will be over before it comes to that.’”

Sam swallowed. His throat felt swollen and filled with sand. As if reading his mind, Lily lowered the letter for a moment and lifted the glass to his lips. He gulped greedily.

“‘Lady P was spotted again just yesterday. Mr. Fellows told Father that he’s seen her hanging about behind the tavern after hours. I asked Father if he would let me go to the tavern to try to find her myself, but he won’t have it. I suppose I shall just have to trust Mr. Bitters to watch for her. I hate to think what trouble she could get into around a crowd of drunks in the dead of night.’”

Miss Curtis glanced up at him, looking a little grave. Her deep concern for the antics of the family pig was terribly touching. He stared at her, not unlike a farm animal himself. Then she blushed prettily and stared back down at the letter. She cleared her throat and continued reading.

“‘We can’t wait to see you again, Sam. Please come home to us soon. Or write. With all my affection and hope for your speedy recovery. Your loving sister, Evie.’”

Lily paused for a moment, then tucked the letter back into its envelope. “Perhaps if you’re feeling up to it this afternoon, Rose or I could take dictation to ease her mind.”

“Thank you.” He waited a moment, as his mind wove an unsteady path through a jumble of words and thoughts. “My men?”

She looked uneasy and cast a quick glance at the pile of mail in her lap.

“The battle?” he asked stupidly. “Letter Moncur?”

“I’m quite out of time here, I’m afraid.” She gave an apologetic smile and did not meet his eyes.

“Battle letter.” He gestured at the basket like the helpless idiot he was. Concentrating as hard as he was able, he forced his tongue to say the word carefully. “Casualties?”

She stood and placed his basket of letters on the table beside his bed. He’d have thought that he wasn’t making his intent clear, but the way she avoided his gaze told another tale.

“Perhaps later I’ll have time to read a bit more.” Though he knew that she was likely only doing her job, not upsetting the patient, he felt frustrated by her avoidance.

Just before she turned to leave she reached over to pat his arm. It should have felt patronizing, he knew, but her touch gave him such a warm comfort that he couldn’t find any will to resent her.

She left his field of vision and he didn’t dare risk moving his head enough to see where she’d gone.

The simple act of breakfasting and listening to a short letter had exhausted him. It seemed so strange to Sam that after so much sleep, his body thought it required more. He spent the remainder of the morning napping fitfully.

Lunch had been much heartier fare, but it was fed to him by Miss Lewis, who Gordy referred to as Rosebud, though he hadn’t worked up to calling her that directly. Not yet, anyway.

Sam slept away most of the afternoon. Whenever he was awake, Gordy did his best to keep Sam entertained by filling him in on the latest gossip floating around the ward. The current rumor was that Kaiser Wilhelm had died of food poisoning and a secret armistice had already been signed. Sam didn’t hold to hospital gossip any more than he’d believed in trench gossip, but since his ability to speak still seemed to be sleeping, he had little choice but to listen.

The lieutenant was pleasant enough company, but Sam’s mind was on more serious matters. His men. The battle. Not knowing the truth felt like a cancer eating away at his peace of mind, not that his addled head had any room for company. His blasted headache was still an entrenched guest as well, and this time, it seemed to have brought luggage and barricaded itself in the spare room.

When a bang sounded from the end of the ward, his headache shouted in response. Looking up, he saw the VAD brigade entering, pushing their meal carts. Miss Curtis brought up the rear. In one of Gordy’s many one-sided conversations, he’d told Sam that her name was Lily. The name suited her quiet grace and cheerful determination.

Even if Miss Curtis read his mail to him after supper, Sam knew it would likely be a repeat of earlier. She’d carefully avoid those mails that might upset him. Probably doctor’s orders and all that rot.

Sam suddenly got an idea.

Just because she didn’t want to read upsetting mails to him didn’t mean he couldn’t read them himself.

He scooted over to the edge of the bed, as far to the right as he could manage. Stretching his arm to full length, he reached toward the small wicker basket perched on his bedside table. His grasping fingertips trembled, but only fumbled with air. He was just shy of his goal. Just one more inch would be all he needed. His muscles protested as he stretched his arm just a little farther.

He almost gave a shout of victory when his shaking fingers gripped the edge of the basket. For one frightening moment, his grasp slipped, but he squeezed his fingers tighter and flung the basket onto his chest, scattering mail across his covers.

Sam glanced up to check on Gordy, but the lieutenant’s concentration was occupied with VADs for the moment. A nice bit of luck.

Sam grabbed a handful of letters and quickly scanned the return addresses. The first three were from Evie, the next from his mother. He tucked those back into the basket. A small envelope near his elbow, however, was unopened. He grabbed it and turned it over. The return address read
Corporal Peter Moncur
.

Yes. It was just what he’d been looking for. He tore the envelope open with quivering fingers.

Captain Dwight:

A fresh stiletto of pain sliced through his temple.

From what we been told, you’re still alive, sir. Though you’re injured and sleeping deeply. I write in hopes that this letter finds you awake and feeling better. You was always a capital fellow and we thought nothing but the best of you, sir.

As Sam focused on the words, they blurred on the page. As the letters swam from him, the tide of agony inside his mind rose.

I knew you’d be wanting to know how we’re doing. Truth be told, and I know that’s how you’d have it, not particularly well. The shell that done you in took out three other fellows: Ellis, Hamilton and Goodrich. Four others was wounded. Don’t rightly know how they set things up at that hospital, but maybe you run into them there.

Sam’s headache felt like a living thing, chewing the side of his head with a terrible hunger.

Lieutenant March was promoted to captain once you left us. He’s not a bad sort at all. Our losses aren’t so bad as some. As for officers, Brown and Perry were lost. Madison and Lovell are missing. Sorry, Captain, but that’s the simple truth of it. For infantry we’ve lost forty-seven so far, with eighteen missing, presumed dead.

The thing inside his mind kicked with a real fury now. His vision was ringed by a rosy-red edge.

We wish you nothing but the best, sir. Your men remember you fondly and you must know that when we…

The pain-beast that had been scampering about behind his eyes roared with a vengeance. A tidal wave of red quickly flooded his view. The hospital ward disappeared in a flood of agony. Jolts of pain spilled out, radiating down from his head to his limbs as he began to twitch and jerk against his cotton sheets.

And Sam fell.

Down and down and down.

He landed with a thud. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew immediately where he was. The stench of earth and rot and the burning smell of cordite was unmistakable.

No, it can’t be. No, no, no. I can’t be back in the trenches. The world doesn’t work like that. I’m in a hospital bed, miles behind the lines.

Sam opened his eyes and his headache gave a shout. He’d landed on the side of a crater, near a tangle of blasted earth and barbed wire.

“Angel?” a voice asked.

Sam turned toward the sound of the speaker and saw a young infantryman just a few feet away. He lay halfway out of a shell hole. If the lad was a day past seventeen, Sam would have been surprised. His skin shone pale white and it was easy to see why. He had a huge wound running up his left thigh. Though makeshift bandages had been wrapped around his leg, he’d bled through. As Sam stepped toward him, he noticed the fellow was missing most of his left hand, which he cradled close to his chest.

“You an angel?” the pale lad asked.

Sam glanced down to see he was still dressed in his hospital blues. Relief surged through him.

I’m not back at the front. They don’t let soldiers into battle wearing hospital garb. It’s a dream, you fool.

“Not as lofty as that, I’m afraid. Just a captain.” Even though he had to be dreaming, he couldn’t simply ignore the boy. “A captain who can, at least in dreams, speak in complete sentences.”

The soldier gave him a disoriented look. “Can you help me, sir? Don’t think I can get to an aid station myself.”

“Of course, Private.” Even though fate seemed set on taking Sam out of action, he could at least make a difference in his dreams. A pathetic consolation, but a pleasant diversion from lying in a hospital bed, barking out single word sentences.

The boy extended his good hand and Sam leaned down to clasp it.