The Furies (11 page)

The smoke was coming from burning uniforms on pieces of body lying in the bottom of the crater. No one was alive, and Berger and Flieger were already scrambling up the other side towards cries for help from further away. Sweet Jesus, Gabriel thought, as he looked at the fragments at his feet: there was a tent and four men sleeping here last night. Then another swishing sound came from above – like a curtain being drawn. A mortar round sailed overhead and exploded near to where he had just crawled from, showering him with earth and stones. He crouched in the bottom of the crater, his hands over his head, his shirt clinging to his chest from the sweat pouring from his body. And then he heard a low moan. ‘Help me.'

Gabriel raised his head above the edge of the depression; Flieger and Berger were peering back at him from the rim of another hollow nearby. In between the two craters was a soldier lying on his back, waving a bloodstained arm in the air.

This is my job, my destiny, thought Gabriel, as he clambered out and ran across to the soldier. He slipped his hands under the man's armpits and, ignoring his cries of pain, dragged him across to Flieger's depression. As he fell over the rim of the crater, another mortar explosion showered them all with clods of earth and gravel.

‘Are you alright, Captain?' Flieger was saying, but Gabriel was already pulling at the wounded soldier's jacket sleeves.

‘Help me get this off him,' Gabriel said.

Flieger and Berger helped him undress the man. Gabriel carefully examined him, and found a neat small bullet hole in the front of his thigh. Berger had a surgical pack with him, and as Gabriel applied a field dressing to the wound, he suddenly realised the gunfire and explosions had stopped.

‘I think it's over,' said Flieger, who was peering over the lip of the depression. Cautiously Gabriel stood up and saw other soldiers picking themselves up from the ground, other heads emerging from nearby craters. He turned to Flieger.

‘I want you to set up a temporary dressing station under the trees over there,' he said, pointing to a nearby copse. ‘And send Schwann back to the hamlet to see if any civilians were injured.'

***

Schwann returned a short while later. ‘The hamlet's deserted,' he said to Gabriel. ‘Either the villagers were forewarned of the attack, or they fled when it started.'

‘I see.' Gabriel was briefly troubled at this news, concerned that some among the Austrians might think the Serbian villagers had played a role in the ambush. But he was too busy to pay it much attention now: eleven men had been killed and seventeen wounded. ‘Alright: help Lieutenant Flieger stabilise the casualties, and find some stretcher bearers to carry the injured back to Chief Fischer at the Aid Station on the Drina.'

The Austrians broke camp, and after making sure that all the casualties had been treated, Gabriel and the rest of the medical column followed the vanguard east towards the mountains. By early afternoon they had arrived at the lower slopes and stopped to set up another dressing station. With a small telescope, Gabriel watched as the Alpine troops continued up the gradient, moving like mountain goats as they climbed from boulder to boulder, crevice to crevice. He saw several orange flashes and puffs of smoke, and a moment later heard the echoes of a volley of rifle shots. A few seconds after that, another brighter, bigger flash of yellow within a bursting mushroom of dirty grey smoke appeared and he realised that a grenade had exploded on the slope. The air was filled with the dull ringing thud of explosions, as both sides threw more grenades up and down the mountainside.

Gabriel moved the telescope higher: in the bluffs and crags on the upper mountain heights he could see movement as enemy soldiers ran between the rocks. The sharp crack of rifle shots and the deep boom of exploding grenades reverberated between the peaks as Gabriel watched the Serbian snipers above and the Alpine troops below exchange fire.

‘That fucking village we passed yesterday must have given our position away.'

Gabriel lowered the telescope. The young lieutenant who had just spoken the words was having his ankle bandaged by Klaus. ‘Those villagers need to be taught a lesson,' he continued. ‘Serbian bastards.'

‘We don't know that for certain,' Gabriel said quietly. ‘The enemy have spotters high on the mountain who would have seen us—'

‘Pah.' The lieutenant waved a hand dismissively. ‘It's the villagers alright. All the Serbs hate us Austrians—'

At another echoing volley of gunshots, Gabriel turned away and looked through the telescope again: a line of Alpine soldiers – a forward reconnaissance team – was making its way up the slope towards the Serbian positions. He saw more yellow flashes, heard the staccato rattle of rifle fire, then saw the men of both sides clash, grappling together on the slopes, man to man, bayonet to bayonet. He was sickened as he watched the melee: men sticking cold steel into each other, clubbing each other with rifle butts, strangling each other, killing each other. An awful sensation filled him and he lowered the telescope and turned away, partly in despair, partly in shame and disgust that he was connected with such brutality.

The skirmish was quickly over, and from one of the wounded Austrians brought back to the dressing station, Gabriel learnt that a number of Serbian army observers, well hidden on the slopes above, had been found and killed. He was relieved at this news, which he hoped would dispel the rumours that any Serbian villagers had given their positions away. But then, just as the main assault by the rest of the regiment was about to begin, an order came up the line that they were to immediately disengage from the enemy and retreat to the Drina. The fight was over before it had even properly started.

Frustration showed on the faces of the men around Gabriel, angry about the enforced withdrawal as they cursed everybody and everything Serbian. He watched as the remainder of the casualties from the skirmish were carried down to the dressing station at the foot of the mountain, pleased to see that Flieger and the others had overcome their nerves and were managing the cases with skill. Several more pairs of stretcher-bearers were selected – strong country boys, with stamina and agility – who hoisted the stretchers up and began the long walk back towards the Drina.

By early evening the main body of troops was well on its way back towards Bosnia. At the back of the column, just ahead of the protective rear-guard, Gabriel rode alongside Flieger, with Schwann and Berger a little way behind. As they approached the hamlet they had passed on their way towards the mountains, Gabriel heard a faint wailing, which grew louder the closer they came to the village. By the time they reached the hamlet, the noise had increased to an anguished howling interspersed with screams and shouts of distress. As he rounded a corner and followed the dusty track into the centre of the village, Gabriel saw – with shock – the source of the problem.

Five bodies hung from a temporary gallows erected near the village well, gently swaying from side to side, one body spiralling to and fro. My God, thought Gabriel, his mouth falling open, revulsion in his gut as he realised that these were civilians. And then with horror he saw that two of the bodies were young women.

Clustered nearby, a group of older women and young children were weeping hysterically. In front of them was a line of Austrian soldiers, who held them back with rifles across their chests. Other soldiers were calmly watching the executions. Standing in front of the gallows was a sergeant smoking a cheroot, a rifle slung over his shoulders, an untroubled look on his stubbled face as he eyed the swaying bodies. Gabriel dug his heels into the horse's flank and galloped across, swung off the saddle and jumped to the ground.

‘What the hell is going on? Those are women for God's sake!'

The sergeant removed the cheroot, spitting out a small piece of tobacco before lazily coming to attention.

‘Just following orders, Captain.'

‘What orders?' Gabriel shouted, angry at the sergeant's apparent indifference. ‘To hang civilians?'

The sergeant's face was impassive and the soldiers standing to one side were eyeing the exchange with interest.

‘My orders, Captain, were to take three men at random from this village and make an example of them. During the attack on our camp yesterday we found the village deserted, as if the villagers had been warned. Yet on our way back here today, we find it full again. The major believes someone in the village must have given our position away to the Serbs. That is spying, Captain, punishable by death. It cost the lives of a dozen of our boys.'

‘And the women?' Gabriel said, his fists clenched tight by his sides.

‘They assaulted my soldiers as we took the men away, and I am under instructions that no resistance is to be tolerated.' He flicked ash off the end of his cheroot. ‘It may appear harsh, Captain, but the major has given clear instructions.'

‘This is…this is…' The frustration Gabriel felt was tearing him inside, almost more than he could bear. His job was to save lives, not be part of something like this.

‘May I remind you, Captain,' said the sergeant, ‘that the Field Marshall's orders state that kindness to the Serbian population may endanger our troops.'

Gabriel watched the sobbing older women and children, their appalled, tear-streaked faces. One of the women gently spiralling on the end of her rope had glossy black hair, and hanging down her back were braids of brightly coloured ribbons, interwoven reds and yellows and blues. The contrast between the ugliness of the woman's death and the lustrous colours of her hair and ribbons was so shocking that Gabriel thought his knees would give way. This was so very wrong, a horrific deed that mocked his vocation. He was simultaneously sickened and conflicted – torn by his regard for the sanctity of life, yet the need to obey orders. He turned back to the sergeant.

‘This is…inhuman,' he finally said, shaking his head again, his voice barely a whisper.

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Only following orders, Captain. We're at war. Take it up with the major if you want.'

The sergeant's cheroot had almost burned down to his fingers. He lifted the stub to his lips and inhaled a last lungful of smoke, before turning to the soldiers standing behind him. ‘Cut them down,' he said, flicking the cheroot away. He ground the smouldering stub with the heel of his boot and then walked away.

Later that day, as Gabriel rode back to Bosnia, he felt a new emotion, one he had never experienced before:

Shame.

Her nose pressed hard against the carriage window, Elspeth peered through the glass into the gathering twilight. The lights were only just coming on in the cottages and farmhouses of the Haute Normandie that slid past the train window. Sitting opposite Elspeth, Sylvia had her eyes closed, her head resting gently to one side: she had fallen asleep as soon as the train left Dieppe earlier that evening, exhausted after the long ferry crossing from Newhaven that morning. But Elspeth was too excited to sleep, thrilled that at last they were on their way to Paris.

The war had sped up the normally slow hospital bureaucracy and it had taken only a week to prepare for their departure. After Elspeth and Sylvia had been interviewed and accepted by the Women's Hospital Corp, they had handed in their notices to St Mary's, received their typhoid inoculations, and met with the St John's Ambulance Association, who organised passports, ferry tickets, and the necessary Red Cross travel permits to cross into France. With a suitcase each, and well stocked with Mothersils seasickness remedy, they had arrived at Victoria railway station early that morning to catch the milk train for Newhaven.

The fields of Normandy quickly gave way to the Ile de France, and shortly before midnight the train entered the suburbs of Paris. Elspeth woke Sylvia as they pulled into the Gare du Nord. The two women collected their suitcases and stepped down onto the platform, where a tall girl in a white skirt and jacket, and a Red Cross armband, appeared to be waiting for them.

‘Dr Stewart?'

‘Yes?'

‘Oh, excellent – I'm Rosemary, one of the VADs from the Women's Hospital Auxiliaire.' She shook Elspeth's hand and was then introduced to Sylvia. ‘Welcome to Paris,' she said to them both, ‘and apologies from Dr Anderson; she can't be here to meet you as she's still operating on a batch of casualties who arrived earlier today. But if you both follow me, there's a car waiting outside.'

As she and Sylvia shadowed Rosemary through the station concourse, Elspeth saw several hospital trains standing at other platforms. Pairs of white-coated male orderlies were stretchering casualties towards the station exit, and Rosemary followed them out into the station forecourt. There was no street lighting of any sort, and in the darkness Elspeth could only just make out the line of army ambulances standing by the kerb.

‘I'm afraid there's a strict curfew and blackout in place,' she said, leading them past the ambulances and up to a parked car, where the driver, an older man with white hair, was asleep at the steering wheel. She tapped on the window but the man did not budge. ‘Henri!' she shouted, and then rapped more strongly on the window with her knuckles. Still he did not rouse and so she opened the car door and shook him. Elspeth heard him jerk awake, and even in the gloom she could now see the whites of his eyes.

‘
Je m'excuse
,' he said, sitting up and rubbing his face with both hands.

Rosemary turned to Elspeth. ‘Henri's a bit hard of hearing,' she said, as the old man climbed out of the car and helped the women put their suitcases in the boot. And then with Rosemary sitting beside Henri, and Elspeth and Sylvia in the rear, they set off.

Driving slowly through the unlit streets, their headlights taped so that only a thin slit of light illuminated the cobbles, Elspeth saw a city vastly different to what she had expected. The rapid advance through France had taken the German army to within only thirty miles of Paris; the threat was considered so serious, Rosemary told her, that the government had fled the capital. All the shops, cafés and restaurants they passed were shuttered and padlocked, and the streets were deserted except for ambulances ferrying casualties to the hospitals. A flash of light suddenly appeared in the sky, and searchlights lit up the darkness, their brilliant white columns criss-crossing the night sky above the Eiffel Tower and spires on the Paris horizon.

‘Look!' Sylvia said, suddenly alert as she pointed along the line of one of the searchlight beams. ‘I think I can see an aeroplane.'

Elspeth pushed down the window of the car and leant out. Above her she saw a flash of silver and heard the panting throb of a plane's engine. She watched the searchlight pursue the craft, the plane's wings wobbling as it tried to escape the beam. And then the car swung into a narrow side street with tall buildings on either side and she lost sight of the chase.

The car rattled over bumpy cobbles before turning into the Champs-Élyseés, and after a short drive down the deserted avenue they arrived at the grand façade of Claridges Hotel. Even in the darkness Elspeth could see that the hotel was a gorgeous shell of marble and gilt. But carrying her suitcase through the revolving door and into the lobby, she was surprised at the lack of decor and furniture in the reception.

‘The building was only finished two months ago,' Rosemary explained. ‘When we arrived here last week there was no crockery or linen, and we only managed to get those by making a real nuisance of ourselves. The hotel's concierge says the military authorities would have had an easier time fighting the Germans than facing so many assertive Scottish ladies,' she said with a smirk, leading them across the lobby to the elevators.

‘How much of the hotel do we have?' Elspeth asked as they waited for the lift to arrive.

‘They've given us the top floor and we've converted several of the
de luxe
suites into small ward bays, each holding four beds, for the ordinary ranks. Some of the smaller suites have been converted into single rooms for the senior officers.'

A bell pinged and the lift arrived. ‘Sorry, there's no bellboy – they've all been called up,' Rosemary said, pulling the metal safety grill aside and leading the women into the lift cabin. She closed the grille and then pressed the button for the sixth floor.

‘How many patients do we have?' Sylvia asked.

‘We admitted our first casualties only eight days ago and yesterday there were forty-two patients on the wards. Then this afternoon we admitted another twelve. They're all British soldiers, from Mons and the Marne.'

They arrived at the sixth floor and Elspeth stepped out into a long white-painted corridor, a thick, plush turquois-and-gold carpet beneath her feet. Rosemary, however, waited inside the lift.

‘The operating theatre is down there,' she said, pointing Elspeth towards the far end of the corridor. ‘Dr Garrett Anderson said you should report to her as soon as you arrive.' She turned to Sylvia. ‘I'll take you to our sleeping quarters; they're on the floor below.'

‘Where
exactly
is the operating theatre?' Elspeth asked, looking along the corridor.

‘In the suite at the far end. You'll find Dr Anderson in the lavatory.'

Elspeth raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean…'

‘Yes, I do mean toilet. You'll understand when you get there.' Rosemary gave her a cryptic smile as the lift doors shut.

A strong smell of new carpet, fresh paint and hospital disinfectant was in the air as Elspeth walked along the corridor, her shoes sinking into the thick pile. She passed a row of doors, came to the last one, turned the handle and entered.

A nurse was sitting at a desk in the middle of the room. In the dim light cast from a table lamp resting on the desk, Elspeth saw six trollies pushed up against the walls. On each trolley lay a wounded soldier: a second nurse was tending one of the soldiers, who had that dopey post-anaesthetic look that Elspeth recognised; fresh bloodstains on the dressed stumps of his amputated legs indicated recent surgery. Elspeth quietly introduced herself to the nurse at the desk.

‘Ah, Dr Stewart,' the nurse replied. ‘Dr Anderson is expecting you.'

‘I'm told she's in the lavatory?' Elspeth inquired.

The nurse grinned. ‘Yes that's right. She and Dr Murray should be finishing soon. There's only one other case after this.'

Elspeth glanced at the patients around the room. ‘This is your operating recovery area?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘So the lavatory must be…'

Yes, it's our operating theatre,' she said, pointing to a door at the far end of the room.

As Elspeth walked towards it, she saw a piece of paper tacked to the frame.

There were a further eight names on the list – twelve in total – ten of which had been scored through. Elspeth leant against the door, pressing her ear close to the wood, and heard an intermittent harsh rasping noise. Then she glanced at the eleventh name on the paper.

AKA, she knew, was shorthand for ‘Above knee amputation'.

She pushed the door open – was briefly dazzled by the blaze from strip lights on the ceiling – and saw a large bathroom with floors and walls of glazed white tiles. Between the toilet and bath on one side, and two wash-hand basins on the other, stood a trestle table. And on this improvised operating table lay a young soldier. At his head sat a young woman in a white medical smock, dripping liquid from a brown bottle onto a gauze mask held over his face. Another woman, an orderly, Elspeth presumed, stood by her side. Elspeth slipped through the doorway.

The two surgeons were standing on either side of the patient, both dressed in the same white smocks as the anaesthetist but their gowns heavily bloodstained. Both wore white cotton surgical caps and muslin masks that covered the lower parts of their faces, leaving only their eyes visible above the veils. One of the surgeons was holding the patient's upper thigh, the bloodstained latex gloves gripping either side of a deep incision; the patient's knee, below the surgeon's hands, was a smashed mangle of grey bone and purplish muscle. The other surgeon was hunched over the leg, energetically sawing through the thighbone, deep within the wound. The harsh rasping sounds climbed in pitch as the saw cut through the outer cortex of the femur and then – with a shudder – the lower leg and knee separated from the thigh and rolled onto its side. The surgeon lifted the amputated limb, and, grunting with the effort, handed it to the orderly, who carried it away and dropped it into the bath. It struck the metal bottom with a thud, and even from where she was standing Elspeth could detect the unmistakable whiff of gangrene.

The surgeon holding the saw turned and placed it, with a clatter, onto a steel instrument tray by her side. Only now, as she picked up a steel bone file from the same tray, did she appear to notice Elspeth's presence.

‘Ah.' she said, her voice muffled through the facemask. ‘We have a visitor, Louisa.'

The surgeon standing opposite was adjusting the strap on a tourniquet as she looked up.

‘Dr Stewart?'

Elspeth took a step closer. ‘Yes.'

‘Oh good.' She finished tightening the strap. ‘We weren't sure your train would make it through. I'm sorry I couldn't greet you personally. I'm Louisa Garret Anderson and this,' she pointed at the woman holding the bone file, ‘is Flora Murray.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Dr Stewart,' said Dr Murray. She turned back to Dr Garret Anderson. ‘Alice can help me finish if you want to show Dr Stewart around, Louisa,' she said, nodding towards the orderly who had just dropped the leg in the bath.

‘Good idea,' Dr Anderson replied and then walked over to the wash-hand basins. She rinsed her gloves under a tap at the first basin, then peeled them off and dropped them into the second basin. Arriving at her side, Elspeth saw that this basin was full of gloves floating in a faintly cloudy solution. Dr Anderson pulled her face mask down, and then picked up a large metal draining spoon. ‘We've had quite a problem with supplies,' she said to Elspeth as she prodded the gloves below the surface, ‘so we've had to improvise. This is dilute carbolic acid: we soak the gloves in it so they're ready to be used later.' She put the spoon down and dried her fingers on a towel. ‘Well, we're very pleased to see you, Dr Stewart,' she said, shaking Elspeth's hand. ‘We've been so busy. Even though Flora's primarily a physician, she's had to temporarily assist me with the surgical work.'

‘I'm pleased to be here, too, Dr Ander—'

‘Oh, please call me Louisa,' she interrupted, ‘unless there's a man in the room. In which case I prefer us to use our formal titles.'

‘Of course,' Elspeth replied. ‘And similarly it's Elspeth – if you would prefer?'

Louisa fixed her with calm, clear eyes. ‘Elspeth it is then.'

She removed the surgical cap, revealing short dark hair, then stripped off the bloodstained surgical smock and dropped it into a pannier next to the washbasins. This revealed that she was dressed in a long grey skirt and linen blouse, and to Elspeth's surprise the green-and-red WSPU badge was pinned to the front of her shirt. Pushing the door open, she led Elspeth back into the recovery area.

‘There's one more case to do, but I'll take you on a quick tour before we start. By the way, what do you think of using a bathroom as an operating theatre?'

Elspeth grinned. ‘I think it's a marvellous idea. Some might think it unhygienic, but I can see that the constant supply of hot and cold water, tiled surfaces and easy waste disposal make it the logical choice.'

Louisa smiled. ‘I'm glad you approve. We've also got a sterilising room for the surgical equipment. We've installed some gas rings and fish kettles to boil the instruments. There's a dispensary and a mortuary chapel.' She looked a little sombre as she led Elspeth past the nurse at the desk and into the corridor outside. ‘We've had two deaths so far, both French soldiers who came to us with untreatable wounds. They were buried with full military honours a few days ago. The French authorities provided a firing piquet of eight soldiers, two in front and three on either side of the coffins, and on the way to the church, everyone in the street saluted or crossed themselves.' Her face suddenly brightened. ‘Mustn't get too maudlin' about it.'