The Furies (18 page)

‘Thank you for seeing me, Major.' Gabriel spoke in German; Dragas cocked his head as he listened. ‘The epidemic is out of control and more than half the prisoners have died,' Gabriel continued. ‘We have run out of all medical supplies and I urgently need soap, aspirin, opiates, camphorated phenol, bandages and disinfectants like lime, naphthalene and sulphur.'

A look of concern passed across Dragas's face, but he did not reply.

‘The situation is desperate,' Gabriel continued. ‘Please, Major – as a matter of humanity you must help us.'

Dragas took his cap off and ran a hand across the short stubble of his hair. Then he replaced the cap. ‘Very difficult,' he said in faltering, pidgin German. ‘Typhus not only in camp. Now in civilians. In Valjevo, in Kragujevac, in many place. Many peoples die. Babies, womens.' He shook his head. ‘Everywhere very bad.'

Gabriel's heart sank: as prisoners he knew they were a lower priority for resources.

Dragas looked solemnly grave for a moment. Suddenly he lifted his head and frowned, and then his face broke into a smile. ‘I have idea,' he said, his look unexpectedly animated. ‘In Kragujevac is new hospital.
Skotski damé
. You go speak. Ask them. Maybe help?'

Gabriel blinked.
Skotski damé
he didn't understand, and Dragas's German was difficult to follow. Did he mean Scottish women? In Kragujevac?

As Gabriel tried to work out what Dragas was saying, the major seemed to have already made a decision and barked orders at one of the guards, who tramped off towards the barn. Listening to Dragas's excited pidgin German, Gabriel gathered that he was to go back to the camp and fetch an orderly, and they would both be taken to Kragujevac to visit these Scottish women. As if to confirm this understanding, an uncovered wagon rolled out of the barn with two oxen straining at the yoke, the soldier on the driving platform prodding them with a stick.

Dragas disappeared up the steps into the farmhouse while Gabriel waited for the cart and then climbed up and sat on the wooden floor. The other guard clambered up to sit beside the driver, who jabbed the oxen with the stick, setting the wagon into motion again.

Arriving back at the camp entrance , Gabriel gave Sparmacher's name to the guard on duty and waited while Klaus was summoned. A few minutes later Klaus appeared, looking bemused as the guards let him through the gate. He climbed up and sat next to Gabriel, both men leaning against the hard wooden back of the wagon. A third guard climbed into the cart and sat underneath the driving platform, facing backwards, the rifle on his lap pointed at Gabriel. The driver prodded the oxen with his stick once more, and with a lurch the wagon rolled forwards.

For the first half-hour of their journey the wagon lumbered along a bumpy unmarked trail, and although it was exciting to be away from the squalid conditions inside the camp, Gabriel still felt the cold deep in his bones and the discomfort from the jarringly hard wooden floor beneath his back and legs. But after a while the wagon joined an asphalted road with ditches on both sides, and the going was faster and smoother as the oxen pulled the wagon more easily. In the snow-filled fields on either side of the road, Gabriel saw the rude evidence of war – unburied cattle with crows pecking at their flanks, abandoned artillery pieces, the corpses of Austrian soldiers in their faded pale blue uniforms. He also noticed triangular black flags hanging over the doorframes of cottages and farmhouses that they passed. Making eye contact with the guard sitting in front of him, Gabriel pointed at one of the flags and made a shrugging gesture. The soldier looked at the flag and then turned back to Gabriel.

‘Typhoose,' he said, morosely.

Eventually they reached Kragujevac, the metal-rimmed wooden wheels of the wagon clattering noisily over the stone-cobbled streets. Apart from small groups of Austrian prisoners clearing the debris into wheelbarrows – cigarette smoking Serbian guards watching them at work – the streets and alleyways appeared mostly deserted. As the driver weaved the wagon between craters and piles of cobblestones, a three-legged dog suddenly appeared in front of them and then loped away down an alley. Gabriel saw more black flags on the front of the houses they passed, and then saw a Red Cross flag hanging outside a battle-scarred building; the sign above the entrance told him it was the First Reserve Military Hospital. The wagon passed an old church, a stack of coffins leaning against its outer wall, a group of bedraggled Austrian prisoners digging graves in the cemetery.

Finally they arrived at a low stone wall and came to a stop outside a wrought-iron double entrance gate. Through the iron struts Gabriel could see a double-storey brick building fronted by a courtyard. A Red Cross sign was tied to one side of the gate: on the other side was another sign –
“Skotski Damé Bolnica”
– with the words “Scottish Women's Hospital” written in English underneath.

A Serbian guard with a rifle slung over his shoulder was standing outside. After speaking with the driver, he opened the gate and the wagon rolled into the courtyard and came to a halt outside the building. Gabriel stood up and shivered: he still felt cold, and the ache in his back and legs had worsened after the long journey on the hard floor of the wagon. Standing up, he felt strangely lightheaded as he looked around: an old army ambulance stood in one corner of the courtyard. The vehicle's bonnet was open, and a tall, broad-shouldered, short-haired woman with her shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow was doing something to the engine with a spanner. Several Austrian prisoners were at work sweeping the floor of the courtyard, and they stopped to lean on their brooms and stare at Gabriel as he clambered over the side of the wagon. The prisoners appeared alert and well nourished, their heads and faces clean-shaven; their uniforms were faded but spotlessly clean. As they gazed at him, Gabriel realised how scruffy he must seem to them: unshaven, dirty clothes, unwashed hair flopping over his forehead. He stood self-consciously next to Klaus as one of the Serbian guards jogged up a short flight of stone steps and disappeared inside the building.

As he waited, one of the Austrian prisoners in the yard walked over to Gabriel. From the insignia on his uniform Gabriel saw that he was a medical orderly, a sergeant, a grizzled-looking veteran with a badly smallpox-scarred face. His head was clean-shaven and from the lack of tan on his upper lip Gabriel could tell that at one time he had sported a generous moustache. The soldier smiled – his parted lips revealing only a few broken, tobacco-stained teeth – and he glanced at the silver stars on Gabriel's jacket collar.

‘Where are you from, Captain?' he asked.

‘A prisoners' laager about six kilometres west of here,' Gabriel replied, rubbing the back of his neck, which was also now aching. ‘And you, Sergeant?'

‘I was with the
5
^th
Army Medical Column, sir.' He turned to indicate the other prisoners. ‘We were captured more than two months ago and I was sent here for surgery on a bullet wound. After I recovered, the women kept me on to help with their work.'

‘What sort of work, Sergeant? What is this place?'

The soldier leant on his broom and sucked air through the gaps in his teeth. ‘Well, it's a hospital, sir, run entirely by women, sir.'

‘Women?'

‘Yes, sir. From Scotland.'

Gabriel looked across at the tall woman, who had closed the ambulance's bonnet and was rolling her shirtsleeves down. ‘And what are they doing here in Serbia?' he asked the Sergeant.

‘They're here to care for the wounded, sir.'

Gabriel frowned. ‘And these women surgeons, sergeant: are they any good?'

‘Oh yes, sir, very good indeed,' the sergeant said, turning to look at the other Austrians behind him, several of whom were nodding in solemn agreement. He turned back to Gabriel. ‘They are technically the equal of any surgeon I ever worked with in the 5
^th
Medical Column. But they are more…' He paused, ‘…more thoughtful about their work and gentler with their patients.'

Gabriel was surprised to hear the veteran soldier speak with such obvious affection for these women.

‘And we respect them, sir,' the sergeant continued. ‘They saved my life, and the lives of many other men, both Serbian and Austrian.' A wistful look appeared on his face. ‘They're angels, sir, true angels—'

The sound of a throat being cleared interrupted him, and Gabriel turned to see two women dressed in long grey skirts and jackets standing at the top of the stone steps outside the building: a taller, older woman with curly hair, looking down at Gabriel with interest, and a younger dark-haired woman with clear blue eyes who was smiling at the sergeant. The sergeant smiled back at her with obvious devotion and then stepped forward to position himself between Gabriel and the two women in an overtly protective gesture.

‘With all due respect, Captain,' he said. ‘I must ask you not to come too close. We have a strict shaving and delousing policy to prevent the spread of typhus. Until then you must keep your distance.'

Gabriel nodded. ‘I understand, Sergeant.'

‘Good day,' the older woman said in hesitant German. ‘Your guard tells me you are from a nearby prison camp?'

‘That is correct,' Gabriel replied in good English. ‘I am Surgeon Captain Gabriel Bayer of the Austrian 6
^th
Army, and this,' he pointed at Klaus, ‘is Corporal Sparmacher, my orderly.'

Klaus clicked his heels and bowed his head.

‘We are currently held in a prison camp a few kilometres west of here,' Gabriel continued. ‘The camp commandant suggested I speak to you as we have typhus in the camp, and have run out of all basic sanitary supplies and medicines.'

The older woman tilted her head slightly and narrowed her eyes. ‘I see.' She took several steps closer, at which point the sergeant moved to reposition himself directly between her and Gabriel.

‘That's quite alright, Huber,' she said. ‘I'm sure Captain Bayer will be careful.'

The sergeant gave Gabriel a severe look before stepping aside.

‘Don't mind Huber,' the older woman said to Gabriel with a smile. ‘He means well.'

Gabriel tried to return the smile, but the cold and stiffness in his back and neck had become worse and he shivered as the woman continued.

‘I'm Dr Soltau, the chief medical officer for the hospital. And this,' she turned to indicate the younger woman, ‘is Dr Stewart, one of our surgeons.'

With an effort Gabriel clicked his heels and bowed his head in succession to both women. Now, having appeared almost indifferent to him, the younger woman suddenly locked eyes on his face and began to stare at him as Dr Soltau continued speaking.

‘You speak good English, Captain Bayer – much better than my German.'

Gabriel half-smiled at the compliment, although uncomfortably aware of the intense scrutiny he was now under from the younger woman. ‘I learnt English as a visiting surgical trainee in New York and London,' he quietly replied.

Dr Soltau's eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Really? Who did you work with?'

The chill in Gabriel's bones disappeared and a wave of heat coursed through his body. His brain was fogged, his thoughts clumsy as he tried to find the words…

‘Um…Frank Billings…at Mount Sinai,' he mumbled. ‘And…Lockhart-Mummery at St Mark's.'

‘Ah.' Dr Soltau nodded. ‘Both world-class surgeons from first-rate hospitals. But you have some eminent surgeons in Vienna, like Professor Billroth…'

But now her voice faded away. Gabriel could still see her lips moving, but a buzzing in his ears prevented him from understanding what she was saying. The younger woman was still staring at him in a strange manner, and when he glanced across at Klaus, he saw that he was also looking at Gabriel in an odd way. Gabriel felt suddenly lightheaded and the muscles in his legs felt weak; he swayed and knew he would not be able to stay on his feet for much longer. He would have to tell this woman what he needed as quickly as possible.

‘Forgive me for interrupting,' Gabriel said before she could finish, ‘but my camp has been decimated by typhus.' He was now aware that everybody was staring at him as he continued. ‘Three hundred men in my camp have contracted typhus and more than two hundred have already died' – he paused as another wave of dizziness swept through him – ‘a mortality rate of seventy percent. We lack soap, aspirin, disinfectant, food—'

‘Captain Bayer.'

They were the first words the younger woman had spoken, and they stopped him mid-sentence. She walked down the steps and stood level with Dr Soltau.

‘Before you say anything else,' she said. ‘I can see you are not well, and there is a rash on the side of your neck.'

Gabriel reached up and touched the skin below his jaw – which felt hot and itchy – and realised that something was very wrong inside his body. He had spent the last few hours attributing the growing aches and pains to a combination of cold weather, lack of food and the uncomfortable ride in the ox wagon. Now, however, the symptoms were worse and he could no longer ignore them. The buzzing in his ears became higher-pitched and his vision began to dim. He swayed again and knew he was about to fall, but then Klaus stepped towards him and put an arm around his shoulder, keeping him upright. Dear Klaus, thought Gabriel; not frightened to put his life on the line for me.

And now Gabriel experienced an intense feeling of regret: that at the very moment of his arrival it should become apparent to these women that he was ill – certainly with typhus. It was the last thought to enter his mind, as his vision began to spin, and a black veil descended over his eyes…

***

Gabriel regained consciousness when he felt strong hands take a grip of his shoulders and ankles and lift him off the ground. He opened his eyes, but was too weak to protest as Huber and another of the Austrian prison orderlies carried him across the courtyard to the rear of the ambulance and placed him on the floor inside. He briefly saw the tall woman who had been working on the engine grinning down at him as she closed the door to the vehicle, and then he heard the engine start and felt the ambulance begin to move. He felt a moment of panic: he had failed, he was being taken back to the camp without the supplies he so urgently needed. He tried to lift his head, to insist on the supplies that he needed to save the men in his camp. But there was no strength left in his body and all he could do was lift his skull a few pitiful inches off the vehicle floor before it fell back again with a painful thump. Then once more the veil of darkness descended.