Alice Unbound

by Colleen Anderson

  To my left is a man whose remaining leg is missing its foot. The blanket has been drawn back to his waist, and a brown rubber tube leads into a hole in his thigh, conveying into his swollen flesh the liquid from a glass bottle that hangs above his bed. He feels me staring, and gives a weak laugh.

  “Caught a blighty,” he says in a posh accent. “The nursing sisters say I’ll be dancing at the balls in London, by Christmas.”

  “Dancing?” I ask. “With just one leg?”

  His face crumples a little. Then it brightens again. “The doctors will sew my leg back on. They promised me.”

  I turn away. The room is a large one, with two dozen or so beds along each wall. The men in them are all in a bad way: some missing arms or legs, others coughing and struggling to draw breath, still others with bandaged eyes or terrible burns, their skin yellow and weeping.

  A nursing sister walks past, wearing a white pinafore, her blonde hair held back by a veil like those worn by nuns. “Sister!” I cry. “Am I in hospital? Have I been injured?”

  “Oh!” she exclaims, turning toward me. “You can speak.”

  I’m struck mute by her beauty. She’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of, with the kindest blue eyes and the warmest smile. She captures my heart in an instant.

  I try to swallow, but the inside of my throat is sandpaper sore. A sudden memory comes to me of gagging, and the smell of burning flesh. I begin to cough…

  “Your throat will be sore,” she says, as she moves to my bedside and takes my hand. “That’s the electroshock therapy. But on the bright side, it’s finally restored your speech. And your vision has returned!”

  I stare up at her, overwhelmed by the feel of her soft fingers holding mine. “I’m glad of that,” I whisper hoarsely. “You’re quite lovely.”

  A poem springs to my lips, and I recite it aloud, my voice becoming stronger as I say the lines:

  “He saw her once, and in the glance

  A moment’s glance of meeting eyes,

  His heart stood still in sudden trance

  He trembled with a sweet surprise

  All in the waning light she stood

  The star of perfect womanhood.”

  She has a lovely laugh. “You’re a poet?”

  Am I? I’m not sure.

  Her expression turns coy. “I suppose you wrote that for your sweetheart?”

  “I haven’t one,” I answer. I feel a sheepish grin creep across my lips. “Never even been kissed.”

  Her expression softens. She’s giving me a peculiar look, the sort a girl would give a bloke that she fancies.

  “What’s wrong with me?” I ask.

  “Dr. Lapine classified you NYDN.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Not Yet Diagnosed, Nervous,” she explains. “You were found a mile behind the lines, blundering into things as if you couldn’t see, wandering about holding a…” she pauses, seems hesitant to go on.

  “Holding what?”

  Her lips tighten.

  “Please. Tell me. I can’t remember anything of how I got here.”

  “The stretcher bearers asked you what had happened, but you wouldn’t answer. They thought you were deaf. But when they told you to put…the thing you were holding…into their basket, you complied.”

  I stare up at her. I have no memory of any of this. The last thing I remember was…

  Cards. I was playing cards with the lads, in our dugout. My friends…

  I try to picture their faces, but they are lost. Vanished without trace, into No Man’s Land. Only their smiles remain.

  “The doctor at the casualty clearing station asked your name, but you wouldn’t answer. From your collar badges, we know you’re with the 13th Cheshires, but your identification disk and pay book are missing. What’s your name?”

  “I’m…” I try to answer her, but my name has vanished completely. “Diamond,” I say at last. “Private Diamond.” That feels right.

  “No first name?”

  “Sorry…it’s gone.”

  There’s compassion in her blue eyes. “They say you’re a deserter.”

  “I’m not,” I say fiercely. “I just had to…”

  I pause, wondering what it was I had to do. Something important. Then it comes to me: there was a cat in my arms. A dead cat. I needed to bury it, so there could be flowers on its grave.

  “I’ll tell Dr. Lapine to come speak with you. If he diagnoses you as shell-shocked, and suffering from hysterical blindness, you’ll have a defence against accusations of cowardice.”

  Her soft fingers touch my forehead, checking for fever. I reach for her hand, clutch it as if I’m drowning in mud. “Do you think I’m mad?”

  “We are all mad here,” she answers. “Even we nursing sisters. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t have come here.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Alice.” Gently, she pulls her hand away. “I must finish my rounds.”

  I prop myself up on one elbow. “Can we talk again later?”

  “Nursing sisters aren’t permitted to fraternize with the soldiers,” she says. “I’m taking a risk, talking to you now. But I’ll try to stop by later in my shift, to see how you are, all right?”

  I watch her leave. Somewhere close at hand, artillery opens up with a dull crump-crump-crump. My bedframe rattles, and my pulse quickens. I hear the shriek of a shell, passing over the hospital, and throw myself to the floor, scrambling under the bed and covering my head.

  All around me in the hospital, the air fills with screams…

  I’m back in my bed, with no recollection of how I got here. Through the hospital windows, I see the night sky, stars fading on the horizon as dawn breaks. White flashes illuminate low-hanging clouds from below: the artillery barrage that’s rattling my teeth.

  They’ll be going over the top soon, I think.

  Who will? I try to remember, but it’s vanished again.

  I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.

  “Where are you off to?” the man in the next bed asks me. His bandages are gone; his jaw is back in place. This time, it’s his hands that are missing.

  “I need to get back,” I tell him. “The lads will be wondering where I’ve gone.”

  I start to rise, then sit back down again. Back where? I wonder which regiment the man I’m talking to is from. He’s wearing a blue uniform I don’t recognize, made of flannelette.

  “Hospital blues,” he tells me. “All the convalescent cases get them.”

  I glance down at my shirt sleeves, and see khaki. “I’m not wearing them.”

  “That nice nursing sister – the one with the blonde hair – tried to dress you in blues earlier,” the soldier continues. “She said she thought it might help. But a few minutes later, the hospital matron ordered her away – gave the sister a good scolding.”

  “I don’t remember any of that.”

  The soldier holds up the bandaged stumps of his arms. The smell of putrefaction wafts in my direction. “I wish they’d given me pajamas instead of this wretched convalescent uniform; I can’t get my buttons done up. But the doctors will make that right, soon enough. They’ve promised me hook hands – buttonhook hands.” His laugh skitters along the edge of hysteria, like a nervous rat.

  My attention is caught by a major, briskly entering the ward. His uniform is starch-smart, his brass buttons gleaming. A swagger stick is squeezed tight under one arm. He marches to my bedside, and stares down at me. His face is red, like a man who’s been drinking, and by his glare it’s anger that’s lent his cheeks that hue.

  “On your feet, Private!”

  Beside him are two soldiers – both privates – with rifles held across their chests. One seems about my age, and has freckles. He looks uncomfortable; sweat trickles down his temple.

  I stand, feeling dizzy. I grip the bed rail to steady myself.

  “Salute, damn you!”

  That snaps me to attention. My body moves of its own accord, fingertips touchin
g my temple.

  I lower my hand. “Sir,” I say, “I’m ready to return to the front. Can you tell me how the lads are—”

  “Left face,” the major barks. “March.”

  I fall into step between the two privates. One is ahead of me, one behind. The major leads us out of the hospital ward, and into a corridor.

  Suddenly, Alice darts out of a door on our right. She steps in front of the major, fists on her hips. “Where are you taking my patient?”

  The major draws to a quivering halt. “He’s no patient. He’s a malingerer.”

  “He’s shell-shocked. He can’t even recall his own name.”

  I stare at her: the fire within her is wondrous. I’m so lucky to have met her. “Hello, Alice.”

  The major snorts. “He remembers your name well enough. And he was quick with a lie, when Dr. Lapine questioned him.” He turns and smirks at me. “‘Private Diamond,’ is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answer. I think a moment, searching for clues to which Pals Battalion I might belong to. “And my mates are Private Spade, and Private Heart, and Private Club.”

  The major snorts.

  “Where are you taking him?” Alice asks.

  “To his court martial. This man needs to be made an example of.”

  “You can’t!” Alice cries. “This man is genuinely shell-shocked.” She steps forward, clutches the major’s arm. “Please, Major, if you would just send him to Craiglockhart for treatment. Doctor Rivers has worked wonders, returning dozens of similarly wounded men to the front.”

  “Wounded!” The major’s eyebrows rise to meet his cap’s brim. “No, young lady, this man’s hardly that. He’s a coward and a liar: this ‘madness’ is just a ruse. The last thing this army needs is for others like him to think they can sham their way back to Blighty.”

  He stares down at her. “Will you step aside, sister? Or shall I order my men to clear you out of the way?”

  Alice glares right back at him. Then her shoulders slump and she steps aside.

  But as the major and his two soldiers march me past her, she suddenly darts forward again, takes my face in her hands, and kisses me. “Good luck,” she whispers.

  My head reels as I drink in her scent. I touch my lips. That kiss was worth everything – all of this confusion, this muddle. I’m a lucky man.

  I can feel Tom’s ghost grinning.

  I glance over my shoulder as the major marches me away. Are those tears in Alice’s eyes? Why is she crying? Then we round a corner, and she’s gone.

  A little later – minutes? days? – I find myself standing at attention in front of a table at which the major and two other officers are seated. The two soldiers who marched me here stand off to the side near the door, rifles shouldered.

  An older man with white hair, pale eyes and a nervous expression sits at a smaller table off to one side. He’s wearing a doctor’s white coat and cap. He’s reading aloud from a paper he’s holding, and making nervous gestures, but I can’t make sense of what he’s saying. All I hear is the cheep-cheep-cheep coming from a cage against one wall that holds a dozen bright-yellow canaries like the ones miners use to detect gas.

  The doctor keeps talking and talking. I hear something about a head coming off, and clap my hands over my ears; I don’t want to listen to this.

  The officer on the left side of the table – a captain – stares at the paper he’s writing on. His pen scritches and scratches like nails on a slate, setting my teeth on edge. Meanwhile, the canaries are watching me with those bright little eyes of theirs. Judging me. But they know nothing about me, I think – just as I know nothing about myself. I want them to be silent.

  “Stupid things!” I shout at them. “Be quiet!”

  The doctor fumbles to a nervous halt. The three officers stare at me. After a moment, the red-faced major speaks. “Have you anything to say in your defence, Private?”

  I stare at the gold-and-red crowns upon his epaulettes. “If it please your majesty, I would like to return to my battalion. My name is…” I think hard, trying to get it right. The room swims and I feel as though I might faint. “My name is Private Roland Diamond, and I’m from the 13th Cheshires. We’ve lost our cat…”

  The colonel with the pencil keeps scribbling, but the third officer – another captain – gives me a hard look. “You’re not fooling anyone with that act, you coward. You’d save yourself a world of trouble if—”

  “I’m not a coward!” Tears fill my eyes. “I just…wanted to bury him.”

  The major is speaking now: “The court, having considered the evidence against prisoner Roland Childe, is of the opinion that he is in breach of Section 12(1) of the British Army Act. The court does therefore sentence Private Childe to…”

  He keeps talking, but I no longer hear or see him. All I can see, as I stare at the wall above his blood-red face, is Tom’s grin, which is slowly fading as the canaries chirp their verdict…

  A while later, I awake to find myself on a bed – but not in the hospital ward. Stark vertical shadows fall across me from the metal bars, shadows cast by the lantern in the hallway outside my cell. I smell tea. I sit up and swing my feet to the floor.

  “Ah, you’re awake.” A military chaplain sits on a folding chair nearby, his stiff white clerical collar visible above his khaki service jacket. He has a small head; his cap looks huge in comparison, the brim partially over his eyes. He holds a teacup in one hand, and bread and butter in the other. He pops the last of the bread into his mouth, then brushes crumbs off the Bible in his lap.

  “What’s happening?” I ask.

  “Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig confirmed your sentence.” He swallows, wipes butter from his moustache, then sets the teacup down. He pulls paper from his pocket, and smooths it atop the Bible. “Is there anyone you’d care to write a letter to?” he asks as he pulls a pencil from his breast pocket. “I can’t let you have the pencil, but I can jot it down for you, if you like.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t have any family.”

  He starts to put his pencil away. Suddenly, I think of something: the lines to the poem I’d recited for Alice earlier. I realize, now, that it wasn’t my poem: it was written by a man more famous for his nonsense verses. But I recite it anyway, and the chaplain scribbles. I choke out the final verse:

  “The heavy hours of night went by,

  And silence quickened into sound,

  And light slid up the eastern sky,

  And life began its daily round.

  But light and life for him were fled:

  His name was numbered with the dead.”

  “There’s a nursing sister at the hospital, by the name of Alice,” I tell the chaplain. “If you could give the poem to her…”

  He nods. “As good as done, lad.” He folds the poem, and tucks it into a pocket.

  My eye falls on a brown bottle, sitting on the floor beside the bed. A note is propped up against it: Drink me. You’ll fare better if you do.

  “Did Alice leave that for me?” I ask.

  The chaplain shakes his head. “There was a man here, earlier tonight. A private. Said his name was Jack, that he was a friend of yours. How he got in here is still a puzzle to me; no one’s permitted to visit you except me.”

  I have no idea who he’s talking about. I pick up the bottle, pull the cork, and sniff. Rum.

  “He left something else for you as well. Playing cards.”

  He pulls a stained pack from his pocket and hands it over. I accept it, blushing. I don’t take the cards out; I wouldn’t want the chaplain seeing what’s printed on them. I tuck the deck inside my breast pocket.

  “Your Jack said the lads don’t hold it against you that you ran,” the chaplain tells me, “that any of them might have done the same. He said he was going to have a word with Doctor Lapine, see what he could do to persuade him to change his testimony. I told him…”

  The chaplain pauses, as if needing to collect himself. “I told him that wouldn’t do any good,
that it was already too late. Jack nodded, and asked me to tell you that some Australian bloke would plant flowers on your grave.”

  My grave? That gives me pause. Am I dead, I wonder?

  “Your friend told you all this himself, mind, but you didn’t answer him – just stared straight through him, as if he were a ghost.”

  “Is he still here?”

  “He said he had to get back to the front, or they’d charge him with desertion, as well.”

  Desertion. The word sends a shiver to my core. My hand begins to shake. I raise the bottle to my lips and gulp down the rum as quickly as I can. It burns my throat – the spot where the rawness is. I cough, and the rest of the rum slops out of the bottle, onto my trouser leg. I look down, and see not rum stains, but blood.

  I open my mouth to scream, but only silence comes out.

  It’s morning. The major and two privates have returned for me.

  One of the privates opens a door, and we march out into a courtyard. Beyond the high stone walls, the eastern horizon is turning pink. Artillery rumbles nearby, and airplanes drone overhead. There’s a battle going on. A big one.

  I think of my friends. “Are the 13th Cheshires in it?” I ask the major. “The Sunlight Pals?”

  “They were,” he answers. “And they took heavy casualties. More than a hundred dead, and more than twice that many wounded.” His eyes narrow. “You should have been there with them.”

  And I would have been, I think, if it wasn’t for the cat.

  No. That’s not right. It wasn’t a cat. It was Tom. And he’s dead. And – it’s just a feeling, mind, but somehow I know it’s true – so are Jack, and Digger and Donny.

  All dead.

  The major marches me to a post in the ground. The two privates pull my hands behind my back, around the post, and tie my wrists together. The major, meanwhile, pins a scrap of white cloth onto my shirt, just above my heart. Behind him, four more privates with rifles enter the courtyard. Together with the first two, they form into a line.

  I stare into the major’s eyes. “You’re going to shoot me, aren’t you?”

  “You’re to be executed, yes.” He reaches into his pocket. “Would you like a blindfold?”