The edges of the town come into view. A skyline of broken chimneys and a church tower now half the size of what it should be with jagged spikes like broken fingers stretching into the sky.
Engines behind them and the ripple effect of men turning to look sweeps down the road. Heavy tanks. Huge beasts with solid metal riveted sides and massive caterpillar tracks with turrets bulging out from the sides and the muzzles of guns poking out. They churn through the mud with ease, rocking and bouncing but going ever forward while spewing choking fumes. Big wheeled canvass covered trucks in between them and suddenly the vast scale of this war hits both of the men, and this is just one road to one battlefield.
They stand aside to watch the tanks go by, staring at the old technology and the trucks that follow.
‘Lot of moustaches,’ Thomas mutters.
Bear snorts a laugh, seeing what he means. Moustaches everywhere. Huge drooping things, bushy ones, some neatly trimmed too and even a few Hitler style ones worn by men with no idea of what that image will come to mean.
A dig in his ribs and Bear follows Thomas’s gaze skywards to a bi-plane flying in the distance, the noise lost from the cacophony of sound coming from the road and still above it all, above everything else, are the big booms of the huge artillery guns firing unseen.
They reach the town muddied, sweating and looking at a hand-painted sign rammed into the mud. This way to Hell…
‘Hey, you! Private…yes, you…’
Thomas and Bear lurch back from the huge horse coming to a stop in front of them. An officer on the top. His green flat cap so neat above his perfectly trimmed moustache. ‘Remove that sign.’
‘Sign, Sir?’ Thomas asks, confused.
‘The bloody sign, man!’ the officer points at the hand-painted thing. ‘Go on, get rid of it…the men don’t need to see that.’
‘Sir,’ Thomas says, rushing to grab and pull the sign free. He goes to turn, to ask the officer what he should do with it but finds the horse and man gone so shrugs, pauses for a second and pushes it back into place to a low chorus of chuckles coming from the lines of men walking past.
‘WHICH REGIMENT ARE YOU BOYS IN?’ A big man asks, sergeant stripes on his arms and a thick wooden cudgel wedged in his belt. Scars on his face and his voice booms.
‘Hampshire, Sir. Isle of Wight rifles…’ Thomas replies.
‘SPEAK UP,’ the sergeant bellows.
The constant shelling renders most men deaf Jacob had told them before deploying.
‘HAMPSHIRE, SIR. ISLE OF WIGHT RIFLES…’
‘YOU A YANK?’
‘BRITISH…LIVED THERE FOR A FEW YEARS…WE NEED TO REPORT TO CORPORAL SIMMONDS…’
‘WHAT?’
‘CORPORAL SIMMONDS...’
‘THAT WAY…DOWN THERE AND SPEAK UP, SON. STOP BLOODY MUMBLING.’
They break off down another muddied track between rows of broken ruined buildings where men gather in the torn down eaves to rest and sleep. Small fires here and there. Water heated to make tea and everyone looking hungry and drawn with sunken cheeks and days of thick stubble. The stench a ruinous smell of unwashed bodies, animal and human dung mixed with smoke, chemicals and bad meat.
They find the Field Headquarters within minutes. A low building engulfed in sandbag walls with men coming and going from the narrow entry point guarded by yet more soldiers. Open-topped cars wait outside on the roadway next to trucks and horses tied to posts. Men in groups, talking and smoking. Others resting against low walls, dozing or staring vacantly.
‘Papers,’ a soldier guarding the entrance stops the two men, his eyes running over their kit and studying their faces. ‘Don’t know you…’
‘Just arrived,’ Thomas says.
‘Just arrived, sergeant,’ the man says.
‘Sorry, sergeant.’
‘Yank?’
‘British. Lived there for a few years.’
‘Name?’
‘Thomas Smith. Private. Hampshire Regi…’
‘I don’t need all that bollocks. I meant your first name.’
‘Gee, sorry, Tom. That’s Brian.’
‘Papers say you’re assigned to Corporal Simmonds. Go round the building and across the back to the medical bays. On your way, now.’
They follow the path down through the churned-up grounds to a vast outbuilding constructed from stone and surrounded on all sides by men in blood-stained dressings crying out in agony. Men writhing from bullet wounds and shrapnel strikes to legs and bodies. Men with limbs shorn off from shell blasts. Another one with a German bayonet sticking from his chest staring up in shock at two men arguing whether they should pull it out or not.
‘Jesus…’ Thomas swallows, his mind already reeling from seeing so many truly awful things.
‘Help you chaps?’ one of the men standing over the soldier stuck with the bayonet calls over.
‘We’re looking for Corporal Simmonds…er…Sir?’ Thomas ventures, not seeing a rank on the blood-stained white coat but hearing the cultured voice.
‘Oh, he’s inside somewhere,’ the man says, waving them away. ‘I say now chaps, don’t suppose either of you are triage trained, are you?’
‘I’ve done first aid,’ Thomas says before he can stop himself.
‘First aid? Whatever’s that? We’re just deciding whether to pull this blasted bayonet from this chap…’
‘Are you doctors?’ Thomas asks.
‘Doctors? God no. We’re vets. We look after the horses…the General decided we should come and help tend the injured and as grand an idea as that is, the horse does differ from the human form somewhat.’
‘Leave it in,’ Bear says. ‘Withdrawing could rupture an artery…’
‘Ha! Told you, Curly old chap,’ the man booms, clapping his veterinary colleague on the arm.
‘It does hurt a bit, Sirs,’ the man gasps, still clutching the blade in his gut.
‘Oh, you’ll be alright there, Private. Eh? What, what. Chin up now.’
‘Come on,’ Thomas leads them on, treading over and round the broken bodies to venture inside the building. Beds everywhere made from doors and planks of wood propped on anything that can hold them. Surgeons and aides working frantically in a putrid wet heat amongst the buzz of flies and the cries of men.
‘Corporal Simmonds?’ Thomas asks a uniformed man rushing past.
‘No. Over there…book in and get kitted for triage,’ he rushes outside, a canvas bag over his shoulder and a white armband round his arm.
They go deeper into the horror, past a surgeon pushing the innards of a stomach back into a cavity with a scowl. ‘Dead. Next.’
‘There,’ Bear whispers, getting Thomas’s attention to the same man he saw on Zara’s monitor. Ruddy faced and the neatly clipped moustache seen on the image now grown out and bushy. A green flat cap wedged on the back of his head and he looks as exhausted as everyone else.
‘Corporal Simmonds?’
‘Yes? What?’ the man snaps, glancing up while injecting a man in the arm from a syringe.
‘Reporting for duty,’ Thomas says smartly. ‘Thomas Smith and Brian Jones, privates. Hampshire Regiment Isle of…’
‘What? I don’t need rifles here. I need medics,’ Corporal Simmonds says gruffly, easing the syringe out. ‘Get to the trenches…you’ll just be in the way.’
‘We’re er…we’re triage trained, Corporal,’ Thomas says, remembering the words the veterinary surgeon used.
‘A likely story I’ll say. Listen chaps. The trenches are no fun I’ll grant you that, but you can’t hide in here…’
‘Sir, we have papers, we’re seconded to help you,’ Thomas asserts, reaching into his pocket for his papers.
‘Good lord, I don’t need to see papers man! I need medics and stretcher bearers who can triage…’
‘We can triage, we can carry stretchers, Corporal…we’re here to work with you.’
‘This is highly irregular,’ he snaps, walking off before turning sharply. ‘Come on, with
me…’ he leads them outside, casting a desultory glance at the papers while striding towards the outer fringes of the thick crowds of injured men. ‘Him,’ Corporal Simmonds says, pointing at a silent man staring into the distance. ‘Triage him…’
‘Sheesh, er…his limbs look unbroken, he’s smoking…blood from his ears, his eyes are unfocussed…’
‘I don’t need his life history man! Triage him. Urgent. Not urgent. Walking wounded…what is he?’
‘He looks shell-shocked,’ Bear says, dropping to lift the man’s chin, seeing the vacant look. He clicks his fingers in front of the man’s eyes, gaining zero response.
‘That one,’ Corporal Simmonds says, pointing to another one.
‘Er…he er...he looks dead,’ Thomas says, peering down.
‘He is dead. That one…triage that man there…’
‘This one? His arms been blown off, Corporal, he needs urgent care…’
‘Right. Good enough. Back in with me. Rifles eh? Listen chaps, you won’t know everything, but you’re not expected to. Just do your best. A few kinds words is often all we can do. Pray with them if you have time. Tell them they’ll be okay, that sort of thing. Dressings, splints and everything you’ll need is in that back room. Food is later, maybe…we don’t always eat you see, we’re not a fighting unit and they need it more than we do. Got it? If they die get rid of them quickly. Bad for moral to have the dead knocking about. The worst wounded are brought in and kept away from the walking wounded, again that’s for moral. We don’t want those going back into the trenches to see just how bad it is. Got it? The gas station is over the way…’
‘Gas station?’ Thomas asks.
‘Gas victims, we can’t have them in here with everyone else…the gas clings to everything. Get rid of ‘em. Got it? We’ve got tons of Morphia so don’t be afraid to use it…got it? On you go then, chaps. Mark them up urgent, walking wounded and no good, I mean obviously don’t tell them if they’re looking to go for a duck…’
‘Duck?’ Thomas asks.
‘Going to die, private. Don’t tell them they are going to die. Dose them up and let them go peacefully. Best of it, eh? Do shout if you need help…got it?’
28
DISCOVERY
Prisha leans in through the doorway to Lars’ office. ‘I’m going over. Need anything?’ she asks.
‘No,’ he replies, thinking for a second. ‘Cake.’
‘You want a cake?’
He thinks for a second, ‘yes.’
‘Help me out, Lars…what cake do you want?’
‘Surprise me,’ he says, leaning back to push a hand into his pocket.
‘It’s my turn,’ she walks off through the main office. Grabbing her purse from her bag to draw a Discovery banknote before pulling her thick winter uniform coat on and stepping out to look up and down Main Street so golden and rosy in the autumnal afternoon, lifting her hand in greeting to deputy Matias walking across the intersection.
‘Prisha,’ he says, drawing closer. ‘Going over?’
She nods, ‘Lars wants cake.’
‘What cake?’
‘Said to surprise him. Want one?’
‘Yeah, surprise me…’ he says as she rolls her eyes in humour and starts walking off. ‘Prish? I just heard Lucy was out running with Bear this morning. Norman saw them coming out of Bear’s place too…said she looked flushed.’
Prisha pauses, turning back to nod. ‘Okay.’
‘Want me to do it?’
‘Nah, it’s on the way…get the cakes though?’ she walks back, holding out the banknote. ‘It was my turn.’
‘What do you want?’ he asks, taking the money.
‘Surprise me,’ she walks off, crossing the street and heading down to the front doors of the hospital and through as the reception staff look up with interest. ‘Lucy in?’
‘Her office,’ one of them replies. ‘I’ll tell her you’re coming.’
‘Great,’ Prisha walks on through the corridors, her utility belt fastened securely round her waist. Her boots treading firmly with solid steps to the door that she knocks once.
‘Yep…come in.’
She goes through, looking round the medical room and seeing Lucy washing her hands at the sink in the corner. ‘Prisha, how are you?’
‘Good,’ Prisha says, still looking round.
‘How can I help?’ Lucy asks, walking behind her desk to switch the monitor off just as Prisha looks at it. ‘You here for personal reasons or…’
‘Nope, work,’ Prisha says, sitting down on the wooden chair to stare over the desk at Lucy. The woman is stunning beyond words. Flawless even and Prisha can see why Bear would go with her.
‘Bear?’ Lucy asks.
Prisha nods, using silence to encourage Lucy to speak.
‘Ah, the tittle tattlers have been busy have they?’ Lucy asks, smiling over. ‘I was going to come over after work.’
‘Okay,’ Prisha says.
‘We had sex,’ Lucy says openly.
‘Right,’ Prisha replies without reaction.
‘Done,’ Lucy beams. ‘I have declared my romantic interest with an operative as per the rules. Was there anything else, Prisha or do you want to sit in silence and see if I’ll admit to a murder or something?’
Prisha laughs, she can’t help it. Lucy is funny and Prisha likes the way the accent comes back when she jokes. ‘Just doing my job, Lucy.’
‘To be honest, he can probably finish the therapy now,’ Lucy says, the humour easing as her tone becomes serious. ‘I mean…if this was the real world I’d be sacked and out the door but…’
‘It’s not the real world,’ Prisha says, standing up. ‘You’ll work it out…listen, Lucy…I have to say this bit.’
‘Go on,’ Lucy says, sitting back in her chair.
‘Do not question an operative about RLI’s. Do not seek information or try or attempt to try or in anyway, do anything to influence the work they do. If your romantic connection ends you must inform us. The Discovery Sheriff’s department does not wish to be intrusive in your private life and anything said will remain confidential but we will be kept informed of anything relating to operatives and those connected with RLI’s…and we will be dipping your accounts to check…’
‘Great speech, mate…you know operatives are the worst gossips ever? They can’t keep their gobs shut about the stuff they do, and everyone knows they’ve got a first world war overnighter on...’
‘Gotta say it,’ Prisha says, holding her hands up. ‘Catch you soon.’
Deputy Prisha goes out and down the corridor, through the hospital and out the doors with a nod and a wave at the reception staff who descend into instant gossip the second she goes.
‘Hey,’ Prisha says, walking into the planning offices.
‘Prish,’ Jennifer says, glancing up over the desk then dropping her head straight back down.
‘What you doing?’ Prisha asks, peering over to see Jennifer painting her nails. ‘Bored then?’
‘Always bored,’ Jennifer mutters. ‘What do you think?’
‘Nice,’ Prisha says, reaching over to pick the bottle up. ‘Pink suits you.’
‘Passes the time. Bear fucked Lucy this morning.’
‘I heard,’ Prisha says.
‘Has she declared it?’
‘Can’t tell you. I’d have to kill you.’
‘Tell me later. You coming over?’
‘Could do.’
‘Lucky bitch,’ Jennifer sighs, looking up at the deputy.
‘They’ll make good babies that’s for sure,’ Prisha says.
‘Oh, my god, is she pregnant?’
‘What!? No! It’s a saying…when two beautiful people get together…’
‘Is it? I never heard that. I’d make good babies with Bear.’
‘You would.’
‘Oh, you know what…you and Bear would make gorgeous babies…like with your skin tone…’
‘You think?’
‘Totally,’ Jennif
er says. ‘But he’s mine next when him and Lucy don’t work out.’
‘I’d better get on. See you later…’ Prisha walks off to the door then up the stairs to the planning office, pushing through the door to the noise and chaos of the main room that falls that little bit quieter when she walks in.
‘IT’S A RAID!’
‘Very funny, Terry. Never gets old.’
‘Prish,’ Allie says, walking from Martha’s office.
‘Allie.’
‘I’ve got them ready,’ Allie says, motioning for Prisha to follow as she walks off towards her desk in Zara’s office.
‘Hey,’ Prisha says, nodding at Zara who looks up with the startled gaze of someone very absorbed in their work.
‘Prish, you okay?’ Zara asks, sitting back to stretch and yawn with a yelp that brings moisture to her eyes that she blinks away before looking over at the second monitor showing Bear and Thomas carrying a stretcher filled with a man holding his guts in his hands.
Prisha looks over, wincing at the sight. ‘First World War?’
‘Yeah, Ypres 1917,’ Zara says grimly. ‘Overnighter…unless they get it sorted earlier.’
‘Joining in drooling over Bear in a soldier’s uniform?’ Allie asks, twisting round from her desk.
Prisha smiles, chuckling quietly.
‘Lucy declared yet?’ Allie asks.
‘Can’t say,’ Prisha replies.
‘Tell me later. You coming over?’
‘Said I’d go round Jen’s, coming?’
‘Might do,’ Allie muses. ‘Zara? Fancy it?’
‘Can’t,’ she says, pointing at the screen. ‘Watching them…unless you want to bring a takeaway here and keep me company?’
‘We can do that,’ Allie says. ‘We can all drool over Bear then while we cry into our Chinese at the thought of him and Lucy making beautiful babies…’
‘I just said that to Jen,’ Prisha says.
‘Ah, well,’ Allie says. ‘If anyone was going to get him…’ she hefts the armful of folders up, passing them over to Prisha.
‘Yeah, she is something else,’ Prisha says.
‘She’s bloody not,’ Zara snaps. ‘She’s not! It’s all make-up and that accent and…’
A Town Called Discovery Page 26