***
Later still, when he came to a second time, the blurred vision confirmed the doctor had given him some kind of sedative, and the bright light was gone, as was the pain. Arty blinked a few times and lifted his head, trying again to focus on his surroundings: a hospital ward, five beds spaced along the opposite wall, all occupied. To his left lay Corporal Arkwright with a bandaged stump where once was his left arm; to his right, LAC Phillips stared blankly at the ceiling.
“Ah, good. You’re awake, Sergeant.” The matron appeared next to him, her smile compassionate yet stern. “How are we now?” she asked. Arty had no time to reply before she closed in and poked a thermometer between his lips. He compliantly parted his teeth and let the glass tube settle under his tongue. Matron gripped his wrist and lifted her watch, humming under her breath. Arty closed his eyes. He wondered if he was brave enough to attempt to move his legs. The recollection of his previous awakening was dreamlike, but doing as much as wiggling a toe would confirm it. If it were real, then he did not wish to know.
The thermometer was tugged from his mouth, pulling the skin of his lips away with it. Arty flinched and opened his eyes.
“A little high,” Matron said, shaking the thermometer down. She returned it to her breast pocket.
“May I…” Arty croaked and swallowed dryly. “Water, please?”
“Certainly, Sergeant.” Matron moved off, looking to the end of the ward as she shouted, “Nurse Brownlow. Water for Sergeant Clarke, please, thank you.”
“Yes, Matron,” came a timid, rushed response.
The matron moved on to Phillips, and Arty closed his eyes again, drifting, remembering…Charlie…
“Here we are, Sergeant.”
He felt something warm and soft slide under his head and the gentle pressure of the nurse’s hand, he assumed. With her assistance he tilted his head forward and sipped at the cup being held to his lips; the water trickled down the sides of his neck. He coughed and spluttered.
“Oops, too much. Sorry.”
Arty squinted up at the young nurse. She smiled gently, kindly, sadly.
“Can you remember what happened?” she asked.
“La—” Arty stopped and swallowed again. “Lancaster crash. Charlie Tomkins? Is he…” He couldn’t finish the question.
“I don’t think anyone by that name was brought in, but I’ll ask Matron for you.”
Arty smiled his thanks.
“Bit more water first, eh?” the nurse suggested.
He had little choice but to comply, and between them they got most of it in his mouth this time. When the nurse decided he’d had enough, she wiped away the spillage and left the cup on the table next to the bed.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” she said.
The click of heels against linoleum faded into the far distance, as if the nurse were walking for miles and miles. That’s a hell of a sedative, Arty thought. He chuckled, he wasn’t sure why. It was no laughing matter. Would they discharge him before Jim arrived? Unlikely, a little voice in his head scoffed. It made Arty chuckle some more. This is no laughing matter. That’s what I thought. So what in God’s name are you laughing for, man? I couldn’t tell you. I think you’ve—
“Sergeant Clarke? Are you…”
Arty squinted up at the fuzzy double outline of the nurse standing over him, her concerned features momentarily in focus. She looked frightened out of her wits. She became blurry again, and Arty stopped laughing.
“Can you hear me?” she asked.
Arty nodded as best he could. His neck was stiff and the pillows were restricting his movement.
“Matron said there’s no one by the name of Charlie Tomkins been brought in, alive or dead. She’s going to contact your CO to see what she can find out.”
“Thank you, Nurse. May I sit up?”
“Ah. I’m afraid not. Doctor’s orders are for you to stay lying down until he’s had a good look at you.”
“I understand,” Arty said. “Perhaps I might turn on my side?”
The nurse frowned. “I’m not sure. I’ll ask Matron.”
She trotted off down the ward again and Arty eavesdropped on her conversation with the matron, who harrumphed and grunted, but agreed to Arty lying on his side. The two women came back together.
“Left or right side, Sergeant?” the matron demanded.
“Either,” Arty said. He didn’t care. The pain was flaring up again and he thought changing position might help. It certainly couldn’t make it any worse, or so he thought until they started to roll him onto his side. “Oh, no! No! Stop!” It felt like his lower body was being ripped in half. He vomited and choked on it.
“Get the doctor, now!” Matron shouted.
The nurse’s shoes clacked at speed. Arty’s chest tightened. He couldn’t breathe. He was dying. He was dying…
After the swingboats, they went on the roundabouts to calm down, he twisting astride on his jerky wooden steed towards her, and always seeming at his ease…
D H Lawrence is reading to me. What a lovely way to welcome a fellow.
…on the whirling carousal, with the music grinding out, she was aware of the people on the earth outside, and it seemed that he and she were riding carelessly over the faces of the crowd, riding for ever…
Though I must confess I thought he’d sound a lot posher…less…American.
Arty fought to open his eyes, but the lids fluttered uselessly and stayed firmly shut. Jim! I can hear you! Jim…
“…buoyantly, proudly, gallantly over the upturned faces of the crowd, moving on a high level, spurning the common mass.”
Arty gave up trying to get his eyes open, deciding it was a dream, or maybe it was heaven, it mattered not. He just wanted to listen to Jim’s voice, reading to him. He recognised the story, but he couldn’t recall the name of it. If Sissy were here…of course, Sissy must have given the book to Jim. Can I think her into being too?
“Everything seemed wonderful, if dreadful to her, the world tumbling into ruins, and she and he clambering unhurt, lawless over the face of it all. He sat close to her, touching her, and she was aware of his influence upon her. But she was glad. It excited her to feel the press of him upon her, as if his being were urging her to something.”
“You…” can’t read that in here. They’ll have your guts for garters.
A hand grabbed his. It was big, rough, familiar, and squeezing so hard he would have cried out if he could have garnered the wherewithal to do so. And then a soft, gentle touch to the back of his hand, the two sensations so at odds they were utterly overwhelming, for surely that could not be warm breath disturbing the hairs and giving him goose pimples? So it was indeed a dream, Arty concluded, or else Jim would not be kissing his hand like that, and sobbing.
Or if it is not a dream, and I am not dead—the lingering pain suggested he was still very much alive—then I must nearly have died, or am I nearly dead?
“Sergeant Johnson, please restrain yourself. I do not tolerate such…behaviour on my ward.”
“Arty’s awake, Molly. He said something to me.”
“That’s as may be. However—”
“Ain’t you gonna check on him?”
Arty’s left eyelid was prised open, his muscles battling against the force pinning it back, and not of his doing; he wanted it to open, but his body refused to comply with either his will or the matron’s.
“Hm. He does appear to be conscious. Sergeant Clarke, can you hear me?”
Arty tried to answer, yes, I can hear you, but the sound would not form.
“He’s squeezing my hand,” Jim said. He sounded so desperate, like the man at the gallows still pleading his innocence.
“You shouldn’t have your hand there for him to squeeze, Jimmy. I’d have thought you’d know better.”
Cold air wafted over Arty’s chest and then there was a sharp pain right under his ribcage. He tried to buck away from it.
“Responsive,” Matron said.
Arty gas
ped and gulped down air. Stop! Please, just stop!
“Was that necessary?” Jim asked angrily. “I told ya he was squeezin’ my hand.”
“Sergeant Johnson, if you insist on being disrespectful, I will ask you to leave.”
“Sorry, Mol—Matron.”
“I’ll go and see if Doctor is available.”
Footsteps retreated, in their wake a silence as thick and heavy as the blankets pinning Arty to his sickbed.
Jim sniffed loudly and moved one of his hands away, but kept hold of Arty with the other.
It’s easier to use a hanky with two hands, Arty willed himself to say.
“What’d you say, darlin’?”
“Hanky…”
“Yeah. I, er…” Jim took a deep breath. “Man, you gave me a scare.”
Jim was fighting to contain his emotions; Arty could hear it in his voice, could feel it in the shaking of his hands that were usually so strong and steady, but he needed to tell him. Something was very wrong. Before, the pain was a dull, heavy ache that stopped just below his hips, almost as if the bottom half of him was missing. Now it had gone. He felt nothing, just a strange sensation of floating, of leaving his body behind, peaceful, painless, drifting away… No! He wasn’t ready to die. Not if he had any choice in the matter. But if he didn’t…he needed to tell Jim, before it was too late. With great effort, Arty forced out the words, “Love you.”
“And I love you, but you’re going nowhere, you hear? We got a good life ahead of us, Arty. So much has happened in the past few days, I can’t begin to tell you. You ain’t going nowhere, because I ain’t letting you.”
What do you… “Mean?”
“It can wait. You just rest and heal, all right? That’s your number one priority. Get better.”
All the tension left Arty’s body. Jim would not let him die. “Read?” he requested.
“You want some more of this debauchery, huh? All right. I can do that.”
One-handed, Jim flicked through pages until he found his place and continued to read. For how long, Arty didn’t know, for when he next awoke it was night-time and he was alone, or alone as anyone can ever be in a hospital.
* * * * *
When Skies Have Fallen Page 21