The Oeuvre

by Greg James

  Madeleine and Kitty moved on past the cemetery, to the sand dunes at the perimeter of the hospital. They stood together as the sun went down. The wind raced along, making little eddies of yellow-white sand dance at their feet. Over the crest of the dunes, the land swept away towards the sea.

  There was The Bull Ring.

  The training camp for new arrivals and convalescents. During the day, you could see the troops down there being marched around, drilled into shape by NCOs. The bellows of brutal encouragement carrying to the hospital on the wind, making some of the patients twitch. The Bull Ring was quiet now though, as evening drew in. The Machine Gun School was quiet too. The war was stopping, just for a moment, to allow dusk to settle everywhere, in peace. Madeleine and Kitty said nothing. Lost in their own thoughts, they stood, looking off into the distance. Behind them, a bugle sounded in a harsh, strident tone. They both knew what it meant – the next convoy was about to arrive.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The carriage of the train was packed. Everyone and everything was crammed in, all too close together. Every inch of space, not occupied by a wounded man, was piled up with comforts and medical stores. Boxes rattled and chinked. Crates shunted this way and that. Sisters swayed their way along the hot airless carriages.

  Wilson was awoken by the rocking motion of the train. He blinked dumbly in the faint amber light cast by the hurricane lamps. His wounds were stiff and sore under their dressings. He moaned. The fuzz of sleep drifting away from his memory. He remembered being somewhere. Wet ground, cold, and grey skies. The cries of black birds, scraps of dirty cloth, their dead, dark eyes. The taste of water and blood in his mouth.

  He didn't know how he had ended up on this train.

  He had to find out.

  A nurse was tottering her way along the carriage. He thrust out an arm to bar her way. She recoiled at his sudden movement, “Please, Sister. Do you know who dropped me off at the station?”

  She looked at him. Her eyes were pitted burrows of sleeplessness. “I'm sure it was some of your pals who brought you along, making sure you got out of that hell-hole safe and sound.”

  She patted him on the arm, smiling a tired smile.

  Wilson chewed his lip, “So, you don't know?”

  “I'm sorry, no. We picked up a lot of men at the last stop. Most of you were laid out, ready to go, on the platform. There was no-one waiting with you.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  She went on her way.

  Wilson slumped back onto his bunk. The wood felt harsh against his back despite the blanket. He listened to the rap of the nurse's shoes moving away from him. Then he remembered. His two dead mates, Smithy and Brookes, bearing him along to the station.

  But they were dead.

  He fingered his wounds through their bindings.

  …Wilson…

  Craning his neck, he looked up and down the carriage. The nurse was nowhere to be seen. No-one had said a thing.

  …Wilson…

  The voice was inside his head. Its broken-fingernail sound scratching away at his ear drums.

  …did you forget me, Wilson?...

  Oh Christ, thought Wilson, I've got the horrors.

  …it's me, Wilson. Look-out Brookes. The rats, they ate me up. Do you know what that feels like? They're going to hurt you, Wilson, unless you keep on feeding them. The rats'll make you scream, beg them to stop, if you don't feed them. They'll keep at you until you feed them more people. You fed them Smithy and me, now you need to feed them some more. Otherwise, they'll come for you. They're always hungry, Wilson, always hungry…

  Wilson screwed up his eyes, grinding his teeth.

  “Fuck off,” he muttered.

  The scratching voice rose to a shriek inside his skull.

  …Feed the rats, Wilson, feed them well. Else, they feed on you!...

  Wilson was deaf to her words. There was just the terrible scratching sound in his head now. All he could hear was a rabid feral rhythm tearing away at his brain. It wasn't the sound of broken fingernails. It was worse than that. It was the sound of rats' claws, hundreds of them – inside his head – thousands, millions, more!

  Wilson screamed.

  The nurse came hurtling down to his bunk; pinning him down.

  She tried to calm Wilson by telling him, “We’re almost at the hospital. You’ll be on your way home soon.”

  *

  The convoy of wounded staggered along the camouflaged duckboard paths and into Base Hospital Twenty-Six. Unwashed, bearded and dirty, their puttees and tunics clinging to them. Stretcher-bearers wheezed as they bore their human loads to waiting beds. Many of the men should have been on stretchers. It was rare for there to be enough for everyone. Some of the walking wounded rested a hand on the shoulder of the soldier in front of them. Going into the trenches, they did this to make sure they stayed on the duckboard paths. Going out of the trenches, they did this because they had been made blind. Tears of dirty blood wept from the browned dressings that were mercifully covering the gaping holes where their eyes had once been.

  The convoy looked like tramps, come to beg succour from the unrelenting pain the world had relentlessly rained down on them. Lamps illuminated their path as they entered the camp. Nurses and orderlies came forward, leading them away to their allocated wards. Duckboards quivered under hurrying feet. Dirty uniforms were taken away to be destroyed. The seriously wounded were taken to waiting surgeons. Those who could be were ferried to the bathhouse hut to be cleaned up. Moans, groans and barked instructions rose in chorus across the camp.

  It was going to be a busy night, Dr Meredith thought, hissing through his teeth as he cut away the material from Wilson's shoulder and thigh. Kneeling to examine the bulbous discoloured tissue, he tapped it with his finger. The wounds rang hollow.

  “Oh dear, gas gangrene. Poor fellow.”

  He looked up at Madeleine.

  “I can remove the bullets but he will need these wounds irrigated with Eusol every three hours, Miss Goldsworth. I want you to keep an eye on him and to administer the treatment, under the supervision of Sister Fearing.”

  “Yes, Dr Meredith.”

  He peeled the eyelids back and peered into the orbs beneath.

  “We can then but pray he comes through.”

  This was his first day at the base hospital.

  Wilson opened his eyes. He got to his feet, his head was pounding. He was in the church crypt. Where were Brookes and Smithy? They were hurt. He knew they were hurt. Where were they? Why couldn't he remember?

  He needed to find them.

  Save his mates.

  It was all a jumble in his head, trying to think made his brain hurt. Maybe that thing had got them. It could still be down here, waiting to tear out his throat. Shivering, Wilson began to walk down the tunnel.

  Kitty pushed the plunger down.

  The end of the syringe fed into a length of tubing that disappeared into the pus-flecked wound in Wilson's shoulder. Inside the tubing was the Eusol solution. It was a mixture of hydrochloric acid and boiled water. She had seen it save several men but it was a long, painful treatment. The wound needed to be re-dressed and irrigated every three hours. Wilson's eyelids quivered. Shuddering breaths skipping through him as the icy solution was pushed through the infected tissue.

  This was his third day in the base hospital.

  The tunnel began to slope downwards. Wilson stopped and turned about. He wanted to get up and out of here not go further down into the crypt. Running a hand along the rough-hewn wall, he groped and shuffled along. Going back the way he had come. There was no sound to be heard, except his faltering footsteps. The wall disappeared from under his hand. Stifling a cry, he flapped his palm through the air, trying to find the wall again. His groping fingertips brushed against it. He breathed out heavily and began to follow the wall along once more. It was sloping down this way too. How could that be?

  What was that?

  He could hear something. He stopped.

>   Another set of footsteps stopped too.

  Kitty wiped the grains of sleep from her eyes. Stifling a yawn, she pressed a new dressing to Wilson's thigh. The wound there was still bulging but it was not as severe as it had been. Treated with the Eusol, it was gradually contracting. She fastened the mackintosh material covering the dressing into place. She felt a shiver shake through the dazed man. He had not spoken a bit of sense since arriving, just a babyish babble of nonsense.

  This was his fifth day in the base hospital.

  Wilson stopped and listened. There was nothing he could hear except his own breathing and the quickness of his heartbeat. Wilson let out another heavy breath and wiped at his face. He started walking again.

  He stopped.

  It was definitely someone else's footsteps that he could hear. He turned around to face the way he had come. There was something there. A dim light.

  Coming towards him.

  Sister Fearing's handling of the Eusol tubing made Kitty flinch. The Sister was always like this with the nervous men. Did something about them offend her sensibilities? Would she rather they died? She pushed the syringe into the end of the tubing and pumped the cool solution into the soldier's shoulder wound with a hard thrust of her thumb. There was a flinty light in Sister Fearing's eyes as she did this. It made Kitty wonder if the Sister hoped the stuff would make his heart fail.

  Wilson winced as his heart skipped a beat. The light was coming his way, a pinpoint of dirty amber.

  “Hallo! Over here! I'm over here!”

  The light kept on coming but there was no response to his cry.

  “Sprecken zee doight-chuh? Are you English?”

  Nothing was said. The light kept on coming.

  “Oi, can you hear me? Where're you from? What company?”

  Maybe it was that devil-eyed thing again.

  Out on the hunt. Out to kill.

  Kitty peeled the last Eusol dressing off of Wilson. This time she applied standard dressings to his shoulder and thigh, doing so made her smile. He had made it. He was better. Another one of their boys was safe.

  Wilson slid his bayonet into his hand, just in case. He could hear the steps of the light-bearer now. They were uneven, Wilson wondered if the man was drunk. He wouldn't be surprised. Better to die drunk in this hellhole than not. The light blossomed one last brilliant time. Wilson blinked and saw the bearer clearly as he came towards him.

  Smithy came lurching out of the tunnel. A flickering oil lamp swinging from a chain around his neck. Grim clouds went billowing across his features as the lamp jerked about. His shredded face wept tears of rheumy blood as he reached out for Wilson. The Sergeant's hands were skeletal, meat hanging from them as fleshy streamers. The mouth worked feverishly, gagging on the black rat nestling within.

  “I been ate up, Wilson, all of me. I've been all ate up. My eyes are gone, see? You left me to him and he ate my eyes out. Give me yours.”

  Smithy came at him, reaching for him, shrieking out of the dark.

  “Give me your eyes, boy!”

  Dead fingers plunged into Wilson's face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The men in the tent were quiet as Kitty entered. It was the ward for those suffering from shellshock. No-one was allowed to call it that, orders from the top, Mad had told her. The men's medical tags all read the same.

  ‘Not Yet Diagnosed, Nervous’

  Everyone was told to refer to them as the nervous patients.

  Sister Fearing had asked her to come here and help with a difficult dressing. The unknown soldier was here too, recuperating from his wounds. The gas gangrene had finally cleared up after a week of irrigating the wounds with Eusol. He was lucky to be alive. The Ypres casualty clearing stations were always flooded with wounded. Many died from infection out there in the field before they were sent down the line. The unknown soldier was in the bed nearest to the tent's entrance. She walked past him, favouring him with a glance.

  He opened his eyes.

  Wilson rushed upwards at her, gasping for breath. He surfaced. The chill of passing dreams ran through him, dissipating the memory of the nightmare. Resting his head on his knees, he breathed in and then out, hard. He felt feminine hands take hold of his shoulders, easing him back into the pillow. He looked up and saw her.

  Wilson snatched at her hand. “Where am I?”

  “General Hospital Twenty-Six.”

  He looked at her, eyes wide, as if he didn't believe she was real. He gripped her hand, squeezing it tight, too tight, expecting her to melt away at his touch.

  “This isn't a dream. You're real.”

  She nodded.

  “Thank Christ. Oh, thank Christ. I've had enough of not knowing what's real and what's not.”

  A shaky breath escaped him as he slumped back onto the bed. He swallowed the salty sea air washing in through the tent flaps. His nerves settled a little. Yes, this was real. You could not dream air as good as that.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “You've been off the train for quite a while. You've been with us just over a week. Do you remember your name? Do you know who you are? You didn't have your tags on you.”

  “Me? I….I'm-”

  He stopped speaking and looked dead ahead.

  His brow knitted. He scratched at it.

  “I can't remember. Why can't I remember?”

  “It could be shock. I'm sure it will come back to you. By the way, please call me Miss Goldsworth. The Sister gets very cross if volunteers, such as myself, are called Sister.”

  He looked up, managing a weak smile. “Okay, Sister.”

  She smiled back at him. “Now, how are you feeling otherwise?”

  “Rough. I didn't sleep too well. I think I had nightmares.”

  “You poor thing.” She pressed a palm to his brow. No fever or temperature. Her soft touch soothed his skin, strengthening his smile.

  “I'll be alright. A bit of rest is what I need. I'll be right as rain.”

  He smiled up at her, hoping to convince her he would be okay. His eyes were a strange shade of grey. There was so much unhappiness in them. They reminded Kitty of a sad and lonely day when she was a child. She'd been looking out of the window into the garden. The rain had been falling so hard. She remembered the words that came into her mind back then. Nothing but the rain shall fall.

  “You've been delirious since you got here. You were quite mad with pain. We didn't think you'd come back to us with a clear head. You need to rest as much as you can. I'll be round again later to check on you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Goldsworth. I need your help in here, please,” Sister Fearing's strident command rang out.

  It came from inside the screens erected around the neighbouring bed, breaking the spell of the soldier's sad eyes. Wilson watched her move onto the next bed and disappear behind the set of screens. Lying back in the bed, he patted the fresh dressings on his shoulder and thigh. They were stiff and hurt when he touched them. He'd been told that infected wounds hurt the worst of all. This pain was real pain though. The good kind of pain. Simple and straightforward. It didn't come with muggy horrors piggy-backing on it. He closed his eyes to rest, enjoying the soothing sightlessness.

  …the nozzle ignited…

  …spraying hot death into his face…

  He opened his eyes and lay there, unmoving.

  Some wounds were not healing.

  *

  Kitty felt the gaze of the man on her as she walked away from him. Sister Fearing was waiting for her. The older woman's hands clasped together as if in prayer. She was a skeletal woman with mousey hair secured in a tight bun under her nurse's bonnet. Her face was peculiar. The skin around her lips was tight and lined, as if she were sucking her face in through her mouth.

  “How's the new arrival, Miss Goldsworth?”

  “He's fine, Sister. Just needs some rest, I think. His nerves seem to have settled too.”

  “You can never be too sure of that, Miss Goldsworth. We had a boy i
n here a few months before you came, seemed to be on the mend. You wouldn't have thought him different from any of the other Tommies. He had fits. They came on sudden. They stayed longer and longer each time.”

  “What happened to him, Sister?”

  “Died, his heart gave out.”

  Kitty shivered, directing her attention back to the task in hand. Sister Fearing always talked of such morbid things. Mad said that she was just trying to scare her. A bitter old woman picking on a pretty young girl. Kitty dismissed the thoughts from her mind. The boy in bed needed tending to. That was the most important thing, here and now.

  Sister Fearing eased back the blankets to reveal the 'difficult' wound that needed to be re-dressed. There was a hole where the young man's genitals should have been. It was packed with pieces of soiled gauze, lodged within the mass of dressing was the length of tubing he used to relieve himself.

  “I need you to keep him calm, Miss Goldsworth. You have a way with the men. Try to stop him moving about too much whilst I deal with this.”

  The boy was blank-faced, staring into space. His skin was washed-out. His lower lip seemed to tremble at a constant rate. Sister Fearing eased out a piece of soiled gauze. He came to life, squirming. Kitty placed a gentle hand onto his arm, easing him back down to the mattress.

  He looked into her eyes.

  “We're going to make you better,” she smiled at him, “Please lie back and let the Sister finish cleaning you up. Your wound will get infected otherwise and you won't get better.”

  Kitty laid him back and placed a square of cloth across his face, to preserve the little dignity he had left as Sister Fearing removed the gauze pieces from the wound. The boy's tears soaked into the cloth. Sister Fearing cleaned the wound with a series of rough strokes. Being gentle on such a sensitive part of the body was difficult, but not impossible. Sister Fearing did not even try to be gentle. She saw no point in making concessions to the feelings of the wounded. Especially if they were going to act up when she was trying to help them. They were soldiers and should have enough grit in their bellies to stand a sore spot or two.