Forrester managed a weak smile of his own. “What’s usual these days? But we did come over at quite a lick.”
Forbes chuckled. “You mustn’t take that too personally. I fear you were unlucky enough to be caught up in some business that had nothing at all to do with you—or fortunate, perhaps, since that mishap greatly expedited your homeward journey. I think I can tell you, Forrester, though do keep it between us, that at the same time they were bringing you here, they were also moving a couple of fairly significant German brass who’d been picked up.”
It made sense, at least of their haste and of the impractically empty trains. He thought of Timperley and Torrance, probably on their way back toward France by now. “That explains why my chaperones were so enigmatic.”
“Yes,” agreed Forbes, “doubtless that’s partly the case. However, there does appear to have been a mix-up—or let’s say, rather, a degree of confusion. Apparently, the sergeant who travelled with you had been given one order, the doctor another, and neither was certain which was right.”
“They didn’t seem to be altogether on the same page,” Forrester granted.
Abruptly, Forbes grew serious, though with an undercurrent of abashment. “I believe Captain Timperley was scheduled to travel that day on business of his own, and somebody decided he might as well keep an eye on you. But you see, you were also meant to be under guard ... after the occurrence with your platoon, that is.”
Forrester’s heart was hammering. Under guard ? It was the unexpectedness that had thrown him, as if he had stepped, without realising, from a safe path into a mire. “I don’t understand,” he said. Hadn’t he asked if he was under arrest and been told he wasn’t? But then, who had responded, Timperley or Torrance? He felt nauseous again; it was hard to breathe, let alone to speak. “What do you mean, ‘the occurrence’? ”
Forbes poured a glass of water from a carafe on the desk and pushed it toward Forrester. “Please, drink this.”
For an absurd moment, Forrester was reminded of Timperley and of the injection and wondered if he could trust the water. Then he pushed the misgiving aside and drank.
“This must be difficult.” Forbes’s attention was on the surface of his desk rather than Forrester. “Frankly, in normal circumstances, I’d have given you a week to recuperate until I met with you.” Finally, he looked up, and it was as though he’d reached a conclusion in some prolonged internal debate. “Let me answer your question with another, if I may. How clearly do you recall the events of the night before last?”
Taken aback by the change of direction, Forrester said, “Clearly enough, I think.”
“And throughout that period—shall we say, from the point you went over the top to the time when you first received medical aid—were there any aspects that might make you doubt your memory, for example in regards to the order in which incidents transpired?”
Forrester forced himself to contemplate the matter seriously. He’d assumed his memories would be vivid, since the events they recorded had been so singular. But when he tested them, he found that Forbes was right: the details had already begun to blur and tangle. Hadn’t he been unconscious, more than once? And half-blinded by the murky goggles of his gas mask? Then there was the trauma of being shot, the chaos of the brief firefight, the dreadful blow of discovering Middleton.
“I have a reasonably good recollection,” he replied, “but I wouldn’t claim it to be perfect.”
“That’s what I thought,” Forbes said. “You see, I’m a neurologist and a psychiatrist by profession, and over the last couple of years, I’ve come to specialise in one particular phenomenon: the condition commonly and inadequately referred to as ‘shell shock’. And what I’m trying to tell you, Lieutenant Forrester, in admittedly round-about fashion, is that, based on your service record, I find it doubtful that you were in full possession of your faculties when you did what you did. Therefore, it’s my belief that you shouldn’t and cannot be held wholly responsible for your actions, or for their consequences.”
Plainly Forbes was seeking to mollify him, yet each word served instead to heighten Forrester’s consternation. “I’m grateful, sir. Only, I don’t know what these actions are that you think I should or shouldn’t be held responsible for.”
“Please understand,” Forbes said, “it’s not a question of what I think.” Now he looked more uncomfortable than ever. “However, I was referring to the deaths of the men under your command, and the fact that you fled the battlefield during the fighting.”
Suddenly, the glass, which Forrester had been raising to his lips, seemed preternaturally cold. The water in his throat was like ice, and its chill was spreading down to his stomach. So, the army thought he was a coward, and Forbes believed he had shell shock. He couldn’t say which was worse.
He drew a deep breath, and then, when that threatened to set him coughing, another. “I promise you, doctor,” he said, “in absolute honesty, I didn’t run away, and the majority of my men were alive when I left them. I admit I ordered a retreat. And that, in the confusion, the order didn’t get passed around as it should have—“
Forbes raised a hand. “Forrester, I’m not here to judge you. Nor do I have any interest in doing so. My concern is for your welfare and recovery. And if, as a side-effect of that, we can establish indubitably that you’ve done nothing blameworthy, I’d be glad to assist toward that goal in any way I can.”
Glancing downward, Forrester was surprised to note that his right hand was shaking where it rested in his lap. Was this his choice? To be treated as a mental invalid or risk punishment for an offence he was innocent of? Carefully, he replaced the glass on the desk, and surreptitiously covered his right hand with his left and gripped tight, hoping that Forbes hadn’t noticed.
Rationally, it was better that Forbes have faith in his own shell shock theory, and better if he could convince the army that he was correct. A court-martial was a precarious business, regardless of how clear-cut the evidence might be on the surface. Had the big push been sufficiently calamitous, there was the chance the brass would be on the hunt for scapegoats, and a trial might cost Forrester his rank or worse. In comparison, would it be so bad to endure treatment for a condition he didn’t have?
Yet the diagnosis appalled him. He’d seen more than enough of shell shock. Such as a corporal they’d had who, out of the blue, had begun to howl: an entirely animal sound, though eventually Forrester had realised that somewhere in that frantic, guttural racket he was calling for his mother. The man had screamed for hours, until he’d worn himself out, then he’d slept like a baby.
Forrester had witnessed men break, and break utterly. Never quite in the same way twice, but always the inner life erupting through the shell of the outer, like a mask splitting, and under it—horror. Fear. Terrible, fathomless weakness, made worse by the suspicion that it could as easily have been you as they.
Except that it wasn’t. Forrester had never fooled himself that his nerve was an infinite resource, or that he was immune where so many men, men stronger than he, had succumbed. Yet he knew in his heart that, however breakable he might be, he hadn’t broken. Maybe there’d been moments when he’d stared into the depths, but they hadn’t swallowed him.
“Doctor,” he said, “with the utmost respect, I don’t believe I’m suffering from shell shock. ”
Forbes pushed back in his chair. He seemed, Forrester thought, almost pleased with this repudiation, as though it were a gambit in a game that he’d already anticipated. “Men rarely believe, at first, that they’re suffering from a nervous illness. So much of our social conditioning goes against the idea. If we’re told something is unacceptable often enough, irrational as that judgement may be, we’ll go to considerable lengths to ignore its symptoms in ourselves.”
“I appreciate that,” Forrester said, “I do. Still, there’s been a part of me perpetually on the lookout.” He might never have consciously acknowledged that scrutiny, but now he recognised it for a fact. “If I’d snapp
ed, I’d like to think I’d have known.”
“Well,” said Forbes breezily, “it isn’t for me to invent illnesses, only to cure them. Perhaps you’re right and your mind is perfectly intact. Perhaps that’s exactly what our investigations will turn up. But I have to tell you, Forrester, from what I’ve observed so far, that outcome is the least likely. I trust you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt when I say that, in my professional opinion, you are exhibiting signs of nervous illness—and moreover, that I can help you.”
It occurred to Forrester that he was beginning once more to feel really debilitated. Was that what Forbes had seen? Yet this conversation, this talk of illness and madness, was precisely what was weighing on him. He attempted a smile, though doing so felt as if his lips were contorting, and said, “Then I seem to have come to the ideal place.”
Forbes reclined deeper into his overstuffed chair. “That’s the attitude! And you’ll fit in well here. We’ll make you very comfortable. Oh, but that reminds me, we’re regrettably rather a backwater. The post is a hit-and-miss affair and we’ve only the one telephone, which is reserved for staff use. Nevertheless, if there’s anyone you’d like to get a message to, I’ll do my best to ensure it reaches them. It may be a while before we can allow you visitors; in the interests of fairness, we adhere to a strict rota. But at least you can assure them you’re safe.”
“No,” Forrester said, “there’s no one I need to contact.”
“No family? No sweetheart?”
“Certainly no sweetheart. And not much in the way of family. My father didn’t know I was in France, so it wouldn’t make a deal of difference to him to know I was back.”
“And your mother?”
“My mother’s dead,” Forrester said, more forcefully than he’d intended.
“I’m sorry.” Forbes looked genuinely rueful.
“No, I’m sorry. It’s all a touch fresh. She died just prior to the war breaking out, and we were quite close.”
Forbes nodded. “But you’re not close to your father?”
“Not in the least.”
“You hold him accountable?”
“I’m sorry?”
“For your mother’s death,” Forbes clarified.
Forrester started. “No, I wouldn’t say that. At any rate, not directly. I suppose that in the long term I blame him for dragging her down.” He didn’t know why he was admitting this. Talking openly about family affairs was wholly outside of his nature. Yet Forbes had a certain receptive passivity that made doing so unusually easy. “They were completely different. There’s no conceiving of what could have brought them together. My mother was Italian, and she was very ... very full of life, you might say. My father apparently came to regard that quality as objectionable and grew intent on stifling it at every opportunity.”
Forbes paused a moment, as though to digest this rush of information. Then he said, “I was curious about that name. One doesn’t come across a great many Englishmen named Rafael. I imagined it might be after the painter.”
“Nothing so dignified, I’m afraid. I’ve a grandfather called Rafael somewhere, for whom I’m named—or did have. He may well be dead. I lost all contact with that side of the family when ... when mother...”
The pain in his lungs had been rising steadily. Now, it clogged his throat altogether. Forrester gasped for air, and when he couldn’t find any, began to choke.
Immediately Forbes was on his feet and rushing to Forrester’s side. He clasped his left bicep and rubbed between his shoulder blades until the wracking coughs abated. Then he ushered the glass of water back into Forrester’s hand and helped him guide it to his lips. Forrester drank the remaining contents down in sips, and slowly the choking subsided to a metallic rasp, like iron filings clattering in a tin.
“I’ve overtaxed you,” Forbes declared. He was leaning against a corner of the desk, brows knitted with worry. “That’s bad doctoring. I’ll have Sergeant Campion escort you to your room. But before you go, Forrester, there’s one favour I must ask of you.”
“Of course,” Forrester managed.
“I hate to bring it up, but aside from the usual rigours of military discipline, we have a single rule, a rule of my own devising: I’d prefer you not to speak of your time at the front with your fellow inmates. It’s for your good and theirs both. There are men here whose recuperation relies on not thinking about what they’ve been through, and a minute’s loose talk can jeopardize a month of recovery.”
“I understand.” He had no desire to talk about the war, or so much as to consider it.
Perhaps having read his reaction, Forbes said, “You may even find yourself to be one of those men. We’ll know better once we start your treatment. If not, you’ll have whatever occasion you require to discuss your experiences with me. I guarantee you that I’m an excellent listener. In the meantime, however, I’ll have to ask for your assurance that you’ll be discreet.”
“I give you my word,” Forrester agreed.
“That’s decent of you. But remember, if you ever should feel that you need to talk, no matter the hour, just say so, and I or one of the other staff will make ourselves available to you. It’s no good you bottling things up either.”
“I’ll do that.” Forrester had had enough. He liked Forbes, but the man was being almost too solicitous, as though there were some particular response he hoped for. Maybe he was still concerned that Forrester might say something inappropriate, or maybe he was eager for him to open up about the war.
Not knowing which, Forrester opted for equivocation. “Thank you, doctor. I’ll keep in mind all that you’ve said.”
Chapter Six
W hen Forrester returned to his room, there was a brown leather portmanteau waiting for him. It wasn’t his, and he wondered whether he should open it. In the end, he resolved that the suitcase had been left in the room assigned to him, on his bed no less, and anyhow was in his way.
Inside were the belongings he had left in the dugout: his clothes, his shaving kit, the framed picture of his mother, the Marcus Aurelius volume he’d borrowed from Captain Fitzpatrick and would never have the chance to return, and other assorted bric-a-brac—frustratingly, everything except his pocket watch, which had no doubt been requisitioned by some enterprising sort. And Middleton’s effects were in there too; whoever had packed the case had bundled the lot together. At least Forrester might get to ensure that Middleton’s property was returned to his family—and even as he thought this, he came upon the letters Middleton had written that last night, crumpled in one corner.
He flattened them with care. Forbes had said that the post was irregular, but surely someone would help him make certain they were delivered. Still, the responsibility made him more anxious than it had reason to.
He wished he’d asked Forbes for a few books. He would have to do so in the morning. All he was left with was the Aurelius, and stoic philosophy seemed too close to the bone just then. Common sense told him he had little to complain about: he’d have weeks of safety and quiet, thanks to a wound that in all likelihood had inflicted no lasting damage. Thousands of men right now in France would trade their eyeteeth for such good luck. Yet he felt rotten to the core, and the talk of shell shock, not to mention that of a court-martial, had rattled him.
Sitting was uncomfortable and taxed his lungs. Unpacking could be put off, Forrester decided. He returned his possessions to the suitcase, placing Middleton’s letters on top, and then, with some effort, hefted the case onto the floor. With the bed cleared, he undressed, changed back into the nightclothes he’d woken in, and climbed beneath the sheets.
It would have been nice not to have to think. If only there was a switch he could flick, as with an electric bulb. His thoughts kept reworking the interview with Forbes, regurgitating details, proposing alternatives he might better have said. And under all that was the persistent worry: had his nerve broken out there in the trenches without his noticing?
That last night in France had been so stra
nge, what with the curious, brilliant light, and finding the men asleep as he had. Wasn’t that exactly the sort of fantasy a derangement might cook up? He tried to consider the matter impartially. An officer takes a bullet, turns craven, and leaves his men to the guns; what does his fractured mind do then, as he recognises the awful consequence of his actions? Why, it consoles him with delusions. Perhaps the dregs of his mother’s religion had risen to the surface in a time of need, the comfort of, “Why make ye this ado, and weep? The damsel is not dead, but sleepeth. ”
There was no mental switch, no way out from under the doubt that had been planted. Damn it all, what he’d give for more books, or some company! He appreciated the reasoning behind Forbes’s injunction now. If there was someone with him, anyone, he would have required all his strength not to blab about the time he’d spent in No Man’s Land—anything to get these questions out of his head.
He jumped at a knock on the door. He hadn’t heard footsteps approaching. The jolt sent jarring pain through his chest, and he had to wait for the anguish to subside before he called, “Come in.”
The door opened. A woman stood framed in the doorway. She wore a white pinafore over a simple grey dress, and her hair was bound up beneath a plain white scarf. In her hands she carried a laden tray. She was of a somewhat dusky complexion, and Forrester thought at first that she might be from one of the Mediterranean countries, Italian or Greek. Looking more carefully, he perceived she was darker than that. From India, perhaps? He had seen Indian soldiers on occasion, stern men in high-piled turbans who kept to themselves, and one sometimes encountered lascar sailors in London. A woman though? That struck him as unusual.
Realising that he was staring, Forrester gave a bashful cough and said, “Good evening.”
Rather than answer, the woman—who must be a nurse, he concluded—tipped her head in acknowledgement and came into the room. When he saw what she intended, Forrester struggled upright so that she could lay the tray across his lap. Once she had it in place, she left and shut the door behind her, all without a word.
To End All Wars Page 7