The Sorrowing Wind (The Apple Tree Saga Book 3)

by Mary E. Pearce

  They changed direction and began to run, the rain now blowing in their faces, and as they stumbled through the mud a machine-gun rattled from a sandbagged emplacement on their right. Brownlee fell dead, and Bird doubled over, hit in the stomach. The three remaining men dived for the cover of a shell-crater and Newers got a bullet in the arm.

  Tom and Thurrop looked over the rim, trying to locate the machine-gun post. A chance British shell located it, one of six fired from a battery of field-guns at Souane-la-Mare, and the watchers saw it go up in smoke. Tom and Thurrop went out to help Bird, but found him dead, his face contorted. They crawled back to Newers, who sat in the crater, blowing through his empty pipe.

  ‘Don’t tell me ‒ I know ‒ we’re in a hole. We’ll be mentioned in dispatches for this and asked to lecture to the rookies. “How to lose your way in a direct charge.” Oh, well, I daresay the chaps’ll manage without us.’

  ‘You all right, Bob?’

  ‘No, half of me’s left, Toss.’

  ‘Let’s see that arm. I’ll do you up.’

  ‘Go easy, then, ’cos that’s the arm I shall use for bowling when I play for Worcestershire next year.’

  Tom dressed the badly torn arm and gave Newers his water-bottle. Thurrop was up at the edge of the crater, looking out, his rifle at the ready. There came a sharp crack and he fell back, dead, rolling over and over down the slope till he splashed into the pool at the bottom. Tom went quickly up to the rim and lay looking out. There was a movement in the next hole and he took aim. The sniper heaved and then lay still. Tom stayed where he was, watching.

  ‘Did you get him?’ Newers called.

  ‘Yes, but I reckon there’s more of ’em out here somewhere.’

  ‘Our own chaps’ve got it in for us as well. We’d better get to hell out of here as soon as we can find another hole.’

  The field-guns at Souane were firing again and the shells were falling very close.

  ‘Stupid sods,’ Newers said. ‘You’d think they’d know a British-held crater when they saw it, wouldn’t you?’

  Tom was just turning when a shell exploded within the crater and he was knocked over by the blast. Debris covered him and he felt scorched. He got to his knees and shook off dirt that weighed a ton. Everything now seemed very quiet and when the smoke cleared away he saw that Newers had been blown to pieces. Nothing remained that could be called a man. Yet the pipe from his mouth was quite undamaged, lying in the mud some yards away. Tom crawled towards it and picked it up. He put it in his pocket and buttoned the flap. And then without warning a shell exploded in front of him, a fireworks show inside his head, followed by darkness.

  When he became conscious again, he thought it was night-time, but after a while he realized he was blind. The darkness was in his own head. It was not lit by stars, or Very lights, or the distant flashes of guns. It was darkness thick and absolute, and he was at its mercy.

  The upper part of his skull felt numb, yet inside it was full of pain. When he put up a hand, there were hard splinters embedded in his flesh, all over his face and scalp and neck. His uniform hung in ribbons in front, and his body felt small, as though it had first been scorched then crushed; and everywhere, when his fingers explored, he encountered sharp chips of metal and stone, driven into his skin by the hot blast. He had an open wound in his chest, sticky with blood, and he held his field-dressing pressed against it.

  He crawled from the crater, out onto flat land. His eyes were hurting him, hot in their sockets, and whenever he blinked he could feel the gritty fragments in them. He crawled on his belly; he had no strength to raise himself up; and he pushed himself on with one arm. His mouth was shrivelled and he drank from puddles, water corrupt, evil, stinking, for dead men had rotted recently in this ground and cordite vapours had spread their poison everywhere.

  He came to a trench and wriggled down into its bottom. It was an old German trench, long deserted, and in many places its sides had collapsed. He crawled along it for some way, and then sat still, listening. The sound of gunfire was very faint, and he thought his hearing had been affected. He felt very cold and knew he ought to keep on the move, but before he could make another effort he had passed into a deep faint.

  He awoke to a small scrabbling sound, somewhere close at hand. A rat, perhaps, scavenging among the bones. But then he heard a human footfall and the click of a rifle bolt being drawn back.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called. He could see nothing.

  ‘Stehen bleiben oder ich schiesse! Hände hoch, Du englischer Tommee, keine dummen Geschichten. Du bist mein Gefangener. Verstanden?’

  God in heaven! He had crawled right into the enemy lines. How had he managed to travel so far? But the German, it seemed, was all alone: a man like himself, cut off from his comrades, seeking shelter where he could. He saw that Tom was hurt and unarmed, and there was a sound as he leant his rifle against the wall.

  ‘Du lieber Himmel! Du siehst ja schlimm aus. Trink einen Schluck Wasser.’

  ‘Water,’ Tom said. ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  He felt the bottle at his lips and drank from it weakly, his head back. It was muddy stuff, tasting of petrol, but might have come from a clear mountain stream, so cool was it in his aching throat. He was too weak to move and lay where he was, shivering, while the German touched him, looking at his wounds.

  ‘Blown-up? Stimmt’s? Dich hat’s da draussen irgendwo erwischt?’

  ‘Blind,’ Tom said, and put up a hand to touch his eyes. ‘My eyesight’s gone. Napoo! Kaput!’

  ‘Tut mir leid! Armer Kerl! Sehr unangenehme Sache. Wenn mein Kameraden kommen, konnen wir uns vernünftig um Dich kümmem. Wir haben gute Arzte, die Dir wieder auf die Beine helfen.’

  ‘Kamerad,’ Tom said. It was the only word he understood.

  The German had opened his ragged tunic and was cleansing the open wound in his chest. The unseen hands were quick, sure, gentle, as they put on a dressing and tied it in place.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tom said. ‘It feels a lot better, that’s a fact.’

  ‘T’anks? Hast Du Dich etwa bedankt? Vielen Dank?’

  ‘Ah, that’s right, danke schön.’

  ‘Ich heisse Josef. Und Du?’

  ‘I dunno. Search me!’ But after a moment he understood. ‘Tom,’ he said, wearily.

  ‘Tom? Tommee? Führst Du mich etwa an der Nase ’rum?’ The German was chuckling, slapping his leg. ‘Fritz und Tommee! Tommee und Fritz! Merk’ Dir ‒ ich bin nicht Fritz, sondern Josef.’ Then, as Tom shivered again, he gave an exclamation and got to his feet. ‘Ich werd’ Dir was zu essen holen, und veilleicht was zum Zudecken.’

  He was gone a long time. Tom thought he had gone for good. But he came back with a German greatcoat and helped Tom into it, wrapping it round him and turning the collar up to his ears. He also brought food and a stoneware bottle full of liquor.

  ‘Käse,’ he said, and placed a small piece of cheese in Tom’s hand. ‘Was heisst das auf englisch?’

  ‘Cheese,’ Tom said, putting it whole into his mouth and sucking slowly. ‘Danke schön.’

  ‘Brot,’ Josef said, and this time he gave Tom a crust of bread. ‘Was heisst das?’

  ‘Bread,’ Tom said. ‘I hope you’ve got some for yourself. Eh? Have you? Brot for Josef?’

  ‘Richtig. Ordentlich was zu essen für uns beide und natürlich ’ne Menge Schnaps.’

  When Tom had eaten, Josef took his hands and placed them round the stoneware bottle, helping him raise it to his lips. The drink was warming and brought some life into Tom’s veins.

  ‘Schnaps. Was heisst das auf englisch?’

  ‘I reckon that’s brandy,’ Tom said. ‘It’s good. Very good. It’s made me feel a lot better.’

  ‘Schmeckt’s Ja? Freut mich. Du solltest Dich jetzt aber mal ordentlich auspennen.’ Josef was making snoring noises.

  ‘Ah,’ Tom said, his head aching. ‘Yes, you’re right, I’m about done.’

  ‘Leg’ Dich hin ‒ so geht’s gut. Ich halte Wäche. Bisschen sp�
�ter kommen meine Kameraden und wir sehen zu, dass wir Dich zur Sanitäts-Station hinkriegen.’

  ‘Is it night-time?’ Tom asked. ‘Nacht, is it?’

  ‘Nacht? Ja, es ist zehn Uhr.’

  ‘That’s just what it feels like,’ Tom said.

  He lay on his back, staring upwards, but could see nothing of the night sky. Only a kind of throbbing blackness. His eyes were ruined and he was too numb to think about it. He fell asleep like a dead man.

  He awoke to a smell of hot coffee and sat up, looking around him. Surely his eyes were not quite ruined after all, for when he looked downwards at the ground, the darkness was greater than when he looked upwards into the sky, and there was the hint of a shadow moving, where Josef was busy preparing breakfast. Only a blurred featureless shape, it was true, but it made his heart leap up with hope. Yesterday, blackness. Today, a grey fog. Tomorrow, perhaps, there would be light.

  ‘Morgen!’ said Josef. ‘Trocken, sogar.’

  ‘My eyes are better!’ Tom exclaimed. ‘I can see! I can see!’

  ‘Was war das? Ich versteh’ Dich nicht. Kannst Du mich sehen? Kannst Du mein Gesicht erkennen?’

  ‘Eyes,’ Tom said, and pointed to them. ‘They seem a lot better than they was.’

  ‘Dir geht’s besser ‒ Willst Du das sagen? Schön, gut. Gott sei Dank!’

  He brought Tom a breakfast of black coffee, faintly sweetened, and a hunk of rye bread with a slice of stale cold sausage on it. They sat opposite each other, with the fire between them, and Tom peered at the German’s outline, a darker shadow against the greyness. He wished he knew what the man looked like. He wished he could touch the unseen face. And he put out his hands in such a way that the man understood him, and, laughing a little, guided the hands towards his face, allowing Tom to feel his features.

  ‘Bin ich nicht schön? Ich find’ mich wunderschön! Bin ein Bild von Junge, findst Du nicht?’

  He laughed again, deep in his throat, and Tom smiled, guessing the nature of the joke. He now had a picture of the German’s face: square in shape and broad-browed, the flesh shrunken on the strong bones, the stubbled skin tightly stretched; and he let his hands fall into his lap.

  ‘You ent been getting enough to eat. You shouldn’t have shared your food with me.’

  ‘Na? Was war das wieder? Was sagst Du da?’

  ‘Have you got a wife?’ Tom asked. ‘Frau? Kinder? Family?’

  ‘Ja, klar. Ich habe Bilder von ihnen. Ach, stimmt ja, Du kannst ja nicht sehen. Ich hab ’ne Frau, Margarete, und zwei Kinder, Peterlein und Lottchen. Ausserdem noch einee Hund Waldi.’ He made a noise like a dog barking. ‘Hund!’ he said. ‘Was heisst das auf englisch?’

  ‘Dog,’ Tom said.

  ‘Dog. Waldi. Er kommt gut mit Schafen zurecht.’ He made a noise like a sheep bleating. ‘Schafen!’ he said. ‘Was heisst das?’

  ‘Sheep,’ Tom said.

  ‘Ja. Ja. Gut-dog-mit-sheep. Dann werd’ ich wohl bald prima englisch sprechen!’

  So the man was a shepherd and lived on a farm. Why had he left it and come to fight? Were German shepherds under conscription? Tom had no way of asking these questions. He picked up his mug and drank his coffee.

  Suddenly there was a noise. Voices talking not far away. Josef sprang up with an exclamation and went running off along the trench. Tom remained sitting, ears strained, trying to interpret the sounds that reached him. Then came the loud-bouncing crack of a rifle, followed by several cracks close together, and, after a pause, footsteps coming to the edge of the trench. An English voice spoke, and Tom answered.

  ‘Good God, there’s one of our own lads down here!’ said the voice, plainly that of an officer. ‘And in pretty bad shape by the look of things. What’s your name, man, and which lot are you from?’

  ‘28233 Maddox, Sixth Battalion, Three Counties.’

  ‘I thought you were a German, wearing that coat. It’s lucky you spoke up quickly like that or I might have shot you. Can you walk, Maddox?’

  ‘I reckon I can. The only thing is, I can’t see too well.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. We’ll give you a hand. Cunningham! Dodds! Come and give this man a hand.’

  ‘Where’s Josef?’ Tom asked.

  ‘What, that bloody German?’ said one of the men who came to help him. ‘He’s bloody well dead, with three or four bullets in his rotten carcass.’

  ‘But he was my friend! He saved my life! He gave me his coat and let me share his food and drink.’

  ‘Did he, by God?’ the officer said. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Maddox, but he did open fire on us first, and he got my man Ross straight through the heart. That made me see red, I can tell you, because Ross was the best servant I ever had.’

  As they led Tom away they told him that the battle of La Bouleau had been successful. County Point had been taken, so had Cock’s Spur, and eight hundred Germans had surrendered. The whole of that sector was in British hands.

  In the crowded hospital at Rouen, a doctor came every morning and evening and examined his eyes, looking into them with a tiny torch.

  ‘Will they get better?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, I think so. They’re improving already, aren’t they?’

  ‘A bit. Not much. I still can’t see nothing but shapes and shadows.’

  ‘It’s early days yet. That shell must have been a pretty near thing. I’d say you were lucky to be alive.’

  The hospital was never quiet. There were over a hundred men in the ward with Tom, many of them in great pain, groaning, whimpering, crying out. The nurses were terribly overworked. Their voices were often loud and impatient, their hands ruthless, plucking dressings from torn flesh. Tom, still in darkness even by day, was often confused by the bustle around him. It hurt his head and made him feel dizzy. He had nothing to say to these brisk white presences talking across him. He was all alone at the centre of a world of noise and movement.

  But one day, out of the commotion, a more restful presence, a gentler hand, and a girl’s voice speaking in quiet tones beside him.

  ‘Private Maddox? Somebody said you came from Chepsworth, where they blow on the mustard to make it cool.’

  Tom smiled. The girl’s voice was a voice from home. Her accents were his, though not so broad, and she called the town ‘Cheps’orth’ in the local manner.

  ‘You must come from there yourself, knowing that saying.’

  ‘I come from Blagg, a tiny place four miles out. Do you know it?’

  ‘I should just think I do, for I come from Huntlip, right next door. Why, we’re practically neighbours, you and me.’

  ‘The people of Huntlip are either foxes or hounds, they say, so which are you?’

  ‘And the people of Blagg all go in rags!’ he answered back, enjoying himself.

  ‘Not me,’ she said, ‘I get my uniform free of charge.’ And he could hear that she was smiling. ‘Whereabouts in Huntlip do you live?’

  ‘Place called Cobbs, out towards Middening. There’s a carpenter’s shop ‒ Tewke and Izzard’s.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve passed it often.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Linn Mercybright.’

  ‘I don’t remember you at school in Huntlip.’

  ‘We’ve only lived at Blagg these past five years. Before that we lived at Stamley and before that at Skinton Monks. My dad’s a bit of a wanderer. He works at Outlands Farm at present and has a cottage in Stoney Lane.’

  ‘I know Outlands. I’ve been there a lot. But I’d better not say what I was up to.’

  ‘Poaching?’ she said. ‘You needn’t worry. My father’s only a labourer there. He’d very likely give you his blessing.’

  Tom leant forward a little way, but could see her only as a white shadow.

  ‘I wish I could see you properly.’

  ‘You will be able to soon, I’m sure, but I must go now or Sister will have me on the carpet.’

  ‘Nurse,’ he said, anxiously. ‘Nurse! Are you there?’

  ‘Yes?’ she
said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Will you come and see me again?’

  ‘Yes, of course, every day.’

  She had been in service at Meynell Hall before volunteering as a nurse. She would go back there when the war was over.

  ‘God willing, of course.’

  ‘It won’t be long now, from what they’re saying.’

  ‘God grant they’re right.’

  ‘Linn?’ he said. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Close on twenty-two.’

  ‘Six months older’n me, then.’

  ‘I see you’ve had a letter from home. And a parcel too.’

  ‘Trouble is, I can’t write back. Not a proper letter. All I could do was get someone to fill in a card.’

  ‘I’ll write a letter for you, when I get time. Tomorrow, perhaps. It’s my easy day.’

  Next day when she came, he was sitting out on the terrace. There was bright sunlight and he could see it on her hair, which was reddish-gold and shone like copper, for now, off duty, she wore no cap.

  ‘I can see you better today,’ he said. ‘You’ve got red hair.’

  ‘Mrs Winson at Meynell Hall always used to call it auburn.’

  ‘Auburn, that’s right. I couldn’t think of the right word.’

  ‘I was only teasing you,’ she said, laughing. ‘Of course it’s red, and who cares? The main thing is that you can see it. Has Dr Young been to see you today?’

  ‘Early this morning,’ Tom said, and, after a moment: ‘Strikes me he’s bald.’

  Linn, delighted, laughed again. He had never heard laughter quite like hers. He could see her leaning back in the chair.

  ‘You are improving, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Soon you’ll be able to see our warts.’

  ‘Warts?’ he said. ‘What, you?’

  ‘That was just another joke.’

  ‘Are you going to write my letter?’

  ‘Just this once, yes, but soon you’ll see to write your own.’

  At the end of the week he could see. His sight was almost back to normal. He could see that Collins, in the bed beside him, who had lost both his legs, was only a boy of eighteen, and that Beale, in the bed on the other side, was jerking with tetanus. He could see the many men poisoned by the fumes of gas, who lay with faces discoloured and burnt, breathing painfully, with a terrible noise, drowning with their lungs full of foul bubbling foam, whose dying was drawn out day by day.