by David Hough
“As long as he remains here in this Château, you should. He’s a very dangerous man.”
The girl didn’t seem at all surprised by his accusation, almost as if she was aware of it already. “Go on, Captain. How do you know this?”
“It’s my business to know. He is right, I am Captain Victor Wendel, a British spy.” What was the point of hiding it from her? She must be aware of the truth by now.
She nodded with a look of satisfaction. “I suspected that from the first time I saw you. You did not make a convincing American.”
“Spotted it, did you? And I suppose I made Schatzenberger’s day when I came here. He’s an expert in the art of torture. And that’s why you must listen to me and heed my advice.”
“You sound very adamant.”
“I am adamant. It’s vitally important for you and your grandmother to get away from here.”
He paused long enough to take in a deep sigh. Spasms of pain ran through him. The girl watched silently, as if she was aware of all he was suffering. As the pain eased, he looked around the ornate room before fixing on the open door.
“Where is your brother?” He asked, wondering.
Again, she turned her head away before replying. “I do not know. Like Herr Doktor Schatzenberger, he has been missing since breakfast.”
“How convenient,” he replied with an intended dose of sarcasm.
She didn’t seem unduly put out. Instead she gestured towards his blood-stained shirt. “Would you like me to dress your wounds, Captain Wendel?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“I was waiting for you to ask. I am not your nurse.” She stood up slowly, unwinding her willowy body from the chair like a serpent uncoiling itself from a cosy lair. “Come to the kitchen and I will boil some water.”
He followed her from the room, wondering where her sympathies lay. If Pierre was Wood Wine, a double agent, did Sophia have the same political sympathies? He had to know before he spirited the Countess away.
He trailed after her into the kitchen which had a pleasantly warm feel to it. It had, also, a comforting aroma of recently cooked food. As he passed by a large cast iron range, he reached out a hand to it. It was hot to the touch.
The girl gestured him to a stool alongside a scrubbed wooden table. “Sit down while I heat up some water.”
“Don’t you have a servant to do that? What about the one who changed into a Feldwebel’s uniform the day I arrived here?”
She eyed him with a shy look. “I have not seen him...”
“Since breakfast? Maybe he’s with Schatzenberger or your brother, who also hasn’t been seen since breakfast.”
“Stop complaining and remove that dirty shirt. By heavens, Captain, you smell bad.” She wrinkled her nose.
“So would you if you’d been through what I’ve been through.” But, of course, she would never have been through anything like that. She was a sweet-smelling girl who kept herself above such degradation.
She filled a large kettle and set it on top of the range. While she waited for it to boil, she went to a cupboard and took out two bandage rolls and a pair of scissors. “I remember seeing a jar of salve somewhere. Ah, yes. Here it is.” And she took down a glass jar filled with a creamy ointment.
Wendel dropped his shirt on the floor. Until he looked down at it, he had not realised just how much blood had seeped into it.
“We ought to throw that away,” the girl said, placing the bandages and scissors on the table alongside him.
“Forgot to bring a spare,” he said.
“I will find another for you from amongst the servants’ clothes.”
“The Doktor seems to have redecorated some parts of my body,” he said. “I think I preferred them the way they were.”
“Be quiet and stop trying to be funny.” She took a deep breath and sat down on a wooden chair beside him. A strange look of compassion crossed her face as she tentatively laid her fingers over one of his vivid bruises. “This one looks the worst. I will do my best not to hurt you too much, but there is bound to be some pain.”
“I’ll try not to cry.”
“Cry all you like, Captain Wendel.” She put her fingers into the jar of salve and gently smoothed the ointment over the bruise. When he winced, she paused and stared into his eyes. “I can see it is hurting you, do you want me to go on?”
“Yes. Ignore anything I do.” He tried to smile but failed. “Seems to me, Sophia, you could so easily be a nurse. A good one.”
“Grandmama would never allow it. She expects me to one day become the next Gräfin von Birkensaft. And a Gräfin should act like a high-born lady.”
“What happened to your mother?” he asked.
“She and my father died when Pierre and I were young. Grandmama was responsible for us after that. I think Pierre is her favourite. She doesn’t really trust me.”
“Why not?”
“She has her reasons, no doubt. Hold still while I cover the damage.”
He went silent for a full minute while she wrapped the bandage about his chest. Then he asked, “Where is your brother, Sophia? The truth?”
“He has gone. I told you, I have not seen him since breakfast.”
“Carry on. You’re not telling me everything. There is more to tell, isn’t here?”
“If you insist.” She sat back and surveyed him with a keen eye. “I told Pierre to get well away from here in case he got caught up in something he could not control. He is not a strong man, you know. Intellectual, yes, but not physically strong.”
“Where did he go?”
“He has gone back to Prince Rupprecht’s headquarters. He should be safe there.”
“Safe? From what?”
“From you, Captain.” She stared at him with an unwavering gaze. “You did come here to kill someone, didn’t you? And Pierre is too weak to fight against you.”
“How could I fight anyone? Doktor Schatzenberger seems to have taken charge here. He had me locked up, in case you’d overlooked that fact.”
“Ah, yes.” She stood up slowly. “But Herr Doktor Schatzenberger is now dead.”
*
Panic was beginning to take hold of Ypres. An artillery shell had landed on a building close to the square, destroying it. It was a single, random shell, probably one that had gone well wide of its target, but the effect was dramatic. An exodus of civilians had begun. Not as complete as the exodus from Antwerp, but enough to shake the nerve of those who chose to remain in the town.
“You will not leave?” DeBoise asked Monsieur Goossens. They stood at the bakery’s open door, observing the growing civilian alarm.
“Not until the Boche march into the square,” the baker replied. But his chin was quivering as he spoke and DeBoise knew he would be long gone before the Germans took control of the town.
“Maybe Madame should leave now?”
“Madame will stay as long as I stay!” A tremor in his voice told of fear and uncertainty.
DeBoise said no more, what was the point? He remained at the doorway when the baker returned to his ovens. Inactivity was getting at him now. He was a soldier and he had to do something positive. But he also needed to know what C expected of him. On an impulse, he hurried off through the panicking civilians to the hotel where he found Major General Reynolds.
“Any messages…” he began.
The senior officer nodded and pulled a buff envelope from his jacket pocket. “Hoped you’d come here. Couldn’t send a messenger to you. None left to spare.”
DeBoise thanked him and hurried back to the billet where he took out his decoding book. Five minutes later, he stared at the decoded message. Two days had passed since the previous message and he had been getting more and more concerned. But he hadn’t expected this.
From Cumming
To DeBoise
Imperative I see you. Come to Charing Cross Hospital.
DeBoise cursed silently. He was ordered back to England, and Captain Wendel was still in dange
r, still beyond his reach.
*
The siege guns sounded even louder when they walked out of the building. The girl led Wendel across a neat terrace with a well-trimmed lawn. It seemed too tidy, totally out of place with so much gunfire in the background.
“Over here.” Sophia pointed to a gardener’s shed. “We’ll find the Doktor in here.”
“What was he doing in a garden shed?”
“I doubt if he is going to tell us,” she said.
“How do you know he’s in here?”
“See for yourself.” She pushed open the door and stood back to allow him to enter.
The hut was cold. Not just physically cold, but eerily cold. Dampness glistened on long cobwebs that hung from the wooden ceiling.
Schatzenberger lay on the floor. His throat had been cut. The two German soldiers lay dead beside him. Both had been shot through the head.
“What happened?” he gasped.
“You work it out, Captain Wendel. That’s your job, isn’t it?” The girl turned away. “I must go and take care of Grandmama.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The day started grey and overcast. Shortly after nine o’clock, a B-type bus rumbled into the town square and stopped near the Cloth Hall. DeBoise was the only passenger to climb aboard, the only officer in Ypres who was under orders to return to England. He hurried up the steps to the top deck. The lower deck was already full and, anyway, he preferred to be out in the open air. A light breeze only partially washed away the lingering smells that seemed to hover around broken bodies.
A 34-seater of the London General Omnibus Company, the vehicle had been shipped across the Channel at the start of the war and still had its red-and-white LGOC livery. Others buses – the ones that carried troops to the front line – were painted khaki and had the lower deck windows replaced by wooden planks. The soldiers had a way of putting their rifle barrels through the glass.
But there were no armed soldiers on this gaily-painted bus, only walking wounded on their way home from a field hospital. They all had Blighty tickets, these men who had suffered enough in a war that was seemingly far from over. They were being transported to Calais where hospital ships would to take them back across the Channel.
DeBoise took in the range of injuries, mostly bandaged heads and missing limbs. He sat down next to a uniformed soldier who seemed to be uninjured. A slender-framed man, his upper body was stooped forward. An escort for the wounded, DeBoise thought. Then the man turned towards him. His eyes were unfocussed, his heavily lined face was ashen and his pale lips trembled.
“Got a light, sir?” The soldier’s voice was weak and hoarse. He held up a shaking hand.
DeBoise took out a cigarette packet and Lucifer match tin. He lit a cigarette and handed it to the soldier. “What happened to you?” he asked.
“Dunno, sir.” His eyes remained blank, as if nothing of his surroundings was known to him. “They said a shell must have exploded too close.”
“You’re injured?” DeBoise glanced up and down the man’s body. There was no sign of physical injury.
“No. Not injured.” He struggled to put the cigarette to his lips. Seconds passed before he managed to draw on it.
“But you’ve got a Blighty ticket.” A tell-tale card was pinned to the man’s jacket.
“Have I? Is that where they’re sending me?”
“That’s where you’re going, soldier. You’re on the way home.”
“That’s nice.” The soldier’s words came out hushed and yet they seemed to mean nothing to him.
“Can you see all right?” DeBoise asked.
“Yeah. I think so.” The man turned his head, left and right, but his eyes were devoid of any signs of comprehension. He gulped and tears began to stream down his cheeks. He made no effort to wipe them away.
The bus started with a jerk, and slowly rumbled out of the town square. The soldier fell silent and DeBoise left him to his thoughts. If he had any remaining thoughts.
A cool autumn breeze ran across the countryside when they were some miles from Ypres. DeBoise pulled up his collar and then rubbed his hands together. He was glad of the freshness in the air. Almost without thinking, he took off his spectacles and wiped them in a handkerchief. When he replaced them, he used one finger to push them up the ridge of his nose, a long-held habit. Untainted fields stretched out on either side and, in the distance, he made out small villages that remained untouched by war. If only all of Flanders was like this.
He had almost put aside his concerns for the soldier alongside him, when the man began to sob, his shoulders heaving.
“Easy up, old chap.” DeBoise patted the man’s arm, aware that he was doing no good whatsoever. What could he do for a soldier whose nerve had been torn to shreds?
The sobbing continued for ten minutes or more and then the soldier lapsed into an uneasy silence.
“Feeling better now?” A stupid question and DeBoise wished he could retract it.
“It sounded like a French name,” the man muttered in reply.
“What was that?” He leaned closer to better catch the soldier’s mumbled words.
“Where we met the Huns. It sounded like a French name. Arms an’ tears, I think.”
“Your mean Armentieres?”
“Yeah. Something like that. My mate, Tommy, bought it at Arms an’ Tears. Good mate, was Tommy. There wasn’t much of ’im left, you know. Nothing you’d recognise.”
DeBoise nodded. “Be glad you’re going home, soldier. You’ve done your bit. You’ve served your country well.”
“Have I? Have I done well?” He sounded like a child asking for reassurance.
It was raining when they reached Calais. DeBoise was first to disembark, before a group of nurses boarded the bus to take charge of the injured. He didn’t look back as he walked along the quayside towards the ferry that would take him back to England. He felt a measure of shame that he alone amongst the bus passengers was fit and well. He alone had reason to feel thankful as he turned his back on the war.
For a brief moment.
*
Dusk was falling when the train steamed into London Victoria. DeBoise was first to step down onto the platform. The station seemed little different, except for a long line of nurses, silently waiting. He began to hurry away and then paused to look back. The nurses were moving forward to receive the wounded soldiers as they struggled to disembark. Broken young men, made old by their experiences, were helped by fresh-faced women in neatly starched uniforms.
DeBoise walked on, past the ambulances drawn up in the forecourt, and hailed a taxi. The driver said nothing until he pulled up before reaching the hospital at Charing Cross.
“Best you walk from here, mate.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see when you get there.”
He began to walk and, within minutes, the reason became obvious. Much of the traffic had been diverted from the immediate area to minimise noise. The roads seemed strangely muted and a large banner had been hung in front of the hospital building in Agar Street. It had a seemingly melancholy request: Quiet for the wounded.
The hospital was busy and the long corridors smelt of boiled cabbage and urine. Was this the sort of place in which he could expect to find himself if he was badly injured? The thought troubled him more than he expected. He glanced through the propped-open door of a long ward and recoiled at the sounds of pain and suffering. Men with missing limbs, men with broken bodies, men with no future.
He hurried on. It took him another ten minutes to find his way to the right floor by questioning passing nurses. Getting to see C wasn’t so easy. Cumming was, he discovered, in a single-bed sideward, isolated from the grim atmosphere of the main wards that were filled with rows of men so badly injured by the war.
The matron was a tall, grey-haired woman with a perpetual frown that spoke of impatience. “Who are you and what do you want?” She gave no indication of helpfulness, sounding more like a gaoler than a carer.
“Lieutenant DeBoise. I need to speak to Commander Smith-Cumming,” he told her. “It’s a matter of utmost urgency.”
She studied her ledger and then looked at him through thick-lens glasses that seemed to balance precariously on the end of her nose. “The Commander cannot be disturbed this evening. You may see him tomorrow.”
DeBoise hesitantly adjusted his own glasses. “I’ve come all the way from Belgium to see him,” he protested. “He insisted I come.”
Her voice remained firm, becoming almost belligerent, but with no increase in volume. “Young man, I don’t care if you have come from Timbuktu, you will not see him this evening. Come back tomorrow.”
“The commander will be annoyed if I’m turned away.”
“The commander does not run this hospital. Come back after nine o’clock in the morning and you may see him then, if he is well enough.”
“Will you not compromise on his one occasion?” he begged.
“I am compromising. Normal visiting does not begin until afternoon.” She slammed shut her ledger.
DeBoise walked away, suppressing his anger with the knowledge that she was probably right. Her job was to protect the patients from intrusion.
Outside, he took a deep, calming breath and then walked quickly away from Charing Cross. He checked into a small hotel in the Strand and determined to be more forceful when he confronted the matron tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The guns sounded closer now. Wendel went back to his bedroom shortly after a less-than-satisfactory evening meal and tried to rest. His bruises were fading but the aches remained, probably would remain for some days to come. The girl had largely ignored him since the discovery of the bodies in the shed. She prepared his meals and served them to him in the dining room, but she pointedly refused to be drawn into any conversation. The Countess kept away from him, taking her meals in private.
He lay on the bed, staring up at the damp-stained ceiling, when he heard the door open slowly. Sophia stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. She wore a flowery summer dress, quite unsuited to the cool autumn weather. It reminded him of Brigitte’s dress the day he had met her all those weeks ago in St Dourcy, the day they made love to the background noises of a battle, the day before he crossed the line in search of General von Hahndorf.