Why was another matter. One that brought him back to the door hitting him on the way out. As though getting kicked out of his real life into this storybook time wasn’t enough to drive a man around the bend, he’d had to face up to being stuck in this reality forever; to living and dying here.
When he met Irene, whom he’d thought a sympathetic—more, a sane—player on this tricky field, he’d believed there might be some hope. But not any longer. Not after last night. Hence his attempt at drinking Georges’ supply of wine dry. Too bad it hadn’t helped.
Irene had been a little too careful, in his opinion, in regards to what Dr. Hurry might think about her behavior. Why should it matter, unless⏤
Caleb had the notion he’d just been relegated to the second string; or more likely, permanently adiosed. And then, as if those two things weren’t enough to cool his ardor, there was the matter of the dog. Irene hadn’t liked the dog.
Boothenay, he reflected, could be relied upon to make instant friends with the dogs . . . if she were ever to meet them. But he shied away from that picture. There was no solace in dreaming of Boothenay or home. Only pain. He’d been making the greatest effort not to think of her. Now if only she would cooperate and stop edging her way into his mind on her own.
He sighed. There obviously wasn’t anything to be gained in wishing for what might-have-been with Irene either. So, when three ambulances pulled out from the hospital grounds with their noses headed toward camp, he flagged down the last one in line and bummed a ride for him and the dog.
“Soldier,” said the ambulance driver, “you don’t look so hot.” His nose wrinkled defensively against the powerful scent of stale wine. “I suppose you know there’s a battle beginning this morning in this sector?”
Caleb started to nod his head, then discovered it not only hurt too much, it made him dizzy—dizzier—too. Especially since the ambulance had no shocks to speak of. “I heard the guns. So it’s started? The men moving up?”
“Last night, off and on. They trucked all the patients out of the hospital who could be moved yesterday evening, did you know? Making room for fresh casualties.”
“God damn war,” Caleb muttered. Which of his friends would buy the farm today? Bound to be someone he knew. Meanwhile, here he was, off in the middle of nowhere, still close to being drunk on his ass, when he ought to be at the staging area providing support to his unit. “Gotta get back. They’ll be needing teams.”
The driver glanced at the insignia on Caleb’s uniform jacket. “Artillery Corps, eh. You AWOL?”
“No,” said Caleb, without explaining. Still, it was a fair question, he supposed, given the circumstances. He dozed, but kept waking up when he seemed to hear someone saying his name. His name; not Ned Smith’s. He wished the past would leave him alone.
They were within a mile of camp and had just met a supply truck returning to the train depot for another load when he became aware of the annoying pop-pop-pop of a laboring airplane engine. It flew in low over their heads, he noticed, a split second before the markings on the underbelly registered.
“German!”
“I saw,” the driver said tersely. His white-knuckled fingers closed over the steering wheel. Their speed picked up until the truck was nose to tailgate of the one in front. With a red cross prominently displayed on the sides and the tops of the trucks they should be safe—supposed to be. Trouble was, the enemy didn’t always pay a lot of heed to the conventions of civilized people, preferring victory to compassion.
They pressed on. Perhaps three hundred yards widened the distance between the supply truck and the Red Cross ambulance before the aircraft made a second pass. It zoomed over their heads again, the noise of a Lewis machine gun loud in their ears. A queer reverberation worked up through the roadway via the wheels of their truck.
“He’s lobbing bombs at us,” Caleb yelled, headache forgotten
“Missed, by God,” the driver cried. His voice trembled slightly. Caleb looked back
“Poor bastards in the supply truck are really getting hammered,” he said. Guilt washed over him. He was actually glad the enemy pilot had decided to go after someone else this time.
The driver poked his head out the window to see for himself. “Truck went off the road. Don’t think the men are dead, though. I saw somebody moving.”
“Good.” For himself, Caleb was happy enough to leave all of them behind. Happier yet when a pair of French Spads swooped in pursuit of the German Fokker.
He was not so pleased by the scene of chaos that met his eyes as the little convoy swept into camp. Clearly the German pilot had included a bombing run on the horse lines as part of his day’s work. Loose animals, wounded animals were everywhere. Most disturbing was that no one much seemed to be trying to round them up. Where was Will? Where were Blackhorse and Caferro? Where was the rest of the company?
Caleb had the ambulance let him off in front of his own quarters which, by some miracle, were still standing. Calling the dog from the back, he limped around the side of the tent, aware of a hot, fierce anger growing within. The sharp crack of a.45, fired one shot at a time, warned him. Before he turned the corner, he knew what he was going to see.
At least four horses were down, along with two of the mules. Will stood in front of a third mule. The.45 he’d grabbed from the peg when the commotion started kicked in his hand. The mule shuddered, squealed once and bled prodigious gouts of blood onto the ground as it died. The other animals shied from the sound of gunfire and the smell of fresh, hot blood, but most were trained to stand under fire and so these in the near corral did not attempt to escape.
Will was weeping. Only by the strongest self-discipline did Caleb refrain from doing likewise. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he went to join Will.
“We need some help. Where are all the men?” he asked. He found the brown gelding he’d recently shod stumbling awkwardly through the milling herd, bumping into other animals as though he didn’t see them.
Which he didn’t, Caleb discovered. Somehow, both the horse’s eyes had been shot out without actually killing him. “Put this one down next,” he told Will, going on with a hurried triage.
“The men are with the company in the field,” Will said, his voice deep and choked. The lash of the.45 rolled over his words. “Wish we’d gotten a replacement for Thomas. Or for Anderson. Or Bramburg.”
“Yeah.” Caleb found one more animal too badly wounded to attempt saving and motioned Will over. “What about Caferro?”
Will concentrated on aiming his next shot and didn’t answer until Caleb repeated his question.
“Oh, Caferro, ah, he, ah, had to make a trip over to the hospital. He left a bit ago.”
“Is he wounded?” Caleb asked with concern.
“Ah, no. Not wounded. He, ah . . . well . . . Major Page asked him to do something for him.” Will jerked the trigger as the mule started to collapse on its own. The hammer clicked on empty. “Damn. I’m out of ammunition. I didn’t think to bring a spare clip.”
Caleb unslung his rifle, carried across his back like a hunter would do. “Here, use this.” He took the pistol from Will . . . and near as damn it dropped it into the blood and muck of the corral. Only by gripping the butt with convulsive, suddenly cold and stiff fingers was he able to keep it in his grasp.
“Is this my pistol?” he demanded, his throat feeling hoarse.
The rifle cracked and Will waited for the mule to fall before turning around with his answer. “Yes, sergeant. I remembered you said Major Page gave you the Colt in case you needed to put an animal down, so when I found it hanging on the peg, I thought . . . well. Wasn’t it right for me to use it?”
“Yeah, sure.” Caleb’s head was buzzing, and he didn’t think the effect came from last night’s wine. Time and circumstance had worn that off by now. “Funny. The gun feels different to me. Like maybe it’s a whole different.45 Colt. Has somebody been in the tent? Somebody who’d mess around with my things?”
Startled, Will
said, “Is something wrong with the gun, Sergeant Smith? It felt all right to me. Seemed to do the job fine, if that’s what you call it, until I ran out of bullets.”
Caleb sensed an ambiguity in Will’s answer. Ordinarily he wasn’t particularly concerned with his stuff. Hell, it was all government-issue anyway. If he had something someone else needed, they should feel free to help themselves. Except for this gun.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said slowly. “I must be getting feebleminded is all. I didn’t realize I’d left the gun out. Thought maybe Walsh had been around. You know how he is.”
Will handed Caleb’s rifle back to him and said, with an air of wisdom, “Sticky fingered.”
“ ’Fraid so.”
Caleb was perfectly well aware this gun was what caused him to be here, in this war, in this time. Or at least, in a previous incarnation, the gun was to blame. That’s why he’d kept the Colt out of sight since Page had first given it to him, and Walsh had appeared so enamored that he’d asked for one of his own. The mind boggled, imagining Walsh with a magical gun.
While Caleb hadn’t actually worked up his nerve to use the.45, the simple act of taking the pistol from Will’s hands told him there had been a change. Completely inert when he’d last handled it, such was no longer the case. He allowed he knew almost nothing of the ways of power, but though hampered with this near total inexperience, it spoke to him in a way he couldn’t ignore. The magic was heating up.
He found he was trembling slightly, and imagined he tasted fire and brimstone.
Will seemed completely unaffected. He said, “Caferro had orders for us from Major Page. His orders are to bring up fresh teams of horses and for me to join the company. The Huns are pushing forward again and we may need to retreat.”
“Lousy Jerrys,” Caleb said with bitter, if absent, disillusion. “Don’t tell me the teams are dead already.”
“Blackhorse’s are all gone, according to Caferro. I’m late, sergeant. Damn flying machine anyhow.”
“Why did you say Caferro was headed in to the field hospital? If he wasn’t wounded, he should’ve stayed to help.”
Will got very busy, capturing the nearest sound horse and looking around for another. “He had to follow Major Page’s orders. Anyway, we hadn’t been attacked yet, then.”
“You get those orders in writing?” Caleb asked.
“Verbal,” Will said over his shoulder, busy tethering horses to a rail.
“Did he leave any new orders for me?” One of these days Page was going to get over being piqued with Caleb for earning a medal, and reassign him to the fighting. One of these days. Apparently not yet because Will simply shook his head and went back to rounding up more horses.
Caleb left the Colt on a bench at the back of the tent—a mighty relief in the small act of simply putting it aside—and, rolling up his sleeves, got to work. For a man on medical light duty, he found the next hour or so remarkably busy. Deeming a clearance of the dead animals of first importance, he commandeered a spare truck with driver to haul the bodies away. Next came patching up the animals he knew he could save. He sent a private over to Division requesting the veterinarian, though didn’t wait for him to arrive.
At some point, he was aware of Caferro’s return. Before he had a chance for any talk, however, Caferro mustered another team and trotted them off toward the constant rumble of guns. A steady stream of stretcher-bearers began arriving, carrying the wounded to the staging area where they boarded ambulances.
It must have been past noon when Caleb’s gimpy leg gave out on him, dumping him unceremoniously into the dirt between the front legs of a horse whose bullet burn he’d been daubing with a purple medication.
The veterinarian, a captain, newly arrived, glanced down at him. “You’re Smith, aren’t you? Got a medal for taking a machine gun nest? Heard you got wounded. Must be that leg.”
Caleb grunted tersely. The female dog, which never moved far from his side, nuzzled him and licked his sweaty face. After a moment, he used her to brace himself and let her pull him to his feet.
“Sorry, sir. I thought it was well. My mistake.”
“You look done in, Smith,” said the vet. “I think we’re about through here. Why don’t you go get some rest? I’ll finish up.”
Caleb thought he might be too tired to move. A quick inspection of the perimeter showed him most of the debris had been cleared. Great holes pockmarked the area where bombs had hit. If they stayed here long enough, someone would have to fill those in. He was glad to see someone had thrown dirt over the bloodiest ground. A watering trough that had been knocked over had been righted and refilled. One of the few remaining wranglers had spread fresh hay on the ground.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
The Colt was gone from the bench, he noticed, wobbling slightly as he made his way through the rear tent-flap. He should probably put up a fuss. The truth of the matter was that, in his contrary way, all he felt was relief, glad he wouldn’t have to deal with the pistol. If Will had taken it . . . well, he trusted Will not to screw around. Or Caferro, if by chance it was he who was the borrower.
His trusty Springfield he found leaning against the bench where he’d left it, and with the stock beneath his arm, used it as a crutch as he entered the dark tent. The female dog bounded forward to greet the male, sniffing at him in delight. Telling one another of their adventures he supposed. Where they’d been, whom they had seen.
Without bothering to undress, only removing his jacket and shoes, Caleb stretched out on the cot. Sleep came between one breath and the next.
CHAPTER 23
I really hate being one of these clinging-vine type women, but when Private Caferro—Johnny—tried to leave, I was loath to let him go. There is something about surviving a determined attempt on your life that brings people together. We, for instance, had attained first name basis.
“You can’t just dump me here!” My horrified sensibilities were skittering around like cockroaches in a cloud of Raid.
“Ma’am, Boothenay, those are my orders.” From his wild-eyed look, I gathered his sensibilities had had a reaction similar to mine, only he hid it a skoshe better.
“Please, Johnny, please. For God’s sake, I’d rather be right smack dab in the middle of a battle.”
“No you wouldn’t,” he said, trying to detach my fingers from his coat sleeve. “Damn it, Boothenay, are you trying to get me court- martialed?”
No. What I wanted was to keep him alive. But I also didn’t want to be here—here being the 90th Division field hospital. A line of ambulances was arriving from the front every few minutes, the cause of Johnny’s and my heebie-jeebies. This place wasn’t a hospital—it was a house of the dead. Blood was everywhere; it dripped from the edges of stretchers, making the floor as slippery as a skating pond. As though a child with only one color of crayon had been at work, everyone seemed to be painted a splotchy red. I can’t bring myself to describe the smell.
As long as the crush of injured continued to flow into the half-walled hospital tent, Johnny held off leaving. He needed to consign me over to one of the doctors, all of whom were too busy to deal with me at this moment. It was my bad luck this course only gave a better look at what happens when live munitions collide with the body human.
“I can’t imagine why you’re so eager to get back to the fighting,” I said, watching an orderly cover what was left of a man’s face with a cloth and motion the bearers to take him back outside. I have to say this was a relief. At least the poor guy’s screams were finally silenced. “This might be you on one of these stretchers next time, Caferro.”
He swallowed hard, so I knew whatever I could imagine, he’d thought of long before. “It might,” he agreed. “And every minute I’m gone from my company increases the odds the next wounded man I see will be one of my buddies. They need me. I’ve got to get back.”
One part of me admired his loyalty and crazy bravery; this must have come from my soul or heart or something. My brain
argued that he was out of his mind.
Let him go. I had to remind myself rather sharply that I hadn’t come here to change Caferro’s fate, if such a thing were even possible. I had come for Caleb. Whether or not he chose to return home with me—if ever I was able to return—my duty called for me to offer him the choice.
So the next time one of the doctors had a lull long enough to raise his head, I grabbed his attention myself, thereby freeing Johnny to complete his mission. We’ d discovered Doctor Hurry had been promoted and was gone.
“Gone?” Caferro echoed. “Well, hell! What about my orders? I suppose this means I’ll have to take you all the way to Nancy. But I’m not taking you to Paris.”
Thank God I’d done all that studying before coming here. At least I knew Nancy was a place, not a person.
The doctor shrugged and started to walk away. I grabbed his jacket before he could escape.
“Oh, don’t be so literal, Johnny,” I told Caferro. “I think the major just meant for you to get rid of me. This doctor . . . Colonel—” I read his name tag. “—Bloom, can verify you made the delivery as scheduled. Can’t you, doctor? If anyone should ever care enough to ask.”
Highly unlikely anyone would ever remember a woman who once passed through his time, I thought. Like a shadow in sunlight, I’d be gone with the coming of dark.
I stuck out my hand, which, after a moment, Johnny Caferro enveloped in his. I said, “I’m glad you were the first person I met, John, last night on the battlefield. I have a notion things might’ve turned out differently if it had been Walsh. You know, shoot first and ask questions later.”
Johnny smiled. “That’s Walsh.” His smile faded. “Well, ma’am— Boothenay—I’ve got to say you’re different than any other woman I’ve ever seen. I sure hope Walsh isn’t right.”
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