This Time Tomorrow

by Rupert Colley

  ‘Well done, men.’ It was Lieutenant Lafferty. ‘Excellent work, well done!’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Jack.

  ‘Now why don’t you both go off and get some sleep, you deserve it.’

  Sergeant Wilkins stood-up uneasily. ‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ but as he spoke, he turned to look at Jack, his eyes ablaze with rage. ‘Anything to oblige the Searights.’ With that, he turned back to the Lieutenant, saluted and disappeared down the trench.

  As Jack and the lieutenant watched him zigzag away, the lieutenant said, ‘Don’t worry about Sergeant Wilkins, Private, it’s just a bit of wounded pride, that’s all. He’ll get over it.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jack. But Jack wasn’t convinced that the sergeant would get over it. He hadn’t been in the army long, but he’d already seen enough to know there was nothing so dangerous as a soldier with a damaged ego.

  Chapter 11: The Dream

  As soon as Guy awoke, he was conscious of the faint, nagging pain around his left knee-joint. He reached down awkwardly to explore, and found that his trouser leg had been cut or ripped off half way up his thigh. He could feel the huge dressing bandaged around his knee, but he couldn’t reach further down. An awful thought occurred to him. He carefully lifted the stained moth-eaten blanket and pulled it back, praying his leg was still there. It was. The dressing had obviously been applied in a hurry, clumsily wrapped around numerous times, stained heavily by his blood. His shoes and tunic had been removed. He shivered and tucked himself under the warmth of the blanket.

  He gazed around at his surroundings, and could tell he was in what they called an Advanced Dressing Station; this one was in a large, draughty barn. There were two rows of wounded men like himself lying on small, trestle beds. Doctors and staff of the Royal Army Medical Corps buzzed up and down the central aisle, each with the Red Cross armband on their upper arm. The ADS was close enough to the front to be within reach of the German shells. The windows had been blown out and the glass hastily replaced with hard, bleak sheets of corrugated iron. Part of the roof, to the far end, had disappeared. Guy noticed the floor was awash with potholes and littered with discarded bandages, dressings, bits of uniform stained red with blood, and general rubbish. The noise of the enemy shells made him feel uncomfortable, despite them being almost inaudible over the continuous noise within the barn – the sound of staff shouting requests and orders at each other, of soldiers yelling in pain, pleading for attention, muttering incomprehensibly, groaning in discomfort. He knew he was in the presence of death, lurking and intimidating. The unceasing flow of human traffic provided the only source of sorry entertainment: stretchers carrying their burden of wounded men in and – if they were lucky enough to survive that long – patched-up men out. A fair proportion came in half dead and left with the task of dying duly completed. Some hobbled in and out on crutches, others on foot but clasping blood-soaked bandages. It was, thought Guy, a real circus of atrocity.

  Guy’s attention was caught by the pitiful sounds emanating from the bed diagonally across the barn from him. At each corner of the bed stood four RAMC orderlies, holding three yellowing sheets between them to shield onlookers from seeing what ordeals the unfortunate occupant of that bed was suffering. Occasionally, Guy could see a RAMC officer’s hat bob up from within the wall of sheets. After a while, the muffled screams fell silent. The officer’s head re-appeared, the sheets came down and the five men walked away leaving behind a crumpled figure underneath the blanket. Just for a few moments, the men seemed subdued, but then another emergency beckoned and with it, their haste returned. Two minutes later, two stretcher-bearers appeared and, while comparing notes on sleep deprivation, removed the fresh corpse without a second glance. They left behind the rotting blanket and within moments a nurse came along and rearranged the blanket and sheets, removing all trace of the previous occupant. Within another three minutes, the bed had a new patient who clasped the still warm blanket tightly around himself.

  Guy had the uncomfortable feeling he was being watched. He turned to look to his right. In the bed next to him lay stock-still a man whose age Guy couldn’t tell. His eyes were fixed, unblinking and wide open, his mouth slightly ajar from which a trickle of blood oozed. Guy turned his gaze away and closed his eyes, unmoved by another death.

  Guy’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an officer’s authoritative and low-pitched voice. ‘And who do we have here then,’ said the voice. The young, fair headed RAMC lieutenant looked at the card attached to Guy’s tunic lying at the foot of his bed. ‘8562 Private Searight, Fourth Battalion, Essex Regiment. Well, Private, looks like you’ve been in the wars.’ The Lieutenant chuckled at his own little joke. Guy forced a smile. ‘Let’s see then,’ said the Lieutenant clearing his throat and inspecting the bandage. ‘Hmm, got a few maggots in there, I’m afraid; we’d better get you cleaned up. You’ve had your anti-tetanus – you probably didn’t notice, you were a bit gaga at the time. Now it appears that a Bosch bullet caught you right in the back of the knee, went straight through and caught an artery. Afraid it’s made a frightful mess. A frightful mess. But you were lucky; the mud stemmed the flow of blood and stopped you from bleeding to death. Now question is, can we save your leg.’ He looked earnestly at Guy. ‘Can’t pretend it’s going to be easy, I’m afraid. You see, we’re too busy here doing the life ’n death ones, you know. So, what we’ll do is get you moved up to a casualty clearing station ASAP and see what they can do for you there. In the meantime, Private, we’ll get this dressing changed for you and wrap your leg up with a Thomas. OK?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Goodbye for now then, cheerio.’ With that, the lieutenant walked over to the opposite bed. Guy heard him say with a chuckle, ‘Looks like you’ve been in the wars.’

  Guy waited for someone to come and clean his wound, somewhat alarmed by the thought that maggots were gnawing into him as he waited. Presently, a glum-looking RAMC corporal came to change Guy’s dressing carrying a dish with a red solution in it, which Guy reckoned was Lysol. The corporal did his work efficiently but brusquely, causing Guy to bite his fist in pain as the last twists of dirty, blood soaked dressing were whipped from his knee, tearing away a layer of flesh. ‘Keep still, son,’ said the corporal, taking little notice of Guy’s pain; he had become immune to it. ‘This may hurt a bit,’ he said. Taking a pair of forceps, the corporal dipped a swab into the Lysol and dabbed it clumsily onto the wound. Guy endured the pain of having his knee lifted and a new dressing applied. With that part of his job done, the sullen corporal told Guy to roll over to his side. Guy rolled over to his right in order not to put any strain on his left leg, leaving the corporal standing on the wrong side of the bed. The man tutted irritably as he lumbered over to the other side. He yanked Guy’s trousers and pants down, exposing Guy’s left buttock and then jabbed the needle in, with, thought Guy, undue relish. Guy flinched. Next, the orderly applied the Thomas splint – a padded ring placed around his thigh with two long, lateral bars that met under the heel. ‘Right, job done,’ said the corporal and disappeared without another word.

  Guy was just dozing off when he heard his name being called. He raised his left arm and shouted back: ‘Here!’

  Two RAMC orderlies approached, one carrying a folded stretcher. ‘You Searight?’ he asked. Guy nodded. ‘OK, you’re being moved to a Casualty Clearing Station.’

  ‘Is it far?’ asked Guy.

  ‘Yeah, we’re taking you to bloody Vienna. Is that far enough for you?’

  The second orderly stepped in. ‘I must apologise for my colleague’s unnecessary sarcasm,’ he said just as sarcastically. ‘It’s about ten miles back.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Right, you’re ready? One- two- three, heave.’ Guy was hoisted onto the stretcher and carried through the barn, past all the rows of wounded and dying men, until they hit the grey daylight and coldness of the outside. The artillery explosions rattled nearby. The orderlies shunted Guy into the back of a waiting ambulance – a small, b
lack van with room for six casualties: three either side. They lifted Guy into the middle bunk on the left-hand side. Guy noticed all three places on the right were already occupied. The van doors behind him closed with a thump. Presumably, he thought, the other two bunks, above and below him, were also full. The engine spluttered into life and jolted slowly along a rough path until it came to a slightly smoother track. As the ambulance gathered speed, so the ride became bumpier and more uncomfortable. The mattress, wafer-thin, offered no comfort. Inside, with the doors shut, it was dark, with just two small, dirty windows at the back. The heat was stifling and the smell of diesel fumes and sweat oppressive. Guy broke out into a furious sweat, soon accompanied by the frenzied itching of the lice. He unbuttoned his shirt, desperate for air. The six men rode in silence, except for the sound of groaning at each pothole and, above Guy, the pitiful noise of a man quietly whining.

  What felt like an age later, but was probably no more than an hour, Guy could hear the sound of gravel beneath the tyres of the ambulance. The van slowed and came to a halt and he heard voices outside. The back doors swung open and, much to his relief, a rush of cool air filled the van’s interior. ‘Christ, it stinks in ’ere!’ said one of the two men who climbed aboard. They pulled out the man on the top right. Two more men came and took the second casualty who cursed with the pain of being so crudely pulled about. Then the third man went. Guy noticed his jaw had been blown away. How could men survive such horrific injuries? There was a delay before the first two men returned to take out the man above him.

  ‘Stop a minute,’ said the first.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘He’s ’ad it, poor bugger.’

  Guy looked up at the wire mesh and the mattress above him. He noticed the large circle of fresh blood; slowly widening on the material like a stain of freshly spilt ink on a piece of blotting paper.

  ‘We’ll ’ave to come back for ’im later,’ said the first. He peered into Guy’s bunk. ‘Are you still wiv us?’

  ‘Just about,’ replied Guy.

  ‘Good, let’s be ’aving you then.’

  The first one took Guy by the shoulders; the second took his legs. The pain of being manhandled shot through Guy like a bolt. He screeched in anguish.

  ‘Sorry, chum,’ said the first as they laid Guy onto the stretcher. They carried him across the gravelled drive and into the building through the main door into a large, square hallway. The first stretcher-bearer said, ‘You’re going back to school, y’know.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘This used to be a boarding school for boys till the army took it over. Lots of classrooms but not a teacher in sight. Just poor sods like ’im out there, and lucky sods like you here. You’ll be nice and comfy in this place, and no bloody shells to worry ’bout.’

  Guy listened. Here in the grand hallway he could hear only the sound of lowered voices, of footsteps on stone floors. But no gunfire, no artillery shells, no bombs. This was the first moment of silence he’d had for months.

  ‘We’ve got nurses here,’ said one of the orderlies. ‘You know, as in women. French and English. Nothing like the soft bosom of a cuddly nurse to get yer goin’ again, is there?’

  Guy smirked with relief. The man’s speech was obviously a well used one, but it had the desired effect. He had got away with a ‘Blighty’ after all, and he had warmth, silence and women to look forward to. Until that moment, he hadn’t realised quite how much he’d missed, even craved, female company. He felt almost tearful with gratitude. All they had to do was to save his leg and his joy would be complete.

  The orderlies stopped at the desk in the hallway and placed the stretcher carefully on the floor. A sergeant behind the desk told them to take Guy to a specific ward on the first floor.

  ‘OK, hold on tight,’ said the first, ‘we’re goin’ up.’

  Guy found himself smiling. ‘That’s fine. I say, boys, you wouldn’t have a spare ciggie on you, would you?’

  *

  It was the middle of the night. The pain in his left knee had woken Guy up. It felt like he had a hammer pounding his knee from the inside, his whole leg throbbed with the pain as it rippled out from its epicentre. He writhed around on the bed, gripping his blanket, groaning uncontrollably. His throat felt brittle, his insides burning. He needed water almost as much as he desperately needed a piss, but the pain pinned him down to the bed, not allowing him the freedom to move. The effort of trying to contain the pain took up all his mental and physical energy, he could think of nothing but the searing agony. It seemed as if the pain had become a being within itself, a parasite that lived off his wound, delighting in the dominance it held over its host, purposely tormenting him, relishing its absolute power. Within a few minutes, its intensity stripped him of his dignity and, no longer caring, Guy relaxed his bladder muscles and winced at the warm sensation cascading down his legs. He spotted a nurse. He put his hand up and called for her attention.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said as she saw Guy, ‘you are in a mess.’

  ‘Please,’ spluttered Guy, ‘can you give me something, anything?’

  ‘I’ll see what the doctor says. Back in a minute.’

  Guy clenched his eyes shut and began to count the seconds as if holding the nurse to the promised sixty seconds. A throb of pain caused him to jerk, arching his chest out, his head almost swallowed by the pillow. He wanted to hurt another part of his body, just to take the focus of pain away from his leg, to deny pain its total dominance over his wretched knee.

  ‘Private Searight? Major Cartwright, how d’you do.’ The doctor adjusted his glasses and looked at Guy’s details on his card, rubbing the end of his greying, droopy moustache between his fingers. ‘I see we’re due to operate on you later today.’

  Guy wanted to ask questions, but pain claimed his tongue and his ability to string a coherent sentence together.

  The doctor continued: ‘But for now we’ll give you another dose of morphine to keep you going.’ The nurse passed him a syringe. The doctor checked its contents. ‘Turn over,’ he said to Guy. Guy’s buttock was exposed for another injection. Guy wished he felt embarrassed at being so exposed in front of the nurse, but the pain had stripped him of the luxury of dignity. ‘Give it a couple minutes or so and it’ll start to take effect. Now, we don’t want you going into shock, so try and keep warm and nurse will bring you a hot cup of Bovril. I’ll be seeing you later; I shall be performing the operation. Good day.’

  And with that, the doctor marched off, his shoes echoing on the wooden classroom floor. The nurse remained and smiled. She was a large middle-aged woman with puffy cheeks and a sympathetic face. ‘I’ll come back when you’re settled a bit and we’ll see about cleaning you up, OK?’

  The pain was still present but even the placebo effect of the injection began to take effect and question pain’s authority over its unhappy host. Guy summoned his strength and biding his time, muttered: it won’t be long, it won’t be long. And it wasn’t. Pain teetered, tried to cling on, and then collapsed, defeated by the conquering morphine. But whatever pain-free elation Guy experienced was soon crushed by the recollection of the doctor’s parting words: “I shall be performing the operation.” What operation?

  The comely nurse returned, carrying a bowl of hot soapy water and a flannel. ‘Feeling better?’ she asked.

  Guy realised she was the first English woman he’d spoken to in over a year. ‘Did the doctor really say I needed an operation?’

  ‘Major Cartwright? I think so but there again my hearing’s not what it used to be.’ She flung Guy’s blanket back and did not flinch at the stench of urine, sweat and blood.

  Guy lay back and allowed the nurse to do her refreshing work, the warm invigorating flannel working its way over his chest and neck, and between his legs. For the first time, he noticed his surroundings and his fellow occupants. The ex-classroom was small, holding only ten beds, five on either side. Guy was struck by the silence, but it was too dark to see any faces. He was conscious that
his painful groans had probably kept them all awake, but there were no complaints. Soldiers soon learnt to be stoical; no doubt they just pitied him and thanked God it wasn’t their turn to suffer. He wondered why he needed an operation. The brief bed bath complete, Guy arched this way and that as the nurse replaced his bed linen from beneath him. She changed his pyjamas and finished off by plumping up his pillow.

  ‘There,’ she said, ‘that should make you feel better.’

  Guy felt almost pathetically grateful and thanked her. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what’s your name?’

  She looked awkward, glancing left and right. ‘I can’t tell you that, not allowed to.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s in case you men get too, erm, let’s say attached to us.’ She laughed, ‘Not that anyone in their right mind’s going to get too attached to the likes of me.’

  ‘Nurse, I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Oh, listen to you. Now, you get some rest; I don’t want to hear another peep, you understand?’

  Guy listened to the night time silence and smiled. This was what fighting soldiers dreamt of – silent sleep in a warm, comfortable bed. This was heaven.

  *

  Guy dreamt of Jack. Jack the boy had become Jack the man, a successful businessman. He is walking down a London street, arm in arm with a woman, smiling as he passes shop after shop selling ‘Searight Hats – the finest hats in London’. People wave to him and strangers wearing his hats call him by his name. Everyone in London seems to know Jack Searight. He is on his way to a party being held in a large London townhouse, frequented by the fashionable set. His father is there too, holding court, basking in the reflected glory of Jack’s success.

  ‘But, Arthur, what’s become of Guy?’ asks an elegant lady wearing a feather boa, her arm linked with Albert Jarrett, still cupping his intestines.