Mad About the Boy?

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  He raised himself unsteadily to his feet, lurching forward off the bank to the grass beyond. A clump of trees stood blackly in front of him. Underfoot was grass in clumps, churned up into countless shallow muddy hollows. The tussocks were hard to walk on and he had to thread his way through using the little muddy paths of the hollows. He was near the woods now and the ground was changing. It banked up, a rim of dirty chalk and earth, about two foot high, edging the field. He crawled over the chalky rim and found himself on firm, springy grass.

  Hemming in the trees was a barbed wire fence.

  For the first time he was aware of an emotion other than fear. Call that a fence? It was useless. There should be barbed wire in rolls, lots of barbed wire, with picket stakes at intervals. What was the wiring party thinking of? They’d get a rocket, an absolute rocket from their sergeant. Come to think of it, why hadn’t he been stopped? Where the blazes was everyone? And where the blazes was he?

  He’d come over no man’s land. He knew that. The earth had been churned by bullets. That’s why it was difficult to walk on and now he’d reached the wire. Why weren’t there any snipers? Why wasn’t there anybody? There was something happening here he didn’t understand.

  The Germans must be behind him; that was obvious. Only the Germans would have fired at him and he knew he’d been shot at. Then he’d run for it . . . Yes, he’d run for it, but where had he run to? Was that pathetic piece of barbed wire ours or theirs? He was puzzled to find he didn’t know.

  Great columns of beeches arched overhead. No sound of artillery fire. He must be miles away from the lines. Every tree at the front had been blasted and the ground ripped by shells but there was no sign of war here amongst the trees. He could almost believe he’d died and slipped through to another world, but his head was hurting. Dead men couldn’t feel pain, could they? Besides, this – wherever this was – was real. He walked cautiously forward, listening for any noise, but apart from the wet drip of rain from the branches, the place was utterly silent. The stand of trees came to an abrupt end, hemmed in by another inadequate fence. Below him lay a country lane that looked as if it belonged at home, but he knew he was far away from home. Surely he was in Flanders? He couldn’t remember. He stopped and let his breath out in a sigh of relief. There, far in the distance, he’d heard the deep rumble of the guns. Flanders.

  He was about to scramble down on to the road when he stopped with a feeling of sick despair. He wasn’t wearing his uniform! What on earth had he been doing? Dear God, he thought, with the taste of panic rising in his throat, if they catch me I’ll be shot as a spy.

  He dropped down on to the road. His feet were heavy and his whole body ached but he had to find his regiment. His men, his company, needed him. The rain slashed into his face but from far away came the comforting growl of the guns.

  The last thing he could definitely remember was the order for his company to advance up the Menin Road for the assault on Poelcapelle and then on to Passchendaele Ridge. So where was he? There had been some talk of sending him up to join the Staff. Had that happened? Was he in Intelligence? Surely, even in Intelligence, he’d have his uniform. Yes, of course, a uniform with green tabs. So why wasn’t he wearing it?

  Was he a spy? He shuddered. He loathed the idea of spying. It was one thing for the French. It was their country and he had nothing but respect for the men who worked undercover on the other side of the lines, but it was quite another thing that he should be one of them. He shook his head and instantly regretted it as his headache flamed. The guns seemed to be getting nearer and he welcomed the sound. He wished, passionately, he was back with his company.

  Half blinded by the rain, he could make out a crossroads ahead and slipped into the shallow trench at the side of the road. Heedless of the mud, he crept up to where the road divided. A blue and silver car, with its hood closed, was parked on the other side of the road. It looked like a Staff car. German? It wasn’t a British car, that was for sure. Steam was rising from the bonnet. A cart creaked up the road behind him. The carter had draped a sack over his shoulders and head as a makeshift coat.

  A man, collar turned up and hat pulled down, got out of the car and hailed the cart. ‘Hey, driver! Have you seen a man? He’s wearing a brown flannel suit and he’s got no hat. We’re looking for him.’ His stomach turned over. It was a hospital voice.

  They were after him.

  He shrank further back into the mud of the trench.

  The driver shook his head. ‘No, sir. Haven’t seen a soul. Nasty weather to be out.’

  The man nodded. ‘Thanks anyway.’ He turned back to the car, climbed in and drove off.

  He huddled down into the mud of the shallow trench. Why on earth had the men spoken in English? Fantastic thoughts chased round his head. Which side of the lines was he on? He had to be behind German lines, surely, otherwise why would anyone shoot at him? Were the motorist and the carter traitors? There must be some explanation. He rested his forehead against the cold mud of the trench, trying to think, but his headache flared again.

  They were after him and one of the men who was after him was in that car. The guns thundered, louder than ever, sending a golden wire of hope through his thoughts. If he could just get back to the lines he could get across somehow, find his company and, if he had done something wrong, take his punishment. Anything was better than not knowing where he was and what he had done.

  The cart creaked away, its wheels sending up fountains of spray. He waited until he was sure it had gone, then crawled up to the top of the trench. He had a choice of four roads. He couldn’t go the same way as the Staff car and the cart. The road across from him looked little used. There was no sentry posted. There wasn’t anyone. Maybe that road would take him away from the enemy, back to his company.

  He climbed out of the trench and got across to the road he’d pinned his hopes on. He couldn’t understand it. The road turned into little more than a muddy track with grass growing high in the centre but he could swear the guns were getting closer. High hedges flanked him in, cutting off his view of the countryside, but at least the hedges sheltered him from the worst of the weather. The rain gullied down the sides of the lane, turning it into little more than a stream.

  The guns were definitely closer now. He’d chosen the right road. Mixed in with the guns was another noise, a low, roaring sound that seemed oddly familiar. The grassy track was coming to an end. Through the rain he could just make out where it ran down to join a proper road, a metalled road. Once on the road he might even see the Lines. He stepped out to the road and, with a shriek and a wail like a thousand lost souls, the wind assaulted him. He staggered back, feeling the wind like a blow to his chest, and gazed in astonishment at the grey, white-flecked sea.

  He was on the coast road, flanked by a sea wall. The waves crashed over the top, contemptuous of such puny defences. He crept along the road, stopping many times to hold on to the hedge that bounded the landward side. The way led up, following the contours of the cliff, but still he kept on. The sky grew darker, turning from grey to black, and he huddled into the hedge, awed by the violence of the storm. Then, with a crash that seemed to tear the clouds apart, lightning forked down and hit a post on the summit of the hill. There was a dreadful pause before the guns roared out again and with a ghastly movement the cliff ahead of him collapsed into the sea. Shrinking back, he saw the road rear like an angry horse and in that instant knew that the familiar sound of guns was merely the impersonal noise of thunder; and that he was totally and utterly lost.

  Wearily he carried on until he found a gate. A track led into the field beyond. Little dancing sparks flitted across his eyes and he shook his head impatiently. At the top of the field ran another road, picked out by the lights of houses. He half walked, half crawled up the slope towards the lights. Even if they were German, he’d rather be near other people than lost in this cauldron of loneliness and noise. He staggered the last few feet on to the road and found himself across from a large building b
ehind an imposing wall with gateposts. The gateposts had pineapples on the top and for some reason that made him laugh. He was still laughing when he read the brass sign on the wall. Cranston Cottage Hospital.

  He sobered instantly, the sick taste of fear filling his mouth. A hospital! They were the ones who were hunting him. But . . . but a hospital? He forced himself to think. A real hospital, not a casualty clearing station. Why? And what had he done? Perhaps, just perhaps, if he went back by himself it wouldn’t be too bad. Perhaps . . . He opened the gate and walked down the drive to the lighted porch of the house, hardly able to lift his feet.

  He had run away from hospital. That must be it. He’d done it once before and they’d caught him. And now he was beaten again. He couldn’t run any longer because out here were guns and danger and his head was full of constant, crashing noise. He rang the bell and heard it jangle far away. A nurse was standing in front of him and he tried to raise his hat, but he didn’t have one. The nurse’s mouth was opening and shutting, talking to him, but he couldn’t hear her because the noise had got worse, cutting out all other sound in a swelling roar. ‘I’m sorry,’ he managed to say, and fell forward as the lights in his eyes split up and faded to black.

  He awoke in a comfortable bed in a brightly lit room. A voice was speaking and he gradually made out the words.

  ‘I think he’s coming round now, Doctor.’

  He blinked and saw a starched-aproned nurse and a blue-suited doctor standing by his bed. The doctor leaned over him and smiled. ‘Well, young man, what have you been doing to yourself?’

  The doctor seemed friendly but Stanton was on his guard. The doctor sounded English enough, but so had the motorist and the carter. He mustn’t tell them anything, he knew that, but he was incredibly thirsty. ‘Water,’ he managed to say, and the doctor nodded to the nurse who poured a glass of water from a jug at his bedside and held it to his lips.

  ‘Now then,’ said the doctor. ‘What happened?’

  What on earth had happened? There had been a gun. He didn’t want to talk about the gun. They were entitled to his name and rank, but that was all. ‘An accident,’ he said slowly.

  ‘I see,’ said the doctor thoughtfully. ‘What sort of accident? Can you remember?’

  He couldn’t, not really, and he wasn’t going to mention the gun. He shook his head.

  ‘Very well. Don’t worry. It’ll probably come back to you later. What’s your name?’

  He felt on safer ground here. His name was . . . what? He searched his memory but came up against a blank. He hazarded a guess. ‘Rivers?’

  ‘And your Christian name?’

  Again, that awful feeling of blankness. He tried hard and the name Tim came to him from somewhere. Both names carried a tinge of sadness.

  ‘Timothy Rivers. Well, Mr Rivers, we’ve put a few stitches in your head and I think you’d better rest until the morning.’

  He couldn’t do that. He tried to get out of bed but the doctor stopped him. ‘Now, Mr Rivers, just stay where you are. Can I have your address? Your family may be worried about you.’

  ‘I haven’t a family,’ said Stanton. ‘Are you keeping me a prisoner?’

  The doctor laughed. ‘Of course not, Mr Rivers. This is a hospital.’

  Hospital. He’d been caught once more. Very deliberately he raised himself up in bed, then swung his legs out. The floor rose up giddily to meet him and he gripped hard on the bed rail until the room steadied. He felt the doctor’s hand on his shoulder and a voice telling him to lie down. Stanton swallowed. ‘Am I free to go?’

  The doctor dropped his hand and looked worried. ‘Mr Rivers, if you are determined to leave there is nothing I can do to stop you, but I really cannot advise it. You have four stitches in your head and you may be suffering from concussion, if nothing else.’

  ‘But you can’t stop me.’

  ‘No, of course I can’t, man,’ said the doctor with a frown.

  ‘But you need rest.’

  Stanton gripped his arm. ‘Please let me go. I want to go. I can’t stop here.’

  The doctor shrugged and turned to the nurse. ‘Can you bring Mr Rivers’ clothes please?’

  The nurse left the room in stiff disapproval. The doctor turned back to Stanton. ‘Now look, old man, for your own sake you should spend the night here. You’ll feel better in the morning and then you can go wherever you please.’

  Stanton didn’t answer and the doctor sighed. ‘Very well. It’s up to you. Don’t say I haven’t warned you. Keep those stitches dry and if you have any giddiness or double vision, for heaven’s sake see a doctor right away. Have you any idea where you’re going?’

  Stanton tried to make his voice convincing. ‘Oh, yes. I’ve got some friends near by.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ The doctor sounded unconvinced. ‘I can only give my medical opinion and that is, you should stay here.’ Stanton looked at him mulishly and the doctor shrugged once more. ‘Well, the nurse should be back with your clothes soon. If you change your mind, you’re welcome to stay.’

  He left the room. Stanton sank back on the bed, feeling he had won a significant victory. To his surprise the nurse arrived back promptly with his things. So they really were going to let him go.

  ‘Are you still determined to leave, Mr Rivers?’ she asked frostily. Stanton nodded and immediately wished he hadn’t. ‘It is never wise,’ she said coldly, ‘to ignore the doctor’s advice. Still, that is your choice. When you have finished, I would be grateful if you would come to my office. We need you to sign the book and there is the small matter of your bill. Unless you have an existing arrangement with the hospital there is a fee of ten shillings.’

  She shook her head censoriously and rustled out of the room, leaving Stanton contemplating the wreck of his clothes. They were dry, that was something, but he had seen scarecrows in smarter rigs. Grimacing, he slowly dressed in his filthy suit, adjusted his tie and walked gingerly to the door.

  He found the nurse’s office easily enough and signed the book. The nurse was cold and formal, but he didn’t care. They were letting him go. She handed him a small cardboard box containing his watch, his notecase, a small silver matchbox and two cigarette cases. One case was of gunmetal grey and seemed familiar enough. The other was of heavy gold and bore a coat of arms picked out in diamonds and rubies. He could have sworn he’d never seen it before. ‘Are you sure this is mine?’ he asked.

  ‘It was in your pocket,’ snapped the nurse. ‘Here is your bill.’ She handed him the bill and Stanton gave her a ten shilling note. He had a few coins in his pocket, but no other money. Registering disapproval in every line of her starched body, the nurse showed him to the door.

  Hardly daring to believe his luck, Stanton stepped outside. He was free. The storm had died down, leaving a thin rack of gusty clouds. To his surprise, there was still some daylight left.

  Stanton trudged wearily down the drive. His watch had stopped and he didn’t have a clue what the time was. He supposed he’d better find some shelter for the night.

  Where was he? It felt like England but how could he be in England? And what had he done wrong that people were hunting for him – shooting at him even? Had he deserted? The thought was so horrific that he stopped walking for a moment before pushing it sternly away. And yet it would explain so much. He could have deserted and got back over to England and . . . and then what? It still didn’t make any sense. A church clock started to chime and he half hoped it would call someone out on to the empty village street. No one came. There was just a row of cottages with light glinting through red blinds and wood smoke curling up from their chimneys. In the clearing sky a group of bats began to perform their jerky little dance, like puppets on wires. He longed for his company with a yearning hunger. But where that was and who he was, he had no more idea than if he had fallen from the moon.

  The dusk had turned to night when he smelt cooking. He had long since left the village behind and was walking along a lane, black with overhang
ing trees. A farm track led off the lane and peering into the gloom he could make out the glow of a camp fire and hear the low murmur of voices. The smell was wonderful. Until that moment he’d had no idea how hungry he was. He started towards the fire. Two men were huddled under a tree, cooking something in an open pan. Tramps. They looked up as he approached. Not a friendly look, but the smell of the food drew him on. ‘Hello,’ he said, with a hesitant smile. ‘I don’t suppose you could let me have some of that, could you?’

  A burly man spat into the fire. ‘You’re right. We can’t. Bugger off.’

  ‘I can pay for it,’ said Stanton, feeling the coins in his pocket.

  ‘Oh, you can, can you?’ The man got to his feet and looked Stanton’s lean form up and down. ‘I’ll be havin’ some of that.’ His fist shot out.

  Stanton feinted instinctively, guarded with his right and landed a neat upper-cut on the point of the man’s jaw. Although there was little strength behind the blow, the man sprawled backwards.

  ‘Nice hit,’ said the little man on the far side of the fire. ‘I can see you’ve done a bit of boxing in your time.’ He caught hold of the burly man, who was scrambling to his feet, fists raised. ‘Cut it out, Spiky. You hit him first.’ He squinted through the wood smoke towards Stanton. ‘You talk like a gent. How come you want to eat with us?’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Stanton simply.

  The little man started. ‘I know you!’ He got to his feet, pulled a burning stick from the fire and looked at Stanton by the flickering light. ‘It’s me, sir. Corporal Miller.’ He looked delighted. ‘I’m Dusty Miller. You remember me, don’t you, sir?’

  ‘Miller?’ Stanton was puzzled. ‘is this your section?’

  ‘All present and correct, sir,’ said Miller with a laugh. ‘Not much to look at, are we?’

  So this was his company. These were his men.

  ‘Come and sit down, sir,’ said Miller. ‘I just wish I had something better to give you. And you,’ he added to Spiky who was muttering beside him, ‘can like it or lump it. The Captain’s eating with us and no nonsense about paying for it.’