Murder on the Titanic

by Evelyn Weiss

hold my tongue, with effort: I want to protest in horror at the thought of dead bodies lying unburied, for months. The remains of men who had mothers, wives, children: left to decompose without a shred of human dignity. I glance at the right-hand trench branching away from us into the blackness, and shudder.

  “Along the trench to the left is our casualty. Now, I must explain the situation to you. As you may know, German troops to the north of us attacked on a broad front the day before yesterday. They used poison gas, and the French troops defending that area ran away from the attack.”

  “We treated those soldiers, Corporal Tasker. We saw what had been done to them.”

  “Yes. Our lines were broken – however, luckily, the Germans did not advance as fast as we expected. Now, we have regrouped and we are holding a line of sorts against the Germans. Just over twenty-four hours ago, the Canadian 10th Battalion, who have newly arrived in this area, made a counter-attack against the Germans. There was very fierce fighting all through that night. The Canadians followed their orders to the letter: they captured Kitchener’s Wood, the trees of which you can see on the skyline ahead of us. We – a small team of myself and three other specially dispatched British soldiers – accompanied the Canadians.”

  Dr Bernard looks hard at him, the beads of her eyes catching the faint light. “Four British soldiers, accompanying a Canadian battalion. I’m no military expert but this seems very odd to me. Are you four men some kind of special team?”

  “Our mission, ma’am, was to accompany the Canadians into Kitchener’s Wood – and to find our casualty. In the centre of the wood the Canadians came across an abandoned gun battery surrounded by bodies. We followed them. Among those bodies, we found our casualty.”

  “So – why are we not going into the woods too?”

  “The woods are not easy to defend. So early this morning the 10th Battalion regrouped in these abandoned trenches on the edge of the woods. We came back here with the Canadians, and brought the casualty – Oberleutnant Seydlitz – with us. We are all lot safer here than in the woods.”

  “And what’s happened since yesterday morning?”

  “During daylight yesterday, the Germans advanced again. They are now gathered inside the forest. We are dug in tonight, and we expect a massed German attack tomorrow morning. That is, in a few hours’ time.”

  I’m silent, taking in this information. But Dr Bernard is bridling again at the orders in General Haig’s letter. “This ‘casualty’ – this Seydlitz person that the note speaks of. Just one man. Now, how many Canadians lie injured after this fighting?”

  “Ah – we believe many, ma’am. In fact it appears that only a small remnant of the 10th Battalion remains. Unfortunately, there may be many fallen Canadians still alive within the woods. When we retreated to these trenches, there was no time to locate all the injured men.”

  There’s a silence as Dr Bernard and I make sense of what Tasker is saying. The blackness in this trench feels tangible, like the depths of Hades. A gentle breeze wafts through the trench from the north, soughing through the woods. On the wind I hear a cry.

  “Maman. Maman.”

  It’s a young boy’s voice. The cry is low, repetitive. Not loud: I sense that the injured soldier out there in the woods has little strength left. The cry goes on, repeating and repeating. Tasker looks at us.

  “That voice is, we think, a Québécois. A young French Canadian soldier. There’s nothing we can do for him, or any of the others in there. A rescue party would be massacred by the Germans.”

  We could try, Corporal.”

  “No. It’s very simple, ma’am. We can’t try. Everything depends on following the orders, Dr Bernard. Now please, accompany me down the left-hand trench.”

  I look at Dr Bernard. I wouldn’t be surprised to see her try to climb up out of the trench and attempt a rescue herself, but we follow the corporal. I feel numb and cold inside, as if I can feel my own heart dying within me at the inhumanity of our situation. We stumble along behind the feeble glow of Corporal Tasker’s lamp. Although it’s the front line, this trench seems shallower, less well dug in. Its sides are rough, sloping dirt. And now we’re turning a corner, and ahead of me I can make out a row of silent, standing figures. All the heads are bent forward, arms clutching rifles, leaning their weight forward against the front wall of the trench. A low parapet has been made with sandbags, and between every sandbag the moonlight catches a long metal barrel, pointing into the woods. One of the faces, smeared with dirt for night camouflage, turns towards us: his rifle points towards us like a fencer’s sword. Involuntarily, I take a step back.

  “Who goes there?” A strong Toronto accent.

  “It’s Corporal Tasker, sir.”

  The Canadian voice speaks again. “Thank God it’s you and not the enemy.”

  “I’ve brought the medical team for the casualty. Dr Bernard and Miss Frocester – may I introduce Sergeant Bowers.”

  “Pleased to meet you both. The rifle drops and a hand is extended towards us. I find myself shaking it in the dark. Sergeant Bowers speaks plainly and directly. “Dr Bernard. We have several injured men who are losing blood, fast.”

  “And, I have orders not to treat them. Miss Frocester and I are here on specific orders from the British Army’s central command. We are to treat a single patient, ensure that he is well, and take him back to a Dressing Station north of Ypres.” I see the whites of the Canadian’s eyes widen in the dark, but Dr Bernard carries on. “However, we have maybe three hours until dawn?”

  “Four hours until sunrise. But until first light, yes there is just over three hours.”

  “Well then, show us your worst cases. Despite our orders, we will do everything we can. We have some medical kit here.”

  “Thank you. The bandages alone will be useful. Our supply ran out yesterday: several men’s wounds are bound with torn uniforms.”

  I hear Sergeant Bowers speaking orders to the other soldiers, low but firm. “Every man who is uninjured, remain at your post. Those of you who are injured, please, one at a time, step back from the parapet and let these medics attend to you.”

  I see one of the dark figures move back from his position towards us. He turns, and in the darkness I can make out his movements, like a dance. It’s a odd moment of comedy, here in the blackness of the trench. He’s hopping.

  “Shot in the foot, Doctor.” His voice is a gruff whisper.

  “Show me the wound.” Like a puppet when its strings are released, he slouches in a heap at our feet, one leg stretched out, pointing shreds of flesh and glimpses of bone towards us.

  5.The German soldier

  Lit by shaded flashlights, Dr Bernard and I have now treated about twenty injured men. Practically no words are said, except by the soldiers, each of whom in turn points us to this hand, this leg, this shoulder. Every one the same: identify the wound, splash antiseptic over it, accompanies by gasps of shock from the man, and then bind the wound as tight as possible. Each time I pull the knots tight until the soldier grins with the pain. Mostly I’ve done the tourniquets, while Dr Bernard directs: she has tied one or two, but her knots are slipshod and messy. She remains calm and confident – but when it comes to bandaging, I can tell that she is more used to diagnosing patients in a Swiss consulting room than tying bloodied limbs in pitch-blackness. I just use what limited skills I have, and work fast.

  None of the men have injuries to their major organs: I guess all those with such wounds are still lying where they fell in the undergrowth of Kitchener’s Wood. They lay there all day yesterday in the sunshine, and now they are dying slowly in the darkness. I try not to think about it. The Québécois boy’s cries from the wood stopped a few minutes ago, and I know that we won’t hear them again.

  I see Corporal Tasker coming towards us, checking his watch and looking at us anxiously. “Dr Bernard. Have you dealt with all the worst cases? It’s now nearly first light.”

  “I think there are a few more, but none life-threatening. I agree
, we need to get away before the sun comes up and the Germans can see the motor-ambulance. Bring me your so-called casualty.”

  “Here he is, Dr Bernard.”

  I look up, and in the flashlight I see a young man standing next to Corporal Tasker. His hair is fair and his cheeks freckled: he looks like a boy I remember from one of the farms in Putnam. I expected to see the spiked helmet of a German officer, but his head is bare and there’s a warm smile on his face. He speaks in fluent English.

  “I understand you are my medical assistance. You are here to take me to? –”

  “To a British field hospital, Oberleutnant Seydlitz.” Dr Bernard and I look at the young man: I thought that he would be tied or restrained him in some way, but I see that his hands and feet are free. Dr Bernard appears to be sizing up the situation.

  “Corporal Tasker, can you accompany us to the ambulance?”

  “Indeed, ma’am. The casualty has no reason to run away, but we can ensure that he is safely inside the ambulance.”

  Tasker’s voice is interrupted; Sergeant Bowers rejoins us.

  “So, you’re leaving us now. Thank you both, for everything you’ve done.”

  Dr Bernard looks at him. “Before we go, Sergeant Bowers – as a doctor, I must warn you. Are you aware that the day before yesterday the Germans attacked with chlorine gas?”

  “I am. We were all told about it. Before we attacked