simply have to get a rest, Flora. You’ll be worn-out if you don’t. I’ll see you back at the hut. By the way, could you take a quick look at that shell shock case on your way out? I don’t seem to be able to get through to him at all, and you’re so good with those patients.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be back at seven.”
“Right. But you must rest, dear, or you’ll be no use to anyone.”
“I will.” Stepping over stretchers of soldiers whose wounds were less urgent, she walked down the corridor and headed for the last ward, where a gramophone with a scratchy needle played a popular tune. There, some men sat in dressing gowns, smoking and playing cards at a rickety wooden table. They called to her as she entered.
“’Ey, Nurse, ’ow ye’ doin’? Goin’ ’ome, I am. Back to Liverpool, it is.”
“Good, Berty. I’m so glad. How about you, Harry, how’s your leg?”
“Oh, fair enough. Never be much good on the football field again, but at least I’ll be able to walk, which is more than most.”
She nodded, smiling to mask her exhaustion, and looked for the patient. “Have you seen a chap sent in with shell shock?” she asked Nancy, the V.A.D. in charge.
“He’s over in the corner.” She pointed to her left. “He seems unable to speak. Perhaps you can do something with him, poor man.”
Flora glanced at a chair that faced the far corner of the crowded ward, then walked toward it, filled with sudden foreboding. Gavin’s image flashed before her and she shuddered, her misgivings increasing as she approached the chair. The young man had his back to her, his head in his hands. Mustering every last ounce of strength, she dragged herself forward, dreaming of the hut she shared with three other V.A.D.s. and her bunk, longing to crawl into bed for a few precious hours of sleep before it all began again.
She came up behind him, gently touched his shoulder.
“I’ve come to help you,” she said softly. “Will you tell me who you are?” She came around and crouched at his side, seeing nothing but a thick shock of red hair falling over the hand that supported his forehead. At the sound of her voice, he raised his head. For a moment Flora simply stared, stunned. “Angus,” she gasped in amazement. “Is it really you?” Tears burst forth as she threw her arms around the stiff, motionless figure. Then, leaning back and holding his hands, she realized that his eyes were devoid of expression. “Angus.” She shook him anxiously. “Angus, it’s me, Flo. Say something, please.” She shook him again gently. Then another thought occurred. Gavin. Where was Gavin? She glanced around, as though expecting to see him among the group of men smoking and playing cards. Then she squeezed Angus’s hands once more.
“Angus, you’re all right now. You’re with me.” His eyes flickered and her heart leaped. “Oh, Angus, darling, please. Please come back. Please tell me where Gavin is,” she whispered almost to herself.
“Dead.” The voice was flat.
She stared at him, then shook her head. “No. It can’t be. No.” She shook her head again, her hands gripping his sleeve savagely. “Not Gavin.” She began shaking, then laughed hysterically. “People like Gavin don’t get killed, they’re immortal.”
“It should have been me,” he whispered.
Alerted by the tone of Flora’s wild laughter, Nancy came hurrying toward them.
“Flora? What is the matter?”
Unable to respond, she sank to the floor, clinging to Angus’s limp hands as though she might find some part of Gavin there, refusing to let go, to believe.
It took Nancy and two other nurses to pry her away. Half carrying her to the hut, they put her to bed and forced some pills down her throat. It was only when she woke, twenty-four hours later, from the heavily drugged sleep, that the truth hit home. He was gone. Gone forever.
She stared at the pegs that sagged under the weight of various clothes, wanting to cry, but she couldn’t. She, who had shed so many tears for all the others, was incapable of weeping for the man she loved. Now that it was his turn, she was numb. She dragged herself up in the narrow cot, pulled the brown blanket up to her chin and sat shivering, trying to visualize him, but her mind was blank, as though her memory had been wiped clean as a slate. She closed her eyes tight, desperately trying to conjure up his image, recall some feature, some peculiar expression that made him who he was, but the harder she tried, the more distant he became.
Duty and training dragged her out of bed. Legs trembling, she dressed, then returned to the ward, where another convoy of badly wounded was being brought in.
“Nurse! Thank goodness you’re here. Get this patient ready for surgery.” The doctor laid a hand on her arm. “He’s going to lose both legs, I’m afraid.”
She nodded automatically, senses blunted, gazing down at the young officer about to lose his limbs. Distantly, she felt thankful that Gavin had not gone through this. Their dreams and life were over, but at least he had not suffered the indignity of surviving as half a man.
She braced herself, refusing to allow her personal loss to keep her from her duty, and made her way over to the bed where the young man lay, his head bandaged but his eyes clear blue and lucid.
“I’m sorry to have to break the news, Captain,” she began, surprised to hear that her voice sounded calm and gentle.
He smiled thinly. “You don’t need to tell me, Nurse. I’ve been here too long and seen too much not to know. Is it one or both?”
“Both, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry.”
His lips tightened and he nodded. “I’m lucky to be alive, I suppose. At least I’ll get home. Not like the other poor blighters buried out there.”
She nodded and closed her eyes a second against awful images that danced before her. Then silently she went to work, preparing him for the operation. Suddenly she remembered Angus. He would have to wait. She glanced down at her patient with an aching heart, reached for his hand and squeezed it.
“Thank you,” he whispered, eyes damp. Then with a brave smile he turned to the doctor. “Better get on with it, Doc. There’s plenty more out there waiting for you.”
4
Frieburg, Germany, 1917
“Es gibt einen der lebt noch.” From far away, Gavin heard voices but they faded again. The next time he gained consciousness he was being rattled painfully to and fro, amid the stench of blood and urine. But it was dark, he was moving and the pain in his thigh and hip were blinding. His eyes closed once more and he dreamed. Of Angus’s cold and expressionless face, waiting impassively for him to die. The dream kept repeating and repeating itself.
When he next woke, the pain was too agonizing for him to think, but he realized he was alive and being given an injection. There were more voices, a woman and a man speaking German, but he was too tired to care and drifted back into sleep.
This time he dreamed of Flora, of the rose garden at Strathaird, of a picnic in the Périgord, the delicious sensation of biting into a thick tartine, a sandwich made of pâté and spicy saucisson, smelled the sweet scent of freshly
