the weeks and months that followed, Norgaard continued to tell Tom of his days as an oilman in Pennsylvania and Oklahoma, and ‘never did get out west to California, but if all your kings and kaisers ever get tired of fighting each other, then that’s where you’ll find me, drilling for oil in my own back yard.’
Tom’s old addiction grew again. If he ever got out of prison camp, then he knew what he would do. He’d get into the oil business: not with Alan, but by himself. Not in Persia, but in America. And not relying on anybody else’s money or goodwill, but relying only on his brains, his guts, his determination to succeed.
Stuck away in prison though he was, it sometimes felt as though finding oil was the most important thing in the entire world.
Alan grew stronger: strong enough for his second and final operation.
In February 1917, he was sent to a specialist hospital in Southampton. He was readied for surgery and given an anaesthetic. A nurse said, ‘Count to ten for me, please. One, two, three …’
He woke up dazzled by light.
There was a screen around his bed, a couple of doctors, a stout ward sister, and a pretty nurse in the background. The doctors were arguing over treatment and criticising the way the sutures had been applied. When they noticed that Alan was awake, they began asking him questions to test out the extent of his recovery.
What year was it?
‘Nineteen thirteen.’
What month?
‘No idea.’ Alan laughed at the idiocy of the question, hoping that the doctors would be able to see the funny side. They couldn’t.
What was his name?
‘Alan.’
Alan who?
‘Creeley. Alan Creeley.’
The doctors tutted to themselves, then vanished. The ward sister looked at Alan’s bedclothes with disapproval and tucked them in so tightly that she might have been packaging her patient for shipment overseas. Then she left too.
The pretty nurse, auburn-haired, freckled, and with lovely dancing blue eyes, drew closer to the bed. She loosened the bedclothes.
‘It’s not so tidy,’ she said, ‘but at least you can breathe.’
He smiled at her. ‘I don’t think the doctors liked me much.’
‘They don’t like anyone, not unless your injury is particularly interesting.’
‘I didn’t come up to snuff, then? I feel rather as though I’ve been run over by an omnibus.’
‘Well, the operation proved rather lengthy, I’m afraid. More than expected, but nothing that won’t heal. I’ve seen worse cases do well.’
Alan realised that it must have been her who had changed his dressings and bathed him. He reddened with an old-fashioned embarrassment.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve been here two years now and I’ve seen everything.’
‘Still …’
‘Still, nothing.’ She slipped a thermometer into his mouth, forcing him to cut his protest short. ‘Mutton stew or Scotch broth for lunch?’ she said. ‘Nod if you want mutton, shake if you want the soup. The mutton’s an absolute fright, by the way.’
He shook his head.
‘Good choice. I’ve telephoned your mother and father. They’ll be here this evening. I’ve told them you’ll be a bit muzzy, but you’d love to see them. I’ll find you some vases and sneak them away for you. Pamela’s bound to bring flowers, even if she has to strip the hothouse bare.’
‘Thank –’
‘Ah! Thermometer! Don’t talk!’
‘Oree. Unk-oo.’
She took his pulse. Her fingers felt delicious on his wrist, making the rest of his battered body feel like a truck was rolling over it. The white of her uniform seemed dazzling. He watched it rise and fall as she breathed. It was the most beautiful thing … he drifted off.
When his parents did arrive that evening, they were laden with armfuls of flowers, jars of honey, bottles of barley water, and from his father, when his mother was busy with the flowers) a flask of whisky and a handful of cigars.
‘Who was that nurse?’ he asked. ‘She spoke about you as though she knew you both.’
‘The nurse? Lottie, you mean? Reddish hair, blue eyes? But Alan, darling, I’ve told you ten times already. That’s Lottie Dunlop, one of the girls who’s been staying with us this year. A lovely girl. I’ve been longing for you to meet …’
‘Hier! Komm! Bitte schnell!’
The guard was elderly, silver-haired, Jewish. He was standing thirty yards away across the prison yard, beckoning at Tom.
Tom pointed to himself. ‘Ich? Me?’
The guard nodded.
Tom dragged himself over. A bitterly cold winter had passed into spring. Tom was still losing weight, certain now that he was dying of hunger. He was listless and apathetic. His belly stuck out, jammed tight with wind and emptiness. He caught up with the guard.
‘Ja?’
‘Hier. Ein Geschenk. Für dich.’ A present. For you.
Tom woodenly put out his hands. The guard gave him a bag of sugar, a couple of tins of goose fat, a jar of raspberry jam. Tom stared down at his treasures, hardly able to understand. The guard tried to explain further. Tom couldn’t properly follow the Jew’s accented German, but it was something to do with a Red Cross parcel that had arrived for a man recently dead. The guard had seen Tom’s state and wanted to help. Tom was so grateful – so shocked – he began to sob out thanks, like a child at Christmas. The guard waved away the thanks, told Tom to eat slowly, and left.
The gift was like a second chance at life.
Tom was tempted to wolf the lot, but knew his stomach would quickly revenge itself on him if he did. He ate the goose fat and the jam over five days and took a spoonful of sugar with a mug of cold water morning and evening. His stomach complained, but his painful wind reduced. For the first time in months, Tom felt nearly human. And, as a human, he felt ready for action.
Speaking to Norgaard in the quiet of the camp that evening, he made a proposal.
‘Let’s
