‘I’ve got good news for you, Private Searight.’ Major Cartwright’s voice took Guy by surprise. He was lying on his bed trying to finish the Dickens novel and feeling annoyed with himself that he had gleaned such little pleasure from it.
‘Sir?’ Guy wasn’t at all convinced that what the major deemed good news would entirely coincide with his own interpretation.
Major Cartwright grinned with the expectation of one who was looking forward to receiving gratitude on imparting good news. ‘We’re transferring you to a base hospital just outside Le Havre. Short notice, I’m afraid, but there’re rumours of a big push soon, so we’ll probably need every bed we can get. You leave this afternoon.’
As feared, Guy was right and he didn’t know what to say. He’d half expected it, but not so soon nor with such little notice. The major seemed nonplussed by Guy’s lack of enthusiasm; this was the sort of news that was usually greeted with huge relief and heartfelt thanks. The least he expected was some acknowledgement of pleasure, but no, Private Searight remained silent as if the news wasn’t entirely welcome. ‘Well, aren’t you pleased to be going home, Searight?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am. I’m sorry; it took a while to sink in, thank you, sir.’
That was better, thought the major. ‘Good lad. Report to the courtyard for two o’clock. Transport will be waiting. You’ll be taken to the station and from there a train to Le Havre and a base hospital. Once there, they’ll decide how long you should stay but I don’t imagine it’ll be long before you’re shipped back to London, probably somewhere like the Prince of Wales hospital. Once in London you’ll have time to recuperate and get your strength up. And while you’re there, they’ll fix you up with a new leg. That’ll make things easier for you.’ The major could see that Guy wasn’t really listening. He leant down and said in a softer, reassuring voice, ‘You’ll be all right when you get back to England, son. You’ve had nothing but good reports while you’ve been out here. I heard how you paid a pivotal role in that raid; they got some useful intelligence out of it, and if you’re lucky, you’ll get yourself a recommendation for a medal. Wear it with pride, son; you’ve been a brave lad and you should be proud of yourself. I’ve seen too many shirkers around here, but you’re not one of them. Go home and hold your head high, you’ve done more than your bit and the country owes its gratitude to boys like you.’
Guy listened to the major’s earnest speech, which he knew was well meant. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, trying to look suitably humbled. Major Cartwright placed his hand on Guy’s shoulder and then left to continue his tour of the wards. He watched him approach Browne. ‘I’ve got good news for you, Private Browne.’
Guy closed his book and leant back on his pillow. The major had said he’d seen ‘too many shirkers’. Is that what Jack had been: a shirker? A deserter? Guy promised himself he would never use the word. A boy scared witless; a boy who was never meant to be a soldier; a boy with his life ahead of him, who, unable to cope, was made to pay for it with his life? And what about himself? According to the major, Guy was up for a medal, a hero. What had made him a hero? The answer was simple: fear. Fear for his life, fear of fear. What a thin line separated hero and shirker. Both of them had been driven by fear; it was pure luck that Guy had managed to channel his fear in the right direction. But the result was one got a medal, and the other got the firing squad.
Browne was up on his feet, unable to contain his relief that he was heading north. He hugged Lampton who’d also been given the good news. Browne went off to have a shave.
And now, Guy had to go home without his brother to face his parents. How he’d looked forward to going home, but now the prospect chilled him and the vast empty expanse of his future frightened him. The thought of slotting back into his old life seemed incomprehensible. War had changed him as it changed every man and two years older, he was no longer a young man. He knew, back in England, he ‘d resent those too old to fight and spend the rest of his life envying those too young or not yet born. And he hated the thought that his leg would mark him forever more as a victim, an object of pity, that people would see the leg first, not the man who lost it. He didn’t want to go home, but equally, he had no desire to stay. The realisation of what he really wanted to do made him shudder – he wanted to return to the front where he still had friends. Guy wanted to join them again, to hear the sound of the shells, to feel the cloying mud, to smell the stench of battle and decay, to live hourly in the company of death. The prospect of the trenches filled him with less dread than the prospect of returning home and having to face the questioning eyes of his parents, of trying to explain the inexplicable. He would rather live through the nightmare all over again, rather than try and describe it in words palatable for those who could never comprehend. At least the events of the past had taken him unawares, like falling suddenly down a well – it was horrible but it happens quickly, leaving you no time to fear it. But the contemplation of the slow, exhausting climb out seemed all the more frightening.
Guy also realised he would have to face Mary. He remembered with unease Jack’s inept attempt to woo Josephine at his parents’ party.
Nevertheless, Guy felt pleased by the prospect of leaving the CCS. He’d noticed how the men were already subtly distancing themselves from him. These men, who were so accustomed to commiserating each other over the loss of friends and comrades, were not sure of what etiquette of sympathy applied to Guy’s situation. Jack’s crime was taboo and, by association, Guy’s company was, if possible, to be avoided. He was a freak amongst freaks. His mother would, of course, grieve for Jack, but only in terms of her loss. Guy needed someone who could help him grieve for his loss. He felt a sudden desire to seek out the men who had been guarding Jack when he went to visit his brother. They’d understand. They had, after all, witnessed for themselves the courage of a condemned man, a man who knew all too well what fate awaited him and bore it with such fortitude and dignity. A courage that far outstripped Guy’s own instinctive bravery on the battlefield.
Time was getting on. Guy decided to get ready. He got up and, taking his crutches, went off to the communal bathrooms where, bumping into Browne, he had a wash and a shave. He had been growing a moustache, but decided to shave it off. He wanted to return to England the way he left it, albeit minus a leg. When he returned from the bathrooms, he found Robert waiting for him. His friend looked glum and so Guy took him to the common room.
‘This time tomorrow, I’ll be back at the front,’ he said. ‘Just in time for the new offensive.’ He leant forward and whispered, ‘You know there’re rumours they’re planning on using masses of tanks?’
‘As long as we don’t resort to gas.’
‘The accessory, you mean. It’s all bloody awful, if you ask me,’ said Robert leaning back in his chair.
Guy gazed around the room. He noticed the burnt man sitting at the same place he was the afternoon Guy had gone to see Jack for the last time. The man nodded, a faint hint of a smile, the sudden glare of white teeth, accentuated by the blackness of his face. Guy nodded back and turned to face Robert. ‘They’re sending me to base hospital,’ he said tonelessly.
‘You don’t sound too pleased about it.’
‘I’m not sure how I’m going to cope.’ He didn’t dare tell Robert he’d gladly swap places.
‘Do you remember the raid, Guy? The Hun who charged at you with the bayonet?’
Guy noticed the twinkle in his friend’s eye. ‘Was it you... who killed him?’
Robert winked.
Guy smiled. Of course he remembered it; he remembered it every night he closed his eyes. The frightful scream; the German bearing down on him, bayonet fixed. Guy rooted to the spot. The shot, the single shot that came from somewhere above and behind him. The German falling in a heap at his feet. He remembered thrusting his bayonet into the man’s back and the ugly squelching noise as the blade did its brutal work. He remembered turning around but his saviour had vanished.
Robert accompanied Guy back to his ward and sat on the bed while he gathered his few belongings. Browne and Lampton had already packed and gone to wait for the transport half an hour early. Robert talked about the things he’d do when, and if ever, he got home. The home in the country, the horse he would buy, the young country girls he would date. Guy envied him his dream. Then Guy joined him perched on the edge of the bed and the two of them reminisced about people they knew and missing friends. After a while, Robert declared he had to go. They bid each other farewell with a hug. ‘I hope to see you soon then, Guy. I’ll invite you out to my country estate and we’ll drink to dawn.’ Guy watched his friend leave, his hitherto unknown saviour.
Guy had less than half an hour before he was due to leave. It didn’t take him long to pack his meagre possessions into a haversack given to him by the hospital: his soap, razor, and the book. He gathered his crutches and made to leave. As he passed each bed, he wished his fellow wounded friends farewell and received, in turn, their wishes and utterances of good luck. At the door, he turned around to take a final look at the ward that had been home for the previous week. He tried to imagine it as a classroom – the rows of desks, the young French boys listening attentively, the sun shining through the windows. He imagined the teacher rattling out the milestones of French history – the Revolution, Waterloo, the Crimea, the Franco-Prussian war, and now this. The Germans on French soil again, a thirty-man British raid on a small strip of German trench; nine killed, eleven wounded, a thirty-three per cent survival rate. His own insignificant contribution in a forgotten incident in a gigantic war.
The envious eyes of his now ex-wardmates were on him. He smiled, almost apologetically, glanced up at the portrait of King George, saluted and left.
With his haversack slung over his shoulder, Guy made his way down the long echoey corridor with the huge windows overlooking the tents and marquees set out neatly on the lawn. The pain in his leg grew more acute. His crutches felt awkward to move. Staff ran in all directions in the hurried pursuits of urgent duties; a stretcher passed - its occupant’s face totally hidden beneath blood-soaked bandages, groaning as the stretcher-bearers hurried down the corridor. He saw a young Frenchwoman dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief; a doctor leaning against the wall, looking skywards, drunk with fatigue; a soldier in a wheelchair embarrassed by the damp circle between his legs. Wounded soldiers idled this way and that; a priest overtook Guy and almost bumped into a kitchen orderly carrying a bucket of vegetable peelings. No one noticed or acknowledged Guy as he made his way to the desk in the grand hallway. By the time he reached it, he was quite out of breath, the pain in his leg causing him to grip the desk until his fingertips turned white.
‘You alright there?’ said the man behind the desk.
‘Yeah. Just a minute,’ stuttered Guy as he waited for the pain to wash over him.
‘Do you want to sit down?’
Slowly the pain receded, leaving Guy panting in relief. ‘I’m... I’m OK now. Thanks.’
The man signed Guy’s name off his register and handed him his medical papers.
Outside, it was cold and blustery. Guy shivered. It was fast approaching two o’clock. He saw his transport – a horse-drawn carriage with room for six passengers, Browne and Lampton had taken their places, Browne talking excitedly. The driver stood next to the horse, stroking its neck. Guy hobbled across the gravelled courtyard towards the carriage.
‘Private Searight.’
Guy recognised the voice. On turning he was surprised to see coming quickly towards him Sergeant Wilkins, his arm in a sling.
‘Private Searight,’ he repeated, slightly out of breath, ‘I see I’ve caught you in the nick of time.’
‘Sarge.’
‘They told me inside you was just leaving.’ Having found Guy he looked like a man who wished he hadn’t.
‘Yes, I’m being sent home via a hospital on the coast.’
‘That’s, erm, that’s good,’ he said nodding his head furiously. ‘Yes, that’s good.’
‘How’s your arm?’
‘This? Oh, it’s nothing. I’ll be back up the line soon.’
The two men stood facing, unable to look at each other. Wilkins spoke. ‘Look, the reason... I mean, what I wanted to say...’
‘Sarge?’
Wilkins looked at the carriage, with the driver climbing aboard, reins in hand. ‘I just wanted to say... to offer...’ Then, finally, he looked Guy straight in the eye, ‘To offer my condolences on the death of your brother,’ he said quickly.
Guy opened his mouth to speak and found himself unable to form any words.
‘Your brother, he was a good lad.’ His hand shot out and it took a moment for Guy to realise that the sergeant was offering his hand.
He focussed on the fingers, stubbly and rounded, a gold band on one.
‘A good lad,’ repeated the sergeant.
‘Yes, thank you, Sarge,’ said Guy taking the proffered hand limply and having his hand shaken.
The driver coughed.
‘I’d...’
‘Yes, you’d better go.’
Guy climbed aboard, let his bag drop to the floor of the carriage and acknowledged his fellow passengers. As the horses lurched forward, Guy looked back and watched the sergeant walking back towards the hospital. The carriage juddered through the large, black iron gates and around the corner. The sergeant was no longer in view. Guy’s attention and that of his colleagues was taken by the passing of an ambulance travelling at speed towards the hospital. Its driver wore a look of grim determination as he took the latest batch of wounded to the hospital that used to be, before the war, a boarding school for boys.