Читать книгу The Stolen Years - Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 10

Arras, France 1917

“‘If you were the only girl in the world,”’ an out-of-tune voice warbled.

“Gawd, you’ve got a bloody awful voice, mate.”

“Says who?”

“Says I. We should stick you out in no-man’s-land and let Franz ’ear you. ’E’d be off ’ome in an ’eartbeat, ’e would.”

Laughter ran the length of the trench, and banter flew as the men moved, ankle-deep in mud, trying desperately to keep their spirits up while they repaired the traverses, piling sandbags near the entrance to secure it before the next rainfall. Those taking a break sat smoking wherever they could find a dry spot, wrapped in their greatcoats, exchanging jokes. Lieutenant Angus MacLeod, of the Fifty-first Scottish Highlanders, leaned over and offered his brother a light.

“Thanks.” Gavin shielded it with his palm, took a long drag and surveyed the men, wondering how long it would be before they finally made an advance into the massive defenses, through the endless stretches of mud and barbed wire that separated them from the enemy. There was something big stirring, he was certain, for powerful artillery had been moved in to back them up. He felt sure General Harper’s orders would be imminent. Smoking, Gavin silently calculated their chances of success and reckoned they were slim. The German offensive was gruesome. “I hope things will be better than at Ypres,” he murmured to himself. There, the Guards, the Fifteenth Scottish, the Sixteenth Irish and several other assault divisions had fought themselves out from August through September in what was known as the battle of the mud at Passchendaele.

“It’s one of my last, so smoke it slowly,” Angus remarked, referring to the cigarette.

Gavin grinned affectionately, watching the thin ribbon of smoke rise above the damp earth of their burrow, and listened to the sound of the enemy artillery becoming uncomfortably close, noting the occasional flash of flares. Too damn close, he realized. Eyeing Angus, he decided not to share his misgivings with his brother. Although they were fraternal twins, their personalities were as different as their looks. Angus hated it all. They never talked about the war much unless they could help it.

“God, I wish this were all over,” Angus remarked gloomily.

“I don’t know, it has its moments.” Gavin took another long drag, enjoying the scent of the Will’s tobacco, which was a dash sight better than the never-ending stench of gangrene and death. “This may be the one exciting thing that will ever happen in our lives. Once we’re home, Papa will expect us to follow in his footsteps, enter the wretched coal business and lead life exactly as he did.”

“Ha!” Angus shook his red head. “Trust you to consider this mess an adventure.”

“What makes you think life will be the same as it used to be?” Jonathan Parker, a young medical student from Cambridge, asked, swallowing tea from his tin mug. “I don’t think anything can ever be the same. For one thing, people aren’t going to be as complacent as they were. And God knows what will happen if we lose.”

“Lose, be damned,” Gavin replied. “We can’t.”

“If the doughboys don’t take a hand in it soon, we will, old chap. Look at us, for Christ’s sake! Three bloody years and we’ve only a couple of miles gained and few hundred thousand dead to show for it. That’s not counting the wounded,” Jonathan added with a bitter laugh.

“You’re right.” Angus nodded, pulled his greatcoat closer. “Who knows how long it may go on?” he added dismally.

With the sound of a courier arriving at the entrance of the trench, every head turned in unison. The men stopped smoking and those working laid down their picks and shovels, silently praying his name would be called. Letters from home were what kept a man sane. As names were called out and letters passed down the line, those who received nothing got back to work, masking their disappointment.

“Angus MacLeod.” Angus leaned forward as the letter was passed down.

“Who’s it from?” Gavin asked, stubbing out the precious cigarette casually, knowing the girls at Paris Plage could get him more.

“Flora. It’s from Flora,” Angus replied, blushing, his hands trembling as he slit open the envelope.

For a second, the sweet softness of her gray eyes and her mysterious smile replaced the mud, the wet and growing rumble of enemy fire. And for a moment, Gavin wished he’d written, but it just didn’t come naturally. He could say the words, and felt them deep inside. But write them? No. He didn’t like writing letters. He hadn’t even written that infamous “goodbye” letter, the one you left for after you were killed. Not him. Something told him it wasn’t a good omen. He shrugged, eyeing Angus impatiently as he read the letter, wishing she’d addressed it to him.

“I think you’ve got a crush on her,” he teased, dying to hear what she had to say.

“You know she only has eyes for you.” Angus scanned the lines avidly, then frowned.

“Well,” Gavin prodded, “what does she say?” Again he wished that she’d write to him. But then, she had before and he’d never taken the trouble to reply. Gavin shrugged. Flora knew he loved her. She would wait. She understood him as no one else ever could. She was his. He wished he’d kissed her again that last time they’d been together. But he couldn’t. If he had, things would have gotten out of hand. She was so young, so lovely, so innocent…Biting back his feelings, he nagged his brother again. “Well, come on. What’s she got to say for herself?”

“She’s coming out,” Angus replied in a flat voice.

“What do you mean?” Gavin’s head flew up.

“She’s asked to be posted overseas. She’s being sent here to France.” He glanced at the date of the postmark. “In fact, she’s probably here by now. This letter is more than a month old.”

“Good God. But why would she do that? There’s no reason for her to. Surely Papa could have intervened.”

“She says here that Father backed her up. She wants to do this, Gavin,” he added quietly, handing him the letter. “She’s made a choice.”

Gavin scanned the lines. Feeling powerless, he kicked a piece of stray traverse angrily, afraid for the first time. He knew how to take care of himself, damn it, but the thought of Flora in danger, without him to take care of her, had him swearing. Why hadn’t she stayed at home, where he knew she’d be safe? “You’re right about this damned war,” he exclaimed suddenly. “It’s time we got on with our lives. Do you think she’ll be posted near us?”

“She’ll probably be sent to Etaples,” Angus replied. “That’s where most of the V.A.D.s get sent when they first come out.”

“At least that’s not in the middle of the fighting. Still, I don’t like it.” Gavin looked up as the sound of shellfire intensified. He glanced at his brother, away in a world of his own, then stared back at the letter. His name had been pointedly avoided. She was angry he hadn’t written, he supposed. Well, he’d explain later, clear things up.

“Perhaps we’ll be able to see her,” Angus said dreamily.

“Maybe. If we live long enough,” Gavin answered, squinting upward.

“Oh, you will,” Angus laughed, his face alight with sudden admiration. “You’re like a cat, always falling back on your feet. We made it out of the Somme last year thanks to you.”

“Rubbish.” Gavin handed him back the letter then checked his rifle. “We all did our part. Imagine our little Flora at the front, though. It seems so strange. And I don’t like it one bit.”

“Not so little anymore, and from what I gather between the lines very much in love with you.” Angus gave him a fixed smile.

“I don’t know.” Gavin cocked his ear and tried to identify the exact direction of the increase in shellfire.

“Of course you do. You always have. You’ve only had eyes for one another for as long as I can remember,” Angus replied a touch bitterly.

Gavin gave him a surprised glance. “Jealous?”

“Of you two? Of course not.” Angus shook his head. “You’re meant for one another. I never stood a chance. She’s very fond of me. As a cousin and friend, that is.”

“Well, if anything happens to me, I suppose you’d better take care of her for me. Can’t have her going to some stranger.” Gavin spoke with a flippancy he was far from feeling, and scanned the trench once more. Deciding where to position his men, he ducked as the firing grew suddenly louder and a flare nearly grazed his head. “What in hell’s name’s going on? I know we’re in the middle of a bloody offensive, but it’s too damn close for comfort and I’ve not received any direct orders from H.Q. I hope the telephone lines aren’t down.” He raised his head aboveground.

“Don’t, you fool, you’ll get yourself killed.” Parker yanked him back.

“We need to know what’s happening.” Gavin jumped back down into the squelching mud and took charge. “Summers, stand to.” He ordered. “Marshall, keep the end bay covered.” He shouted orders as the noise increased and the men hastened as best they could, taking up their positions.

Then an eerie hum approached. Too late he realized what was about to happen. “Move,” he shouted, pushing Angus down into the mud in the split second before the explosion. Then pain tore through him. His body jerked up before it was thrown into a tangled mass of torn limbs, ripped flesh and horrifying screams.

For a while, he thought he was dead. Then, gradually, consciousness returned and he heard cries, smelled the bitter, acrid smoke. He tried to move but pain shot through his hip and thigh; he tried to open his eyes but they stung. Everything was hazy. He felt about him in a daze, all at once aware that the soft, wet substance he was touching must be flesh, and choked, as horror, gas and blood filled his lungs and he tried vainly to move.

Little by little he extracted his left hand from the sticky warmth below, gripped by nausea when he realized he was lying on Jonathan Parker’s dead body. He gasped, trying to catch his breath. Trying to think. He was alive. He had to stay alive. But where was Angus? Making a superhuman effort, he heaved the mangled pile of blood-soaked remains that lay across him, hearing the sound they made as they sank into the mud. The effort left him exhausted. But he focused now, and the rush of relief when he saw Angus staring down at him, apparently unharmed, was overwhelming. Thank God. He tried desperately to speak, but his lips wouldn’t move. To motion, but his arm wouldn’t budge.

Angus stared at him, expression detached. Gavin shouted but no sound emerged. Couldn’t Angus see him, damn it? He closed his eyes against a whiff of gas. When he was able to open them once more, Angus’s face still loomed impassively over him, an expressionless mask. Why didn’t he pull him out of here instead of just standing there? “Angus,” his mind screamed. “Help me, for Christ’s sake!”

But Angus made no gesture, no motion. Instead, he crouched beside him, wearing the cold, half-amused, disinterested gaze of a spectator. Desperately, Gavin reached his left arm toward his brother in a frantic effort, daggers searing through his hip and upper body as he grasped the gold chain and cross swinging from his twin’s neck, clutching it.

But Angus made no move and the chain gave way. Gavin reeled back, collapsing once more in the mire of blood, mud and misery. As his head sank into Jonathan Parker’s open guts and everything went black, his last conscious image was of Angus, watching calmly as he sank into oblivion.