Читать книгу Three to a Loaf - Michael J. Goodspeed - Страница 11

5

THE UNREPAIRED cobblestone roads jolted and jarred the ambulance wagon carrying me from the hospital complex to the railhead on the Ypres–Poperinge road. I had been lying in bed for a week in a wooden fifty-man temporary building. My fever had abated and my wounds were showing signs of healing without infection. Now I was certified as “Fit, limited travel/Unfit, frontline duty.” I thought it would be the beginning of my journey home. In accordance with Canadian army evacuation policy, I was to be transferred from the forward casualty clearance and holding centre to a treatment hospital somewhere in England.

As bad as I felt, it was a delight to be out of that hospital. I wanted to be away from the climate of death that enveloped Flanders. The nurses and orderlies were kind, but the casualty clearance centre was a thoroughly depressing place. From my bed I was able to see acres of graves covering the countryside and each day the borders of the graveyard spread as fresh crosses sprouted across the landscape. Each morning and afternoon, sombre khaki processions traipsed behind long lines of coffins. I was thankful to be getting away from this gloomy complex of makeshift buildings, shattered men, and its death garden.

My stretcher, along with one other, was lashed to the frame of a rickety commandeered Belgian dry goods wagon. Looking out the back of the wagon with my good eye, I saw low clouds scudding across the sky. Like the rolling distant thunder I had once heard on the prairies, guns boomed and rumbled back and forth intermittently in the distance. The sun was gone the whole time I’d been at the casualty clearing hospital and cold rain spattered intermittently down on the broken Belgian countryside. My thoughts were muddled. As the dangers from concussion receded, the doctors gave me morphine for my pain. At the time, I almost wept with relief; my hand and eye caused me intense pain. The suspension of pain left me blissfully numb, and for much of my time in the casualty clearing station I lay in a trance.

That morning I was lucid enough to realize my lack of sensation was a blessing as the wagon driver repeatedly apologized. “Sorry, lads, sorry. It’ll be a lot smoother when we’ve got you on the train, believe me.” I didn’t answer him, but I wasn’t feeling much. Just before I was transferred to my stretcher, one of the nursing sisters thoughtfully injected me with morphine. The man next to me said nothing. He was wrapped in a blanket and his face stared in blank terror at the canvas tarpaulin above us. I never learned his name or a thing about him; but the sight of him made me grateful I was not more seriously wounded. Whatever physical wounds the poor man suffered paled in comparison to the torment within his mind.

I no longer needed the handrails that lined the hallways of my ward at Number Two Canadian Army Stationary Hospital in London. It was the first time I was walking without feeling dizzy or faint. On my sixth day in London, I was dressed in army-issue paper slippers, blue pyjamas, and dressing gown, and shuffling along with great determination through the corridors when I saw a striking young blonde nursing sister coming towards me pushing a trolley of medical instruments. I wasn’t certain, but she looked very familiar. “Excuse me, Sister, are you Hannah? The nursing sister from Vancouver?”

She looked slightly hesitant but quickly regained her composure. “Yes, but I don’t think I know you, do I?” she said with a weak smile.

“No, I can’t say we actually know each other, but we’ve met. On the troop ship, the day we saw the whales, we chatted for an hour or so.”

“Oh my, yes, it’s you. The nice officer from Montreal,” she said, bursting into a warm smile. “I’ve often wondered how you got on.” She hesitated for a split second, afraid she had made a gaffe and it occurred to me that now, to some people, I had become an object of pity. This was an emotional change of tack for me. Since coming out of the line, I had been brooding over being undeservedly lucky when so many other good men were dead. Hannah recovered immediately and smiled broadly. “How are you?” She seemed genuinely pleased to see me; or maybe it was just that she was one of those women who illuminate the world with their smile. It didn’t matter; I was thrilled.

“I’m getting better,” I said with ill-concealed embarrassment. I’d no reason to be ashamed, but I hadn’t prepared myself for giving explanations to anyone who wasn’t wounded. The few conversations I had about the subject were with other patients and we limited our questions to what part of the line we were in and when we were hit. We never discussed circumstances. “I ran into a little difficulty a couple weeks ago in Flanders. I’m just returning to my ward from the ophthalmologist. He says there’s no sign of infection, so I’m quite lucky. How have you been doing for the last ten months?”

“I’m really well. I’m sure you know, we’re much too busy here,” she said with a grim flourish. “I’m sorry, I really can’t talk just now, but please tell me your name and ward. I’ll come and see you, soon. I promise.”

Two days later I was bitterly discouraged to hear the hospital ophthalmologist tell me I was going to lose my left eye. It wasn’t responding to treatment and he was afraid it was now showing signs of infection. It could kill me. If they took it out, I’d be fine. If they didn’t, he couldn’t guarantee me anything. In a way, I had almost expected that news. Each day the doctors looked a little more anxious when they examined me. And since leaving the casualty clearance hospital, no one had given me assurances that I would ever see with my left eye again. I pinched myself and resolved not to allow the news to dampen my spirits further. I was alive. I knew instinctively things were going to get better; and that afternoon they did. Hannah breezed onto our ward. She loaded me into a wheelchair and cheerfully wheeled me out into the garden.

“We’re not supposed to fraternize socially with patients, but if anyone asks, you’re my brother’s best friend. I do have a brother and he’s serving in the Tenth Battalion somewhere in Flanders.”

I fumbled for my cigarettes and Hannah looked down at them hungrily.

“I’m so glad you smoke! Wait.” She dragged my chair across the lawn behind a large clump of shrubbery that concealed us from the hospital. “Can I have one of those please? They’ll court martial me and then shoot me if they catch me smoking.” Hannah curled her feet up under her on the grass and took off her starched uniform veil. I was taken aback by her behaviour. I wasn’t in the least bit shocked, but I was pleased by her independence and cheerful willingness to break the rules.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t have gotten around to see you earlier. We’ve been rushed off our feet. I think it’s ghastly.” I held a match for her as she lit one of my cigarettes and she exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. She paused and looked at me pensively. “I should explain myself. It’s not ghastly that I’m working hard. I wish I could do more. There are so many young men here whose lives are totally shattered.” She had a faraway look in here eyes and we smoked in silence for a minute.

“You probably think I’m a fool for talking like this. I know I don’t really know you, but …” Her voice trailed off.

“No, it’s all right. I thought when we talked that day on the ship; well, it seemed so natural.” I thought I was sounding sappy and changed my tone. “I need someone to talk to anyway. I’ve been keeping to myself the last two weeks. It’s quite a change talking to someone who hasn’t been living in a trench.”

I wanted to make her feel comfortable and I wanted our conversation to go on forever. Apart from matronly Red Cross tea ladies and the forbidding-looking but over-worked ward nurse who changed my dressings, I hadn’t any kind of a conversation with a woman for months. We stumbled through the weather, laughed about the hospital food, her matron, and talked about Montreal and Vancouver.

During the two days I’d waited for her to come and see me I’d foolishly convinced myself that she was the woman of my dreams. I suppose I was emotionally starved and I let my imagination run wild. I couldn’t read because of my eye. Hannah was a beautiful young woman who was coming to see me and all I could do was lie in my starchy-smelling hospital bed and await her arrival. I imagined our life together, what it would be like to make love to her, what she looked like in the mornings, and what kinds of things we’d do together when the war was over. I can’t say I really believed any of it, but in the state I was in, fantasy lurked dangerously close to reality and I didn’t want to distinguish between the two. Hannah could have been talking in Greek for all I cared.

We grew quiet again and smoked another cigarette in silence. “You know, Rory, I’m glad you’re wounded.” She held up her hand to stop me from speaking. “I’m glad you’re out of that part of things. So many of our boys come back as wrecks. I can’t abide watching innocent men suffer and die and rot. If we save them, they’re returned to duty at the front or go back to Canada, to become what? Occupy a bed space in a dingy hospital for the rest of their lives. I want it over. And for you it’s over, but you can still make a life for yourself, that’s something I’m glad of.”

“It may be that I’m going home, but it’s not going to end for a long time yet, Hannah.” I threw my cigarette down and stared up at great masses of puffy white clouds. “What bothers me is I don’t even know what we’re fighting for any more. Once I believed some of the stories about the Hun and defending the Empire. I don’t believe or disbelieve anything any more. I think we’re fighting now, because we’re fighting.”

Hannah looked at me intently. I wasn’t sure if I’d gone too far but I continued.

“I’m half-German, my mother’s German, and I’ve seen so many killed, our side, Germans, what’s the difference. I’m no socialist revolutionary, but can anyone tell me what’s worth this price?” My voice was rising and I felt flushed.

Hannah reached forward and touched my hand. “Do you remember what it was like in Montreal the day war was declared? I was in Vancouver on Robson Street that day. It was an incredible celebration. People hanging off streetlamps, crowds singing ‘God Save The King.’ You’d have thought we all won the Irish Sweepstakes. I was no different.”

“Montreal was the same.”

“You’re right, though, from where I am now, it seems we’re in a trap and we can’t get out. The war goes on because we can’t end it. I’m certain if it was up to the soldiers in the trenches, it’d be over tomorrow. It sure as hell would be for those of us here in the hospitals.”

Hannah looked at me and then looked far away. “You know, Rory, I have a brother in the Tenth Battalion. Jack’s in the artillery and I’ve a cousin who’s just joined up in Vancouver. None of us could really tell you what Canada hopes to achieve from all of this.”

“No, I don’t suppose any one can. Who’s Jack?” I said innocently.

“He’s my fiancé,” she said, pushing her hair back from her face and staring out over the shrubbery.

I didn’t hear anything Hannah said after that. It was foolish really, but it showed how I’d changed. I never for an instant thought Hannah had a fiancé. I assumed she was interested in me. I was quite hurt. It wasn’t until later I realized she merely wanted to be friends. I should have known that from the start, but I was so starved for feminine companionship any pretty girl would have appeared to me to be a possible lover. I had so many readjustments to make in the world and at the time I didn’t even realize it. In the months I’d been in the trenches, both the rules and I started to change. Women were already more forthcoming with men without being romantically interested. I missed almost all this in my short time at the front. I didn’t realize it then, but Hannah was on the knife-edge of that kind of thinking.

Hannah looked at me rather startled. “Are you alright, Rory?”

“Oh, I’m fine, really, Hannah.” I was struggling not to appear a complete fool and resorted to self-pity to escape. “I was just thinking that they’re going to take out my left eye tomorrow. It can’t be saved.”

“You poor dear.” She grabbed my good hand. “Rory, I’m very sorry.” She looked away and then said. “I read your file this morning. I didn’t think you wanted to talk about it. It’s really the best thing. Your doctor’s very good, but you must be concerned.”

In truth, I wasn’t as concerned as I should have been about my eye. Losing an eye was trivial compared to the isolation I felt. I’d already come to grips with the loss of an eye. The deeper pains I felt were psychological. But like the rest of my feelings, I couldn’t exactly describe them. I was terribly lonely and dispirited. I suppose doctors today would say I was clinically depressed. I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself. God knows, looking back at it now, I had every reason to feel dejected. I knew instinctively that an eye and half of one hand was a cheaper price than so many others had already paid. All the while I’d been in hospital in England I was angry with myself but I didn’t know why. Now I felt even more foolish falling so head-over-heels in love with Hannah, a woman I scarcely knew. Even then, I didn’t have the wits to see I wasn’t in any kind of emotional state to become attached to anybody. Even to myself I was a stranger. The other thing I hadn’t come to grips with, and I suppose I still haven’t to this day, was why I survived and so many others didn’t. I knew it was a problem with no answer, but the fact that this difficulty gnawed away at me played a big part in sending me to Germany.

I was wheeled into a green-painted operating room. Once again a rubber face-piece was pressed down on my face, and my eye was removed without incident. The anaesthetic made me violently ill for two days and my eye socket gave me searing pain for long afterwards. Hannah looked in on me every day that week. Each time I saw her I wasn’t much company. I was too groggy from morphine, or in too much pain when they switched me to codeine to wean me from the morphine. The last time she looked in on me she seemed sad. “Rory, you’re going to be moved to a convalescent hospital tomorrow. I don’t think I’ll be able to see you again for who knows how long.” She held my good hand and spoke some more. I don’t remember what she said, but it was soothing and achingly feminine. She then kissed me hurriedly on the cheek and left.

The hospital orderly who came to pack me off in the morning was an elderly Englishman. He walked with a pronounced limp and had a ragged moustache and an equally ragged haircut. He gave me fresh pyjamas, a heavily starched regulation blue dressing gown, and new paper slippers. The old gentleman waited patiently, leaning on my wheelchair, and when I had changed myself, he very deliberately said to me in a thick North Country accent, “Aye now, sir, there’ll be a delegation of politicians and what not from Canada. They’ll be in the lobby in a half an hour. Want to see some of the lads, all junior officers like yourself who are soon to be discharged to convalescent hospitals. We’ll get that bit of unpleasantness over with, and then you’re off to a country house to rest and mend for a few weeks.”

In the lobby I was wheeled into a small assembly of bandaged and broken men all dressed in blue-issue pyjamas and seated in a semicircle to greet our visitors. Behind them stood a small knot of grim-faced doctors and nurses. “Who’s all this in aid of?” I asked a man seated beside me with a heavy bandage over the stump of his wrist.

“Sir Sam Hughes, the goddamn minister of militia,” he said bitterly. “Last time I saw him was just before we shipped overseas. He kept us waiting on parade in Borden in the heat and dust for three hours to say goodbye. He’s come to gloat and get his picture taken with ‘his boys’ as he likes to call us.”

Close to an hour later, a cluster of portly and greying lieutenant colonels and majors arrived. To a man, they were dressed in magnificently tailored uniforms. I was quick to notice that although they were all wearing regimental badges of famous Canadian militia units, there wasn’t a field service medal or a wound stripe amongst the lot. One of them cleared his throat and addressed us. “Gentlemen, the honourable Sir Sam Hughes, the minister of militia and member of Parliament for Haliburton County will be here momentarily. Sir Sam will address you collectively and then he will sit with you for a group photograph and perhaps a few individual photos for any of you who might care to have a photograph sent home to your families to let them see how you’re getting on. Now, Sir Sam is sorely pressed in his schedule; so, I’m afraid there’ll be no time for questions.”

This announcement generated a hostile buzz. Before it died down, one of the ranking attendants drew himself to his full height and crashed his foot to the floor, calling the room to attention. “Room! Our minister of militia, Major General Sir Sam Hughes.”

At this point, a fit-looking man in a major general’s uniform burst into the room. I’d seen pictures of Sam Hughes before and I instinctively distrusted him. His jaw was extended aggressively and he slapped his riding crop against his trouser leg. He strode purposefully across the hospital lobby. Hughes was fleshy faced; nonetheless, he was a tanned, physically powerful-looking man. Despite the fact that Hughes exuded energy and vigour, his bright blue eyes had a glassy, over-focused look. My immediate impression was that he was slightly insane. He glared down at his audience; not one of us sat to attention in accordance with the standard courtesy demanded by military discipline. Some men pointedly slouched and lolled casually. Poor Ernie Gillespie, who was missing a foot and was plainly shell-shocked, sat slack-jawed and vacant-eyed near the middle of the group. He was shivering and weaving his head from side to side.

The minister stood before us, looked down distastefully at Ernie, rocked on his heels, and licked his lips. “Gentleman, I want to say to you how proud all Canada is of your sacrifice. You’ve displayed the kind of leadership and commitment that we have come to expect from our troops.” At this juncture the minister paused, clearly irritated by two men to my right who were talking loudly. “If I may go on please, gentlemen!”

“Oh don’t let us stop you, Sir Sam, we’ve been waiting for a long time to hear what you have to say,” the culprit closest to me said loudly. The audience tittered and some men clapped.

Someone called out, “Go ahead, General, we’re honoured by your gracious visit. We’ve been waiting a very long time indeed.” There was more laughter.

On the other side of the room, a man leaning on a crutch chimed in. “We’re as happy seeing you as we were getting your Ross rifle, the one that jammed after three rounds. You do remember the rifle you forced us to use? We’re anxious to hear what you have to say.” This was greeted by “Hear, hears,” ragged clapping, and pounding of canes and crutches.

Sam Hughes was regarded by most serving soldiers as a posturing clown, and those forced to use the Ross rifle despised him with an intensity not normally attributed to bland Canadian politicians. We regarded him as a war-profiteer and a murderous buffoon. He had long been a focus for my anger and I suspect that of everyone else in the room.

One of the senior officers jumped in. “Gentlemen, in all my years I have never seen a general officer or a minister of the Crown treated in such an insulting and offensive manner.” To which someone at the back of the room drawled, “Yeah, well then, Sir Sam isn’t exactly a real general is he? More like a Kentucky colonel, don’t you think?”