Angel of the Somme: The Great War, Book 1 (15 page)

After a long while, he drifted down into an uneasy sleep.

For the next few days, Sam dithered.

It was the new arrivals of Irish Fusiliers that did it. Seeing their torn bodies and exhausted faces was all it took to push Sam over the edge.

The Faughs had been ordered to go over the top and had obeyed—despite the fact that their orders had carried them directly toward two particularly well-defended machine gun nests and an impenetrable wall of barbed wire. The casualty count had been brutal.

Lily had been tasked with triage, as usual and had been at the station for fifteen-hour days. Sam lay abed as the steady stream of wounded poured into the ward, most of them with bandaged stumps where limbs had been. The sight was almost more than Sam could bear. He watched guiltily, uselessly, as they were loaded into their hospital cots near him, half of them too drugged to know they’d survived.

Sam’s conscience hammered away at him, set up a room in the back of his mind and made itself as at home as his headaches had ever been. He shifted on his bed.

To continue to lie back and do nothing wore on him. He felt derelict in his duty to be able to help his fellow Tommy, yet he sat back and did nothing. Even if another seizure might mean risking his life, what of it? These fine men risked their lives daily.

On the other hand, Lily would be devastated should he place his life in such danger.

Goddamn this bloody war to hell. Putting himself at risk was one thing, but the thought of causing pain to Lily was unbearable. And while he was damning things, Sam damned himself for having to make such a cruel choice.

When Sam glanced at Gordy, he was relieved to see that he was focused on his Australian neighbor again. Gordy waved his arms in the air, selling a punch line and the Australian laughed.

If he didn’t move now, he might not have another chance.

Sam sat up in bed, knowing he didn’t have the luxury of contemplation. If he considered the ramifications of what he was about to do, he’d remember Lily in the garden. The feel of her hair between his fingers. The way she sighed when she said his name. The vulnerability in her eyes when she looked at him so trustingly.

He flicked a glance over to the double amputee across the aisle from him. The man stared out the window blankly, not registering Sam’s presence in the slightest.

Decision made, Sam reached down to the second shelf of his bedside table. He gripped the edge of the wicker basket that held his correspondence and brought it to his lap.

Since Lily hadn’t been by to read to him for several days, there had to be some unopened mail. Sure enough, an envelope from Evie sat atop the tidy pile. Sam tore it open and began to read.

Dearest Sam, I hope you’re not getting tired of hearing from me already. I don’t mean to bother you with too much mail, but we’re growing terribly anxious to see you.

Sam felt a slight pain stir in the back of his head, but it wasn’t nearly as sharp as it had been—as it needed to be.

He gritted his teeth and forced his concentration onto the page like a torch beam.

Your old friend, Chris Borle, came home just the other day. Mum and I stopped by after he settled in. He was in great spirits and asked after you. He was wounded at the Somme too and lost most of his right leg to a mine. I told him that you’d be homebound soon and he’s looking forward to…

Blast and damnation. Sam stared at the letter, squinting his eyes.

A slight headache. Nothing more.

In the past, it had only taken a few lines of reading before his headache had sprung to life, opening his doorway to the trenches. Dr. Raye had said that the Phenobarbital would reduce his seizures, but it seemed impossible that such a thing as a drug could erase his path to the battlefield so completely.

He stared down at the letter, feeling like a boy in short pants prodding a bull with a twig and the bull couldn’t work up the interest to even be annoyed by his efforts.

Sam flipped Evie’s letter back into the basket and swung his legs around to sit up on the edge of his bed. He stood quickly, thankful that Gordy remained distracted and that none of the VADs had spotted him.

So far, so good. It was time to go
over the top
—even though in this new world, that once ominous phrase now merely meant
walking across the room to stand in the sunlight.
His legs had done well enough in the garden and surely couldn’t protest a short stroll across the ward.

He slipped between the beds and stole toward the large, barred windows lining the southern edge of the room. When his feet stepped onto the sun-warmed tiles, he gripped the window ledge with both hands, preparing for the worst.

His head gave a slight kick. Nothing more. It was a mere housecat when he needed a ravenous tiger.

Sam inhaled deeply, then took a final step, bringing his body fully into the sunlight. He lifted his face to the sun and a battlefield of emotions warred within him: fear, guilt, shame. Sadly, bravery was not among them.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

He tilted his chin up and lifted his eyes, looking directly at the sun.

A blade of pain sliced into his temple.

Oh, hello again. I remember you, old friend.

“Oi, Sam.” Gordy’s puzzled voice called from behind him.

Sam gritted his teeth.
Not now, Gordy. Give me just a moment. Please. You don’t know how important this is.

“Captain Sam Dwight!” Gordy’s tone had shifted to one of alarm in no time at all.

Another bright beam of pain shot through Sam’s head—just behind his eyes. He watched his hand begin to twitch unsteadily on the windowsill. Losing his grip, he leaned against the ledge, feeling strangely detached from it all. It was as though his body belonged to some other soldier in some other hospital far from where he stood.

“Sister?” Gordy again. “Can I get some help here? Captain Dwight is—”

The white light streaming into his eyes suddenly flooded his vision with red. Sam blinked. The floor rushed up to meet him with impossible speed. Just as he was about to slam his face against the warm terra cotta tiles—he was suddenly gone.

Transported once again.

Sam knew where he was immediately, even before opening his eyes. The mud and blood stench of the trenches was as unforgettable as it was horrific. He opened his eyes to find himself lying on the edge of a sump hole.

He poked his head up cautiously to scan the battlefield. The ground was covered in a fine mist and an eerie calm lay over the scene. No shells hit the earth, no sounds of gunfire spattered in the distance. The battle had passed over this place hours ago.

Sam turned to look behind him. Fifty yards back, he could see figures carrying litters through the mist. Whether they were collecting the dead or living, he could not tell. He also had no way of knowing if the distant figures were allies or enemies.

He sat up and a fresh stab of pain sliced through his mind. He squinted, searching out a landmark, any sign of where he might be. Though it was difficult to see through the low fog, he made out a battle-scarred barn. It had been shelled thoroughly, however, and would be useless as any kind of distinguishing feature.

A faint gurgling sound interrupted him. It came from the far side of the sump hole, near a blasted tree stump. Sam stood on wobbly legs and walked over to investigate. A young soldier lay propped up against a tangle of roots. By his uniform, Sam could tell he was a member of the Irish Fusiliers. The lad was terribly young, no more than seventeen, with gangly limbs and bright red hair. And just below his top lip, most of his jaw had been shattered, torn up by shrapnel of machine gun bullets. His neck and chest were covered in blood and gore. It was all Sam could do to not avert his gaze.

He knelt by the young man, the pain in his head urging him to hurry.

The soldier took another gurgling breath and looked in Sam’s direction, but his eyes were glazed and unfocused. Sam couldn’t tell if the lad was even aware that he was there.

The boy’s canteen, drained dry with the lid off, lay beside him.
O’Reilly
was printed neatly on the side.

“O’Reilly. Is that you?” Sam asked, fighting against the demon of pain tearing about in his head.

The soldier nodded and his pupils dilated a little. He reached his hand out toward Sam and gurgled a word that might have been “please.”

“It’s all right, O’Reilly. I’m here to help you.” Sam reached his hand toward the boy and touched his grasping hand.

The instant he touched the soldier’s fingertips, the white light and the heat returned. Strings of energy danced down the length of Sam’s arm and flowed into the boy—a river of pure power. The screaming agony in Sam’s head blinked out, as if someone snuffed a candle.

The boy, the battlefield and finally Sam himself faded to black.

Chapter Eighteen

Sam came slowly out of the darkness. His whole being, felt swollen and broken. Pain raced down his muscles and up his spine to collect in his head in a burst of agony worthy of a firework on Guy Fawkes Night. He wanted to groan, but wasn’t certain he had enough energy.

His head throbbed, but when he moved to rub his hand across his forehead, his arm wouldn’t budge.

Strange.

Sam lifted his heavy lids, dreading the pain. When the light stabbed in though his eyes, he found the strength to groan after all. He tried to move his arm again, but it was absolutely immobile.

Daring to open his eyes a bit wider, he squinted an agonizing glance at his arm. It took his muddled mind a moment to understand what exactly he was seeing.

His wrist had been secured to the bed frame with a thick leather strap. When he carefully shifted his gaze to the other arm, he found it had been strapped down in a similar fashion.

Well, damn.

He tilted his head up, just a little, and a nauseating wave of pain sloshed in his head. He squinted, willing his way through it. After a few moments, the tide subsided and he opened his eyes again, looking to the right of his bed, where Lily always sat.

Instead of green eyes, however, his gaze was met with a pair of brown ones, sitting above a puckered mouth. Sister Newell watched him with a clinical detachment.

“You’re awake,” she intoned.

“I am,” he said in a croak.

Sister Newell stood and lifted the chart that hung from a hook at the foot of his bed. She scribbled a few notes down, then leveled a glance at him. “Are you in pain?”

“Yes.”

She stepped out of his line of vision, but he didn’t have the ability to turn his head enough to follow her. She returned in a moment, a syringe in her hand.

“I’m going to give you something.” Her voice was professional, detached. She unfastened his drawers, tugged them down a few inches, and slipped the needle into his thigh.

“I need to attend to others.” She gave him an annoyed expression, as though he’d purposefully been keeping her from her duties. “You should feel relief momentarily.”

Sam nodded, forgetting for a moment the consequences of moving his head. A fresh wave of pain crashed against his skull.

Sister Newell turned toward Gordy’s bed. “Should your neighbor cause any further trouble, please let us know, Lieutenant.”

“Of course, Sister,” Gordy replied.

Sister Newell floated off down the aisle.

Ever so slowly, Sam turned his gaze toward Gordy’s bed. Gordy narrowed his eyes and he jerked his head toward Sam. The gesture was less a friendly acknowledgement and more the kind of “come on then” motion a man might give another just before a back alley brawl.

Sam had never been in worse position for this type of thing. Especially from Gordy, of all people.

Sam closed his eyes. He barely had the strength to stand against the pulse of pain long enough to maintain consciousness, let alone whatever Gordy might have to say. He willed his muscles to relax and waited for the welcome relief of the opiate cloud he was promised.

Gordy gave a snort worthy of Lady P. “Oi, that’s not going to work, Captain. Sir.”

“You…don’t understand,” Sam mumbled.

“Or perhaps you don’t.” The undertone of fury in Gordy’s voice was more than a little unnerving. “We didn’t know if you were coming out this time. You didn’t even wake up after, like you usually do.”

Sam felt a numbing splash of opium wrap around his mind, just at the edges, but seeping through to the center, quick and merciful. He still didn’t open his eyes.

“Had to tie you up, they did. For your own good,” Gordy said. “The one benefit of this place being a former loony bin is that they had these tie-ups in the back, for them that have gone dolally enough to need them. Like you. Why did you do it, Sam?” The one thing that was more disturbing than Gordy’s anger was the sorrow—the confusion—that Sam heard simmering beneath the surface of his voice.

Sam knew he couldn’t tell Gordy the truth. If he tried, it would only serve to convince Gordy that Sam really was insane. He said nothing as the morphine wrapped him up and carried him away.

The squeak of the evening meal cart woke him. He opened his eyes to see Lily placing Gordy’s meal tray on his table.

“Looks smashing, this,” Gordy said with forced enthusiasm.

“You’re kind, but it’s cold ham and cheese with bread. Only a step above bully beef.” She gave her countryman a weak smile. When she looked up, she caught Sam’s eye and her smile immediately dropped from her face like it was too hot to hold.

Lily pulled up the chair and perched the tray on her lap. She cut a bite of ham, added some cheese on top and lifted a forkful to Sam’s face. He opened his mouth and accepted it wordlessly.

Perhaps her silence was for the best. If she asked for an explanation, he’d be damned if he could give her anything she was likely to believe.

He was halfway through the meal before he felt steady enough to look directly at her. What he saw tore at his heart. Her eyes were red-rimmed and the tip of her upturned nose was pink. She’d been crying. Growing up with Evie, he knew the look well. He cursed himself for being the one to bring her to tears.

At the far end of the room, Sam saw Matron Marshall making her way through the ward. She stopped every few beds to give instructions to a VAD or inquire about a patient’s condition. Somehow, the woman managed to make strolling look vaguely like a march.

“The straps? How long?” Sam asked. Better to ask Lily than the matron. As angry as Lily might be, at least she’d be straight with him.

“They’ll remain for the foreseeable future.” Her lips were a thin line. Her face took on an expression that was so close to the matron’s that it was more than a little frightening.

“Doctor’s orders? Or could I…”

Her eyes flashed angrily. “The straps were my idea. I found them in the back amidst a pile of moldy straitjackets. If the jackets had been in better condition, you’d be tied down in one of those right now.”

Lily stood to leave just as Matron Marshall reached them. Lily gripped the tray so tightly that her knuckles were white. She kept her head down. Sam knew it was to hide her distress from the matron. He felt miserable and guilty as she walked away.

“Captain Dwight,” the matron said in a clipped tone.

“Ma’am.” He had the strangest urge to salute, but the leather straps weren’t about to let him.

“You had a most unfortunate incident earlier today. Would you care to explain yourself?”

“No,” he said, then added as an afterthought, “ma’am.”

“The RAMC is hard pressed enough tending to the men who’ve been wounded on the battlefield. We have neither the staff nor the ability to tend to a patient who’s intent on causing injury to himself.”

She waited a few moments for Sam to respond. When he didn’t, she continued. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Ma’am, I know it must…look bad. I assure you that I am not suicidal.”

“Then how can you explain your actions?”

But Sam said nothing. He couldn’t explain them. Not to her, not to Gordy. Even if he could manage to get Lily alone, he wasn’t sure he could even explain it to her.

“I thought as much.” Matron Marshall gave him a distinctively disgusted glance and snatched up his chart. She scribbled a few notes, then returned it to its hook. “You’re considered a danger to yourself, Captain. You’ll remain in restraints.”

She turned to leave and Sam watched her walk away, unable to say anything.

The next day brought a trickle of new patients to New Bedlam. By their thick Irish accents, Sam guessed they were more Fusiliers, collected late from the Battle of Pozières. Since Sam was on the outs with Gordy and everyone else at New Bedlam, he’d been excluded from the usual ward gossip.

Being lashed to his bed like a madman meant that a VAD, usually Lily, fed him breakfast, lunch and supper. Last week, spending that much time in her company would have been the highlight of his day, even tied up like a rabid dog. Everything was different now.

Sam and Lily endured each meal in misery. Lily fed him in silence and Sam complied. Neither spoke. An invisible, impenetrable wall had been erected between them. Sam was heartsick at what he’d done, but helpless to find a way around it.

Even if he could somehow find the words to explain to Lily why he’d triggered the seizure, they were never alone long enough to begin such a conversation. Since the incident, Gordy had been especially protective of Bluebird, observing Sam carefully whenever Lily came by. And Matron Marshall constantly cast a
watching for the suicidal loony
glance his way every time she stepped foot on the ward.

Sam had to face it. If there was a way to explain things to Lily, it completely eluded him.

After supper on the second day following his seizure, the whole hopeless situation was getting to him. He felt restless to the point of bursting. The damned restraints rubbed his skin raw and were a constant reminder of his new, quasi-lunatic status.

With little choice to do anything else, Sam watched as a few of the ambulatory patients paced the aisles, conversing amongst themselves. It was a nightly tradition after supper, a New Bedlam version of taking an evening stroll.

As they milled past, no one stopped to talk with him. He supposed being tied down to his bed was not terribly conducive to idle chatter.

After a time of watching the men file past his bed, he noticed one fellow in particular. He was a very tall man, early thirties, with a long handlebar mustache. Each time he limped by Sam’s bed, he would pause, ever so slightly, and turn to look at Sam. He wouldn’t speak, just look at him, then limp off to make another circuit. It was unnerving.

After his fifth loop by his bed, Sam could stand it no longer. Unable to raise his hand in greeting, he gave the man a very distinctive nod.

The fellow seemed startled at first, and it took him a moment to recover and raise his hand in reply.

“Nice night for a walk.” Sam decided to go with something as banal as possible.

“It is,” the soldier nodded.

“I must ask,” Sam said, “do I know you?”

“I’m not sure.” The man fiddled with his mustache. Rather than approach Sam’s bed, where they could have a normal conversation, he lingered in the aisle so Sam had to crane his neck about to see him.

“Perhaps we shared a trench at some point. Captain Sam Dwight, with the Thirty-second, at your service.”

“Lieutenant Colin Daly. I’m with the Fusiliers.”

“Ah, you’ve just seen a bit of action at Pozières, haven’t you?” Sam had likely taken his most recent trip to that very spot. He swallowed and forced back his excitement. He looked enough of a lunatic being chained to his bed and the last thing he could afford would be to spook the man.

Daly nodded his confirmation. “Aye, I’m with the Faughs.” He continued to watch Sam carefully, like a cat sizing up an unfamiliar dog.

Sam tried another approach. “Inky Bill has quite the reputation on the battlefield.” A man couldn’t go wrong saying something kind about a soldier’s commanding officer.

Daly laughed nervously, but gave nothing else away.

“I’ll be honest, Lieutenant Daly, I don’t recollect meeting you but you appear to know me, somehow.” When the man didn’t respond, Sam pressed on. “Do you know me? Have you seen me before?”

Daly tilted his head toward Sam as he continued to twist his mustache. “Might be that you look familiar.”

Sam waited, biting his tongue—trying not to frighten the man away.

Daly rubbed his hand across his face, then tilted his head toward Sam. “Might have been I saw you at action at Pozières, just two days back. Could that have been so?”

Since it was impossible for Sam to answer the question honestly, instead he asked one of his own. “What did you see me doing?”

The man nodded, keeping his eyes trained on Sam. “I thought I saw you with O’Reilly.”

“O’Reilly?” Sam struggled to keep his voice calm.

“My corporal. He was in a bad way and we were going to come back for him with the second wave of ambulances. I thought I saw you…might have seen you with him.”

“Is O’Reilly all right?” Sam struggled to sit up in bed. “I’d like to talk to him.”

Daly bit his bottom lip. “Don’t rightly know what happened to him. Soon as I got to the field hospital, the Jerry pillbox started firing again. I haven’t seen O’Reilly since.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sam said.

Daly tugged on his mustache. “Just before the machine guns opened up, I looked back at him and that was when it happened. Right queer it was. A fellow dressed up in hospital blues reaching out to give O’Reilly a hand up. There was a strange flash, a mortar round I suppose, and when the light got back to normal, you were gone.”

After a few moments of silence, he took a step toward Sam. “So was it you that helped O’Reilly?”

“I…I have a head injury,” Sam said. “Seizures. It’s why they’ve got me trussed up here like a Christmas goose. The details in my head are a little unclear, but I’d like to think I helped him.”

Daly nodded. He watched Sam, cautiously, for a few moments, as though weighing something in his mind. “Glad to see you’re real. We’d taken a real pounding that afternoon, but I have to tell you, I thought I was seeing things when you showed up like you did. And it wasn’t just that you were out of uniform.”

“What was it, then?”

“You seemed more ghost than man.” Daly responded. “Just had a right…peculiar air about you. And why were you wearing hospital clothes in the middle of a battle?”

“It’s…very difficult to explain,” Sam said cautiously. Daly continued to watch Sam as though he might possibly be contagious and Sam was terrified he’d frighten the man off.

Daly cleared his throat and took a step back. “Thank you, Captain. For whatever it was you did for O’Reilly. I…really should be off now.”

Daly turned and began walking away.

“Thank you,” Sam called after him. “And when you see O’Reilly, please pass on my regards. I’d very much like to speak with him, if that’s possible.”

Daly lifted a hand in acknowledgement and continued down the aisle.