Angel of the Somme: The Great War, Book 1 (5 page)

The moment their fingers touched, it was as though Sam had grasped a live electrical wire. Pain roared through his head like an engine and a strange electric heat danced down his arm, toward the boy. Sam jerked as his arm buzzed and he nearly released his grip.

The private’s eyes widened in astonishment. He looked at the place where their hands connected, and his mouth dropped. Just at the exact point of connection, a white light had appeared. It was merely a spark at first, but growing larger and brighter by the second.

Sam could no longer even see their hands. He tried to release his grip, to stop this unearthly frisson. He could not.

“The pain, sir!” The lad stared down at the light, which had swallowed their hands whole.

“What?” Could Sam’s excruciating headache be affecting the soldier somehow? Again, Sam wrenched his hand, trying again to let go of the private’s hand. The lad was having none of it and gripped tighter. A strange pulsing sensation began to beat and flutter at their point of contact.

“The pain is gone. You
are
a bloody angel!”

The light was now so bright that Sam could only see the soldier in silhouette. The electric throbbing rose and buzzed around Sam like a swarm of hornets.

“Thank you, sir.” The boy called, but Sam could barely register the sound through the blinding tide of light. Electric jolts danced down his arm and through the boy’s fingertips—brightening Sam’s vision until all was white, healing light.

And Sam knew no more.

Chapter Six

“Help!” Lily placed her arms across the captain’s torso, which jerked and bucked beneath her. She flailed around trying to secure him to his bed frame. “He’s having a seizure. Get a doctor or the matron. Help!”

Rose dashed around her meal cart and to the other side of the captain’s bed. “Should I hold his head?” Rose shouted. “Oh, no. I mustn’t hold his head—it’s injured! What do I do?”

“Find something to put in his mouth,” Lily shouted. She gripped the far edge of the bed frame, using her body as a kind of belt to keep his bucking body in place.

Rose looked at her, dumbstruck and horrified. “Something?”

“A wooden spoon, a bit of leather. Anything!” Lily cast a glance over her shoulder to see if the sisters or the matron had spotted the commotion yet. The ward was dotted with white VAD scarves and no other staff.

The captain continued to twist under her. She gripped the frame tighter. Though she’d seen seizures, she’d never been the one
in charge
before. Her heart thundered in panic.

When she looked at Sam’s face, the sight stopped her breath. His eyes had rolled back inside his head and she could only see the whites of them as his head bounced off the pillow. What this must be doing to his injury, she couldn’t imagine.

Rose had pulled off her scarf and was attempting to push it inside the captain’s mouth.

“Not that, Rose! He’ll choke.”

The captain bucked again and Lily threw her full weight on top of him. Not that it would do much good. He was much larger than she and well muscled. Try as she might, she wouldn’t be able to secure him for much longer. His legs drummed out a frightening rhythm on the bed sheets as he continued to seize—his body moving closer to the edge of the bed despite her best efforts.

Suddenly, his seizure stopped. Not with a fading out—but in an instant. The whites of his eyes disappeared and he turned his clear blue gaze on her, blinking in surprise.

Captain Sam had returned.

“I saved him.” He wore a look of astonishment. “I think I saved him.” He spoke with absolute clarity, sounding nothing like his earlier, faltering self.

Then his eyes closed and he lost consciousness before Lily could respond.

She climbed off him just as heavy, running footsteps announced that someone had at last managed to raise the matron. Dread replaced Lily’s terror.

“Status, Miss Curtis,” the matron barked as she skidded to a stop beside the bed.

“Captain Dwight had a seizure incident, ma’am,” Lily said, stepping back.

The matron pushed in next to the bed and gave the captain a critical assessment. “It appears to be over.” She pulled his eyelid open and studied his pupil reaction. She waved her hand in front of his face, but he gave no response. The matron flared her nostrils and leaned over to check his pulse and respiration, all business.

“He’ll likely be out for a while. Did you make a note of the duration of the event, Miss Curtis? And what activity might have preceded it?”

Since Lily had only just climbed off the man, she hadn’t quite had the time for notating a thing, but she knew better than to point that out to the matron. “I don’t know what caused it, ma’am, but I’ll be certain to mark the event on his chart.”

“Fine. And upgrade his condition to SI.”

“SI.?” Rose asked, her voice just above a whisper.

“Seriously Ill.” The matron shot Rose an impatient glance. “Miss Curtis, I’d like you to take down the vitals and notify Dr. Raye of this personally. In the meanwhile, I’ll send Sister Newell over with Phenobarbital.” She turned to rumble off through the ward.

Rose began to reattach her scarf with tear-filled eyes. “Sorry, Lily. I wasn’t much help to you.”

“You did your best, Rose. That’s all anyone can ask for.” Lily turned around. “Gordy, did you see what caused the seizure? Was Captain Dwight doing anything unusual?”

“Might have been he was trying to get at his mail.” Gordy cast a look down. A wicker basket lay on its side and letters were strewn about the floor.

“That very likely was exactly the cause. Thank you.” Lily shook her head for missing the obvious. She bent over and scooped up the letters. She returned them to the second shelf of the captain’s bedside table.

She retrieved his chart from its hook at the foot of the bed, wrote a quick summary of the incident. She reached out and placed a hand on his forehead. His skin was cool and damp beneath her touch, his color paler than usual.

Lily charted his pulse and respiration, then scribbled a quick note allowing for morphine. No, she wasn’t supposed to—not technically—but the poor man was going to have a world class headache when he woke.

She hung his chart on the end of his bed frame and moved off through the ward.

Lily stood in the cool back garden of the hospital. A breeze stirred through the yard and the elm leaves rustled pleasantly. She turned toward the faded red brick walls of New Bedlam and watched the VADs wheel the heavy carts of laundry through the back door.

Since there was a blessed lull in action at the front, Matron Marshall decided it was an opportune time to teach the new arrivals how to launder the linens. She’d further decided that Lily should be the one to instruct them.

New Bedlam was lucky to have such a large outdoor kitchen area. Many hospitals had to launder in the same kitchen where they prepared meals. After showing the girls how to start the wood fires, Lily gave them brief instructions regarding amounts of bleach and detergent to add, and how to rinse. She was careful not to give them too much supervision. She didn’t want to undermine their budding confidence in their ability to manage.

With a bit of rare free time on her hands, she stopped by the officers’ ward. She wanted to check on a second lieutenant with a septic leg, and Captain Dwight had been on her mind all afternoon.

The second lieutenant was sleeping, but his color looked a little better. When she glanced over to the corner of the room, she could see that the captain was wide awake. The ever-neighborly Gordy was telling him a story which required, apparently, the aggressive use of waving arm gestures. When Lily approached, her fellow Canadian greeted her with a wide grin.

“Bluebird,” Gordy said, but quietly so that the sister across the ward couldn’t hear.

Lily grinned and shook her head. “Lieutenant, you’re impossible.” Turning to look at the captain, she noticed his brows had a decidedly pinched look. “How are you feeling, Captain Dwight?”

His face was very pale, and a sheen of perspiration coated his forehead. “Felt better.”

“You know what happened this morning, don’t you?”

“Seizure. Gordy told me.”

She nodded. “Do you remember anything about what might have brought it on? It looks like you were trying to read your mail.”

He nodded his head, ever so slightly. The pained look behind his eyes told her now might have not been the best time for questioning the poor man.

She checked the large wall clock. “We can give you a little morphine, but it’ll make you sleepy and I’d really hate for you to miss supper. Do you think you could wait another hour?”

“Yes,” he said.

“How about we tend to your mail?” It would keep his mind off his pain, and would hopefully curb his urge to read it for himself.

“Capital idea. Thank you.”

Lily had to force a smile away from her lips. Though she read a lot of letters to a lot of men, the captain’s mails were memorable. They were charming little windows into his former country life. Lily looked forward to hearing about family life, and the increasingly scandalous behavior of Lady P.

“How about another letter from your sister?” Lily asked.

“Like to…write her.”

“I’m afraid that might not be a very good idea just yet.”

“Short letter?”

“It’ll be quite difficult. Perhaps in a few days time if you continue to…”

“Please,” he interrupted. He looked so painfully earnest that she had to look away. “Evie worries.”

“Very well.” Lily reached down to the notepad and pen waiting beside his mail basket. “As long as it’s brief. And you’ll allow me to supply as many of the words as I’m able.”

“Yes, sir.”

She cast a quick glance to him. The shadow of a grin ghosted across his lips.

“Captain Dwight, are you giving me cheek?”

“No, sir.” His slight grin remained.

“I fear that Gordy is becoming a terribly corrupting influence.” It was marvelous to see him trying to tease, despite the pain that shone through his eyes.

“You write.” He lifted his palms up in a surrender motion. “If I wrote…sound like…telegram.”

“Listen to you already improving, though. Eight words in that last bit. Before you know it, you’ll be quoting Shakespeare.”

“Farmer’s Almanac. Prepare for an…early frost.” At that he gave a full on grin. His cheek had a very devastating dimple and she quickly glanced down at her notebook to steady herself.

“Now, let’s get started. Dear…Evelyn or Evie?” she asked.

“Evie.” He smiled. “Always Evie.” He looked up at the ceiling, collecting his thoughts. “Awake finally.”

“I’m writing to tell you that I am finally awake,” Lily repeated.

“Home soon.”

“I’ve been assured by the doctor that I should be home as soon as I’ve stabilized.”

“Thank you. Letters.”

“Thank you so much for your letters, and thank Mum and Father too. It’s lovely to have a distraction and to hear how things are at home. Or should I say ‘farm’?”

“Farm.” He paused, thinking for a moment. “Lady P. Don’t worry.”

“I have followed the exploits of Lady P with much interest. I hope that you don’t worry too much for her safety and reputation.”

“Reputation.” He laughed a little at that before continuing. “Help catch her…my return.”

Lily snuck a glance up to see if he was joking, but his expression was quite earnest. “I shall assist catching her upon my return. Catch her? You would like me to write that?” As if an English lady was some sort of football or escapee?

He confirmed with a nod, followed by a wince. “With love, Sam.”

Lily signed his name. “I should add that it was dictated. Otherwise Evie will wonder why your handwriting has suddenly gone wrong.”

“Gone right.” He smiled again and the dimple flashed. “I have…terrible handwriting.”

She added a short note “as dictated to Lily Curtis, VAD” and slipped the letter into an envelope. After copying the address, she stood to leave, shaking out her skirts.

“They’re set to start supper and I’ll be needed. I’ll get this to the post straightaway, Captain.”

“Thank you,” he said, “Lily.”

“You’re welcome, sir.” She added the last bit because she had to. To remind him of the distance they had to maintain between them. It wouldn’t do to allow herself to slip. Gordy was one thing—he first-named one and all. But there was something about Sam—Captain Dwight—that told her familiarity would be an entirely other matter.

Chapter Seven

The dream, or whatever it had been, lingered over the next few days. Sam kept turning it over in his mind, examining the thing from different angles. Something about it rattled him to the core. His time in the trenches troubled him because it seemed so very real. Somehow it felt more solid than his time in New Bedlam.

Though he couldn’t quite dismiss the experience as a dream, neither could he attribute it to some kind of strange, otherworldly experience.

Of course, he had to admit there was the very real possibility that he was simply going mad or that his brain injury had produced a delusion.

As he puzzled over the incident in the days that followed, he took steady steps to wellness. Each day, the volume of his headaches decreased and his shaking limbs quaked with less vigor.

Much to his relief, his speech returned. Once elusive words became easier for his mind to grasp and he was able to talk in complete sentences, more or less. Primarily, he had Gordy to thank for that. The Lieutenant kept up such a barrage of words that Sam had no choice but to process them all day long. In convalescence, Gordy had somehow turned language therapist.

A commotion woke Sam just as the sun rose. Two orderlies were assembling beds as quickly—and loudly—as seemed humanly possible.

The flurry of activity had all the earmarks of a fresh surge at the front. Sam felt a lump of dread rise in his chest. New Bedlam was already full to bursting and its staff seemed weary and taxed to the breaking point.

He also couldn’t help but feel a wave of guilt—lying in a hospital bed, safe from harm, while his countrymen were still giving their all at the front.

“You’re awake again, are you?” Gordy asked. “How’s your head today?”

“Not bad,” Sam answered and it was mostly true. “Do you know where the wounded are from?” He tried not to play the big brother, but he remained attuned to where Baden was stationed, and listened carefully for any mention of Fricourt.

“No idea,” Gordy replied. “By the look of it, they’re expecting another full ambulance train. Matron Marshall stopped by while you were sleeping. Said they’ll have a few captured Germans along. Said I might be needed for translating later.”

“You speak German?” Sam had to admit that he was more than a little surprised. “Thought Canadians…spoke French.”

“Mostly in Quebec.” Gordy shrugged. “And I’m from Nova Scotia, but my mum was born in Berlin. I was brought up with it. I reckon that’s a big reason why they keep me around instead of sending me back to Old Blighty. I can help out if a wounded Jerry makes it through the doors. One of the doctors speaks German, but it’s always good to have a few more translators about.”

Their conversation was interrupted with breakfast borne by baby VADs—new arrivals who’d not been battle tested yet. By their pinched expressions, they were currently receiving a brutal education on the subject of war.

Sam looked to his plate to see two muffins and a slice of ham. He rose to a sitting position carefully as the VAD adjusted the pillows behind his back. Though his head gave a kick of pain, his vision remained clear and his hands were steady. At least he’d improved to the point where he could feed himself. As Sam cautiously ate his breakfast he could feel Gordy casting wobbly glances his way.

“Don’t think you’ll be doing any bed dancing today, then?” Gordy asked. “Gave Bluebird a right fright the other day, you did.”

Sam took a bite of bread. “What did it look like…to you? When I had the seizure?”

Gordy looked up to the ceiling in thought. “Was like you was being electrified, I suppose. Your body jerked all over—legs and arms moving about. Your head too. Had to keep you from falling on the floor, so Bluebird threw herself right across the top of you. Very clever of you, getting a pretty girl to hold you close, but you might want to be awake for it next time.” He waited a moment before adding, “Were you? Awake? Do you remember anything of it?”

Sam shook his head carefully. “I remember nothing of…what happened here at the hospital.” He knew it was an odd answer, but what else could he say?

He looked out through the barred windows on the far side of the room. He sighed and felt like a fool. Again, he turned the event over in his mind. Perhaps he was experiencing a form of shell shock. Gordy had his head wobble and Sam had his visions of the trenches.

He lay back in bed and considered the possibilities as the beginnings of a headache danced around the edges of his mind. Perhaps if he could ask Lily—Miss Curtis—a few questions about his condition, he could sort out the truth of it. Trouble was, he hadn’t seen her in days. What with the steady stream of ambulance trains, she’d been needed at the station in town. At least that was the word from Gordy.

Blighted war.

He rolled to his side, hoping to catch a little sleep, and his headache rolled along with him, complaining all the way.

Shortly after lunch, Gordy decided to regale Sam with tales of fishing in Newfoundland.

“Now your Atlantic Salmon is a whole other kettle of fish from your Pacific Salmon. The Atlantic Salmon is what the Pacific wishes he could be if he ever grew a pair of nibber-nabbers.”

“Is that right?” Sam asked. As far as entertaining neighbors, a fellow would be hard pressed to do better than Gordy Robbins.

“Too right it is! You’re never seen a fiercer fighter. And teeth like you’d not believe. Back home we call them river sharks.”

“Do you now?” Sam didn’t even attempt to keep the disbelief from his voice.

“I caught this one salmon, almost as tall as me. A right bastard he was and when I first hooked him…” He stopped mid-sentence, an expression of wonder on his face as he stared at the door. Sam followed his gaze.

A dozen or so women had entered the ward, local French townspeople by their dress. A particularly beautiful young woman headed right for them. She wore a bright red frock that was extremely low-cut. Her plump breasts nearly bounced out of the bodice as she walked.

“I’ll be damned,” muttered Gordy.

“Indeed,” Sam agreed.

“Attention,” a voice called from the doorway. The matron. “With the influx of wounded, we’ve been rather short-staffed. Several kind women from the village have volunteered to help for the afternoon. They’ll be taking you to the back garden for the morning. Those of you who are ambulatory, if you could please assist with those lesser-abled.”

“Bonjour.”
The lovely brunette with the never-ending cleavage stopped in front of them. She flashed Sam and Gordy a winning smile.

“Bonjour,”
Gordy replied, pronouncing it ‘ban-jar.’ The pretty French miss’s smile slipped a bit.

“Comment allez-vous?”
Sam asked.

The girl laughed prettily.
“Bien, et vous?”

“Bien, merci,”
Sam replied. At least his battered mind had allowed his French to remain not much worse than his English, though at present, that wasn’t saying much.

“Bloody show off,” Gordy muttered.

An older woman pushed a wheelchair up to Gordy’s bed. She asked Gordy a question, but so rapidly and with such heavily accented French that Sam couldn’t understand her. Gordy gave Sam a look of
help me
but Sam could only shrug. “I think she wants to know if you need a wheelchair.”

“Ah, no wheelchair for me. I’m boko strong. Manly.” Gordy swung his leg cast around and tried to stand.

“Lieutenant Robbins.” The matron called from across the room. “You will be so good as to use a wheelchair, won’t you?” It was more statement than question and Gordy remained sitting on the edge of his bed, head wobbling in defeat.

“Translate that for me, will you, Sam? Tell that French miss that I’m a virile specimen of manhood. Make her
compree
.”

“I can’t help you, Gordy. I don’t believe there are…French words strong enough to describe your raw masculinity.”

Gordy gave a defeated groan when the elder of the two women assisted him into a wheelchair. The buxom brunette pulled a wheelchair up to Sam’s bedside.

“I suppose it would be useless to protest,” Sam said as he seated himself in the chair.

“You get the girl, and I get her mother,” Gordy grumbled, as he was wheeled off through the ward, just ahead of Sam. “God hates me.”

The women pushed the men through kitchen. The room was mostly abandoned, save for a few dishwashers wrestling with pots in the large rear sinks. Sun streamed through the east window and Sam’s head sounded a shout of pain as the sunlight stabbed into his eyes.

The French girl pushing his wheelchair leaned down to say something to Sam. Her breasts pressed against Sam’s neck and he heard Gordy let out a groan. The girl said it was a lovely day outside and something vague about sunshine. Sam’s French lessons were too long ago to be much help and his freshly energized headache was not helping his language skills.

Gordy twisted around in his chair and shot Sam a particularly forlorn look. “What did she say?”

“She told me that she’s been saving herself a man who battles with…river sharks. I only wish I could help her, somehow.”

“Bloody Englishmen,” Gordy said, as he passed under the threshold and out into the yard.

A buzz of pain in Sam’s head rose as he went through the door and into the yard, but it felt so refreshing to be outside again, after so long. Like all those late-July mornings back on the farm, with Baden and Father—checking on the sheep as the sun shone down. He lifted his face to the sky and…it happened in an instant.

Where before he’d felt an electric tingling down his arms and legs as the pain rose in his head—this time it came all at once. A terrible electric jolt seared his head and limbs, jolting him up, feeling as though it was lifting him out of the chair and then—a flood of crimson.

The first thing he felt was the sun-warmed dirt beneath his body. His head screaming in pain, he rolled on his back to try to climb back into his chair. The chair was gone, along with the backyard and New Bedlam.

He’d landed in a shell hole. He glanced around to see the ground was pitted, like an immense Gruyere cheese. The few scattered trees were branchless, their trunks blasted and dead. He was smack in the middle of that hellish landscape between opposing trenches—No Man’s Land.

God. It was happening again. Was he going mad?

The air was perfectly still. No boom of artillery, or machine gun rattling. Peaceful, almost, if he could imagine such a thing in this place. Perhaps that was evidence enough that he was dreaming.

Though the air was filled with the stench of death and mud, another odor lingered just beneath. It was the hint of new mown hay. Phosgene gas was supposed to smell like that.

The pain in his head roared again and he fell back against the rim of the hole.

You weren’t supposed to feel pain in dreams, were you?

Sam crouched. Even it if was only a dream, he wasn’t about to poke his head up and provide a target.

“Oi! Over ‘ere, fella.”

As he pivoted his head toward the man’s voice, his headache howled. A grime-covered infantryman lay twenty feet away, behind some sandbags, in the remains of a trench. He gave Sam a frantic come-here motion.

Sam crawled toward the man. Once he reached the edge of the trench, he let his body fall into it, rolling down the embankment, holding back a scream of pain. His head was roaring now. Even his arms and legs sang with a strange electric agony.

“Stagged right up to our eyebrows, we are.” The soldier spoke in a thick Cornish accent. “Got trapped back here on the last fall back.”

Sam simply lay in the dirt, too spent to move.

“What’s happened to you, then? You don’t look right.”

“Fine,” Sam ground out.

“You ‘avin’ a good long stank, then? You’re dressed right queerly,” the Cornishman said.

Curious, Sam glanced down. As in the other dream, he was still wearing his hospital blues, though they were now streaked with mud. Before he could reply, a sound captured his attention. A strange, gurgling noise coming from behind the infantryman.

Another soldier lay on the trench floor. The poor devil’s face was covered in lesions and his eyes had swollen shut, surrounded by raw, red skin. His lips were puffy and bleeding, small rivulets leading down his saliva-soaked chin. All the signs of phosgene.

“Please,” the soldier gasped, as the gas went about its cruel work. He reached for Sam.

“I can’t help you. I don’t know…” Sam trailed off.

Despite the locomotive of pain steaming through his head, Sam crawled along the trench bottom toward the boy’s outstretched fingers. The cold mud oozed through the thin cloth covering his legs.

Sam had to try it again, delusion or not. Though his body was smashed up and useless in a hospital bed behind the lines, at least here—in this place—he could make a difference.

Sam grasped the man’s fingers. The instant their fingertips touched, Sam felt a sense of peace, of power. A beam of light shone from their hands, growing brighter by the second. Sam jumped back, but did not break the connection. A jolt of electricity shot from Sam’s hands into the boy.

The pain flowed out of Sam’s head as the white light grew to blind him from his surroundings. And as the light blossomed, it erased everything save one thought.

This is real.

No Man’s Land and the boy faded into nothingness, followed by, mercifully, Sam’s consciousness.