Nightingale (9 page)

‘What?'

‘You just said, sir, that you loved her more in a single look than years of being with Alice.' He smiled at him.

‘Did I?' he asked, embarrassed.

‘I think you speak of Nurse Nightingale, sir. All the patients love her.'

There was no point in denying it. ‘And the doctors too, I imagine.'

Gupta's bright smile from his dark complexion dazzled him. ‘We all do, sir.'

Jamie nodded and felt a needle of jealousy sting him and knew how ridiculous that was. ‘Mate, can you get a message to her from me?'

Gupta's smile narrowed.

‘I know that's probably not the drill but Gupta, you know how it is out there. I could be dead tomorrow.'

‘No, sir. I don't sense that about you at all.'

He smiled back. ‘Can you read the future, Gupta?'

His companion waggled his head. ‘My grandmother had the sight. They say I have inherited it.' He gave a little shrug. ‘I don't see that for you. Not here,' he looked out across the beach.

‘Then give her a message for me, just in case.'

‘What is it?'

He reached for what was safe but cryptic to say. His eyes were drawn to the rough position of Walker's Ridge and where, he hoped, death wasn't beckoning.

‘Can you bring her here and point like this. That's where I am, Gupta. She'll understand.'

‘I can do that for you, sir.' The little man touched his forehead.

‘I owe you, Gupta.'

‘Repay me by staying alive, sir.'

‘I have no intention of making a liar of your grandmother's gift,' he said and that made his new friend rumble with laughter.

‘The next barge leaves shortly, sir. Good luck.'

Jamie stepped down onto the barge, waved to the Indian bearer and then he turned away to stare at the beach, so innocent-looking from this distance, like a fishing cove.

He had to be with Claire again. He thought about her all the way up the climb, keeping his head low, using all the familiar nooks and overhangs in the rough terrain to rest his shoulder and catch his breath while staying safe from sniper bullets. It took him more than twice as long to reach the summit, by which time the earth he was moving over had taken on an orange glow and he knew the sun was setting over his shoulder and that meant only one thing to Jamie.

He deliberately paused in a gully, pushing his back to the stone wall so he could face the sea, aware of all the scrabbling activity around him of men fetching and carrying. He raised a hand but not too high – just enough to acknowledge the men nearby who were dragging up some water. He recognised them.

‘You all right, mate?'

‘Yeah. Just taking a breather.'

‘We heard about Primrose. Sorry he's gone.'

‘He'll be missed.' He didn't want to linger on Spud; it was too painful. ‘Not much gunfire,' he remarked.

‘Yeah, real quiet this arvo. We're hearing about this ceasefire. Anyway, enjoy the brief peace.'

He nodded, looked away and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was able to peer back down over the gnarled landscape he'd traversed. A series of sharp-topped ridges fell away, then rose steeply to The Sphinx, hiding the tiny beach where Spud had taken his final breath.

Jamie allowed his gaze to move beyond the rock formations to the now glimmer-grey of the sea at dusk. In the far distance, at the base of the islands Imroz and Samothrace a mist looked to have gathered, giving the overall scenery of the waters an ethereal ambience. And into that place beyond the fighting was a shimmering, golden stretch where the lowering sun cast its last light for this day. To Jamie in his sad mood it looked like a pathway to heaven, too bright to stare at for long. So intense in its golden light it had turned the water luminous white, gilded either side in a glittering halo of pinkish gold. He noted now that the hospital ship had already pulled anchor and was moving slowly, inexorably away.

‘Don't fly away, Claire,' he whispered before he repeated her name in his mind.
Nightingale . . . Nightingale
. Jamie watched in a state of appalled sadness as the ship gradually slid into the molten gold and was swallowed into the fiery firmament until it was merely a shadow, and then a moment or so later not even that. It was as though the ship had melted. His angel had flown and although he could not remember before now the last time he had cried, Jamie felt tears sting for the second time today as he lost another person precious to him.

Now he believed he understood the pain of being in love. And just for a single beat of his aching heart he wished he had not met Nurse Nightingale, for now he was smitten, destined to be inwardly miserable until he could find her again.

He wiped his sleeve across the damp of his face and began the ascent of the final few feet to clamber over the ridge and into his trench.

‘Keep yer head down, mate,' someone called.

‘You too,' he choked out.

He would play his harmonica tonight, to farewell Spud and his fallen mates, but particularly to serenade the heart of Claire Nightingale in the hope she'd somehow hear him across their divided planes.

Shahin
. His name meant hawk. He wiped a hand across his brow to scatter the flies sipping from the sweat. Açar Shahin possessed the keenest sight in his unit and with the hawk of his namesake for inspiration, he drew on that skill in the twilight murkiness to spot the enemy. However, he needed every motivation he could muster because pulling the trigger on his rifle and taking a man's life was a long way from the poet and storyteller he wished to be.

In his earliest memories he recalled how his serious-minded father had insisted he take up a profession, yet whenever Rifki Shahin was out of earshot his mother had urged him to be whatever his heart desired. By the time he turned twelve summers he was already showing leanings towards being reclusive; she was a year dead from a shaking fever, leaving him to live with a man whom he was convinced he was disappointing.

It was not until a married couple was killed in Sarajevo by a young Serbian conspirator that Açar Shahin felt the first stirrings of response to the politics his father murmured of constantly; suddenly they were both standing on the same side of the fence, united in interest as much as fear as to what the incident might provoke. He listened to his father's rational explanation that the murder of the Archduke Ferdinand would be the flame to the kindling of a fire that had been threatening to ignite within the major European powers at odds.

To the wistful Açar, who wrote poetry and composed music, there was something darkly romantic about his Serbian peer who had found the courage to cast aside fear and stand up for what he felt was right. As if the stars had deliberately conspired to align on his behalf, war had been declared and young able Turks were pressed to take up arms against the Western powers who threatened their independence, their religion, and their history of imperial power.

Açar had surprised his scholarly father with his fervour to join up even before the conscription order came through. Rifki Shahin had said little but Açar had sensed approval settle around his shoulders. It was as though for only the second time in his life he had impressed his father. The first was being born male.

Nevertheless, Rifki had made him wait until the neighbourhood's news carrier, Bekci Baba, had walked down their street in Istanbul, banging his stick and proclaiming that all men born between 1890 and 1895 must report for duty. Açar and his fellow soldiers had been loaded onto carriages bound for training grounds in the south. Not permitted access to him on the railway station, Açar's numerous aunts and female cousins had gathered at the side of the rail tracks like a small flock of silken birds in their dark robes, weeping and waving as the train rushed by. He'd glimpsed them, recognising first his father, who had escorted them. Rifki had stood slightly apart from his women, wearing traditional garments in sombre grey, but in his hand was a multi-coloured linen square that his son had sewn for him when he had been only seven, but hadn't realised until then that his father even recalled it. Had he misjudged his father through his teenage years? Had his mother inadvertently tarnished his attitude to the complex, often silent man who sired him? Big questions travelled on that train south with the 26-year-old soldier.

He joined the 5th Division, which had been stationed in Gelibolu since the previous year but was one of a stream of reinforcements brought in for the inevitable attack by the Allied forces, which had been softening up the region with bombardments for months. Açar found himself in the 57th Regiment attached to the 19th Infantry Division under the leadership of Lieutenant Colonel Mustafa Kemal.

Two months of intensive training had impressed upon Açar what the true meaning of discipline was. Elder soldiers with battle-hardened experience of the Balkan Wars had laughed at the ‘boys' hoping to stand shoulder to shoulder with them. Nevertheless, he'd thrown himself at his training and he wondered what his father might make of him now with his newly acquired ability to march day and night without food, water or rest. Or his capability of breaking down a rifle and reassembling it in under two minutes, or the fact that he no longer felt he had a free-thinking mind – he simply responded to orders. His dead mother would sigh in her grave that he had stopped writing, stopped dreaming, and that he was being forced instead to imagine killing.

So far Açar had managed to avoid taking anyone's life; he had not had a clean shot at the enemy but he also fired his rifle deliberately off target. He was careful to join in the backslapping discussions of this shot or that, and disguised his fear with battle cries alongside his fellow Turks, inspired by ancient Ottoman history and a similar determination to defend their lands. He had wounded two men, he was sure, and had prayed both would survive.

He had begun to imagine a story of two young men, both in their third decade, from different backgrounds, cultures, and at war with each other but not really sure why. Neither wanted to kill. Neither had married yet. And in fact that's mainly what consumed their thoughts – being with a woman. He might write this story, if he survived the war.

His neighbour nudged him and Açar fired a shot to pretend he had been concentrating. He watched the bullet bounce uselessly off rock. He didn't think he'd survive the war and the truth was he'd felt a sense of melancholia creeping up ever since he'd heard the now famous tale that their commander had berated his men who had clapped eyes on the Allied fleet and wanted to flee. Mustafa Kemal had given the unnerved soldiers a stirring speech, the words of which burned in Açar's mind.

I don't order you to fight, I order you to die.

Açar fully expected to follow that order.

Kemal's troops had responded with limitless courage and fought with such determined ferocity that they were convinced the amphibious landings by the British with their Australian and New Zealand counterparts could only be marked down as disastrous. They had witnessed them face the unfamiliar and treacherous terrain, and become scattered, disoriented, and knew they were now crouching in hastily dug trenches or tiny ridges and overhangs, trapped like birds that dare not break cover.

He'd heard that the Australians had sunk headlong into four feet of water as they tumbled out of their boats because of the heavy kit each carried. Some were hit on the ten-yard rush to the foot of the hills. They soon cast aside all their equipment, and then like mountain goats had to find the agility to climb with only their rifles and fear for company, the soil crumbling beneath them.

Açar had liked hearing about the singing, though. Once there was no more need for stealth, the Australians had apparently begun to sing.

‘
Australia will be there
,' one of his companions imitated and those listening laughed.

‘
No! No! No! No! Australia will be there
,' his friends chorused.

He dared not admit feeling moved that his enemy sang in the face of death. He and his kind were manacled to the Germans, while the singing Australians were helplessly loyal to their Crown in Britain.

He felt another nudge from his comrade. Relieving soldiers had arrived. It was their turn now to drop back; he had high hopes that mail may have arrived from the surrounding villages. He slid on his belly into the trench, his back to the setting sun over the waters, and wondered what might distract him tonight from his dark thoughts of impending death.

In the camp the
saya
had recently arrived with a bundle of letters tied in cheesecloth. Açar heard the men grouped around him murmur a familiar phrase.

‘
Cenneti-í Alâda
,' the friends of the fallen informed quietly.

‘Truly? Mohammed is dead?' he queried Hasan, standing nearby.

The man shrugged. ‘He is in paradise,' he said, repeating the familiar phrase.

Açar nodded sadly, believing too that Mohammed was in a better place, but he would miss the man's ready laugh and sense of fun. He watched the postman put Mohammed's letter back to return to his family. Is that how it would be when it was his turn to reach paradise? His father's letter would simply be returned, or would word be passed from village to village until it finally reached the city and all the way to his family home?

‘Don't grieve for him, Açar. His family will be proud of him. I hope to make mine as proud.'

‘By dying?'

‘Dying while defending our country from invaders. Look how we have kept them confused, scattered . . .'

‘And still they persist,' Açar said softly, as Hasan tugged his sleeve and nodded towards the postman.

‘Your name is called. You have a parcel.' He raised a hand. ‘Over here!'

It surprised him how thrilling it felt to see the men passing back the small package, his only link with those he loved. He took the parcel silently, his breath held, and moved slowly to a quiet spot where he could unwrap his prize. The British ships' guns were booming their rage, but he was well out of range and the noise seemed to fade when he ran his fingers across the neat writing on the front. He recognised his father's hand and tried to reach for a connection through the ink, tracing the letters of his name, imagining his father penning it, dipping his nib into the pot with that economy of movement he possessed. Açar sighed and carefully undid the string and opened the brown wrapping.

Inside he found a pair of thick socks, a small scarf and some lokum. He smiled, fingering the soft brown wool as the sight of the hard pink gel studded with purple and green pistachios from his favourite sweets shop and the nutty aroma reached him from the small pack of sesame halva. He knew he must resist eating it immediately and save it as a treat for after his meal, which he presumed would be chickpea soup and rice again. His belly growled at the thought of food but mostly because of the temptation of his aunt's halva. He knew the recipe, could almost taste its texture on his tongue . . . To stave off his hunger he reached into his pocket for the small thread of standard-issue rolled figs. Açar expertly bit one off, chewing slowly to savour the flesh for as long as he could. Then he finally slipped a finger beneath the envelope flap and opened his father's letter. He was aware of releasing his held breath through his nose as he chewed the final morsel of fig, trying not to notice his eyes misting slightly as the smell of his father's tobacco lifted from the tissue-thin page. That one sheet felt so precious he barely heard the sounds of his unit beginning to settle around him. The writing was tiny and he had to squint to make it out.

My dear Açar,

Thank you for your letter, which we were glad to receive and I shared it with the family over the evening meal of your aunt's chicken and rice. I don't know when this will find you – your letter took over six weeks to reach us – but I hope you are well and keeping up with your duties. It is hard to get much regular news from the south but we know you are in the midst of the fighting and we all pray that you remain safe.

Your aunt made the socks and cousin Amina wanted to knit a scarf to keep you warm through these cool spring nights but also for winter. I'm sure you'll thank them in due course for their endeavours. Your youngest cousin Demet misses you and says she will write as soon as her music exams are finished. We expect her to pass with honours.

We are fortunate to live in Galata. So many of the old-city dwellers have had to cross over the Golden Horn and find homes on this side of the waterway. They fear the invaders will want to control our ancient city first. Our big homes and gardens keep us protected, although these days even finding daily bread is a challenge. Formerly friendly neighbours openly fight over a small loaf.

Açar turned the sheet over, hungrily reading on.

I must share the sorry news that I have had to let Arzu and Fazil go. I know these servants are family to you but Fazil was called up in the second conscription and Arzu needed to help her family as its men have been called to duty. Ayfer remains – she's too old to start again or even live alone, she complains a great deal and now cooks for me . . . but badly!

It remains stubbornly cool with a brisk wind cutting off the Bosphorus but your mother's famous mulberry tree is thickening with leaves again and we are expecting a big crop of fruit this summer. Kashifa is planning to pound some of it into pekmez and send that to you with her homemade sesame paste to improve your morning meal. We were all disappointed to learn from your last letter that eating for you was now simply to stay alive – I thought the army would feed you all much better, given that most of our country's food is grown or reared for our soldiers. You can imagine what your admission did to your aunt's state of mind. Anyway, I'm sure her mulberry molasses will enliven you and remind you of home.

All is well here. Everyone keeps good health and we remember you in our daily prayers. I am attending the Sultan Ahmed Mosque whenever I can and it is certainly easier at the moment because the university has moved to a new restricted curriculum. So I have a lot more time to myself and in fact I believe with the age limit now expanding to thirty-five years and upwards I will soon be conscripted to work full-time with the military in some capacity. I have offered again but they will not permit me to join an active unit. It seems I am wanted in Logistics in Istanbul.

I will send a larger food parcel next time. Remain diligent in your prayers, son, and do not despair or question your role. Allah alone decides. It is pleasing to know that you scribe letters for your fellow soldiers and keep their families informed of their wellbeing.

I expect it is warming up in the south but keep your new woollen garments safe for the winter. I will let you know where I am sent by the government once I know more.

Affectionately, your father

Açar stared at the dark ink on the page so neatly crafted into words, not a single smudge, clinically produced from that ordered mind of Rifki Shahin so incapable of expressing his real thoughts – his fears, his joys, his love. His father had never praised Açar for being made a platoon commander and while even he knew this was mainly because he could read orders and write messages, it was still an honour in one so young.