Chapter One
The last thing he could recall was running towards the enemy trenches, firing his Lewis from the hip. He was carrying someone over his shoulder. The battle noise was confusing: the deadly rattle of the machine guns; whistles of falling shells in the air; artillery blasts everywhere; people crying and people dying. He had an idea of himself leading the charge, screaming to his unit; urging them to take the ridge where the German machine gunners were bedded down. Another backdrop picture was that of adrenaline-driven, frightened young men being cut down mid-stride as if in a well-rehearsed folk-dance. He felt a sense of shame for encouraging their daring.
Then, just as the dose of laudanum started to take effect, he sat bolt upright in terror. He had memory only for the present, the here and now. But, just under the surface, if he prised open the scar, he could catch glimpses of the past as scenes from a passing train. He had gradually become aware that the light behind his eyes was his brain telling him that he was at a critical stage of dying. His entire life’s forces were shutting down. He’d seen the same thing in horses’ eyes; bright-black pupils dimming just before they reached the end when he had to use his three-oh-three. Where was the fucking gun when you needed it?
He knew that no-one would believe him if he said that he’d been buried alive in a mass grave. Vivisepulture. The Fall of the House of Usher. Or was that taphophobia? The thought was too macabre to contemplate, let alone mention. So, he didn’t. It would always remain his own madeleine moment; one that changed his life; an experience that filled him with morbid apprehension every night when he tried to sleep.
It was happening again. He couldn’t stop it. The black hole of nightmare sucked him down. Whirled him into madness. The words of Sergeant McAlister before they boarded the troop ship out of Albany. Self-preservation is the first law of nature.
He had to claw his way out. Any thought of dignity for the dead was dispelled by the urgent adrenaline of survival. Claw, scrape, wrench, spit, gasp; legs on legs, arms on arms, on heads; heavy deep viscous mud filled the spaces he made in his desperate charge to the surface. Then he was free.
Although much of his memory was a blank, he had an image of lying on his back, pressed into the soft earth, arms outstretched, eyes closed, allowing the torrential rain to wash him clean. He felt his head with both hands and found a shard of shrapnel protruding from his skull. His fingers probed around the wound to dislodge the fragment but the pain intensified. It was better to leave it for others who could see what they were doing. His face was also pitted with small pieces of metal. He picked at them absentmindedly then fainted.
When he opened his eyes the bright smear of light on his retinas was gradually fading but he could still see nothing around, nor overhead. Heavy, black-streaked-silver rain clouds obscured the night sky. There were no stars by which to get a bearing. His vision slowly cleared as early morning mist rolled across the tortured landscape. A choking stink of cordite and mustard gas seeped out of the battered earth. At ground level, it looked like a wasteland. From the top of his heap, he could see other similar mounds. Between the rows were broken cartwheels and discarded spades. Still in the shafts of the gun carriage was a dead Waler. His own horse had been shot in the first charge at Mons – where did that memory come from? Was it a snapshot from a picture strip in his mind?
To his right was the last of the line of trenches. They were empty. Spent shell cases covered the duck-boards. A broken bayonet told of the fierce hand-to-hand combat that had taken place. He was reminded of the Dutch artist Hieronymus Bosch and his Visions of Hell. A double-barrelled French village place-name pierced the shroud surrounding his memory. Villers‑Bretonneux – he’d been there before – another battle – the same war. It didn’t look much of a place first time round, now it looked devastated, devoid of human content. Somewhere in his subconscious, his mental calendar marked off another date – April 27th1918.
Sleet, driven by a cruel cutting wind from the frozen north, blew iron filings in his face. An acrid burnt smell from a charnel house permeated the air. The low wailing of a lonesome mourner penetrated his subconscious. As he turned around he could see the distant flashes of gunfire. He’d walked towards the frontline and came across a group of women from the village. They were dressed in an odd assortment of clothes; old rags, shawls and chequered skirts. Some he recognised as being in Australian Army jackets. The women scoured the battlefield looking for the dead. The bodies were stripped of clothing and metal name tags. The uniforms reminded him of his nudity. Suddenly he felt cold. Putting any false modesty aside, he walked towards them in hope. One woman looked up and saw him. She put her hand to her mouth then covered her face with her handkerchief and pointed to another woman sorting clothes into various piles.
The sorter stopped and rose to her full height with one hand on her back. She threw her question at him. Quel est votre grade?
He tried to remember his schoolboy French – grade? Rank, yes, rank. What is my rank? He felt the flush of panic course through his veins. What is my rank? Je ne sais pas, désolé. Where did that come from?
She went over to him and looked at his head wound. Allez à la tente de l’hôpital. She pointed in its direction. He nodded.
Then she bent down and found a uniform that she thrust at him. Essaye le.
It fitted. Merci Madame, je vous remercie.
It was still pitch black. The only illumination was the flash of the artillery. Through the deathly-grey pall of gun-smoke still lying waist-deep on the battlefield he could see a shimmering whiteness and crept towards it. The hospital tent was a bold white marquee with an unmistakable Red Cross stitched on all four sides and the roof. As he approached, a wave of exhaustion flooded over him and he sank to his knees then fell face forward in the mud. Almost there. When he awoke, he was on a stretcher bed wearing a white hospital gown tied at the back. A nurse saw him open his eyes and called for the doctor.
The surgeon rushed over. Easy Captain, you’ve had a nasty bang on your head. We’ll prepare you for surgery as soon as we’ve finished extracting the shrapnel from your face. Nurse Lafayette will take down your details and next of kin just in case. Don’t worry, we’ll put you under. You won’t feel a thing.
He had an American accent, no, not American, Canadian perhaps.
Lafayette was far more solicitous. Just your name and Regiment will do officer. We’ll take care of the rest after surgery. She told him they were all Canadians.
He struggled to answer her question. My name is …… what is my name? I’m sorry, I can’t remember. My regiment …… It’s gone - nothing. Who was he? He questioned the row of pictures he’d visualised, as he’d struggled on the battlefield. Were they the only fragments of his past that he could dredge up from his memory? He stuttered in answer. I don’t know my name. In fact, I can’t remember anything.
She hurried to reassure him. Don’t worry now, it’ll come back. It’s your head wound. Until you remember I shall call you Tommy. She laughed and said that when they prepared him for surgery and stripped off his uniform they found he was wearing no underwear or shirt, only a jacket, and trousers. You had no boots! She told him his feet were badly infected with trench rot.
He shook his head. I can’t remember where I’ve left the rest.
Don’t worry, she repeated. It’ll all come back soon.
She had a slightly different accent to the doctor. He guessed. Êtes-vous Québécois? Her eyebrows rose in answer. Oui!
He’d decided to push his luck, for she reminded him of someone from his past; another dark-haired beauty who spoke French. Was this just another figment of his imagination, or a snapshot from the photo album in his mind? He felt as if he’d seen someone in silhouette against the Basilica of Sacré-Cœur. Quel est votre nom?
Her smile lit up the room. Je m’appelle Angélique. She bent over the stretcher and kissed his left cheek. Good luck Tommy, I’ll be here waiting for you. The orderly pushed his bed into the theatre. A white-coated anaesthetist put a rubber mask over the soldier’s nose and mouth and told him to breathe deeply.
