In Distant Fields (49 page)

The battles fought round Loos had hit them all hardest of all, the ravages being caused by the almost unopposed use of the machine gun by the enemy. Until this point the wounded the ambulances had transported had been hurt by rifle fire, shrapnel from the guns – often their own – small shell fire, rifle grenades, provided they had not scored a direct hit, and bayonet wounds, the damage done to those hit by larger shells or blown up by mines being too devastating to survive.

‘What's all this you're writing, Wavell?' Richard Charles, the senior medical officer, asked him, sitting himself down beside Harry and offering him a smoke. ‘Every time I see you you're scribbling away, or trying to ask me awkward questions. Can I see that?'

Charles took Harry's journal before Harry
could stop him to read what had just been written, Charles reading the last two pages in silence while Harry smoked his cigarette.

‘You don't mind, do you?' Charles asked quietly, as he turned the page. ‘Say if you do.'

‘I don't mind,' Harry replied, although he did.

‘Hmmm,' Charles said, when he had finished reading the latest pages, and flicking back through the notebook to admire the drawings. ‘You have quite a talent, Wavell,' he conceded. ‘A considerable talent, if I may say so?'

‘You may,' Harry replied. ‘I don't mind at all. In fact, if you mean it—'

‘I mean it,' Charles interrupted. ‘And I know what I'm talking about, I assure you. My mother's an artist and my father's a publisher.'

‘And you're a doctor.'

‘The great thing about life, Wavell, is that it follows no logic. You can really write, you know,
and
you can draw.'

‘And you can operate – quite brilliantly. I've seen you in action.'

‘I would rather I wasn't practising my skills under these sorts of conditions. Wasn't quite what I visualised when I started training. Still – needs must when the devil drives, and all that sort of thing.'

‘I've also heard you don't stay put,' Harry continued. ‘That you're often out there in the field, tending to the wounded.'

‘You don't want to believe everything you hear.'

‘I also heard you got a roasting for it,' Harry grinned. ‘Too brave to be a doctor, they said.'

‘And no damned use at all to the wounded if dead,' Charles added, before returning to the matter of Harry's journal. ‘We should find a publisher for this, the journal, drawings, everything. People should know what it's really like out here. Well, of course you do, otherwise you wouldn't be keeping a journal. They say everyone who writes one only does it so that it may be read. Look, tell you what. When we get back to Blighty – soon I hope – get in touch. Here.' He took Harry's journal back from him to write his name and address in the back. ‘You never know. The old man publishes a lot of this sort of thing – by that I mean good writing, poetry, the better sort of prose. He's a bit of a bright man, my father – and my mother would be able to help you with the illustrations.'

‘Thanks,' Harry said, meaning it. ‘That's very good of you. I wish there was something I could do in return.'

‘I'll think of something,' Charles replied, putting his cigarette out in the mud at his feet. ‘In the meantime I have to say that your idea about moving the dressing stations nearer the field stations, and thus the front line itself is a good one. I've been giving it some thought, and as far as I can see the only minus is that if we move too near the front lines we could be vulnerable to capture. It's not that practical to clear a station in a hurry.'

‘As against that, though, we would save a lot more lives.'

‘Yes, indeed. We should balance these things up, make a judgement that would possibly prove that the one far outweighed the other. Which is why I've written a memorandum to a high up, one of the consulting surgeons, putting forward your idea – and giving you credit for it, I may say,' he finished with a smile.

‘Thank you, sir.'

Harry offered Charles a cigarette and they lit up and smoked in silence for a while, both lost in their thoughts.

‘Any chance of getting home for Christmas?' Charles asked.

Harry shook his head.

‘No,' he said. ‘But then who has?'

‘Damn few,' Charles agreed. ‘And it's funny, isn't it? I was getting more than a little indifferent to Christmas, but now – now I realise just how much I'm going to miss it.'

Peregrine was also thinking of Christmas and what he would be missing. He looked round his dugout. It needed cheering up with something more than the plate of bully beef and the mug of tea that he was holding. It was, however, a pretty good billet on the whole, and certainly well worth the work: half a dugout and half a hut, with the side that faced the enemy well sand-bagged. Peregrine had used up most of the little free time available to furnish it in the
plushest manner possible. There was a table and four chairs – gifts from a local farmer – a small bookcase holding a variety of books and magazines, a case containing a large stuffed pike that he had found in an abandoned
gîte
, along with a small brass bed he had commandeered for his own use, a fine washstand, complete with china jug and bowl, an antique cabinet containing a supply of
vin ordinaire
, an umbrella stand with two umbrellas, a gramophone with a good selection of well-worn recordings, gas masks and powder bombs in case of a gas attack, and finally a working fireplace taken from the same farmhouse and built into the clay – and all this in a dugout no more than a hundred and twenty yards from the enemy.

What he needed now was a small Christmas tree, complete with decorations, but so far he had had neither the time nor the luck to find one, despite feelers having been put out by one of his men. The last he had heard, from Private Wilcox, had been a hint from one of the more obliging natives that he might – just might – be able to get hold of a small spruce with decorations for a consideration. Peregrine had dug deep into his savings only to find that due to one thing and another, more precisely wine, cognac, cigarettes, tobacco and English magazines, he was well short of the required tip. Happily Dick Huntley, one of his fellow officers, came to his rescue, only too happy to contribute to the costs, taking a cheque from Peregrine for the entire amount and
some cash to spare on Peregrine's insistence that Christmas was his treat.

With the tree and its decorations promised within the week, plus some extra coal and milk thrown in, Peregrine rightly considered Christmas was now in order.

‘Just need a few presents, eh?'

Peregrine looked at Dick Huntley, and then back at the tree.

‘Mmm, not sure Harrods delivers this far,' he said slowly.

None the less, by further searches in forsaken dwellings he found some bric-a-brac that he promptly parcelled up, along with cigarettes and chocolate, cognac, and other small items, in pieces of precious brown paper saved from parcels from home.

Now, during a lull in the bombardments, Peregrine was able to put his feet up in front of the fire, light a cigarette and dream of Christmas at Bauders. He imagined it was as it always had been at this time of year, with the giant tree beautifully decorated, the local choir singing carols at the foot of the great staircase, the great luncheon for fifty, and presents for everyone, followed by the servants' ball on Boxing Day, and in the midst of it all he could not help seeing Partita, her lovely face lit by the library fire, her blonde hair shining in the glow from candles, and her blue eyes full of mischief.

‘Dreaming of home, sir?' Private Wilcox
wondered as he prepared to brew more tea. ‘That's the ticket.'

‘Yes I was, Wilcox,' Peregrine replied, pressing his cigarette out in an old mess tin used as an ash can. ‘Although to be truthful I was dreaming of someone else's home.'

‘That so, sir. Wonder why that is.'

‘Because that is where
she
is, Wilcox – which reminds me. We haven't had any post for some time. Know anything about that?'

‘I shall make yet another enquiry, sir, soon as the kettle's boiled,' Wilcox replied. ‘Rumour is, any moment now.'

Wilcox was as good as his word, returning with a box full of letters and a small sack for the parcels, all of which were opened by the recipients by the fireside to the sound of recordings of heavenly arias by Donizetti and other composers. Peregrine's post contained two letters from Livia, forwarded from home, recounting her nursing experience in Nurse Cadell's hospital and including her belief she might have caught sight of Valentine, of all people. There was also a long, mournful screed from his mother, making no mention of his sister or brother-in-law, a short letter from Kitty, and a very long, funny, warm and affectionate letter from Partita that he saved until last, and then read and reread, because she managed to put so much of herself into her accounts of life at the Bauders hospital.

‘Quiet for the time of year,' First Lieutenant Toby Ferguson remarked in one of his many
accents. ‘I was saying to the wife only the other day, doesn't seem a bit like Christmas.'

‘I was thinking of inviting Jerry over for Christmas cocktails,' Peregrine remarked as he finally put his letter from Partita away. ‘Think he'll come?'

‘I heard Jerry doesn't need an invitation to visit our trenches, Perry,' Toby replied. ‘He's one of those perfectly beastly people who don't know when they're not wanted.'

‘All the same, I thought we'd send him an invitation, make it formal,' Peregrine said. ‘Fire over some empty canisters asking them for drinks in no man's land.'

‘Black tie, of course.'

‘Naturally.'

‘And decorations?'

‘Only the ones worn by Christmas trees. We'll get Wilcox to find us some suitable canisters, and I'll send the invitations to the engravers.'

‘What ho, Perry,' Toby said, raising his glass of
vin ordinaire
.

‘Here's to it,' Peregrine toasted in return. ‘I really do think it's time we stopped all this shooting lark and got down to some very serious jollification.'

‘Couldn't agree more, sir,' Wilcox added, putting some more coal on the fire. ‘Just hope we don't have too many more sorties before the big day.'

‘CO indicated things are going quiet everywhere,' Toby assured him, everyone listening.
‘Just a bit of wire repairs to be done, and maybe a couple of recces, then that's it until the New Year.'

Peregrine tapped a fresh cigarette on his silver case, ready to light up, nodding as he listened. He had already had a good briefing from their CO. It seemed that the only real party that was being planned was a sortie on a farmhouse one mile to the east of them, which had already changed hands twice, the enemy recapturing it according to the latest reports on the previous afternoon. The CO had expressed the hope that the information was faulty, or if it were not, that at least HQ would not demand any attack on the farm until after Christmas Day.

‘I can't see the need for any rush, I can't really. After all, the last time they had it we let them pitch up there for a week or two. I say let them pop a few corks, put their feet up and loosen their uniforms, then we'll stop by and say how do, once we have Christmas out of the way.'

Peregrine raised his wine glass in a private toast to that hope, watching the flames dancing in the fire, and then with a slow look at his surroundings found it impossible to suppress the thought that it was a pretty funny place to spend a holiday.

‘Happy Christmas, everyone,' he said finally. ‘And let's hope we'll be home safe and sound by this time next year.'

‘No doubt about it, sir,' Wilcox said, his duties done. ‘In fact, my money says home by Easter.'

‘Reliable information, Wilcox?' Peregrine wondered.

‘None better and never known to be wrong, sir. Said so in the tea leaves.'

‘Easter it is then, everyone. And here's to it.'

The Bauders pantomime proved to be such fun and so entertaining in rehearsals that it was quickly decided to organise it as a charity event in aid of the war effort, in particular to help towards financing the Red Cross in their unceasing work in the war zone. Hardly able to believe how many tickets they had sold in the first few days they were marketed, thanks to the work of volunteers in every walk of life, the organisers realised that one performance was not going to be sufficient, so they planned an extra one, only to find that was all but sold out in three days, which meant that they finally managed to sell every available seat for three performances.

Thanks to the labours and enthusiasm of Canon White, who revealed himself to be a talented theatrician, the standard of performance for an amateur production exceeded all expectations, both young Jack Wilson as Buttons and Michael Bradley – who had taken surprisingly little persuasion to play Prince Charming – revealing natural talents. As for the costumes, due to Partita's extraordinary ability to make something out of nothing – and not just something but something quite unique – they were outstanding, most particularly since all she had at her disposal
were two very old dressing-up boxes, some old clothes from previous generations that for some reason had been kept rather than passed on, and yards of fabric, shiny paper, Christmas decorations and papier-mâché, which she used with great skill for masks and props. As a result, the costumes alone all but stopped the show, particularly Cinderella's ball gown and even more so the golden coach in which she arrived at the ball, the coach having been painstakingly built by Jossy on the framework of the ponytrap, under the careful supervision of Partita, the ensemble being pulled onto the stage set up in the ballroom by a superbly turned out Trotty.

The audience demanded two encores for the Ugly Sisters' comic out-of-tune duet, and the same for Kitty's beautiful rendition of ‘Cinderella's Dream', a song specially composed for the show by Elizabeth, while Partita's interpretation of Cinderella softened even the most unsentimental of hearts, enchanting everyone in the audience, but most of all capturing for ever all the hearts of her adoring patients.