I don’t know —one was female, lovely, and British —I didn’t count her at first, because she didn’t actually see him, she couldn’t get in because of the one-visit rule, but she certainly came to see him. It just now struck me that you might want to know. And now the latest visitor just left —another American, male, much older. Rather ratlike. A bit shady. The word furtive comes to mind —you could cast him in a Hitchcock film. Yes, he was American. No, he wasn’t German, didn’t I just —No, no —I said I didn’t get their names, as —Hang on! There’s no cause for that. I can’t very well ask them to sign their names if there’s no visit , now, can I? Is that sensible? This is a courtesy call, sir, I thought it might interest you.” He replaced the receiver without saying good day. “Sodding . . . rude . . . relics of . . .” He mustered a smile. “Next, please?”
“WHAT IN ME IS DARK . . .”
“Yes, yes, illumine,” Jamie finished for him. “Drink up, mate. Thatsa boy. Probably filled with sheep bits. Captain Milton, meet Mr. Belgium Doctor. He’s going to fix you up.”
The angry little doctor stood in the middle of the small, dark hay shed, one hand on a hip. His neat white shirt stood out in the gloom. He turned in place, shaking his head.
“C’est impossible,” he finally declared, flinging out a hand. “Zee light —terrible. My, my, my tools —no antiseptique . And zee Germans. Zey come! C’est impossible ! ”
“Mr. Belgium Doctor, meet Mr. Bren.” Elliott raised his rifle. “Fix him, or you’ll need fixing.”
Disgusted, the doctor went to a stack of musty hay bales and set down a small brown leather case the size of a large wallet. He began to roll up his sleeves.
It had taken two hours to find him. Another half hour to get him to come, and that, only when Jamie had unshouldered his rifle. Another half hour to scout out the nearest shelter and drag the semiconscious captain to it, another half hour to find water in a sheep trough.
“British thug .”
“A thug, eh? I’ve been eight months in your country. Eight months on a line erased in a day, like it never existed. Eight months, for your protection! This is how you repay us?”
The Belgian’s dark eyes pierced. He rolled a sleeve with precise movements. “You are not here for me. You are here for your safe island. Get me bandages.”
Jamie took the captain’s rucksack and rummaged. He found a battered book — Paradise Lost by John Milton. He tossed it back, rummaged, found several rolled bandages. He took one and regarded it with a twinge of guilt; two days, and he hadn’t yet changed the bandage. He was too afraid the wound would come apart if he did. He handed it to the doctor. “There’s more if you need them.”
The doctor set it aside. He unwound the ties on his case, and unfolded it.
Now that he had his way after pulling a rifle on a civilian, Jamie cast about for something conversational. “You’ve got the, you know —thread stuff for the job? Catgut? Isn’t that what they call it?”
The doctor sent him a swift, seething glare.
“Right. Just do a good job.” He looked down at the captain. “All right, Milty?”
Captain Milton lay on the ground. He held both sides of his head, groaning softly, breathing faster as if caught in a nightmare, as if sunk to a private place of wrestled hell. Jamie had seen him like this before. Was it pain, or was it something else? Did thoughts of his men bring on that agony? When it was over, he’d always resurface to a wary, bewildered reality. Jamie had the urge to pat him on the head and speak kindly to him, then, like his old dog Toby.
He knelt beside him.
“Doc’s gonna fix you up. But there’s nothing to numb it. Here’s a harness strap, see? Cut from your friend the horse.” He worked the man’s mouth open, and slipped the leather piece between his teeth. “There’s a British soldier’s
“WHAT IN ME IS DARK . . .”
“Yes, yes, illumine,” Jamie finished for him. “Drink up, mate. Thatsa boy. Probably filled with sheep bits. Captain Milton, meet Mr. Belgium Doctor. He’s going to fix you up.”
The angry little doctor stood in the middle of the small, dark hay shed, one hand on a hip. His neat white shirt stood out in the gloom. He turned in place, shaking his head.
“C’est impossible,” he finally declared, flinging out a hand. “Zee light —terrible. My, my, my tools —no antiseptique . And zee Germans. Zey come! C’est impossible ! ”
“Mr. Belgium Doctor, meet Mr. Bren.” Elliott raised his rifle. “Fix him, or you’ll need fixing.”
Disgusted, the doctor went to a stack of musty hay bales and set down a small brown leather case the size of a large wallet. He began to roll up his sleeves.
It had taken two hours to find him. Another half hour to get him to come, and that, only when Jamie had unshouldered his rifle. Another half hour to scout out the nearest shelter and drag the semiconscious captain to it, another half hour to find water in a sheep trough.
“British thug .”
“A thug, eh? I’ve been eight months in your country. Eight months on a line erased in a day, like it never existed. Eight months, for your protection! This is how you repay us?”
The Belgian’s dark eyes pierced. He rolled a sleeve with precise movements. “You are not here for me. You are here for your safe island. Get me bandages.”
Jamie took the captain’s rucksack and rummaged. He found a battered book — Paradise Lost by John Milton. He tossed it back, rummaged, found several rolled bandages. He took one and regarded it with a twinge of guilt; two days, and he hadn’t yet changed the bandage. He was too afraid the wound would come apart if he did. He handed it to the doctor. “There’s more if you need them.”
The doctor set it aside. He unwound the ties on his case, and unfolded it.
Now that he had his way after pulling a rifle on a civilian, Jamie cast about for something conversational. “You’ve got the, you know —thread stuff for the job? Catgut? Isn’t that what they call it?”
The doctor sent him a swift, seething glare.
“Right. Just do a good job.” He looked down at the captain. “All right, Milty?”
Captain Milton lay on the ground. He held both sides of his head, groaning softly, breathing faster as if caught in a nightmare, as if sunk to a private place of wrestled hell. Jamie had seen him like this before. Was it pain, or was it something else? Did thoughts of his men bring on that agony? When it was over, he’d always resurface to a wary, bewildered reality. Jamie had the urge to pat him on the head and speak kindly to him, then, like his old dog Toby.
He knelt beside him.
“Doc’s gonna fix you up. But there’s nothing to numb it. Here’s a harness strap, see? Cut from your friend the horse.” He worked the man’s mouth open, and slipped the leather piece between his teeth. “There’s a British soldier’s
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