clambered on to the pillion behind him, and the comte thrust one of the two bottles of claret that he carried into Andrew’s side pocket. Against the cold, he explained.
You are a prince among men. Andrew let out the clutch and the Ariel screeched into a tight turn. Look after Michael!
cried Centaine.
My cabbages! screamed Anna, as Andrew took a short cut through the vegetable garden.
A has les boches! howled the comte and took a last surreptitious pull at the other claret bottle, before Centaine could confiscate it from him and relieve him of the cellar keys once more.
At the end of the long drive that led down from the chAteau Andrew braked the motor-cycle and then at a more sedate pace joined the pathetic little procession that was trickling back from the ridges along the muddy, rutted main road.
The butchers’vans, as the field ambulances were irreverently known, were heavily loaded with the fruits of the renewed German bombardment. They chugged through the muddy puddles, with the racks of canvas stretchers in the open backs swaying and lurching to each bump.
The blood from the wounded men in the upper tiers soaked through the canvas and dripped on to those below.
On the verges of the lane little groups of walking wounded straggled back, their rifles discarded, leaning on each other for support, lumpy field dressings strapped over their injuries, all their faces blank with suffering, their eyes dead of expression, their uniforms caked with mud and their movements mechanical, beyond caring.
Beginning to sober rapidly, the doctor climbed down off the pillion and selected the more seriously hurt men from the stream. They loaded two of them on to the pillion, one astride the petrol tank in front of Andrew and three more into the side-car with Michael. The doctor ran behind the overloaded Ariel, pushing it through the mud holes, and he was completely sober when a mile up the road they reached the VAD hospital in a row of cottages at the entrance to the village of Mort Homme. He helped his newly acquired patients out of the side-car and then turned back to Andrew. Thanks. I needed that break. He glanced down at Michael, still passed out in the side-car. Look at him.
We can’t go on like this forever.”Michael is just slightly pissed, that is all. But the doctor shook his head. Battle fatigue he said. Shell shock. We don’t understand it properly yet, but it seems there is just a limit to how much these poor has tards can stand. How long has he been flying without a break, three months? He will be all right, Andrew’s voice was fierce, he’s going to get through. He placed a protective hand on Michael’s injured shoulder, remembering that it was six months since his last leave.
Look at him, all the signs. Thin as a starvation victim, the doctor went on, twitching and trembling. Those eyes - I’ll bet he is showing unbalanced illogical behaviour, sullen dark moods alternating with mad wild moods? Am I correct? Andrew nodded reluctantly. One minute he calls the enemy loathsome vermin and machine-guns the survivors of crashed German aircraft, and the next they are gallant and worthy foes, he punched a newly arrived pilot last week for calling them Huns. Reckless bravery? Andrew remembered the balloons that morning, but he did not answer the question.
What can we do? he asked helplessly.
The doctor sighed and shrugged, and offered his hand. Goodbye and good luck, major. And as he turned away, he was already stripping off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
At the entrance to the orchard, just before they reached the squadron’s bivouac, Michael suddenly heaved himself upright in the side-car and with all the solemnity of a judge pronouncing the death sentence, said, I am about to be sick. Andrew braked the motor-cycle off the road and held his head for im.
All that excellent claret, he lamented. To say nothing of the Napoleon cognac, if there was only some way to save it! Having noisily unburdened himself,
You are a prince among men. Andrew let out the clutch and the Ariel screeched into a tight turn. Look after Michael!
cried Centaine.
My cabbages! screamed Anna, as Andrew took a short cut through the vegetable garden.
A has les boches! howled the comte and took a last surreptitious pull at the other claret bottle, before Centaine could confiscate it from him and relieve him of the cellar keys once more.
At the end of the long drive that led down from the chAteau Andrew braked the motor-cycle and then at a more sedate pace joined the pathetic little procession that was trickling back from the ridges along the muddy, rutted main road.
The butchers’vans, as the field ambulances were irreverently known, were heavily loaded with the fruits of the renewed German bombardment. They chugged through the muddy puddles, with the racks of canvas stretchers in the open backs swaying and lurching to each bump.
The blood from the wounded men in the upper tiers soaked through the canvas and dripped on to those below.
On the verges of the lane little groups of walking wounded straggled back, their rifles discarded, leaning on each other for support, lumpy field dressings strapped over their injuries, all their faces blank with suffering, their eyes dead of expression, their uniforms caked with mud and their movements mechanical, beyond caring.
Beginning to sober rapidly, the doctor climbed down off the pillion and selected the more seriously hurt men from the stream. They loaded two of them on to the pillion, one astride the petrol tank in front of Andrew and three more into the side-car with Michael. The doctor ran behind the overloaded Ariel, pushing it through the mud holes, and he was completely sober when a mile up the road they reached the VAD hospital in a row of cottages at the entrance to the village of Mort Homme. He helped his newly acquired patients out of the side-car and then turned back to Andrew. Thanks. I needed that break. He glanced down at Michael, still passed out in the side-car. Look at him.
We can’t go on like this forever.”Michael is just slightly pissed, that is all. But the doctor shook his head. Battle fatigue he said. Shell shock. We don’t understand it properly yet, but it seems there is just a limit to how much these poor has tards can stand. How long has he been flying without a break, three months? He will be all right, Andrew’s voice was fierce, he’s going to get through. He placed a protective hand on Michael’s injured shoulder, remembering that it was six months since his last leave.
Look at him, all the signs. Thin as a starvation victim, the doctor went on, twitching and trembling. Those eyes - I’ll bet he is showing unbalanced illogical behaviour, sullen dark moods alternating with mad wild moods? Am I correct? Andrew nodded reluctantly. One minute he calls the enemy loathsome vermin and machine-guns the survivors of crashed German aircraft, and the next they are gallant and worthy foes, he punched a newly arrived pilot last week for calling them Huns. Reckless bravery? Andrew remembered the balloons that morning, but he did not answer the question.
What can we do? he asked helplessly.
The doctor sighed and shrugged, and offered his hand. Goodbye and good luck, major. And as he turned away, he was already stripping off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
At the entrance to the orchard, just before they reached the squadron’s bivouac, Michael suddenly heaved himself upright in the side-car and with all the solemnity of a judge pronouncing the death sentence, said, I am about to be sick. Andrew braked the motor-cycle off the road and held his head for im.
All that excellent claret, he lamented. To say nothing of the Napoleon cognac, if there was only some way to save it! Having noisily unburdened himself,
Similar Books
