compassion and ingenuity. She had cried over their misfortunes, over those who had been injured in heart or body, laughed at their escapades. More than once during their bitterest nights, sodden, wind slicing across the unprotected land, she had realized that Wil was inventing things as he went along, to entertain her.
But the core of it was true, and it had not taken him to London. That was a dream he was keeping ahead of him, for before he finally went back to Missouri—London and Paris.
He was grinning at her now. “Aw shucks! I can read. I’ll get there one day. You’ll take me. You want your job back?”
“Yes.” She had said it too quickly, and it alarmed her.
He raised his eyebrows. “Can’t you make up your mind, then?”
She gave him a light punch on the arm, suddenly feeling tears prickle her eyes. “I can’t have it, Wil. He’s got a driver.”
“A greenhorn!”
“A what?”
“A guy who knows nothing,” he explained. “Still wet behind the ears. C’mon! Let’s get cleaned up and onto the road. We’ll find out where this guy is and get rid of him.”
She had a sudden stab of alarm, thinking of Prentice, “Get rid of him! How?”
He half shrugged. “I dunno, but we’ll think of something.”
“Actually I do have a letter I have to take to the general,” she said, walking beside him toward the water and soap. “And since it’s personal, and I should tell him about his sister, I really do need at least to find him.”
“ ’Course you do,” he agreed. “Never explain.”
She flashed him a broad smile. “Never. We aren’t army, right?”
“Right!” He saluted smartly. “Let’s go look for the general!”
It was a long task. The day before there had been a large offensive that had failed and the losses had been very heavy. General Plumer had been forced to retreat and there was a considerable amount of disorder; it was hard to battle against anger and despair. The second German use of gas had made it even worse.
“General Cullingford?” Wil asked a harassed sergeant major.
The man wiped his sleeve across his brow, leaving a smear of dirt and blood. “Jesus, I don’t know! Leave it to this lot and they’d ’ave all the bloody generals six feet under! And I’ll not argue with ’em. What d’yer need ’im for anyway? The injured’ve bin evacuated from ’ere, and most of the dead are buried—at least those we can find.”
Wil stood very stiff, his face pale. “Cullingford’s not bad, as generals go. We have a message for him. Lost a member of his family.”
The sergeant major’s eyebrows rose. “Go on! You mean generals have families? An’ here we was thinking they crawled up out of an ’ole in the ground.”
“Someone should teach you the facts of life, Sergeant Major!” Judith snapped. “Unlikely as it may seem, even you had a mother once, who wiped your nose—and the rest of you. And probably even thought you were worth it.”
The sergeant major blushed dark red, although it was impossible to tell whether it was shame for his attitude, or embarrassment at what she might be imagining about him. “Yes, miss. I ’eard he went toward Wulvergem, but I’m not sure.”
“Thank you,” she said stiffly.
The next person they asked was a major, and considerably less willing to help. Instead he directed them to take half a dozen men with shrapnel wounds or broken limbs back to Poperinge.
It was strangely familiar to be dealing with injured men again, ordinary soldiers who obey orders, made no decisions except to steel their nerves and go forward, live up to what was expected of them, not by the army or those at home who loved them, but by the men they lived with every day.
She had not meant to do it, except as a necessary act of obedience. Her mind was filled with finding Cullingford, telling him of her visit with his sister, the beginning of a softening in her, the first steps forward. She did not try to consider what she could do to replace his new driver, that was Wil’s idea, perhaps his way of making her feel better.
Among the wounded was a ginger-haired man with a head wound. His right ear was torn off and there was a deep gash across his cheek, but the side of his face that was still visible under the bandaging was cheerful enough. If it cost him a terrible effort, he did not show it. He was busy talking to another man whose leg was shattered at the thigh. It was bound in a splint, but he looked gray-faced with pain, and his teeth were clenched together so tightly his jaw muscles bulged.
Two others bore shrapnel wounds, one in the leg, the other in the shoulder. They sat quietly, side by side, waiting their turn.
“I’ll ’ave ter grow me ’air,” the ginger-headed man was saying, talking for the sake of it, perhaps to keep the most badly wounded man’s mind on something else, just to know he was not alone, or forgotten. “Me ma always said as I never listened anyway, so I s’pose an ear gorn won’t make no difference. Yer all right, Taff? There’s VADs ’ere, right enough. They’ll get yer ter ’orspital where they’ll fix that up for yer.”
Judith smiled at him, and then bent to the man with the shattered leg.
“We’re going to lift you up,” she told him. “We’ll be as gentle as we can.”
“That’s all right, miss,” he said hoarsely. “It ’urts, but not too much. I’ll be okay.”
“Of course you will,” she agreed. “But it could be a bit shaky for a while. I’ll do my best not to hit the potholes.”
“You drive that thing?” Ginger said with surprise. “I thought you was a nurse.”
“I’m a better driver than nurse, believe me,” she assured him. Wil was beside her, and one by one, with as much ease as possible, they loaded the wounded men in and drove back very carefully to Poperinge. There was a quiet companionship in doing their jobs together, working to exhaustion for a passionate common cause. They did not need to speak, but when they did it was almost in a kind of abbreviated language, references to past experiences, jokes they knew, a touch or a word of understanding.
It was nearly dark when they finally pulled into the central square in the town of Wulvergem and she saw the general’s car outside the Seven Piglets. Judith’s heart was pounding, her breath high in her throat as Wil parked the ambulance and she got out and walked over the cobbles, hearing her heels loud on the stones.
The laughter was audible even before she reached the door, men’s voices raised, cheerful, calling out across the room, a shout, another guffaw. She pushed the door open and the smells of beer and smoke swirled around her. The inside was lit by gas lamps, old-fashioned ones with glass mantles. The tables had checked cloths on them and there were half a dozen men to each.
Few of them turned to look at her, supposing it to be just another soldier, then someone noticed it was a woman, and one by one they fell silent.
She saw the lamplight on Cullingford’s fair hair and knew the shape of his head even before she saw the insignia of rank on his uniform. Opposite him sat a young man with a round, bland face. His skin was pale and his hands on the tablecloth looked soft and clean.
The boiling resentment welling up inside her was unreasonable and totally unfair. She knew that, and it made no difference at all.
The talk resumed again, but at a lower level. It was impossible now for her to retreat. However hard it was, she must go in, walk between the tables and speak to Cullingford, and give him his sister’s letter.
He looked up as her shadow fell across the table. His eyes widened very slightly and his expression barely changed, but he could not keep a faint color from rising in his cheeks.
“Miss Reavley?” he said quietly. For an instant she thought he was going to rise to his feet, as if they were both civilians, just a man and a woman met by chance at a dinner table. But he remembered the reality before he moved.
“Good evening, General Cullingford,” she said more stiffly than she had intended to, as if she were guarding herself from hurt. But she realized with amazement that the hurt had already happened, perhaps months ago. Even this afternoon in the ambulance she had pretended to herself that she was only angry at losing a job she liked, though it was even harder to bear when she could see the whole picture and knew how serious the losses were, and the possibility of defeat. But there were also ways in which driving the general was easier than seeing individual men, real wounds not figures, blood and pain and fear you couldn’t help, except to try to get the men back to the hospitals before it was too late.
