is the weapon I carried at Sedan. The boche learned to fear it there. They will relearn that lesson. Louis de Thiry will teach it to them! Courage! cried Andrew. I give you a toast. French valour and the triumph of French arms! Naturally the comte had to reply with a toast to General Haig and our gallant British Allies!'Captain Courtney is a South African, Andrew pointed out. We should drink to them.'Ah! the comte responded enthusiastically in English. To General, what is your uncle, the general, called? To General Sean Courtney and his brave South Africans.'This gentleman, Andrew indicated the slightly owl VIA eyed doctor swaying gently on the bench beside him, is an officer in the Royal Medical Corps. A fine service, and worthy of our toast! To the Royal Medical Corps! The comte accepted the challenge, but as he reached for his glass again, it trembled before he touched it, and the surface of the red wine was agitated into little circular ripples which lapped against the crystal bowl. The comte froze and all their heads lifted.
The glass of the kitchen window-panes rattled in their frames and then le of the guns rolled down from the north. Once again the German guns were hunting along the ridges, clamouring and barking like wild dogs, and as they listened in silence, they could imagine the misery and agony of the men in the muddy trenches only a few miles from where they sat in the warm kitchen with their bellies filled with food and fine wine.
Andrew lifted his glass and said softly, I give you those poor blighters out there in the mud. May they endure. And this time even Centaine sipped from Michael's glass and her eyes swam with dark tears as she drank the toast.
I hate to be a killjoy, the young doctor stood up unsteadily, but that artillery barrage is the work-whistle for me, I'm afraid, the butchers vans will be on their way back already. Michael tried to rise with him, but clutched quickly at the edge of the table for support. I wish to thank you, Monsieur le Comte, he began formally, for your gentility - The word tripped on his tongue and he repeated it, but his tongue blurred and lost track of his speech. I salute your daughter, Mademoiselle de Thiry, Pange du bonheur - His legs folded up unde r him, and he collapsed gently.
He is wounded! Centaine cried as she leaped forward and caught him before he hit the floor, supporting him with one slim shoulder under his armpit. Help me, she pleaded. Andrew reeled forward to her assistance, and between them they half-carried, half-dragged Michael through the kitchen door.
Careful, his poor arm, Centaine gasped under the weight, as they lifted Michael into the side-car of the motor- cycle. Do not hurt him! He lolled in the padded seat with a beatific grin on his pale features.
Mademoiselle, rest assured he is beyond all pain, the lucky devil. Andrew tottered around the machine to take the controls.
Wait for me! cried the doctor as he and the comte, giving each other mutual support, bounced off the door jamb and came crabbing down the steps in an unintended sideways charge.
Climb aboard, Andrew invited, and at the third attempt kick-started the Ariel in a roar of blue smoke.
The doctor 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.
