He returned a minute later. 'Goodnight,' he said, having placed her kit on the bed.
'Sergeant,' she said, 'just let me look at your head first. Really-I should.'
Tanner sat on the edge of the bed, conscious of his near-nakedness. Lucie knelt behind him, her delicate fingers parting his hair. He winced as she touched the wound.
'Sorry,' she said. 'It does need a couple of stitches. There's no point leaving it open and letting it get infected. And you've some old stitches too that should be taken out. What have you been doing?'
'Soldiers tend to get bashed about a bit,' he said.
'But not usually by your own side.'
'You'd hope not.'
She delved into her surgical haversack, took out a syringe and a phial, then a rolled cloth pouch that reminded him of his housewife. 'I'm just going to give you a small injection of procaine,' she said. 'It'll numb your head a bit.'
'Good,' said Tanner. 'You can give me a big one if you like.'
She laughed, a soft, infectious sound. 'Just keep your head still. This won't take long.'
When she had finished, she ruffled his hair, then put away her surgical scissors and thread. Something made him linger, then turn to her. She gazed at him a moment, then ran her hand across his cheek. 'You remind me very much of someone,' she said. 'Someone I used to know.' She leaned towards him, lips parted, and kissed him. 'Stay with me,' she breathed. 'Stay with me tonight.'
Chapter 22
Six p.m., Tuesday, 28 May, Wijtschate, Belgium. What was left of D Company, the Yorkshire Rangers, stood sheltering at the edge of a wood a short distance from the village. The passage of shells could be heard easily amid the crumps and sharper detonations, whistling as they hurtled through the air. Short but plentiful bursts of machine-gun fire and the lighter explosions of mortars indicated that this was not merely an exchange of artillery fire but that front-line infantrymen were actively engaged against one another. Every so often a larger shell - a 105 or 155 - exploded and the men felt the ground below them shake. Despite the damp and the rain that still threatened, the air was heavy with cordite, burning and dust. Wijtschate, once a pretty Belgian village, had had the misfortune to find itself on the front line twice in the space of twenty-five years. In the Great War it had been destroyed and now it was on its way to being destroyed again. Several houses were burning; many more had crumbled. Shell craters pocked the road that
led into the village square. Ahead, a column of men were picking their way through the rubble of a collapsed building. Another shell hurtled over, this time from the western side - British gunners.
Tanner looked up as a despatch rider sped down the road a hundred yards in front of them and turned into the farmhouse that was now home to 13th Brigade Headquarters. A few minutes later another motorcycle raced off. Messengers had been coming and going - by motorcycle, bike and on foot - at regular intervals. Taking out a cigarette, he glanced at the men. They looked fed up. It had rained on and off for most of the day, and although gas capes were more or less waterproof, they couldn't stand up to prolonged rain. Moreover, they were hot, especially when marching. Tanner had discarded his hours earlier, but now his uniform was damp again. Khaki serge was certainly warm and strong, but when wet it was heavy, scratchy and a bugger to dry. Tanner wondered why he'd bothered to put his trousers in front of the fire the night before, and pleasanter thoughts of Lucie sprang into his mind. She'd been a sweet girl - passionate, too - but there had been a wistfulness about her he'd not been able to put his finger on. Perhaps it was just the war - and the inevitable loss of France. They had left her and Sergeant Greenstreet in Poperinghe, and he wondered whether he would ever see her again; he hoped so. She had got under his skin more than he had expected. The girl who had saved his life.
The roads had been heaving all day, with French and British troops going in the opposite direction from their own small band. Their progress had prompted numerous jibes: 'You're heading the wrong way!' 'Dunkirk's the other direction!' It had got on their nerves and more than once Tanner had questioned whether he and Peploe had made the right decision. The men had carried on marching, standing aside to let vehicles through, weaving past troops and civilians, but by the middle of the afternoon, heads were sagging. At least the lieutenant was fit, apparently none the worse for the crack on his head. 'I must have a very thick skull,' he had joked.
He and Peploe had inevitably talked about Blackstone and Slater. Peploe was of much the same opinion as Tanner - that their flight was a weight off his mind. Tanner wondered where they were now. Back in England already? It wouldn't have surprised him.
'Don't worry, Sergeant,' Peploe had told him that morning, 'they're facing a life on the run now. I swore I'd make sure they paid for what they did in Warlus and I mean it even more now. And if for any reason I don't make it back and you do, you must promise me you won't let them get away with what they did.'
Tanner had promised. He wondered what had become of the Pole, Torwinski. Christ, but that seemed a long time ago now. And Lyell? Had he made it back?
A hundred yards away the column of men had now halted by Brigade Headquarters. Tanner guessed there were two hundred or more. He watched them fall out, collapsing wearily on the side of the road, and wondered what Peploe was up to. He glanced at his watch as two shells landed only a few hundred yards away. 'Come on, Mr Peploe. Either let us dig in or get us out of here.'
The brigade staff had been pleasantly surprised when Lieutenant Peploe had walked in and announced his arrival with thirty-three other ranks.
'You're just in time,' said Captain Ross, one of the Brigade staff officers. 'The Yorkshire Rangers have just been pulled back.' He explained that every battalion in the brigade was horribly depleted, including the 1st Yorkshire Rangers. Since D Company had been left by 1st Battalion on the Brussels-Charleroi canal, the brigade had not been idle, having seen fierce fighting east of Arras and almost continually since then. For two days, the entire 5th Division had been fighting desperately to hold the canal line between Ypres and Commines; 13th and 17th Brigades had managed to stave off every German attack, but not without crippling casualties. 'It's been one bloody crisis after another,' he said. 'You've heard about the Belgians, I suppose?'
'No, sir.'
'They've thrown in the towel. Yesterday evening, just like that. The whole of Third Div had to move last night from south of here to north of Ypres to fill the gap in the line. They did it, though. Bloody miracle.'
