to wash my face and put on my uniform.
I was still shaken by the dream as I gulped a cup of tea, then hurried to deal with the line of men waiting for attention.
There was still no response from Simon by the end of the week, and I wasn’t sure where he was. A letter had come from my mother, letting me know that everyone was well, and there had been no mention of Simon being away so long. Either he was at home and safe, or she was being circumspect.
And then the next morning as I walked into the surgical tent, I saw his tall figure just ahead of me.
Simon was making his way down the row of severely wounded men, stopping at each cot, speaking quietly to the men who were conscious, simply looking down at the ones who were not. When he reached the end of the line, he turned back and saw me.
According to my mother, both Simon and my father visited the wounded often, and without fanfare, wherever they happened to be.
There was something about both men that made them popular wherever they went, and their compassion for the ill and the dying was infinite. They had been soldiers with impressive records themselves, but it went beyond that. War seemed to forge a brotherhood that made someone like Captain Barclay claim he was healing even when it was a lie. Even when he knew that going back to France might well end in his own death.
I watched as Simon had a word for each man, making one or two of them smile, and he offered comfort to those who were suffering in grim silence.
I waited until he came up to me. Nodding, he said, “Outside?”
I followed him into a dusk lit by artillery flashes. Once or twice, I could see bursts of machine-gun fire. He turned his back to that, saying, “I must be brief. I’m supposed to be in Dover. I got your message. It seems that orders came down from HQ to send Carson as liaison to the French forces. He must never have reached the meeting with his opposite number-but the odd thing is, whoever that was, he never reported Carson missing. What’s more, no one can be certain where the order originated. The signature is a scrawl.”
“That explains how his murderer got to him, doesn’t it?” I responded softly. “Once out of the lines, following a guide he didn’t know, he could have been lured to his death. But why? Why kill Major Carson?”
“There are bodies and wounded men everywhere. No one notices one more.”
“Private Wilson did. And was killed because of it.”
“I want you to make a list, as comprehensive as you can, of everyone who was in and out of that aid station.”
“Simon, do you realize how impossible that is?” I expostulated.
“I don’t mean the dead and dying. Orderlies who were there for a week or more are not likely candidates either, and a Sister couldn’t break Carson’s neck. He was too strong, too tall.”
“Private Wilson would have known such things.” I shut my eyes. Searching faces in my memory. After a moment I shook my head. “I may not have seen him. This killer has no face so far,” I said finally. “I’ll keep trying, but it’s a needle in the proverbial haystack.”
“And possibly the only lead we’ll have.”
He touched my shoulder in a comradely gesture. “Take care, Bess, whatever you do. I don’t want to have to explain to your mother how it was you got hurt.”
And then he was gone, disappearing into the night.
When the next ambulances went south with wounded who could be moved, I asked if I could be the nurse in charge. Dr. Hicks looked at me, said, “You could use a few hours of respite,” and it was arranged.
I rode in the last ambulance, prepared to do what I could if we were forced to stop and attend to one of the men. It was a hard, jolting ride through mud and craters and ruts deeper than most axles, and was warm enough for the miasma to rise and envelop us with the unforgiving smells of the battlefield. I held on for dear life to avoid being shaken to death. But we reached our destination without mishap, blessedly everyone still alive.
Here was where I’d fallen so ill. Here was where Private Wilson had died. Had the staff changed? How many of them had survived?
I felt a wave of relief when I saw that Matron was the same woman I’d served with. She would be able to tell me about Private Wilson. After I’d turned my charges over to her, she invited me to her room for a cup of tea.
I hadn’t expected the rush of emotion that I’d felt as the aid station had come into view. I couldn’t help but wonder if matters would have been very different if my collapse had come an hour, even two, later and I’d had an opportunity to speak to her about what Private Wilson had shown me in the shed. Would he be alive now? Or would I simply have put Matron at risk too?
I tapped at her door, was admitted, and offered a chair.
“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you healthy once more,” she said warmly. “You gave us a terrible fright, you know.” In the lamp’s light I could see how worn she looked, and how tired.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’ve read about the great plagues of history,” she said. “I never dreamed I would experience one. We lost so many good people.”
“Did Private Wilson survive?” I asked, and immediately felt a surge of guilt for letting her assume I knew nothing about his death. “He handled so many bodies. I often wondered.”
“Haven’t you heard, my dear? He’s dead.”
“I wasn’t told,” I answered, which was true-I’d asked Simon to find out what had become of him. “He was always ready to do whatever we asked. Such a good man. Was it a lingering death or a kind one?”
Frowning, she said, “Odd that you should ask.” She looked down at the chart in front of her, then raised her eyes to meet mine. “After you were taken ill, he came looking for you, but you were too feverish to answer whatever question he had intended to ask. Instead he left a message for me. I’d been awakened early-there was an emergency, you see-and before I was free to speak to him, one of his stretcher bearers came rushing into my office to say that Private Wilson had hanged himself in the shed. Dr. Harrison suggested that he’d begun to feel ill, that’s why he’d sought a nurse. Then as his symptoms progressed, and he realized what lay in store, he decided to end it while he was still able. I was there when he was cut down, and I myself closed his eyes.”
“Did you agree with Dr. Harrison’s view?” A surgeon, he’d worked mainly with the wounded.
Looking away toward the door, she said, “I must say, as far as anyone knew, he didn’t appear to be presenting symptoms. No fever, no aches, no dizziness. And so I’ve wondered, you know, if I’d been available, rather than having to put him off, perhaps I could have done something for him-given him an opportunity to tell me what was on his mind. I don’t know if I could have helped, but I’d have tried. I did wonder if there was a problem at home. Several people asked for compassionate leave when their wives or a child died of the influenza.”
But there had been no problem at home. I’d spoken to Mrs. Wilson.
“I don’t know that anyone could have helped him,” I said gently.
“Do you remember the onset of your symptoms?” she asked, turning back to me.
“Not really. Great fatigue, but we were all unbelievably tired, weren’t we? A headache, I think. Dizziness.”
“You told Sister Burrows that you felt cold, unable to warm yourself. And then you fainted. Your temperature climbed rapidly.”
Surprised, I said, “I don’t remember fainting. Or being so cold. But perhaps Dr. Harrison is right. Private Wilson knew what was coming and that he had to act quickly.”
“I’ve tried to comfort myself with that thought. But there will always be that little niggling doubt.”
There was no way I could assuage that sense of guilt. Not without telling her the whole truth. I could only agree that he was the last person I could imagine doing such a thing.
“We can’t read minds, can we?” She took a deep breath. “I was glad it was not my duty to write to his wife. Dr. Bennett broke the news as gently as he could. “
“I don’t remember Dr. Bennett,” I said.
“No? He’d hardly arrived here when he was ordered to another station. Three of their doctors died in the epidemic.” She finished her tea. “I must make my rounds,” she said. “And you are needed elsewhere. It was good of you to come and see me, Sister Crawford.”
And five minutes later, the ambulance, washed down and ready to go back the way we’d come, was there at the ward door.
I had remembered nothing useful by coming here, I thought as we bounced and skidded over the broken ground. All I had confirmed was that Private Wilson had indeed killed himself. Or so it appeared. And perhaps he
