To End All Wars Page 8

  The food—a pork steak with a dash of apple sauce, boiled potatoes, and carrots—proved better than anything he’d eaten in recent memory. And eating went some way toward pacifying his mind; he had been hungry, and weak from illness and pain. If he was to get through this, he’d have to be cautious not to let such infirmities drag him down. Ultimately, his circumstances weren’t so bad. He could tolerate his treatment with Forbes, and it might even do him good. The bother with the army would get cleared up; they’d see he wasn’t to blame. At any rate, there was no use in worrying.

  Forrester got up with difficulty and, with a crutch under one arm, carried the tray to the door with the intention of setting it on the floor outside. However, when he turned the handle, it jounced uselessly in his grip. He needed a moment to absorb that the door was locked—that the nurse had locked him in. He rattled the handle again, just in case. He couldn’t quite believe that he should be a prisoner.

  They were taking this seriously after all, genuinely imagining he might try and escape instead of risking the possibility of a trial. The thought dismayed him. Had he earned so little trust?

  Depositing the tray on the chest of drawers, Forrester went into the bathroom. This time, he remarked a detail he’d somehow missed before: there was another door opposite his, leading presumably into another bedroom. When he checked the second door, it was locked also, as he’d expected it would be.

  He splashed water on his face and relieved himself—neither activity made easy by the crutch—and then retreated to his bed. He felt about ready for the Meditations. If nothing else, Marcus Aurelius was a better alternative than attempting to sleep, which seemed an unlikely prospect.

  Maybe half an hour had passed when there came a knock from outside. It was the Indian nurse, and she was carrying a canvas bag in one hand and a tall glass in the other. Having perched the glass on the bedside table, she opened the bag and removed a roll of bandages. Understanding, Forrester drew aside the bedclothes and furled his trouser leg. The nurse deftly stripped the old bandages and dressing, briskly examined the flesh beneath, and then set to replacing them.

  Forrester wished she would say something, even if she did so in a language he didn’t comprehend. In the absence of conversation, he found himself studying her. She really was quite dark, as dark as any of the lascars he’d seen. He guessed she was marginally older than he, thirty or thereabouts, and while she was undeniably pretty, her features were slightly severe—or perhaps, rather, the word he sought was unyielding.

  When she’d finished with the bandaging, she glanced at him and caught his gaze. Embarrassed, Forrester looked aside, though there had been no reprobation in her nearly-black eyes, or any expression that he could discern. She put the soiled bandages in her bag and left, taking the dinner tray with her. Listening, he heard the faint click of a key being turned.

  Forrester shook his head. He didn’t know what to make of it all. Shifting his attention to the glass beside his bed, he discovered that its contents were Benger’s Food, made with hot milk and a tot of brandy. He could tell all that from the smell, for his nurse had sometimes given him the same concoction when he’d been sick as a boy. Now, the restorative was the perfect thing. Grateful to his silent visitor, he emptied the glass in two drafts, enjoying the warmth and the mellow bite of the brandy; it was every bit as good as he remembered. Then Forrester shut off the oil lamp and closed his eyes.

  Forrester woke to blackness. A dream hung on the edge of consciousness, a vivid evocation of other places and sensations that began to dissolve immediately, leaving a sense of wretchedness and loss.

  Somewhere in the depths of the night, an idea had come to him, and he could not escape it. What if his men had indeed died after he’d left them? It might have been shelling, or a counterattack. A few might even have drowned in the mud, a horror that stretched his imagination to its limit. He’d told no one they were out there, not the officer nor the doctor in the dressing station. He had simply abandoned them, supposing that someone else would attend to their rescue.

  Even if his men really had been sleeping, it remained possible that, through his dereliction of duty, he bore the responsibility for their deaths.

  Forrester realised his cheeks were moist, and the pillow as well, and only then that he was crying. He couldn’t bring himself to move to dry his eyes. He lay until the tears cooled on his skin, staring at the gloom.

  It was a long time before he fell back into sleep.

  Forrester woke early.

  There was no curtain on the window, and the morning was a bright one, though a watery quality to the light made him wonder if there hadn’t been rain throughout the night. Since there was no point in rising, Forrester dozed a while, enjoying the minor comfort of a proper mattress beneath his back and proper pillows under his head.

  Lying motionless was just beginning to grow tiresome when there came a knock at the door. As usual, Forrester called, “Come in,” and wasn’t surprised to see the Indian nurse, carrying a tray. She laid it over his lap and hurried out, closing the door behind her. But when he listened, he heard no turn of the lock and no receding footsteps. She must be waiting for him to finish.

  The breakfast was as splendid as last night’s dinner, with proper sausages, mushrooms, and fresh eggs. It didn’t seem like wartime food at all. Yet he ate hastily, conscious of the poor nurse outside in a cold hallway, and when he was done exclaimed, “Hello?”

  As he’d thought, she returned straight away, and having moved the tray, she indicated his leg. Once he’d rolled the sheets and his pyjama bottoms again, she quickly inspected the bandage, found it apparently to her satisfaction, recovered the tray, and made to leave.

  At the last second, Forrester registered what was about to happen: she’d lock the door behind her, and he would see no one until lunchtime.

  “Look here,” he cried, “I was given to understand that I’d be allowed company. Am I to be kept prisoner in this room? If so, I think I’d like to speak with Major Forbes.”

  He regretted the words as soon as he’d said them. What he’d intended as a polite objection had come out utterly wrong. In any case, the nurse gave no response, and this time he did detect the key turning, and then the click of heels on exposed boards. Forrester lay back, irritable and dejected. The rushed breakfast had left his stomach grumbling, and raising his voice had made his lungs raw.

  He had all but given up anticipating an end to his imposed solitude when he heard another knock at the door. It opened before he could answer, and he was vaguely startled to recognise the sergeant from yesterday. What had Forbes called him? Oh yes, Campion. “Good morning, Sergeant Campion,” Forrester greeted him.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant Forrester,” Campion said. Then, with hardly a breath between, “Nurse Rao claims you’ve made a complaint.”

  Forrester was already feeling penitent. “I hope I didn’t upset her.”

  “Well, sir,” observed the sergeant philosophically, “No one much likes to be shouted at.”

  At that, a measure of Forrester’s resentment came back. “ Still, it’s fair to expect to be allowed out. Perhaps I should talk the matter over with Major Forbes?”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you in his own time, sir,” Campion said. “He’s particular about the behaviour of his officers is the major.”

  The sergeant’s implication was clear. “Am I to be allowed out?” Forrester reiterated, striving to sound reasonable. “Major Forbes led me to believe I would.”

  “He thought you’d do better for a day or two’s rest. But if you’d prefer to be up, then probably there’s no harm in it. I’ll have to ask, though, that you try not to cause any more fuss.”

  “I shall be on my best behaviour,” Forrester agreed, and managed not to grit his teeth as he said it.

  Campion took them by an alternative course, right instead of left, and then threading the narrow passageway that traversed the roof, descending two floors, passing along richly decorated corridor
s, until they came to a pair of double doors, one of which stood ajar.

  To say what purpose the space beyond had previously possessed was difficult, but it assuredly hadn’t always been a hospital room. The walls were decorated with ornate plasterwork and painted a rich, if overpowering, lilac. On the ceiling was a chandelier of crystal and glass, and the far wall was taken up entirely with high sash windows.

  In striking contrast, all the original furniture had been moved out, replaced with temporary tables and some tatty, mismatched chairs of the kind one might pick up at a jumble sale. Many of those chairs were taken by officers in uniform, talking or playing cards. Several were invalided; a cluster of men were together in wheelchairs near an open window, and half a dozen wore bandages upon one extremity or another. Yet in general they appeared relatively healthy and cheerful, if for the most part frightfully bored.

  No one had paid much notice to his arrival, and Forrester didn’t feel like inserting himself into one of the existing groups. Once again, the walk and the bother of the crutches had overtaxed him. He manoeuvred to a seat at an empty table, choosing a position from which he could look out on the gardens. But there was nothing to see except an expanse of lawn and in the distance the peaks of scattered fir trees. The downward curve of the ground hid anything further.

  An explosive cough drew Forrester’s attention. A man was standing over him, straight as an arrow. He was red-faced, particularly in the cheeks, with arresting grey eyes. The years had taken no discernible toll on his thick head of blonde hair or his meticulously groomed moustaches, and only a certain ingrained weariness hinted that he might be well into middle age.

  “I’m Major Morgan,” he announced, offering his hand. He spoke extraordinarily loudly, and the effort seemed to agitate a tic in his eye, which twitched at every other word.

  “Lieutenant Forrester,” Forrester said, shaking the outstretched hand. “Good to meet you, major.”

  “Oh, just Morgan, please. We’re all in the same boat, aren’t we?” The major looked serious. “But listen, old chap, whatever the rest of the fellows may think, it’s not right, and I’ve no intention of playing along.”

  Feeling totally out of his depth, Forrester asked, “What isn’t right?”

  “Why, singling a man out. Too much like bullying to my eye. I wouldn’t stand for it over there, and nor will I here simply because this isn’t my command.”

  Forrester took a moment to riddle out the sentence’s obliquities. “You mean to say that I’ve been singled out? It’s the first I’ve heard. ”

  “Then I’m glad you’re getting it from me.” Sure enough, Morgan gave the impression of being genuinely relieved. “Yes, they told me to watch out for a man named Forrester and gave me your description. Said you’re getting special treatment and need all the quiet you can get.”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard,” repeated Forrester. His initial reaction had been shock, followed by a deep-rooted chill. They’d kept him locked up, and when he’d made a fuss over that, they had found another way to isolate him. Yet the more Morgan spoke, the more doubtful Forrester became. Between the twitch and the inordinate volume of his speech, it was obvious that something was quite wrong with him. A paranoid case, likely, and perhaps he’d given an identical speech to everyone in the room.

  “It’s already queer enough, this business,” Morgan resumed. “Moving us out in the middle of the night, and without a proper word of explanation.”

  Yes, that it was it. Forrester might not be a psychologist, but he could diagnose a paranoic when he met one. “You haven’t been here long, then?”

  “Barely a day!” Now Morgan was practically bellowing. “All the chaps say the same. A few of them came from my place, but some I don’t recognise.” The tic, too, was worsening. This time it convulsed the whole side of his face. “Definitely a queer sort of affair,” he concluded thoughtfully.

  Fortunately, a bell rang then, and everybody, including the major, looked up. A matronly nurse announced that luncheon would be served in the dining hall and would everyone who was able to do so please come through.

  Forrester seized on the excuse to again shake Morgan by the hand. “A pleasure meeting you, major, but I won’t hold you up.”

  When Morgan appeared inclined to argue, Forrester made a show of fumbling with his crutches, as though even getting to his feet might take a while.

  “You mustn’t let them pick on you, that’s all I can say,” Morgan insisted, and he marched off to join the queue by the doors.

  Forrester fell in behind the last of the walking men and before the wheelchair-bound, a couple of whom had to be directed by orderlies. When he arrived at the dining hall—another room converted from its original function, for the seating was at benches pulled up to trestle tables rather than the antique furnishings he’d half expected—there were only five gaps left. None of them, thankfully, were near to the genial but overbearing Major Morgan.

  Forrester ate sparingly. The discomfort in his chest was beginning to outweigh his appetite. There wasn’t a great deal of conversation, and he managed to avoid playing any part in what there was. Afterwards, they trooped back to what he had mentally dubbed the common room, and Forrester opted for a spot in the corner closest to the doors, where he could more easily keep to himself.

  From there, he noticed a detail that had escaped him earlier. Sergeant Campion had taken a seat by the doorway, from which he could survey the entire space. Just then, he wasn’t looking at Forrester but toward the windows. Still, his presence was curious; aside from the patients, everyone here was either a nurse or an orderly. In fact, now that Forrester considered, Campion was not wearing an RAMC uniform. There was no red cross on his arm. Nor were there any regimental insignia to be seen. As far as his attire went, the man was a regular blank slate.

  Forrester soon grew bored, and nothing promised to relieve the tedium. He felt less capable of an involved discussion than ever, and he certainly had no desire to play cards or to join in—god forbid!—the table tennis game noisily occupying one corner. He could easily have signalled one of the passing nurses or orderlies, and perhaps it was bloody-mindedness that made him hoist himself onto his crutches and lope to Campion.

  “Hello Sergeant,” Forrester said. “I was wondering if there might be somewhere I could pick up a few books?”

  Campion scowled up at him. “There’s a library. Tell me what you’re after and I’ll send a nurse to see what they can turn up.”

  “Is that really necessary? Might I not go myself?”

  “We can’t have men wandering all over the house, sir.”

  “Men? Or me specifically?”

  “Look here,” Campion said irritably, “there’s no reason to be difficult.”

  “I’m doing nothing of the sort,” Forrester replied. “But please will you make my position clear, sergeant? Am I under arrest and only allowed out under guard? Or am I a wounded officer recuperating in hospital? Because I scarcely think that the two are—“

  He had meant to say compatible . But unleashing his frustration had put too much strain upon his voice, and the sentence ended in a racking cough. He had to release one crutch to support himself against the door frame, and it fell with a clatter, drawing perturbed glances.

  A nurse bustled over, a woman Forrester didn’t recognise, and pressed a glass of water into his hand. During a break in his coughing, he succeeded in gulping a mouthful down.

  “You’d be better off sitting,” the nurse said, taking his elbow with the evident aim of ushering him to a nearby vacant chair.

  He resisted. The room seemed to him suddenly too hot and airless. There were too many people in there, it was hardly better than the trenches. He could even smell a stale undercurrent of sweat, and other odours also: that peculiar cocktail of corruption and decay that lived in the mud of France. Forrester pulled his arm free, close to panic. “I’d be better,” he wheezed, “for being out of this ... damned room.”

  He made for the doors
. Campion, now on his feet, looked determined to bar his way. However, something restrained him at the last, and he merely stood there, swaying back and forth. Then, as if abruptly freed, he surrendered to his forward impulse. He knelt to reclaim Forrester’s crutch, followed him into the corridor, and thrust it into his free hand. “Let’s find this library of yours,” he growled.

  Yet as far as Forrester could judge, no finding was required. Campion seemed to have a ready knowledge of the building’s layout. Their route led through a chilly, stone-flagged entrance hall, toward what must be the rear of the house.

  The library, when they reached it, was both impressive and dour. The shelves were of dark wood, mahogany or walnut, and what little bare wall was on display had been painted an oppressive, muted green. As with the common room, windows dominated one side, and ceiling-high bookcases spanned the remaining three, broken solely by a marble fireplace, before which sat a low teak table and three high-backed, overstuffed leather armchairs.

  At first, the range of choice was daunting, but Forrester soon discovered that one small section was reserved for the household’s day-to-day reading, and that most of the other books—weighty legal tomes, reference works, biographies, and histories—might never have had their pages cut. He passed five minutes in careful rummaging, conscious that another opportunity might not soon be forthcoming. In the end, he settled on a couple of compilations of modern poetry, a compact Shakespeare, and Vasari’s Lives of the Artists , which he’d once started and had always meant to finish.

  As he got up to leave, it occurred to Forrester that he had no desire to return to the bustle of the common room. “I think I’d like to go back to my own room,” he proposed .

  Campion tutted beneath his breath, as if to say, There’s no pleasing some people . Then, seeing that Forrester was struggling, he took the pile of books from him, though with a grimace.