Chapter 2

Nurse Devereaux peered at herself in the mirror late that night, trying not to bemoan the fine lines around her eyes that revealed the lack of sleep of the past few days. It was as nothing compared to some of the more experienced nurses—the real nurses, as she thought of them—who had more than a few weeks' governmental training in helping with what the actual medical personnel at the Army hospitals were handling. The real nurses often had to be on their feet for 14 hours or more, and this wasn't even a field hospital. The wounded just kept coming in and coming in, no matter where the hospital, and every medical site could take all the Voluntary Aid Detachment helpers it could get.

Caroline had volunteered because she wanted to help her country, but in truth it was not the only reason. She had to get out of that gilded cage of a house, and away from the tension of life with Charles. They had only been married a year, and already she greatly regretted it. He had seemed a nice enough fellow, and she had never felt much in love with any of the young men she had met, at least not for long; so the chance to move up a notch in society and to live a more-than-comfortable life was agreeable enough, though Caroline's ambitions in these directions were not as driving as her mother's.

But as lord of the manor Charles had an imperial air and looked askance at her youthful sense of fun and her preference for simplicity. She couldn't get him to picnic or go out dancing; to take walks or look for birds, or to sit and enjoy lovely music. She couldn't get him to do much anything except provide a home base for weekend parties and hunts; she had begun to suspect that his interest in marrying her had far more to do with her charm and organisational ability as a hostess than with any admiration of her mind or depth of feeling for her. Often his behaviour toward her expressed quite the opposite: a shortness of temper and condescension she had never sensed during their courtship, and even a look of disgust in reaction to any show of ardour on her part. It wasn't that they had no marital relations, but those had to be on his terms—which were at times frightening, involving his having had too much to drink and bearing the quality of proving something to himself or to her.

And as hard and heartbreaking as this nursing work was, it provided a welcome change; a bit of adventure. Not to mention a connexion with the estimable staff working so hard to take care of these remarkable men who seemed to be fighting a losing battle. Somehow they kept (well, most of them kept) a steadiness of purpose and a lightness of attitude through the hell they had seen, earning her deepest respect.

That soldier who finally woke today, for instance. The one with the curly hair and the gentle blue eyes. Despite his painful wound and his obvious confusion and the lonely way he had admitted he had no family nearby, he had laughed for a moment and had seemed to warm her with his admiring gaze.

Foyle woke abruptly and reached for his rifle. Not finding it, he became fully awake. Oh yes, hospital. He was safe. He looked to see what had awakened him. A nurse was tending the moaning patient in the next bed. Hearing Foyle stir, she glanced over her shoulder at him. "I'll be with you in a moment."

She was a tall, slender lady of around forty-five, not the nurse Foyle was hoping to see. As he came more awake he realised that it was dark; the lights in the ward were dim. I missed her. When will she next be working? He shook his head at himself. You fool.

His shoulder was throbbing and his mouth was dry. The patient in the next bed finally quieted, the nurse turned to Christopher. "I imagine your pain medicine has worn off by now. I'll get you some more so you may sleep. Sleep is the best thing for your recovery." She went down the long row of beds.

Foyle tried to put the pain out of his mind. He wondered how his unit was doing without him. Who was leading them? The young men, just teenagers most of them, were so frightened and so brave.

It was winter now, February 1916; will it be over this year? The trenches were so cold. Muddy and cold. But the fighting wasn't as intense now as it had been near Loos last autumn.

They had been ordered again and again to attack the German lines in October and November, with little success. They had lost so many men that he had been promoted from Corporal to Sergeant. He could still hear the sound of the machine guns; still feel the fear in his stomach as he led his men—boys—across the broken field. Why wasn't he wounded then? Or killed? So many of his comrades were killed or injured.

But he wasn't wounded until he'd spent another three months in the freezing, stinking trenches. A routine reconnaissance sortie. He and Hill and Lighthall. Out, check the wire, scan for German activity and then back to the ostensible comfort of home—their trench. Unluckily, they came upon a German patrol. He didn't remember much after that. Running towards the Germans, and then…

The tall nurse returned, interrupting his thoughts. "Here Sergeant, drink this." She assisted him and said, "This will help you sleep, shortly."

"What time is it?"

"It's almost midnight. Are you hungry?"

"No, not at all."

"Well, that's good, because it's hard to find even a morsel at this time of night. Now you lie back and have a rest. You'll feel better in no time."

Foyle thanked her and she bustled off in a starchy white cloud.

His shoulder still throbbed. There was no possibility of sleep until the pain eased.

His thoughts returned to last autumn. So much had happened. After the fighting fell off the first part of November, the post had caught up with them. That's when he received the letter telling him his father was dead. He could still see the grey morning in the rain-soaked trench, when he held the letter so loosely in his hand that it fluttered and nearly got away. His father, dead. It didn't seem possible. Sergeant Foyle of the Hastings Constabulary seemed like one of the elements; the younger Foyle thought that the elder would still be left when all else had disappeared.

Of course, Father was dead and had been buried weeks earlier. Not that the Army would have let his son return to England for the funeral, but it somehow seemed even crueler not to have known. All through the bloody fighting, all through the endless attacks, all through the near-crippling fear of going "up and over", his father had already been dead. Machine guns pounding, shells exploding, the cries of dying men. And his father was already dead. It didn't seem possible.

And Mum, frail most of the time, hadn't taken her husband's death well. She was staying in Leicester with her sister, Ivy. It was Aunt Ivy who had written him about his father. Mum is surely unwell if she couldn't even write me of Father's death.

At least she would be spared the worry of his wounding and hospitalisation. No one in the Regiment would know she was in Leicester. Foyle would write Mum and Aunt Ivy as soon as he was able, perhaps tomorrow. If he wrote instead of someone else it would be so much better for them. Tomorrow, I'll write tomorrow. Perhaps Miss Devereaux will help me.

The pain in his shoulder had faded to a dull ache and his thoughts had become slow and plodding. Again, he slept.

TBC...