A/N: Good news: You're getting this a wee bit early. Bad news: My laptop dropped dead. Fortunately, the hard drive is fine. Unfortunately, everything else is a mess. Thank you for your reviews. I adore them. I will respond as soon as I can to PMs and reviews. You'd laugh at me right now. I have my kid's notebook with the busted screen hooked up to my TV and my external keyboard. The mouse does not work. My eyes do not work. This has been fun. Not. But at least I can write.
The notebook is too weak to hold Word. LOL I am writing and editing in Wordpad. So I'm afraid the endnotes will probably not appear. If they don't, I'll add them back when I have a real computer again.
May 24-26th: my kid's having his angioplasty. It's pretty routine but please be thinking of us anyway.
May 30th: Moms on Missions is coming your way. I am so excited!
All right, let's get back to poor Eddie, shall we? Yeah, I know you hate me right now. xx
︻┳═一
Chapter 10:
"Please, sir. Please, sir? Please…"
Itchy was conflicted. Ducky was right, and that made him angry. Lefty glanced at Itchy and pressed his lips together. Itchy ignored Ducky and spoke to his other men. "I know the ground is uneven, but keep low. And don't run in a straight line."
From up St. John's Road (i), Itchy's mentor, Cap Stewart nodded at Itchy and blew his whistle. It was goodbye. Stewart's Sixty scrambled out of the trench and vanished into the smoke.
"Forward, march!" Itchy bellowed and stalked up the line, his faithful boys falling in behind him one by one. Itchy's platoon filled the space that Cap Stewart's had vacated. For all Eddie knew, he was the most senior remaining Commonwealth officer in Beaumont-Hamel. His platoon was the last intact one. That was a fact. If he were to call a retreat, would anyone stop him?
"Can't get any closer," Lefty reported. "Two hundred metres to our front line and 500 more to the Krauts'."
Itchy cursed under his breath. "There's no cover at all." Nothing but open ground and smoke in front of them. Itchy turned to his men. "Stay away from the Danger Tree. (ii) Everyone who tries to hide behind it gets shot, hear me?"
"Yes, sir!" the men barked.
"We could crawl over the casualties in the trench," Lefty muttered.
"Can't," Itchy said. "It's too slow. There'd be no room to cover our heads anyway."
"We're sitting ducks. Fucking Krauts."
"Itchy, please!" Ducky cried, white to the lips under the smuts on his skin. Itchy reached out and placed his hand on Ducky's shoulder, staring him in the eye until Ducky nodded and lost his wind.
Itchy said everything he needed to say to brace his men. None of his words expressed what they all knew. Nobody was going to make it home for dinner but they were going to follow him anyway because they were his boys—the best boys in the world.
After the countdown, Lefty blew the whistle and Itchy dug his hands into the top ridge of muck and scrambled up. He couldn't see three feet in front of him for ash, and smoke clotted the air and the lungs. All around him, the whistle-thud of Lewis G's bullets—imbedding themselves in the mud, and the wet sound of them penetrating flesh—was followed by the shrill, choking cry of casualties. It turned his gut. (iii)
He turned to his left to see Mash running back toward St. John's Road. "Mash!" The ensign heard him. Turned his head. And then, he flinched and the left side of his head popped off. Crouching, Itchy watched the blood-filled bowl of Mash's skull hurtle through the cinder-filled air. Mash dropped like a stone. Itchy ran for the wire. The men jumped over the front line trench and watched for barbs.
"It's not cut, sir!" Bangers yelled.
"Gap! Gap, there's a gap here! Go! Go! Go!" Itchy shouted, holding on to the edge of the barbs with his glove. He waved his men through and followed. They ran in unpredictable patterns and made strong gains. Itchy was so proud. They flooded into No Man's Land. And then Dildo ran past him, straight toward the mine.
"Lieutenant!" a man shouted, grasping him by the shoulders. "You are not there!" The man gave him a rough shake. "You are in Blighty! Wake up!"
Someone was screaming. The dead. The dead were screaming.
"Lieutenant! It isn't real! Wake up!"
A hard blow turned his head and the screaming stopped. Itchy grabbed his assailant's bicep and wrist and pushed his thumbs into the pressure points. His right thumb burned. It had to be injured.
"Ow! Stop!" the man shouted. Itchy pressed harder and exerted downward pressure. "I surrender! I surrender!" the man howled.
Itchy sat back on his heels and realized he wasn't wearing his boots. That damnable mine must have given him a bloody good ride. He couldn't remember landing.
It was strangely quiet. He blinked.
He was in a bed. There was a man in a grey suit lying on the floor. Itchy had hold of his arm. The man was panting.
"What is this place?" Itchy rasped. His throat was on fire.
"You're safe. You tell me where you are. Look around. Where are you?"
"I can't see. I can't see!" The muck crawled up his chest again. He scrambled back toward the head of the bed and shook. He wrapped his arms over his head. There was bombing in the distance. What if it came closer?
The man got off the floor and hovered over him. "Lieutenant! Calm yourself and tell me where you are!"
"Beaumont-Hamel."
"No. Where are you?"
"Who are you?" he demanded. "You don't sound like a Turk."
"I am your doctor. My name is Donald Harris."
Itchy was in the hospital. "Bella? Is Bella here? Am I in the Wipers?"
"No. Where are you?"
Itchy stopped rocking and placed his hand on the bed. The sheets were warm and rumpled. "I don't know. Am I in Blighty?"
"Yes. What's your name?"
"Itchy."
"That's what your mates call you. What's your Christian name?"
Itchy tried and tried to make his brain work but not a word squeezed out. "I don't know."
"What's your rank?"
He hugged himself and felt sour sweat trickle down his back. "I don't know. You called me Lieutenant but I don't think I'm in the army."
"What's my name?"
"Dr. Harris."
"Are you married?"
"Yes. Bella is my wife."
"Where do you live?"
Itchy came up blank. He shook his head.
"All right. Yes, you're in the hospital in Blighty. Had a bit of a shock and it gave you a fit. It's very common to think you're back in the theatre when you first wake up. It's going to get better, I promise you."
Itchy hugged his knees and licked his lip. "I'm in Blighty?"
"Yes. You're perfectly safe here. There are no bombs."
Bombs! Itchy scrambled off the bed, slid under it and threw his arms over his head as fire rained down around him.
︻┳═一
September 17, 1916
︻┳═一
He opened his eyes and found himself flat on his back. His hands were bound. He pulled but the restraints were leather and he couldn't get free.
At least he was on a comfortable bed. And there was a pillow. It couldn't be all bad.
"Hello, do you remember me?" The man in the grey suit asked.
"You're Dr. Harris."
"Very good."
"Why am I tied up?"
"Sometimes you get violent in your sleep. You wouldn't want to strike a nurse, would you?"
Edward, ye'd nae like to hurt me, would you?
He blinked. "I'd never hurt..."
A decorated officer broke a nurse's jaw last week.
"I am sorry, but you haven't been in your right mind. We need to take precautions until we're sure you are feeling better. Now. Where are you?"
"In the hospital?"
"Good."
"Is Bella here? Nurse Swan… Nurse… Masen? My wife?"
"She'll be here this afternoon. Do you remember where this hospital is?"
The Wipers. Bella worked in Base Hospital Five. No. It was too quiet. Shelling was audible but from a far distance. "The bombs are far away. This isn't Ypres."
"Very good. I told you where you were last night. Do you remember?"
"Blighty. This is… Brighton."
"Do you know what day it is?"
"No idea."
"Why are you here?"
Itchy began to feel a bit irritated. "Why don't you tell me?"
"I want to know if you remember."
"I don't!"
"Why are you getting upset?"
"You ask so many questions but you don't provide many answers."
"I want you to remember, not make assumptions about what I tell you. What's your name?"
"Itchy."
"Do you know your rank?"
Itchy huffed a laugh. "First Lieutenant. But I seemed to have been promoted to Captain there at the end."
The doctor paused. "The end of what?"
"The end… of everything."
Fire. And Lewis G. And men screaming. Always the screaming…
︻┳═一
Isobel sat on the hard wooden chair and twisted her handkerchief. Mr. Biggins patted her shoulder intermittently. The door opened, making her jump. Dr. Harris strode into the room and sat behind his desk. He was tall, thin, and unassuming, but had a fine dark moustache. What hair he had was greying. He raised a brow and looked at Mr. Biggins. "Mister…?"
"Peter Biggins, sir. I have the honour of being the good friend of Lieutenant and Mrs. Masen."
"Excellent. Now—"
Isobel bristled. "Ye may address me directly, Dr. Harris. I am an Army Nurse. I haff seen everything this war has to offer in Ypres. Ye dinnae haff tae make this pretty for me. I appreciate the friendship of Mr. Biggins, but I am not some fainting Society debutante. Please be plain."
"My apologies. Your husband must remain here, Mrs. Masen."
"For how long?"
"It's difficult to say. I need more time with him before I can make an informed diagnosis."
"I dinnae understand it. He has always been such a positive person. And he's religious. This isnae like him at all."
"That is why we call it insanity, madam. His behaviour is not logical."
"Eddie cannae be insane!"
Mr. Biggins placed his hand on her arm and cautioned her with his expression.
"What exactly provoked his suicide attempt?" Dr. Harris asked.
"He just regained his hearing last night. He asked me what happened to his men… and…" Bella's tears burned. She wiped her eyes. "I was too direct. I shouldnae haff told him there were only sixty-eight left."
"Sixty-one, now."
Isobel held her hanky to her face and sobbed.
"Come, now. Tears aren't going to solve anything. Since you are a QAIMN, I will share my initial thoughts with you."
"Yes, please."
"He has amnesia."
Isobel's world went black around the edges. "Amnesia. He does nae remember me?"
"Actually, being married to you is one of the things he does remember, which gives me hope."
Isobel found herself crying like one of the sappy girls she'd known in London. "He knows me?"
"That remains to be seen. He knows your name and that he is married. That does not mean he will recognize you when he sees you."
"Can I see him?"
"Soon. Let us discuss his symptoms first and then you can decide."
"All right." She shook her head to clear it. "What do ye mean decide? Why wouldnae I see him?"
"I've examined him three times since yesterday evening. He was violent in the night." Dr. Harris crossed the room and pulled up his cuff. There was a dark purple bruise on his wrist.
"Our Eddie did that?" Mr. Biggins rumbled.
"Yes. He was suffering a delusion and when I attempted to slap him awake, he attacked me. It was completely dispassionate. He had no concept of reality at all. He might have killed me."
Isobel sat up straight. "Dr. Harris. My husband is extremely skilled in the art of hand-to-hand combat. Had he wanted you dead, ye would be dead."
"Forgive me madam, but I do not think you are qualified to—"
"Eddie saved my life. In Ypres. He killed a man, using his bare hands, right in front of me. One second, the monster was alive. The next, he was dead. Trust me, doctor. My husband is an extremely loving man but on the battlefield he sets aside his passion and gets the job done with an economy of movement and emotion. If he had wanted tae kill you, ye'd be dead."
"You cannot know that he would not hurt you, Mrs. Masen."
She raised her chin. "I know my Eddie. I will neffer fear him. He is a lovely man."
Mr. Biggins cleared his throat. "I must agree with Mrs. Masen. Everything I have seen of this boy tells me that he is good through-and-through."
"All right." The doctor sat down again and opened a file on his desk. "Let me tell you what I know. Then, I shall take you to see him."
"Excellent." Isobel slipped her hand into that of Mr. Biggins. It was rough as a soldier's.
"Your husband can speak perfectly. He does not appear to lose his words or any of his senses the way officers with Neurasthenia do. He can walk, talk, speak and hear like any healthy man, unlike many men with Shell Shock. However, the nurses tell me that he is insensible for long periods of time, that his sleep last night was fitful, and that he had recurrent bouts of screaming both when he was asleep and awake. If you can call it awake. He appears to be dissociated from reality much of the time." He looked up and stared at Isobel.
"He does not know his name and only vaguely understands where he is. I will speak plainly, Mrs. Masen. Although it is a very good sign that he remembers he is married to a woman named Bella, he doesn't consciously remember much else. We don't know what to do with these patients except try to reacquaint them with reality. And they are often very resistant to that. They can become very angry and agitated. One must be forceful with them. I believe your husband will improve but it is going to be a very long road."
"How long?"
"We don't know. Cases vary. Sometimes, men forget themselves for a few hours. Other times, they have amnesia for months. Years, even. If it becomes too much, we will send him to an asylum."
Bella's voice turned dangerously dark. "Mae husband willnae be going to any asylum, sir, so ye had best take his treatment verra seriously!"
"Of course. We will combat his delusions. Delusions are common in cases like your husband's. These men are overwhelmed by terror and easily provoked to hysteria."
"My husband isnae a coward!"
Dr. Harris tucked his chin. "I never said he was. The Newfoundlanders' attack was a magnificent display of valour. (iv) But sometimes, the mind protects itself by forgetting. And Beaumont-Hamel… was hell on earth."
︻┳═一
The mental hospital had once been a grand Victorian estate—quite nearly a palace. Isobel followed Dr. Harris up a broad staircase with a fancy brass and polished wood handrail. Eddie's room was at the top of a turret. Dr. Harris turned a catch and opened the door. The room was dim and light filtered in from behind the heavy drape covering the window.
Eddie's cot and bedside table were the only things in the room. They looked very small in a room capable of holding ten beds.
"When he's able to move about," Dr. Harris said, "he will discover the window is nailed shut and the exit is supervised. That is for his own protection."
Isobel walked silently to the bed. Eddie's eyes were shut. His body was twisted up, his blankets rumpled. Twin padded leather cuffs secured his wrists to the edges of the bed. Isobel straightened his bedding. She brushed his hair out of his eyes and he opened them and stared right through her.
"Eddie?"
He blinked and writhed on the bed, opening and closing his fists. Isobel took his hand in hers and kissed it.
"Eddie?"
Eddie squeezed her hand and brushed his thumb over the top. He looked heartbroken.
"Darling man, it's going to be all right."
He bit his lip and screwed his eyes shut.
"Eddie, it's yer Bella. Will ye no speak to me? I love ye."
He turned his face away, his eyes glassy, and wept.
i St. John's Road: The two battalions of the Newfoundland Army began their attack at Beaumont-Hamel from a trench known as St. John's Road that was actually behind the front line. The reason for this was that the front line was so full of casualties from previous attacks that morning that concerted movement of able-bodied men wasn't possible.
ii The Danger Tree: after the big bombs went off, there was only one tree left on the battlefield between the Allies and the Huns. Allied soldiers flocked to it in an attempt to hide. They were easily picked off by snipers. Today, what is left of the Danger Tree still stands. Beaumont-Hamel is one of the only remaining, preserved WW1 battlefields. One may still visit and see the trenches, craters and other destruction. Walkways have been built so that tourists can see the relics without causing damage to them. Archaeologists and bomb specialists are still picking shells off the ground and artifacts out of it, including deadly mines and intact cylinders of mustard and chlorine gas.
iii Lewis G: nickname for the Lewis Gun.
iv The Newfoundlanders' attack at Beaumont-Hamel was described by the Upper Brass as a magnificent display of valour. The mindset of the era was that the loss of so many men and resources was par for the course. Not ceding ground was a point of honour and maintained morale. Nobody questioned the tactics or resultant losses. Most upper-level officers never entered the field and did not view the battles in terms of human loss. Field officers were discouraged from forming relationships with their men. The PBIs were pawns. Their purpose was to take out as many of the enemy as possible before falling. Those who counted the loss were the men who were there and the people back home who loved them.