The First of July(111)

“Sir, the soldier,” he said. “He’s at Monsieur Godet’s farm. I mean, it’s ruined now, but it was his. It’s just over the river. Up from the island. Up from Robisart’s factory. He’s injured. Quite badly, I think. I tried to help.”

The captain picked up his pen.

“A British soldier?” he said.

“Yes. He is with bicycles. He had a bicycle. On his arm—a stag.” He could feel himself tapping his own arm to demonstrate where the badge was, nodding like an idiot, to emphasize his words. The captain nodded back.

“He might be asleep, but he might be unconscious.”

The captain stood up a second time. This time the bristled sergeant came to the doorway. He was like a great hog, Jean-Baptiste thought. He and the captain exchanged words.

“My sergeant thinks it could be a trap,” the captain said, turning to Jean-Baptiste. “If it’s the building we’re thinking of, it’s within range of the guns. We have thousands of casualties already.”

“No,” Jean-Baptiste said, surprised at how much he wanted them to find their wounded countryman. “Please. He is hurt. He will die if nobody goes. His name is Isaac, I think. I said I’d send someone.” He felt in his pocket and brought out the disc.

The captain turned the identity disc over in his hand.

“It has been a very bad day,” he said and looked somber. “We are only beginning to find out how bad. I don’t have time for this. My sergeant would quite like to see you shot, just to save time.” There was a hint of a smile. “So I hope you aren’t giving him any reason to press his case. My own thoughts are that quite enough men have died today already.”

“No, sir. I just said to the cyclist that I’d get help.” Then he added: “But I don’t know if he could understand me.”

“All right.” The officer’s attention seemed to flag. “We’ll see in good time anyway. Usually we’d simply hand you back to your own people, let them sort it out. But even you can’t have missed the fact that we’re in the middle of a major action.” He waved vaguely to indicate a world that they both knew existed not far from this room.

Jean-Baptiste nodded.

“I’m not risking men we don’t have just to take you south. Of course, we could lock you up.” He stopped, walked to the hall door. Turned. “Where does your mother live?”

Jean-Baptiste felt faint hope.

“Here,” he said. And when the officer looked surprised, he added “A hundred meters from here. On the edge of town.”

“Right. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll have a medical orderly look you over and see if your story holds up.”

“Sir, thank you. Thank you.”

The orderly made a face at the sight of his scars. Put one hand behind and one in front of the tender area beneath his ribs and squeezed. Jean-Baptiste gasped. The officer looked up and waved the orderly away, but Jean-Baptiste kept ahold of the man’s arm.

“Please,” he said. “Please go to Godet’s farm. On the other side of the river. No distance at all. One of your men is there—he will die. I put the solution the doctor gave me on his wound. His bicycle was stuck into his stomach.”

The orderly looked up, though he made no attempt to pull free. He gave Jean-Baptiste a blank look and then turned to the officer. After a few seconds, the captain spoke to him in his own language, and the man replied. The orderly looked at Jean-Baptiste as though assessing what kind of man he was dealing with. The tone of his conversation with the officer sounded like a series of questions and answers. The orderly patted Jean-Baptiste on the back.

The officer said “The first-aider confirms injuries to your kidneys. For now you can go home. And he is willing to try to find your patient. He has volunteered. So now it’s up to God and Higgs. Here’s some paper and a pencil. I want you to draw me a simple map of the farm. Then write your address down. Then you may go.” He sat down and returned to his papers, looking deathly tired.

“Thank you,” Jean-Baptiste said, as much for the cyclist as himself.

It was strange taking the usual road toward his mother’s house, but when the lane curved and he finally caught sight of his former home, the upper windows were roughly boarded up. Soldiers in shirtsleeves sat on pallets in what was now just a yard, where she had once grown vegetables.

He slowed down, trying to make sense of it. She must be staying with friends in the town. It was not so strange; it was already clear that houses in Corbie had been commandeered by the British soldiers. But how would he find her?

For the first time, the enormity of what he had done back in 1914 hit him. He had abandoned her. It was a much bigger sin than anything his mother had done. It was not his fault the Germans had come, but she would have guessed he had gone to fight and would never have known whether he was alive or dead. He felt his face twitching. Maybe with every bit of news, every French defeat or ferocious battle, she would have wondered. Was her boy alive or dead or horribly mutilated? He blinked hard and swallowed with difficulty. This was the house where she had given birth to him, where she might have read his letters and been comforted. If he had sent her any. It was here that she had sat when he had gone away and, later, when Vignon had gone too. And what did her neighbors think of a woman whose son left her without a good-bye?