In the morning, Theo didn’t even open his eyes. His hand smelled worse than ever. “I’m supposed to be at Doullens,” was all he said.
Benedict left him, went outside and found a couple of soldiers from the tented billets down the road. One he sent off with a message. Then with the help of the other man, they half-lifted, half-dragged Theo to the nearest aid station. When he was eventually seen, even the tired young medical officer made a face.
“Septic case,” he said. “We’ll send him on as soon as possible. Find him a bed. He should be in the hospital.” He put a clean dressing on the cut, then turned to another unconscious soldier.
“He can’t lose the hand; he’s an organist,” Benedict said to the M.O.’s back. The doctor turned slowly and looked at him, as if he’d said something obscene.
Benedict thought, he hoped, no news was good news. Men died swiftly from septic wounds, but Theo was healthy. He lived as well as anyone could here; and there had been no filthy and fatal shred of uniform carried inward by a fragment of exploding metal. He had bled copiously—didn’t that mean the germs were borne out of the body, not into the bloodstream? But it hadn’t looked like that when Benedict had last seen him. He had waited with him until they loaded Theo onto a wagon. His eyes opened, apparently with effort.
“I couldn’t go on without you,” Theo had said, but his eyes seemed no more focused than his thoughts.
A fortnight later, Dougie was injured crash-landing and was sent back to England for good. Two subalterns from the Lancashire Fusiliers replaced him at Harmony Cottage but were hardly ever there. Meanwhile, Benedict had been promoted to acting captain, which meant slightly more pay and the responsibility of packing up his predecessor’s effects. He returned to the cottage as little as possible. When he did, the roof was leaking, the stink from the cellar was worse, and it was warmer and not much wetter outside than in.
It was a slow and grueling winter; the losses were constant, and the recruits who came out to replace the dead or injured gunners had less and less training, and more and more of the shells seemed to be duds. The heavy guns being moved into position slipped off the tracks laid for them, shattering the ice over pits of mud, and the men were reduced to shuffling bundles of scarves, balaclavas, shaggy jerkins, and double layers of dirty puttees. Benedict looked no better and had a rash on his chin from the chafing of damp wool. He heard nothing of Theo and dared not ask.
In March, a parcel and a letter arrived. The large box appeared to have traveled all over France: Christmas cake, stewed plums, glacé fruits, some mustard-colored fingerless gloves, and a letter from his sister bringing news from home. She had become engaged. “Fancy that!” she wrote.
His name is Robert, he is in the Navy. A naval surgeon. Before the war he worked at Plymouth Hospital. He is a little older than I am (and I am hardly a girl!) and a widower. Father frets about that, but I think he’s more worried I won’t be here every day to care for Mother and him. I met Robbie at Abbotsgate. You know—the Sydenham place? It’s a convalescent hospital now. The new baronet, the mysterious Sir Harry, whom no one’s ever seen apparently, is, despite his mysteriousness, serving somewhere in France just like you, and his wife is American so is back there. But I’ve been helping out. At least, I hope I’m a help. One never knows. But now Robbie’s rejoined his ship at its base in the North. I do hope you can both get some leave next time you are back, as I know you will like him. Dear Benedict, I am so terribly happy. I had long thought of myself as a spinster and I pray every night that such good men as you and Robbie will both be safe.
Her happiness was infectious. He was opening the other letter, not recognizing the writing on the envelope, while still imagining his sister as a married woman. With children, he thought. He would be an uncle.
The other letter was from Theo—and his writing had changed. It was large and uncontrolled.
Ben, Master Gunner,
The wanderer returns, dispose of the funeral meats.
Lost my finger—hence this writing like a girl—and the top joint of another and a bit of flesh around my thumb. Near thing, actually. Lucky to have the hand, the medics say. Apparently it was dying on me. But it died, I didn’t, so seems a good swap. Don’t remember much of it. Have a very passable claw—two and a half of my nicer fingers and some thumb. But the good news is I’m being returned to my squadron. It was touch and go, I can tell you. First with me, then with some knife-happy colonel who had designs on my entire arm, then with the RFC. I saw a long dreary life ahead using my good hand to stamp leave passes. But now they say I can still fly. Probably because so many other chaps have gone west. They need all the pilots they can get, even ones with one and a half hands. So if this gets to you at Harmony Cottage aka Notre Repos, tell Dougie to get some Scotch. Home is the hunter, home from the hill.