Jean-Baptiste’s rudimentary beard made him look older than his years and had been the cause of the doctor’s initial confusion.
“It is I, Vignon,” he said. “Captain Vignon.” Then, with a sense that he was hiding behind his rank and their changed circumstances, he went on, “Doctor Vignon. We used to go on the river in Sans Souci. My little boat.” He paused, waiting for a reaction. He had almost said “I was a friend of your mother,” but clearly that was territory best avoided.
Jean-Baptiste was staring at him. Was that recognition he saw in his eyes, or simply bewilderment?
“At Corbie. We used to have happy afternoons on the river.”
Jean-Baptiste turned his head away in what seemed like a deliberate snub.
“Have it your own way,” said Vignon. “I want to help you.” But the young man just closed his eyes tightly.
Vignon walked off, signaled an orderly with less than his usual peremptoriness. It was, he thought, very peculiar to have women where he was used to seeing men.
“This man,” he pointed to Jean-Baptiste. “I shall take him with me. We can speed up his treatment, and then he can join his brothers back in his regiment.”
He could have sworn the woman looked at him with contempt. Her carriage was entirely ladylike, her green eyes, on a level with his, claiming them as equals.
“He’s not strong,” she said, her accent perfect.
“Nevertheless… .”
She shrugged in a way that any Frenchwoman would have been proud of.
As he waited for the men to be loaded, Vignon’s pulse was beating hard. His head ached. The nurse who had interrupted him with the German boy went by, carrying carbolic and bandages.
“Auf wiedersehen,” she mouthed at him with what he assumed was meant to be a conspiratorial smile.
The pulmonary case was being taken in a separate vehicle; one of the remaining men was well-nigh unconscious or drugged. A very pretty nurse, if a little freckled for Vignon’s taste, was leaning over an alert young soldier with fine moustaches and a well-healed scar from scalp to chin, holding his hand. He whispered something and she blushed. A chasseur was muttering to himself, but one patient grasped at Vignon’s hand as his stretcher was steadied, ready to be positioned.
“Doctor! Sir! Thank you. Thank you. Long live France!”
Clearly the soldier had misunderstood the purpose of Vignon’s visit. Two weeks was the desired turnaround. Two weeks, and the man would be back with his section.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Frank, France, June 1916
A ROTTEN DAY.
Some Frenchmen were billeted with us on their way to join their section. I spent the evening talking bicycles with them. When I say talking, we weren’t so much talking as gesturing. Isaac tried Esperanto, but it’s not as good for communicating as it was as an idea back in London. Isaac insisted he’d been able to speak to all sorts using it—French, Belgians, Bulgarians, even a German prisoner, though the sergeant said he was shouting at the German in some lingo Jewish people know, not Esperanto at all. But it was obvious that what Isaac was really good at was gestures. He didn’t even realize how naturally these came to him, so much so that he’d started to use them when speaking English to his chums.
I said to the Frenchies, slowly, that they had some good cyclists.
“Tour de France,” I said very clearly. “TOUR DE FRANCE.” I sensed Isaac pedaling an imaginary bicycle beside me.
One of the Frenchmen was nodding his head. “Tour de France,” he answered back.
His friend was giving Isaac some clear liquid from a small bottle, patting his chest to make it clear that it was French medicine for coughs. Isaac knocked it back and his eyes watered and he breathed out hard,but in a while he stopped coughing and looked a lot happier.
So I said to the other man, “François Faber mort.” Because I knew mort. You soon learned the word for dead when you were a soldier. Tot it was in German.
The Frenchman nodded. And mimed a machine gun.
I nodded.
His friend nodded too, and then he said something very quickly and I thought I heard the name Lapize.
“Lapize? Octave Lapize?” I said.
They both nodded.
“Mort,” said one.
“Terrible,” said the other, almost in English.
Not Lapize, I thought. Not after poor Faber getting it. Not the proud Lapize. I could have wept.
Once war came, that had put an end to the Tour de France. France was not the greatest of racetracks now but the worst of battlefields, and a bog to boot. The race was finished and the champions had become soldiers. Now it seemed like it was the end of those cycling men too.
“Lapize mort?” I said and, half-heartedly, made a movement like a firing gun.