The First of July(87)

“Which do you think gets the medical attention? Which group were you placed in when you were brought in?”

When Jean-Baptiste didn’t reply, Vignon repeated himself, then continued: “Which? Eh? You were ‘might survive.’ Might. Hence the diabolical surgery. Not worth too much effort. You were lucky you didn’t get gangrene or typhus. Most do. But despite the doctors’ best efforts, you did rather better than they’d ordained. They moved you to Royaumont with life, albeit a short one, probably, ahead of you. But the ladies did a good job. Fed you properly. Gave you fresh air. Cleaned up your scar. Put in a proper tube for you to piss down and let the one God gave you heal. You fought off one infection after another. The only thing wrong with you was that you wouldn’t open your damn mouth.

“All this time, I’ve been trying to keep you from being sent back. I removed you from the terrifying Scottish ladies. When you and I met that day at Royaumont, do you know what had been written on your chart by the visiting doctor ten days earlier? ‘CdE.’ Conservation of effectives. You’d been upgraded. You were good to be sent back as soon as you were on your feet. You were worth their resources.”

His eyes never left Jean-Baptiste’s.

“So I took you with me. It was impulsive—but if I’d waited, you would have been sucked back into service. I brought you here: the only place I could keep an eye on you. Yes, each time you improved enough to be discharged, I gave you drugs to ensure that you had a new outbreak of worrying symptoms. But you got better all the same, and you refused the cure I was providing for the almost certainly fatal disease of being returned to your unit.”

He looked almost resentful. “I put myself at risk. Why? Because all I do is save broken men and send them back to be broken again. It disgusts me.” His expression reminded Jean-Baptiste of Godet in a spitting mood.

“And, mostly, I just want your mother to have a son when all this is over.”

Jean-Baptiste had started off not believing it; but slowly, and with horror, as Vignon had been speaking, he saw it all.

“But I thought … I’ve told… .”

“I know. I know. I presume it was the British officer, from the appalled look you gave me. But I’ve had a little walk, considered our problem. Your note will take a while to reach the French authorities—although it is possible, I suppose, that they’ll ignore it. But it’s a dangerous time for us both. You, because they’re emptying the boats; me, well, because—” He leaned forward and patted Jean-Baptiste on the leg. “Because no doubt like all British gentlemen, your major will be scrupulously reliable.”

He stroked the untidy beard that had been so black, so sleek, back in Corbie.

“You addressed it to?”

“Colonel Marzine.”

Another smile. “So. Marzine. The Germans killed both his sons at Douaumont.” He sighed. “Ah, well.”

“What will happen—?” Jean-Baptiste couldn’t go on. He thought of his mother. Vignon had continued to care what happened to her when he, Jean-Baptiste, had fled in childish rage—and now he had, unwittingly, betrayed the man who was loyal to her.

“What will happen to me is that I’ll probably be shot. I might get prison. But my money is on a firing squad. No time to sort out the little question of my change of identity, nor the matter of my lack of papers; no matter that I have been a good doctor. The army is full of criminals and bigamists with false identities but, as you have so vehemently pointed out, I am a German.”

“I’m sorry.” The words were so unequal to what he felt. At first he had thought or hoped it was a trick, but now he had no doubt. Vignon had tried to give him life—and he had probably brought about Vignon’s death.

The doctor continued as if Jean-Baptiste hadn’t spoken, pulling out a letter. A proper letter in an envelope.

“I have had a little walk. Time to think. These are for you.” he said. “They’re your medical discharge papers. All correct and proper. They say that you have a bladder injury, kidney damage, disease, probably renal consumption, exacerbated by an injury in that area, and are unfit for further service. The last part is almost true.” He held the envelope for a while, tapping it on his knee, then handed it to Jean-Baptiste.

“Now get up and leave. Leave Amiens. Follow the river. You’re a web-footed boy”—he paused, with a little smile; “you know ways where other men won’t go. Tomorrow the British have something under their hats, so get as near to home as you can tonight. Stay on the north side and mingle with the British traffic. On the south side you’ll meet your own soldiers walking back toward Verdun. No point in looking for trouble.”