The Sons of Adam. Harry Bingham

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       39

      It was the first cold day of autumn. There was only one fire in the room and Alan was cut off from its warmth by a long wooden table and the three well-padded bottoms that sat behind it.

      The middle bottom belonged to a colonel in the RAMC. The two outer bottoms belonged to a pair of RAMC captains, ordinary family doctors who had joined up for the duration of the war. Between them, the three bottoms and their owners constituted a Medical Board, gathered to review Alan’s case, among many others.

      ‘Anderson?’ said the colonel.

      ‘No, sir. Montague.’

      ‘Not Mr Anderson?’ The colonel’s tone of voice implied Alan’s response was verging on insubordination.

      ‘I’m afraid not, sir, no. My name’s Montague. Captain Montague.’

      And it was true. In acknowledgement of his services during the battalion’s tragic assault on German lines, Alan had been promoted to captain and recommended for the Military Cross.

      ‘Hmm … Ah! Montague.’ The colonel found the right papers. ‘Knocked about a bit by a shell. Nothing broken. Nothing hurt. Takes more than a Jerry shell to stop you, eh?’

      Alan didn’t answer. It was now more than a month since Tom’s death and Alan was still in shock. It was as though the shell blast had never stopped ringing in his ears and heart. Worse than that, despite remaining under medical supervision away from the front line, his lungs seemed to grow worse by the day. But he hadn’t cared. In a self-destructive mood, he had asked the Medical Board to rate him A1, ‘fit for active service at the front’.

      The colonel said, ‘You feel ready to go into the line once again?’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ said Alan, conscious that he was lying.

      ‘And, of course, you’re desperate to take another crack at Jerry?’

      Alan ignored the question, but the colonel didn’t need an answer. ‘Good man,’ he said, looking sideways at the two captains for their approval. But the captains were dubious.

      ‘Can you run without difficulty?’

      ‘Have you attempted to carry a heavy load?’

      ‘How well do you think you would tolerate the sound and concussion of shelling?’

      ‘Do you think you are capable of commanding men under severe conditions? Bear in mind that the safety of your men will depend upon you.’

      Alan didn’t like to lie outright and his answers were visibly hesitant. The short interrogation ended.

      ‘Excuse us a second, would you, Montague?’ said the colonel, and proceeded to talk with his two colleagues in a low tone. Alan could hear the colonel saying, ‘What the devil are we here for, if not to get men back into active service?’ The two captains on either side were obviously disagreeing strongly, pointing at Alan’s recent medical records for evidence. Alan sat in the cold room, waiting for their verdict. He chafed his hands together for warmth.

      Then the doctors stopped their muttering and the colonel spoke again.

      ‘Look here, Montague, we can’t quite agree. These chaps worry you may not be ready to face Fritz again just yet. Do you –’

      But he was interrupted. Unseen by both the colonel and Alan, one of the captains lifted a file of paper and brought it slamming down onto the desk. The noise was like a pistol shot.

      Although not consciously scared, Alan’s body was no longer under his control. He jumped about a yard into the air and when he came down he was white as chalk, shaking, wide-eyed. His breathing had the liquid gurgle of a gas victim.

      There was a moment’s silence.

      The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and the tortured sound of Alan’s lungs fighting for air.

      The colonel nodded sadly. Thank you, Montague. That will be all.’