The Sons of Adam. Harry Bingham

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      For six weeks, Alan recovered. At first he was embarrassed that he should be cared for so intimately by a friend and guest of his parents. Then, later, as he became well enough to be pushed round the hospital in a wheelchair, he began to understand what Lottie’s day-to-day job involved. The wing of the hospital in which she worked dealt with some of the worst cases coming over from France. She handled men who had lost both legs, who had been blinded or deafened, men whose lungs had been three-quarters destroyed by gas, who coughed black blood each time they tried to breathe too deeply. Compared with the things Lottie saw each and every day, Alan’s personal embarrassment at being bathed seemed so trivial.

      They became friends.

      At the end of her daily duties, Lottie came to find Alan, bringing two steaming great mugs of tea and a slice of cake from home. He learned how she had been on holiday in France when the war broke out. She’d extended her stay, ‘not wanting to travel back while the fighting was still going on – my goodness, how strange it feels to remember that now’. Staying in a hotel at Boulogne, she’d encountered some of the wounded men of the original Expeditionary Force and stayed to help. She’d been appalled by what she’d seen to begin with – ‘I must have been a very sheltered little girl, I’m afraid. I hadn’t imagined … I hadn’t even imagined what it could have been like’ – but came to find something like a vocation in her bloodstained trade. ‘I came back from France for Mummy and Daddy’s sake, but I insisted on at least coming here –’ she meant the Centre for the Very Seriously Wounded – ‘as I couldn’t stand to have become one of those ghastly debs who take a few temperatures and change a few dressings, then think they’ve earned themselves a letter of thanks from the King.’

      And he, in return, told her all about himself. He found he was able to speak to her about the fighting with something approaching candour. After all, for every horror he had seen, she had heard of things every bit as bad. She had even, he reflected, witnessed more deaths at close quarters, since perhaps one-third of the men who passed through her hands were too badly injured to survive and her job kept her by their sides until the bitter end.

      ‘When you were concussed, you used to moan a lot in your sleep,’ she said. ‘You called out for mother – everyone does,’ she added quickly, ‘everyone – but also for Tom. That would be Tom Creeley, I suppose? The boy you grew up with.’

      ‘Yes, though that doesn’t quite say it. Tom was my twin. I couldn’t have been closer to him if he’d been my flesh and blood. For a few days after his death, I quite lost my head. I almost willed myself to die.’

      She nodded. ‘That’s quite common, actually. It is a phase. It does pass.’

      ‘It has passed, I think. I miss Tom every moment – does that sound absurd? It’s true, though – but I don’t feel that my life has to end because of it. Actually, I’m getting rather keen on life.’

      She smiled at him. Her smile seemed like the most beautiful thing in the world.

      ‘Me too, my dear captain. Me too.’

       46

      The escape attempt was a complete success and a total failure.

      One morning in May 1917, Tom found an opportunity to throw a handful of grit into the engine that drove the soda factory’s principal conveyor belt. The machinery choked and died. Sabotage was instantly suspected, and prisoners were informed that working hours would be extended until dusk that night. It was what Tom had wanted.

      That evening, as he and Mitch Norgaard passed a wood on their way home, they broke from the column of prisoners and ran for their lives into the sheltering trees. Some shots rang out. Still they ran.

      Norgaard was hit once in the leg. He could have stopped. Tom would have stopped there with him. But the thought of further captivity was too much for the noble-hearted American. ‘Freedom!’ he shouted. ‘Freedom!’ He ran on and Tom ran with him.

      Into disaster.

      As appalling luck would have it, a group of German guards on their way home from camp was passing through the woods. Tom and Norgaard ran almost into them. A shot cracked out. Norgaard was hit again and fell dead. The rifles swung around to Tom.

      He thought seriously about running on. He thought about choosing death by gunfire over death by starvation. He thought about it, but decided against. He raised his hands, and – wearily, wearily – plodded towards the guns.

      This was the success: that Mitch Norgaard would never know captivity again.

      Here was the failure: that Tom would, as likely as not, never know anything else.

      Tom’s punishment was lenient: one month in solitary confinement on half-rations. When, at the end of the month, he was brought before the camp commandant, his legs were thin, his arms scrawny, his belly jammed tight with hunger. He had lived almost a year in prison. He supposed he would die there.

      The commandant frowned.

      ‘No punishments. Satisfactory work record. Not so sick as many. Why try to escape? You were lucky not to be shot.’ The commandant spoke German, a little quicker than Tom could easily understand.

      ‘Lucky? СКАЧАТЬ