Connie’s Courage (31 page)

The bed itself was empty and Jinx was huddled on the floor beside it, his knees up under his chin and his arms wrapped tightly around them.

A white-faced, second-year nurse was standing frozen to the spot whilst a handful of the patients had got out of their beds and were standing in a small group in their dressing gowns.

‘'Ere stop that racket will yer!' someone shouted irritably from a nearby bed, whilst Connie swept aside the other patients and asked the nurse sharply, ‘What is going on? Where are the other nurses?'

‘I dunno Sister. I just come on meself.'

‘It's all right Jinxy, everything's all right, you're safe here we don't need the machine guns,' Connie told him gently, crouching down on the floor beside him to speak to him, whilst he continued to rock himself to and fro.

As soon as he heard her voice, he turned his head toward her, and in the dim light Connie saw the glisten of his tears on his thin face – and she could see something else as well; something that made her recoil in disbelief, quickly followed by outrage and fury.

There was a wound on his face, the blood congealing on it from him pressing his face into his knee, so that it was plain to see what it was. Someone had carved a large letter C on the side of his face.

Connie had no need to ask what it was supposed to stand for, nor she suspected whose hand lay behind it.

‘Nurse, go into the next ward, and ask the Sister there if she will telephone Mr Clegg. I think he will want to see this, Connie instructed the white-faced girl watching her bleakly.

‘Well, it's no use anyone asking me anything, cos I weren't here.

‘And you, gentlemen? Connie asked the silent soldiers. ‘Am I to take it that none of you were here, either?

She could hear them shuffling from one foot to the other as they felt the bite of her furious sarcasm.

She couldn't leave Jinx, who was still sobbing and moaning, whilst his body shuddered violently, her first duty was to him. But she could see that the door to the Captain's room was ajar, and instinctively she knew that he was the kind of man who would take pleasure in such a bestial action. Had he done it himself or had he somehow caused the other patients to do it? So far as Connie was concerned, it didn't make any difference. The guilt was his. The guilt and the cruelty.

One of the house surgeons had arrived, a thin, young, red-headed man whose Adam's apple bobbed nervously in his throat when he saw Jinx.

‘What happened? he asked Connie uncertainly.

‘I don't know but he certainly didn't get a wound like that falling out of bed,' Connie told him tightly.

‘Well, if you ask me it's all a fuss about nothing,' one of the other nurses claimed, after Jinx had been stitched and sedated, and the ward had been restored to order. ‘After all, that's what he is, isn't he? A coward … And what with ‘is mind gorn, an' all, he should be in Bedlam, not a respectable hospital with decent soldiers and heroes.'

Connie had had enough. She marched across the ward and pushed open the Captain's door.

‘I know that you're awake, Captain,' she told him fiercely. ‘Mr Clegg is anxious to know what happened to Jinx.'

‘Now how should I know that, Sister? I haven't left my room all day! And of course, if you wish to ask her, I am sure that Probationer Jennings will confirm that I was here in bed the whole time she was on duty.'

Connie could feel her face starting to burn. It had infuriated her to discover that the Captain's father had spoken to his friend the Governor about the wonderful nursing his son had received from Probationer Jennings. He had praised the hospital, and specifically Matron for the quality of her nursing staff. Now Sukey Jennings was treating Connie with a pert cheekiness that made Connie long to slap her face.

Connie couldn't say anything to Mr Clegg about her suspicions. It simply wasn't done, and
besides, she reasoned, Mr Clegg was bound to take the word of a soldier and a gentleman, over her own.

Wherever he was, it was obviously high up in the mountains, Harry decided, as he stared out of the narrow window of his small attic room at the snow-covered terrain beyond them.

As he already knew, there was no point in him opening the door of his attic prison, because the moment he did, Gunther would materialise silently from the corridor and bow impassively whilst blocking his exit.

As prisons go, his was far better than most, Harry acknowledged. Gunther brought a regular supply of fuel for the small stove in addition to his meals, and the Professor had even supplied him with several English books – a history of the Duke of Marlborough's campaigns, a history of Wellington's Peninsular Campaign, and a heavy volume of Shakespeare's tragedies.

But none of those things stopped him from desperately wondering how he might escape. So far though he had not been able to come up with any viable plan. He had several times asked for pen and paper and been refused, and he had also tried to make the Professor understand that he was not Johnny Brown, but to no avail.

All the other questions he had tried to ask, such as where he was, what had happened to the young
man whose life he was supposed to have saved, and when the Baron was likely to return, had all met with no response.

He wanted desperately to be allowed to get in touch with his family … He heard the door open behind him and guessed that it would be Gunther bringing more logs for the stove. It had been snowing hard all day and soon it would be dusk.

Without taking his gaze from the darkening sky, Harry demanded wearily, ‘Gunther, when is the Baron to return?'

‘I am sorry, Herr Braun, that I have been kept so long from my home and that I have not been able therefore to welcome you to it, and thank you for acting as a good Samaritan toward my son.'

Harry turned round immediately. The man standing in the doorway was as tall as he was himself, his face weathered, his eyes a brilliant blue. His aquiline profile, like his bearing, hinted at Prussian ancestry, but the heavy leather cloak that swung from his shoulders, and the knarled hand he was extending toward Harry, were those of a farmer rather than a member of the nobility.

I wished I might have been able to be here sooner, but we had the sheep to move to their winter pastures. If we lose the flock then the village, my people – and I too – lose our livelihood. You look surprised, Herr Braun?'

Harry felt himself redden uncomfortably.

No … That is … When the Professor referred
to you as the Baron. I thought … that is I imagined …

The older man smiled. ‘The title is an old one, and whatever lands and riches may once have gone with it were lost many generations ago. My inheritance was this ruined castle, an excellent library, the villagers who depend on me as though they are my children, and a flock of sheep.'

‘You speak very good English.' Harry didn't know what else to say.

‘My family connections are extremely extensive. I have cousins of cousins who have cousins who are English, and in happier times I visited them. I had hoped that my own son might do so, too, but alas this War. He started to frown. ‘I owe you a great debt, Herr Braun.

Harry started to shake his head in denial.

‘But, yes, the baron insisted. ‘For there can be no gift a man values more than the life of his son. My son would have died but for you, Herr Braun.

‘I only did what any man would have done, Harry felt bound to protest.

The Baron smiled thinly. ‘You are a modest man, Herr Braun. My son, I am delighted to say, has fully recovered from his wound and has now returned to the Front.

Harry's mouth tightened, as he reflected inwardly that that was exactly where he should be.

‘Your expression gives you away, the Baron told him quietly. ‘But you cannot escape from here.

And besides … The British cannot win this War, you know that, don't you. Sixty thousand British soldiers died in the Battle of the Somme – the cream of the British Army.

‘That is all the more reason for me to be there with them now!' Harry told him fiercely. ‘Englishmen are renowned for their bulldog spirit. We will not give up.

‘I admire your valour but you will certainly not fight again in this War, Herr Braun,' the Baron told him sternly. ‘You are a prisoner of war, and have been given into my care as such!

Harry exhaled painfully. ‘But this is not a prison camp.

‘I am sure that the Professor has already told you that had we left you in the same field hospital where you had been taken with my son, you would not have lived.

‘He has said something of the sort, yes! Harry acknowledged curtly, reluctant to acknowledge any debt of gratitude to an enemy.

‘I can see that your honour is affronted by that, and that does you credit, but my honour demanded that I repay you for saving my son's life, which is why you are here and not in a prisoner-of-war camp.

‘I would rather be with my own people, Harry told him stubbornly.

‘I'm afraid that that is not possible, Johnny Brown.

‘I am not Johnny Brown!' Harry burst out.

‘No?' The Baron started to frown. There has been some confusion,' Harry told him shortly.

Confusion? What confusion?' the Baron demanded.

Harry took a deep breath.

I am not Johnny Brown. My name is Harry Lawson.' Quickly he explained what had happened, whilst inwardly wondering if Johnny himself had survived. If so, he must surely have told the authorities about their exchange of jackets, but if he had not … As he had done before, Harry wondered if his family knew what had happened to him.

The papers you were carrying said you were Johnny Brown. Think very carefully, please now,' the Baron warned him sternly. If you have falsely claimed another's identity then I must report that fact. Assuming the identity of another is a practice favoured by spies.'

I am not a spy,' Harry protested. I am simply an ordinary soldier. But I would like my family to know that I am still alive.'

Inwardly he thought of his mother and his sisters, and what they must be feeling. He even thought of Rosa, and then, like a miser hoarding his gold, he thought of Connie, as he had thought of her every single day since he had regained his senses.

I shall do my best to inform the authorities. We have no telephone up here this high in the mountains. Until spring, the only contact we have
with the outside world is by skiing down the mountainside. Do you ski, Harry?' Harry shook his head.

‘So. But I shall still ask for your word as an honourable man, that you will acknowledge your position as a prisoner of war and not try to escape from the castle! In truth, I think you would do better to serve out your imprisonment here until the War is ended rather than in a military encampment.

Worriedly Harry struggled with his conscience. If he were to give his word as the Baron was demanding, then he would have to keep it. But his duty as a soldier meant that he should do whatever he could to escape.

‘You cannot escape from here, the Baron told him calmly, as though he had guessed what he was thinking. ‘And if you should try to do so, then I shall shoot you.' He added emphatically, ‘And I am an excellent shot.'

Harry looked at him. ‘But you have saved my life!

‘In repayment of my debt to you because you saved my son's – if you try to escape then that is a different matter, and I am honour bound to stop you, which is why I request your word as a soldier that you will not do so!

What was he to do? He was still very weak, he had no gun, no money, no means whatsoever of making his way back to the Front.

‘Very well,' he agreed reluctantly. ‘You have my word!

Thank you! It would be impossible for you to escape from here anyway, I can assure you of that. Now, since the Professor has returned to his own home and his laboratory, you and I shall only have one another's company until the snows melt. So tell me, Harry, do you, by any chance, play chess?'

It was almost November, and the War was no nearer to an end. As she hurried on duty, Connie could hear someone whistling a love song and, just for a moment, emotional tears filled her eyes. There wasn't a single day when she didn't think of Harry. Not, if she were honest, a single hour. Quickly she blinked her threatening tears away.

It seemed impossible that he should be dead, not when he was still so very much alive in her thoughts and her heart, and she could still see him so clearly with her mind's eye. She could still taste, too, the warmth of his mouth on hers in that bittersweet kiss they had shared. But at least in her thoughts and her heart he was now hers – and she claimed that possession of him with hungry need. Her memories were her own to cherish. Her love her own to mourn.

The dark, pain-filled days of her grief clung one to the other, locking her into her own private sadness and pain.

But at least the Captain was being discharged today, and Connie couldn't wait to have him gone. They were even busier than usual on the ward,
having had a new flood of casualties arrive earlier in the week, which reminded Connie that the cupboard in which the ward's supply of bandages and dressings were now kept needed restocking.

She would have to send a couple of the juniors down to the dispensary for some fresh supplies. They needed more dressing gowns as well, and that new patient with the head wound would need an extra special eye keeping on him. It would be such a relief to be rid of the Captain.

Jinx was still on the ward and Connie went over to talk to him for a few minutes. The attack which had marked his face had left him even more prey to his nervous attacks, and Connie knew that sadly he would never return to normality.

When he took hold of her hand and pressed his cheek against it, she didn't try to draw away. He was like a child now mentally, but possessed of a man's physical strength, and Connie felt somehow protective toward him. He, in turn, had become devoted to her.

Leaving Jinx she headed for the small Sister's room off the ward, and told the senior ward nurse waiting for her there, ‘The Captain will be leaving today.