Chapter 20: Which Way I Fly Is Hell

HELLFIRE CORNER, YPRES, FLANDERS, BELGIUM

November 1917

Light crept reluctantly back into the world, and with the light came a shrouding fog that left the landscape as formless as it had been by night. Winter and Freddie and their rescued soldier stumbled westward through a gray void. Slick duckboards alternated with mud that tried to claw off their boots and the road had long since been registered by German artillery. A shell came down ahead of them. They heard it fall, heard the screams where it landed, but saw nothing but fog and one another. It hardly seemed real.

The Tommy was even filthier than they and possibly more off his head. He was whispering, half to himself, “Where are we going? Is it quiet, where we’re going?”

“Keep walking,” said Winter.

Freddie didn’t speak. It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. He didn’t dare look behind him. He kept hearing footsteps in the mist. His reasoning mind pointed out that no one was following them. No one could see them. They could hardly see each other in the fog. And when he looked back, there was nothing. But part of him whispered anyway, that the dead man followed. That the dead man would never let him go.

The mist finally thinned, like water draining off rock, and now Freddie saw the skeleton of Ypres, black against the sky. The civilians had abandoned Ypres long since. It was shell-torn and dangerous, smashed to rubble. But it was still a human place, swarming with men and dressing stations, cookfires and ration wagons. Military jurisdiction. Superior officers. Billets. A place ruled by men and not the howling dead. It was a place where they could begin to think beyond their own survival.

He was responsible for Winter. He must see Winter safely taken prisoner. Put in with the other prisoners, safely hors de combat. And then—

Freddie glanced sideways at Winter’s drawn face. The answer came to him unbidden: And then they’d take Winter away. Maybe a doctor would tend his arm. But not for a long time. There were so many wounded, and who’d see to a prisoner first? There weren’t enough doctors. No one would look at his arm. Not for days.

Winter would die.

The thought drew him up as though he’d walked into Ypres’s crumbling wall. Winter would lie out in the rain until he died. Of slow sepsis and fever. And then, if he was fortunate, a hastily dug grave. Without a hospital, soon, he would die. And there was no hospital to be had, not for days and days. Not for him. Not on this side of No Man’s Land.

And Winter knew it. He’d probably known it for days, what that gash in his arm meant. And he’d walked on, stayed with Freddie, said nothing. I am your prisoner, Iven. He’d done it for him, Freddie knew. So he’d live. And now—

Winter was still moving. They were almost into Ypres itself. No one looked at anyone else, senses strained east for the sound of incoming shellfire. The remains of the fog, hovering near the ground, wrapped them like grave-clothes.

No,Freddie thought. No.

Winter seemed to shrink as soon as they passed into the town; he stumbled, and Freddie had to catch him, support him on his good side until he got his balance. It was as though he’d not allowed himself weariness before. Freddie caught sight of an overrun aid station in a ruined church. “That way,” he managed. He had a vague notion that maybe a medic could be brought to at least look at Winter’s arm, and then…

But the church, half its roof fallen in, was packed with patients lying out exposed to the weather, and one glance told Freddie it was no good. The stretchers lay in endless rows. Some men were dead. Most were visibly nearer death than Winter. One was saying, in a very peculiar voice, “No, no, it’s all right, Doctor. I’ll wait my turn,” and Freddie realized he could see daylight through the hole in the man’s body.

Their rescued soldier’s legs gave out; he thumped gracelessly to the ground. He tried to get up and fell back, clawed at Freddie’s knees. “Don’t leave me here.”

A medic caught sight of them and swerved. “What’s wrong with him?” His bloodshot eyes were on the twitching Tommy. Winter was still behind Freddie, half-invisible in the murky dawn.

Laura would have wanted Freddie to answer. So he stammered, “He was trapped in the mud. He was drowning.”

“Shell-shock, then,” said the medic. “Look, if you can walk, keep on to the next dressing station.”

The soldier was sitting on the soaked flagstones of the church, rocking back and forth. “Can’t,” he whispered.

The medic struck him smartly across the face. “You! Yes, you there, sir. Pull yourself together. Drink this, come on…” He was carrying a canteen like a sidearm; he put it to the boy’s lips.

The soldier didn’t take it. His white-ringed eyes were fastened on Freddie. “But aren’t—aren’t you the wild men?”

“Christ,” said the medic. “Pull yourself together. Go on,” he added, over his shoulder, to Freddie. “I think you’re making it worse.”

But the soldier had gone rigid, looking between them all, his face a rictus of fear and betrayal. As if he’d believed, in the madness of the night, that Freddie and Winter actually knew a way out. “No—? You’re a traitor, then! I heard him! That one! He’s a—”

Freddie didn’t hear the rest. The medic was starting to frown. He could say it, right then: I took a prisoner, here he is, helping save your life. But if he said that, then Winter would be gone, Winter would have to go be a prisoner, with the others. And then Winter would die, alone, in the rain.

A shell burst on the ramparts, and everyone ducked. That distraction was enough to make Freddie bolt out of the aid station, snatching Winter’s good hand as he went and dragging him away. He knew it was mad even as he did it.

But he did not stop. He would not let go of Winter’s hand.

---

· · ·They took no direction but away, ducking into the shadows. Their flight was a spasm of insanity, no more. They ran as far as their strength would allow, then pulled up panting, both of them wild-eyed. Winter was absolutely scorching with fever. Where to go? What to do? It would be full day soon. They were fast crossing the line that divided Canadian with German prisoner from two fugitives.

Freddie stood panting, groping through the fragments of his mind for—anything. His very soul rebelled. He’d left all the rest of himself out there somewhere, in the blood and water and darkness; he refused to leave Winter to his fate. He imagined it: going off to fight again while Winter died by inches, alone. He couldn’t do it. He’d go stark, screaming, staring mad.

A shell fell in the street, sent a half-ruined building down with a rush. They ducked into the cover of a crumbling wall, covered their heads against flying bits of masonry. But when the danger passed, Winter did not move. He was leaning on the slimy brick, his eyes closed.

“Winter?” whispered Freddie.

No answer.

“Winter?” He bent closer, touched Winter’s hot cheek. “How’s your arm?”

“Fine,” said Winter. His eyes opened a little more, struggling to focus. “Are you well?”

“I’ll do.”

Winter visibly forced himself to straighten up from the wall. “Where now, Iven?”

“I don’t know.”

“You will put me with the other prisoners. Then go find an officer, say you are reporting for duty.”

“No,”said Freddie violently. “No—I won’t let you die. No.”

“Iven,” said Winter. His voice hardened. “There’s nothing else to be done.”

An idea came to Freddie: completely mad, desperate. “Yes, there is,” he whispered. “Yes, there is. We’ll go to Laura. We’ll go to my sister.”

“If I’m not a prisoner, then I’m a spy. I do not want to be hanged. Or put your sister in danger.”

“She won’t be. She’s a hero. She’s got a medal and everything. She can manage. Would you rather die of a wound gone bad? You’re my prisoner, anyway. You’ll go where I want. And I want you to go to Laura. I want you to live.”

A muscle ticked in Winter’s unshaven jaw. “Better I die than both of us.”

“No, it isn’t.” It wasn’t based in reason, his wanting Winter to live. There was only a certainty that if Winter died, he, Wilfred Iven, would one night wake up back in the pillbox. And this time he’d be all alone. “I promised I wouldn’t let you die.” He wished he didn’t sound so young. “I promised.”

“You don’t owe me your life, Iven.”

“But I do,” said Freddie. “It’s all right. Laura will make it all right.” He remembered back in ’15, when she’d written the family about her decoration. She’d been strangely laconic: The French are pleased with me, after some unpleasantness with poison gas; they have voted me a Croix de Guerre. But she’d told him a little more when he asked, after he’d come over: three days without sleep, fighting tooth and nail for gassed men’s lives. She’d spoken of it only once, and reluctantly, after a bottle of wine. But even with what she hadn’t said, he knew it had been a feat. If she could manage that, then she could manage this. If Freddie believed in one thing in this strange world, he believed in Laura.

The plan leapt fully formed to his mind. He and Winter would find a place to hide for the day, slip out of Ypres in the darkness. It wasn’t too far to the casualty clearing station at Brandhoek, where Laura was stationed with her mobile ambulance. Freddie would slip in, find Laura quietly, explain. Laura would find a way to help them. She’d put Winter in with the prisoners, she’d feed them both. She’d see that Winter got surgery, that he was properly nursed. She’d save his life.

Freddie turned to Winter, ready to persuade him. But before he got out a word, a singular voice met his ears. So singular, in that context, that Freddie’s arguments died away unvoiced, and Winter went still beside him. To Freddie’s left, a deep-set door hung askew from rusting hinges. Through the crack, Freddie saw a room with rotting floorboards, three men, and a shabby printing press. Two of the men were in British uniforms, but the third was a civilian in a worn checked suit. He was addressing the two soldiers with a faint accent that didn’t sound like French. Flemish? “I would like,” he said, “to place an advertisement in your paper.”

Freddie knew what the soldiers were doing. They were printing the Times. The trench newspaper. Everyone read and laughed over the Times, when it could be got out between bombardments. But it wasn’t a real paper. It was satire. A long black joke, printed in the wreckage.

The men printing it clearly didn’t know what to make of the civilian. “A submission, you mean?” said one of them. “I—what?”

“An advertisement to attract clientele,” said the stranger.

Silence.

“For evening revels,” the man went on.

The two printers still looked nonplussed. “But— Our paper’s a joke, sir. We take poetry submissions. There’s limericks…” He trailed off.

The stranger shrugged and handed them a scrap of paper. “Print it. Some will understand.”

Another shell rattled the masonry and there was the peculiar wailing scream that meant someone had copped it. The two soldiers in the room ducked instinctively. Winter’s hand fell on Freddie’s sleeve, the effort audible in his voice. “Iven, we have to go.”

“No, there’s no location,” the stranger added. “People will find it.”

“Revels, sir?” said one of the printers, in a new voice. “Are you— I’ve heard— Are you the one who…”

“Probably,” said the stranger.

Then one, joking weakly, said, “Well, then, the going rate’s three bob a word, sir.”

“I can do you one better,” said the stranger. “If you will only come and drink with me.” Freddie could not see the stranger’s expression; his back was to the door. But the men printing wore looks of terrified yearning.

“That sounds—all right. If you like, sir,” whispered one of the men.

“Very well,” said the stranger. “Good morning to you both.” He turned for the door. One of the soldiers made a jerky gesture, as though he wanted to reach out. But his mate clapped a hand to his wrist.

The stranger emerged in the alley four feet from where Freddie and Winter stood silent in the shadows. He started off, but then his steps slowed. He turned. Winter went deathly still. “Good morning,” said the stranger. “It isn’t polite to stare.”

A group of soldiers under a sergeant came up the street. Winter and Freddie pressed themselves deeper into the shadow of the wall. The oncoming men slowed. Freddie had one despairing second to think, What do I do now, before he realized that the men hadn’t seen him and Winter at all. They were all gawking at the stranger. A civilian hadn’t been seen in Ypres for two years. It was like seeing a unicorn. And the eccentric didn’t disappoint them. “I was hoping for a tour of the ramparts,” he said. “Will someone guide me?” There was a flicker of mischief in his voice.

“Now, sir,” said the nonplussed sergeant, “this city’s under military jurisdiction—” He broke off, shook his head, said, “Do you have a death wish?”

The stranger’s eyes opened wide. “I am a committed tourist. Well, I shall find my own way.”

Without warning, he slipped down a side street, leaving the sergeant calling “Sir—sir! Monseer! You can’t just—” In answer the stranger, now quite swallowed by the early-morning shadows, began to whistle. They heard his footsteps retreating.

“Mocking us, he is,” said the sergeant, with anger. “The madman. Well, arrest the bastard, damn you all.” They took off after the sound.

“Iven,” said Winter. “We must go.”

Had that just happened, or had he dreamed it awake? Winter was pulling him on. They must find somewhere to hide. No chance of getting anywhere unremarked before dark. And perhaps a rest—somewhere dry—would do Winter some good…

Freddie wasn’t sure how far they’d gone—not very—when the stranger reappeared beside them.

Winter halted. “No,” he whispered.

“Oh, dear,” said the stranger, in English. “You’ve a terrible fever, my good man.” Winter’s face was set like granite. Freddie looked in bewilderment between them.

“Delighted to meet you,” added the stranger as though the patrol had never interrupted. “I am called Faland. I am, in my way, a native of these parts. May I inquire where you are going?”

Freddie could almost feel Winter trying to muster more words, and failing. Finally, to Freddie’s shock, he raised a trembling hand and made the old peasants’ sign against evil, the two fingers extended. A shell burst a few streets over as though for emphasis.

Both Faland’s brows rose, unruffled. “Do you need a bolt-hole for the day?” he said. “I think there’s a cellar about.”

Winter shook his head. “No,” he said again.

“Winter, why not?” whispered Freddie. “If he knows a place.” Logic told Freddie there was nowhere safe in Ypres. But there was something about this civilian. A confidence. Either he was utterly mad—not unlikely—or he did know a place. “We could rest properly, and I could have a good look at your arm.”

“But—” said Winter. “Can’t you see?” He looked afraid. Not once, in those last hellish days, had Freddie seen Winter looking afraid.

Freddie said, “What else are we going to do? Winter, you’re sick. You need to rest. You need to get dry.”

“There are worse things than dying,” said Winter.

“You are not going to die.”

Winter didn’t say anything more. Maybe he’d come, at last, to the end of his strength. He bowed his head. He was shivering.

“Excellent,” said Faland. “This way.”