Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 799 & 800, March/April 2008

What Wilfie hadn’t bargained for, of course, was being moved. That between having his leg seen to, and then his ribs, then his burns and eyes sorted out, several days would pass. But at least it was still good news.

“Exactly as I told you,” the surgeon said. “A clean and simple leg break.”

Six weeks and Wilfie would be running for the bus again, he quipped, and Wilfie could not believe his luck.

“I thought this place was for the seriously injured?”

“We don’t have time to classify the maimed, Corporal.” The surgeon had already lost interest in his patient. “I’m just grateful to see you boys leave here alive, now who’s next on the list, please, nurse?”

Wilfie tried to think who it was who’d told him about this place, but then how often had the bloke beside you told you something, and by the time it reached the far end of the trench, the meaning had changed out of all recognition? Getting signals crossed was par for the course around here, and all that mattered was that Wilfie’s luck was changing.

“Mademoiselle from Armentiéres, parlez-vous—”

“Oi!” somebody yelled. “Would someone put that flaming cat outside?”

Wilfie grinned and gave him a cheerful V-sign. “—inky-pinky, parlez-vous.”

Funnier things had happened at sea, he thought, but he had a feeling that hanging on to that grenade was Wilfie’s lucky day. Had he thrown it properly, he wouldn’t have found Michelle, he wouldn’t have run into his old school friend, hell, he might even be dead by now. Another lump of meat, bloating in the mud, trampled down by scores of frightened boots.

Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile—

“There you go, soldier. Put these drops in your eye three times a...”

Wilfie was only half listening, though, because suddenly the world was a completely different place. He could see, he could see, and all right, his left eye was still covered by a patch and the right was weak and blurry, but as he was surrounded by daylight, faces, colours for the first time in God knows how long, Wilfie remembered hangovers that had left him with worse vision than this. He could see and he was free, and were it not for that stupid leg in plaster, he’d have clicked both heels together in the air.

“Excuse me,” he asked one of the porters. “Do you know where I can find Lieutenant Tyler? He’s an amputee—”

“Ronnie?” The porter stood his empty stretcher upright and used it as a prop. “What a character, that boy, eh?” He sighed. “I mean, we all know what he did to earn that promotion to lieutenant, and he’ll get a medal for diving forward to push three men out of the way when that ammunitions store went up, but to listen to him, you’d never think he was a cripple, would you?”

“No. No, you wouldn’t.”

“That lad’ll have the same nightmares that you and all them other poor sods’ll have, probably for the rest of your lives, you poor old buggers, but does our Ronnie let it show? Not him, and that’s the point, innit? It’s all a question of attitude, and I’ll bet you’re right proud to call that lad your friend.”

“I am.” He was.

“Anyway.” The porter picked up his bloodstained stretcher. “Up them stairs, turn right, and you can’t miss him, chum. Just watch for the gaggle of hens clucking over him!”

“Thanks.”

Hobbling through the crush of haemorrhaging humanity, joggled by muddy uniforms, shattered gas masks, and all the other horrors that he’d shoved to the back of his mind while he’d been wrapped up in his silent, white cocoon, Wilfie was suddenly gripped by a cold, hard rush of fear that made him stumble. Panic gripped him. He was slipping in the mud again, choking on cordite while cannons roared and bullets pinged around him He could hear the soft hiss of canisters of death. The crackle of machine-gun fire. The screams of men cut to ribbons on barbed wire—

Then snap and it was gone. Over as quickly as it started, and although his skin was cold with sweat, it wasn’t out of fear. Lying bandaged to the gills, Wilfie hadn’t stopped to think about it, but now it dawned on him that these injuries, however minor, still meant he’d never be sent back to the front, and Ron was right. He was alive and yes, it did bloody count for something. War was not the Great Adventure that was being played out in the newspapers at home. It wasn’t over quickly, as the pundits had predicted; in fact, this filthy war was claiming more young lives than ever, and in the vilest of ways. Wilfie only had to look around to see that he was one of the lucky ones, and it came as quite a shock to realise that the bitterness and rancour that had been eating him before was gone.

He felt different, suddenly. Lighter. As though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders and a whole new world was opening up before him. A fresher, cleaner world, full of opportunities, and he no longer felt ground down with envy, either. Sure, Ron had brains and looks and charm. All the things Wilfie didn’t have and frankly never would, but surprisingly it didn’t matter anymore. For the first time, Wilfie had someone in his life who wanted him. Who accepted him for who and what he was, with neither criticism or judgment. Today — today, from this day forward and in sickness and in health, was the start of a new life...

It wasn’t easy, shambling up the crowded stairs with blurred vision and a crutch, but even so, Wilfie could see the chateau steps had class. He couldn’t tell whether they were stone or marble, but whichever, he couldn’t help but admire the big, wide sweep. To be honest, he’d suspected Ron had been pulling his leg about the tapestries and pictures hanging on the walls. Wilfie thought they’d have been removed at the outset of the fighting, but perhaps there wasn’t time to take them down, or maybe looting was the least of these Frenchies’ worries. Either way, though, he was glad. Wilfie couldn’t tell his Titian from his elbow, but he’d bet his last pack of fags that Ron would know who’d painted what, and fancy being able to tell his mum he’d seen a real, live Rembrandt!

It’s a long way to Tipperary—

Yep. Ron might have the brains, the looks, the charm, but Wilfie was in love. In unconditional, thrilling, can’t-sleep-for-thinking-about-her love, and it wouldn’t be long now before he got to meet Michelle and hold her hands in his, perhaps stand beneath the ancient plane tree and bury his face in her gorgeous, soft blond hair.

“—it’s a long way to go—”

But first, yes, first he had to set things right. Throughout Ron’s visits — visits which, quite honestly, were the only things that kept him sane — he’d been obsessed with nothing other than his own injuries. Now admittedly he hadn’t known it at the time, but they were trivial, especially compared to Ron’s, and it was high time he said the things he’d been too proud to say before. Words like sorry, thank you, and, who knows, maybe even owning up that he couldn’t speak a word of French needed to be aired. No call to make a song and dance of it, just a few words, man to man, to set the record straight. As he approached Ron, engulfed by hordes of laughing staff, Wilfie knew that, wheelchair or not, he really wouldn’t have any trouble finding himself a wife. It was exactly as the porter said. A question of attitude, and he had Ron to thank for his. That grenade might not have killed him, Wilfie reflected happily, but Ron had surely saved his life. Him, and his sweet Michelle.

“Ron?”

Oh, wasn’t that just his luck? The minute he opened his mouth, some bloody bell goes off and drowns him out, and suddenly nurses, orderlies, doctors, the lot, were rushing off in all directions to attend to this latest crisis on the battlefield.