Fiona Hood-Stewart - The Stolen Years

“Deal me in,” he said with an American twang that made them all laugh. He studied his cards carefully. Karl was easy to bluff. Franz played better, but Joachim, a lieutenant from Mannheim, was the best of the three. He lit a cigarette and the game progressed.

Half an hour later, the matron marched in. She pursed her lips, looked his way and announced with a triumphant smirk that a number of prisoners were to be brought in within the hour. Gavin pretended to concentrate on the game but he was excited. Perhaps he would finally learn some news. There was another fact to face, as well. Until now, he’d been comfortably letting time go by. But his duty as an officer taken prisoner was to immediately search for a route of escape. While he was healing, that hadn’t been possible. But although his thigh still ached and his hip hurt like hell when he walked, his arm was considerably better. If there were more British prisoners, then the situation might change.

He glanced at his cards, aware of the nurses hurrying through with fresh piles of blankets, followed shortly by stretchers carrying the wounded. He barely managed to control his impatience, ready to drop out of the game in his eagerness to question the newcomers. Watching as the wounded—more victims of the salient—were carried passed, Gavin realized guiltily that for the past couple of weeks he’d allowed himself to fall into the apathy of convalescence. The war seemed remote without the backdrop of artillery fire. He got up, unable to stay still, and went to the door. A particularly nasty case of gangrene reminded him of just how real the conflict still was. When a straggling group of wounded officers was directed into the ward under the matron’s vigilant eye, he moved next to them.

“Where did they get you?” he asked a pale lieutenant not much older than himself.

“In the shoulder, and a scratch on the head. It’s a bloody mess out there.”

“What regiment are you with?”

“Warwickshire. And you?”

“Fifty-first Highlanders.” Gavin smiled at Annelise, and got her to direct the lieutenant to the cot closest to his. The other man nodded and thanked him, sinking onto the bed in exhaustion.

“All hell’s broken loose. I hope this time it may get us somewhere.” He gave a tired shrug and closed his eyes.

“The Germans are as fed up as we are.”

“I’ll bet. When were you captured?”

“October.”

“You’ve heard about the French mutiny? They refuse to fight any longer, except to defend. Can’t blame them, poor chaps. Chemin des Dames was a bloodbath.”

“I don’t suppose you saw any of the Fifty-first, did you?”

“Only back at Etaples about three weeks ago. There were a couple of fellows wounded at Passchendaele—probably some of your chaps—waiting to be shipped home. The other poor buggers were waiting to die.”

“Does the name Angus MacLeod mean anything to you?” Gavin offered him a cigarette.

“Thanks.” The young man smiled his appreciation. “MacLeod. That rings a bell. Isn’t he Ghost MacLeod’s twin, the chap who braved the lines at Ypres and saved a whole battalion? That was either incredible courage or plain stupidity. He got the M.C. for it, you know. Apparently he was much younger than he made out, too. I think his twin was back at the field hospital waiting to be shipped home. He didn’t handle his brother’s death too well.”

“Death?” The lighter stopped in midair.

“I’m afraid so. There was no trace of him, poor devil. Did you know him?”

“They think I’m dead,” Gavin murmured, horrified. Wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, he sat down on the bed with a bang.

“Are you all right? Was MacLeod a friend of yours?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s just rather odd to know you’ve been given up for dead.”

“Oh God. What do you mean? You’re—”

“Yes. I’m Captain Gavin MacLeod. Angus is my brother.”

“Good Lord.” The man looked at him in sudden awe. “I’m Lieutenant Miles Conway, by the way,” he said, stretching out his hand and smiling from below the bandage. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ghost.”

“Thanks.” They shook hands and Gavin sensed an immediate bond.

Dead. They thought he was dead! Gavin assimilated this news, imagining Flora and his parents. How devastated they must all be. It was bad enough to picture them thinking him missing. But dead…The image of Angus’s impassive face flashed before him, but he refused to think of that right now. There were other priorities—such as escape—to be thought of, that took on new urgency.

“Any chance of us getting out of here?” Miles asked, voicing Gavin’s thoughts.

“I don’t know. Up until now I’ve been on my own,” he answered vaguely. “Difficult to believe one’s been given up for dead. Gives one a damn odd feeling, I must say.”

“They may know that you’re alive by now. Perhaps they’ve set the records straight.”

“I bloody well hope so,” Gavin replied, suddenly angry—at the army, at Angus for not helping him and at the damn Krauts for catching him. “Now that you’re here, perhaps we can get an escape plan going.” He rose and smiled at his new companion. “You’d better rest. By the way, my neighbor Franz is okay. Has a British mother, and lived in England all his life. He got called back here at the beginning of the war.”

Annelise approached, hustling Gavin away before attending to Lieutenant Conway. “You want to butter her up,” he said over his shoulder. “She’s a great girl.”

“Everything all right?” Franz asked him anxiously as Gavin flopped on his bed, cold sweat racking his body. He leaned back, his eyes closed, feeling nauseous. Was it possible his twin had left him to die? He squeezed his hands into tight fists, his knuckles white, seized by doubt.

That night he barely slept, tossing and turning, positive one minute that Angus had betrayed him, convinced the next that it wasn’t so. To distract himself, he set his mind on ways of escape. Glancing at Franz, peacefully asleep in the next bed with his face etched by the light of the full moon, Gavin wondered just how far the man could be trusted. He seemed to be on their side, but could he be sure?

At 3:00 a.m. in the pitch dark, he rose, stiff and restless, to smoke a cigarette.

“Wo gehen siehen?” the nurse asked peremptorily.

“Annelise?” he whispered, offering her a cigarette. She relaxed, smiled as his eyes lingered on her face and he ran his fingers though his hair. The patch that had been shaved was growing back, thick and black as ever, and she was obviously not oblivious to his Gaelic charm, whatever she might have heard about the British.

He motioned for her to go to the far end near the door, where they could sit, the flame from the match lighting her face. She was pretty enough, he considered. Full, round breasts, a trim waist, shapely hips that could only be imagined under the stiff uniform. He went suddenly hard, picturing her skin melding to his. As though reading his mind, she leaned closer. It was a risk, he realized, blood pounding. A big risk, yet an enticing one. If she so much as squeaked, they’d shoot him. But for the first time since arriving in the godforsaken hospital, he felt alive, back in the game, dodging danger.

He raised a hand to her cheek, his eyes mesmerizing. “Shön, beautiful,” he whispered, hearing the quick intake of breath and sensing no rejection when his hand dropped below the stiff edge of her collar toward her generous breast. He reached her nipple and she shuddered under the many layers of material that separated his fingers from her flesh.

It was exhilarating to peer through the shadows and know that this enemy nurse, decked out in her prim stiff uniform, was hot, wet and throbbing for him. A rush of power, followed by the primeval need to possess her, overwhelmed him, and he wondered where he could take her to satisfy the urgent, consuming need.