Susan Hill - Strange Meeting

It was not until the middle of the following morning that he reached their trenches. As he staggered forwards and then tumbled down the firestep, almost knocking over a sentry, he saw that he was nowhere near his own end of the front line, the men who came along were strangers. It seemed to matter, he wanted to get up and go on, to leave them, find his own platoon. Find Barton. He heard them calling for stretcher bearers.

‘You’ll be all right.’ Who was saying that? A man with a large nose, bending over him. ‘You’ll be all right.’

But it should have been Barton. Where was Barton? Vividly, then, he remembered the first time he had seen him, as he had climbed up the ladder to the apple loft at Percelle, and the sense of that place was so great, he thought that the smell of the old, sweet apples was in his nostrils and he wondered if he were not still there.

Someone put water to his lips but as he was drinking it, he wanted to get up again, he tried to sit and resented the hands of the men who were pushing him back.

‘It’s only my leg.’

‘Yes, sir. You’ll be all right now.’

He was crying, his body ached all over, his head was throbbing.

‘They keep coming in like this. We had another half an hour ago but he died as soon as he got here. How do they do it?’

‘How did he get here? B Company lieutenant, is he?’

‘They got most of the way up, as well – this one must have been near the top of the slope.’

‘I didn’t think there were any of them left.’

‘One or two, I suppose.’

‘Let’s get him up, Hammond.’

‘It’s all right, sir, we’ve got you. You’re all right.’

He heard their voices and saw their mouths opening and shutting and was too tired to take any of it in, he had no idea what they were talking about, forgot where he was and did not care. He felt himself lifted up and the pain in his leg was so bad that he yelled out as they bumped him, beginning to walk along the trench.

Twice they had to get into a traverse or duck down because of shells coming over and exploding nearby. Hilliard wondered how it could be worth their while to send down shells, for how many men were left alive after all those he had seen dead, on his way down here? The stretcher bearers were swearing as they lifted him up again.

‘Oh Jesus Christ!’

‘Sorry, sir. We’ll be as steady as we can. But they keep sending stuff over.’

Hilliard was puzzled. What were they saying? Were they talking to him? Who were they talking to? What was happening? He did not know. He knew nothing.

‘Hilliard.’

The voice came from somewhere else, it had nothing to do with him. And then suddenly it was near, his ears were full of it, he felt the words hitting him in the face like blows.

‘Hilliard.’

He remembered someone saying, ‘Lift him down.’

Who was talking to him?

‘Hilliard.’

He opened his eyes. Captain Franklin’s face came into focus, the same, blank face, behind the gingerbread moustache.

Then he remembered that people had been before, people he knew, his name had been spoken to him. Who had come? There was something he wanted to remember.

‘How do you feel?’

‘I don’t know.’ So he could speak then? ‘Yes,’ he said aloud. Then again, ‘I don’t know.’ And he heard the words quite clearly, that was his own voice. He tried again. ‘I’m in a hospital.’ ‘Yes.’ That was Franklin’s voice. ‘The Battalion’s been moved down here for a couple of days. We’ll be on our way again after that. I managed to get in to see you though.’

Hilliard found difficulty in piecing together the meaning of what he was saying.

‘I’m sorry you had such a knock.’

He did not know exactly what Franklin meant by that, either. He was still uncertain what had happened to him. The nights and days slid into one another like cards and were full of disconnected noises and the pain in his leg. People came and gave him food and drink and spoke to him, he saw them staring down.

Oh God, what had he to remember? What must he try to remember?

He had heard the rain, too, pattering on and on against the windows behind his bed. Rain.

‘You’ll be here for a week or so. They won’t send you home until they think you can cope.’

‘No.’

‘Is there anything you want?’

Was there?

‘Has your mail been getting through all right?’

He did not know. He knew nothing.

The light went pale and then dark again around Franklin’s head, Hilliard tried to focus his eyes and could not. The light went very bright, then broke into millions of shiny silver pins in front of him.

After another week they let him sit up and then he read the letters which had come from his mother and father and Beth, the letters full of formal expressions of love and sympathy, behind which lay whatever they were truly feeling.

‘You’ve got another parcel. You get a lot of parcels, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Would you open it for me?’

She opened it and he made her take things around the ward again, share out figs and chocolates and cigarettes. He wanted nothing at all.

‘There’s another letter today, too.’

He looked at the postmark and the handwriting, and did not open it.

Yesterday a letter had come from the old Major, a short letter dictated to his daughter.

We hear things are improving out there. It’s a good cause. We send our regrets that you’ve had bad luck with your leg. We send kindest wishes for your recovery.

They had amputated his left leg though he still did not believe it, because of the continued pain.

‘Could you close the window? It’s raining on my pillow.’

‘Oh, we can’t have you getting wet!’

She stood up for a moment looking out. She had red hair. ‘Will it ever stop raining!’

Now that he was feeling so much better he did not care about his leg, he cared about nothing. But he wondered whether Franklin would come back and talk to him again, tell him what he wanted to know, tell him all of it.

There was no news. He had no visitors.

They let him sit up in a chair one morning. Then he knew what he must do. The letter had been on his table for ten days. He had to open the letter. Outside it was still raining.

‘Drink your soup, Mr Hilliard. You’ve got to eat and drink now.’

He drank his soup.

‘You’re going home next week.’

In the night the sound of the guns rattled the windows. Still his leg hurt him.

Dear John,

We do not know exactly where you are – whether you are in England yet or still in hospital in France. We have no news of you but we hope that you will get this letter and, when you are better, get in touch with us. We do not know, either, how much you have heard but we beg you, if you have news, whatever news it is, to write and tell us. We have only had the telegram and then a typed letter informing us that David is missing believed killed, but we have received nothing else, none of his belongings. And we had not had a letter from him either, for some time, we were becoming anxious.

We made contact with your family at Hawton, who have replied to our letter and told us that you have been wounded and have lost your leg. But the letter took a time to reach us because ours was wrongly addressed. So we are hoping that if you are not still in France the hospital will forward this to you.

John, we have only you to ask for news, you have been with David, and we can only talk of him to you. There is no one else. And you have been close to him, you are sure to have so much to say to us. Please write and we will either come and see you in hospital or where you are convalescing, or at home, or hope, most of all, that you may be able to come to us. Please do that if you can, we feel that we are friends and know you so well already, we should so like to have you here to stay. I cannot write more now, I am too anxious for this to reach you, and I am afraid of distressing you when you are ill.