The Burning Shore - Smith Wilbur (электронную книгу бесплатно без регистрации .txt) 📗
Mademoiselle, rest assured he is beyond all pain, the lucky devil. Andrew tottered around the machine to take the controls.
Wait for me! cried the doctor as he and the comte, giving each other mutual support, bounced off the door jamb and came crabbing down the steps in an unintended sideways charge.
Climb aboard, Andrew invited, and at the third attempt kick-started the Ariel in a roar of blue smoke.
The doctor clambered on to the pillion behind him, and the comte thrust one of the two bottles of claret that he carried into Andrew's side pocket. Against the cold, he explained.
You are a prince among men. Andrew let out the clutch and the Ariel screeched into a tight turn. Look after Michael!
cried Centaine.
My cabbages! screamed Anna, as Andrew took a short cut through the vegetable garden.
A has les boches! howled the comte and took a last surreptitious pull at the other claret bottle, before Centaine could confiscate it from him and relieve him of the cellar keys once more.
At the end of the long drive that led down from the chAteau Andrew braked the motor-cycle and then at a more sedate pace joined the pathetic little procession that was trickling back from the ridges along the muddy, rutted main road.
The butchers'vans, as the field ambulances were irreverently known, were heavily loaded with the fruits of the renewed German bombardment. They chugged through the muddy puddles, with the racks of canvas stretchers in the open backs swaying and lurching to each bump.
The blood from the wounded men in the upper tiers soaked through the canvas and dripped on to those below.
On the verges of the lane little groups of walking wounded straggled back, their rifles discarded, leaning on each other for support, lumpy field dressings strapped over their injuries, all their faces blank with suffering, their eyes dead of expression, their uniforms caked with mud and their movements mechanical, beyond caring.
Beginning to sober rapidly, the doctor climbed down off the pillion and selected the more seriously hurt men from the stream. They loaded two of them on to the pillion, one astride the petrol tank in front of Andrew and three more into the side-car with Michael. The doctor ran behind the overloaded Ariel, pushing it through the mud holes, and he was completely sober when a mile up the road they reached the VAD hospital in a row of cottages at the entrance to the village of Mort Homme. He helped his newly acquired patients out of the side-car and then turned back to Andrew. Thanks. I needed that break. He glanced down at Michael, still passed out in the side-car. Look at him.
We can't go on like this forever."Michael is just slightly pissed, that is all. But the doctor shook his head. Battle fatigue he said. Shell shock. We don't understand it properly yet, but it seems there is just a limit to how much these poor has tards can stand. How long has he been flying without a break, three months? He will be all right, Andrew's voice was fierce, he's going to get through. He placed a protective hand on Michael's injured shoulder, remembering that it was six months since his last leave.
Look at him, all the signs. Thin as a starvation victim, the doctor went on, twitching and trembling. Those eyes - I'll bet he is showing unbalanced illogical behaviour, sullen dark moods alternating with mad wild moods? Am I correct? Andrew nodded reluctantly. One minute he calls the enemy loathsome vermin and machine-guns the survivors of crashed German aircraft, and the next they are gallant and worthy foes, he punched a newly arrived pilot last week for calling them Huns. Reckless bravery? Andrew remembered the balloons that morning, but he did not answer the question.
What can we do? he asked helplessly.
The doctor sighed and shrugged, and offered his hand. Goodbye and good luck, major. And as he turned away, he was already stripping off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
At the entrance to the orchard, just before they reached the squadron's bivouac, Michael suddenly heaved himself upright in the side-car and with all the solemnity of a judge pronouncing the death sentence, said, I am about to be sick. Andrew braked the motor-cycle off the road and held his head for im.
All that excellent claret, he lamented. To say nothing of the Napoleon cognac, if there was only some way to save it! Having noisily unburdened himself, Michael slumped down again and said, just as solemnly, I want you to know that I am in love, and his head flopped back as he passed out cold once more.
Andrew sat on the Ariel and drew the cork from the claret bottle with his teeth. That definitely calls for a toast. Let's drink to your true love. He offered the bottle to the unconscious form beside him. Not interested? He drank from it himself, and when he lowered the bottle, he began unaccountably and uncontrollably to sob.
He tried to choke back the tears, he had not wept since he was six years old, and then he remembered the young doctor's words, unbalanced and illogical behaviour, and the tears overwhelmed him. They poured down his cheeks, and he did not even attempt to wipe them away.
He sat on the driver's seat of the motor-cycle, shaking with silent grief.
Michael, my boy, he whispered. What is to become of us? We are doomed, there is no hope for us. Michael, no hope at all for any of us, and he covered his face with both hands and wept as though his heart was breaking.
Michael awoke to the clatter of the tin tray as Biggs placed it beside his field cot.
He groaned as he tried to sit up, but his injuries pulled him down again. What time is it, Biggs?"All past seven, sir, and a lovely spring morning."Biggs, for God's sake, why didn't you wake me?
I've missed the dawn patrol- No, we oven't, sir, Biggs murmured comfortably, we've been grounded."Grounded? Lord Killigerran's orders, grounded until further orders, sir. Biggs ladled sugar into the cocoa mug and stirred it.
"Igh time too, if I may be allowed to say so. We've flown thirty-seven days straight. Biggs, why do I feel so bloody? According to Lord Killigerran, we were severely attacked by a bottle of cognac, sir."Before that, I smashed up the old flying tortoise Michael began to remember. Spread her all over France, sir, like butter on toast, Biggs nodded. But we got them, Biggs! Both of the blighters, sir. The book paid out, I trust, Biggs? You didn't lose your money? We made a nice packet, thanking you, Mr Michael, and Biggs touched the other items on the cocoa tray.
"Ere's your loot- There was a neat sheaf of twenty onepound notes.
Three to one, sir, plus your original stake. You are entitled to ten percent commission, Biggs. Bless you, sir. Two notes disappeared magically into Biggs pocket. Now, Biggs. What else have we here? Four aspirins, compliments of Lord Killigerran. He is flying, Biggs, of course?
Gratefully Michael swallowed the pills.
Of course, sir. They took off at dawn. Who is his wingman? Mr Banner, sir. A new chum, Michael brooded unhappily. Lord Andrew will be all right, don't you worry, sir. Yes, of course, he will, and what is this?
Michael roused himself.
Keys to Lord Killigerran's motor-cycle, sir. He says as you are to give the count his salaams, whatever those may be, sir, and his tender admiration to the young lady Biggs - the aspirins had worked a miracle, Michael felt suddenly light and carefree and gay. His wounds no longer pulled and his head no longer ached. Biggs, he repeated, you could lay out my number ones and give the brass buckles a lick and the boots a bit of a shine? Biggs grinned at him fondly. Going calling, are we, sir? hat we are, Biggs, that we are.
Centaine woke in darkness and listened to the guns. They terrified her. She knew she would never become accustomed to that bestial, insensate storm that so impersonally dealt death and unspeakable injury, and she remembered the months of late summer the previous year when, for a brief period, the German batteries had been within range of the chateau. That was when they had abandoned the upper levels of the great house and moved below stairs. By then the servants had long since fled all except Anna, of course, and the tiny cell that Centaine now occupied had belonged to one of the maids.
