The private was now clutching his stomach, and Robert saw he’d been hit a second time, in the guts. Horrifyingly, he was still alive. An appalling gurgling noise was coming from his ruined lower face – a noise that wasn’t even human. Robert felt for the roof of the mouth and pressed two grains of morphia down into what he hoped was the man’s throat.
He turned his field glasses back to the British line. The next wave of men should have been coming over by now to consolidate the gains and help push on the advance.
Where the bloody hell are they?
Not only should the next wave be making its way over, but new men to lay communications and dig a new trench. But nothing was happening. Only the British artillery barrage was moving forward as planned, supporting the glorious advance from the rear with its preordained lifts, undeterred by the fact that things were going badly wrong and they were now hopelessly exposed.
There was no next wave – or at least none that would reach them. He watched helplessly as German shells and machine gun fire rained down on the men assembling in the British advance trenches. Men who’d already come over were now attempting to crawl back or were waiting in shell holes. He couldn’t communicate with the companies to his right and left and had no idea if they were even in position. Communication with the British line itself was impossible. He and his men were marooned. And the Germans holding the rear trenches would soon be back. They would be able to see what was happening. It was all an utter disaster.
‘No one’s coming, are they, sir,’ one of his lance corporals said. It was a simple statement of fact, not a question.
‘No.’
Should he wait for a new advance, or press on and hope backup would come? No question: they must use their advantage or lose it.
‘We’ll go on towards our objective alone until the next wave arrives,’ he said, sounding more confident than he felt. ‘We’ll make for Kreuz trench as ordered.’
And when they got there, they would have no rest. They would immediately have to get to work reversing the layout of the newly captured trench so that they could fire their weapons in the other direction and make it safe from German counterattack.
It took what felt like hours to reach it, in the face of the German fire from the rear. When they finally made it, they discovered an enormous German dugout, at least forty feet deep, large enough to accommodate an entire platoon. It boasted running water and electricity, and the officers’ mess sported wood panelling and a carpet – even a fully made-up iron-framed bed. They looked around, speechless, pocketing whatever they might make use of. One of the snipers picked up an impressive-looking telescopic rifle. But then:
‘Fritz is coming back, sir!’ someone called.
Emboldened by the sight of the British advance fizzling out in front of them, the Germans were mounting a counterattack, attempting to retake their trenches. Robert and his men bombed and fought their way along the trench as far as they could go, until finally they ran out of ammunition and he sent back the desperate signal for more: ‘SOS bombs’. But no more grenades arrived. Then it became clear that it would mean certain and pointless death for any of them to attempt to go further.
‘Every man for himself!’ Robert cried, hauling a German machine gun into position, and manning it while the remains of his men scrambled out of the trench, heading back towards no man’s land.
At the very last moment he climbed out of the trench and ran, head-down, to a shell crater and slid down its cold, slick side. Sheltering inside were a dozen or so men, a couple from his own unit but mostly remnants from others. Most were wounded. Someone had heaved up two dead bodies to the lip of the crater where the German enfilading fire was worst, and the bullets slammed into them with a sound like a butcher tenderising meat. At the bottom of the shell hole three bodies lay face down in filthy water tinged bright red at the sides. Just above them lay Captain Fleming, breathing with difficulty, coughing from all the smoke and the stench of high explosive. There was a hole in his side.
‘What a bloody shambles,’ Fleming said hoarsely.
There was nothing else to say, so Robert said nothing. All they could do now was wait for it to grow dark. Then, those that were still in one piece might try to help the wounded and, taking on the German guns once more, try to creep, utterly defeated, back to the British lines.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Please let him be there, Louisa thought, please. She hurried through the ruined corridors. It had been days. Constant rain had flooded the smoking terrace and it had been put out of bounds, the smokers conducted instead to a bleak pen behind the kitchens from which there was no hope of escape. The sound of each new shower of rain had been agony. Robert Lovett was all she could think of, even though the whole thing was preposterous, insane – even though in her darkest moments she still feared she might be mad, that she belonged in Coldbrook Hall more than any of them.
But that explanation just didn’t suffice. She’d been a student of science, training to be a doctor. There was always a rational explanation – if only you knew how to find it. That’s what had attracted her to medicine in the first place. It was a way of making sense of things, of discovering what was wrong and putting it right. Some strange process was at work – she was convinced of it. And someone, somewhere must have an answer. If only she could get onto the internet, look up Robert Lovett of the South Middlesex Regiment and find out if he’d really existed. But as completely useless and neglectful as the staff at Coldbrook Hall appeared to be in every other way, they succeeded in keeping all electronic gadgets out of reach of the patients.
Then at last the rain stopped and that morning the door to the rooftop terrace had been opened. As soon as the cigarettes were lit and the carer back inside, Louisa was slipping through the window. Now, trembling, gripping the rickety banister, she made her way up the narrow staircase to the landing. There was the wooden door, with its brass handle. She knocked.
‘Come in.’
She pushed open the door. He was sitting in the chair by the window, his chin resting in his hand, looking into nothingness. Immediately she noticed that it was lighter in the room. She saw that his hair was very dark against his pale skin. And that he was unquestionably handsome.
‘Is it you?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly, feeling a little shy. She saw she was wearing Rose Ashby’s nightdress and dressing gown once more, and the crocheted slippers.
‘It’s been ages,’ he said.
‘I couldn’t get away. Sorry.’
‘I worried they might have seen you. I wondered if you’d got into trouble. Or I thought maybe you’d been discharged.’
‘Nothing like that.’
‘I’m glad you’ve come.’