My Dear I Wanted to Tell You by Louisa Young

Author:Louisa Young
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers

Chapter Fifteen

West of Zonnebeke, August 1917

Purefoy was walking to the casualty clearing station. Captain Fry saw him up where the duckboards made a crossroads, staring and hustling along past the flooded battlefield graveyard. Three wooden crosses rose solitary, like a trio of Excaliburs, from strangely smooth water. One was crowned with a jaunty skull. The rest of everything was, and had been for weeks, mud and death.

‘Can you walk?’ Fry called. Fry was a dental surgeon in reality. ‘Good man. Keep your head forward!’

Purefoy didn’t hear him but it didn’t matter. He knew to keep his head forward.

The mud clung to his boots, freighting every step, but his legs were strong and the way was obvious. Follow the duckboards west to the giant charred black tooth-stump which was all that remained of Ypres.

He swung his arms. Inside, his head was very hot, and he was thirsty.

The chaos around him was no worse than the chaos of yesterday or the day before; it was the same chaos. Flat, slimy going. Mud of blood, blood of mud. Oh, yes, we’re all poets here. He closed his eyes for a moment but inside his head was noisier even than outside, red and black, shooting.

No one spoke to him.

He spoke to no one.

He didn’t know which noises were real.

Trudge on. He wanted to undo his tunic but there was something on it, wet.

Undo his tunic? Dear God, Captain, what are you thinking? Standards!

In his tunic pocket were seventeen beautiful letters and Ainsworth’s prayer.

There were flies. I’m not for you yet, boyo. He wanted to shake them off but his head wouldn’t shake. He wanted to wipe his face but his hand wouldn’t go there. He wanted to swallow. He wasn’t sure who had bandaged him but, oh, the beautiful sky.

Courage for the big things, patience for the small.

Trudge on.

Per ardua ad astra. By effort to the casualty station the station Victoria station Paddington station for Pewsey for the Downs, wild orchids tiny as bees, tiny purple leopardskin bees, lying among the eggs and bacon – no, they’re not called eggs and bacon really – and the brain-quenchingly clean air up there, and sheep-cropped grass, mossy and soft. Rabbit pellets. Tiny when you’re lying down. Bit damp still, isn’t it? Never mind, you can lie on my coat. Tiny little plants. Vetch. Her beautiful flesh and the glory of sliding in.

‘Steady on, sir . . .’

‘You need a hand there, sir?’

Trudge on.

Something very dreadful happened today – What, more dreadful than every day? He’d heard somewhere that self-mockery was a defining symptom of sanity – Ah, well, I’m still not mad then, something to be grateful for, but I am walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Don’t frighten the horses. Horses wallowing in sinkholes of mud. Half a horse up a tree, head desiccated, legs as it were rearing in empty air, a grisly fairground ride.

And how does a rod and staff comfort me? Isn’t a rod a staff? Or will God’s

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.