The Stolen Years. Fiona Hood-Stewart

peculiar expression that made him who he was, but the harder she tried, the more distant he became.

      Duty and training dragged her out of bed. Legs trembling, she dressed, then returned to the ward, where another convoy of badly wounded was being brought in.

      “Nurse! Thank goodness you’re here. Get this patient ready for surgery.” The doctor laid a hand on her arm. “He’s going to lose both legs, I’m afraid.”

      She nodded automatically, senses blunted, gazing down at the young officer about to lose his limbs. Distantly, she felt thankful that Gavin had not gone through this. Their dreams and life were over, but at least he had not suffered the indignity of surviving as half a man.

      She braced herself, refusing to allow her personal loss to keep her from her duty, and made her way over to the bed where the young man lay, his head bandaged but his eyes clear blue and lucid.

      “I’m sorry to have to break the news, Captain,” she began, surprised to hear that her voice sounded calm and gentle.

      He smiled thinly. “You don’t need to tell me, Nurse. I’ve been here too long and seen too much not to know. Is it one or both?”

      “Both, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry.”

      His lips tightened and he nodded. “I’m lucky to be alive, I suppose. At least I’ll get home. Not like the other poor blighters buried out there.”

      She nodded and closed her eyes a second against awful images that danced before her. Then silently she went to work, preparing him for the operation. Suddenly she remembered Angus. He would have to wait. She glanced down at her patient with an aching heart, reached for his hand and squeezed it.

      “Thank you,” he whispered, eyes damp. Then with a brave smile he turned to the doctor. “Better get on with it, Doc. There’s plenty more out there waiting for you.”

      4

      Frieburg, Germany, 1917

      “Es gibt einen der lebt noch.” From far away, Gavin heard voices but they faded again. The next time he gained consciousness he was being rattled painfully to and fro, amid the stench of blood and urine. But it was dark, he was moving and the pain in his thigh and hip were blinding. His eyes closed once more and he dreamed. Of Angus’s cold and expressionless face, waiting impassively for him to die. The dream kept repeating and repeating itself.

      When he next woke, the pain was too agonizing for him to think, but he realized he was alive and being given an injection. There were more voices, a woman and a man speaking German, but he was too tired to care and drifted back into sleep.

      This time he dreamed of Flora, of the rose garden at Strathaird, of a picnic in the Périgord, the delicious sensation of biting into a thick tartine, a sandwich made of pâté and spicy saucisson, smelled the sweet scent of freshly cut hay and heard the sound of laughter rippling on the breeze.

      As the days went by and he regained consciousness, Gavin realized two things—that people spoke German, and that they addressed him as Angus or Kapitän. It was puzzling. But the pain was so sharp and the need to sleep so great he didn’t care. Then one day he woke up feeling hungry and, to everyone in the ward’s surprise, he sat up.

      “Mein Gott, der Englander sitzt!” the matron exclaimed.

      “Not Englander,” Gavin replied with a spark of his old self, “Shotten.”

      “Hey, do you speak German?” a cultivated English voice coming from the next cot asked. He turned, wincing as a sharp pain shot up his leg and into his thigh.

      “Only a couple of words. Did they get you, too?”

      “Actually, no.” He blushed. “I’m German.”

      “Oh.”

      There was a moment’s silence while Gavin looked the other man over. His head was bandaged and his arm hung loosely in a sling. “How do you speak English so well?” he asked curiously, instinctively liking him, although he was the enemy.

      “My mother’s English and my father is German. We’ve lived in London all my life. My father’s in banking—rather, was in banking—in the city. Then this mess came down and we had to leave. My parents and sister returned to Hanover. I got called up.”

      “What a God-awful situation to be in,” Gavin replied sympathetically, feeling much more like talking than thinking.

      “What happened to you?”

      “A shell exploded in the trench. Lucky to be alive, I suppose. Where are we?”

      “The army hospital in Frieburg.”

      “Oh. That’s in the Black Forest, isn’t it?” he said, calculating approximately how far he must be from his unit. “Any news about what’s happening out there?” he asked casually, unsure how far he could trust the man. Perhaps they’d put him there on purpose, to see what they could find out.

      “Not much—except the Americans have entered the war.”

      “Thank God for that,” Gavin murmured, leaning back against the pillow, his eyes closing. “How did that happen? I thought Woodrow Wilson didn’t want to have much to do with us.”

      “A U-boat sunk a merchant ship with two American passengers on board. I suppose it was getting too close to home.”

      “Hmm. Probably. I’ll bet you lot weren’t counting on that,” he added, squinting at his neighbor, who looked pale and drawn.

      “They didn’t. I think it may tip the balance,” he murmured softly.

      “Damn right it will.” Gavin saw the other patients murmuring suspiciously, and turned painfully onto his other side. He looked into the cot on his left, where a ruddy blond face stared belligerently.

      “Zigaretten?” he asked, keeping a wary eye on the others, trying to read their minds. The other man shook his head, eyes filled with resentment. Gavin shrugged and acted as though it was natural to be the only British officer lying among a ward of German soldiers.

      “Oh well.” He smiled. “Danke, anyway. When I get some, I’ll give you one of mine.” He leaned back and took stock of the situation.

      “Kapitän Angus, you must not speak so much.” A pretty, blond nurse came to his bed and patted his pillow briskly before whisking out a thermometer and popping it into his mouth, preventing him from asking why everyone thought he was Angus. Then he caught sight of the gold cross lying on the tiny nightstand, next to the bed, and everything flashed before him. Suddenly dizzy, Gavin put his head in his hands.

      “Herr Kapitän? Sind sie schwach?”

      “I’m all right,” he said, removing the thermometer. “But I don’t want this damn thing in my mouth.”

      “Be thankful for small mercies. The other one sticks it somewhere else,” his English-speaking neighbor commented as the matron approached with a firm, brisk march.

      “Is there a problem with the prisoner, Nurse?” she demanded, eyes glinting.

      “No, Sister,” the nurse replied quickly, reading the thermometer and writing something on the chart.

      The matron looked him over coldly. “I don’t want you causing problems in my ward,” she barked, her English guttural. “It is bad enough to have to treat you Saxon dogs. So behave yourself or I’ll have you sent to the prison camp, ill or not. It’ll be one less for our men to rid themselves of.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched off.

      Gavin listened meekly, but as she marched off, he stuck his tongue out, causing the whole ward to break into laughter. She turned suspiciously, but found him lying down, eyes closed, the picture of innocence.

      A minute later he opened one eye cautiously. A man wearing a dressing gown, who sat reading at the far end of the ward, came over.

      “Zigarette?”