He came to another time to hear himself cry out and there was an answering cry. Someone had come, perhaps Parkin had returned with a dressing, or else it was some stretcher bearers. He did not mind who it was. He called out again. But after a long time, when the answering cry did not come any nearer to him, and when it sounded simultaneously with his own, he knew that it was another man wounded and crying out, probably not even hearing him. They were no help to one another.
Otherwise there seemed to be no life, only death, all around him. The moon had come out for a while and he saw for the first time that he was in fact among a pile of bodies at the bottom of a shell hole, and the revulsion of it made him determine to get up and out somehow, and he found a hold by grasping the shoulders of a dead man and climbing over his back. Once up on to the level ground, he flopped on to his face, exhausted by the pain in his leg and the effort he had made. He smelled a sweet smell and the dream took him again, he was in his own room, the scent of roses came up to him from the garden.
This time it was the rain which brought him round, his head and neck were cold and running with water, his tunic was soaking wet. A Verey flare shot up and as he lifted his head he saw that he was facing out of the wood, looking down the slope in the direction of their own trenches, though they were perhaps half a mile away. He turned over slowly, his leg throbbing, found another biscuit, but when he put it into his mouth, he could not swallow.
He knew now that if he was to get back it would be on his own, there would be no stretcher parties.
Above his head the moon had gone in, the sky was dark and rain-filled again and he did not want to move, he wanted to lie and drown, he could have gone back to sleep and dreamed his dreams of the sun and sea and his mother in the lilac dress, of Beth and David Barton.
Barton.
He sat up, his heart pounding. He was quite clear headed. Where was Barton? He had been further down the line and a little way behind. Hilliard had not seen him since they first went over the top. Where was he? He had to get back, he had to see him.
He got to his knees and tried to stand. Toppled over again at once. In the end he began to crawl, resting and then dragging himself forward, putting his whole weight on his arms, resting again. Several times he lost consciousness, he did not know for how long. From somewhere a shout. He shouted back. Nothing.
He said, ‘Barton.’
He was panting with the effort of trying to go more quickly, he was forced to stop and rest for a long time. But he was out of the wood now and going inch by inch through the mud. Every couple of feet he came up against a body or a pile of bodies, odd limbs or rifles, helmets, packs. A full water-bottle. He ripped the cap off and poured the contents down his throat, crying with the relief it gave him. The next few yards were better, he could get on to his knees for a short way.
Until he came upon Parkin. He did not see who it was until the man’s face was almost under his hand. He was lying on his back, arms stretched out wide and his chest and stomach half torn away. But his face was relaxed, his eyes open and looking up into the night sky, the rain splashed down gently on to him. Hilliard touched his flesh. It was cold, moist. He wondered why Parkin had come so far and whether he had been on his way back with the dressing. But looking behind him he saw that in fact he had only come a few yards out of the wood, it had taken perhaps two or three hours and felt like fifteen miles. He lay down, putting his face against Parkin’s arm, and wept with frustration. Somewhere close by another man was groaning. Hilliard said, ‘Shut up, shut up, for God’s sake shut up!’ But it was only a whisper. He felt helpless. He let his face fall forwards again.
The next time he moved, remembering that he had to get back to the dugout to find Barton, the whole of his left leg and part of his side had gone numb, so that crawling was easier, though he did it clumsily. The shells were bursting around him again now but they seemed to have nothing to do with him, and he went on. He only wished there were some other sign of life apart from the crying of the wounded and the blasting of the guns.
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.