The Stolen Years

At the drawing-room door she paused, smiling at Millie, Gavin’s spaniel. The dog wagged her tail patiently, hoping to be allowed into the hall. “Just a minute, Millie,” she said, her eye catching a photograph in a silver frame. It had been taken at Chateau de la Vallière, her cousins’ home in Limoges, during that last, wonderful summer of 1913.

She picked up the picture, tears welling suddenly. There was dear Eugène, serene as always, and his baby sister Geneviève. René, their younger brother, was slouching behind him and sulking. Uncle Eustace, dressed in a white suit and panama hat, leaned on a walking stick behind his sister’s deck chair, while in the foreground were Gavin, Angus and herself, sitting on the grass, their arms entwined. The merry trio—or rather, Gavin and his two faithful followers. What a beautiful day it had been. They had laughed and played, oblivious of what life had in store for them. She replaced the picture with damp eyes, wondering when the friendly banter she engaged in with Gavin had transformed into an embarrassed awareness that left her dizzy, her heart racing whenever he was around. Perhaps it had been that very afternoon. But it was not until last year, when he had returned for a short week’s leave, that she knew she was in love.

She leaned against the door, staring into space, recalling that thrilling moment when he’d walked in and their eyes had met and clung. Oh, what heaven it had been. Gavin, so tall and mature in his well-worn uniform. The white and purple ribbon of his M.C., the Military Cross won for bravery at the Battle of the Somme in 1916, was worn with casual nonchalance, although he was the youngest man to have received it yet. For days they had walked, talked and laughed, each too shy or too young to make the first move, yet so aware of one another it hurt.

She wrinkled her nose and stared at the picture once more. If she’d known half of what she knew now, she’d have given herself to him without a second thought, she realized, shocked at her own depravity. But there might never be another chance, unless…perhaps she would be blessed, and one day he would be brought in to her section of the field hospital. Not with a bad wound, of course, but just enough for him not to return to the front and for her to take care of him.

Tante’s singsong voice calling from upstairs interrupted her daydreams. She let Millie into the hall, regretting now that all she’d allowed Gavin was one chaste kiss. The thought of his lips on hers made her shiver, and she ran quickly up the stairs and along the corridor to her room. If only she was at Strathaird, she wished. There she had her favorite spot, among the worn chintz cushions of the window seat in the upstairs sitting room, where she would curl up and dream, gazing out over the lawn to the cliff and the churning sea below. Oh, how she missed it. The family fondly called the room “Flora’s dreamery,” for it was there she spun her yarns, meditated, daydreamed and saw things others didn’t, and where everyone always knew they could find her.

But tonight she had to content herself with having achieved her objective. At least now she would be close to Gavin, and truly serving her country. Finally she would be a part of this war to end all wars that would mark their lives forever.

2

Arras, France 1917

“‘If you were the only girl in the world,”’ an out-of-tune voice warbled.

“Gawd, you’ve got a bloody awful voice, mate.”

“Says who?”

“Says I. We should stick you out in no-man’s-land and let Franz ’ear you. ’E’d be off ’ome in an ’eartbeat, ’e would.”

Laughter ran the length of the trench, and banter flew as the men moved, ankle-deep in mud, trying desperately to keep their spirits up while they repaired the traverses, piling sandbags near the entrance to secure it before the next rainfall. Those taking a break sat smoking wherever they could find a dry spot, wrapped in their greatcoats, exchanging jokes. Lieutenant Angus MacLeod, of the Fifty-first Scottish Highlanders, leaned over and offered his brother a light.

“Thanks.” Gavin shielded it with his palm, took a long drag and surveyed the men, wondering how long it would be before they finally made an advance into the massive defenses, through the endless stretches of mud and barbed wire that separated them from the enemy. There was something big stirring, he was certain, for powerful artillery had been moved in to back them up. He felt sure General Harper’s orders would be imminent. Smoking, Gavin silently calculated their chances of success and reckoned they were slim. The German offensive was gruesome. “I hope things will be better than at Ypres,” he murmured to himself. There, the Guards, the Fifteenth Scottish, the Sixteenth Irish and several other assault divisions had fought themselves out from August through September in what was known as the battle of the mud at Passchendaele.

“It’s one of my last, so smoke it slowly,” Angus remarked, referring to the cigarette.

Gavin grinned affectionately, watching the thin ribbon of smoke rise above the damp earth of their burrow, and listened to the sound of the enemy artillery becoming uncomfortably close, noting the occasional flash of flares. Too damn close, he realized. Eyeing Angus, he decided not to share his misgivings with his brother. Although they were fraternal twins, their personalities were as different as their looks. Angus hated it all. They never talked about the war much unless they could help it.

“God, I wish this were all over,” Angus remarked gloomily.

“I don’t know, it has its moments.” Gavin took another long drag, enjoying the scent of the Will’s tobacco, which was a dash sight better than the never-ending stench of gangrene and death. “This may be the one exciting thing that will ever happen in our lives. Once we’re home, Papa will expect us to follow in his footsteps, enter the wretched coal business and lead life exactly as he did.”

“Ha!” Angus shook his red head. “Trust you to consider this mess an adventure.”

“What makes you think life will be the same as it used to be?” Jonathan Parker, a young medical student from Cambridge, asked, swallowing tea from his tin mug. “I don’t think anything can ever be the same. For one thing, people aren’t going to be as complacent as they were. And God knows what will happen if we lose.”

“Lose, be damned,” Gavin replied. “We can’t.”

“If the doughboys don’t take a hand in it soon, we will, old chap. Look at us, for Christ’s sake! Three bloody years and we’ve only a couple of miles gained and few hundred thousand dead to show for it. That’s not counting the wounded,” Jonathan added with a bitter laugh.

“You’re right.” Angus nodded, pulled his greatcoat closer. “Who knows how long it may go on?” he added dismally.

With the sound of a courier arriving at the entrance of the trench, every head turned in unison. The men stopped smoking and those working laid down their picks and shovels, silently praying his name would be called. Letters from home were what kept a man sane. As names were called out and letters passed down the line, those who received nothing got back to work, masking their disappointment.

“Angus MacLeod.” Angus leaned forward as the letter was passed down.

“Who’s it from?” Gavin asked, stubbing out the precious cigarette casually, knowing the girls at Paris Plage could get him more.

“Flora. It’s from Flora,” Angus replied, blushing, his hands trembling as he slit open the envelope.

For a second, the sweet softness of her gray eyes and her mysterious smile replaced the mud, the wet and growing rumble of enemy fire. And for a moment, Gavin wished he’d written, but it just didn’t come naturally. He could say the words, and felt them deep inside. But write them? No. He didn’t like writing letters. He hadn’t even written that infamous “goodbye” letter, the one you left for after you were killed. Not him. Something told him it wasn’t a good omen. He shrugged, eyeing Angus impatiently as he read the letter, wishing she’d addressed it to him.

“I think you’ve got a crush on her,” he teased, dying to hear what she had to say.

“You know she only has eyes for you.” Angus scanned the lines avidly, then frowned.

“Well,” Gavin prodded, “what does she say?” Again he wished that she’d write to him. But then, she had before and he’d never taken the trouble to reply. Gavin shrugged. Flora knew he loved her. She would wait. She understood him as no one else ever could. She was his. He wished he’d kissed her again that last time they’d been together. But he couldn’t. If he had, things would have gotten out of hand. She was so young, so lovely, so innocent…Biting back his feelings, he nagged his brother again. “Well, come on. What’s she got to say for herself?”

“She’s coming out,” Angus replied in a flat voice.

“What do you mean?” Gavin’s head flew up.

“She’s asked to be posted overseas. She’s being sent here to France.” He glanced at the date of the postmark. “In fact, she’s probably here by now. This letter is more than a month old.”

“Good God. But why would she do that? There’s no reason for her to. Surely Papa could have intervened.”

“She says here that Father backed her up. She wants to do this, Gavin,” he added quietly, handing him the letter. “She’s made a choice.”

Gavin scanned the lines. Feeling powerless, he kicked a piece of stray traverse angrily, afraid for the first time. He knew how to take care of himself, damn it, but the thought of Flora in danger, without him to take care of her, had him swearing. Why hadn’t she stayed at home, where he knew she’d be safe? “You’re right about this damned war,” he exclaimed suddenly. “It’s time we got on with our lives. Do you think she’ll be posted near us?”

“She’ll probably be sent to Etaples,” Angus replied. “That’s where most of the V.A.D.s get sent when they first come out.”

“At least that’s not in the middle of the fighting. Still, I don’t like it.” Gavin looked up as the sound of shellfire intensified. He glanced at his brother, away in a world of his own, then stared back at the letter. His name had been pointedly avoided. She was angry he hadn’t written, he supposed. Well, he’d explain later, clear things up.

“Perhaps we’ll be able to see her,” Angus said dreamily.

“Maybe. If we live long enough,” Gavin answered, squinting upward.

“Oh, you will,” Angus laughed, his face alight with sudden admiration. “You’re like a cat, always falling back on your feet. We made it out of the Somme last year thanks to you.”

“Rubbish.” Gavin handed him back the letter then checked his rifle. “We all did our part. Imagine our little Flora at the front, though. It seems so strange. And I don’t like it one bit.”

“Not so little anymore, and from what I gather between the lines very much in love with you.” Angus gave him a fixed smile.

“I don’t know.” Gavin cocked his ear and tried to identify the exact direction of the increase in shellfire.

“Of course you do. You always have. You’ve only had eyes for one another for as long as I can remember,” Angus replied a touch bitterly.

Gavin gave him a surprised glance. “Jealous?”

“Of you two? Of course not.” Angus shook his head. “You’re meant for one another. I never stood a chance. She’s very fond of me. As a cousin and friend, that is.”

“Well, if anything happens to me, I suppose you’d better take care of her for me. Can’t have her going to some stranger.” Gavin spoke with a flippancy he was far from feeling, and scanned the trench once more. Deciding where to position his men, he ducked as the firing grew suddenly louder and a flare nearly grazed his head. “What in hell’s name’s going on? I know we’re in the middle of a bloody offensive, but it’s too damn close for comfort and I’ve not received any direct orders from H.Q. I hope the telephone lines aren’t down.” He raised his head aboveground.

“Don’t, you fool, you’ll get yourself killed.” Parker yanked him back.

“We need to know what’s happening.” Gavin jumped back down into the squelching mud and took charge. “Summers, stand to.” He ordered. “Marshall, keep the end bay covered.” He shouted orders as the noise increased and the men hastened as best they could, taking up their positions.

Then an eerie hum approached. Too late he realized what was about to happen. “Move,” he shouted, pushing Angus down into the mud in the split second before the explosion. Then pain tore through him. His body jerked up before it was thrown into a tangled mass of torn limbs, ripped flesh and horrifying screams.

For a while, he thought he was dead. Then, gradually, consciousness returned and he heard cries, smelled the bitter, acrid smoke. He tried to move but pain shot through his hip and thigh; he tried to open his eyes but they stung. Everything was hazy. He felt about him in a daze, all at once aware that the soft, wet substance he was touching must be flesh, and choked, as horror, gas and blood filled his lungs and he tried vainly to move.

Little by little he extracted his left hand from the sticky warmth below, gripped by nausea when he realized he was lying on Jonathan Parker’s dead body. He gasped, trying to catch his breath. Trying to think. He was alive. He had to stay alive. But where was Angus? Making a superhuman effort, he heaved the mangled pile of blood-soaked remains that lay across him, hearing the sound they made as they sank into the mud. The effort left him exhausted. But he focused now, and the rush of relief when he saw Angus staring down at him, apparently unharmed, was overwhelming. Thank God. He tried desperately to speak, but his lips wouldn’t move. To motion, but his arm wouldn’t budge.

Angus stared at him, expression detached. Gavin shouted but no sound emerged. Couldn’t Angus see him, damn it? He closed his eyes against a whiff of gas. When he was able to open them once more, Angus’s face still loomed impassively over him, an expressionless mask. Why didn’t he pull him out of here instead of just standing there? “Angus,” his mind screamed. “Help me, for Christ’s sake!”

But Angus made no gesture, no motion. Instead, he crouched beside him, wearing the cold, half-amused, disinterested gaze of a spectator. Desperately, Gavin reached his left arm toward his brother in a frantic effort, daggers searing through his hip and upper body as he grasped the gold chain and cross swinging from his twin’s neck, clutching it.

But Angus made no move and the chain gave way. Gavin reeled back, collapsing once more in the mire of blood, mud and misery. As his head sank into Jonathan Parker’s open guts and everything went black, his last conscious image was of Angus, watching calmly as he sank into oblivion.

3

Etaples, France, 1917

“Nurse, we need to vacate the facility immediately. There’s a new convoy coming in from the front lines. They’re bringing in the wounded as we speak.”

“Yes, Sister.” Flora hurried around the ward, which she and Ana, another V.A.D., ran with virtually no assistance, and helped the patients who could walk to other wards. Once they’d all been shifted to the next building, Flora hurried back to prepare beds and blankets for the new arrivals. As she tucked in the last sheet, she heard the ambulances drawing up and sighed, realizing it would be another long night. Every spare hand was needed and getting to the wounds before they festered and required amputation had become a grilling challenge.

She dumped the dirty laundry in a corner and prepared for the onslaught, forcing herself to stay calm, pushing away the fear that each new batch of arrivals brought. Inevitably she searched each incoming stretcher for his face, praying it wouldn’t be there. Flora sighed again. She’d had less news in the two months she’d been here than all the time back home.

She pulled herself together as the wounded began pouring in, and the usual frenzy of dressing wounds, injecting morphine and preparing the dying began. There were plenty of those today, she realized, horrified.

The doctor approached, face exhausted and eyes bloodshot, his white coat splattered with muted bloodstains that no amount of washing erased. He looked at the wound. “Better to put a bullet through the poor bugger,” he muttered angrily before setting to work. The priest and the chaplain stood nearby; they had long since stopped bothering about denominations, instead simply murmuring prayers in a desperate effort to bring solace to those last remaining moments, leaning close to catch final messages whispered from barely moving lips.

Flora worked nonstop. There would be countless letters to write to the soldiers’ families, she thought sadly. It was the only tribute she could pay to the young men who’d died so valiantly in her arms. At least she could give their loved ones the treasure of their last words. When there were none, she took it upon herself to invent them, sure that what mattered most was that a parent or a wife be given something to cling to.

“Pass the morphine, Nurse. I’m afraid we’ll have to amputate,” the doctor said above the moans and agitation. Flora glanced at him, his young face prematurely lined, marked by three years of battling disease, death and devastation.

She handed him the bottle as a young orderly came up to her. “Nurse, we have a bad case of shell shock. Where should we put him?”

“Oh my goodness. Is he wounded?” she asked distractedly, preparing for the operation that was about to take place.

“No.”

“Then put him in number ten and I’ll get to him whenever I can. I’m afraid I can’t do anything about it at the moment.” He nodded and left, and Flora prepared the patient for amputation, trying to overcome the nauseous smell and increasing heat in the ward. The hospital back home had seemed bad, but here life was hell. There was none of the priggish, ordered behavior of regular hospital life, with the petty rules and hierarchies of the matron. All of that was forgotten in a common effort to save as many lives as they could.

Getting to a wound in time had become an obsession, with heroes and enemy treated alike. And so it should be, Flora reflected, throwing out the slops and taking more bandages back into the ward, for how could you feel rancor toward young men as vulnerable and damaged as any of their own? It was tragic and intolerable to see a generation—whether German, British or any other—condemned to die, drowned in mud-filled trenches, buried under the rich earth of northern France that for over a thousand years had claimed her victims relentlessly. For an instant, she wondered what had happened to the Europe of before the war that all had believed would be over by the time the leaves fell, but that was more than three years old.

It took her five more hours to see all the patients, then Matron came on duty and forced her to go.

“You simply have to get a rest, Flora. You’ll be worn-out if you don’t. I’ll see you back at the hut. By the way, could you take a quick look at that shell shock case on your way out? I don’t seem to be able to get through to him at all, and you’re so good with those patients.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be back at seven.”

“Right. But you must rest, dear, or you’ll be no use to anyone.”

“I will.” Stepping over stretchers of soldiers whose wounds were less urgent, she walked down the corridor and headed for the last ward, where a gramophone with a scratchy needle played a popular tune. There, some men sat in dressing gowns, smoking and playing cards at a rickety wooden table. They called to her as she entered.

“’Ey, Nurse, ’ow ye’ doin’? Goin’ ’ome, I am. Back to Liverpool, it is.”

“Good, Berty. I’m so glad. How about you, Harry, how’s your leg?”

“Oh, fair enough. Never be much good on the football field again, but at least I’ll be able to walk, which is more than most.”

She nodded, smiling to mask her exhaustion, and looked for the patient. “Have you seen a chap sent in with shell shock?” she asked Nancy, the V.A.D. in charge.

“He’s over in the corner.” She pointed to her left. “He seems unable to speak. Perhaps you can do something with him, poor man.”

Flora glanced at a chair that faced the far corner of the crowded ward, then walked toward it, filled with sudden foreboding. Gavin’s image flashed before her and she shuddered, her misgivings increasing as she approached the chair. The young man had his back to her, his head in his hands. Mustering every last ounce of strength, she dragged herself forward, dreaming of the hut she shared with three other V.A.D.s. and her bunk, longing to crawl into bed for a few precious hours of sleep before it all began again.

She came up behind him, gently touched his shoulder.

“I’ve come to help you,” she said softly. “Will you tell me who you are?” She came around and crouched at his side, seeing nothing but a thick shock of red hair falling over the hand that supported his forehead. At the sound of her voice, he raised his head. For a moment Flora simply stared, stunned. “Angus,” she gasped in amazement. “Is it really you?” Tears burst forth as she threw her arms around the stiff, motionless figure. Then, leaning back and holding his hands, she realized that his eyes were devoid of expression. “Angus.” She shook him anxiously. “Angus, it’s me, Flo. Say something, please.” She shook him again gently. Then another thought occurred. Gavin. Where was Gavin? She glanced around, as though expecting to see him among the group of men smoking and playing cards. Then she squeezed Angus’s hands once more.

“Angus, you’re all right now. You’re with me.” His eyes flickered and her heart leaped. “Oh, Angus, darling, please. Please come back. Please tell me where Gavin is,” she whispered almost to herself.

“Dead.” The voice was flat.

She stared at him, then shook her head. “No. It can’t be. No.” She shook her head again, her hands gripping his sleeve savagely. “Not Gavin.” She began shaking, then laughed hysterically. “People like Gavin don’t get killed, they’re immortal.”

“It should have been me,” he whispered.

Alerted by the tone of Flora’s wild laughter, Nancy came hurrying toward them.

“Flora? What is the matter?”

Unable to respond, she sank to the floor, clinging to Angus’s limp hands as though she might find some part of Gavin there, refusing to let go, to believe.

It took Nancy and two other nurses to pry her away. Half carrying her to the hut, they put her to bed and forced some pills down her throat. It was only when she woke, twenty-four hours later, from the heavily drugged sleep, that the truth hit home. He was gone. Gone forever.

She stared at the pegs that sagged under the weight of various clothes, wanting to cry, but she couldn’t. She, who had shed so many tears for all the others, was incapable of weeping for the man she loved. Now that it was his turn, she was numb. She dragged herself up in the narrow cot, pulled the brown blanket up to her chin and sat shivering, trying to visualize him, but her mind was blank, as though her memory had been wiped clean as a slate. She closed her eyes tight, desperately trying to conjure up his image, recall some feature, some 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.”