Making history

Hans did not believe he had ever in all his life seen such naked and unashamed hero-worship. No, damn it, such love. Comradeliness was the hearth-side of the trenches; unless the men warmed themselves in the glow of some sort of mutual companionship, they could never endure the soul's winter of warfare. That was the agonising paradox of their lives here: without friendship you could not continue, yet every day friends must die. Make someone the crutch of your existence and their death leaves you weaker than ever you were before. So it was that affection went unstated and the death of friends was shrugged off with black jokes. It was astounding to Hans that Ernst, Ernst Schmidt of all people, should, changing metaphors, strip off his mask and risk the full force of the gas.

God knew, they all loved Rudi. God knew, his was the one death they would never easily laugh off.

Rudi, however, could laugh anything off. His arm was around Ernst now and he smiled down, his eyes warm with affection.

'My dear old friend,' he said, 'would you have me two miles back with the generals? Sitting in armchairs and smoking on a pipe? I am a warrior. You must know by now that no harm will ever come to me. I have bathed in the dragon's blood.' Somehow, it seemed to Hans, such language in Rudi's mouth never sounded as ridiculous as it should. If I were to talk like that, he thought, a bar of soap would be hurled at me and I should be ragged to the end of time. But Rudi, Rudi belongs in a stained-glass window, radiant in silver armour and flanked by holy knights and shining heroes. My God, listen to me! Hans pushed the nails of his ringers deep into his palms to stop himself from laughing aloud.

Ernst meanwhile, caught up in a coughing fit, was still managing to be ... ernst.

'Promise me, sir. Promise me!' he said, whooping like a seal.

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'I never make promises I cannot keep,' said Rudi. 'But have no fear. I shall be here safe and sound tomorrow morning. That I do swear, my faithful one. And don't get yourself so excited! You should have stayed on sick leave longer, you know. Your lungs are still recovering.'

'I am as fit as any man here,' protested Ernst.

'I think maybe I should recommend you for another leave.'

'No, sir! I beg you do not.'

'Well then, for lighter duties perhaps

'It's just a cold, nothing more! I am fighting fit.'

'That's right, old friend,' said Rudi, soothingly. 'Of course you are. Fit for anything.'

The contrast between the two men struck Hans as absurd. Rudi, golden and glowing with health and Ernst, hacking and coughing, coarse-featured and a head shorter.

Rudi turned to Hans. 'Look after him for me, will you? See he keeps out of danger.' He strolled away singing Wagner while Ernst gazed pathetically after him, wheezing like an old hound.

The pure sound of Rudi's natural Heldentenor sprang up the shining intervals of the Siegfried motiv like a stag leaping up a mountain and filled Hans's ears with a music of swords and spears and steeds that shamed the distant boom of vulgar guns.

There's a moment to take to my grave, he thought to himself. Then he slapped his leg in annoyance. Hans Mend, you are growing too sentimental, far too attached. Just like old Ernst here. After all, Rudi might be dead in five minutes. Don't lean on a blade of grass.

Well, he said to himself, perhaps there's no harm m sentiment, honest German sentiment. But how I wish Rudi had resisted the urge to tease Ernst like that. Knowing Ernst it's possible he might be provoked into doing something foolish ...

Hans shook his head and dismissed the thought from his mind.

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He was swirling out the lees of his first foul mug of ersatz coffee the next morning when Ignaz Westenkirch-ner came up to him, shaking his head morosely.

'Bad business, Mend. Bad business.' 'What is?'

'Oh dear, you haven't heard then?'

Hans stifled a snort of impatience. He hated anyone to toy with him by releasing news slowly. Intelligence being worth more than chocolate at the front, almost all men relished the telling of it, but Westenkirchner was the worst. Like a bitchy little chorus girl, he would eke out his trivial gossip as though it were a brandy ration.

Hans stared squarely down at his knees. 'No, I haven't heard,' he said. 'And I'm almost certain I don't want to. I dare say I'll know soon enough, whatever it

is.

He felt Westenkirchner's hand on his shoulder. 'I'm sorry, Hans. I assumed you'd been told ...'

Hans stood, his stomach throbbing with a sudden oscillation of fear. 'What is it?'

Ignaz put a pair of field-glasses gently into his hands and pointed towards no man's land. 'See for yourself, old man,' he said.

Hans climbed the nearest trench ladder, easing his head slowly above the parapet line. If Ignaz is pulling my leg, he muttered to himself, I'll tear off his balls and load them up the breech of a gun.

'Nine o'clock! It's to the right of that crater. There!' 'Where?'

'There! Surely you can see?'

And quite suddenly, Hans did see.

Ernst lay face down, his back torn open and glistening like blackberries, his outflung fist clutched tightly around the strap of Colonel Maximilian Bali-gand's grand Imperial lobster-tailed Pickelhaube. Just out of his reach, as if his dying act had been to fling it towards his home lines, was a French officer's sabre, sheathed in a silver scabbard.

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Sick with loathing and anger Hans stared. He knew it. He just knew Ernst would try something like this.

'Fool!' he yelled. 'Shithead fool. Why for this? Why!' 'Steady on,' said Ignaz below him. 'Nothing to be done.'

A movement in the foreground caught Hans's attention. Slowly, centimetre by centimetre, from the direction of the German lines, a man was crawling on his stomach towards the body.

'My God,' whispered Hans. 'It's Rudi!'

'Where?' Ignaz grabbed the field-glasses. 'Sweet Maria! He's insane. He'll be killed. What can we do?'

'Do? Do? Nothing, you fool. Any action on our part will only draw attention to him. Get your bloody head down, we'll use periscopes.'

For twenty minutes they watched, in silent prayer, as Rudi wormed his way towards the wire.

'Careful, Rudi!' Hans breathed to himself. 'You can do it.' Rudi edged his way along the main roll of wire between him and Ernst's corpse until he came to a section marked with tiny fragments of cloth. This doorway safely negotiated he resumed his belly-down journey towards the body.

Once he had got there-

'And what in hell does he do now?' whined Ignaz. 'I mean, my God, that's the easy part.'

'Smoke!' said Hans. 'Now he's there, we can put up smoke between him and the enemy lines. Quick!'

Ignaz tumbled down from the ladder and hurled himself into the nearest dug-out screaming for smoke pistols while Hans continued to watch.

Rudi lay there as motionless as the corpse beside him. 'What's he doing? He's frozen up!'

Hans became aware of a gathering commotion in his own trench. He pulled back from the trench periscope and looked about him. Ignaz's alarm had alerted dozens of men. No, not men. Boys, most of them. A few had periscopes themselves and were relaying, in fatuous

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commentary, every detail of the scene. The others turned their big, frightened eyes on Hans.

'Why isn't he moving? He's frozen. Has he lost his nerve?' The sight of a man freezing up in no man's land was a common one. One minute you were running and dodging, the next you were stiff as a statue.

'Not Rudi,' said Hans with a confidence he did not necessarily feel. 'He's recovering his strength for the homeward run, that's all.' He turned back to the periscope. Still no movement. 'Everyone with a smoke pistol, get ready!'

Half a dozen men crept to the top of ladders, their pistols cocked back over their shoulders, cowboy fashion.

Hans wetted his finger and checked the wind before settling back to watch. Suddenly, with no warning, Rudi was up, facing the enemy. He hooked his arms under Ernst's and pulled him backwards towards the German lines, hopping backwards with bent knees like a Cossack dancer.

'Now!' shouted Hans. 'Fire! Fire high and five minutes to the left!'

The smoke pistols clapped a polite round of applause. Hans watched Rudi as the bombs fell beyond him and a dense curtain of smoke rose and thickened, drifting gently in the wind between him and the French forward trenches. Rudi turned briefly for a second and waved a salute towards his home lines. Did he know the smoke would come? Hans wondered. Did he trust that we would know what to do? No, he would have risked it anyway. Rudi felt responsible for Ernst's death and was fully prepared to lay down his life to atone. What magnificent idiocy.

'What the hell is going on here?' Major Eckert had stamped into the trench, moustache quivering. Who gave orders to send up smoke?'

A young Franconian saluted smartly. 'It's Haupt-mann Gloder, sir.'

'Hauptmann Gloder? Why would he issue such an order?'

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'No, sir, he didn't order it, sir. He's out there, sir. In Niemandsland. Recovering Stabsgefreiter Schmidt's body, sir.'

'Schmidt? Stabsgefreiter Schmidt dead? How? What?'

'He went out last night to rescue Colonel Baligand's helmet, sir.'

'Colonel Baligand's helmet? Are you drunk, man?'

'No, Herr Major. The French must have taken it during Thursday's raid up the line, sir. Schmidt went to rescue it. He did too, and what's more he brought back a sword as well. But then a shell must have got him, sir. Or a mine.' 'Good heavens!'

'Sir, yes sir. And Hauptmann Gloder is out rescuing the body now sir. Stabsgefreiter Mend ordered us to protect him with smoke.'

'Is this true, Mend?'

Mend stood to attention. 'Quite true, sir. I believed it to be the best course.'

'But damn it, the French might be led into the belief that we are attacking.'

'Respectfully, Herr Major, that can do little harm. All that will happen is that Franzmann will waste a few thousand valuable rounds.'

'Well, it's all very irregular.'

Not as irregular as you, you shithead schoolmaster, thought Mend.

'And where's the Hauptmann now?'

Westenkirchner bellowed the answer from behind his field-glasses. 'He's at the wire sir! Sir, he's all right

sir! He's found the doorway. He's got the body. And the helmet, sir! He's got the helmet and the sword!'

A great roar of delight went up from the men and even Major Eckert allowed himself a smile.

Hans watched as Rudi gently laid Ernst's corpse into the upstretched hands of the men in the trenches below. Rudi made his own way down, shaking off the cheers and congratulations of the men, stunning them into silence with the immensity of his sorrow. He approached the

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body as if he were alone with it, in some private chapel miles from the war. The helmet and sword in his hands as he knelt, Tarnhelm and Nothung, reinforced the magnificent Wagnerian absurdity of the scene. Distant crumps of artillery served the office of muffled drums and the returning billows of smoke wreathed the trench in funereal incense. Rudi laid the sabre and helmet tenderly on Ernst's chest, his face wet with tears. Hans wept too, hot rolling tears of grief and pride and love.

Rudi crossed himself, stood to attention, saluted the corpse and walked away, pushing past rows of whitefaced boys.

Suddenly Hans knew something with absolute clarity and conviction. It is impossible, he realised with a burst of pride, for Germany to lose the war. If the enemy could see what I have seen they would surrender tomorrow. It will soon be over. Peace and victory will be

ours.

Medical History The rod of Hermes

'Soon be over, son. I just want you to follow my finger with your eyes. That's it, don't move your head now. Just the eyes.'

Doctor Ballinger wrote something down, let his pen drop onto the pad with a plop, folded his arms and beamed across at me like a confiding uncle.

'Well?' I said.

'I don't think there's too much to worry about physically. No sign of concussion. Blood pressure fine, pulse fine. You seem to be a very fit young man.'

The balls of my feet were rocking up and down at tremendous speed. 'But my memory, doctor ... why can't I remember anything?'

'Well now, I don't think we need get ourselves in too much of a panic about that. These things happen.'

I nodded glumly, feeling the goose-pimples rise on my legs in the draught of air-conditioning.

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'I want you to do something for me now, Mike. I want you to look at this wallet here.'

A black leather wallet lay on the desk between us. I eyed it uncomfortably. Steve had been sent to bring it back from the strange room in which I had awoken that morning.

'Go ahead, it's not gonna bite you. Pick it up! Take a look inside. Tell me what you see.'

I took out an American Express credit card and held it in my fingers. I saw the name 'Michael D Young' and ran my thumbnail over the embossed lettering. 'Member since 1992. Expires 08/98.'

'Talk to me, Mike.'

'It's an American Express card.' 'Uh huh. Whose?'

'Well ... mine, I suppose. But I've never seen it before.' 'You sure about that?'

'I'm certain. "Michael D Young" it says. I never use my middle initial like that. Never. So, it can't be mine.'

'Okay, okay. What else do you see in the wallet?' 'There's some kind of ID card, a driving licence.'

'You see a driver's license. Is there a photograph on it?' 'Me. It's me, but again I swear to you I've never seen this before.'

'That's okay. Take your time, have a good look. What is the issuing state?'

I looked at it, puzzled. 'State of Connecticut, it says. Is that what you mean?'

'And what do you think of when you say the word Connecticut, Mike? What images come into your mind?' 'Urn ... Paul Revere?'

'Paul Revere. Good. Tell me what you know about Paul Revere.'

'The midnight ride?'

'Midnight ride, excellent. Go on.'

'He rode from Lexington to Concord. Or Concord

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to Lexington, was it? He shouted "the British are coming, the British are coming!" I don't know much else. It's not really my period, I'm afraid.'

It's not really my period!

Something stirred inside me, a rustle of memory, but it scrabbled away like a frightened fieldmouse as I approached.

'Fine. You're doing fine. Tell me what else you see there.' 'Well, there's another card here. Also with my name on it. There's that Greek symbol on it. The staff with the snakes entwined ... oh, what's it called?'

Ballmger shrugged his shoulders. 'You tell me, Mike.' 'Caduceus! It's a caduceus, the rod of Hermes. There! Why can I remember a word like "caduceus" and not remember who I am?'

'Well now, one step at a time. What do you think that card might be?'

'I don't know. The caduceus is a medical symbol isn't it? Is this a national health card?'

'What's a national health card, Michael?'

I stared at him. Tve no idea. I've no idea at all. It just popped into my head. Don't you know?'

'That's your medical insurance card, Michael.' 'But I don't go private.'

'Excuse me?'

'I ... I don't use health insurance. I'm on the national health, I'm sure of it.'

Ballinger gazed at me blankly. 'Would you have any cause to be faking a little episode of loopiness here, Michael? That's what I'm wondering. Some trouble at

home? A girl maybe? Your work getting on top of you, fear of failure?'

'Faking? Faking? Why on earth would I be faking?'

'I had to ask, Mike. So tell me what you mean by "national health"?'

I spread my hands despairingly. 'I don't know. I really don't know. It means something, I'm sure of that.'

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'I see. Tell me then who you think the card might belong to?'

I looked at it miserably. 'It's mine, I suppose. It must be mine.' I squeezed my eyes shut. 'I just can't remember 'Don't force yourself now. You can put your wallet down. Maybe it would be a good idea if you could tell me some things you do remember.'

Something in the way he said that told me that he was improvising here. He had never dealt with anything like this before and he was simply winging it, guessing the right questions to ask. He was as confused as I was. I sensed too, that he was annoyed, just faintly annoyed, that his attempts to jog my memory or kick me out of my fantasy or expose my sham were not working.

'What's wrong with me, doctor?'

'Woah, one thing at a time. Answer my question first. What can you tell me that you positively remember?' 'Well, I remember being sick last night. I banged my head on a wall. I was pissed I suppose ...'

'Why?'

'Sorry?'

'Why were you pissed?'

'Well, because I had been drinking.' 'And that angered you?'

'Angered me?' I repeated, puzzled. 'Not really ...' 'So why were you pissed?'

'Oh,' I said, suddenly twigging. 'You mean pissed off. I meant pissed as in drunk, not pissed as in pissed off. You see, in England when we say "pissed" ... never mind.' Ballinger's blank look was beginning to irritate me. 'Anyway, I remember banging my head. And getting on a bus. And waking up this morning feeling weird.'

'And before that? What do you remember from before?'

'I don't know, almost nothing. Cambridge, of course. I remember Cambridge. That's where I'm supposed to be.' 'You have plans to visit friends in school at Harvard maybe?'

'Harvard? What do you mean?'

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