The Stolen Years

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.”

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?” he asked, offering him the pack.

“Danke.” Gavin took the cigarette warily, his eyes never leaving the German’s face. Then he heard his neighbor again.

“Jolly good show, old chap. We’re scared stiff of her. She’s the devil to deal with. That’s done more to break the ice than you’d believe.”

“Thanks.” He leaned forward and accepted a light. “Ask this chap what his name is, will you?”

“That’s Karl. I’m Franz, by the way, Lieutenant Franz von Ritter. Who are you?”

“I’m Gavin MacLeod.”

“That’s odd. For some reason, they’ve been referring to you as Angus. Something to do with a cross you had in your hand when you were brought in.”

“It belonged to my brother.” Gavin took a long drag of the cigarette, knowing he was going to have to face his memories of his twin eventually. What had Angus been thinking? God! A sudden thought crossed his brain. Could the shell have blinded him? Maybe that was it.

“Sorry to hear that.” The other man obviously assumed Angus was dead.

“That’s the way it goes,” he replied, wondering where Angus was now. Suddenly he felt ashamed of having doubted his twin. There must be some explanation for his behavior. Gavin immediately felt better, the tightness lifting from his chest. Now he must apply himself to getting out of here, he resolved. His family would be worried to death about him. He could imagine poor Flora, sick with worry at the hospital, and his mother and father back home.

By the end of the following week, he was recovering fast, and was in good enough spirits to charm the young, blond nurse, Annelise, into sneaking cigarettes and schnapps into the ward. These he distributed liberally among the men, making him the most popular patient there. The matron mumbled, disgusted about lack of loyalty in the present generation, but the men didn’t care. They were fed up with a war that never seemed to end, and Gavin had brought new life to a tedious situation. He always had a joke for Franz to translate, a word for someone who needed jollying up. Soon they were looking to him for direction.

Franz turned out to be a decent sort and they spent long hours talking about their lives in Britain before the war, and what their plans were for the future—whatever that might be. Gavin chafed at the hip, which kept him bedridden, but Franz told him not to complain. It was much better to be in the medical station than with the other prisoners. Gavin had to agree. Sitting out the rest of the war in an internment camp was not his idea of bliss.

Despite his newfound comforts and companions, every day he woke with Angus’s face as he’d last seen him—devoid of expression, cold. It haunted him and he prayed that his brother was all right. He thought of Flora and wished she’d stayed at home, where he would know she was safe. He wondered if she knew he was alive. They must know by now that he’d been taken prisoner, Gavin reasoned. After a moment, these thoughts depressed him and he got up and joined Franz and Karl, who were playing poker for cigarettes. Pulling up a chair, he prepared to join the game.

“Deal me in,” he said with an American twang that made them all laugh. He studied his cards carefully. Karl was easy to bluff. Franz played better, but Joachim, a lieutenant from Mannheim, was the best of the three. He lit a cigarette and the game progressed.

Half an hour later, the matron marched in. She pursed her lips, looked his way and announced with a triumphant smirk that a number of prisoners were to be brought in within the hour. Gavin pretended to concentrate on the game but he was excited. Perhaps he would finally learn some news. There was another fact to face, as well. Until now, he’d been comfortably letting time go by. But his duty as an officer taken prisoner was to immediately search for a route of escape. While he was healing, that hadn’t been possible. But although his thigh still ached and his hip hurt like hell when he walked, his arm was considerably better. If there were more British prisoners, then the situation might change.

He glanced at his cards, aware of the nurses hurrying through with fresh piles of blankets, followed shortly by stretchers carrying the wounded. He barely managed to control his impatience, ready to drop out of the game in his eagerness to question the newcomers. Watching as the wounded—more victims of the salient—were carried passed, Gavin realized guiltily that for the past couple of weeks he’d allowed himself to fall into the apathy of convalescence. The war seemed remote without the backdrop of artillery fire. He got up, unable to stay still, and went to the door. A particularly nasty case of gangrene reminded him of just how real the conflict still was. When a straggling group of wounded officers was directed into the ward under the matron’s vigilant eye, he moved next to them.

“Where did they get you?” he asked a pale lieutenant not much older than himself.

“In the shoulder, and a scratch on the head. It’s a bloody mess out there.”

“What regiment are you with?”

“Warwickshire. And you?”

“Fifty-first Highlanders.” Gavin smiled at Annelise, and got her to direct the lieutenant to the cot closest to his. The other man nodded and thanked him, sinking onto the bed in exhaustion.

“All hell’s broken loose. I hope this time it may get us somewhere.” He gave a tired shrug and closed his eyes.

“The Germans are as fed up as we are.”

“I’ll bet. When were you captured?”

“October.”

“You’ve heard about the French mutiny? They refuse to fight any longer, except to defend. Can’t blame them, poor chaps. Chemin des Dames was a bloodbath.”

“I don’t suppose you saw any of the Fifty-first, did you?”

“Only back at Etaples about three weeks ago. There were a couple of fellows wounded at Passchendaele—probably some of your chaps—waiting to be shipped home. The other poor buggers were waiting to die.”

“Does the name Angus MacLeod mean anything to you?” Gavin offered him a cigarette.

“Thanks.” The young man smiled his appreciation. “MacLeod. That rings a bell. Isn’t he Ghost MacLeod’s twin, the chap who braved the lines at Ypres and saved a whole battalion? That was either incredible courage or plain stupidity. He got the M.C. for it, you know. Apparently he was much younger than he made out, too. I think his twin was back at the field hospital waiting to be shipped home. He didn’t handle his brother’s death too well.”

“Death?” The lighter stopped in midair.

“I’m afraid so. There was no trace of him, poor devil. Did you know him?”

“They think I’m dead,” Gavin murmured, horrified. Wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, he sat down on the bed with a bang.

“Are you all right? Was MacLeod a friend of yours?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s just rather odd to know you’ve been given up for dead.”

“Oh God. What do you mean? You’re—”

“Yes. I’m Captain Gavin MacLeod. Angus is my brother.”

“Good Lord.” The man looked at him in sudden awe. “I’m Lieutenant Miles Conway, by the way,” he said, stretching out his hand and smiling from below the bandage. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ghost.”

“Thanks.” They shook hands and Gavin sensed an immediate bond.

Dead. They thought he was dead! Gavin assimilated this news, imagining Flora and his parents. How devastated they must all be. It was bad enough to picture them thinking him missing. But dead…The image of Angus’s impassive face flashed before him, but he refused to think of that right now. There were other priorities—such as escape—to be thought of, that took on new urgency.

“Any chance of us getting out of here?” Miles asked, voicing Gavin’s thoughts.

“I don’t know. Up until now I’ve been on my own,” he answered vaguely. “Difficult to believe one’s been given up for dead. Gives one a damn odd feeling, I must say.”

“They may know that you’re alive by now. Perhaps they’ve set the records straight.”

“I bloody well hope so,” Gavin replied, suddenly angry—at the army, at Angus for not helping him and at the damn Krauts for catching him. “Now that you’re here, perhaps we can get an escape plan going.” He rose and smiled at his new companion. “You’d better rest. By the way, my neighbor Franz is okay. Has a British mother, and lived in England all his life. He got called back here at the beginning of the war.”

Annelise approached, hustling Gavin away before attending to Lieutenant Conway. “You want to butter her up,” he said over his shoulder. “She’s a great girl.”

“Everything all right?” Franz asked him anxiously as Gavin flopped on his bed, cold sweat racking his body. He leaned back, his eyes closed, feeling nauseous. Was it possible his twin had left him to die? He squeezed his hands into tight fists, his knuckles white, seized by doubt.

That night he barely slept, tossing and turning, positive one minute that Angus had betrayed him, convinced the next that it wasn’t so. To distract himself, he set his mind on ways of escape. Glancing at Franz, peacefully asleep in the next bed with his face etched by the light of the full moon, Gavin wondered just how far the man could be trusted. He seemed to be on their side, but could he be sure?

At 3:00 a.m. in the pitch dark, he rose, stiff and restless, to smoke a cigarette.

“Wo gehen siehen?” the nurse asked peremptorily.

“Annelise?” he whispered, offering her a cigarette. She relaxed, smiled as his eyes lingered on her face and he ran his fingers though his hair. The patch that had been shaved was growing back, thick and black as ever, and she was obviously not oblivious to his Gaelic charm, whatever she might have heard about the British.

He motioned for her to go to the far end near the door, where they could sit, the flame from the match lighting her face. She was pretty enough, he considered. Full, round breasts, a trim waist, shapely hips that could only be imagined under the stiff uniform. He went suddenly hard, picturing her skin melding to his. As though reading his mind, she leaned closer. It was a risk, he realized, blood pounding. A big risk, yet an enticing one. If she so much as squeaked, they’d shoot him. But for the first time since arriving in the godforsaken hospital, he felt alive, back in the game, dodging danger.

He raised a hand to her cheek, his eyes mesmerizing. “Shön, beautiful,” he whispered, hearing the quick intake of breath and sensing no rejection when his hand dropped below the stiff edge of her collar toward her generous breast. He reached her nipple and she shuddered under the many layers of material that separated his fingers from her flesh.

It was exhilarating to peer through the shadows and know that this enemy nurse, decked out in her prim stiff uniform, was hot, wet and throbbing for him. A rush of power, followed by the primeval need to possess her, overwhelmed him, and he wondered where he could take her to satisfy the urgent, consuming need.

Pulling her close, he felt her breasts press against his chest. Then she led him by the hand, glancing about cautiously as they slipped from the ward, out into a muddied alley that separated the buildings. She pointed to a nearby hut some two hundred feet away.

Making sure the coast was clear, Gavin followed her across the alley and slipped inside the hut, closing the door hastily behind him before striking a match. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he recognized a bed and what appeared to be piles of clean laundry in the corner. He laid the matchbox on the table, fascinated by the shafts of moonlight lighting Annelise’s hair. In one swift movement he reached up, pulled the pins from the neat chignon she wore and watched the thick, silvery-blond mass fall about her shoulders. Then their bodies cleaved impatiently and they tumbled onto the tiny bed, the need for one another too acute.