Chapter 6 Section 19-24 of the third part

but it still holds my clothes corner edge Land of Shiraz, Rukhna's silver fountain Sadie (1184-1291) Allen staggered out of the bomb shelter into the cold first light of dawn.Missing, presumed dead.The whole world has changed.Even if Allen lost his legs forever, he would be calmer than accepting this terrible fact.Tom is now missing and presumed dead. On the makeshift step stood a sentry, his face dull with weariness. "Are there any signs of life over there?" Allen asked him.His voice was harsh, and his lungs ached like never before. "No, sir, nothing." "Are there any wounded? Are there cries for help?"

"Well, sir..." The sentinel shrugged, as if it was an inexplicable question. "I guess, there's always going to be people who get hurt. So many that I can't tell you how much I've heard." Allen almost wanted to punch the man in the face.His right arm was ready to move. "I'm going out now," he said, "and please don't shoot me when I get back." "Yes, sir." The sentinel would have told him that it was foolish to leave the trenches near dawn, but the urgency in Alan's manner held him back.Allen climbed over the parapet, crawled forward recklessly, and climbed straight to the center of the terrifying battlefield.The ground was strewn with fragments of barbed wire, shotguns, and people.A human face detached from a skull floats on the surface of a puddle, face up and squinting at the sky.Allen pays no attention to anything, cares nothing.He crawled to where he thought Tom had failed and started shouting.

"Tom? Tom? Tom Cleary?" It's downright stupid to do that.He was now within sniper range of the German front. "Tom? Tom? Tom Cleary?" There was no sound at all, no human voices, no moans.The German rifles that would have sent him flying in a second didn't fire. "Tom? Tom? Tom!" no answer.How could there be?Tom launched a surprise attack on the German machine guns.The machine gun spoke.Their words are most decisive.Tom is now missing and presumed dead. Headache. A sharp, excruciating headache swallowed up every other feeling, every other emotion.Tom lay for a long time with his eyes closed, feeling nothing but the pain that was raging in his head.But slowly, inevitably, life came back.Life, and with it consciousness.

Realized he was alive.Aware of the pain and the numbness of his entire left leg.Realized that he was safe and sound, even though all logic suggested he should be dead. He opened his eyes.Overhead was a ceiling of planks, solid and neat.Flickering candles flickered on the planks.French soil was spread between the cracks.The ceiling looks very comfortable.Tom's mind wandered to the few things in this small world: the pain in his head, the pain in his legs, the ceiling above his head. But the recovery of life and judgment continues, and with it comes a sense of fear. A light came from somewhere: a candle.Tom turned over to look at it.The candle was placed on a British army helmet, which had been beaten out of shape.Tom stared blankly.That's his steel helmet, but why has it become so misshapen...?He touched his leg: it was badly wounded.The pain got worse and worse.

He remembered more. He remembered Stimson being thrown into the air by the gunfire, and Shorty Hardwick being shoveled to the ground.Stimson's body stood between him and the bullet.It is likely that it was Stimson's death that allowed Tom to escape the onslaught of gunfire with barely any injuries.Poor Stimson... He closed his eyes again and probably fell asleep again.When he woke up, he still had a splitting headache, but his mind was getting clearer.Clear enough to realize that the ceiling overhead is too tidy to be British by any means.Clear enough to realize that he was a prisoner of the Germans.Clear enough to realize that it was his brother, Alan Montague, who wanted this, that he had sent himself to die, that he wanted himself to die.

The friendship that had been the best thing in his life had now been reduced to ashes. For four nights in a row, Alan went out to look for Tom every night. His knowledge of no man's land has reached a level that no one can match.He saw dead bodies, he saw the dying, he saw the wounded on both sides.For the dying, he shot them or knocked them unconscious with morphine.For the wounded, he would painstakingly drag them back to the trenches, and then climb back to continue the search.He called Tom's name a thousand times.He is no longer cautious.He stood up in the moonlight.He used the light of the flares to search the land destroyed by the shells.He called out to his lost brother at the top of his voice.

The Germans certainly heard his voice and saw him.Allen could hear the German sentinel imitating his call—"Tom! Tom Cleary!"—and then burst into laughter and crooning with a Bavarian accent.They even tapped the guns in the same rhythm as they removed the cartridges from the belts of the machine guns. "Tom, Tom-m. Tom Cray-ri-ri!" But no rifles fired, and not even the machine gun seemed to be aimed at him.Out of kindness and pity, or possibly just indifference, the Germans let this crazy Englishman roam the ruins. "Komm, Tom, Komm!" Tom managed to regain his full sanity before falling deeper into the nightmare.

Supported by a strong German arm, Tom walked on his good leg through the maze of trenches to a field hospital.He was roughly examined and given a tetanus shot.He was then sent to a farm where four British prisoners had been held, and the five of them were sent further afield to German-occupied France. By the time they arrived at the POW camp, Tom was on the verge of a breakdown.His injured left leg felt like it was on fire, and bursts of sharp pain hit his whole body like waves trapped in a fish pond.The camp consisted of a cluster of dimly lit huts surrounded by barbed wire.There was a brief pat-down at the door—Tom's cigarettes were taken, despite his protests—and he was taken to a hut marked with the emblem of the Red Cross.A nurse gave him a quick look, decided he wasn't going to die that night, and let him slump exhausted on the straw mattress.He closed his eyes, but couldn't fall asleep.Depression hit him.

He became a war criminal. Allen wanted to kill him. On second thought, he would rather be dead. Allen gave up the search.The search has become increasingly dangerous and pointless.What's more, he was exhausted beyond description.He really didn't know if his body and lungs could take another night like this.Then there's Guy.Alan hears that Guy is injured and learns the name of the hospital where he was staying. Allen faced reality.It's time to leave the front line, leave the fight, and give up on Tom forever. ＊＊ Alan arrived in Rouen two days later, to the school-turned-hospital where Guy was recovering.He walked stiffly into the ward.Guy's bed was empty: nothing but a messy white sheet.Allen walked into the head nurse's cubicle.

"Hi, ma'am. I want to see Major Montagu—" Allen was about to continue, but the head nurse half turned around and pointed, and interrupted him when he saw that there was no one on the bed. "Oh, there! He looks like he's smoking!" She pointed to a door, which was the former campus.Allen went out and found Guy sitting comfortably in a wicker chair, a thin green blanket covering his bandaged legs, his legs resting on two shipping boxes marked "War Supplies— -urgent".He was shrouded in cigar smoke, with a half-turned three-day-old New York Times on his lap.

"Guy!" he said, feeling suddenly dizzy and war-weary. "How are you doing?" The two brothers hugged, and since Guy was sitting there, it was only possible to say that they hugged as well as they could. "If you think about it, it's not too bad. It just hurts like hell." Although he made a special trip to Rouen to see Guy, when he got here, Allen could only think about Tom and Tom's death, and he desperately wanted everyone in the world to know, including Guy.But out of courtesy, he didn't bring up the subject right away.Guy unbuttoned some clothes and showed him where the bullets were going in and out, and the damage the bullets were doing.Alan found himself unable to understand everything his brother said.He didn't even particularly care.It was a minor injury. Allen had seen too many serious injuries, and he was indifferent to it. When it was his turn to say something, he asked, "How did it happen?" Guy shrugged without a clear answer. "That's what happened," he said. "I turned the corner trying to get to the first aid station and I ran headfirst into the damn Commodore. He was very upset with me because I spattered him with blood." On that nice clean khaki. He's got a big war meeting that afternoon, and ordered me—order me, remember—to clean and bandage the wound, and then report to him right away for the meeting. I can talk to You say, the doctors are a little bit annoyed. They want to send me straight up here; frankly, the Commodore General's attitude is kind of ridiculous." "Yes, I think so." "Not to mention I was wearing your uniform. Of course, I've washed it all: you don't want my blood on it, do you?" "yes." "Yes? You really want my blood on your clothes?" Guy raised his eyebrows. "I'm saying no." "Are you all right, man?" "Listen, Guy, I have to tell you right away. You probably don't know it yet. It's Tom, and he's dead." Guy's expression was indifferent at first, and then became a little gloomy and concerned.He put the cigar aside. "Sacrificed? Alan, I'm so sorry. It's such an unfortunate loss." Guy's words were so weak, so vague, that Allen couldn't help but feel a burst of anger. "Unfortunate loss? Come on, it's beyond unfortunate. It's a disgrace, it's an infamy. It's a bloody crime, that's what it is." "Crime? Alan, I've tried my best. The Commodore insisted on..." Guy's voice dropped, and he realized that he had said something wrong, and Alan suddenly became alert. "You were there? God, of course you were. Commodore's war council. You were there? You were there when the decision was made. You were there and you didn't stop it." Guy took a deep drag on his cigarette and leaned back in his chair, as if trying to rely on his disability for protection. "I can't stop it, can I? I'm only a major. Commodore he's a general. He's the one giving the orders." "But you know the situation, you know that those machine gun posts are basically impenetrable." "The Commodore knows it too. He knows it as well as I do. Better than me." Guy sat up again, the cigarette in his hand. "But you're a staff officer, and you can speak up. You can speak for him, or have someone at headquarters speak for him." Guy tugged at his collar, as if to check that it was straight.He threw himself into the conversation, his old listlessness gone. "The Commodore has made up his mind. You know him. It's no use Marshal Haig yelling at him." "But you didn't even try. Because it's Tom, you didn't even try." Guy's voice turned up. "Actually, Tom is the perfect man for this mission. If anyone can get away with it, it's him. I thought it was a stupid mission, and I said so—of course, I didn't say so Many — but the mission still needs to be executed, so we've got the right people." Guy spoke too quickly, as if realizing he had made another mistake.He tugged on the collar again.Alan noticed his brother's unnaturalness, and immediately caught the tail of his words. "We chose? Us? Who are we? You and the Commodore..." Allen paused for only a second.Suddenly, when Tom wasn't around, Alan recognized something in Guy that Tom had long recognized.It's as if that old intuitive communication is working for the last time. "The Commodore announced his stupid plan. Maybe you objected. But when the Commodore insisted, you recommended Tom. Don't deny it, Guy. I know. I know." "He's the best fit. He's the best choice." "Oh, yes, I don't doubt that." "It takes sharpness, it takes guts, and that damn drive. That's Tom." "You hate him, Guy. He always says you hate him. And I never...I never...God, you killed him. I'll never—" Allen stepped back, as if there was an animal corpse in front of him.The corners of his mouth twitched in disgust.At the far end of the campus two nurses walked by, their uniforms dazzlingly white in the afternoon sun.A doctor ran to them.His coat, too, was white, but it was stained with blood, which would not have the same effect in the sun. Allen was about to walk away when Guy leaned out of the wicker chair and grabbed his brother's arm. "Wait! There's something else you don't know." Allen hesitated for a moment, Guy hesitated. "What is it? What is it that I don't know?" "My injury. I didn't tell you what happened." "Oh, come on, Guy! A little bit of flesh and blood and you make yourself a martyr! Mature!" Allen walked out, and Guy didn't try to stop him this time. "Remember, you don't know everything," he cried. "If you did, you wouldn't blame me. I did my best." He yelled, but Allen didn't answer. At the end of the campus, the two nurses were returning along the same path, walking slowly.The hospital was filled with the rotten smell of death. The cardboard tray trembled and sank. Tom stared at it with hungry eyes.His fellow prisoner of war—a Canadian from his military uniform—cut off a small piece of noodle in his left hand and put it on another plate.The scales are balanced.Canadians put both slices of bread on a piece of cloth.There are five pieces in total and they weigh exactly the same.The Canadian withdrew his hand. Tom reached for the nearest piece, though there was a sawdust on the dark dough.The Canadian waited until everyone had chosen before taking the remaining piece.Everyone else left, Tom didn't. "Eating sawdust, huh?" Tom shrugged. "newcomer?" Tom nodded. It was his fourth day at Hötterst, a prisoner-of-war camp just outside Düsseldorf.The camp was a desolate place, with little huts, barren fields, barbed wire, and sentry posts.There are a total of 1,000 people inside, and 60 people live in each simple work shed.Twelve icy taps make up the bathroom facilities of the entire camp.All worked long hours and were always under the supervision of German guards, known as "watchmen."Tom's job was to crack rocks to provide raw materials for a nearby soda factory. Availability of accommodation is not the issue.Neither is the faucet.Neither is work. Food is. Five people share a piece of bread equally every day, that's all.Nothing else.Tom was already hungry.For the first time in his life, he saw people dying of starvation, and he himself joined the ranks. "You could eat the sawdust too," said the Canadian, stowing the cardboard scales under the bedding. "You can chew it well." There was something about him that made Tom immediately like and trust him. "Tom Cleary," he said, extending his hand to introduce himself. The Canadian looked around with a smile on his face. "Mitch Norgard," he said, "Hi." They exchanged the information that prisoners often exchanged.Norgard had been held at Hester since December 1915.Although Norgard joined the Canadian Army, he was actually a U.S. citizen.He enlisted because his mother was Belgian, and he was appalled by the atrocities committed by German soldiers in Belgium in the first days of the war. "So I figured I'd enlist in the military and let them do the same thing to me. I figured my plan worked out better than I could have hoped for." "You're American? I thought—" "Yes, yes, the Canadian Army won't allow Americans. Yes, they won't, but they will." Tom told Norgard his story: formation, date of arrest, job details. Nogard nodded and asked, "Red Cross?" Tom shook his head. "Missing. Presumed dead." "You're kidding," Nogard said, turning serious, as if Tom had just admitted he was terminally ill—and in a sense, he was.Most of the inmates survived because, in addition to the prison rations, they received packages from the Red Cross from Geneva.However, if your record is "missing, presumed dead," then human rights agencies will provide you with nothing. "Thanks to your Royal Navy, the Germans can't even feed themselves, let alone their prisoners. You can't survive without these food parcels." Tom shrugged and tugged at his waist.His belt was already one button tighter than usual, and his trousers were beginning to look baggy. "What about friends and family?" Nogard pressed. "You need to write. Get the 'presumed dead' records wiped out." Tom shook his head, "No." "What the hell do you mean, no? There must be someone." Tom swallowed.Of course he knew how serious his situation was.However, Allen once tried to kill him, and it would be too good for him if he still begged the Montagu family for help.And his father, of course, but Tom knew how close Jack Cleary was to the Montagues, and writing to Jack was no different than writing directly to Sir Adam.He shook his head. "I won't write it," he said, "I'd rather die." The first cold day since autumn.There was only one fire in the room, but the long wooden table and the three butts behind it kept its heat from Alan. The butt in the middle belonged to a colonel in the Royal Army Medical Corps.The other two belonged to the two captains of the medical corps, both ordinary family doctors who had enlisted during the war.The three of them, the owner of the three asses and asses formed a medical committee that came together to review Allen's case.This is just one of many cases. "Anderson?" asked the colonel. "No, sir, Montagu." "Aren't you Mr. Anderson?" The Colonel's tone suggested that Allen's answer was close to disobedience. "I'm afraid not, sir. My name is Montagu, Captain Montague." This is real.Allen was recognized for his outstanding performance in attacking the front lines of the German army. He was promoted to captain and recommended for the Cross. "Um... ah! Montagu." The colonel found the correct paper. "Minor scrape by shrapnel. No amputation, no serious injury. German shells can't stop you, huh?" Allen didn't answer.It's been more than a month since Tom's sacrifice, but Allen is still in shock.The sound of the explosion of the cannonball seemed to be constantly echoing in his ears and heart.To make matters worse, although he was away from the front line and kept receiving medical care, his lungs seemed to be getting worse.But he doesn't care.Out of self-defeating psychology, he asked the medical board to classify him as A1 level, "suitable for front-line combat". The colonel said, "Do you think you're ready to go to the front line again?" "Yes, sir," Alan said, realizing he was lying. "And, of course, you can't wait to be bombed again by German shells?" Allen did not answer the question, but the colonel did not need his answer. "A good soldier," he said, turning to the two lieutenants for their approval.But the two lieutenants hesitated. "Can you run freely?" "How much do you think you can tolerate the sound and impact of the shells?" "Do you feel that you can command your subordinates in a severe situation? Remember that the safety of your subordinates depends on you." Alan didn't want to lie outright, so his answers were visibly hesitant.The brief questioning is over. "Wait a moment, will you, Montagu?" said the colonel, and consulted in low voices with his two colleagues.Allen could hear the colonel saying, "If we're not here to get them back into the field, then what the hell are we doing?" The lieutenants sitting on either side of him protested strongly, pointing to Allen's recent medical records As proof.Allen sat in the cold room, waiting for their sentence.He rubbed his hands to keep warm. Then the doctors stopped muttering, and the colonel spoke again. "Look, Montagu, we can't agree. These two guys are worried that you're not ready to face the Germans again. You—" His words were interrupted.When the colonel and Allen were not paying attention, a lieutenant picked up a file and replayed it on the table.The sound was like a gunshot. Although he was not frightened consciously, Allen's body was out of control.He jumped a yard or so into the air, and when he landed, he was as white as paper, trembling, and his eyes were wide open.His breathing was like the gurgling of a gas poisoner. A moment of silence. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the brazier and the painful cry of Alan's lungs for air. The colonel nodded sadly. "Thank you, Montague. That's all." a week later. Tom's body was getting thinner and his clothes were getting fatter.As his body weakened, his work at the soda factory became more and more tiring.Every morning and night, Mitch Norgard told him to pick up a pen and write a letter home asking for help.Every morning and night, Tom said "no."But on the seventh day, Tom gave in.Since he had nothing else to swallow, he swallowed his dignity.He wrote home.He wrote to his father, Jack, and to Sir Adam and Lady Pamela. He received no reply. He wrote it again. Still no reply. "So what?" said Norgard. "Write again. Write to everyone you know. Write to everyone you've ever heard of. Keep writing until you hear back." But Tom shook his head.War can make people half crazy, and prison camps can make people completely crazy.Tom put down his pen, and never wrote another letter. It was a mistake, understandable, but a terrible one nonetheless. Unbeknownst to Tom, his first letters were loaded onto a hospital ship bound for Dover, which was torpedoed and sunk.His second batch of letters was loaded onto a Red Cross truck bound for Switzerland via the Black Forest.Trucks were attacked by foraging people, looted and all letters lost. Tom would remain "missing, presumed dead" until the end of the war, or until his death. "My son, dear!" It was Pamela who went to pick up Alan at Winchester train station.She hugged him tightly and buried her head in his neck.When she finally let him go, her face was covered with tears. "My poor child, my poor child." She was weeping for Tom, the child she had always loved like a mother; she was weeping for Ellen, the child who had lost his brother.Allen was speechless. Back home, so did his father and Tom's father, Jack.Of course, they were all happy to see Alan, but his presence only made Tom's death all the more real. "He is the best officer and the best man." After their voices calmed down, Allen said to Jack Cleary. "Of course he's—you're both... I mean, this war is a dirty rotten stinking disgrace, man. Excuse me for saying that, but anyone who's going to take a guy like him Things..." Creary's voice slowly dropped. Allen stayed at home for three weeks.This season is the beautiful autumn, and the tall elm trees are full of yellow. It was later confirmed that the shell explosion caused more damage to Allen than originally realized.A needle-like fragment lodged in Allen's chest, puncturing both lungs.The debris was barely visible from the outside, so the original doctors missed it.The longer the debris sits in the lungs, the more damage it can cause.Allen had a successful surgery to remove the shrapnel, though he will have to undergo further surgery when he is strong enough.There were a few guests at home, all young girls who had just entered the social world. They are now working as nurses in Southampton, and they all left quietly before Allen came home, in order to let the patients get the rest and tranquility they deserve. Allen was so weak when he arrived home that he had to be carried to bed.But with love and warmth, he began to recover.While his lungs were still in bad shape, his body was starting to get stronger again.Apart from his lungs, he considered himself a healthy man. But more painful than physical injuries are psychological scars.Allen found himself barely able to sleep in his second-floor bedroom.The large windows and the exposed position made him feel that he could not avoid the artillery fire and bullets that might strike at any time.After three nights of battling his fear, he succumbed and moved into a ground-floor storage room built like a bunker, with stone walls separating him from the outside world on all sides.He burns candles all night while he sleeps. On the other side of the hall in the nursery was a large-scale map of the Zagros Mountains: the map Tom had placed there with his own hand fourteen years earlier.Tom's squiggles with blue pencils when he was nine marked the boundaries of oil land rights.Some nights, when sleep was hard to come by and his lungs struggled to breathe in and out air, Alan would go into the nursery with a candle and look at the rough outline of the mountains north of Shiraz on a map.He had promised Tom that he would go there and find what he could.Will there be oil or just dry land?There's no other way to prove it than the oldest of all: drilling. Some mornings, when dawn lights up the winter sky, he's still inside, in pajamas, holding a candle, looking at a map, brooding, brooding... Sometimes he felt as if finding oil was the most important thing in the world. Norgard rolled over on the bed and handed Tom a handful of acorns. "Found this while pissing on an oak tree on the way back from the factory today." Norgard had one himself, cracking the hard shell and crunching the nuts inside.Tom did the same, chewing carefully.His stomach began to bulge outwards, but all it contained was painful intestinal gas.Sometimes he tried to vomit, but all he could get out was cloudy gas, and the vomiting didn't relieve any pain.At this time, he would think of Alan Montagu.Anger, bitterness, and self-pity all mixed together, tormenting him like gas in his stomach. "What did you do before the war?" Norgard asked. "I'm not asking you to list your ten meals." Tom grinned.Convict conversation these days revolves around food, or soap, or beer, or the myriad of little details of life. "Oil," he said, "I'm in the oil business." "No way?" Norgard sat up, and the acorn fell on the bed. "Drilling or...? Hey, do you have any oil fields in the UK?" Tom shook his head. "Business. No, the land in England is dry." "I bet the King of England is going crazy... which company?" "Mobil, the Standard Oil Company of New Jersey." Tom hoped the patriotic Nogard would be pleased with his answer, but Nogard curled his lips and cursed, "Damn Rockefeller. Destroyed us all in this industry. To hell. To hell with Standard Oil of New Jersey." They chatted on.Before the war, Norgaard was an independent oilman, a driller with his own crew. "Every time we go down and drill, we want to smell the oil. Boy, I've never sharpened a bit like that when I'm standing on my thirty acres. Every time When you do that, you always feel like the oil sands are shining right there. "Have you ever found oil? I mean, yourself." "Twice, just twice." "yes?" Tom's hunger, his longing for home, his anger at Alan, all vanished.He froze, his old oil addiction more than hunger. "The first time was a small well in Bradford, Pennsylvania. The first day, I pumped thirty barrels. Two weeks later, eighty-five barrels. After four weeks, no matter what I did, I could only Pumped out ten barrels of oil, which was a lucky time. I ended up selling that well for the price of a pair of new pants. Just two miles down the road, a piece of land that I wanted to buy but didn't A friend of mine dug up oil. That bastard pumped out three thousand barrels a week there." Tom exhaled in awe.That's the scary thing about the oil business, a glorious enterprise that combines luck, adventure and geology. "What about the second time?" "The second time was like a sweet dream. I called that well 'Old Foo' from the beginning. Drilling the well was as easy as cutting butter. After two thousand feet we found petroleum gas. After three thousand feet, we Her feet were soaked in oil. Six hundred barrels a day. 'Old Foo' did her best, God bless her." "And then?" Tom knew Norgard was teasing him, but he couldn't help but fall into his game. "and then?" "Then John Davidson Rockefeller stole the last drop of oil... He owned all the refineries in that area. He barely paid enough to get the oil over there. He drained me of everything and begged him Bought my well at the time. It wasn't enough to find the oil, Tom, it was all that mattered to turn it into dollars." Over the next few weeks and months, Norgard told Tom about his time in the oil business in Pennsylvania and Oklahoma, and about "never been west of California, But when these kings and emperors get tired of fighting, you'll see me out there drilling for oil in my back garden." Tom's addiction is back.If he could get out of the prisoner of war camp, he already knew what to do in the future.He would go into the oil business: not with Allen, but alone.Not in Persia, but in America.Not on anyone else's money or goodwill, but on his brains, his grit and his determination to win. While he's stuck in prison, there are times when he feels like finding oil is the most important thing in the world. Allen was getting stronger: strong enough to withstand the second and final surgery. In February 1917 he was admitted to a specialist hospital in Southampton.Everything was set and he was drugged.A nurse said, "Please count to ten. One, two, three..." He awoke dizzily to the light. There was a screen beside the bed, two doctors, a stocky head nurse, and a beautiful nurse standing behind.Doctors are arguing about the way the treatment is done and are attacking the old way of stitching.After they found that Alan was awake, they began to ask him some questions to test his recovery. What year is it? "1913." which month? "No idea." Allen laughed because of the stupidity of the question, hoping that the doctors would also notice the ridiculous side, but they didn't. What is his name? "Alan." Allen what? "Creary. Alan Creary." The doctors clicked their tongues and disappeared.The head nurse looked at Alan's sheets with dissatisfaction, and tucked them tightly, so tight that the patient could be packed and sent abroad.Then she left too. The beautiful nurse came to the bed.She has auburn hair, freckles, and charming blue eyes.She let go of the sheets. "It might not be neat," she said, "but at least you can breathe." He smiled at her. "I don't think the doctors like me very much." "They don't like any of them, unless you have a particularly interesting case." "So I'm not up to par? I feel like I've been run over by a car." "Oh, the surgery was quite long. Longer than expected, but you'll heal. Worse I've ever seen heal." Allen realized that she must have helped him change his clothes and wash himself.His face flushed with old-fashioned embarrassment. "Don't worry, I've been here for two years and I've seen everything." "still……" "Still nothing." She put the thermometer in his mouth, forcing him to break off his protest. "Do you have lamb stew or Scotch soup for lunch?" she asked, "Nod when you eat lamb, shake your head when you eat soup. By the way一句，羊肉炖得很糟糕。” 艾伦摇了摇头。 “不错的选择。我已经给你父母亲打过电话。他们晚上就会过来。我告诉他们你会有一点儿头晕，不过你很乐意见到他们。我会悄悄地帮你拿一些花瓶过来。帕梅拉肯定会带一些花儿过来，哪怕是把花房里的花儿全都拔光。” “谢谢——” “啊！体温计！别说话！” “嗯。呃呃。” 她把了把他的脉搏。搭在他手腕上的手指感觉非常美妙，使他虚弱身体的其它部分感觉就像有卡车轧在上面。她的白制服让人头晕目眩。他看着制服随着她的呼吸一起一落。那是世界上最美丽的东西……他慢慢睡着。 他的父母晚上抵达的时候，带了一大把鲜花，好几罐蜂蜜，好几瓶大麦汤，还有（他父亲趁着他母亲忙着插花的时候给的）一小瓶威士忌和一把香烟。 “那护士是谁？”他问道，“她说起你们的时候就好像认识你们一样。” “护士？你是说洛蒂？红头发、蓝眼睛的那个？天啊，艾伦，亲爱的，我都跟你说过十好几遍了。那是洛蒂·邓洛普，今年在我们家呆过的姑娘之一。是个可爱的姑娘。我一直希望你能见见……” “Hier! Komm! Bitte Schnell!” 那个看守已经上了年纪，满头银发，是个犹太人。他站在监狱院子里大概三十码远的地方，冲着汤姆招手。 汤姆指了指自己，“Ich？我？” 看守点点头。 汤姆拖着步子走过去。酷寒的冬天已经转为春天。汤姆的体重仍在减轻，他已经确信自己将死于饥饿。他无精打采，无动于衷。他的胃鼓了出来，塞满了肠气和空虚。他跟上看守。 “Ja?” “Hier. Ein Geschenk. Fur dich.”一份礼物。给你的。 汤姆笨拙地伸出手。看守给了他一包糖，两小罐鹅油，一瓶黑莓酱。汤姆看着这笔财富，几乎无法理解。看守试着向他进一步解释。汤姆无法完全听懂这个犹太人带有口音的德语，但他听明白这是红十字会寄给另一个人的包裹，那个人最近刚刚死了。看守看到汤姆的状况，所以想帮帮他。汤姆是如此的感激——如此的震惊——他哭着说谢谢，就像一个收到圣诞节礼物的孩子。看守把他的感谢挥到一边，告诉他要慢慢吃，然后就走了。 这份礼物就像是生命的第二次机会。 汤姆恨不得把这些东西全都吞下去，可他知道，如果这么做他的胃肯定会发起反攻。他用了五天时间吃完了鹅油和果酱，每天早晚就着一大杯凉水吃一勺糖。他的胃发出抗议，但痛苦的胃胀气减轻了。这么多月来第一次，汤姆觉得自己变得像个人。而且，作为一个人，他已经准备好采取行动。 那天晚上，在战俘营的角落里，他向诺加德提出了一个建议。 “我们逃走吧。”他说。 艾伦逐渐康复，洛蒂·邓洛普一直照顾着他。有天早上，就在他的意识逐渐走出手术前的一片迷雾时，他坐了起来试图表示感谢。 “多谢你所做的一切，”他说，“很抱歉我没有早点说这些话。我肯定表现得很粗鲁。我猜是因为麻醉剂的原因。” "of course." “嗯，不管怎样，我还是得说对不起。那样太缺乏教养了。” 她用鼻子哼了一声，开始收拾他的餐具。 “你肯定觉得我很愚蠢。”他说。 她站起身子，放下那些盘子，“对，对，我是这么觉得。说到现在，你已经把自己形容得粗鲁、缺乏教养，然后是愚蠢。在过去几天里，你因为需要更换衣服而说对不起。你因为引起麻烦而道歉——而且我想你所说的麻烦就是指你为国英勇负伤。当我称赞你的勋章时，你跟我说那不是你赢得的。由此，蒙塔古上尉，我总结出你是个大傻瓜。” 他微笑起来，“对不起。” “又是对不起？这次又是为什么？” “那好吧，不说对不起……邓洛普小姐，我们可以重新开始吗？我是艾伦·蒙塔古上尉，非常高兴能够认识你。” 她优雅地屈了屈膝，伸出手，“我叫夏洛特·邓洛普。”她说，“请喊我洛蒂。” ＊＊ 艾伦在医院里呆了六个星期。起初的时候，他觉得很尴尬，因为让父母的朋友和客人如此亲密地照顾自己。但是，后来，当他康复得可以坐在轮椅上被推着在医院里到处逛逛的时候，他开始明白洛蒂的日常工作包括哪些内容。她所在的那个部门处理的是一些从法国送回来的最糟糕的病人。她照顾的人有失去双腿的，有失去视力的，有失去听力的，有被毒气摧毁四分之三个肺的，有在每次只要深呼吸就会吐出黑血的。和洛蒂每天所见到的一切相比，艾伦因为她替他洗澡而感到的尴尬就显得如此微不足道。 他们成了朋友。 她每天值完班后，就会来找艾伦，带着两大杯热气腾腾的茶和从家里拿来的一块蛋糕。她告诉他战争刚刚爆发时她正在法国度假。她延长了假期，“不想在打仗的时候出门——天啊，现在想起那些事，感觉好奇怪”。她住在布伦的一家旅馆时，遇到了几个远征军的伤员，于是就留下来帮忙。最初的时候她很震惊——“恐怕我是个从小受到很好保护的小女孩，我没想过……我从没想过战争会是什么样子”——但她逐渐在这满是血污的行业里发现了自己的使命。“因为爸妈的缘故，我从法国回来了，但我坚持至少要来这儿——”她指的是重伤中心——“因为我不想成为那些无聊的女孩，她们帮人量量体温换几件衣服，就觉得自己应该收到国王的感谢信。” 而他也跟她讲述了自己的一切。他发现自己能够带着某种类似直率的东西向她讲述战争。毕竟，对他目睹过的各种惨境来说，她也耳闻过相同糟糕的事情。而且他想，她甚至近距离目睹过死亡，因为由她经手的人中有三分之一因为伤势过重而死去，而她的工作就是陪伴在他们身边直到最后一刻。 “前一阵子你思维混乱的时候，在梦里经常呻吟，”她说，“你在梦里喊着妈妈——每个人都会这样，”她飞快地说，“每个人——可你还喊着汤姆。是汤姆·克瑞里吧，我猜？那个和你一起长大的男孩。” “对，虽然这还不足以形容。汤姆是我的另一半，就算他是我的亲兄弟我们也不可能比现在更亲密。在他死后的那几天，我整个人都蒙了。我恨不得自己也死掉算了。” 她点点头，“这是人之常情，真的。这是个阶段。会过去的。” “已经过去了，我想。我时时刻刻都在想念汤姆——听上去是不是很荒谬？可这是真的——但我不再觉得自己的生命应该因此而结束。事实上，我现在热切地想要活下去。” 她冲他微微笑起来。她的微笑就像是世界上最美丽的事物。 “我也是，亲爱的上尉。我也是。” 逃跑行动既是彻底的成功，又是绝对的失败。 1917年5月的一个上午，汤姆找了个机会把一把砂石放进汽水厂主传送带的发动机里。机器被卡住，停止了运行。工厂立刻认定这是一起破坏行为，犯人们被告知工时要被延长到当天的黄昏时分。这正是汤姆想要的结果。 当天晚上，他和米奇·诺加德在回去的路上路过一片树林，两人跑出犯人队列，冲进树林中逃命。身后传来几声枪响。他们仍然跑着。 诺加德腿上中了一枪。他本来可以停下来的，汤姆本来也可以和他一起停下来的。可一想到要被继续监禁，这个心高气傲的美国人就受不了了。“自由！”他大喊道，“自由！”他继续跑着，汤姆跟着他一起跑。 跑进灾难。 他们的运气实在是糟到不能再糟，一队从营地回家的卫兵正好经过那片树林。汤姆和诺加德几乎一头撞上他们。There was a shot.诺加德又中了一枪，栽到地上死了。步枪指向汤姆。 他认真地考虑着要不要继续跑。他考虑着选择死于枪弹而不是死于饥饿。他想了想，然后又否决了。他举起双手，然后——疲倦地，疲倦地——走向枪口。 成功之处在于：米奇·诺加德永远都不会再知道监禁的滋味。 失败之处在于：汤姆很有可能再也见不到其它东西。 汤姆受到的处分很宽大：一个月的单独禁闭，口粮减半。过完这个月后他被带到营地指挥官面前，这个时候他已经骨瘦如柴，腹部因为饥饿高高鼓起。他在监狱里已经呆了将近一年。他想他会死在这里。 指挥官皱起眉头。 “没有受过处分。工作记录良好。不像很多人那样总是生病。为什么要逃跑？你没被打死真是幸运。”指挥官说的是德语，语速较快，汤姆不是很容易就能听懂。 “幸运？为什么是幸运？”汤姆说。长时间的禁闭、对日光的缺乏以及临近饿死前的错乱使他头晕眼花。德语中“胃”这个词闯入他的脑中，“Magen. Mein Magen.” 指挥官哼了哼，然后转向身边的一个看守兵，飞快地下达了一系列指示。然后他用法语对汤姆说，“我已经更改了你的工作细节。农场上需要更多人手。5点钟之前做好准备，6点半到农场去。你得郑重地向我保证你不会试图再次逃跑。明白了吗？” 汤姆明白了——这一天，汤姆的战斗结束了，至少悬于生死之间的不确定性结束了。 指挥官知道，在农场里工作的人很容易就能生存下去。如果汤姆播种大麦，他会吃一把谷子。他给绵羊喂甘蓝的时候，会给自己留一块月亮状的甘蓝。他给猪和牛端麦片粥的时候，会大声吞食着盆底的稠粥。秋天收割的时候，他大口地咬着新鲜的苹果，把一些柔软的土豆藏进外套，在裤兜里装上鼓鼓囊囊一兜小麦。 被俘以来第一次，汤姆想起了幸福是什么感觉。 幸福和幸存。 艾伦也在战争中幸存下来。 恢复了健康之后，他又回到法国。但不是回到前线，不是回到战场。陆军部难得地灵机一动，将艾伦派遣到了位于巴黎的一个名为军事燃料采购办公室的单位。 艾伦对这个单位的工作几乎毫无了解，直到他抵达那儿，见到他的上司，一位笑意盎然的中校。 “胜利的秘密，”中校说，“德国鬼子以为他们会赢得战争，因为他们的铁路比我们的强。我们知道我们会赢，因为我们的机动车交通更发达。我们的小伙子们来到法国的时候只有八十辆车是他们自己的。到明年底，我们跟法国人将会拥有二十万辆车，更别提上百辆坦克，上千架飞机，以及美国人带来的东西。可你知道最好的是什么吗？是这个。德国鬼子就算造出跟我们一样多的货车也没有用，因为他们没有石油。这就是我们在此的工作。将燃料输送到需要它的地方。如果做好这一点，我们就赢定了。” 中校说得没错。这项工作很重要，甚至可以说很关键。随着时间的过去，事实证实他的话越来越正确。协约国军队的机动性日益增加，已非敌军可以匹敌，而且随着美国军队在这一周的加入，人力也日益增加。所以艾伦安稳度过了战争的剩余阶段。他很疲倦，过度操劳，忙得不可开交——但是很安全。幸福、愉快而又美妙的安全。 虽然既没有汤姆也没有洛蒂相陪，但他很幸福。 ＊＊ 期盼已久的和平最终到来前的几个星期里，汤姆所在的监狱里流传着各种流言。在他工作的那个农场里，只有基本的工作有人干，其它一切都无人理睬。汤姆第一次听说了奥匈帝国打了败仗，土耳其人已经投降，基尔码头发生叛乱。 那天晚上，本该回到营地的时候，汤姆仍然坐在那儿。“我就呆在这儿，”他说，“为什么不呢？” 这绝对是违反了规定。看守兵们——他们的步枪被闲散地搁置在屋角，弹夹挂在木桩上，免得被猫叼走——看着农场主，农场主也看着他们，耸了耸肩。如果战争即将结束，那还有什么好在乎的？还有谁会在乎？ ＊＊ 在1918年11月11日这个美好的日子里，和平降临了。 西线的所有地方，人们扔掉手中的枪支，欣喜若狂地看着彼此。艾伦之前那个排里的一个毫发无伤地熬过战争的下士，把所有的装备都扔到地上，然后爬出战壕。He stood up. 11月那寒冷的空气把他包围起来，可是没有子弹，没有炮火。他摘下钢盔，将它高高地扔到空中。 “你们现在可以走了，朋友，”他对着德军前线大喊，“我们都可以回家了。” 战壕里他那些吃惊的战友们发出欢呼声。