The Road to Saint Blesse.

It was the coughing that woke him. His sleep was thin gruel and shallow, like most nights. When he could sleep at all, when the coughing and the wheezing and the phlegmy billowing in his lungs would abate enough to let him drift off into unconsciousness, it was all too brief. The beast would not let him slumber long before returning to wrack his body with more coughing and endless, waxy spittle streaks that clogged up his nostrils and his mouth. Sleep had become as rare and precious as gold and he panned for it in tiny, unsatisfying granules. But he had slept for a few hours that night and he had dreamed of Beatrice again.

Another heaving coughing fit practically lifted his body from the bed. He swung his legs out, planted his feet on the chilly floor and bent double to expel the gobs of phlegm into a bin.

Staff Nurse Bremner barged into the room. Roly-Poly Scottish Nurse Bremner always seemed to be on hand everywhere at all times. Perhaps she never slept properly either. He pink, plump hands were always freezing to the touch ("I can'nae help it, my circulation is nae good").

"Don't you knock?".

"I heard you coughing again, William", she said, handing him a dark brown medicine bottle. "Drink some of this."

He pulled off the cap and took a deep swig. It was viscous and tasted of honey and cloves and it washed down his neck soothingly. It would work for a while.

"If you're feeling up to it, you can come and sit yourself in the common room for a while. There's music. We're having a sing-song" said Bremner, more in hope than expectation.

"I want to leave here" said William.

"You're discharged, William. You'll be going home as soon as there's transport available".

William shook his tired head.

"I want to leave now. Today. I don't want to stay here anymore".

"You're not well enough".

William turned his hollow face up to Bremner.

"Let me go" he said quietly.

Bremner stood there with her arms folded over her protuberant stomach.

"I can't keep you here, William. But here is the best place for you to be until you're stronger."

"I'm growing weaker here. I want to go."

Bremner stood stock still for a moment but sensing that arguing any further with him was counterproductive, she relented.

"I'll send an orderly to help you dress. Warmly, mind. You'll need your greatcoat and gloves. It's cold enough to snow today." And with that, she bustled out of the room.

Some 30 minutes later, after he had signed out at the commissary office, William emerged from the entrance of the hospital, grey and limping and swamped by the military greatcoat that was now too big for him. So far, Bremner's medicine had held back the beast in his chest but as he shuffled towards the gatehouse, he felt the ominous, tingling tickle that heralded its return.

The Gate Sargeant, a big, bull-necked Ulsterman with huge, raw, bony hands, saluted him.

"Leaving us, are you Lieutenant?" he asked.

William nodded.

"Is there any transport today"? William asked.

The Sargeant shook his enormous head.

"No, sir. Not today, sir".

The freezing air whipped around William's face and he shuddered. With his right arm, he put his left hand into the coat pocket.

"I need to get to a place called Saint Blesse" said William. "Do you know it?".

The Ulsterman shook his head again.

"Can't say as I do, sir. Tell you what, though, turn right out of the gate and walk about 200 yards up the road. There's a little cafe there. They might be able to help you."

With that, he opened the gate and William hobbled through.

"Hope we don't see you back here, sir, if you know what I mean. Take care".

The cafe was a little further than 200 yards but it was there alright; an old stone-built house festooned with tricolours and Union Jacks, all still in the cold air. There was a hand-painted wood sign on the door which said "English Welcome. Bienvenue". Parked up next the cafe was a black, Peugeot motor car. William wondered if it belonged to the owners.

As he stepped towards the front door, it opened and out came a tall, middle-aged Frenchman with long limbs, a ruddy complexion, and a purposeful look. He stopped when he saw William.

"Pardon, Monsieur. Connaissez-vouz Saint Blesse?" William inquired.

The Frenchman mulled it, repeating it to himself "Saint Blesse, Saint Blesse". Then remembering. "Ah, Saint Blesse! Oui, je connais Saint Blesse".

"Bon. Transport ici?" asked William, his lungs beginning to squirm again.

The Frenchman chortled to himself a little and cocked his head.

"Oui, monsieur. Mon voiture", he said indicating to his Peugeot. "Je vais vous y conduire".

The relief was almost enough to take William's mind off the growing armed rebellion in his chest. Almost. He knew that his uniform was a passport in these times.

"Merci beaucoup, monsieur".

"Mon Plaisir. Je m'apelle Bertrand Floret".

"Tunstall, William. Lieutenant, Royal Fusiliers.

They nodded to each other and as Williams bowed his head ever-so-slightly, a giddiness gripped him and he almost stumbled. Floret took his arm.

"Est ce que ca va?" he enquired.

William gathered himself, took a big lungful of the cold air and re-assured him with a smile.

"Oui, oui. Pas problem".

Floret stepped over to the car, opened the back door and bid William enter. As William was about to step into the back, the beast came out and rocked him again. Great, wracking coughs sent spittle flying uncontrollably from his lips, which he would have covered with his hand were it not for the fact that he had to hold onto the roof of the car while he coughed and heaved until his face turned red and his pulmonary muscles almost burst. He could taste salty blood in his mouth.

Bremner had had the sense to give him the linctus as a parting gift. He fumbled it out of his pocket and drank down a huge swig. It finally stopped and William gasped to get more air into his lungs.

"Monsieur, tu es tres malade" said Floret.

William smiled again, weakly and held up his hand.

"J'irai bien. S'il te plaît, emmène-moi à Saint Bless, s'il vous plait".

With that, he climbed into the car and huddled down into his big coat to try to warm himself.

Floret took the starting handle from the front seat and went around to the front of the car to start it up. With two hefty cranks, the engine jumped into life. Floret jumped into the driver's seat and seat and they sallied forth out onto the dirt road, heading east for Saint Blesse.

The road was quiet it seemed and free of military traffic. The car bumped and chugged along bouncing up and down over every bump and pothole and wheezing and gurgling as much as William's lungs. Despite this, William put his back and tried to sleep. Floret drove silently.

Soon he would be back in Saint Blesse and back with Beatrice. Soon. It was all he wanted.

It was only 4 months ago that William was billeted with the rest of his squad in that ambrosial medieval village nestled in a valley under a long bluff and next to a gurgling stream that sprouts clean and fresh from the limestone walls. Low houses made with stone as old as time with terracotta-tiled roofs and weather-worn flower boxes under the windows. Poplars and gnarly old cherry trees lined the cobbled undulating streets. In the market square, the village grocery store jostled for elbow-room with the ricketty-wood table cafes.

William was sitting outside one of those cafes with a carafe of wine when he laid his eyes on Beatrice. He saw her through the window of her kitchen when she was cutting up plums and putting the pieces in a large bowl; her hands were stained mauve by the juices. Her neck was long and slender and her auburn tresses bobbed up and down as she worked with nimble fingers. She had almond, deep brown eyes full of secrets.

He willed her to notice him, and she did. She noticed his swept-back jet black hair. She noticed his dimpled chin and she noticed the casual charm of his demeanour. His uniform was clean and pressed and the buttons were shiny and he wore it effortlessly. She noticed all of that.

He held up his glass in a toast and smiled. She returned the smile.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle"

"Bonjour, Monsieur"

And that was all they needed.

That afternoon, William sat to Beatrice on the Turkish chaise lounge in the parlour of her home, underneath the big stuffed and mounted head of a deer that her father had bagged on a hunting trip in the Ardeche Valley many years ago. He spoke to her in his faulty, schoolboy French and while she spoke barely any English at all, they communicated everything.

They ate pie and cheese and cherries and stuffed tomatoes and drank some of her father's red wine. They smoked his cigarettes.

She told him about her older brother who was away fighting with the army and who, she feared, she may never see again. And she told him about her younger brother who was still at school and talented at music and art.

William told her about his mother and father and his two sisters and his life growing up on a smallholding farm in Kent.

They exchanged their worlds with each other until, well after the sun had set, they exchanged their passion, naked on that Turkish chaise lounge. It was a greedy, vital and animalistic. Beatrice biting his flesh, William licking and sucking hers. She tasted of plums and raspberries and peaches and lemon balm. When they coupled, he felt her pelvic muscles clutch eagerly at his manhood as if to draw him closer into her that he could ever physically go, and it felt wonderful. It felt right.

Afterwards, they laid naked in each other's arms, touched only by the vivid moonlight of that autumn night casting through the bay windows.

He crept back to his billet by midnight and returned again the following day and for the next three days after that until his orders came to move up to the front and join the rest of the regiment for the big push at Armentieres.

Holding her hands in his, he vowed that we would return, no matter what. She made him cross his heart. He would ask for her hand in marriage. She said she would give it.

But that was before Armentieres. That was before the butt of a Mauser rifle left a permanent crease in his skull. That was before the cold steel of a bayonet severed most of the nerves in his left arm. That was before he lost two toes on his left foot which had been chewed by a rat while he lay asleep in a trench and which then had to be amputated. That was before the chlorine gas attack which scoured out his lungs and left them as shrivelled as old prunes.

What kept him alive was the memory of Beatrice and his promise. The taste of her skin would never leave his mouth and even in the most shit and rotting flesh stench of the worst trenches, her raspberry and lemon balm fragrance was still fresh in his nostrils.

He would keep his promise to Beatrice, his beloved Beatrice. But the man who made that promise was not the same one anymore. The man delivering on that promise was a ragged, wracked, shuffling, hobbling marionette and barely a man at all. He was a broken doll; a ghost of the man she fell in love with.

Would she still marry him now? What was left of him?

William sat up, unsure as to whether or not he had been asleep. Maybe he had slept for a while. The car was still grinding noisily along the road; the road to Saint Blesse. Then the coughing began again and Williams reached into his pocket for the linctus. How could he get more? No matter. Beatrice will save him. Her love will make him whole again. Her lifeforce will slay the beast. Beatrice, I am coming soon, my love.

With Floret silent and not knowing how long they had been driving, Williams sat up to look around. His spirit jumped when he saw just ahead that crossroads in the copse next to the abandoned farm building. He knew that landmark and noted it on his way out from Saint Blesse. He was close now. Maybe 3 kilometres or so. Maybe 4.

Sensing his excitement, Floret pointed ahead of him and slightly to the left and said "Saint Blesse".

"Yes, yes. Close now", replied William, in English.

Floret powered past the crossroads and on another for another minute or so before slamming the brakes on. They both stared ahead at the roadblock before them. Two French army trucks had collided and now both lay on their sides, one slightly ahead of the other while a gaggle of soldiers stood around doing not very much it seemed except shout and swear at the each other. With trees on both sides of the road, passage was impossible.

Floret turned around to William and gave him a classic Gallic shrug. With that, he got out of the car and marched towards the soldiers to join in with the shouting and gesticulating.

William lay his head back again and tried to sniff the air to remind him of how close he was to that sacred little village in the limestone valley. But the beast rose up again and grabbed him by his heart. He coughed and coughed and coughed until he thought his guts were coming apart. He reached for the linctus bottle and poured the last remaining drops down his throat. The blood was coming up again and the coughing would not stop.

Floret had levered his age and authority to get some sense from the agitated soldiers. A message had been relayed to their base and a squadron of men were on their way. With levers and ropes, they would be able to clear the trucks off of the road. 30 minutes, they said. Maybe one hour.

Floret made his way back to the car to share the news with his passenger; that they would soon be on their way. But when he reached the car, his heart plummeted. For a while he just stood there before crossing himself and then lifting the silver crucifix from around his neck up to his lips and kissing it. While Floret was organising the road clearance, Lieutenant William Tunstall of the Royal Fusiliers had coughed out the last precious fragments of his life. A trickle of blood ran down his chin and dripped onto his coat. His eyes were open and the empty brown bottle of linctus lay on the seat beside him.

Floret bowed his head in silent prayer: "May the Lord who frees you from sin, save you and raise you up".

From the storage box at the back of the car, Floret took a blanket. He climbed into the back of the car and after gently closing the eyes, he laid the blanket over the corpse, carefully tucking in all the edges around the frame of the body. Then he took the bottle and tossed it into the copse at the side of the road.

Suddenly feeling as if every one of his 63 years had been turned into a house brick and piled up on his back, Monsieur Floret cranked the engine up again. The car sprang to life with a jaunty roar, Floret climbed back into the driver's seat, crossed himself again and turned the car around to return the mortal remains of the young English officer back to the hospital from where, as a demi-ghost, the still just living man had emerged not two hours before. Doubtless, he will be interred in the military cemetery where so many of his fallen comrades lie buried.

The car trundled back down the same road and as he passed the abandoned farmhouses again, a light snow began to fall.

[Ends]