Redemption - Leon Uris [262]
He was not a frivolous man. His conversations with Colonels Monash and Malone and other frontline commanders were keen. He gave off no sympathy, but he got the gist that merely living through a day of Turks, heat, lice, rations, dysentery, and flies was about all a human being could manage.
At the end of a hard first day, he thanked me tersely and dismissed me, ordering me to continue at daybreak.
I was near daft. I wanted to tell Jeremy, but I dared not. I had not brought under control my compulsion to do away with him. If I confided in Jeremy and I killed the man, Jeremy would be stuck with a horrible secret.
On the second day we worked the northern end of the line. There were three ways back to the next post. I picked the most dangerous one, in Malone’s Gully. God, I was serious. Could I ever look Georgia in the eyes again? I understood why she did not like this man. Why was she taking him back?
Bastard, it was hot today. Bloody rocks were melting. I knew the right bush in Malone’s Gully that would give a speck of shade. He snapped at me for cautioning him not to drink too fast.
“I think I understand dehydration,” he said.
“I found a couple of cans of hash. A man has to have a diverse diet,” I said, “and some hard candies. Helps with the energy…as you well know.”
He ate in silence, except for running his tongue over his teeth to clean them, then popped to his feet suddenly.
“What the hell are you doing!” I snapped automatically.
“I have to urinate, if you don’t mind,” he answered.
“Well, go in the other direction, Doctor. Ten feet in the direction you’re heading and you’ll be in the cross hairs of a Turkish sniper.”
He blinked his eyes and peed where he was told.
“Thank you very much, indeed,” he said, coming back to the shade by me. I wondered what instinct made me send him in the proper direction. Oh, Christ.
“South Islander?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m from Christchurch myself. Trained in London, of course.”
Of course.
“You’re not related to Horace Landers from Kiwi Junction, by any chance?”
Maybe I was meant to kill him after all….
“In fact, I am.”
“I knew Horace off and on till he retired. Scotland, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t realize he had a son as young as you.”
“Long story, Doctor. I’m an adopted member of the family through my dad’s sister. Anyhow, I stayed on in the South Island. I worked the ranches.”
“Small world. Give him my regards when you write.”
“I certainly will.”
Norman suddenly heaved for breath. His skin turned sallow and the sweat gushed from him. He was floating…light-headed. “What the devil…?”
“Heat prostration. Lie back, Doctor.”
He had nothing to protest with. I stretched him out and dampened a cloth, wiped his face and the back of his neck, and fanned him. He mumbled his embarrassment.
“Close your eyes and don’t waste your breath,” I said, “it will pass.”
I opened his shirt and continued fanning him, cooling him down with his own sweat.
My own mouth went cotton-dry as I felt my hand unsnap my pistol holster. All that could be heard under the faraway gunfire was my breath and his breath, laboring. Oh, it was so simple now. Why in all this earth did I end up with him here if it was not a clear message to do away with him? What is one more dead man in this circus?
The pistol had dead aim at his temple.
“Your pain will be easier to bear if Calvin Norman is left alive. You know, Rory Larkin, if you kill him, he will destroy your soul day by day, year by year. Even in this savage land, a man cannot deliberately forsake his humanity.”
Fuck! Just what I needed! Words of wisdom from Conor Larkin.
“How many other men are you going to kill by taking his life, Rory lad? Can you live with that one? Suppose it’s Jeremy or Chester on the operating table…or yourself and no Calvin Norman to operate. Kill yourself, but don’t kill a surgeon in a battlefield.”
Norman groaned.
I replaced my pistol and sponged him again. He slowly became coherent.
There’s an easy walk