To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [166]
THE ROOM WAS WHITE, SMALL WINDOWS, SUNLIGHT BLINDING HIM. He felt soft comfort beneath him, blinked his eyes, turned to the side, felt a sharp stab of pain in his head. He clamped his eyes shut, made a sound, lay still again, felt with his hands, a bed, soft sheets. He wanted to see, but the pain held him still, and the smells began to find him, alcohol and sickness. He wanted to call out, felt pressure on his shoulder, a voice, a woman’s voice, “You are awake. Very good.”
He opened his eyes again, saw a white shadow hovering over him, the voice again, “You have had enough sleep for now. The doctor insists you should eat.”
A hand slid under his back, slowly lifted him, the pain in his head torturing him, and he said, “Stop! What are you doing? Who are you?”
He was sitting upright now, his back cushioned by thick pillows. His eyes opened and he could see her, the voice again, “You are at St. Nicholas Hospital. Don’t you remember? You insisted they bring you here. Quite a stir. There were more doctors tending to your one scratch than I usually see in a month.”
“St. Nicholas. In Courtrai.”
“Ah, so you do remember. Your dinner will be brought soon. I am told they have prepared something special. One would think you are a general.” She laughed, a soft giggle that only annoyed him. He realized he was hungry, fought through the pain to see her face.
“A general. No, I’m a captain. You’re a nurse.”
“To be correct, I am your nurse. I have been removed from my other duties and placed at your disposal. I was not allowed to protest the decision. You are very important, so I’m told. How is it possible for a captain to be so important? Just because you fly aeroplanes?”
She stood at the foot of the bed now, shaded him from the sunlight. He realized she was young, a thin, short woman, dark, and . . . very pretty. He tried to recall her question, but the pain was pushing at him from inside.
“My head. It hurts.”
“I am certain of that. Quite a little bump. You are heavily bandaged, but don’t go feeling around. I will change the dressing soon. I am told you are a hero.”
“I am a flyer.”
She seemed to appraise him with a soft frown. “Yes, I said that. That’s how you got here. They said your aeroplane fell out of the sky.”
The images were coming back to him, small flickers in his brain, the circling British planes, sparks on his machine guns, fighting to control the Albatros. He remembered the ambulance now, soldiers, a lieutenant, the man crying over him. They had taken him to a field hospital, awful stench, a heavy cloth on his head, many hands holding him. He tried to look to the side, the pain holding him again, yes, a hospital. I told them . . . take me here. Courtrai. Close to Marcke.
“Do they know? Have my pilots been informed?”
She laughed, a small giggle. “Captain, they descended on this hospital like a swarm of bees. My job was to keep you quiet, allow you to sleep. They did everything they could to see you, but I had my instructions. I’m afraid I upset them. One fellow, a very big man, was not so very pleasant about it.”
Richthofen thought, That would be Krefft. No, he would not be pleasant at all.
“They certainly know where you are. When the doctor allows it, you may have visitors.” She glanced down, a small plaque hanging at the foot of the bed. “Mr. Richthofen.” She moved around the side of the bed, soft hands on his shoulders, straightened the pillow behind him. “Better?”