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might have done. But Fleming had refused to tell him. It was, the doc-
tor felt, far safer for his patient to come to it naturally. . . .
The German was watching him.  I saw you at that ridiculous bon-
fire. And again on the road, when you tried to run me down. As a matter
of interest, why did you leave me, back there in France? I was still alive!
Rutledge said, holding on to reality with a grip that was iron,  I
don t remember the end of the war. I don t remember you or, yes, I do,
a little, but only since the bonfire.
 You don t remember anything about ending up deep behind our
lines? What the devil were you doing there? We looked up and there you
were, standing within feet of us. Terrified us; we thought at first you were
a dead man some apparition out of hell! Someone spoke to you 
a fearsome doubt 195
Rutledge closed his eyes, and in the blackness there, like a flickering
scrap of film, he found images. He had been walking he had no idea
where he was going, or why. And eventually he d come to a road, for there
were men all around him and voices buffeting him, making no sense
He had stood there, waiting to be shot . . . waiting for oblivion.
The German beside him was saying something, but Rutledge
couldn t shut out the images now.
All he had wanted was for the pain to end. For the blessed release
of a single shot. Instead, some half a dozen soldiers had turned toward
him, a montage of faces with moving lips, defeated, tired eyes, and the
filth of the trenches filling the cold November air.
One of the Germans had stepped forward, staring hard at Rutledge,
then mimicking reaching for a cigarette to offer him. And then he took his
hand back again with a shrug, when Rutledge made no move to accept it.
He didn t want a cigarette he wanted to be shot.
An officer came then, looking closely at his irregular visitor. And
then he was saying something to his men.
The two of them were walking side by side, away from the rest.
Rutledge thought, He doesn t want to shoot me in front of them . . . and
was content.
There were so many soldiers at first. And then the road seemed
empty, and darkness was coming down. Not the darkness in his mind,
but the early dusk of November. He found himself wondering if this
was still the eleventh, and where the officer was taking him. One body
lying along the road here would be anonymous, forgotten.
His sister would probably never know what had become of him.
Just as well it would spare her the shame
He lost track of time. He couldn t be sure whether he d been fol-
lowing the German for a few minutes or for far longer. The only anxiety
he felt was whether the man would lose his nerve and not shoot.
There was some sort of exchange furious and loud-voiced.
Unexpected, jarring. And as Rutledge struggled to make sense of it,
there was a shot at close range.
In the split second after the report, as the echo faded, Rutledge
gratefully waited for the pain, for the spreading agony and for the death
that would end it.
196 charles todd
But it didn t come. There was nothing
He turned toward the German officer, confused, unable to under-
stand how the man had missed and watched the German fall in slow
motion to the ground, a dark red bloom opening on his tunic.
 No! He had shouted the single word in disbelief. Somehow they
had shot the wrong man
And then with the swiftness of habit, he was on his knees, ripping
open the buttons, fumbling in his pocket for a dressing, stuffing it into
the bubbling wound. But before he could staunch the bleeding, the
German officer sighed and went limp.
Rutledge became aware that there was someone standing over
them. Rutledge looked up, seeing him clearly for the first time. A
refugee an old man
 I need dressings a doctor un médicin vite!
 Il est mort, the Frenchman said contemptuously.  Bien sûr. And
then in rough English,  One less Boche.
Rutledge looked down and saw that there was a pistol in the old
man s hand, still pointed at the German s throat.
 You should be glad, Englishman. They killed enough of you. They
killed my wife and my child in the bombardment, these bastards.
Rutledge staggered to his feet, his mind suddenly clear and fury
wracking him.
The Frenchman shrugged.  They nearly took Paris that time. I said
I d get even. God has been good. He has offered me many chances. The
venom in his voice was as shocking as what he d just done. The German
hadn t even had time to draw his Luger in self-defense.
He spat on the still body. Stooped, his hair a straggling gray under
an old beret, a twisted foot, with hatred burning in his eyes and the
madness of revenge burning in his soul, he looked a last time at his vic-
tim. Then he walked on, as gnarled fingers began to reload the pistol,
stroking it like a mother fussing over her child.
Rutledge found his own pistol and raised it to bring the man
down and then held his fire.
There had been enough killing. Enough. Enough
He tried to revive the German, and when that failed, he walked on.
a fearsome doubt 197
 I thought you were dead, Rutledge told the wounded man.  I
watched you die. He had said the words before this time he under-
stood them.
 I lost consciousness. From the collapsed lung. Thank God someone
else came that way, and got me to hospital. Did you kill that old fool? He
was insane!
 He d lost his family, Rutledge said tiredly.  You were there, and
he shot you. Because you were wearing a German uniform. He didn t
add the final irony, that the old man s family had died forty years be- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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