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Dear Miss O’Brien, Thomas paused and tried to find a more even surface to write on in his ramshackle trench dugout. He had a small board balanced on a couple cans that served as a sort of table, but the board was splintery and difficult to write a letter on with a pencil. Finding a small piece of cardboard he’d stashed away earlier that day, Thomas sandwiched it between his letter and the board.
The sound of bombardment provided a near constant backdrop to his thoughts. It had started sometime in the night and had not let up for even an hour as daylight came. From the sound of it they were under fire from their own side. Someone in the brass must have thought the Germans had retaken about a hundred feet of ground during the night. In the past Thomas might have wondered why the English hadn’t stopped shelling their own side by now, but he no longer tried to make sense of why war ran the way it did.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a letter from you. I am wondering if there’s any news from home. At first it had been something of a joke in his letters to O’Brien to refer to Downton as home. It was a silly, sentimental thing that someone like Mr. Carson might do. Thomas didn’t give a damn about the place and wouldn’t have cared if it burnt to the ground. At least, that’s how he’d felt in 1914. He didn’t know quite what and he wasn’t sure quite when, but he’d started to think differently at some point. He wasn’t really joking when he called Downton home now.
I’d very much like to hear about Lady Edith’s driving lessons. Is Isis in any danger of becoming roadkill with her behind the wheel? How is Branson taking to teaching an aristocrat? Has he converted her to Marxism yet? For as long as Thomas had worked at Downton he’d known a few things to be true about the three daughters. Lady Mary was softer than she pretended to be. Lady Sybil was always looking for some new adventure, which is why O’Brien’s news of her going to be a nurse was not surprising at all. And Lady Edith was one of the most useless creatures on God’s green earth. The idea of her having enough initiative and fortitude to learn a new skill, one that Lord Grantham doubtless didn’t approve of, was mind boggling. Still, Thomas was glad to hear it. Things like this kept his mind occupied when he otherwise might have gone insane.
Licking the end of his pencil he continued. I’m interested to know what all is happening with Anna, is Bates still stringing her along? While Thomas cared very little for Bates, he often thought the man was a cad for continuing to give Anna hope. Anna was a good person in every sense of the word and didn’t deserve Mr. ‘I’m working on a divorce, I swear’ Bates to keep her on a string for years and years on end. He wondered if they were sleeping together and that’s why Anna was reluctant to give him up, now that she’d been sullied. Truth be told, he liked Anna, probably more than he ought to. She was a good little rule follower to be certain. Normally he didn’t care for those types. But Anna always tempered her rule following with sense, and was willing to be a friend to anyone if they treated her decent. That had always been his problem, he’d never treated her decent. Instead he’d constantly tried to get a rise out of her with ugly words and provocative statements. She never fell for it though. She’d just shake her head and go on with her life. Mr. Carson and William would always fall for it, and Bates was easy to bait. But Anna always kept her cool. Part of Thomas actually admired her for it.
Before Thomas could expand on his thoughts about Bates and Anna, a young soldier came to fetch him and his medic’s kit. Shoving his letter and pencil into his pocket, Thomas grabbed his helmet and kit and scurried out of his dugout. Crouching he and the young soldier wended their way through the trenches and tried to avoid becoming victims of the continued shelling. Thomas was eventually led to another dugout where Lt. Crawley was waiting.
“There you are,” said Lt. Crawley, a look of immense relief on his face. “We need you very badly. How much surgical practice do you have?”
Thomas grew a little afraid. “Not really very much, sir. I mostly just fetch and pack. I don’t do much in the way of surgery.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to give it a go. We’re locked down right here and we can’t get anyone else in. You’ll have to do it.” Lt. Crawley and Thomas both ducked as a strong explosion rattled the boards that construed the floor and walls of the officer’s dugout.
Thomas looked around the small dugout for his prospective patient. “Are you needing the surgery, sir?”
Lt. Crawley paused and looked over his shoulder where he was taking a small birdcage off a hook. “No, not for myself. Your patient is Speckled Jim.”
Thomas wasn’t sure if he’d heard the lieutenant correctly. “You mean the courier pigeon?” He couldn’t imagine anyone but a pigeon going by the moniker Speckled Jim.
“I’m afraid so,” said Lt. Crawley as he placed the birdcage on his planning desk. “And as funny as this all might seem it’s deadly serious. We need to get a message out about our position so they’ll stop shelling the hell out of us. All our lines are out of commission, in no small part due to this damn bombardment. This pigeon is the only way for us to get the word out.”
Thomas came to stand by the desk and look at his patient. The small, blood-spattered bird was hopping and flapping about in the cage, clearly in distress. “I’ve never operated on an animal before, sir. Certainly not something as small as a bird. There’s no way I can ensure the survival of this creature.”
“I understand that, Corporal, but you’re the best man I’ve got here. Speckled Jim came in about a half hour ago and seems to have taken some shrapnel.” Lt. Crawley looked up from the bird and caught Thomas’ eye. They both seemed to be having a hard time believing what was being said. “If you can remove it and clean him up so he’s strong enough to fly home that’s all we need.”
Thomas took in a deep breath. “Not asking for much, are you.” He then remembered who he was speaking too and added after the fact, “Sir.”
“I think of it this way, you can operate and if it fails then we’re back to where we started, if you succeed we might get a message out and get a break from this bombardment.” The two men exchanged a meaningful look.
It was a chance Thomas was willing to take.
“Can we clear this desk and make it into an operating theater, sir?” asked Thomas as he unlooped his medic’s bag from over his shoulder. Lt. Crawley was already moving aside his maps and communiques to clear as much of the surface of the desk as possible. Thomas started unpacking anything he thought would be helpful for the pigeon surgery. Looking up from his bag he asked, “Do you have any surgical spirits? I have a very little left and I’d like to keep it for the soldiers if I can.”
“Of course,” said Lt. Crawley as he began to rifle through the flimsy shelves of his dugout. “What about some cognac, this one’s pretty strong and tastes about the same as medical inventory.” Thomas was handed a medium sized bottle that was mostly full. The label was in French and Thomas guessed it was probably some bootleg swill. But he only needed it to kill germs so he didn’t care how it tasted. Pouring out a generous amount on the desk he let it sit and sterilize the surface for a moment before wiping it up. He treated his surgical implements the same way. Then picking up the birdcage he opened the door.
A sudden burst of flapping and feathers came from the cage, causing Thomas to pull his hand back. “I don’t want to hurt him getting him out of the cage.” Looking up at Lt. Crawley, Thomas said, “I’ve never really handled live birds before.” He wasn’t sure how delicate a pigeon was. There was little use performing surgery if he accidentally broke a bone while doing it.
“Here,” said Lt. Crawley, taking the cage from Thomas and plunging his hand inside with confidence. There was no similar burst of feathers from the cage this time and Lt. Crawley withdrew the bird with calm. The animal bobbed his head back and forth but didn’t seem too terribly distressed.
“Nicely done, sir. If I may say,” said Thomas.
Lt. Crawley smiled as he repositioned his hands so that Thomas might take a better look at Speckled Jim. “My first year in uni I spent part of the spring term in a pigeon racing club. Had no idea at the time that it might be any use to me in the future.”
Thomas delicately probed the animal, trying to assess where exactly the worst of the injuries were. “Life has a funny way of working out like that, sir.” Lt. Crawley did an excellent job holding the bird still while Thomas attempted, gingerly as he could, to find all the points of injury. After a moment’s examination, Thomas was confident that he could remove the offending shards embedded in the bird and get him back to flying strength. He cleansed the bird as much as he could so he could see what he was doing. Then he took up his most finest set of forceps, which were indistinguishable from regular tweezers, and held them delicately as possible. Thomas started on the pieces that were easiest to see and the least embedded. All of the shrapnel seemed to be the size of a splinter. Thin, but not too damaging. Possibly deadly if infection set in but not immediately dangerous. The dugout was quiet with only the background of bombardment as noise.
“Do you hear much from home?” asked Lt. Crawley in the silence as he manhandled Speckled Jim.
Thomas had a small tin laying open on the table and began dropping the shards into it as he plucked them out. The bird’s feathers hadn’t done too bad a job of protecting him from the worst of the damage. “I get letters every so often. Miss O’Brien writes me about what’s going on.”
“I guess I was meaning from your family. Do your parents ever write?” Lt. Crawley corrected.
Thomas was momentarily embarrassed. Usually when others asked such a question he remembered that they would be talking about his natural family. Lt. Crawley had taken him off guard because Lt. Crawley had known him at Downton. I may be cracking up, thought Thomas, I really am starting to think of Downton as my home. “Not as often, sir. My mother isn’t much of a letter writer and to be honest I’m not sure my dad can even read.” His father only ever touched the newspaper to check the racing scores, and Thomas had never seen him even so much as holding a book, so it was a fair enough guess.
“I suppose those letters from Downton must keep you going then?” said Lt. Crawley as he carefully stretched out Speckled Jims leg so that Thomas could clear away more shards.
“I would say you’re correct, sir. Takes my mind off things for a few moments at least. Do you hear much about what goes on there?” asked Thomas.
Lt. Crawley shrugged. “Mother writes often enough about the goings on, but it seems life for them never changes very much from year to year. The most exciting thing I’ve heard recently is that Lady Edith is learning to drive.”
Thomas smiled as he dislodged another bit of shrapnel. “I heard that one too, sir. I can’t imagine how that must be going.”
Lt. Crawley released the pigeon’s leg and let it flex back to its normal posture. “Me either. You didn’t hear me say this but I’m not sure the streets of Yorkshire are safe with her on the road.”
Thomas laughed. He knew better than to chip in a derogatory comment of his own, but at least he could enjoy the lieutenant’s words. “I heard Lady Sybil is taking up nursing. Do you think she’s pulling shards out of pigeons?”
“I’d rather think she’s doing that than pulling them out of soldiers. I have no idea what the hospital situation at Downton is like.” Finally, Lt. Crawley spread Speckled Jim’s left wing where a larger piece of shrapnel was nestled right at the join of the wing to the body.
“Hopefully a sight better than it is here.” Thomas had been to the field hospitals and evac stations often enough and knew they were little better than laying in the trenches. Looking over the bird’s wing, Thomas grimaced and picked up his scalpel. “Hold him as still as you can, sir. This one might upset him a bit.”
“How long have you been here?” asked Lt. Crawley.
“In France, or in this trench?” asked Thomas in reply. “I joined in fourteen and it’s been an eternity since then, and this Somme operation has been going on since the beginning of time I think, so I’m not really sure anymore.”
“Have you ever gotten a chance to go back home?” Lt. Crawley did his best to keep Speckled Jim calm as Thomas’ scalpel delicately cut the foreign object free.
“You must be kidding,” said Thomas before once again realizing he was being too rude. “No, sir. I get rotated off the line every so often. Medics are in too short supply to get out of the fun.”
Another round of bombardment shook the entire dugout and drowned out Lt. Crawley’s next words. “This is madness,” said Lt. Crawley once they could hear again. “Absolute lunacy.”
“Hold him now, sir. I’m about to extract.” Thomas picked up his forceps again and began to dislodge the bigger piece. This one was about the size of two grains of rice, but it was more deeply embedded than the others. The bird didn’t put up much of a struggle and Thomas wondered if it was half drunk off the alcohol vapors emanating from the tabletop.
Both men held their breath as Thomas removed the final injurious piece. Then, taking a scrap of gauze, Thomas swabbed the open wound with antiseptic and applied pressure. He treated the other, smaller wounds with a dab of antiseptic as well. The bird struggled and squirmed a bit, but Lt. Crawley kept a firm hand on him.
Thomas reached for the birdcage. “I think if he seems all right in a few hours he’s going to make it. Maybe give him some extra food or whatever it is that pigeons like to perk him up a bit. Are you planning to send him out tomorrow?”
“Today, if he can manage it,” said Lt. Crawley. “The bombardment is costing us lost men and lost time. It needs to end now.” Placing Speckled Jim back into the birdcage, Lt. Crawley hung the cage back on its hook.
Thomas began picking up his tools and cleaning them as best he could. “Let’s hope I was able to help any.”
“I think Speckled Jim stands a chance of at least flying back to HQ. That’s all we need from him now.” Lt. Crawley saw Thomas was packing up his medical bag. “Why don’t you stay and have a drink for a minute. To celebrate a job well done.”
Thomas paused for a moment, catching Lt. Crawley’s eye. Then he gave a half-laugh. “You’re not going to give me that antiseptic cognac we used on the bird, are you?”
Lt. Crawley laughed in turn. “I am not.” Then going over to his shelf he moved around some bottles and came back with a small bottle of real brandy. “I keep this one a secret. Don’t spread it around.”
Lt. Crawley gestured for Thomas to sit. Pouring the brandy into tin mess cups, the two men sipped at the liquor and tried to ignore the sounds of bombardment.
“Do you really think of Downton as home?” Lt. Crawley asked after a moment’s silence passed between them.
“I don’t know. Sometimes.” Thomas answered honestly. “I’ve lived there for a long time. I was little more than a kid when I first came to work there as a hall boy. I guess I sort of grew up there with Mr. Carson as dad and Mrs. Hughes playing mum, and myself the problem child of the family.” Thomas looked at Lt. Crawley. “Where’s home for you? Downton or Manchester?”
Lt. Crawley smiled a bit. “I suppose when I think of home I think about where Mother is. Not a specific place, but the people more so.”
Thomas pulled out his pack of cigarettes and offered one to the officer. Lt. Crawley accepted and lighting up, Thomas asked, “Do you see Downton as your home more now than when you first came?”
Matthew nodded. “Yes. I certainly do. But again, I think it’s the people. I can hardly imagine my life without Lord and Lady Grantham and the rest of them.”
“And Lady Mary?” asked Thomas, taking a drag off his cigarette and knowing he was pushing his luck. In some ways, however, it was almost a joy to talk about the mundanity of old lover’s quarrels instead of having to think about how many men you saw die that day.
“I suppose her too,” said Matthew, “though not like you think. If we ever see each other again it will be only as distant relations.”
Lt. Crawley, too, seemed to be feeling the pull of candid conversation about anything but death and disease. Thomas nodded. “So she doesn’t write you?”
Lt. Crawley shook his head. “No. I don’t get letters from her. Lord or Lady Grantham write on occasion but they never say much about the girls.”
“Miss O’Brien tells me Lady Mary always asks about you when she sees your mother. And that she keeps a photo of you under her pillow.” Thomas wasn’t sure if he was trying to stir up trouble or just sharing gossip.
Matthew looked a little taken aback. Then he shook his head. “You’re putting me on,” he said before taking a puff of his cigarette.
“I am not,” Thomas insisted as he dug the letter out of his pocket. He often kept several letters on him in case he was hunkered down in a distant part of the trench somewhere for a long time. It at least gave him something to read. Pulling out the pages he said, “Look, right here O’Brien writes ‘and Lady Mary may act like she’s not worried, but Anna says she keeps a photo of Mr. Matthew under her pillow.’ I know O’Brien, she wouldn’t be making this up.” Thomas tucked the letter back into his pocket and exhaled the smoke from his cigarette.
“I still don’t think I should believe it,” said Matthew. “But I do believe that’s what you were told.”
Thomas shrugged. “That’s all I can go off out here.” Taking a drag of his cigarette he added, “But I wouldn’t put it past Lady Mary. She likes to act like she doesn’t care, but she does.”
“It’s no use thinking about it,” said Matthew. “Lady Mary and I is one thing even this war can’t change.”
“That’s probably true enough,” said Thomas. “The only thing this war seems to change is the average life expectancy of English men.”
Lt. Crawley gave a mirthless laugh. “Let’s hope you and I are not added to that number anytime soon.” Finishing his brandy, Lt. Crawley put aside his cup. “Will you come back in an hour or two and give Speckled Jim one last look over?”
Thomas finished his own cup, the liquor leaving a slightly warm sensation in his throat as he swallowed it. Dropping his cigarette on the ground he stood up. “Of course, sir.”
Lt. Crawley also stood up. Whist their camaraderie had to fade into the background once more, the invisible bond of Downton still pulled them together. Thomas saluted and gathered his medic’s bag, and departed the officer’s dugout. The bombardment was still every bit as loud as it had been all day and half the night. Thomas hoped that the pigeon would actually do the job and they’d get the guns off them before the end of the day.
Coming back to his own dugout, Thomas sat down and tried to complete his letter. I’ve been speaking to Mr. Matthew, he’s alive and well as of this letter. I think he’s still quite in love with Lady Mary. Thomas wasn’t actually sure on this point, but it was sure to cause a bit of fuss in O’Brien’s hands. He says he thinks of her and of Downton as home. That would be sure to cause a stir, he just wished he’d be home to see it play out. You’ll never believe the surgery I just performed. If the patient lives I may have a future as a veterinarian. He knew O’Brien would either assume he was talking about an officer or a horse. He would wait to reveal it was a pigeon. I hope you and all the others are well. Do keep me updated on all goings on. It’s the only thing keeping me sane right now.
Thomas sat back and reread the letter. It was painfully short, but he had nothing else he wanted to write about. He never put to pen the things he saw every day and there had been little to break the monotony of the Somme offensive for months now. The mail from England didn’t exactly come with amazing speed, but he hoped to read a reply soon enough. Signing his name he scrounged up and envelope and tucked the precious packet into his breast pocket. It would probably be some days before this could be sent out, and only if the bombardment could be brought to an end. Still, he’d be ready when the time came.
Till then, he would just have to satisfy himself by rereading his letters from home.