Like Father Like Son Ch. 05

They lifted him gently from the wreck. A Crossley tender drove up and they loaded him aboard. Henry, ashen faced from his own wound, made his report. The tender drove slowly, torn between the need for speed and the comfort of the wounded pilot. Another tender dragged the wrecked Bristol out of the main landing area. All the while Phillip slipped in and out of consciousness. Once he tried to rise, consumed by the need to see the adjutant. They hushed him, pushing him gently back onto the stretcher. The Medical Officer met them as they lifted Phillip down. He cut away the leather coat and fug boots. The doctor worked quickly, methodically, ignoring the anxious faces gathered around. His priority was to stop the bleeding from the severed femoral artery. He applied pressure and then a tourniquet. The other wounds could wait.

They took Phillip to the Casualty Clearing Station behind Arras. He was seldom conscious during the journey. He woke briefly in a tented hospital and was surprised to see the worried face of Peter Riley gazing down at him. He opened his mouth to speak but slipped from consciousness before he could frame the question. Peter had been brought to the hospital for treatment on a broken wrist sustained when his DH4 had collided with some trees on take off. He had been lucky, the pilot had broken his neck in the resulting crash.
Phillip woke in the night. It was dark outside and the dim light of paraffin lamps gave a soft illumination to the hospital tent. Peter still sat beside his cot. One arm was in a sling. He looked drained and exhausted. Phillip’s mind was all clarity. He knew with absolute certainty that he was dying. There was no pain, simply a vague feeling of being cold but even this was remote, distant from him. Peter was trying to smile but it looked remarkably like there were tears in his eyes.

“Peter?”

“Don’t try to talk, old chap, save your strength.”

“No Peter, this is important. I’m dying, Peter. No. Don’t try to kid me. I can feel it. It isn’t at all bad, you know.”

He lapsed into silence, seeming to drift for a while. When he spoke again his voice was weaker.

“I want you to do something for me. Please make sure they take me home. I want to be buried in Dorset. Bethan will know the place, tell her.”

“Anything you want, Phillip, you know I will do it.”

“And Peter?”

“Yes, Phillip?”

“Take care of Bethan and the baby for me. It would mean so much to know that they’re in good hands.”

“Of course, old man. But don’t worry. You’ll be able to do it yourself in no time. You’ll see.”

“Sorry, won’t…”

Phillip’s head slipped back to one side. His eyes closed and a tranquil calm settled on his features. He thought he heard someone sobbing as he quietly slipped away.

November 11, 1919

Peter and Bethan stood on the bare hilltop. A recent gale had blasted the remaining leaves from the trees in the wood below them. In front of them was a rectangle of amber marble; the gold lettering stood out brightly:

Lieutenant Phillip Worrell Welford-Barnes MC, RFC.

The church clock struck eleven and eleven times the bell tolled. The haunting notes of the ‘Last Post’ drifted upwards in the still, crisp air. Down in the village, traffic came to a halt. A driver climbed from the cab of his lorry and stood in mute tribute in the street. Peter reached out a hand and took Bethan’s, squeezing it gently. She didn’t look at him but gave an acknowledging squeeze of her own. The silence stretched out, a thing of poignant sorrow, touched with pride. Next to Bethan, Beatrice Welford-Barnes wept quietly, her one-year-old grandson cradled against her bosom. William stood beside her, back straight, head bowed. The tension in his posture spoke of barely suppressed emotion. The silence lasted for eternity.

Down by the new War Memorial, where too many names were lovingly carved, the bugler blew ‘Reveille.’ The silence ended. People drifted back to their work, slowly, unwilling to let go of the moment on that, the first Remembrance Day.