Angel of the Somme: The Great War, Book 1 Read Online Free Page A

footsteps and the squeaking wheels of carts being maneuvered about.
    Again, he tried to move his hands. This time, his right arm jerked up then fell back down onto his chest, like a kite suddenly deprived of wind. He slid his hand up his chest along the bumpy material— blanket? bandage? —covering him.
    That slight movement was strangely exhausting and his headache flared up. He concentrated over the pain, directing all his will toward his right arm. He lifted it, just slightly, and pulled it toward his face. His head roared in protest.
    His clumsy fingers touched a barrier—wrappings covered his head, including his eyes. Thank god—he wasn’t blind then. Or…he might not be. The bandage could mean many things.
    “Captain?” It was the male voice that had spoken the other day, no longer mumbling. “Oi, Sister? I think Sleeping Beauty might be waking up.”
    Sam pulled his arm away from his face, letting it fall gracelessly back onto the bed.
    “Captain Dwight?” A female voice, but not the soothing one from the other day. “Can you hear me?”
    He tried to think of what to— speak? voice? tongue? —and found his throat once again too uncooperative. And the pain inside his head yowled in protest.
    A darker shade of black crept into his vision from the edges and he fell into it without a fight.
    Sam woke to the sensation of movement. Then a male voice, very loud and authoritative, sounded in his left ear.
    “Captain Dwight, can you feel my hand?”
    It was so difficult to think beyond the blanket of pain wrapped around his mind. Sam searched to find meaning in the words— feel? hand?— but couldn’t find his way through. When he tried to speak, his throat seemed unfamiliar, as if it didn’t quite belong to him.
    Sam felt the slight pressure of fingers placed directly over the top of his own, but could not react. His fingers seemed like dead things that someone had pinned to the end of his hand. It was maddening. He’d been able to move the damned things earlier.
    He tried to speak, forcing his lips to shape a word, any word. Yes, hand, pain. He remained mute.
    “How about this, Captain?” The women’s voice sounded in his ear. It was her, again. The sweet voice. Fingers, warm and confident, turned his hand over and slipped inside Sam’s open palm. “Squeeze.”
    Sam squeezed.
    “Yes!” She gave a delighted yelp.
    “You were right, Lieutenant,” said a male— father? doctor?— voice. “Your roommate is coming around.”
    “Shall I remove the bandages?” the woman asked.
    “When were they last changed?”
    “I changed them myself this morning. There was no sign of herniation.” She paused. “I also checked for neck rigidity and there was none. And no history of fever. I think meningitis is going to pass by our captain all together.”
    “Very good. Once again, you’re ahead of me, Miss Curtis.” The male voice sounded genuinely impressed. “He appears to be beating the odds, touch wood. Once he’s stabilized, he’ll be bound for Blighty.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    “Let’s have a look at you, shall we, Lieutenant?” The man’s voice sounded farther away now. “You’re looking well. The lateral tremor seems a bit reduced. Now how’s that leg of yours?”
    The woman’s fingers, so warm and comforting, began to slip from his palm. Sam tried to tighten his grip, but his hand was uncooperative and slow—as if it belonged to a puppet and he was clumsily pulling at knotted strings.
    The voices moved farther away, and he slid back into the comfort of darkness.
    When Sam woke again, it was night. Even through the darkness, however, he could recognize shapes. He blinked rapidly to make sure it wasn’t an optical illusion. He wasn’t blind then. At least he had that much. He lifted a hand to his head. His arm trembled, but cooperated as he cautiously ran his fingertips across his face. Other than beard stubble, his skin felt smooth and unmarked. He then ran his fingertips across his