Writing for Fun
April 2019
Chain Of Events - Jan Norman
The morphine pump delivered the last of its lethal cargo into Colin’s vein and he sighed as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Opening his eyelids a millimetre he looked straight at his beloved wife of sixty years, Angela and gently squeezed her hand. With tears in her eyes she returned the pressure . . .
My mind drifted back through the years, sifting out memories to taste and let go of, until I unlocked the happiest memories to savour one last time.
A vignette of one particular day drifted into my consciousness, a day that started a chain of events that would change my life . . .
As a single, freelance graphics designer I worked from home, which allowed me to take time off now and again to indulge the two passions in my life – collecting WW1 memorabilia and urban exploring – often combing the two. Today I wanted to go to Wakefield’s Military Fair.
Then I saw myself in the garden talking to my elderly neighbours, Ted and Eva. Hearing that Ted’s car was out of action, I offered to take them to see Eva’s ailing friend in a village not far from Wakefield. I fancied I could drop them off, go on to the fair, returning at teatime to take them home but fate had other ideas.
Once there, Eva’s friend Marsha insisted I had a cup of tea before I left. I accepted out of politeness and, not wishing to intrude on their conversation, wandered around her sitting room sipping my drink casually, taking in the myriad photographs and family memorabilia on the large oak side table.
Suddenly I put down my cup and picked up the photograph of a young lad in WW1 uniform.
‘That’s my grandfather, Walter. He was injured at the Somme and spent time in a French hospital before being invalided out.’ piped up Marsha. ‘I have tons more stuff of his if you’re interested.’
Was I? That was an understatement.
Soon I was seated at the table surrounded by journals, medals, shell cases, a tommy lighter and other souvenirs from the trenches. I was in seventh heaven.
‘Look, Colin it’s plain to see that you would love and treasure these relicts. I’ve no children, you see, to hand them down to. Here you take them, they’re yours. It does my heart good to see someone who really seems to appreciate the sacrifice these young men made and keep my grandfather’s memory alive.’
Unable to say no I gladly agreed and treated them all to a slap up meal in the Dog and Duck down the road and mentally made a note to send her a huge bunch of roses with a large cheque tucked inside for her birthday next week. Hopefully she would be able to stock up her fridge and use the central heating for quite a while.
The picture faded and another took its place. I sat down on a boulder, weary and footsore. I had been in the region of the Somme, Northern France for the best part of a month now tramping the overgrown limestone quarries and caves near Carrierres de Montigny searching for the possible site of an Allied WW1 underground hospital. Marsha’s grandfather Walter, in his journals, wrote of his time there after being injured during the big push in the Somme. My searches, on and off line, yielded no clues as to where such a hospital could be located but logic dictated that the area had to be here somewhere.
Then I saw it. Crumbled concrete rubble led to a cave opening partially obscured by fallen rocks. Squeezing into a small crevice I suddenly found myself inside a cavernous space but not natural. My wanderings took me through over two square miles of tunnels, some rough hewn, making use of existing caves and some smooth concrete obviously man made. More unbelievable still were the scattered remains of easily identifiable hospital paraphernalia: bed frames, trolleys, enamel bowls and surgeon’s instruments, to name a few. Also strewn around were rusted tins and ordinary wares. There were even disintegrating piles of unused ammunition and rations.
My Urbex self surfaced and I took hundreds of photos. Graffiti scratched on the walls made real the inmates of long ago and a starting point for research.
One, in particular, caught my eye. ‘George Burton, Royal Fusiliers 1917’ I posted all my findings on the web except the whereabouts of the place, for fear of vandalism of such a pristine site and safety issues due to the unexploded ordinance. I also appealed for information regarding George.
I was not disappointed. A week later I received an e-mail from an excited young lady named Angela. It appeared that her father Eric had memories of his Grandfather telling of his stay in an underground hospital in France but no more detail. Would it be possible for her to bring her Dad over to see the place? He was a little frail but could make the hike with her help. She had posted a photo of Eric and herself. One look at her enchanting face and I resolved to help her all I could.
The rest was history. The hospital was restored thanks to the hard work of the people of Carrierre de Montigny and made one of the tourist attractions of the region. I helped all I could with publicity and research, on and off line.
As this montage faded I mentally waved farewell to the parade of faces that now passed before me: Angela my wife, then flashes of my beautiful children, Gavin and Elizabeth and grandchildren Lily and Grant. I smiled. I had had a wonderful life . . . but now was the time to let go.