The slope to the hospital tent was too steep for the cart and the iron-rimmed wheels kept slipping on the dewy grass, making it lurch and skid as the horse heaved into its yoke.

"It's not going to do it," said Hooper. "We'll have to cut across the grass to the path."

The Bandsmen nodded agreement and swung the horse and cart round. It was 200 yards or so to the dirt path. As soon as they stopped fighting the hill, the horse dropped into a gentle rhythmic plod, making its weary way towards the catering tents.

Hooper looked down to the hollow and west to the lake. The cavalry had done their job. They had carved a wedge through the Coventry men and were regrouping on the other side. The Fusiliers had seized the moment and run forward. After volleys of rifle fire, they were now hand to hand fighting with a couple of hundred Coventry men who were cut off from their battalion. Hooper could hear the clash of steel and squealing horses. Skirmishes were breaking out round the edge of the lake, with puffs of white smoke floating up then vanishing in the wind. The marshals were waving their yellow pennants furiously, trying to sort out the mêlée in the hollow. A great cheer went up from the Fusiliers as a Marshall retired a number of Coventry men.

James Tandey's unconscious form lolled from side to side on the back of the cart, in rhythm with the walking horse.

"Smell that," said one of the Bandsmen as they walked by the tents. "Vegetable stew that is."

"You wouldn"t believe something could smell as good as that and taste so foul could you?" said the other Bandsman.

"No," said Hooper. "They must practise all bloody day to get it like that."

The sunshine was still bright, and white chiffon clouds rushed across the blue sky. The tents and the smell of stew were soon behind them. Just a few minutes walk from the hospital tents, a Yeoman on horseback, walked by and glanced down into the cart. "Is that James Tandey?" he said.

"Yes," said Hooper. "Do you know him?"

"He took some money off me at cards the other night. I am indebted to him. What happened?"

"Kicked in the head and run over by the horses. It doesn't bode well for him, poor devil. You may not have to cough up after all."

The cart carried on, leaving the Yeoman looking over his shoulder.

"Here we are soldier," said one of the bandsmen jumping down from the cart. The sharp, acrid scent of carbolic soap sat heavily in the air around them and stacks of wooden boxes, labelled Lint and Dressings were piled in neat rows a few paces from the entrance.

"Right. Come on," said the second bandsman glancing at James' lifeless form. "Let's get him inside".

Hooper walked ahead of the bandsmen into the tent, which was breathing in and out in rhythm with the breeze.

Two privates and a lance corporal were seated next to each other on ammunition cases. Hooper and the bandsmen had taken so long to come round the path that some of the walking wounded from the hollow had arrived before them.

One of the men had blood seeping from a field dressing around his knee; the other was holding a wad of gun cotton to his cheek. His complexion was pale, a slash of crimson streaked his neck and a crust of blood hung on his ginger moustache, stiffening it like dried paint on a brush. The lance Corporal had one arm in a makeshift sling. They seemed cheerful, despite their injuries and both nodded at Hooper as he walked by, curious because there was no evidence of a wound.

At the end of the tent, some thirty feet away, Surgeon Watson stooped over another soldier, bandaging his forearm. He paused to brush the grey hair from his forehead.

"Take a seat in the queue Corporal," said the surgeon, wiping his hands on his

bloody apron. "I'll see you shortly, though you look all right to me. I hope you're not wasting my time!"

"It's not me sir. There's a soldier on his way in, they're just getting him off the cart. He's been kicked in the head and all over his body, he looks in a bad way sir."

"I'll be the judge of that Corporal. You'd better get him in here. These Nancies can wait."

The bandsmen carried James through the tent. He moaned briefly as they rolled him off the stretcher on to the table. It was warm and humid under the canvas and a few early flies danced up and down the fabric walls.

"Right. Leave him be. Now let's have a look at him," said Surgeon Watson.

Hooper nodded his thanks to the bandsmen as they left. James stopped moaning and lapsed into unconsciousness.

Watson pulled open James' eyelids exposing his staring eyes. He studied the bruising round the eye sockets, checked his pulse and bringing his ear over James' mouth and nose, he listened, at the same time trying to feel breath on his cheek. Then turning his attention to the head, he gently moved it to one side to examine the wound. There was a little blood, already congealed in his scalp and a massive angry purple bruise behind his right ear. Watson slowly ran his feather-light fingers, over James' scalp.

Hooper waited nearby anxiously. "Fractured skull," said Watson. "Here at the back, I can feel the depression. Give me a hand to get him out of his uniform."

The two men undid the buttons on James' tunic.

"Take care soldier," said Watson as they started to remove the tunic "I believe his left arm has snapped. Leave the sleeve, I'll cut it off, his chest is black and blue."

"Is it bad sir?"

"Can't tell much at this stage. How old is he?"

"Nineteen I think sir. Will he be all right sir?"

"He seems a fit strong lad. Fitter than most I've seen. I'll tell you more in a moment. Get his boots off will you Corporal. And be gentle about it."

Hooper struggled to remove the boots while Watson moved a small lamp back and forth across Tandey's face looking into his pupils. Hooper wasn't making much progress.

"Here, I'll hold him at the knee I'll have to cut them off... shame they look new. Has he not been with us long?"

"Only a few months sir."

            "We have to try and keep him as still as possible." Watson produced a large pair of scissors and went to work on the boots. He then pulled James' socks to his ankles and lifted his riding britches above his knees. "Mmm some bad bruising to the shins there, hard to tell if there is a break, I'll splint it to be sure." He tapped both knees in turn, with the handle of his pistol, grunting with satisfaction as each leg jerked. Moving to the feet he produced a blunted bayonet, dragged it up the sole of each foot from heel to toe, and smiled as the toes curled.

"He's not paralysed. That's something. Though apart from that, I don't know what state his brain is in." He paused to wipe his hands on his apron and take a gulp of tea from a large pot.
               "It looks like a bad fracture of the skull and apart from dressing the wound, there is nothing we can do except wait and hope the bone knits without causing pressure on the brain.
            "He's presently in a deep coma and may develop pneumonia or a fever over the next few days, so let's get him out of here as soon as possible. I'll send him to the Birmingham Military Hospital and see if he recovers. I'll send word to his family too. He's finished with the army and that is certain. What is not certain is if he will live, and if he does live, how badly his brain is damaged. It's just a question of waiting."

***