The Lost Boy
by Charles Todd

LATE AUTUMN, 1915

The first time that Rutledge saw him was at the aid station behind the lines—a small, ragged child in a loud argument with one of the nurses.
"Can I help, Sister?" Rutledge asked. She turned to him with obvious relief.
"My French isn't up to explaining to him that he's not allowed in here." Here was a tent full of seriously wounded men waiting to be sent to hospitals as soon as ambulances could be found.
Rutledge dropped to his heels beside the boy and repeated her words in French. The boy, face red and set, replied swiftly, "But I must, mon capitaine! My father is in there."
He reached into the voluminous folds of a man's sweater that fit him like a black shroud and pulled out a crumpled photograph. "See?   There is my father."
Rutledge took it. The sister, relieved of her problem, quickly disappeared.
The photograph showed an English soldier, his face as fair as his hair, standing beside a dark-haired woman. Rutledge was unfamiliar with the uniform he was wearing. English, certainly, but what unit? Infantry? The boy was as dark as the woman; he looked nothing like the man.
"Votre mère?" Rutledge asked, pointing.
The boy nodded vigorously. "Elle est morte. C'est mon père, la." She's dead. That's my father in there. In amongst the rows of stretchers containing men in pain.
"He's among the wounded?   Are you quite sure?"
The boy nodded vigorously for a second time.
Rutledge, taking the child's hand, said, "Then we'll have a look. What's his name?"
The boy frowned. "Papa."
The tent was dark, but they could make out the white faces, the bloody bandages, the smell of suffering and fear. It was a gruesome tour for a small child, but he seemed not to notice, peering intently at each face, then shaking his head slowly. His large dark eyes were solemn, worried.
He's done this before, Rutledge thought.
In the end, Rutledge found a chaplain and handed the child over to him. Nobody seemed to know the boy or how he'd gotten this far toward the front lines on his own.
The chaplain said, "I'll feed him and send him to one of the orphanages. They'll get him sorted out and then ask around to find out what's become of the father."
Rutledge's transportation had arrived. Gingerly cradling his bandaged arm against his chest, he braced himself for the bumpy ride back to the lines.
He looked around once. The child was standing forlornly by the chaplain's side, staring after him with a grave sadness.
Two weeks later, the boy showed up in the trenches.
"God knows how he got here," Corporal Hamish MacLeod said. "Puir mite. I'll try te find somethin' warm to put into him an' send him back."
It was raining the next time. Even the Germans were hunkered down in their tunnels. The boy had mud caked as high as his thin knees, and the cut-off tunic he was wearing was black with wet. But the precious photograph was dry against his body. He patted his chest when Rutledge asked about it.
There was no one in Rutledge's company who bore even the slightest resemblance to the man in the photograph. He had found himself staring at faces, speculating. Searching for a likeness. Ever since he'd first spoken to the boy, he'd not been able to forget the ragged child.
It was cold that night. He and Corporal MacLeod rigged a scrap of canvas and a bit of wood into a makeshift shelter for the child to use until they could find a way to send him back.
Sergeant Drummond said, watching them, "It's no' wise, is it, to humor him? Let him get wet enough and frightened enough and he won't come back here.  Better for him, that."
Instead, Rutledge and Corporal MacLeod found themselves leaning against the trench wall through the long dark hours of that winter night, their bodies providing a little warmth for the shivering child huddled between them.
Corporal MacLeod tried to talk to him but the child shook his head. MacLeod grinned. "His father's no' a Scot—he doesna' ken a word."
Rutledge laughed. "That's one puzzle solved." He spoke to the boy at length in French, then translated the gist of it.
"His name is Gerard. His father's English. But he can't remember his mother ever telling him his father's name or regiment. How old do you think he is? He says he's ten, but I'll be damned if it's true."
MacLeod shrugged. "A wee eight? He canna' be much mair, and may be less." He swore softly. "I didna' think to find a child in this war. Ha' we killed all the men, then?"
Rutledge said, "I'd not like to think of a child of mine wandering the battlefield alone and unprotected. He's had the devil's own luck, not to be at the front when an attack is coming. Why the hell didn't the chaplain get him to that orphanage?"
The boy went back with the water wagon at first light, but he returned three days later. He was sent packing once more, and within the week was back again.
Oddly, each time he came there was a lull in the fighting. Men wrote letters home, played cards, stared at the barbed wire, listened to the roar of the French guns to the east. Or found themselves making what conversation they could with the boy. His English—heavily accented by now with Scots—was improving and he seemed to thrive on the attention. The horror, the smell of death all around them, the German lines within sight across No Man's Land seemed not to touch him.
"Puir lad. He's twa young te remember anythin' but this war," Lieutenant MacHugh said, gesturing to the surrounding wasteland which had once been green and productive. "Small wonder he's no' frightened. It's all he kens. And my ain twa laddies snug at home in Fort William with their ma. It's no' safe here. He must go back."
Rutledge had already seen to it. Once more the child was sent off, following his escort meekly.
"He's sae wee," Corporal MacLeod said, watching him leave, "that he can hide himsel' anywhere and who's to see him? A pity he's no' in school. On the ither hand, where's the one that could keep him? He'd be off the minute the master's head were turned."
"He wants to find his father. Anything else just doesn't seem important enough to matter to him. I saw him talking with Private Lindsay, who lost his son to diphtheria not six months ago. I think the boy's been a comfort to him, in a way." He didn't add that in one fashion or another the boy had brought comfort to all of them. Concern for him had blotted out their own fears for a time.
"Aye. And he comes because of ye. Do ye ken that? He thinks ye'll find his father for him. He says ye're lookin' as well."
Rutledge turned away and swore. He hadn't wanted to raise Gerard's hopes.
Hamish said into the silence, "Someone must ha' told him ye were a policeman."
A policeman. Once. A war and another lifetime away. Police work was so far in his past after these long months of fighting that he could hardly remember it—or think of himself returning to it. Scotland Yard, like so much else, was lost in the mists of what used to be.
The next three days saw a vicious round of shelling. Half deaf, exhausted, hungry, and dazed, Rutledge and his men leaned tiredly against the trench wall or squatted in the mud, dozing where they were. They would never survive another year of this, Rutledge told himself, looking around at the haggard faces of soldiers who had once been young. It had to end soon. Surely next spring would see it end.
He had no way of knowing that the summer, still seven months off, was to be even worse.
The boy came back one last time on the eve of the new year. He had collected a grimy assortment of little gifts for the men of Rutledge's command—some tobacco, a few matches, the stub of a pencil, a little bar of French soap, a needle and some thread, a button or two. He had managed to find items that each of his friends could use. It was uncanny. Some of the men openly wept as he made his rounds.
When he'd finished, he came to Rutledge and held something out to him, grasped between his small dirty fingers.
It was the photograph of his father and mother. "For you," he said simply.
Rutledge thought, he hasn't got anything else, he's giving up the photograph so I won't be left out. "Mais, non!" he said gently. "You must keep it. You will need it to find your father. To show to everyone."
The boy's eyes were shining in the dark. "No. It is for you now. I have found my father. I won't need it anymore. Perhaps it will remind you, when you look at it, of me. A little. I would like that very much. There is, you understand, no photograph of me to give to you."
Rutledge thanked him with solemn grace and added, "I'm happy for you, Gerard. Your father is a fortunate man. He has a very brave son."
Gerard grinned, then offered his hand. "Au revoir," he said as Rutledge gravely took it. Then he spontaneously leaned forward and hugged Rutledge hard. A little boy, after all. Rutledge ruffled the thick, shaggy, dark hair.
The child turned away and went down the long black snake of the trench to meet his latest transport, a messenger who had just brought them fresh orders.
Rutledge listened to them move off as he looked down at the crumpled photograph. Then he put it carefully in his wallet.
The attack began soon after, fierce and bloody. He had no time to think about lost children. He was too busy keeping himself and his men alive.
It was two days later that word came down that Gerard had died in the dark, trying to make his way back to the front lines. Afraid for his new friends under the fierce artillery barrage, he had been caught in the worst of the shelling.
They'd found him, smiling and whole, not a mark on his body. But the concussion of the bursting shell had killed him instantly.
Men turned away at the news, taking it silently.
Corporal MacLeod looked down at the rifle in his hands. After a time he said gruffly, "It were always quiet when the lad were here.  Did ye notice? And now he's gone."  He shivered. "It's an ill omen."
Heavy rains followed, pinning men in muddy trenches that filled with putrid water, and the rats swam with impunity. Rutledge took rotation behind the lines and spent the next seventy-two hours searching for Gerard's father. He walked from tent to tent at the aid stations, then began checking the hospitals. He showed the photograph to anyone who would look at it. Cornering busy nurses, harassed doctors, sleepless chaplains. Talking to the wounded. Looking among the dead. He went without sleep, driven by the hopeless possibility that he would find the man he was searching for. Somewhere in the search the policeman had come back, and dogged determination kept him going. Legwork, he told himself. It's often legwork that breaks a case. And by God, if there's a way to break this one—
He had just arranged for transport back to the lines when he saw a man limping heavily on crutches, his face grim with pain. He had come out of the latrines and was making his slow way back to his cot. One foot was swollen and bruised. The other was heavily bandaged.
Rutledge stood there, wondering if he was imagining the likeness. And then he was following the man, hurrying after him before he lost him.
He was just lowering himself onto his bed when Rutledge came up to him.
"I'm sorry. I don't know your name," he began.
The man looked up. "Lieutenant Garrison, Fusiliers."
"When were you wounded?" Rutledge asked, squatting on his heels by the bed.
Garrison told him. It was the week that Gerard had first appeared at the aid station, looking for his father. "Damned near lost my legs, to tell you the truth. But the surgeon wouldn't take no for an answer. I haven't yet learned to use them again." He smiled ruefully.  "But I must, somehow."
Rutledge reached into his tunic and drew out the photograph. "This is yours, I think."
Garrison looked at it, surprise lighting his face. "Where the devil did you get that?" And then his expression changed. He said in a tight voice, "Where's the boy?"
"I'm afraid I have bad news."
Garrison said, "No!" Then, "Tell me he didn't suffer!" His eyes held Rutledge's as if he could read the answer there.
"I can assure you—"
Garrison nodded, found his voice, and said fervently, "Thank God!" He took the photograph, staring at the man and woman standing in the sunlight. "That's Mariah. It's the only picture of her I brought with me." Smoothing it with gentle fingers, he said, "I never thought to see it again."
"Your son treasured it," Rutledge said. "He searched for you until the end."
Garrison looked up at him. "My son? I don't have one. Mariah is my fiancee, not my wife."
"But Gerard said—" Rutledge stopped. "How did the boy come by this then?"
"He used to find his way to the lines somehow.   God knows where he came from, or how he lived.   I took a liking to him. Well, you couldn't help but feel a fondness for him. We sent him back time and again, but he always managed to find us. My sergeant told me he'd been seen at other lines as well. One day he was there when I was looking at this photograph and there was such a hunger in his eyes that, without thinking, I gave it to him. He had no other family, so far as we could discover. I thought, if it made him happy, I could do without it."
"He told me it was a photograph of his father and mother."
"Yes, well, he was always trying to find somewhere to belong. I don't think he had any memory of where he came from or who his parents were. I'm surprised he gave this away." Garrison studied Rutledge's face. "When I went missing, he must have shifted his attention to you. You must have been kind to him, somehow. He wanted love desperately, you see. And so he adopted you." He turned and dug through the contents of his tunic pocket. "When I gave him the photograph, he offered me this in exchange. I expect that, by rights, it should be yours now."
He drew out a battered French postcard and handed it to Rutledge. Rutledge unfolded it and saw that it was a sepia view of the Somme River valley, printed long before the war. Turning it over, he read the words on the back.
"Toute ma vie, j'espere...."All my life, I hope ....
"A fair exchange," Rutledge said, his voice betraying him. "Thank you."
"It was odd," Garrison went on, "how there was a lull in the firing whenever Gerard was there. I remarked it, and others did as well."
"He died trying to get back to us when the fighting was most intense. I expect he thought he could bring us a brief respite."
Garrison looked down at his wounded legs. "He's the son some of us will never have. I think that was his charm. Poor little lost boy! I'd have taken him back with me if I could have found him again. Claimed he was my child, said or done anything to get him safe out of this."
The man in the next cot, who had seemed to be asleep, opened his eyes. "I don't think he wanted out of this." He held out his hand. "Lieutenant Parkins." Rutledge shook it. "He was at our line as well, that boy. Nobody knew how he managed to get there, but he did. He buoyed our spirits. We never learned who he was.  I'm sorry to hear that he's gone."
They talked for a few minutes longer, but Rutledge's transport was waiting and he had to go. He thanked Garrison for the postcard, said good-bye to Parkins, and headed back. He'd picked up rumors, behind the lines. Something was up.
Hamish MacLeod confirmed it when Rutledge got back. "Nobody's sayin', but nobody's denyin' either." Word came down that night and Rutledge passed through the lines, talking to his men, trying to give them heart for what lay ahead. When the shelling began, they all stood waiting for the signal, hoping against hope that the German trenches were pulverized. This time. But they never were. They were built too well and too deep.
The signal came, and the ladders were full of men charging up them, hitting the break in the wire, racing across the pocked and ugly landscape of No Man's Land.
Opposition was fierce at first.   Then it wilted.   Behind
Rutledge, one of the men cried, "Look there!"
Rutledge's first thought was, What the hell is he doing?!
There was a small figure standing at the brink of the German trenches, waving Rutledge's men forward. Rutledge led them in that direction, encountering almost no fire. When he got there and found the Germans gone save for one man, cowering in a corner, the figure had vanished.
They took the single German prisoner and brought him, babbling, with them to be interrogated.
Rutledge stopped for an instant to count his losses and discovered that except for one or two men wounded, he'd brought them all back.
He got word later that the German they'd captured was suffering from shell shock and useless to them.
The man charged with interrogating him said, "He keeps repeating over and over again that there was a child on the lip of the trenches, and that the English were following him. Scared the hell out of the Germans, and they fled. Not a word of it true, of course. The Hun is just trying to excuse his own bloody cowardice."
The line was full of speculation about what they'd seen. Foxfire, some swore. From the wet and unspeakable mud. The lost boy, others claimed, showing them the way to safety. Smoke from a German cookfire, the wounded claimed; they'd smelled bratwurst frying.
Rutledge asked Hamish what he'd seen, but the Scot turned away and didn't answer.
He himself tried to remember exactly what it was, there on the edge of the German lines. The policeman in him refusing to accept a ghost child, the man wanting to believe.
Two weeks later Rutledge received a letter from the mail pouch. It was from Lieutenant Garrison in England.
"I have to tell you the strangest thing. We had just docked and were beginning to unload the worst cases. I was sitting there at the rail watching the stretchers coming off. Then I saw someone waving from the back of the crowd that had gathered.
"I turned to look, and I would swear on my soul it was Gerard, standing back there waiting for me. But when they finally brought me off, I couldn't find him. He'd gone. You must be wrong—that he was dead. He's here in England, and I intend to find him as soon as I can walk without help. The doctors say there's not much hope of that, but they're wrong too. Give me six months and I won't need these blasted crutches anymore."
Rutledge wrote straightaway to Sergeant Gibson at the Yard, and asked him to spread the word that a Lieutenant Garrison was searching for a small boy of nine or ten who spoke only French and answered to the name of Gerard.
It was six months before he got an answer. The latter part of June, in fact.
"We've had no luck tracing the child, Gerard, who you wrote me about. He's not to be found. But you might want to know that in addition to Lieutenant Garrison, we've had over a dozen other ex-soldiers in different parts of England searching for him. Never saw anything like it!"
Rutledge passed the letter to Hamish that night as they prepared to dig in at the Somme. It was a scene very unlike the postcard that Rutledge still carried, the valley only recognizable by the course the river took through it.
"I havena' seen the lad," he said. "It's an ill omen, that. I ha' a verra' strange feelin' about Gerard. He only appears te the men who survive an' go home. An' I havena' seen him." His voice was bleak in the darkness.
Rudedge stared at Corporal MacLeod. "Surely you don't believe that! You must have seen him when we took that German line!"
"No. Nor did McLaughlin, nor Campbell, nor Gunn, nor MacTavish, nor . . . ." His voice faltered as he recited the list of the men who had died since that January night.
Rutledge thought back to that attack, and the luminous shape he'd thought he'd glimpsed by the German trenches.
He couldn't have said exactly what it was. He couldn't have sworn it was Gerard or the Bowmen or any of the other battlefield apparitions men claimed to have seen during the war. It had just been ... a shape. Smoke, even.
He felt cold, standing there in the heat of early summer. Why couldn't he remember more clearly? Tired as he was, the memory was elusive. Or was it the policeman refusing to accept the impossible as possible?
Struggling to find a suitable answer, he said to Hamish MacLeod, "If we start believing such things, we will start giving up hope. And I refuse to do that."
"I've a letter from Fiona. She dreamt of findin' my gravestone in the kirkyard. A small boy were standin' there, pointin it out."
"Well then, if you end up buried in Scotland, that means you'll live through the war," Rutledge said. "The dead stay in France."
Hamish looked at him.  "But no' their spirits."
Rutledge said, "What did Gerard give you that last night?"
It was some time before Hamish spoke again, changing the subject. "There were a Frenchman here last month. Speakin' te the men."
"Yes, I remember him."
"I took him aside an' asked him te find out what he could about Gerard. He sent me this." Hamish took a letter out of his tunic and handed it to Rutledge.
Rutledge opened the letter and read it.
"I have made enquiries, and it appears that your lost boy is Gerard Milford. His father went back to England in 1914 to fight with the BFE. Gerard was attending his mother's funeral service in Marlette du Bois when the Germans stormed through the Marne Valley. No one in that area has seen him since. But he has been seen elsewhere. The French soldiers call him the boy with a thousand fathers. I suppose that's true, in a way."
Looking up from the letter, Rutledge said, "That was clever of you, to ask the French. I'd never thought of it."
Hamish smiled. "Ye're no' the only detective, Captain. An' I'll tell ye somethin' else ye didna' ken. He loved ye, did Gerard." He took something else out of his tunic and held it out. It was a scrap of paper with a charcoal sketch on it of two tall men—one in a kilt, one in an officer's cap. Between them was a small child, smiling broadly. And below them were the captions Mon Père. Gerard. Mon Oncle.
My father. Gerard. My uncle.
The charcoal figure of the uncle—Hamish—had been smudged and, looking at it, Rutledge wondered whether the passage of time or Gerard himself had turned Corporal MacLeod into a ghost. ♦