In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  “No. Don’t cut me, don’t cut me!” The patient’s eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. Beads of sweat trickled from his forehead down the bridge of his nose.

  “There’s no choice.” Eleanor shushed gently as she slipped the needle into the man’s arm then whirled around and grabbed a tourniquet which she tied just above his kneecap.

  “Ready?” Mathilda placed the saw in position.

  Eleanor braced herself, getting a firm grip on the man’s shoulders. “Ready.”

  The jagged edges of the saw ripped into the patient’s flesh. His eyes flew open. With a guttural roar he twisted in the bed, sending the saw spinning out of the nurse’s hands and shoving Eleanor to one side. His wild struggles ripped the needle out of his arm and undid the tourniquet’s knot. Blood spurted in wild gushes from a cut in an artery.

  “Get down, you fool!” Mathilda snatched up the saw and waved it in the air as she whirled toward the patient. “You’ll kill yourself.”

  Eleanor regained her feet. “The artery’s bleedin’ out of control!” She slammed the man back against pillows that had turned scarlet.

  “More morphine.” Mathilda pressed down on the saw. “Get more in him!”

  Eleanor glanced around the room with frantic eyes. “There’s none left. That was the last of it.”

  The man’s struggles grew weaker. “We’re losing him!” Eleanor slapped his face, trying to keep him conscious. She grabbed the tourniquet and redid the knot with nerveless fingers. “Stay with me, stay...”

  A raspy groan rattled in the patient’s throat. After a few minutes, the fountain of blood slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether.

  Eleanor’s eyes slid to Mathilda’s face. “He’s gone.”

  The nurse grunted and wiped the gore from her hands. “His own fault. Open a window to let his soul escape.”

  Eleanor reached up and eased the narrow window upward. There was no telling how many more deaths she would witness before the day was done.

  “Stretcher-bearers!” Mathilda’s raspy voice cut through the rank air that filled the small hut as she bustled off to another bed. “That man near Sister Eleanor is dead. That’s one bed free.”

  FIVE HOURS LATER, ELEANOR stumbled out of the hut, clutching bundles of bloody sheets against her chest. She squinted at the sky as she stepped from under the overhang. The rain had given way to a bleary morning, with solitary rays of sunlight streaming through the clouds. Eleanor picked her way around the bodies that still sprawled out on the ground, making her way toward the nearest burn barrel behind the hospital.

  As she rounded the corner, her eyes fell on a pile of bodies that had been dumped in a shallow depression in the mud. They would be buried later. The sight pushed her thoughts toward a small mound of earth in England that marked the resting place of her beloved child. Abby. The better part of two years had slipped by since her daughter had died but the ache in her heart had not eased with time.

  Eleanor approached the burn barrel. At least I know where Abby’s buried. The thought was a small measure of consolation. She had no idea where Will’s body rested. As often as not, the bodies of soldiers killed in the line of duty were never recovered. Eleanor shuddered. She had heard horrific stories of men being vaporized by falling artillery shells with nothing but a hand or a foot to testify that they had ever existed. Others were left to rot where they lay as a macabre warning to enemy troops.

  She dumped the clothes in the flames, wiped her hands on her apron and stared into the raging blaze. “Why am I here anyway?” Her chest heaved as though she had performed some monumental task. “For every life I save, ten others die.” Each death was another stab at her heart, another reminder of her own losses.

  Eleanor turned and trudged back toward her ward. She had thought of leaving Etaples many times. She could start her life over somewhere in England. “Where?” Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. Nowhere was safe. And the thought of abandoning Veronica and the others to the onslaught of casualties was repulsive.

  Her footsteps slowed to a bare shuffle. The truth was, Veronica had been right. In healing the sick, she found a measure of healing for her own soul.

  And then there was the dream. Her skin turned to gooseflesh as her mind replayed the strange scenario that had haunted her sleep three times in the past week.

  She no longer stood on the ground of Étaples but on the edge of a snow-covered ravine, staring down at the dizzying drop. One misstep would send her plummeting to a gruesome death. Merciless gusts of wind buffeted her on all sides and she pressed her back against the sheer walls that rose on all sides. As her frigid body gripped the wall, the wind formed itself into a voice that made her heart forget to beat.

  Eleanor closed her eyes, hearing in her mind the roar of the wind as it whipped her clothes around her and feeling again the power of a voice that could make mountains crumble with a whisper. The words had become an indelible part of her psyche.

  Her lips moved as she repeated the phrase that was more a memory than a fragmented dream. “Save my son.” She took a step forward. “Save my son.” She said the words again, louder this time and then shook her head, bringing the army camp around her back into focus.

  Eleanor rounded the corner and mounted the hospital steps. She was about to push open the door when a voice stopped her.

  “Nurse!”

  She turned, stifling a yawn. The coffee she had gulped down before dawn had long worn off. Two soldiers, bearing a wounded man on a stretcher, stood before her with rifles slung over their shoulders. “Yes?”

  The soldier at the head of the cot, a tall, well-muscled man with shaggy brown hair, spoke first. “We were sent by Lieutenant Colonel James Stewart to bring this man, Corporal Malcolm Steele, to Saint John’s hospital for urgent treatment.”

  His eyes skimmed the men stretched out on the field. “I know you’ve got your hands full but is there a bed we can put him in? The Colonel wants a detailed report on what we did with him.”

  Eleanor’s hand flew to her throat. Malcolm? She climbed down to the cot and stared at the bloody mound of shredded muscle and skin that formed the remnants of Malcolm Steele. Part of her wanted to leave the man where he lay and return to the other forty patients who needed her inside. The last time they had met, this man had coldly told her that her husband was dead!

  She felt for a pulse. “We don’t have any beds inside, even for officers.” The faint throb beneath her index finger was the only sign that Malcolm still lived.

  Pull yourself together Eleanor. She bit her lip and gave herself a stern mental shake. Malcolm had saved her life. True, he had been the bearer of bad news but, as she thought about it, informing her of Will’s death had been a kindness. Had it not been for Malcolm, she would still be looking over her shoulder every five minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of her husband. The past year had given her opportunity to accept the fact that Will was indeed dead.

  She straightened. “We’ve no beds left but bring him inside. Someone will die soon, unfortunately, and a bed will be available.”

  They followed her inside. She gestured to an unoccupied corner of the floor. “Put him over there and strip him. I’ll wash him down first then take a look.”

  The soldiers hurried to comply then backed eagerly out of the room, murmuring their thanks. When Malcolm was ready, Eleanor approached with a bucket of tepid water and as clean a rag as she could find. She wiped the blood and grime from his naked body, noting three bullet holes in his chest, abdomen and back as she worked.

  “What’ve we got here?” Veronica appeared at her elbow, wiping her hands clean.

  Eleanor pushed herself upright. “An acquaintance.”

  “I’m sorry.” Veronica blanched. “The patient across the room just died, so let’s get him in the bed before someone else takes it.”

  They heaved Malcolm onto the thin mattress that lay ensconced in a metal frame. Spots of blood, left by its previous occupant, were still visible on the sheets but there was no help
for that. Not now.

  “He’s got a fever,” Veronica laid a hand on Malcom’s forehead, “but it doesn’t seem too serious.”

  “The Huns got him three times as far as I can tell.” Eleanor pointed to the bullet holes. “Once in the lower abdomen, once in his upper shoulder and the third went into his side. The bullets in the abdomen and shoulder must have passed through his body but the ball in his side is still there. We have to get it out or it could tear into his lungs. Or he could die of infection.”

  “Good luck.” Veronica patted her arm.

  Eleanor stared at her, slack-jawed. “You don’t mean ...”

  Her friend nodded. “The surgeon hasn’t emerged from theater all day. This man will die if you don’t operate right away.” She shrugged then lowered her voice. “I hate to say it but you know as well as I do that he’s likely to die. At least, if he does, it’ll be in the presence of a friend.”

  Eleanor licked her lips. “I-I can’t operate on him Veronica. I’ve had no experience.”

  “How many procedures have you seen in the past year?” Veronica clapped her hands on her hips, arms crooked like sugar bowl handles.

  “I-I don’t know, probably a hundred?”

  “Right.” Veronica nodded. “That makes you an expert in my book.” She turned to leave. “I’ve got to go. Ward Sister Mathilda the Hun ordered me back to our old section.”

  Eleanor didn’t smile at Veronica’s attempt at humor. The thought of conducting a complex surgical procedure by herself was daunting to say the least. “Veronica, wait.” She gestured helplessly and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I can’t do this. I’m not even really a nurse!”

  Veronica moved out of the way as a group of nurses hurried by. “There’s no one else, El. If you leave him alone, he’s sure to die.” She arched a flippant eyebrow. “What is it you always tell me? Have faith? Maybe your God is testing your own faith right now.”

  Heat flooded Eleanor’s face and she shifted her gaze to Malcom. She wanted to say something—what exactly she did not know—but, when she raised her eyes again, the nurse was already gone. Gathering the essential tools—a scalpel, pliers, needle, stitching and bandages— she sucked in a deep breath, held it, then slowly exhaled.

  “God, guide my hands.” She wiped down the area with disinfectant then positioned the scalpel at Malcom’s side, just above the bullet’s entry point. Muttering prayers, she rubbed sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist, licked her lips again, and pressed down on the knife.

  HE WAS LOST. A SOLITARY soul drifting across a black sea of eternity. Darkness, so thick it was tangible, devoured his every movement like a goblin in the night. Cold numbed his conscious, seeping into the very marrow of his bones. There was no sense of direction. There was only oblivion.

  Water, dark and unseen, lapped at his feet. He could hear the murmur of its stealthy voice but could make out no shape.

  I’m on a raft?

  He could think. He could question. But there was no one to answer. The darkness had taken everything. It had eaten his memory. It had stolen his soul.

  What soul?

  Again, he struggled to voice the answer that he should know... but did not. The evil in the darkness pressed in on him, swirling around him like poison carried along in the wind.

  I’m lost.

  The thought overwhelmed him, filling him with a nameless terror. It clawed at him from the inside. He screamed but nothing escaped his mouth.

  Sound was trapped. He was trapped, entombed in this nameless hell of shadow and gloom.

  I’m lost.

  Fear perched on his shoulders like a dark bat, sinking its gruesome fangs into his skull and sucking out all rational thought. He flailed his arms wildly, wanting only to be free of this demon but his efforts only catapulted him into the watery abyss.

  The water should have been cold. But the evil within had already made him insensible to anything but himself. He floundered desperately in the inky water.

  Lost. Despair flooded his ears and poured down his throat. He stopped fighting. He was sinking. Drowning. But he was already dead. He was lost.

  Is this hell?

  A burning fire would have been a pleasure in the face of such mind-numbing darkness. A moan, low and haunting, reached his ears.

  A soundless scream ripped out of his throat.

  Save me! But there was no one to help him. No God. No family. He was alone. Alone without even a name to call his own.

  My name. What is my name?

  Desperation swelled up within him. There was something, some connection between his name and this distorted reality.

  The voices drew nearer, projecting an eerie green light that radiated around their amorphous bodies. Their mocking moans filled the air, the water, the essence of whoever he was.

  I want to live. Surely, he deserved to live! With that thought, his mind flooded with memories, scene after scene from his life. Scenes that made him cringe. No. He didn’t deserve to live. But if he could somehow escape this prison, he would change.

  In the gloom, distorted shapes hobbled toward him, climbing out of a sulfurous, smoking pit that glowed with molten flames, and holding chains that rattled and jerked in their hands as though they had a life of their own.

  Their shapes shifted in sinuous patterns, each motion a wave of repulsive agony. Soulless eyes, as black as the water around him, stared out of lids that were covered in a green film. Their groans filled the airless atmosphere. He wanted to scream, to cover his ears, but he was powerless beneath the weight of fear that clung to his shoulders. I’m lost.

  He bowed his head, as the inky chains coiled around his feet and arms. They pulled, dragging him to the fiery pit below and he—prisoner to despair—surrendered.

  But then another Voice spoke. It was a whisper; it was thunder. It was the shout of a Man, awesome in its power. Fear looked up in terror at the sound then screeched and leapt off his shoulders, diving for cover in the murky waters.

  A shaft of light penetrated the gloom with blazing intensity. The voice spoke again! The creatures around him shrieked in terror, falling backward at the crashing thunder that rattled the very core of the abyss.

  He looked up, inspired by a desperate hope. He opened his mouth, knowing that no sound would emerge but realizing that he had to try. “Help... me!”

  Shock paralyzed him. He had spoken!

  The voice called again and, as it spoke, the chains fell helpless at his feet. Darkness rolled away like a wave falling backward.

  He heard the voice. What is it saying?

  The answer hit him as his eyes flew open. My name. It’s calling my name!

  He bolted upright and felt his lungs constrict. He breathed deeply, sucking in not water but air.

  He blinked then squinted against the sudden glare of bright lights. White sticks hustled about, shouting and making strange gestures. But all of this faded to the back of his mind, as he heard the voice speak again. This time, it was not the shout of a warrior but the voice of... a woman. A face blurred into his vision, a face he knew but—

  “Malcolm Steele. Welcome back to the land of the livin’.”

  THOMAS GRIPPED THE railing of the Ariadné as it chugged across the English Channel, eyes intent on the approaching French shoreline. It had taken longer than expected to gain passage. A full week had passed since their departure from Northshire. The Ministry of War had recently enacted mandatory conscription, demanding that all eligible fighting men go to the Front. The result was clogged harbors and overcrowded shipping ports. Thomas and Leila had been forced to wait for five agonizing days before they could obtain passage aboard a steamer crammed with raw recruits and nurses.

  “Are you ready for this?” Leila wrapped her arms about her thin body.

  Thomas was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know. Finding him will be quite a task. Even if he is still alive.”

  “He’s alive.” She stared out into the brackish waters. “I don’t believe God would take
him. He’s not ready.”

  Thomas squeezed the railing of the boat. “Of course I want to see him, but I can’t help but wonder what kind of reception we will get.”

  Leila didn’t answer, and Thomas turned to her. “Are you ready for this?”

  “Yes. I am.” She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. “No matter what happens, I want Malcolm to know the truth. The full truth. Whatever he does after that is up to him.”

  ELEANOR SPOONED A MOUTHFUL of gruel into Malcom’s mouth. He had regained consciousness about a week ago but had not been able to hold down anything solid. Today, she would see how he handled the watery soup.

  Malcolm swallowed, then turned, gagged, and retched on the floor.

  She waited until he had finished, then wiped his mouth with a linen cloth. “Ready to try again?”

  He nodded. Some color had returned to his cheeks, but he still looked as though he had one foot in the grave.

  “You’re on the mend.” She placed the spoon against his cracked lips. He sipped at it, then let his head fall back against the bedframe. His stomach convulsed but he held the liquid down.

  “I honestly didn’t know if you’d survive my operation a week ago. You stayed unconscious for three days afterward.” Eleanor picked up the spoon and he downed another mouthful. “But here you are! You’d better be thankful that the flow of patients has slowed down a bit otherwise you wouldn’t have a bed, officer or not.”

  He didn’t look at her but jerked his head downward in a short nod. “Thank you.” His voice was a bit raspy but still strong and clear, a good sign to be sure.

  Eleanor gave him a warm smile as she rose. “That’s the first time you’ve spoken since you woke up. That’s good.” She placed the serving tray on the metal cart. “Rest up. I’ll be back to check on you later.”

  MALCOLM GRIPPED THE sheets between clenched fingers as he watched Eleanor wheel the cart away. The irony! He was almost tempted to believe that there was a God, a God who had brought them together, so he could pay the price for his crime against her by dying in her arms. But he had lived.