by Bryan Young
“Good morning,” she whispered. Her voice was sweeter than I’d imagined. It was full of grace and a proper British accent, exuding a soft affection and an unassuming sophistication.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered back, like an idiot.
“Your friend said I should look in on you. That you were lonely and having a hard time in hospital.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Yes. And he said too that you were a hero, troubled by what you’d done.”
“And what is it he said I did?”
“He didn’t.”
None of that explained why she was sitting here, in the dark, at my bedside, watching over me, and I said so.
“You were making noises,” she said softly, careful not to wake any of my neighbors.
“Noises? In my sleep?”
“Oui.”
“I see.”
“You were dreaming.”
“Was I talking?”
She hesitated before finally saying, “It was nothing. Really.”
It made me wonder what I must have said in my sleep to have brought her over. Was I calling out to her in my dreams? Was I reliving a battle in the air over France? Calling out for LeBeau? Was I calling for a raining death of fire on the Germans?
Perhaps I was calling out for my mother.
Or, worse still, Lucy.
She never told me. A secret kept forever.
I remember the struggle to say something that would keep her there, talking to me. She was an oasis, a shady respite after the endless desert of Hortense’s care. I wanted forever to be the focus of her attentions.
“I must go,” she said.
She stood up, leaving me in the dark. I had no strength to argue with her and no reason I could think of to get her to stay.
As she left, she stopped in the doorway, outlined in the muted, yellow light beyond the darkened hospital room. She turned with her hand up on the door jamb, gently turning her lissome neck to face me.
She wore her quiet smile like a mask, an upturned slit in the dim light on her face revealing the perfect shape of her features, spilling evenly over her and fading black at the edges like a Caravaggio.
Like one of his massive paintings, I framed that image in my mind, often referring back to it for strength and emotional nourishment.
If nothing else, the image was a constant inspiration for my own mask of a smile.
And that was how our first, brief encounter ended before it ever really started.
For the rest of that gray morning I tried to stay awake, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sara. My eyes burned and blinked, and I felt like I was back in a dream. There, Lucy became more like Rosaline-forgotten, and my attention turned to transforming Sara into my own Juliet without the sad ending. The dream spun around in different directions from there, but the thrust was largely the same.
Was making Sara my Juliet even possible?
My sleep was fitful over the rest of the morning and the next few nights beyond.
I was busy with my rehabilitation, and I did not see Sara for several days.
I asked the doctor overseeing my care about her, trying my hardest to seem nonchalant. He told me in French, which took me a time or two to understand and fully unpack, that she had earned time off. It was the same with Hortense, which is why things seemed peaceful, even in Sara’s absence.
It’s hard to keep track of the days when the routine gives you no break and nothing changes. The only real difference was on Sundays. A priest would come in and pray over us. It didn’t seem that remarkable to me.
If Sara came in and prayed over us, maybe then Sundays would be something to write home about.
I didn’t write home much anyway. What would I write about? My thoughts carried me in few directions worth writing down.
Over those two sore and painful days on my break from Sara, I did my best to abandon ideas from my mind of what she must have been doing during her time off.
I wondered if there was some doughboy or poilu she was seeing. Or perhaps a nice Italian boy with olive oil skin and an easy charm. Would they be out on the town? Taking in a show? Eating together, drinking wine by the cask? Did she have a room with someone? I shivered at the thought she might share a room with Hortense. Or maybe she shared a place with this fellow she saw? Or would she merely bring him home to entertain?
That horse of a thought kept doing laps around its track, taking me in circles. The thought of her with another man was made worse when Hortense arrived first thing the next morning to change my bandages.
“J'espère que tu vas mieux,” she said sweetly. Her uncomfortably warm, rough hands working over my body only worsened my mood.
Staring up at the ceiling, avoiding the view of the white draped creature working on my middle like a hulking heavyweight, I knew if I didn’t make my feelings known to Sara, I’d never have a chance at true happiness for the rest of my life. It’s odd how you think about things in terms like that. Even knowing how things can turn out, as with Lucy, my stomach churned with dread that I would never be happy again if I didn’t at the very least tell her.
Everything is so much more drastic when you’re lovesick.
Maybe it would have all been easier to deal with if I’d stopped right there and thought of other things. Things like my home country and all the dead fellows in the Aeronautic Corps I’d never see again. It was like they rocketed up into the air and never came down. The war showed no signs of slowing, and with the arrival of more stretcher-bearers, it seemed so much more important than the love life I imagined I was fashioning for myself.
The commotion began with an alarm, a blaring tone that reminded me of the warning alarm on my jet pack. When I heard it, a blast of adrenaline hit me in the chest and radiated into my stomach until I felt sick. My muscles tensed, and I wanted to take cover, even after I realized it was the incoming warning for the nurses and doctors.
The doctors scrambled to battle stations, as did Hortense, Sara, and the rest of the nurses, meeting the stretcher-bearers and beginning their work on the moaning, bloodied soldiers fresh from the front.
A chatter arose through the rest of the room, almost exclusively in French. Jean-Claude helped translate for me. “The Germans launched a surprise attack with a new weapon. Bombs strapped to rockets that jumped no man’s land.”
I leaned up as best as I could to get a better look at those being brought in. Their blue uniforms were caked in mud at the fringes, and blood from their gushing wounds soaked in other spots, darkening the blue to a purple, but I could hardly tell because the wet spots were flecked in the yellow powder of gas. They all reeked of petrol fuel, peroxide, and mustard gas.
I collapsed back onto my bed, doing my best to ignore the cries of anguish.
My thoughts went first to Renault, hoping that whatever assault had been launched hadn’t been the end of him. Especially since the second part of my plan required his help. The first part consisted of me getting back on my feet. The second was all about smuggling a bottle of vin into the hospital for romantic purposes as well as medicinal…
12
Later the next morning, word came back through a soldier in the explosive anti-steam tank unit that Renault had made it through the attack. For a while, I assumed that was simply a rumour until I saw him in the flesh, which caused me great relief.
He smuggled the bottle of vin in, just as I needed, and over the next week I set my plan into motion.
I stood over Sara’s desk, propped up by a cane and a crutch. My left leg, covered over in its thick plaster cast, dangled uselessly below me and I could feel it going numb. Being up and about was clearly a stupid idea, but I had little choice.
“I’m getting stronger,” I told her, instantly feeling sheepish.
“Stronger?” she said, going back to filling out her checklist in French.
“Strong enough to walk, I mean. Strong enough to walk on my own, rather.”
“I can see that. What are you doing h
ere, though? You’re supposed to be in bed. Walking is bad for you, even more so on a hobbled leg.”
She shooed me away, backing me out and back toward the hospital full of beds and bandaged soldiers.
I got the impression she knew where things were leading the same way a train conductor could see a clear track ahead of him. Here I was, an obstruction on the track that had to be dealt with before she could proceed, full steam ahead. Her job was easier than mine: she merely had to ensure she wouldn’t crash.
I stood my ground and resolved to be confident, charming, and desirable, but my voice quivered and cracked. “Well...”
“Well, what, Monsieur?”
“Since I’m getting strong enough to walk again, would you take one with me? I’m quite sure it would help in my recovery.”
Her smile broadened, but she slipped her mask back on, pulling the brakes on her locomotive and casually reaching behind her for the lever that would reverse her down the track.
My right knee buckled under the strain and I almost fell to the floor, but she caught me and helped me upright.
“Perhaps I will, but not today. When you’re steadier on your feet, Monsieur Preston, then we can take a walk.”
I smiled weakly. “It will give me something to look forward to.”
She took the cane and propped me up with her own body. With her arms around me, she helped me limp back into the ward and into my bed.
A sad sort of shame filled me with every hobbling step. I’d given it my best, but I simply wasn’t well enough yet.
The trip to see her was a great effort, but worth it. Her arm wrapped around me felt encouraging, a piece of armor that brought back the confident feelings of immortality I felt I’d lost after I’d been wounded.
It was an especially good journey because, not only did Sara not turn me down, but Hortense did not catch me out of bed. Had Hortense witnessed any of my tomfoolery, she would have come over to see what was the matter, then insist on fixing things for me. She’d adjust my leg, re-bandage me, and most likely mistake lemon-juice for antiseptic. Thankfully, she was none-the-wiser.
Sara left me in my hospital bed to lick my wounds, but she left something else there, too. A spark of hope I could cling to for the rest of my stay.
I’d simply have to work harder in my recovery, and that is exactly what I did.
A careful balancing act had to be maintained. I wanted to be well enough to walk with her, but not so well they’d discharge me from the hospital and send me away. I worked harder and got better on my feet over the next few days.
When I wasn’t working with the doctors, and when Renault wasn’t visiting to smuggle in goods, I spent my time in bed waiting to catch her eye.
My small entreaties had worked in equally small ways. Where before she’d ignored my existence completely, now I caught her stealing the occasional glance. Twice, even, she came by to inquire about my strength.
Soon enough, the moment was right to try speaking with her again. This time, she stood over me, checking on the healing abrasions on my legs. “The doctor says I’m much steadier now,” I told her.
“Steady enough for a walk, you mean?”
“You’ve seen right through me.”
Her face pulled into a half smile as she looked around behind her. “Wait for a moment.”
“I’ve no where else to go.”
She turned, leaving me in bed, and moved out of the hospital room and into the room for the nurses.
My stomach churned with doubt and bubbled with self-consciousness. Was she reporting my actions to Hortense who would come over to rough me up with more “therapy?” Or was she discussing my discharge with the doctor so I might be sent to the front once more, to face death and destruction and be flown away from her forever?
I was left how I had been for days, in my bed with nothing to entertain me but my surroundings and a cowering fear.
At times, the carnage around me, whether inflicted by the war or my nurse, was too much to bear. So many of the bleeding wounds I was forced to witness came in looking like hamburger and resulted in all manner of amputations and stitches and bone settings and any other invasive procedure one could imagine. I can still remember the spinning blades that they hooked up to the respirators, using them to cut through bone like a knife through bread. I hope that over time I’ll be able to forget the sights and sounds of such procedures, but I know they will never leave me. Perhaps I can block the images easily enough. Sara occupies the full frame of my mind’s eye, but the sounds…
Even with the worry that I was going to be sent away, back to the front, I could look around and see the fates of everyone else, and I quickly remembered that I’d gotten off easy. Sure, I’d have a variety of interesting scars adding to the patchwork of my skin, but nothing so character building as these fellows losing arms or legs or eyes.
I almost did lose my eye, and I can’t imagine it would have been anything pleasant. As it was, I had stitches along the side of my left eye that had all the appearance of a railroad track, winding back toward the side of my head. It was a shock to see myself again after the bandages had come off that first time.
The doctor had been loathe to give me a mirror, but Hortense obliged, foolishly thinking it would be good for my morale. Over time, the wound would heal and leave only bright white lines on my skin. The surgeons had done good work, but then and there, those lines and stitches were still dark red and at risk of infection.
I’m getting ahead of myself, though. I wouldn’t see those bandages off for some time yet. I was still laying there, waiting for Sara.
She returned, wearing her patented smile of reassurance, but there was a shadow of a man in the hallway beyond.
What wrench was this in the engine?
“May we leave?” I asked her timidly.
“Well, I thought you’d be more interested to know...”
“No.”
“…that you have here a visitor.”
She angled her body to show me the man in the shadows stepping into the light. My eyes started at his feet and moved up him. He wore the uniform and patches of an Aeronaut.
Then I saw his face as he called out my name.
“Preston!”
My cheeks hurt instantly from a smile wider than I could manage and tears misted my vision and tracked down my cheeks. “LeBeau?”
It was like looking at the Ghost of Christmas-Past. For a drowned man, he looked no worse for wear. His chestnut colored eyes seemed deeper and his hair a little grayer at the edges, but other than that, he was exactly as I’d remembered him: a jaw too square for a Frenchman, broad shoulders but thin down the middle, and ready with a smile that belied his new sadness.
Seeing him there in the flesh caused a chill, and another tear of happiness rolled down the side of my face not covered in gauze.
“I don’t understand… You drowned… How did you…?”
LeBeau interrupted me, laughing heartily. “How did I find you? That was easy. I asked for the biggest connard in France and was led to you directly.”
“No, I mean, I thought you were dead. Drowned in the river like a sack of kittens.”
“My pack was shot and the Marne broke my fall.”
“I saw that part. It was terrible. How did you not die?”
“You know how quick I think on my feet. I cut the straps from my pack and let it sink to the bottom of the river. They fished me out of the water later and nursed me back to health just in time for the Aeronautic Corps to be disbanded.”
“Disbanded?”
“Oui. I’m told we’re too expensive…” LeBeau took a seat on the chair next to my bed, then folded one leg over another and rested his hands in his lap.
“The packs? Or the men,” I said, thinking hard about all the lost comrades.
“What do you think? Us they would march happily into a sausage grinder and sell the meat if they thought it would defeat the Kaiser.”
“It’s so much of a relief to see you, my friend
. I still can’t believe you found me. Surely you didn’t come here just to see me…?”
“Of course, mon ami. Friendly faces are fewer and further between than I would like. And I heard a story about an incredibly stupid stunt pulled by a jump jockey, and I knew it had to have been you, so I had to come find out.”
I thought back to the bloodied face of the man on the zeppelin I’d beaten to a pulp and gulped. “I still don’t even think it was me up there. It was someone else. I don’t stick my neck out like that.”
“I knew you had it in you, even if you didn’t.”
We stopped speaking there for a moment, quietly in thought. LeBeau was never a man to speak too much, especially of things so depressing.
Turning to look upon Sara, I was glad to see her beaming. The sunlight in her countenance cut through my sadness. She seemed to glow at the sight of two grown men so thrilled to see each alive.
Her face brightened further, and she spoke through an infectious smile. “I suppose you won’t need me to walk you this afternoon. Commandant LeBeau has promised to bring you back to me in one piece.”
I was so excited to see my old friend I’d almost entirely forgotten my whole plan with Sara. She clearly thought nothing of it. But I was careful to notice how she said that last part. “…bring you back to me in one piece…”
It took the sting out of not being able to talk with her and learn more about her. She’d told me plenty there and then.
She helped me up out of the bed, handed me a sturdy wooden cane, and shuffled me and LeBeau out the door.
Before I left, I gathered my blanket and the cask of wine I’d hidden inside it. I’d meant to share it with Sara, but it’s always a good thing to drink with an old friend, especially when you’ve been through war together. It makes talking easier and takes the bite out of reminiscing about lost brothers, killed by bullets and mortar fire and shrapnel and gas and bombs and flamethrowers and failed jetpacks and run over by steam tanks and any number of a thousand different ways to die in this godforsaken madness.
We made it as far as the small tree on the hill that I could see through the window from my hospital bed. I’d stared at it longingly during my convalescence, aching to move out to it. In my imagination, my first trip to it would have been with Sara at my side, but LeBeau was a happy enough surprise.
