by Terri Meeker
Sam returned his salute. The trembling private standing before him was one of the latest bunch of recruits assigned to him. Enis, was it? No, Ellis. The lad looked at Sam expectantly.
“Private Ellis?” Sam asked.
“Some of the men were wondering if we’d got our orders wrong, Captain. We thought, sir, that we was supposed to go over the top after the last of the mines go off.”
“That’s correct, but the whistles, not the artillery, signal the attack”
Another ground-shaking shell hit the earth, sending down a shower of mud and rocks. It was closer this time. The sound of screaming followed the burst.
“The German artillery, sir…?” Ellis gulped.
Sam looked past the quaking young man to see the rest of his company, crouched in fear and sweating under their helmets, despite the early morning hour. If he didn’t give them something to do—something to hold on to—he might lose them altogether. He’d seen it happen in the first days of the war.
As Sam reached into his pocket to pull out his watch, his fingertips brushed against his father’s lucky totem. He still carried it with him on his sister’s insistence. The damned thing was a nuisance and its only purpose thus far had been to scratch his watch case. He pushed the stone aside and withdrew his timepiece. He glanced at the time in what he hoped was a casual manner. Twenty-seven past seven. Three minutes to go.
“Are you afraid, Private Ellis?”
Sam’s question was so blunt, so unexpected, that the lad only blinked at him. He felt the eyes of the other soldiers turn to them.
“There’s no shame in fear. Truth be told, I was half out of my head the first time I engaged the enemy. By my reckoning, you’d be a wool-headed fool not to be afraid.”
“Then I’m terrified,” a voice called before adding, “Sir.” It came from a fellow just behind Ellis, who couldn’t have been a day over seventeen.
Sam laughed and was relieved to hear a few others join in.
“Well, good then! Glad to hear it. Fear isn’t a bad thing, you know. And it doesn’t mean you’re not brave, lad. Courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s the mastery of it.” He clapped a hand on Ellis’ shoulder. “And I know you can overcome your fear, Private.” He raised his eyes to his men. “I know all of you fellows can. You’ve been outstanding soldiers, to the last. And though you may question your abilities, your courage, you must remember one thing: I don’t. Not for a moment.”
Sam smiled in an attempt to portray confidence, trying not to be the fearful farmer the men had, but the competent Captain they needed. “You’re the same men who have dutifully followed my orders throughout the mundane activities of keeping this trench. You’ll not let me down when it comes to the thick of things. You’ll be as brave as you need to be. As brave as England needs you to be. You’ll do splendidly.”
He glanced at his watch. Seven twenty-nine. Time was nearly out.
“Men, affix bayonets and await my command. Ladders up.” He tucked his watch into his tunic pocket. “We’ll clear a line for the cavalry and be resting in Jerry’s trenches by tea time.”
Sam tugged on his helmet’s chin strap, securing it, then checked his Webley revolver. Ellis was still just at his elbow, the boy’s wild-eyed gaze now eclipsed by a slightly more confident expression.
Since the lad was having a bit of a struggle attaching his bayonet to his rifle, Sam reached over to help. It was then that he heard it. The faint whirr that grew louder at an impossible speed. It wasn’t the signal for going over the top, but one which bore a far deadlier message.
The Big Bertha screamed toward them.
Sam spun to order his men out of harm’s way, but with soldiers packed so tightly in the narrow earthen passage, there was simply nowhere to go.
Fighting a rising tide of panic, he motioned for them to take cover. Private Ellis stared back at him, as blank-faced as a newborn lamb.
Suddenly, in a bone-rattling boom and puff of earth, Ellis disappeared entirely. There was an enormous roar, then silence as Sam was swallowed in an unholy cloud of dirt and blood.
He felt his body being lifted up and up and up—as though he was being carried to Heaven.
I’m a bloody angel, he thought, not being prone to cursing, but then, it wasn’t every day that one ascended to the skies.
For a moment, he hung suspended there, halfway between Heaven and Earth. In this soundless, surreal state, he felt as though he’d left his body entirely. As if he was watching an image of himself on the cinema screen, while the real Sam Dwight watched comfortably, safely from his seat.
In that split-second as he hung in midair, his mind flooded with images of home. He saw the south meadow covered in winter’s first snow. He saw the sun slanting across the barn’s sloped roof as their sheepdog, Molly, bounded through the yard. He saw the faces of Evie, Baden and his parents.
He felt his heart break, overwhelmed by the terrible beauty of that which had been his life. And the unimaginable fragility of it all.
Then he slammed back into his body. The images of home were torn from him as the earth grasped for him with greedy fingers. He tried to gasp for breath, but could find none.
Heaven didn’t want him, it seemed. Perhaps he was better fit for Hell.
His body hit the earth, hard. As his head struck the ground, hot webs of pain radiated out from the top of his skull to his spine. Then the world was swallowed whole by merciful black.
Chapter Two
Base Hospital Seventeen had never seen the likes of what they were calling “The Battle of the Somme”. Though they’d had word that there would be a push and had tried to prepare for an onslaught of casualties, the crimson flood of dying and wounded men left them floundering. The staff had worked nonstop for thirty hours, yet the ambulances just kept rolling up to the door.
Lily Curtis swayed slightly on her feet as she looked down at the line of stretcher bearers clogging the aisle of the packed ward. Groans and shouted orders filled the air. One young man on her right was missing most of his lower jaw—and he was bleeding through the poorly applied bandage. Another pressing duty she needed to attend to if only she could find a moment.
You can do it, Lily. Put on your brave face.
She took a deep, steadying breath and stepped toward the next pair of stretcher bearers paused in front of her. Lily glanced down at the soldier and her heart sank. Another head injury. These were the worst. The patient’s skin was deathly pale and he’d already soaked through the dressing. She quickly scanned the card pinned to the unconscious man’s chest, its writing hurried and barely legible.
Captain Samuel Dwight—head wound, concus.
Lily grasped the man’s wrist. His pulse was very slow and she checked to confirm his lowered respiration. Comatose or close to it. Feeling miserably guilty, as she did every time she assigned someone the lowest triage priority, she scrawled a large number three on his card.
“Please place him next to the windows,” Lily instructed the weary lads holding the stretcher.
“There’s no more room,” one of the lads protested.
“You’ll find room. I know you can.”
As they trundled their burden toward the wall, she moved to the next waiting stretcher, careful to avoid stepping on the wounded litters clogging the aisles.
“Miss Curtis, more catgut to surgery, now!” Matron Marshall stood at the rear of the ward, overseeing the frantic activity, the captain on the bridge of her storm-tossed vessel. Her lips were constantly pursed in a frown and she had a series of lines coming from her mouth that reminded Lily of a spider’s web. A lifelong Army nurse, the matron took absolutely no nonsense from anyone, least of all a war.
Lily scribbled a number one on the next patient in her line, a private with a severe leg wound that would likely need amputation. “There’s only silk left, ma’am.” Lily stepped around the line of wounded.
“Sterilized?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then go.” The matron turned her attention to the corner of the room where two newly arrived VADs, or members of the Volunteer Aid Detachment, were attempting to be inconspicuous. “You there, if you’re going to be useless, at least take water around.” She raised her brows menacingly. “Now.” The girls lunged guiltily into action.
Lily opened the cabinet that held sterile equipment and scooped up all the silk thread on the shelf. She stepped through the rear door and rushed down the hall. By the time she reached the surgery rooms, back behind the kitchen, Sister Cudahee waited at the door with her hand extended.
“The fabric store in the village sent more,” the sister said. “Or they should have. They’ll be in the linen cabinet. Sterilize them, and quickly.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lily scurried through the kitchen to the linen cabinet and tore it open. A small cotton bag rested on the lower shelf. She snatched it up and peered inside to see dozens of spools of silk thread—a bright kaleidoscope jumble of colors. It was likely all the little village shop had to offer. Bless the proprietor. Lily grabbed the bag and wove a path through the men crowding the floor to where the newest VADs were timidly offering water to the wounded.
“Ladies, I need one of you for sterilization duty.”
The girls blinked at her. Lily forced a smile. It wasn’t her brave face, but it was the best she could manage. “You learned this on day two of your training, I believe.”
Lily thrust the bag into the closest girl’s arms and pointed to the ward’s rear door. “Put these through the autoclave. It’s in the prep room, just next to surgery. If that is a problem, then boil the lot for two minutes.”
The girl stared at the thread in her hands.
“You know how to do this.” Lily tried her best to sound reassuring. “You’ll do fine.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl’s face had gone white and she blinked down at the bag in her hands.
Lily shook her head. “I’m not a ma’am. I’m a VAD, just like you.”
“Are you? But you seem so…”
“I’m just more accustomed to the chaos.”
Lily spun around and threaded her way back through the aisle of the moaning wounded, intending to report back to the matron. Halfway across the room, a thin, red-headed boy stopped her dead. There was something about the look of him, propped up against the wall and gasping for breath. His eyes were open so wide that the whites showed all the way around the pupil. He reminded her of a raccoon that had once gotten locked in a shed back home in Canada. The poor thing had nearly gone mad with fear.
Lily knelt by his side and reached out to grasp his hand. “Hello, I’m Miss Curtis.”
“Corporal…Simon…” he choked out.
“Where are you injured, Corporal? Did they not give you a tag?”
“Can’t…breathe…” He kicked his legs violently. The edges of his mouth were slightly blue. Lily reached out to take his pulse—it was irregular and thready. She turned his wrist to check his fingernails. They also had a slightly bluish hue.
“Can you tilt your head back?” she asked.
“Yes, Captain.” His eyes were unfocused, but he obeyed. She opened his mouth, but could see no obstructions. She quickly unfastened his jacket. When she pulled it open, she saw the trouble immediately. The right side of his chest held a chunk of shrapnel which appeared to be imbedded quite deep. His shirt was soaked in blood, but his jacket was relatively blood free, masking the extent of his injury.
“One moment. I’ll be right back.” Lily rushed across the crowded floor and stopped in front of the Matron who was assisting a VAD dressing soldier’s leg.
“Matron, we’ve got a lad with acute respiratory failure. I’d like to—”
“It is not your place to diagnose, Miss Curtis.” Matron Marshall didn’t take her eyes off her patient. “I can’t imagine why you’d presume to come to such a conclusion.”
Not this again. Not when it mattered so much. Lily took a deep breath. “Because he has circumoral cyanosis and arrhythmia,” she said through gritted teeth. “And because there is a huge chunk of metal sticking out of his chest.”
The matron gave Lily a septic stare.
“Sister Newell,” the matron shouted toward one of the “real” nurses. “Please evaluate the patient that Miss Curtis will direct you to.”
“Ma’am, please,” Lily interjected. The matron was already annoyed and Lily reckoned she might as well push on. “He’s lost so much blood already. Sister Newell will only give him plasma. I really feel—”
“Not now!” The matron’s face reddened. “We do not have the luxury of time for your transfusion nonsense. Assist Sister Newell.”
Lily swallowed her protests and turned to Sister Newell, schooling her face into a neutral expression. Lily bent her head in the direction of their waiting patient. Her voice, when she spoke—“If you’d please follow me”—even sounded properly subservient. Sometimes a brave face wore a strange disguise.
Chapter Three
Sam swam up from inky depths to the sound of a female voice. Not British, but not German either. He tried to place it, but thoughts came so slowly and it was such a strain to concentrate upon the meaning her words formed.
“…moving around more. Your legs have changed position several times. I’m sure of it.”
He heard some male mumbling that he couldn’t quite make out, followed by light-hearted laughter.
“You get more than your share of attention, I’m sure, Lieutenant.” Her voice was farther away for that bit. Wood groaned on tile. The sound of something—chair? table?—being pulled up. “And if he is aware of what’s going on, better to have a reason to wake up, don’t you think?”
The same male voice grumbled a few words, then Sam heard paper being torn. The noise echoed through his mind, making it difficult to think. A thin blade of pain slipped in and felt as if it was slicing cruel but precise incisions into his brain. He tried to move his arms, to feel why his head was in such agony, but they refused to budge.
The pleasant voice continued, and brought with it a sense of calm. He relaxed and listened. “You’ve another letter from West Sussex, Captain.”
When he tried to open his eyes, he saw only darkness.
“‘Darling Sam,’” the woman began. “‘Yesterday we got another letter from someone in the Voluntary Aid Detachment. Please thank her for writing, will you? The VAD says you’re well, but goes into no more detail than that. I like to suppose you don’t write to us yourself because you’re too busy getting better—but I’ve a worry that it only means you’re still sleeping.’”
Pain crashed inside his skull in waves. It radiated down his body in angry torrents. The harder he tried to stay awake, the more his head ached—as if his struggles were feeding a beast inside his mind.
“‘Mum and Father are getting on as well as you’d expect. Mum worries, but Father tells her that your being in the hospital is good news. It means you’re safe and no longer a target for Jerry’s bullets. I must admit that I’d feel a lot better if I could read a letter in your illegible scrawl with your tendency to over punctuate.’”
Another sharp pain sliced through the top of Sam’s skull. He tried to groan in response, but remained mute. He focused his mind and held onto the woman’s soothing voice and her words from—sister? Evie?—the letter writer.
“‘We received a rare letter from Bad two days ago. He’s been informed about your injury but is too far away to…’”
Sam held to the sound of her voice as hard as he was able, but a roar of agony screamed inside his mind, drowning out the sound of the woman as if she were a songbird on the battlefield. Her words grew so faint that he could no longer make them out. As he slipped back into darkness, she faded to a comforting murmur until sleep claimed
him.
He woke again with no idea if it had been days or hours since he’d last been conscious. His head felt clearer, at any rate. The ice pick of pain had been replaced by a dull throbbing, which was a sweet mercy.
Concentrating as hard as he was able, he opened his eyes only to see the same blackness as before. He knew he had to be awake for there was a steady sense of a busy world going on all around his bed. A conversation burbled up near him and he could distinguish the sound of footsteps and the squeaking wheels of carts being maneuvered about.
Again, he tried to move his hands. This time, his right arm jerked up then fell back down onto his chest, like a kite suddenly deprived of wind. He slid his hand up his chest along the bumpy material—blanket? bandage?—covering him.
That slight movement was strangely exhausting and his headache flared up. He concentrated over the pain, directing all his will toward his right arm. He lifted it, just slightly, and pulled it toward his face. His head roared in protest.
His clumsy fingers touched a barrier—wrappings covered his head, including his eyes. Thank god—he wasn’t blind then. Or…he might not be. The bandage could mean many things.
“Captain?” It was the male voice that had spoken the other day, no longer mumbling. “Oi, Sister? I think Sleeping Beauty might be waking up.”
Sam pulled his arm away from his face, letting it fall gracelessly back onto the bed.
“Captain Dwight?” A female voice, but not the soothing one from the other day. “Can you hear me?”
He tried to think of what to—speak? voice? tongue?—and found his throat once again too uncooperative. And the pain inside his head yowled in protest.
A darker shade of black crept into his vision from the edges and he fell into it without a fight.
Sam woke to the sensation of movement. Then a male voice, very loud and authoritative, sounded in his left ear.
“Captain Dwight, can you feel my hand?”
It was so difficult to think beyond the blanket of pain wrapped around his mind. Sam searched to find meaning in the words—feel? hand?—but couldn’t find his way through. When he tried to speak, his throat seemed unfamiliar, as if it didn’t quite belong to him.
