Pyrrhic Victory
In the early morning, the mist danced through the underbrush of the forest. From the tent, she watched as the grassy knolls were enveloped by a white gaseous mass, creeping forward before getting cut off at the brook that separated the camp from whatever lay beyond. A small rock face grew out just behind the front row of trees, the cave mouth beckoning anyone into its unknown. If her watch was anything close to correct, it was 4:41am and she was just under 5 hours into her night watch. Her reasoning for taking this early watch was threefold.
Firstly, she was effectively the second in command, logging just slightly less time in experience than her superior Florence, but with less responsibility than the head nurse. With that in mind, it was the least she could do to demonstrate any leadership.
Secondly, it was often quieter, as less were awake and therefore there was less to be demanded of her attention. In this time she wrote to no one in particular, and thought of her Kodak waiting at home, begging to take pictures like the moonlit view she had every night.
Lastly, it often offered a certain calm that was rare to find in the normal throngs of the day. It wasnât eerie, as the shuffling of patients in their makeshift cots or the scratching of pen on paper occupied enough background noise to keep her subconscious busy.
There were times where she debated whether leaving her family, her husband Walter and two-year-old son Thomas, was a wise idea. Her mother begged her not to go, as her brother had been deployed to the offensive at Marne. Even though the Allies won, her brother had lost his life in the latter stages and her mother was determined not lose another child to âthis damn warâ. But here she was, standing guard at the main emergency tent, just about three kilometers from the Somme.
Thatâs when she first heard it. A cry, cutting through the slow-moving fog. Her head jerked around the opening in the tent and peered into the dark forest. Again, she heard a sound that was reminded her starkly of a man crying out for help. Then the source of the noise appeared. As he came into the soft October moonlight, the reason for his agony became evident. The entire right side of his army uniform was soaked a dark colour, and he was holding the same side of his head, stumbling through the mist and across the once-pristine grass.
She rushed out to meet him, but before she got even halfway, he collapsed into the brook, lying motionless the moment his body connected with the earth. She approached him cautiously, checking for vital signs. Finally, checking for a pulse and finding none, she sighed and looked up.
The ground shook and her eyes darted upwards towards the sound. The water was running a barely perceptible shade of red, but the sight beyond the babble of water nearly caused her to lose her balance. The trees had begun billowing smoke from their tips and the sky was being tinged with flickers of yellow, orange and red. More similar cries were erupting from within the forest as boys barely eighteen were running for their lives. Some had similar injuries to their fallen comrade, some with nothing visible, and some whose arms had disappeared entirely.
She heard them next at the tent, begging for someone to help them. She ran back and began to organize as best as she could, sending nurses to grab supplies, seat soldiers and most importantly, ensure the medical area stayed as calm as the situation could muster. Grabbing the alcohol, gauze, suture, and thread, she began to see to the men with more severe gashes that required more immediate attention.
Beginning her weaving that she had done all too often at school and now in the past three months stationed here, she finished, wiped away the excess and moved on to her next patient, letting the newer nurses bring him to the designated area. She was just about to begin the next stitch when it hit.
The mortar exploded meters from the main tent, splitting everything in its path in two. Anything that wasnât reduced to pieces was lit on fire, and the once peaceful camp was awakened the early morning with agony and suffering. Patients and medical staff alike were flailing to find shelter, guiding a comrade with them if they could. Wincing from the pain in her right arm, she quickly squinted around for a shelter of her own. She found the cave from earlier, and began to run towards it.
Before she got very far, a light at what was once her station stopped her. She reached out and noticed it was her notebook of thoughts she had collected since landing in France. Putting out the small flame starting in one corner, she hurriedly shoved it under her jacket and ran off once more across the landscape strewn with fire and destruction.
Watching her step, she made her way to the cliff. Her eyes began to adjust after she settled in the cave mouth, seeing another couple patients who had made their way to the same cave. Knowing no one was much for talking, she kept her silence and her distance, evaluating the carnage that erupted in the past half hour. She grasped at her jacket, ensuring the book had survived the short journey. She felt the familiar shape of the hard cover and breathed what felt like her first breath since the whole ordeal began.
Hoping for this nightmare to end soon, she glanced at the brook once again. Her eyes widened, if only for a second, as she saw it as more of a trail of crimson at this point, draining away the catastrophe little by little as the first morning light hit that grassy knoll, the calming green being quickly replaced with a consuming red.