((Admins Note: This story contains references to rape and other subject matter that might be distressing or upsetting for some readers.))
The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.
The Itch
︻┳═一
Flanders: October, 1915…
︻┳═一
Private Hale wanted to shoot the poor bastard and put him out of everyone's misery. "Masen!"
"What?" Masen hissed from the other side of the funk hole.
"Stop scratching!"
"I can't."
"We all need to sleep and I can hear you from over here. What, have you got the clap or something?" For once, there were no bombs going off and could he sleep? No!
"Sorry." The kid might have been sorry, but that didn't stop him from scratching. Hale took his helmet from under his head, threw it and sneered as it bounced off Masen's arm. The hit wasn't the least bit satisfying. Hale would have preferred to lob the egg-shaped grenade in his pack at him.
"Hale!" Captain McCarty barked. "What the fuck are you doing? Helmet on!"
Mouth twisting, Masen passed the helmet back across the dark funk hole. "Sorry, Cap."
Hale put it on. "Sorry, Cap."
McCarty put his hands on his hips. "I asked you a question, Hale."
"Sir. Yes, sir. Masen won't stop scratching. He's keeping me awake."
"And me," Crowley said.
"And me," Yorkie said.
"I think he's got a bad case of the clap," Hale announced.
"I do not!" Masen snarled, scratching away.
"He's scratching—"
"It's not the clap! It's like a thousand blackflies bit me!"
Captain McCarty tugged on his beard. "Masen, follow me."
Masen stood wearily and his shoulders drooped. "Yes, sir." McCarty cut a swath through the warren of frozen trenches and Masen followed dejectedly behind. The kid had his hand thrust into his coat. McCarty could hear him scratching.
It was the second time in a month that this exemplary soldier had gotten into a scrap with his comrades. He had been a fun fellow when the First Unit came over. The boys had all liked him. But he never smiled anymore and had been threatened with discipline more than once for not taking care of his uniform. Maybe the war had gotten inside his head.
Throwing back the flap of the tent, McCarty held it up so Masen could duck inside. The kid was all hunched up like a dog waiting to be beaten. He didn't look old enough to shave. Still, he wouldn't be the first to have wet his Johnson in some tainted French whore.
"Masen," McCarty searched for delicate words while he turned up the lantern. "You got a girl?"
"No, sir."
"Um," he scratched his beard, wondering if he ought to shave. His whiskers were uncomfortable but it was only going to get colder. "When you were on leave—"
"Sir, that was two months ago and I did not avail myself of any of the tarts in St. Julien or any other town. You should probably be talking to Conrad. Sir."
McCarty suppressed a sigh. "What's wrong with you, son? Why are you chewing the fat?"
"Nothing, sir! I am one hundred percent fit for duty, sir."
"Your coat's not buttoned."
"Yes, sir!" Masen took off his leather gloves and fumbled with the buttons. McCarty stopped him before he could do them up.
"Kid. I'm not going to court-marshal you for having your buttons undone."
Masen ducked his head slightly. "Yes, sir."
"Do you have a rash?"
Masen squirmed. "Yes, sir."
"Show me."
Pressing his lips together, Masen opened his coat and pulled up his sweater, shirt and undershirt. McCarty held up the lamp. Masen's belly was covered in a million red blisters. "Dear God."
︻┳═一
Isobel Swan opened the door to the surgery and waited expectantly.
"Ah, Nurse!" Colonel Cullen tied off a stitch on his patient's torso. "I wondered if you would have a look at a chap for me. He's been waiting two days and his unit wants him back. Canadian fellow. Rather distinguished record for such a young man. He was one of the men who held the line at the Salient last spring when the Huns set off the gas."
"Of course, Colonel."
"Letter from his commanding officer says he has a rash. I'm sure it's the usual. Might take a bit of finesse, he's been arguing with Kelly. Wants to go back to the front. Swears there's nothing wrong with him. Have a look at it and tell me if it's serious, won't you? Private Masen."
"Yes, Colonel." She turned smartly on her heel and marched to the infirmary, smoothing down her white apron. Many gazes followed her as she walked to the large examining room. Wooden chairs lined the hallway. Allied soldiers with non-life-threatening ailments waited in silence. Twenty British, twelve Canadians and three Belgians, according to the uniforms. The stench of the hospital was probably putting them off chatting. She had long since ceased to notice it.
"Private Masen?"
He stood and shifted on his feet self-consciously. "Yes, ma'am."
"Follow me, please." She resisted the urge to giggle. At eighteen years of age, she was still unaccustomed to being madam-ed by a gaggle of injured men.
She took him in the room and shut the door. "Papers?"
He handed her the letter from his captain and stood at ease. Isobel read the letter twice. Edward Masen Jr. didn't seem a sufficiently imposing person to have pushed back the Kaiser's men along a six kilometer unmanned gap left by deadly chlorine gas. He was tall and thin, a colt that hadn't grown into its legs. However, since April, he had reported to distant field hospitals twice to be treated for chemical burns. She handed back his letter, which he folded and pocketed.
"Ye have a rash?"
He avoided looking at her. "Yes, Lieutenant."
She pointed at the two red bars on her sleeve. "My rank is Senior Nurse, soldier. But you may call me Nurse."
"Yes, Nurse. Is the doctor coming to see me?"
Her lips pinched down. She could smell a lie a mile away and this one knew very well what was ailing him. Venereal disease, in all likelihood. She put on a cheerful face. "Only if we cannae figure it out on our own. Colonel Cullen and Dr. Gerandy have been doing surgeries twenty hours a day. I have plenty of experience dealing with common maladies. Let's see it."
His face blanked. It wouldn't be the first time a soldier pretended to misunderstand her. "Ma'am?"
"Come on, then. I've been told that ye wish to get back to yer outfit, so hop to it." She waited primly with her hands folded. There was nothing soft in her posture. She would not budge.
Private Masen ducked his ginger head and blushed fiercely. She wanted to laugh but he looked like a lost bairn.
She folded her arms and sidled up to him. "Is it the clap?"
"No!" He turned redder than ever.
"Then there isnae anything to be embarrassed about. Strip down to your skivvies."
"My what?"
"Yer underclothes."
"That would not be appropriate."
"Dinna make me fetch Matron. She'll be having no nonsense from you."
He ran his hand through his hair, which was in need of cutting. "Perhaps that would be best."
"Verra well." She marched out and shut the door sharply. Her heels clacked on the hardwood as she peered around the ward. She could hear Matron chewing the ear off of someone but she couldn't see her.
Isobel knocked on the open door of the supply closet. Matron was inside, berating a Belgian orderly for a lack of handwashing.
"Matron?"
"Yes, Nurse?"
"We haff a bashful one. He willnae let me look at him."
"Really." The matron flicked her skirt, her beautiful mouth thin with disapproval. She stomped down to the examining room, red cape flapping, with Isobel following behind. She opened the door and Edward Masen looked up sheepishly. He blanched. Matron was perfect in her fair, English glory and had not lost her bloom at all. She had three bars on her sleeve, signifying a commensurate rank of Captain.
"Good evening, Private. I am Rosalie White, Matron of this hospital. I understand that you will not comply with my best nurse. Is there some problem?"
He opened his mouth to tell them they were women and he wasn't about to strip off his kit for them, but he didn't. He sagged. "No, Matron."
Rosalie nodded curtly and flicked her skirt. "Good." She marched out and shut the door with a bang. His jaw dropped. He shut his mouth with a snap.
Private Masen eyed his nurse as if she were a snake poised to strike. Isobel gestured at the screen propped in the corner.
"Kindly hurry up. There are other lads needing my attention. Ye may go behind there if ye wish, but ye shall nae be going back to the front until we have solved this. I dinnae ken what ye're sae worrit about. Ye've nothing I havenae seen before."
He released his breath in a long sigh and looked at his boots. He removed his belt and the khaki wool trench coat and set them on the examination table, turned his back and pulled off his sweater. Off came the long sleeved cotton shirt, leaving him in his sleeveless cotton undershirt. Isobel sucked in her breath.
He faced her, his mouth turned down, eyes glittering but lowered. "Do I have to show you more?"
She put one hand on his elbow and the other on his wrist, and inspected the welts that covered every inch. "How far does this extend?"
"Everywhere."
"These are hives."
"Yes."
"How long have ye had them?"
His green eyes welled with tears but he would not let them fall. "Two weeks."
She put her hands on her hips and clenched her teeth. "Since the winter uniform came out."
"Yes."
"Ye foolish man!" She flapped her arms at him. "Why didnae ye tell anyone ye're allergic to wool?"
When he raised his face to look at her, his eyes burned. "I tried to keep the summer uniform. I argued with my commanding officer. He told me that it wasn't up to him."
Isobel gawped at him. "Ye mean he knew you were allergic?"
"Not exactly."
"Explain."
"He didn't hear me out. Men who refuse to wear the uniform exactly as prescribed are court-marshalled."
"But there must be exceptions!"
"They don't care."
Her voice went up with excitement. "They have tae care! Ye're scratching your skin to ribbons and it'll get infected! What use will ye be with the gangrene?"
Private Masen did not answer. She growled at him, stalked across the room, pulled a set of towels from the shelves and thrust them at him.
"Follow me!"
"Should I bring my things?"
"No. I'll call a yeoman."
He followed her past the waiting men and through a door into what seemed to be a cupboard. He blinked in the dim light and discovered a metal laundry tub approximately two feet square and one foot deep.
"Yeoman!" Isobel yelled, taking a washboard out of the tub. A diminutive girl with a red cross on her apron came scurrying. "Fetch hot water for a bath and then collect Private Masen's things from the examining room."
"Yes, Nurse."
Isobel turned to Edward, snatched the towels out of his hands and set them on a crate. "You come with me."
"Yes, Nurse."
She led him to a large storage area, where there were at least thirty buckets full of well water sitting on the floor. A couple of orderlies were adding detergent to them, starting at the far side of the room. Isobel pointed at some of the closer buckets.
"Those have not yet had the disinfectant added. Take two. The next time anyone says you are to have a bath, ye will come here and fetch yer own water. Take care ye do not get any with the Lysol."
"Yes, ma'am." He carried the buckets to the storeroom past all the curious faces, and carefully emptied them into the washtub. The yeoman pushed open the door and upended two buckets of steaming hot water into it. Stacking all four buckets, she departed with them.
"I'll be back," Isobel said as she pitched a washrag into the water. Her words sounded more like a threat than a promise.
Edward Masen watched silently as she went out the door and locked him in.
︻┳═一
Mindful that his nurse could come in at any moment, Edward unwound his puttees, unlaced his boots, toed off his socks, unbuttoned his britches and undershirt and stripped down to his skin. He watched mist curl from the surface of the tiny tub with avarice. He hadn't had a bath since his last leave, nearly two months prior. He stuck a foot in the water and found it pleasantly warm. Not hot, but a damn sight better than anything else he'd encountered since arriving in the Wipers in April.
He squatted down and almost tipped the tub over. After some false starts, he left his feet on the floor, held onto the tub's metal handles and lowered himself in. For a moment, his raw flesh stung. Then, the water brought almost instant relief. He scooped it up and dribbled it onto his chest and shoulders, wet his head, and hunted for the rag so he could wash his legs and feet.
When the nurse returned and kneeled down beside him, he was almost asleep and jumped as she held out a large bowl of thin oatmeal. He reached for it blearily with a murmur of thanks, but she snatched it back.
"It's nae for eating ye daft beggar."
"Oh." His stomach growled.
"When's the last time you ate?"
"I'm not sure." To Edward's consternation, she scooped up some gruel in her fingers. She smeared it onto his chest and he nearly levitated out of the tub in shock. Water sloshed onto the pretty nurse's apron and she got a first class eyeful of his masculine parts. He wanted to drop dead but she just flicked a small towel down over him. He hugged his knobby knees, shut his eyes and pretended she was an old, ugly crone and that he hadn't just mentally broken a couple of Commandments.
The nurse rubbed oatmeal on his back. "When I was a wee lass, I contracted the scarlet fever."
He glanced at her and away. "My baby sister died of that."
"I'm sorry. What was her name?"
"Mary. She was eight."
"That was my gran's name, only I'll wager it was spelled different. M-O-I-R-A." She scrubbed oatmeal into his scalp and had he been a cat, he'd have purred. "I was ten. Once the fever broke, Mam and Gran used oatmeal to calm the itch. I thought we'd try it first since Cookie might not care to spare me any baking soda." She chattered on as she washed him and his head began to nod. He didn't even know he'd fallen asleep until he opened his eyes to find two burly Frenchmen pulling him upright. They wound him in a wet cotton sheet.
"Ne t'enquietes pas," one said, lifting him like a child. Edward was asleep before his head touched the mattress.
︻┳═一
Chilly air crept around his body, disturbing his rest. Something brushed against his privates. Fingers! Instantly awake, he found the beautiful matron inspecting his personal business. With a yelp, he rolled backward and hit the cold, unforgiving floor.
"Holy shit!" He snatched the sheet and yanked it up to his chin. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? Get out!"
Across the ward, two men murmured together and snickered.
Matron White's glare was petrifying. Would she banish him from the hospital? He gulped. The oatmeal bath really had helped and he had no wish to be kicked out with his treatment incomplete.
"I'm sorry, Matron." He knew he was blushing. He hated that. One of the men a few beds down snorted derisively.
Her expression was stony. "If you wish to be treated here, Private, I suggest you curb your tongue."
"Yes, Matron."
"Shall I introduce you to a mouthful of soap?"
She couldn't do that, could she? He bit his lip. "I'm terribly sorry for my foul language, ma'am. You startled me and I'm not accustomed…"
The matron turned up her English nose. "Private Masen, I assume you have not been kept in hospital before. Privacy and personal modesty are luxuries we cannot accommodate. Kindly guard your tongue so you do not injure my nurses."
"Indeed, ma'am. I am sorry, ma'am."
The matron turned away and waved at someone. "Nurse!"
Edward's nurse's narrow boots clicked on the floor. The matron addressed her in indecipherable mutters, snapped her fingers, pointed at him and left him sitting on the floor clutching the sheet like some imperiled heroine from a penny dreadful. The nurse covered her lush mouth with her fingertips, her dark eyes dancing.
"Have ye broken something, Tommy Canuck?"
He shook his head. "Just my pride." And maybe a Commandment. A beautiful, unmarried woman had touched him. Was that sort of conduct normal? Back home, he'd have had to marry her, even if she was several years his senior.
His nurse's smile was wider than her fingers could hide. "Can ye get up or shall I fetch an orderly?"
He looked around self-consciously. The bloodied man in the bed next to him lay unmoving. Down the way, a man who had been blown up lay naked except for bandages, his skin charred black. Across the aisle, another was asleep with his backside hanging out. Edward gathered the sheet around him and his feet under him. The nurse held the thin cotton quilt from his kit. She had obviously realized that his army blanket would be no comfort to his rebellious flesh. He slid onto the mattress and she covered him up.
"How do you feel?"
"Mortified."
She laughed and his breath caught. What would she look like without her hair hidden by that white veil?
"Ye'll get used to it."
He winced. "It's not just that. I shouldn't be here, taking up a bed."
She pulled up a stool and leaned toward him. "Now see here, Private. What did they teach you about keeping yer tinder dry?"
He bit his lip.
"Ye've scratched yerself raw, PBI, and let in the trench muck."
Dread twisted his belly. The skin between his legs was on fire. His hand tightened on the sheet.
"Matron wants me to have a look at ye. Dinna tell me tis nae appropriate."
Looking at the ceiling, Edward released the sheet from his clutches and brought his hands up onto his breast, where he closed his fists to disguise their tremble. She lifted one side of the sheet, cursed like a sailor under her breath and shouted, "Matron!"
Edward turned white as a ghost. The matron did her own inspection and clicked her tongue. She addressed his nurse.
"You must wash him in carbolic lotion and I want the wounds sealed in paste. He's not to dress or get off the bed until every mark is completely scabbed over."
"Yes, Matron."
Matron White turned her glare on him. "It's a good thing you came. A couple of more days and we'd be debriding you down there for gangrene."
He gulped.
"No more scratching!"
He managed to nod.
His nurse brought a robe and helped him into it. She took him back to the treatment room and ordered him onto the examining table. He watched apprehensively as she gathered supplies and scrubbed her hands raw.
She brought over a bottle of carbolic lotion and a bowl of paste, on a tray. "Lie down." She took his wrist, brought it to the side of the table, and picked up the leather restraint to buckle him down. He pulled out of her grip.
"I don't need that."
She leaned over him, near enough to kiss. "Edward, ye'd nae like to hurt me, would you?"
He blinked. "I'd never hurt you."
"A decorated officer broke a nurse's jaw last week."
He placed his hands in the restraints and allowed her to fasten them. He'd have preferred to face a hundred Huns.
"Thank you." She stroked his hair. "It is gonna hurt."
He did his best to smile. "I feel as though I ought to know your name first."
She pressed her lips between her teeth, but smiled anyway. "We're not supposed to tell you our names."
"Oh."
She continued to stroke his hair. "How old are ye, Edward?"
"Eighteen."
"I know that's what it says on yer papers, but how old are ye really?" Boys, eager for adventure, lied all the time to get in. Unless a parent exposed them, they got away with it.
"My birthday was at the end of September."
"How old?"
He felt his forehead crinkle. "You won't tell?"
Her mouth hovered next to his. He could feel her corset against his arm.
"I won't betray you."
He swallowed hard and breathed, "Sixteen."
She nearly folded herself onto his chest. And him a hero at the Salient! Her eyes stung. "Why do ye nae wish to go to Blighty?"
He caught his breath. "I want my father to be proud of me."
The urge to weep on him was strong but he needed her strength. She ducked down to his ear and her breath was hot on his skin. "Isobel." She pressed her lips to his temple, knowing and not caring that it was forbidden.
Edward blushed and turned his face away as she opened his dressing gown. He clenched his jaw and held his breath.
A cloth saturated with carbolic touched the worst of his wounds and he gasped. The more it penetrated, the worse it burned. "N-no, stop!"
"Ye maun have it, dearie." Rapidly, Isobel washed him all over. When she swept the cloth across his inner thighs, he screamed.
︻┳═一
Edward awoke in the cold with a start. He was lying on his bed in the dark, buck naked. His wrists were secured to the bars of his headboard with bandages. He tugged at them but they only grew tighter.
"Nurse?" he called loudly, his heart hammering.
"Hush! Ye'll wake them all up." He realized Isobel had been sitting in a rocking chair at the foot of his bed, with his heavy wool coat across her lap. She set it aside, perched on the edge of his bed as though his nakedness was nothing, and began to loosen his bonds.
"What time is it?" he whispered.
"Half past two. Ye never stop making trouble, dearie. Ye were scratching in your sleep." She sounded so tired.
"I konked out, didn't I?"
"Yes. It was a blessing." She took his hand into her lap and rubbed his wrist with her thumbs. He moved his other hand down to cover himself. She prevented him. "Ye maun not touch yerself, or cover up."
"But—"
"Yer injuries are coated in medicated paraffin. As long as it stays on, it'll keep out the germs."
"Can't I have something for modesty? A bit of gauze, even?"
"No. I'm sorry. But you're a brave soul, ye'll live."
"But it's cold."
She pulled something out of her skirt pocket and smiled at him. She took his hand and stuffed it into the object. "In a couple of days, you can have the pyjamas."
His eyes widened. "A couple of days?"
"Hush!"
He sagged, blowing out his breath. "What are you doing to me, woman?"
"Ye cannae scratch."
"Mittens? Like an infant?"
"I wouldnae give up my silk stockings for just anyone, Mr. Masen."
He tucked his chin. "Thank you."
"Where in Canada are you from? Sometimes, I think ye have a bit of an Irish brogue."
"Ah, here and there. My family came from Irish stock. Besides, I'm probably picking up on yours."
"Bit of a Minah?"
"Aye."
Devil. "We don't say aye. Tis nae for the educated." She released his mitten-clad hand. "I have something better for you than mittens."
"Oh?"
She held up his mess kit and spoon. "Hot bully beef."
︻┳═一
Isobel sat with Edward the next two nights after her shift, her needle passing in and out of his jacket, and told him stories about her childhood in the Highlands. Her father had been a crofter with a small flock of sheep. He'd passed away due to a weak heart when she was fifteen, and her mam, Rennie, had sent her to live in London with a maiden aunt.
Edward anticipated her nightly arrival eagerly. There were an average of 300 nurses at the hospital and 400 injured at times when the fighting wasn't thick. When it was bad, she said, there could be as many as 1200 men in the chateau. She wouldn't have time to spend with him then, so he treasured every moment.
Matron stopped by to check the patient in the next bed. "Nurse, as long as you're here, will you check this man periodically? I don't like the look of him."
"Yes, Matron, of course."
Rose White repressed a smile as Private Masen avoided looking at her. Evidently, he had adjusted to having Isobel around but was still appalled to be laid out in front of other women like a suckling pig on a platter. She was tempted to offer him an apple. "And how are you, Private?"
He cleared his throat softly. "I'm fine, ma'am. A bit cold."
The matron held out her lantern and bent over to inspect him. She was entertained when he moved to cover himself with his mitten-clad hands. She grunted in disapproval and he turned red but placed his hands at his sides.
"Much better, private Private. Will you roll over for me, please?"
He turned immediately onto his stomach and she shone her lantern down on his back. "Excellent. Nurse, if there is a nightshirt available, this man may have it."
A sweet smile transformed Edward's face. He looked the matron straight in the eye. "Thank you, Matron!"
She shook her head lightly as Isobel hurried off. The PBI was healing and would soon return to the front so the Huns could lob grenades at him. She trusted Isobel, so she didn't call a halt to the special attention she was paying the young man. However, she considered it prudent to cover up his person before he got any healthier.
︻┳═一
By the time Isobel returned with a dingy white nightshirt and an abandoned pair of shabby slippers, Edward was cheerfully tucked up under his covers. He pushed up on his elbows. When Isobel gathered up the cloth of the nightshirt and pulled it down over his head, he fed his arms through the sleeves and laughed under his breath.
"This looks like something my granny would have worn." Peeping at her coyly, he tucked the skirt under his covers.
Isobel flattened out the old-fashioned collar. "Tis nae haute couture, for certain, but it's serviceable." She forbade herself to think how much she would miss watching him sleep unclothed.
"Yes."
She shook her head to clear it. "I'd best be going to my quarters. Morning comes early."
He turned back his covers and swung his feet to the floor. He had lovely feet. Slender and long. She watched him put on the slippers, realized she was staring and gave herself a shake.
"What are ye doing, Eddie?"
"Walking you out."
Her quarters were in the attic but she wasn't about to tell him that. "Oh. Ye don't need to…"
"Please." He moved to take her elbow but she twitched it away.
"Ye maun not touch me. The matron will put a stop to it."
"I have seen you walking with many a man."
She avoided looking at him. "That's different. They would fall without my support."
He tucked his hand into the crook of her arm. "I will fall without your support."
Her protest died in her throat. The word fall should never pass his lips. He would go back to the front. He could go at any time and come back in pieces. She couldn't bear the thought of him falling. His hand was warm on her sleeve. His fingertips touched when they encircled her arm. She stepped into the aisle and he kept pace with her. Nobody paid them any heed.
They walked to the front entrance of the hospital, avoiding those being brought in off the train. She turned shyly to look up at him. He was so tall for his age. Would he grow more? "Go back to bed now, before ye catch your death."
He crossed his arms over his chest. "Will you get into trouble if you take off your veil?"
"Yes!" He looked so abashed for asking something personal that she bit her lip. She whispered, "Good night."
His eyes were so green. He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Good night, Isobel."
She picked up her skirts and fled.
Edward watched her go. Then he headed for his cot, lost in thought. Someone nudged his arm.
"Fine looking girl, that nurse."
The blue-eyed, freckled Tommy beside him had his arm in a sling. He smiled amiably. "Shame she's married to Jesus."
Edward felt his forehead crease. "She's a Sister Nurse, not a nun."
"You mean they're up for grabs?"
"No!"
The soldier held his hands up in surrender. "I'm not gonna poach your girl, Johnny. No need to—"
"She's not mine."
"To be sure, she isn't!"
Edward folded his arms and scowled. "Look, Tommy, she's a good girl. I don't want to get her in trouble. The nurses aren't even allowed to tell us their names, never mind court us."
The soldier rolled his eyes. "Why do you call us Tommies?"
"Why do you call us Tommy or Johnny Canucks?"
"Ah, you're just the diminutive form of the British."
Edward laughed despite himself. The soldier stuck out his left hand. "Michael Newton, grenadier."
Edward shook it awkwardly. "Edward Masen, PBI."
"Pleased to meet ya, foot-slogger."
"Likewise."
"When you getting out?"
"I don't know. A few days…"
"I can't wait to go to Blighty!"
"Ah, no." Edward shook his head. "I'm going back to the front."
Newton stopped smiling. "Sorry, PBI."
"Why?"
"Well." Newton lifted his sling-encased arm and Edward realized that there was no hand sticking out of it. "I suggest you don't get yourself blown up, okay? It's not as pleasant as the Krauts claim."
︻┳═一
Rustles and chitters woke Edward from a bad dream. He blinked blearily and the man in the next bed slowly came into focus. Something moved on his chest. Somethings. There was a strange sound. Clicking.
"Nurse!" Edward bellowed. "Nurse!"
One of the yeoman nurses of the Red Cross came running. "What's the matter with you? Men are trying to sleep!"
Edward pointed shakily at the man next to him. "Trench rabbits!"
The yeoman spun to look at the man and fainted dead away.
︻┳═一
"I hear ye had some excitement last night," Isobel said as she inspected his rash.
"Too much." Edward had barely slept after seeing the rats gnawing away at the man's face and chest. Had Edward not stirred, there might have been nothing but bones left of the poor bastard by morning. The yeoman he'd summoned had concussed herself when she hit the floor and was tucked up in her own bed.
Isobel covered Edward up and gave his hand a squeeze. "Dinna worry. He was dead before they got to him."
"I'm not worried."
"Of course not."
"There are tons of rabbits in the trenches."
"Yes. I know."
"I just didn't expect them to be here."
"It's a good hospital. What we need is a feisty terrier."
"The men would spoil it rotten."
"Do ye like dogs?"
"Yes."
"Have ye got one?"
"No, but I'll have one someday."
"It's the one thing I miss about Scotland. The wee black terriers. I'd like one of those."
"Are you going back after the war?"
"My mam keeps asking but all she has is the little croft and sheep. It's not even big enough for a family."
He rolled his eyes. "You won't be going back there, then."
Her heart did a flip. "What?"
"Nothing."
"What will ye do when you get out? Have ye got work?"
Edward grimaced. "Not to which I wish to return. I'll be in a band, maybe."
"A band? Music?"
He waved his hand dismissively. "I play the piano. My mother thought I should pursue a classical career but the old music is so stodgy."
"Debussy isn't stodgy."
"Ah, no. Debussy's music is wonderful. I tried to get my parents to listen to it, but they won't listen to anything from the Twentieth Century."
"Whose music do ye like?"
He tucked his hand under the pillow. "Irving Berlin. Jerome Kern. Gilbert and Sullivan."
"Oh, the popular music! Do ye like Ragtime, then?"
"Yes, I love it. You don't subscribe to the theory that Alexander's Ragtime Band promotes criminal insanity?"
"How could such delightful music possibly do that?"
Edward's jaw dropped. "You like it? Really?"
"I do! Irving Berlin is my favourite."
"Ah, he writes some wonderful love songs."
"What's your favourite?"
He rolled his eyes. "You'll think I'm a sap."
"I doubt it. Which one?"
"God Gave You to Me."
"I don't know that one. Can ye sing it?"
"Well…" He turned pink.
"Oh, come on, please?"
"Well, all right." He wet his lips. "For every care there's an angel who makes the care seem small. For every prayer there's an answer for One who answers all."
In the ward, conversations ceased. Members of the staff slowed their steps to listen.
"The flowers prayed for sunshine so God gave the flowers the sun. The birds prayed to be merry so God gave a song to each one.
"The trees prayed for the springtime so God gave the spring to each tree. My lonely heart prayed for someone so God gave you to me."
Isobel looked at the floor. In a month, he wouldn't remember her. But his fingers slipped into hers anyway and she let them remain.
"For every heart there is gladness when eyes are wet with tears. For every care there's an answer from One who always hears."
Matron White stepped into the doorway and gawped at the PBI making love to her nurse in the middle of the ward in the middle of the morning (and nearly had a conniption).
"The trees prayed for the springtime so God gave the spring to each tree. My lonely heart prayed for someone so God gave you to me."
Matron had to admit that he had a lovely baritone. However, her Senior Nurse was about to burst into tears in front of the whole blasted allied army. "Nurse Swan!"
Isobel jumped a mile. She hid her hands behind her back with the guilty air of a child caught stealing sweets. Matron flicked her skirts and marched to the foot of the PBI's bed.
"I am growing concerned about the stores of cannabis, cocaine and codeine. They seem to be disappearing at an alarming rate and I suspect someone is pilfering them. Kindly perform a full inventory of our stock." She held out her keys.
Isobel ducked her head and took them. "Yes, ma'am." Her heels clicked on the floorboards as she marched out, every eye following her.
The matron fixed a steely glare on the private Private, whose actions were no longer remaining sufficiently private! He didn't look the least bit contrite. "Follow me!"
"Yes, ma'am." She took him to the large examining room where she'd met him on his first day.
"What have you to say for yourself, Tommy Canuck?"
He stood at ease, barefoot, in a nightshirt. The soldier was either foolish or admirably brave. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" He shook his head to clear it. "Ma'am?"
"Granted."
"I'm going to marry your Senior Nurse, ma'am."
Rosalie White opened her mouth but nothing came out but a squeak. The PBI still looked supremely collected, as though they were only discussing the merits of strong black tea. "What do you mean, Private? Has Bella accepted your proposal?"
He shifted on his feet. "No, ma'am. She would be looney to accept a proposal from me at this time, ma'am. That does not negate the fact that I am going to marry her."
She huffed a laugh, but he didn't so much as twitch. The Poor Bloody Infantryman was sincere. She clasped her hands and slowly shook her head. "PBI Masen, are you aware how many proposals my nurses hear a day?"
"I am sure your angels of mercy hear quite a few. Has Isobel ever taken interest in a patient before, as far as you know, ma'am?"
She took a step closer to him. "No. She has never even broken the rules by telling a soldier her name. And that is why I am warning you not to take liberties with her. I will not permit anyone to harm her, and she blatantly favours you."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You are likely going to be sent back to the front in a few days and she will be left here alone. Should you be fortunate enough to court Isobel, keep your courtship private, Private. There are men here who watch to discover which women are loose."
He blanched. "I am sorry, ma'am. I never thought…"
She shook her head. "You may find yourself fighting more than one battle, PBI. Try not to get yourself blown up, won't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She gestured at him. "I think it's time for you to contribute to the war effort again."
His forehead creased. "Are you sending me back already, ma'am? I thought you said the infection—"
She silenced him with a gesture. "I have found that music soothes the savage breast, do you not agree?"
His eyes flickered. "Yes."
"This hospital used to be a grand chateau. Upstairs, in storage, is a ridiculously gaudy piano."
"Ma'am?"
"It's pink. Someone painted cartoon lovers all over it. For all we know, this was a brothel."
Edward tried and failed to repress a smile. Rosalie sniffed and flicked her hand dismissively.
"I am going to ask Colonel Cullen if you may have permission to play it for the men."
"Ma'am, although I expect I would greatly enjoy that duty, I must point out that the Brass may not approve of the piano, or of the music I can play by heart. Most of it is Ragtime. Almost all of it comes from Tin Pan Alley."
"Is it cheerful music, soldier?"
"Mostly, ma'am. Some of it is sentimental."
"Maudlin?"
"Some might say so."
"I shall discuss it with the commanding officer. Meanwhile, PBI, you will ask one of the yeomen for paper, envelopes and pens, and write letters for some of the lads who have no strength or eyes to do it for themselves."
"Yes, ma'am!"
︻┳═一
Isobel, meanwhile, scratched marks into her ledger and notebook and swiped tears from her cheeks. How bloody stupid to allow herself to become attached to a soldier whom she would likely never see again! She had spent less time with other patients in order to sit with him and soon, he would be gone. Although it would kill her to do it, she would ask one of the other nurses to swap patients. She wouldn't see him again.
A knock came upon the dispensary door. It was not the proper knock. She hunched, corset ribs creaking, then relaxed. Nobody could get in; only Rosalie and the doctors had keys. A few minutes later, the proper knock came. She tiptoed to the door and rapped out the proper response. Again, the caller gave the proper knock. Isobel unlocked the door. Rosie probably wanted to put a flea in her ear; she had certainly been kind not to rebuke Isobel in front of the ward.
Isobel found herself face to face with the mouth of a gun. She felt the colour drain from her face. Her ledger, notebook and pen fluttered to the floor.
An enormous man in a French uniform stepped forward and she stepped backward. He pushed the door shut without looking.
"Écoute-moi. Donne-moi tout de l'opium, de la cocaïne et de l'héroïne."
She gulped. He could not afford to leave her alive. She thought of Edward and her throat closed up. Mechanically, she walked to the shelves and began to collect bottles and put them in a sack.
"Dépêche-toi, cherie."
She put in the last of it, and held out the sack. He snatched it from her, set it down against the door, and stepped toward her. She refused to back away. He put the gun to her forehead and she closed her eyes. His excited breaths bathed her cheeks and turned her stomach.
He spun her around and pushed her down. She screamed and tried to crawl away but he held her down by her hair, put his weight on her and lifted her skirts.
︻┳═一
Edward was strolling down the hallway, back to his bed when he heard a muffled cry. Frowning, he stopped and listened. It came again. He walked to one of the doors. Nothing. He stopped at the next one. Again, nothing. At the third? A scream. He pushed open the door and almost walked out again. Some Poilu was having his way with a woman in the storeroom.
The woman screamed, "No-o-o-o!" And that was when he realized two things: one, the man had a gun to her head. Two, it was his Isobel. Edward saw red. He pushed the door wide and heard the tinkling of glass. The man did not pause. Edward straddled the masher's legs, wrapped his arm around his neck and twisted his head viciously to the side. The bastard slumped in his hold. Edward pushed him off Isobel and he flopped backward onto the floor.
Isobel knelt kowtowed, bawling like a babe. There was blood on her white wool stockings. Gently, he pulled down her petticoats and skirt and lifted her onto his lap. He rocked her and pressed his lips to her forehead.
Her hair had been pulled out of its pins. It fell in lustrous brown waves almost to her waist. He started to pull out the pins and then realized they were evidence.
One of Isobel's boots had come off and there was a hole in her stocking. He handed her the boot and edged her onto the floor. She fumbled to put on the boot. He rose.
"Keys?"
She did not answer. She had not managed to put on her boot. He looked around and found the keyring sitting on the edge of the table. Taking it, he pulled Isobel to her feet and swept her up in his arms. She was limp. A sack with small brown bottles spilling out of it lay between him and the door. Some of them had broken, and the dark contents had puddled in the shards of glass. Edward avoided stepping on them in his bare feet. He braced Bella in his grip and locked the door, then carried her down the hall and kicked at the door to the examining room with his foot.
"Matron!" he bellowed. "Matron!"
A Tommy approached and leaned against the wall beside him, smirking.
"She's not there, mate. Left just after you. Drunk is she?"
"No, she's been attacked."
The Tommy jerked his thumb toward the wards. "Matron headed that way."
Edward turned a deadly gaze upon him. "Get her. Now."
Wisely, the Tommy jogged away without argument.
︻┳═一
Matron doubled her pace when she saw Bella fainting in the PBI's arms. "What happened?" Stonily, he handed her the keys and she let them into the room. He lifted Bella onto the examining table and composed her limbs, then turned to stand at attention. His eyes glittered with fury.
She recoiled. The front of his nightshirt had blood on it.
"There is a dead man in your dispensary. I killed him. Be careful of the broken glass on the floor."
Matron White left her nurse in his care, picked up her skirts and hot-footed it to alert the commander.
︻┳═一
Someone was stroking her hair. Her scalp was painful but the touch was kindly meant. "Eddie?"
She opened her eyes and found herself on the examining table. His anguished face was directly above her and he was leaning on his right forearm with his hand under her back. He was employing his other hand to pluck pins out of her hair. She brought up her hand between them and placed it on his cheek.
"Eddie. Ye saved me." Her throat was on fire.
"Not soon enough."
"He was going to shoot me."
"I shouldn't have killed him so quickly. I should have tortured him first. If I could, I would kill him again and again in the most gruesome way possible."
"No, love."
His muscles clenched. "Marry me."
Isobel rubbed her thumb over his mouth. "If ye ask me in a month, I will accept."
"A month may be too late!"
She shook her head. "He only used his hands. There will be no child."
He glared at her. "In a month, I could be dead!"
"I don't think so."
"Bella! I'm just a Poor Bloody Infantryman, going back to the stinking mud to wait for a Kraut's whizzbang to blow me apart. I could be back here in a month in one of these beds with no face and be found dead in the morning with rats gnawing my bones and you wouldn't even know! Marry me, damn it!"
She gulped and began to sing although she could scarcely breathe. "My lonely heart prayed for someone so God gave you to me."
"Say, yes!"
Isobel placed her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him close to whisper in his ear. "Not like this." He pushed up on his arms but she would not let him go. He collapsed onto her and she tucked her face into his neck and breathed him in. He turned his face into her hair and wound his fingers into it. Every touch was agony.
"Please say yes."
She forced herself to answer. "Ask me when you've been discharged."
He kissed her temple, her cheek, her mouth. "Say yes."
The door swung open and a British officer marched in with the matron on his heels. Edward snapped to attention, not quite hiding a resentful glare.
"Senior Nurse Swan, report."
"Yes, Colonel." She sat up on the table and swung her feet down, but nearly toppled to the floor. "Matron White asked me to go to the dispensary and count the narcotics because they were dwindling at an alarming rate."
"I asked her in front of everyone in the ward," Rosalie said with a frown, "and they were all listening because Private Masen here had been singing her a love song. The brute must have been there."
"You made notes." The colonel waved Isobel's notebook at her.
"Yes, sir. Matron was correct. Someone was altering the ledger with forged authority."
"Presumably, the man who is dead."
"He used the knock. I assumed it was Matron because I had her keys, so I let him in. He held a gun on me and demanded opium, cocaine and heroin."
"And other things. Are you injured?"
Isobel bobbed her head.
"It's my fault," Edward said. The colonel turned to scowl at him so he hurried to explain. "I took Isobel's hand in public."
The colonel turned to glare at her. "You permitted a patient under your care to take liberties?"
She lowered her eyes and blushed hotly.
"Sir, please don't blame the lady! She's been nothing but proper and—"
"That is not what I saw when I walked in, Private!"
"I asked her to marry me—"
"His conduct has been gentlemanly, Colonel," Matron interrupted.
"—but she says I'm only infatuated and I must wait to ask her until I'm no longer a patient here."
Matron White wrung her hands. "I gave permission to Private Masen to court Nurse Swan."
Seconds ticked by as Colonel Cullen glared at each individual in turn.
Matron shook her head, a crease marring her smooth forehead. "I expect they are both overwrought."
"Well," the Colonel said at last. "What shall I do with you all? I have a nurse caught in compromising behaviour who was assaulted by a traitorous Frenchie, who is now lying dead in my dispensary –unable to make a confession or name his accomplices— beside a bag full of broken drug bottles. And to ice the cake, we are completely out of heroin and codeine."
Those involved wisely stayed mum. He sighed.
"Nurse Swan."
"Yes, sir?"
"You will allow the matron to examine you and treat any injuries. You are suspended from duty for two days, after which time, I will expect you to report to Matron to be assigned new patients."
"Yes, sir," she whispered.
"If you ever compromise your virtue again, you shall be dismissed."
"Yes, sir."
"Matron, you will meet with senior staff to alter the secret knocks and passwords."
"Yes, sir."
"Keep a better eye on your nurses."
"Yes, sir."
"Private Masen, you are to be commended for your quick action. I will be writing to your commanding officer to recommend that you be promoted."
Edward's horrified gaze landed on Isobel. "That's not fair. Sir!"
"All is fair in love and war."
"But Isobel—"
"Occupies a position of trust. Knowing Nurse Swan, I will acknowledge that she has genuine feelings for you, but even so, while you were in her care, she had the responsibility to refrain from acting upon them."
Edward could not make an answer to that.
"I expect you not to do anything that will further damage Nurse Swan's reputation here. Matron? Assign him a new nurse!" Colonel Cullen stomped to the door.
"Yes, sir. Sir?"
"Yes, Matron!"
She gestured at Edward. "He's a musician, sir. He plays the piano."
Colonel Cullen rejoined them, chin down. "You're thinking he can play for the men. Foster a bit of cheer."
"Yes, sir."
"Will you do that, Private?"
"Yes, sir. But I play only modern music, sir."
"Don't play anything too rambunctious for the men. Can you play Debussy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent. Matron, have the orderlies fetch down the piano."
"Where shall I have them put it?"
"Put it in the atrium at the end of the wards."
"Yes, sir."
"And play some of the songs about home, Masen, and victory." The door snapped shut behind him.
Matron White walked to the shelves and picked out a pair of pyjamas for Edward. "Go behind the screen and change."
He took the pyjamas and did as he was told.
"Lie down, Bella. We'll make this as quick as possible."
He heard her skirts shift and clenched his jaw when she whimpered. The matron sucked air through her teeth. "Bloody bastard."
"He didn't get a chance to put it in me. He did this with his fingers."
"Well, you don't need stitches but there's swelling and bruising. It has to be disinfected."
"All right."
Edward pulled off the stained nightshirt without looking at it. He stepped into the pyjama bottoms and tied the strings.
"Have you any other injuries?"
Edward threw on the shirt and buttoned it at top speed.
"I think he tore my scalp." There was a pause, and then Matron hummed.
"Yes, he pulled out a chunk of your hair. It doesn't need stitching but we'll disinfect it. You'd best have a glass of whiskey."
"No."
Edward's blood boiled. "Can I go?"
"Yes," the matron said. He stormed toward the door.
"Edward!" Isobel cried, reaching for him. He marched over, took her hand and kissed the knuckles.
"I cannot stay for this, sweetheart."
"Please?"
He couldn't deny her. "Squeeze my hand as hard as you want."
Rosalie couldn't smile. "I'll disinfect your scalp wound, first." She swabbed Bella's head with Iodin and she moaned. "Now, the other. I have to disinfect and BIPP it."
Bella squeezed Edward's hand. She was all clammy. Edward faced the head of the cot.
"What's BIPPing?"
"Bismuth iodoform paraffin paste," Matron said.
Bella was white to the lips. "It's what I did to you." Now he understood why it had stung. It contained iodine.
"You should let him leave," Rosalie said.
But Bella looked so frightened and she wouldn't have backed away from him. He leaned over her and wiped her tears. "You have permission to break my jaw."
"Don't tempt me."
"You should have the whiskey."
"No."
"Kiss her, you idiot." Rosalie flipped Bella's skirts up as he whispered endearments and did just that. The moment Bella's hands snaked around his back, Rosalie applied the iodine. Edward yelped as Bella bit his lip. She bucked against his weight and he held her down.
Why wouldn't she just konk out? No such luck. By the time Matron set aside the Iodin, Edward had decided that nurses were made of sterner stuff than PBIs.
"Are you finished?" Bella demanded. A tear trickled out of each eye into her hair.
"With the Iodin. It's time for the BIPP."
Edward braced himself. Bella spit out an astounding variety of obscenities at top volume. Mercifully, she konked out and the matron was able to finish the treatment without further ado.
"All done. You can look now."
"Okay." He and the matron stared at each other. She passed him her handkerchief and he dabbed at his lip.
"You can go now, PBI. I'll have one of the orderlies carry her to her quarters."
"Allow me."
"If you ever come up there again you'll be shot."
"Duly noted."
"All right."
Matron slipped off Bella's remaining boot and set it with its mate, then shook out a standard army blanket over her. Edward pressed his lips together. He helped the matron to wrap her up and lifted her into his arms.
"Lead on."
Edward followed the matron up four flights of stairs to the attic. He was not in the least winded, but his arms and neck were on fire. The matron stopped on the landing and called out loudly.
"It's Rosie. Everybody decent?"
"Why?" someone called.
"I've got a man here, carrying Bella. Nobody shoot him or she'll have our hides."
Footfalls rumbled and they were abruptly surrounded by at least fifty nurses wearing nightclothes. The matron pressed her palm to her forehead and exhaled loudly. "This is decent? What was I thinking, bringing him up here?"
Edward had never seen so many ankles in his life!
A tiny yeoman with a candle shivered at the front of the group. "That's not a man, that's Bella's beau."
Edward smiled sheepishly. "Thanks very much."
The girl shook herself. "Oh! I didn't mean… Hey, what's wrong with Bella?"
The matron nudged her way past him and beckoned him to follow. "She was attacked by a Frenchie who was robbing the dispensary." There were many gasps and moans. The matron gestured for silence. "The PBI killed him. But be careful, girls. Not everyone is good."
The attic was filled with dozens of cots, some of which were occupied. Bella's was not far from the landing. Edward took care not to bump his head on the sloped walls. He lay her down carefully on the thin bedding while the matron placed her veil and boots in her trunk. The room was Spartan. A few women sat in rocking chairs in the middle, knitting. There were no windows and no fireplace. Wet stockings and petticoats hung on lines suspended from the exposed beams. The attic was cold. Edward was pleased that Bella would have the extra blanket.
"Alice," Matron said, "I want you to keep an eye on her."
"Yes, ma'am," the little yeoman said. She hopped into the cot next to Bella's. Edward took a last look at his sweetheart and padded out. He turned to smile at the matron.
"Rosie, eh?"
She held out her hand and he clasped it. "Only to my friends, Edward."
"Eddie."
"Thank you for saving my friend today, Eddie."
︻┳═一
Three mornings later, Isobel held up her head and limped down the stairs. On the second floor, she picked strands of music out of the air. He was playing Claire de lune.
Although she told herself to walk past and go to read the duty roster, her feet would not obey. Glorious sound filled the atrium. Despite the early hour, many ambulatory men were inside, listening in silence and having a smoke. One man, in one of their few wheelchairs, had broken down. An Irishman called Newton was sitting with him, helping him smoke, for while Newton had one hand, the other man had none.
Isobel stood behind her gifted soldier and waited. He was dressed in the summer uniform shirt and britches. His shoulders were going to be broad when…The backs of his hands were covered in sores. She bit her tongue and waited until the last notes shimmered away into air.
"My winter uniform seems to be missing," he said without turning.
"I have it. I've sewn in a cotton lining. It's just a pair of pyjamas, but—"
He turned slowly on his stool and took both her hands. She was appalled. Had they not just been reproved for forward behaviour?
"Edward?" she breathed. He raised his face to look at her. His eyes were glassy and red. He stood.
"Walk with me."
Her heart leaped into her throat. "I maun see to my duties."
He tucked her hand under his arm. "Isobel, you have no duties today."
"Haff I been dismissed?" she squeaked.
"No, darling. They've found me out."
"About the allergy?"
"About all of it." He opened the door to the storeroom that housed the tub, took her in and pressed her hands to his chest.
"They found out about yer age?"
"Everything."
"Are ye going to Blighty?" Although she knew he would hate it, her heart soared.
"No. They're turning a blind eye. Cap says I'm too valuable. I'm sorry I haven't told you everything."
"Tell me now."
"I'm not Canadian. I'm from Newfoundland."
"You're…"
"I wanted to go to the university to learn music and then be in an orchestra. My father owns a mine. He took me down daily to show it off. It's filthy and oppressive. The men cough. He kept talking about me taking over but he intended for me to work in it first. Learn the industry. It's not much different to the trenches, in some respects. Only the trenches are better because they're not closed in."
"Oh."
"Two years ago, I stowed away on a ship and came down the St. Lawrence to Ontario. Worked my way to Toronto and said I was sixteen. I've always been tall for my age. I played the organ during the moving pictures, and then I got into vaudeville."
"How did you get here?"
"There wasn't enough money. A recruiter said I could earn three times what I was making with my music, and serve my country, and get my food and shelter on the regular. So I made an alteration here and there to my history and threw in."
Bella blanched. "Will ye be court-marshalled?"
He lifted one side of his mouth in a rueful grin. "Hardly. Men join foreign armies all the time. Since I dispatched that Frenchie so neatly and I understand rocks and soil, they've decided I'd make a good sapper. The Brass had a wonderful argument yesterday over whom I'd be sapping for: Canada, Newfoundland or Britain."
"And?"
"It's nice to feel wanted."
"Edward."
"I'm shipping out today to Egypt. Although I am sorry you put in so much effort –which I appreciate with all my heart— I'm sure you'll be glad to hear I will not have to wear the army's winter wool again. Two weeks to adjust to the heat, then I'm off to lay landmines for the Royal Newfoundlanders in Gallipoli."
"No!"
"They want me in the Dardanelles, Bella. I have… special skills. They're undermanned and the commanders are green."
Because so many men had died! "We're losing there! The country's screaming at Asquith to resign and they want Hamilton's head!"
"I'll be all right."
"Ye can't!"
"I have no choice. It's an order."
"But it's so far away! And bombs? The casualties…"
"Please don't waste precious time arguing with me, Bella."
"But…"
"Do you know there are girls marrying soldiers they've never met?"
"Eddie."
"Only through letters. You know me, Bella. You know everything that matters. If you marry me, I'll know you want me to come back. I'll know you're waiting and praying and—"
"Where would we live?"
"Toronto. Scotland. London, I don't care. Wherever you want."
"Canada?"
"It's vast. Much larger than any country you've ever seen. And every part I've visited is lovely."
"We'll decide later."
"Darling?"
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"I will marry you."
He framed her face in his hands and kissed her lightly. "Thank you." He grabbed her hand and tugged her out of the room. She had to run to keep up with him. He practically dragged her all the way up to the offices on the third floor, where he rapped on Colonel Cullen's door.
"Lose the wimple," he told Bella.
The door opened immediately. Inside, Rosalie met them, alight with curiosity.
"I'm not getting married in my uniform," Bella hissed, plucking pins out of her hair.
"Oh, yes you are!" Edward held out his hand to the hospital chaplain. "Hello, I'm Edward Masen and this is my fiancée, Isobel Swan."
"Enchanté," the chaplain said. "Come in, my dears."
Rosalie tugged off Isobel's veil and combed out her braids, and Bella untied her apron and took it off. Five minutes later, she was a married woman. Ten minutes later, Edward was gone.
︻┳═一
The atrium was empty. Isobel wandered in and perched on the stool that Edward had occupied fourteen hours before. She set her head on her arm and tried not to weep. He would be back. She touched a key and picked out a few, stumbling notes of their song. A man cleared his throat gently and she jumped.
"I'm sorry I startled you, miss."
"Oh." Bella wiped her eyes. "It's all right. I should have noticed you there." It was the man with no hands who'd wept as Edward played.
"Do you play?"
"No. I wish I did. My husband… plays like an angel."
"Was that him this morning?"
"Yes."
"Would you care to learn?"
Her heart lifted. "Can ye teach me?"
"I'll do my best but you'll have to roll me up to the keyboard."
"It's a deal!"
He held up his bandaged stump and she 'shook' it gingerly. "Tolliver Wilberforce. My friends call me Tully."
"Isobel S—Masen. My friends call me Bella."
"Splendid, Bella. Now, that key, there, is Middle C…"
︻┳═一
October the 18th was a bad day.
Battle lines in Flanders were constantly being redrawn, and ground gained and lost. Casualties flooded the hospital from the three battles that had recently occurred around Ypres, and meanwhile, the Germans began an offensive against Artois. The allies had defeated them in Loos in September, but the Artois conflicts were a draw. Field hospitals overflowed and on the 18th, transferred men poured into the chateau; it was the closest evacuation hospital to the coast, from Ypres.
The doctors and nurses worked nonstop, with only brief naps to sustain them. And that was when they got word that the Huns had managed to establish a route between Germany and the Ottoman Empire, right smack dab in the middle of the Dardanelles. The allied trenches were quickly flattened by the German heavy artillery. Isobel could only hope that Edward was still en route to Gallipoli from Egypt, and not in the trenches.
At the first of November she received the first packet of letters. The last one contained money. He told her he was a Newfoundland lobster, steamed in the sun; that the food was horrible, the Sikh regiment was fascinating, and the Royal Newfoundlanders' mascot was a dog the size of a bear. He was a good writer. Although he couldn't tell her much, each letter covered both sides of the page, and then he'd turn the page and write across its length. She soon adjusted to his penmanship, which was at times dashed down in haste and at others loopy with fatigue.
The pages were full of endearments and anxiety for her welfare. She wrote him daily, although she didn't know if he'd receive her messages.
She prayed for more letters for weeks.
Then, the rains came at the end of November and flooded trenches in the Sulva. An unexpected cold snap followed. Those who did not drown in the flood fell victim to the cold and frostbite. The allied troops began to evacuate the Dardanelles.
On the 23rd of December, she was summoned by Colonel Cullen to his office. He waved a letter at her casually.
"You must forgive me, Nurse, for keeping a secret, but I got my orders from your sapper."
"Oh?" Her eyes were glued to the paper.
"Yes. This arrived yesterday in the mail packet, along with some money."
She wrung her hands.
"I hope you like your Christmas gifts. There are two." He tipped the envelope and held out something small.
"A wedding ring." She put it on and admired it.
"Yes. And this." He gestured at a hatbox on the floor. "Go on, open it. Took quite a bit of finesse to procure it."
Bella reached down to pick up the box but it was heavy. She tipped up the lid and a little dog burst out of it with a yap.
"Ohh… what kind is it?" She picked up the dog and it licked her madly.
"Mostly white terrier, at least, that's what the man I sent to buy it told me. Masen said whatever I chose must be a good ratter."
"Oh, these are the best presents I've ever had!"
Colonel Cullen looked at her slyly. "You don't want these, then?" He produced a bundle of letters tied together with twine.
Isobel snatched them and burst into happy tears.
︻┳═一
At night, the dog –christened Private Barker— customarily curled up with Isobel on her cot and she'd pat its coarse-haired head. During the day, it ran madly around the wards, visiting the delighted men and presenting dead trench rabbits to the nurses, who learned to hide their revulsion and praise it.
Periodically, Isobel would have a piano lesson from Tully, and by June she could play nearly as well as Edward. She hoped to see him in August. The Newfoundlanders badly needed leave.
She was practicing the Debussy when the Colonel came to stand beside her. "Isobel."
"Yes, sir?"
"It's the Newfoundlanders."
Her heart seized.
"They've … lost Beaufort Hamel. Nearly the entire regiment fell."
The keyboard protested when she clutched it. "No! He's not dead!"
"He's missing. There are only a few known survivors. They're going to Blighty."
"I must go!" She shot to her feet and whistled for Private Barker.
"You should stay here until we know."
"No, I'm going home!"
︻┳═一
Nurse Jessy Stanley's patient awoke with a gasp. He felt the bandages covering his eyes and grimaced.
"Hello, Lieutenant," she said. He did not react. Hopefully, when the ringing in his ears subsided, he would hear again. She gently took his good hand and he stiffened.
"Lieutenant First Class, Edward Masen of the Blue Puttees!" he barked. Jessy brought his hand up to rest on her face and nodded.
"Am I in the hospital?"
She placed a finger on his lips, then nodded.
"Am I in Blighty?" he whispered.
She nodded again.
"Am I blind?"
She shook her head, even though they didn't know.
He blew out his breath. "My wife! Senior Nurse Isobel Masen of Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service, at General Base Hospital Number Five."
By the time their telegram reached Colonel Cullen, Isobel had gone. He notified the Queen Alexandra Reserve Office in Brighton.
︻┳═一
July, 1916
Isobel entered the Number Six Hospital in Brighton on aching feet. It was her tenth day of fruitless searching. She walked smartly up to the desk and Private Barker left her side to scamper into the wards.
"Hey! Your dog—"
"Let him go. He kills rats."
"Oh. How may I help you, Nurse?"
Bella was wearing her straw hat with her uniform. "I'm looking for my husband. Edward Masen, with the Royal Newfoundlanders."
The receptionist rang a bell and a yeoman appeared. "Will you ask Jessy Stanley to come, please?"
"Yes, miss." The yeoman hurried off and promptly returned with a grey-caped Reserve nurse.
"Bella?"
Isobel covered her mouth and sobbed. "He's here."
"He came on the H.M.H.S. Saint David four days ago. He was in a coma. Knocked me for a loop when he woke up two days ago and asked for you."
"He asked for me?"
"Clear as a bell. Isobel Masen, Senior Nurse at Base Hospital Five. Every morning he asks me to write a letter." Isobel's forehead creased and Jessy patted her arm. "He lost the first joint of one thumb. He was thrown by a bomb. Missed the worst of it, by the looks of him. We aren't sure yet how good his sight or hearing will be. The internal bleeding has stopped but he's concussed."
Edward might be deaf and blind. "He's a musician."
"Let's pray he gets his hearing back, then. He's young and strong. His feet are fine; it doesn't appear he's had frostbite, although he has some sort of nasty allergic rash."
"He's allergic to wool."
"Heavens! We wondered about his uniform, all lined with cotton. It would have given him an extra layer of protection against the cold. And evidently your man knows to keep his tinder dry, although Heaven only knows how he managed it."
"Can I see him?"
"You won't cry?"
"I don't know."
"Make him feel wanted, right?"
"Of course." Isobel whistled for the dog.
︻┳═一
She found him sitting up in a chair in the parlour by a sunny window, wearing hospital blues. In profile, he looked completely normal. She stood against his knees and the dog put its paws on his leg. Cut marks in a spray pattern covered the entire left side of his face. His eyes were swollen and bloody.
"Bella?" He peered at her. "Are you my Bella?" She nodded energetically but he groaned. "I'm dreaming. Bella's in The Wipers."
She stood behind him and played Claire de lune on his shoulders. During the second section, he gasped, spun and framed her face in his hands. "Bella!" She nodded and wept. "Can you really play it?"
She nodded again. He steered her over to the room's large upright piano. She sat on the stool and Private Barker yapped and scampered around their feet.
Bella played and Edward rested his head on the piano. He began to laugh and tears brightened his eyes.
"I can hear it! Say you still love me."
She embraced him, kissed his brow, his cheeks and his mouth. He placed his hand on her face. She nodded. "I do. My lonely heart prayed for someone so God gave you to me."
Author's note: The Royal Newfoundland Regiment was virtually wiped out at Beaumont Hamel on July 1, 1916, the first day of the Battle of the Somme. Since then, July 1st has been marked as Memorial Day in Newfoundland and Labrador. Although Canada signed the peace accord at the end of the war (independent of Britain), Newfoundland did not join the Confederation of Canada until 1949. Canada celebrates its nationhood every July 1st in tribute.