Please keep in mind while reading that English is not my first language and that nobody proofread this text.
Compassion Crowns the Soul With Its Truest Victory
She hadn't expected to see such carnage. She knew there had been a mighty battle fought on this field, yet knowing and seeing were two different things. Her stomach lurched and had she not clenched her teeth, she would have thrown up on her brand new leather boots. Something must have shown on her face, because her brother looked at her worriedly. She tried to school her expression, but it was hard. She bet her skin had turned an unattractive greenish colour.
The field that had once been covered in grass and colourful flowers had turned to mud. Countless of bodies laid in the mire, most of them so disfigured it was hard to believe they had once been humans. The stench of blood and death-loosen bowels was almost overpowering. Already, the crows were blackening the sky like one giant cloud announcing death.
They trudged the killing ground carefully, trying not to stomp on some body parts. It was almost a lost cause. Canons had blasted off limbs everywhere. There seemed to be no whole bodies in that particular corner of the field. She saw blood, entrails, guts and skin, but it felt as if she couldn't get the whole picture. These fragments didn't meet to make a human being in her mind, and she was kind of grateful to it. She probably would have thrown up despite her best efforts or, God forbids, fainted. She shivered from head to toe and hugged her jacket closer to her body. The weather was fairly warm, yet she felt cold all over.
She had no idea how long they walked ankle-deep in gore before they found one person still alive. Her brother saw a twitch in a pile of bodies, and they found a man underneath, covered in blood but still breathing. He must have been shielded from the last attack by those dead bodies. Yet his breathing was laboured and wheezy and it was hard to tell if the blood on him was his or someone else's.
They flipped him on his back and she bent over, checking for a pulse. It was there, faint but stubborn. She checked the man over rapidly, assessing the visible wounds. His clothes were torn, revealing some bruises and scratches, but nothing life-threatening. The only worrying wound was a gash above the man's right eye some three or four inches long. It covered the right side of his face in a horrible crimson mask and marred his light brown hair.
''He's still alive. We have to take him back with us to heal him.''
''Mathilda, he's an enemy. We can't nurse our enemies...!''
''Don't be like that, Alfred,'' she snapped, violet eyes hardening. ''His countrymen have been massacred for no reason. Don't you think it would be even more damning to our soul to let him die here?''
Alfred snarled and crossed his arms. Mathilda could see her brother wanted to argue but didn't dare to. Finally, Alfred heaved a sigh and crouched beside the wounded man. ''Fine, we'll carry him back to our encampment. But you will care for him. He'll be your responsibility. Understood?''
Mathilda nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. ''Understood.''
Carrying an unresponsive body however was easier said than done. The wounded man was tall and big, taller and bigger than the two siblings attempting to drag him out of the blood bath. Since he was unconscious, he couldn't help at all by trying to keep his footing or tightening his hold around their neck. Alfred suggested more than once that they just abandon the deadweight amongst his peers, but Mathilda stubbornly refused to. She was rarely hard-headed and would usually yield easily, but right now she seemed quite stubborn about this wounded stranger. Was she feeling guilt about the whole massacre? She shouldn't, really. Mathilda wasn't a fighter; she was a healer. She'd never killed anything bigger than a spider in her whole life. Perhaps the whole fighting was starting to take its toll on her however and that she'd feel better about at least rescuing one poor wounded bastard.
With much huffing and puffing, they finally managed to drag the wounded man back to their camp. The sentries standing on each side of the large door of the wooden palisade looked startled at seeing them more or less carrying what appeared to be a dead body; a dead body wearing the enemy livery furthermore. Both blond young people were covered in gore from boots to belt after trudging on the killing field for so long. They smelled of death, emptied bowels and blood. Their faces were pale in light of the recent killing.
Of course, being who they are, nobody stopped them. All soldiers, healers, camp followers they met stared at them with wide eyes. The medical tent was unfortunately situated at the other side of the camp, forcing them to carry the body through ranks upon ranks of their soldiers. Speculations erupted as soon as they were out of earshot, everybody wondering what was happening and why an enemy soldier was being brought in. Nobody had heard they were to take prisoners.
Finally, the greyish canvas of the medical tent appeared at the end of a muddy path. By then, they were both sweating and grunting under the deadweight of the wounded man. Alfred felt all his small aches and pains reawakened and he mourned the wasted time that could have been used to bathe in warm water. He knew better than to voice his annoyance however. Mathilda might not be a soldier like him, but she had infinite amount of energy when it came to healing the wounded and she never complained about having to spend the whole night up by the bedside of a dying man.
The flap of the tent was opened for them by a wide-eyed soldier who stood sentry. As soon as they stepped inside, their nostrils were assaulted by the smell of blood and unwashed bodies. In this tent alone perhaps one hundred wounded soldiers laid on narrow cots, some dying, some already dead while a healer's back was turned, some recuperating after a sustained injury. Amongst the neat lines of beds the healers worked tirelessly. Helpers – mostly scared-looking children – carried rolls of bandages, basins of clean water and glass bottles of alcohol and poppy wine.
The wounded man was carried by the two siblings to an empty cot at the end of the last line of beds. It stood near the oily canvas wall that flapped gently in the breeze. Here, the air smelled just a tiny less like death and a bit more like damp earth. With some effort, they lowered the man to the cot. The big body looked too large for such a narrow pallet.
Alfred straightened with a groan. He pressed his fists on the small of his back. The large sword in its scabbard belted to his side clanked noisily against the wooden leg of the cot. He barely registered it.
"So, are you going to be alright with an enemy soldier in your tent?" he asked his younger sister with something akin to worry in his voice.
"Of course," Mathilda answered distractedly. She was already at work, checking the man over for other wounds than the one on his forehead. "He's going to be far too weak to be any trouble."
"But what of when he grows stronger?"
The younger of the two sighed and looked up at her brother with some exasperation mingled with deep respect in her purple eyes. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Alfred. I won't have this man shackled to his bed in fear he might get up to try to strangle someone."
Despite everything, Alfred couldn't stop a smile tugging the corners of his lips upwards. He patted his sister on the back. "Dear Mattie, always so nice to broken people!" Still smiling, he scratched at his straw-coloured hair before shrugging. "Alright then, I'll trust you on this one. I have to go now. Gotta report on what we saw there anyway." His blue eyes hardened ever so slightly. "But if this bastard gives you any troubles, I'll see my sword sheathed through his throat."
Mathilda opened her mouth to say something, but Alfred was already turning his back. She watched her older brother walk out of the tent, head raised high and broad shoulders stiff with pride. Dear Alfred, always looking out for her like a mother hen. Mathilda's smile couldn't be kept at bay even if she had wanted it to. Nineteen years of this, and it still made her feel ridiculously warm on the inside to know her older brother cared so much for her.
The quiet buzzing of her surroundings finally managed to bring her back to reality. She stared for a second or two at the wounded man lying on the cot in front of her. The enemy solider hadn't move an inch, still unconscious probably due to the blow received to the forehead.
Mathilda sighed and removed her coat. Despite the cold outside, the inside of the tent was warmed by many packed bodies. In a few minutes of working she'd probably be sweating too. Yet she wished nonetheless for the more comforting warmth of a wood fire. It would be better for the wounded too; it would chase away the humidity. A lot of soldiers, especially the older ones, had been complaining of stiff joints after spending a few days in the medical tent. Sadly, there was very little she could do for them except have them rub their aching joints with warm alcohol.
She began working, pushing her thoughts at the back of her mind. Her hands worked precisely and gently. She hated those healers who were brisk with the unconscious patients because they couldn't feel pain. First of all, with a pair of sharp scissors, she cut the wounded man's clothes so they could more easily be removed. It wasn't an easy task; the man wore thick clothes due to the cold and some parts of them were hardening with drying blood. She cut through the coat sleeves from wrist to shoulder and pulled on the torn fabric to remove it. It was of good quality, she noticed absentmindedly, the kind of material no ordinary soldier could afford. She put it aside in case it might be salvaged later on. Under the brown coat the clothes were covered in blood. Fresh blood. There was a gash on the right thigh, perhaps five inches long but not deep enough to have severed the artery. Other such gashes were found all over the man's body. None were life threatening, but the blood had to be staunched rapidly.
The most serious wound was the one the man had sustained on the forehead. Blood still trickled from it in a thin rivulet, coating the right side of the face a light red. The pillow in its white pillowcase was already stained with it. Mathilda waved to one of the kid helpers. The boy came running eagerly and listened to the orders given. With a bow, he departed to fetch the needed items. Mathilda had a few seconds to breathe. The air in the tent was disgustingly humid and warm. She was already sweating underneath her clothes and her blond hair stuck to her cheeks and forehead. She wiped it away from her brow as best she could with the back of her forearm, keeping her bloody fingers away from her face. Was it just her imagination or had the man stirred ever so slightly? For a panicky second, Mathilda wished her patient would remain unconscious. The words of warning her brother had said came back to mind and quite suddenly she realised that having brought an enemy soldier in the medical tent might not have been the smartest thing she had done. Then she looked at the man, really looked at him; taking in his injuries, the paleness of his skin, the slackness of his body, and decided that enemy or not, wounded people had to be seen to. Alfred would scoff at that, they all would scoff at that and call her a big softie, but there was no way she could simply turn a wounded man away. She had sworn vows of taking care of the wounded and the sick. Nowhere it that long speech she had learned by heart had it been mentioned that some people should be denied physicking.
The boy came back with the required items, snapping Mathilda out of her reverie. The objects were placed upon a small wooden table and the boy was sent to help someone else. Mathilda then took a white rag, dipped it in the copper basin of lukewarm water, wrung it, then proceeded to gently clean the wound on the man's forehead. The blood had not yet dried and was easily washed away. She then put the now-stained rag in the water which turned almost immediately a pinkish colour. She leaned in closer to the patient to examine the wound. As she had first feared, this one would need stitches. Better hurry while the man was still unconscious. With a new clean rag, she cleaned the wound a second time but with warm alcohol. The man didn't even twitch, but his breathing seemed a tiny bit more laboured. Mathilda put the foul-smelling rag away and picked up a semicircular needle with a silk suture already threaded through it. With a sure hand, she started working on a simple interrupted stitch. It was the easiest and the most secure for this type of wound and would most likely leave a smaller scar than any other types of stitching.
Once the stitching was done, it was only a matter of cleaning the rest of the wounds on the soldier. As she did, Mathilda tried to imagine how he must have gotten those. Clearly, he must have been hit only by debris since the wounds were quite insignificant. The other bodies she had seen on the field had been torn to bloody pieces. Something – or maybe someone – must have shielded this man from the worst of the explosion.
Once all the wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, Mathilda took a few steps back to eye critically her work. The man would live, that was certain, unless there was some undetectable interior wound. She doubted it. Already the enemy soldier's skin was regaining some colour due to the stopping of the blood loss (and also probably due to the stupid heat of the tent). It was too early to tell if infection might have seeped into one of the wounds however. Someone would have to keep a close eye on the man for the next twenty-four hours.
Satisfied with her work, Mathilda took the folded light blanket from the foot of the narrow cot, unfolded it with a shake and covered the man with it. It was mostly for decency's sake really; most of the man's clothes had been cut away, leaving him only in his undershirt and undergarments. Now, time and rest would finish the job. Perhaps a bit of poppy wine at the beginning of the recovery to ease the pain. Judging from the wound to the forehead, the man will most likely suffer from severe headaches for a long time, or even all his life.
There was nothing more to do at the moment but fill the ledger keeping track of the wounded people brought in. It was a tedious affair but it had to be done. Every inch of suture, every needle, every rag, every roll of bandages, every copper basin, had to be counted. Each patient's name had to be written down alongside their ailments, their wounds and the remedies provided. Everything had to balance out at the end of the month so only the exact number of needed supplies could be provided. With their funds running so low, most of the remaining money had to be directed towards the soldiers and the fighting force. A huge sum had to be taken for food for humans and beasts. Uniforms and canvas tents had to be mended or replaced. Only then, when everything else had been resupplied were medical team's needs looked at. There had been entire months when they couldn't get the needed supply and had to tear bed sheets and old uniforms to turn them into bandages. Amongst the wounded soldiers, only those sure to be able to go back to the battlefield in a short while got good food. The others had to struggle on with what was left even if the weakest of them needed the best food possible in hope to mend.
Mathilda shook her head slightly, knowing these depressing thoughts would lead her nowhere. They had made due with what they were given so far, and they could continue. Mathilda was happy enough to use her own money to buy the supplies they needed anyway, and she was pretty sure what she had left of coins could see them through another year. After that, well… after that she'd have to find a new way to fund the medical team. She'd think of something, she always did.
Right, so now she had to fill the ledger. This paused a problem, she realised with mounting anxiety. Allied soldiers were mostly all known by their names by someone else in the army and so could be identified. The man Alfred and she had just brought in was known to nobody. He was still unconscious so Mathilda couldn't ask for a name.
As if they had a mind of their own, her eyes were attracted to a piece of fabric lying on the ground. She took it up, and she realised it was the brown jacket the man had worn when he had been found amongst the pile of bodies. Blood spots covered it, it was frayed despite its good quality and the hem was full of holes. There were some kind of insignias on the shoulders of the jacket, but Mathilda had no idea what they meant. Were they some kind of indicators of a rank? Maybe. Steeling her nerves, she slipped one hand into one of the pockets of the jacket. Her groping fingers found nothing but dust. The other pockets got the same treatment. She found a half empty pack of foreign cigarettes. She could read the letters on it but couldn't understand the meaning of the words. There was also a book of matches with two matches remaining. She had heard of these weird objects but it was the first time she saw them with her own eyes. Apparently, fire appeared when one of the matches was struck against something rough. It was hardly believable; the match was thinner and shorter than her pinky finger. How could something so small make fire? Nonetheless, she put it into the pocket of her trousers for later observation. Finally, in the last inside pocket of the coat she found a piece of folded paper. The paper was rough and thick beneath her fingers and there was a ring of blood on the upper left side of it. The blood, dried, had turned a dark brownish colour. She let the jacket fall back down beside the cot and carefully unfolded the piece of paper. It seemed to be some kind of letter written in the same weird language that was on the pack of cigarettes. She squinted at the words as if narrowing her eyes would provide her with the necessary knowledge to understand them. It did nothing of the sort, sadly. She could go to a translator, of course, but she felt that spreading the news that an enemy soldier was lying unconscious in the medical tent wasn't such a good idea. Knowing the cruelty of men, she didn't doubt that one soldier or another would have no qualms about walking into the tent and killing an unarmed enemy soldier just for wearing the wrong colour of jacket. She frowned at the letter. This was a letter, she was sure of it. She could see a date written in an elegant feminine hand at the top right corner. The numbers were understandable. It was dated almost three months ago. So, if these people followed the same writing code, it meant that the second line should mention the name of the addressee. It read: geacht Klaas. Urgh, that didn't tell her much. Could it be translated as 'dear Klaas'? It sounded a bit like that. But was Klaas a name though? If so, it sounded oddly like the word 'class'.
She sighed. Whatever, the man would be registered under the name Klaas even if it wasn't a real first name. It sounded quite foreign, but a lot of their soldiers were from the colonies or even from foreign countries. She doubted someone would ask about this particular one just because of his weird-sounding name.
Mathilda folded back the letter before slipping it underneath the wounded man's pillow. It wouldn't do for it to be discovered after all. Her business done here for the moment, she gathered the objects she had needed to tidy them away and to fill the ledger on her way out.