He felt tired. Not the usual tiredness he experienced after a long day of work. It was a tiredness which was settling in his bones while making his thoughts slow. And he felt hot. Why was it so hot? He didn't know, but he knew that he was too tired to open his eyes. Instead he tried to move his body to a cooler place, but moving tired him out even more so he stopped.

'How is he?' a voice whispered suddenly. He was frightened for a moment, but the voice sounded concerned and warm; almost motherly. It calmed him and he relaxed again. Was that his mother's voice? He tried to picture her, but no memory could answer his question.

'Better,' another voice said. This voice, however, was deep and muffled. It sounded like a thought surrounded by water. 'His fever is still high, but his breathing is much better. We should continue the current treatment and see how he'll be tomorrow.'

'So, all we can do is sit and wait?' the former warm voice changed to a cooler chime. Could he hear despair? No, despair was cold, gelid. How did he know? Despair was not his comrade.

'Yes,' the other voice sighed. 'We have to wait, but you can help him. Sit with him and talk to him. Give him something to drink, try some soup, and help him to keep his fever down. Just … just don't give up on him. He's very ill, but he can recover.' Ill?, he wondered. Did one of the voices make him ill? Maybe. He felt frightened again.

'I would never give him up!" The voice was shrill now. It hurt his ears, and he stifled a soft groan.

'Thomas?' Another groan. He was tired, and yet curious. He wanted to see the face which belonged to the warm voice. He tried to open his eyes again, but his efforts were hidden behind a cool washcloth. He closed his eyes in his thoughts and relaxed. He was safe. He knew, and his body was suddenly floating; only hold by the cold cloth. It was his anchor to reality.

'Ssh now,' the voice said. 'Rest. It's really late.' In his thoughts he nodded, she was right. He knew, but he didn't know what she meant by late since he had lost track of time long ago. He weighed the anchor.

The next time he woke up, he was confused. His body wasn't floating anymore. It was cold, his fingers numb, and his feet restless. He wanted to move and warm himself up, but he couldn't. He was tired. He could just lie there while the only thing he heard was his heart beating in an unsettling rhythm. It was loud. Where was the voice? Where was the warmth feeling of home? Home? Was he at home? He tried to think, to remember, but his thoughts were still slow. Another heartbeat. What happened? His heart was racing by now. Why didn't he have any control? His mind was locked up in his body. He wanted to see where he was, but his eyes remained closed. Instead he tried to feel his surroundings. His fingertips, albeit cold, could feel something soft underneath them. He is very ill. He knew this voice. He knew. Wherefrom? His thoughts were heavy and he could feel how consciousness faded away, but he didn't want to sleep again. He wanted to feel, to explore, and above all he wanted to understand. He focused on his fingers again. Cold, but soft, somehow uneven. It was … he was … A sudden movement dissolved his thoughts. A door had opened. He heard steps approaching. It frightened him. Please, say something. Anything. I want to know who you are.

'How was the rest of the night?' He knew this voice, and somehow it agitated him.

'Good, I'd say. He slept calmly.' It was the warm voice. He was not alone. 'He's getting better, isn't he?'

'Mmh,' a rough hand settled on his forehead. He didn't like this feeling. He felt trapped. 'His fever seems to be the same. Maybe he was only calm due to the medicine I gave him. I'd just like to check his breathing again before I go.' He searched in his thoughts. A name. Every voice has a name. He felt hot again. Thinking was exhausting, but he needed a name. Major, his brain told him, but what did it mean - 'Major'? It meant danger. Pain. Fear. Not his mind, but his body provided the answer. He was confused, but the fast beating of his heart and the feeling in his chest couldn't betray him. He was in danger. Suddenly, he felt something cold against his chest and this time, he knew exactly how it was called and what it did. A gun meant death. He screamed in realisation.

'Ssh, Thomas, shh.' He heard the warm voice again, and for the first time he had the strength to open his eyes. At first, he could only see a shadow, but bit by bit he could see details; brown eyes and hair which were scarred by fear. No, by uncertainty.

'Do you want something to drink?' He nodded, and a glass of cool water was brought to his lips. It was a relief, but he still felt dried-out. His heart felt dried-out.

'Do you want more?' she asked. He shook his head and looked around. A man lingered in the door.

'I just wanted to listen to your lungs,' he said. 'I didn't want to scare you. You were afraid, weren't you, Thomas?" He nodded slowly and dizziness settled in. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Danger. He had to warn the woman by his side. His heartbeat and the feeling of dizziness increased. He shut his eyes, but he wanted to say something. He must say something.

'Major,' he whispered with the last of his strength, before he fell asleep again.

He was on a train. It was dark. Night. The clattering of the train was accompanied by snippets of conversations. Bombardment, gas, tanks, machine-guns, hand-grenades. He was surrounded by words which let him shiver.

'You're cold?' A question, a smile. Raymond wrapped in drab.

'No, I'm not. I was just lost in thoughts,' he could hear himself answering. Raymond laughed. He always laughed – expect while sleeping then he cried. He didn't sleep often anymore.

'Did you think of home?'

'No,' he shook his head and stubbed out his cigarette. Nobody thought of home, because nobody knew what home meant. Barracks were their home now. Raymond was his brother.

'Do have another cigarette?' Thomas went for his breast pocket. He could feel the cigarette box. Five cigarettes left. They should last for the night.

'You shouldn't smoke so much,' he said slowly while looking Raymond straight in his blue eyes. 18 years old. Student. Only child.

'Oh, come on. I'm a soldier. I have to smoke. It's my only pleasure left.' Thomas hesitated, but gave in. 18 years old. Soldier. Dead within three days.

He had met Raymond at a CSS while working in one of the resuscitation tents. He had been working there for a month seeing death and life sitting side by side. It'd been his task to prepare the wounded soldiers for life-saving operations. Apparently dying cases had been warmed up in heated beds, or transfused before operation. At his first day, he had been amazed how effective transfusions were. Men like corpses, blanched and collapsed, pulseless and with just perceptible breathing could sit up in bed and smoke within two hours, before they would be sent to the operation tent.

Raymond hat visited his brother Johnny, who was blinded by the effect of mustard gas, and shot in his leg just above the knee. Thomas had seen the leg which was destroyed by the impact of a bullet. He could never walk or see again. He had known it, and so had Raymond and Johnny.

'You will see, Johnny. After the operation you'll be able to walk again. We have good doctors here,' Raymond said reassuringly, but Johnny had shaken his head.

'No, an operation wouldn't help me anymore,' he said. And he was right. In the evening his fever had been so high that the operation had been cancelled, and within two hours he'd been dead. And Raymond? Raymond had found a friend in the young medic, who offered him a sympathetic ear and a cigarette that night. A friendship had been born in solitude.

The train stopped. They'd changed their location nearer to the front; filling in for the men who had been killed the days before.

'Looks like a quiet night,' Raymond said while leaving the train. He stretched his legs and arms, filling his lungs with cold air.

'Mmh,' Thomas said, 'Maybe for you, but I must go to my new tend. See where I can be of help.'

'It's hard to be a medic, huh?' Raymond asked. 'I mean, I don't kill people - just nameless enemies. But you, you have to deal with the people who were injured out there.'

'No, not really,' Thomas shook his head, 'I deal with numbers.' He lit a cigarette for himself and one for Raymond. 'Number one: blinded by gas. – Clean and apply bandages. Number two: fragment of an explosive bullet in left leg. – Need to be extracted by surgery, maybe amputation. Number three: loss of left leg. – Stop bleeding, prepare for operation. Number four: Broken hip due to explosion. – One of the few who gets morphine for the pain. However, he won't be able to walk again. Number five: not bodily injured, but mentally – Doctors won't give him attention. Malingering, they say. War, I say.'

Thomas awoke with a start. His heart was pounding heavily in his chest, his fingers were sweaty. He looked around and found a woman asleep in a chair on the left side of his bed. She looks tired, he thought. She shouldn't be here. She should be in her bed. Why is she here? For a moment, he considered waking her, but he hadn't the strength to do so. Instead he turned to his left side, where a small, wooden night table stood. He opened to drawer and was surprised how weak he really was. His fingers were trembling strongly as he reached for the little leather-bound book. The 39 Steps, it said on the cover, but on the first page in a neat handwriting was written: Property of Raymond Malham. His dreams were reality, he thought. Maybe his reality was a dream of someone else.