The fog is both a curse and a comfort. A comfort, because it dulls the gunfire, deadens it and saves Konstin's ears though the aching buzz never quite goes away. A curse, too, for that very reason. It is so very easy to get lost in the fog, to trip over barbed wire or to fall into a shell crater. Without the fog, it is harder to tell when the shells are coming towards him, when the guns are aimed in his direction. When the guns are right beside him.
His chest is tight with the pounding of his heart, each breath shallow as if shallow breaths are more careful than deep ones.
They might be, if there was gas. If there was gas they would not even know with the fog, and his stomach churns at the thought.
The fog slows the advance, but at least it conceals them from enemy sights. If they cannot see the opposite trenches, then those in the opposite trenches cannot see them, cannot know that they are picking their way across. The thought is not the comfort that it should be.
After all, those in the trenches behind cannot see them now, either.
A faint gasp, off to his left, and dimly he sees the shadow of a figure collapse. Dupuis looks at him, a frown furrowing his brow, and Konstin nods for him to tend to the man. In a moment Dupuis has slipped away, but Konstin cannot watch, needs to keep leading what men are left across.
A gurgle, to his right. Out of the side of his eye he sees a fountain of blood from Mazet's neck, starkly crimson against the fog. Mazet falls, and Konstin's fingers ache to plug the wound, but it's a neck wound. He'll be dead in the next handful of minutes if he isn't already.
Konstin draws a stuttering breath, tries to still the pounding of his heart. Two men down, that he's seen. How many more has he missed with this fog? Damn, but he knew, he knew it was a bad idea to try to cross today. He knew it, and he told the Colonel too that in his opinion it would be a fatal error. But the Colonel insisted that the orders came from a higher authority, and short of mutiny there was nothing either of them could do.
Mutiny would be a better alternative to this.
Faintly he hears the crash of a shell, and there is one moment of searing pain before the world falls to blackness.
"You'd think they'd stop the shelling when they can't even see us," Thibault grumbles, and Antoine sighs, wraps his fingers tighter around his mug of coffee. It hardly deserves the name of coffee really, but at least it drives some of the ice from his fingers. That is the one good thing he can say for it.
"True, Capitaine," he says softly, "but you know as well as I do that there's a team of our side sending just as many shells their way. If the fog hasn't stopped us, why should it stop them?"
Thibault mutters something incomprehensible, and Antoine is hard-pressed to suppress a smile. The Capitaine is never satisfied unless he has something to complain over. Even if everything were going swimmingly and they had the advantage he would find something to make him bitter. Antoine is just grateful that he never airs his issues in front of the men. Morale is bad enough without the Capitaine adding to it.
Just one more day until the change, Antoine reminds himself. One more day, and you'll be back behind the lines with slightly better coffee. And Konstin will be rotating out too. Just think of that.
The screech of a shell overhead puts the thought from his mind. Antoine and Thibault duck at the same time, the walls of the dugout shaking in the crashing noise. In a moment it passes and the next shells are duller, but Antoine's ears ache, and there are flecks of black grit floating on the top of his coffee.
In the rare moments that the city is quiet they can hear the gunfire over the Aisne. The continuous low rumble of it like far-distant thunder, an impossible monotony so that Christine cannot pick out individual shots. Perhaps it is better this way, when she does not have to wonder with each shot if that one is the one. Like this, the gunfire rolling constantly beneath the streetcars and shuffle of people going about their business, it is as if there has always been a war, as if the noise has always been there. And she can pretend, almost, that this is normal.
She aches now, more than ever, for music. Real music, not the music of the gramophone which is always slightly dulled by recording. Actual music with actual instruments. Her world was full of music once, so much that it would have consumed her if she would only have let it. But those days are long gone, and the Garnier has lost much of its glory. None of the sweeping operas anymore, only simpler affairs, the music itself pinched with worry. Not even the Garnier can be an escape.
Anja, Christine thinks, realised that before she ever did, and that, maybe, is why she abandoned the ballet so quickly for nursing duties.
Deep down, she knows she would prefer her daughter to be still in the ballet.
But Christine would prefer a great many things now, and that is only one of them. And how can there be music when Konstin is away at the Front?
Marguerite stretches her fingers and surveys the ward. The men in this section are settled, the morphine helping to keep the pain at bay. And just in time too, for her to come on shift. The men on other wards may not be so fortunate, but for once everything here is just—
No. She dare not think that word. If she does it will surely cause some reaction and truckloads of casualties will arrive in in need of tending to. Washing, bandaging, surgery. She will not so much as permit a single possibly cursing thought to cross her mind.
"De Chagny." The Matron's voice is a warning, and Marguerite shivers, turning around to the door. The older woman does not utter a word, not in front of the wounded men, but the slight way she nods says all she needs to, and Marguerite's heart sinks. Even intentionally not thinking that the place is quiet is, apparently, enough to change that.
