Dedicated to all the men and women who endured the horrors of World War I

(1914-1918)

Verdun, July 5th

The sound of gunfire was like rain. It clattered from metal barrels, whistled and pounded heavy shells into the ground. At times it was nothing more than a distant patter in the distance, a rumble indistinct from the thunderstorms of autumn or spring. Then there were the deluges, the insistent and endless storms where they carried on, not knowing how closely they might strike for hours, days on end. Then, there were weeks like these – a summer shower. The brief interlude of bullets arriving almost to their relief, between the dry silences of a scorching day, when the smell of dead rats and sewage, bodies both alive and deceased, reached into even their numbed olfactory systems, and made them want to wretch.

A peppering of hot metal across the parched, potholed landscape ricocheted into the pale bone-filled terrain about them as snipers and patrols took a pop. Lodging in wooden supports and glancing off of helmets. Every now and then the air was punctuated with the sodden thud of it piecing through flesh and the strangled, now familiar, cries of pain which accompanied it. Magnus was to be found never too far off its heels – this time she'd been barely three feet away partaking in what constituted tea hereabouts.

"S'asseoir sur le sol," she ordered, forcing the writhing Private into a position where the blood wouldn't stray too far from his core.

The bleeding was profuse, quickly staining his blue uniform purple, draining him of his already anaemic colour. He shook, grasping for her arm and straining his head as if he couldn't quite say what he wanted to. Magnus wasn't paying much attention, she kept her eye on the task at hand, ripping his uniform down and simultaneously using it to stem the bleeding. It was in his shoulder – if she acted now he might not even need to leave the line.

"Stay still," she continued in French, aware of the men now forming a crowd around him, "What's your name boy?"

He was just a boy too, barely able to grow stubble on his chin, God how many children would they allow into this hell?

"His name's Hector Dubois."

So much for getting her patient's attention, "Hector look at me." The boy's wild icy eyes hit her like frozen water, as he heaved exhausting breaths, "Breathe," she instructed, "it's only a scratch." She smiled, with a taut kind of tenderness which, to Hector, might as well have been that of an angel, "I'm going to take this bullet out, and I promise you, it will hurt."

Another crack of fire rained dirt onto their faces. In this valley he would be lucky indeed not to die of septicaemia, but she had stopped thinking about that months ago. It was all sandbags in a flood, and nothing more, but it was no use dwelling on the fact.

"George," she refused to call the one man who'd been leant to her, to assist in her work, by anything but his Christian name, "keep the pressure."

He stopped measuring Hector's pulse and took the fabric she'd been holding to his wound, allowing her to find the surgical tool from her kit, attached to her side, and the medicinal alcohol to sterilise the wound once she was done. To be honest, it was a minor miracle that she had managed to procure some last time she was in Verdun itself.

With a nod from the doctor, George knew to remove the pressure, allowing her to delve into the bloody mess and retrieve the crumpled remnant of German compound which had ripped up sinew and flesh. Hector squealed in pain, legs flapping like the wings of a wounded pigeon unable to pull itself up and deliver its message; then the string of curses, expletives which could only be got at once the real danger had passed. George was quick to reapply pressure the minute Helen drew away, allowing her to uncap the bottle and apply the liquid against the now clammy skin. The boy yelped and writhed, gritting his teeth and hissing through it as the pain shot through afresh.

"Doctor!" Someone was calling from not too far down the line, but they ignored it, closing and binding Private Dubois's wound quickly, expertly, as they had time after time. "Dr Magnus!" Even knowing this was a command on its way, Helen didn't stir to pay it any attention until her work was done.

"Dr Magnus," the messenger gasped, "I've been told to bring you to the Captain right away."

"Is it an emergency?" George asked on her behalf – ever defensive of the brave Brit he had come to regard as something of a mentor.

"No," he admitted, a little offended at having to address the Private who'd managed to wrangle himself such a sweet place out of the direct line of fire, "but it is an order Madame."

Without acknowledging the newcomer Magnus grabbed the wounded man's right hand – on his good arm, and looked him in the eye as she positioned it against the dressing. "Press here," she instructed, "Don't let up."

"I'm sorry Dr Magnus, but you must come with me, now."

"The Captain can wait just five more seconds sir," she glared warningly at him, before addressing her patient again, "If it still bleeds you must be sent to the hospital, understand? Don't try to get up yet."

"You heard her Laurent," George stared the messenger in the eye.

"George," it came out harsher than she had meant. She respected his loyalty a great deal, but sometimes that man was far too hot headed, "keep an eye on him. Leave him sat as long as you can, in the shade if you can manage it. If he loses any more blood, or can't grip his gun..."

He nodded grimly, "He goes down the line."

"I'll be back as soon as I can George – keep an eye on them."

"Yes ma'm," he saluted – the only one who ever did, though she held no rank and commanded none of them, not even him.

Private Laurent rolled his eyes at his fellow soldier, but looked to Magnus with every respect, "Come," he ushered softy, as though she were a lady in his Amiens shop trying on hats. She didn't much care for the kid gloves treatment, but it never seemed to relent no matter how much pain she witnessed, no matter the blood still on her hands. It was simply a fact of life.

Face pinched disapprovingly she managed to locate one of her over-used rags, once handkerchiefs, and followed him, wiping the ruby liquid from her skin as they went, before it caked under her nails in the heat. Perhaps Captain Desagneaux would be so kind as to lend her water to wash, though she wasn't sure there was enough of it to go round at the moment.

He must have had a bloody good reason for this. Wounds were a dime a dozen in this section of the line, even with the shell-fire easing off and the men remaining in the trenches. Ever since she had volunteered for this Desagneaux had relied on her to keep his men stood at their posts for as long as humanly possible. He knew better than to drag her from her patient's side before she was done with them, after all this time, surely?

Following Laurent through the trenches she had to mind her step, the soil was loose in part, in others rocks jutted out to trip you – not to mention the legs of men hunkered down to rest, lounging as best they could. Like any officer she passed their hollowed, worn expressions with resignation, trying not to stare as though to witness their shattered bodies was to acknowledge that they'd played some part in its happening, to take on some sense of culpability. Even so, the odd face managed a smile as she passed, and always did. A few cheery hellos from men aged before their time, survivors who owed their lives to her medical training, or George's, which always managed to find them before the stretcher bearers and the Red Cross could haul them back to the make-shift hospitals of the town itself. There were glares too, from men who would've rather died; expressions which haunted her on the edge of sleep.

They reached the officer's dugout and Laurent stood to attention at the door, allowing her to enter. She paused a moment, regarding him, trying to work out the purpose of this and whether or not she wanted to find out. In the end, however, she had little choice but to suck it up and see.

The officers shared a space which had once formed part of a fort – what was left after six months of intense fighting couldn't really be described as a fort anymore. Unlike other sections, it had a stone construction and veritably lofty ceilings, so that even the sous-lieutenant's lanky frame was easily accommodated, though the same could not be said for his bed. The cool inner temperature of the room glanced pleasantly along her skin, which, along with the tinny echoes created here, somehow always reminded Helen of a morgue.

Her heart dropped the moment she saw who Desagneaux was with. The Lieutenant-Colonel stood, still slightly rotund despite the depletion of supplies over the year, his grey-streaked moustache bristling at the sight of her as his suspicions were confirmed and his undesired orders validated. She did not bother to salute. Despite the uniform, her bound breasts and cropped hair it wasn't hard to tell that she was not a soldier, she was not a man, and when she opened her mouth, the worldly gentleman before her would no doubt detect the fact that she was not French either. It was all for show, for appearances… she wasn't fooling anybody. It was quite obvious that she did not belong, and she knew full well that it had only been the support of those who had witnessed her in action that had allowed this to continue for as long as it had.

She pursed her lips, standing ready as though for an attack, her hands still wrapped up in the bloodied rag, itching almost for the reassurance of her gun.

"Alas, I had rather hoped my Commandant to be pulling my leg when he admitted to me that there was a woman among our ranks, field surgeon or no." His dark eyes rolled onto Desagneaux who, stood at ease by his side, was noticeably defeated. The captain was avoiding not only his superior officer's disapproving stare but even Helen's searching gaze – from that alone she knew they meant to take her.

"You're quite welcome Lieutenant-Colonel," she fell back into the bitter, challenging politeness of her mother-tongue.

His eyebrows shot up at her insolent remark, though he could not reply in the same language, "Welcome?! You have some nerve Madame I will give you that, but this farce must come to an end." He turned to his officer, "I will not have my regiment the laughing stock of France for the sake of your, would-be Jean d'Arc Desagneaux."

"Yes sir."

"Gentlemen, I have spent the last three months healing your wounded;" Magnus interrupted matter-of-factly, "believe me when I say I do not mean to stop aiding them now."

"Dr Magnus, we are grateful for your efforts," she held back the huff of disbelief though it was just beneath the surface, "and your assistance with the Operation this spring was by all accounts invaluable, but this is no place for a lady."

"Surely I am of greater use to you here," she argued in frustration, "what does it matter who I am or where I came from?"

"Magnus, please," Desagneaux's voice was uncommonly soft, pleading, before shiftily glancing to his commanding officer and back, "I am sorry, but you are to be escorted at once from Verdun, to the head-quarters at Chantilly. From there you will be turned over to British hands."

A flash of anger brought red into Helen's cheeks and fire into her eyes as she wound her way round this invasive obstacle. She couldn't leave. She wouldn't. "You haven't the right! Neither of you have any right I am neither soldier, nor French citizen – I may go wherever I damn well please."

"Dr Magnus you are intelligent enough to know that is not true, whether you are friend or foe. This is a war zone and we could just as easily shoot you as a spy, as take you back to your people."

She took in a deep, angry breath and held his gaze, certain that the Lieutenant-Colonel was merely pointing out the truth; there was no imminent threat in it.

"Luckily for you, Madame, you have friends in exceptionally high places," Magnus' synapses flashed at the phrasing, her mind starting to realise what was really going on, "and your character is not the slightest bit in question."

"You were ordered to find me?"

The older man sighed, hands clasped behind his back, "We were indeed." He replied crisply.

"And have you said anything?"

"You mean admit I had allowed a woman into our lines before ascertaining the truth," he barked a humourless laugh, "do you think me mad?"

"Then why say anything at all sir? Why not allow me-"

"Madame Magnus I do not think you understand, this is non-negotiable – your friends in British High Command know you are here and have specifically requested we find you. Why you are so important I do not know or care, but it is simply a matter of time before your presence becomes known to someone outside of this regiment, and I will not be made a laughing stock, or accessory to whatever political shit-storm that creates. So forgive me if I adhere to my orders as any self-respecting soldier should."

She stood firm in the face of his outburst, knowing that his hands were tied, and just as certain that she knew the reason why. God damn it Watson. She should never have written home, given in to that emotional need for reassurance that they were still there, that London and the Sanctuary were still standing. She remembered now, the last letter he'd sent to her at the make-shift hospital in town. She'd told him she had based herself there, safely behind the line – or what could qualify as safe – which had been true, for a time, but he must have caught it. He must have realised her descriptions of what it was like on the front had been too accurate, too knowledgeable. Hell, she couldn't even be sure that she hadn't written the details in first person, forgetting her own web of half-truths for the simple confidence which would get her through those long weeks of shelling, shooting and gas attacks. God damn him.

He'd implored her to come home ever since news of the fall of Fort Vaux, but that last letter had been heartbreakingly abrupt. It had left her so stunned she hadn't been able to bring herself to reply – well she had plenty to say now. God she was so mad at him. Had he been here this very moment, she could've levelled her pistol at his knee cap and shot it off so he knew what it felt like. She immediately regretted even thinking it, of course, but he had no idea, absolutely no idea…

As much as she hated this God-forsaken place where bodies piled up, and men screamed like children in their sleep at carnage more terrible than the Ripper could've conjured – she couldn't abandon them. Not when she could be here, helping them, making a difference. What use was she at home, stuck behind some bloody desk, or in the hospital, playing nurse to some jumped-up doctor because she was a woman.

She was not going to show it though. She was not going to throw her napkin like a two year old throwing toys from a pram, she was not going to cry, or scream at the injustice. She had her pride. Despite the degradation of lice infested clothes, and sodden shoes, shitting in buckets and consuming more dirt than food she was still Dr Helen Magnus, and at sixty-five years old she knew when she had been outmanoeuvred. Especially when it was by her closest friend.

"Very well," she managed to concede without losing an ounce of dignity, "if you must do this, I… shall not make a fuss."

"Thank you Dr Magnus," the Lieutenant-Colonel acknowledged with something akin to a sigh of relief, "Desagneaux, the Commandant shall speak with you on this matter shortly. I do hope we shall not see a repeat of its like again."

"No sir," his words were for his officer, automatic and unfeeling, but his eyes were for Magnus, the unspoken bond between them, their shared adversity, imbued in that single look. She said a prayer, in her head, to whatever malign god was up there, that he survive this, that George would too, and the entire battalion… knowing full well, this would be the last time she ever saw them.

"Captain," she spoke up, much to the Lieutenant-Colonel's surprise, "would you give this to George?" she unthreaded her medical kit from her side, to which Desagneaux's eyebrows raised questioningly, "Even if he must remain an infantryman – you know he has the skill to use it."

He nodded, with little enthusiasm, still stunned a little by the swift course of events and the prospect of the firm dressing down he was in for, for the sake of the woman his men had dubbed Beau Britannia. He smirked a little at the thought of the song they had concocted, and when he glanced at Magnus he wished he could've embraced her. Instead his hands brushed hers in the receiving of that gift, and he managed to hum with a smile, "Pour la beau Britannia traversa son rivage…"

She smiled at the tune, knowing that his superior officer wouldn't understand, that nobody would, except the men of this company, and she would miss them. She would miss them all, and remember them every day, and by God, James was in for it when she saw him again.

The Battle of Verdun, (21st February – 18th December 1916) was one of the bloodiest battles of the Great War.

The French lines held against a German onslaught which aimed to 'bleed France white', and was only partially relieved by the British offensive at the Somme, that July.

There were more than 1,000,000 casualties in addition to the

362,000 Frenchmen and 336,000 Germans killed in action.

Pour la Beau Britannia traversa son rivage,
et amené à porter son bouclier,
et lui lanceà Marianne,
que le Françaisne peut jamais céder.

Et tandis que son rugissement des lions au nord,
comment pouvons-nous cesser de coqs chantent?
Car bien que nous saigner, les saignements de Hun plus,
alors que Beau Britannia guérit nos blessures.

Author's Note:

This story is taken from that wonderful throw-away line in Episode 3 Season 3: The Bank Job.

"I've operated in the trenches at Verdun. At least here I don't have to deal with the mud and the rats."

Trust Helen Magnus to be involved in the battle of WW1 which saw Charles de Gaulle in action! Ha! But of course, the British weren't engaged at Verdun so how did she end up there? I always suspected that Magnus had gotten involved in some abnormal problem around March/April time, saw what was happening, and decided she had to stay to help the men who had helped her… much to Watson's distress. So ta-dah! Also, no mud in July… it's a hot sunny day, which brings its own problems I assure you.

Also! Can I just point out to all Magnitt fans that comment about the ripper is not intended as a blatant anti-Magnitt dig, it's just I was thinking, you know out of the 3 most traumatic things Helen's known to this point (deaths and disappearances not accepting); the Ripper, Adam Worth and Titanic, only one of those three literally ripped people's bodies into so much meat. Ergo, his legacy is the only one worth comparing to the injuries she's witnessed.

DISCLAIMERS:

I do not own Helen Magnus, James Watson or anything else Sanctuary related, though I am a huge fan. This is a work of fanfiction and I am not making any money from it, though if they guys from Sanctuary would like to, I would be honoured! :) The poem/song of the French troops is mine however, as are any mistakes with the French language (Thank you Google translate) – naturally the poem is about Helen Magnus and therefore not an indicator of any kind of historical fact… apart from the lions. That bit's kinda true.

WW1 is a war which is incomprehensible to people such as myself who have never experienced such devastation, nonetheless, I hope I have done some justice without being terribly clichéd to those men who suffered through situations such as this. I offer this story to the memory of all those who witnessed the horror of this war – very few of whom are still with us today as we approach the centenary of its beginnings.

Captain Emile Desagneaux, the only one whose name came from actual historical people, is an entirely fictional character – his name is based on two officers of the French army Captains Henri Desagneaux and Emile Driant. Dubois and Laurent are simply common French surnames.

Next chapter we're heading to Griffin for the British perspective… but there may be a delay in it arriving as I'm trying to finish off The Iron Sea.