Arthur didn't remember much of the attack. He remembered the shells flying overhead, his men rushing forward, great plumes of earth shooting skyward as the ground was struck repeatedly by exploding missiles.
Arthur hadn't made it very far before something struck him down.
To be honest, he was rather surprised to find that he was alive. However, something wasn't quite right with his shoulder, which he could tell as feeling gradually flowed back into his limbs. It was possible that more of his arm was damaged as well, but Arthur was afraid to move. Even though he could feel that someone had covered the area in bandages, he knew as soon as he tried to change the position of his arm, he'd no doubt feel pain shooting through his body.
Things smelled awfully clean, too, and Arthur knew he'd been removed from the trenches. He lay still for a moment longer and wondered whether or not he was happy about this development; if his wound wasn't too serious, perhaps it would be a nice change. On the other hand, a wound was a wound.
"Ah, you're awake!" a voice exclaimed.
Arthur's first instinct was to assume that they weren't talking to him, but the smiling face and cheerful blue eyes were definitely turned in his direction. He scowled.
"Is there anything I can get for you, uh, Lieutenant Kirkland?" the man continued. He was young - too young to be working in a field hospital, Arthur thought, but then again weren't they all? - and seemed to be a surgeon, but whatever duties he was here performing weren't exactly the same duties that Arthur would have predicted for a surgeon. The man seemed to be acting more as a nurse. It was confusing, but since it seemed that he wasn't about to perform any unauthorised surgeries, Arthur relaxed somewhat.
"You could get me a tea," He suggested, realising his mouth was rather dry.
"I was referring to morphine, actually, but I'll see what I can do," the man replied.
"Should've said as much, then." Arthur grimaced in his attempt to sit up. "What's that accent?" He knew he should have been able to place it, but his head hurt, and everything felt a bit fuzzy. Someone had probably already injected him with painkillers. That someone had probably been the young surgeon.
"American. You can't tell?"
"No." Arthur frowned crossly. "When do I get out of here?"
"You aren't the most serious case we have to worry about, so it might be awhile for you," the doctor answered. "Look, my name's Alfred. Alfred Jones. If you need anything, and there's a nurse nearby, ask her to find me."
"Is that a privilege you give to all your patients?" Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"No," Alfred admitted. "So don't abuse it, Lieutenant."
"How about that tea I asked for, Jones?"
Thankfully he left Arthur alone after that, giving him time to sort out his thoughts. Annoyingly, the details regarding his wound were all very muddy, and he found he couldn't say for sure what had happened. He couldn't decide if that meant it had been an utterly forgettable and common type of situation leading up to it, or if it meant that it had been horrific enough that his mind had chosen to block it out completely. He'd heard stories about that happening - that, and much worse.
Bugger it. It wasn't fair.
He was surprised when a few minutes later Alfred returned, actually carrying with him a small cup, over which a tendril of steam curled.
"It's not going to be very good," he apologised, "but it's all I could get for you."
"It hasn't been anything marvellous in the trenches either," Arthur pointed out. "Thank you all the same."
Arthur raised the cup to his mouth, thankful that it was his left arm and not his right that was injured. This way it wouldn't interfere with important activities like drinking tea, and writing if the mood ever struck him.
"So are you going to stand there and watch me drink tea while there are men to attend to?" he asked after a moment. "Surely there are enough nurses to do this job for you?"
"Not exactly," Alfred replied. "We're a little understaffed as it is, and a few of the nurses have caught some kind of sickness from being here. Those of us that are still healthy have to cover for them while they're out."
"So you drew the short stick, did you?"
"I don't mind," Alfred insisted. "I'd rather carry blankets and tea than stitch up some of the wounds in here, to be honest."
Arthur stared. "Why the bloody hell did you choose to be a doctor, then?"
"Long story." Alfred waved a dismissive hand. "Uh, I guess I have a few things to do. We can talk later if you want."
"What about my arm? Is anyone going to take a closer look at it?"
"Once we're done with the more urgent cases," Alfred promised.
Arthur was going to ask if he might find another blanket someplace that he could use - it was awfully chilly. But Alfred left before he could get the words out.
Alfred returned later - with a desire to chat, which was at once both endearing and frustrating.
"Sorry," Arthur said, " but why me? There's probably plenty of more interesting people to talk to here."
"You're all interesting to me," Alfred answered. "I don't see many Brits back home. And..." His eyebrows knitted together behind his glasses. "Well, some people don't look so great with their injuries, and I don't want to make them uncomfortable. Because I feel uncomfortable looking at some of them, even though I know it's wrong."
Arthur wondered if all Americans were so forthcoming. He suspected Alfred only needed someone to talk to about all this, and he was there to provide a set of (more or less) willing ears.
"What about that long story you mentioned earlier, then?" Arthur asked. "What are you doing here if you're afraid of injuries?"
Alfred sighed. "I wanted to be a hero."
It wasn't the answer Arthur had been expecting. "Oh."
"No, that's not the whole story," Alfred continued. "I wanted to be a pilot at first. I thought I'd come over here and learn to fly."
"What happened?"
Alfred pointed to his glasses. "They wouldn't let me. They said I'd be a danger to myself and others because my eyesight's not very good."
"That's rather harsh," Arthur replied.
"No, they were probably right," Alfred admitted. "I was upset at first, but someone told me that if I wanted to be a hero, there was always room for volunteers with the Red Cross. It's true that I've helped more people here than I would've if I was a pilot."
"You're a good man, Jones," Arthur decided after a moment's silence. The American's story was strangely endearing; if there were more people like him, he thought, maybe this war wouldn't be such a mess. But that was a lot to hope for. "You ought to convince the rest of your country to head out here."
"I would, if I could," Alfred laughed. "But I'm not important enough back home to decide that kind of thing. Anyway, you don't seem like such a bad person either, Lieutenant Kirkland. I wish we could have met someplace else, somewhere less ... distressing. I think we could have been friends."
The look on his face was slightly too earnest, too enthusiastic. It didn't look right in this place.
"Maybe," Arthur managed to say.
"I'll see if we can get your arm looked at soon," Alfred said.
They didn't have another chance to talk after that, although the two did manage to exchange a few greetings here and there. By the time Alfred finally had a chance to find his friend the next morning, Lieutenant Kirkland's bed was empty. For a moment Alfred feared the worst, but then he remembered that a good number of the patients had been taken away to be sent back to England for a full recovery.
Sighing, Alfred walked over to the bed, noting that the sheets hadn't been cleared away just yet. To his surprise, he saw that a scrap of paper was sticking out from underneath one of the blankets. He reached forward and gently picked it up.
He couldn't help the smile that broke out onto his face as he realised what it was. There was an address scrawled onto the paper - a funny British address that wasn't accompanied by a name. But Alfred knew what it meant, and whose address it was.
It wasn't much, and it didn't substitute a goodbye. But for now, it was enough for Alfred.