Wilfred sits on the green hill, staring up into the deep, dark night. The sky is full of stars, forming a beautiful banner of light that stretches across the French horizon. All of the French countryside is asleep in the dark of the night. Wilfred is alone, save for a few sheep sleeping nearby. He keeps watch over the hill leading to the camp where his brigade is stationed. He's been in the army for about five months now, stationed in France the entire time. It is March of 1940 and the war is not going very well for the British, but he keeps hope, because he has faith in his country.
The night wears on, as it does every evening that he keeps watch, and he begins to nod off. He's tried pinching himself, drinking coffee, even telling jokes in his head, but it's just too difficult to stay awake when he's out there alone. To keep himself alert, he's taken to counting the stars. He looks up now, trying to start from the Polaris, the North Star. He knows in one part of his mind that it's futile to try to count all the stars in the sky, but another part of him does it because it's necessary to stay awake, to protect his mates. His brigade depends on him to keep watch over this part of the countryside so the Germans don't ambush them in the middle of the night. It's so lonely out on the hilltop, away from the other men who are sleeping soundly in their tents. War is one part fighting and nine parts waiting, and Wilfred is doing his waiting.
It's certainly not his favorite assignment, but Wilfred doesn't question it, because he has a secret that he is trying desperately to hide. Wilfred is just fifteen years old, two years younger than he should have been when he enlisted. He was able to fool the enlisters because he is tall for his age, about average height for a seventeen year old. When he told them he was leaving, most of his friends thought he'd gone absolutely mad, but he knew he was doing the right thing by helping his country. His father died a few years earlier and the army pay that he sends back home helps support his mum, so he's helping his mum and sister, too. So he tries to keep to himself and not let the other lads know about his life back in England for fear that he might be find out. With no one to talk to, he's terribly homesick on nights like these. The knowledge that he is fighting to protect his country and support his family keeps him sane.
As he nears counting the three-hundredth star, he hears a loud noise from the forest a few hundred metres away. He instantly recognizes it as a gunshot. He feels a sharp, biting sensation on his hand. He looks down and it's covered in blood. He hears yelling in German in the distance, but he can't quite make out what they're saying. He curses the Germans under his breath as he tries to raise his gun to fire back. The pain grows worse as he tries to move his bleeding hand, and he misfires horribly. Oh well, he thinks. He's never killed anyone before and he'd honestly rather not start today. The German yelling grows farther away. He realizes that they could be heading toward the camp, so he runs down the hill to warn the captain. His hand continues to bleed, making a trail behind him, but he doesn't notice. This is too important. People are in danger.
He tells the captain about the attack and the captain sends men to search for the Germans. He sends Wilfred to the brigade's doctor. Wilfred walks to the next tent and sees him there. Dr. Smith is their doctor's name. None of the men knows much about him, but everyone knows who he is. He's quite eccentric. Some of the men think he's mad, but he genuinely seems to care for the troops, even if he does babble and get distracted all the time. He's always working on some sort of side project of his own when he's not busy caring for patients. His long, mousy brown colored hair is floppy and parted to the side, far longer than the standard military haircut. The rumor is that he's a brilliant doctor, which is why he gets away with so much. He even wears a peculiar tweed jacket over his uniform sometimes. The lack of professionalism annoys the captain, but the nights are so cold that he can't really blame him for wearing it.
"Erm, hello," Wilfred says tentatively at the door. "Private Mott. I've been shot in the hand."
Dr. Smith turns around and springs from his chair. "Oh! Oh, dear. Yes, that's a problem. Yes, well, let me just grab a bandage from over here, and some antiseptic…" he says, taking some bottles and gauze from his desk. "What happened? Friendly fire?"
"No… think it was a German. He shot me when I was out on watch," Wilfred says.
"Ah! A German. Did you get him after?"
"Er… no," Wilfred says sheepishly. He's embarrassed because a real soldier would eliminate the threat before the enemy could reach his camp.
Dr. Smith pauses for a moment, looking at Wilfred. "That's okay, Private Mott. It's okay to not shoot. Sometimes it's braver…" he says, trailing off.
He takes Wilfred's hand and cleans the wound. "So, how long did it take for the men find you out there?"
"They didn't, doctor," he said. "Walked back myself."
"It's no wonder you couldn't fire! Amazing, took the shot with a wounded hand and walked all the way back here yourself! Excellent. Well, the good news is that the wound is clean and I can patch you up in no time. The bad news is that you're going to be in a sling for a little while."
Wilfred looks scared. He's afraid of drawing attention to himself by having to tell the captain that he can't keep watch while his arm is in the sling. "Is the captain, erm, going to punish me?"
"No, no! I'll tell him what happened. That was quite brave of you, facing that fire alone, there," Dr. Smith said, looking in Wilfred's eyes.
"Private Mott, how old are you?"
Wilfred begins to sweat and his heart beats faster. "Er, seventeen," he lies.
"Seventeen, eh? You sure?" says Dr. Smith with a soft smile. Wilfred realizes that the doctor is not a threat. He can trust him.
"I'm… I'm fifteen, sir. I mean, doctor, sir," Wilfred says awkwardly, averting his eyes out of shame.
"Thought so," Dr. Smith says with a grin, as he finishes adjusting Wilfred's bandage. "It's quite bold of you, you know."
" How could you tell, Dr. Smith?" Wilfred asked shyly, still slightly afraid.
"It's hard to tell someone's age from looking at their whole body, sometimes, but you can always tell from the eyes. They betray everything. Those eyes… those are young eyes. You're just a boy," says Dr. Smith, leaning back on his desk.
"Will you tell the captain, doctor?" asks Wilfred, his eyebrows furrowing.
"No, I won't. Wouldn't want you to get in any more trouble than necessary. You chose to come here, after all. You wouldn't be drafted at fifteen. Just promise me you'll stay out of trouble," he says.
"I will, sir… er, doctor." Wilfred says, relaxing a bit with the knowledge that he would not be betrayed today.
"You know, I think I've seen you before on that watch, Private Mott."
"You have, doctor?"
"Yes, I believe so," says Dr. Smith while putting his equipment away.
"What brings you off the camp over there?" asks Wilfred. There wasn't much by his watch post except for pastures and a small forest.
"Oh, just working on a project. I've got a… box out there. Keep some things in it," he says. "Not nearly enough room in here," he mutters, gesturing to the mess in the tent.
The men are right, Wilfred thinks to himself, he is a bit odd.
"So, pretty stars up there, eh? I've seen you watching," Dr. Smith adds with a smile.
Wilfred blushes. "Er, yes, sir. But I still keep watch, of course."
"I wouldn't doubt it, Private Mott. Now, come back to get those bandages changed tomorrow, if the nurses can't do it for you. Cheers."
Wilfred thanks Dr. Smith and starts to leave when he hears a voice behind him.
"What's your first name, Mott?"
He turns around to face Dr. Smith. "Wilfred, sir."
Dr. Smith smiles softly, his eyes fixed wistfully on a distant point outside the tent. "I knew a Wilfred once. Great man. Bravest man I've ever…" he pauses, with his eyebrows raised and his forehead wrinkled. Something in his face changes, as if a new thought has just occurred to him.
"You know what, Wilfred? I've got something you might like." He scampers to the corner of his disorganized tent and rifles through assorted cargo bags that hold his belongings. He pulls out a long, dusty rectangular box.
"Here, Wilfred. A telescope. Don't let the captain say I showed you," he says with a wink, handing Wilfred the box.
Wilfred takes it and thanks him, smiling.
"Keep watching those stars, Private Mott. There are things up there you've never dreamed of. And hey, maybe you won't just have to count them someday," he says slowly with a soft grin. "You never know."
Wilfred can't tell why Dr. Smith gives him that sad, sad smile as he leaves. And he can't tell why there is a single tear streaming down the doctor's cheek when he looks back to thank him again. And he still can't figure it out a few days later, when he wanders into the medical tent for a bandage change to find a new doctor in place, saying that Dr. Smith disappeared suddenly on secret orders from Downing Street.
But sixty-five years later, he sits on the hill outside his daughter's house, gazing up at the stars with the same dusty telescope that the kind doctor gave him when he was a young, scared soldier.