Chapter 2: Flanders Blues

One week later

Joanne walked home from the hospital after her shift was finished. Her shift ended midday, right when Mary would begin hers. The two women had such differing schedules that they rarely saw each other, even while they were living under the same roof. By the end of Joanne's shift she would be so achy and exhausted that she would be in a daze when she walked across the streets of Birmingham. It was like she was floating down the street instead of walking, like a stumbling drunkard. Dark purple bags had already developed under her eyes, looking like someone had smudged paint on her face. But Joanne didn't care, she liked this. Her uniform wasn't (usually) coated in someone else's blood when she left, and she would actually get breaks, and there was plenty of equipment and rooms in the hospital. Things were sterile, patients were comfortable with beds and sheets.

She would take the tiresome schedule of the hospital over being in France again any day.

Joanne's appetite to help others wasn't easily sated, so she found herself content and constantly wanting to improve in her career. She liked the pace, she liked the smell of antiseptic, the wages were manageable between her and Mary. Joanne was growing accustomed as she tried to adjust from country living in America, to the working class life in Birmingham.

She rubbed her heavy eyes and yawned. She didn't sleep much, even before the war her average hours of sleep were five or less. She was a restless girl with many thoughts. After France her dreams had become so terribly twisted that she found herself sleeping even less. The gut-wrenching memories played like vivid movies behind her closed eyelids as she lay in bed at night, unable to do anything but watch.

The screaming, Christ Almighty the screams…

Right as Joanne was thinking about screaming grudgingly, an actual scream tore through the wind. She stopped in her tracks, as did other bystanders, turning toward the wretched sound to see what was going on. A bald man was slumped against one of the many identical, coal colored buildings that lined the streets. He was wailing like he was being tortured; the very sound of it made Joanne moan and her stomach lurch. The man banged his fist against the building, and continued to shriek. People just stared at him, either with a blank expression or with amused curiosity, but no one took a step forward. Joanne couldn't take it, she had to stop that screaming.

She approached the man slowly, his back turned to her. As she neared she saw that his hands were split open and bleeding from hammering and clawing at the building continuously. He was breathing quick, rapid breaths like he was running a marathon, and was still letting out a sharp, guttural shrieks every few seconds. Joanne guessed him to be a lunatic, and lunatics weren't people to mess with unless she wanted to be mauled right in the street. But her need to assist was greater than her fear.

"The walls… they're in the bloody walls!" The man muttered repeatedly. "I can hear the shovels!"

Joanne attentively placed her hand on his shoulder, "excuse me-"

He whipped around, his blue eyes were extremely dilated and blazing with panic. The bald man pulled out a knife from his dark trench coat, letting out another horrible animalistic scream. Joanne jumped back.

"Stay away from me, you kraut," he roared, the knife trembling in his hands.

Kraut… he must've been a solider…

Joanne had seen this behavior before countless times. She always felt a cold detachment when soldiers died, but when their minds died before their bodies is what always broke her heart. She rose her hands in front of her, showing that she was unarmed. She lowered her voice to a tone that was soft and gentle, hoping she could get through to him.

"What's your name, soldier," she asked.

Her question made him pause a moment, but that wild look of terror returned to his eyes. He took a bold step forward, swinging the knife at her. She was far enough away not to be slashed, but she started to get worried that he was too far gone. Someone in the crowd gasped, and someone else yelled in warning. Joanne had almost forgot that she wasn't in the street alone, she was so focused on the raving bald man. This wasn't the first time a soldier tried to stab her, the only difference is at Base # 5 they used scalpels and needles.

"You're not in the trenches anymore, solider. The war ended a year ago," Joanne added, her tone still soft.

"They're in the walls!"

He went for another slash, this time a little closer than before. Some men from the crowd came forward, reaching out to grab him. He whirled around toward them, his knife drawn back, ready to strike. Joanne leapt forward, grabbing his wrist, trying to control the weapon. The two men gripped his shoulders to subdue him. The clash caused all four of them to tumble to the ground. Joanne pinned his wrist down as the crazy man lay on his back, screaming louder than ever.

"Do you two have a lighter," she asked the two men who were restraining him, her voice frantic and shrill.

"What?"

"Just give me a lighter!"

Confused, one of the men reached into their coat pocket and gave her a lighter. The bald man struggled under them, trying to pry the knife free. With one free hand Joanne ignited the lighter, producing a single, small orange flame. She leaned closer to his face, bringing the lighter before his eyes. The man stopped screaming almost instantly. She moved the lighter back and forth in his field of vision, slowly so his eyes could follow it. As she held his wrist, she was taking his pulse, hoping his dangerously high heart rate would drop. His eyes were glued to the dancing flame, mystified as if he'd never seen fire before. She could feel his body relaxing under her.

"What's your name," Joanne asked again.

The man's mouth trembled wordlessly, a sound resonated at the back of his throat, but never crossed his lips. His eyes were still following the fire.

"What do I call you?"

"Danny," He answered in a meek voice that sounded faraway.

"Danny Whizz-Bang," a new voice added behind her.

She turned her head and her eyes widened in recognition. It was the high cheekbone, deep blue eyed man from the pub. Joanne tensed up, feeling once again that she was going to be interrogated. Instead the man looked concerned, his attention on Danny. The newcomer kneeled beside Joanne, as he did so the other two men instantly let go, backing away as if they feared his presence.

"Are you okay, Danny?"

Danny was still watching the fire, in a dull trance. He was completely relaxed now. Joanne was able to gently slide the handle of the knife from his grasp. Joanne flicked off the lighter, hoping his extreme paranoia wouldn't return. Danny blinked a few times, then his alert blue eyes fell on the high cheekboned man. Tears flooded his eyes as his thick, dark eyebrows drew inward. Joanne and the man helped Danny up to his feet.

"Oh, Thomas, I'm so sorry…" Danny wept, his face buried in his bloody hands. "I don't know what came over me, sometimes I'm here, but then my mind starts to wander… and then I'm not here anymore. I'm back in those Goddamn tunnels. It's like a tick in me brain…"

"Easy, Danny," Thomas soothed, giving him a reassuring squeeze on the solider.

Danny's sad eyes looked over at Joanne, "I didn't hurt you, did I?" He appeared afraid by what answer she would give.

Joanne shook her head, "no one was hurt."

Danny burst into tears, crumbled over in sobs. Thomas bent over to consult him, speaking low and inaudibly to his friend. Joanne watched them, transfixed how the man that had scared her with his seriousness was now calmly speaking to Danny in hushed tones. The crowd started to disperse, growing bored now that the action was finished. Joanne handed the man's lighter back to him; by that time Danny and Thomas straightened up.

"Remember what I told you. Go right home now, Danny," Thomas concluded.

"Aye, Tommy. Thanks…" Danny turned reluctantly on his boot heel and walked down the opposite way of the sidewalk.

Thomas turned his attention back to Joanne, and she stiffened up immediately. She thought that this was going to be just like cleaning up James' wound. She was so nervous she didn't even realize she was still holding Danny's knife.

"Katie must be right, you really are an angel," Thomas finally said, his tone carefree.

Joanne was taken aback, expecting a lecture. "No, I just have a habit of being at the right place at the right time."

Thomas nodded solemnly and cleared this throat, "how'd you know how to calm him?"

"I've treated many men like him."

Thomas pulled out a cigarette and brought up a lighter, cupping his hands around it as he lit it. He blew out a puff of smoke. "You're familiar with Flanders Blues, then."

Joanne stared at him, confused. "You mean shell shock?"

Thomas shrugged, "whatever you Americans call it."

Joanne nodded, her lips drawn in a tight line. "Well, I hope your friend will be okay." She started to walk away, but Thomas held up his hand to stop her. She felt her stomach flop unpleasantly again.

"That boy you treated the other day, I want you to go take another look at him," Thomas stated simply.

"Why me? Surely his father can bring him to a doctor," Joanne answered, perplexed.

Thomas scoffed as if that was the most ridiculous idea he ever heard.

"You really don't know who we are, do you?"

Joanne furrowed her brows, "no, should I?"

"We can't bring him to a public doctor. Since James trusts you I wanted you to check up on him," Thomas explained. Thomas sensed her reluctance. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, "this is not negotiable."

0000

Thomas led Joanne to a house a few blocks over from where Danny had his breakdown. He didn't knock at the door, he just entered, swinging the door open like it was a break in. Joanne didn't climb the small steps right away, she felt like a trespasser, but Thomas told her to come on. Joanne followed him into the dim house, and was immediately greeted by the sounds of rowdy children. Thomas and Joanne rounded a tight corner and entered the kitchen. John was there, and a middle-aged woman she hadn't seen before. They were speaking seriously about something, so much that they didn't realize Thomas and Joanne had entered the room.

"I found the nurse, where's James," Thomas interjected.

John and the woman's eyes fell on her. John didn't seem livid this time, he appeared to be stressed and slightly annoyed. The woman had a gaze and air about her that made Joanne feel like she would shrink. She wrung her hands together, averting her eyes from the both of them.

"He's upstairs," John replied.

"Call him down," Thomas ordered.

John walked past him and Joanne, not even sparing her a glance. He went to the end of the stairwell and called for his son. Joanne took this opportunity to study his house. It was very untidy like a tornado had swept through, which contrasted with how well John presented himself. He came back to the kitchen, James trailing behind him.

James lit up when he saw Joanne, "you're here!"

Joanne gave him a small smile, "yes, I'm here."

John crossed his arms, leaning against the wall of the kitchen. "Well, have a look, then," he clipped impatiently at Joanne.

Joanne led James to the wooden kitchen table, feeling the weight of Thomas, John, and the woman's eyes at the back of her neck. She lifted James up and sat him down. She looked down at his shin, glad to see that a different bandage was wrapped around his leg. James watched her expectedly, eager to see if his leg was healed.

"Your bandage was changed often," Joanne asked James to confirm.

"Yes! Aunt Polly changed it every two days like you said," James responded.

"Let's take a look," Joanne said as she started to unwrap the gauze. She gently peeled back the bandage that held the cloth against his shin. James gritted his teeth in discomfort, but said nothing. The cut was now a dark red and pink slit less than an inch in width, but longer traveling down. The skin around the wound was red and damp with a yellow bruise forming underneath the cut. Joanne held the cloth up to her nose.

"What are you doing," John demanded, as if she was insane.

"Smelling for infection. If the scent is south of cheese, that means it's infected. But it looks fine to me," Joanne replied, keeping her tone even.

James stared down at his leg. "Why is it wet?"

"That's plasma, it means your cut is healing," Joanne answered with a smile. "You can keep the bandage off of the cut now so it can be aired out. Just wash it with warm water and it'll be fine."

James appeared relieved by the news, glancing over happily at John. He hopped off the table. "I'm better! You fixed me too, Aunt Polly!"

The woman smiled, "of course you are."

John ruffled James' hair, "now go upstairs and keep an eye on your sister and brothers. The adults need to talk."

James dashed out of the kitchen excitedly, enjoying the lack of restriction the gauze had given him. Joanne had watched him, feeling satisfied that they had listened to her advice. If the wound would've gotten infected, then the situation would become dire.

"Why do you look down, John? This is good news, eh," Thomas interjected.

John ran a hand through his well-groomed hair, still visibly stressed. "I had no idea what to do with him."

"It was only a cut, not that bad. You had worse when you were younger," Polly dismissed with a wave of her hand.

John shook his head, "you're the only reason it healed, Pol. I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. I still have no idea what the fuck I'm doing."

"John-" Polly began.

"My kids run around like wild animals, Pol! When I'm helping with the family business I can't keep an eye on them at the same time. James got hurt this time, but what if it's Katie next time? Or Peter, or Will? Martha would've known what to do, but I have no damn idea," he replied earnestly.

Joanne stood at the entrance of the kitchen awkwardly. This was a private conversation, it felt wrong for her to listen to it. John continued to ramble about his struggle of raising four children by himself while Thomas and Polly listened and offered their opinions.

"This isn't a conversation you should be having in front of a stranger," Joanne spoke up. The three of them looked back at her, and once again she felt like prey. "This is none of my business; I'll be leaving now. I'm glad James is okay," she added as she started to back away from the kitchen.

"Thank you," John said before she left.