Immature Glory

June 1944

Hastings, England

Rachel Winstrom, British army nurse, bustled between rows of cots spilling out into the hospital hallways. The casualties from Normandy had descended on them that morning and, finally, the stream of injured soldiers was dwindling. Two men stopped her, a stretcher between them.

"This is the last one, miss. Where do you want him?"

"I'm sorry, but we're full. There isn't even any more floorspace-" she began to explain but was cut off.

"This one's almost dead as it is! We'll kill him if we try to move him again."

Rachel bit her lip, wiping a drip of sweat from her forehead with her arm. She glanced around at the crowded hall, the pristine white walls a sharp contrast to the dirt and blood smeared on the half-conscious faces that stared up at her. "All right, all right. We'll find a spot for him."

She had them wedge the cot between a bed and a balcony, the only available place in the whole of the building. With nimble, skilled fingers she pulled back the slashed shirt. After seeing so many wounds that day, this one wasn't enough to phase her. She gingerly plucked his dogtags from his uniform and, rubbing the blood and grime from it with her thumb, read aloud, "Peter Pevensie."

Rachel sighed. He was so young. They were all so young. What made them don dull uniforms and march to their deaths? Were their lives really so bad? Or did they think it was all glory and no guts? Upon closer consideration, however, she remembered when she had signed up. She had practically glowed with excitement. The thrills, the honor… With a jolt, and Peter's dogtags still clutched in her hand, she realized she was no different than he was. Only now it would be her job to save his life where he had tried to lose it.

Rachel didn't know why, but her heart constricted a bit tighter than usual as she handed the doctor a fresh scalpel over the barely-breathing body of Peter Pevensie. She'd done this hundreds of times since she'd joined the military medical staff, but something about this one felt different. It was just a twinge, a feeling, a hunch, but something about this boy was different. Something that made him a man. Yet when she looked to his face, all she saw were seventeen years and the same wanderlust she saw in all the rest.

Hours after Peter's and a dozen other successful surgeries, Rachel found a free moment to check on Peter. She stripped off her gloves and mask and wound her way between overflowing beds, cots and stretchers to his corner by the balcony. Rachel pushed a stray strand of light auburn hair behind her ear and shifted to her knees. She touched a hand to the scarring cuts on Peter's face. Her fingers lingered a moment on his cheek before she reached under the cot to pull out the box of his salvageable things. His uniform had been useless but there were a few personal items on him still intact, if barely.

Gingerly she pulled the small stack of water- and blood-stained papers from the box and settled them on her lap. On top was the photograph of the four siblings. She ran a thumb over it, taking in the pure joy on each of their faces. Her eyes flicked to Peter's slumbering face, imagining him happy and smiling. She could picture his lips tipped up, a twinkle in his eyes. For some reason, it wasn't hard at all.

Rachel set the photograph back in the box and painstakingly unfolded a once-white scrap of paper so as not to rip it.

Dear Su Dear Sister Dear Susan,

I won't say I've made a mistake, because I don't believe I have. I would like to apolog I will say how very different this war is than any other I've fought in before and not just because I'm unaccustomed to guns and bombs and airplanes. It is different because there is no sign of you It is different because I receive no worried letters, no boxes stuffed with slightly stale biscuits

His script was light and elegantly old-fashioned. She found it difficult to make sense of the unfinished letter, but could tell by his obvious dedication to finding just the right words that it meant a lot to him. Had his sister not approved of his going to war? Her brow furrowed a bit as she tucked the letter on top of the photograph. His face was young and naïve but it wasn't entirely impossible he was more world-weary than she had initially perceived him as. The thought only made her heart ache for him more.

A tattered journal was all that was left in Rachel's lap. Her sense of propriety kicked in and she found she couldn't bring herself to peek inside. Pursing her lips, she placed the journal in the box beside the photograph and the letter and pushed it back beneath his cot.

Peter's eyes fluttered open at the cool pressure on his forehead. Haze filled his vision and he went to rub it from his eyes but found he was so stiff he could hardly move. He groaned, blinking fiercely. The blurry shape before him became a woman, gently pressing a damp cloth to his forehead.

"Where-" Peter croaked. He cleared his throat and began again, "Where am I?"

"St. Agatha Hospital in Hastings. You've been here three days," Rachel informed him.

"Three days?" Peter's eyes widened in shock and he tried to sit up but gasped at the pain that shot through him. His hand immediately went to the bright white bandage that wrapped from beneath his arms to his hips. A sigh escaped his lips and he sank back onto the pillow.

Her mouth tipped to one side sympathetically and she patted his arm. "You'll be all right. Nasty scratch, but you'll be all right. Three weeks, a month or so and you'll be back on your feet."

"A month?" he nearly shouted, "Oh no, no. That won't do."

Rachel raised an eyebrow at him. "Well it's going to have to."

Peter shook his head, wincing at the throbbing pain there. "You don't understand. I have to get back out there." He didn't even notice when he slipped back into the commanding tone that always got him in trouble. She raised an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms.

"Well if you're really that intent on killing yourself, hold your breath until you turn blue. But you are not leaving this hospital until you're fully recovered," she snapped, stormy blue-gray eyes flashing. She pushed herself to her feet in a huff and disappeared to nurture some other poor soul.

Peter slapped his hands over his face in exasperation and irritation. He cursed softly under his breath, an oath that would be foreign to the ears of anyone near. With a sigh, he drew his hands down to settle on his heavy bandage. A month? Surely that was at the most, he thought reluctantly, his body aching to be back in the fight, though he silently conceded that it might have just been an ache.

The next morning, Rachel settled a tray of food on Peter's lap, jolting him awake. His eyes opened warily and he glared in her general direction. She pointedly ignored the look. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. I was a little testy last night. Rachel Winstrom," she introduced herself, extending a hand.

Peter poked a fork into the lump of what he assumed was porridge. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

"For what?" She lowered her hand to her lap, realizing he wasn't going to take it.

"For assuming I'm in this fight to get myself killed or because I'm too young to understand what getting killed constitutes?" It was more of a snarl than anything and Peter watched as Rachel visibly flinched. His conscience barked a reprimand at his self-control, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. He'd always had trouble with the words 'I'm sorry.'

Rachel's jaw clenched and her fingers knotted briefly in the fabric of her skirt. She stared at Peter for a long moment and he brought his eyes up to meet hers. She swore she could feel an electric shock run through her, though they weren't touching. Tearing her gaze from his stony one, she glanced around the room at the other patients and nurses. Finally, she looked back to him but avoided meeting his eyes.

"Not too young. Too immature," she said harshly. Peter opened his mouth for a biting retort but she held up a hand. "Look, that may seem cruel, but I've seen hundreds, probably thousands, of young men just like you. You want adventure, excitement, and if you have to die, you want it to be romantic, noble and worth something. But did you stop to think what it would do to your family? Did you stop to think about everybody else? No, of course not. You thought only of a Victoria Cross pinned to your breast or a meeting with the Queen. Fame, fortune and glory. You-"

Peter abruptly interrupted her. "That's right. Fame, fortune and glory. I had it once. And, bloody hell, I want it back. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to eat my," he paused to examine the crispy, black square in his hand, "toast in peace."

Rachel found herself unable to form words after such a brush-off. With a shake of her head, she rose and whisked the tray away with her. Peter made a grabbing motion for it as she picked it up but only succeeded in brushing the hem of her stiff skirt with his fingertips. He collapsed back against his pillow with a sigh. The food may have been relatively inedible but he had planned to at least make a valiant attempt. A moment later Rachel returned looking rather flustered and set the tray back on his lap. With a mumbled 'sorry' she spun on her heel and stormed off.

Peter found himself involuntarily smirking.

Rachel slammed the door to her room hoping it would make her feel better. To her chagrin, it only jarred a small container of pins off the desk. They spilled like a million silver frustrations onto the floor and, with a sigh, she bent to pick them up. Once they were all back where they belonged, she stood and began to undo her hair. It fell around her shoulders and she fluffed it out with her fingers.

Sinking into the chair at her desk, she stared with empty eyes into her little mirror. Tiredly, her tumbling thoughts slowed. What is it about him? He's infuriating! With drooping eyelids, she began to unbutton her blouse. No matter how hard she tried to think of something else Rachel's thoughts dwelled on Peter. His wound, the photograph of what she assumed was his family, but mostly his eyes. Until that day she'd thought him an immature boy with potential for greatness, but one look in those deep, sea-blue eyes full of emotions she had yet to experience had her reeling.

No matter how cliched it sounded, she felt as if she could get lost in their crashing waves, drown in their chaotic depths. There was another world hidden behind his eyes and she was terrified of everything that lay within.

"Oh this is ridiculous! You're twenty-two years old. Get a hold of yourself!" she scolded herself aloud, "He's just a kid." But her last words lacked the conviction she'd meant for them to.

It was twilight and most of the patients were quiet, writing letters or reading, or already asleep. Peter leaned against his pillow, pen and journal in hand. His delicate script poured easily from the black fountain pen onto the page. Rachel watched him discreetly from across the room as she folded towels on a rack. Peter chuckled, feeling her eyes on him.

With a stab of his pen forming a period, he raised a hand, "Nurse? Nurse, could you come over here please?"

Rachel raised an eyebrow, knowing full well Peter avoided contact with her at all costs. After their first two meetings days before, they had unwittingly decided it best not to encourage confrontation. They were failing miserably but it was unusual for either of them to initiate conversation of any kind. She made her way to his cot and, hand on hip, stared him down. "You rang?"

"If you're so curious about what I'm writing, just ask," he said quietly.

"Who says I'm curious?" she defied.

"Seven not-so-subtle glances in as many minutes says so. You wouldn't make a very good spy."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Well obviously you want to tell me, so go ahead."

"Oh no, if you're going to be like that, I'm keeping it all to myself," Peter grinned.

"For heaven's sake, grow up!" she hissed, turning to march from the room, flicking the lights out as she went.

"Hey Pevensie!" Peter leaned against a column in the hospital courtyard, his eyes closed, but slowly opened one and then the other at the sound of his name. He sighed at the sight of Jonathon Dietrich, a corporal with nothing better to do than irritate him. Dietrich had suffered only a small wrist injury at Normandy and was to be sent back to the front lines in about a week.

When he didn't deign to reply, Dietrich taunted, "I heard you almost fought off some blasted German with your bayonet like a sword or something. How very medieval."

Some of the others laughed, though Peter wasn't sure why. It wasn't even funny. In the spur of the moment, he decided against an insult and asked, "You any good with a sword?"

Dietrich folded his arms and sauntered cockily over to Peter. "I'd say I'm quite the Lionheart."

Peter coughed into his hand to smother a smirk. "Oh really? Anybody got something for us to spar with?" He looked over Dietrich's shoulder at the others. They glanced amongst themselves for a moment before managing to scrounge up two heavy sticks.

Peter eyed the stick with disdain, remembering the hiss of his blade as he unsheathed it and the perfect silver shine just before a battle. Now here he stood sparring for the sake of his pride with a stick. He shook his head to clear it and moved to a suitable stance. Dietrich quickly followed the motion, exactly copying Peter. It took everything in him not to burst out laughing right then and there, but he held it in. He would have plenty of time for that once Dietrich was flat on his back.

The two circled each other, one light on his feet, the other pretending to be. With a roar, Dietrich lunged. Peter easily dodged the stab. It took mere minutes for the others to gather around the duel, staring in fascination as Peter blocked each amateur blow. Finally, he seemed to grow bored of the unequal match and, with a flick of his wrist, sent Dietrich's stick flying over the clustered heads and crashing to the cobblestones. He pushed him down with his forearm and rather dramatically pointed the end of the stick at his face. Dietrich was out of breath and panting. His face was beat red, though whether from the exertion or embarrassment, Peter couldn't be sure.

"That's not fair! I have a sprained wrist!" Dietrich protested vainly.

"And Pevensie's not even supposed to be up," a steely feminine voice said from the outskirts of the small crowd. Peter rolled his eyes and tossed the stick to the ground. The crowd parted to reveal Rachel.

"Relax, Rachel. See?" He spun on one foot, gesturing to his apparent agility. "I'm fine."

"That's why you're bleeding," she pointed with one hand to the line of red visible on his bandage through his unbuttoned shirt, "You idiot! How can such a supposedly intelligent man be such a moronic prat? And that's Nurse Winstrom to you."

Peter again rolled his eyes. With an exaggerated "Yes ma'am," he allowed himself to be led inside. Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, or even silently, he enjoyed all the attention.