Douglas never did manage to get back to sleep that night. He caught a glimpse of that unlucky soldier as Arthur transported his to the morgue; his face was a mess and his chest was a gory mess. Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die. Bloody song.
What was even more disturbing (that really should be right, but it was) Arthur had a grim frown on his face alongside a look of exhaustion and exasperation. There was even evidence of frown lines on his young face.
It was dawn now. That was when Douglas had lost his arrogant manner towards the war. Jokes about laughing gas and no man's land ran through his mind and he felt the repulsion Martin had. He thought of Karl's automatic response to grab a gun if he was startled awake. He thought of Dirk's silence; Karl said Dirk used to talk non-stop in the trench, before they were both injured, and that he had just… stopped talking. He thought of the bags under the doctors' and nurses' eyes. He thought of Martin's fits and how terrifying they must be for the boy to make him shake like that and look so pale. He thought of the way Martin walked and knew it was because of the shell shock. He thought of Arthur's rapidly deepening frown lines that had no place on the face of such a young optimist. Arthur was twenty four. Karl was twenty eight. Dirk was thirty five. Martin was twenty. Just twenty. He thought of the ruined innocence of Martin and Arthur. He thought of how close Karl's young family had come to losing him. He thought of Dirks grunts, never words; how would he get another job? He finally thought about the families of the men and boys the war had took and death had claimed.
Dear God, let this day be better, Douglas thought, looking out at the sun climbing slowly to its position, Christmas can't come soon enough…
He then thought of Christmas back home; Turkey, potatoes roasted in goose fat, his wife's delicious stuffing, his mother's famous Christmas pudding recipe. They wouldn't be doing that this Christmas. He'd be in this hospital and they'd be tightening their belts due to rationing. A rotten Christmas. The fifth rotten Christmas in a row.
He wondered what Christmas had been like for the others. Had theirs been full of Turkey and presents and Christmas trees? Probably not for Dirk and Karl, at least. Had Martin's?
Thinking of the man, Martin finally stirred after crashing a few hours previous, "Douglas…?" was the sleepy question which, in all fairness, was rather adorable; like a small child.
"Are you alright?"
"What are you doing awake?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"Why ever not?"
"Thinking."
"About?"
"Christmas. What was it like for you? Back home?"
"Not much different to any other day, really…"
"Oh? Not religious?"
"No, couldn't afford it…"
"What?"
"We couldn't afford it. Christmas dinner was the same as any other day; thin soup stretched out with even more water to make it last…"
"What? But –"
"I put on this middle class accent. I'm from a working class family in Wokingham."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I don't want to blatantly lie anymore. You asked me a direct question, so I gave you an honest answer."
"God help you if the Nazis get you," Douglas joked, but Martin's face just dropped, reminded of his condition.
"I'm being invalided home, remember. Can't do my duty anymore…"
"Sorry…"
"Don't be," Martin's mouth twitched at the corners, "Blame the Jerries."
Douglas stared at the Captain's back as Martin lay back down and turned away from him. That was a good sign, wasn't it?
