November 17th, 1916
No. 8 Canadian General Hospital, Saint Cloud, France

The sacred call

Whoever said the dead look as though they were sleeping had no idea what they were talking about.

There's how pale they are, unnaturally so, and how sunken in, as if the body is not quite able to hold its form in death. And there's that absolute stillness. No-one is ever completely still, not even during the deepest of sleeps. Only a corpse can ever be truly still.

I stare down at the boy and part of me desperately hopes he might move yet. Just the tiniest bit of movement would be enough. A flutter of the eyelids, a twitch of the mouth, a tremble of the hand. It doesn't have to be much, really. One movement, and I'd be satisfied.

But he's stubborn in his stillness.

Frustrated, almost angry, I pull the sheets back over his motionless face. If this is he how wants it to be…

"We can't save them all," a voice comes from my right. A hand extends to clumsily pat my shoulder.

Reluctantly, I turn to face Dr MacIver. "But we should be able to save them!" I argue. I know I'm being obstinate, and I know we really can't save them all, but I don't want to admit it. And to hear him say it, this brilliant surgeon, makes it even worse.

"In a perfect world, it would not be necessary for us to save them, Miss Blythe," is his calm reply, "but our world has never been further from being perfect. We can only work with what we are given and try to make the best of it. And so we'll do everything we can to save them all, even knowing we will not always succeed."

He looks at me, with the strange, unblinking gaze I know so well and that still never fails to unnerve me. Hesitantly, reluctantly, I nod.

"We've done all we could to save him. The rest isn't up to us," he continues, patting my shoulder a second time. For all he is so skilled with knife and scalpel, his attempts at human interaction never fail to be awkward and a little clumsy. Still, I am grateful for his effort to try and comfort me.

"Who is it up to, then? God?" I raise my eyebrows at him. The question, though, is not meant as rebellious as it probably sounded. I honestly would like to know whether all this is in the lap of the gods, as they say. Maybe I wish for someone to tell me it really is.

Dr MacIver, however, will not be the one. He's already shaking his head. "God has long since turned his back on this world. The fate of these boys is up to the French high command alone. Though, from their view-point, General Joffre might as well be God, so maybe it's really all the same."

I have nothing to offer in reply, for I hardly know anything about Joffre and what I once was sure to know about God, I have long started doubting. So, I turn back to the dead boy under his sheets, stubbornly refusing to move, and silently curse Joffre, God, or whoever might be responsible for his death.

"You should go now. It's been a long day, for all of us," Dr MacIver encourages with another pat of my shoulder. I look up, see two orderlies loiter near the door, likely waiting for us to leave so they can lay out the body. It seems unfair to leave them waiting any longer and yet it is only with extreme reluctance I allow the doctor to lead me away from the still boy.

He accompanies me all the way to my tent, as if to make sure I won't attempt anything foolish. "Go to sleep now. Tomorrow is another day with another patient we'll try to save," he promises as he formally extends a hand for me to shake.

I gaze after him for a moment or two, as he walks between the tents with his long, uneven strides, and consider his words. I did not miss the way he phrased them. It can only ever be a try, right? Often, we succeed. Sometimes, we don't. But we never know what the next day may bring – victory over death itself or another victim in this endless reign of the dying.

Sighing softly, I enter the tent, praying my roommate will be out. If there's one thing I cannot bear right now it's her throwing me dirty looks and hissing at me for no apparent reason. There are days to suffer such a treatment and today is not one of them.

But fate – God? Joffre? – does not look altogether very kindly upon me, apparently. Immediately my eyes find Colette, lying on her bed and reading a letter. As she hears me enter, she looks up.

In the fraction of a second, her face falls. She makes sure to glare at me, before turning around to face the canvas wall on her right.

I am left standing in the middle of the tent, not quite as still as the dead boy under the sheets, and can almost feel something inside me – well, what? Break? Burst? Give way to a tension I can no longer bear, at any rate.

"Just what is your problem?" I ask harshly. The words nearly surprise me myself. I wasn't aware I was going to say them until I did.

She, too, is surprised, chiefly evident in the fact that she actually sits up and turns to face me. Usually, she does her utmost to ignore me, but apparently, she's forgotten this now.

"I have no problem at all," she informs me primly. She moves to turn away from me just as I take a step forward, close my fingers around her arm, holding her there.

"Yes, you do have a problem – with me, apparently. And I can't tell you how sick I am of it!" My voice is little more than a hiss now.

Colette is over her surprise by now, reclaiming her arm with a sharp tug. Her eyes are mere slits. "I am not required to like you!" Abruptly, she rises to her feet, so that we are nose to nose.

I can feel my own eyes narrow. "No, you don't have to like me. But you have no right to hate me either. Not when I've never done anything to warrant such a hate!"

"You took Louise's…" she starts, but I don't let her finish.

"Louise!" I practically snarl, "don't you dare make this about Louise! What's she to you? You don't even like her!"

I know immediately she wants to contradict me. She opens her mouth, moves to speak – only to shut it with a soft clank as her teeth meet. Instead, she glares at me, as viciously as she can manage, because I am right and we both know it. She really doesn't like Louise. She doesn't like very many people in this hospital, to be honest.

"This isn't about Louise or who's on duty as theatre nurse. And this isn't about me having learned French from teachers instead of my parent either. Because, for it to be about that, you'd have to be more narrow-minded than I thought anyone could possibly be," I inform her coolly, standing up that bit straighter, making use of our height difference to look down at her.

It's evident how much she hates being looked down upon. She throws her head back, her chin pushing forward, as she hisses, "This is none of your business!"

"On the contrary. It – whatever it may be – is definitely my business as long as you use it as an excuse to treat me like the Kaiser's bastard child!" I argue.

She makes attempts at speaking, but I cut across her, "And I am not at all interested in what you have to say right about now!"

With which I turn on my heel, swiping angrily at the tent's cover as I leave. It is only once I am outside that I halt, and only now do I notice that my heart is beating fast and my cheeks feel heated. To be honest, I'm not really the type to spoil for a fight. I have five older siblings – it was an early lesson to learn that fights cannot be won by confrontation when you are the smallest of the bunch. I didn't stand any chance and so I had to learn other ways to deal. So all in all, I never got much practice when it came to fighting.

Yet, somehow… somehow, I reached my limit, just there in the tent. I devoted my day to the fight for the dead boy's life, only to have to give up fighting in the end. To be confronted with Colette's inexplicable hatred immediately after losing the boy… I've endured her glares for a week, but today, it was more than I could bear.

Shaking my head slightly, I start walking. At least I didn't have time to take off my coat before we launched into one another earlier. Small mercies, maybe, but she hospital grounds have been covered in a thick blanket of snow for a few days now, and the air is freezing.

There used to be a time when I loved snow. Back then, snow meant ice skating and sledding competitions and snowmen with carrot noses. Now, it only means shivering patients and chilblains and the 'flu. Even snow, apparently, has turned into something to be seen through the eyes of a nurse. Almost without my noticing, my world has shrunk, to encompass nothing but this hospital and this war.

Aimlessly, I plod through the newly-fallen snow the orderlies have not yet had time to clear away. I have no idea where I'm headed, and my nose, having been frozen solid after a mere minute, would certainly like me to go back to the tent, heated by a small stove in a corner to be merely 'cold' instead of 'freezing'. Not that my pride would ever let that happen. It'll sooner do without a nose than go back!

"What's the matter with your nose?" a curious voice interrupts my thoughts.

Startled, I turn around. Standing there, propped up on a shovel, is Maurice Borel, grinning sheepishly. "My apologies. I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's quite alright," I reassure him.

Maurice nods, eyeing me curiously. "Well, what about your nose, then?" he persists, making a funny face for my benefit.

Quite in spite of myself, I find myself chuckling at his antics. "Nothing, really. Or, maybe there is. It's cold, the nose." I give shrug to indicate that the nose is just going to have to suck it up, after all.

"Why don't you go back inside, then?" Maurice enquires.

For a moment, I ponder whether to rebuff him, tell him some kind of tale, but trying to think of one, I come up empty-handed. And, did I not desperately wish for someone to talk to? If the choice is between Maurice and Dr MacIver, I can probably expect more solace from the former.

So, I answer. "We lost a patient today, during an operation. We worked for hours, trying to save him, but in the end… it wasn't enough."

Maurice grimaces. "So I've heard. Was he the first one you lost?"

"Not the first one, no. Not by far. But he was the first whose life I… well, fought for, I guess." Helplessly, I raise my shoulders, let them fall again.

He nods, thoughtful. "Yes, I think I understand. It's bad enough when they die, but when you can't save them, it's worse, right?"

It could not have put it more aptly.

For the first time, I wonder how many patients have died in Maurice's ambulance, long before ever reaching this hospital. I think of asking, but how fair would it be to stir up his pain just to distract me from my own?

"He haemorrhaged. Just… bled dry. I didn't know how much blood there is in one body." A laugh escapes my lips, an incredulous, slightly hysterical laugh, and as I listen to it, I realize I have to laugh so as not to cry.

Maybe Maurice, too, realizes this, because he does not look at me like I've gone mad, which I would otherwise expect him to do. Instead he quickly reaches out, squeezes my hand with his own, just for a second or two, before abruptly letting go again.

I manage a weak smile of thanks. The hysterical laugh I have caged, deep inside me, where it cannot frighten anyone, with some luck not even me.

"Do you still not want to go back inside?" Maurice asks cautiously. As I look at him, his eyes are concerned.

I shake my head, vehemently. "And listen to Colette hiss at me? Thanks a lot, but no. I just don't have the nerves to bear her right now."

"Colette? Colette Tremblay?" All of a sudden, Maurice's voice sounds decidedly squeaky.

Nodding, I direct a glare at the snow beneath. "We share a tent. She hates me, for whatever reason, and by God does she make sure I know it."

Maurice shuffles his feet. He seems unsure, as if trying to decide whether to say what's on his mind or remain silent. In the end, he does speak, "You should not be too hard on her. She's not had it easy."

Surprised, I raise an eyebrow at him. "You know each other?" I enquire.

He grimaces and it is only with some hesitation that he answers, "It's more a case of me knowing her. Whether she knows I exist…" He trails off, and there's a hint of colour tinting his cheeks.

Oh. So this is how the land lies.

The poor boy.

"If I may give you some advice – don't do that to yourself," I remark sympathetically, or so I hope.

It gets me another grimace from him. "You don't choose this, Sister," he points out. He's right, I guess. In my experience, we have a pitiful amount of influence over either death or love.

"Have you ever been in love with someone who doesn't know you exist?" He sounds dejected.

Even as I am shaking my head, an unbidden thought pushes to the forefront of my mind, of a fourteen-year-old girl crying her eyes out at night just because of her brother's friend calling her Spider. But that hardly counts, right? A foolish fancy, if that. Today, I know better.

"I'd like to say something comforting, right now, but can't think of anything, to be honest," I confess instead. "Maybe just that you're much better off without someone like Colette. But that's probably not very helpful, is it?"

Maurice shakes his head, but there's a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "If you really do want to help, Sister… well, do you think you might be able to find out if – if, maybe she does know I exist after all?" He peers at me, suddenly shy.

I can't help a sigh. Of all the things…

"Judging from that fight we just had, I reckon you have better chances than I do of finding out about that, but I'll try my best, alright?" I promise, only to quickly caution, "I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you, though. I'd be more than a little surprised if she ever spoke to me again."

Which just goes to show how absolutely wrong you can be.

For, when I do return to our shared tent a while later, I find Colette sitting on my bed, clearly waiting. The moment I enter, she rises, steps towards me and extends a hand.

Silently, I consider the hand, hanging in the air between us. Seconds pass, before Colette withdraws it. Taking a deep breath, she says, "I want to apologize for my behaviour."

There's something stilted about her words, making them sound rehearsed, and for a moment I am prepared to take umbrage, until I notice it's because she has spoken English. That explains the carefully prepared sentence, at the very least.

"Alright…" I respond, cautiously.

At this, words start tumbling out of her mouth, quite as if I have opened some hitherto unknown floodgates by mistake. She's back to speaking French, but for one thing, her English likely wouldn't have sufficed anyway and for another, French is a language easily given to passionate outbursts.

"I treated you horribly and that was very bad of me and I am so very sorry," she sputters. "You have never done anything to make me hate you and I don't like Louise and I do not care at all where you learned to speak French! It's just that I was so very angry and suddenly, you were standing in that tent and I wanted you not to be you and so I was mean to you, even though it's not your fault at all, and I am a bad, bad person and my aunt would be so disappointed in me and –"

I raise a hand. "Stop."

Colette, in turn, covers her mouth with her own hand, falling silent in a flash.

"Too fast?" she whispers through her fingers.

I nod, still a little dumb-struck. In all my life, I've never heard someone talk quite as much in as short a time – not to mention the length of her sentences and her liberal use of italics (of which I used to be guilty of myself, not so long ago, but that's another story). And that's quite apart from the fact that only half of what she's said has made any sense to me at all.

Oh, and then there's the little detail of me feeling rather as if I've tumbled down a rabbit hole and woken up in the land of Cheshire Cats and Mad Hatters! Is this really still the same girl who was glaring at me so spectacularly not even an hour ago?

"Sit," I order, pointing to my bed, upon which she settles without protest. Her anxious, hopeful gaze remains fixed on my face.

Slowly, I sit down next to her, then give her a short nod. "And now, tell. From the beginning, so that I can understand."

Colette nods eagerly. She closes her eyes for a moment, probably to collect her thoughts, and when she speaks again, she's calmer. "Before you came, this bed belonged to Aimée. We met when our unit was mobilized in Montreal last year. We stood next to each other as our ship left the harbour and Aimée made some kind of joke, and from that moment on, we were inseparable. She was always joking, Aimée was. She was the only one to make all of this bearable to me."

She breaks off, takes a couple of deep breaths. I have a sense about how this story might end, but I remain silent, let Colette say whatever it is she has to say.

"This past summer, Aimée started coughing. We didn't think much of it in the beginning. Probably just a cold, right? But it got worse and worse. They ended up sending her to a hospital in Rouen and I thought they'd treat her and she'd get better, but… next thing I know, there's the message that she has to go to England for treatment. Matron gave me leave so I could accompany her."

A second time, Colette interrupts her own tale and this time around, it doesn't appear as if she's be able to continue it. Defiantly, almost angrily, she rubs her face, trying to wipe away the tears that have begun to fall.

"She didn't make it, did she?" I ask gently, despite being almost sure of the answer.

Colette moves her head to the side, just the tiniest of movements, but it is enough to confirm my inkling about Aimée's fate. She died in England then. Tuberculosis, maybe, or some other lung disease – what difference does it make, really?

"And you come back and find me," I continue for her, for she clearly isn't able to, "all happy-go-lucky and eager to make friends. God! I would have hated myself!"

She manages a watery smile in return. "I so wanted her to be back. And then I punished you for not being her," she whispers.

Which makes complete sense, in a terribly sad kind of way.

"Can you forgive me for being so horrible to you?" Colette pleads, eyes wide and wet with tears.

I look at her for a moment, shake my head slowly. "I don't think there's anything to forgive."

And then, to my utmost surprise, two arms wrap themselves tightly around my neck and a tearstained face presses itself against my shoulder. Carefully, I put my own arm around Colette's form, gently stroke her hair and privately wonder whether, maybe, in the most unlikely of places, I might have found myself a friend.


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Keep the Home Fires Burning' from 1914 (lyrics by Lena Guilbert Ford, music by Ivor Novello).

General Joffre is Joseph Jacques Césaire Joffre (1852-1931), a French general. From July 1911 to December 1916 he was the commander-in-chief of the French forces. After being removed from his post, he was made a 'Marshal of France', went to the US on a diplomatic mission, and was made a member of the Académie française in 1919.