April 18th, 1917
No. 1 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Aubigny-en-Artois, France

A lucifer to light your fag

Firmly, I press both hands against the man's head. His hair is felted, sticky with mud and blood and other fluids. The skin of his forehead feels cold and clammy. He is missing his right ear.

For a moment, I close my eyes and turn my senses inwards, towards my heart beating too fast and my breath that I struggle to keep even. Breathe in. One, two seconds. Hold the breath – and let it go. And start over.

Anything but think of the feeling of horror, brewing deep inside of me, and threatening to break out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

"Rilla?"

Reluctantly, I open my eyes.

Zachary is standing next to me, his concerned gaze moving from me to the patient and back to me again.

"Is everything alright?" he asks cautiously.

Only with difficulty do I suppress the hysterical laugh rising up within me. Two deep breaths, then I trust my voice to speak. "Well, it depends."

His brow furrows in question and even I have to admit it's probably not a very satisfactory answer. But the hysterical laugh bubbles close to the surface still, so I keep my lips firmly shut.

Very slowly, Zachary steps closer, not unlike one would advance upon a frightened animal and it is only with some seconds of delay that I realize I'm the animal in this. He raises his hands, ever so measured in his movements, and places them over mine, trying to loosen my grip upon the head of the motionless soldier in front of us. Instinctively, I burrow my fingers deeper into the blood-soaked hair.

"Don't!" I hiss. Surprised, he looks at me. His hands still in their movement.

"When I take my hands away, his head falls apart and then his brain falls out and I only just put it back in!" I snap at him.

Doesn't he see?

"His head falls apart?" Zachary asks. His voice sounds all strange. At least he pulls his hands backs.

I nod vigorously. "Yes, apart," I repeat impatiently. "The top of his skull falls off and then the brain falls out and lies on the floor. A brain does not belong on the floor."

He should know that, shouldn't he?

For a moment or two, Zachary observes me closely. I keep my head down, my eyes locked on my hands, holding together the man's head. My knuckles are white from exertion and my skin red with his blood.

"No, a brain does not belong on the floor," Zachary finally agrees carefully.

Aha! So there we go.

"Do you suppose I might have a look at him anyway?" he then asks, very gently, motioning towards the man's head.

Warily, I look up at him. My fingers hold on tight.

"I promise to catch his brain, should it fall out again," Zachary assures after a beat. "It won't fall to the floor again."

Well, that's something, at the very least.

Hesitatingly, I move a step to the right, so that he can stand beside me. Then, very slowly, I loosen my grip, pull my hands from the soldier's hair. Without the pressure they exerted and without the dirty, frayed bandage I have earlier cut away from his head, the top of his skull immediately comes loose. But Zachary keeps his word.

Standing so closely beside him, I now see that it's only a part of the brain now lying in Zachary's hands. The bigger part is still inside the head, where it belongs. Quietly, Zachary looks down at the man, then, with a sigh, slides the brain part back into the head and presses the skullcap against it.

"Come on, we'll dress him," he prompts.

He keeps his hands where they are, holding everything together, while I begin to wind a long panel of fabric around the soldier's head.

"That's useless. He's dead anyway," a new voice suddenly interrupts our work. I turn my head and recognize Bright, one of the orderlies. Cigarette in hand, he has stepped closer to us, eyeing the patient curiously.

"He is not dead," I snarl at him.

I don't like Bright. He was a medical student before the war and considers himself something of an expert because of it. I could tolerate that, but can't stand the casual way with which he treats the patients and their suffering, nor how fascinated he is by their injuries. The more gruesome a wound, the more interested Bright is. It's morbid and immoral and I don't like it.

Ignoring my remark but for the haughty look he casts my way, Bright reaches for the patient's left arm, lying motionless upon the stretcher. He searches for a pulse and I can see his arrogance give way first to surprise, followed by an intense curiosity.

Inwardly, I shudder, but I force myself to keep my hands steady as I continue to wind the bandage around the patient's head.

"How can he be alive?" Bright murmurs, clearly fascinated.

A disapproving frown crosses Zachary's face, but in the end, he does answer. "We understand very little about the human brain, but what we do know is that different parts have different functions. My guess it that the part responsible for controlling the vital functions is not directly affected by the injuries. That's why he is still alive."

"But surely, he can't survive such an injury!" Bright insists.

I am busy fastening the end of the bandage, but at this, I abruptly raise my head. I haven't picked the brain off the floor only for them to let him die now!

Zachary, realizing I am about to protest, silences me with a slight shake of the head. "Don't you want to take a break? You've been very busy today," he suggests.

Warily, I eye him. "Not busy at all. We've only had one transport. Three patients and this one," I counter. My hand closes around the knot of the bandage.

"And there's no knowing if there won't be another 200 patients tonight," Zachary points out.

I frown, unwilling to agree, even if, strictly speaking, he's right. Ever since the battle of Vimy Ridge a week ago, our intake of patients has varied considerably. Not once did we have as many as on that first day, but while some days pass with no new transports at all, it is not unusual for us to receive 100 or 200 or even 300 new patients in one day. If those four patients are our only arrivals for today, it must rightly be called a quiet one.

Still… there's something within me, balking at the thought of leaving my motionless – defenseless – patient alone with those two. Not when a bottle of morphine is so close at hand.

My fingers grip the knot more tightly. Zachary, I see, doesn't miss it. He sighs softly, then places his own hand over mine, opening my fingers. He's gentle, but forceful enough to overcome my resistance.

"He won't live," he says quietly. I have a feeling he intended to say my name, but caught himself just in time. No need to give someone like Bright more information than necessary.

Stubbornly, I shake my head, try to extract my hand from Zachary's hold. He doesn't let go.

And there's a tiny voice inside me head, telling me he's right. I couldn't see it before – shock, maybe? – but the routine work of dressing a wound has calmed me somewhat. So, despite still being able to feel the sensation of holding the man's brain in my hand, despite not wanting to agree with Zachary, I realize that there's no other way. He won't live, this man. Not when part of his brain has already been down on the floor. That he's made it this far is either a miracle or a whim of nature. But it will not last. His heart may be beating yet, but in truth, he's long dead.

My hand goes limp, and only now does Zachary release it.

"Go outside, take a break," he almost pleads. "I'll take care of the rest."

So, I go. Not against my better judgment, thought certainly against my instinct. But I have faith in Zachary. I know him well enough to be sure of one thing – he would never give up on a patient if the patient wasn't already lost beforehand.

Outside, it's raining.

The biting cold of last week has subsided. Snow and sleet have given way to a weather that, in all its capriciousness, is typical of April. At least it's not as cold anymore. We've even had one or two nice days since the day the big offensive began.

I find a crate, standing beneath the projecting roof of one of the tents, and sit down upon it. For several moments, I stare into the rain, falling down in thin threads of water, before I let my head sink backwards, against the side of the hut. I close my eyes and try not to think of anything.

No idea how long I sit there, entirely motionless, eyes closed, listening to the soft sound of the rain. Many minutes, probably. Eventually though, a voice cuts through the silence.

"You alright?"

I open my eyes, and watch Ken come closer and shake the rain droplets from the shoulders of his coat.

"Well, it depends," I answer for the second time today. And for the second time, my answer is apparently found to be wanting, for the look Ken casts my way is decidedly sceptical.

"Your Dr Murray told me you'd be out here somewhere," he explains as he leans against the side of the hut, looking down at me.

I don't much like the advantage in height this provides him with so I rise from my crate as well. Even standing I have to look up at him, but not quite so much. "He isn't my Dr Murray," I correct him, feeling disgruntled.

Ken just shrugs. "Sure. No need to get touchy about it," he replies easily.

I can't help an eye-roll. Even at my best, I am never quite sure how much I enjoy Ken's presence, especially when he's deciding to act this way, but today, I am still less sure than normally.

"He mentioned you've had a rough day," Ken remarks conversationally.

"Zachary?" I ask, realizing a second too late that of course he's talking about Zachary and that the use of his given name does nothing to reinforce my earlier argument.

"If Zachary is the name of good Dr Murray, then yes, Zachary," Ken retorts, not missing a beat.

I turn my head away. "It wasn't pretty," I admit. "But then, he has a tendency to wanting to protect me from my own work."

"Yes, he seems the type," Ken agrees immediately.

Who declared him the expert?

"Have you been in the receiving tent?" I ask abruptly.

Ken looks at me from the side. "Yes. Why?"

I take a breath. "The patient they have been treating… is he dead?" I wouldn't have been able to stand it anyway, this not-knowing.

"He was all wrapped up in a brown shroud, so I sincerely do hope he was dead", Ken answers drily.

With a jolt, I push myself off of the hut's side. I don't look at him, instead take a step forward. Just as I move to step from beneath the roof, out into the rain, I feel Ken reach for me, taking hold of my arm. I halt, yet don't turn around.

A moment of hesitation, then he speaks. "I'm sorry. Don't think me heartless. We're all coping in our own way."

I turn my head slightly, so that, out of the corner of my eye, I can see him. He does, admittedly, appear to be a little abashed. "How do you cope?" I ask, my voice sounding brusque even to my own ears.

"I smoke too much, drink too much and tell inappropriate jokes," he replies promptly. "Would I not care, I would do neither."

There's a truth to his words I can't deny. Slowly, I turn back around to face him.

"What about you?" he wonders. "How do you cope?"

How, indeed?

"Not at all, I guess," I answer after a moment of hesitation.

Ken nods. "No-one does, really. We may try, but…" He trails off.

For a moment, we both fall silent. Ken plunks himself down onto the crate, tapping the space beside him. After a second of deliberation, I sit next to him, if only because my feet hurt. My feet are always hurting these days.

"I held a part of his brain in my hands not even an hour ago," I tell him haltingly. "A part of the brain of the dead man. Only, he wasn't dead then. His brain fell out and I picked it up from the floor and put it back in, because I didn't know what else to do with it. I even wiped off the dust beforehand."

I halfway expect him to pity me, but he doesn't and I am grateful.

"They're curious things, brains are, don't you think? The way they look, all squishy and slimy, you'd never think they were responsible for everything we do or think. That they make us who we are, really," he remarks thoughtfully instead.

"There are people out there who'd say that it's our souls making us into who we are," I argue.

Ken raises a mocking eyebrow. "They're welcome to show me a soul, in that case."

True.

He fumbles with his coat's pocket and offers me the oh-so familiar packet of cigarettes – or 'fags', as the soldiers call them. This time, I take one. If it surprises him, he doesn't comment on it, merely lights my cigarette, then his own. Maybe he does understand, after all.

Cautiously, I take a drag. This isn't my first time smoking, much as it would shock my mother to hear this. Normally, I don't like it much, neither the smell nor the taste of it, but maybe there's nothing normal about a day on which one has held part of a brain in their hands.

"What brought you here in the first place?" I wonder, letting a puff of smoke escape into the humid air.

Ken smirks. "Maybe I had a longing to see you?"

I scoff. "Hardly."

"At least not solely," Ken relents with a smile. Then, abruptly, he falls silent and the smile falls from his face.

Quizzically, I look at him. He takes a drag of his cigarette, sighs.

"They brought Young here some days ago. I came to see him," he explains. His voice is resigned.

I frown, thoughtfully. "I can't remember treating him," I admit. "But we've been getting so many patients these past few days, you never see all of them. Have you found him? We're trying to send them on as quickly as possible at the moment, to free up beds."

"Oh, he's been here alright. It's just that he died this morning," Ken replies bitterly.

Poor Beardless.

I take a long drag of my cigarette.

"I'm sorry," I then murmur, touching his shoulder for a moment. "Are the other two alright?"

"Moles was wounded on the very first day. He's in a hospital somewhere down by the coast. Smith is well – or as well as can be expected, considering," Ken answers. He's not looking at me, keeps his gaze straight ahead, fixed on the falling rain. He's smoking so quickly his cigarette is burnt down a good deal more than mine already.

He is so not coping.

"Was it very bad for you? The offensive?" I ask. Quite possibly, it's wrong to ask, but those are dark thoughts flitting across his face and maybe, in talking about it, they can find their way outside?

He lets the butt of his cigarette fall, and turns to looks at me. "Not so very bad," he replies, but his voice has a hollow quality to it. "We were in the second wave, so the others had cleaned up somewhat beforehand. They got it worse than we did. During those two days of attack, we had thirty dead, twenty missing, eighty wounded. That's not so very many. We've had far worse days before, really. But when you know every single man, it's not just numbers, you know?"

Slowly, I nod. I might sound heartless, but I, too, don't mourn the death of a nameless patient who dies shortly after being admitted, in the same way as when a patient dies after I have spent days or weeks caring for him. Still, it's worse for Ken, isn't it? He's known these men for years, has fought and lived beside them. I can only guess what their deaths mean to him.

"Can't have been an easy day for you either," Ken remarks and I realize he simply doesn't want to talk about himself any longer.

"Almost thirteen hundred patients until the evening of the 10th", I inform him, keeping my voice matter-of-fact. "It was… well, a challenge. But we only lost 26 patients, not counting those who died on the way."

Ken nods appreciatively. "Not a bad rate."

About a tenth of our patients during those two days were German prisoners-of-war, but I don't tell him that, nor do I mention that so many men died en-route that our mortuary was completely overcrowded. They had to lay out the dead in rows in front of the tent.

Apparently, neither of us likes speaking about that day.

"When were those? The days that were worse?" I ask instead.

There's a moment of hesitation before Ken answers. "This past October, for one, over at the Somme. The Battle of Ancre Heights they're calling it now. We attacked and got slaughtered for it."

He laughs, mirthless. I don't dare speak. But I did ask, didn't I?

"By the end of it, out of five hundred men, less than ninety were still standing. Besides me, just one other officer and he had been shot through both legs," he adds quietly. "We closed out the day in the same trenches from which we had started in the morning. Not even one measly meter of gain to show for over eighty percent casualties. Vimy Ridge, at least, we did take. But that… that was just senseless dying."

There's a darkness in his eyes, something tortured, hunted even. These are the eyes of someone who has seen too much.

I take one last drag of my cigarette, let the butt fall to the floor. I have no idea what to say.

Ken looks at me. "I'm sorry. Had I better not told you that?" he wonders.

Vehemently, I shake my head. "I did ask, didn't I? It's just… sometimes, it's hard to bear."

"You can say that again," he retorts drily. He's back to gazing at the rain. Several seconds pass.

"Are you ever afraid? To die, I mean?" I ask softly. Our conversation has long left the confines of polite discourse anyway. I wonder when that happened?

Ken inclines his head thoughtfully before answering, "At the front, everyone is afraid. Don't you ever believe otherwise, despite what the papers write. That's just propaganda. Everyone is afraid. And every time they send us down the trenches, part of me just wants to run. Running would mean leaving my men behind, so I don't, but that doesn't change the fact that I want to."

His searching gaze meets mine. "Not very heroic, I'm afraid," he remarks with a cynical little smile.

I give a shrug. "I don't know whether it's heroic not to be afraid. But I'm pretty certain it would be foolish."

A smile flashes across his face, gone as fast as it appeared. "Well said," he acknowledges. Once more, he offers me a cigarette, but this time, I decline, so he only lights one for himself.

"If I'm perfectly honest," he continues after having taken the first drag, "It's not even so much death I am afraid of. I was, in the beginning. In the beginning, I was sick with fear at the thought of dying. Now…"

"Now?" I prompt as he falls silent.

For some moments, he seems to be gathering his thoughts, his gaze fixed somewhere to the left of my head. When he answers, however, he's back to looking at me. "Now I'm more scared of how I could survive. I don't have to tell you how some of those men come out of this war. Maimed, blind, without legs, without a face. Sometimes I think I'd prefer to be dead than to live like this. Sometimes even, I think I'd make sure to be dead rather than live that way."

I'd like to say that his words shock me, but they don't. He's right – I have seen what this war does to men. And, more than once, I have privately wondered what I would do, were I in their stead. I know what he means.

Ken considers me thoughtfully. "Did you know, in the first few months, I always had a feeling of there being a clock behind me, ticking. Tick tock. Until, one day, the ticking just stopped. It confused me at first, until I realized my time was up. I guess I'd have been in for it a long time ago, but good old Death is simply too busy to pick me up. That's why I don't like being in the presence of the dying – it always gets me thinking that, when he comes to collect them, Death might remember me and take me as well."

There's a smile on his lips, not even a very bitter one, and yet I feel a cold shiver along my spine.

I remember the old saying of feeling this way when somebody walks over your grave. Maybe it's that. Or maybe, it's that death itself has gone past both of us far too often already. Who's to know that Ken isn't right? That death won't one day pass by and remember who else he meant to take?

The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag' from 1915 (lyrics by George Henry Powell, music by Felix Powell).