August 1st, 1918
No. 15 Ambulance Train, France

Just a little prayer

"Sister!" a loud voice calls from the other side of the carriage.

Impatiently, I brush back my veil and cast a searching look at the private to whom I have just administered analgesics. These bumpy train rides are especially painful for patients with fractures or open wounds.

"Are you alright from here on?" I enquire.

He nods, tries for a smile. "Of course, Ma'am. You can leave me now," he assures and while I regret having to leave him so suddenly, I do as he tells me, reaching for my lamp and turning into the direction from which the voice has called. In this ambulance train, there is simply never enough time to do what should normally be done and especially not in the past two weeks.

It was the middle of July when the news reached us. At first, it was but an ominous whisper, finally made into inked truth by the newspapers' headlines. A new German offensive had carried the enemy forwards over the Marne. The Marne! That magical border of which they say it can never be given up if Paris is meant to be held.

For three endless days, we looked to the east in worry and fear. And then – yes, then history repeated itself. The first Miracle of the Marne was followed by a second one, almost exactly four years later. French and American soldiers gathered for a counter attack and forced the Germans back to the Marne's eastern shore. And not only that, they pushed on, and now, two weeks later, it looks as if they will manage to stabilize the frontline between Soisson and Reims. 'Straightening out the salient', as they say in military speak.

The land taken by the Germans during the fighting of May is mostly back in Allied hands and after four months of bad and worse news that's the first sliver of hope. Even Miller smiled, if despite herself, when the news reached us. But still, we remain cautious. The enemy has proven more than once in the past years that he always has another trick up his sleeve.

Whatever the gains between Marne and Vesle will bring in the long run, however, for us they have mostly meant that we were pulled from our duty of doing runs between coastal hospitals and sent to the south, closer to the fighting. In the past few days we were almost exclusively tasked with bringing patients from Sézanne to Rouen and today, we loaded in Senlis, a small town in the middle of the Chantilly forest, less than 35 miles from the shores of the Marne.

To sum it up: I am exactly where Ken did not want me to be.

He and the other Canadians still remain mostly removed from the heavier fighting. They still hold the frontline close to Arras, familiar to them by now, where it has been remarkably quiet during all these awful weeks. Consequentially, the Canadian Corps has not taken part in a major battle ever since they took Passchendaele last autumn. And while I am ever so grateful for that, I still can't help but wonder when the day will come when some British General remembers that, in addition to the battle-weary British units, he also has the Canadian divisions at his disposal – experienced, strong, rested and well-trained as they are.

It's been a year since the fighting at Ypres began. Back then, the Canadians were brought in to end it. Now, though, they seem almost pre-ordained to begin it – whenever and wherever it may take place in the end.

"Sister!" comes the call again, more urgently this time.

I wipe my hands on my apron, then take hold on one of the bed frames for a moment as the train passes around a corner, before quickly moving over to where the call came from.

"What's the matter?" I query after having arrived.

The man who seems to have called, nods towards the patient sitting next to him. "He's unwell," he informs me curtly.

Raising my lamp, I swing it around into the direction of the other man. It is between two and three in the night, by my guess, and the carriage is dark except for the shine of a handful of lamps.

For the young man whose face is just lit up by my lamp, it doesn't make a difference either way. A thick bandage is wound around his head, hiding both eyes. When the light falls upon him, he gives no sign of being aware of it.

"Hello," I address him carefully. "What's your name?" Procedure says we don't need to know their names but I know nary a nurse who follows procedure in that respect. Names help.

Abruptly, the boy raises his head, moves it from side to side, as if that would enable him to see anything. When he realizes that it doesn't, he lets his head hang again, hiding his face with both hands.

I raise my lamp higher still, look around for a free seat. We have almost 400 patients on board, so are loaded pretty well, but finally, I do spy a free seat, three cots down. "Can you go sit over there?" I ask the man next to the boy.

"Hm. Sure," he hums, before getting up awkwardly and limping off.

I sit down on his old seat, hang up my lamp next to me and gently touch the arm of the boy with the bandage. He jumps, turning his face towards me in reflex.

"Hello," I repeat kindly. "Do you want to tell me your name?"

"Paddy," he murmurs hoarsely, "Paddy O'Mulligan." His accent reliably identifies him as Irish, and his name only serves to back it up.

"Hello Paddy. I am Sister Blythe," I introduce myself. Normally, I would address him using his last name, as we do with all our patients, but once in a while you encounter one who doesn't want to be a surname. Paddy seems the type to me. They are, at any rate, often very young and almost always absolutely helpless.

"Evening, Sister," Paddy greets, the picture of good behaviour. He head still swings lightly from side to side, as if he was desperately looking for a way to finally see.

I, meanwhile, have just discovered his Field Medical Card. "If it's alright with you, I will now take the card tied to your collar," I inform him of my next action. Paddy nods silently.

As I skim the information jotted down on the card in different hands, my heart grows heavy. A grenade splinter has injured both of his eyes. They took one eye out in the CCS already and it seems to be a bit of a toss-up whether the other eyeball can be saved. Even then, he won't ever see with it again. His sight, either way, is lost forever.

"Is it very bad, Sister?" Paddy asks quietly. I look up from the card, into his half-bandaged face and don't know what to say. I have told men that they will never walk again, have even informed some of them that they are sure to die, but this… I have no idea how to tell him this.

Paddy, however, interprets my silence all on his own. "It's alright, Sister. I already did think it is probably bad," he assures. And then, inexplicably, I see him fight for a smile. Weak and wavering and shaky as it is, it is still a smile.

I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat sits fast.

The worst thing, the very, very worst thing, is to see how brave they are still. Even when I want to cry and scream at and curse Walter's God, they still find the strength somewhere for a smile, a polite word, a hopeful request. There's nothing in this world to teach one humbleness as reliably as the sight of these wonderful, tragic, brave boys.

"Do you know, Sister, I think I wouldn't mind quite so much if it weren't so very dark," Paddy continues. "If I had just one small light, it would not be quite so hard." His voice shakes and his hands clench, but he keeps the smile on his lips and his head raised.

"Then you will need to find a light within yourself, Paddy O'Mulligan," I reply, my voice not quite sounding like my own. Following instinct, I raise my hand and lightly touch my fingertips to where his heart beats.

When my hand sinks down again, Paddy raises his own, touches the same spot. It is hard to say what he is thinking. A pause, then is asks, "Do you really think there is a light here, Sister? I wasn't always… good, you know?"

"No one is. What matters is that we try," I answer quietly. "And besides… I'm sure there's a light there." And I truly am. I am very, very certain.

Paddy nods slowly. "Then I'll believe it as well," he says and it sounds like an oath.

For a moment I look at him and feel my throat tighten. He believes because he believes me. And that's even though I have not earned his faith at all.

"May I… may I ask you something, Sister?" comes Paddy's hesitant voice after some moments.

I nod before I remember that he will never be able to see this again. "Of course you may," I therefore answer out loud.

Another pause, as Paddy gathers his courage to ask, "I'm sure you have a sweetheart… right?"

"Yes," I reply simply. If Paddy hadn't already stirred up something within me, the mention of Ken alone would certainly have succeeded in making me fight for my composure. I clench my hands into fists, burrowing my fingernails into the palms. The pain helps a little.

"If your… if he came back like… well, like me… would you still love him?" Paddy continues, almost faltering as he speaks.

Then, before I even get an opportunity to answer, he turns abruptly, hiding his face with both hands. "I am sorry, Sister," he murmurs through his fingers. "I shouldn't ask you that. It's unseemly. Please forget it!"

I open my fists. Cautiously, I stretch out my hands, to gently remove Paddy's hands from his face and turn his head towards me once more. "I don't know how not to love him," I confess.

His head moves twice from side to side and I know how he longs to see my face, to see if I mean the words the way I said them. Instead, I squeeze his hands for a moment. I don't have any other way to reassure him.

A slow, grateful smile spreads over Paddy's face. "But… but wouldn't he feel guilty? Wouldn't he want you to find another man who could offer you much more?" he nevertheless asks. The words still come only hesitantly, but that's not due to worry over the decency of our conversation anymore but because Paddy O'Mulligan is just turning his innermost feelings to the outside.

"Oh, he'd want that for sure. He can be quite the clod, to be honest," I answer, coaxing another smile from Paddy in the process.

"But I wouldn't listen and most of the women I know wouldn't either," I add, my voice quiet but steady. "When you love someone, you love them as they are. And when they change, you love them that way instead. Now, I know that you soldiers always want to be very brave and knightly and noble indeed, but you also have to learn to trust in us fair maidens sometimes. As a rule, we have a pretty good idea of what we want."

"That I know," nods Paddy with sudden fervour. "My Da always used to say that there's no use arguing with a woman. She always gets her will in the end, either way. And my Da was right."

A smile steals onto my lips at his words. "There you go. Just trust her. If she truly loves you, she will just be glad to have you back."

Paddy nods, slowly at first and then with ever more conviction. And I sit next to him, hold his clammy hand and silently pray that I might be right. That his sweetheart truly does love him enough to continue loving him. Because he wouldn't be the first soldier robbed of his girl by the war and perhaps it is wrong of me to raise his hopes like this. But on the other hand… maybe that's a truth for another hour anyway. An hour that isn't as dark and oppressing as this one. And hour with more light.

"Well, Molly always did say she liked to hear me sing," Paddy admits slowly, "And I don't need to see to be able to sing, do I, Ma'am?"

"No, certainly not," I assure gently. A moment, before I add, "Would you sing for me as well if I asked you to?"

Paddy turns his head, as if trying to look around the carriage. "But won't the others laugh?" he asks quietly.

"Oh, I'd like to see them dare!" I retort in my best strict sister's voice, causing Paddy to laugh softly.

"Then I will sing for you," he announces, suddenly sounding much surer.

A moment passes, during which Paddy seems to gather himself. When he raises his voice, it floats clear and shining through the darkness.

Siúil, siúil, siúil a rún
Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin
Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom
Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán.

I don't understand the Gaelic words, but the sound of them and the sound of his voice are enough to send a shiver down my spine. And, one after the other, the other men in the carriage fall silent as well. Before Paddy has reached the second stanza, they are completely quiet. His voice is the only sound to be heard in the waggon.

When he finally ends, there's a moment of total silence. I squeeze Paddy's hand, before wiping a single tear out of the corner of my eye. "Thank you," I whisper.

A smile blossoms on Paddy's face. "Did you like it?" he asks enthusiastically.

"It was beautiful," I answer truthfully.

"It is one of my favourite songs. It's about a woman whose sweetheart goes to France to fight a war, and she promises to wait for him," Paddy explains.

How fitting.

I swallow hard.

"The words… what do they mean?" I finally ask.

Paddy inclines his head thoughtfully before giving me a translation.

Go, go, go my love
Go quietly and go peacefully
Go to the door and fly with me
And may you go safely, my darling

It sounds as if a farewell for good.

I want to say something but don't trust my voice to speak. So I squeeze Paddy's hand once more and hope the he will understand. A moment, then he returns the squeeze.

One or two seconds pass in silence. The sudden bang ripping through it sounds even louder for it. Abruptly, I turn around.

One of my orderlies stands in the doorway leading to my second ward car, searching this carriage frantically with his eyes. "Sister Blythe?" he calls out. "You need to come quickly!"

I am on my feet immediately, but take a second to turn towards Paddy for one last time. "Do you promise me not to lose faith?" I ask him.

Paddy shakes his head. "I won't Ma'am," he promises. "I thank you for being there for me. And… may God bless you."

Quickly, I touch his shoulder in farewell, take hold of my lamp and turn away for good. But even as I hurry along the aisle, towards the impatiently waiting orderly, I send a quick prayer to whichever power is willing to listen, asking it to protect this brave little Irish boy.

My orderly is already holding the door open for me and as I reach him, it's the anxious, restless look in his eyes that warns me to what lays ahead. I take a second to collect myself and brush off that curious mood Paddy and his Gaelic song have put me in. When I have myself back under control, I slip past the orderly and climb over into the second ward car.

There's no more light here than there was in the other one, but still I immediately see a commotion in the half-way along the aisle. When I have finally reached it, one look is enough to get an idea of the situation.

A young English private lies in one of the middle cots, his face pale in the light beam of my lamp, his uniform dark and stained. Next to him stands another man, holding tightly onto the lying man's hand and looking down at him with eyes full of panic. It takes several seconds for him to notice me and turn his anguished gaze on me instead. "You need to help him, Sister," he pleads.

"Get Dr Hunter," I murmur in the direction of the orderly who immediately melts into the darkness of the waggon.

Ignoring the soldier nervously wringing his hands for a moment, I bend lower over the patient in the middle cot. With an experienced gaze and practiced fingers, I examine him quickly.

The other man makes a choked sound. I can feel his burning eyes boring into me. "Are you friends?" I ask without turning around. In my experience, it helps to get them talking. They don't lose their nerves as easily when they can talk.

"Brothers, Ma'am", he answers. Another choking sound. It sounds like a sob.

The blood leaks from a wound to the abdomen. Carefully, I move my hand lower and feel more wetness than I would like. I am quite certain that only the darkness hides how quickly the blood is trickling out of the man's body.

"Who's the older one?" I direct the next question at the brother. It doesn't matter what I say, as long as I keep him talking.

"He is, by two years," comes the answer after a moment of hesitation, "But we've always done everything together."

I raise my lamp so that the light falls onto the patient's face. He can't be much older than twenty. The paleness of his skin is waxen and grey. He isn't dead yet, but he looks like he is. His skin, too, is already cool to the touch.

"Tell me about him," I ask of the brother, only listening with half an ear. The rest of me is firmly concentrating on my patient.

An audible gulp before the younger brother starts talking haltingly, "We volunteered together. Pete waited for me. He always looked out for me. We haven't been out here long. I didn't think it would be like this, but Pete said we need to make fast work of it. I tried to be brave." A sniffling sound.

Pulse too weak, breathing too flat.

"I'm sure you were brave," I assure the brother absent-mindedly, while pulling up the blanket from the foot of the bed. I ball it into a tight bundle and press it down onto poor Pete's abdomen, holding it there with one hand. The other hand reaches down, blindly groping for the blanket of the man in the cot below. Seconds pass, then I feel someone press the blanket between my fingers.

"Thanks," I murmur downwards.

The brother moves his head abruptly and I quickly look over to him while I press down the second blanket on the wound as well. There's panic in his eyes.

"What happened then?" I ask. I have to keep him with me.

"We had to attack," he stammers. "Pete told me to stay close to him. I – I don't know what happened. It was so loud and then I was on the ground and it hurt. Pete stayed with me until one of the medics came and then he continued to stay with me. Only – when the medic had finished treating me, Pete suddenly fell over and… he bled horribly, Ma'am. The medic dressed the wound and Pete said everything would be alright. He said we'd stick together. He promised!" His voice raises into a desperate wail. A sob, then another one.

Somehow, I am certain that Pete has never yet broken a promise he made to his younger brother. And I know with equal certainty that he won't be able to keep this very last promise.

My eyes move over to Pete's face and I flinch when I notice tired, dark eyes looking back at me. I didn't think him conscious anymore. He holds my gaze for a moment. I see resignation there, sadness, but also acceptance. Pete knows he is dying. Knew it, perhaps, from the moment when he made the medic treat his brother first.

Even at the very end, he still looked out for his little brother and he will pay the highest price for it. He doesn't look as if he regrets it.

"You're just too slow, Olli," murmurs Pete, his voice so hoarse and quiet as to be almost inaudible, "I beat you again." With much effort, he forms his lips into a grin.

Olli moves a hand, as if trying to hold onto him, but in that moment Pete's body already tenses. A squall of blood drenches the blanket beneath my hands. Pete's eyes roll into the back of his head, his body spasms, shoulders raising and falling down again. A last gasp, then he lies still. On his lips, the grin is forever frozen.

And may you go safely, my darling

For several seconds, Olli appears frozen as well, eyes opened wide and fixed on his brother who ought to have stayed with him and left him anyway. I look over to him, sighing softly as I loosen the hold my cramped hands still have on the blankets. Abruptly, Olli turns his head, sees my blood-smeared hands in the light of the lamp and that is enough to break his stillness.

A sound is ripped from his throat, a sound I didn't know a human could produce. It makes me shiver. Then, very suddenly, Olli throws himself forward, towards his brother's body. Instinctively, I reach out my arms, trying to stop him, but somebody is already pulling him back. I raise my head and recognize Dr Hunter who is holding onto the raging Olli with more strength than I thought he possessed.

Dr Hunter looks past Olli, taking the situation in. His eyes meet mine and he nods, very calmly. I know what he's trying to convey. He wants me to know that I did everything in my power. And yet, it doesn't feel like it. To do more might not have been possible, but it still isn't enough.

"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away," murmurs Dr Hunter, looking down at Pete with sorrowful eyes.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

I think I'm going to be sick.

Olli hides his face in his hands. The tension leaves his body and Dr Hunter cautiously lets of him. He doesn't fight it. He is all out of strength. Instead, there's a whimper, rising into a sob.

I take a step towards him. Gently, I put my arms around his shivering body, pulling his head down onto my shoulder and hold him as he cries. The slowly drying blood of his brother still sticks to my hands.

The train window mirrors us. Behind it, there's just a dark, bottomless, seemingly never-ending nothingness. Suddenly, it frightens me.

When, oh when will this night finally be over?


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'A mother's prayer for her boy out there' from 1918 (lyrics by Andrew B. Sterling, music by Arthur Lange).

'Siúil A Rúin' is a Gaelic folk song, probably from the 19th century.

The Bible quote is taken from Job 1:21.