Author's Note: I don't own characters that feature in the film 1917. They belong to Universal and Dreamworks Pictures. And in this version, Schofield is not married with children, as is implied in the movie's conclusion.
CHAPTER SONG: "I Am a Poor Wayfaring Stranger" by Jos Slovick
April 6th, 1917...
Somewhere in the exposed fields of Flanders...
The most devastating war the world has known had been fragmenting the already fragile strands of human civilization for three unmerciful years...
Two young men rested at the edge of the lush landscape of buttercups and dandelions, savoring these moments of reprieve.
The younger of the two, barely at the age of 20 if one was to guess, lay flat on the soft grass, his hard metal helmet covering his eyes to block out the noonday sunlight that managed to break through the overcast of clouds. His soot soiled hands lay crossed on his abdomen as he attempted to rest in mind despite being excited with the prospective adrenaline he yearned for.
The older man, though only by a few years, possibly more in his mid to late '20s, leaned up against a tree barely a foot away from his dozing companion, going helmetless revealing his dark brown hair. His eyes closed in the long afternoon monotony of no orders given, absorbing it by the minute. Nothing could possibly be different about today than it had been the day previous or even the week before, awaiting the big push.
Lance Corporals Thomas Blake and William Schofield had no idea what events were to transpire in their path after they heard approaching footsteps from behind them.
"Blake." Their sergeant stood at Blake's prone side, shifting his foot to give him a good kick to rouse him. The young soldier lay unresponsive until another kick assaulted his hip, not enough to hurt, but enough to get his attention. "Blake!"
Blake sighed and removed his helmet from over his eyes, squinting in the daylight up at his upper-in-command. "Sorry, Sarge."
"Pick a man. Bring your kit." The sergeant directed towards Black, more or less ignoring Schofield before walking away.
Schofield opened his eyes, looking over at Blake who was placing his helmet back upon his head. He closed his eyes again to return to his shallow sleep, until he sensed the presence standing above him.
Blake had risen up and was now standing over him, holding out his hand for him to take. Schofield looked up, conveying without words as if to ask Blake if he was selecting him to come along. Chuckling to himself, Schofield reached up and took his comrade's hand with his own that was calloused and hardened, having no idea what would be in store for them both.
Allowing himself to be pulled up onto his feet, Schofield followed Blake as they made their way across the makeshift camps of their fellow combatants participating in everyday tasks of cooking by fireside, hanging up laundry on the clothesline, reminding all the men present of their families back home.
Reminding them of the reasons they were fighting in the first place...
As Blake made small chat about what he received in the mail from home, Schofield listened as intently as he could, but also wondered in the scheme of things what sort of mission they would find themselves on.
Whatever was about to happen today, Schofield would in no way have expected what he would lose and what he would gain. The promises he would make in the coming hours and the lengths he would go to keep his word to them as a good soldier with honor and a man possessing his English borne code of chivalry whilst wrestling with his heart's true desire...
.
.
.
Only a mere two miles away from the English-dug trenches, a pair of disoriented eyes slowly opened to the ceiling of a wooded farmhouse. The person whom those eyes belonged to groaned as they tried to clear their fogged mind, making certain to move their aching body slowly.
A young woman of late twenties lay on the hard creaking floor of an abandoned farmhouse, desolate and foreboding with the lurking past evidence of looting and arson.
The woman sat up from her position on the floor, making note that nothing in her body felt broken or fractured as she alternately flexed her fingers, clenched her hands and stretched her legs. She patted her head gently to be sure of no resulting concussion from this strange delusion, her brunette hair entangled beyond the need of a simply hairbrush. Her head became clearer as her vision adjusted to the gray sunlight fading in and out from the shattered windows and gaping holes in the house's woodwork.
Where the hell am I?
The faint sound of airplanes overhead caused her to perk up and gasp in alarm as she struggled to her feet. The stench of decay and dusty debris assaulted her nostrils and she took in more of her surroundings.
Stumbling her way to the window nearest her, the woman looked out to the distance, seeing a barn that was in much improved structure compared to that of the building she currently occupied. A lone cow stood nearby the barn grazing on the grass with not a care in the world.
The woman clutched on the windowsill, feeling the oncoming sensation of hyperventilation threatening to overcome her. Whatever that had happened prior to her awakening, she doubted she was anywhere near her home. No sounds of cars, sirens or people talking in an indistinct manner, nothing familiar to her at all made her feel assurance that she knew where this location was.
Tears flooded into her eyes as shivers racked her body, panic and overwhelming sense that this was defiantly not an overly vivid dream. The splinters inhabiting her palms from the windowsill convinced her enough that this was real. The breeze from outside whirled around her shaking form as she realized that she was only wearing a short hot-pink nightdress that barely came to her knees and her feet were bare. She had worn so little the night previous due to the sweltering weather of early April heat.
She was exposed in this strange country and separated from anything familiar. In an attempt to gather herself, she looked around for any other form of clothing that would cover her more modestly. She had no idea what or who she would encounter and she needed to preserve her modesty. Feeling protected would help her in keeping a clear head to figure out what was going on.
In the decimated wardrobe, she found a plain dark blue dress, designed as if to be fitted for a girl ten years her junior, but luckily she was just slight enough to be convincing as a younger woman. Feeling satisfied that it would cover her up after dressing; she began looking for anything that would shield her bare feet.
Stepping around the numerous shards of broken glass was difficult, considering she had to lift up the skirt of the dress to avoid tripping. In her best effort, she proved to be unsuccessful as she heard the creak of footsteps from the lower level. A stab of glass at the base of her foot pierced her frail skin, her hand covering her mouth to smother her cry of pain.
She fell to the ground as her foot caught on the long dress's skirt. The shivers of paralyzing fear coursed through her again as the silent wail of pain from the glass embedded in her foot built into a genuine scream that she could barely suppress with her hand.
She brought her knees up to her chest as she crawled to the corner of the room, debating whether to wait out for whoever was downstairs to leave or risk being seen in climbing out one of the windows and even risk falling due to the house's debilitated state.
The steps from below came at the stairs then, creaking up slowly. She lay down on her side, hoping to perhaps fall unconscious again and awaken back to where she has been before, back home where everything was loud and chaotic and enraging and wonderful and familiar...
Her face lay against the dirty wooden floor; no doubt covering her face with Lord knew what in germs. Hygiene was the least of her concerns then, praying that whoever was coming up the stairs was not with hostile intentions toward her, a woman alone and not knowing where she was or how she came to be there.
The footsteps, the sound of heavy boots, came closer as she shut her eyes tightly, not wanting to see who was coming to confront her on this forgotten piece of land. Their steps were slow and deliberate; she could sense somebody's curious and cautious gaze drinking in the sight of her, lying amongst the damaged room.
She choked back a sob, knowing that she had been seen and praying to whatever deity was watching her to not be violated just because she was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Was this figure a friend come to aid her or a foe to terrorize her from her worst nightmares?
"Miss?" A male voice, soft and concerned asked as she felt a hand gently place upon her shoulder. "Miss, are you hurt? I didn't know anyone was here. Do you need help?"
She sniffled and dared to open her eyes to look upon who was kneeling down at her side, careful with his hand upon her as if she were made of the most delicate porcelain.
Her tear blurred vision was able to see a man about her own age, skin pale but with a face appearing weary and tired. His eyes appeared almost bloodshot, emphasizing the striking blue of those irises. She had never seen a man with such eyes. Her heartbeat began to calm as her mentality assured that he was not here to harm her.
The man stayed silent, awaiting her response to know her plight. She opened her mouth, but her throat felt dry. Had she inhaled so much dust that she couldn't speak? As she gulped to take in another breath, she looked over the uniform he was wearing.
It wasn't the green camouflage that she had seen soldiers wear for the past decade. This uniform was brown and particularly worn with dirt and tears at the seams, the kind of uniform she had seen in a glass cabinet at museums...
The man spoke again, his voice soft and calm.
"I'm Lance Corporal Schofield." His hand was no longer on her shoulder as he stood up again. She looked up at him as he held out his hand, a gesture to assist in her standing. His eyes never left hers as she stared at his awaiting hand, the other one she noticed was bandaged around his palm with dried blood and mud. Her trembling hand placed in his much larger one, his grasp firm but gentle. "Why are your feet bare? Your foot's bleeding."
She ignored the concern his voice as she finally had enough strength to speak to this foreigner. Her legs buckled and the ringing in her ears began. Her head pounded like a drum, cracking her skull from the inside out. Her voice cracked with her dehydrated throat, daring to speak those fateful words...
"Where am I and what year is this?"
The man, Schofield, tilted his head in confusion as he took in her words. "I'm...I'm afraid I don't understand, Miss. Do you not know where you are? It's April 1917. We're in the French countryside in Flanders." His hands continued to grasp hers as he observed her reaction to his words.
The woman's vision began to tunnel as she tried to focus on the handsome soldier's face in front of her. "No...no." She managed to gasp out as darkness encompassed her sight.
Her legs gave out as she felt this gallant stranger's arms enfold around her to keep from hitting the floor. The scent of dust from his uniform somewhat lulled her back into a shocked faint.
The last thing the woman heard as she fell into this soldier's bewildered embrace was the sound of him shouting another name. At least she knew he wasn't alone.
"Blake!" He shouted to the top of his voice. "Bring your water canteen now!"
Schofield gave out a gasp of his own as he caught the injured maiden in his arms, careful to keep her head and neck held up with his good hand, his other bandaged one enfolded about her waist. He sank to his knees on the floor as he situated her in his arms to keep a comfortable grip on this small woman. Standing up, she was at least a whole foot shorter than him.
He looked down at the woman's tear-stained and ashen face, compassion overtaking his drive at the moment to focus on the mission at hand. He had noted her accent was neither that of French or German. She was American...
Questions began gathering in his head and Schofield carefully lifted up the petite woman into his arms, his heartbeat quickening at the sensation of holding her body so close. He descended down the stairs with a steady gait so as not to jostle her.
As he carried the girl out of the house and into the fresh afternoon air, little did he know that fate was dealing him a gamble...
He wasn't sure he was willing to place any bets on anything compromising the mission either.
If this girl was American, how did she end up in France in the midst of this hellish war? Why was she in an abandoned farmhouse? How did she not know of the year and what was happening?
Her injuries would have to be attended to before any questions could be answered as Schofield met Blake's confused, gaping stare at the sight before him.
"Bloody hell! What've you gotten yourself into now, Scho?" Blake reached for his water canteen as Schofield gently lowered the swooned girl down onto the grass.
He had a feeling that being nearly blown up by a tripwire explosion and crushed to death by a collapsing mine-shaft was going to be a casual morning stroll compared to what this mysterious woman was going to bring into his life.
And he had yet to know her name...
