Oh God, the pain was intense. Jacques writhed in his bed with the pain, refusing to cry out. All morphine had been reserved for the officer's use and Jacques was only a lowly infantry man. He took a hit from German artillery several days ago. They were calling the fight the battle of the Marne. Who 'they' were, Jacques did not know. He only tried his best to keep his mind off the pain.
He was dying, he knew that. Pierre had been too cheerful when he visited Jacques; Pierre was never cheerful unless something was wrong.
Good God, why does his leg still hurt? He could have sworn he saw it lying by his head when he regained consciousness in the trenches.
A bit of white caught his eye, a nun. Nuns have been coming to hospitals to help with the shortages of medical personnel. Jacques heard that if you need help, you went to a nun. The orderlies were just waiting for you to die so they can use your bed.
"Sister," Jacques called to the black and white clad nun. "Please, Sister."
The nun heard, she was middle aged at worst and had a mischievous air about her. The nun silently moved to his side.
"Yes, son," the nun whispered. Son, Jacques mused. He hadn't been called 'son' in what seemed like years.
"Please, I need a favor," Jacques whispered, "I need you to write to my girl. I promised her I would write to her and I haven't."
A sudden panic rose in Jacques. Marie! What would happen if he didn't come back? He was all she had! The nun quickly assured him that she would send a letter, if he were to give her the address. The sister had such a motherly air to her it made Jacques wonder if she took her vows after her family was grown. A wave of agony tore through him. The poor sister had a look of terror on her face after seeing the sudden convulsions Jacques went into.
"I can't give you any morphine for the pain, I am so sorry." And Jacques knew she was. He was about to reassure her when she continued, "Let me tell you a story to keep your mind off the pain."
Jacques loved stories. He shut his eyes and let her mellifluous voice pour over him. A wonderful story she spun to him about a deformed genius, a young singer, and a lord. He never opened his eyes again.
Sister Margaret, or Little Giry as she was known in her youth, sighed. Something about that boy made her tell him the tale of her friend, Christine Daaé. She moved away from the bed, it was only September but she felt a cold. This war would last for much longer than she expected. She marked down Jacques' time of death to record for his family. September 13, 1914.
The First Battle of the Marne ended on September 10, 1914, but I gave Jacques a few extra days so that gangrene set in. World War I was from 1914-1918. This drabble was inspired by the novel All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. Comments welcomed.