July 1916
He stands almost one deep in the mood and the blood, the shit and the entrails and "yet more fucking mud" as one of his Privates had so eloquently put it. Like many, he'd always pictured hell to be all fire and brimstone and eternal damnation but now he knows differently…
Hell is the battlefields of Crait.
The foul stench of death follows him everywhere, clinging to his clothes and festering in his wounds which have been mercifully superficial until now. He swears he feels the grim reaper's cold hand on his shoulder every time he prepares to go over the top but, despite all the bravado, he's absolutely bloody terrified. For the sake of his men who look to him for courage and leadership, he can never admit to it though. Perhaps the memory of a young First Order Stormtrooper dying in his arms that haunts him and the sound of him wheezing and gasping for breath as he begged for mercy that plagues what little sleep he manages to get that has him feeling this way. That had been sobering, perhaps the first moment he'd realised that these people weren't the enemy - they were men just like him when it really came down to it, with wives and sweethearts, siblings and parents of their own, fighting for king and country and a better future for their children and grandchildren.
It's almost enough to make him think that he can't do what they've asked of him.
He stands at the foot of the ladder, whistle poised between his lips, revolver in one hand and pocket watch in the other as he counts down the seconds. Synchronicity is key and he tries to focus on getting this exactly right whilst, at the same time, just remembering to breathe…
His heart is racing, thumping against his chest as the moment draws nearer.
And nearer.
And nearer.
And then it's finally here.
The shelling starts the second they start to climb and all around him men are being hit before they even make it over the top. His instinct tells him to run as fast as his feet will allow him, to keep pushing on forward and never stop until he makes it to the other side.
The shelling starts the second they start to climb and all around him men are being hit before they even make it over the top. His instinct tells him to run as fast as his feet will allow him, to keep pushing on forward and never stop until he makes it to the other side. His boot catches on a length of barbed wire and he lands face first in the mud, making a fatal mistake in holding out his arm to break his fall. He feels his left wrist snap, exactly how it did when he fell from his horse as a boy only, this time, his mother isn't here to kiss it better or have cook make ice cream to make the pain go away. He scrambles to his feet, spitting out the foul taste of blood and dirt as he carries on running, arm hanging limply at his side making him thankful he's not using a rifle. Through the rain and the chaos, he catches his first glimpse of his destination - the trench on the other side of no-man's land - and maybe, just maybe, survival isn't the impossible dream he thought it might be.
He almost trips again as a hand grabs his ankle, but he somehow manages to regain his balance and twists his body to point his pistol at his assailant. The face of one of his own men looks up at him, or at least what's left of him as both his legs are missing, pleading with him to end it all and save him from this hell.
His good hand trembles as his finger finds the trigger and time itself seems to stand still as contemplates doing the unthinkable.
He can't do it.
No matter how much he wants to.
And so he keeps on running.
He thinks about turning back, of dragging the boy up and out of the mud and carrying him back to safety - he's heard about what they can do for the poor buggers with wounds like his and this doesn't necessarily have to be the end for him.
But instead he chooses the cowards way.
He chooses to save himself.
He's going to survive this, he's sure of it now, and when he does he'll do everything he can to be a better person and to actually do something with his life instead of abusing the privilege his rank and title have afforded him.
But, as the bullet hits him square in the chest, it becomes clear that he's getting ahead of himself…
-xxx-
Dearest Rose,
Almost two years have gone by since that otherwise idyllic summer's day when the world as we knew it changed forever. Back then, we were so adamant that it would all be over by Christmas but, her we are, several weeks into yet another new year and yet it still carries on. Surely it has to end soon? It can't possibly go on for much longer, can it?
I have to have faith that this bloodshed must stop soon but, with every wounded man who comes my way day after day after day, I find that faith beginning to waiver.
I'm sorry to burden you with this, but it's almost impossible to talk about these sorts of things over here because we have to keep our spirits up (if not for ourselves, then for the men). But it's hard, so very hard. I can't remember the last time I had a decent night's sleep, or at least not one that wasn't to a lullaby of distant guns.
I started nursing to help, to make a difference and to save lives…
But I can't save them anymore, Rose. They are too many, too badly broken beyond repair.
All I can do now is to ease their passing and to give them permission to die.
I am fighting my own battle, and suffering a heavy defeat - My heart can never be whole again, not after all of this grief.
I miss you terribly much, my dearest friend, and I think of you every day.
Please give my love to Finn, should you write to him soon.
Your friend,
Rey
Rey Smith had never been to Crait before but, whilst she knew it wasn't going to be a holiday, nothing could have prepared her for the sheer brutality of it all.
She'd never seen so much mud.
And the cold? Well, she absolutely hadn't been expecting it to be so cold.
With her letter home enveloped and placed into the hands of the postmaster, it was time to get back to work. When she'd arrived here last winter, the first thing that had hit her was the smell - the tiny hut she'd been assigned to reeked of blood, iodine, sweat, and a distinct scent that she had come to learn was quite simply death itself…
It scared her how accustomed she'd become to it, how normal all of this seemed.
When she thought of her life in Jakku, it seemed like another world.
On this particular morning, the first thing that had greeted her was the sight of Sister Kanata, a senior nurse with whom she'd become rather close, standing over a man bleeding out from his jugular with her hand pressed firmly to his throat.
"Smith," she calls. "This is useless… fetch the screen."
The screen. What good did that do?
These men already knew what it was to suffer and to see others suffer the same. To give the ones in their care even just the slightest bit of dignity in the last moments of their lives seemed somewhat redundant, but they did it anyway. They did it because it seemed like the right thing to do…
But then what was right about any of this?
"Not now, not now," he repeats, the words a plea or perhaps even a prayer on his dry, cracked lips. "Please not now."
Rey presses a hand to his brow, her skin burning at the touch - his fever rages, the blood won't stop, and she knows then that this is the end for the poor chap. She crouches down at his side, continuing to run her fingers soothingly through his matted and lice ridden hair.
"It's alright," she says softly. "Don't be afraid."
This particular soldier seems to have mistaken her for his lost love, something that Rey had learnt to be all too common when the delirium set in…
And it was all she could do to play the part.
Even if, like so many of the others in her care, he was a man of the First Order.
It had shocked her at first but she'd soon become used to it, just as she had to almost everything else about this hell. It hadn't been long though before instinct took over and that overwhelming need to help kicked in. She was a nurse, and that was exactly what she was there to do. Over time, she had stopped seeing them as belonging to one side or another, they were just men, some barely older than boys, and they needed her, plain and simple.
"I'm here, don't be afraid," she whispers, feeling him beginning to relax under her touch. "You're safe now."
He manages to force a smile and it's as though he's seen an angel come to guide him home at last…
Because that's exactly what she is when nothing else can be done.
An angel of death.
He slips away seconds later with one final, rasping breath. It was a sound that haunted Rey in her dreams (or perhaps nightmares would be more appropriate), and not something she'd be likely to forget in a hurry when all of this was over…
Whenever that would be.
As Sister Kanata gently closes his eyelids, Rey climbs up and opens the window to let his soul fly free. She has never been particularly religious or superstitious, but that was just something else that was simply done. It was part of the routine and one she had to admit that even she found comfort in - she liked to think that they found their way home after all, no longer trapped here so far away from everyone they'd ever loved.
She'd prayed a lot when she first came here, but it hadn't helped. She hadn't expected it to, but yet she'd still sought some sort of salvation, if not for her, then for the men in her care. She doubted how a loving God could possibly let his creation suffer this way. If all life was sacred in the eyes of God, then how could it be destroyed in such a brutal and barbaric way?
No, Rey did not find comfort in religion at all.
But routine was something else entirely.
She knew precisely what she had to do and when. There was a procedure to be followed for every eventuality and she knew each off by heart.
And so it went on, day after day, week after week, until the weeks became months, and months had become years. She had thrown herself into this so wholly and completely, as if to prove a point to everyone who had ever doubted her, and to show them that she really could do it. She took all of the dirtiest jobs without complaint, she never held back when even the worst of the wounded were brought in - those who had succumbed to a gas attack, coughing and spluttering and choking up bits of lung, the burns victims all blistered beyond recognition and so many other horrors which she'd never even known to be possible. In a strange sort of way, she had built something of a life for herself here.
There was no way she could ever go back to the way things were before the war.
Not that there was much to go back to.
Not after what she'd done.
-xxx-
He trudges through the mud towards the casualty clearing station, his head throbbing and ears ringing. The scene around him is chaotic though he feels somewhat removed from it all - he's not really had time to process what has happened and, truth be told, he's not even sure what did. Strangely enough, he doesn't feel any pain though perhaps that's just the shock talking. He's dazed and confused and not altogether there.
They stick a label on him and shove him into the back of an ambulance with a dozen others who cry out in pain as the vehicle hits the bumps in the road. The journey seems to take an age and the sunlight burns his eyes when the doors are flung open. A nurse takes him by the arm and sits him down on the bed, peeling back a bit of the field dressing they'd slapped on him at the Front. She washes the wound - her face stoic and expressionless so that he can't gage her reaction and remains clueless as to how bad it is.
The first label is replaced with another - date of wound, destination and instructions that he's to be kept sitting up at all times. She takes hold of his arm and injects him with morphine and gives him some fluids before handing him a small card and a pencil so that he may fill in the gaps.
Mother,
I wanted to tell you before any telegram arrives that I have received a slight wound. I am now comfortably in bed with the best of surgeons and sisters to do all that is necessary for me. I will write and tell you how I get on, but don't write here as I expect to leave for Base shortly.
Your loving Son.
The nurse takes the card from him and looks at what he's written before filling in the date for herself.
He's crossed out serious.
"You know," she says. "You're meant to put the truth."
He doesn't say anything - he can't say anything - and just stares sadly down into his lap.
He'd prayed for a bullet to kill him cleanly.
That prayer had not been answered.