A.N: Thank you all for being patient with me! This chapter has taken a lot of work, as I'd like to fill in all the background details before I take the story to Narnia in a couple of chapters time - perhaps Chapter 7? Inspiration for this particular chapter has come, in part, from the film Testament of Youth. If you've seen the film, you'll know just where I've drawn influence from. Please, let me know what you think so far and leave a review! Hope you enjoy the story!
Chapter Four
Wish Me Luck As You Wave Me Goodbye - Gracie Fields
January 20th, 1944
Field Hospital, Monte Cassino, Italy
Never had Susan seen so much blood. Her fingers ached from sewing up wounds, and her eyes were straining from little sleep. Soldier's cries for help were being drowned out by the explosions and hail of gunfire in the near distance. Susan wasn't sure what she'd rather hear - the men crying out in pain, or the enemy nearing.
She and the other nurses of Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service had travelled to the town of Cassino, located at the foot of the mountain Monte Cairo just thirty-six hours ago. In that time they had been run ragged, working tirelessly to treat men of all nationalities. Susan had healed and attend to American soldiers, British soldiers, Free French soldiers, Polish soldiers, Canadian soldiers, Australian soldiers, New Zealand soldiers, South African solders, and Italian Royalist soldiers. Many had died in her arms, many had been saved by her hands. The Allied lines kept them all safe for now, but nobody could be sure about how long they could hold it for.
Savouring a rare moment to herself, Susan wiped her brow on the back of her sleeve. Her hair was bound back by a white cap, and she had on a khaki-coloured dress, buttoned up at the front, her new Lieutenant rank slides on her arm. The weather was bitter, but Susan was impervious to it. After rushing to and fro between patients, she was working up quite the sweat.
Closing her eyes, trying to compose herself, Susan couldn't help but hear the struggles of one of her fellow nurses in the tent. Sister Kathleen was trying to console a badly wounded man, despite the complication that he was rambling incessantly in French, whilst she could not comprehend a word of it. Fortunately, Susan was somewhat proficient in the language, and made no hesitation in stepping in.
Placing a hand on the man's arm, she recognises the uniform of that of a Free French soldier. He couldn't have been very old, perhaps the same age as her. The man's leg had been torn completely off, by shrapnel Susan supposed. The cut was messy, and incurable. Swallowing, Susan knew that the pain must have been unbearable. The Frenchman looked desperately into her eyes, whole body trembling, as he sobbed. Words were flowing from his lips in no conceivable pattern, and he appeared to be going into shock.
"My leg! I can't feel it!" he cried out in his native tongue, his voice hoarse and feeble. "Oh God, I'm dying!"
"It's alright, old chap! Susan, tell him it's alright!" Kathleen begged, pale-faced and a little unsteady. She was suffering just as the other nurses were. Fatigue and hunger did not mix well with the horrendous sights they were enduring in theses tents.
"Be still, it'll be alright soon," Susan assured him, recalling all her French lessons. She was sure her pronunciation was a little rusty, but the man understood her all the same. His breathing slowed, as he ceased calling out for his missing limb, and instead gazed into Susan's eyes with fascination and faint recollection.
"Thérèse?" he whispered, taking Susan aback. "Is it really you, my love?"
Looking from a rather bemused Kathleen, to this tormented patient, Susan was at a loss for words. This soldier clearly, in his distress, had mistaken her for another woman, someone he clearly cared for. Should she play along, in an attempt to console this poor man who was a mere few minutes away from death, misleading him in the process, or should she be honest and risk causing him more anguish? It was a simple choice, really.
"Yes, I'm here," she replied, smiling softly at him. The man instantly calmed, and reached out to hold her hand. "Don't be afraid."
"Forgive me, Thérèse. I should have never left you. I should have married you when we had the chance," he apologised, tears pooling in his eyes. "Please, forgive me."
Susan could do nothing to stop her own tears falling, as she shook her head. "There's nothing to forgive. You have been such a brave, brave man."
Managing a smile, the man brought Susan's hand to his lips as he planted a gentle kiss on it. Then, he placed his arm back on the bed, still gripping Susan's hand, as he looked up at the beige canopy. There was a small tear in the fabric, and a glimpse of the sky could be seen through it. It was a most beautiful shade of azure blue, without a cloud in sight. Still smiling, the man appeared to be at peace, finally.
Susan watched, with a lump in her throat, as he died. His hand grew slack, and she was able to pull her hand free. Behind her, Kathleen sighed, as she had not dared breathe watching the beautiful scene unfold in front of her. Reaching forwards, Susan shut the man's eyes.
"Whatever you said to him Susan, it helped," Kathleen told her, softly.
"He thought I was his sweetheart, Thérèse. He asked me to forgive him for leaving," Susan explained, unable to tear her eyes away from the French soldier. "I told him that I did forgive him, that I was Thérèse. That wasn't my place to say. I shouldn't have lied."
"You allowed him some peace before he died Susan, there's no dishonesty in that," Kathleen assured her. "Whomever this Thérèse is, she'll probably be grateful that you said and did the things you did if it meant this man died without pain."
Susan was trying to think of how to respond, when the sound of a truck pulling up outside the tent interrupted her thoughts. Nurses were running to the vehicle, which was brimming with American soldiers. All of them were injured in some shape or form, whether that be bullet wounds, detached limbs, or other assorted ailments. The driver jumped out, and began assisting the nurses with carrying the men inside.
With her arm around a Captain, supporting him as he stumbled, Susan asked him how many more truckloads they are to expect from this new wave of injured men.
"This is it, Sister," he replied, in a strained voice. "Only seventeen men from this company made it out. Seventeen Army men, and two Naval soldiers, caught up in the crossfire."
"Naval soldiers?" Susan cried, wide-eyed. Immediately her mind turned to Johnny. "Who are they, Captain?"
"All Lieutenants, can't remember their names. Something Italian I believe. Why, do you know them, Sister?"
Susan sat the Captain down on the bed, her heart racing. Propping his leg up and tying an exceptional tourniquet, she gestured to one of the other nurses to tend to the man. "Possibly, Captain. And it's Lieutenant, if you don't mind, not Sister. I'm an Army nurse, sir, if you couldn't tell."
With that she bound back over to the truck, scouring through the bustle of men all now making their way over to the tent. Many of the men were disfigured to Susan's horror - mustard gas, she presumed - and so relied on the name tapes on each of their uniforms. There was a Hughes, and a Popplewell, and a Gabaldon, but no Coppola. Three Johnsons, two Smiths, one O'Connor, but no Coppola. Susan considered calling out his name, with the hope that embody would answer, but she spotted the Matron, or Major Forman as she preferred to be called, watching her with beady eyes. Shooting the woman a plastered-on smile, Susan rushed to aid the first man she could spot, not paying much attention to anything besides the nasty gunshot wound in his shoulder.
"You can lean on me sir, I won't bite, I promise," Susan teased, hoping that she would distract the soldier from the agony he must be experiencing.
Suddenly the man stopped, and Susan feared that the pain was too much for him. She tried to lead him over to the nearest empty bed as soon as she could, but he wouldn't move. Looking up at the man, Susan felt her heart drop. His dark locks were messy, and longer than they had been when they last met. His eyes were tired, but full of acknowledgment. His once white naval uniform was in tatters, a large bloodstain growing on his right shoulder.
"Susan?"
Without hesitation or delay, Susan launched at Johnny, wrapping her arms around his neck. He grinned, and held her close to him, despite the shooting pains in his arm. Leaning into the crook in her neck, she could feel his breath in her ear, soft and gentle. "I knew we'd see each other again," he whispered. "Didn't I tell you we'd see each other again?"
Smiling, Susan nodded, pulling away from Johnny. She couldn't tear her eyes off him, however. She wanted to make sure he was real, that he really was there, in front of her. "It's been over a year," she gasped, drinking him in. He was twenty years old now, and he'd only gotten more handsome, if that was possible. His cheekbones were more defined, and the makings of a beard were beginning to show.
"And not a second has gone by that I haven't thought about you," he told her, sincerely. His eyes were transfixed, staring unabashedly at her. "You're just as I remember you. Except, of course, the uniform. It suits you, I think."
Susan opened her mouth to say something, then caught sight of Major Forman approaching them. Hastily, Susan began to lead Johnny over to a dressing station, before the sharp-tongued matron could snap at her. Beginning to think more professionally than personally, Susan instructed Johnny to take his shirt off so that she could get a better look at the wound, though she couldn't help the slight brush creep up on her cheeks when she caught sight of Johnny's chest as she began to clean the gaping hole left by the bullet.
"My God, Johnny, this wound . . . " Susan gasped, dabbing gently with a damp cloth.
"It's treatable, isn't it?" he winced, gritting his teeth together.
Nodding, Susan tried to smile at him. She placed a hand on his unscathed shoulder. "Yes, of course, but it's deep. The bullet is still in there, I'm afraid I'll have to get it out," she told him, unsteadily, watching his reaction carefully. "Is that alright?"
"Susan, I trust you to do what's necessary," he assured her, patting her hand. "I'd trust you with my life."
Without really thinking, Susan gulped and said; "You are." Immediately she clasped a hand over her mouth, and shook her head, whilst Johnny merely chuckled. "Oh, I didn't mean - "
"I've been shot, Susan, I didn't expect for this to be easy," he laughed, reaching out to hold her hand. "I'm glad I can still laugh, though. When I stop that's when I know something is seriously wrong."
Feeling somewhat relieved, though still horrendously queasy, Susan examined the wound closer. Upon further inspection, she decided that the bullet would have to be removed immediately, and sewn up, before infection threatened to cause further complications. As she began to clean the area further, Susan noticed that a shirtless Johnny had caused quite a commotion among the other nurses in the tent, many of whom rushed over to see if they could assist in any way.
After dismissing a particularly persistent Staff Nurse by the name of Olive with an uncharacteristically stern voice, Susan found Johnny grinning at her, despite the searing pain of the application of antiseptic sulphonamide powder. Furrowing her brow, she looked at him quizzically. "Have I got something on my nose?"
Johnny shook his head. "Are you jealous?" he teased. "Of all the other nurses paying me attention?"
Her cheeks flushed, and she couldn't meet Johnny's gaze. "Of course not, I just don't like all the fuss. If you'd prefer, I can call Sister Olive back over and she can carryon. Though I should warn you, this is her first placement out of medical school, so I can't promise that it won't be excruciating," she retorted, rather quick-wittedly.
Seemingly impressed with her savvy response, he grinned even wider. "No, I'd much rather you treated me, Nurse Pevensie - you're much prettier to look at than Sister Olive," he told her, oozing what he hoped was charm. When Susan shot him a rather wary glare, he was quick to correct himself. "And, of course, far better company. Handier with a scalpel I suppose, too?"
Biting back a smile, Susan composed herself. "You should be so lucky that I don't have to use the scalpel," she exclaimed. "And can you not see the rank slides? I'm a Lieutenant now, just like you."
Johnny leaned back on his good arm, and admired Susan in her uniform. "So you are," he muttered, proudly.
/
Removing the bullet had proved trickier than Susan had first thought. The silver piece of steel had fractured into smaller fragment inside the shoulder, and trying to take out the broken shards of metal without causing further damage to the muscle or joint was easier said than done. It didn't help that Susan was painfully aware of Johnny watching her intently as she worked. Finally, after what had felt like a lifetime, all the fragments were removed, and Susan cleaned the crimson blood from the wound once more, and began to stitch up the gaping hole.
As if the pressure of Johnny watching her every move wasn't enough, Major Forman had suddenly appeared over Susan's shoulder. Hands tucked behind her back, nose upturned, she started to hum attentively. "Hmm, nice work Lieutenant Pevensie," she nodded, though her scowl did not disappear. It was as though the expression was permanently etched into her face. "Stitching could be a little neater, however, but good effort all the same."
"Thank you, Major," Susan replied, relieved. She had half expected the nurse to instruct her to unpick all the thread and start again.
Major Forman's beady eyes flitted over Johnny's bare torso, and Susan could swear she spotted a slight quiver in the lip. "Now, put a shirt back on this man, he's distracting the other nurses." With that the woman scurried off to torment some other poor, unsuspecting nurse, leaving Johnny and Susan behind giggling like schoolchildren behind their textbooks.
As Johnny got dressed, Susan plumped up his pillow for him, and fetched a somewhat scratchy blanket from underneath the camp bed. She instructed him to lay down, and rest, while she dressed the wound with bandages. Doing as he was told, Johnny put his head down on the pillow, and positioned himself so that Susan had easy access to arm.
"What are you doing here, Johnny?" Susan inquired, finally. The question had been niggling at her for the last hour.
"I was travelling with three other men from my unit. The Navy have been supporting Army campaigns in North Africa, you see - that's, as you know, where I've been stationed for the last five months. We came over on a boat from Tunisia to Mazara del Vallo, in Sicily. My family originates from Sicily, on my father's side. The other Lieutenants I came with also have family in Sicily. We thought we could spend a few days in the old country, and then catch up with the ship in Naples. However, we got caught up in all of this on the way, just out luck," Johnny explained, and then suddenly grew very quite. "Frankie, I saw him die. He was shot through the head beside me. I haven't seen Joe since the Army picked us up. They heard him speaking Italian, and thought he was a spy sent by the Italian Social Republic. Sonny - he was in the truck with me. He's in a bad way. A mine went off near him, I think he lost his hearing."
Susan listened, transfixed. She allowed Johnny to ramble on, his thought going at a million miles an hour. She knew just as well as he did the horrors of war, and the cost of losing people you care about. Only two weeks ago, whilst attending to a British Private, Susan watched as a hail of machine gun fire opened on the trenches, killing a nurse she had joined up with.
When Johnny had finished talking, Susan held out her hand to hold his, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She stayed with him until his eyes began to close, and he was fast asleep, heavy gunfire echoing just a few miles away. What an unfortunate lullaby to fall asleep to, Susan remarked.
/
After a thirteen hour shift - which was not uncommon in here profession - Susan was finally relieved from duty. She allowed herself a quick nap in the makeshift tent, which was adjoined to the much larger one the soldiers all shared, before she pulled up a chair besides Johnny's bed. She couldn't help but admire him as he slept, her eyes roaming over his handsome features. An inky curl hung in front of his closed eyes, and Susan couldn't resist the urge to gently push the lock back into place.
At the delicate touch, Johnny began to stir, his eyelids fluttering open. Susan, mentally cursing herself, retracted her hand immediately, and pretended to busy herself with her nurse's cap. Her patient turned to face her, a little groggy, though managed a smile.
"You are a sight for sore eyes, Susan Pevensie," he told her earnestly. "I feared that I had dreamt seeing you again, and that I had died out on that battlefield."
"No, not a dream," she assured him. "I'm still here."
Shifting on the bed, which Susan knew all to well to be rather uncomfortable, Johnny managed to sit up right, all without straining his injured arm. "How's being a nurse, then?" he asked, solemnly. And don't say what you think I want to hear, but what you really think. Please."
Susan looked down at her hands, and began to fiddle with her nails absentmindedly. Dirt and blood had started to build up under them, despite all her scrubbing she had done in the makeshift sink outside. "I love it, most of the time. It's rewarding, it really is. I feel like I'm really doing something of use, that my being here is actually helping people," she started, uneasy about speaking ill of the job she had fought her family to get, and one she did quite enjoy. "But it is hard, sometimes. The hours are long, and the work often seems impossible. Some days I feel as if for every life I save, I witness a hundred more deaths. Earlier today one of my fellow nurses was struggling to calm a poor French soldier. His leg had been blown off, and he wasn't going to make it. I can speak French thanks to lessons at school, so I rushed over to help. This man was in such agony, and he was going into severe shock. Then he looked up at me, and he calmed instantly. He thought I was this woman, Thérèse. I think she was his sweetheart. He begged me for forgiveness, saying that he shouldn't have left, and instead married me when he had the chance - well, not me, this other woman. I didn't know what to do, except to play along. I told him he had nothing to forgive, and that he was nothing but brave. He died seconds later, with a smile on his face."
It was Johnny's turn this time to reach out and hold her hand. Her own grimy palms were clean as a newborn's compared to his. Neither of them minded, though. They hadn't been able to touch each other for one whole year and two months. This sudden contact after nothing for so long was like a breath of fresh air, amongst all the chaos and destruction.
"You did a kind thing," Johnny told her, trying to meet her eyes.
Susan's throat tightened. "I feel like I cheated him, allowing him to die under false pretences."
"That's not how I see it. If my injuries had been fatal, and I had been brought here and in my shock I mistook one of the other nurses for you, I'd like to think that they would let me die believing I had gotten to see you one last time."
He opened his mouth as though he were about to say something else, then changed his mind. Then - though Susan thought she could have imagined it - she thought she saw a flush of pink tinge his cheeks. "I've been meaning to ask you something for a while now, but couldn't find the right words to use in a letter," he finally began, clearly deciding that at whatever cost to his own pride, he had to say what was on his mind. "Are you . . . I mean have you . . . it'd be alright if you have, not that I have but . . . is there anyone?"
Confused, Susan cocked her head. "What do you mean 'anyone'?"
"Some sweetheart back home in England," Johnny answered, somewhat hesitantly. "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked."
Susan shook her head in disbelief. "Of course I haven't!" she exclaimed, despite the tiny, nagging doubt in the back of her mind. She knew there was no other man back in London waiting for her, so why did she feel as though she weren't telling the truth? "Why, have you got some girl waiting for you back in New York?"
"As if there could be anyone else like you," he told her, grinning sheepishly.
Just as she was about to ask exactly what he meant by that, one of the soldiers a few beds down began to cry out. Jumping into duty, Susan rushed over to see what ailed him.
/
January 21st, 1944
Field Hospital, Monte Cassino, Italy
The next day, Susan was tasked with doing the rounds on their ward, feeding the men what little rations they had for breakfast, and tending to their needs. When she arrived by Johnny camped, she was surprised to find the sheets empty, all trace of him vanished, besides his cap. Frowning, she turned to one of the other nurses in the tent, and asked where Lieutenant Coppola had disappeared to. Susan was even more shocked to hear that he was being loaded on a truck and being taken to Naples, and back to sea.
"In his condition?" Susan cried, dropping the tray she had been clutching, but not Johnny's cap, and darted off outside. Bringing her hand up to her eyes to shield herself from the glaring Italian sun, she scoured the surrounding area for any sign of the white uniform to no prevail. The cold was nipping at her exposed flesh, and her breath was circling around her in clouds of vapour. She had almost given up hope of spotting him, when she suddenly heard whistles and shouts.
Snapping her head to the side, she saw a large truck brimming with American Army soldiers, and one Naval Lieutenant that stuck out like a rose among cornfields. Without hesitation, Susan ran towards the vehicle, the men all bellowing words of encouragement. Slightly out of breath and rosy-cheeked, she reached the truck and leant on the little door that separated her from the troops.
"You were going to leave without saying goodbye?" she asked Johnny, unable to keep the hurt from being apparent.
"No, not at all," he quickly said, reaching down to hold her hand. "I'd asked Sister Olive to come and fetch you before I left. Clearly she was not the right person to ask. I should have heeded your warning about her."
Susan tried to laugh, despite the tears threatening to spill. "You forgot your hat," she muttered, holding it out to him.
"I'll trade you," Johnny smiled, handing her a thin envelope, her name written eloquently on the front. "Promise me you'll wait until after I've gone to open that? I think I might have embarrassed myself a bit in there."
Promising, Susan was reluctant to let go of his hand when the truck engine came spluttering to life. Johnny wiped away a stray tear from her cheek with his free hand, and then kept it there, clutching her face. "We will see each other again, won't we?" Susan wished out loud, pressing her forehead against Johnny's.
"Read the letter," he whispered. "It explains everything."
All of a sudden his lips were on hers, and everything else around them blurred into oblivion. Susan closed her eyes, trying to memorise everything about Johnny, from the way their lips moved in unison, or the faint ashy smell of his clothes, or the warm feel of his skin under her fingertips. Then he was torn off her as the truck started to move, and she was left standing in the mud, clutching the letter, watching him leave.
/
Dear Susan,
This is only a quick letter, not nearly as long as it needs to be. I'm not very eloquent with words either - that's where my skills lack and yours lie. I just hope these mere few sentences are sufficient enough until I can say them to you, in person.
Since that fateful day in Southport just over a year ago, I've been unable to think about much else but you. The way your eyes light up when you talk about books. The way you get dimples when you truly smile. The way your voice sounds when you say my name. The way you laugh the hardest when you think no one is looking. The way you smell like fresh flowers when you toss your hair. I think you're what's kept me going this long, and why I'm determined to make it to the end.
What you said yesterday, about that French soldier asking his sweetheart to forgive him for leaving and not marrying her, well it's got me thinking. Thinking about how if I was to die tomorrow, my biggest regret would be not telling you how I feel about you. I think I've felt this way from the moment we met, and my feelings have just grown stronger by the day.
Meet me in New York in March, in that little café I told you about. I can't say it all in a letter, so I'll tell you then.
Love, Johnny.