"Evelyn? Am I home?"
"Yes dear."
"Ah. But...do I have to go back?"
"Only a for little while."
"I can't!"
"You can. And you will come back to us."
"But—"
"Come back to us, Will."
"Wake up lad."
"You believe he's still alive?"
"'Course I do. You've seen 'im breathin' didn't ya? Pete's sake. 'e looks like 'e could benefit from a a lil 'elp of a medic. Maybe we should carry 'im over to 'em. 'ere, give me a 'and, will ya?"
Will Schofield felt his battered self being lifted from the ground and away from the tree that had been his refuge. However, he couldn't protest even if he'd wanted to.
"I've got ya now. You'll be alright lad."
After a short time, Will felt himself being laid down.
Groans, whimpers, and a few strangled cries pushed their way into his subconscious. Whether he was listening to memories, or present life—he couldn't tell. He didn't much care either way. Will let himself relax again, relishing the only rest he'd had since two days ago when he'd slept against a tree in a quiet field—his friend Tom Blake nearby. He'd been well aware of the horrors of war then. The Battle of the Somme had been enough experience in itself. By some miracle he'd survived that tragedy, and by another he'd survived the past couple of days.
"Come back to us."
Ever since he'd entered this war, Will Schofield had determined that no matter what happened, he would survive. He had to get back to his wife and two little girls no matter what. He didn't much care about the cause and reason for the war he had been thrown into. He only knew that it wasn't worth the lives that it had cost, and the others it would keep on claiming. It wasn't worth the suffering he and so many others had gone through. While he was here he had one goal in mind: survival. Only for the past two days had that goal been slightly altered. Only because his friend Blake had died; and in order to keep his promise to his dying friend, Will had done what he'd never have done before to save the lives of sixteen hundred men—Blake's brother among them. Will still couldn't believe some of the things he'd actually done in the past couple of horrific days. He had been so driven by adrenaline and a blinding sense of duty then that he'd done things that no one thinking clearly could have done. Yet, many lives were saved because of what he'd done. Then again, those same lives would be put right back into danger. How much longer did this terrible war have to last? What amount of bloodshed and suffering would be enough? Would the suffering ever stop? These questions remained unanswered as a weary Lance Corporal Schofield drifted off to sleep; lying underneath the canopy of a makeshift medical station—dreaming of home.