Then, at least for a while, they were free from the bloodshed at the frontline, as they were relieved into close reserve.

They travelled at night, marching northwards through the support trench for a while, then, at last, taking a left turn west, into another communication trench. And after more walking, or stumbling, when one of them caught their foot in the duckboards, they reached the reserve trench. The journey was not particularly far, as the reserve trench was only some 200 metres behind the front-line trench, but it seemed longer because they did not travel there in a straight line and were always on high alert as they were vulnerable to artillery bombardments while they were moving.

They reached the reserve trench in relatively good spirits, though. Leonard McCoy was grumbling, of course, but others, such as Pavel, Thomas Cooper, young Elliot Baker, and a group of other privates were chatting amiably in hushed whispers.

The trenches were much shallower back here and they could relax somewhat. But they knew their duties would include channelling wounded soldiers back towards the home territory and standing ready to go back to the front should an attack break the first line of defence.

On their second night in reserve, Christine was watching the wounded being carried through an intersection. She was itching to help, but for the moment, there was nothing to do but stand by and wait if help was needed. From the looks of the wounds, a lot of help was needed but was not able to be given this far ahead.

She recoiled as her eyes fell on one of the boys being carried through, his face wrapped in bloody bandages and where his right leg had been, a similarly haphazardly wrapped stump.

One of the men carrying the soldier stumbled and fell. Christine sprang forward and caught the stretcher before it could deposit the wounded onto the muddy trench floor.

The young man groaned as he slid downwards and came to an abrupt halt.

"Shh, it's all right," she said and smiled down into his disfigured face. "You're gonna be fine."

She handed the stretcher back to the man who had fallen and he accepted it with a sheepish nod as she stepped back again.

After a while, she noticed someone approaching her from behind.

"Hello, Chris," Spock said as he stepped next to her.

Despite the gruesome images in front of her, she giggled softly.

"What is the matter?"

"It's just so unusual. Hearing you call me Chris."

Spock tilted his head. "It is your name."

"Yes, but there were times you barely called me Christine. I never expected you to call me Chris at all." And she never would have asked. If she was being honest, hearing him call her Chris seemed almost as strange as Leonard calling her Doctor Chapel would.

Spock nodded. "Neither did I."

"Why?" She pouted playfully, consciously trying to distract herself from the death around them. "Don't you like it?"

Even in the near dark, she could see his eyebrows vanish under the rim of the helmet.

"Nothing of the sort. It simply never occurred to me. I never thought of you as Chris." He paused, and for a moment, his expression changed into a pensive frown. "If there ever was such a person, it would have been Captain Christopher Pike."

"Right," she said and smiled sadly. "I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to be sorry about," Spock replied simply. "I am aware that names tend to reoccur naturally."

A moment of silence passed as they were reminded of a time long ago, of a time far in the future. It seemed like a different universe. And yet, in moments like these, the similarities between now and then were heart-breaking. As wounded soldiers with life-altering injuries were being carried past them, about three hundred and fifty years in the future, another man, Chris Pike, would suffer life-altering injuries. And between now and then, how many more whose lives would be changed by war, tragedies, and accidents?

Christine took a deep breath and tried not to think about human suffering. Easier said than done, during a war.

"You have seen things like this before," Spock muttered as if he was reading her mind.

"You know I have. Too many times. The Klingon War was when I last saw injuries of this scale. I thought I'd never have to go back. It was enough that it haunted me. There was a battle now and then but never something like that. And now…"

Spock gingerly reached out and put his hand on her shoulder as they watched the wounded being carried past. He did not say anything; he knew words were insufficient. She knew that, too, but the warmth of his hand on her shoulder was a welcome reminder that she was alive and that the past was the past, for better or worse.

"What did you want?" she asked, shaking off the shadows of the past or at least trying to.

"I came to inform you that breakfast is ready."

"Hm, thanks." She sighed. "I'm not hungry, though."

She thought he would leave her alone, but he didn't. His hands folded behind his back, he remained at her side, and his eyes grew soft as he watched her.

"All right, I'm coming," she grumbled and turned around, not feeling up to being treated with the Vulcan equivalent of puppy eyes.

The kitchen situation was easier back here and more reliable. Warm food still had to be either brought in from further back or prepared by the soldiers with braziers in trenches and dugouts, always careful not to let the smoke give away their position. But in the close reserve trench, both became slightly easier, and they got a warm meal each day, other than in the front.

Still, Leonard McCoy found something to complain about.

"Why does it have to be Europe?" he grumbled as he, Chris, and Spock were sitting on the trench floor and eating together. "Everything's old and muddy. Here." He poked at the root vegetables in his bowl. "Even the food is subterranean here."

"You are looking at a potato, Doctor." Spock raised his eyebrow at him over his spoon. "A vegetable originating from the American continent."

McCoy frowned indignantly. "Now listen here, you know damn well what I meant." He meant to go on but was distracted by Clark Merriweather approaching the three of them. "Good God, Sergeant! What happened?"

The Sergeant did not answer, but it was obvious he was not all right. He was frightfully pale, and his lips were a thin, quivering line. "Help me out here, Pointy," he said tersely and threw Spock a pleading look. "Get me a portion, will you? I cannot be seen like this." He extended his hands, and they saw they were shaking.

Spock stood up to follow the Sergeant's request as he sank down next to McCoy.

On the way to fetch a ration, he met Edwin Thompson.

"Have you seen Merriweather?" the Lieutenant asked. "I have been looking for him."

Spock pointed in the direction of where he had left the Sergeant. "He is with Leonard McCoy," he said. "I am just getting sustenance for him. He does not seem to be well."

"Good boy." Thompson nodded appreciatively. "Yes, the Sergeant had a slight headache this morning."

Spock did not answer but kept his thoughts to himself. While he did believe that Merriweather might have a headache, this was obviously not the extent of it. The nervous twitch, his behaviour just now, and the way he often seemed to keep in the background, trotting after Thompson and doing less than his rank would permit, painted a much worse picture.

Some might have said that the worst part of life in the trenches was not the trenches themselves but the time when one left. When one was relieved into the rear area, to rest, have some peace of mind for the first time in a long while and then, the inevitable return, the inescapable dread growing with every step back. The worst was the hope, that little voice that told you maybe this was it and the next time you were sent to fight, the upper echelons would have put a stop to this war. The suspense, the waiting for news, the guilt at not being in the midst of battle as your comrades died.

But for Lieutenant Edwin Thompson's platoon, spirits were high on the last night of April as they made their way toward the home country. With every step, they felt a little lighter as they followed their commanding officer. Miles and miles they walked over duckboards through the trench system, careful not to stumble in the dark.

Jim Kirk and one of the younger officers, Henry Forester, were talking in quiet murmurs about what they could expect in the rear area. It seemed they would stay in a French village, which had its pros and cons. They would be able to live in relative luxury in comparison to the trenches, but the village had originally not been made for military use, of course.

Some metres ahead, McCoy was listening in to the hushed conversation of other soldiers, a bunch of young men that he couldn't for the life of him remember the names of. They were talking about the little theatre in the village and certain other establishments that they were looking forward to visiting.

He turned to see where his shipmates were. He had started this nightly journey together with Christine, but she was nowhere to be seen. Pavel was right behind him and he could see Jim. But Spock was out of sight and so was Chris. But then other people moved around the bend, and he saw the two among them and turned back ahead.

While walking next to Jim, Spock had noticed Christine slowing down, and he had fallen behind on purpose.

"Have you eaten?" he asked after a while of walking silently by her side.

"Not since yesterday," she grumbled. "I wasn't hungry."

"As a doctor, you should know better," he said and grabbed her arm to pull her along.

She opened her mouth to protest but felt a tickle in her throat and coughed into the crook of her arm, unable to suppress the urge.

"Are you all right?" Spock murmured, and Christine felt irritated at how concerned he sounded. What did he know? He wasn't a doctor.

"Yes, I'm fine," she snapped back, achieving the opposite of what she had wanted. Spock raised an eyebrow and looked at her with an expression that told her he didn't believe a single word. "I'm sorry, Spock," she added more calmly. "I have a headache, and my throat hurts when I breathe."

Spock nodded. "Once we reach our destination, you should rest. You might be in the process of developing a respiratory infection."

Christine rolled her eyes. "Why, thank you, Captain Obvious."

Sometime later in the night, they exited the trench system towards the home territory and walked past the artillery line. Many of the soldiers breathed a sigh of relief as they did so, knowing that they were now about ten kilometres away from the front line.

When they reached the little French village in the very early morning, the feet of the Starfleet officers were aching, unaccustomed as they were to the trenches and all this walking.

Jim, Leonard, Spock, Chris, and Pavel were staying at an inn, together with Thompson and Merriweather. The rooms were divided by rank. Christine and Pavel were sharing a room, Spock, Leonard, and Jim another, and the Lieutenant and the Sergeant had the largest room available.

In general, the rooms at the inn were some of the better accommodations. All the other soldiers were staying somewhere else, something that seemed rather strange to the Starfleet officers even as they stumbled up the stair to their rooms in their sleep-deprived state.

As the five of them squeezed into the room shared by Pavel and Chris, McCoy wondered aloud if this was proof that they didn't belong, as a well-organised simulation might have sorted them with the bulk of the other soldiers, not apart from them. He conceded, though, that it might as well not have. What did he know about simulations? It just seemed strange.

Spock added that the number of people in their platoon was right; there certainly did not seem to be five too many people. And considering how everything in this era seemed abnormal in one way or another, their sleeping arrangements seemed not that much out of the ordinary.

Compared to the trenches, they were living in luxury. Even in Pavel and Chris's room, the smallest room, there was a table and chair and a dresser with a mirror. The other room was only marginally bigger, with a second chair and a third bed.

While McCoy and Spock had talked, Christine had inspected the dresser, and her eyes had fallen on the mirror. "Gosh, I look terrible," she mumbled. There had been no mirror in the trenches, and she realised only now how worn out she looked and how pale.

"I suppose neither of us looks any better," Jim said from next to her.

So much was true, even Spock looked affected. But as she saw Jim's face next to hers in the mirror, hers looked positively sick in comparison, not improved by the fact that the lamp on the dresser was their only illumination. Jim noticed, too, at that moment, and his brow furrowed with worry.

"War changes people," Leonard said from next to Spock at the table, true but unhelpful.

When Pavel joined her in front of the mirror to look at their reflections, she saw the same realisation on his face.

"And?" she asked wryly. "Opinion?"

He smirked at her reflection, and their eyes met. "'Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?'"

"I hope not," she grumbled but smiled at Pavel, thankful for his ability to cheer other people up.

"Who said that?" McCoy asked. "John Dryden?"

Sitting on the only chair, Spock shook his head. "Christopher Marlowe."

Jim sat down on one of the beds and winced as he did so.

"What's the matter?" Chris asked. For a moment, her own discomfort, the headache, and the scratching in her throat were forgotten.

"Ah, just a kink in my back," Jim said, "or a blocked joint, what do I know?"

Christine sat next to him. "Well, let me see."

After some seconds of massaging, he sighed and straightened up. "Ah, thank you, Chris." He looked over at Spock, who was still sitting on the chair, his elbows on his legs. "The way you're sitting, I'm amazed you're not complaining."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I have nothing to complain about."

Christine smirked at Jim and stood up to walk over to Spock. She sat on the desk and put a hand on his shoulder from behind. "Straighten up, please."

He did so, slowly, and when he was sitting straight, she pressed her elbow down on a spot on his higher back without warning. It cracked loudly. "I beg to differ," she murmured and smirked at his reproachful glance. "Stop crouching so much."

"According to Sergeant Merriweather, I might get shot if I do not."

"I think he was exaggerating," she said and put her hands on his lower back, starting to massage his strained muscles. He did not protest, and judging by the number of knots she found on him and by how he winced when she applied pressure, objecting to being taken care of was far from his mind right now.

After a while, Jim stepped in front of them. "Now, go to sleep, Chris," he said gently. "You look horrible."

She regarded him with a tired smirk. "Are you ordering me to bed?"

"I am. And if you're not able to walk there yourself now, I'm gonna take that as a sign you're unwell and will have you carried to bed."

"Don't tempt me," she retorted. But she let go of Spock, got up and began to undress to go to bed.

The others, apart from Pavel, left to go to bed in the other room, their first night in the rear area a short one.