Wildflowers In The Ruins: A 1917 Story

Chapter Five. Buttercups

Friday April 6th, 1917:

Pale grey dust continued to fill the air as we stumbled out into the harsh light of the sun. Scho muttered something incoherent as he leaned forward, stumbling. We appeared to be in some sort of quarry from the chalky cliffs at three hundred and sixty degrees around us.
Throwing myself on the ground I heard Tom, enraged above the relentless ringing in both my ears : "THE DIRTY BASTARDS!" he spat.

Gingerly I turned my right leg to the side and peeped under my dress.
An almighty tear had gone through the sky-blue cotton of my nurse's frock along with my thin white waist petticoat and black woollen stockings. My apron had just missed it by the looks of things. Just the side seam was slightly frayed, as if to say "I'm made of stronger stuff!" My cape and jacket were filthy but no repair work was needed.

The right calf was already plum-coloured with raspberry blotches and a few tiny smatters of blood, but thankfully no deep cuts. I'd got off lightly all things considered.

Scho turned to me, his eyes full of dust still, yet he seemed to know where I was.
"Pretty name, 'Jane'. Are you injured?"
Ah, so he HAD heard.

Something of his compliment told me he meant it. Not many people said it was a pretty name, probably because it's so commonplace. Recalling the first boy I'd ever loved, or had a crush on, my blood chilled for a second at embarrassing memories. He'd told me he cared not for my name, that it was plain like me, and I wish I could say I loved him no longer after that. The truth was, I was still illogically undetered, but lust makes fools of us all. It took time, of course, but eventually I got over him. The last I'd heard from his mother in the grocers queue chatting to her friend, he was a major in the Leicestershire regiment, but I cared not a whit for him or his rank.

"No, not at all. Thank you Schofield," I replied blithely. "Your eyes though, we need to clean them," I continued. He didn't seem to hear me and instead followed Blake who was off on his feet already.

We mounted a steep ridge covered entirely in chalky sand as Blake cautioned "careful, they may have set other traps."
Scrambling to the top I heard Tom: "Jesus" he murmured.
Stretching out in front of us were thousands of empty shell cases, their brass cylinders glinting in the sun. A huge pile rose in front whilst hundreds of others lay discarded all around. The remains of both gun mounts and cannons were dotted here and there. Beyond, another dust-caked hill, then the tip of a woodland.

We decended onto flat ground halfway down the embankment, catching our breaths. Blake, still standing, appeared shaken but unharmed. Still, I needed to check:
"Are you hurt anywhere Tom?"
He turned, squinting in the sunlight of the April afternoon: "Me? Nah. Ta' "
"That's good," I smiled, before adding quietly "thank you, for saving my life, truly."
Tom stared into the middle distance, as if he were already calculating the next step of our journey, "not a bother, Nurse Jane."
My eyes whirled to Schofield.
"Dust!" he spluttered, both voice and physique shaking, "so much dust in my eyes." His helmet was off and his head tipped back as he poured water straight down onto his face, rubbing it gently with his left hand.
Within seconds I was at his side, medical bag opened and a bandage out.
"Here, let me Sir... um, Lance Corporal," I offered, taking the water from his trembling hand.

Dousing the bandage which I'd folded to make a pad, I carefully tilted his chin toward the sky but away from the Sun with my right hand. The left gently gripped the back of his head, studying the hair... cropped so very short, as was standard for all our soldiers, regardless of rank, a rich brown like treacle, falling in soft waves across his scalp and over his brow. I then proceeded to bathe his left eye, then changed the pad and saw to his right one.
Expecting at least a flinch, Scho sat surprisingly stock still. "I'm sorry I have no saline drops or an eye bath," I whispered, brushing the stray locks of his short fringe from his forehead with my little finger. Trying not to study him too much, I couldn't help but notice he had a mole just beyond his left eyebrow and a tiny one on his cheek. Then producing a clean bandage to dry off the excess water, "they're back at my field hospital. I'm afraid just water will have to suffice."
Blinking, Schofield brought his head upright to face mine and let out a sigh. He then gazed at me thoughtfully and the blinking completely stopped.
"Your hand," I said hurriedly, "you've not had much luck with it today," my voice caught in my throat and I laughed nervously. I couldn't believe I'd nearly lost him.