Wildflowers In The Ruins: A 1917 Story

Chapter Six. Chicory

Friday April 6th, 1917:

Watching Blake catch up with Schofield, I raced downhill and fell in step. A farmstead comprising of a home, barn, grain tower and some other outbuilding were now visible at the base of the hill and began to meander up the other side, with a rough track to it's right leading up away from us over the crest of the hill. The whole impression was that of neglect, as I noticed smoke billowing up in two separate entities from somewhere hidden on the other side of the hill to my left. Otherwise we could easily have been home in England with it's green pastures. Sliding my right hand into the pocket of my frock and clutching my simple wooden cross I whispered a quick prayer:
"Thank you God for protecting us and getting us through perils so far.
Please don't let anyone be in this farm unless they are here to aid us.
Guide us on our journey to the Devons and for me to reach the Newfoundland's.
Keep us strong.
Keep us safe.
Amen."

Making my way towards them, weaving my way through thorny shrubs, I noticed Scho's cheeks had flushed and the words "... I can't think of that right now..." as he faced Blake, who still had his back to me. The rest of their conversation was lost on the wind as Schofield turned back to face forward again.

Deciding I'd let Blake cool off and simply keep my mouth closed, I listened in on their conversation:
"You should've taken it home with you. You should've given it to your family," Blake was still persisting on Scho's medal.
"Men 'ave died for that!" he reprimanded Schofield.

A chilly breeze caught me off guard and I shivered, pulling my cape tighter around my shoulders.
"If I got a medal I'd take it back 'ome... why didn't you just take it back home!?" Blake was almost shouting now.
This time I didn't try to stop him, deep inside I felt an urge to know more.
"Look, it's just a bit of bloody tin. It doesn't make you special. It doesn't make any difference to anyone." snapped Schofield.
My heart felt as if it was plummeting.
I just didn't understand how he could think that.
"Yes it does," argued Blake, "an' it's not just a bit of tin... it's got a ribbon on it."

Schofield was leading the way now but he slowed right down, stopped and turned to us: his desolate look made me want to reach out, to do something, anything to comfort him. "I hate to go home. I hate it." His words were soft yet weighted down by sadness. "When I knew I couldn't stay... when I knew I had to leave, and they might never see..." he put his lips together and choked back tears. Blake and myself stood as still as waxworks, letting him collect his thoughts. My heart went out to him.

There was always a clear danger working as a nurse here, in that you were never one hundred percent safe, but a soldier was on another level. To live like Schofield and Blake, as if each day could quite probably be your last. Thoughts of Schofield's family receiving his medal, after he'd been killed in action, would provide no comfort. All the medals in the world couldn't resurrect a loved one! It was becoming clearer to me with each tear my Lance Corporal was fighting back. After a moment he turned and continued alone.
Blake's brow was furrowed as perhaps he was begining to realise too.
"Tom?" I said, palms outstretched and eyebrows raised. "A truce? Come on, let's be friends."
He gave me a measured stare, "friends?" he asked. Then after only a few seconds his mock scowl broke out into that endearing cheeky grin, "always."
"Come on," I motioned encouragingly as we pressed on. We arrived at a grey stone wall with several collapsed areas, as if a tank had been practising it's firing range on it. Scho ventured through a doorway black as tar acting as a heavy wooden gate into what appeared to be an orchard. Blake followed but stepped through a gap in the wall to Scho's right. Slipping through the doorway behind Scho, I stood between them, but semi-consiously nearer to Schofield.

"Jesus," I heard Scho say, "they chopped them all down." We faced an orchard contained within four stone walls, littered with cut down trees, chopped and severed at the base of their slim tunks as their delicate white blossom had began to bud.
Cut down in their prime.