Wildflowers In The Ruins: A 1917 Story

Chapter Seven. Poppies

Friday April 6th, 1917:

Although the pain returned to my calf, I desperately raced as fast as I could back up towards the barn.
Panting, I kept going.
Not far now!
I could just begin to make out figures, three?...
One was moving away from the water pump to the far left, striding to the right, cocking a rifle, then... BANG... BANG!
What on earth!
The middle figure was sitting upright and dropped like a stone.
To his right, a third figure standing, slightly shorter and stockier, clutching his abdomen.
Blake!
I could see them now, matching each physique to his silhouette. Schofield had fired the gun, but his steel helmet was missing. The second person, in the middle, must've been the pilot.
He'd survived the crash.
They all had!
He'd hurt Blake!
Schofield had shot him.
"Blake!" I shouted at the top of my lungs "Scho!" not able to tell yet if they'd seen me.
The barn continued to blaze.
Hearing timber crashing somewhere immediately brought me back to the German bunker.

I had to get to them, no matter what! My apron, dress and peticoat flaked and clung to my legs, slowing me down.
Oh why weren't nurses given slacks to wear!
Most nurses wouldn't be racing across a field to the remains of a plane crash, Jane.
Lavinia always wore a pair of Charles' for gardening with one of her pretty belts securing it at the waist.
My uniform felt as though it was hindering me now.
As I approached, the pilot's body lay spread out, flat on his back, severe burns to both his legs and a long blade still gripped in his right hand, blood on the tip and reaching a fair way down.
Oh no.
Oh, Blake!
He was lying on the ground, heels bracing against the dirt, Scho holding him, covering his abdomen with something, yet panic rising in his voice: "We have to stop it! We have to stop the bleeding!"
"Stop it! STOP IT!" Blake was screaming in pain, "oh shit! ow, ow, OW!"
I was there in an instant, kneeling next to Blake on his left, Schofield to his right.
"Blake," I tried to keep my voice calm and low. "It's Jane, listen to us, we need to stop the bleeding." As the words came, I noticed the relentless spurt of Blake's ruby red blood spilling from his intestinal area.
This didn't look hopeful.
Schofield took charge: "We're going to stand up," he told him.
"Yes... yes," agreed Blake, panting.
This was not a good idea. Blake needed to be horizontal. I could instantly tell Schofield wouldn't be able to get him to stand and if he managed it, his body would give way much quicker.
Scho got both hands around Blake's backpack straps, attempting to heave him upright, just like Blake had done to him after the tripwire detonated.
Blake dropped instantly, pulling Schofield over: " I can't, I can't," he cried.

Putting my hands on Scho's shoulders I looked him square on in the eye: "Scho, he needs to stay lying down," then to Blake, "you need to stay lying in this position. Now I'm going to put pressure on HERE." I grabbed my now defunct white cotton headpiece, the shape and size of a large napkin and quickly folded it into a pad. Placing it over the now gaping puncture wound, I pressed Scho's strong hand over the top. "Firm pressure" I instructed him. Then grabbing the remainder of the bandages from my supply, I wound it across and under Blake's abdomen twice before pinning it tight. Removing my helmet, it was now easier to see what I was doing for the time being.

"We have to get to an aid post, we have to go today" Scho was saying and I nodded in agreement, although feeling Blake's forehead he was freezing cold, his hands clammy and the colour had rapidly drained from his face. His tin helmet had rolled off revealing a shock of thick, ebony waves.
"I can't!" cried Blake.
"I'll carry you, 'tisn't very far" Scho continued, the urgency apparent in both his face and words. Heaven knew how far that was.
"Bring a doctor HERE! Nurse?" Blake's voice sounded so frightened.
"We can't, we have to go today. What else do you have in that bag, Nurse Morgan?" asked Schofield desperately.
Blood had already completely soaked through the pad and bandage.
"Just keep pressure on it," I instructed Schofield.
I had limited knowledge and supplies, but even I knew the wound was too deep to treat. Even if this horrific attack had taken place directly outside a field hospital, there would be little any doctor or surgeon could do.